In the corner of the Costco parking lot. Watched Tara on Mojo’s patio. Normally stopped here for a morning cappuccino. Get the day going.

Mojo’s. Perfect for scoping out the current crop of Pedro State ladies. Found some of his best models here. Young. Attractive. Cash hungry. Even the snobs from Palos Verdes and Malibu wanted money. And more money. Greedy bitches. Wanted three hundred dollar Blue Cult jeans. Tight asses in tight jeans. Weaned on Laguna Beach and The Hills. Classy. Loved it.

Ready for his morning cup. Bam. Tara on Mojo’s patio. Stopped. Watched. Chilled. Lit a Backwoods cigar. Almost shit when Drake Simo rolled up. What was that asshole doing? Drake and Tara? That little shit had cost him once. Fuck him.

Relax. Forget it. Forget him. Puffed on the cigar and grinned. Naked co-eds. Hard not to grin. Hard not to love it.

Lifted his Bushnell eight power digital camera binoculars. Focused and took a few shots of Drake and Tara. Wished he could read lips. Did Stacy tell her mom? Bitch. Inhale. Think. Exhale. No way. That piece of ass liked her money. And little tastes.

Took the coke from the hiding place. Snorted. Helped the creative process.

Smiled. Mom’s body wasn’t bad. Could use her. Artists tapped the springs of creativity. Like Lord Byron traveling in Venice. Yeah. Like Byron. Just like him. Snorted again.

Drake. A big pain in the ass. Threw the cigar out the window. Watched Tara leave. Made a call.

Left.


*******************************************************************

Drake finished cleaning the area, went inside for a cup of tea, then returned to the table. The envelope was still there. He had to get home soon, change, and get over to Pedro Beach High. He sipped his tea and thought. Tara didn’t want to talk about her new boyfriend, Christian, and she didn’t want Drake talking to him, either.

But she didn’t say anything about talking to her former boyfriend, Thaddius Duncan. As Drake recalled, Thaddius had a senior English class about Mythology. He’d look him up this afternoon. Drake let his mind drift. Maybe Stacy had been in one of Thaddius’s classes. Thaddius and Stacy? His eyes wandered across the lot. A battered blue Volvo chugged past. It sported a blue bumper sticker proclaiming, NO WMD’S. No Al Qaeda links. What Are We Doing? Drake shook his head and finished his tea. He’d be glad when the war was over but he wasn’t holding his breath. He put the envelope with the pictures in his pocket, retrieved his bike, and pedaled back to Skyview.

Neither Dick Lonny nor the Hummer were in sight. Inside his apartment, Drake changed quickly into a pair of long black cords with buttoned cargo pockets, a blue Henley, and a black and white checked flannel shirt.

He transferred Tara’s business cards to his wallet and, after a moment’s hesitation, slipped Tara’s envelope into a side pocket. He went outside. The fog was giving way to partly cloudy skies here, also. Temperatures were in the low sixties. Walking to his cruiser bike, he—

“Drake, dude. What up?”

Drake turned. It was his neighbor of the past several years, Tom.

Tom, a graduate student in History, wasn’t around the building as regularly as he used to be. His dissertation research kept him in Pedro State’s library and his diminuitive girlfriend, Natasha, kept him at her Pedro Beach apartment more and more frequently. Tall, lanky, with a growing beer bulge, several days of stubble, and collar-length brown hair slicked back from his pale forehead and soft features, he was dressed in baggy calf-length shorts and an oversized green t-shirt that read Save Darfur. A silver stud was in his right earlobe. Bare feet and dark Oakley sunglasses completed his sartorial splendor. He approached Drake.

“Just getting out of bed, Tom?”

“Yo, dude.” He held a steaming styrofoam cup of liquid. Drake sniffed. Coffee. “The mighty day is in its infancy.” Tom sipped his brew and stretched his neck from side to side. “And it is high time for us to blow this pop stand.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“Maybe? My man, no maybe. You think Janelle still wants to live in this dump?” He pointed at her apartment. “Hell, Natasha doesn’t even like driving to Skyview now.”

Drake shrugged. Natasha had moved from Skyview after being sexually assaulted and almost raped at a Del Playa party the previous summer. A metal key ring, a solid right hook, and a girlfriend had saved her. She now lived about ten miles away. “That’s understandable.”

“That’s a major fucking understatement, dude.” He shook his head.

“I have to get going, Tom.” Drake swung a leg over his commuter bike. “I’m subbing this afternoon.”

“Money’s a good thing.”

Drake thought about Tara’s check. “I’m also looking into another, uh, situation.”

“No shit?” Tom perked up a degree or two. “Let’s hear it.”

Drake quickly recapped the morning’s events. Tom had always listened and given feedback to Drake about his various investigation. While talking, Drake fished the envelope from his pocket and handed it to Tom.

Tom studied the prints. “Dude, this is definitely kinky.” He sipped his coffee. “And you have some major clues here.”

“Clues?”

“Drake, you’re the one who’s snoozing. Didn’t you check these out?”

“Not too closely. Like I said, I know Stacy. And her mother was there.”

“Excuses, dude. Excuses. Hell, this is your job. And Stacy’s a babe. Nikki Flash in training.”

“Nikki Flash?”

“Porn star, dude. She’s hot now. Two flicks a month. Anyway, not that I give a shit, but,” Tom held up a picture, “check it out.”