

A Touch of Danger

By

Grant Fieldgrove

Copyright © 2011

ManChops Inc.

All rights reserved

ISB 978-1466358522

Published by ManChops Inc.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over or does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

Copyright 2011 by Grant Fieldgrove

Cover Design by Eric Duhart

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

First edition: November 2011

Special Edition: December 2012
For Julie & McClane

Come up to meet you, tell you I'm sorry

You don't know how lovely you are

I had to find you, tell you I need you

Tell you I set you apart
PART ONE:

HIP TO BE SQUARE
1.

The lock made a clicking noise as I inserted the key to my brand new office and opened the door. The room smelled faintly like that new car smell everyone loves and I breathed in a heavy breath to take it all in. The room was completely empty but the carpet was new and the walls had that look of fresh paint having just been applied. There was one giant window that overlooked most of Bakersfield and the early morning sunlight provided quite the view from the top floor on the city's tallest building. My new office. Fancy shmancy.

Elise had talked me into renting this place during the outbreak of cases we received after my little incident more than half a year ago. In case you don't remember, I will give you a little refresher course.

My pregnant wife was murdered in our home this last winter by, what we assumed at the time, was a burglar who got spooked. I was the one who found her. We buried her on the coldest day the city had seen in years and years and afterwards I fell into a deep funk from which I could not seem to break free. All I did was lay on my sofa and watch reruns of crappy old sitcoms until a woman named Monica Fick came calling and offered me a job to find her husband, whom she thought was dead. Well, long story short, Monica Fick wasn't who she said she was, her son-in-law was the one who murdered my wife because he's an idiot and was supposed to kill me instead because I was hot on their trail for a girl they kidnapped and killed. Hope that makes sense. I am trying to push it far from my memory.

I teamed up with two detectives from the BPD, Anderson and Enzite (one of which, Anderson, thought I was guilty of my wife's murder at first) and we ended up catching all people involved in the local chapter of a disgusting organ selling ring that was going down right here in wonderful Bakersfield, California.

The bust didn't come without some very serious consequences, though. Enzite got cracked in the head with a golf club, Anderson got shot three times and would have died if his bullet-proof vest didn't stop one crucial bullet from destroying his heart, and I took three shots as well, two from Monica Fick, whose real named turned out to be Roxanne, from very close range before I shoved a piece of dry ice through her eyeball and into her brain, and one from her husband Scott, right before Anderson managed to empty his service piece into that arrogant, stupid bastard.

Anyway, needless to say, it was a huge case for the city. Anderson and Enzite got a medal and I got a shit-ton of business. So much, in fact, I hired my sister-in-law, Elise, full time to be my assistant. She was in desperate need of a job anyway since her piece of crap, bug-eyed husband abandoned her and their two kids, Eric and Elliot, and she was laid off from yet another job.

It worked out great for both of us, seeing as I would have needed extra help anyway and I have terrible people-skills, which I contribute to my autism and ADD, among other things. I have always felt totally comfortable around Elise and the kids and I am thrilled to have them around now. They really help with my loneliness and keeping my panic attacks and tantrums at bay.

I still have problems sleeping though, as I often wake up from nightmares. I can't stand being a killer. It really changes a person. I now wear cargo pants and vote Republican. Kidding, kidding, but it still sucks. And, I know I didn't have any other choice in the matter and if I didn't do what I did, I would be the one who was dead, but, ya know. I tell this to myself constantly but it very rarely helps. The bottom line is that I killed a woman and there was nothing I could do to ever change that. I try to force it out of my memory and move on, but it is hard. During the day, it is easier to forget about, but at night, while lying in bed with only my thoughts to keep me company, it finds its way comfortably into my subconscious, and there it stays until morning.

I was prescribed several pills, which I was reluctant to start taking. I was sick of being always medicated and I took myself off all pills during my short stint at the local college, way back when. Some of these new pills help me sleep and some help with some of my symptoms, especially my panic attacks due to enclosed spaces or pure frustration. I honestly hate taking these goddamn things but I have to admit, being able to get into an elevator and take it to the top floor of the tallest building in town, straight to my new office, feels pretty nice. A year ago, I never would have been able to do that. Hopefully soon I will be able to manage it without the use of pharmaceuticals. Hopefully.

Stupid elevators. Not that you care, but my fear of them started when I was really young. Maybe four or five. My brain wasn't functioning like other children's my age; so much so, that I couldn't even talk. Not a single word. And with the autism, I took everything as literal. So, stepping on to an elevator and watching the doors close, only to reopen a few seconds later in a completely different spot, freaked me out. Badly. I couldn't wrap my mind around it and it scared me so much and I had such a giant meltdown that my dad and I were permanent stair-takers from then on out. Now, add that with my fear of enclosed spaces and claustrophobia, and elevators can suck it.

Anyway. There is still not a day that goes by that I don't think about my wife and how much I miss her. She was my best friend and was supposed to be my constant companion throughout all the adventures our life took us on. But, she was stolen from me for absolutely no reason. I wish I could have asked that bastard who killed her why he didn't just run away when he discovered it was her in the house instead of me, but I can't. The last time I saw him the leg of the chair I was strapped to was shoved through his skull and resting nicely in what was left of his brain.

Anyway, after all that, the cases started coming in at an alarming rate. So much so, that I had to turn down several just because I would not have the time. That had never happened before and without Elise, I would have had to turn down even more. We are making a pretty good team right now though, and she is the one who talked me into the larger office in this brand new building, as I said before.

As I look around it now, all I can think about is how long it is going to take to transfer all my stuff from the old office into this new behemoth. I should have thought of that beforehand. Thanks a lot brain, now I have to do manual labor.

Wait, ya know what? I have a better idea.

I take out my phone and Google 'Movers in Bakersfield,' scroll through and pick Manual's Labor based solely on name. Gotta love Mexicans. Did I mention I hired a gardener at my house just because his name is Jesus? Yep, Jesus mows my lawn. I hope this doesn't come off as racist or stereotypical, but goddamn man, those Mexicans can take care of a lawn!

I scheduled the movers for the middle of next week, as that would give me enough time to get everything situated. Right now, though, I have to meet Elise back at my old office and break the news to a client that his wife is being less than faithful to him. A task to which I never look forward.

I was wasting too much time staring out my new window. I needed to high-tail it back or risk being later than a Catholic schoolgirl a month after freshman prom.

2.

I arrived back at the office a mere five minutes before my current client, Jim Ambrose, showed up. Mr. Ambrose had come to me two weeks ago wanting to find out if his wife was seeing someone behind his back. It seems he has a rather large sum of money from a recent inheritance and grew suspicious of his wife's behavior shortly after his windfall. I had asked him the usual questions; ya know, has she changed her appearance at all, different style of underwear, different hairstyles, all the basics to which he answered in the affirmative every time, except for the underwear. Apparently, the misses Ambrose did not wear any. Nevertheless, all the other yeses were never a good sign when you already have your doubts.

Anyway, I took full advantage of this chump's large bank account and purchased myself several mini surveillance cameras, just like James Bond would probably use if he were a middle class private eye in Bakersfield. I was pretty impressed with them though and I was quite generous to myself with Mr. Ambrose's bank account. Along with those cameras, I also purchased a brand new iPad to link the cameras up to. Seemed appropriate since my current iPad was white and this new one is black and matches the little cameras. Much more stealth, too! Oh well, my padded bill is the least of this asshole's problems.

I used the new cameras all over his house in various hotspots where I assumed would be the most likely for sexual activity with a lover when Mr. Ambrose was not around. I felt just like Tommy Grand or Joey Greco from TV's Cheaters...only without the greasy Italian-ness. Fist pump! Unfortunately, these cameras proved to be absolutely zero help, as I never saw the little misses doing anything inappropriate in her home. In fact, I followed her around for several days and never saw her do anything out of the ordinary. She met with some friends a few nights for normal, friendly activities, but there was never any funny business, even when there were men involved in the night's festivities.

In fact, the way I solved the case was when I accidentally ran into her at a movie with my nephews. She, of course, had no idea who I was when I gave her and her female friend a smile at the snack bar, but as they walked away I glanced in their direction and noticed Mrs. Ambrose move her hand down the mystery woman's back and land firmly on her ass, where it stayed for far longer than the acceptable "friendly-ass-grab" amount of time.

I told Eric and Elliot there was a sudden change in plans, and instead of seeing the latest talking-whatever movie from Pixar, we were going to be seeing something else, and I would make it up to them, big time! Of course, the women went into the Fatal Attraction remake, starring some big-breasted, no-talent whore and some douchebag from the WB Network. I had never heard of either of them. Oh, Hollywood, will you ever learn? Does that place even remember what an original idea is anymore?

So the movie started off a little awkward for the kids and me, as the opening scene was a longer-than-required sex scene between some pretty people. Pixar, this was not. The kids were not pleased and I got several dirty looks from viewers following every one of the kid's groans, giggles and very verbal complaints about this movie being gross. I agreed with them but I had to keep an eye on my client.

"Those girl's chesties are way bigger than mommy's," Eric stated, piling on the awkwardness for me.

"Yeah, Eric, sorry about this. Don't look. We'll be out of here shortly, I promise."

"Are there at least any monsters in this, Uncle Archie?"

"Besides the two round, plastic ones on screen right now? No, probably not. I'm sorry guys. I promise, just a few more minutes. Just sit tight and I'll take us for pizza after this is over. Please," I bargained.

They seemed to agree to the deal as they both sat quietly and watched the action on screen. I would need to think of another bribe to keep this little incident from Elise or else I'd be vacationing on Shit Creek this summer.

But, sure thing, during the sex scene on screen, I looked at Mrs. Ambrose and her friend and saw them being pretty friendly with each other. Then came the little nibbles on the neck. Then, the friend's hand went from Mrs. Ambrose's breast, down her stomach and out of site. I had had enough. It was checkout time. I grabbed the kids and we got up to leave.

"Hey, this isn't Cars 2. What the heck?" I said nervously to a couple seated in our row as we squeezed by them. I gave them a cheesy little smile and a shoulder shrug. They both shot me a dirty look and I let out a guilty little chuckle. "My bad."

I went to the box office and asked what time the 12:10 showing of Fatal Attraction would let out. We still had plenty of time to see the much shorter Cars 2 and still make it out into the lobby in order to catch up with Mrs. Ambrose and her supposed lover.

***

After our movie let out I took the kids to the small arcade area located at the front of the theater and bribed them with ten-dollars' worth of quarters. As they played, I stood at the entrance of the game room and kept my eyes on the Fatal Attraction theater.

I checked my watch and when it was close to the movie letting out, I called for the kids and had them wait with me. When Mrs. Ambrose left the theater, the kids and I acted as if we were just leaving the arcade and followed them out into the shopping center.

I had my iPhone out and was taking a very sneaky video of the happy couple walking around and occasionally stealing a kiss here and there. I had hoped it would be enough to convince Mr. Ambrose that the story I would tell him was factual.

It was time to go.

I called Mr. Ambrose when I returned to the office and he agreed to meet me there on Monday afternoon to discuss his case.

***

So here we are now, a blazing hot Monday afternoon in August, and I arrive at my desk with just enough time to get situated and fool Mr. Ambrose into thinking I didn't just blow in to break his heart and would be blowing right back out as soon as I completed my task.

There was a knock on the door and Elise stuck her head in.

"Mr. Ambrose is here to see you now, Mr. Lemons."

I hated how she called me Mr. Lemons when a client was around. It was excessively formal for a sister-in-law to call her brother-in-law and friend, but she insisted on doing it, saying it sounded way more professional. I had given up trying to convince her otherwise.

"Send him on in," I instructed.

The door opened fully and in walked Mr. Ambrose, a decent-enough looking man of average height and weight with salt-and-pepper hair and a freshly shaven face. He had a nervous smile above the little cleft in his chin.

"Mr. Ambrose, please come in and have a seat. I have some news about your case."
3.

I have to admit, Mr. Ambrose took the news of his wife's infidelity quite well. He said he didn't care as long as she wasn't messing around with another man. Apparently, Mr. Ambrose has been watching too much late-night Cinemax and thinks he'll just slide right in to their sexual encounters. I don't think the real world really works like that and I used the expert tact I picked up from Detective Anderson to inform him that he probably turned her off men forever. He didn't even realize I was taking a dig at him and assumed it was a sign that after him, no other man would do.

Either way, I couldn't care less about him or his fantasies as long as his check cleared, as I was sure it would. And as Mr. Ambrose walked out the door, so did my last active case. It was quite the relief. Elise and I had pretty much been working non-stop since I returned to work after my sabbatical following The Incident, and while I still had plenty of work offered up, I really needed a break from all the action. We were both exhausted, and on top of the much-heavier-than-usual workload, the kids were always home since it was summer break, which made everything at least fifty times more difficult. Not that I was complaining, I loved having them around, we all just needed a break though. And soon.

The door opened once more and in walked Elise holding her laptop.

"Hey, I was thinking," she said. "What do you say to some camping on the beach in Pismo?"

"Camping? You mean like...in a...motel?"

"No, you stuck-up snob, in a tent. On the beach? Whatta ya think?"

"I think we both have jobs and can afford beds."

"Come on, Archie, where is your sense of adventure? It'll be fun?"

"I don't see what is fun about sleeping on the floor," I said. "If you want to sleep on the floor, you can sleep on the floor of a nice hotel while I enjoy the bed. Whatta ya say?"

"Archie! You do not stay at fancy hotels while at the beach. Especially Pismo Beach! Camping will be great fun. And besides, you can consider this the 'touch of danger' that you always hope for on your cases. What is more dangerous to a little sissy-boy than sleeping on some sand?"

"Did you just call me a sissy-boy?"

"Sure did. Sissy-boy. And where did you even come up with that phrase 'touch of danger?'"

"Ha! Random word title-maker from the internet that I used for an article I attempted to write back in my Want-to-be-a-Reporter Days."

"Figures. Well, it's stupid and you should think of something new."

"Well...your face....is stupid!"

"Oh man, you really got me on that one, oh mighty insult master."

"When did we even decide on the beach, anyway? I don't remember even discussing this. How about Vegas? I was kinda hoping to go there on the Fick case but I got in a fight with that stupid car. So yeah. Vegas?"

"Yeah, sure thing, Arch," she said. "Vegas sounds like a wonderful place to take a couple of kids. Even better, maybe I can stay in the room and watch the little wrecking crew and you can go out and gamble away all your profits from this quarter and get drunk and spun out on vodka-Redbulls?"

"See, I knew you'd understand. Thanks E!"

"Not happening. We're going to Pismo for a few days to rest and relax and have a great time."

I was not going to win this battle. Elise was just as stubborn as her sister, my wife, Marianne. When they had their minds made up, look out, boy, because you were not going to win.

"Fine," I tell her, "But there is no goddamn way I am sleeping on the floor. That's gross. And ridiculous!"

"Fine then," she said, "we will compromise. How about a nice motel near the ocean? With beds. And a television."

I had no choice but to agree, even though we would be staying in a motel, probably with a crappy bed and a zillion year old, non-HD television and no room service and no gambling. And to top it off, we would be at the beach, with that dirty sand and the world's largest toilet, the Pacific Ocean.

"Okay okay, you win," I tell her. "Pismo Beach it is. At least check with me before you book the hotel. Sorry, MOTEL. I want to make sure it's not a complete shithole."

"You wont be sorry, Archie! I have my laptop right here. We can start looking right now."

"Hold on," I tell her as I open up my desk drawer. "Throw that fossil in the trashcan, I have a present for you," I say as I walk over and hand her my white iPad.

"Shut your face right up! Seriously, I can have it?!"

"Sure can. I billed that sad sack-of-shit who just walked out of here for a brand new one. You're welcome."

You couldn't pry the smile off her face with a crowbar. She was beaming. Ah, life's simple pleasures.

"Oh man, Archie, thank you so much! Can I go play with it?"

"Absolutely, we're done here. As soon as I finish this paperwork we are officially on vacation. Find us a place to stay. Vacation is on me this year, too."

"No, come on, I can help pay, that's not fair to you," she said.

"Elise, you and the kids have helped me more than you will ever even realize. This vacation is absolutely on me. Let me finish this shit up, you find us a room, and then we'll swing by the mall and grab you a new swimsuit and I'll get some new shorts. Then we can go pick up the kids from Jamie's and go pack."

"Sounds good to me. And Archie, they are called bikinis. Girls wear bikinis, not swimsuits."

"My bad, whatever. Go find us a place to stay."

"Alright, I'm on it. One more thing though."

"What's that?"

"Are you really going to keep that ridiculous mustache for our vacation? You look like you're about to show up for a gun fight at the O.K. Corral."

It was true. My mustache had taken on a life all its own. The ends had separated from my face and had begun to curl up into a circle. I looked like I was constantly plotting some evil scheme of world domination or was about to fight in an old-time boxing match. I liked it, but I had a feeling I was the only one.

"You don't like it?" I asked her, even though the answer was obvious.

"You look you own a plumbing business with your stalky brother and are on the hunt for a missing princess. Actually, lately you're looking more like Mario than Luigi." She grabbed her flat stomach and giggled around some imaginary fat, mocking me. My best friend.

"So sue me, I like food and hate exercise. Whatever."

"Where are your red overalls and plunger?"

"Geez, fine, I get the hint. I'll shave my 'stache if you shave yours."

"Oh, suck it Lemons. I'm going to go find us a motel. I'm really sorry that O.J. killed your son, but you really need to go shave that mess," she said with a huge smile as she walked out the door and back to her desk.

Damnit. Looks like I was going to have to part ways with this delicious slice of sexy, raw manliness.

***

We finished up all our business and arrived at Elise's friend Jamie's house before sundown to pick up the kids. Jamie had a daughter that was Elliot's age and the three of them all got along swimmingly. Whatever that means. Jamie had offered to watch the kids during the summer because, honestly, I think she was happy that Elise finally had a steady job. I had met Jamie several times over the course of the years I was married to Marianne and found her to be a lovely woman, very kind and outgoing. I trusted her completely with my nephews. She wasn't hard on the eyes either, but shhh.

While in the car heading back to Elise's house, we told the kids the exciting news about the beach and they could hardly contain their excitement. Elise told them when they got home they had exactly one hour to pack and then it was bedtime. We lied to them and said we would be getting an early start, even though, as everyone in the car knew, as long as I was involved, an early start was all but an impossibility.

4.

Our early morning start was more like an early afternoon start. I don't know why, but for some reason I cannot make myself get up and get ready, even when it is something I am looking forward to. Oh well, we finally hit the road a little before one-o'clock and our two and a half hour drive seemed like an eternity. You would think a drive from Southern California to the beach would be fun, with lots of great sights and stuff, but that is far from the case. First, you have to cut through the glorious, progressive town of Taft, which is just as classy as it sounds, then drive miles upon miles through absolute nothingness before hitting a speed trap of a little shit town. Then, you come to some boring mountains, also filled with nothing. Now, add to that crappy drive two kids in the backseat who constantly feel the need to remind you how boring the drive is while picking the world's worst music to listen to, and with miles of 3G dead spots for the iPad making any streaming Netflix content all but an impossibility, and you have one hellish nightmare of a drive.

Right now, we were currently between the shithole speed trap town and the mountains. It was a long stretch of Jack Norman Shit but somehow, for some unknown reason, there was a rather long string of creepy looking motels.

"Who is staying in these motels?" Elise asks.

"They're called Dead Hooker Depositories. Get it right."

"What's a hooker?" Eric asks from the backseat.

"The only dates your dad can get," I answered.

Elise shot me a look. I shut up and continued along in my misery, listening to whatever bubble-gum bullshit the kids were torturing me with.

It was all worth it though, once the ocean came into view and the temperature dropped. When we left Bakersfield this afternoon it was one-hundred-and-nine degrees, but when I opened up the car door, I stepped out into a wonderful seventy-one degrees. I took a deep breath and inhaled the cool air into my lungs. It was a welcome change from my hometown's hot and ugly shit-air.

Elise stayed at the car with the kids and Wrecker while I walked up to the motel office to check in. We had decided on a little place in Shell Beach called the Ocean Inn. Pretty much the most uninspired name for something since that god-awful Kevin Spacey movie 21, but it fit our needs, pets were welcome and it was within walking distance to the beach. I told the innkeeper thank you for his help, grabbed our key cards and headed back towards Elise's car.

"We're all set," I tell them. "Rooms five and six, right over there."

The kids already started begging to go to the beach, but I had to inform them that we wouldn't be going down to the water until tomorrow.

"It's too late to go right now, guys. Go to your room and relax for a few minutes, then we'll take a walk down the street and we can look at the water for a while. Then we need to get some dinner. Fatty is starving!"

"Yay!" both kids yelled and ran off, with Wrecker, towards our rooms.

"How can you have any room left in your stomach for food after the five Rockstars you drank on the drive over?" Elise asked in astonishment.

"Apparently you haven't seen this gut of mine, lately." I lifted up my t-shirt to share it with her.

"Oh my god, never mind," she said. "Question answered. Come on, King Ralph, let's go inside."

Once inside my room, I kicked off my shoes and flopped backwards on the bed. I was surprise by how comfortable it felt as I was always under the impression that motels were shit. It was a nice way to start the vacation, especially since I still was sleeping on the sofa at my house. I had slept in a bed when I was holed up at Elise's house, and it was great, but once I decided to return home, I still couldn't make myself sleep on the bed Marianne and I shared together. That seemed like it was in a different lifetime.

As is my custom after lying on a bed, I immediately look for the remote control for the television. What good is relaxing if there isn't some brain-garbage emulating from the electronic moron in the corner of the room. I was right about the zillion-year old, non-HD television, but I guess it didn't matter. I guess this is what they call 'roughing it' these days. I was prepared to make the sacrifice if it meant Elise and the kids were happy.

While searching for the remote I found a little folded pamphlet thing explaining that they would not be changing my sheets on a daily basis unless I requested it. They said it was to reduce the use of water and energy, thus doing their part to save the planet. I had a sneaky suspicion it was bullshit and the only thing they cared about saving was some money. But oh well, as long as I have clean sheets now, I wouldn't complain. Plus, I never let maids in my room when I stay in hotels. The Do Not Disturb sign is always on my door.

I found the remote and as I laid there flipping through the channels, something amazing happened. I stumbled upon an episode of Dragnet on a network called RTV. I was very excited and quite intrigued. I have not seen an episode of Dragnet on television in at least ten years.

I pulled my phone from my pocket and graciously piggybacked on the motel's free wi-fi and looked up the programming schedule for this fascinating network. What I saw nearly blew my mind!

Apparently, the R in RTV stood for Retro and right before Dragnet started, Adam 12 was on. And coming up next it was a four-hour-of-power line-up with Rockford Files, Magnum P.I., Simon & Simon and Knight Rider. Then, after that block of awesomeness, the late night started off with Wolfman Mac's Chiller Drive-In Theater! In the morning, we would get Lassie, Saved by the Bell, He-Man, She-Ra and so much more! This was way too much for my brain to comprehend and I would be perfectly content spending my entire vacation in this room watching these wonderful shows! I just knew Elise and the kids were going to ruin it for me with their desire to actually go out and enjoy the beach.

Well, sure as shit, right as Friday and Gannon were about to seize their crook, the buzz-killers came-a-knocking.

"Uncle Archie! It's us! Eric and Elliot and Mommy! We're ready to go!" they screamed from outside. "Open the door! We're ready!"

I let out an audible sigh, rolled my fat ass to the end of the bed, and got to my feet just as the Dragnet theme music started to play. I made my way to the door and opened it to reveal three smiling faces, and one lazy, apathetic dog.

"Alright, alright, I'm ready guys. Let me just go change my t-shirt. This one still has that awkward car seat sweat stain on it."

"Ok, hurry Uncle Archie!" Elliot yelled in excitement at me.

I invited them in and opened up my suitcase in search for a new t-shirt as I explained to Elise the amazingness of the RTV Network. She seemed less thrilled with it than I did. Girls, I tell ya. They never appreciate the classics.

I successfully fished a clean shirt from my suitcase and peeled my current, stinky and sweaty one off me, revealing the scars from my gunshot wounds.

"You look like the 50 Cent, Uncle Archie," Eric informed me.

"First off," I tell him, "how do you know who 50 Cent is, and second off, I'm way cooler than that guy. Check out this wound right here," I say as I point to my most prolific gunshot wound. "See, way cooler. You should call me, like, 75 Cent."

My joke got a cheap laugh and I finished getting dressed so we could go. Before we made it out the door, Elise finally spoke up. "Is that an Eve 6 shirt?" she asked.

"Why yes it is," I tell her. "Thanks for noticing."

"Jesus, Archie, where the heck do you find these shirts you wear?"

"Um, in the nineties. Where stuff was way more badass than it is now."

"Jesus, and you just hold on to them for a decade then break them out at random?"

"Negative, Ms. Reynolds. I wear them all the time; you just don't notice my amazing wardrobe. And besides, why are you bagging on my Eve 6 shirt?"

"Um, because they're a totally forgotten nineties band that haven't had a record in a decade, but yet, you still wear their merch. You realize there are new bands out now, right?"

"Oh come on," I say. "New bands suck! I keep it rill. I gots tons of these, yo."

"You're like a walking billboard for the Can't Hardly Wait soundtrack."

I couldn't help but laugh at that one. She got me. "Come on, jerk faces, let's go."

I grabbed Wrecker by the leash and led my family out into the crisp clean air, closing and locking the motel door behind us.
5.

Shell Beach is a really small town, with one main drag that is just a little over a mile long, which cuts through the entire town. Our motel was located right in the middle of this street, so we decided to walk down the hill to a little park on the cliff overlooking the ocean. It was an easy walk that only took about five minutes, not counting the couple times we stopped to look at a few houses that were for sale, none of which we would ever be able to afford.

Once we made it down to the little park, I can't really say it provided me with very much relaxation. In fact, it made me a nervous wreck. There was only the bare minimum of a railing protecting someone from falling off onto the deadly rocks below and nothing but a mere chain guarding the tip of the cliff. Amazingly enough, I have no problem with heights now, but with the two kids running around like mad-men, not paying one bit of attention to a word any adult says, and a dog who was too lazy to even look where he was stepping , it was enough to trigger a mild panic attack. I reached into my sweatshirt pocket, retrieved one of my pills, popped it in my mouth, and did my best to swallow it without having to use the cesspool of a drinking fountain. It didn't work and I almost choked to death on it. I checked my dignity at the door and used the water fountain, trying not to think of all the disease I was swallowing down. Note to self: Always bring a bottle of water with me from now on.

"Is Archie Lemons drinking from a public water fountain?" I heard Elise call out to me.

"Don't remind me, E. It was an emergency. Trust me. How are you not panicking with these kids running around so close to the edge of this cliff?"

"They're not stupid, Archie. They know not to get too close."

"Well, they're about to give me a heart attack."

"What a wuss," she says to me, then calls out to the kids, "Guys, come here for a second." The kids come running over to us, shockingly enough. "Tell Uncle Archie that you are old enough to know not to play too close to the edge of the cliff."

"Duh, Uncle Archie, we don't want to fall off," Eric tells me.

"Yeah, Uncle Archie. We're big boys!" Elliot informs me.

"Fine, fine," I surrender. "Just be careful. You guys want to go check out the telescope?"

"The what?" they both ask.

"The telescope. The giant metal thing at the end of the park with the two, giant Wall-E eyes. You look through it and you can see far out onto the ocean and look at the rocks and ships and stuff."

"Oh yeah!"

The kids ran over to the telescope and Elise and I eventually sauntered on over. When we arrived, the kids were fighting over who would get to look first and literally pulling each other off trying to catch that first glimpse.

We let the kids settle their own argument and Elise, Wrecker and I walked to the edge of the cliff and looked out towards the ocean. About a mile away lie three enormous houses built out on the rocks, with giant glass windows giving, what I imagined to be, breathtaking views of the ocean and the waves crashing down below.

"It must be nice to be rich," Elise said to me.

"Yeah, but sometimes these people just take everything for granted and they don't even realize what they have. When we come here on vacation, we get to fully enjoy everything. So, rich smitch, who cares?" It was a total ramble of bullshit, but I guess Elise got my point. She rested her head on my shoulder and I put my arm around her and we watched the waves for a few more minutes until the kids started yelling at us from the telescope.

"MOM!!!" Elliot yelled. "IT'S YOUR TURN TO LOOK IN THE WALL-E!!! MOM!!! MOM!!! DID YOU HEAR ME, MOM?! IT'S YOUR TURN!!!"

"Yes, son. I hear you." She clenched her eyes shut tight, then asked me, "This is supposed to be a relaxing vacation, right?"

"Come on," I tell her, "we'll have fun. I promise. Let's go get some goddamn food, I am starving."

"Sounds good to me. Can this food be accompanied by a few beers?"

"Beer tastes like ass, but if you want some, have at it." She took her head off my shoulder and we turned and walked towards the kids, Wrecker trailing behind us, as usual.

Elise took a quick peak through the telescope then told the kids it was time to go get some dinner. We took the long way back up the hill, walking along the cliff-line until it dead-ended and we had no choice but to head back up.

I must say, the way back up was nowhere near as easy as the walk down. I had no idea we came down such a steep decline coming down there, and I am really paying the price now for being so out of shape. Elise and the kids seemed to have no problem but Wrecker and I were falling way behind.

"Hey, maybe if you had been wearing some Shape-Ups you wouldn't be about to collapse on the slightest of workouts," Elise yelled at me from far up ahead.

Very funny. I would rather have a heart attack right here in the middle of the street than wear those ridiculous shoes.

"I'm fine. Wrecker has little legs though and it is just taking him a little longer. I don't want to ditch him." If this were one of those shitty movies, the camera would have cut to a close-up shot of my dog staring into the camera, wide-eyed and tilting his head, probably accompanied by some terrible sound effect like a GONG to really drive the subtlety of the dog's objection home. Fucking Hollywood.

"Whatever you say, Fatso," Elise says to me, as she turns around and does a little jog to catch up to the kids.

Lousy showoff.

When we finally made it back to the top, Elise and the kids were sitting on the curb looking very bored. Elliot pretended to be asleep, then Eric started to pretend snore.

"The dog has little legs. Give me a break." Elise says. She gives my t-shirt a little tug and says, "Your Eve 6 shirt is soaked, Big Pun. Want to stop at your room and change?" All three of them started laughing.

Thanks a lot.

"Actually," I tell them, "yeah, that's not a bad idea."

All three of them get up and we start walking back to the room. Poor Wrecker is barely conscious.

***

I leave the motel room with a fresh shirt on and Wrecker napping on the bed. I am starving.

Elise says, as I step outside, "Did you find a fresh, crappy nineties band t-shirt to change in to?"

"As a matter of fact, I did, Miss Lady. Thank you for asking," I tell her as I pull on the bottom of my shirt to reveal the full design.

"LFO? Are you freaking kidding me?" she asks in disbelief.

"Um, obviously not. In case you forgot, they did play at the East Hills Mall. Remember? And aww, look at that, you're wearing an Abercrombie and Fitch shirt. Me likey some girls that wear Abercrombie and Fitch."

"Wow, and I am expected to go out to dinner with you in that?"

"That's right, baby! Let's go!"

She rolled her eyes at me and asked us what we were in the mood for.

"Anything," I say. "Except Chinese food. It makes me sick."

"Oh, brother."
6.

We got back to the motel a little after nine o'clock, and the kids were more than ready for bed. We had eaten dinner at a little Mexican place that stayed open surprisingly late, considering everything else in this town seems to close at around six.

Elise and the kids went into their room and I walked in to mine to greet Wrecker, who apparently had not moved since I dropped him off. As pathetic as it was, I was happy to be back in my room in front of the television. I could not wait to see what RTV was playing.

I unpacked my suitcase, Lysoled the room down like it was filled with AIDs, lifted up the mattress to make sure there weren't any dead whores rotting in the box spring, then put my clothes into the drawers. Then I pulled out my toothbrush and toothpaste and got ready for sleepytime. When I returned to bed, Knight Rider was just starting. It was going to be a long night.

***

I am not going to lie to you; I did not get much sleep. It was that damn RTV and their ridiculous programming. Really, they show Mike Hammer, Alfred Hitchcock Hour, Buck Rogers, Peter Gunn, Night Gallery and The Jack Benny Show, and they expect me to get some sleep? Impossible!

When the sun was getting ready to rise, I made the difficult decision to finally roll out of bed to use the bathroom. I was going to have to pretend I didn't stay up all night watching television so I needed to be fresh and awake. I hopped in the shower and decided to take a walk down to the cliff again; that way I could impress Elise and the kids by actually not being lazy for once and being up and ready to go with everyone else.

I stepped out of the shower, toweled off and got dressed in the shorts I just bought the other day and a Huey Lewis and the News t-shirt.

I grabbed Wrecker's leash off the floor and hooked him up. Getting him to move was proving to be much more difficult than I had anticipated. I had to lift him from the bed and put him on the floor.

"Come on, buddy. We're taking a little walk. You need to go potty, anyway," I say to him. He returns my command with a completely blank stare. GONG!

"Come on, dude. We've got to go." I began pulling on the leash but he would not budge. "Come onnnn, I'm not messin' around here, dog. Let's go."

Still nothing.

I bent over, picked him up and walked out the door. I set him down on a small patch of grass behind the motel for dogs to do their business. It was here that I finally realized what was wrong with him. He was literally too sore to move. That walk we took yesterday was the most exercise this little guy has seen in months, maybe years. I stood there and watched him take the smallest of steps to his chosen spot to pee, and when he was finished, he just looked up at me and made it perfectly clear I was to pick him up and return him swiftly to the bed. I did as instructed and decided to spare him the pain of a walk to the cliff.

I left the television on for him, exited the room without him even noticing, and took off down the street. The air was brisk and chilly and I wished I had brought a sweatshirt with me. It actually proved unnecessary, though, as I was sweating by the time I hit the bottom of the hill. I really needed a treadmill at home.

I reached the edge of the cliff, took a seat on the disgusting bench and looked out over the giant toilet in front of me. The sun was starting to come up and the glare was going to give me a headache. I guess it is time to head back. That's enough for me. It is time for me to have a Zack Attack!

I stood up, started back towards the street and decided to stop at the Wall-E telescope to see what I could see.

I looked out over the ocean but couldn't see anything too spectacular, just magnified images of the same things I saw before. I turned the lenses towards the three houses on the cliff, just to check them out. A light was on in the house closest to me, but the other two still seemed to be dark and quiet. I looked down at the beach below and saw a man and a woman standing in the sand. I assumed these were the owners of the house with the lights on, as the only way I could see to get down there was from stairs leading from their home.

I decided to be nosey a bit and spy on them a little. It was harmless. The light was still pretty low and I was too far away to really see what they were doing. I doubted they could see me.

The man was wearing a suit, which struck me as a bit odd, seeing as he was standing on the beach at 6am, and the woman had shoulder length blonde hair and looked to be wearing a housedress or maybe a nightie. I couldn't really tell. I watched them for a few seconds more and I saw the woman raise her arms several times. I was pretty sure they were arguing. Sweet!

This went on for a few minutes until the woman stormed off in what appeared to be quite the rage. I couldn't help but giggle to myself a little. I'm such a dick.

The man in the suit came jogging up behind the woman, trying to catch up with her. It looked like he was holding something but I couldn't tell what it was. The man raised his arm and it kinda looks like he is holding a big... Holy shit! The woman turns around just in time to see the man swing a rock right at her forehead. The woman dropped like weight off Christian Bale in an indie flick.

I quickly looked around to see if there was anyone out for an early morning walk. No luck. I was alone.

I returned to the telescope to see the man on his knees, leaning over the woman. He continued to beat in her skull with the rock.

There was nothing I could do and no one to save me. I was completely helpless...and rather selfish it would seem. Oh well.

The man stood up, I guess when he was satisfied the woman was dead, and looked around for any witnesses. I wanted to run away so he wouldn't spot me but my legs would not move. I just stayed there, all Christopher Reevesy, with a dumb-ass look of shock on my face.

He obviously didn't spot me so high up because he grabbed the woman by the arms and began dragging her. He reached the ocean but still kept walking backwards, right into it, suit and all. I stood there and watched as he walked her out in to the water, let her go, and watched the tide carry her away like a fading dream.

I guess he decided to take one more look around, just to make sure. That is when he saw me.
7.

So, once again, I am not going to lie to you here. When my legs finally decided to work, I backed the fuck up, rubbed my eyes to make sure this was real life, and then took the fuck off. No time for love, Dr. Jones! I ran back up the hill towards the house and only made it a pathetic one-quarter of the way before I had to stop and take a breather. I made myself feel better by saying that I was quite out of harm's way, seeing as there was no way that guy could have gotten up to street level and found me, let alone even recognize me. So yeah, I stood in the middle of the street keeled over with my hands on my knees doing my best not to die as an image flashed through my stupid mind of Steven Seagal running in every movie he ever made that actually played in theaters, and I started to chuckle to myself. Why did he run with his palms open? Hey look, it's Gino! Why is he running like a woman?!

Seriously, I am keeled over in the street after just witnessing a murder and I'm giggling about the way my beloved action hero runs. I have some serious problems.

I decide to walk the rest of the way back up the hill. I'm pretty sure I am in no danger. When I reach the motel, I decide to not bang on Elise's door just yet. Why? I have no idea. But, my mind has focused on a delicious Rockstar now and before I sit and tell this story to Elise and then to the cops, I'm going to need to be on the top of my game, so I decide to take a little walk to the Shell Beach Grocery and pick myself up an icy, over-priced, highly caffeinated beverage. As I am leaving, I notice a little plaque on the side of the building informing me that the former manager of the store and her entire immediate family were killed by a drunken hit-and-run driver. To myself I say, "I know how that feels," then I am immediately flushed with sadness, not only with the thought of my mother who was killed by a drunk, or my wife, but for this family I never knew. People make me so angry. I have never felt bad or like I was missing out by never really fitting in with them. I think it is for the better, the way I am.

I continue my walk back to Elise's room and give it a little knock. Elise opens the door and gives her eyes a rub.

"Archie? You're up and ready before me?"

"Yeah, shocking huh?"

"Yes, very," she says.

"I thought you were always up and ready by 5am?"

"I'm on vacation, Archie. And it's barely six, anyway. What's up?"

"Actually," I tell her, "I need to talk to you outside."

"Um, okay," she says as she steps outside. "Mommy will just be outside for minute, guys."

"Okay, so um, I decided to go for a little walk down to the cliff this morning."

"Okay? Is that why you're sweating like that Rabbi when Chris Hansen walked out and told him to take a seat?"

Heh. I was sweating rather badly. Pathetic. I decided to ignore the comment and press on. "So, I'm standing there looking through the telescope, at nothing in particular, and I see this man and woman on the beach, way down by those three big houses."

"Okay. What's your point?"

"I'm getting to it. God, who are you, me? Patience, Daniel-son...So I'm standing there and just watching this couple on the beach and then it looks like they start to argue. The woman gets pissed I guess and starts to walk away from the man...who was wearing a suit! On the beach! Like, what the fuck, right? Anyway, the girl starts walking away and the dude picks up a rock or something and bashes her in the back of the head with it."

The gasp from Elise actually startled me a bit. She was quite taken aback by the shocking twist my seemingly innocent and pointless story had taken.

"Are you serious?" she asked.

"Yes, I'm quite serious."

"What the hell did you do?"

"I stood there and watched! The guy bent down and kept hitting her until I guess she was dead. Then he picked her up and walked her out into the ocean!"

"Shut your mouth!"

"I'm serious."

"Archie Lemons, if you are lying to me, I swear to God I am going to hit YOU with a rock!"

Three fingers shot up in the air as I said "Scout's honor."

"That's the Girl Scout's salute, Nancy."

"Oh," I said as I lowered one finger. "Whatevs." (Then, I lowered one more finger, if ya catch my drift.)

"Archie, have you slept? Your eyes are really bloodshot."

"Me sleeping is irrelevant to the story."

"Archie..."

"Okay, I haven't slept because of that goddamn RTV and their amazing line-up, but I sure as shit know what I saw."

"Wow. Okay. So. Did you call the cops?"

"No, my fat ass couldn't even run up the hill all the way. Then I got sidetracked and went to the store."

"You stopped off for a drink after witnessing a murder?!"

"Yeah. Let's leave the part out of the story when we call the cops."

"Yeah," she said. "That's probably a good idea."

"Yeah, so... You want to call or what?"

"Me?"

"Yeah," I tell her, "nobody gives a shit about what some dude has to say. People believe girls. Especially good lookin' ones."

"Archie! You are reporting a murder. I really don't think the cops are going to care who calls."

"Even so. Come on..."

"God, fine, give me your phone, punk."

I reach into my pocket and grab my phone. I check for any new texts messages, to which there are none, probably because I have no friends, and then I click on my Facebook app to see if I have missed anything exciting back home. Apparently, this was annoying to Elise because she socked me in the arm and ripped the phone from my hand.

"Don't read my messages!"

"Jesus Christ, Archie."

She opened the phone app and dials 911. Before she can hit call, I stop her. "Wait, 911 is for emergencies. I'm pretty sure that poor ol' lady in the ocean is pretty far past the emergency stage. She's so dead she's probably at like the Casual Call to the Police stage."

"God, shut up and let me make the call."

"Man, you are grumpy in the morning."

I took her advice and shut up and she shot me the dirtiest goddamn look I had ever seen. I slowly backed away from her and let her make the call.

When she hung up, she told me the cops would be arriving here in a minute to take our statement and they will go from there. I wasn't too keen on having the cops cruise up right to where we were staying, just in case Suit Man went for a little drive. Leading him directly to my room didn't seem like the best idea, but I guess I didn't have a choice. It's not as if we could pack up the kids and take them to the police station.

Turns out Shell Beach is way too small to have their own police department, and all operations are out of Pismo Beach, five minutes up the road. When the PBPD cruiser pulled up to our motel, I politely asked if they could park around the corner. I was quite taken aback when they happily obliged. Big difference between the Bakersfield, P.D., where they take everything you say as an insult and threaten to arrest you for it...or shoot you.

Remember that old show Bakersfield P.D.? I think it was on Fox, so of course it was cancelled after only a few episodes. Before, Korn, that was our towns brief brush with fame. Even though, if I remember correctly, they played the cops as bumbling idiots, as opposed to douchebags that shoot first, ask questions second. You remember it? It starred that blonde guy...from that movie...and some TV show, and Los Polos Hermanos from Breaking Bad... No?

Anyway, sorry, the cops pull to the side of the motel and I invite them in to Elise's room so we can keep an eye on the kids and be out of sight in case Suit Man walks by.

I explain to the officers exactly what I saw and how I think it was the owner of the first big house, judging by where they were standing, right next to the stairs built along the cliff, leading down from that house. Also, I couldn't see any other way to get to where they were, and that house was the only one with lights on inside, so...

After I told them that, both officers gave a nervous look to each other.

The one who drove says that maybe we should continue this downtown.

"What the hell for?" I ask.

"Do you know who lives in that house?
8.

As much as I did not want to, we packed the kids in Elise's car and followed the police cruiser into Pismo, to the station.

The police station blended in well with the rest of the small town. It's a good thing I was following the coppers or I doubt I would have been able to find it.

The two officers had kept us completely in the dark about who lived there or why it was even an issue. It seemed to me that a murder was a little more important than whoever the hell lived in that goddamn house. But, I guess I was wrong. Shocking.

We were instructed to wait in the waiting room and someone would be out shortly. We did as we were told but I could tell we were going to have a hard time with the kids. They're in a police station, the last thing they want to do it sit quietly. We were going to need to figure out what to do with them to keep them occupied.

Fortunately, we didn't have to wait long. A man in a suit and tie, with a badge hanging off his belt came out and called us back into his office. We entered into the room and he closed the door behind us.

"Please," he said, "have a seat."

Elise and I each took one of the seats, Elliot sat on her lap, and Eric sat at my feet while we introduced ourselves. On the way into the office, I offered them a quick bribe for them to be quiet. It seemed to be working.

The office smelled of incense for some reason. The man who took a seat behind the desk didn't seem to be of the incense-burning, hippie type, but I guess sometimes appearances can be deceiving. The smell was putrid and allowed me to chalk up yet another reason for my dislike towards hippies. Yes, I am well aware that I believe in pretty much the same thing that most hippies do, peace and love and all the crap, hell, I don't even eat meat and I've never voted republican, but goddamn, I do have an extreme appreciation for soap, clean clothes and shoes. Call me crazy.

Anyway, the man cleared his throat and started to speak.

"My name is Steve Gibson and I am the captain of this police department. My boys out there, Steve Wilson and Steve Coretto, there, tell me you all witnessed a murder?"

Seriously, what is that smell?

"Actually," I said, "it was just me who witnessed it. I couldn't sleep due to this amazing channel you guys get down here. RTV? Have you heard of it?"

"Get to the point, Mr. Lemons."

"That was my point. But, I will now recount the incident I witnessed one more time."

I went on to tell him the whole story of what happened. He seemed mildly interested until he interrupted me.

"Let me stop you right there, Mr. Lemons. Do you know who lives in that house?"

"What the fuck does it matter who lives in the fucking house?!" I yell.

Eric quickly interrupts with his own yelling, "MOMMMM!!!"

"Archie," Elise tells me as she shoots me another dirty look, "watch the language."

"I'm sorry, but I witnessed a murder and everyone seems to care about who lives there. I don't understand why it even matters! I saw a woman get murdered!" I gave my pockets a pat hopefully that my pills would magically appear in them, but alas; it was just my phone and the keys to Elise's car. I had left the bottle in the hotel room and I was afraid I was about to lose it.

"Well, Mr. Lemons," Gibson said, "none other than Mr. Brad Jackson lives in that house."

"Brad Jacks- Who the fuck is Brad Jackson?"

"MOMMMMMM!!!!"

Instead of nagging me again, Elise promptly asks, "THEE Brad Jackson?!"

Oh Jesus.

"Again, who the crapshit is Brad Jackson?!"

"Mom?" Eric speaks up again. "Crapshit? Is that bad?"

"Eric!" Elise yells, and then turns her deathly gaze upon me, "Archie!"

"Captain," I say, trying to restore some order to this madhouse of an office, "please tell me who Brad Johnson is before I freak out."

"Jackson," Elise corrects me.

ARGH!

"Brad Jackson," the Captain tells me, "is a very famous and very charitable man. I'm surprised you've never heard of him."

"Do you mean Brad Pitt?"

"No, Mr. Lemons, had I meant Brad Pitt I would have said Brad Pitt."

"Okay then, well I've never heard of this guy so why is it a big deal?"

Elise chimed in once again. "You know who he is. He's all over the tabloids. He stared in that show on the CW Network called Hunky Vampires in the Hollywood Hills?"

"Are you kidding me?"

"No, and he's in a ton of movies. Come on, his wife was murdered something like four years ago. It was a huge trial. You couldn't have missed it."

"Seriously," I say. "I haven't watched a celebrity trial since they let O.J. walk."

"He wasn't on trial, Mr. Lemons. He was being stalked by a crazed fan that ended up killing his wife. She is now serving a life sentence."

"So what are you telling me here, Captain? A famous person couldn't possibly have committed a crime. I don't understand."

"It's not that, it's just he has a lot of connection and is important to our community. We don't want to go stepping on anybody's toes. I have sent two officers out to his house to ask questions and snoop around. They will be back shortly and we will go from there."

"This is how you handle murder investigations? Ask the suspect if they killed someone and if not, whelp, see ya later?"

"Mr. Lemons, we don't get a lot of murders around here. We are a friendly beach community. That's not to say we don't handle a death or two, but they are mostly alcohol related and the manslaughter types. Drunken brawls gone too far, you understand?"

My heart was beating hard again and I could feel my blood pressure rise. I closed my eyes tight and tried to calm myself down but my skin was crawling. I was going to have a fit.

There was a knock on the door and two different officers walk in. From their nametags, they were S. Bronson and S. Simmons. They inform us that they were just at Brad Jackson's house and everything appeared to be normal. They said they told him about a possible murder near his property and he seemed shocked.

He is an actor for fuck's sake. What the hell?!

They asked him a few questions, he seemed calm and cooperative and nothing seemed out of the ordinary so they went on their merry way.

"Thank you, gentleman," the captain said, dismissing them. "Well, there you go, Mr. Lemons. We cannot launch a murder investigation without a body and without it we have absolutely nothing to go on. Maybe you just thought you saw something bad going on but it was really just two people playing around. You look tired, the brain does weird things."

"Just because I'm tired doesn't mean I start to hallucinate!"

"Please calm down, sir. I'm just saying, unless a body turns up, we have nothing to go on at this time. We've even pulled up missing persons reports from the area and the surrounding areas. There is nothing."

"It was two godda...it was two hours ago! No one is filing a M.P. on someone after two hours. What kind of Mayberry bullshit are you running here?!" The kids had given up with monitoring my language, apparently.

"I assure you Mr. Lemons; we are not a Mayberry operation! We are very professional here! Mr. Jackson is a celebrity though, even if he did kill someone he would just be acquitted."

"He would just be acquitted?! Did you seriously just say that to me?"

"You know what I mean, Mr. Lemons. America loves a celebrity. Like you said, they let OJ walk."

"Yeah. They did. I still blame him for giving Kim Kardashian any sort of fame, too. He should fry for that, alone."

Elise interrupted. "Why do you blame OJ for Kim Kardashain?"

"Because, Elise, her dad, that jackass Robert Kardashian, was OJ's lawyer. Without OJ, Robert would have never gotten famous thus resulting in no one giving a flying crap about fatass Kim or her fatass, ugly ass sisters."

"Oh stop," Elise said. "Kim Kardashian is so pretty."

"Please, Elise. She looks like spread-open butt-cheeks. And for that, I blame OJ. And I blame Robert for starting the Kardashian family tradition of getting rich black men off."

"Yikes."

The captain interrupted. He was through listening to me rant, apparently. "Mr. Lemons! Please! I have had just about enough from you this morning..."

"You see what I did there," I say, as the captain was still talking. I was kinda sorta talking over him. It was like an unruly classroom. For some reason, I felt the need to explain my previous joke out of fear that they didn't get it.

"I do not care what you think you saw at this point..."

"...You see, I said he started the tradition of getting rich black me off..."

"...Truth is, you are wearing on my nerves quite heavily and..."

"...Because the ugly Kardashian girls like the big, rich black dudes..."

"...I am going to ask you to leave..."

"Like Ray J...and bah-it-baw playas..."

"Mr. Lemons! Are you listening to me?!"

"No, I'm not."

"Then this is futilue. So why don't you just go home and get some rest?"

Truth was, I was listening, of course. And as I listened I kept getting more and more pissed off. I was trying to avoid it all together by talking over him and trying my best to ignore him, but it didn't work. I was pissed. This guy was an idiot and showing me no respect, so why should I show him any?

"I'm sick of this. It's time to go now, Mr. Lemons."

I was losing it. I come in to report a murder and the police captain is sick of ME. This is bullshit. My pulse started racing and I felt sweat forming above my brow. I clenched my hands into tight fists and brought them both up to the sides of my head, covering my ears. My plan didn't work. It was meltdown time. I felt Elise's hand on my shoulder. She said something but I couldn't make it out. My eyes were shut as tight as they could be and I began hitting my ears out of pure frustration. Just like a child.

I started to hear Captain Gibson say something. I think he was asking what the hell I was doing. I didn't hear Elise respond. My ears started hurting, badly, and I stopped, eyes still shut, fists still balled.

"Why are you throwing a tantrum, Mr. Lemons?!" The captain says to me. I ignore him and he continues talking, I assume, to Elise, "What does this mean?"

"This means," Elise says, "that Archie and I are going to solve this fucking case, and when we do, we are going to go out of our way to embarrass the fuck out of you and your po-dunk, bullshit excuse of a police force! Come on guys, let's go!"

I turned and saw Elise stand up. The captain looked like a deer caught in headlights and both kids' mouths were wide open as they gazed up at their mother.

I was in shock. In all my years of knowing Elise I had only heard her utter the very slightest of obscenities on very rare occasions, but nothing even close to the dreaded F Word. I stared at her in silence. I was so proud.
9.

We left the room promptly after Elise's ridiculously awesome outburst and she even added a door slam as her very own exclamation mark. I must say, I was quite impressed.

We walked out into the cool morning air and Elise took out her phone and dialed a number without telling us whom she was calling.

"Hey Jamie," She said into her phone. "Yeah. So, what are your thoughts on driving down to Pismo?" Silence. Then, "Yeah, we could really use you to keep the kids entertained. Archie and I are going to be here a while. We can't go anywhere without being on a case apparently." More silence, followed by, "We'll pay for your room and your dinners."... "I appreciate this so much. We're staying at the Ocean Inn on the main drag in Shell Beach. You can't miss it. Call us when you're close."... "Thank you so much! Bye-eee." She hit the end button on her phone and dropped it back in her purse, "Okay, we have a babysitter on the way. Let's go back to the room and get ready. We've got work to do."

When we got back to the room, the work we ended up having to do included me falling asleep on Elise's bed while the kids jumped all over me and Elise was doing God-knows-what on her iPad. When I awoke, both kids were assed out on me and Elise was still sitting at the desk.

"What time is it?" I asked.

She informed me it was four-thirty and Jamie was close by.

"Holy shit, 4:30? I slept that long? God, I'm sorry."

"It's okay, the kids pretty much were beating the crap out of you the whole time you were sleeping until they finally wore themselves out. I can't believe you got any sleep at all."

"Yeah, well, I was pretty tired. Stupid RTV. No wait, I take that back. I'm sorry, RTV. I love you."

"Geez. Okay, so while you were sleeping..."

"That terrible Sandra Bullock movie? Oh wait, all her movies are terrible."

"God, pay attention. While you were sleeping, I was trying to collect as much information as I could on Mr. Brad Jackson."

"I don't even know if that's our guy. I couldn't even recognize him if I saw a picture of him, probably. He was just a guy in a suit in the distance. It could have been anybody; I'm just saying it happened right behind, or underneath rather, his house."

"Yeah well we have to start somewhere. So I looked up all the stuff about his wife's murder and according to this...hold on." She paused and scrolled through something on her iPad until she found what she needed. "According to this, five years ago..."

"Aw man!" I interrupted.

"What?"

"Damn. If we were back home, Full House would be on right now."

"Oh my god, Archie Lemons, I am going to beat the living..."

"I'm kidding, I'm kidding. Please, continue."

She sighed an annoyed sigh and went on. "According to this, five years ago, Brad had this crazy stalker, Emma Ricks. She showed up outside his house numerous times, wrote creepy letters, made all kinds of threats, you name it. So, I guess, one night when Brad is out of town filming a movie, this crazy lady breaks into their place up in Hollywood and kills his wife. Their housecleaner saw her and called the cops. She didn't know the wife had been murdered until they showed up. She just called to try to shoo her away from the property. They had a restraining order against her already so the cops were quick to arrive. Brad had to fly back from Europe, or where ever he was, to handle everything and bury his wife. It was after that that he bought the house here in Shell Beach, adopted a few kids and got involved in a lot of charity work."

"Are you sure this isn't Brad Pitt?"

"Damn-it, Lemons, it is NOT Brad Pitt."

"Okay, just sounds kind of like Brad Pitt."

"Well, it's not. It's Brad Jackson."

"That's too bad."

"Why is it too bad it's not Brad Pitt?"

"Because I've actually heard of Brad Pitt. That guy is awesome. Did you see Basterds? He can get away with murder with me annnny day."

"God, stop it. Don't you have a pill to take?" She laughed then got back to business. I shot her half-ass, sarcastic smile.

"Anyway," she continued, "after his wife's death he was linked to several well-known faces around Hollywood, but so far as I can tell, no one really has a bad thing to say about him. He spends time here at the beach just a few weeks out of the year, but contributes tons to local charities and such here."

"Well, that explains the police's behavior."

"Yeah. And when he's not at work, he is home with his adopted kids."

"Where are the kids now?"

"I imagine he has a nanny or the housekeeper watches them. I really have no idea."

"Does he still own the house his wife was killed in?"

"I think," she replied. "It says here he spends his time there and here when he's not working. So yeah, that leads me to believe that is still his primary residence."

"Hmm. Does it say the address?"

"Nice try."

"Does it at least say the Housekeepers name in any of the articles?"

"Actually, yes it does. Here. Inez Valenzuela."

"Well, I think we need to have a word with Inez Valenzuela."

"What makes you think ol' Inez will be willing to speak to you, IF, and that's a big if, you can even locate her. I'm sure she's had more than her fair share of reporters trying to get at her over the years."

"Ah, well you see, a few months back, on that missing girl case, I learned a little trick. You offer the person at the door five dollars and they just invite you on in."

"Jesus."
10.

The kids woke up shortly after our little discussion and it was time for me to make good on my bribe. We all got back in the car, except for poor Wrecker who was still too sore to move, and headed back in to Pismo. My promise was ice cream for dinner and I was happy to make good on it.

After the kids were satisfied, Elise got a call from Jamie. Her and her daughter had arrived in town and we told them we would meet them back at the motel where she had already reserved a room.

We stopped by a gas station, picked up a six-pack of bottled mojitos for the adults and some juice for the kids, and arrived at the motel to see Jamie and child sitting in the car outside our rooms. Elise ran over to them, gave Jamie a big hug, and thanked her again for making the trip. We left the kids and Wrecker in the room to watch cartoons and get ready for bed, I grabbed three chairs, and we adults sat right outside the front door, enjoying the clean, night air. While drinking our horrible mojitos, we filled Jamie in on the whole story. She seemed really excited to be a part of it, even if she was just the babysitter.

We decided to retire to our rooms and call it a night, but right when I closed my door I ran back out and knocked on Elise's.

"What'd ya forget," she asked.

"Hold on. We need Jamie already." I yelled out to her as she was reaching into her car to grab her suitcase. "Change of plans, James. We need ya already. She and Calen came walking back over to us, Jamie's smile was wide and devilish.

"What's the plan?" she asked.

"E and I need to get down to that beach. It is a long shot, but I'm pretty sure that asshole dropped that rock he used to kill her with when he bent over to drag her out into the ocean. If he saw me, maybe he got spooked, finished with the body then took off to go work on an alibi. We need that rock."

"Archie, it's dark out. We will never find it, for one thing. And second, how the heck would we even get down there? And third, who is to say someone isn't watching and waiting for you to come back?"

"I don't have an answer to any of those questions, so we're just going to have to wing it. Do you still have that wind-up flashlight in your car that I got you for emergencies?"

"Um, yeah, I think so. No."

"No?"

"Yeah, sorry. I took it out, it was always rolling around and it was annoying."

Jamie spoke up and told us she had a light in her car, and then ran off to go retrieve it. With the flashlight in hand, we were ready to go. I grabbed Elise by the hand, told Jamie thank you and we were on our way down the hill.

When we got to the cliff, Elise's worries became fully understandable to me. We had no goddamn way of getting down the rocks on to the beach. At least not without climbing down some steps way down the way, then swimming over. Now I was sure it was a residence of one of the big three houses that was down there this morning.

I had no other options, so I decided that Elise would have to make the climb down the rocks. I broke the news to her.

"What?! There is no way in Hello Operator Give Me Number Nine that I climbing down these wet rocks. You see those sharp, jagged rocks down below? That is where I die if I have the slightest slip. Not going to happen. You do it."

"No way, those rocks are all dirty and shit. And you've seen my delicate hands. Not happening."

"Wait, let me see something," she said, as she fished her phone out of her back pocket. "I'm checking the tides. Hold on."

I held. Remember that movie R.O.T.O.R.? It was a total Robocop rip-off with the world's worst special effects and plot holes they almost literally fly a plane through. Man, that is great. I have that on VHS somewhere. Too bad I don't have a VCR. Oh man, you know what else I have on VHS? Vanilla Ice's acting masterpiece Cool As Ice. Man, that's great. I need to look for a cheap VCR when I get back home...

A hard punch in my arm snapped me from my thoughts. "Gahhh, what was that for?"

"Pay attention! I was talking to you."

"God, sorry."

"This said that high tide occurred this morning at 10:12, after the murder, and again tonight at 8:28. Look how high the water is over there anyway. There is no beach. Whatever was down there has been washed clean or swept away. We're out of luck, Archie."

Shit. Shit shit! Shit goddamn-it! She was right. This was a dead end. I gave my eyes a rub and tried not to get frustrated. It was a lot easier now with my medication. My stupid, wonderful medication. The same medication I tried so hard to overcome a decade and a half ago and have already fell right back in with after a mere six months. It was like an abusive relationship, tailored made for the Jerry Springer show. No matter how hard I tried to leave my abusive boy-frin, the pills, I couldn't...'Cause I loves him, Jurry...ugh!

"Okay, I don't know what else we can do tonight. Let's just go back to the rooms and start fresh in the morning. I'm thinking about calling Detective Anderson tomorrow to see if he can give me any info on Brad Jackson from old police reports or anything. I really want to talk to that housekeeper. I guess I could call Max too, over at the records department."

"That's not a bad idea."

"I have my moments," I tell her.

"We can always take a road trip up to Hollywood if we need to. It's not too, too far."

"I still haven't even seen a picture of this guy yet."

"Who, Brad?"

"I can't believe you haven't IMDB'd him yet on your phone."

"Me either. Geez. I'll do it when we get back."

"Shall we?" She extends her arm and I hook mine around it as she leans her head on my shoulder and we start walking back up the hill at a leisurely pace.
11.

The next morning, the three of us decided to finally take the kids down to the beach, where they could play and I could make a few calls. We managed to get a fairly early start because I didn't get much sleep last night. When my excitement and adrenaline were kicked in, it was hard to for me to relax.

When we arrived in Pismo, the main street by the pier was packed with people, young and old, and I instantly remembered why my vacations usually never include large gatherings of assholes I don't know. We parked in the lot and Elise and Jamie got the kids ready while I paid the meter. When everyone was situated, we gathered up our things and headed for the least populated area.

I have never really been a fan of sitting on the sand, but I guess since I had to be here, sitting was better than standing. Laziness wins again.

I entrusted Wrecker to the kids and they all ran off towards the water, with my fat dog trailing way behind. Jamie and Elise followed them down to supervise. I took my phone out and dialed Detective Anderson's cell phone.

"Hello," he answered.

"Hey Detective, it's Archie."

"Hey Lemons, what's up?"

"Well, I've kinda stumbled in to shit here. I'm at the beach with my sister-in-law and nephews."

"What happened?"

"Well," I said, "I was taking a walk along the cliff on the shoreline, and stopped to check things out through one of those telescope things they have set up."

"Oh yeah, what'd ya find?"

"It's not what I found, it's what I saw."

"Right. Well, what'd ya see?"

"Yeah so, I'm checking out these huge houses right on the cliff and below they have little stairs that go down to the beach. It is the only way down to this specific place, so I assumed I saw the owners of one of the houses. The closest house to where I was, I'm guessing. It was the only one with the lights on and any sign of life."

"Alright," he said, and I could tell he was getting impatient with my leisurely telling of the story. I decided to get to the point.

"So down below, on the beach, there is a man and woman. So I just kinda watch them for a second, not really expecting anything, just out of boredom. Well, after a few seconds it looks like they start getting into a little fight. The woman gets pissed and starts heading back for the stairs, but the guy picks up a rock and beats the woman to death."

"What the fuck? Archie, are you shittin' on me, here?"

"No!"

"So, what did the cops say? Are you in trouble or a witness or what?"

"That's the thing. The police don't believe me. I had stayed up all night the night before and was pretty tired. And I stood at the telescope and watch the man drag the body out into the ocean. Then he saw me."

"The murderer saw you?"

"Yeah!"

"Oh shit. What happened?"

"I backed up and took the frak off! He was too far away to catch up but he knows someone saw."

"So what's with the police down there?!"

"Get this. Apparently the guy I think did this is some big time actor or some shit, who is so god-like and perfect he couldn't ever do any wrong."

"What's the name?"

"Brad Jackson...?"

"Not Brad Pitt?"

"I was hoping, but no. Brad Jackson."

"Never heard of him."

"Well, join the club. Apparently every woman knows who he is though."

"Oh," he said. "One of those Hollywood pretty-boys, huh?"

"Yeah, that's what I'm thinking."

"Okay, so tell me what you need. I'm assuming you hired yourself for this case, right?"

"You believe me, yeah?"

"Man, if Archie Lemons says he saw something, I sure as shit am going to believe it."

"Thank you, Detective. Tell that to the assholes in charge down here."

"I will call them, actually."

"Um," I said. "That may not be a good idea. We kind of got into it with them down there and Elise blew up at the captain and told him we were going to solve this case and embarrass the fuck out of him in the process."

"Well, right on. That's what I like to hear."

"But, I need your help."

"Anything you need."

"Apparently this guy's wife was murdered a few years back."

"No shit?" he asked. "Did he do it?!"

"Apparently not. He was out of the country filming some movie. He had this stalker that was really causing him trouble. Made death threats and everything. I guess when he left for his movie she broke into the house and murdered his wife. The housekeeper saw the woman on the property and went to go call the police, that's when she discovered the body of the wife.

"So what I need from you, Detective, is everything you have on this guy. It was a huge case four or five years ago. All I have is what is on the internet. But, what I'm really interested in is talking to this housekeeper."

"You think she is lying?" he asked.

"I don't know, but this shit is way too hinky to not investigate every goddamn little nook and cranny of."

"I agree. I'm actually still at home right now but when I get down to the station, I'll start working on it. I'll get back to you as soon as I have something."

"Thank you Detective. Tell The Bone I said what's up, too."

"Will do. See ya, Lemons."

"Bye, Detective."

Apparently we both forgot about tough guy hangs up and been reduced to proper, polite farewells. Gettin' shot changes you, man. It changes you! But seriously, tough guy hang up fail number one-million.

I ended the call and immediately called Max from the records department.

"Cocks!" he answered. "What can I do ya for?"

"Dolla fitty! Lub you long ti'!"

"What a bargain!"

I laughed and finally gave a proper greeting.

"Hey Max. How ya been?"

"Been good. How 'bout you, Killer?"

Ugh!

"I actually need a favor from you again."

"Right on. Another case? This one's not going to get you almost killed is it?"

"God, I hope not. Fingers crossed, please."

"Ha, so whatcha need?"

"There is some actor named Brad Jackson..."

"Sure," he interrupted. "Hunky vampires of the Hollywood Hills, and countless rom-com chick flicks."

"You've heard of him?"

"Sure," he said, matter-of-factly. "Who hasn't?"

"Well, me for starters. But anyway. I guess this guy's wife was murdered a few years ago."

"Sure. By that crazy bitch stalker of his. You didn't hear about that?"

"Guess I must have missed it."

"Okay, well, whatta ya need?"

"I need a background check on him. And his housekeeper that was the eyewitness. And the crazy stalker bitch who did it."

"You want a background check on Brad Jackson?" He seemed shocked. "What in the hell for?"

"You're just going to have to trust me on this one"

"Yikes. Okay, man. You're not crappin' in someone else's litterbox again, are ya?"

"Pretty much, man. I'm not even diggin' a hole."

"Awesome. You should have hung up after that."

Damn-it. "Damn-it."

"I'll call ya back when I get them, okay. The stalker's name is Emma Ricks. I remember that from the trail. Do you know the housekeeper's name, though?"

"Yeah, Inez Valenzuela."

"I'm sure there can't be too many of those in LA." We laughed and I said thanks then concluded the call.

Now I had nothing to do but sit here in this lice-infested sand and wait.
12.

So, I saw this little huddle of baby flies swarming near the sand by where I was seated and decided that was about enough for me. I had a better idea, anyway. I stood up and walked towards the water.

"Hey Elliot," I called out. He turned and looked. "Come here for a minute, please. Grab Wrecker, too."

Elliot grabbed my dog and ran over to me.

"Hold on to him for a second okay, I just want to get a picture."

"Okay, Uncle Archie!" He gave me a big smile.

"Okay, now I want you to put your head down. Don't look at the camera."

"Umm okay?"

He did as he was told and looked down at Wrecker so the picture didn't capture his face. I told him thanks then yelled out to Elise that I was going to steal her car for thirty minutes. She didn't seem to care. She was probably impressed I lasted this long.

I grabbed the keys from her bag and headed back up to civilization. On the way to the car I stopped in at Poncho's, the local surf shop, where I quickly purchased a large straw beach hat which I would be billing to...shit...myself. Backfire.

I cruised up to the beach area's local Wal-Mart and printed out the picture I just took and turned it in to a cheap looking Lost Dog flyer, made a few copies and returned to the car. I was going to pay Mr. Jackson a little visit.

I got to Ocean Boulevard in less than ten minutes and I parked a ways down from the house and walked the rest of the way. I was running a scheme and couldn't be seen pulling up out front. I put on my stupid hat and took off on foot.

I knocked on his door.

No answer.

I tried again.

This time the door opened slightly. The chain was still locked.

"Yeah, what do you want?" the voice from behind the door asked me.

"Sorry to bother you, sir. My son's dog ran away in this area yesterday and we've been searching all over for him."

"How did you get in here?"

"I'm sorry, the gate was unlocked and I just came up the walkway here." Total bullshit! I picked that bitch and broke in! Booya!

"It's unlocked?"

"Yes sir, I'm sorry. I'm just desperate to find this dog. My son is heartbroken. Do you mind taking a look? We're just here on vacation for a couple days and we're running out of time to find him. If you could..."

The door closed and I heard the chain being unhooked. The door opened slightly wider this time and I saw half of a man's face peak out.

"Here you go. His name is Montyburns. My kids were walking him in the neighborhood last night and he got away. They're in a panic. You haven't happened to seen him sniffin' around, have ya?"

He reached out and took the flyer from me. I did a quick study of his hands and noticed his right one had several small cuts on it, and one small gash in the palm that looked like it had been recently bandaged. Wounds from killing with a rock. I had my man. That was easy...and rather cliché.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I haven't seen him around. I'll keep my eyes peeled though."

"Thank you, sir. It's amazing what you see when you just stop and take the time to look. All sorts of fascinating and interesting things. Thanks for your time, Killer."

His gaze upon me turned icy and emotionless as I backed up and gave him a little wave, thanking him once more when I hit the street. I could feel him watching me as I went up to the next house and pretended to knock. When I felt I was out of site, I quickly took off back towards the car.

I imagined that right about now he would be calling the phone number I put on the flyer I left with him and having the Wal-Mart photo department answer. If that were the case, he would know I was on to him. Just the way I wanted it.

When people get scared, they get nervous, and when they get nervous, they're more likely to fuck up. These fuck ups help me solve cases.

My phone rang as I got back into the car. It was Max.

"Perfect timing man. Got anything for me?"

"Yeah, nothing really unusual. Brad Jackson is clean, apart from the normal minor violations. The housekeeper is documented with a spotless record. I'm working on the stalker lady right now but, uh, what I was calling for was, ya remember that old TGIF show where the family was an old sitcom family from the fifties and they had that magic remote that would turn them back into black and white. It was really cheesy and it didn't last very long...?"

"Yeah sure, Hi Honey, I'm Home. What about it?"

"Wow, never mind. I couldn't think of the name."

I let out a chuckle. I really needed to get a life. "Yep, Hi Honey, I'm Home. The family's name was The Nielsen's, named after the TV ratings system and the remote control that turned them from black and white to color was the Turnerizer, named after Ted Turner. The show didn't last very long though. Hey, you remember that shitty Look Who's Talking rip-off called Baby Talk?"

He laughed. "Yeah, wasn't Danza the voice of the baby?"

"What a turd that was. Wait. I'm actually in the middle of something here. Shit. Hold on, I've got to get the hell out of here. Sit tight."

I started the car and headed back towards the beach. I picked my phone back up once I was a safe distance from Brad Jackson's house.

"Ya there, Max?"

"Yeah, I'm here. What did you get yourself in to?"

"I'll tell you later. I promise I won't get myself killed."

"Best not."

"Do you have the address for the housekeeper?"

"Yeah, I've got it. It's the same as one of Jackson's addresses, just 'and a half.'"

"Can you give it to me?"

"Okay man, but if anyone asks you where you got it, you don't know me. Capiche?"

"Have mercy!"

He gave me the address in Beverly Hills and I scribbled it on my arm and concluded our phone call. Looks like I would be taking a road trip today.

***

I got back to the beach and explained to Elise and Jamie what was going on. Poor Jamie seemed so excited she could hardly contain it. She was more than happy to watch the kids as Elise had insisted on accompanying me to Los Angeles. After some car swapping, some car seat re-arranging and a quick stop at the gas station, Jamie's car was at the beach with the kids and Elise and I were in Elise's car headed down the 101 South towards Beverly Hills to pay a little visit Inez Valenzuela.

We made the hundred and ninety-mile drive in less than three hours, and pulled out the GPS on my phone once we reached the Beverly Hills area. The neighborhood wasn't gated so we had no problem reaching the house. Unfortunately, neither did Emma Ricks.

We found the house, parked on the street out front and made our way up to the door. A Spanish woman answered and I assumed it was the housekeeper.

"Inez Valenzuela?" I asked

"Yes," she replied.

"My name is Doug McKenzie and I'm a reporter with The Desert Sun newspaper out of Palm Springs. We actually wanted to do a quick follow-up story on the Emma Ricks case. Do you have a quick minute to speak to us?"

"I am very busy, sir. What is it you want to know? I haven't given an interview about this in years."

"I understand. It is just a follow-up. You were the one who found the body of Mrs. Jackson, is that correct?"

"Yes. That is correct, sir. I have told this story many of times."

"I understand. As I said, it's just a follow up. Kind of a slow news week, ya know?"

"Ms. Valenzuela, my name is Chris Parker," Elise said. "I'm also a reporter with the Sun. You said you saw the suspect, Emma Ricks, on the property the night Mrs. Jackson was killed, correct?"

"Yes, I see her in the backyard. I panicked. She has re'training order here. She not to be anywhere nears this house. I see her, go inside to call cops. That is when I find Mrs. Jackson on the ground. She had been stabbed many time. I scream and call cops. They tell me I have to go with them. Later I testify in court, Ms. Ricks go to jail."

"And you are one-hundred percent sure it was Emma Ricks, right?" I ask.

"Of course I am sure."

"Of course you are, ma'am. I'm just getting my facts straight. Do you know how she got into the house?"

"Yes sir, there was a broken glass square out of the back door. She open door, walk in, kill Mrs. Jackson, leave the way she come in."

"Great. Thank you so much for your time, Miss. We're just going to go back to the car and write down what you said and then we will be on our way. I hope we didn't inconvenience you too much. Have a wonderful day, ma'am."

She gave us a little nod then closed the door.

"Well," Elise said. "What do you think?"

"I think she is telling the truth. I think she saw exactly what she said she saw. We really need check out the stalker though. I have a feeling."

"Are you sure this isn't a dead end? It doesn't really seem to have anything to do with what you saw at the beach. And this is years old..."

"Like I said, I have a hunch. It could turn out to be nothing but I feel it at least warrants a look. Come on, let's take a look around here before we leave.

We walked to the side of the house and saw a large brick stone wall that surrounded the property. The garage was big enough to hold three cars and I tried to peak into a window on the garage door but they were up too high. I wasn't having much luck here, so I snapped a few pictures on my phone and told Elise I would buy her a late lunch so we could figure it out.

***

Inside, Inez Valenzuela picked up the home phone and dialed a long distance number.

"Hello," a man answered.

"Yes, Mister Jackson," Inez said. "I jus' had two reporters leave the house. How you know I be having someone ask me about jor wife today?"

"Just call it a hunch, Inez. Just call it a hunch."
13.

We drove to The Grove on 3rd and Fairfax to get some dinner. The area was the old Farmer's Market that had been built up to a nice, quaint and classy little shopping center that featured several restaurants, a movie theater and plenty of shops. Marianne and I came here on several occasions. We had places similar to this in town, but the class of people was much better here which is why we were willing to make the drive so often. The very first time we tried to come here though, I decided I didn't need any directions, so we ended up driving around Los Angeles, totally lost, for almost eight hours without ever once getting out of the car. My frustration was ridiculous and I could tell Marianne was getting quite annoyed with me. We ended up just getting back on the freeway and heading back to town and having dinner at the Olive Garden three miles away from our house. I drove for so long, my right foot was cramped and I could hardly walk once I exited the car. This was years ago before smart phones and every bit of information at your fingertips. The next day though, I was the proud owner of a GPS system. The same GPS system that is still currently in my car back home. The same GPS system that cost hundreds and hundreds of dollars but is now available for like forty bucks or some shit.

Anyway, we decided to eat at the Cheesecake Factory just because the dessert sounded so delicious. Elise checked in with Jamie and the kids and it turns out they were going to go see a movie at the local drive-in down there. I'm not going to lie, I was quite jealous. Stupid Brad Jackson. More like, Brad Ass-son...or something.

We had just placed our order when Detective Anderson called me back. He had the same information that Max had gotten me, but in addition to that, he was able to score stuff from the police report.

"Tell me what you've got, Detective."

"Okay, so the lady that killed Annette Jackson is named Emma Ricks. She's thirty-eight years old and there was a restraining order out against her from the Jackson's."

"Yeah, that I knew."

"Right. Okay, well the story goes is that this broad was stalking and harassing Mr. Jackson. Apparently, she would show up outside of his house at night and do all other kinds of crazy shit. She would say the stereotypical stalker shit like If I can't be with you, no one can, and stuff like that, which he naturally took as threats against his life. Hence the restraining order.

"She wasn't allowed anywhere near him or his property, so that's why when the housekeeper saw her she went into the main house to tell Mrs. Jackson and call the police. Only problem was Mrs. Jackson was already dead."

"Right. I just talked to the house-keeper."

"You did what? You talked to her? How?"

"I have my ways, Detective. She told me the same story and I didn't pick up on her being a liar. I'm usually pretty good at that."

"Except with that redheaded bitch."

"Ouch." That one stings.

"So, you said you wanted to talk to Emma Ricks, right?"

"Yeah, I would. I don't know if it will do me any good but I just don't want to leave any stone unturned, ya know. I just don't know how I'll get to her."

"How soon can you be in L.A.?"

"Actually," I said, "I'm here now."

"Well, you've got a meeting with her at the jail tomorrow morning. I set it all up. I know the warden, we've met on several occasions and he provided me with a little professional courtesy, as they call it."

He gave me all the details on the meeting and I ended my call with him.

"What?" Elise asked.

"Looks like we're shackin' up here, tonight."

She raised some concern over the kids still being at the beach, but another phone-call to Jamie put that to rest. She was fine with watching them. I don't know how she does it. Managing three kids like that. I would lose my mind. I guess that's just one of the many reasons that women are vastly superior to men.

"Oh hey," I said. "Guess where we're staying tonight."

"Where?"

"A HOTEL!"

"Okay."

"Yay! Faced! Whatcha think about that, beyotch?!"

"Sounds great."

"Oh. Great. Let's order. Fatty hungry!"

***

After gorging ourselves with dinner and dessert, Elise suggested we walk to the Gap at the end of the shopping center and pick up some fresh clothes. We didn't plan on staying the night when we left.

"Here you go," Elise said to me as we entered the store, "it's time for you to get some clothes that were made this century."

"Ugh, fine."

Elise went to the women's side of the store while I wandered around the men's department totally lost.

V-neck t-shirts? Get real.

There is no way I'm wearing that. I'll settle for a button-up shirt and an undershirt. No need for new shorts, the ones I'm wearing are just fine.

I grabbed a shirt, guessed at the size and took off to find Elise. She was in the underwear section on the far side of the store. UNDERWEAR!

Back in the men's department I grabbed three pairs of the most ridiculously priced boxer briefs I've ever seen then went back to round up Elise who had her arms filled with way more clothing necessary for a brief prison visit. I was pretty upset that I wouldn't be able to wash my underwear before wearing them, though; as I have this odd hang-up about wearing clothes right off the rack. I realized I had no other option though when Elise offered to throw them in a digesting laundromat washing machine.

"Barf! No thank you!"

"You realize that the clothes and the machine come out clean at the end of every cycle, correct?"

"Well, they're not cleaned with fire, which is about what it would take for me to put my clothes in one of those disgusting pieces of shit."

Argument over. Apparently, I won.

It was time to go.

Gina, who was working the register and had a nose like one of those creepy beak masks from Eyes Wide Shut, took our money with a nice smile and a thank you and we were on our way to the closest hotel. We didn't have to drive very far before settling on a nice looking place. We went inside, got one room with two queen beds, and retired for the night. We had to meet with Ms. Ricks early tomorrow morning.
14.

We had a little over an hour drive ahead of us when we checked out of the hotel and headed to the California Institute for Women, in Corona, where Emma Ricks would be waiting to talk to us. I was shocked to notice that we actually arrived early, despite two separate stops demanded by me. One for a Rockstar and another one to pee it out. Apparently, I have the bladder of a little girl.

We pulled into the visitor center of the prison, got out of the car and proceeded to look around and take it all in. Shawshank this was not. In fact, the prison itself was about as exciting as a Hostess donut. It was nothing but big, drab gray buildings set in to what appeared to be a giant circle. I had no idea where to go. I let Elise take charge.

After going through the usual motions of entering a prison, we were finally sitting in the visiting area, which looked, actually, exactly as they do in the movies. Elise and I were directed where to sit by one of the guards and told our prisoner would be out shortly.

We took a seat in the little cubicle and waited. There was a small table, a thick pane of glass and of course, a telephone in front of us. Actually, there were two phones on our side and one on the prisoner's side. While we waited, I tried to listen to other peoples conversations without much luck. I was already bored and my mind wandered to an old episode of The Adventures of Superman where Clark and Lois visit a man in prison, just like this, and Clark figures out the man is innocent and telling the truth by using his super-hearing and noticing the man's heartbeat never speeding up while talking. I hoped I would be able to deduce something similar here. It was time to find out.

A buzzer sounded and a guard on the other side of the glass opened up a door and out stepped a slender woman with blond hair, dressed in her prison outfit. I assumed it was our girl even though I have never seen a picture of her. My assumptions were correct. Emma Ricks took a seat directly across from us on the other side of the glass and picked up the phone. I did the same.

"Who the fuck are you?" she asked.

"Now that's my kind of greeting," I said. "Ms. Ricks, my name is Archie Lemons and this is my partner Elise Reynolds."

"Okay," she said. "What the fuck do you want?"

Elise had picked up the other phone and answered the question. "Mr. Ricks, we are here in regards to your case that landed you here. No one is with us and we're not working with the police on this, we're actually freelancing this case."

I wasn't sure if freelancing was the correct term she needed to use, but I let it go. She continued.

"We have reason to believe the man you were stalking may not be as innocent as everyone seems to think and we were wondering if you could shed a little light on your side of the story for us."

Shed a little light? Was that right? Shine? I don't know. I let it go, again.

"Yeah, well," Emma said, "what do you want to know? I've told them everything, the truth, and no one believed a goddamn word I said and now I'm here."

"I know that, Ms. Ricks. And like Elise here said, we want your side of the story. We didn't follow this trail at all and have no idea. We just want to hear what happened."

"Fine. This was years ago, though," she said. "I had the hots for Brad Jackson, as I'm sure you know. Shit got out of hand and I actually found out where he lived and started showing up at his house and following him around. I've admitted to this several time. I wanted him to love me. I know it may sound silly to you, but to me it felt so real. The love I had for him."

"Did you hold any animosity towards his wife?" Elise asked.

"I can't say that I didn't, that would be a lie," she said. "She was in the position that I wanted to be in. I hated her without ever even meeting her. Some nights I would park outside of their house and just stare, hoping to catch a glimpse of Brad. They had this big beautiful house out near Beverly Hills. Sometimes I would see his wife leave and I would fantasize about getting out of the car and jumping her, then go and confess my love to Brad and he would see that his wife was all wrong for him and he belonged with me."

"You admitted to all of this in court?" I asked.

"Stupidly, yes," she answered. "I had this crazy belief that justice would prevail and I would be found innocent, like I am. However, it didn't really pan out for me. The jury took less than thirty minutes to convict me. I never even stood a chance. I had shitty defense and I was convicted before the trail even started.

"Brad Jackson was a superstar, everyone loved him, and getting an unbiased jury was all but impossible. All anyone knew was that his precious wife was stolen from him and I was the most obvious fall guy for it, so it was all unloaded on me and all of the sudden I was the worst person in the world. No matter what shitty defense my piece of shit lawyer provided for me, it would never be enough. Every single person in America just KNEW I did it and nothing could convince them otherwise.

"It's funny, isn't it, Mr. Lemons?"

"What is?"

"The fact that so many guilty people get to walk free because they are celebrities or sports stars or some shit, all the while I know I am innocent, yet here I am, with a life sentence and OJ is out playing golf and doing whatever the hell he does. Just doesn't seem fair."

"I know, Ms. Ricks, that guy is guiltier than shit. And, I used to love that show Fall Guy. Did you ever watch it? "

Blank stare.

"Lee Majors as Colt Seavers...No?"

Blank stare from Ricks with the added bonus of a look of utter bewilderment and stupidity from Elise. I cleared my throat. "Is there anything else you can tell us about the case?"

"What do you want to know?"

I looked her over and tried to think of something to ask. Truth is, I honestly didn't know what I was hoping to find here. I studied her appearance and body language. She looked beaten down and broken. At one time, she would have passed for a semi-attractive woman who probably wouldn't have had a hard time finding a good man. It seems unfortunate that she decided on Brad Jackson. It proved to be her greatest mistake and pretty much cost her her life.

She had only been in prison a little over four years, but her face had a ragged look to it that would suggest a lot longer. Times were probably not very pleasant for her in here, especially if there were any Brad Jackson fans currently in lock-up.

Her eyes were dark and gave the impression of being dead and she had a few small wrinkles at the ends of both of them. I learned those were called crow's feet, and I also learned (the hard way!) that you should never point them out to women. I glanced over the rest of her body while I still thought of something to ask. I noticed her fingers were bent in an odd position.

"Ms. Ricks, may I ask what is wrong with your hands?"

"I have bad arthritis in both of them. Had it for years, nothing can really fix it. It's a pain in the ass."

"Did you have this arthritis during the period of the murder?" I asked.

"Yes, and long before, actually. This was one thing my shitty defense actually brought up. How could I hold a knife and stab a woman with my fucked up hands? It wasn't much help, though. I had no problem holding their little prop knife, so that actually backfired on me and made things even worse for me."

"Hmmm." I thought for a while before proceeding. "So, you admit to stalking Mr. Jackson, and having fantasies about his wife being gone and you two being together, but you do not admit to murdering him, correct?"

"Yes, Mr. Apples. That is quite correct. I have never hurt anyone before and I certainly didn't kill that woman. I thought it about, sure, but I would never have acted out on it. I'm sure everyone has had thoughts of murder before, a boss or an enemy, it doesn't mean you would actually follow up on it."

Apples?

"Ms. Ricks," Elise said. "Where were you on the night of the murder, if you don't mind me asking?"

"That's another thing," she answered. "I was at his house for a while, and then went home, with no witnesses and no alibi. Like I said, I'm not proud of what I did to that man, and I know based purely on my story I look guilty as sin, but I know for a fact that I didn't kill her, which means whoever did is out there walking around."

"Why were you at his house that night?"

"Same reason I was there all the time. Just to see him. Catch a glimpse of him. I was breaking my restraining order, I knew it, but I didn't care. At one point, I even got out of the car and snuck up to a front window and peeked in. I saw the wife alive and well and absolutely no sign of Brad, so I left. I know that I was not seen by anyone! If that housekeeper says she saw me then she is either lying or mistaken. I was out of the car for less than one minute, in the pitch darkness with no one around. I was NOT seen!"

The bugs under my skin were beginning to crawl again. I was missing something crucial but I couldn't seem to put my finger on it. What is missing? What is the missing piece?!

"Did you ever see anything unusual at the house before that night," I asked as a quick follow-up question.

"Nothing that I can really think of."

"Did you ever see the couple fighting or anything like that?" Elise asked.

"Nothing beyond normal marital fights. About a week before the murder, she got pretty fucking pissed about something and stormed out of the car. I wasn't sure what she was so mad about. Brad was in the house with one of his buddies, his wife comes home, and then fifteen minutes later she's pissed and storming out. Brad made no attempt to go after her and shortly after that his friend left."

"Is there anything you can tell us about the friend?" I asked. I always love when new people are introduced.

"No. He was just a buddy, I assume. I had seen him hang out over there a couple of times. I saw the two of them playing video games in the living room once, too. Imagine that, grown ass men playing video games like children."

"You didn't recognize him or anything. He wasn't anyone famous?"

"I didn't recognize him then but I did recognize him in court. He was there, in the crowd of people watching my life being taken from me. In fact, he smiled at me several times during the trial. Skinny little wimp, I wanted to jump up and rip his fucking face off every time he gave me that little fucking smirk!"

"Calm down, ma'am," Elise said. "Getting angry won't get you anywhere. We are here to help, remember?"

"Help with what?!" she yelled. "I'm in here and the real murderer is out there! No one believes me or wants to believe me! I am fucked! I am going to live out the rest of my shitty life in this goddamn prison and die here, and there aint shit you or him can do about it."

"There is always hope, Ms. Ricks," Elise told her.

"With all due respect, Ms. Reynolds, I abandoned all hope years ago."

Emma Ricks' outburst had caused a guard to come over to us. Apparently, that would be the end of the meeting. I was missing something and I needed to figure out what.

I held up a finger to the guard signaling for just one more minute, but Ms. Ricks was already standing up.

"Real fast! Hold on, hold on!"

She held the phone back up to her ear as I pleaded with the guard for one more question.

"What did the friend look like, anything you remember, quickly, please?"

"He was average height for a man, probably a little taller than me. Skinny little wimp. Sandy blonde hair, kinda shaggy, like a surfer would wear I guess. That's all I really remember."

"Thank you for your help, ma'am. If you are telling me the truth, I promise I will get you out of here."

She hung the phone up as the guard hauled her away.

"I promise," I said in to the phone once more, even though Elise was the only person who heard me.

We stood up and exited the prison without saying a word to each other. I was too deep in thought to hear her anyway, even if she did say something.

In the parking lot, heading to the car, a puzzle piece in my brain snapped together. I vaguely heard Elise saying something to me. Something along the lines of "Earth to Lemons," but I couldn't be sure. I stopped and reached out to grab Elise by the arm. She turned to look at me.

"Oh, so you are alive." She said. "What's wrong?"

"She didn't do it."

PART TWO:

DO YOU FEEL LIKE A PUZZLE,

YOU CAN'T FIND YOUR MISSING PIECE?
15.

I was ninety-nine percent sure that Emma Ricks was innocent of the charges she was currently imprisoned for, but I needed to roll it around in my brain for a bit and make sure everything fit. This seemed to annoy the piss out of Elise, as I refused to tell her what I was thinking until I had it all worked out. The car ride back to the beach was a long one.

Something clicked in my brain, but not about Ms. Ricks.

"Hey Elise, if this was a movie and we were on to a killer, who would be the innocent person that had to die?"

"What are you talking about?" she asked.

"Okay, in movies and TV shows, there are always innocent people that have to die to prove how bad the bad guy really is or how dangerous the mission is getting, or whatever. On Star Trek, whenever someone showed up with Kirk and Spock wearing a red shirt, you knew that guy was fucked..."

"So what's your point?"

"I was just thinking, if this were a movie, who the innocent victim would be."

"Okay, but this isn't a movie so who cares?"

"I care. I just have a bad feeling about it and right now, I'm thinking that Jamie would be the most likely innocent victim. She was just introduced, if you will, into our story, and is our friend and our helper. A friendly old housekeeper would also fit this bill. They're friends to the main protagonist but they're not crucial to the story. They can be killed off without risking the loss of a sequel. Does this make sense?"

"So what you're saying is that since Jamie is helping us on a case for the first time, she is going to die?"

"I'm not saying she IS going to die, I'm saying if this were a movie, she would be the most likely candidate. And right now she is all alone at the beach with your children and I don't like it all. We need to get them back to Bakersfield, ASAP!"

"God damn it, Archie."

I felt the car accelerate.

***

Back now at the motel to see everyone safe and sound, thankfully. We explain to Jamie that we think it would be best to take the kids back home while we stayed a few more days here and tried to work this thing out. She seemed disappointed that she would be leaving the excitement but relieved that she would no longer have to deal with three kids at the beach by herself. I asked her to take Wrecker back home, too, saying that dogs are always good innocent targets for the villain, but she didn't seem to have any idea what I was talking about.

We packed the kids all up and sent them on their merry way, instructing them to call us as soon as they got home.

Watching them go took a huge weight off my shoulders. I'm glad movies are so cliché.

When Jamie's car was out of sight, I walked to the motel office and explained we would only be needing one of the rooms from now on and I paid for an additional four nights.

The clerk gave me a sly little smile and a wink. Not sure what that was all about. Was that guy hitting on me? How gay.

I moved all my stuff in to Elise's room with the two beds and plopped down to watch some RTV.

Elise noticed my suitcase on the ground with all my clothes spilling out.

"Jesus Christ, man, how much clothes did you bring? You realize we were only supposed to stay for a few nights, right?"

"Yeah, I over-pack, so what?"

"So nothing, I guess."

"Looks like it came in handy, huh?"

"I suppose, oh wise one."

I grabbed the remote and clicked on the television.

"What the heck are you doing?" Elise asked me and she snatched the remote from my hand and turned the TV off.

"Hey! What's the deal?"

"Vacation is over. We have work to do."

"We can do work while watching TV. Come on."

"Nope. First you need to tell me why you think Emma Ricks is innocent."

"Fine, but I'm not completely convinced yet, but damn near, okay?"

"Fine. Tell me."

"Okay, so Anderson filled me in on all the details of the case. I don't know how he got it and I don't care, all I know is that the police had solid proof that she was at the Jackson's house the night of the murder, which she admits to, but what they did not have was a weapon. The knife that was used is long gone, never to be seen again. It was one of those large Martha Stewart looking knives and it was taken from the kitchen."

"So, are you thinking that if she went to kill her, why would she not bring her own weapon? Why chance it by trying to find one in the home?"

"Yeah, kind of, but that's not even the main thing. That can be dismissed for any number of reasons. That bothered me before we went to the house and before we met Ms. Ricks, now I've moved on to something else.

"Anderson said they had definite proof that she was on the property the night of the murder, not only from the eye-witness but from foot prints found near the house. They knew the footprints were fresh because that same morning, the gardening crew came and raked everything, even the dirt around the bushes in the front yard, near the windows. They pulled two solid footprints that matched Ms. Rick's shoes absolutely. So, her fresh footprints from the scene of the crime on the day of the crime all but closed the case for her, especially adding in all the threats and restraining order. It was an open and shut case, apparently."

"But?"

"But! There were no other footprints or marks anywhere else around the house. Everything was still perfectly landscaped from earlier in the day."

"Okay...?"

"Did you see her hands today?"

"Yes, they were damaged badly."

"Yeah, from arthritis which she has had for years, long before the murder."

"But she said they already proved she could hold the knife and commit the murder."

"Yes, they did. But her shitty defense overlooked one glaringly obvious problem."

"And what is that?"

"How did she get in to the backyard in the first place?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean this, E. They have footprints out front, right? Whoopty-fuckin-do. We know she was there spying, so throw that evidence out. Where does that leave us now? With nothing."

"The eye-witness."

"I'll get to her later. Right now, we need to figure out how Emma Ricks pulled herself up over that big block wall that surrounds the entire back portion of the property. There is no way, with her disgusting freak hands, she could have pulled her body weight up over the wall. No way. And it's not like a wooden fence where she could have used cross pieces to help. Its solid block. And there were no other markings around the property. So even in the unlikely event she would have the foresight to bring a ladder, there were no depression marks found anywhere near the wall. And really, why go through the hassle to bring a ladder when she could have just as easily broken a front window to get in?"

"Holy crap. What about a gate?"

"There is only one gate door but it is solid, and right by the house-keepers house out back. She would have the same problem getting over it and the gardeners are positive they locked it when they left, according to the police report. Besides, why take the risk of the housekeeper seeing you, going in so close to her living area? It makes no sense, and, like I said, my proof is not rock solid, but it's good enough for me for right now."

"Me too."

"Ms. Ricks said Brad was hanging out with a buddy one night when him and his wife got into a fight of some sort and she stormed out. This same guy shows up at court and gives Emma a smirk. I don't like him."

"You don't like anyone."

"True. But, I REALLY don't like this guy. We need to find him."

"And how do we do that?"

"Courtroom photos and video. He'll be in the crowd. Someone will have to know who he is."

"Let's get on that, then. Call Detectives Anderson and Enzite and tell them what you told me."

"Will do. After that, I think we need to keep a close eye on Mr. Hunky Vampire. You down for a little sneakiness tonight?"

"I'm always down."

***

That evening, after hanging up the phone from the Pismo Police Department and so easily getting the name of the man who appears to be obsessed with him, Brad Jackson began flipping through the phone book and calling every motel in the area, requesting to be patched through to a Mr. Archie Lemons' room.

16.

I had called and told Anderson everything I had and he said he would try to get pictures or video of the trail. Just something we could go on. I would really like to talk to that mystery man.

After ending the call, Elise and I made a quick trip to the local Wal-Mart and picked up two small pairs of binoculars for our little stake out tonight, and once the sun set, we took off down the hill towards the cliffs where we could keep an eye on Mr. Jackson. We really needed to do some snooping around in that house, but we would have to wait until he was gone. Hopefully we would luck out.

We picked out a spot near the edge of the cliff that would partially hide us from any casual observer. We took a seat and focused our binoculars on Brad's house. There was a light on in, what I guessed, was the main living room, and I am pretty sure I could make out the slightest bit of movement in the house. I was almost positive he was home.

Now we had to wait. I had an idea about what I was looking for but I needed to get close to the house to check on it. Something I would not be doing as long as Mr. Douche was home.

We sat in the evening air, the sun setting behind us, and waited.

"Man, you know what I hate?" I ask Elise.

"Everything?"

"Yeah, but besides that?"

"The abbreviation of ID4 for the movie Independence Day?"

"Yeah, I do hate that. Like, it sounds like it's the fourth movie of a series titled ID. It made no sense. But that's not what I was talking about. Besides that."

"Oh. Watching people eat cereal? Old people? Temple of the Dog? Grunge music in general? The Kings Speech? Reality shows? The Kardashians? Football? Basketball? The names Josh and Matt? Movie remakes? The royal family? Family Guy? Benjamin Button? Shall I go on?"

"Okay, okay. Point taken. But no, what I hate is the Shania Twain song That Don't Impress Me Much."

"Where in the hell did that come from?"

"I dunno. Oh, the whole Brad Pitt thing. Guess it just reminded me. It is so fucking retarded though when she names off the things that 'don't impress her. And that's another thing. It's DOESN'T, not DON'T, ya dumb country bumpkin!"

"Geez."

"Well, it's retarded. She starts off saying 'So you're a rocket scientist.' But hold on, that don't impress her even though it pretty well goddamn should. Then she says 'So you're Brad Pitt,' which also doesn't, sorry DON'T impress her much, and it kinda should since he's a big star. He may not be as impressive as a rocket scientist but still, it's not every day you meet Brad Pitt... But then, the last one is, 'So you've got a car!' A fucking car! Whoopty-goddamn-do, a car! Fucking children have cars, but man, that DON'T impress Shania Twain! She goes from Rocket Scientist, to Brad Pitt to any po-dunk hillbilly with a goddamn car!"

"Calm down there, Tiger. It's just a song."

"Yeah, well, it's stupid."

Elise rolled her eyes at me and went back to looking through her binoculars.

"Hold on there, Cowboy" she said to me. "I think he's haulin' out!

"Oh great. Let's get ready to go."

We saw a car back out of the driveway, one of those fancy-ass BMWs or Mercedes, I couldn't tell from this far away. When he was out of sight, we stood up and headed towards the house.

"Maybe instead of playing the Guess What Archie Hates Game, we should have come up with a plan," Elise says as we reach the house.

"Yeah, well, shoulda coulda woulda. Let's go." I took out my lock pick kit and once again opened his locked gate and let us onto the property. What kind of tool locks the gate around his house? How does he expect to have visitors if no one can even reach the door? Seems fishy.

"Archie," Elise calls out to me. "There is another door over here by the garage."

Oh. Oops.

I walk over to her, since my main point of business here is, in fact, with the garage. I give a good once over and am dismayed to see there aren't any windows I can peak in to.

"What are you doing?" Elise asks me.

"I had a thought. Okay, the lady I saw killed was obviously visiting here, since apparently Brad lives here alone, right?"

"Right."

"Well, where is her car?"

"She could have walked."

"You're right, she could have. But she also could have driven and it's worth a shot."

"Right on."

"I'm thinking the easiest thing for him to have done to get that car out of sight was to just pull it into his garage for hiding. So, seeing as he is out with one car right now, I find it rather unlikely there should be another car in that garage. And, if there is, it's definitely worth following through on."

"So what do we do?"

"Here," I said and I bent over and grabbed the bottom of the garage door. "Help me with this."

Elise bent down and we both tried to pull the garage door open so one of us could peak in. No luck though, it wouldn't budge more than an inch or so.

"We've got to go in through the house," Elise said.

"Are you insane? You think this asshole doesn't have a security system?"

"Well, I don't see any signs for it out front if he does."

"He doesn't need a sign. His giant house is sign enough. And the fact that he is a celebrity. AND his wife was murdered."

"Well, this isn't Los Angeles, it's a small beach community and it's at least worth a shot. Follow me."

Elise walked around to the side door near the garage and gave it a tug. No luck. She opened up the gate that I picked and walked up to the other door, the one I had knocked on when pretending to look for my dog. I followed.

Elise gave the knob a slow turn, and low and behold, it actually opened.

"See?"

"Are you kidding me, Elise?! This asshole doesn't even lock his door. What kind of psychopath does that?"

"Come on, let's go."

She opened the door slowly and peaked her head in. We listening for an alarm warning but heard nothing. Elise calls out Hello to make sure no one is there. When she gets no response, she goes inside. Once again, I follow her. This was not the first time I have had to break in to someone's house for a case, but this is the first time I've had this bad of feeling about it.

Lights were still on in the house, which made my bad feeling worse. Usually when people didn't kill any lights, they weren't going to be gone long. We needed to move fast.

We headed straight for the door leading to the garage. I gave the knob a turn and was dismayed to find that it was locked. With the deadbolt.

Why would someone exit his house through this door leading in to the garage, deadbolt it from the outside AND close the actual garage door, all while leaving the front door unlocked? Peculiar.

I needed in to the garage. We cut through the house until we found a sliding glass door that would lead up to the north side lawn. From there, hopefully, there would be another entrance into the garage. We got lucky. The outside door was only locked with the knob and it took me all of six seconds to pick it. Once inside, we found what we were looking for.

The car was one of those New Bugs from Volkswagen, bright green. A hideous embarrassment to all who drive them and, even though I didn't know this Brad Jackson cat, I was willing to bet this was most definitely NOT his car. This thing screamed SISSYPANTS.

Elise and I made our way over to the Vagina On Wheels and took a peek inside. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. I took my phone out and snapped a quick picture of the license plate. This might come in handy. I would need to run a check on the plates, and then hopefully, I would find my murdered woman. Well, that was the plan at least.

I told Elise I was satisfied with our findings and that we should get out of here. She agreed. We left the garage through the door we came in and entered back into the house through the sliding glass door. Once back inside, I did a quick check of everything to make sure we didn't leave any evidence of us being there. I shuffled through some papers that were on his kitchen counter but found nothing of interest. I opened the lid to the trashcan nearby and checked inside. There was no way in hell I was sticking my hand in someone else trash can, but I could at least check the top layer. No real luck there either. Just the normal, everyday, run-of-the-mill trash. An empty Hungry Man box, a crushed pack of Clove cigarettes and some crumpled up napkins and paper towels. That was as deep as I was going to go though, especially with time being of the essence. I closed the lid and took one last look around the kitchen.

I made my way into the large living room area and went to check out Brad Jackson's entertainment center. I was pleased to see that, even though it was just a vacation home, I still had a much better TV than him. His may have been bigger, but it wasn't nearly as slim and badass as my television back home. This thing was such a fossil, it even had room for him to set the remote controls on TOP of the TV! We're talking, this thing had to have been at LEAST three years old! How embarrassing. I grabbed one of the remotes from the top of the TV and hit the power button. I was really curious as to what the Hollywood elite watch in their free time. I expected to find the news or an entertainment channel, what I found was Nickelodeon and an episode of that annoying little prick Sponge Bob.

Elise came running over to me. "What the hell are you doing? We have to get out of here."

I stifled a little laugh. "Hey Elise, you believe this asshole. Millions of dollars and he sits here and watches children's cartoons. What an idiot."

"How do you know he wasn't watching Nick @ Nite last night and just hadn't turned his TV back on since then? Because it seems like I also know a certain idiot who watches this very same channel at night."

Ouch. Burn! Faced! Check and mate, my good madam.

"Fine." I clicked the television back off and set the remote down on his ancient pile of shit TV and double checked everywhere we had been in the house to make sure we left no signs of The Archie and Elise Traveling Circus.

Once I felt satisfied that we were in the clear, we headed for the unlocked door where we entered. Right as we were passing the door leading to the garage, though, we heard a key hit the lock and saw the doorknob start to turn.

17.

Brad Jackson sat at his desk in the main room of his house-on-the-cliff, flipping through the yellow pages until he landed on Hotels/Motels. He picked up his landline and began calling every hotel in the area, asking to leave a message for one of their guests, a Mr. Archie Lemons.

This Mr. Lemons had apparently seen Brad's crime on the beach below and, now that the body had apparently, hopefully, been dragged far out to sea by the current, Archie remained the only loose thread that needed tying up.

He wasn't exactly sure what his plan would be to properly dispose of his problem. In fact, he was never really sure of much. But who cares? With a jaw line and chiseled abs like that, nobody gave a shit what you thought. Maybe he would just play it by ear, or see what comes up when he finds this guy with the stupid name.

Paying him off didn't seem like a very good idea. It never worked out well in all the movies he had played in, and besides, he had no idea who this guy was and admitting to him that what he saw was true and handing him some evidence to the crime didn't seem like the best of ideas. Brad Jackson wasn't exactly known for his intelligence, but he was smart enough to know a bad idea when he saw it, apart from a few clunkers he starred in over the years.

Yeah. Archie Lemons would probably need to be disposed of.

An accident perhaps?

Maybe an obsessed fan trying to break into his house? Brad thought of ways he could get Archie into his house and just kill him in a self-defense way.

Maybe Archie could take a bad fall while trying to climb up the cliffs and get into his backyard?

Yea, those two options would seem the most reasonable, especially considering Brad's previous situation with stalkers. No one would question him killing a man trying to break in to his home. Even if this Archie Lemons was a great, all-around guy, or even if he told everyone he knew what he saw, the bottom line would be that he broke into the house and got himself killed. Seemed like a good enough plan to him. He felt proud of himself. He had formed a plan without the help of one of those stupid, ugly screenwriters he usually had to rely on.

Brad would need to get rid of that stupid homo-eroti-car parked in his garage in case the real police started snooping around his place, though. In fact, the sooner the better. He and his partner-in-crime would move it out of there. Brad could have no ties to that car. It would raise too many questions for which he did not have the right answers. Yeah, he would have his partner take it back to Hollywood. Later. Right now, he had to find Archie Lemons. He had a bad feeling that if he didn't act soon it might be too late. This guy had balls, showing up like he did to his house and all but telling Brad he saw what he did. If he had the balls to do that, then that could mean he is dangerous. And if he is dangerous he could be unpredictable. It was a bad combination.

Brad's paranoia started getting the best of him. He got up from the desk and peaked out his closest window, not really expecting to see anything, but still feeling a strong urge just to check. In case.

"Calm down, man," he said to himself. "You're Brad Jackson! Nobody messes with YOU!"

He walked to his fridge, grabbed himself a bottle of beer, and quickly took two large swigs. This seemed to calm him down a little bit.

"Mess with Brad Jackson and you get messed with! Brad Jackson'll cut a bitch!" he yelled, to no one.

Bitch-cuttin' Brad Jackson downed the rest of his beer, walked back to the phone and took a seat. After thinking for a few seconds, he slammed both fists down on his desk. Hard. Nobody can get the best of me, he thought. I'm done messing around. Archie Lemons has got to go. Soon.

He picked up the phone and continued dialing down the list of motels in the area. When he got to the Ocean Inn, his search ended. The friendly man on the other end of the line informed Brad that Archie had just extended his stay and he would be happy to leave a message for him.

The fact that Archie extended his stay had supplied Brad with much more paranoia. This guy was planning something. Brad knew it. He had to act fast and be rid of this pest.

Brad asked the motel keeper if he would tell him what room number Archie was staying in, as he would love to pop in and surprise him. Unfortunately, this was against company policy to give out room numbers, so Brad was out of luck. He would have to do a little surveillance work. He played a private eye once in a bomb from about ten years ago, how hard could it be? He decided he would go and case the motel today. Maybe he would get lucky. Maybe not. Either way, he could scope out the place and decide which plan of action to take from then on out.

He thanked the man on the other end of the phone and ended the call. He then pulled up Google on the Safari server on his iPhone and did a quick search of Archie Lemons.

There appeared to be only one.

And the information he found flooded his body with fear and paranoia.

Of all the goddamn people to see him murder someone, it had to be some hotshot piece of shit private investigator.

He needed to find Archie Lemons, get him to his house, and kill him. And make it look like an accident. Or self-defense. Either way, but he needed to do it ASAFP!

He could do it. He is a superstar!

But first, he needed to shake this feeling of being watched.

He took one more trip to the front window and peeked out. Still nothing out of the ordinary.

Okay, it was time to go. He did a few last minute things then grabbed his keys and headed for the garage. He locked the deadbolt with the key, although he wasn't sure why. He just knew he didn't want anyone to see that extra car, no matter how unlikely it really was.

He hit the garage door button, got into his car and backed out into the driveway. With his foot on the break, he took one more look around at his surroundings. He still felt like he was being watched. He was used to that in Los Angeles, but here, people mostly left him alone.

He decided he was okay, closed the garage door and took off towards the Ocean Inn.

The motel turned out to be just up the hill from his house and took him about one minute to get there. He parked on the side of the office and stepped out of the car, hoping not to run in to anyone that may recognize him.

He walked in to the motel area and started looking around for any sign of his man. Unfortunately, he had no idea what he was looking for. He had no idea what Archie drove or what room number he was in. Shit, he thought. He was totally unprepared for this. He let his emotions and paranoia get the best of him and he set out on a plan which had not been fully formed yet. Or not formed at all actually. That was never his job. That's what they paid some chump writer to do. All Brad did was show up and bring the sexy! That was the important part, usually. Didn't really help too much in his current situation though. Stupid ego.

Shitshitshit, he mumbled to himself.

He needed to go back to his house and think this out. He could not be sloppy on this one. It needed to be the perfect murder.

Just like his previous two.

18.

"Holy shit!" I whisper-yelled to Elise. "Did you even hear the goddamn garage door open?"

"We've got to move!"

Elise grabbed me by the arm and led me back towards the sliding glass door we had just entered back in from. We didn't make it though, as right when the door opened and Brad Jackson walked in, we had to quickly duck behind his kitchen bar, right in between two barstools. We were pretty much right in front of him and if we made the slightest of moves we would most definitely been spotted.

We stayed perfectly still, holding our breath.

If he came in to his living room, we would be caught. Our only hope would be for him to stay in the kitchen and then take the long way around or go into his office, which was the first room after the hallway we entered after first arriving.

We couldn't see what he was doing, which made us staying there all the more nerve racking.

We heard the door to the refrigerator open and we used those precious seconds to scoot down the bar, closer to what appeared to be his dining room. We stopped when we heard a bottle being opened.

I could hear him breathing. He had to have been standing just on the other side of the bar. I heard him set his bottle down right above our heads.

My heart started pounding and I found it increasingly difficult to bate my breath. I was going to have a panic attack.

Beads of sweat started forming on my forehead and I gave Elise's arm a squeeze to let her know what was happening.

At that moment, I didn't care what would happen to me, but I needed her to escape from this.

I made a promise to her when I first hired her that I would never put her in harm's way. I was breaking that promise.

We were trapped in the home of a murderer.

Elise grabbed me by my shoulders and looked me in the eyes, being completely silent. She was trying to calm me down. Signaling me to take slow, controlled breathes.

Brad was still standing right over us, drinking his beer or whatever it was. He began mumbling, which startled the shit out of me and Elise. It was clear he was talking to himself though.

"I'm motherfucking Brad Jackson!" he yelled, apparently to no one. "Brad Jackson doesn't take shit from anyone! I am famous! God damn it! Look at this stomach! Look at these biceps! I am an Adonis!"

We heard a loud crash of shattering glass. He had thrown his bottle and was obviously pissed. We needed to make our escape.

My face was drenched in sweat and I was having trouble breathing, but I wasn't risking this situation any longer. I looked at Elise and pointed into the dining room. If we could make it there, we could make it out.

Just as we were getting ready to make a break for it, Brad walked up right next to us and just stood there. His legs less than twelve inches from where we were crouched.

He was standing at the bar, doing...something.

Elise and I stayed perfectly still until Brad turned around and headed back in the kitchen. We quickly crawled out and made it in to the dining room where we took cover behind the separating wall and caught our breath.

My panic attack was still barely being kept at bay. I needed to get out of the house before I had a complete meltdown. Tears were welling up in my eyes. How embarrassing. It's hard to look tough while crying.

We heard Brad start to clean up the broken bottle in the kitchen and made a run for it, out the dining room and into the hallway that lead to the front door.

Once we hit the door, we stopped and took deep breaths. Elise grabbed the knob and turned it as quietly as possible. It made a small sound as the door opened but we doubt Brad would hear it from so far away, then we bolted outside with a quickness, right out the unlocked gate door and into the street.

I stopped and snuck back up to the gate, grabbed the lock and clicked it back shut.

I joined Elise in the street and we took off back towards our motel.

***

We made it back to the hotel and collapsed on the bed. I was breathing so hard that I thought I was going to throw up. We ran the entire way. I had a pain in my side and I was drenched in sweat. Gross. But, it appeared I had beaten the panic attack. Now my body was focusing on just not having a heart attack.

"Holy...shit... That...was close," I said, taking big breathes in between each word.

For some reason we both started laughing. I guess it was just to relieve the tension.

"So what now?" Elise asks.

"Well...I guess...we try...and tra...ck...down...the owner...of that stupid...car..."

"And how do we do that?"

"We...run a...trace on the...hold on..."

"Jesus man, are you okay? You've been lying down for five minutes now. This can't be healthy."

"You shut...your face...right...now..."

"Oh yeah? What are you going to do if I don't? Barf on me?"

"Hate...you..."

I wiped all the sweat from my face and rubbed it on Elise's pillow. She let out a disgusted sound then hit me in the arm, hard.

"Ahh! No fair. I'm in pain here."

"Get over it, Fatty Arbuckle, how do we trace the car?"

"I'll call one of my guys tomorrow. Or, Detective Anderson can do it, too. Easy peezy, Japaneezy."

"Okay, can we please get an early start on this in the morning? We have a lot of stuff to do if we're going to catch this piece of crap."

"Fine. Early start it is. Where's the remote?"

***

Right around the time Archie and Elise were reaching their motel room, Brad Jackson had finished cleaning up his mess. He glanced around the room, still not being able to ditch the feeling of being watched. He walked to the sink and washed his hands then headed for the front door to check something his paranoia had made him do.

He reached the door and kneeled down to check on the piece of scotch tape he put at the bottom, between the seal of the two doors. The seal had been broken.

Someone had been in his house.

"Mother of crap!!!" he yelled as he punched the wall, causing a picture to fall and more glass for him to clean up.

"Damn blast it!"

19.

Stupid lousy Elise woke me up before 8am so we could get an early start on our day. I was none too happy. It took me forever for the adrenaline of the previous night's activities to wear off and I could actually fall asleep. The seven-forty-five-AM sock in the arm from my sister-in-law proved to be quite the pain in the ass. I needed more sleep but she wasn't going to let me get any.

When I received my wake-up punch, Elise was already showered, dressed and ready to go. Stupid girls.

I was rolled off the bed and forced into the shower, where I did my best to try and wake up fully and greet this wonderful morning with a bright smile and a...fuck it. I need caffeine and I need it NOW!

I toweled off and got dressed, making sure my t-shirt was acceptable with Elise. It was. Apparently Huey Lewis & The News passes muster around here. I was glad because I wasn't going to change it either way...and I had packed three different ones, anyway.

We were out the door and on our way to the Shell Beach Grocery for some drinks less than one hour from the time I woke up. It was a new record for me.

We each grabbed a drink, (Sugar-Free Rockstar for me, Zero-Carb Rockstar for Elise,) and headed towards the small little park so we could sit, enjoy the morning and map out a plan of attack.

We had gone in to Brad's house last night way unprepared and had had too close of a call for our own comfort.

"Hey Elise, remember that old show Too Close For Comfort?"

"Nope."

"Aw come on, you remember. It had Ted Baxter from Mary Tyler Moore and Jim J. Bullock."

"Okay, yeah, I vaguely remember it."

"How can you only VAGUELY remember Jim J. Bullock trying to play a 'straight' guy?"

"He was supposed to be straight on that show?"

"Yeah! That guy is gayer than Boat Trip! People weren't fooled so the producers of the show tried to give him a girlfriend and shit. Didn't work. In fact, in a very special episode, he actually gets raped by a bunch of women. Seriously. The audience didn't know how to react so they laughed...at rape. I'm not making this shit up."

"Wow."

"Right? No one laughed when Edith Bunker almost got raped in her house, but when the little gay boy trying to play straight gets raped by a pack of women, it is HI-LAR-E-US!

"Why does this random crap pop in to your head?"

"The things that pop into my head are never random. I can always trace the source, no matter how far back it seems. It's a gift."

"You consider that a gift?"

"Sure, why not?"

"Because it is ridiculous."

"You're just jealous. All I was thinking about was how last night's encounter was a little TOO CLOSE FOR COMFORT. Hence, Jim J. Bullock."

"Your head is filled with more useless knowledge than anyone I've ever met. I'm not going to lie, it's pretty impressive."

"Thank you, Elise. That means a lot."

"Quick! What was Jim J. Bullock's character's name on the show! I know you know!"

I gave her a little laugh / eye roll combination and said, "Duh, Monroe Ficus. God."

"You're amazing. Come on, we have work to do. Time to get serious."

"Dy-No-Mite!"

***

We arrived at the park after a few minutes and took a seat at one of the tables with shade, close to where a few children were playing on the swing and fun zone. It was good to hear the children's laughter while we worked.

We had gotten a text from Jamie last night after our adventure informing us that they were all home safely. It was a huge relief for me. Maybe I watch too many movies, maybe I was a little too paranoid, but I was not willing to take any chances. I would make it up to them somehow.

But, right now, we have a murderer to bust.

"Okay," Elise says as she is opening her drink. Mine is already gone, but oh well. "First, something was obviously bothering him last night. He seemed pissed."

"The bottle throwing seemed like good evidence of your deduction, Columbo."

"Agreed," she said. "So, do we assume that he is pissed about you? Us, I mean?"

"I'm not so sure. When I went over there the other day, I somewhat subtly told him I might have been the one who saw him kill that girl. But, I'm not one-hundred-percent sure he caught on."

"And he did have a reason for killing that woman in the first place, right? Whatever it was had to have been pretty huge to warrant killing her."

"Yeah, and speaking of her, unless we find out who the hell she is, we're not going to bust him on shit."

"Well, get the trace on that license plate. Hopefully that will lead us somewhere."

"Yeah. Hopefully. If not, we're back where we started and yesterday was for nothing. Hold on." I took out my phone and clicked on the drawing of a giant penis with a badge I had quickly drawn on my Paint app a few months ago. Detective Enzite picked up after two rings.

"Well hello there, Archie Lemons."

"Hey, Uncle Milty, what's happenin'?"

"Not much, just waiting to be asked for another favor from the moochiest private eye since Magnum."

"Why, Detective Enzite, was that a joke? I'm very impressed, my friend."

"Thank you, I've been trying."

"Fantastic, now just try to find some tighter shirts and we can be BFF!"

"Fuck you, Lemons, there are no tighter shirts. What do you want?"

"Oh you love me. And, what I waaannnntttt is..." I paused for effect. The effect of making him irritated. Haha! "A trace on a license plate. I need it yesterday."

"Yesterday huh? Well, let me hop in my Delorian and go back in time to get it for ya."

"Hey George Lopez, no stealing my jokes!"

I believe I may have heard the slightest of laughter from him. This was a first.

"Fine. What's the plate number?"

I read him the plate number from the picture I had taken with my phone and he said he would check it in a few minutes then get back to me. I thanked him and told him I would talk to him in a few minutes.

I ended the call then dialed Detective Anderson's cell number. He didn't check his Call I.D.

"Detective Anderson."

"Detective," I said. "It's me."

"Hey Archie. Any news on your murder? I haven't seen any mention of it anywhere."

"God damn it, no. That's why I am calling. I need helppppp, Detective."

"Well, what do you neeeeeed," he asked.

"I need a corpse!"

"Yeah, you usually need one of those in a murder case."

"I've got Enzite running a trace on a license plate of a car that was somewhere where it didn't belong. Hopefully it's the dead girl's car, because if not, I'm back where I started, with nothing."

"Where was the car?"

"In the suspects' garage. Please don't ask how I got it."

"Wow, I sure won't. You are a shit magnet, aren't you, buddy?"

"It sure feels like it. Anyway, I need to find this dead woman."

"I thought you said she was fish food."

"She totally is fish food, I meant I need to find out who the hell she is, so I can prove she is missing, tie her to this Brad Jackson asshole and put the heat on him."

"Good luck with getting a conviction. This country loves a celebrity."

I closed my eyes and let out a sigh. He was right and we both knew it. Celebrities could do whatever the fuck they wanted to in this country and no jury would convict them. You mean a washed up football player killed some white folk in Beverly Hills? Sure, the evidence is over-whelming, but that's fuckin' Nordberg over there! No one from the Naked Gun movie could be bad! NOT GUILTY! (I would have made a football reference there instead of an obvious movie one, but, the truth is, I don't know dick about sports. Oh well.)

"I know, Detective. All I want to do is prove it though. I know what I saw and someone is dead because of that hunky Adonis. I'm going to prove it. Whether or not a jury believes me isn't my focus right now."

"Good enough for me. What can I do?"

"Okay," I said. "I may have burned a few bridges with the Pismo Police Department. I need you to check and see if there are any missing person's reports out on a slim blonde woman. Actually, any woman at all. I just need to get my foot in the door. I hope that there is a report out there, and hopefully Enzite gets me a name on the car. I'm spinning my wheels here."

"Okay, I can find a different counties M.P. reports with no problem. I'm not at the office right now but I'll pull it up as soon as I get there. Give me an hour or so."

"That's great, Detective. Thank you."

"Anything else?"

"If I think of anything else I'll call ya back."

"Okay. I'll check the M.P.s and give ya a call."

"Thanks Detective. Seacrest out!"

Gayest call ender ever!

I hung up and dialed Max's number this time. While the phone rang, I glanced over at Elise drinking her drink and enjoying the view from our park bench. I smiled at her.

"Hey Cocks," Max answered.

"Hey buddy. It's me again. Ugh, sorry. Have another favor for ya."

"You got it. I ran a background check on your stalker lady. I gave ya a call but I don't think you had a signal or something. Went straight to voicemail and I forgot to call back. Sorry man."

"No worries, I'm done with her anyway."

"Love 'em and leave 'em."

"Yeah, Max. Something like that. Hey, you said Brad Jackson was clean right?"

"Cleaner than the Wal-Mart version of a 2 Live Crew album."

"Okay, well can you do a financial check on him?"

"Yeah, I could probably do that? Why, what's up?"

"I have no idea, man. It's a long shot. Something to be big enough to cause him the trouble he's involved in. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, whenever someone gets knocked off, it either has to do with sex or money."

"Woah, somebody got knocked off?"

Shit! Did I not tell Max the details? I couldn't remember. Shit shit shit.

"Yeah, sure," I respond. "His wife, remember. Duh?"

"Was that DUH a question?"

"Possibly."

"I have a funny feeling you're holding out on me, Michael J. Cocks."

"I'll tell you everything when I get home. Just please run those reports soon and get back to me."

"Will do."

"Thanks!"

"You're wel..." I ended the call and looked back at Elise. My smile grew bigger.

"What?" she asked.

"Nothing."

"Weirdo. Okay, so where do we go from here?"

"Okay, Enzite is running the car. Should hear back from him in a few minutes. Anderson is on..."

"I was sitting right here when you made the calls, dork. I meant what do we do now?"

"Honestly, E." I said. "I have no idea. I am completely stumped. The car is our only lead right now and until we have more information on it, I really don't know where we can go."

I closed my eyes, leaned forward and put my face into my hands. I was lost. I felt the smile leave my face, replaced with nothing but a blank expression.

"Did you take your pills this morning?" Elise asked me.

"Yeah." I said into the palms of my hands. "I took them."

Elise put her arm around me and pulled me close to her. "We're going to get him," she said. "I promise you, Archie. We're going to get him."

Feeling her arm around me, I couldn't help but to think of my wife and all the pain from the last seven months came flooding through my body like tidal wave. I began to cry. Again. Elise pulled me closer.

"When is it going to stop hurting, Elise?"

"We're going to get through this together. You've got me now and you're never getting rid of me."

20.

We stayed on the bench for a little while longer, watched the sun cross over the ocean and glare its light onto our already-warm bodies. More and more children began occupying the park and their screams and laughter filled my heart with a little bit of much-needed happiness.

My phone started vibrating.

"Hey Detective." Anderson.

"Hey Archie, I got something for ya here."

"I hope it's good, man. I'm about to give up on everything and just go back home."

"Dunno if it's what ya want, but I have one missing person in your area. A female."

"Oh man, here we go! Who is she?" I asked.

"Her name is Samantha Hiller. She's seventeen years old, was reported missing yesterday, so that would put the timeframe about right."

I let out another sigh. It didn't sound right to me. The woman I saw on the beach just appeared older than a mere seventeen years. However, anything is possible I suppose. I started running scenarios through my head. Maybe this Brad asshole was involved with an underage girl, she threatened to tell someone about it, and he killed her. Seemed reasonable enough, even though I actually wished that wasn't the case. Seventeen is way too young to die. But, at the same time, if this were my dead girl then at least I would know and would be on my way to saving my sanity and closing this case. Either way I would have to follow my lead.

"Okay Detective, give me the details. I'll try running it down today."

"Okay, the mother, one Katherine Hiller, filed the report last night that her daughter had gone missing. The girl apparently left her cell-phone which is what caused the mom to immediately panic."

"And rightfully so. I've learned in the past, no one goes anywhere without their phones these days."

"Yeah, I've never seen you even set yours down before."

"Yeah, and I'm old as shit. So imagine a teenager."

"Anyway, this Katherine Hiller lives at 842 Sandpiper Lane."

"What the hell is a sandpiper?"

"I have no idea, Lemons."

"Wasn't that the name of the airline in Wings?"

"Again, I have no idea, Lemons. Go follow your lead and get back to me."

"Fine. I'm still waiting to hear from Enzite, too. Thanks Detective."

"Don't mention it."

He hung up.

"Come on, Elise, we've got a missing girl to track down. Seventeen years old, name of Samantha Hiller, went missing around the same time as I saw the murder. Mother filed the report. Katherine Hiller. 842 Sandpiper St. Or lane. Whatever."

"Great," Elise said. She was excited. "Let's go get the car!"

We arrived at Katherine Hiller's house about an hour later. We sat in the car for a few minutes, composing our thoughts. I closed my eyes and took two deep breaths.

"Okay, let's go."

Elise opened her door and got out, I followed shortly after. My heart was beating faster than normal. I couldn't tell if that was a good sign or a bad sign. Elise rang the doorbell and an attractive woman answered the door, right around my age. If this was Katherine, she must have had her daughter fairly young.

"Katherine Hiller," Elise asks.

"Yes. That's me. Oh god, is..."

"Everything is fine, Mrs. Hiller. My name is Archie Lemons and I am a private investigator over in Bakersfield. This is my sister-in-law, Elise. I mean, my associate Elise."

"Oh. Hi. How may I help you? And it is Miss."

"My apologies, Miss Hiller. We're here about the disappearance of your daughter."

"I filed a police report but no one is helping me. And how did you find out? I can't afford a private investigator."

"I found out from a detective. We work together from time to time. I was wondering if we could help. It would be no charge to you."

"Why would there be...Oh thank you!" Her smile broadened and she hugged each of us. I wasn't expecting that. "Please, please, come in. I don't know what to do."

The house was a modestly furnished little place, it reminded me of a college kids house when he moves into his own place for the first time. I had a feeling Miss Hiller was recently divorced. I noticed the small tan line around her ring finger, which confirmed my theory.

"First off, Miss Hiller, where is your daughter's father? You are recently divorced, correct?"

"Yes," she said. "That is correct. He moved out and took everything with him. Down near Los Angeles somewhere. I don't really care."

"Los Angeles, huh? That's interesting. Anything else you can tell me about him?"

"Well, he's a piece of shit. He hasn't even spoken to his daughter once since he left. I called him in a panic the other night, on his cell phone, asking if he'd heard from Sam. He said no, then told me he was too busy to deal with me right now. Then he hung up. Great guy, huh?"

"Kinda sounds like this one piece of shit guy I used to know."

Yikes! Elise gave me a dirty ol' look!

"Anyway," I continued, "when did your daughter disappear?"

"She left three days ago. She didn't come home one night, so I called around to all her friends but they didn't know anything and she wasn't answering her cell phone. Then I went into her room again, and I saw her phone sitting next to her laptop. That's when I really started to panic."

"Does she have a boyfriend that you know of?" Elise asked.

"She has been seeing this boy for a few months. I'm not sure if it's serious or not. I've had her friends call him, though and ask if she was with him. He said no. I don't know what else to do. The police have a picture of her and I was about to go put up flyers and - "She broke off. She was beginning to cry. She lowered her head into her hands and became silent.

Elise reached across the sofa and put her hand on her shoulder. "Take your time," she said.

Me, not knowing how to deal with other people's emotions, says, "Miss Hiller, do you mind if we take a look at your daughter's bedroom?"

"No. No, of course not," Miss Hiller said, as she sniffled and raised her head back up to meet my eyes. "It's this way."

She got to her feet and started walking down the small hallway. Elise and I followed. Miss Hiller opened the door revealing a typical teenagers bedroom. Full-size bed with snowman sheets, even though she lived at the beach and it was summer, tons of pillows, a small desk in the corner where her laptop and cell phone sat, various posters on the wall, and clothes scattered everywhere. It was exactly as I imagined every single teenage girl's room in America would look.

One poster caught my attention. I gave Elise a little nudge and nodded in the direction of a Hunky Vampires of the Hollywood Hills poster, featuring none other than Mr. Brad Jackson. She gave me a worried little look.

I entered the room fully now and took a look around at everything. I walked over to where her phone was sitting and picked it up. It wasn't an iPhone so I had absolutely no idea how to use it. I handed it to Elise and told her to check old text messages and recent calls. She obliged.

I opened up Samantha's laptop and powered it on. While I was waiting for it to boot up I looked around her desk some more for any clues, then looked down into her trashcan. On top, there was a clear cellophane wrapper, similar to one wrapped around a pack of cigarettes, but about eight inches long and three inches wide. I recognized what it was immediately. My wife and I had one in our trashcan recently.

"Ms. Hiller, what was Samantha's boyfriend's name? Do you recall?"

"Yes," she said. "It was Jesse."

"Was he in a band? The Rippers, perhaps?"

She gave me a puzzled look. Another one of my inappropriately timed jokes wasted.

"Elise," I say, "scroll through her contacts list and find Jesse's number for me."

Elise found it and read it off to me as I dialed from my own phone.

"We've called him, Mr. Lemons," Katherine says to me. "He says he doesn't know where she is."

"He knows. And don't worry. Your daughter wasn't kidnapped." A kid answers and I press the phone against my shirt to finish talking to Ms. Hiller. "She's pregnant."

Ms. Hiller's face looked shocked. I quickly returned the phone to my ear. "Is this Jesse?" I asked.

"Yes. Who is this?"

"This is a friend of your girlfriend's mother. We are actually going to need you to drop her off within the next hour or we will be calling the police and having you arrested for kidnapping and statutory rape. You are over eighteen correct?"

"What the..."

"We know about Samantha's pregnancy so there is no reason to hide from us anymore. Do yourself a favor and bring her home right now. She doesn't have to run from her mother. So avoid some trouble and have her at her mother's house within the hour before me and my cop friends come bust down your fucking door. No bullshittin'. Got it?"

There was a long silence before he finally responded. "We'll be right there."

I ended the call and looked towards Ms. Hiller, still with the same shocked look on your face.

"Your daughter will be home within an hour. You guys have a lot of stuff to talk about."

Ms. Hiller broke out in tears and lunged at me to give me a hug. Nothin' awkward about that. We said it was time for us to go now and she continued thanking us the whole way back to our car.

My phone started vibrating. It was Enzite.

"Hey, perfect timing. Got anything for me?"

"Yeah. Hi. Ran a trace on the plates. It's registered to a Daniel Mayweather. Some screenwriting hack out near Hollywood. His address is listed at 6739 Sunrise Ave."

"A dude?"

21.

Finding out the rolling vagina was registered to a man just added more stress to my entire situation. It was not the car belonging to the woman killed on the beach, which dead-ends that lead. Instead, it is registered to some dude out in Hollywood who I have never even heard of. Things were getting more and more complicated as time went by. Shouldn't shit be getting easier?

Elise and I drove to a little cafe where we could get a bite to eat and collect our thoughts. Once there, we ordered from the menu then took out the iPad to do a quick Internet Movie Database search on Daniel Mayweather. If he really were a screenwriter, even for the shittiest of films, IMDB would have him listed.

Sure enough, we got a hit. No picture, though. Turns out, he has written two really shitty movies that I have never heard of. Actually, I'm just assuming they are pieces of shit since I've never heard of them. If they were any good, I would have...well you get the idea.

I did a cast and crew search of both of these movies and was happy to see that one of them featured none other than the former Mrs. Brad Jackson...

"Well now this is interesting," I say. "Check out this particular member of the cast." I flipped the iPad over so it was now facing Elise and pointed to the name Annette Jackson. Elise looked puzzled.

"What do you think this means?" she asked.

"Actually...I have no idea."

"Okay, so let's run down the facts here."

"Sounds good."

"First," Elise says as she holds up her index finger, counting out our fact list, "Annette Jackson gets murdered and we believe it was pinned on that wrong person, which leads to our main suspect being the husband."

"Correct."

"Second," as she adds another finger in the air, "you witness another woman being killed by whom we believe to be the same person that did the previous murder."

"Keep going."

Third finger in the air, "We find a car, not belonging to Brad Jackson, hidden in his garage. We assume it is the murder victim's car since it's the gayest possible thing any man could drive except for maybe Mr. Garrison's Gyropod."

"A South Park reference? Really, Elise?"

"Hey, I'm trying here."

"Fine. Not bad. Keep going."

"The car turns out to be registered to a man, from Hollywood, with at least a passing acquaintance to the first murder victim." She apparently had given up on the whole finger-counting thing as she was now taking a child-like, double-fisted sip of her Pepsi.

"Yeah, so we're pretty much back where we started."

"Maybe not. Remember that guy that Emma Ricks told us about?"

"Sure. You think that's our guy?"

"I sure hope so. Maybe he and Brad struck up a friendship on the set of Annette's movie. Or maybe they've been friends long before that. Who knows? It's worth tracking him down though. And if it is the same guy, it'll be killing two birds with one stone."

"I never really understood that saying. Why would anyone want to kill a bird? And why would anyone kill birds with rocks and then be happy about killing two with the same throw?"

She let out an audible sigh. "I don't know, man, it's just a saying."

"Well, I think we should do away with that saying and find a new one."

"Fine, you work on a new saying and I'll work on this case."

"Ouch, it was just an idea. Calm down."

"Stay on track, Archie. If this guy's car is here then it stands to reason that he is here, too. Somewhere."

"Well, we were in Brad's house. He certainly wasn't there at the same time, and we saw Brad leave alone."

"Right," she said. "Well, let me ask you this. Are you positive it was Brad who murdered the girl on the beach?"

"Elise, I know what I saw."

"I know, I know. And I believe you. I'm just wondering if maybe it could have been someone else."

"I'm almost positive it was Brad. And the guy on the beach had dark hair. If the screenwriter and the man from Emma Ricks' story are one and the same, that guy has blond hair."

"Okay. Good point then. So what now?"

I looked up as our waitress brought us our food. I was starving. "Right now," I say, "we eat. Then we'll get back to business."

***

We finished lunch and made our way to a bench overlooking the ocean.

"Hey, ya know what I just remembered?" I ask.

"Nope. What?"

"I'm pretty sure I had those movers scheduled to come to the office today."

Elise snorted then said "Oops."

"Yeah, oops. Those guys are going to be pissed."

"Well call and cancel."

"I don't even have the number, Snorts. Oh well."

"Yeah. Oh well. Now back to the case, please."

"Right," I said. "Sorry. Where were we?"

"I asked you if you were one-hundred-percent positive that it was Brad Jackson down on the beach."

"Right. Yeah. I'm pretty sure it was him. Now I'm thinking that he had an accomplice, obviously."

"New-Bug?"

"Yeah. New-Bug. I was really hoping for that goddamn thing to belong to the victim. That would have made this case a whole lot easier to figure out."

"I know, but at least we can follow up on this guy.

"Well, he is a hack screenwriter in Hollywood which means he's probably waiting tables somewhere at a shitty diner in the city. Are you down for another trip to the City of Angels?"

"Why would we drive to Hollywood if the guy's car is here?"

"Just call it a hunch. I am willing to bet that car is gone now, and even if it isn't, we still need to find out all we can about this guy. He shouldn't be hard to track, and besides, Enzite even gave us his address. We need to do some snooping around. Something is rotten in the state of Denmark here."

"That makes no sense."

"Yeah, I know. Sorry. Hey. Ya think they call L.A. the City of Angels because of all the Mexican guys there named Angel?"

"This is the worst vacation ever."

"I agree, Miss Elise. I agree. Let's go."

"I need to stop and get gas...on the expense account!"

"Fine. I need to get a Rockstar...on the expense account. Let's go, Babydoll."

"Oh-la-la."
22.

On the road back to LA once again. Elise was right; this is the all-time worst vacation ever. I missed my house and I missed my nephews. Elise had called to check in on them right when we hit the road. All was well with the kiddos and Wrecker. We owed Jamie BIG TIME!

As soon as we hit the freeway, my phone started vibrating. I dug it out of my pocket and checked the ID. It was Anderson. I tossed the phone to Elise and told her to answer it.

"Hi Detective," she answered.

...

"They do?! For what?"

...

"Ay yi yi. How did you even find this out?"

...

"Oh, you have your ways, huh? Ugh, that is ridiculous. We didn't do crap.

I butted in. "What happened?"

Elise ignored me and continued her conversation with Anderson. Speakerphone would have been a little more polite at this moment, but whatever. There is no winning when a woman is involved. Ha.

"Alright, Detective. Thanks for the heads up. I'll tell Archie."

"Tell Archie what?!" I interrupted. Again.

"We're actually on our way to Hollywood again. We need to have a word with the owner of that car that was parked in Brad Jackson's garage."

Oh my god, if this woman doesn't quite ignoring me I'm going to go insane!

"No," Elise continues, "but Archie has a hunch that it is not there anymore. And even if it is there, he wants to get a background on him. We think he's involved in all of this and maybe he'll be the weaker link."

I was paying more attention to the one-sided conversation than I was to driving. I drifted over the line and quickly swerved back into my lane. Elise shot me a dirty look then began talking again. They concluded their conversation and Elise handed me my phone back.

"Well," she said. "You, my good man, have an official complaint of stalking filed against you with the Pismo Beach Police Department by one Mister Brad Jackson."

"What the grizzlebees?!" I was shocked. How the hell...?

"Yeah, that's pretty much what I said."

"How could he even know who I am, let alone file a complaint on me? And how does he know I even did shit? This is frakin' fishy as hell and I know that he knows we're on to him. He needs to get me away from him so he can clean up his mess. Right now, I am probably his only loose thread."

"You know what this mean, right?" Elise asks.

"Ya goddamn right I do. We work harder and bust this pretty-boy doucheface."

"You got the right, partner."

***

Earlier that morning, Brad Jackson placed a call to the Pismo Beach Police Department; a department that treated him very, very well, and filed an official complaint of stalking on his new arch-nemesis Archie Lemons. (He giggled at the thought...ARCH-nemesis.) He spoke with the officer in charge of such things, a Mr. Steve Edwards, and informed him that he had been the subject of a crazed fan who had broken in to his house. When asked how Brad knew the house was broken in to, he simply replied that he had had a feeling and set a small trap, and if they would like further proof they would be more than welcome to come out to his house and dust for prints. Prints that Brad was nearly one-hundred-percent sure they would find.

Being a major Hollywood player definitely has its upside, especially when the major Hollywood player's wife was murdered by a stalker. Supposedly. The police asked no further questions of the famous actor and immediately filed the complaint and started the paper work on a restraining order against the man with the stupid name.

Brad's new plan was coming along swimmingly. Who the hell needed those ridiculous, ugly screenwriters anyway? Brad Jackson is the real deal, he thought. The whole package! If ideas could win an Oscar, Brad thought, he would certainly have a mantle filled with them! With the complaint filed and the restraining order in the works, all he had to do was get Archie in his house. Then he would finally tie up that loose end. First, his wife, then that little bitch on the beach, and finally Archie Lemons. Murder seemed to be getting easy for him. He felt no regret, no remorse, only excitement.

He stood up from his office desk and went to the fridge to grab a cold beer, then headed for the sofa. He plopped down, kicked his feet up and reached for the remote. While he scrolled through the seemingly endless channels of crappy daytime programming, he tried to think of ways to lure Archie Lemons into his house. It would have to be perfect.

His mind trailed off to the car in the garage. Him or his partner would need to drive it back to Hollywood, or at least hide it. He could have no connection with it.

He landed on some white-trash talk show, downed the rest of his beer then fell asleep. His plan could wait until later.

***

We arrived in Los Angeles in less than three hours, but the commute and this whole vacation actually, was really starting to wear on us. We were both exhausted. We had gotten absolutely zero rest or relaxation and we had spent excessively on gas, food, lodging, and you name it.

I was getting really frustrated about everything. My meds make it easier for me to cope with shit like this, but I was near my breaking point. The more I started thinking about it, the more I just wanted to walk away from everything. There was no case here. I was not being paid. In fact, I was losing money on this. If the Pismo police don't even want to bother with it, then why should I?

Every time I wanted to just say forget it, head back to the beach, get our shit and head home, my brain would flash an image of Marianne and I would remember the promise I made her while standing over her coffin, snow falling down on me. The promise to not let people get away with the horrible shit that they do. To always make things right, no matter what. And with that memory, I would decide to push on.

The more I thought about it, though, the more disheartened I got. We had no leads in Shell Beach as to who the woman was that was murdered. And without a missing person there, it means the woman wasn't a local. Which means, probably, she was one of any number of Hollywood whores or bimbos that came down to the beach with Brad Jackson for a weekend of God-knows-what. And if some wanna-be actress, model, dancer, whatever, goes missing in the big city, honestly, who is going to notice? And even if someone does notice, how hard will it be to track down the one I'm looking for? The answer, in case you were wondering, is Damn Near Impossible.

So yeah, needless to say, when we excited the freeway into the heart of Hollywood, right next to the Chinese Theater and various other tourist attractions, I was pretty down on myself and not very enthusiastic about the case. It felt like we were chasing ghosts. Elise could tell how I was feeling just by the look on my face. It's a look she had only seen a few times before. I felt defeated.

I pulled into the parking garage of Hollywood and Highland and went down to the third level to park. I figured we could stop here and stretch our legs and figure out a plan.

Hollywood and Highland was a large, outdoor mall type area, named after the two streets it occupied, obviously. It was a tourist attraction next to the Chinese Theater, but it was actually a pretty classy little place. It had some nice shops and some good places to eat. I had actually been here numerous times with Marianne, too. It was a nice, quick little getaway and I absolutely adored catching a flick at Grauman's next door.

Anyway, we each grabbed an ice cream at Coldstone and took a seat at one of the tables to discuss where we go from here. Honestly, I was so tired and over this case, that I really didn't give a shit what we did. Elise had an idea.

"Why don't we go check into one of those hotels around the corner?"

"You want to stay the night here?"

"Be realistic. Look at the time. Even if we finish everything we need to do today, there is no way we can drive back to Shell tonight. We'll be exhausted. Hell, we already are exhausted. Let's just get us a room for the night and take it easy. We can start again in the morning. We need to rest. Besides, we still have our bags from the Gap in the car, so we won't even need to buy clothes again. Whatta ya say?"

"Yeah, actually that's not a bad idea. I keep thinking about all the money we are pissing away on this, though. Christ, we already have one room rented in a city where we aren't even are; now we are getting another room? I don't even want to add all this up."

"We can worry about the finances when we get back home, McDuck. How about for now, we go get a room, order a pizza and watch movies in bed?"

"Actually, Elise, that sounds amazing. I promise though, we'll get right back to work in the morning and won't stop until we solve this stupid thing. Deal?"

"Sounds like a good deal to me."

We picked up our ice creams and headed back towards the parking garage. Once we paid our dollar fee, we drove less than half a mile to the first nice looking hotel we saw. We reserved a room with two queen beds.

Once checked in, we both collapsed onto the closest bed. I told Elise if she ordered the pizzas I would pay. She agreed and called down to room service. She ordered the largest extra-cheese pizza they had, four Coronas and two Pepsis.

"I don't recall saying I'd pay for beer," I said.

"Relax, Jack Benny. This one's on me." She reached for her purse and pulled out some cash.

"Thanks Elise."

"Of course."

I flipped through the channels until the pizza arrived. There was absolute dick on TV so I just stopped on HBO so we could watch whatever movie they were playing. We laid together on the bed, ate our pizza and drank our drinks until there wasn't a single morsel of food left. Eventually our eyes closed and we fell asleep next to each other.

23.

We woke up some twelve hours later with the television still on. We had somehow worked our bodies into the normal sleeping position and the room service tray was now upside down on the floor at the foot of the bed. Oh well, not my room, not my problem.

Actually, yeah, damn it, it was my problem. Shit on the floor drives me crazy. Ugh, I guess I'll bend over and pick it up. Ughhhh! Oh well.

The half-day of sleep was much needed, though, and it felt quite nice to not be in a rush. We were able to have a nice, semi-relaxing morning.

Elise decided she would order us breakfast from room service, and after she placed our order, she went into the bathroom to shower and get ready for the day. I imagined this was the latest she had slept in in years. I reached for the remote and began swimming the channels again, searching desperately for Full House or my precious RTV. No luck. Not even Urkel or a Saved by the Bell. LA has not been impressing me, lately. I continued searching, quite apathetically.

Elise came out of the bathroom, fully dressed and drying her hair with a towel right as our breakfast arrived. I tipped the waiter, or bellhop, or whatever the hell you call them, a five spot and set out our breakfast.

When I was finished, it was my turn to shower and get ready. I had fresh underwear from our previous shopping trip at the Gap, and my shorts would be fine for the third straight day of wear, but the only clean shirt I had was a red Something Corporate t-shirt that was left in Elise's car from a while ago. I had given her the shirt after she had dirtied up her own shirt a few months back. Apparently, it has been in the back of her car, clean and folded ever since. I didn't much care about it because I had packed on a few pounds since that shirt fit comfortably. Now I had no choice but to try to squeeze into it. I wasn't looking forward to it.

I showered and got fully dressed in the bathroom, and just as I feared, the shirt was disgustingly tight. You could see my bellybutton shadow and my nipple bumps. We would be needing a store trip before we went anywhere. I stepped out of the bathroom, ready for my ridicule. Right on cue...

"OH YEAHHHH!" Elise says, doing her best Kool-Aid man impression.

I tried to keep a straight face. I failed. "I get it, I get it. It's a wee-bit snug."

"A wee bit? You look like ten pounds of Jell-O in a five pound bag."

"Laugh it up, Skinny. One day this is coming for you, too, ya know."

"Me? Never!"

"Hey, you ever wonder how many enemies the Kool Aid Guy had?"

"Um, no." Elise says curiously. "What do you mean?"

"Well I mean, how many houses do you think that fat bastard wrecked? Like, I bet a lot of those houses were like the projects and shit. Like, some bored little poor kid is like, Yo ma, where da Kool-Aid at? And then here comes Kool-Aid Man smashing through the fucking wall. The mom comes running out and is like Damnnnn Kool-Aid Man! We be likin' yo' product and all, but we just rentin' this goddamn place, fool! And dis some cheap ass construction, this whole fuckin' buildin' gon' be fallin' now.

"Ya know. Shit like that. He had to have made some enemies."

Elise was trying to act offended but she couldn't hide her smile. "Wow," she said. "Way to racial profile people."

"I wasn't racially profiling anyone. Simply saying that poor people like Kool-Aid. If they weren't poor, they could drink something better..."

Elise rolled her eyes and shook her head. Oh well, I thought it was funny at least. I need to stop wasting my jokes on people who don't even get them.

I decided to switch gears.

"Elise?"

"Yeah?"

"I didn't bring my pills with me."

"Oh. Well, that's okay. It's just one day. Hopefully you can make it through. Yeah?"

"I don't know. I've been thinking. I think I want to stop taking them."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. They don't make me feel right. I mean, it's nice always not having to worry about a breakdown, and it's nice being able to ride in elevators and stuff, but lately I just don't feel like myself."

"Well, Chubs, that is your decision to make."

"I know. And I think I want to stop. It's just not me. Like, this case for example. I know I am missing something. Something that probably would have been so obvious to me eight months ago. But now, there is just nothing there. Maybe my behavioral problems are an advantage to our line of work, instead of a disability. That's what my dad always told me. Does that make sense?"

"Yeah," Elise says sympathetically. "It makes perfect sense."

"I just want to go back to being normal. And, I know I have a lot of problems and I have some serious issues, but I like myself. Temper tantrums, the potty mouth, everything. I know I'm far from perfect, but... I like how I am...how I used to be. I need to go back to the previous Archie."

"I totally understand."

"You're not mad at me?"

"Archie, why would I be mad? You are an amazing person. You've only been on the pills for less than a year, but all the time I knew you before that you weren't on them, and I still loved you. You are an incredible person and you have a gift. Stop taking the pills"

I let out a sigh. "You know this means we won't be able to keep our office."

"Who cares about a silly office? I'm sure someone on the bottom floor would love to switch us."

"You sure you're not mad?"

"I am one-hundred-percent positive. I'm actually quite excited. I love the old Archie. He was exciting. Sometimes he went a little over the line, but I still enjoyed his company."

"Well, good...because he is coming back."

"Great! So what do you say we stop this mushy crap and go find us a murderer?"

"Now you're talkin', soul sista! We need to make a quick stop at a clothing store though. I can't breathe in this goddamn thing."

"Yeah, and it's pretty hard for me to concentrate with your nipples following me around and that equator shadow line running across your gut."

"Funny girl."

***

After a quick stop at the Hot Topic at Hollywood and Highland, I was ready to go with my size LARGE Autobots shirt. It felt good to peel that medium off of me and return some circulation to the top half of my body. We hopped back in the car and left the parking structure once more. I was excited about beginning my new pill-free life...again. At the first stop light when came to I already got frustrated and began cussing out the inanimate object that was currently holding us up. Fucking piece of shit light! MOVE!!! TURN GREEN!!! GAAAHHHHHD DAMNIT!"

Yep. The old Archie had finally returned.

It's good to be back, folks!

24.

We showed up at Daniel Mayweather's address a little after two in the afternoon. Like I said, it was a slow starting day. The address consisted of a small grouping of little apartments. There looked to be about four, I could see the lettering on the buildings labeled A through D. Unfortunately, we had no idea which is the one we were looking for. We looked around the small parking area and on the street. The New-Bug was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps my hunches have been a little off lately. We decided to knock on apartment A. An old lady answered.

"Hi ma'am," I said. "My name is Mr. Pairatestees. First name Harry. This is my friend Anita Goodlay. We're from Mandalay Pictures, ya know, the movie company? We were sent to this address to deliver some pretty exciting news for a Mr. Daniel Mayweather about a script he recently submitted to our studio. We don't have the apartment number though. Does he happen to live here by any chance?"

"Oh my, no he doesn't live here. He lives behind me in C," the old lady tells us. "He's a great neighbor though, always quiet, never any problems. You say it's good news you have for him?"

"Yes ma'am, good news indeed. Thank you for your help. Next time you see Mr. Mayweather I am sure he will tell you all about it. Thank you for your time."

"Oh, before you go. You look like such a strong young man. Would you mind taking this trash to the dumpster for me? I'm old."

Before I could answer 'fuck yeah I mind, that's gross,' she shoved a trash bag towards me and I had no choice but to grab it. "Um, thanks?"

"You're welcome," she says to me, totally ignoring poor Elise, and then closes the door on us.

Elise shoots me a look. "Anita Goodlay and Harry Pairatestees? Really Archie?" We leave the old lady's front porch and head towards the dumpster, trash bag in hand.

"Hey," I said, "they're as good of names as any. Sorry I couldn't think of any more names from Adventures in Babysitting like you used the other day."

Elise cracked a little smile.

"Yeah," I continue, "I knew what the name was, Ms. Chris Parker!"

"At least that is a real name. Harry Pairatestees, give me a break."

"Oh she was old anyway, who cares. She didn't know what was going on." I give the little trash bag a shake and hear glass bottles clanking around. "She doesn't even recycle her bottles."

"Well, like you said, she's old."

"Yeah, but I bet she doesn't realize that she could score ten cents for each of those."

"Oh well, she's old, remember, what does she need money for?"

"Well, she needs to start saving up for her funeral next week."

"Archie!"

"Just sayin'."

We reach the dumpster and I chuck the trash bag in, hearing a few bottles break as they hit the metal bottom. We turned and headed towards apartment C.

We quickly realized that with all the time we spent driving, relaxing and eating, we never really formed a plan on what we would say to this guy if he were home. Elise decided that she would take the lead on this one. Apparently, she was none-too-thrilled with how I handled the last house.

We reached the apartment and Elise knocked. No answer.

"Okay, well now what, Miss. Lead?"

She knocked again and said she didn't know.

"Well," I said, "we didn't drive down here for nothin'." I reached into my back pocked and pulled out my wallet. That's where I keep my small lock picking kit.

"Oh no," Elise said. "We're not going to break into his house! No way!"

"We have no other choice, unless you want to just drive back to Shell Beach, get our shit and go back home?"

"God, don't you remember what happened the last time we broke and entered?"

"I do. We escaped and got the license number that lead us here. The choice is yours though. Make the call."

Elise let out another one of her little sighs and closed her eyes to think for a moment. After about twenty seconds of total silence, she finally told me to go for it.

I pulled out my pick and had the door open in less than a minute. I was getting good at this illegal break-in stuff, I must admit.

"Broke and entered?" I ask her. Was that the right terminology? Didn't sound right.

We entered the apartment and took a quick look around. The place was a shoebox. The entire apartment appeared to be about the same size as my living room back home. It was furnished quite sparingly, too. At first glance, it appeared that someone without a lot of money lived here, but expensive touches around the apartment seemed to contradict that, like his amazing home theater set-up, all his video game systems and the sweet movie memorabilia on the walls.

"If you had the money to buy all this expensive shit, wouldn't you move into a bigger place? This place is tiny yet it's filled with ridiculous shit like this TV that is goddamn bigger than mine! What the hell?!"

"Well, some people like small places. They're cozy. And maybe he would rather spend his money on stuff like this than a higher rent. This is Hollywood, remember."

"Yeah, I guess that makes sense. Let's hurry up and take a look around. I don't want to be here long."

Elise starts riffling through her drawers and I went through a small stack of papers on his coffee table. I came across two pay stubs, each for under twenty-five dollars from a place called the Husky Bar. I took a picture of the checks with my phone and continued looking.

"Hey Arch," Elise called out to me. "Come here."

I walked over and joined her by the kitchen where she had discovered several bound scripts, all claiming to be written by Daniel Mayweather. None of the titles sounded familiar at all. They were probably all rejects. I took pictures of all the title sheets then Elise returned the scripts to their drawer and we continued our search for any clues.

I walked in to the bathroom where there was nothing of interest then peaked in to the bedroom. It was cluttered with clothes and shit (not literal shit) and I really had no desire to go digging through that mess. I noticed several women's clothing items amongst the mess on his floor, which means he probably has a girlfriend. We would need to track her down if we came up empty with him.

I went back into the bathroom to check for typical girlfriend items...cotton balls, curling iron, the dreaded tampons, shit like that. I opened the medicine cabinets and the drawers and came up empty handed, save for a few things of cheap make-up. I figured, with the lack of such important items, it was safe to assume he didn't have a steady girlfriend, but that didn't really jive with the clothes on the floor. This bothered me. I let it go, though.

"Come on, E, I think we've got everything we're going to get from here. We should go."

"Yeah, I agree."

"I found a pay stub for a bar. I'm guessing that's his real job. We need to go there."

"Is it close?"

"Actually, it's kind of near our hotel. Off of Vine."

I did a quick check in his kitchen then joined Elise back in the small living room. We did one more look around then turned to walk towards the door. On our way out I noticed something hanging near the entryway. It was a framed article from Variety.

In Development:

Brad Jackson and his production company Striped Panther just purchased the rights to a script written by Daniel Mayweather. The movie is said to be about a pair of women who were wrongly convicted of killing a man who attempted to rape them, and their struggles adjusting to prison life. No word yet on when production will actually begin.

"Okay," I said, "well this is interesting. There is our connection between the two people, and really, the movie is about women falsely convicted and in prison? What?!"

"We already had the connection though. This guy's car is in Brad Jackson's garage. What we really need to find out is if this guy is the same guy that Emma Ricks saw at the Hollywood house and in court. We need to find a picture of this guy and take it to Emma."

"Yeah, but I didn't see a single goddamn picture in this place. Did you?"

"No, not a one. Damn it."

"You know what would make this a whole shit-ton easier for us?"

"What?"

"If we actually had Annette Jackson's murder book!"

A murder book is a binder that police put together for every single murder reported. They're usually quite thorough and include pretty much the entire paper trail of the murder from the moment it was reported until the very end. There are crime scene photos, witness testimonies and statements, autopsy reports, anything and everything related to the crime is usually in the books. The only problem is, they are usually well guarded. Only people directly related to the case usually get to look at them and civilians, private eye or not, usually never to get to get a peak. And that sucks. The murder book on Annette Jackson would come in very handy right now in identifying Daniel Mayweather. We would have to figure out some other way to get a picture of him and verify him with Emma Ricks.

I cleaned the top of my Redbull can with my shirt, then popped the tab and took a big, refreshing sip. Ahhhh.

"Where the hell did you get that?" Elise asks me.

"I stole it."

"From the apartment?!"

"Yeah. Fuck him, I earned this. Let's go."

Our next stop was the Husky Bar on Vine St.

25.

We arrived at the Husky Bar about two hours later. We got caught in some crazy Los Angeles traffic. It was not a good day for me to decide to stop taking my pills. I was so frustrated I was yelling at other cars. Not the people driving the other cars, mind you, I was literally yelling at the actual automobiles. Sigh. My life is not very easy.

Anyway, the bar was a blink-and-you-miss-it place on Vine Street, probably less than three miles from the hotel at which we were currently staying. We drove by it three times before Elise finally spotted it. We parked two blocks away and walked.

The bar was loud, especially for so early in the night. The sun had barely gone down and this place was a-hippin' and a-hoppin'! It was a nice looking place though, much nicer than the outside suggested. There was a fair share of people there, too. The music seemed like an odd choice for such a modern bar, but who am I to complain about a little C&C Music Factory?! I could feel a smile forming on my face, like two strings were tied to the corners of my mouth and some giant was tugging them upward. I looked at Elise so she could share in my enjoyment but her face didn't have a smile...Nope, no smile at all. Her mouth was slightly open and her brow was furrowed.

"What's the matter, Butthole?," I ask her.

"This place doesn't seem a little strange to you?"

"Kinda. I thought bars played that awful techno, dance music horseshit. This place is A-Okay to me."

"Ooooookay then," she says and rolls her eyes at me. Again. She's been doing that a lot lately. Am I missing something? "Let's go talk to the bartender, then. You sure nothing seems fishy to you here, Archie?"

"No. Quit being weird. I mean, that guy's mesh shirt with his nipples pouring out of the little holes like a squished tube of raw cookie dough is a little ridiculous, but come on, we are in Hollywood. That kind of shit is totally normal here."

We headed for the door while Robert Clivilles, David Cole and their Music Factory rapped about the things that make you go hmmm.

Yeah, that's right; I know the names of both of the main people in C&C Music Factory. What of it? I even know that David Cole is dead now. So is Vanilli. Or maybe it's Milli. Not like it matters, anyway, I guess. Blame it on the rain. Yeah yeah. Do you remember when Milli Vanilli got busted on their lip-syncing and then they tried to prove that they really could sing on like, some news show or something, but it was terrible and they had accents and when they sang it was like 'BLAME...IT ON...RAIN. YAHHHH. YAHHHHH!' Maybe I am remembering it wrong, but it sounded like a parody of Arnold Schwarzenegger trying to sing a shitty pop song. I'm pretty sure I'm remembering it correctly though. No wonder Milli...or Vanilli killed themselves. I would have, too. Thanks for doing the world a favor. Wow, I'm getting off track.

We took a seat at the bar and waited for the bartender to help us. It must get hot as shit working back there because he had taken off his shirt.

"Work your magic, E. Get this asshole over here," I say to her.

"I don't think that's going to work."

"Come on, he's practically asking for you to hit on him, with those ripply abs and hard nipples. Work it, girl!"

Apparently, I offended her and she once again rolled her eyes towards me and spun on her stool, facing away from me. Fine then.

"Excuse me, sir," I call out to the bartender and give him a friendly little wave. I catch his attention and he makes his way down the bar towards us.

"Hey there, Handsome," he says. "What can I get for ya?"

I give Elise a little nudge. He obviously thinks we are together; otherwise, he would quit joking with me and flirt with her. Elise lowers her shoulders and shakes her head.

Seriously, what is her problem?

I turn back to the bartender and give him a friendly smile and a look that shows him that I'm well aware my friend is just playing hard to get.

"Hello, my good man," I say to him. "My name is Christopher Peter Bacon and this is my associate Wilma Fingerdoo. We work for Mandalay Pictures. The movie company."

I sat and waited for any recognition on his part. I got nothing.

"Anyway, we have some very good news for an employee of this establishment. It seems our studio is interested in a treatment submitted by a Mr. Daniel Mayweather..."

Still, I got nothing. Salt N Pepa's hit What a Man started playing over the speakers now. This bar is kinda badass, I have to admit.

"Ok, well, um, is he here?" I ask him.

"Who?"

"Seriously? Fucking Daniel Mayweather, is he here?"

"Nope."

"Well, can you tell me if he will be in tonight, please?"

"How 'bout you go fuck yourself?"

This caught Elise's attention. She spun back around on her stool and was ready to be a part of this conversation.

"Sir, we are trying to locate him because, like we said, we have some important paperwork for him to sign. I assure you he is in no trouble and..." She was cut off by the bartender.

"How about you shut up, Will My Finger Do?"

I jumped in. "Hey!"

He cut me off before I could get more than that one word out. "And fuck you Chris P. Bacon. What am I, fucking stupid?! You think I can't spot a fucking cop from a mile away?"

Shit. No one has ever called me out on my bullshit names before. I'm going to have to come up with ones that are a little cleverer and not so obvious from now on. I smiled as I thought of the stupidity of the name I had given. Then my brain flashed towards Kevin Bacon doing that ridiculous bullshit dance in Footloose. Seriously, that movie was so gay.

Did you know Kevin Bacon was in the original Friday the 13th? Total fact! He bit it by a spear through the neck while he was lying in bed naked. Then he went on to share his wiener with the world in Wild Things and once again, in Hollow Man...Even though in Hollow Man it was kind of see-throughy and looked pretty ridicul...I was snapped from my thought by a kick in the shin by Elise.

"Hey! What the hell are you doing?" she asked.

"Me? Nothin'. What are you doing?" I ask casually.

Elise let out a frustrated moan and turned her attention to the bartender, once again. "Look, we are not cops. I can promise you that. We are simply trying to locate your co-worker and it is very important. I understand that we should have been honest with you upfront but a lot of the time people don't want to talk to us. We are private investigators and we have a contract for Mr. Mayweather to sign in order for his treatment purchase by Striped Panther Productions to be completed. We were hired by Brad Jackson. I'm sure you've heard of him, yes?"

"Brad Jackson hired you to find Daniel?" he asked her.

"Yes. Thee Brad Jackson."

"According to Daniel, him and Brad Jackson were total BFF. He sold a script to him a few years back. Is this what this is about?"

"No sir," she answered, "this is about a treatment. A treatment is different from a script. The old script, I believe it was a prison picture, is done and over with. I don't know if it ever got made or not, but studios often buy scripts that never see the light of day. The bottom line is that Mr. Mayweather missed an important meeting yesterday and we were hired to track him down as quickly as possible. We have already been to his house with no luck and this is the only other place that we know of to look before we have to really start digging. So, please, any information you could give us would be helpful to us and to Mr. Mayweather."

When and how did Elise get more professional than me? I often get told to fuck myself, but her, never. I don't get it. This guy is obviously in to her, that has to be the only reason.

"Well, Daniel is scheduled to work tonight," the bartender answered. "But, I wouldn't get your hopes up. He's missed his last two shifts."

I interrupted. "He missed his shifts?"

"Yeah, that's what I just said."

Man, first, he calls me handsome then he tells me to fuck myself and is rude to me. I shouldn't have told him that Elise was just my associate. Now he is totally going to belittle me and go in for the kill on her. Typical. Stupid attractive girls...Even stupider sexy, sweaty, shirtless men with abs I could grate cheese on. Ugh!

The bartender turns around and put two dirty glasses into the sink. He has a tattoo on the small of his back. That's funny; I've never seen a dude with a tramp stamp before.

I shake my head and let out a little giggle. Hollywood, man. I tell ya. It's a different breed of folk out here!

He turns back around and faces us. I continue. "Has Mr. Mayweather ever missed a shift before?"

"No. I mean, he has called in sick before, like everyone has, but never just outright missed shifts. We called his cell phone last night and the night before and got no answer. It went straight to voicemail both times. I guess he figures he's a big shot now and doesn't need to work here anymore."

"Why would he think he was a big shot?" Elise asks.

"Well, he's been talking about how fed up he was with being broke and that he knew he would be coming into a large windfall very soon. I assume that would be the script thing you are talking about."

"I see," I said. Very interesting, especially since we just bullshitted our way in here with that treatment story. "You said he talked like he and Brad Jackson were best friends. Can you tell us any more? Did Mr. Jackson ever come in here?"

"I don't think this is the kind of place Brad Jackson would want to be seen in."

"Why not? Just because it's not the most high priced place in town doesn't mean it's a dive. This is a perfectly nice place to come and hang out for a while. Good music, too."

As I finished my last remark, Salt N Pepa ended and a new song began. A song I never thought I would be able to hear again. A song so epic I didn't think human ears could withstand it anymore.

"Shut up! Do you know who this is?!" I pointed up to the ceiling, even though I'm not sure why. "This is Hulk Hogan and The Wrestling Boot Band! Hulkster in Heaven! Oh my God!"

"Yeah," the bartender said. "Anyway, like I was saying, this..."

I held up my finger to cut him off. "Hold on"

I sat and listened to the piano beat from the speaker and I vaguely heard the bartender say he'd be back as he walked off.

Elise punched me in the arm. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Hold on!"

The Hulkster started to sing. "Sing."

I read it in the papers

I saw it on TV

I guess there'll be one empty seat

When I wrestle Wimbelee

I used to tear my shirt

But now you've torn my heart

I knew you were a Hulkamaniac

Right from the very start

Beautiful. They don't make 'em like that anymore. I sat, to Elise's great annoyance, and enjoyed the whole song. When it was finished and Barry Manilow's Copa Cabana came on, the bartender returned.

"Are you finished, Fruit Loop?" he said to me.

"That seems unnecessary, but yes. Sorry. I'm good now. This song is so gay. Copa Cabana. Give me a break."

"Yeah," he said, in a rather sarcastic tone. "It's the song that's gay..."

"Anyway," I continued, "why do you think Brad Jackson wouldn't want to come here."

Elise shot me another one of her patented evil looks and decided to take control of the conversation.

"Look, we need all the information we can obtain in order to find him as quickly and easily as possible, on behalf of our client. You said he talked like he and Brad were best friends. Did you believe him?"

"Sure I did. I mean, I'm sure he kinda embellished things a bit, but I had no doubt that he knew him. And he knew where he lived, too. He said he had been to his house on several occasions to talk business. Like you said, he sold a script a few years back. I don't know what happened with it though. I guess it never got made. I don't blame the company though. I read his scripts, I can't believe he's sold as many as he has."

"How many has he sold? Do you know off hand?"

"I just know he got screenwriting credit on a few low-budget, straight to video clunkers. One of them even starred Brad Jackson's wife. You know, the one that got..." He paused for effect, I guess. "Well, you know. So, that's how I kinda figured he wasn't bullshitting about being friendly with the guy. But yeah. Other than that, and besides the script thing we're talking about, I can't think of any others."

"But he seemed sure that he would be selling another one?"

"He never specifically said he was selling another script. He just said he had a large windfall coming soon. That's why I was more pissed off than worried when he didn't show for work. He left us shorthanded. I thought he could have at least given us some warning, ya know."

"I totally understand. Do you happen to know of any other place he may be? Did he have a...Was he in a relationship?"

"Not that I know of. And I don't know where he could be. Like I said, I just work with the guy. I'm friendly with him while I'm here but we're not really friends outside of work, ya know? Look, do you think he's okay? I wasn't worried before, but now I kinda am."

"I'm sure he's fine. Maybe everything is just miscommunication. Maybe he's just relaxing on the beach somewhere."

"Yeah. Maybe. He did say he wanted to go to the beach actually." The bartender let out a nervous little laugh. You could tell we had worried him.

"Well hey," Elise said. "We appreciate your help. I don't have a card on me, but let me write down my number for you."

What a hussy!

She reached into her purse, pulled out a pen, and scribbled her number on a cocktail napkin. I'm surprised she didn't fold it and kiss it before she handed it to him. Ugh, is this jealousy I am feeling? Dislike!

"We really appreciate your help. If you hear anything, will you please give us a call? My real name is Elise, by the way. Not whatever ridiculous name he gave you."

"Gotcha. Yeah, I can do that, I guess. If you find him, tell him to get back to work. I don't want to have to keep covering for him."

"Will do. Thank you for your time."

Elise stood up and grabbed my arm. I guess it was time to go.

"You sure you don't want to grab a table and have a drink? Hang out for a while?"

"Um, yes Archie. I am sure I don't want to do that."

"Come on, how often do I ever want to be out in public? Especially at a bar? And our hotel is close..."

"We are not staying here. We can grab a drink in the hotel bar if you want but we need to get out of here."

Ricky Martin's Cup of Life came through the speakers.

"We really need to go," she said.

As we walked out into the night, I tell her that I cannot believe she gave that guy her number right in front of me.

"Don't worry, Archie, something tells me he won't be calling me for anything other than business, if even that."

"Whatever. Still don't see why we couldn't stay for a bit. It seemed like a fun atmosphere."

Elise stopped in her tracks and faced me.

"You realize this is a gay bar, right? Super-duper, one-hundred-percent gay!"

"Come on, it wasn't that bad. I mean, the last couple songs were kinda lame, but that bar itself was fine."

Elise tensed up. I saw her clench her fists and narrow her eyes. "God!"

She let out another frustrated grunt and turned to walk back towards the car, leaving me standing there.

"Fine," I call out to her. "It's totally gay. Whatever. My bad..."

I just happened to glance down and notice we were standing on part of the Hollywood Walk Of Fame, and wouldn't you know it, I was standing on the star of none other than Hollywood super-legend Jim J. Bullock.

I LOL-ed and said to myself, "He's so gay...Ha! Wait, why does Jim J. Bullock have a star on the..."

I looked back up to notice Elise almost a block ahead of me and not looking back.

"Hey, wait up..."

26.

Once in the car, Elise explained to me that she didn't think the bar was actually gay, but it was literally for gay people. I was shocked. My Gaydar usually picks right up on shit like that. I guess I was a little off my game tonight. How embarrassing for me.

Haha, that bartender thought I was cute. Score one for me. There is no better compliment that being found attractive by a gay dude...at least I don't think so.

We stopped off at the mall at Hollywood and Highland once again and bought another change of clothes, seeing as I was tired and didn't feel like driving back to the beach tonight, and the room was paid for through tomorrow anyway. One more night in LA would be okay. Ya never know, we could end up finding this asshole tomorrow...even though my hopes weren't very high. Oh well.

We returned to the room less than one hour after leaving the GAY bar. Elise ordered up room service again while I searched for something to watch on TV. As luck would have it, I stumbled upon a rerun of Hunky Vampires of the Hollywood Hills. It was quite possibly the worst things my eyes have ever viewed. My Gaydar was going crazy. I would have switched right past it if Elise didn't yell out when she recognized it. Imagine me missing this. Thanks Elise. That was a little too close for comfort.

Jesus, what is with the constant Jim J. and Too Close for Comfort references? Was my brain trying to tell me something? Maybe I should search out the DVDs of that crap. I know I have the first season somewhere at home.

I'll worry about that later. Right now, I'm taking in the stupidity that is this show.

"Hey look," I say. "There's our boy."

"Yep, that's him alright. You've never seen this show before?" Elise asks.

"Man, I have never even heard of this shit before. It looks fucking terrible."

"It pretty much is. It's just an excuse for these guys to take their shirts off."

"Sounds pretty gay."

"But yet the gay bar we just attended wasn't gay? Nor was the shirtless man with the hard nipples...?"

"His nipples were all long and weird looking."

"Jesus."

"Seriously, they were so big they started to droop." I laughed like an idiot. "They looked like Gonzo's nose!"

This caused Elise to choke on the sip of water she just took. She quickly brought her hand up to her face to cover it but I'm pretty sure I saw some of that very same water come shooting out of her nose before she was able to cover it up.

"Anyway!" She says. "This is the show. Our boy right there plays Freddie. He is a vampire."

"They named the vampire Freddie? Really? The world already has a kick ass villain named Freddie. Why couldn't they come up with another name?"

"Oh," Elise says, "he is no villain. He's a good guy."

"The fucking vampire is a good guy?"

"Yep. And he's in love with this human girl named Beatrice. And they're both involved in this love triangle with a werewolf, but the werewolf and Freddie hate each other."

"Wow, this sounds like the worst pile of shit I have ever heard of. People watch this crap?"

"They used to. It was huge. I can't believe you never heard of this."

"Believe me, Elise. I wish I still hadn't ever heard of it."

I changed the channel. I had had enough. I was lucky, though. It turns out Nick @ Nite was having an Urkel marathon. Things were finally coming up Milhouse!

"The vampire show is gay and retarded," Elise says, "but Urkel is the greatest thing ever?"

"Ya goddamn right, girlfriend," I answer as I chucked the remote onto the other bed, making changing the channel damn near impossible for her, unless she were to actually get up. I was hoping she was as lazy as I was.

"Anyway," I add, "even though that place was a gay bar, my money is on Daniel not being gay himself. I'm sure straight dudes work in gay bars all the time. Money is money, right?"

"And why do you think that?"

"Well, I peaked in his bedroom and saw some women's clothes on the floor in there. The room was a mess but I saw them plain as day."

"So, what? You think he's got a girlfriend?"

"That's what I'm thinking. It would be nice to find her, and even nicer, seeing as I don't know her, if she were the goddamn murder victim."

"That's terrible!" Elise says and she throws a pillow straight at my head.

"Well! Shit, dude. We need a victim here and she's a girl and her boyfriend is involved somehow, in a murder of a girl, so, unless she turns up somewhere, I'm thinking our best bet is to assume the dead woman is Daniel Mayweather's girlfriend. Hopefully."

"Okay, well then where do we go from here? We have absolutely no idea who this girl is, what her name is or anything. How do we locate someone without knowing who it is?"

"Good question. Ugh, I feel so off my game, lately. Ever since I started back on that stupid medication, I haven't felt like myself. I feel like I'm doing a shitty job."

"Don't say that. We've closed every single case we've gotten."

"I know, but I still feel off."

"Archie, you found a missing girl just by being in her bedroom for thirty seconds. You call that being off?"

"That was easy. This one, though...this is bothering me. I'm positive of what I saw, but yet, can find nothing to support it. No wonder the Pismo Police laughed at me. I have absolutely nothing except some guy's car in some other guy's garage." As I said this I giggled like a child. Parkin' in some other guys garage. How gay. Ha!

"What's so funny?"

"Oh, ya know, nothin'. I'm just being stupid. Anyway, like I was saying, I know what I saw but have no way of proving it. Our only lead is in the wind and our victim pulled a total H.F. Saint and vanished with no trace and with no one seeming to miss her. No wait, that's not fair. I miss H.F. Saint. I would totally love a sequel to Memoirs of an Invisible Man, actually."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Nothing. Forget it. Sorry." Yeah, that joke doesn't exactly play to a very broad audience.

"And you're wrong. Our lead isn't in the wind. He's just not at his home. You haven't even thought of the most logical answer."

"Which is what?"

"That he is still in Shell Beach. If he's not at his home, and his car is at the beach, wouldn't it stand to reason that he, too, would be at the beach."

"Yeah, but I saw no sign of him anywhere. When we broke into the house, only Brad left, yet no one was in the house. Shell Beach isn't very big. No one with a car available would walk to Pismo or any other beach. I just don't think he is there."

"Well, let's go back and stake it out some more."

"Are you joking? He knows we're on to him, remember. He filed a complaint against me...."

"Oh stop, we'll think of something. We're two smart people here. We can figure this out, no problem. Let's leave first thing in the morning."

"You're forgetting one thing. I still want to go back and see Emma Ricks. I want to make sure this is the same guy she saw leaving Brad's Hollywood house and in the courtroom."

"Man, you must really feel off your game. We don't have a picture of him, remember?"

"Shit!"

***

Brad Jackson was getting very frustrated as he sat on one of the beds in the motel room of Archie Lemons. After finally figuring out which room was the right one, (a painstakingly boring process of sitting out of sight for hours and watching people enter and exit every room except one. His amazing math skills, along with his brilliant sleuthing mind deduced that the only room left would be Archie's.) Now to break in and start phase one of Operation: Badass, as he had dubbed it.

Brad was slowly beginning to realize that real-life didn't exactly play out the way it would in a movie. After breaking in through the small bathroom window in back, he figured that Archie would soon be arriving home, where he could follow through with his plan to exterminate him, and whoever else was unlucky enough to be with him.

Granted, Brad's plan wasn't the best in the world. He found it extremely hard to do anything without a writer and director telling him, even though he often tried to convince himself otherwise. If this were one of his movies, the action would have already taken place, all problems would be solved and he'd have another one-hundred-million-dollar blockbuster.

But alas, reality was a hard lesson to learn. He sat there on the bed for hours, wearing his ridiculous OJ gloves and thinking of huge plot holes in his plan. What seemed so perfect this morning was now a total shit idea and he knew it.

This is what happens when Brad Jackson tries to think for himself. He needed a writer to help him come up with a plan. He decided to talk to his associate. Together they would think of a much better plan than sitting here in the dark like a fucking moron for hours upon hours. After watching an info-mercial for a product he would actually end up ordering when he returned home, he turned the television off and stood up.

"God damn it," Brad said out loud. "Fuck this. I'm Brad Motherfuckin' Jackson! I don't need this!"

He made his way back to the bathroom and attempted, once more, to squeeze through the tiny little window above the toilet and out into the dark alley behind the motel. While trying to squeeze through, he hit his head twice, ripped his three-hundred-dollar shirt and scraped his hands and left knee on the asphalt below, after losing his balance and taking a rather comical fall, complete with a rather girly, nancy-boy scream. He quickly sat up and looked around to make sure no one heard the pathetic noise that escaped him during his embarrassing four-foot fall. He was in the clear. While sitting in the alley, rubbing his knee like a child with a rug burn, it dawned on him that he could have just walked out the front door.

"Damn blast it!"

27.

When I was little, I remember my dad bringing me to the beach every summer. I used to love it. I would play out in the water for hours, riding the waves on my boogie-board, playing in the sand and getting dirty. I don't understand it. My condition made me a lot worse when I was younger. Since I have grown up I have learned to deal with much of the stuff that would afflict me so badly when I was a kid. I have learned to deal with certain aspects of my personalities and my fears, but at the same time, I've lost a lot along the way.

I'm thinking about this now as the ocean comes into view from the freeway we are currently traveling on. The sea looks never-ending and I know that my younger self wouldn't be able to contain his excitement about getting in there and playing, while the current me is scared to death of it. It's funny how things work like that, I guess.

We actually got an early enough start leaving LA so we arrived back at the motel before noon. On the way back in, Elise and I decided that we would give ourselves two more days to come up with a solid lead on the case, and if we couldn't do it, we would simply walk away. She had been away from her kids now for too long, and she felt bad for saddling Jamie with the responsibility. We had been taking turns charging our phones with the car charger, so Elise removed her phone and plugged mine back in so she could call and check in, and while Jamie insisted she wasn't being put out by watching them, Elise still felt bad and assured her it would only be two more days. Even if we had to drive back home and work from there for a while, we would. All this case was doing was frustrating the piss out of me and costing me way too much. The sad fact was, again, that even if we nailed Brad Jackson, chances are he would walk and it would be all for nothing and I would have a new mortal enemy to add to my list. It's sad to have to think of it like that, but it was the hard truth. American celebrities can do no wrong. They were untouchable, for the most part, especially in big cases like this one would sure to be.

We got out of the car at the motel and headed for our room. I was still feeling defeated and was pretty down on myself. I was missing something and I knew it, but I couldn't even figure out what it was. Usually, some dark area of my brain would flash me images of something that sometimes seemed totally random, but would somehow make the puzzle pieces fit. This time I had nothing. All my brain was willing to do was drive me crazy with that goddamn Too Close for Comfort theme song...over and over and over...

I took the keycard from my wallet and slide it into the door, waiting for the unlock sound, that came after the fourth try. Ugh, nothing is going to go easy for me. I stepped inside the room and immediately knew someone had been in there. I checked the outer doorknob to make sure the Do Not Disturb sign was still there. It was.

The remote control was sitting on the edge of the bed when we had left. I remember putting it there specifically when I had turned off the television before we left for LA. Now it was sitting on top of the TV. Something I never ever do...but I know who did.

I did a quick spin in the room, which probably looked ridiculous to Elise (I'm pretty sure my arms flailed a bit too wildly to still be called a man), just to make sure no one else was in here. I peeked my head in to the bathroom and noticed the window above the toilet was opened just a crack. Another thing that was not as we left it.

"Someone was in here"

"What, who?"

"I think it was Brad Jackson. Holy shit!"

"Wait. What? Slow down."

"Seriously, I think Brad Jackson was in our room. Probably waiting for us to get back."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Look," I said. "I left the remotes on the edge of the bed. I remember this. Right here." I pointed to the exact spot. "I remember it as plain as day. Now, look. They are sitting on top of the television."

"Okay, so what? Maybe the maid did it."

"Come on, Elise. If the made did it, don't you think she would have made the beds and straightened up a bit." I was now finally able to return the eye-roll and head-shake look that she had given to me so plentifully over this past week. I must admit, it felt pretty good. Not gonna lie.

"Okay okay, good point. But why was it Brad Jackson?"

I explained to her about how he kept his remotes on top of his television at home. He must have sat down on the bed on top of them, waiting for us. Then he just moved them to the TV out of habit. Or maybe he was watching TV because he got bored waiting. Either way, it doesn't matter.

"And look, the window is open a crack. We haven't touched that window all weekend. I didn't even think it opened!"

I could tell by the look on her face that Elise was finally starting to think that strange things were afoot here at the Circle K.

"But why would Brad Jackson break in to our motel room?" she asked.

"Because he knows we're on to him! You know this! Holy shit! We've got to get out of here. We're not safe here anymore."

I grabbed a few clean clothes, but left all my dirties and the suitcase there. Elise grabbed all her stuff. As long as we left something in the room, if he came back, it would appear we were still staying here. I ran up to the front desk, (And by ran, I mean Walked Briskly,) and told the manager that we would be staying for two more nights. I handed him my credit card, he ran it and thanked me as he handed it back. I walked back towards Elise.

We got in the car and drove up the street a little way and checked in at a small place called The Palomar Inn. This trip truly was costing me a fortune. Dislike!

Anyway, our room was eerily similar to the room we just left at the last place. Two beds, a TV, fridge and a bathroom. Just the basics, but it suited our needs perfectly.

I grabbed the remote and was pleased to discover that they, too, had the RTV channel. Dragnet was playing. Exactly what I needed to help me think.

As I sat there and watched, I could feel my adrenaline start to flow again. I could feel my heart beating and a smile form on my face. It was exactly what I needed. Hands down proof that I was not insane and that I was barking up the right tree. And with the fact of Brad Jackson knowing we were on to him just made it that much better. My touch of danger. I don't care how stupid that sounds.

"Okay, first things first," I said to Elise. "We have to figure out our starting point. We can go one of two ways, I think. We can go back to the old motel and stake it out. See if he returns. If we do, we call the cops and tell him we have a break in. I cannot imagine the cops busting Mr. Hollywood would be very good publicity for him and I'd imagine he would have a lot of explaining to do. Especially since he was breaking into the room of someone he just filed a formal complaint against."

"Sounds like it could be fun."

"Or! We go balls deep in this thing and stake out his house again. Try and find Daniel Mayweather and any other shit we can uncover."

"That sounds like a pretty flimsy plan. Got anything to go along with that one?"

"Actually no. That one we would just play by ear and see where it takes us. Could be fun. I'm just sick of waiting around and doing nothing. We have hit one dead end after another and I'm sick of it. Somewhere out there, someone is missing a wife, mom or daughter, because of this asshole Hollywood prick. We have to find out who she is. Soon. I assume it's Daniel's girlfriend, but we have to be sure. We have two days before we have to be back home, remember? It's your call."

Elise stood against the wall for a few seconds deciding which course of action we should take. Finally, she spoke up. "How about we do a little of both?"

"How so?"

"Well, let's call the Pismo police again, tell them we saw Brad Jackson break into our motel room. It probably won't get us anywhere, and they'll probably laugh at us and tell us to go F ourselves, and that's fine. As long as we make the complaint, it will have to be filed. If you don't trust them that much, we can always record the conversation, just in case."

"Not bad. Keep going."

"Okay, well, after we file the complaint, then we go stake out his house. By filing the complaint we kind of cover our asses a bit incase anything happens with the complaint filed against us."

"How do you figure that?"

"God, I don't know. It just sounded good. You're the detective. You tell me."

"Okay, fine. Here's the deal. You call and make the report of him breaking in here. Call the captain. Steve, whatever."

"They were all named Steve."

"Yeah, you're right. What was that assholes last name? Gibson?"

"That sounds right."

"Okay," I continued. "Call Captain Gibson and file you're report. We'll record it since he probably won't take it seriously. That way we'll have proof of it in case it comes in handy somewhere down the line." I barfed out another immature little giggle. "Handy."

"Stay focused, Arch."

"Okay, we make the call. Then we head down to the cliffs and watch his house. We need to find any sign what-so-ever of Daniel Mayweather being there. We have to leave Brad alone for now and focus all our attention on finding Daniel. He is the link. If we can get to him, I think, we can get to the bottom of this shit-heap we're in."

"Okay, then what do we do when we find him?"

"We'll think of something. A few months ago, I broke a guy's nose with my gun and threw him in his trunk. I think we'll be fine. I'm getting pretty good and pissed off over this whole goddamn case, too. Somebody is going to have to face my wrath eventually. It may as well be this pretty boy."

"Be careful, though. He might enjoy it."

"Hey now, what do you mean by that?"

"You know exactly what I mean, big stud."

"Oh come on! No I don't."

"I'm just saying, the guy does work in a gay bar..."

"We've gone over this. Just because he works in a gay bar doesn't mean he's gay."

"Well, I don't know too many straight guys that would even know to go in there and apply for the job in the first place. Just sounds a little fishy to me, is all."

"Fine, your point is well taken. Let's go pick up some lunch and eat it at the park on the cliff. Grab the binoculars, too."

"Got 'em. Let's go."

We grabbed our stuff and headed out the door.

As we walked out to the car, I got a feeling flowing through my body that I hadn't had for over half a year. It felt like bugs were crawling under my skin, my vision began to tunnel and I felt light-headed. It was usually a sign that something was very close, that the puzzle was soon to be completed, (or that I was a meth-addict...pretty sure it was the first choice, though.) I just needed to figure out what I was missing. As I closed and made sure the door was locked, I knew that tonight, regardless of the outcome, would be our final night on this case.

PART THREE:

DEATH AND ALL HIS FRIENDS

28.

We picked up a couple of eggplant sandwiches from a tiny deli on the main drag through town and brought them down to the little park on the edge of the cliff, where all of this started. It proved to be a mistake, as the food was extremely difficult to eat on a park bench. Shit kept falling out of my sandwich on to my lap. It wasn't a very proper sight. I looked like a bum. Oh well.

We finished our sandwiches and decided it was time to make the call to Captain Gibson. Elise got the number for the police department on her phone, dialed, then set it to speakerphone so I could listen in and record the conversation with my phone. I hit the record button as we listened to Elise's phone ring.

"Pismo Beach Police Department," a female voice answered.

"Yes, I need to speak to Captain Steve Gibson there. Is he available?" Elise asked.

"I'm sorry ma'am, but he is out of his office right now. Is there anything I can help you with?"

"I'm afraid not. I have important business with the Captain that I need to clear up as soon as possible. My name is Elise Reynolds and we took a meeting with him the other day, about a homicide..."

"I see," the lady on the other end of the line said. "Would you like me to patch you through to him?"

"That would be great. Thank you."

"There is no guarantee that he will answer, but it is worth a try. You say this is about a homicide?"

"That's correct, yes."

"Very well. Please hold the line."

"Thank..." Elise said, but she was cut off by some crappy music. I can't believe police stations have music on their hold lines. Seems funny to me.

A few seconds later the music cut out and the line started to ring.

"This is Captain Steve Gibson," the man answered.

"Captain. This is Elise Reynolds. We met the other day. We came to you with a homicide and you blew us off. Remember."

A loud sigh came through the speaker towards us. "Yes, I remember, we've got a complaint against you, you know. It seems you broke..."

Elise cut him off. A ballsy move, if I do say so myself. "Captain, that is why I am calling, kind of. We have a complaint to file against Brad Jackson. We saw him break into our motel room yesterday, right through the bathroom window!"

"Oh brother, look, I don't have time for this shit. I have real police work to do and this is..."

Again, she cut him off. Awesome. "Look, CAPTAIN," She said the word captain with more sarcasm than I could even muster up if I were to say the latest Sandra Bullock shitfest was GOOD. I was impressed, again. Elise continued, "I don't care if you think it is a waste of time. A man broke into our motel room and you need to take this seriously. You are the police for God's sake. And you probably should have taken our homicide report seriously, too, because when we solve this thing, like I said before, we will make sure your entire department catches shit for it. Got it?!"

You know she was pissed when the dreaded S word comes out.

"You are still working this?" he asked.

"You're goddamn right we're still working this!"

Woah. S and GD. Shit was getting real, here.

"Look," she said, "we have a dead woman floating somewhere in the middle of the ocean, and your little Hollywood boyfriend Brad Jackson put her there. We tipped our hand a little too early and now he knows we are on to him. Why else would he go through the trouble to find out our names, file a report, then find out where we were staying, and break in to our room? Doesn't any of this seem a little odd to you?"

"Very well, Miss..."

"Reynolds."

"Miss Reynolds. Tell me this; if you are going to solve this all by yourself, what are your leads? How are you going to solve a murder without a body? Please, Miss Reynolds, enlighten me."

God damn, this is like dealing with Warden Norton from Shawshank. Obtuse asshat.

"Fine. We've got a car belonging to someone other than Brad Jackson, parked in Brad Jackson's garage."

"And how would you know that, Miss Reynolds?"

"Because we saw it. Because we are actually doing some detective work on this homicide case, unlike you and your actual detectives."

"Very well. Please, by all means, continue."

"Fine. We thought the car may have belonged to the victim, but we ran the plates and figured out it belonged to a man named Daniel Mayweather. A man, we believe, to have been at Brad's Hollywood home around the time of Brad's wife's murder."

"And do you know that, Miss Reynolds?"

She had bluffed. We actually didn't know that at all, it was just a guess. I hoped Elise would come up with the right answer.

"We have our sources, Captain. And besides, we talked to the woman who was wrongly convicted of killing Brad's wife."

Not bad, E. Good job.

"Oh, that's right," the captain said. "You went to pay a little visit to the convicted murderer of Annette Jackson and, let me guess, she told you exactly what you wanted to hear?"

"No, she didn't tell us shit, actually. We have these things called brains and we use them often, unlike you and your crew. We figured it out all by our lonesome."

"So what else? You are telling me nothing that would get me to even consider opening up a murder investigation. Especially against someone like Brad Jackson."

I took the phone from Elise. I was sick of fucking around with this moron.

"Captain, its Archie Lemons. I'm sure you remember me. We have reason to believe that not only did Brad Jackson kill a woman here a few days ago, but also that he had a hand in killing his wife."

"Such nonsense. Again, the murderer for that is in jail. What makes you think Brad Jackson had anything to do with it?"

"Well, for one, I SAW HIM MURDER SOMEONE!!! Fuck! Do you not listen?!"

"I am through with this conversation, Mr. Lemons. Good day to..."

"Listen man, we're sitting here at the park where I witnessed this goddamn thing, just waiting for something to happen. We don't have the law on our side. If you just helped us out here, we could solve this thing. I know it! Why are you so dead-set on hindering us and helping a murderer?"

"There was no murder, Mr. Lemons. Please leave me alone before I arrest you myself. Good day."

That was it. He hung up. I sat there holding on to both phones so tightly that I thought I might shatter them. I felt my temperature start to rise. I could feel my whole body getting hotter by the second as I became feverish and began to sweat. I closed my eyes and dropped my head in a lame attempt to calm myself down. I kept expecting Elise to put her arm around me and comfort me, but she had gotten up and walked towards the end of the cliff. She knelt down and pick up a rock, then yelled MOTHERFUCKER as loud as I have ever heard her yell, then she threw the rock into the ocean.

Quite unexpected to say the least. It actually cheered me up and helped to calm my nerves and fend off my first post-pill attack. I wasn't out of the woods yet, but I was on the right path.

Elise turned around and headed back for the bench to take a seat.

"Is that how you feel all the time? Like you're right on the edge of having a breakdown?" She asks me.

"Yes. Pretty much every second of my life."

"Why won't anyone listen to us, Archie?"

"I don't know, Elise. But, I promise you, we are going to solve this thing. Tonight."

We sat there in the silence for a little while longer, enjoying the view of the ocean ahead of us. I glanced up at the sky and noticed a large grouping of dark clouds heading our way. I gave Elise a little nudge and told her to look.

"Looks like a storm's a-brewin'."

"Great. Just great. And I wanted to go to the Drive-In, tonight."

I felt my body start to cool down a bit and it brought a lame-looking smile to my face. We sat there in silence for a few moments more until I happened to glance up at the house we were supposed to be surveilling. The garage door had opened up, and backing out was none other than the motorized ovary of an automobile, the New-Bug.

"Holy shit! That's him! Let's go!"

As we both quickly stood up and turned to run back to the car, we were startled damn near half-to-death by the man standing directly behind us.

"Hello, friends."

Just as if we were in a movie, we heard the crackle of thunder, far off in the distance, as the man standing before us magically made his stealth-like appearance.

It was Brad Jackson.

Obviously.

29.

We were both spooked quite severely just by the presence of him, before we even realized who it was. We both took a few quick steps backwards out of pure fright. I even did the ol' Frank Constanza move of stopping short, uh!, and instinctively throwing out my left arm across Elise's chest. A pathetic and lame attempt at keeping her safe, which was originally created as a cheap, even lamer and pathetic attempt at copping a hot boobie feel on a woman while driving. Ya see, you quickly apply the brakes and reach over, because that arm will totally stop someone from flying out the front window of your car. No, of course it won't, but if you're lucky and in to that kind of thing, hello boobies! I'm getting off track.

"What the fuck, man?!" I yelled at him.

"Nice day for a walk, don't you think?"

"It's about to rain, asshole."

"Woah, settle down there, Fatboy. What are you guys doing? Keeping an eye on my house?"

"Actually, that's exactly what we're doing," Elise said.

"Oh," Brad said, "planning on catching a murderer or something?"

"We're GOING to catch a murderer, actually," Elise said. What a set of testicles she grew all of the sudden. I was still scared shitless, half-expecting Brad Jackson to just pull out a gun and kill us right then and there. The park was deserted. Not a very good sign for us.

"I saw you kill that woman, dude," I said to him, even though I can't imagine it having sounding the slightest bit threatening. Dude? Really? Ugh!

"That's cute that you think you saw me kill a woman. But unfortunately for you, you are wrong."

"Then why go through the hassle of filing a report on us?" I asked.

Elise chimed in with her own question, "And breaking in to our motel room?!"

"I must admit," he said, "my plan was pretty shoddy. I wasn't really thinking very clearly. My plan now is quite foolproof."

I glanced towards the street where our car was parked. I wanted to make a mad dash for it. Even if we couldn't escape, there had to be something in there I could use as a weapon. My fighting skills without a weapon of some sort were quite laughable. He must have seen my glance and he gave us a broad smile.

"Don't even try for the car," he said. "It seems like you have a flat tire. I don't know how that could have happened though."

God damn it. This asshole pretty boy must have slashed one of the tires. This trip truly was costing me a fortune. I mean, if we survive this little encounter.

"So, do yourselves a favor," he continued. "Just come with me peacefully. Don't make me use this." He pulled aside the front of his zip-up hoodie to reveal a small gun tucked in the front of his pants.

I couldn't stop my eyes from rolling. The sarcastic-asshole inside of me was too powerful to keep caged. This whole scenario was all just so ridiculous. This guy was an asshole actor. A wanna-be tough guy. He had been playing pretend for too long and gotten way too full of himself.

"Give me a break, man," I said. "You do realize this isn't a movie, right? You've been playing dress-up for far too long. Just because you can murder a few women in cold blood doesn't make you a real life tough guy. In fact, I bet you're pretty goddamn big poontang. What do you think, E?" I turned to look at her.

"Yeah," she said. "A huge vagina."

"See, dude," I said. "Even this pretty little lady right here thinks you're a vagina. And hanging around that guy who drives the New-Bug...give me a break! Just how gay are you?"

I could see the anger start to form in his face. His smile was now completely gone and his eyes began narrowing at me. I think I had crossed the line. I could tell the gun in his pants was real, but I was trying to give him false confidence in making him think that we thought it was a prop. I think my plan worked. I saw him make a move for the gun. It was now or never.

As he looked down at the weapon tucked into the front of his pants, I threw Elise's phone directly at his face, striking him square in the nose. His instinct caused him to raise both hands up to his injured face. I gently tossed my phone on to the grass where I knew it would be safe, then jumped on to the bench that seperated us from him, stepped on the backrest and flung myself over and onto Brad Jackson, knocking him and myself to the ground. Both of his hands began punching me in the sides as we wrestled around on the grass.

I had to get to the gun, or at least remove it from his reach. I don't think my body could survive being shot again. I began to feel water dripping from me. It had begun to rain. Oh no!

"Elise! My phone! Don't...let it get...wet!"

Brad's hands had worked their way up to my face. He was trying to push his thumbs into my eyeballs, another classic movie-fight move. And another stupid thing that doesn't really work in real life. As long as the person has free range of his head, it is quite easy to avoid having thumbs pushed through your eyes.

I had lost sight of Elise and didn't want to turn away to locate her. I still had the upper position on Brad and didn't want to risk losing my advantage in the fight. But, my phone. Was it safe?

Brad had managed to wrap his hands around my neck, forcing me to arch my back away from him and lose my advantage. My brain was quickly optioning my various ways of escape. If I knew what Elise was doing, I could work her into some of these scenarios and actually take advantage of this two-on-one thing. I hoped she had gotten my phone!

I had settled on trying to hold my breath, take the choke, and do my best to smash my head into his face. A move that I was familiar with, already. Before I could make my trademarked move, though, I saw a size eight, black Converse shoe stomp down directly upon the nose of Mr. Brad Jackson. It was Elise. Of course.

The blow had caused him to release his hold on me and I quickly rolled off him, grabbed the gun from his waistband and stood up, ready to go.

"Do you have my phone?" I asked Elise.

"Yeah, asshole, and I have mine, too, with the newly cracked screen."

I grabbed her by the arm and we took off running towards safety.

I looked at the gun I was holding while we were making our break for it. Wouldn't ya know it...

"Son of a bitch! This is a prop gun!"

30.

We ducked into a side street between a grouping of houses to catch our breath and slow things down a little. The car had left Brad Jackson's house less than five minutes ago, but there was still no way for us to try and track it down. If that was their getaway plan, then they succeeded. The car was long gone and we didn't even have one for ourselves to attempt to follow.

We assumed that Brad Jackson was back on the prowl, so going back to the park seemed pointless. We stood there in the rain and weighed our options. We really had nothing and it sucked. Badly. Calling the police again would be completely pointless and probably do nothing else but get us arrested for assault. All Brad did was show us a plastic gun, which cannot even be proved he really even had since I am currently carrying it, and I assaulted him. Shit.

We decided to head back to the Palomar Inn and work on a new plan. The pregnant clouds above us had erupted, fully giving birth to a hard downpour of rain, and by the time we reached our room, we were completely soaked. While stripping off our wet clothes, I wondered if the recording on my phone was still going. I asked Elise where the phones were and went and retrieved them from her bag. Sure enough, the recording was still on. It had been less than twenty-five minutes since we made the first call to Captain Gibson. I hit stop, then played the recording from the beginning. It was of no use. You could barely hear Brad talk, and even when you listened really closely, he didn't say anything incriminating. It was a total bust.

Speaking of busts, I pulled Elise's phone out of her bag next. The screen was shattered and she was none-to-happy with me.

"Shit. I'm sorry, Elise."

"Yeah, you couldn't have thrown your precious phone, huh? It had to be mine."

"Well, my phone is my baby; I couldn't stand to see it get hurt. And please, like I won't just buy you another one when we get back home. Christ, this trip has already cost me ten times as much as it should, what's another three-hundred bucks?"

"Darn right, you'll buy me another one." She gave me a little sarcastic laugh then closed the bathroom door, leaving me alone in the room. I decided to make a call. Why the hell not?

"Detective Steve Gibson, please."

"Detective Gibson is out of the...Oh wait, he must have just arrived back," the woman's voice responded. "I will transfer you to his office. Please hold"

"Thank..." More muzak.

"Detective Gibson," he answered.

"Detective Gibson. Archie Lemons. Remember me?"

"God, yes." I could feel the air of annoyance rushing through the receiver. "I didn't think you would be calling back. So soon."

"I just wanted to tell you that your boyfriend Brad Jackson just tried to assault me and my sister-in-law in the park."

"Is that a fact?"

"Yeah, it's a fact. And if you go check on him, you'll find him with a broken nose, because that's how we left him when we got away. So consider this an official report, complaint, or whatever the fuck you call it. If you don't start doing some goddamn police work on this case, I'm calling the detectives from my town to show up and do it for you. I can't imagine that looking very good on your end!" I was soaking wet but getting hot again. I could feel blood rushing into my face. I hated this pathetic excuse of an officer. "If you would have just done your goddamn job in the first place, we wouldn't be in this predicament. His accomplice got away while we were being assaulted. He's probably halfway back to Hollywood now and God knows if we'll ever see him again! If these guys get away with murder, it will be YOUR fault! I have never seen a sorrier excuse of..." He cut me off.

"Listen! Shut up! I will look in to it! I need to be able to get hold of you. What is your cell phone number?"

I gave it to him.

"Okay, give me a few minutes, I will get some men on it and be in touch. Have your phone on you."

"I always do."

He hung up.

I felt pretty good about myself. My attack was starting to subside and I could feel the blood leave my face and my anger slowly disappear. Yelling at that thumbdick really helped calm me. I needed to go tell Elise the good news about maybe actually have some cops on our side.

I went to the bathroom and gave a little knock on the door. No answer. I could hear the shower running so I decided to duck my head in real fast and tell her.

She was gone.

Nah, I'm just kidding. She was in the shower. How cliché would that have been if she really was gone, though? Snoozers.

Trying to talk to her while she was showering proved to be quite difficult and I gave up rather easily, like usual.

I went back to the bed and flipped on the television while I waited for Elise to finish up and get ready. Adam 12 was on RTV. I was happy.

Elise exited the bathroom about ten minutes later and I told her about my phone conversation with Gibson.

"Do you think he's actually going to do something about it," she asked, "or ya think he's just blowing smoke?"

"Well, hopefully he's being serious. Otherwise I am calling Anderson and Enzite; get them down here and do some real police work."

"Why don't you just call them now?"

"I don't know why. I feel like I am really close to figuring things out. All the pieces are scattered throughout my brain, I can't just seem to put them into place."

"Like a puzzle."

"Yes, it's exactly like a puzzle. My brain absorbs every bit of information I see. It's just scattered about in a haphazard way. Shit that I don't even realize is important is stored in there. Just because my self-conscience doesn't think it's important, my brain knows and kind of keeps it filed away. Does that make sense?"

"Yeah, I think so. Like you said, it's just like a puzzle."

"It's because my memory is so good. I remember the most ridiculous shit, like where I left the remote control when we left for LA, and the exact patterns of puzzle-games and stuff. It's why I can solve those stupid Rubik's Cubes so easily."

"So, what are you telling me? That you've solved the case but haven't solved the case?"

"Yeah, that's pretty much it. I can feel it in my body that I have the answers. I know that sounds stupid, but it's the truth. Do you ever get anxious about something, and your body can't seem to rest, and it's kinda like you have the heebie-jeebies?"

"Yeah, quite often actually. Not so much now, but when I wasn't working..."

"Well that's how my body tells me that I'm close. I just have to fit it together. Make everything right. I just cannot seem to concentrate. Ever since I got shot, I'm telling ya, I haven't been the same."

"Is it fear?"

"It might be, actually. I don't want to go through that again. It's as if my brain has conflicting messages for me. I don't even know how to describe it."

I looked away from Elise and back to the TV. Adam-12 was receiving a distress call at a rundown project building. It made me think of the Kool-Aid Man, which lead to my too-tight Something Corporate t-shirt, which lead me to the moment when I purchased the shirt. With my wife. We were at one of their concerts in Ventura. I bought that shirt for myself and a light blue one for Marianne. And just that easily, from one episode of a television show shot in the 1960's, I am back to thinking about my wife and the depression I had fought so hard to keep hidden flooded my body like the hallway of blood in Kubrick's Shining.

Elise must have noticed my sudden mood change.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"I miss Marianne. I keep trying to push the pain aside and move on, but just the slightest stupid thing will bring it all back to me."

"I know how it is. She was my sister, ya know."

"I know. I'm sorry. I'm being stupid."

"No you're not. She's always going to be with us. No matter what happens, she's always here. Whenever we need her. And besides, we have each other now, too. Rememberrrrrrr? We're going to be okay."

"I know. I know."

"Come on, we need to stay focused. We can reminisce about the good times later. Right now, we've got a prettyboy to nail."

"Okay. I'll do my best."

"You're best? Losers always whine about their best."

"Okay Sean Connery, lets solve this fucker."

I hate to admit it, but I said that last line in what was quite possibly the world's worst Sean Connery impression. Impressions are not my strong point. In fact, the only one I can pull off halfway decently is the Crocodile Hunter, and even then, I can only say "CRIKEY!" and "Oy! He's really pissed off now!" Pathetic. I also have a Russell Crowe one, too, but it sounds eerily similar.

"Hey. Snap out of it."

"Oh" I said. "My bad. Okay, let's do this."

"Okay, lay out the facts for me. We can start by getting everything organized and then just start making up scenarios that could have happened. That's what the lawyers do on TV."

"Right. Okay, so I see prettyboy Brad Jackson murder..." My thoughts trailed off. My mind went completely blank. "Hold on."

"Ya got something?"

I ignored the question and closed my eyes to focus on whatever my brain was trying to tell me. As a sick joke, it once again started playing the theme song for Too Close for Comfort. I shut my eyes tighter and began saying every goddamn curse word I knew repeatedly in my mind. Why is it doing this to me? I'm fairly certain that Jim J. Bullock is in no way involved in this, nor is the rotting corpse of Ted Knight, so why is my brain torturing me with this terrible music?!

Outside, the thunder was growing louder and louder and I could hear the rain splashing into puddles outside the door.

I began rocking myself back and forth on the bed.

"Holy shit..."

"What?"

Before I could answer, my cellphone rang. I answered it on speaker phone. "Hello?"

"Archie?" a gruff man's voice asks me.

"Yes, this is he."

(That's some proper grammar, kids!)

"It's Captain Gibson."

Elise shot me a quizzical look and I returned a shoulder shrug.

"I think you were right," he says. "I think we might have some proof that Mr. Jackson is up to something. I need your help."

"Wow, okay. Sure Captain. What do you need?"

He was silent for a second as we heard the flick of a lighter, followed back a deep inhale, then long exhale.

"I need you with me. I'm in the car right now, where are you?"

"We're at The Palomar Inn in Shell. Room nine."

"Be outside. I'll be there in two minutes."

He ended the call.

"I'm not dressed to go out," Elise says.

"Give me a break, girlfriend. Trust me. This will be worth it."

31.

We each grabbed a sweatshirt and walked out front. We tried to stay under the small ledge of the roof to avoid getting wet, but it wasn't working out too well for us. I checked my phone for the time. It was only a little after 5pm, despite being nearly dark outside due to cloud cover.

"Are you going to finish telling me what you started in there?"

"Yeah," I say. "Just give me a few more minutes to make sense of everything. Deal?"

"I guess. But Captain Gibson is going to want to know, ya know."

"I doubt that."

Up the small hill, right by the check-in office, a car pulled in to the parking lot. It was a black Chevrolet Caprice. The official car of cops and douchebags everywhere. It was obviously Steve Gibson. He drove up next to us, paying no attention to the puddles directly in front of us, and splashing both of our feet with disgusting parking-lot water. Asshole.

He reached across and opened the back door, telling us to get in. Elise went in first and I followed.

"So, what have you got, Captain?" Elise asks.

"We found a missing persons report for a woman in the area. Went missing around the time you first reported the crime. We gathered some evidence that may link her to Brad Jackson."

"Really?" I ask. "In that short amount of time? That's amazing."

"We've been working on it the whole time. I just didn't feel the need to share it with some P.I. from Bakersfield."

"Right." I said it with as much sarcasm as I could muster up, and then rolled my eyes to Elise. She looked confused. I raised up the corner of my sweatshirt and revealed the prop gun I had stolen earlier in the day. I gave her a nod and a sly little smirk. Her confusion seemed to multiply vastly.

"So, tell me Captain...What the fuck do you need us for?" I ask.

"Just trust me on this one, Lemons. I need you to vouch for something when we confront Mr. Jackson. I have backup on the way."

We pulled into the driveway of Brad Jackson's house and Captain Gibson told us to get out of the car and stay close to him. The thunder crashed somewhere above and the strong gusts of wind made it damn near impossible to hear anything.

Gibson pulled his gun from its holster and gave us the signal to follow him around the side. The gate was unlocked and we entered through it. When we reached the side door, which was completely hidden from the street, I had had enough. I pulled out the prop gun from my pants and cracked Captain Gibson with it right in the back of the skull. He went down without a sound.

32.

Elise let out a scream that tore through the wind and rain and pierced my eardrums like when you accidentally shove a Q-tip too far in. It caused me to recoil in agony.

"What the hell, Archie?! What the hell are you doing?!"

"Okay, look. This guy doesn't have shit. He brought us here to kill us!" I had to yell in order to be heard over the rain. I reached down and grabbed the real gun from Gibson's completely limp grip. For funsies, I replaced it with the shitty prop gun.

"What are you talking about?! He's the police!"

"I know. And he is also Brad Jackson's lover and accomplice!"

Elise's hair was drenched and it was flopped down on the front of her face. She made no attempt to clear it from her field of vision. I could see the look of shock on her face and her mouth fell slightly open. She was waiting for me to explain. I grabbed her by the arm and led her into the garage to seek shelter from the storm, and because I didn't want to yell anymore.

"Did you ever watch Too Close for Comfort?"

"Archie, are freaking kidding me?!"

"Keep quiet. Keep it down. Listen to me. Ya know how I've been humming that goddamn theme song and everything? Turns out it wasn't just to annoy the piss out of me. That was my brain telling me something. Something that I chose to ignore because I'm fucking stupid."

"What the hell does that have to...?"

"Okay, the very first episode of the show, the whole reason the guy's daughters end up moving into the duplex with Ted Knight is because the previous tenant died. Right. Well, when they were clearing out the previous guy's shit, they discover that he was a transvestite. All the time they thought he was a ladies man because of all the women coming and going from his place, but it just turned out to always be the dude in drag. From ladies-man to lady-man."

Elise still looked confused. "Oooookay...?"

"All this time I thought Jackson killed a woman. I was far away, I couldn't tell. But he didn't kill a woman. He killed a man. In a dress. That is why there were no missing women, and it is also why Daniel Mayweather's car was here and he has been nowhere to be found this past week. He is the corpse in the ocean!"

"That can't be. We just saw him leave," Elise whisper-yelled at me.

"We didn't see him leave. We saw his car leave. And guess who was driving that car! This fucking asshole right here." I moved over to Gibson, laying on the ground unconscious and delivered a kick into his ribs...just because. "We don't have much time. I'm thinking Brad is inside the house waiting for us to be delivered to him. Remember when we went to Mayweather's apartment and I saw the women's clothes on the floor. Well, now I'm thinking they were his clothes. Just like in the TV show. I didn't put it together until you insisted that no straight gay would probably be working in a gay bar. After that, I started working an entirely different angle. What if he and Brad were gay? It definitely would lead to some problems, especially in his marriage. Remember when Emma Ricks told us that Brad had a buddy over, probably Mayweather, the night Brad and his wife got into a fight causing her to storm out of the house, then shortly later she ended up dead?"

"Yes...?"

"Well, this is just a guess, but imagine if the wife walks in and discovers her husband and some transvestite dining on a bit of the old slap casserole, right there in her own home."

"Slap casserole? Really?"

"Sure, why not? Would plunging the burnt enchilada be more appropriate? Whatever. Imagine she walks in and sees her husband humpin' some dude. I can't imagine that would go over very well."

"So then what?"

"I don't know. The wife threatens to leave him, or worse, go to the tabloids. Brad couldn't risk his career like that, so they plot to kill her."

"So, was the housekeeper in on it, too?"

"No, I don't think so. I think Mayweather dressed as closely as possible to Emma Ricks, waited for Jackson to be out of the country on business, make sure he was seen by the help, then murder Annette Jackson. The fact that Emma Ricks was actually at the house that night was just pure dumb luck for them. It was simple to pin it all on her anyway. Brad shows up to court, acts out a few tears, and bam, we have a conviction of an innocent woman because America loves a fucking celebrity."

"I guess that makes sense. Does everything fit though?"

"I think so. Come on, we have to move. I'll explain as we go." We both stepped over Captain Gibson and returned back outside to the wind and rain. We stayed low and tried to be undetected under the windows. I turned back and continued my story as we leaned against the sidewall of the house.

"We know that Brad and Daniel had met before. They all worked on some shitty movie together, way back when...the one that the wife starred in. Brad and Daniel hit it off and began playing the old rusty trombone together. When it came time to for Annette to check out, I'm guessing Brad put Daniel up to it with the promise of fortune and riches. He probably paid Daniel off in cash for a year, and then when the dust had settled, had his production company purchase one of his shitty scripts from him, with no plan of it ever going in to production. It's an on-the-level way of paying someone off."

"So then why was he working in a shitty gay bar in Hollywood?"

"Well, the money doesn't last forever. You saw the inside of his apartment. He probably pissed it all away and was struggling just to make ends meet. He and Brad couldn't really be seen together too much because of the whole gay thing or whatever, so they probably went their separate ways, just seeing each other on occasion. Something had to have happened to push Brad to another murder. I guessing it was blackmail. Daniel runs out of money, comes to Brad's home, probably dressed similar to what he wore when he murdered his wife, as some sort of intimidation move...Daniel demands more money, Brad doesn't want to be seen, invites him down to the beach to discuss the problem, Daniel doesn't agree to whatever they discussed, and boom, Brad kills him and kicks his ass out to sea. Would have been perfect if I didn't see. He could have dumped the car anywhere and no one would even question Brad about it. It was almost a perfect murder, made completely on the fly. Come on, let's move."

We continued our slow and low walk along the side of the house until we came to the end and the patio started. The thunder was so loud I couldn't hear anything but my thoughts. I slowly peeked my head around the corner to make sure the coast was clear. No sign of anyone.

"So why do you think the detective has anything to do with it?"

"Because, remember when we walked into his office for the first time and there was that weird smell? I thought it was incense. I didn't put it together until Gibson called us back a few minutes ago. It wasn't incense; it was the smell of Clove cigarettes. A brand that hardly anyone even smokes anymore, yet while inside Brad's house the other day, I saw an empty pack of them in the trash. That was after we had already reported the murder. And how the fuck would Brad be able to get our names. That is not standard police procedure to give accused criminals the names of the accusers. It had to have been leaked. It all fits."

"Yeah, but the cigarettes could have belonged to Brad."

"I doubt that he smokes. I didn't see a single lighter, book of matches or ashtray in his house. They were Gibson's. It fits. He brought us here to get rid of us." I took one more look around the corner and when I decided it was clear, I told Elise to follow me and stay down. She didn't answer.

I turned around to see her lying face down on the grass. Dead or unconscious, I couldn't tell. Standing over her was Detective Steve Gibson, pointing some odd looking gun directly...

All I could feel was the pinch of a probe breaking through the flesh of my right shoulder and the surge of hot electricity shoot through my entire body. My wet clothes didn't make it any better on me.

I felt my entire body convulse as I eventually fell to the ground, one-hundred-thousand volts continuing to destroy my body. I couldn't move.

33.

I was completely dazed and couldn't move my body at all. I felt myself being dragged by the legs into the house, the metal probes still stuck in my shoulder, ready to send more shocks through my nervous system. I wanted to call out for Elise, but I couldn't find my voice. I felt my legs drop to the ground and soon after, saw Captain Gibson enter my field of vision. He knelt down next to me and said something along the lines of "Nice Gun," then hit me in the forehead with it. I went dark.

I woke up sitting in a chair in the middle of Brad Jackson's living room. You will never believe this, but once again, my hands were zip tied behind my back. Just like John McClane said, 'How can the same shit happen to the same guy?'

I don't know, man.

"Archie?" a familiar voice called out from behind me. I was still dazed, the only thing I could feel was the plastic cutting into my wrists.

"Archie, are you okay?"

"Ughhhhhh." It was all I could manage to get out. What a puss.

"Hey, it's me. I'm right behind you. We're back to back. Here, can you feel my hand?"

She wiggled her fingers against mine. Elise. She's alive. Thank you, Jeebus!

"What's going on?" I ask her.

"I'm not sure but I have a really bad feeling. Last thing I remember was you talking to me outside, and then I just went black. I woke up tied to this stupid chair. I didn't even see who did it."

"I did. It was Gibson. He got me with a stun gun."

A voice from the other room rang out, "Ladies and Gentleman, so nice of you to join me this evening."

Ugh, it was pretty boy Brad Jackson.

"Hey Brad," I said. "You sound a little nasally, you okay, buddy?"

"Very funny, very funny. This broken nose will come in handy when I kill you in self-defense."

"Oh, is that the plan?" I ask sarcastically.

"Yes," he said. "that is the plan, actually."

"Oh...well shit."

"Yeah, you see, we've already filed the complaint of you stalking me. I just have to shoot you two after saying you both broke in to my house. Easy as that. No one will think twice about it because I am Motherfucking Brad Jackson!"

"Yeah, so I've heard," I said. "Let me ask you this. Whose brilliant idea was it to tie us to these chairs?"

"That was me," Gibson answered. "It wasn't the original plan but I had to improvise."

"I read up on you, Mr. Lemons," Brad said. "I know that you've been in this predicament before, yes?"

"You're right. How clever of you. I guess this is what you in Hollywood would call a remake? Fuck, you guys really are all out of ideas, aren't you?"

"Call it what you like," Brad said, "but the big difference in this one is that you won't be escaping this time."

"So I guess it's more like a sequel? I dunno, this is pathetic. I wouldn't pay to see this. This is what is called sequelitis. It's when part two of a good first movie is fucking terrible and unwatchable and just reuses the exact same plot, beat for beat as the original. Congrats on that though, you're now in Caddyshack 2 territory now. Or Grease 2. Doesn't matter, they both sucked as much as this plan. "

"Very funny. But you did stumble upon me doing something that was very private, and for that, I must terminate you."

"Terminate us? Jesus Christ. Let me just figure this out though. You met Daniel Mayweather on the set of your wife's movie; you guys hit it off and you went totally gay for him. But since you're obviously just like a republican senator, you are ashamed of your gayness and tried to keep it hidden. How am I doing so far, big stud?"

"You think you've got it all figured out, don't ya?"

"I'm pretty sure I do, actually," I answered. "So let me continue. You guys go all Cast-Of-Glee for each other and you start inviting him over to your house for a little of the ol' Brokeback-bareback whenever your wife isn't around. Only, she happens to come home unexpectedly one night and catches you guys crack snackin'. She gets pissed, leaves, and probably threatens to go public with it, so you decide to have her killed. Good so far?"

"Impressive, Mr. Lemons. Seriously, Steve, I am impressed."

"Allow me to go on. You already have knowledge of your stalker, Emma Ricks. You've filed reports on her, got a restraining order, you name it. She was the perfect fall guy. You and your little nancyboy decide for him to dress up like her, murder your wife and let the housekeeper see it to be the witness who nails her. I mean, it is not like he is unfamiliar with dressing like a woman, huh? Yeah, the tranny was the hardest piece of this puzzle, I will admit. That one took me a while. What do you think, E?"

"Sounds spot on to me, Arch," Elise said.

I went on. "You pin everything on Emma Ricks, pay off Daniel Mayweather by buying his shitty script a year after the murder. How did you keep him happy until then? Cash payments? Wiener?"

"You're exactly right," he answered, "but that little faggot got greedy! He pissed away all his money and came crying back to me for more. Well, fuck that! He showed up here dressed like that ugly, crippled bitch Emma Ricks! It was his sick way of blackmailing me. Well, nobody blackmails me! I am motherfucking Brad Jackson! No one fucks with me!!!"

"Did you really have to kill him, though?" I asked. "I mean, there must be other ways...In fact, I bet there's fifty ways to leave your lover."

"Yeah," Elise agreed. "You could have slipped out the back, Jack."

"Make a new plan, Stan," I added.

"You don't need to be coy, Roy."

"Just get yourself free."

And then both of us, in unison, of course, "Hop on the bus, Gus, ya know need to discuss muuuuuuuuch, just drop off the key, Lee, and get yourself..."

"Shut up! God damn, just shut the fuck up! I work with pitiful Hollywood assholes that aren't even as annoying as you two shit stains!"

You could feel the anger in his voice. I was starting to get nervous. It was so bad I even opted out of saying the obvious, 'don't call me a shit stain, you can call me Al' joke. I decided to switch gears.

"So, how did you hook up with Barney Fife over here?"

"Oh, we met the normal way people meet. This has actually gone on too long. We need to get this moving. Steve, cut the bitch loose first. Let's get her over with."

"Wait wait wait!" I said. "You plan on making this look like we broke into your house, right? And you killed us in self-defense?"

"That's the plan, Stan," Brad answered.

"Well," I went on, "you obviously could use the help of the guy you killed. You are no writer, that's for sure. Just another stupid actor who plays pretend but has no imagination. Look..." I began twisting my wrists back and forth against the hard-plastic ties, causing them to cut into my skin. "Everybody with even the smallest amount of talent in Hollywood...Or police work," with that last part I shot Gibson a look that told him what I thought of shitty detecting skills, "anyone, pretty much besides you two assholes, would know that you never ever tie up someone that you plan on killing, especially if you want to make it look like an accident or self-defense. Ya see what I'm doing here with my hands, how I'm twisting them and cutting my wrists? You see, that will prove that I was bound before I was killed, thus throwing out your entire plan and making it completely worthless."

"You forget who will be leading this investigation though, Lemons," Gibson said.

"That very well may be, Captain, but even a below-average police officer would notice that, and any number of people down the chain of command. You guys need to regroup and come up with a better plan because this one has ROTOR sized plot holes in it?"

"What the fuck is ROTOR?" Brad asked.

"Dude, you've never seen ROTOR? It is amazing. It's a total Robocop ripoff but just horrible on every conceivable level, and plot holes that they fly a plane through. Check it out if you get a chance. It's not available on Blu-ray or DVD though. In fact, it is only one of two VHS cassettes that I actually own... The other one is Cool as Ice."

"Really Archie," Elise said. "Cool As Ice?"

"Sorry, E, but it's amazing! When a woman has a heart of stone, there is only one way to melt it...Just add ICE. Yeah, top that! I don't know why we are trying to melt a stone, but whatever, and I don't know how adding ice would help in the melting, but then again, the script was probably written in crayon anyway, probably by the Iceman himself, so I'm not too worried about it... But seriously guys, this is the worst idea since changing French fries to Freedom fries."

"Man," Elise said, "now THAT was stupid!"

"Yeah, America sure has had a lot of stupid ideas. Right, Brad?"

"I don't know what you're..." Brad replied, but I cut him off.

"Like, how that stupid show Extreme Home Make-Over or whatever. Sooooooo stupid. Thousands of people are losing their houses due to foreclosures, but yet America gives huge ratings to some corporate assholes who rebuild ONE lousy house for whoever the biggest sack of shitpile losers that happened to audition that week. People sit there and watch that shit and are soooooo happy, meanwhile directly behind them are a bunch of past due bills and shit. Sooooo stupid."

"Yeah, right," Elise added. "And don't get me started on those FIND THE CURE magnets on rich people's cars. Get real. Like I'm driving along and see some stupid ribbon barking orders at me from the car ahead and I'm like Oh man! What am I doing wasting time driving when I could be finding a cure! Right? So stupid. Maybe if that rich white woman would donate some money to research instead of slapping on a three dollar magnet and feeling like she really accomplished something, we might actually have a cure to whatever shit she is pretending to be interested in."

"Yeah!" I said. "And what's the deal with Addiction Memoirs? Am I right...?"

"Shut the fuck up, the both of you!" Brad said. He turned to Gibson, "He's right, though."

"About the addiction memoirs?" Gibson answered.

"God! No! We may need to rethink this thing. Come on," Brad answered as he walked out of the room. Gibson followed shortly after, flicking me in the forehead as he passed by.

Asshole.

Once they were in the other room, I let out a huge sigh of relief. We had bought ourselves a little time. Elise tried to turn her head in my direction.

"Archie, I am scared shitless."

"I know, E. Me too."

"Are we going to get out of this?"

"I honestly don't know. I am so sorry. I promised you I would never put you in danger and I even fucked that up."

I could hear her start to cry. This was going to be brutal. I was already panicking from my confines, I wasn't sure if I could handle Elise crying.

"Archie, I didn't even get to say goodbye to my kids." Her tears were coming at full pace now.

"Me either." I had a hard time getting the words out. My throat became dry and I felt my eyes begin to water.

"Archie," she said, full on bawling, now, "before we die, I just...want you to know...that you're the best friend I've ever had..."

"Don't, Elise. Please."

"I mean it." Her words were muffled by the sound of her crying. I began twisting my wrist again looking for any form of escape, but all it did was make my hands worse. I could feel blood trickling down my fingers and onto the floor. Thunder crashed so loudly the whole house seemed to shake. Elise continued, "I'm so happy that you married my sister. You were the best thing that ever happened to her...and to me...I just need you to know that...Don't ever feel like you failed her...or me...because you didn't..."

Tears started streaming down my face. I couldn't think of a single thing to say. It was a first for me and I hated it. I lowered my head and let the tears flow. I could still hear Elise sobbing directly behind me.

"I'll think of something, Elise. Don't give up yet."

Brad walked back in room. Fuck.

"Looks like we have a little change of plans, friends," He said. "Steve, cut the bitch loose. We'll do her first."

Steve walked over to our chairs, took out a knife and started to cut Elise's restraints. I went into a fit of rage, flailing about as much as my shackled body would allow me to, but it was pointless. Steve cut her loose, grabbed her by the arm and led her to the other room and out of my sight. Brad followed.

34.

I felt helpless. The worst I have ever felt in my life. Even when holding my wife's dead body I hadn't felt like this. My wife was already dead. Elise was not. Yet. But, I couldn't do anything about it. A flash of lightening lit up the backyard and I was able to catch a glimpse of the three of them standing out there in the storm. I had no idea what they were doing.

I began trying to jump in my chair, desperately. It worked last time, it might work again. Who knows, right?

I was getting nowhere though. These chairs were solid, way better than the shit that was in that asshole's basement from the last time I was in this ridiculous predicament. At least Brad Jackson had good taste in something. High-quality chairs. Damn-it.

I heard footsteps behind me, felt a blow to the back of my head and then saw darkness... aaagain.

A loud crash of thunder awoke me and I found myself being pelted in the face by hard rain. (Water, not the shitty Christian Slater movie.) I was outside now, zip tied to something else, though...a pillar out on the patio. I saw no sign of Elise...Or Brad and Gibson for that matter. I called out for help but I could barely hear myself over the storm. I didn't hold out much hope for someone else hearing.

Brad came around the corner of his house carrying two shovels. His clothes were drenching wet and lightening momentarily lit up his sinister looking face. He walked closer to me and knelt down.

"We had a little change of plans! You were right; we couldn't get away with the whole break-in thing! We decided it would be best if you guys just disappeared!"

Every word he yelled at me caused water from his mouth to hit me in the face. He was that close now. So gross.

"Your car is still over there on the street! Unfortunately, for you guys though, no one will ever hear from you, again. You'll be buried right here in my back yard! We all know how hard it is to pin a murder on someone with no body, don't we?! So here is what we are going to do! You guys are going to dig your own graves! Right here!"

"Great idea. How about you just go ahead and cut me loose and hand me a shovel?"

"Nice try."

"You won't get away with this, you know! I have detectives in Bakersfield that know about you!"

"That may be, but you forget the Pismo PD will be conducting this investigation and will be in charge of everything. Even if I am suspected, who do you think will be in charge of that?! Yes, my friend! I am not very worried about that! Look, here comes your girlfriend!"

I turned and saw a soaking wet and shivering Elise walk out into the backyard, shovel in-hand. Gibson was walking a few steps behind her, pointing his gun at the back of her head.

Brad managed to get even closer to me. "Ladies first, right?!"

"Fuck you!"

"You're not my type, Fatso! Rest up, you're next!" He stood back up and let his shovel fall and hit me right on the top of my head. It stung a bit. He laughed and turned to walk back to the action. Elise started digging her hole.

I started twisting my right wrist as hard and fast as I could manage. I could tell the zip ties this time were tied in a different fashion, probably to accommodate for the larger base to which I was secured.

The plastic tore into my skin as I tried to free my hand. It was too tight though, I couldn't get it over the base of my thumb, no matter how hard I tried and how much skin I sacrificed. I had to think of something else. I wish my hands were tied in front of me, then maybe I could use that shovel somehow. Damn it.

I grabbed my right thumb with my left hand, paused a moment, took a deep breath and bent it back as hard as I could until the bone snapped. I yelled in pain but no one heard me over the rain. I started hitting my broken thumb against the pole I was tied to as best I could. I twisted my wrist again and could feel it move upward toward my fingers. The pain started to cease a little as my adrenaline kicked in. I pulled as hard as I could until I finally got it over the painful stump that once was my thumb. My right hand was free. I brought it around and took a look at it. Most of the skin from my wrist to the middle of my hand was completely missing and blood was rapidly being washed away by the powerful downpour. It hurt like a bitch. A small price to pay, I suppose.

I grabbed the shovel and managed to get myself to my feet. I held the shovel and began hitting the side of it against the wood to which I was tied. I went completely unnoticed.

When I had a big enough groove cut into the wood, I slid my left hand down and pushed the zip-tie into it, allowing me enough room to free myself.

I flung the shovel over my shoulder and started walking towards my enemies.

It was time to save Elise.

35.

As I got closer, I could tell that Brad and Gibson were laughing about something. Sick bastards. The soaking-wet Elise continued to dig her grave. From her body movement I could tell she was still sobbing, even though the tears probably went unnoticed.

Gibson had lowered his gun and was paying more attention to his boyfriend than to Elise, or me. In fact, no one had even turned to check on me.

They both laughed again. I think one of them was telling jokes.

I was able to get almost directly behind them with them being completely oblivious. I had to think of a quick plan of attack. There was only one gun that I could see. If I tried to swing the shovel there was a chance it would be noticed in their peripheral vision and give them a slight chance to prevent the attack from causing the knockout that I needed it. I quickly decided on something else. With both of their backs to me, I walked up behind Gibson, aligned the business end of the shovel with the top of his ankle, directly atop his shoe and, as hard as I could, stomped on the blade. It dug deeply into flesh, causing his Achilles heel to snap like a broken rubberband.

He let out a yell that pierced through the rain like a rocket through the clouds and fell forward into Elise, causing them both to fall into the shallow grave.

I turned and swung the shovel at Brad but he was able to get his arm up and block the blow. He turned and ran off towards the house.

I had Elise to worry about.

They were both down in the hole, Gibson still crying out in pain like a bitch. Elise was underneath him and not moving.

"Stay down, Elise!" I yelled and I brought the shovel down on to Gibson's head. He stopped moving, but I had slipped in the mud and fallen onto my back.

I crawled back to the edge of the open grave and reached for Elise. She was still face down and the hole was steadily filling up with water. I crawled to the front and reached for her head. I was able to grab a little chunk of her hair and pulled, making sure to not slide right in with them. The ground was ridiculously slick.

Elise finally looked up.

"Gibson is unconscious on top of you but Jackson got away!" I yelled down to her. "I need to get you out of here!"

"I can get out by myself! You go get Brad! Be careful!"

I got back to my feet and ran towards the house. I went inside, called 9-1-1, and quickly told them my location and my situation then left the receiver off the hook and headed back outside. I saw no trace of the movie star. I decided I would help Elise instead, since the cops were on the way. I walked back over to the grave where Elise had finally rolled Gibson's dead weight off her and gotten to her feet.

"I'm going to need your help to get out of here. It is way too muddy for...Archie! LOOKOUT!!!"

I turned just in time to see Brad Jackson pounce on me like a cat on an injured bird. We both went down (to the ground, perverts!) and were wrestling. Again. We rolled along the wet and muddy lawn until we reached the rocks at the base of the cliff. We each landed a few good punches but were unfazed by them. He managed to work his way on top of me and slam the back of my head into the soft, muddy ground beneath us. It still managed to leave me momentarily dazed. I had to be careful. I knew we were dangerously close to the edge. Lightening lit up his face again and I was able to see the pure rage that filled it. He was out for blood.

I brought my knee up hard into his groin and he relaxed the grip he had on me. I tried to roll him off but I lost whatever little traction I had on the ground. I felt water flood underneath me and we both spun a quarter of a turn until we fell a few inches on to the rock below. Any false move now would prove deadly for the both of us.

I brought my head up and was able to connect it with his broken nose. His body flew backwards and he began to slide off me. He grabbed hold of my waist and pulled me downward with him. I only had a small footing and a handle on the rock above. I think Brad was dangling.

I tried to shake him loose. I wanted him to fall.

The storm continued to rage and for the first time that night, I could hear the huge wave crashing against the rocks directly below us. The combined sounds were nearly deafening.

Water was pouring off the side of the cliff onto my face.

"Get the fuck off of me!" I yelled.

"Help me, man! Help me!"

"Fuck you! Let go and die with a little bit of dignity, Pretty Boy!"

I was losing my grip. My right thumb was dangling from my hand, completely worthless to me, and if I couldn't shake Brad off of me we would both fall. I only had a few seconds left. Water continued to drain on me and the rocks I was clinging to became slipperier and slipperier. I felt my grip loosen. I was going to fall.

"Hey Brad!"

"What?!"

"This pirate walks into a bar and he's got this huge ship's steering wheel around his johnson, right...The bartender asks 'Hey, did you know you have a steering wheel sticking out of your crotch?' Pirate looks up at him and says 'Yarrrrrrr, it's drivin' me nuts!"

My plan of him loosening his grip during hysterical laughter and falling to his watery grave had failed. Crap. I looked up to search for another rock to cling to. Lightening flashed from somewhere in the distance and I saw Elise standing over me... Holding a gun.

She laid down on the rocks and leaned over towards us.

"You have two choices, Brad!" She yelled. "You let him go and take your chances on the fall or I shoot you in the top of your head and end your miserable existence for sure!"

"No wait!" he yelled.

"You've got three seconds!" Elise yelled down at him then began counting. I didn't know if she had the ability to kill someone.

"One..!" she yelled.

"Wait wait! I have money!" Brad pleaded. "Let me up! We can discuss business! I'm motherfucking Brad Jackson! I AM A MOVIE STAR!

I found a little bit of firmer footing and I braced myself for the worst. I was able to look below me and see Brad desperately hanging out.

"Yeah!" Elise yelled. "Well, that's a wrap, bitch!" She pointed the gun at his arm and squeezed the trigger. I'm pretty sure the bullet shattered his elbow, causing him to release his grip on me and fall into the angry waves below. We lost all sight of him.

Elise dropped the gun, grabbed hold of me, and helped me back up to level ground. We didn't hear the sirens but flashing lights of the police cars lit up the night sky from the front of the house.

We were safe.

I hugged Elise like a vice-grip and we both fell backwards into the mud.

"That's a wrap?! Are you kidding me, Elise?!"

"What, no good?"

"No good?! It was amazing! How did you come up with that?!"

"Glad you like it."

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. We laid there in each other's arms until the police reached us.

36.

We both were transported, via ambulance, to the nearest hospital, where I was treated for my bloody hand and broken thumb. Elise just got a check-up from the bump on her noggin and was released back to the police who accompanied us there. After the hospital, we went to the police station to answer some questions.

It wasn't until late the following evening that we were allowed to return to our motel. We had ended up sleeping in the hospital, not really on purpose, though. We were just exhausted, and didn't want to make our way through the media circus outside. After we awoke, was when we were escorted back to the station. And even though we were cut loose, we were asked to stay close for another few days. We agreed; anything to speed this up and put it behind us.

They found Daniel Mayweather's car in the police parking lot, of all places. It was Captain Gibson who had driven it away from Brad Jackson's house the night before. I'm sure he had intentions on ditching it later, but didn't have time right then. He took it to his work, switched cars then came to pick us up.

When Gibson is released from the hospital, he will have a lot of explaining to do. And as far as I knew, people were searching for Brad, but I hadn't heard one way or the other if they found him or what became of him.

While I was getting my hand attended to, I had asked an officer outside my room to call Detectives Anderson and Enzite back home, and fill them in. I thought if there was any doubt in the minds of the Pismo PD, my boys back home could clear it up for them. It seemed to work well.

Two officers took us back to our motel, then left to go fetch our car for us, which was still parked by the cliff. When it was returned, the full size spare tire was on it. So polite, those officers.

Two seconds in the door though, Elise called Jamie and begged her to bring the kids back. She told her she would pay for anything she needed and absolutely needed to see them right now. All she told her was our new motel and room number. She wouldn't even explain to poor Jamie why, making her wait the entire car ride over before divulging in our fun-filled night. Jamie said they would leave first thing in the morning.

Sadly, both of our phones didn't survive. They're lost and may never come back. We shared a moment of silence for them before collapsing back onto the bed, and both letting out a huge sigh of relief that it was over.

"Hey," I said, "what do you say we hit the Drive-In tonight? It was the one thing I wanted to do on this vacation."

"What's playing?"

"I don't know. Does it matter? Who cares?"

"Yeah, I guess not. Alright, I'm game."

We hopped in Elise's car and headed off for the Sunset Drive-In, ten miles away in San Louis Obispo. We were pleased to see the double feature was a good one.

We backed the car in, popped the hatch and got comfy together. We were both asleep before the coming attractions were over.

When the horns of nearby cars woke us up when both movies were over, we drove back to the motel and fell on our beds. We both slept until we were awakened, this time, by the sounds of children's loud voices outside the door. They were here.

Elise got up and opened the door to Jamie and two smiling children...and one apathetic, lazy dog.

Happiness.

Epilogue

It's been a couple months since our wonderful and relaxing beach vacation, now. It's November eleventh, me and Marianne's anniversary, actually. It's a tough day for me, but I'll survive. Oh! You'll never believe this, though, but they actually found Brad Jackson. Alive! He apparently had a clean fall into the ocean and managed to get on top of a large rock and wait for rescue. His elbow was shattered and he had a broken leg. Other than that, he was fine. Psychically, I mean. He is currently in jail facing trail for two counts of murder-one and several other felonies. Boo-Hoo for him.

Speaking of jail, Emma Ricks is no longer in hers, all thanks to yours truly. No ego here, right?

But seriously, after we returned home, I called the defense attorney I had done some work for a while back, Chester P. Combs. Doesn't that totally sound like an amazing lawyer name? Anyway, I told him the story and was planning on hiring him, but he took the case pro-bono and ran it all the way to stardom. Emma got her retrial, Chester got famous, and now they're working on suing the city for millions. I hope she gets it. Maybe then she could get her disgusting freak hands fixed.

When Captain Gibson came to, I heard he sang like a canary. Ratting out anything and everything in a pathetic attempt to save his own ass. It didn't work. That ass is currently getting reamed in the California State Prison near Lancaster. Those inmates sure do hate cops.

I'm nervous about Brad Jackson's upcoming trial, though. I wish I had enough faith in the system that someone who is so obviously guilty might actually be found guilty. But, as OJ continued his golf game, Casey Anthony kept partying down and R. Kelly gets to keep peeing on underage girls, I'm not holding out too much hope.

Oh well.

Some exciting news though. A certain major Hollywood studio has shown interest in buying my story. If that comes through, the money would help Elise and me a great bit. I'll keep you posted on that. Imagine that, though. Archie Lemons: Superstar!

As for Elise, she took three months off. I wasn't actually sure that she would ever return to the job, but after a while, I could tell she missed it. She asked to come back and I, of course, welcomed her. I need her far more than she needs me.

So here we are now, on this wet and chilly November afternoon, walking from the parking lot, through the lobby and into our new, new office...on the bottom floor of the tallest building in Bakersfield.
AFTERWORD

Well, there you go friends! A Touch of Danger! Yes, I really did get the title from a random name generator on the internet. And yes, I am aware of how stupid it is. Thanks. Ha!

Anyway, with this book I feel I took a giant leap forward. I reread it and still genuinely like it. There are so many obscure references littered throughout this thing that I seriously wonder if there is another person on the planet who can pick them all out. Why, oh why, does my brain retain the most worthless of information? The world may never know.

I wrote this book in a very short timeframe, I think maybe six weeks or so. After finishing Darkness Once More I was totally stumped for an idea. The week it released, I took my family to Shell Beach to get away for a while and relax. I was actually looking through those Wall-E binoculars when I said something like, "Man, wouldn't it be cool to witness a murder while looking through this thing, like in Rear Window or Body Double or something?"

Heyyyy, wait a minute...and with that, I was back in the hotel room typing away notes on my trusty iPad.

With Darkness, I dealt with some pretty serious tones and themes and with this one, I really just wanted to have a good time. I'm way more concerned with making people laugh than with doling out some drama, so I really upped the laugh factor this time out. Hence, all the stupid references, shitty band call-outs and general whackiness involved. I really love this book.

The original title was going to be either Archie Lemons: The Not-As-Good Sequel, Archie Lemons and the Horrible Case of Sequelitis or Archie Lemons and the Sophomore Slump, in regards to sequels always sucking. (No, not you, Empire or Dark Knight...) My original idea didn't involve a real celebrity, though. In fact, I had completely forgotten about my original idea until a few weeks ago when my friend and fellow autism parent Tiffany, took a picture with this horrrrrrrible Edward-from-Twilight lookalike. That's when my memory came flooding back to me that the original killer was one of these wasted, pathetic lives. The celebrity impersonator. Is there any lower form of human life? I think at the bottom it goes; Rapist, then Child Molester, Celebrity Impersonator, then maybe, Murderer. Seriously, can't stand these guys.

Anyway, the original story was for the killer to be a Brad Jackson lookalike and all kinds of whacky shenanigans would occur and Archie would end up being accused of stalking the real celebrity and so on and so forth. It would have been pretty damn funny and I still have some notes and jokes saved up, so maybe I'll use them at another time. The thing that changed my mind was the more and more I started thinking about the sequel connection, I realized this would be my one and only chance to really dump all over Hollywood.

With all the sequels, remakes, reboots and re-imaginings being shit out lately, it seems like Hollywood has all but given up. I know for a fact there are plenty of great, original screenplays floating around out there (hell, I even wrote one), but it seems like no one is willing to take the risk. Apparently, people want the same shit over and over and over again. The want every joke and every plot thread to be spoon fed to them. They want every character beat and every action to be as familiar to them as their old blankey, and it sucks.

So, with that, I took to the idea that this book would be a parody, of sorts. A loving, hate letter to Hollywood, to try and do something a little better. That is why Archie and Elise end up tied to a chair again. The same situation over and over; the people demand it! And of course, an actor would be the one to execute the plan. Someone who is so goddamn familiar with remakes and reboots, of course he would take what happened the last time and reboot. Change one tiny detail and this time it is a successful sequel. Ohhhhh, but this time Elise is tied to the chair with him. Oh, this time the nerds are in paradise. Oh, this time they're in Thailand. Oh, it's still not safe to go in the water. Oh, this time he's a boxer instead of a basketball player. Two-hundred-million-dollar blockbusters! Ha!

I really hope all that stuff came across in my writing. It's really what I was setting out to do, and if I don't mind saying so myself, I think it turned out pretty clever.

There weren't too many parts in this one that got edited out. Nothing like my next one, Stroke of Genius, where entire chapters were given the boot. I think I had more stuff about the horrible Twilight ripoff Hunky Vampires. I remember Archie going on and on about how awful it was and pointing out plot hole after plot hole. But honestly, it's like beating a dead horse by this point. Twilight sucks. We get it. Move on. Haha, sorry nerds.

I'm thinking it's time to poke a little fun at 50 Shades of Grey next. Seriously, have you read that shit? I never in a million years would have thought something that bad, and that horribly written would ever make it to print. NEVER! Aside from the subject matter, that paper would have gotten at least a D- in any junior high classroom in the country. And that's only if the teacher just felt bad for the fat little girl who turned it in. Terrible. Geeeeez.

Anyway, that's it for now. I'll be back at the end of Stroke for some more rambling tidbits of worthless, meaningless crap. Until then, my friends, be excellent to each other.

-Grant Fieldgrove

12/02/12
Thank you to all my friends and family who have supported me throughout my little writing adventures. You are all very much appreciated, as are all the people who read this book. It means so much to me and I cannot thank you enough.

Special thanks to my wife Julie and son McClane for whom this book is dedicated.

Thanks to my mom and dad.

Also, thank you to Lisa for being my agent, Melissa for championing my first book all around, Karlee for never laughing at my jokes, Katie for always laughing at them and everyone else who offered me kind words, including my friends, in-laws, and family.

And thanks to Carl for the Gonzo nipple joke!

Oh, and thanks to YOU!

...

And Lily, my dog!

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Archie AND Elise

will return in:

STROKE OF GENIUS

