The phone rang in the office of Helen Wilson-Watson at 550 N Flower St, Santa Ana, site of the headquarters of the Orange County Sheriff's department. The shrill ringing further splitting what was left of her patience following an evening of alcohol fueled recriminations with District Attorney elect Tony Riganti.
As she reached for the phone it slipped from her moist palm. A spray of sweat caught the light from overhead fluorescence as she made a vain swipe to recover the falling handset.
"Shit in a bucket" she swore, retrieving the phone after wiping her palm on her department issued cotton pants, leaving a snail-like sheen on her trousers.
"Wilson-Watson" she spoke into the receiver.
"Goldstone" was the one-word reply.
"What's on your mind lieutenant."
"That fatass detective from Fountain City was in Yorba Linda today. I got a complaint that he was on Cassia Lane, and the call wasn't from the darkies. Seems some homeowner noticed his shitbag Toyota driving through the neighborhood and figured it was another border crosser looking to score some day job work."
"What the hell was Knight doing there?" she asked.
"Damned if I know" he answered. "I busted his balls a little, gave him a ticket, all legit, and sent him on his way."
"I'll have the sergeant here check the intersection surveillance cameras to see if we can figure out which neighborhood he was casing. Figure out his route. That fuckers a loner so we can't call in any debts."
"Thanks for the heads-up Rip" she continued, "Keep your eye peeled just in case he comes back. We don't need the kind of trouble that follows him around."
With that she cradled the phone, snatched the hand towel from the back of her chair and ran it in a loop from her forehead around the base of her neck and back again.
Night sweats in the daytime. Jesus. She could swear her perspiration was 90% booze, giving her sweet smell of a rummy at last call.
'Better head home and take another shower' she thought. She'd ring Riganti on the way. He'd want to know about this, even if it ended up being nothing.
She didn't want another incident on her hands. That guy was a major league prick when he felt you were holding out on him.
Goldstone wasn't anyone's eyes and ears. He was a man of action, and men of action needed a place to settle down and think.
Rip checked his Series 4 iWatch, forgetting that he had left it in Heart Monitor mode. Seems his heart rate had risen above 120 beats per minute even though he had been inactive for over half an hour.
'Gonna have to get a little more exercise in somehow' he mused.
It was 10:44 in the morning. What better place to lower his heart rate while choking down a few free tamales then at the Taboo Gentlemen's Club at 3025 East La Mesa Street in Anaheim.
At this hour the nine mile drive would take about 20 minutes. The club opened at 11. Perfect. Food would be just as fresh as the ladies. A couple of pops and a lap dance or two might help him think clearly, consider his options.
Years ago, before he joined the force, he'd worked as a bouncer there, and had maintained his contacts, doing a favor now and then for a patron or one of the girls. Early on at the Basic Academy at Santa Ana College one of the ladies he'd been seeing, off and on, showed up in her working clothes, looking for him. The officer in charge told him in no uncertain terms that 'these types of visuals weren't helpful to him in his chosen career', so since that day he'd refrained from dating dancers.
But lap dances and hand jobs weren't dating. Rip just considered them payment in kind when he helped a lady out of a jam. A win-win for everyone.
Before he headed out, he swung into the parking lot at Duke's Café on Eastpark Drive. The morning's activities and the anticipation of food, brew, babes and boners made him realize a preemptive Depends change was in order.
No matter what anyone else thought, personal hygiene mattered.