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straight to PetCo. for some kibbles and bits? My cell phone interrupted my ramblings. “Hello,” I said.
    “Time to pay the piper,” said Walter Shamansky.
    “Kojak! I thought you forgot all about me. Then again it is almost lunchtime,” I said with much enthusiasm.
    “Not today. I’ve already got a date,” he said.
    “Then what can I do for you?” I asked.
    “Your boss is still number one in the charts for the homicide. But, in the interest of being thorough, I thought I’d give you a chance to see if there’s anything to her theory about the record company,” Shamansky said.
    “Have you actually talked with John Koflanovich at any time?” I asked.
    “He’s out of the country a lot. But, I see where you’re going. The Cold War is still very much alive at Cerise Records. Do I think they killed their top moneymaker? Not a chance. Business is business. It would be moronic. But, getting stonewalled by the Ruskies is enough to make me want to punish them by putting you on their tail,” he said.
    “How about this? There’s a park on the other side of their building. Cerise has two visitor parking spaces facing the park and it also faces the entrance to the underground employee parking lot. I can put one of my staff members in the park with a camera to track the comings and goings of the employees and visitors. How does that sound?” I asked without telling him the plan was already in action.
    “Staff members?” he queried with much skepticism.
    “What’s so…?” I started to say when Shamansky cut me off.
    “No wait. Don’t tell me. I got it. It’s an out of work keyboard player or some nutcase from the Mental Health Clinic,” he said ebulliently.
    “Does SDPD have a policy against hiring the handicapped?” I asked.
    “Aha! Nutcase it is! Do you expect me to rely on the work of a mental defect if I have to go to court?” he asked.
    “He does stakeouts for me all the time. He’s a top quality photographer whose photos were published in National Geographic and other major publications,” I said with some pride.
    “Tell me those other publications weren’t Hustler and other porno rags,” he stated.
    “Nothing like that,” I said authoritatively.
    “Can this guy testify if I need him on the stand?” he asked.
    “I don’t think that would be a good idea,” I said.
    “OK. What’s his major maladjustment?” Shamansky asked.
    “He has Tourette's Syndrome,” I replied.
    “Oh that’s just great. I can see it now. The prosecutor says, ‘Mr. Pottymouth, tell us in your own words what you saw outside Cerise Records,’ and he says what?” Shamansky asked sarcastically.
    I replied, “You don’t need to use him on the stand. His photos have time and date stamps. Didn’t you ever hear the expression, one picture is worth a thousand words?”
    “Why don’t you personally sit on the place?” he asked.
    “My pictures are awful. When they aren’t blurry it looks like I’m stalking Marie Antoinette,” I said. “Cory can get recognizable faces through rolled up windows of moving cars going in and out of that garage. I’ve seen them. They’re great.”
    “In other words, Cory’s already there. This is no skin off your nose. So, I didn’t actually use up that favor. You still owe me,” he said.
    “Great minds think alike,” I said.
    “Then tell me when and where I’m thinking about viewing those Rembrandts,” he said.
    “My intuitive powers are revealing an expensive, hillside eating establishment, sometime around lunch hour tomorrow,” I said with mystical inflection.
    “Bingo! Make it 12:45,” he said and hung up.
      
    While Jack Pascal chooses to blend into a working class neighborhood, Nigel tries to stand out in an upper class section of Rancho Santa Fe. The entrance to his driveway features a wrought iron gate adorned by two, rhinestone encrusted ceramic guitars. I cruised up a fifty-yard driveway with perfectly maintained flowerbeds on either side.
    The