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around seven thirty in the morning.
    “So?” he asked.
    I gave him my handwritten report. “She had coffee, took a walk on the beach, and came home.”
    Parkus didn’t look up from the piece of notebook paper, as if staring at it real hard would reveal new details even I had missed.
    “She didn’t see anybody all day?” he asked.
    “Not unless you count the guy who served her coffee.”
    “I see you noted the seven dollars you paid for parking,” he said. “That would be one of the expenses you were talking about.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “The one hundred and fifty dollars a day doesn’t cover parking?”
    I couldn’t tell if he was playing with me, or just being cheap. He didn’t wait for me to answer, he just handed the paper back to me.
    “Thanks, Harvey,” he said. “Keep up the good work.”
    And with that, Cyril Parkus drove off, the smell of leather upholstery lingering in his wake.
    He didn’t even say anything about how lousy I looked. Maybe I really was ultra-fresh. Or maybe he just didn’t give a damn.
    Sergeant Victor Banos showed up a few minutes later, and he made up for Parkus’ oversight regarding my appearance. I won’t share all the snide remarks he made, they really aren’t pertinent to the story. Needless to say, I got out of there as fast as I could, returned to my Sephia, and changed into my new clothes.
    I’d just got my pants on when Lauren Parkus drove out of the gate. She was getting a very early start. I turned the key in the ignition, hit the gas pedal in my stocking feet, and followed after her.
    Lauren didn’t make it difficult for me this time. She went right down to the freeway and headed south. We hit the tail end of rush hour traffic, so keeping up with her was easy, though my Sephia struggled mightily going up the Conejo Pass between Camarillo and Newbury Park. The car was such a little shitcan, I was afraid if a bug slammed into the windshield the car would be totaled.
    She took me across the San Fernando Valley to Studio City, where she got off at Coldwater Canyon and headed south towards the Hollywood Hills.
    I stayed one car behind her on Coldwater and tailgated the guy in front of me. I was afraid of another intersection mishap like the day before. If this guy raced into the intersection on a yellow, I was going too, hanging right onto his bumper. We crossed Ventura Boulevard without incident, but the guy in front of me got spooked and made a sharp, last-minute right turn onto a side street.
    I bet the idiot thought I was following him.
    She led me up Coldwater and I relaxed a bit because I had a general idea where we were headed. Coldwater weaves through the Hollywood Hills and is basically used as a shortcut between the Valley and Beverly Hills.
    So I settled back and enjoyed the drive. We passed one big mansion after another. They aren’t so much homes as they are billboards. The only reason anybody that wealthy would want to live on a busy, narrow street like that is to show everybody how much money he has.
    So for the opportunity to brag, these rich-ass people get to breathe exhaust fumes and listen to traffic going by all day.
    In other words, they’re paying millions to experience what it’s like living in a cardboard box beside a freeway.
    Just because the rich have money, it doesn’t mean they’ve got brains.
    I followed Lauren Parkus across Sunset, where Coldwater becomes Beverly Boulevard and widens quite a bit. The houses are every bit as expensive and just as showy. You’ll also find a lot more of those mysterious stone lions.
    She crossed Santa Monica Boulevard and entered the fancy shopping district known in all the tourist guides as the Golden Triangle, which sounds like a sleazy euphemism for a woman’s crotch. Based on the name, you’d expect to find topless bars and nudie shows instead of Ralph Lauren, Gucci, and Tiffany’s. Then again, the most famous street in the area is Rodeo Drive, but you won’t find anything that even remotely has