Read The Program for Free Online

paid, votes are tallied, medicines delivered in our mail system. And that system has got to be an asymptote approaching the line of perfection. Imagine if your paycheck arrived only two times out of three. Imagine spending your last minutes on your deathbed hand-penning a draft of your will that had only a fifty-percent chance of making it to your attorney. Imagine, for that matter, a confidential P.O. box that you establish for the receipt of documents or personal items, only to find that some knuckle-scraping federal employee with an inadequate grasp of civil liberties called in favors from a corrupt postal inspector so that your political petitions, or inflatable sheep, or letter from your dying !Kung aunt" -- this complete with tongue click -- "in the Kalahari is suddenly a matter of illegal government inquiry!"
    "I, uh..."
    "Good day, Deputy Rackley."
    Tim sat for a minute, a dazed grin touching his face. He couldn't recall being so effectively and summarily told off since Ms. Alessandri benched him in fifth grade for supergluing the donkey tail to Tina Mindachi during end-of-year festivities. He tossed the phone in the passenger seat, deciding to enjoy the rest of the ride.
    The Pacific Coast Highway hugged the coast to Malibu, affording a continuous panoramic view of the gray-blue ocean. The best lawn in Los Angeles stretched back from the intersection of PCH and Malibu Canyon, steeply inclined acres of grass above which the campus rose like a fortified city. After contending with a militant parking attendant, Tim wound his inferior Integra through the main drag lined with Beemers and Saabs. He asked a gardener -- the sole person of color he'd glimpsed on campus -- for the Sigma dorm.
    A remarkably attractive blonde answered the door. Her face was structured like a model's -- high cheekbones, generous jaw, abbreviated ski jump of a nose. The orange-and-blue scrunchie holding her hair back in a ponytail matched her Pepperdine sweatshirt; the pullover itself featured King Neptune looming with trident and flowing beard, the school's umpteenth stab at personifying its banal mascot -- waves. She tilted her head slightly so she could look up at him through her lashes, a well-practiced move. "Who are you?"
    "I'd like to speak with Katie Kelner."
    The girl rolled her eyes and leaned back, letting the door swing open. Inside, three surfers were sprawled shirtless on a futon with another girl, an equally attractive redhead. Tim felt as if he'd stepped into a Gap ad. One of the guys tossed a beach towel over a bong smoldering on the coffee table.
    "That's me," the blonde said. "What do you want?"
    "I need to ask you some questions about Leah Henning."
    "Again? It's been, like, three months. Aren't you people over it?"
    "Your concern is touching. Weren't you friends?"
    Two of the surfer boys snickered, and the redhead cracked up, a lungful of held smoke bursting out of her.
    "Yeah," Katie said. "We were real close."
    More laughter from the stoned peanut gallery. "Man," the most tousled surfer said, tugging at the protruding band of his boxers, "that chick was a serious buzzkill."
    "Hey, Gidget." Tim flashed his badge at the kid, and the smile dropped from his face as if someone had pissed on his wetsuit. "Your towel's burning. Why don't you take it and your controlled substance and go hang ten."
    The three surfers hurriedly cleared out. The redhead leaned back on the futon and indulged a long, sleepy blink.
    "I'm sorry, Officer," Katie said with a pert smile. "I didn't realize you were here, you know, officially." She raised her foot, bare to the toes, and swung her knee out, slowly, then back. She wore an anklet with tiny letters on cubes: WWJD.
    "Can I speak with you in private, please?"
    "Absolutely." A game smile.
    They went to her bedroom, and she closed the door behind them and sat on her bed, legs pulled up to her chest. Her shorts were riding up, giving Tim a pretty good eyeful of inner thigh. He rose and opened the door.