Chapter 1

Everyone has a hobby, and mine happens to be voyeurism. Over the years I've built up quite an extensive collection of pictures of unsuspecting women and couples in compromising or revealing positions. Some I took in my capacity as a private detective, most were just for fun. It's a dangerous hobby - that's part of the attraction, of course - and I've gotten myself into some pretty sticky situations and even been arrested once or twice. Embarrassing, but no big deal. Until recently, that is. I took some pictures a few weeks ago, some nice topless pictures on a public beach, and those pictures very nearly got me killed.

Thinking back on it now makes me feel queasy inside and short of breath. It would have been a stupid, shitty way to go. Anyway, it's a long story, and I better start at the beginning if I'm going to get it all down right. I'm not going to change any of the facts, though God knows some of the facts make me look pretty bad. I'm the first to admit I'm not the second coming of Sherlock Holmes, and I've already admitted to being a sexual voyeur, but I'm not a liar.

I was between cases at the time, a situation I find myself in all too often, and I had spent the morning moving furniture to make the rent. I was on the freeway, heading back to my apartment for lunch, when my cell phone rang. I reached behind me and fumbled through the mess of packing straps, tools, and boxes that litter the back of my van, finally coming up with the phone.

"Frank Stern."

"Frankie, there you are. It's Vic. Got a hot one for you, buddy. I'd take it myself, but I gotta meet my parole officer in twenty minutes. So naturally I thought of you."

Vic is a fellow voyeur, a lot more hard core than I am. That's not why he's on parole though - he's a burglar by trade, and a bad one. "So what's the story?" I asked.

"Two words for you, Frank: Claire Ingleford."

"No kidding, really?"

"Yep. She's on Sparkle Beach right now, catching some rays with her world-famous hooters on full display."

"As seen in Playboy magazine."

"You got it. So whattya say?"

At the moment I was heading east, away from Sparkle Beach. It would take me at least half an hour to get there, by which time the show would probably be over. I was tired and hungry, and I had another moving job scheduled for this afternoon.

But this was Claire Ingleford, star of the prime-time drama "LA West," voted "TV's Sexiest Vixen" by People magazine two years running. Not that I'm a big fan of the show, but the fact that she's a celebrity does add to the attraction.

"I'm all over it, Vic. Wish me luck." I disconnected the phone and cut across two lanes of traffic toward the next exit. Such is the pull of the voyeur.

I made it in twenty-five minutes flat, and this time I was lucky. Claire Ingleford was still there.

Sparkle Beach is one of the less crowded public beaches, since it's no good for swimming or surfing. The waterline is littered with jagged rocks, and the incoming waves throw up fountains of salty spray, often creating rainbows or glittering sheets of luminescence. Sparkle Beach is also known for another kind of glitter - celebrities. The unwritten rules here are no autograph requests, no gushing conversation, and absolutely no cameras. I always followed the first two.

After taking off my shirt and pulling a faded Dodgers cap down low over my eyes, I wandered along the beach, scanning my eyes back and forth. It didn't take long to find what I was looking for: a loose circle of people standing around trying to look like they weren't gawking.

I wandered over and joined the group, and got my first look at Claire Ingleford in real life. She was sitting on a chaise lounge under a big multicolored beach umbrella, and despite the overcast weather she was wearing sunglasses and a straw hat and had her nose painted white with zinc oxide. Next to her was a big, tan man with dark, curly hair. They were both reading magazines, pretending to be oblivious to the dozen or so gaping onlookers. They were sitting only about ten yards from the waterline, which was clever positioning, because anyone who tried to linger in front of them to get a better view would get wet from the spray.

But you could still see plenty from the side. Claire was wearing only the bottom half of a bikini, and I could see the firm round curve of her left breast extending out past her upper arm. I had my little Olympus cupped in my hand, covered with a folded towel, and I slid the shutter open with my thumb and aimed it by feel. I snapped off a few shots, the towel muffling the snap and whine of the motors.

Some dolt yelled out "Claire, you're beautiful!" She looked up from her magazine and smiled briefly. This caused a bit of a titter from the onlookers. Claire has a distinctive smile - the corners of her mouth turn up sharply, exposing her upper teeth and giving her an almost feral look. Jack Nicholson smiles the same way. When Claire's bad-girl character on "LA West" smiles at someone, it's like a Mafia don giving the kiss of death. With any luck, that smile would now be part of my personal collection.

As I worked my way along the perimeter, taking pictures as I went, a throaty voice called out "Claire, how about standing up for a second?" This was greeted by some nervous laughter.

The Sparkle Beach privacy conventions were obviously going to be no match for a topless TV star who had recently posed for Playboy, and I figured I had only a few minutes left, if that. I decided to cut between Claire and the ocean, spray be damned, to get some frontal shots.

But just as I was about to go for it, Claire and her companion stood up. I shot a rapid-fire series of shots as she took off her hat and shook out her glossy brown hair and then raised her arms up over her head in a languorous stretch. A few people clapped and whistled, and I didn't blame them. Claire Ingleford has a truly first-class rack: firm, grapefruit-sized breasts capped with pink areola the size of silver dollars and large, pouting nipples. With her arms raised over her head and her back arched you'd swear they were fake, but then when she relaxes and moves around you can see they're all-natural. The rest of her isn't bad, either, although she was shorter than I had imagined, maybe five-four or five.

I was in nirvana for thirty seconds or so, as Claire turned this way and that, taking off her sandals, folding her towel, putting away her magazine. It was like she was posing just for me, and I fired off shot after glorious shot. Then two things happened at once. Claire and her male companion started walking directly toward me, and I ran out of film. The automatic rewind seemed as loud as a chain saw, and I swore under my breath and wrapped the towel more firmly around the little camera.

They passed within a few feet of me, holding hands, and then they waded into the light surf. I could hear Claire laughing and shrieking, and I figured they must be frolicking and splashing, but I was on my knees in the sand, desperately fumbling with the Olympus, trying to get the old roll out and a new roll in.

"Hey, what do you think you're doing? You're not supposed to be taking pictures on this beach."

A middle-aged woman was looking down at me indignantly from behind a huge pair of sunglasses. She was wearing one of those modest one-piece bathing suits with the little ruffle-skirt around the middle, and she was holding a Judith Krantz novel. I got the impression she would just love to see a pervert like me strung up from the nearest lifeguard tower.