Neil Knight Private Dick

Relaxing Spincters

Neil tossed the remains of their El Pollo Loco meal into the wastebasket at the street corner, loaded his dogs into the RAV4, closed the hatch and slid into the front seat. From the corner of his eye he saw two street people arguing over who had the rights to his discarded leftovers, providing a pang of momentary guilt.

The Toyota fired up on the first crank, and Neil pulled a quick u-turn, crossed Main Street and came to rest near the Bowers Museum shipping & receiving dock on West 20th. Directly before him the sign noted a 2-hour parking limit between the hours of seven a.m. to nine p.m. From the driver's seat, at ten o'clock, stood the Campana homestead, the house shrouded in darkness except for an outside light shining at the rear of the house.

'Shit" muttered Neil, having mistakenly believed he missed something, until he realized the side driveway gates to the left of the house remained closed, the newspapers still pinned to them as before.

Now more lights flooded the backyard, highlighting the vacated 202 West 20th next door as a car engine sprang to life. The security gates at 206 mechanically detached from one and other, slowly swinging outward as a small red two door convertible rolled through the opening. The car paused at the end of the driveway, the driver hidden from view as the headlights temporarily blinded the investigator before turning left and heading toward North Broadway. Neil threw the Toyota into drive and slipped in about three car lengths behind the accelerating Mazda Miata.

The thirteen-and-a-half-mile drive to Yorba Linda took about 39 minutes, as the 57 and the 91 were already experiencing the kind of activity that invited rubbernecking delays from the curious and unfocused. But the morning traffic allowed Neil to keep the convertible in sight without drawing attention to himself as he blended into the morass of vehicles migrating north.

Just ahead the Miata peeled off the highway at exit 39, and Neil followed suit. Between his car and the mystery driver were a Tesla model S sedan followed by a BMW series 8 convertible. To his immediate right were a Lexus model LS hybrid, and a Mercedes GLS SUV.

Suddenly he felt as conspicuous as a stain on an intern's dress.

But there was little he could do, so, as the light changed colors, he followed the high priced string of autos as they turned left onto Weir Canyon Road, crossing Esperanza where, for no clear reason, the name of the road changed to Yorba Linda Boulevard as if to underscore the fact for the unobservant that they had crossed into prime real estate.

At Village Center Drive the Miata turned right with Neil continuing to follow at a safe distance. After about one mile, the car pulled into the left-hand turning lane and swung left onto Manzanita, then right onto Pepper Avenue. He passed homes of modest size, all were well groomed, most with multicar garages, and some with boats or jet skis parked off the paved or cement driveways.

Pepper Avenue steadily inclined, with homes increasing in size as the land rose higher. Landscapers, mostly Mexican, were already trimming hedges, planting flowers or replacing bushes, and picking up any refuse to haul away when their work was complete. To the left rose Cassia Lane at about a fifteen degree incline, and this is where the two car caravan took their last turn, with the morning sun rising behind them, bringing out the lawn greens, brick reds, stucco whites, pavement blacks, stone greys, and pool blues of the mansions which looked down over the city below.

Cassia Lane was a familiar dead-end street, albeit not the kind of dead-end streets Neil was used to haunting. As the Miata crested the rise, it stopped outside the six-foot-high wrought iron gates of number 4070, a 6500 square foot estate which included a sleek marble entry, sweeping staircase, immense fireplace & a wall of windows that slid into oblivion, providing an unobstructed view of the nearly two acres of privately secured grounds below.

As the driveway gates parted, the driver's side door of the car swung outward, as did a pair of long black legs wrapped in a tight fitting stop your heart blood red dress anchored to the ground by six-inch heels. Slowly and gracefully there followed a slim feline body with ample breasts and long lithesome arms. Her angular face was revealed as her figure turned toward him, with sparkling blue eyes, a bright white smile, and a Beretta 3032 Tomcat Inox firmly grasped in her right hand, the snub barrel pointed in his direction.

Neil felt the all too familiar clutching in his ass, his testicles rapidly ascending, and grasped the stick shift preparing to slam the car into reverse. But at that moment, the woman bent her arm, brought the gun to her lips, parted them and ran her tongue down the barrel, ending at the sight. With her left hand she wagged her index finger slowly back and forth, then reentered the automobile and pulled into the driveway, the gates slowly closing behind her.

For a good thirty seconds he remained frozen in his car, not out of fear but in amazement at what had just transpired. Questions flooded his brain like a website under a cyber assault. Had she known all along that he had been trailing her? When did she notice him? Who was she and what was she doing at the home of Carlos Santino Campana?

It was at that moment that the theory of 'interspecies emotional connection' was once again validated. The fear Neil had felt as the gun was pointed toward him had been sensed and shared by his canine companions, gripping them and prompting them to clutch their anuses as well.

Now that the situation was no longer dire, and Neil relaxed, so did the dogs and their sphincters, and the smell of digested and fermented Mexican chicken filled the cab of his car.

"Oh, for Christ's sake dogs" said Neil, somewhat grateful for the distraction that broke the mood.