1. "The Belden-Wheeler Detective Agency."

"My name is Jasmine Belden- Frayne. And I'm an alcoholic." I said.

"Hi Jasmine." The group chorused.

I went to sit down again but the leader of the small group held up his hand to stop me. "Is this your first meeting Miss Frayne?"

I nodded.

"Well it's customary to tell the group a little about yourself. Your bio if you will. When you started drinking, why you drink, how much you drink, when you hit rock bottom and what made you join AA, that sort of thing." He explained patiently. I'd been impressed by the cliché when I'd first stepped into the meeting room and this older man, with piercings and tattoos, and a biker jacket had detached himself from the two women he was standing talking to to come and introduce himself as Hamish, the group leader.

I stood where I was, my feet stuck to the ground by the weight of expectation and the looks of, if not entirely avid, interest and naked curiosity on the faces of the group members. Well all except the middle-aged man in the middle who was clearly asleep, and the young woman in her twenties who was furtively playing with her iphone. I thought about my Aunty Di. You've probably heard of her, Diana Lynch-Belden. One of Broadways most celebrated actors who also made the jump from the stage to movies and even won an Oscar two years back for best actress in the insanely high-grossing "What Dogs Want." Which, for the record in case you are interested, turns out to be food, pets, comfortable beds, other dogs to play with and cats to chase, and car-rides as treats. Aunty Di was, as a young girl, part of the drama club at her upstate New York high school but she was cursed with a terrible case of stage fright so she stuck to behind the scenes work until her senior year when she forced herself to jump into the spotlight and wowed the crowd with her portrayal of Juliet, of Shakespearean fame. From there a life as an actress beckoned. Living in sunny California means I rarely see Aunty Di and her husband, Uncle Mart since they remain firmly planted in the trendy Soho district of New York City and I've lived in California ever since my freshman year at UC Berkley where I got a Masters degree in Criminology (and a plum FBI internship the year between my undergraduate and postgraduate classes. But more about that later.) Then, along with my best friend and cousin Sadie Belden, the two of us opened up the LA Chapter of "The Belden-Wheeler Detective Agency." And consequently made my mother and father and Aunty Honey and Uncle Brian proud as punch. Because my mom and Aunty Honey had first opened "The Belden-Wheeler Detective Agency" in New York not long after they completed college more than 30 years ago.

I realized that the group was waiting. And I knew I couldn't tell them the version of my life where I was a private detective. Especially considering I was going undercover here somewhat to help a girl I'd gone to college with. Melinda Harris and I had never been exactly friends in college and she'd been a year above me but we'd lived in the same dorm and Sadie and I had helped her out with a little problem our junior year. Since then Melinda has been married and widowed and now is quite wealthy courtesy of her deceased husband who made some serious money in the early days of the world. And she turned up in our office the other day with mascara streaks down her hollow cheeks and a pasty colour that made me think she was more dead than living and told us she had a stalker and she needed our help. Mind you despite the clear signs of a woman having trouble sleeping and eating Melinda was still attractive. She had the waif look down pat and her big brown eyes were the definition of "puppy dog eyes." Sadie had been inclined to take the case straight off- money was money after all, and our overheads were still pretty high considering we'd just put the open for business sign on our (tiny) rented offices in Venice Beach a month ago- but I'd been more cautious. I remembered Melinda's refusal to sponsor me in sorority rush week. I know, I know: petty reason not to help a damsel in distress. But it was more the fact that Sadie and Melinda had been good friends and I'd often felt like Melinda tried to push me aside a little. And the fact that Melinda had known I'd been casually dating basketball star Troy Rogers and had still gone after him. Nonetheless I was never going to say no to taking the case. I'd got Melinda a glass of water which she'd spilled more than drunk and had grabbed a fresh legal pad and uncapped my pen. "Tell me about the stalker." I'd said.

She'd nervously plaited, undone and re-plaited her hair for the entire duration of the consultation. "His name is Mike. He's a structural engineer in downtown L.A. And he's not too bad a guy- at least I thought he wasn't. We'd been seeing each other for about three months when he wanted to get exclusive. The thing was I wasn't ready for such a commitment. But when I tried to let him down gently and suggest we just keep things the way they were he got angry and said I was just another one of those cock-teasers, leading him on and then dumping him. I severed ties with him but he didn't want to let me go and he started showing up at my workplace and my apartment, sending flowers and cards and little presents- sometimes signed, sometimes anonymously- and I started getting hang up calls. I know this sounds quite tame and it probably would have stayed that way if not for my new boyfriend…" Melinda had trailed off.

I'd raised an eyebrow. "Mike found out about the new guy and got uber-jealous?"

"Beyond uber even. He started following me and he started following my boyfriend. He even had a confrontation with my boyfriend where he tried to make him back off, said that he and I were still an item and that my boyfriend was dating a taken woman." Melinda had replied.

"What did your boyfriend do?" I'd questioned.

"At first he was great; he just took it all in his stride. When I stressed he'd say that I was worth fighting for. And of course he had to act all macho. You know- the "I'm a big tough man and I can handle myself and I'm not scared of any other man" act they all have going on. But gradually I sensed him pulling away from me. And that's kind of my motivation for being here. I don't want to loose this guy, Jasmine. I'm pretty sure he's the one. And if Mike doesn't back off I might loose him." Melinda had concluded.

I'd frowned slightly. "If your boyfriend is someone who is inclined to walk away when the going gets tough maybe he's not the one." I'd suggested delicately. Well, delicate for me, anyway.

Melinda had shaken her head. "No. He's the one. I swear it. So I want to set up a meeting with Mike. I'm going to try to reason with him, convince him it's never going to happen. Maybe if I am totally firm with him he'll see that it's no use and let me be."

I'd tapped my pen against the legal pad as I thought. "Traditionally a stalker wouldn't just stop because you speak to him face to face and say you have no feelings for him. Plus it could go one of two ways. One- he could get angry and lash out at you and possibly also your boyfriend, or two- he could decide if he can't have you nobody else can." I'd said. I regretted my bluntness the moment I saw the look of fear cross Melinda's face. I'd been cursed with talking before I thought, just like Mom. But sometimes, especially in this business, people need to know what they're dealing with up front. Sugar coating might work for some instances but I didn't think this was one of those exceptions to the rule. Mind you if Sadie had been here for this consultation she would have been far gentler. But then again she liked Melinda and I wasn't the president of the Melinda Harris fan club. Matter of fact I wasn't even a paid up member.

"So I should what, just ignore him, go to the police to get a restraining order?" Melinda had asked.

"If the police could do something I'd be all for going to see them. But I think, in this circumstance, their hands would be tied. Mike hasn't made any physical assaults towards you, right? Has he threatened you in writing or anybody's hearing or maybe in a message saved on your cell?" I'd asked.

"He's told me I might force him to hurt me. But I have no proof of that conversation." Melinda had answered.

"We need to get some threats on tape. Maybe we can do this meeting after all." I'd mused.

"But you said it was too dangerous." Melinda had protested.

"It'll be an acceptable risk if we contain the situation. I'll be there, so will Sadie, and my gun. I might even bring my brother-"I'd begun.

"The cute one?" Melinda had interrupted, interested despite herself.

I'd thought about that for a moment. I suppose some people would consider my big brother Jasper to be good looking. He was tall, athletic, with thick brown hair. He'd skipped the curse of the Belden looks that both Mom and I had been "blessed" with- being stocky, with red hair that was more orange than auburn. The only part of my Dad in me was my eyes. Jasper was a personal trainer but he also worked in music production. The PT work paid the bills, the music was a passion that he was lucky to be able to indulge.

"I thought you already had a boyfriend." I'd replied meanly. I didn't add that Jasper already had a girlfriend. Actually- he kind of had a couple. Like Melinda the ladies loved Jasper Frayne.

Melinda had blanched but she'd recovered well. "So. Do I set the meeting up?" She'd asked.

"Yep. I'll choose the place and the time and we'll be in place well before the target arrives. You'll have a listening device on that will transmit to me and all you need to do is get him to make admissions. About the stalking as well as repeating threats to you and for good measure towards your boyfriend. Then we'll hopefully have enough to go to the police and be able to get a restraining order. Or, if you prefer, you can leave that part up to Sadie and I. I'm pretty sure we should be able to get him to see it our way and leave you alone." I'd explained.

Melinda had looked relieved and she even stopped playing with her hair. "Thanks Jasmine. I know you're not my biggest fan-"

I'd opened my mouth to interrupt her, to deny what she knew perfectly well was true, but she'd quickly spoken over any feeble denials I was about to make. "But I do appreciate this. And I'm quite prepared to pay well. Money is no object in my life right now."

I'd felt a little jealous at that fact being pointed out. My bank account was dangerously low and I'd even had to continue my college job at "The Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf." I lived in a tiny apartment in a decent complex a few blocks from the beach which was sparsely furnished. The living room tripled as a living space, dining area and makeshift home "office." And what money I made that didn't go towards rent and bills went into the detective agency. Mom and Aunty Honey had actually put up the money for us to open, giving us an initial cash injection that was more than generous. But we'd been forced to take out loans to buy the equipment essential for the private investigator's business and to furnish- although I do use that term extremely loosely- our small offices.

Originally Sadie and I had planned to live together but we'd decided that we'd see each other at work all day and we were related so a bit of privacy was probably the best move. And so Sadie lived with her twin brother Rhys.

I'd never gotten along great with Rhys and I'd suspected it was because we were so completely different. Despite the fact that Dad had come into a large inheritance when he was still a teenager didn't stop my parents enforcing the rule that if I wanted money I needed to work for it. By doing chores around the house for my allowance when I was younger, and getting a part time job after school and on the weekends and holidays when I was older. The one indulgence they'd given me was my high school graduation present- a Fiat Spider convertible. (Sadie had been given an SUV.) For the first ten years of my life I lived just out of White Plains in New York State, in an old, character filling, manor that Mom and Dad had bought and restored. Mom had told me once that the estate had been the place where she'd first met Dad. He'd run away from a very cruel, physically abusive, stepfather and had hidden there. Mom had essentially saved him and since that day there had been no one else for either of them. And Dad landed on his feet big time. He was adopted by the Wheeler family.

Aunty Honey was Mom's best friend growing up and she was rich. When Mom had walked up the hill to the Wheeler estate to meet Honey for the first time she'd been less than impressed. Honey had been pale, sickly looking, prim and proper and scared of almost everything about the countryside. But Mom soon learned Honey wasn't what she seemed and the two of them have been as thick as thieves ever since. Together the two of them solved mystery after mystery and never turned away a person who needed help- despite what they may have thought about that person.

Mom and Aunty Honey were aided in their endeavors by their family and friends. There was Mom, Uncle Brian and Uncle Mart living in the Belden home "Crabapple Farm." Dad and Aunty Honey in the Wheeler manor. Dan Mangan living in the game reserve attached to the Wheeler estate with the gamekeeper there who took him in and, unofficially, adopted him as his son. And there was Aunty Di who lived a little closer into the town and who was also rich in her own right. It was just the Belden's who weren't rich. But, not surprisingly considering my grandparents, the small farm was home to the group more often than not. Unless they were in their clubhouse on the Wheeler grounds. Oh, that's right. I didn't mention the club. The Bob-Whites of the Glen. Their main mission was to help people, whether it be because of a mystery or to work for charity or help those who had lost the things they held dear.

Aunty Honey became family in more than just name when she married Mom's brother, Brian Belden. She and Uncle Brian had moved to New York City early on in their marriage because Uncle Brian had studied medicine at NYU and Aunty Honey wanted to be wherever he was. Though the two of them, and Sadie and Rhys, had come down to Sleepyside-on-Hudson where we lived regularly. Once Mom had finished at Brown and Aunty Honey at Colombia they finally put the plan they'd had virtually since they first met and became friends into fruition and opened "The Belden-Wheeler Detective Agency." And the home in the countryside became a summer base for Mom, Dad, Jasper and I. It was near my grandparent's small farm too, which was a bonus. Aunty Honey and Uncle Brian regularly bought Sadie and Rhys to the countryside to visit on school holidays too, so we were all one big family.

There was another two members of the family who were occasionally there. My actress Aunty Di who I've already mentioned and Mom's "almost twin" my Uncle Mart. Aunty Di almost didn't marry Mart because at the time she had feelings for another man, Dan Mangan, who had also lived in Sleepyside. However Dan was tragically killed and Uncle Mart's consolation had turned romantic and, not six months later, they'd eloped to Las Vegas where they got married in a chapel by an Elvis impersonator. I kid you not. Grandmom and Grandpop were not pleased. Then there's one more Uncle I have, Uncle Bobby. Bobby lives in Miami now and he's the CFO of a fortune 500 company there.

"Jasmine?" The leader of the group prompted me.

So, the big question, how did I get from arranging a meeting aimed at tricking Melinda's psycho stalker on tape admitting his actions to here, an AA meeting? Well, just for the record, I'm not an alcoholic. I like a drink, don't get me wrong, and I've had my share of hangovers, but I don't drink to excess. The answer to that is that Mike, the stalker, is part of this chapter of AA. Though it does not appear he is here today.

You've probably guessed, by now, that the meeting didn't work out as I'd hoped. Somehow Mike guessed it was a set-up, though he only caught sight of Sadie from what I gathered upon listening to an abusive voicemail he'd left on Melinda's cell the day after. And, not surprisingly, he didn't go up to Melinda and talk to her. Instead he stepped up his stalker efforts to the point that Melinda had been staying at "Château Marmont" for the past week and a half because she'd been too scared to go home. And Mike continued to call her every day, as well as continue to send her presents, make spontaneous "visits" to Melinda's friends and workplace and generally act like a total creep. He'd followed her from work so he knew she was living at the hotel but the security the hotel provided by virtue of the many people, cameras, and hotel staff like concierge and valets gave Melinda a measure of peace and safety. Even so she was more eager than ever for me to get Mike out of her life. Hence the AA meeting I was now attending.

"Well…" I began. My throat was dry so I coughed. "I guess my drinking began when I was thirteen. After my parents died. I wanted to be numb to get through the funeral and then to get through the difficult times ahead. I just never stopped. It cost me family, friends, jobs, everything. But it wasn't until my niece was so petrified of me I couldn't visit my sister that I knew it had to change. I've been sober for almost a month now but this is my first meeting. I thought I could do it myself. And I think I've proved that I have been pretty successful at doing so. I didn't go to rehab, I just went cold turkey. But the last few weeks have been kind of rough and I've been tempted so I decided to join and come to meetings for extra help and support."

All a lie of course. But I had a newfound respect for Aunty Di's profession. I'd thought a drama major at university was a soft option.

The leader nodded sympathetically. "Drinking to escape is the most common reason alcoholics drink. It's all done so you can pull a shield over your emotions to protect you from further hurt. But when you don't acknowledge those feelings, don't allow yourself to feel- be it happiness, sadness or anger- you're not truly living. Life is full of ups and downs and that's what makes it life. Ultimately what sets us humans apart from the animals is feelings and rational thought." He said.

I nodded briefly and, thankfully, returned to my chair. I wasn't comfortable with the spotlight.

Besides me the young woman with the iPhone gave me a nod of acceptance.

I wasn't the only new member- although I was pretty sure by the state of the nervous young girl that she wasn't faking it- but I tuned out during the rest of the meeting. I was pretty sure I could get all of the same information from watching "Dr. Phil" or "Oprah" re-runs on cable.

I made a mental note to shoot off an email once I was back at my desk to a contact I had in the LAPD for some more information on Melinda's stalker. I'd checked, as was routine, whether or not Mike was the proud owner of a criminal record and had been rewarded by a nice jacket full of minor police matters, no felonies though. What was strange though was that a charge of indecent assault had been expunged literally days before he was due in court for the trial. Indecent assault is sort of like the baby brother to sexual assault or rape. By definition it involves no physical contact. But it's a stepping stone crime- normally the perpetrator would work their way up to a felony charge. Instead, going by Mike's jacket, the indecent assault had been the first crime he'd committed and since then his infarctions had been relatively minor. He hadn't even been slogged any jail time.

I didn't hang around after the meeting. Not even the probably stale biscuits and probably crap coffee could tempt me. There was nobody in this group who matched the photo I was carrying around in my canvas tote. Which meant I'd be back for another meeting in two days. Maybe I should watch "Girl Interrupted" or "28 days" on Netflix in the meantime.

Once outside I grabbed my cell from my bag, opened it up and speed dialed the office. "Belden-Wheeler Detective Agency." Sadie's perky voice said as she answered on the second ring.

"Slow enough day for you to sit around and stare at the phones?" I asked, by way of greeting.

"Actually we picked up a client today. He's just after a peep and shoot but money's money. How did AA go? Are you cured yet?" Sadie asked.

A peep and shoot meant the client suspected his partner was having an affair and he wanted us to either prove or disprove his theory. It was bread and butter P.I work but, as Sadie said, it paid the bills. I'd never been entirely comfortable with the ethics of tailing someone and photographing their more intimate moments so their spouse could screw them in the divorce proceedings. But I'd come to realise, pretty early on in the piece, I wasn't someone who could afford to have a strong moral compass right now. Once the business was up and running- I'm a glass half full kind of a girl- we'd be able to be more selective about the types of cases we took. Still I was glad Sadie had been the one in the office when the customer came in since she'd log a few hours of stakeout duty and, believe me, that's never as fun as the movies, books and television shows might make out.

"I think I might be incurable." I lamented.

"Did the target show?" Sadie asked. In the background I could hear her fingers clacking away on her laptop keyboard. As well as what sounded like Lady GaGa's "Pokerface."

"No." I said irritably. "And I had to get up and give show and tell in front of the class."

Sadie laughed. "Oh I'd have loved to have been there for that. What route did you go down? Poor little rich girl or hillbilly hick?"

"Neither. Orphan Annie." I replied.

"Oh nice. Stick with the classics." Sadie said.

"Is there any chance Melinda could have been mistaken about Mike's meeting locale?" I asked, casually as could be.

But I didn't fool Sadie. One of the downsides to working with your cousin and best-friend: they know you far too well. In some situations that's a bonus, particularly if your line of work can be a little dangerous at times. In others it sucks.

"I doubt it. Are you suggesting that she was deliberately mistaken or just made a mistake?" Sadie enquired. Her tone was pleasant enough to the unsuspecting, but if you listened carefully you'd hear the clipped inflections in her words, and the way she slipped into that WASP cool speech pattern.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean…" I trailed off.

"Hey, listen, I just wanted to let you know I ran into Aiden last night." Sadie said suddenly, changing the subject from work to pleasure. I imagined she'd been sitting thinking about how to casually drop this information into the conversation.

My stomach did a double back flip with pike when I thought about the sexy smile, laughing brown eyes and impossibly perfect thick black hair of Aiden Roberts- my ex boyfriend. (When I was ten I decided I wanted to be an Olympic diver. But considering I was already in double figures that was pretty much retirement age in the sport and elite divers began training almost before their training wheels came off their bikes.)

"Jazz?" Sadie asked and I realized I hadn't spoken. Nor had I moved. I'd come to a dead halt on the asphalt of the parking lot attached to the small church where the AA meeting had been held.

Aiden had also been my mentor during my FBI internship a few summers back. Despite bureau regulations expressly forbidding any fraternizing between fellow members we'd fallen in love. Or lust, depending who you spoke to. We'd been smart enough not to act on our mutual attraction until after the summer internship ended and I headed back to California to go to graduate school and, for almost two years, we'd had a long-distance thing going on. Aiden had been based at Quantico when I met him but he'd then got a field placing in Washington, then Miami, and last I heard, he was based in Chicago. I don't know whether it was the fact that we didn't see each other enough, or whether we just weren't really meant to be together, but our partnership fizzled out naturally enough. We were still close though- we spoke regularly and whenever we were in the other's neck of the woods we'd hook up. In the biblical sense. It was always a much needed boost in endorphins when Aiden and I got together.

I cleared my throat and convinced my feet to keep moving. "How was he?" I asked, proud of how casual I sounded. Although I was fooling nobody, lest of all my best friend.

"He seemed well." Sadie replied.

I pulled my keys from my bag, mentally thinking it was probably about time for a serious key-cull because I was pretty sure at least half of the keys dwarfing my silver "J" key ring were no longer necessary. "Good. That's…good."

"You didn't know he was going to be in L.A huh?" Sadie asked sympathetically.

I was glad this conversation was being conducted via the marvel of technology otherwise known as the cell phone. "No." I said. Because the fact was that not once had Aiden come out to L.A and not let me know he'd be in town and asked if we could catch up for a drink, dinner, a coffee, some friends with benefits action, et cetera. Now it appeared he had.

"Maybe he'll ring you. He's probably been meaning to or it's just a flying visit for work." Sadie said. Her tone suggested she didn't particularly believe it but she wanted to, if just for me.

"Maybe." I said. But I wasn't going to be holding my breath on that count. Mind you phones worked both ways- what was there to stop me ringing him? Oh. Just a stupid little thing called my pride.

Over the phone I heard the sound of someone enter our office- the little bell over the door drove me mad because I tended to leave the door open for some nice breezes to circulate in the small space. We couldn't afford to go running the air conditioning too much with so few paying clients. "Oh. Hey. Jazz, I got to run." Sadie said.

"Another paying client?" I asked hopefully. Imagine: two new clients in one day. Yep the Belden-Wheeler Detective Agency's LA office is really going places folks…

"Uh…no. I've just got to duck out and run a few errands before tonight's fun begins." Sadie replied evasively.

I opened my mouth to comment on the fact that I'd clearly heard the sound of someone entering our offices over the phone but decided against it. If Sadie wanted me to know who was at the door then I'd already know. If she told me she had to run errands rather than admitting there was someone there that was her business.

I've lost people I've cared about in the past because I can't simply leave well enough alone and accept what people are saying as gospel. Some would say I've got a suspicious nature. Others, being generous, would suggest my middle name should be "curious" rather than "Helen" and they've certainly got a point. I make it my business to know everything. What I do with that information, however, depends on the circumstances. I'm pretty sure someone once said knowledge is power…

So I said goodbye, closed my cell, and unlocked my car via the remote on the key. I slung my (too) heavy bag onto the front passenger seat and climbed into the car. I reached into my bag and pulled out a small spiral bound notebook and opened it up half a dozen pages in. "Case number 5 of 2010" was written at the top of the page. Now that's just depressing: I'd imagined that by now I'd have filled much more of the notebook with case information. The page is three-quarters full with my small, neat writing and I quickly added the date and the fact that the target had not attended AA that day. I wrote that I'd give it another few meetings but if Mike was still a no-show I might have to think about changing my strategy.

Each case requires a different game plan. And those plans are formulated on a set of variables- like what sort of case it is, what sort of person the target is, what the customer actually wants me to do and my own analysis of the situation. For Mike, your friendly neighbourhood stalker, the big question is he likely to be a physical threat to me or the client? Without having met him I can't state one way or the other definitively but Melinda certainly seems to think so and safety has to be paramount. As far as I am concerned you never know what somebody is capable of before they do it. A bit like the urban myth about how a woman can lift a car up to save the lives of her dying children. And it's also like when news breaks of a serial killer being arrested and the neighbours give sound bites to the journalists about how the killer seemed like such a normal guy, the last one to ever do something so horrific and depraved. Nobody ever says, "You know what, I'm not surprised Jim's the serial killer, he's always been a little weird and I bet you'll find the carcasses of every cat in the street in his backyard where he's tortured them to death to practice on humans." So I'm not going to underestimate the chances of Mike turning nasty.

Although Melinda also happens to be prone to bouts of exaggeration I seem to recall from our Berkley days. Whatever the case I've got to put my personal feelings towards Melinda aside and be totally professional while on the clock. And that means accepting what she's told me about Mike and running with it as though it were gospel- even though it's been proven that the average person lies ten times a day. Most of the time those lies fall into the loosely defined "white lies" category; that is they don't hurt anyone, but in my business I find I've got to take everyone's story with a grain of salt mixed with a healthy dosage of cynicism.

I closed the notebook and tossed it onto the passenger seat on top of my bag and pulled my sunglasses down off atop my hair. With every case I get I have to be very clear about the ultimate resolution: that is what the client wants out hiring me. For the balding, paunchy man who thinks his young trophy wife is having an affair the goal is the money shot that will let him out of the marriage with his dignity- and pre-nup- in tact.

For Melinda it's for Mike to get out of her life. Originally I thought the best route was to get Mike on tape admitting to stalking Melinda and, even better, making threats to her safety and that of her new man but, as you know, that didn't quite pan out. It's kind of a shame because then I could have handed the case over to the cops without losing a moment's sleep. Ironically for a control freak like me that would have been a first because for any other customer I would have pushed the cops to keep me in the loop and probably kept the investigation ongoing so I personally could deliver the resolution rather than palming it off to someone else who then got the glory. Because it's Melinda I'm ready to hand the case over to the authorities the first chance I get, thus absolving me of having to have regular contact with the woman I'd never much liked. At least I can admit it.

After Mike went all shy on us and chose not to enjoy a lovely, warm, sunny day in the park I had to go to plan B. All good plans in the detective business require a contingency plan and I'd be a pretty lousy PI if I didn't have one. I was planning on approaching Mike to see whether or not he'd be up for my playing my own personal version of "Deal or No Deal", but I wanted to be armed with as much information as I possibly could be before I did that. A bit of research and justifying the purchase of my whizz-bang digital camera by using up a fair chunk of the memory card that came with it and was all I could afford right now had shown me a couple of intriguing things. One- Mike really did like going to the park, but he was clearly much more interested in the ones with the children's play equipment. Two- that his apartment was less than 400 yards from a high school, though he'd neglected to let his parole officer know this little fact. Indeed he'd actually led his PO to believe that he'd moved back into his Mom's house once he'd gotten out of jail eight months back. And three- he worked a second job that the IRS didn't know about so not only was he earning undeclared money but he was also avoiding the higher tax level that came from a second income.

What do I intend to do with this information, I hear you ask? I was thinking of letting Mike know everything I knew about him and making it crystal clear that this thing with Melinda ended right that second. (Blackmail is such an ugly word, don't you think, I almost never use it.) But, given his extremely unhealthy obsession with Melinda I was worried that play might push him over the edge, maybe make him feel like he was forced to act. What I really needed was to know more about Mike, to literally get inside his head- or, at the very least, into his house.

Melinda had told me that Mike didn't have an alarm inside his apartment- or didn't the last time she had been there- and I knew his schedule well enough after having been tailing him on and off for the past few days to make a pretty good guess as to when he was out of his apartment and how long he'd be out for. But with his potential for violence the unknown variable I didn't want to risk his coming home early and catching me going through his things. Which is why I'd attended my first AA meeting that day: I was going to get Mike to let me into his apartment. And hopefully also his mind.

I turned the key in the ignition and put my Fiat into gear and pointed the convertible in the direction of Malibu, where I had a check to personally deliver to Jasper for services rendered. Specifically his being a bodyguard for me on the case I'd recently completed. You might think my big brother would offer to help me out of the kindness of his heart rather than from his hip pocket but you would be wrong. Not that I'm bitter about it. Well…not really. After all what was the alternative? Take my chances against a pissed off ex-husband who was suffering the undignified dumping by his famous writer wife for another woman? Had I received my permit to carry a concealed weapon by then I might have taken my chances but, as the permit had been tied up in bureaucratic red-tape, I'd gone for the next best thing: gym junkie brother. The case had gone well and I'd been paid and now all that remained was to share the love in form of a personal check.

Jasper had a grungy studio apartment in the Hollywood Hills where the exorbitant rent was justified purely on the strength of where the art-deco building was situated. When I'd commented on the fact that he could get a better place for a better rate if he lived a little further out of L.A he'd looked at me like I was an idiot he felt sorry for her and said, "The girls dig it and it's good for my business." (By which he meant his unpaid passion for the music industry.) Ah, L.A, it's such a superficial town. Yet I cannot imagine wanting to live anywhere else.

But Jasper hadn't been spending a whole lot of time in his rock star pad of late. Instead he pretty much lived at the beachside home amongst the beachside homes of the rich and the famous. That particular home, however, belonged to a reality-television turned "actress." Originally Jasper had been the minor celeb's personal trainer but, in what was fast becoming a trend for him, they'd hooked up and now he managed her fitness regime for free, all the while scoring freebies across town on the strength of her fame. Which was kind of lucky because she was in some serious training right now; she'd been cast as the daughter of Demi Moore and Daniel Craig in an upcoming action movie where she'd be playing a soldier who was wounded in Iraq and repatriated to the US with a whole raft of secrets. Secrets that endanger not just her own life but that of her family. (I know this because Jasper read the screenplay and described the basic premise to me when he told me how he'd had to change her workout routine so she was leaner and more muscular.)

The drive from the AA meeting to Malibu was lovely. I had the roof down, the music loud, and the wind in my hair. Which wasn't quite so lovely, because I'd only yesterday had a haircut, colour and blow dry and the wind would no doubt make my hair look more like I'd been picked up and dumped by a hurricane. I'm prone to frizz and I'm also prone to curls- neither of which I like. I can't even begin to estimate how much money I've spent over the years trying to tame- and ultimately change- my hair. But now worrying about what atrocities I committed in a past life to so offend God that he'd give the rest of my extended family manageable, even amazing, locks but curse me with a lifetime supply of bad hair days, wasn't worth the time. And I certainly didn't have the money to spend on trying to tame my hair any longer. Not with a fledgling business.

I can't remember a time in my life where I was ever going to be anything other than a private detective- except for the brief interlude when I was thirteen when I was going to be a nurse, that is. I'd flirted with the idea of becoming a criminologist once I'd gained my Masters but I figured I could use the skills learned from the post-grad degree to better effect as a PI. The only thing missing right now was a plethora of clients. Mind you I had a perfect strike rate: 4 cases for 4 results.

"The Belden-Wheeler Detective Agency's" New York office had one of the highest clearance rates of any PI business the length and breadth of America. Plus- and this is a big thing- Mom and Aunty Honey had been interviewed on Leno, "The View" and Oprah, as well as having had a chapter dedicated to them in a true-crime compilation about a notorious Cuban army man who had orchestrated a pretty major scheme between his home country and his adopted city of New York. That's a hell of a lot to live up to, right?

No matter how often I said that the detective business was in my blood I could never quite shake the feeling that I was never going to be able to match up to my Mom or aunt. Admittedly they'd set the bar pretty damn high but I like excuses even less than I like not knowing exactly what is going on. And I really don't like not knowing. Of course Mom never pushed me into the uncertain world of being a PI. Matter of fact she actively discoursed my following in her footsteps. She wanted me to be a lawyer or a doctor- basically a profession where it wasn't so dangerous and you didn't have to live hand-to-mouth while you stretched out each pay check like it could very well be your last. And while that had its appeal and nobody simply assumed that as Trixie Belden-Frayne's daughter I was always going to join the family business, I'd grown up listening over and over to stories of cases Mom and her friends had solved before they'd even graduated from high school. On one occasion my Grandmoms had looked at the light in my eye at the re-telling of how Mom and Aunty Honey had saved the life and liberty of the then-groom at the Wheeler mansion and shaken her head sadly. "We've lost that one." I'd heard her telling my Uncle Brian.

Encouraged by stories of Mom's mysteries I started my life of snooping pretty early on. At age five I sent away for a free spy camera from the side of a box of "Cheerios" and subsequently started "detecting" until I drove Mom and Dad insane. At age seven I handmade my own business cards and handed them out amongst all my classmates as well as the higher and lower grades and, for a premium price of only $5, solved any mysteries asked of me. Dad is fond of saying I was predestined to work for "The Belden-Wheeler Detective Agency" virtually from the moment I was conceived.

I made the turn onto the coast highway that took me towards Malibu. I still smiled when I remembered Mom's reaction to the proposal for opening a "Belden-Wheeler" agency in L.A. The look of pride and joy on her face was pretty similar to the expression I'd seen on Aunty Di's face when her name had been called and she'd walked up onto the stage, in front of her peers and a huge television audience, to collect her gold statuette of acknowledgment. Maybe even more pleased. But there had also been a look of worry lurking in the back of her eyes and the tight set to her lips. If she could have chosen for me then I knew this wasn't the life she'd have picked.

Regardless she'd worked hard to float us the initial outlay in registering the business and getting the basic tools of the PI trade and had gone guarantor on the bank loan that Sadie and I had, jointly, taken out. Mom and Dad had actually wanted to do more for our fledgling agency- like use the good name and reputation of the agency's original New York office as collateral against the new agency. In these economic times banks were a little reluctant to lend money unless they felt sure they weren't throwing their cash away. And it had been a hard sell to get them to agree but, eventually, they did and the LA office was born. Although at that point the office was really Sadie's apartment in Echo Park as we hadn't found the premises yet.

The moment we walked into the empty office suite at Venice Beach we'd known that this was where "The Belden-Wheeler Detective Agency" was going to take its next step. Rhys was something of a computer genius- he'd been drafted into NASA straight from MIT- and he'd designed an easy to use website for our agency that had thus far gotten us a few whacky enquires and two genuine clients. But, like I said, I'm a glass half full girl and I'm just waiting for the clients to come knocking down our door. If you build it they will come. Just ask Kevin Costner. The money we saved on paying for a fancy website had been put to better use in buying both Sadie and I a top of the line laptop, which we could write off as a business expense. And again Rhys had worked his connections and gotten us a deal that was practically criminal on our new computers. I'd almost felt guilty accepting it. Almost. We were also the proud owner of some nifty little gadgets like listening devices, cell phone tracers and cameras that were smaller than my little fingernail.

We'd held an opening night party for the new division of the business. Sadie had always been into baking and she'd made little cupcakes in the shapes of cameras, magnifying glasses and GPS units. Most of our family as well as our closest friends had come along and we'd stood there in the cramped space drinking way too much and lauding our new business and what great successes we were going to be. But, as of yet, I'm still waiting for if not success at least successive clients who will ensure that I can pay my rent and bills as well as make a go out of the business. I really hope I don't have to slink back to New York City with my tail between my legs and go to work in Mom and Aunty Honey's office. I know that doesn't sound too bad considering I hold Mom in such high regard but it's a pride thing: I want to prove that Jasmine Frayne-Belden is the equal of Trixie Belden-Frayne when it comes to being a PI. Ego is a powerful thing.

Over the sound of the wind and the ocean I heard my cell phone ringing and the song it plays Pink's "Stupid Girl" tells me exactly who is on the other end- my current client, Melinda. I know, I know, it's such a petty move and I should be ashamed of myself, et cetera, et cetera. And I am. Kind of. I guess it's just my own personal "f you" to the kind of mean girl, soriety snob that Melinda typifies for me.

I pulled the car over at a lookout and quickly grabbed my phone, flipped it open and said "hello" just as Melinda was about to give up and leave a voicemail message.

"Jasmine? Can you meet me at Cedars? Mike's beaten up my boyfriend. And it's pretty bad." Melinda said, her voice scratchy from crying or yelling, or most likely both.

I felt my heart skip a beat. So the answer to the "is Mike violent" question is a firm hell yeah. And, while I was giving the performance of my life and listening to sob stories at his AA meeting, Mike was off beating up the competition. "Have you called the cops?"

"The paramedics did but they can't talk to him until he's stabilized. He arrested on the way to the hospital but they brought him back. They've taken him down to radiology but they're pretty sure there's some internal bleeding as well as a fracture to his femur. He's such a sporty guy though, Jasmine, and I'm worried it might all get to be too much for him." Melinda told me.

"I'd think you'd be better off worrying about yourself and your own safety now, Melinda." I said, again before thinking. What can I say; it's a Belden family trait, to put your foot firmly in your mouth.

"Oh God. You don't think he could get to me here, do you?" Melinda asked, a tone of hysteria colouring her voice. Cleary this possibility hadn't occurred to her until I had to blurt it out. I suddenly realize it's not inconceivable that Melinda dislikes me as much- or maybe even more- than I her. And that's not a happy thought. I've always wanted to believe that what I do in investigating every little thing and making it my business to know everything about everyone is because of my nature as well as growing up as the daughter of a PI and thus is acceptable. But maybe that's just me rationalizing my behavior.

"I'd say you're pretty safe in a hospital. You've got security and doctors and nurses running around, and almost every corner of that building is covered by CCTV." I pointed out logically. "And, are the cops there now?"

"They were. I'm not sure where they are right now though. I'm waiting in a stuffy little room with an empty fish tank and completely outdated gossip mags. The surgeon will come in and speak to me once the operations over and then I can go into ICU and sit with him." Melinda said.

"See? Perfectly safe." I said, trying for confidently cheery but probably hitting the too-chirpy for the situation mark.

Melinda's silence confirms that.

"Sit tight Melinda and I'll be there as soon as humanely possible." I said. Jasper's check will just have to wait for another day. Or I could always put in the mail. US Mail is no doubt far more reliable than I am.

Melinda agreed and ended the call. I put my cell into my bag and pulled out back onto the highway in a hasty u-turn to head back towards downtown L.A. Here's an example of making it my business to know everything about everyone: When Melinda came in with her tale and asked for my help I'd accepted immediately- there's the money issue, remember- but I'd done some digging after she left. I'd always tell a potential client that I need full disclosure. If they keep some things back from me I can't do my job properly. Even if they think it's got absolutely nothing to do with the case I'm being hired to do. And I found out something interesting about Melinda's first marriage. Her husband had been older than her. Not just a couple of years older but old enough to be her father, maybe even her grandfather kind of old. He'd also had the honor of receiving an Academy Award nomination for best director before Melinda- or I- was even born. And his death had been initially considered suspicious by the pronouncing ME. Because while he had end-stage lung cancer from a lifetime of smoking his oncologist thought he'd probably hang on for another few months. The investigation found there were too-high levels of pain relieving drugs in his system but because it couldn't be proven how they'd gotten there the case had been dropped. But a phone call to the investigating cop had revealed that he'd been pretty sure Melinda had had a hand in it. Although, he'd stressed, it was impossible to say whether she'd given him extra drugs because his current level wasn't controlling the pain adequately or whether she'd deliberately given him a fatal dosage. Considering that a patient builds up a tolerance to the pain relieving drugs over time and therefore needs a higher dosage every time there was no way of pointing the finger at foul play. And there would always have been reasonable doubt over whether Melinda had given her husband the drugs or whether her husband had taken them without her knowledge, let alone approval.

At Cedars I had to search for a park for awhile but eventually found one in a prime spot when a BMW pulled out in front of me. I put the top up on my convertible, locked it, and took my bag and hurried into the hospital. The receptionist wouldn't point me in the right direction and while I was tempted to argue it I knew it was one fight I wasn't going to win so instead I thanked her sarcastically, stepped away from the window and rang Melinda's cell to get directions to where she was waiting it. Eventually I found her in the labyrinth of the large hospital. She looked, to be polite, like crap. Which was understandable given her boyfriend had been hurt pretty badly by her stalker. But, I was relieved to know, her boyfriend had come through the operation and was currently being settled into the ICU where she was about to go and sit by his bedside.

I tagged along so we could talk about what had happened and what our next move was. This was enough for her to go to the cops to get a restraining order for herself but also for her boyfriend, and I was pretty sure Mike would be charged with assault and thus be off the streets for awhile.

And it was when we got to the ICU unit that I had my biggest shock since the fact that Melinda had been sufficiently troubled and scared to actually walk into my office and ask for my help. Because when the heavyset nurse manning the ICU's reception desk asked for the patient's name Melinda answered "Troy Rogers."

Yep, the very same Troy Rogers who had been UC Berkley's next big basketball thing and who had been dating me when Melinda violated the women's ethic and went after a man who wasn't single. It hadn't occurred to me that Melinda hadn't volunteered the name of her boyfriend and so of course I had to wonder whether that was because of the history I'd shared with Troy. But then maybe that was gifting Melinda with a cruel sense of cunning she didn't rightly deserve. And maybe it was nothing more than a slip of the tongue. But then I've admitted I'm pretty cynical right? And I don't believe in coincidences. Which meant, essentially, something more was going on with Melinda's case than it had first appeared. Maybe this was more than your run-of-the-mill stalking case too.