Two-thousand, five-hundred, and fifty-two days since Orange County Sheriff Detective, Frank Pounds, had been medically retired in an orange ball of flame. The coyote made sure he was awake, and then left. His old training officer's son drags him from letharge. He's not excited and he's going to do it his way.
Dressed in a ratty t-shirt, board-shorts, rainbow painted huaraches exposing his pink toenails, and a snarling attitude, Frank looks at the body. It's all there is to see. There is no head.
A decapitated body is not what the rich on Newport peninsula pay high taxes to see in the early morning.
Looking up the beach to the pier lined with cameras with long lenses, his attitude boils into the territory of invaded privacy. With or without the consulting money, Frank is in.
