Circles Collide

Chapter 14: Urban Legend

Los Angeles, California

December 20, 1996

It was just after ten o’clock on Friday morning and Jake had just touched down at Whiteman Airport after flying Elsa and her baggage to LA so she could start her two-week Christmas vacation. Her agreed upon time off period did not actually begin until Friday evening, but Jake had cut her loose the night before so he could fly her here now, when he was coming to LA anyway, instead of making another flight on Saturday morning. He tied down the plane on the ramp and then went to the hangar to get his truck. After driving it back to the plane, he loaded Elsa into the front with him and then put her bags in the bed of the vehicle since there was no rain imminent.

“I really do like your new airplane, Jake,” she said. “It is much more comfortable. It even bounces around less.”

“And it has a bathroom,” Jake added.

“That is an advantage for Laura on those long flights,” she said.

“She gets kind of a thrill out of peeing in her own private bathroom while in flight,” Jake said.

Elsa nodded in understanding. “I do appreciate Laura’s ability to find happiness wherever it may be found,” she said.

“She is pretty good at that,” Jake agreed as he pulled out of the airport and onto the main road. He began heading for the Granada Hills house, where Elsa would be staying for her time off. He looked over at her, a little hesitant to bring up the subject he needed to bring up. He had meant to talk to her about the issue in flight but had put it off. He was not sure why he was nervous to talk to her about it, but the feeling could not be denied.

“Is there something on your mind, Jake?” she asked him.

“Why do you say that?” he enquired.

“Because I know you. You are not usually quiet and withdrawn. You seem like you have something of importance you wish to discuss.”

“Uh ... well...” he said, amazed, as always, by how well she could read him, “as a matter of fact, there is something.”

“What is it?” she asked.

“Laura and I have made a decision on something,” he said. “Something pretty big. I wanted to discuss it with you and give you forewarning.”

She looked at him carefully with her brown eyes. “Forewarning about what?”

“We want to have a baby,” he told her.

Elsa blinked. “A baby? That is what you wanted to tell me?”

“That’s right,” he said. “We talked it over quite a bit on the flight back from Pocatello and decided we were ready for this. You’re the first person other than her doctor and the pharmacist at the Alpha Beta that we’ve told. She’s put a hold on her birth control pills and we’re going to let nature take its course. The doc says it may take a month or two for her hormones to return to normal, but there is no reason we know of why she shouldn’t be pregnant early next year.”

“You were hesitant to tell me that?” she asked.

“Uh ... well ... yes, actually.”

“What in the world for?” she asked. “I think this is wonderful news.”

“You do?”

“Of course I do,” she said. “You and Laura will make phenomenal parents. Perhaps unconventional, but phenomenal all the same. Why would you think I would consider this anything but good news?”

“Well ... when we have a baby, that is going to increase your workload to some degree. I mean, we’ll hire a nanny to take care of the baby those times we can’t be at home, but there’s going to be dirty diapers in the trash, baby clothes to wash, breast milk in the refrigerator, crying in the night, a little toddler running around destroying things and making messes eventually.”

“All things I will gladly embrace for the joy of having a child in the household,” she said. “I am very excited about this Jake, and I support your decision wholeheartedly.”

“Thank you, Elsa,” he said, pleased by her enthusiasm. A part of him had been afraid she would just quit once the baby was born.

“Of course, you will increase my rate of compensation when the blessed event happens,” she added, in all seriousness.

Jake chuckled. “Of course,” he promised.

His cell phone began to ring in his back pocket. This was a bit unusual. Though he carried the phone so he could be in communication if necessary, it was not usually necessary. Everyone he had given his cell number to knew that Jake was not a fan of talking on the thing, particularly not incoming calls. He pulled it out of his pocket and looked at the small screen. It was the number for Pauline’s office in KVA’s studio. He pulled the antenna out and flipped open the phone (noting a disapproving look from Elsa, who was strongly of the opinion that there should be a law against talking on a phone and driving—like that would ever happen, Jake mentally scoffed).

“This is Jake,” he said into the phone.

“It’s me,” said Pauline’s voice. “I tried to get you at home but just got the answering machine. Same deal at Granada Hills. Are you coming into the studio today?”

“I am,” he said. “I want to work a little more on culling down the tracks we’re doing for V-tach. The boys are there, right?”

“Yep,” she said. “They’ve been here since nine and they’re grinding away in the studio. Where are you?”

“Just left Whiteman. I brought Elsa with me so she can start her vay-cay. I’m gonna drop her off at Granada and then head on in. What’s up?”

“I got an email here that you’re going to want to take a look at,” she said. “It was forwarded to my address by an entertainment reporter and then she followed up with a phone call asking for commentary on it. Since then, five other reporters have forwarded it to me as well and they are all asking for the same.”

“What’s the email about?” Jake asked.

“It appears to be a complete and total fabrication that any idiot would disregard, but it seems that most of the idiots are not disregarding it.”

“What is it?” Jake asked.

“I think you should see in person,” Pauline said. “It is very inflammatory if people are actually believing what is written here.”

“Can you give me the abbreviated version at least?” he asked.

“You and Teach are being accused of kidnapping an underage transgender person from Venezuela and using her as both slave labor and a sexual toy.”

“What?” Jake said, incredulous. “Are you serious?”

“I am completely serious,” she said. “And there is a picture attached that purports to be of you, Teach, and the transgender person in question.”

“A picture? Of Laura and I and a tranny? What the fuck? We haven’t taken any pictures like that.”

“As I said,” she said, “I would like you to review the email in person and tell me what this picture actually is. How long until you’re here?”

“About twenty minutes,” he said. “I’ll drop Elsa off and head right over.”

He actually made it in only seventeen minutes, as his foot had been heavy on the pedal between Granada Hills and the studio in his eagerness to see what the hell this was all about. He parked next to Ben’s car and went inside, not even saying hello to the receptionist at her desk. He went down the hall and through the open door of Pauline’s office. She was sitting behind her desk, looking at her computer screen when he came in.

“Come sit over here, next to me,” she told him.

He slid the desk chair around to her side and sat down. She turned the screen toward him and he saw a color photo was displayed. He recognized it immediately. It was the shot of he and Laura with that ramper that worked at the Pocatello airport, the photographer guy. What had been his name? Jake could not remember that.

“That’s a ramper that works at Pocatello Airport,” he told his sister/manager. “He took a bunch of shots of the plane and a few of me and one of the other rampers who was an Intemp fan. But somebody has doctored this photo.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“The guy was wearing a sweater with the name of the FBO on it,” he said. “And the sweater was not pink.”

“Interesting,” she said. “And you’re sure it was a guy?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Jake said. “He was a bit effeminate in appearance, but definitely male. He wasn’t even really setting off the old gaydar.” And as a celebrity who had lived in Los Angeles for more than ten years and who interacted with actors, producers, and upper-echelon record executives, Jake’s gaydar was quite sensitive and accurate.

“A ramp worker, huh?” Pauline said. “I figured it was something like that.” She clicked her mouse and the picture disappeared. She clicked again and the body of the email came up on the screen. “Here. Read what is being circulated about this picture.”

Jake peered at the screen and began to read.

JAKE KINGSLEY AND HIS WIFE ARE KEEPING AN UNDERAGE VENEZUELAN SEX SLAVE!!

My brother-in-law, Jose, is a ramp worker who works for the FBO at Sandpoint airport in northern Idaho. His family is originally from Mexico and, though Jose is an American citizen, he speaks fluent Spanish. Recently, singer Jake Kingsley and his wife Laura flew in to the Sandpoint airport in their multi-million-dollar airplane for a week of skiing at the world-famous Schweitzer ski resort. Jose, who had been assigned to take care of the Kingsleys’ plane, saw they were traveling with a young Hispanic woman who seemed to be frightened and intimidated by the couple, and for good reason. They spoke to her harshly, making her carry their bags for them, and barking at her frequently in rudimentary Spanish.

While the Kingsleys were arranging for their transportation needs to Schweitzer, Jose approached the young woman and spoke to her just so he could be sure she was all right. It turns out that she is very far from all right. In the first place, the young woman, who says her name is Maria, is not actually a woman at all, but a transgender male who has the original name of Martin. Maria became acquainted with the Kingsleys during a recent visit the couple made to Barquisimeto, Venezuela, with singer Celia Valdez. Maria is only seventeen years old and was basically sold to the Kingsleys by her family, who do not support her life choice to identify as a female. Maria says the Kingsleys paid ten thousand American dollars for her and she has been living and traveling with them as a virtual slave ever since. In addition to being forced to be a live-in maid, Maria says that both of the Kingsleys regularly sexually abuse her, sometimes individually, sometimes at the same time. She cannot escape from their control as she does not speak English, has no friends or family in the United States, and has no access to money as she is not paid for the work she does.

Shocked by this story, Jose called the Idaho State Police and they sent a trooper to interview Maria. Maria, however, refused to talk to the officer and, when he tried to at least identify her and determine her age and if she was in the country legally, the Kingsleys quickly lawyered up and snuffed the attempt.

While all of this was going on, Jose did manage to get a picture of the Kingsleys and Maria standing next to the plane. This is the shot he took. Please circulate this email and the attached photograph far and wide so that, hopefully, someone will come forward to identify Maria and help extricate her from the hell she is in.

“What the fuck?” Jake asked when he finished. “Who the hell wrote this?”

“There is no name on the email,” Pauline said. “The original came from a Hotmail account with the address “none of your business”, spelled B-I-Z on business. Since then, it has been forwarded nearly a hundred thousand times and has been appearing in inboxes everywhere in the world where email currently exists. It is also appearing on thousands of bulletin boards and hundreds of websites that deal with celebrity stalking.”

“And people are actually taking this seriously?” Jake asked.

“Not everyone,” she said, “but a lot are. Remember the rule we humans like to live by: if it’s written down, in must be true.”

“But this is the most ridiculous story I’ve ever heard,” Jake said. “The alleged tranny tells his entire story to a ramper but not to the cops when they show up? And Laura and I hang around long enough for the cops to show up in the first place while we’re keeping a foreign citizen captive? And then we pose and smile for the camera with our alleged underage tranny sex slave standing between us while we’re waiting for our lawyers to spring us?”

“Or,” Pauline added, “that the cops would actually listen to your lawyer if they thought you were really keeping a seventeen-year-old Venezuelan captive? Yeah, anyone who believes in this crap is a moron, but there are a lot of morons in the world.”

“That is true,” Jake agreed. “What did you tell the reporters who called?”

“Just what I knew at the time. Number one, you are most definitely not keeping anyone captive, for housekeeping or sex slave or any other purpose. Two, you already have a housekeeper who has been in your employ ten years now and she is well-compensated for her position, not from Venezuela, not a teenager, and is there quite voluntarily. Three, please make note that there is no name on the email, it comes from an anonymous address, none of the people mentioned in the email have last names except you and Laura, and it would not be the Idaho State Police who would have investigated such a thing, but the Sandpoint Police Department and/or the Bonner County Sheriff’s department.”

“Very good points,” Jake said. “What did they have to say?”

“They said they will be looking into the details of the accusation and will call back for further clarification. They all asked for a quote from you.”

“I should give them one, right?” Jake asked.

“Yes, most definitely,” Pauline said. “I plan to thoroughly debunk this story by using as many facts as I can dig up. I’ve already called the FBO services at Sandpoint Airport and they have assured me they have no employee by the name of Jose, now or ever. I have called the Idaho State Police, the Sandpoint PD, and the Bonner County Sheriff’s department and they have all verified that they have not taken a report of any kind that involves you or Laura or a possibly abducted Venezuelan citizen. These are all verified facts. Now that you have told me the source of the photograph, I will call the Pocatello Airport’s FBO and try to get in contact with the man in the photo. It would be helpful if you could remember his name.”

Jake searched his memory banks but just could not come up with the ramper’s name. Though he remembered every other detail about the guy, that critical piece of information eluded him. This was undoubtedly due to the way his brain was wired regarding casual acquaintances like rampers, autograph seekers, wait staff, and groupies. There was simply no need to move such people’s names into long term memory. “I’m sorry,” he told his sister. “I just can’t remember it. Maybe Laura can.”

“That’s a thought,” Pauline said. “She stayed home today?”

“She was still asleep when Elsa and I left,” Jake confirmed. “She’s probably up now. I’ll give her a call. She needs to know that this shit is going down anyway.”

“Do you want me to forward a copy of the email to her?” Pauline asked.

“Yeah, good idea,” Jake said.

He turned the phone toward him and then dialed the main number for the Oceano house. Laura picked up on the third ring.

“Hey, babe,” he told her. “We got some shit going down that you need to know about.”

A sigh. “What now?” she asked.

He told her the tale. She expressed disbelief that anyone was dumb enough to actually believe such a ridiculous accusation but otherwise did not seem to be all that upset. She was more interested in how his conversation with Elsa had gone.

“She is thrilled for us,” Jake told her.

“That’s wonderful!” Laura said happily.

“It is, isn’t it?” he said. “Anyway, I was hoping you might remember the name of that ramper. Pauline needs to get hold of him and find out how his picture got into circulation.”

“You don’t think that he is the one that started this, do you?” she asked. “He seemed so ... you know ... nice.”

“We don’t know,” Jake said. “It doesn’t seem logical that he would make himself out to be a young tranny from Venezuela, but maybe he can shed some light on how the picture got out into the world. Paulie can probably find him without his name—after all, it’s not a very big FBO they have in Pocatello—but if you can remember...”

“I remember,” she said. “His name was Ron. The other ramper was named Dallas.”

As soon as she said the names, Jake remembered and knew she was correct. Apparently, they were stored somewhere deep inside but were just not easy to access. “That’s right,” he said. “Thanks, hon. Paulie is sending a copy of the email to your inbox so you can take a look at it.”

“It’s already there,” Pauline said from her keyboard.

“I’ll look at it right now,” she said.

“And I’ll keep you informed on developments as they warrant,” he promised.

“Right,” she said.

They said their I-love-you’s and broke the connection. Jake told Pauline the name of the ramper and his companion.

“All right,” she said. “I’ll start working on this right now.”

“Sounds good,” Jake said with a sigh. “And I suppose I should go get some actual work done.”

She nodded. “I’ll keep you updated,” she promised.

Jake walked to the studio and let himself inside. For the next two hours he immersed himself in the making and criticism of V-tach’s music. Thoughts of the ridiculous email were driven far to the back of his mind. After all, it was a perfectly ludicrous story that they were able to factually refute. He was sure that nothing would ultimately come of it.

As it turned out, he was only half right.

Darlene Sams, the manager of the Oceano Alpha Beta grocery store, did not particularly care for Jake Kingsley, his wife, or their uppity maid. The maid in particular—her name was Elsa, and she was hands-down the blackest woman Darlene had ever met—rubbed her entirely the wrong way. Their initial encounter with each other on the day the trio had moved into their Oceano home and Darlene had tried to refuse a check from Elsa (and who wouldn’t automatically mistrust a check from a black-ass nigger with a Los Angeles address, she often pondered) had only set the tone for her dislike. Since then, it had grown. Elsa was in the store several times a week buying three and four hundred dollars worth of groceries at a time (a good portion of it top-shelf liquor and wines—it was quite clear that the Kingsleys were alcoholics) just as Elsa had suggested she would. Darlene was always careful to be polite to Elsa, even syrupy sweet on occasion, but she secretly thought the woman arrogant and hoity-toity, which infuriated her because she sincerely believed that an actual African nigger who worked as a mere maid had absolutely no place feeling superior in any way to a hard-working white woman such as herself. The fact that Elsa was more educated than Darlene, made considerably more money, lived in nicer accommodations, drove a better car, and worked considerably harder and more numerous hours every week, did not even enter her equation unless she was looking for sources of validation of her opinion.

As for Kingsley and his wife, they were occasional visitors to the store as well, one or the other of them coming in once every few weeks or so when they were in town. Mrs. Kingsley came in regularly to pick up her birth control prescription from the pharmacy (and Darlene had heard some juicy gossip about that just the day before) and to occasionally do some light shopping. Jake Kingsley came in a bit more frequently, usually by himself, usually to buy the makings for a single meal. These visits were usually on the weekends. He had told several of the checkers while making small talk with them that Elsa the maid had weekends off and that he, Kingsley, did the cooking on those days if he was home.

The Kingsleys were naturally the subject of much town gossip since they had moved to that house up on the cliff a year and a half before. Oceano was a small town with a smalltown mentality and an instinctive mistrust of rich interlopers, even if they were not dope-using musicians who were said to be into Satanism and homosexuality. And the fact that they kept mostly to themselves, paid their bills on time, donated very generously to the local high school’s music program, and bought nearly all of their household supplies or services locally, only seemed to deepen those dark suspicions about them; making it seem as if they were putting up a front.

Everyone wondered just what sort of things the Kingsleys were doing up in that mansion on the cliff (it was assumed that they had to be doing all kinds of illegal and perverted things). Particularly valuable sources of Kingsley gossip were those few who, through the nature of their jobs, had actually been inside the Kingsley compound. Jack, the driver for Suburban Propane services, made regular visits there to refill the two tanks on the property. Ralph, the guy who worked for the private waste management company that contracted with San Luis Obispo County, was up there every Thursday morning to empty the garbage cans. Both of them reported that they had been given gate codes that were unique to them and were only valid on the days they were to be there. They also had to look into the security camera every time they used them. They rarely saw anyone at all on their visits, but Jack claimed he had once seen Mrs. Kingsley washing her car in a pair of shorts and a tank top. Ryan, the satellite service technician, had been inside the house on two occasions, as had Frank of the local plumbing service. They reported that the Kingsleys had not even been home when they’d been there, that they had just dealt with Elsa, the maid, who was polite to them, thankful for their help, but otherwise aloof. Several local contractors who had performed other services for the Kingsleys reported much the same thing. Usually, Jake and his wife were not even home when they were there to install a new sound system or a new set of bathroom cabinets or to fix the pump on the hot tub.

The comings and the goings of the Kingsleys were pretty much known by the town as well. Whenever Jake left San Luis Obispo airport when the wind was blowing from the southwest—as it did most of the time during the daylight hours—that noisy, expensive plane would fly right over the town before going out over the ocean and banking south. And when it returned at the end of the day, when the wind was generally offshore, it would fly over the town once again to land in the opposite direction. Many complaints had been filed with the FAA in Los Angeles regarding that airplane noise and the matter had been investigated, but the ruling had been that, while annoying perhaps, the Kingsleys’ plane was not loud enough and did not persist long enough to be considered a nuisance. The general consensus in the town was that Kingsley had used his status as a celebrity to sway the investigator into finding in his favor. It was even suggested that money had changed hands. The idea that Jake’s plane was not really louder than any other aircraft coming out of or into SLO airport—the Avanti’s impressive rate of climb meant that it was usually higher than three thousand feet by the time it passed over Oceano—but just had a distinct and admittedly annoying timbre to it, and that they had come to associate this distinct sound with someone they did not particularly care for, was never even considered.

Darlene was working one of the check stands on this Friday afternoon as she was short-staffed because that Mexican bitch Maria was knocked up (again!) and had a doctor’s appointment. She had assigned herself to the express lane, naturally, so she would not have to check huge carts full of groceries one after the other and even got some downtime on occasion. She caught a glimpse of copper coloring out of the corner of her eye and turned to see that Laura Kingsley had just entered the store. Mrs. Kingsley looked very cute today—as she did pretty much every day. She had on a pair of jeans and a green Christmas sweater. Her hair was done in matching pigtails and her cheeks were red from the brisk December air outside. Darlene felt her resentment and dislike well up just at the sight of her.

Laura grabbed one of the carts and worked her way deeper into the store, disappearing from Darlene’s view. She caught a few glimpses of her every now and then, moving her cart from place to place, putting things into it on occasion. She seemed to be spending the most time at the meat counter, in the bread aisle, and in the produce section. She also made a stop at the pharmacy, having a conversation with Rick, the pharmacist, a man Darlene also did not care for because he refused to share any gossip about what he dispensed to various town people, including the Kingsleys. Of course, Diane, the pharmacist’s assistant, was not so discrete, so Darlene and most of the other store employees—and subsequently, most of the town—had already heard that Laura Kingsley had put a hold on her birth control pills yesterday.

Laura appeared out of the freezer aisle and spent a moment looking at the lines at the check stands, evaluating which one to go to. It did not take her long to come to a decision. Aisles 4 and 6 were both open and had shoppers with full carts waiting. There was no one in the express lane currently. She headed directly to Darlene and wheeled her cart up to the front. Darlene took a quick look at her groceries, intending to tell the uppity bitch that she could not use this line if she had more than fifteen items, but, alas, Mrs. Kingsley did not.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Kingsley,” she said politely, fighting to keep a pleasant expression on her face. “Did you find everything you need today?”

“Yes, I did, thanks,” the redhead answered, giving a brief smile.

Darlene began to ring up her items. A pound and a half of 85 percent lean ground beef, a half-pound of fresh sliced cheddar cheese, a bunch of romaine lettuce, two hothouse tomatoes, a red onion, a garlic bulb, a bag of frozen tater tots, a bag of hamburger buns with sesame seeds on them. “Making hamburgers tonight?” she asked, knowing she was stating the blindingly obvious but corporate insisted they make small talk with the customers and she, as manager, rigidly enforced this.

“That’s right,” Mrs. Kingsley said, politely not making any allusion that Darlene was pointing out the blindingly obvious. “Elsa is on Christmas vacation, so Jake is making dinner tonight when he gets home. He wanted to make something simple.”

“That sounds like fun,” she said, responding automatically as she continued to work. There were three more items to scan. Two were bottles of expensive chardonnay—the most expensive wine that Alpha Beta sold at this location. The other was a bottle of pills. She scanned the wine first, suppressing the urge to shake her head as she saw the prices pop up. One bottle ran $67, the other $54. The wine alone was three times the cost of all the rest of the groceries combined. And then she picked up the pill bottle. Before scanning it, she took a quick glance at the label to see just what Laura Kingsley was buying. They were prenatal vitamins. Very interesting. That certainly confirmed the gossip that Diane had shared about the hold on the birth control pills. Laura Kingsley had to be pregnant. Whether or not Jake Kingsley was the father was the only question remaining (Darlene was already leaning in the direction of that nigger rapper that was known to frequently visit the Kingsleys as her lead suspect in the case). And here she was buying a hundred dollars worth of wine to wash down her prenatal vitamins. Her low opinion of Laura Kingsley dropped even lower.

But she said nothing. She simply rang her up and named the price for the items. Mrs. Kingsley paid for it by using her ATM card in the card reader which corporate had finally purchased for them six months before (though Elsa the maid still insisted on writing checks when she was the one purchasing groceries). The transaction was approved—it always was when members of the Kingsley household were the ones making it—and off the redhead bitch went, heading back to the parking lot and her little Volkswagen convertible so she could drive home to her mansion on the cliff, do drugs, drink wine, and poison the demon-spawn she was now growing in her belly.

No sooner had Mrs. Kingsley left the store than Darlene’s three o’clock person checked in for duty. It was Karen Michaels, one of two assistant managers and Darlene’s closest crony. They had gone to high school together and had worked together at the Alpha Beta for the past fifteen years. It was they who ruled the Oceano Alpha Beta the same way the popular clique in high school (of which Darlene and Karen most certainly had not been members of) had ruled the minions beneath them. Karen would be in charge of the store until closing time once Darlene left at 5:00 o’clock.

“Why don’t you take over for me here?” Darlene told her. “I’ve got some admin stuff I need to do before I go home.”

“Sounds good,” Karen said, amicably enough. She nodded in the direction of the door. “I saw Laura Kingsley heading out as I came in. She buying up a bunch of booze again?”

“A hundred dollars worth of wine,” Darlene said. “They are such alcoholics, aren’t they?”

“Completely,” said Karen, who drank far more wine per week than Laura Kingsley could ever hope to, though she made a point to buy most of hers in San Luis Obispo or Pasa Robles. “And I just learned something really shocking about the Kingsleys today.”

“Oh yeah?” asked Darlene. “Do tell.”

She was about to do just that, but a customer chose that moment to enter the express checkout. It was an older lady named Margaret who had at least twenty-five items in her cart, but who also spent most of her grocery budget in the Alpha Beta so they were not going to call her on it.

“We’ll talk about it later,” Karen whispered. “It’s really juicy. Check your email. I sent you a copy of the story.”

“Okay,” Darlene said, immediately intrigued.

She went to her office inside the customer service area where the cigarettes were sold and the film developing was done. She sat down at her desk and logged into her computer. She went immediately to the Alpha Beta email server and opened her inbox. She saw the email immediately and her eyes widened as she saw the subject line: JAKE KINGSLEY AND HIS WIFE ARE KEEPING AN UNDERAGE VENEZUELAN SEX SLAVE!!

“Hmm,” she said. “Very interesting.”

She opened the email and saw the picture. She then began to read.

Jake flew over the town of Oceano at 5:38 PM that evening, his altitude 2800 feet, his engines at only forty percent thrust as he made the turn for final approach and an ILS landing at SLO Regional. As was usual, a good many members of the town heard the distinctive high-pitched whine of his aircraft as he passed over and noted, many with annoyance, that the Satan worshipping death metal artist (whose wife was now pregnant with a demon spawn) was back in town for the night. He touched down at 5:43 PM and was in his BMW heading for home by 5:55. He drove through the gate at 6:12 PM and was in the house by 6:15 PM.

“Hey, sweetie,” Laura greeted when he walked through the door. She got up to give him a kiss.

“Hey, babe,” he said, accepting the kiss, which tasted of chardonnay.

“I cut up all the vegetables for you and the oven is preheated for the tots. All you need to do is cook the burgers.”

“Sounds good,” he told her. “Let me go drain the dragon and wash up and I’ll get to work.”

“You do that,” she said. “I’ll go pop the tots in the oven.”

Jake went to the nearest restroom—the guest bathroom in the hallway between the kitchen and the entertainment room—and took care of his business. He then walked back into the entertainment room and grabbed one of his bottles of Lighthouse Ale from the refrigerator in the bar. He opened it, poured it into a glass, and then made his way back to the kitchen. Laura was sitting in one of the breakfast nook chairs that she had pulled over near the large kitchen island.

“Did you remember to pick up those prenatal vitamins today?” he asked her. Dr. Vargo, her gynecologist, had advised her to start taking them as soon as she stopped her birth control pills so that when she did eventually conceive she would have an ample supply of folic acid in her body to stave off neural tube defects such as spina bifida in the future Kingsley child. But Laura, who could be just a little scatterbrained on occasion, had forgotten to pick them up when she’d gone to the pharmacy to put the hold on her pills—even though that had specifically been her mission for the trip.

“Yes,” she said giving him a little eye roll. She did not like being reminded of her scatterbrain episodes. “I remembered.”

“Good girl,” he said. “Maybe I’ll give you a little treat after dinner.”

“You were going to do that anyway,” she said.

“Don’t ruin the moment,” he told her, opening the refrigerator and pulling out the package of ground beef. He set it down on the counter and then pulled out a cutting board. The garlic Laura had bought was sitting on the island. He extricated three cloves from it and set them aside. He then got out a small bowl and a stick of butter. He put half the stick in the bowl and then popped it in the microwave, setting the timer for fifteen seconds—just enough to soften it.

“What’s the news on the transgender situation?” Laura asked.

“It is officially nipped in the bud,” he told her.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Pauline got hold of Ron the ramper. He told her that he posted the original picture of him with us along with all the other pictures of our plane in some photography group he is a part of with an explanation of what the shots were all about. There are over two hundred people in this group and some or all of them must have forwarded the email to others who then did the same. Somewhere along the line, the author of that email must have pulled the shot out, photoshopped it, and then made up all that transgender shit and sent it out into the world.”

“Why would someone do something like that?” Laura asked, shaking her head.

Jake took the now softened butter out of the microwave and carried it back to the island. He rooted around in the drawer—which was sparkling clean and neatly organized thanks to Elsa—and took out the garlic masher. “Because people are assholes,” he said simply. “Whoever this person is, he doesn’t like me. It doesn’t matter though.”

“Why doesn’t it matter? You said that the media vultures are circling.”

“They can’t print or air anything about this,” Jake said, mashing the garlic cloves into the butter and then putting the masher in the sink. As he was washing his hands again, he continued to explain why. “Pauline had the ramper send her copies of all the shots he took that day and the original email he sent out. He is perfectly willing to go on record about what actually happened. She then sent copies of those pictures and the original email to every reporter that enquired about the fake email. In the body of Pauline’s email she let them know that there is no Jose at the Sandpoint airport FBO, that no law enforcement agency in the Sandpoint area has taken a report about an underaged Venezuelan tranny being held in captivity by the Kingsleys, and that Ron the ramper is willing to testify in court that he is the person in that photo, that he has never been to Venezuela, and that he is most certainly not transexual or a maid.”

“Facts have never stopped them from printing or reporting lies before,” she pointed out.

“True,” Jake said, “but these are irrefutable facts that are now in their possession. That’s the difference maker here.”

“What do you mean?”

He took a quick drink of his beer and then added some oregano and fresh ground pepper to the butter. He took out a fork and began to mix it all into a consistent paste. “The burden of proof in a libel or slander case is on the person being slandered or libeled,” he explained. “In other words, when the National Watcher printed their story that you and Celia were ‘allegedly’ getting it on with each other every night out on tour, you and Celia would have had to prove by the preponderance of the evidence that you were not getting it on in order for a libel judgment to go in your favor. Even though you were not getting it on—well ... you know, except for that one night—there is no evidence of absence you can possibly provide, therefore you cannot prevail.”

“I understand,” she said. “But why is this different?”

He opened the hamburger package and divided the meat into four equal pieces, which he then formed into balls. “Because of those irrefutable facts that we have on our side this time,” he said. “There is evidence of absence in this situation. We can prove that that photo was taken with Ron the ramper’s camera at Pocatello Airport, not Sandpoint Airport. We can prove that Ron himself is the person in the photo, not a Venezuelan tranny. We can prove that virtually everything in that email is untrue except for the fact that we were in Sandpoint recently and that we did visit Barquisimeto with Celia recently. The media knows that the story is not true since Paulie has informed them and provided them with the facts at hand, so if they were to print it or put it on TV, they would be knowingly printing or broadcasting provably false information for the purpose of harming the reputation of you, myself, and Ron the ramper. That is the very definition of libel and slander. We would own them. They would be forced to print and/or broadcast a retraction of the story and they would be on the hook for huge punitive damages. They are not going to go there.”

“What if some reporter or media show that didn’t contact Pauline wrote a story or aired the email?” she asked. “They are not in possession of the information. Couldn’t they still get away with it?”

Jake used his thumb to put a large crater in each of the balls of meat. He then scooped out a healthy dollop of the garlic butter and put it inside each crater. “Journalistic ethics require that any reporter make an attempt to get our side of the story before printing or airing something like this,” he said. “At that point, Paulie would hit them with the facts. If they did not follow journalistic ethics and just printed without trying to get our side, they would end up in the same boat. Paulie would contact whoever printed or aired, provide those facts to them, and demand that they immediately retract the story and apologize or be sued for libel and/or slander.”

“I see,” she said, obviously feeling better about the whole situation now.

“So don’t worry, babe,” he assured her as he began forming the balls of meat into patties with the garlic butter trapped in the center. After a dusting of sea salt, this would make for juicy, flavorful burgers once they were cooked out on the gas grill on the deck. “We are totally in the clear on this thing. This will all disappear in a matter of days.”

“That’s good to hear,” she said.

At that moment, a chiming sound began to emit from the intercom speaker on the wall. They both looked over at it. The tone told them that someone had just pushed the call button on the gate that guarded the entrance to the property.

“Are we expecting anyone?” Jake asked.

“I don’t think so,” she said.

“Hmm,” he said. “Why don’t you go see who it is?”

She nodded and left the kitchen, heading for the office on the other side of the entertainment room. That was where the bank of computer monitors that displayed the security views—as well as the security panel that controlled the various alarms and gate openers—was located. She was gone less than thirty seconds. The tone continued to sound the entire time.

“Who is it?” Jake asked when she returned.

“There are three police cars out there,” she said.

“Police cars?” Jake asked. “What the hell?”

“What do we do?” she asked. “Ignore them? They can’t just come in here, right?”

“That depends on why they are here,” he said. “I’ll go talk to them and see what’s up.”

He quickly washed his hands in the sink and then dried them with paper towels. After that, he walked to the office, Laura trailing behind him. Mounted to the left of the computer desk were the nine monitors that showed views from throughout the property. Seven of the monitors were showing night vision views since the sun had gone down more than an hour before. Nothing unusual was showing on any of those. The center monitor and the monitor immediately to its left covered the side view of the gate intercom box and the view from the gate down the access road respectively. They were not in night vision mode since the security lights had been triggered by a sensor located thirty-five feet before the gate and the entire stretch of road was now illuminated as if it were high noon in summer. In the center view was a male in his forties leaning out the window of a car. He had a mustache and Jake could just make out the shoulder patches on his upper sleeves and the top of a badge on his chest. He was staring patiently into the camera. On the road view he could see three marked patrol cars lined up one after the other.

Jake pushed the button which opened the intercom link between his microphone and the speaker/microphone on the gate entrance. “Can I help you?” he asked, his voice monotone.

“Is this Mr. Kingsley?” the officer enquired. He had no video screen on his end and therefore could not see who he was talking to.

“This is Jake Kingsley,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

“Mr. Kingsley, I am Sergeant Stivick of the San Luis Obispo County sheriff’s department. Would you mind if we came up to the residence so we could have a word with you?”

“A word about what?” Jake asked.

“I would rather discuss that in person,” the good sergeant said. His tone was polite but insistent.

Jake had no idea what this could possibly be about. He knew that he did not really have to let the deputies onto his property if he did not want to unless they had a warrant of some kind or had some kind of probable cause to believe that a crime was in progress. But there was no real reason to draw a hard line in the sand right here at the gate. Perhaps they were here to inform him of some sort of threat against him. And even if that were not the case, there was no reason to be antagonistic at this point. After all, if some psycho ever did try to get into his house someday, he would need these people to come quickly and help him. It would not behoove him or Laura to ostracize them unnecessarily.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll open the gate for you. Drive up to the house and I’ll meet you at the front door.”

“Thank you, sir,” the sergeant said politely.

Jake disconnected the audio link and then pushed the button that opened the gate. On the video, it slowly began to swing open, inward, toward the house. Once satisfied that it was operating normally, he turned to Laura.

“Make a quick sweep and make sure all the pot and things we smoke it with are stowed out of plain sight.”

“Are you going to let them in the house?” she asked.

“Not if I can avoid it,” he said, “but better safe than sorry.”

“Okay,” she said. She headed off on her mission.

He watched the patrol cars file one by one through the gate. Once they were all through, he pushed the button and closed the gate behind them. He watched on the other monitors as they made their way up the road and onto the main plot, moving slowly, no more than ten miles per hour (Jake usually hit thirty-five on the stretch between the gate and the garage, Laura maybe fifteen). The security lights blinked on automatically as they made their journey, switching the views from night vision to regular light. They drove past the five-car garage attached to the north side of the house and into the circular driveway in front of the guest entrance that led into the foyer off the main living room. Once they were all parked and the doors opened, he left the office and walked to that door.

One of the intercom boxes was here. He pushed the button that transmitted to all the other interior speakers. “All clear?” he asked.

A moment later, Laura’s voice answered. “All clear. Heading to you.”

He did not reply. Instead, he stepped to the door, unlocked the steel security bar and withdrew it, then unlocked the deadbolt and the doorknob lock. He swung the door open and found himself facing Sergeant Stivick and two other uniformed deputies, both male, both young and of fairly impressive stature. It was a cold night and all were dressed in their long-sleeved uniforms. The sergeant, who was in front, was looking at Jake. The other two were looking past him, into the house, their eyes peering everywhere they could see.

“Mr. Kingsley?” the sergeant asked, though it was obvious that he knew exactly who he was talking to.

“That’s right,” Jake said. “You can call me Jake if you wish.”

“Jake it is then,” he replied. “I’m Sergeant Stivick. This is Deputy Maxwell and Deputy Clark.”

Jake nodded to them. About then, Laura appeared in the foyer. All three of the deputies immediately shifted their eyes to her and held them there, quite clearly enjoying what they were seeing.

Jake glanced over his shoulder and then back to the cops. “My wife, Laura,” he introduced.

“Good evening, Mrs. Kingsley,” Stivick said.

“Good evening,” she replied, taking up position next to Jake.

“Do you mind if we come inside, Jake?” Stivick asked after he finally managed to take his eyes off Laura’s body.

“How about you tell me what this is about first?” Jake countered.

“Oh ... of course,” Stivick said, a hint of irritation appearing for an instant and then disappearing just as quickly. “Well ... you see ... our dispatch center received several calls throughout the day that there have been reports that you might have a young woman or boy staying in the house with you who may be a runaway from Venezuela.”

Jesus fucking Christ, Jake thought, shaking his head. “The tranny email,” Jake said. “They actually called you about that?”

“Yes,” Stivick said, “multiple people have called regarding that email. We had someone send a copy to our department email so we could take a look at it. I personally reviewed the document before we came out here.”

“You reviewed the document,” Jake said slowly, “and you think it to be a true story?”

“It does sound quite farfetched,” Stivick replied, “but we did get multiple calls about this and several of the callers reported that they have, in fact, seen you and Mrs. Kingsley in the company of a young Hispanic woman on several occasions during visits to town.”

“A young Hispanic woman?” asked Laura. “With us?”

“The only Hispanic woman we have been in the company of in Oceano is Celia Valdez when she comes to visit,” Jake said. “And, while she is very attractive, she is not young enough to be mistaken for a seventeen-year-old.”

“And she is quite recognizable as well,” Laura added. “She does not even passingly resemble the person in that email photo.”

“I understand that human memory is an easily manipulated thing,” Stivick said. “People remember what they want to remember. We are not here accusing you of what is suggested in that email. We are simply here to close out a call that was generated.”

“Fair enough,” Jake said with a sigh. He did not doubt Stivick’s sincerity. The man seemed quite annoyed to be on this errand. “How can we assist you in closing out this call?”

“Well, if you consent to let us inside your home so we can take a look around and verify that there is no sign of a Venezuelan transexual living here, that will allow us to close the call and not bother you on this matter any further.”

“I see,” Jake said slowly. “And if I said we will not consent to such a thing? What then?”

“Then we will leave and close the call out as unable to determine.”

“Would you then attempt to get a search warrant?” Jake asked.

Stivick barked out a little laugh and shook his head. “Are you kidding? No judge on the planet would issue a warrant based on a chain email and a few vague eyewitness accounts, none of which even remotely match each other except for the young Hispanic person descriptor. You are perfectly within your rights to tell us to go pound sand and we will happily go pound it.”

“So, what is the advantage for me and Laura in allowing you to come in and look around then?” Jake asked.

“If we are able to satisfy ourselves that there is no sign you are keeping an underage Venezuelan transexual in captivity, I will write an incident report on the matter that spells that out and make sure our PIO—that’s our public information officer—provides a copy of it to the local newspaper.”

Jake nodded thoughtfully. He looked at Laura and she nodded. He turned back to the sergeant. “All right then,” he said. “Let’s do this thing. Come on inside, officers. Welcome to Casa Kingsley.”

“Thank you,” Stivick said, stepping through the doorway. “Although I should warn you that if we should see anything illegal under California law in plain view...”

“Already taken care of,” Jake assured him.

He gave the deputies a complete tour of the house, starting with the formal living room that they rarely used. From there, they went to the entertainment room with its pool table, pinball machine, Space Invader console, large screen television, six-thousand-dollar sound system, racks full of expensive wine, and fully stocked wet bar. Stivick took a moment to admire Jake’s Les Paul that had been autographed by Les Paul himself. Maxwell and Clark were both impressed by the bar and the wine collection. From there, they went down the first hallway. Jake opened the door to the primary guest room, which was a suite in and of itself. He then showed them the guest bathroom, the coat closet, and then the kitchen.

“It looks like you were getting ready to have dinner,” Stivick said, seeing the raw burgers sitting on the cutting board. “Sorry about bothering you right now.”

“It’s okay,” Jake said.

“I do need to take the tater tots out of the oven though,” Laura said.

The cops all shared a look with each other for a moment as Laura went to the oven. It was clear they were a little surprised that the Kingsleys ate frozen tater tots with their burgers just like they were normal American human beings.

They went to the master bedroom next. It was a huge room, the biggest in the house in fact. Their bedroom set was the centerpiece. It was a King-sized bed and two large, mirrored dressers. Nightstands sat on either side of the bed. The bed itself was made up, but not as neatly as Elsa did it (you could literally bounce a penny off a bed that Elsa had made). Jake noticed Clark looking in the laundry hamper with particularly keen interest. He took a glance inside and saw that a pair of Laura’s panties were sitting on top of the heap of laundry within. They were the lime green ones with the white polka dots. He knew instinctively that if Clark had been alone in the room he would have picked them up and taken a sniff.

“Here’s the master bath area,” Jake said, leading them around the partition wall. Here was the glass-enclosed shower, the large jacuzzi tub, and the marble dual sink. He opened the door to the throne room for them so they could be sure there was no tranny hiding in there. He then led them back out to the walk-in closet, which was as big as an entire secondary bedroom in one of their houses.

“All right,” Jake said. “How about we check out the other guest rooms next? If we were, in fact, harboring a sex slave, that would be the most likely place to keep her, right?”

“Right,” Stivick agreed.

They went through all four of them, one by one, and then he took them to the composition room where he worked on his music. The deputies were all impressed by the room, looking at the guitars in their racks on two of the walls and the multitude of gold and platinum records that took up the entirety of another wall. Jake saw with alarm that Laura’s sweep of the house had not come through this room. His stashbox, which was a Cuban cigar box that contained a quarter ounce baggie of excellent pot, a pair of small scissors, and some rolling papers so he could get himself in the proper composition mood, was sitting on the desk amid the clutter of musical score sheets and notepaper, right in plain view. Thankfully, however, the ashtray, which was also on the desk and which often had a roach or two in it, had been dumped by Elsa before she had left on vacation (Jake had long since gotten over her throwing roaches away and she had subsequently discarded probably a thousand dollars worth of weed over the years). That ashtray was the only thing on the desk that she was allowed to touch. All three deputies noticed the box—they had cop eyes that missed little—and undoubtedly knew what it was for, but none made any comment on it. After all, the contents of the box were not in plain view and therefore they had no right to open it—a now clear legal precedent thanks to Matt Tisdale and his attorney a few years back.

“This is where you write your music?” asked Stivick.

“Ever since we’ve moved here,” he said. He pointed to the battered old Fender that sat in a place of honor on a tripod stand next to the desk. “That’s the guitar I always use. It’s the first acoustic I ever bought back when I was in high school.”

“That’s pretty cool,” observed Clark.

“I bet that will be worth some serious money someday,” put in Maxwell.

“It will never be for sale,” Jake said sincerely. “At least not in my lifetime or Laura’s lifetime.”

Next, they went to the office with its video monitors and computer screens that watched over everything. They were particularly impressed with his setup.

“Wow,” Stivick said, looking at everything. “This must have cost you a pretty penny.”

“More than twenty grand for everything,” Jake told him. “I need it though. There are lots of people in the world who would like to try to rip me off or attack me or my wife. I get letters from them sometimes. Nothing moves on this property without being seen on the cameras. The doors are all steel-reinforced and secured with security bars. The windows are all fitted with bullet-resistant glass that you can go at with a sledge hammer and they still won’t break.”

“Do you have guns?” asked Clark.

Jake shook his head. “So far, I haven’t felt the need for one.”

“You might want to think that over,” suggested Stivick. “You’re a ways off the beaten path here on this cliff. Our response time to your house on a busy night might be as much as fifteen minutes, maybe longer depending on where our units are. A lot can happen in fifteen minutes.”

Jake nodded thoughtfully. “I’ll take that under consideration,” he said.

“I’d suggest a shotgun,” said Stivick. “There is nothing in the world better for home defense than a 12-gauge pump action loaded with double-ought buck. The sound of you racking one in will scare off ninety-five percent of intruders. And, if worst comes to worst and you have to engage, you’ll hit anything you’re shooting at at close range and the rounds won’t go through a wall and kill someone in another room.”

“This is assuming that you are allowed to own a gun,” said Maxwell. “Do you have any felony convictions?”

“Convictions? No. I’ve been accused of various things here and there but have never even been convicted of speeding.”

They passed a look around but said nothing.

He took them to the garage next, turning on the lights and letting them see his BMW, Elsa’s Four-Runner, and Laura’s Volkswagen. The rest of the space in the garage was empty except for a small tool chest filled with hammers, screwdrivers, wrenches, and other things needed for simple household repair (which was inevitably done by Elsa).

“And that’s the tour, gentlemen,” he said as they headed back toward the living room and the foyer.

“What about upstairs?” asked Clark.

“There is no upstairs,” Jake said. “The house is one level only. My goal in building it here was not to be pretentious. There is an attic, however, and you are welcome to poke your heads up there to make sure I don’t have a tranny chained up inside.”

“Is it easy to access?” asked Stivick.

“It is,” Jake said. “It has one of those ring pull things with a ladder that comes down.”

“I suppose we should take a quick look,” Stivick said.

Jake led them back to the main hallway, which was where the access hatch was located. He opened it up and the ladder slid down. A light automatically came on up there when the ladder extended. Stivick climbed up enough to poke his head inside and see that there was nothing but the furnace, the air conditioning coils, insulation, and a few boxes of things like Christmas decorations and old clothes.

“Looks like an attic to me,” Stivick said, climbing back down.

Jake pushed the ladder back up and the hatch sealed once again. “All right then,” he said. “Are you satisfied that we are keeping no one here against his or her will?”

“Almost,” Stivick said. “I noticed when we pulled in that there is another structure here on the property. The house next to this one?”

“That is where the actual maid stays,” Jake said. “Her name is Elsa Tyler, I pay her for her services, she is from Nigeria originally, she is old enough to be my mother, and she is on Christmas vacation right now.”

“Do you mind if we take a quick look through that house as well?” Stivick asked.

“I cannot consent to that,” Jake said. “That is Elsa’s house, her private space. I have not been inside there since I did the final walk-through for closing on the property.”

“But you have a key to it, right?”

“I do, but, as I said, that is Elsa’s private residence and I cannot and will not give consent for you to enter it.”

“Perhaps you could call this Elsa person and obtain consent from her?” suggested Clark.

“I will not even ask her,” Jake said. “Searching her residence is not reasonable.”

“But if you were keeping someone captive, that would be the logical place to do it,” said Stivick.

“Really?” Jake said, raising his brows. “Keep an underage captive in a separate house where we can’t see what she is doing, where she could just wander off at will?”

“Again, Jake,” Stivick said, “I am not saying that I believe you are actually holding someone against their will here. I am just saying that I cannot, in good conscience, write in the report for the PIO that we have determined the accusation to be false unless I look inside that house as well.”

Jake sighed again. He did not get the impression that Stivick was trying to coerce him. He was just stating a fact. But that did not change his decision. Maybe, however, there was another way.

“I can’t let you search Elsa’s house,” he said. “But what if I were able to prove to you beyond a reasonable doubt that the email that all of this is based on is completely made up?”

“How would you do that?” Stivick asked.

Jake smiled. “Let’s go back to the office,” he said.

He led them back there and turned on the computer. While it was booting up, he explained the origin of the photograph in question, where it had originally been taken and under what circumstances, and how it had ended up circulating far and wide on email accounts and internet bulletin boards. He then opened up his inbox and showed them the original email that Ron the ramper had sent out, including all the photographs that had been attached to it.

“This certainly makes sense,” Stivick said after reviewing everything. “Can you send a copy of this email to the department’s inbox.”

“Sure,” Jake said. “What’s the address?”

Stivick recited it for him and told him to put “Original Jake Kingsley email” in the subject box.

“Now then,” Jake asked after sending it, “are you satisfied that there is no citizen of Venezuela, or any other country being held here?”

“I am satisfied,” Stivick said.

“Then you’ll write that report for your PIO guy?”

“I will,” he promised.

“Thank you,” Jake said, his gratitude genuine.

“I thank you for your cooperation, Jake,” Stivick said. “I wasn’t really sure what was going to happen when we came up here to talk to you about all this. You have quite the reputation in the law enforcement community you know.”

“Yeah, I know,” Jake said. “And you cops have quite the reputation in the circles I move in as well, but I found you quite polite and efficient and reasonable. That is a good thing to find out about the guys who are going to come up here to save our asses if they need saving someday.”

“That’s good to hear,” Stivick said.

“Listen, I like to help support community resources where I live,” Jake said. “Do you have any organizations I could donate to?”

“Well ... yes,” Stivick said, his tone a little dubious now. “We have the PAL and the 11-99 Club and the law enforcement chaplaincy program, and they can all use more funding, but ... well ... I don’t want you to get the idea that by donating money that you will be given any special treatment in any way.”

“The thought never entered my mind,” Jake said, fibbing a little. He knew that, despite what Stivick was saying, a generous philanthropist was always given special treatment to some degree or another. He wasn’t expecting to be given a get out of jail free card or to have them overlook a crime that he might commit, but it never hurt to have the local law enforcers know that you were helping support them and their causes financially.

“In that case,” Stivick said, still dubious, but warming to the idea, “I’ll give you some pamphlets I have in my car.”

“I’ll take them,” Jake said. “And there’s one other thing I can do for you. Do you guys have a bar you drink at?”

Maxwell and Clark and Stivick all chuckled at this question.

“Of course we have a bar we drink at,” Stivick said. “We’re cops. It’s called the Pine Cove. It’s just down the street from the station in SLO city. SLO PD and the local CHP officers drink there too. Why do you ask?”

“You think maybe they’d like it if I popped in every now and then and played a little guitar and sang for you all?”

The cops all looked at each other and then back at Jake. “I think they would,” Stivick finally said. “How much would you charge for something like that?”

“It would be on the house,” Jake said. “Or ... nearly on the house. I’d do it for the price of free beer while I’m there.”

“Wow,” Stivick said. “I’d have to ask the owner, of course, but I think he’d be up for it.”

“Email me his name and number and I’ll get in touch with him,” Jake said. “There’s just a few stipulations. He can’t charge a cover fee or advertise by anything other than word of mouth on the nights I’m there. If there is money being directly made because of my performance, that runs into copyright issues if I play anything other than my own solo music. I can’t do any Intemperance stuff at all because National Records still owns the rights to it, but I can lay down some Led Zeppelin or some Kansas, or anything else that I want to play as long as money is not changing hands.”

“I’ll let him know,” Stivick said happily.

The three deputies all shook hands with Jake before getting back in their cars and driving off to other missions. Jake was left with a good feeling that he had accomplished something. Again, he was only half right.

The SLO News was the most popular local newspaper in Jake’s neck of the central coast of California. They did indeed print a story about the Jake and Laura Kingsley transvestite email, explaining in detail that it was not true, presenting the facts, reciting quotes from the SLO Sheriff’s department PIO who summarized the visit to the Kingsley house, and even showing side-by-side pictures of the original shot and the doctored one. The story was sent out on the AP wire for use by other news publications across the nation. Unfortunately, the only other paper that picked it up and published it was the Pocatello Register. In these two towns, at least, a good portion of the citizens were forced to conclude that the email they had been receiving and forwarding to others was not exactly genuine. This did not stop a lot of them from forwarding it on anyway, but it did erode the innate belief in the story in those two places.

Everywhere else in the nation, the email continued to circulate about. Though no newspapers and no television program printed or aired anything about the accusation, the story continued to proliferate. Much of this proliferation was on the internet as it became one of the first things to go viral, nearly two decades before that term was even coined. Others spread the story around orally, telling friends the tale, and those friends told other friends, and those friends told even more. And a good portion of those who read or were told the tale believed it.

After all, it had been written down. There had been a photograph. It had to be true if it was written down and there was a picture, right?

And so, by the time that the Kingsleys hosted their annual Christmas gathering at their house on the hill (they had still not told any of their friends and family apart from Elsa about their plans to have another member at the following year’s gathering, although most of the town of Oceano already knew this), there were literally millions of people in the United States and other parts of the world who sincerely believed that Jake Kingsley and Laura Kingsley were keeping a transvestite sex slave in their home and were regularly abusing her.

This belief and this topic of conversation by a certain subset of society would persist for decades into the future.