Chapter 17

Max sat impatiently by the massive front door as Jennifer closed it behind her. The door, full on metallic, inches thick could detect when someone had the access card with them and knew when to lock down the condo. It was special ordered from North Korea, the importing costs alone had to be five figures.

A voice rang out just as Jennifer took her first step off the concrete patio, "This home is armed. Please leave the area." The robotic voice was just one of the Level one features Derrick had installed specifically for his condominium. Why he felt he needed all this safety lock down no one enters equipment was beyond Jennifer as she was accustomed to one doorknob lock and a half functioning deadbolt.

This side of town did see much crime either. You know, except for your parents randomly showing up and trying to barge in for God knows what reason. Soon, if she was lucky, Jennifer would know why they were here and also possibly a way to get her parents out of her bunned blonde hair for good.

They approached from the left, north to be exact, which led into the 'Vacationers' area. It was all hotels, fancy restaurants, and overpriced gift shops. Jennifer slowly wondered her way down the sidewalk, in no rush and certainly trying to look as inconspicuous as possible.

She had a hoodie on and had the hood part pulled up over her head along with a blank black baseball cap. None of her blonde hair could be seen from any angle, in fact, she appeared to be a teenage boy. Jeans and tennis shows agreed with that look.

Peaking only once over her shoulder, the unmarked SFPD was still idling but showed no signs of initiating a trailing tactic. Maybe they were asleep inside or they had eaten themselves into a coma from which they would awake to confusion and the horrible runs. One could only hope.

It was a matter of ten blocks to the tourist area, a breeze for Jennifer as she was in peak shape and actually enjoyed the fresh cool air as it entered her lungs and chilled her with the blissful pleasure. She held out a phone in front of her, nothing was on the screen, but she figured she would blend in with the rest of society by conforming to their everyday routines.

Believe it or not, it had worked. Not one person, even the multiple homeless men, had muttered one incoherent word towards her direction. Jennifer walked up to the first hotel, 'Marriott of San Diego', and let herself in as the doorman was fighting off a few scandalous looking young ladies that had used a room the previous night.

With a deep authoritative tone, "Ladies, ladies, there's plenty of me to go around but not here. You are no longer allowed inside of this establishment. Clear?"

The three women, barely clothed, clucked back stories of abuse, non-payment by a client, and threats of men coming to collect. This was the typical prostitution approach and was common in the tourist area.

With a belly laugh escaping his mouth, "Ladies, invite all your friends, I'm ready for them." He flashed the handle of what appeared to be a Ruger in their direction as they left the area with promises of repercussions.

Jennifer stopped just before she fully entered the lobby, "Hey my friend, seen any old folks around here? Possibly with a police escort of some sort?" It was a wild shot in the dark but this doorman seemed as if he didn't really apply himself to the luxurious demand this hotel required.

Eyeing Jennifer up and down and rubbing his hairy chin, "Matter of fact, I have. What's it to you?" He was a heavy set gentleman, not obese from eating too much, but just really large framed. Considering the fact that he carried a weapon he probably relied on brute untactful force instead of some sort of trained fighting.

Scanning the area, ensuring she was somewhat in the clear, "I've a hundred for you if you would so graciously enlighten me. Names Jennifer by the way." She sprung out her hand as if for a shake, the hundred was discreetly tucked in her palm.

Knowing how the game was played, the large gentleman shook Jennifer's hand, capturing the bill in one graceful motion, "Well Jennifer, I'm Rock. R-O-C-K. I'm gonna point you in a direction and set you on your way, is that fair?" Rock quick stuffed the bill in his pocket and pointed four hotels down on the left.

The Grand Marque Hotel.

With a gracious nod of the head, Jennifer proceeded on her path to find her parents. She didn't cross the road, not yet, she was being extra careful. If this was some sort of next level elaborate trap, she would want to have multiple options for escape.

Before Jennifer was too far away, "Remember me Jennifer, Rock. If you need anything, swing on by and let me know."

Perhaps she had just made an ally. He would have to be researched and it just so happened that Jennifer was an excellent intel acquirer. No one gets close to her without a significant run through the gauntlet just to ensure they weren't cops or potential Christmas Darling victims.

With a wave in the air without even turning around, Jennifer entered the first gift shop she came across. The clerk didn't greet her, he seemed too busy with something else staring deeply towards the back of the store. Jennifer took up a spot at the newspapers and magazine rack while the commotion continued on.

With a huge blow to the gut, she heard a voice, a voice she wanted forever purged from her memory, "I don't drink diet soda! Do I look fat to you?!"

With the quickest rebuttal in the history of rebuts, "Honey, no one said you're fat. Calm down. It's just better for you while we are here. Can't go getting sick while we are trying to help these detectives nail down our daughter, right?"

A deep sigh entered the air, "Fine, I want two of them. Can you handle that cost Detective Phillips?" What the living hell!? Detective Phillips was escorting Jennifer's parents around San Diego looking for Jennifer? Was he the reason they tried to break into Derrick's condo? Why send an average couple to do spy work? Makes no sense at all.

Jennifer buried herself into the rack of magazines, trying to hide in plain sight. Her disguise helped as her parents approached the counter with Detective Phillips in tow.

With a clear, calm voice, "Ma'am, I can handle any costs you may incur as long as we get your daughter and catch her off guard. Is that clear?" The detective was motivated but clearly unhappy with his escort duties. Good thing it wasn't Detective Grumpy. Where was he?

With a frustrated snap, "Sir yes sir." Her Mother was a true tyrant. A woman among girls. She demanded to be treated as a queen when, in reality, she was merely a piece of walking, talking garbage.

Her parents nor the detective figured out the person they were looking for, The Christmas Darling, was standing right by the front door of the gift shop as they exited. Her Mother complained of the brisk air and the color of the label on the diet soda bottle. Typical.

Jennifer peered through the slots in the window only to watch her Mother and Father cross the street and enter the Grand Marque hotel. Detective Grumpy was holding up a lamp post while he waited, delighted for sure, for the bickering duo to enter his personal space once again.

This had been quite the prosperous mission. Jennifer now knew where her parents were and what the motive of the police was in this whole debacle. Not only that but something pulled her eyes up to the top shelf of the magazine rack. The shelf were all the grotesque pornography was settled in place to keep poor little prying eyes from catching a glimpse of a boob or half of a butt cheek.

Jonathan Riley Doyle.

Yet another rich man on the cover of a crime magazine that had been placed in the wrong location. The headline read, 'Doyle is in a Boil: Prostitute Killer?" Bingo.

Mr. Doyle was a prominent businessman specializing in real estate, buying and selling apartment complexes regardless of the consequences to the current residents.

Flipping through, Mr. Doyle was accused of the kidnapping and murder of dozens of the local ladies of the night. It was the same old story. Doyle is rich, prostitutes are seen as garbage in society, he would get away with this no matter how damning the evidence. It was almost certain.

With a trial date set three months away with an expected duration of one month, this guy was top of the list to make number eleven. Merry Christmas Mr. Doyle. There may be no Santa but you certainly made a list after all.