It was Paul Peterson who broke the story. The notorious celebrity stalking photographer who sold his shots to the highest bidder—that bidder was, most of the time, the American Watcher publication, which had the highest budget for such things—put himself on the case as soon as he saw the report that Kingsley was dating someone and had not been officially seen in public for more than two years. That, coupled with the fact that Kingsley was back on the charts with his solo album, made for a lucrative stalking.
Peterson was forty-two years old in 1993. He and Jake had crossed paths on multiple occasions throughout their respective careers, thanks mostly to Paul’s relationship with Mindy Snow. Mindy had enlisted his help back in 1983 when she wanted to break out of the goody two-shoes reputation she had been saddled with by her childhood acting on the family-oriented TV show The Slow Lane. She set up a romantic relationship with Kingsley for that purpose and had then given Paul times and locations where he could photograph the two of them together under the guise that he had just happened across them. Paul would have performed the service for free, but Mindy had paid him for it, both in American currency and sexual favors, as long as he kept both forms of compensation secret.
He kept up his end of the bargain and, in addition to getting to bang the hot actress once a month or so during the peak of their collaboration, he made a considerable amount of money and developed a considerable amount of reputation as a top paparazzi due to the deal. It had been he who first captured the images of Jake and Mindy in swimwear on Dune Beach and he who had captured nude images of them swimming together in the waters of a secluded Los Angeles County lake. And, though Mindy had not been involved in this one, he had been the one to take the compromising shots of Jake and an anonymous redheaded slut getting ready to bone each other down in Mexico. The most memorable shots of Jake he had taken, however, had been the ones that had never been published and that only he, Mindy, and Mindy’s ex-husband, Scott Adams Winslow had ever seen. They had been the shots of Jake, Mindy, and Winslow’s secretary having a three-way that involved double penetration with Jake’s cock in Mindy’s snatch and a large strap-on dildo in Mindy’s ass. Those shots had been used to blackmail Winslow into disregarding the prenuptial agreement Mindy had signed and not contest the divorce.
Alas, his relationship with Mindy Snow was no more. The Winslow shots had been the last he had been personally commissioned to take of her and she had not contacted him since depositing the two hundred thousand dollars she paid for the job (and for his promise to never reveal their existence) into his account. Mindy was a user and he had always known that. Still, though he no longer had her help at his job, he was still quite the premier stalker of all things celebrity.
He knew where Jake Kingsley lived, of course. Kingsley’s address was a matter of public record and, when the singer had first moved into the house back in 1987, his neighbors had not been very happy about it and had staged daily protests that made national news. As far as he knew, Kingsley had not moved from that location, so it was a simple matter of driving his Mercedes to the corner of Nottingham Drive and Sherwood Avenue up in the Hollywood Hills and finding a discrete place to park and stake out the house.
He sat there for five hours, his three thousand dollar Nikon camera with its four thousand dollar Nikkor 400mm parfocal zoom lens sitting by his side. He smoked cigarettes one after the other and listened to the radio (tapping along when Celia’s song, Playing Those Games came on) while watching the traffic drive by. When he had to pee, he did it in a jar that he kept just for that purpose. When he was hungry, he pulled a snack out of a bag he kept in the center console compartment just for that purpose. It was boring, mind-numbing work but he was used to it. It was his profession, after all.
Finally, at just after five o’clock in the afternoon, he saw a royal blue, late eighties BMW 7-series car come pulling out of Kingsley’s driveway. He already knew from checking with a contact of his at the DMV that this was the car currently registered to one Jake Kingsley, of 9503 Nottingham Drive, Los Angeles, California. He crushed out his smoke in the ashtray and picked up the camera, putting it to his eye and getting ready.
He pointed the camera at the car as it approached, his hand on the lens turning the focus and adjusting the zoom rapidly, with the consummate skill of a man who made a living doing such a thing. Within a second or two, the face behind the wheel filled the entire field of view and came into sharp focus.
Who the hell is that? was Peterson’s first thought as he saw the short hair and the mustache. Does Kingsley have a male servant that’s driving his car?
But then his mind, trained for years to recognize celebrity faces in an instant, took in the size and shape of the nose, the square of the chin, the swell of the lips, the color of the eyes. He realized he was, in fact, looking at Jake Kingsley, but that Kingsley had altered his appearance from what the public knew.
Son of a bitch, he thought in wonder. That’s almost brilliant! He pushed the button on his camera and it began to take rapid-fire shots, three per second. Though there was no one else in the car with Kingsley, the altered appearance was a story in and of itself. He could score maybe five hundred dollars from the Watcher for such shots alone.
He ducked down as Kingsley approached and waited until he passed. He looked up just in time to see the rear of the car disappearing down Sherwood Drive toward the main road. He snapped a few quick shots of the license on the rear. It was California plate, number 3WFG972, the same number his DMV contact told him belonged to Kingsley. Confirmation.
Ninety minutes later, Kingsley returned and pulled back into his circular driveway. He was still alone. He parked his car in the garage and that was all Peterson saw that day. He waited another hour, until the light was too poor for photographs from a distance, and then went home, where he developed the shots he had taken in his darkroom into negatives, and then picked out a few of the better ones to turn into prints.
He was back before sunrise the next morning. He did not know if Kingsley’s alleged girlfriend actually lived with him or not, so his plan was to follow the singer if he left again, hoping he would lead him to the girlfriend in question. As it turned out, however, following the man wasn’t necessary.
At 8:15 AM, after smoking only six cigarettes and peeing in the jar only once, Kingsley’s garage door opened up and a forest green Volkswagen Cabriolet convertible backed slowly out.
That’s a fucking chick car if I’ve ever seen one! Peterson thought excitedly. Either that, or there’s a fucking fag living with him.
The camera came up, his eye went to the viewfinder, his left hand went to the lens, his right index finger went to the shutter release.
The car backed out onto the street and headed toward him. He took a few quick shots of the front license plate and then focused intently on the driver’s position. There was a cute redheaded woman behind the wheel.
Not bad, Peterson thought as he started to snap away. Looks just like the kind of chick Kingsley would be boning.
He managed to get off nearly thirty shots of her face before she passed by. Before her taillights had even disappeared down the hill, his own engine was running and he was headed for his darkroom.
He printed one shot of her license number and twelve shots of her face. The license number was a California personalized plate. SAXMSTR. He took a few moments to try to interpret that and then finally came up with ... Sax Master? What the hell did that mean? Was she a saxophone player? That thought triggered a memory of when he had examined the insert for Kingsley’s new CD looking for clues. He had mentioned special thanks to a saxophone player, hadn’t he? He remembered that mostly because he thought it odd that a Jake Kingsley song would have a saxophone in it at all.