CHAPTER 1: A MYSTERIOUS NOTE
Tracy Dew, her hands stuffed into the pocket of her hooded sweatshirt, paused in front of the Simmons residence and gave a soft call. Instantly, the front door burst open and Beth Simons raced down the front steps, followed by Samantha Payne. The three gathered on the sidewalk.
"Am I late?" Tracy asked as the three chums greeted each other.
"Almost a whole minute, Tracy," said Beth with a roll of her big brown eyes. She tugged at the bottom of her pink tube top, pulling it down over her rounded belly.
"Come on, Tracy," Sam chimed in. "You know you're totally on time." Tall, blonde, and athletic, Sam hitched up her dark blue running shorts. "We could set a clock by you." She bumped Tracy with an affectionate shoulder. "On time every time, that's you."
Tracy was relieved. "Well, it's just that things were a little busy at home. Dad had to leave town on business rather suddenly, and I helped him pack."
"Does he have another big case?" Beth asked eagerly. Like everyone else in Beaverton, she followed Goliath Dew's legal career with avid interest. A gifted tax attorney, his clients included some of the biggest names in show business, along with the CEO's of several major multinational corporations and several prominent politicians. Just last month, he had won a major victory when the judge dismissed all charges against his client, Bucky Slayer, whose latest release Ass Kickin' had just gone platinum. Bucky had been on the news last night live from the rehab center he called home to publicly thank Goliath Dew for saving his career.
"I guess so," Tracy replied, tucking a tress of her long black hair behind one ear. "He doesn't always tell me what he's working on, you know." That wasn't exactly true; her father often consulted Tracy, sharing the most intimate details of his work. But recently he had become more secretive, and this morning he'd offered no clue as to the reasons behind his sudden departure.
"Well, I sure wouldn't mind if he decided to work on me," giggled Beth, adding a long feline purr. "I hate to say it, Tracy, but your dad is hot."
Tracy regarded her friend, taking in her heavy breasts in the tight tube top, her round, rolling hips in a short, flounced skirt. Beth had been boy crazy since Tracy had first met her in seventh grade. Now in their senior year at Beverton High, she hadn't changed a bit. "I'll tell him you said so," she said dryly.
"You do that," Beth said, arching her eyebrows for emphasis.
"So what did you need to meet us for?" Sam interjected. The complete opposite of Beth, she wasn't particularly interested in boy talk. "It sounded pretty important."
"It is," said Tracy, lowering her voice. Her two friends instinctively huddled closer. "Check this out." From the pocket of her sweatshirt she pulled a post card. On the front was a photograph of three young women in thong bikinis, their backs turned to the camera and their rounded asses pushed out invitingly. She flipped it over to reveal several lines of text formed from printed words clipped from magazines and taped to the card. "Meet me at the park in the place you're not allowed," she read. "1:30 sharp."
"Oooh," Beth breathed, pointing at the words. "It's like a ransom note or something."
"Whoever it is doesn't want us to recognize their handwriting," Tracy said matter-of-factly.
"Hold on – let me see that." Sam took the card from Tracy and turned it over to inspect the photograph. She stared at it intently for several minutes, a strange faraway look in her bright blue eyes.
"Are you finished, Sam?" Beth sniped, snatching the card away from her chum and handing it back to Tracy. "So, super-sleuth, what does it mean?"
Although they often kidded Tracy about it, both Beth and Sam had considerable respect for their friend's abilities as a detective. Tracy had a quick mind and a great eye for detail, and she was often able to solve mysteries that baffled the authorities. They waited now as she regarded the card thoughtfully before answering. "Well, where in the park are we not allowed?" she asked.
Beth flashed a rueful grin. "After last fall's pep rally, I'm not allowed in there at all." The others remembered how Mr. Grimsby, the high school guidance counselor, had found her in a rather compromising embrace with three very excited freshmen. The episode had only added to Beth's reputation.
"Tracy meant where are girls who aren't nymphos allowed?" Sam snapped. "I mean, there's the concession stand, the slides, the baseball field ... but girls are allowed in all those places." She looked a question at Tracy, who suddenly flashed a smile of triumph.
"I know!" she ejaculated. "The men's bathroom!"
Her two chums exchanged a look of admiration. "Damn she's good," whispered Beth as Sam nodded agreement.
Tracy consulted her watch. "And whoever it is has dared us to be there in ... twenty minutes. What do you say, girls? Are you game?"
"I'm in," said Beth. "I'd love to know who'd send such a weird note."
Sam tipped the card in Tracy's hand to take another look at the photograph of the three perfect asses in their thong bikinis. "Me, too," she breathed.
Fifteen minutes later, the three girls were striding purposefully through the Adolph Goldberg Park. They passed a newly sodded area cordoned off with bright yellow tape, following the path out of the bright spring sunshine and into a copse of tall trees, heading for a small, secluded, windowless brick building. A sign outside showed a crude male stick figure in white on a blue background and an arrow. "This is it," said Beth excitedly. "Where we're not allowed."
Tracy slowed and checked her watch again. "We're a little early, guys," she said. "Maybe we should just wait outside and see who else shows up."
"Good idea," said Sam. She pointed towards another, similar structure nearby. "I have to use the ladies' room anyway." Without waiting for a response, she sprinted away down the path, her long, toned legs pumping effortlessly beneath the baggy nylon of her running shorts. It's no wonder she lettered in track, Tracy thought as she watched her friend go.
"I beg to differ," Beth pouted, her hands on her wide, firm hips. "We could go in now and hide. You know, get the drop on the creep."
Tracy was torn. Sam was gone, disappeared around the concrete wall that shielded the doorless entrance to the other restroom. But Beth had a point. From years of sleuthing experience, Tracy Dew understood the value of surprise. Impulsively, she made her decision. "Let's go," she said.
The two girls stepped into the shadows of the concrete men's room. Along one wall was a row of porcelain urinals, cracked and stained; farther down were several stalls. "Come on," Tracy hissed, pulling Beth's arm toward the first stall. "We can hide in here."
Beth recoiled, unsure. "I don't know," she replied, peering into the dark and musty space. "They look pretty nasty." Tracy gave her another tug, but the chunky girl dug in her heels and refused to budge. "Maybe we should wait outside after all -"
"What are you girls doing in here?" came a voice from the doorway.
The two chums wheeled to see a hunched and elderly black man holding a bucket and a mop. His thinning hair and goatee were streaked with grey, and his green parks uniform bagged about him. A sly smile flashed across his sharp features as he set the bucket and mop on the floor and approached them. "Girls aren't allowed in here, ya know."
"Oh, I guess we're lost," Beth breathed, her large brown eyes glued to the bulge in his trousers below his belt buckle.
"That's right," Tracy declared, hoping her voice carried the necessary authority. "We thought this was the ladies' room."
"Guess you missed the sign outside," said the janitor with a leer. "It's on a post – right in front of the door." He shuffled closer, inspecting the girls like a fox eyeing two stunned chicks.
