“Hello, Mr. Robinson.” A seated man’s shadowed face appeared on the screen.

“You have an urgent matter?”

“We found someone -”

“You’re running my location. The price just doubled.” The man referred to as Mr. Robinson closed his notebook computer with satellite uplink and packed it away. He left the empty Pacific Grove beach after taking a last look at the surging waves. The overcast dawn gave the ocean surface a grayish hue.

It took him only minutes to travel the road which ran along the coastline. With his gear safely stowed in the trunk, the man mentioned as Mr. Robinson drove his nondescript gray Chevrolet Malibu away from the beach to Lighthouse Avenue, where he parked near Monte Café. With a different laptop, the man walked into the nearly empty restaurant and sat down. He smiled and nodded at the middle-aged couple having breakfast a few tables over.

“You’re up early, Nick.”

Nick grinned over at the balding man with deeply lined, tanned face. “It’s not that early, Dan.”

“Working on a new novel?” Dan’s wife asked.

“Always, Carol,” Nick answered. “What are you and Dan doing up? I thought you retirees hated getting up before noon.”

“Yeah, right. We haven’t been in a bed past seven in fifty years, you slacker. Carol and I actually accomplish things in reality. We can’t all make a fortune writing about killers.”

“Dan!” Carol admonished, slapping her husband’s shoulder.

“I asked for it.” Nick chuckled as a harried man in his forties, wearing white cook’s garb rushed toward Nick’s table. “Uh oh, you short again, Joe?”

“Nancy’s still out with the flu. What can I get you, Nick, the usual?”

“Yep, and I’ll get my own coffee. Don’t hurry my order. I’ll fool around on the computer for a while,” Nick replied, standing up.