It was the kind of day that glances at you and then it’s gone. Gregson emerged from the water, his belly bouncing in the starlight. Domino could’ve been a goddess of the deep as she marched up the beach under the full moon. “What’s your plan, or do you have one?” She asked.
“Just follow me.”
“You’re such a toxic masculine man.”
Discarded umbrella drinks littered the sand, while he avoided them so they didn’t stick into the bottoms of his bare feet. A wall was up ahead, tall, and dark. He shouldered his spear gun and aimed at the security light with the mounted camera moving in their direction.
Fsh. The tensile line grappled through the air and stuck between the metal. “I don’t think it’ll hold my weight,” Gregson said. “How are you at climbing?”
Domino smirked at the fat detective, while she hoisted herself up the obstruction like a cat climbing a tree. Gregson stared at her, and kept staring. Then he realized the camera would catch him in two seconds. His belly hit the beach grass, as she fell over the wall.
In half a minute, a little door opened 20 yards away. Gregson followed her into a courtyard where two Dobermans looked at them like death. They were inching forward with open mouths. Gregson pointed his watch at their heads like a remote control and pressed a button. They instantly froze.
“What did you do?” Domino asked.
“It’s a subsonic dog whistle—sends out a signal that paralyzes any canine in a 100-meter radius—gives them a small seizure.”
“You are just full of surprises,” she said.
Gregson had that effect on women; it was his style, not in how he dressed, but in how he carried himself. It was his resourcefulness, though he appeared to lack resources—it was something that cannot be seen, until it materializes like magic.