She came out of the house dressed in a crisp white tennis outfit with a scandalously short skirt. She was tall and willowy with long tanned legs. Her dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail that was pulled through the opening at the back of her white cap.

As he photographed her he wondered which one she was. He knew the names of half a dozen of the girls who lived in that house because he had made it his business to find out. He had waited on several occasions to watch the mailman make his delivery for the day, and when the mailman had gone out of sight and no one else had been on the street, he had gone onto the porch of the big house and casually sorted through the mail that had been left.

He had a list of the girls from this house on a page in his notebook. Holly Johnson, Jennifer Porter, Sarah McCoy, Natalie Witman, Heather Ortiz, and Renee Paquin. He had added the name Renee Paquin last night. The name that had been written in marker on the laundry bag he had taken the panties from.

At the reminder of her name he could smell her. He could taste her pussy. He wished he had her panties with him now so he could put them in his mouth again and suck on them. He set his camera aside on the passenger seat, then reached inside his open fly. He fondled himself even as he watched the lithe tennis player walk away down the street.

If he was lucky, she was Renee Paquin. He remembered seeing tennis clothes in the laundry bag.

As she turned the corner and walked out of sight, he stopped playing with himself, zipped his pants, and cleaned his hands with a moist towelette. Then he took a moment to jot a few notes in his book.

He was very organized and methodical by nature. Even as a small child he had always kept his possessions and his thoughts compartmentalized and orderly. His notes were a reflection of his nature. His handwriting was small and precise, his observations meticulous.

He used only quality materials, purchasing his notebooks and pens in an art supply store. The paper was slightly thicker and more absorbent of the ink than that of cheaper notebooks available in common retail outlets. The pens he used were the ultrafine-point pens favored by architects.

In fact, he had stolen pens from the home of the Lawtons in Santa Barbara. Lance Lawton had been a well-respected architect. Roland had enjoyed using his pens.

At the top of the page he had written the address of the sorority house and had made a detailed description of the house—not just what it looked like, but where it sat on the block, how it was situated on the lot, what the landscaping was like, the sight lines to the neighboring houses.