by D P Lyle
“Thanks,” I said.
Phyllis P returned to her call.
We found Megan in a rather large room that held four desks, one near each corner. Obviously, a multi-user office. She sat at one desk, a legal pad and pen in hand. To her left, Abby worked on a computer.
“There you guys are,” Megan said. “Any trouble finding this place?”
“Not really,” Nicole said.
“We’re tucked back here off the beaten path.”
“You know,” Nicole said, “when we pulled up, I realized I’d never seen where you work.”
“Here it is.” She waved a hand. “My humble abode.”
I looked at Abby, who had swung her chair around to face us. “How’re you doing?”
“Megan’s making me work too hard.” She smiled. “Sort of a slave driver.”
Megan matched her laugh. “You know? The youngsters? Got to stay on top of them.”
“You’re not that much older than me,” Abby said. “Only a few years.” She shrugged. “But in terms of experience in this business? Light-years.”
Megan stood. “Let me show you around.” She nodded toward the two unoccupied desks. “We have two rooms like this. We don’t have the space or the funds for everyone to have a private office so we sort of dorm room it.” She shrugged. “It can get chaotic at times, but for the most part it works.”
We followed her back into the hallway. Another nearly identical four-desk office space was across the way. It sat empty. Back toward the entry were three recording studios. Two smaller ones to our right and a large one to our left. Only one of the smaller ones was in use, the other dark. A woman and a man sat in matching comfortable chairs, angled forty-five degrees from the camera and from each other. Behind them was an easel with a large sign that read “Regal Real Estate Partners.”
“Pretty quiet right now,” Megan said. “They’re recording a fifteen-minute commercial spot.”
“From what I saw,” I said, “you do a lot of those.”
Megan nodded. “Got to keep the lights, and the cameras, on. These commercial slots really keep our head above water.”
“How else do you bring in revenue?” I asked.
“Some public funds from the PBS world. Donations, of course. We sell our logo hats and shirts and things like that. And we do several fundraisers every year.”
“Things going okay? Financially wise?”
“So far so good. But it’s a constant battle.”
Megan moved to the smoked glass wall that peered into the larger studio. “This is our main studio. Where I do my reports. Where we do major recordings and all the live stuff.”
“It looks well equipped,” I said.
It did. Three cameras, several mic booms, and a main set that included a long desk with space for four or more people. For interviews, I assumed. The Channel 16 logo fronted the desk. A smaller set with two director’s chairs and a backdrop, also with the station logo, sat near the far wall.
“We are blessed there,” Megan said. “The owners didn’t scrimp on electronics.”
We returned to Megan’s office.
“Anything new from that guy?” Nicole asked.
“A couple of emails this morning.”
“Can we see everything you have so far?” I asked.
“Sure.”
Megan settled in her chair and spun to face her computer. Nicole and I pulled up chairs, Abby rolled in behind us, looking over Nicole’s shoulder.
“I can’t imagine you’ll see anything in these,” Megan said.
“Probably not,” I said. “But it doesn’t hurt to look.”
“Let’s go through them chronologically,” Nicole said.
“Okay.” Megan tapped the keyboard and called up her email program.
“How many are we talking about?” I asked.
“A couple of dozen or so. Many more texts.”
There were actually nineteen emails. Over the past three weeks. The first few were benign, saying things like he was a “big fan” and “love your style.” The fifth one said that he would “love to meet you sometime.” A couple of days later, an invitation to drinks and dinner. Megan had replied to each, being very formal and even standoffish but always considerate. Treating him like a fan and nothing more.
“Looks pretty harmless so far,” I said.
“Let’s see the rest,” Nicole said.
Number sixteen suggested a change in tone and attitude. Just yesterday. It followed a couple of other invitations to hook up.
It read:
I’m truly injured by your refusal to see me. I’m confused and hurt because I know we could be friends. Maybe more. Who knows? Romances have blossomed from less. What if we were meant for each other and your stubbornness prevented either of us from ever experiencing that? Makes me sad to even think about. Please reconsider and join me for a nice, quiet, romantic dinner. If we have sparks then fine and if not, at least we will both know for sure.
“That’s a little more desperate,” Nicole said.
“Exactly what I told her,” Abby added. “It reminds me of my stalker. All nice and kind but then more demanding.” She shook her head. “Then it only got worse.”
“You guys are overreacting,” Megan said.
“I agree,” I said. “Maybe he’s a little desperate, but this suggests a degree of ineptness more than anything else.”
“Says the voice of experience,” Nicole said.
“You’re saying I’m inept?”
“More so the opposite. You have a knack for engaging people. Apparently, this guy doesn’t.” She raised an eyebrow, and then said to Megan, “Jake has a way with women.”
Megan laughed. “That’s obvious.”
“It’s because he’s so handsome,” Abby said.
“Also pretty,” Nicole added.
“Yeah,” Abby said. “That, too.”
The three of them shared a laugh.
“Are you finished picking on me?” I asked.
Nicole roughed my hair. “Poor baby. Always put upon.”
“You’ll pay for this later,” I said.
“That’s the plan.”
Another round of laughter.
“Let’s look at the two from today,” I said.
The next one was somewhat apologetic for him being pushy. Even contrite, promising not to pressure her. But the final one, which had come in a half hour ago, was definitely more aggressive.
It read:
Please don’t ignore me. Please meet me. Only then will you see that I’m a real and caring person who only wants what’s best for you. For us. We could have a future together if you would only open the door and let me in. I’m trying so hard to not let your refusals spike my anger but it isn’t easy. I don’t want to feel that way about you. I want to love and cherish you. Please, I beg of you, don’t push me away.
“Oh,” Abby said. “I hadn’t seen that one. That is major-league creepy.”
Megan sighed. “Maybe not all the way to creepy.”
“I take back what I said earlier,” I said. “He’s more than simply inept.”
“Unstable is the word,” Nicole said.
“Absolutely,” Abby added. “This one has an entirely different tone than the earlier ones.”
Megan sighed. “I hate this. I wish he’d simply go away.”
“He won’t,” Abby said.
“What about texts?” I asked. “You said you’ve gotten those also.”
“Yeah. Maybe forty or so.”
“Let’s see.”
Megan opened her messaging app on her computer. “This is synced to my phone so all of them are here.”
There were eight threads and a total of forty-seven messages. I immediately noticed that they came from several different phone numbers. Looked like a dozen from one, the next dozen or so from another, and so on. All from the 720 area code.
“The area codes are the Denver area,” I said.
“I never noticed,” Megan said.
&
nbsp; “I played ball with a guy from Denver. That’s how I know.”
“You’re becoming a real P.I.,” Nicole said.
Was she poking fun at me? She smiled, proving she was.
Back to the business at hand, I scanned through the texts. Most were benign, simply letting her know he was thinking of her. Some said he had watched her show and that she was “wonderful,” or “perky,” or “oh so beautiful.” A few invited her to meet him at some bar or restaurant. These were mostly last-minute contacts, him telling her he was out somewhere and thinking of her and thought he’d see if she was free. She never was. All of Megan’s replies, to her credit, were polite and noncommittal. As with the emails, his tone underwent a change over the past forty-eight hours. Abby’s use of the term desperate seemed appropriate.
“You have no idea who this is?” I asked.
“None.” She shrugged. “All I know is what you’ve seen right here.”
“Has he called?” Nicole asked.
Megan shook her head. “No. Other than these there were only the brief notes that accompanied the presents he’s sent.”
“Do you have those?” I asked.
“I tossed them. The only one I have is from last night. The one you saw.”
I struggled with what to say. Should I assure her that this was simply a devoted fan with suspect social skills? Or that he might be some deranged stalker who should be taken seriously? I mean, most, nearly all, of his communications had been friendly and nonthreatening. Only a few had crossed that line. Maybe those were when he was having a bad day. A little cranky and frustrated with Megan stiff-arming him. But did any of this make him truly dangerous? Truth was, I was on the fence. Apparently, Nicole wasn’t.
“I think we should try to track this guy down,” Nicole said.
“How?” Megan asked.
“Open up one of the emails,” I said.
She did. I now saw that he had a Gmail account and his user name was “DevotedFan998877.”
“Now click there and scroll down to ‘show original,’” I said.
She did. A page appeared with all sorts of letters and numbers and computer gibberish.
“What’s this?” Megan asked.
“It’s how he can be tracked, I think,” I said. “This should show his IP address and maybe who he is.”
“Looks like a mad scientist’s notepad to me,” Abby said.
I laughed. “It does and truthfully it makes little sense to me.” Then to Megan, I said, “Can you forward me all of those? Both emails and texts?”
“Why?” Megan asked.
“So we can begin tracking down his email and phone services. Maybe find him.”
“You know how to do that?” Abby asked.
“No. That’s above my pay grade.”
“And mental capacity,” Nicole said.
“You’re funny. You really are.”
“Okay, you two,” Megan said. “But all that begs the question, how are you going to find this dude?”
“I got a guy.”
“Who?”
“Pancake.” Nicole and I said it in unison.
“Ah, the mysterious Pancake,” Megan said.
“Who’s Pancake?” Abby asked.
I did my best to describe him for her. Size, weight, red hair, need for constant food. Also, that he was a P.I. who worked for my father. In the end, my description seemed anemic. Pancake isn’t easily reduced to words.
“He’s an investigator?” Abby asked.
“Very skilled with computers, too.”
“So, he’ll know what all this means?”
“Probably. If not, he knows people who do.”
Abby laid a hand on Megan’s shoulder. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
“I bet it’ll be some fourteen-year-old video gamer,” Megan said.
That for sure would be the best-case scenario, but I had a feeling that wasn’t the case. I was beginning to catch Nicole’s creep bug and beginning to feel that Megan’s secret admirer wasn’t just some infatuated fool. Not sure why, but that was the sensation that crept up my back.
CHAPTER 8
“THIS IS CURIOUS,” Pancake said.
“This case?” Ray asked.
“No. Something from Jake and Nicole.”
“What? Nicole finally got a speeding ticket?”
Pancake grunted. “She’s immune to those.”
“Apparently. So what is it?”
“Some emails and texts.”
“Okay, I’ll bite. What about them?”
They were seated in Longly Investigations de facto office. The round teak table on the deck of Ray’s place, a stilted three-bedroom house on the sand in Gulf Shores. Pancake with his computer in front of him and the remnants of his lunch—actually only the waded bag that had held the four pulled pork sandwiches he had picked up at Captain Rocky’s on his way over—one for Ray, three for him—near his right elbow. Ray, his computer also open, a can of Mountain Dew nearby.
“Jake called while I was on the way back with lunch,” Pancake said. “Said he had some stuff he wanted me to track.”
“Why?”
“Remember Nicole talking about her friend out in Orange County? The TV reporter?”
“Megan something? Right?”
“Megan Weatherly. Seems she has a rather intrusive fan. Sending a bunch of emails and texts. Acting more or less like a stalker. Some kind of weird anyway.”
“I assume they have police in Newport Beach,” Ray said.
“They do.”
“Sounds like something they should handle.” Ray waved a hand toward the stack of papers between them. “We need to finish our research on the case before us. We have a meeting with the clients tomorrow.”
“I know. But the thing is that something don’t smell right here.”
“In what way?” Ray asked.
“First off, the sender of all the emails is one DevotedFan998877.”
Ray laid aside the pages he had been reading. “Go on.”
“It’s a Gmail account. I looked into it but found zero personal info attached.”
“Some folks do that.”
“They do. Particularly if they want to stay off the radar.”
“Or prefer privacy.”
“Yeah, that, too. All the texts come from phones with 720 area codes. Denver area.”
“Okay, so she has a devoted fan from Denver,” Ray said. “Is there something in the messages that raises concern?”
“Somewhat. They do seem to escalate from nice friendly banter to something more needy. Someone who could indeed be a stalker. Which seems to be Nicole’s take on it.”
“She does have good instincts.”
“Exactly. Anyway, Jake asked if I could track where they came from.”
“Should be easy.”
“Should be. All the texts were sent from several different locations. All in the Orange County area.”
“So her Denver fan is in The OC?”
“Looks that way.”
Ray leaned back, folded his hands over his abdomen. “That opens the door to several possibilities.”
“You mean like he’s traveled a thousand miles to be near her?”
“It crossed my mind.”
“Mine, too.”
“Or maybe he bought the phone in Denver while on vacation and he’s actually from California,” Ray said.
“Also possible. But here’s the kicker. The messages come from four different phones. The IPs suggest they’re all prepaid burners. AT&T is the carrier.”
“People use those, too.”
Pancake grunted. “Dealers and gangsters and pimps. And stalkers.”
“Him using several burners does raise the stakes. Also means he won’t be easy to ID.”
“Nope. But I did find the place of purchase. In Denver.”
“So call the store,” Ray said.
“My next move.”
Pancake stood, walked to the railing, and looked out over the beach as he made
the call. Took a few minutes to convince the owner he was a legit P.I. and not some criminal type and finally got the info he needed. He returned to his seat.
“Anything?”
“Curious. A dozen phones. Purchased at one time. For cash. Under the name of Terry Zander. No address or contact info given. Guy said since it was a year ago; he has no independent recollection of the buyer.” He shrugged. “Didn’t suspect he would. So, now I need to find Mr. Zander.”
“Don’t take too long. We’re under the gun with the case we’re being paid for.”
Pancake grunted again.
Over the next hour, Pancake rummaged around the internet, employed several of his tools, some anyone could purchase and others he had pilfered here and there from places that didn’t allow pilfering. Not that that ever deterred him. In the end, he found that there were only three Terry or Terrance Zanders in the entire state of Colorado. One had an obituary from six months earlier; the other two alive and well. He tracked down three contact numbers—neither the number in question—and called them. The first was an eighty-two-year-old dude who lived in an assisted living facility and was more than a little crabby; the other a sixteen-year-old high school student who was mostly an asshole. In the end, neither seemed to be the purchaser of the dozen phones.
Ray had headed inside, made a few calls, and grabbed a fresh Dew. He returned, the can in one hand, a container of yogurt and a spoon in the other.
“That all you got to eat around here?” Pancake asked.
“There’s some fruit on the kitchen counter.”
“And?”
Ray shrugged. “Nothing in your culinary wheelhouse.”
“Guess I better go shopping and restock your kitchen.”
“Finish your research first.”
“I don’t work well when I’m hungry.”
Ray sat. “You’re always hungry. Besides, you just ate three sandwiches.”
“That was then; this is now.”
Ray spooned out a bite of yogurt. “I think I have some hot dogs in the freezer.”
“Let me guess, turkey dogs?”
Ray smiled.
“That ain’t a real hot dog.”
“It’s what I have.”
Pancake headed to the kitchen and in fifteen minutes returned with a plate containing three dogs, each slathered with mustard. He ate one in three bites.
