The OC

by D P Lyle

  “Thanks,” Pancake said. “I’ll let you know if I need anything else.”

  “I’ll keep sniffing around a bit. See if he drops deeper into the cyber swamp.”

  “That’s what I’d do,” Pancake said.

  A young lady, also a redhead, sat in the row across from him, placing her two carry-ons in the next seat. She smiled. He returned it.

  “That’s because you’re smart,” Gordy said. “This guy, like most of these miscreants, thinks he’s invisible. It’s always amazed me how many bad guys believe that once they put something out in cyberspace it evaporates and no breadcrumbs are left along the way. They’re always shocked when we come down on them with reams of texts, calls, cyber traffic, GPS data. That kind of stuff is good for the soul.” He laughed. “And keeps me employed.”

  “I truly appreciate this,” Pancake said. “But, like I said, sit tight. I’ll let you know if I need anything.”

  “You’ve tweaked my curiosity. I’ll sniff around a little more. Don’t get your hopes up but you just never know what snail trails are out there.”

  “Thanks. This guy just might turn out to be a big nothing.”

  “Let’s hope,” Graham said.

  “Let’s do.”

  CHAPTER 11

  MEGAN LAY IN her bed, staring at the ceiling. Her head throbbed, felt fuzzy, and her entire body seemed to have stiffened in the night. Nothing wanted to move right. Like a bad hangover or as if she had spent the night doing rigorous Pilates, or maybe mud wrestling. From the looks of her covers, comforter half off the bed, sheet braided around her legs, probably the later.

  More than once she had awakened with a feeling of being watched. Sure that she had heard the hiss of shoes sliding over the carpet, the squeak of a door hinge, or a bump against a wall. Certain she felt a cold draft, surely from an open door or window, or a warm breath on her neck. She would lie there, body tense, heart thumping against her chest, reaching out with all her senses, probing for some proof that what she had detected was real. The minutes ticked by while she berated herself for being so silly only to have the wave of fear reemerge. Twice she had slipped from bed and tiptoed through her condo, peering into closets, peeling back curtains to see what lurked in the darkness, and checking and rechecking the door locks. Only to chide herself for behaving like a paranoid fool or someone with compulsive OCD.

  Get a grip, Megan.

  More than once she had questioned her decision to take a first-floor unit. When she was looking, there were four available. One, a third-floor space, very similar to hers. But she didn’t want to deal with stairs, or the elevator that was located at the far end. She had opted for convenience over safety. Now that seemed a shortsighted choice.

  Even when she managed to drift off, the assault on her senses continued. Dreams of being trapped in a small, suffocating space, or being chased through—what?—jungle vines?—thick shrubbery?—something that clutched at her arms and legs, progressively limiting her movements as if she were encased in an invisible web.

  Right now, she felt the urge to reinspect everything. Closets, doors, windows.

  Quit being a ninnie.

  She stretched her back, twisting from side to side, unwound her legs from the sheet, and sat up. Her feet rested on the carpeted floor as she massaged one temple. It didn’t help.

  She knew the source of her stress. The phone call last night from Nicole and Jake had gotten her brain all wound up and sparking.

  They were completely overreacting to this. The guy was merely a fan. Awkward, sure, but still only a passionate fan. She had had many in the past. People who sent notes of praise to her or to the station. Folks who watched her telecasts religiously and truly liked what she did. Wasn’t that one of the perks of the job? The feeling of being liked, even needed. Viewers trusted her. They knew she would thoroughly research her pieces and present only the verified facts. Like her recent report on the new construction projects at The Spectrum, or last month’s piece on the county’s vanishing strawberry fields, or her frequent very popular chats with local celebs or authors. She got fan mail all the time. So did many others at the station. Channel 16 had loyal viewers, no doubt.

  So, this guy was simply a fan. Nothing more. To make him into something sinister was not very productive, and not fair to her, or to him.

  She stood. Her legs wobbled and her balance betrayed her. She sat again. She sighed, clutched the bedside table, and lifted herself upright. Once she felt steady, she made her way to the bathroom.

  The hot shower worked its magic as her tension ebbed and her headache dissolved. Clad in a robe and slippers, she shuffled her way to the kitchen and made a cup of Emeril’s Big Easy in her Keurig coffee maker. She sat on her sofa and began reading through the notes she had made for her production meeting. All seemed in order.

  She sat in front of her makeup mirror and examined her face. Skin slightly lax, eyes somewhat dark and baggy. Not too bad, at least not unfixable. A little extra makeup and she’d be good to go.

  Once she got her war paint on, her hair worked into something that was no longer a rat’s nest, and dressed in jeans, light-gray shirt, and navy blue jacket, she examined herself in the full-length mirror she had installed on the back of her bedroom door. She had looked better, but all in all not so bad.

  Time to roll.

  She stuffed everything she would need for the day into her shoulder bag and opened the door. A package flopped to the floor. It had obviously been leaning against her front door. Now she saw it was gift wrapped. White paper, red bow. Like the candy box.

  Her heart rate ticked up.

  She picked it up and retreated to her kitchen, placing it on the table. A small card was attached with a pledget of tape.

  The card read:

  For my one true love.

  A small token of my love. Something exquisite for an exquisite lady. Perfect for our honeymoon.

  Yours forever

  Your future husband

  She took an involuntary step back. What the hell?

  She looked at the gift. Should she open it or back away? Was it some sort of explosive device or maybe filled with some toxic powder? She flashed on the ricin letters that had been sent to several politicians many years ago. Also, the two cops that had collapsed after opening a bag of fentanyl during a drug bust. Maybe there was a coiled snake inside.

  Good lord, Megan. Shut your imagination down.

  Curiosity finally won and she tore through the wrapping and removed the lid from the box. She folded back the pink tissue paper, revealing something black and silky. She lifted a camisole and then a pair of thong panties.

  Her breath caught. Her head swiveled toward the door.

  He had been here. At her home.

  Were those the sounds she’d heard last night? The ones she had convinced herself were all in her head?

  A chill rippled through her.

  She frantically rummaged through her bag until she located her phone near the bottom.

  CHAPTER 12

  THE NEXT MORNING, Nicole and I were up early. Despite her keeping me up late. First by sitting out on her deck with a bottle of tequila where we watched a few late-night sailors cruise back into the harbor and then by, well, being Nicole.

  Plus we were still hovering around Central time, not Pacific.

  So, by seven, we were power walking down the bike path yet again. Much less painful than the Krav Maga classes we left behind in Gulf Shores, but still, after a night of tequila and Nicole, not all that easy. I had suggested a more leisurely pace, but Nicole murmured something that sounded like “Wimp” and we were off. Halfway back from The Wedge, my legs hurt, my head ached, and I wanted to sit and watch the waves. Mommy, can I have a recess?

  But Nicole charged on and I followed. To Charlie’s Chili. Apparently, she hadn’t yet had her fill of chili cheese omelets. Me either, apparently. I woofed mine along with three cups of coffee. By the time we left and headed back to Nicole’s condo, the cobwebs in my head shred
ded. I felt almost human again.

  It was eight thirty.

  “What time is Pancake’s flight getting in?” she asked.

  “Around three. He said he’d text when he hit the tarmac.”

  “Are we picking him up or is he grabbing a rental?”

  “We’re his rental.”

  “We might need a bigger car then.” She laughed.

  “I think the Range Rover can handle him.”

  As we entered Nicole’s condo, her cell buzzed. It was Megan. Nicole mostly listened then said, “We’re on the way. Half hour, tops.”

  “What is it?” I asked after she disconnected the call.

  “Something’s happened.”

  “To Megan?”

  “No, not that. But she received a package and she’s upset.”

  “What was in it? A severed head or something?”

  “You watch too much TV.”

  Actually, I didn’t, but she made her point.

  “She said we had to see it.”

  We took a quick shower, together, but no play time, dressed, and headed up Newport Boulevard toward Megan’s place.

  She lived in an upscale condo project near South Coast Plaza off Sunflower Avenue in Costa Mesa. Mature palm trees lined the paver entry drive that ended at a circle that spun around a flower-enveloped fountain. Eight buildings, each three floors and containing a dozen units, were arrayed around two community pools. Large, with ample deck space for sunbathing, a SoCal necessity, and a row of open cabanas along one side of each. More palms, red and pink bougainvillea, and flowering shrubs added a touch of class.

  We found Megan’s place toward the back, first floor. Nicole rang the buzzer.

  I expected to see swollen eyes, tearstained cheeks, disheveled hair, maybe pajamas. Not even close. She was obviously dressed for work. Her hair and makeup were model perfect, but stress lines hung near the corners of her eyes and mouth.

  “Thanks for coming,” Megan said. She held the door for us to enter. “I’m sorry to be such a bother.”

  “You’re not,” Nicole said.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  She sighed. “Maybe I’m overreacting and simply being a big baby. But it spooked me.”

  “What?” Nicole asked.

  She led us to the kitchen. A gift box sat on the table, its tissue folded open, black lingerie exposed. She lifted the thong with one finger. “This.”

  “He sent this?”

  “No. He left it leaning against my door.”

  “Oh,” Nicole said. Now worry lines emerged on her forehead. “He was here?”

  “Apparently.” She glanced toward her front door. “All night I heard—I don’t know what I heard—footsteps, bumps and creaks, even breath sounds.” She gave a headshake. “Didn’t sleep worth a damn.”

  “What’s this?” I asked, lifting the small envelope.

  “The card that was attached.”

  I tugged the card out, unfolded it and read it, tilting it toward Nicole.

  “This has officially reached creepy,” I said.

  “And dangerous,” Nicole added. “My guy, the really bad one, sent me all sorts of lingerie. Even a box of condoms.” She glanced at me. “In case I had sex with someone besides him. He said he knew all actresses were whores so figured I might need them. To stay clean and pure for him.”

  “Good Lord,” Megan said.

  This was part of the story I’d never heard. Disturbing didn’t cover it. Made me wonder about my gender.

  “He and the Lord didn’t have even a passing acquaintance,” Nicole said.

  “Is this as bad as I think it is?” Megan asked.

  “It’s definitely an escalation,” I said. “Much more personal, and creepier than creepy.”

  “Do you have any idea what time he might have left it?” Nicole asked.

  “No. Like I said, I heard things all night. Bumps and scrapes and footsteps.” She shrugged. “My imagination was definitely in overdrive. I convinced myself it was in my head, or maybe the wind. After I found the package leaning against my door, I had this image of me checking the lock last night and him standing just on the other side.” Her lips trembled. “Freaked me out that I could’ve been that close to him.”

  Nicole hugged her. “Honey, I’m so sorry that this is happening.”

  “I’m glad you’re here. Thanks for coming.”

  “We’re here now, so relax.” Nicole pushed Megan back and looked at her. “Before we get all wound up, let’s wait for Pancake to get here. He knows all about this stuff.”

  “When will that be?”

  “This afternoon,” Nicole said. “We’re picking him up.”

  “Then we can all get together and try to make some sense of this,” I said.

  Megan sighed. “At least I get to meet the mysterious Pancake.”

  “He’s not that mysterious,” I said. “What you see is what you get.”

  “I feel like I know him already. Nicole has talked about him a lot.”

  “There’s a lot to say. Also a lot of Pancake.”

  Silence fell for a good half a minute.

  “Should we go to the police?” Nicole asked.

  “And say what?” Megan said. “That some dude sent me some underwear?”

  “Also, he’s been stalking you with unwanted emails,” Nicole said. “And, oh by the way, came to your door.”

  “I’m sure they have more important things to deal with.”

  “Do they? Maybe you can at least get a restraining order.”

  “Against who? John Doe Number One?”

  That was true, I thought. Without a name, I’m not sure you can get a TRO, Temporary Restraining Order. Since there had been no overt threat, there likely wasn’t anything the police could, or would, do. Maybe if he had fired a round through her window or kicked her door in, but words in a bunch of emails? Words that really weren’t very threatening. I didn’t see them getting all amped up. Or even very interested.

  “Let’s wait until Pancake gets here,” I said. “Get his take. He has good instincts on things like this.”

  “You’re coming to stay with us,” Nicole said.

  “No.” Megan shook her head. “I’m not going to have some freak run me out of my home.”

  “Humor me,” Nicole said. “I’d feel much better.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  Nicole touched her arm. “After another sleepless night? Hearing things?”

  Megan seemed to consider that, but then shook her head. “No. I’ll be fine.”

  “With us, Jake will be there to protect you.”

  “Me?” I said. “You’re the queen of Krav Maga.”

  Megan smiled. “You guys still doing that?”

  I shrugged. “Unfortunately.”

  “He whines a lot but he actually loves it.”

  No, I didn’t. For me, the only silver lining was seeing Nicole in her gym outfit. Sort of like elastic body paint. That and knowing that my girlfriend can kick the hell out of yours. So there.

  “Besides,” Nicole continued, “we’ll have Pancake.”

  “I appreciate it,” Megan said. “I know you’re concerned. I love you for that. But I have a life to live and a few squirrely emails aren’t going to prevent that.”

  “Don’t forget the undies he left at your door,” I said.

  “How could I?”

  “It proves he knows where you live,” Nicole said.

  “I know.”

  “So come stay with us.”

  “I’ll think about it.” Megan checked her watch. “But right now, I need to get to the studio.”

  “Okay.” Nicole nodded toward me. “We’ll follow you.”

  “Why?”

  “He was here,” I said. “Might still be in the area. Watching and waiting.”

  “In broad daylight? Why?”

  “To see you in person,” Nicole said. “In the flesh and up close.”

  Megan glanced toward the window. The curtains were clos
ed.

  “My guy,” Nicole said, “had taken over a thousand pictures of me and dozens of videos. Home, the studio, shopping, the gym. He followed me everywhere for nearly a year. The entire time I was clueless. Until he stepped forward, came out of the shadows, and began to approach me directly, I never knew he existed.”

  “This is crazy,” Megan said.

  “It is,” I said. “That’s why we’re following you to work and why you won’t leave work until we pick up Pancake and come back by.”

  “Okay.” Megan grabbed her purse and shoulder bag from her sofa. “Let’s get rolling.”

  CHAPTER 13

  IT’S HARD TO miss Pancake. Sort of like picking out a rhino running with a herd of gazelles. Today was no exception. As I rolled the Range Rover into the Arrivals area of John Wayne Airport, some traffic but at least it moved, and pulled to the curb outside baggage claim, there he was. His red hair a beacon over the heads of the other passengers. He stood next to the bronze statue of The Duke himself. I had read the statue was nine feet tall. Pancake looked bigger.

  He had one hand on a rolling suitcase and the other clamping his phone to his ear. His computer bag hung over one shoulder. He saw us and dragged his suitcase our way. After tossing it in the back he climbed in the left rear seat, the car tilting that way as he settled in. He ended his call and shoved his phone in one pocket.

  “How was your flight?” Nicole asked.

  “Long and boring. The cuisine sucked.”

  “Doesn’t it always?”

  Pancake grunted. “I need food.”

  Of course he did.

  I pulled into traffic and followed the stream toward the airport exit. “What would you like?”

  “Something big.”

  “There’s a Jersey Mike’s near here,” Nicole said.

  “Drive faster.”

  I did. Sort of. Not Nicole-fast but I did push the speed limit as best I could in traffic. The sub shop was on Sunflower Avenue, very near Megan’s condo. We grabbed Pancake a pair of twelve-inch subs, one Italian and the other meatball. I then did a spin through Megan’s complex and cruised by her condo. Everything looked quiet, and I didn’t see any strangers around. Not that I expected to.