The OC

by D P Lyle

  “What’s this?” Pancake asked, napkining sauce from his chin.

  “This’s where Megan lives,” Nicole said.

  Pancake scanned the area. “Nice. Clean. Upscale.”

  “It is.” Nicole twisted in her seat to more directly face Pancake. “The guy, the one stalking her, left a package at her door this morning.”

  Pancake stopped chewing for a beat. “She didn’t see him, I take it?”

  “Nope. It was there when she was leaving for work.”

  “What was in it?” Pancake asked. “A severed head?”

  “Good Lord, you and Jake think alike.”

  Pancake grunted. “Jake doesn’t think all that much.”

  This was my best friend talking.

  “But he’s cute so he can get by on his looks,” Nicole said.

  Now my girlfriend chimes in. All I needed was for Ray to be here and add his own special dig and the chorus would be complete. A full-house backfield of comedians. I didn’t engage, letting them play out their little game of verbal badminton with me as the shuttlecock.

  “Story of his life.” Pancake shoved the last of the meatball sub in his mouth and spoke around it. “So, what was in it?”

  “Lingerie. Plus a card that said it was for their honeymoon.”

  “That the first time he hand-delivered anything?”

  “Yes,” Nicole said. “Megan said he had sent flowers and candy a few times, but each of those was delivered.”

  “He’s closing the distance,” Pancake said. “Beginning to step out of the shadows.”

  “That doesn’t sound good,” Nicole said.

  “It isn’t and it is. It means he’s becoming more aggressive but also means he’s exposing himself. Never underestimate the power of luck. Or for some citizen to witness, even prevent, some crime.”

  “I’ll go for prevent,” Nicole said.

  “Better not to wait for him to slip up,” Pancake said. “Better to go after him.”

  “How?” I asked.

  “Unfortunately, that’ll be easier said than done. It looks like he’s using a series of prepaid burner phones. If he stuck with one it’d be hard enough, but rotating them makes it almost impossible to track. Actually a clever move on his part.”

  “You’re saying those prepaid phones can’t be traced?” Nicole said.

  “Not like a regular phone for sure. We can grab call logs and such. See who he called, when, and for how long. Even track the general area where the call came from by seeing which cell towers were used. But those rigs don’t typically have GPS so pinpointing his location in real time is out the window.”

  “He still has to buy the phones,” I said. “That’s an exposure.”

  “He does.” Now Pancake was into the Italian sub. “If the buyer’s stupid enough to give up a credit card or his real name, that creates a viable trail. But, if he’s smart and buys it anonymously, for cash, and gives a fake name, then there’s no trail to him.”

  “Which this guy did, I suspect.”

  “He did. He purchased a dozen phones a year ago in Denver.”

  “Denver?” Nicole asked. “Do you think he’s in Denver? That this is all long distance?”

  “Nope. His emails and texts are sent locally. Besides, he wouldn’t be able to leave lingerie at her door if he was in Denver,” Pancake said.

  Nicole shrugged. “True.”

  “The IPs he’s been using for the emails are here in Orange County.”

  “IP,” I said. “I’ve heard of that. It’s those little number things in emails. Right?”

  “Yeah. Little number things.”

  “Okay, codes, whatever.”

  “IP address stands for internet protocol address. Every machine has its own. Computers, phones, any device that uses the internet. It’s more or less the device’s ID or address in the cyber world. Then a Wi-Fi hot spot, say a coffee shop or a public Wi-Fi system, has a router and it too has an IP address. When you log on to one of those, your computer or phone will be given a temporary IP. That’s done through what’s called a DHCP, or Dynamic Host Configuration Protocol.”

  “Can you dumb this down?” I asked.

  “For you? Sure.”

  Did I say Pancake was my BFF? He was also a couple of other things but I refrained from pointing that out.

  He continued. “All that gibberish means that we can track his device through his carrier. In this case AT&T. Get a general location through the cell towers, and when he jumps on the internet to send emails, we can locate the router that the email was sent through. Doing that in real time isn’t easy so all the information gathered is past history. He would’ve moved on to another spot. It looks like this guy’s using places like coffee shops and public Wi-Fi setups to connect.”

  “It still sounds like a lot of information,” Nicole said.

  “Not enough though,” Pancake said. “Not what we need. It only tells us where he’s been, not where he is.”

  “So what now?” Nicole asked.

  “Unfortunately, right now we’re swimming in dark water. We need to get below the surface.”

  “Doesn’t sound like it’s going to be easy,” Nicole said.

  “It won’t. I spoke with my guy earlier. Actually, Ray’s guy. He lives in the cyber world. I wanted to make sure I was on the right track. He said I was, so there is that.”

  “This guy?” I asked. “He’s going to help?”

  “Right now he’s laying back. But if we need him, he’s ready to jump in. Problem is he can’t use his work computers so he’s doing it from home on his own time. So if we have to bring him in, that might slow things down some.”

  “Who is he?” I asked. “FBI? CIA?”

  Pancake grunted. “He might be a fourteen-year-old with a laptop.”

  “Who has a job where he can’t use his work computer?” I asked.

  “You’re smarter than you look.”

  Not sure if that was a compliment or not but I let it ride. “So which is it?” I asked.

  “Right idea, wrong letters.”

  “NSA.”

  Pancake grunted.

  “Wait a minute,” Nicole said. “If you and Ray reached out to someone at the NSA, this is a big deal. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Maybe, maybe not. But you know me. Never make a fight a slappy fight. Make it a war. Haul out the nuclear weapons early and end it quickly. Deguello.”

  “Which means?” Nicole asked.

  “It’s a ZZ Top album,” I said. “Actually, the best Top album.”

  “It was also the battle cry by Santa Ana’s men at the Alamo. It means take no prisoners, give no quarter. A fight to the death.”

  “Isn’t that a little dramatic?” Nicole asked.

  “It is until it isn’t,” Pancake said. “Then it’s real.”

  CHAPTER 14

  AFTER ENSCONCING PANCAKE in one of Nicole’s guest rooms, we had an hour to kill before heading over to the studio to chat with Megan, who was apparently in a production meeting right now. Pancake and I poured some Makers Mark over ice and settled in the comfy chairs on the deck. A warm breeze flowed up the ship channel. In the boat slot directly below, a shirtless guy in frayed jeans hosed off a sailboat. It appeared to be forty-two or so feet long and fairly new. White with a dark-blue waterline.

  “Nice place,” Pancake said.

  “It is. Nicole and I were talking last night about us not coming here often enough.”

  “You’re a busy boy. With a restaurant to run and all.”

  Pancake’s way of jabbing me. I actually did mostly nothing as far as Captain Rocky’s was concerned, leaving that to my manager, Carla Martinez. Which reminded me, I should call her and see if all was smooth. The truth was I’d hear if things weren’t. Or maybe not. More likely she would handle it, and I’d hear about it when I got back. Plus, I didn’t want to have her bitch at me about dragging Pancake off to California. Which, in my defense, I didn’t. He came of his own accord. She probably wouldn’t s
ee it that way. She always missed her mornings with the Big Guy when he was away. Missed sitting on the deck watching him devour free breakfast burritos. I think he sort of fed her mothering instincts.

  Nicole joined us, glass of red wine in her hand. She walked to the railing and looked down.

  “Hey, Jimmy. How’s it going?” Nicole said.

  “Nicole. I didn’t know you were here.”

  “Just for a couple of weeks.”

  He stepped off the boat, shut off the water flow, and began looping the hose.

  Nicole waved a hand toward us. “I don’t think you’ve met Jake yet. Or Pancake.”

  “Hello.” He gave a brief nod. “Pancake? Can’t say I’ve heard that one before.”

  “Me either,” Pancake said.

  “This is Jimmy Fabrick,” Nicole said. “He rents my boat slip.”

  “It’s a lifesaver. Finding a slip in Newport Beach, Dana Point, or really anywhere around here isn’t easy. I was down in Dana Point for a while, but the guy I rented from sold the space.” He hung the coiled hose on the metal hook that protruded from a post near the bow. “Nicole was kind enough to rent me the space.”

  “Which makes you the lifesaver,” Nicole said. “Since I don’t have a boat.”

  He glanced at his watch. “Got to run. Nice meeting you.” He snatched up the green tee shirt that lay on the pier and tugged it on as he wiggled on a pair of sandals.

  “See you again, I’m sure,” I said.

  He headed up the boardwalk. Nicole sat next to me.

  “I never knew you had a boat slip,” I said.

  “I tied up the lease when I purchased the condo. Those things are like gold around here. The rent it commands more than covers my lease fees.”

  “Smart move,” Pancake said.

  “It was. It is.”

  “What’s Ray up to?” I asked Pancake.

  “Busy being Ray. He’s buried his teeth into some big-money lawsuit in Montgomery. One partner taking on another.”

  “Those can be tricky.”

  “This one’s like a nasty divorce. The two partners might’ve been able to work things out but the wives are at war to the point that dissolving the partnership is the only solution.”

  “Ah, the life of a P.I.”

  “You got that right.” He took a slug of his drink. “We’re doing some financial snooping to make sure all the funds are where they should be and are fairly divided.” He smiled. “Right now that’s Ray’s problem. Me? I’m enjoying the warm California air and a good bourbon.”

  “Bet Ray’s happy you bolted.”

  “Happy isn’t the word I’d choose. But he’s okay with it. Once I explained my concerns.”

  “You really are bothered by this guy, aren’t you?” Nicole asked.

  “I am.”

  “Which makes me uncomfortable. If he spooks you, I’m really worried.”

  Pancake grunted, swirled the ice in his bourbon.

  “What is it exactly? I get that he’s using untraceable phones and sending a bunch of messages and presents and stuff and that he’s sounded more creepy lately. From past history, I know that can blossom into trouble. But I sense something else is bothering you?”

  Pancake gazed up the row of boats, gathering his thoughts. “Let me ask you this. Does Megan have any intentions of meeting with this guy? At any time?”

  “No. Definitely not.”

  He nodded. “That’s where the rubber meets the road.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I agree. She shouldn’t meet this guy. At least not alone.”

  “She won’t.”

  He sighed. “Maybe, if she’s lucky, the guy will get bored, or latch on to someone else, and all this will evaporate.”

  “But you don’t believe that,” I said.

  “Could happen. But these guys, these stalker types, expect to fulfill their fantasies. Achieve the pipe dream that the target will fall in love with them and they’ll live happily ever after. At least that’s the script they create.”

  “And if not?” Nicole said. “If she rejects him completely?”

  “That’s where it can get testy. He might grow frustrated, angry, vindictive, and so on to downright dangerous.” Another slug of bourbon. “No one likes to have their dreams dashed. Particularly someone who is a born loser.”

  “We don’t know anything about him. How do you know he’s a loser?”

  “If he was cool, and charming, and actually had a chance to win her heart, he wouldn’t be doing this.” Another headshake. “These types aren’t adept at relationships. That’s why they stalk anonymously. Weren’t the guys who harassed you at the end of the day losers?” Pancake asked.

  “I get your point,” Nicole said.

  “But it’s really more than that. Her rejection, or anyone’s rejection, only underlines the stalker’s own feelings of inadequacy. He goes out, sees happy couples, beautiful people having fun. Something he might never have experienced. Or did and it ended badly. Either way, it stokes his own pathology. Why can’t he get the girl? Only feeds his dark nature.”

  “You make him sound like a monster,” Nicole said.

  “Not yet. But he could be headed that way.”

  “You think?” I asked.

  “What really bothers me is that he hasn’t called and spoken directly with her. He hasn’t simply walked up to her and introduced himself. He hasn’t hand-delivered the flowers or the candy. Even the lingerie was done on the sly.”

  “Isn’t that a good thing?” Nicole asked.

  “You’d think. But to me it says he has something to hide. He needs to stay in the shadows, out of sight.”

  “And?” I asked, sensing there was more to this line of thinking.

  “Maybe his agenda isn’t to show her he’s the guy for her. That they should ride off into the sunset and live happily ever after. Maybe he gets his kicks by inflicting terror on her. If that’s his goal, then staying murky and unknown makes the fear more intense. A faceless monster is always scarier than the one you know.”

  “Like the troll under the bridge,” I said.

  Pancake nodded. “The creature under the bed.”

  Nicole seemed to consider that. She leaned forward and rested her forearms on her knees, hands clasped. “I have to agree. The ones I attracted were always known to me. They contacted me. Showed up at unexpected times. That was scary enough, but it never crossed my mind that that was actually better than not knowing who was following me.”

  “Paul Simon wrote a song about it,” Pancake said. “Life is black and white but our imaginations are Kodachrome.”

  “Do you really believe that?” Nicole asked. “That this is all terror tactics and not some ploy to grab her attention?”

  “He’s got her attention alright,” I said.

  “True, but you know what I mean.”

  “Not sure what I believe yet,” Pancake said. “We’re too early in this to create a coherent image of this dude. But, based on what little I’ve seen, I think that’s possible.”

  Silence fell for a full minute, then Nicole said, “Megan doesn’t deserve this.”

  “No one deserves this,” I said.

  “So we have to find him,” Nicole said. “Before he does something stupid.”

  “You mean like leaving lingerie at her door?” I asked.

  “Or worse.”

  “It’s the worse we have to worry about,” Pancake said.

  I saw tears collect in Nicole’s eyes.

  “I hate this shit,” she said.

  “Look,” Pancake said. “He might be benign. Merely a green fly buzzing around and annoying. But if he’s not, we need to dissuade him from pursuing this agenda. And the way to do that is to know who he is and explain things. Face-to-face. Then we’ll know who and what he really is.”

  “Wouldn’t that only anger him more?”

  Pancake made a fist, relaxed it. “Depends on the nature of the explanation.”

  Pancake was gifted at expla
nations. He actually enjoyed them. I’d seen it before. I flashed on a drug dealer named Jimmy Walker, aka Rag Man. Pancake had explained things to him in an alleyway off Decatur in the French Quarter. Literally tossed him about twenty feet. Got his attention to say the least.

  “It’s time for Megan’s broadcast,” Nicole said. “Let’s go in and watch it, then we can head over to the studio.”

  CHAPTER 15

  AS I DROVE up Newport Boulevard toward Channel 16, I asked Pancake, “How do you want to handle this?”

  “As far as?” he asked.

  “What are you going to tell Megan about what we were discussing?”

  “Right now, I don’t see a reason to lay too much on her. That was all speculation and possibilities. We don’t know exactly what type of creature we’re dealing with yet. No need to raise her angst until we do.”

  “Doesn’t she need to know how dangerous this guy could be?” Nicole asked. “Personally, I don’t think she’s taking this seriously enough. Maybe increasing her angst is the right answer.”

  Pancake seemed to consider that. “Let’s play it by ear.”

  When Nicole, Pancake, and I entered the Channel 16 studio complex, receptionist Phyllis P had her phone to one ear. She flashed a smile and, while continuing her conversation, pointed toward the hallway, meaning we should go on back. Only two of the studios were in use. One looked like an infomercial of some type. In the main studio, the one Megan used for her broadcasts, two news reporters sat behind a desk, the Channel 16 logo on the front as well as on the two mics before them. Each wore the same blue blazer, smiled, and stared directly into the cameras.

  We rolled on past and found Megan was in the quad office where we had met before. She sat before her computer; her email program open. She was using a tissue to swipe the remnants of her studio makeup from her ears and hairline. Abby sat to her left, facing her computer, screen open to what appeared to be a news site. She was reading an online article about beach pollution in Huntington Beach.

  Megan looked up. “Hey.”

  Abby spun her chair toward us. “Hey,” she echoed Megan.

  “We saw your broadcast,” Nicole said. “Good one.”

  “Yeah, I thought so, too. We give updates on local farmers markets a few times a year. You know me and farmers markets. Love my veggies.” She stood, looked at Pancake. “You must be the infamous Pancake.”