by D P Lyle
“What do you know about her?” Ray asked. “Where she’s from, what her background is? That sort of thing.”
“I’m afraid all I know is what was on her application, which isn’t much. I have it right here in my desk drawer. Just a sec.” A scraping noise followed by the rustling of pages. “Okay, here it is. She’s from Des Moines, Iowa. She went to Iowa State and finished a degree in journalism. She was looking for work experience so she applied for an internship and we hired her.”
This was an echo of what we had heard from Hartman about the mysterious Liz. The hair on my arms rose and that tingly feeling erupted on my neck. Like when a cool breeze ripples over a sunburn.
“Have you heard from her since she left?” I asked.
“No. She didn’t even pick up her final paycheck.”
Well, well.
Pancake ended the call.
I wasn’t sure exactly how to process all this new information. What did it mean? How did Abby fit into this? If she did at all. Still too many missing pieces to see the entire puzzle.
But one thing was for sure—the game had just changed.
CHAPTER 40
“WHAT DO YOU think?” I asked.
“Too much for a coincidence,” Nicole said.
“Unless it is.”
“True,” Nicole said.
We were driving up Newport Boulevard toward the Channel 16 studios to catch Megan’s broadcast and then follow her back to the condo.
“The problem I’m having,” I said, “is that I still don’t see the whole picture.”
“No one does. You heard Ray and Pancake talking. Abby doesn’t fit the profile. She couldn’t have done all the things the stalker has done. Hell, she was present when a lot of them occurred. The emails, the texts. She was with Megan when many of them came in. She was in the photo he took of us walking on the beach in Malibu. She was sitting at the breakfast table when the dead flowers were delivered to Uncle Charles’ home.”
“That crossed my mind, too.” I turned off 19th street and into the parking lot. “She can’t be in two places at once.”
“Unless she’s two people.”
I slid into an empty slot and parked, switching off the engine. “You’re pretty smart,” I said.
“I know.” She smiled. “But what makes you say that now?”
“Because I came to the same conclusion.”
“Which is?”
“Either this is one hell of a coincidence and the fact that the other two, Dana and Tiffany, and now Megan had, have, interns is merely a cosmic ripple.”
“Or Abby is all three of these interns and she has a partner,” Nicole said.
“Exactly.”
“But why? What’s the payoff?”
“That’s the big question.” I tapped a finger on the steering wheel. “It makes no sense.”
“Not yet,” she said.
“Did she ever say anything about a boyfriend or anything like that?” Nicole considered that for a minute. “Not that I know. She never said so around me anyway.”
Nicole grabbed her purse from the floorboard and pushed open her door. “Be cool around Abby. Don’t act suspicious or get all freaky.”
I stepped out and locked the car. We headed toward the entrance. “I thought you liked it when I was freaky.”
She bumped her hip against mine. “That’s an entirely different kind of freaky.” She shifted her purse to the other shoulder, flipping her braided hair out of the way. “Just act normal.”
Don’t you hate that? When someone says act normal, or natural? How do you do that? Being normal comes easy, acting normal is impossible. Every time someone says that to me I never know what to do with my arms and hands, or face, or really anything. Be casual, but not too casual. Be friendly, but not overly so. Don’t say anything stupid. That was the hardest part.
Okay, time to get my game-face on. And act normal, natural.
I shoved my hands in my pockets. Didn’t feel right. I tried one, then none, letting my arms hang loosely at my sides. They felt foreign. I decided it was best to ignore them and work on my face. I smiled, but that felt off. Forced and frozen. I tried to set my jaw and look cool but that felt worse.
To make things even more uncomfortable, as soon as we quietly slipped into the rear of the main recording studio, where Megan’s segment was just beginning, we ran head-on into Abby. She held a clipboard in her hand. She looked up and smiled. I shoved my hands in my pockets, pulled them out, relaxed my shoulders, pasted on a smile. I hoped I looked totally normal and relaxed. Didn’t feel that way.
“You guys made it just in time,” she whispered.
“Jake needed to primp,” Nicole said.
I started to respond with something clever, but nothing came to mind so I simply shrugged.
We watched Megan do her thing. She looked tense and tired, definitely not her usual perky self. It was a four-minute piece on the upcoming shows at the Orange County Performing Arts Center. When the producer ended the segment and switched over to a prerecorded package, Megan unclipped her mic and came our way. We walked down to the office.
“Good show,” Nicole said.
“Didn’t feel that way.”
“You were great,” Abby said. “As usual.”
“You’re just saying that to be nice.”
“No, I’m not. You worked hard on that piece and it showed.”
“You did most of the research,” Megan said.
“That’s my job.” Abby smiled. “It’s a team effort.”
“We do make a good team.”
Now Abby beamed. “We do.”
“What’s new?” Megan asked as she flopped in her chair.
“Nada,” Nicole said.
“I got three more texts today,” Megan said. “One all loving and flattering, the other two the usual snarky stuff.” She picked up her phone from her desk, glanced at me. “I’ll send them to you.” Megan’s phone whooshed the send sound. “Done.”
“I’ll pass them on to Pancake,” I said. “See if he can find anything useful.”
“He’s pretty smart, isn’t he?” Abby asked.
“Oh yeah,” I said. “Much more so than he looks.”
“He’s cute,” Abby said. “I love his hair.”
“It’s his trademark,” Nicole said.
“I wish I had red hair. I always liked the ginger look.”
The first thing that popped in my head was that she might have been a redhead once. A year ago when she played the role of Liz Ingram, Dana Roderick’s intern in Salt Lake City. When she kidnapped, tortured, and murdered her. That thought bubble collapsed quickly. The young lady who stood before me could not possibly have done that. Could she? She seemed so normal and from what I’d seen possessed no hard edges, or the slightest hint of that kind of depravity. But then, hadn’t Bundy fooled everyone? Was Abby on a par with such a psychopath? I kept all this to myself though and instead said, “You can change it. Purple, green, red, whatever you want.”
“True. I wonder what color would look hottest on me?” She laughed. Easy and relaxed.
Speaking of easy and relaxed. Nicole twisted the conversation back to intel gathering. “Do you have a boyfriend or significant other? You could ask him.”
“I wish. I haven’t been here long enough to meet anyone cool.” She looked at Megan. “What? Three months?”
“That’s right.”
“I’ve had a couple of dates, but they seemed a bit self-absorbed.”
“Welcome to The OC,” Megan said. “Why do you think I’m still single?”
“Because you work too much,” Nicole said.
“Isn’t that so.” Megan stood. “Let me go scrub off the makeup and then we can get out of here.” She headed toward the women’s room.
“I’m surprised you don’t have a boyfriend,” I said to Abby. “Pretty young lady like you.”
“I don’t even have a cat or a dog,” she said. “Much less a dude.”
“A roommate?” Ni
cole asked. “One of those at least?”
“Nope. But actually, I like it that way.”
“There’s something to be said for that,” I said. “Roommates and significant others can be annoying.”
“Oh, really?” Nicole said. She punched my arm.
“Nicole snores,” I said.
She punched me again. Harder. “That’s you.”
Abby laughed. “If I had a relationship like you two seem to have, maybe I’d feel differently.” She sat in her chair, placing the clipboard on her desktop. “But most of the guys I’ve dated in the past turned out to be jerks. So, just being alone with myself works pretty well.”
“Where’d you grow up?” I asked.
“Portland.”
“Brothers or sisters?”
“No. I was an only child.” She shrugged. “Maybe that’s why I do better on my own.”
“Did you go to college there?” Nicole asked.
“Oregon. Down in Eugene. Not far from Portland.”
“Good school,” I said.
“It was. They had an excellent journalism program so it was my first choice.”
“Have you had other intern positions?” I asked. “Or is this your first?”
“This is it. There’s a lot of competition for these gigs. More than I thought there would be. I looked at several others but liked this place best. The facilities, the manager, Megan. It all seemed to fit.”
“What other places did you look at?” Nicole asked.
Did she take in a breath, hesitate, or was I overreading it?
“Let’s see. Lincoln, Nebraska; Indianapolis; and St. Louis. Oh, and Billings, Montana.”
“The weather’s better here,” Nicole said.
“I know,” Abby said. “I’ve never lived in this area. I’ve visited Southern California a couple of times but only briefly. The weather sure makes you want to stay.”
“What is it?” I said. “Forty million? The number of folks who agree with you?”
“That’s the down side. Lots of people around.”
“So, you always saw yourself doing TV work?” Nicole asked. “Yeah. Or print work. I like the writing. Not sure I’d do so well in front of the camera.”
“You’d do fine.”
“Maybe but definitely not as good as Megan. She’s the real deal. I admire her so much. I envy her comfort level, particularly when she does live shows. It takes a special talent to do that. You have to be fearless.”
“She is that.”
Abby nodded. “Yeah, onstage anyway. But this—” she waved a hand. “This stalker stuff’s hitting her hard. I can feel the fear. It seems to surround her like a negative energy field or something.”
“Understandable,” I said.
“She’s more afraid than she lets on.” Abby said. “I can almost taste it. She’ll sit at her desk and simply stare at the wall, or her computer screen. I can see the tension in her shoulders.”
“She hasn’t been sleeping well either,” Nicole added.
“It shows. She looks tired and her brain gets fuzzy at times.”
“Megan said that you’ve been a great help to her. A big support through all this.”
“I’ve tried. It’s scary though.”
“I think at first she thought you were overreacting,” I said. “Making more out of it than it was. But it seems you were right. Almost clairvoyant.”
Abby smiled. “I wouldn’t go that far. But, yes, I sensed this guy would get worse and more dangerous. I think Megan has finally come to that conclusion also.”
“You’re right,” I said.
Again, I tried to picture Abby as a stone-cold killer. One who would stalk and kidnap and murder someone. I couldn’t see it. She seemed so nice and sweet. Again, Bundy came to mind, as did Jeffrey Dahmer who had been downright shy.
“It’s the unknown that makes this so hard,” Abby said. “Not knowing who’s doing this and why. It adds another layer of anxiety.”
“Why do you think this guy hasn’t showed his face?” I asked. “Approached her directly? From what I’ve read, most stalkers do that because they want to get close to their target. To win them over as much as anything else.”
“I don’t know,” Abby said. “But I believe, and I’ve told Megan this more than a few times, that he will. That she needs to stay vigilant and on guard.”
“Not much fun living that way,” Nicole said.
“No, it’s not. But does she really have a choice? Not knowing who it is means it could be anyone. That’s where the real anxiety comes from.”
CHAPTER 41
BEFORE WE MADE it out of the studio, Pancake called, saying we should pick up something for dinner. Not only was he hungry, not a headline news story, but also that he and Ray had a lot to go over with us.
“What?”
“Too much to get into right now. Let’s just say the thread connecting these events has thickened.”
“Okay. Pizza good with you?”
“That’ll work. One more thing. Do you know where Abby is from? Where she went to school?”
“Interestingly, we were just talking about that. She’s from Portland and went to the University of Oregon.”
“Okay. Grab the grub and we’ll see you here.”
Nicole rode with Megan and they headed to the condo. I swung by a local pizza joint and grabbed four fourteen-inch pies. Two for Pancake, two for the rest of us.
When I arrived, Megan had just finished showering and had changed into gray sweatpants and a yellow tee shirt. Nicole had slipped into a similar ensemble, hers lime green over black. I felt overdressed in jeans and a golf shirt.
Ray and Pancake had obviously gone shopping. Two bottles of Merlot and a quart of Buffalo Trace bourbon sat in the middle of the dining table. I placed the pizza boxes on the counter. We each slid a couple of slices on our plates. Except Pancake. He simply sat one box in front of him. Let the games begin.
Since Pancake was too occupied with eating, Ray went over what they had uncovered.
“What we knew before was that we have three cases with several points of identity. Small-station, limited-market reporters, stalkers, and each with a new intern. One murder and a second situation that just might have been rolling in that direction.”
I noticed Megan’s back stiffen, her chewing slowed. It wasn’t difficult to guess where her head was at. Was this situation spinning toward her murder? Was that the endgame here? I wanted to tell Ray to get on with it and spit it all out. But Ray was methodical if nothing else. He needed to lay out the full picture in a deliberate manner so that the context of each fact could be easily snuggled against the others and a clear picture would emerge. It was his way.
Ray continued. “Though no one involved in the other cases can say for sure, each at least said that the photo of Abby was similar. That defies the odds. I mean, what are the chances that the interns involved in these three would even look similar? You’d expect at least one of them to be an outlier. Totally differently in size, shape, age, something. So, the next step was to see if these other two interns were real or manufactured.” He glanced at Pancake.
Pancake, who had already motored through half of the pizza before him, wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Liz Ingram in Salt Lake City. According to station manager Scott Hartman, she was from Lakeland Florida, and went to UCF. But the city of Lakeland, hell the state of Florida, has no record of her. She has no paper trail at all. She was never a student at UCF.”
“She made up her resume,” Nicole said, not a question.
“Looks that way.”
“A lot of folks do that, don’t they?”
Ray nodded. “They do.”
“Then there’s Beth Macomb,” Pancake said. “I found no record of her in DesMoines. Like Liz Ingram, no tax info, no driver’s license, no voting registration, no employment record, no social media presence. She also didn’t go to the Iowa State like she told the folks at the station there.”
“A pattern,” I said. “I
think I know the answer to this, but what about Abby?”
“She ain’t from Portland. Again, no record of her existence there. She never attended the University of Oregon.”
Megan appeared to deflate and sink into her chair. Her shoulders, her face, even her hair, seemed to fall limp.
I spoke up. “So, we have three fake interns in three different cities who look sort of alike and who work for a TV personality who is being stalked. Is that about it?”
“It is.” Pancake shoved the remnant of a pizza slice into his mouth. “If that’s the case, she has an accomplice,” I said.
“What?” Megan asked. Her shoulders rose, furrows creased her forehead.
“Nicole and I talked about this earlier. She couldn’t have done this on her own. She was with you when many of the messages and gifts arrived. With you on the beach when the photo was taken and sitting next to you when the dead flowers were delivered up in Malibu.”
“She was with all of us when your condo was broken into and spray-painted,” Nicole added.
Stunned didn’t cover the look on Megan’s face. Sprinkled with a dose of confusion, and fear. No doubt, to her mind—mine too—this upped the ante.
“Who on earth could it be?” Megan asked.
“That’s the question,” Ray said.
“She said she didn’t have a boyfriend or a roommate or any family here,” I said.
Pancake grunted. “Doesn’t mean she doesn’t have a partner.”
“But why?” Megan asked. “Why would she do that?”
“She’s a terrorist,” I said.
Megan gave me a quizzical look. “What does that mean?”
“I thought about this last night. After Nicole quit pestering me and I had time to think.”
“Pestering? That’s what you call it?”
“Monopolizing my attention, then.”
“Not a difficult task.”
I gave a headshake. “What I meant was that if Abby is the one, the same person in each of these, then she feeds off terror. She creates it, has a partner to keep the wheels turning, and she’s present to see the result. Up close and personal.”
