The OC

by D P Lyle

  “Good?” Ray asked.

  “Not bad. Not great. Expected since it ain’t red meat.”

  “Should be enough to get you through the next couple of hours.”

  Pancake ate while he worked his computer. Finally, he leaned back, stretched. “Looks like I’m headed west in the morning.”

  “We have a meeting tomorrow.”

  Pancake smiled. “Which you don’t really need me for.”

  Ray sighed. “Why do you need to go to California? I mean besides the blonds and bikinis.”

  “Well, there is that. But I got a bad feeling about this.”

  Ray finished his Dew and crushed the can. “Let’s have it.”

  “We have a dude from Denver who’s now in California. At least according to where he’s sending stuff from. Uses multiple burner phones to send messages from various locations. Probably public places like coffee shops. Like he’s hiding his identity and location. He’s harassing a TV reporter. A very pretty one according to her online presence. Definite target for a stalker. His texts and emails show an escalation in his interest. Steadily becoming more personal, even demanding that she see him. Like his anger and frustration are mounting. That sort of thing.”

  “I agree it does sound a little sinister.” Ray opened his hands. “Or he’s merely an infatuated fan who has defective social skills.”

  “Could be. Not what I smell here though. Isn’t finding folks like this what you pay me for?”

  “I pay you to work on real cases.”

  “This is looking like one.” Pancake stood and moved to the railing, leaning on it, and looked out over the Gulf for a full minute. He turned back to Ray. “Just doesn’t feel like he’s your run-of-the-mill fan or kinda, sorta, wimpy-ass stalker.”

  “Aren’t run of the mill and stalker mutually exclusive?”

  “You know what I mean,” Pancake said. “Guy gets infatuated with someone, say like a movie star or a TV reporter or the girl across the classroom. He sends some not-so-cute emails, texts, phone calls. Then does something stupid like showing up at her home, causing trouble, does some damage. Some such. Then tries to deny it, acting all innocent. The cops track his texts, calls, and GPS and put him right at her door at the time in question. Handcuffs, jailhouse, the whole enchilada.”

  “This guy is different how?”

  “He uses burners purchased three states away. Moves around to send his emails and texts. Very careful to not be trackable.”

  “Could be some married guy trying to get laid. Doesn’t want the little woman to know about it. Picks up a handful of phones on a business trip and tries to woo the pretty girl on TV.”

  Pancake shrugged.

  “But you don’t believe that.”

  “Nope. According to Jake all his contacts have been through emails and texts. No calls. No personal appearances.”

  Ray rubbed one temple. “He’s careful.”

  “Or maybe very clever.”

  “Which keeps him completely anonymous and could mean that he’s dangerous.”

  “Now you’re getting the picture.” Pancake sat again, leaned back, folding his arms over his chest. “Which is why I’m headed west.”

  “What can you do there that you can’t do here?”

  “Boots on the ground is always best.” He scratched one ear. “It’s Jake, and Nicole, and Nicole’s friend.”

  Ray considered that. “Okay. Get the research done today and I’ll make do after that.”

  “Will do.”

  CHAPTER 9

  FOR NICOLE, THE best restaurant in all of The OC was Rothschilds. She had told me this on more than a few occasions, and every time we visited, it was one of our first stops. After Charlie’s Chili, of course. But that was breakfast, this was dinner.

  We dressed up. Me in tan slacks, a white open-collar shirt, and a black sports coat; Nicole gray slacks and a black silk shirt. She looked magnificent. No surprise there.

  We had time before our reservation so we decided to catch the sunset. One of The OC’s best places for that wasn’t far. A mere fifteen-minute drive south on Pacific Coast Highway, PCH, from Nicole’s place plugged you into Corona del Mar, a quaint and very expensive Newport Beach neighborhood. It extended from PCH to the cliffs that overlooked the beaches and the Pacific. Thus its name. Corona del Mar means “Crown of the Sea.” Driving, as we were doing, or walking along Ocean Boulevard offered elevated views that were spectacular, the sunsets breathtaking.

  I found a parking space just beyond where Breakers Drive peeled off and dropped down to a row of even more expensive and truly oceanfront homes as well as the parking area for the Corona del Mar State Beach. We climbed out. I followed Nicole across a narrow, grassy, parklike stip to the cliff’s edge. The sun hung low and painted the sky a fiery red-orange. The silhouette of Catalina Island was the only object that broke the crisp horizon line. Backlit, its humps and bumps looked like an elongated sea creature. Who knows, maybe the Loch Ness Monster was here on vacation.

  “I love this place,” Nicole said.

  “It is special.”

  “Maybe we should buy one of the houses along here.” She jerked her head over her shoulder toward the row of homes that lined Ocean Boulevard.

  I laughed. “Have to win the Lotto first.”

  She hooked one arm with mine. “Or rob a bank.”

  “That, too.”

  I looped my arm around her and she rested her head against my chest. We stood quietly, watching the sun descend until it sank from sight, offering a parting wink. Not the famous green flash that was rarely, if ever, seen but pretty cool anyway.

  “I’m starving,” Nicole said. “Feed me.”

  We wound through the narrow streets and cozy homes of Corona del Mar and back up to PCH where we found an empty space only a half a block from the restaurant.

  Rothschilds was a little slice of true European charm. A cozy bar and several even cozier rooms for dining. Antique tables, chairs, and a few hutches along the walls. Even the wall-mounted, gold-framed artwork looked old, as if one of the masters had painted them just for this place.

  The hostess seated us at a four-top that looked out onto PCH. White tablecloths and a flower-filled vase in the table’s center. We ordered a bottle of Napa Valley Cabernet and a plate of bruschetta for starters.

  “So what’s the latest with the filming?” I asked.

  “All is still on schedule. Uncle Charles has the sound stages and the few locations we’ll use all ready to go. As are all the techie guys.”

  “Techie guys?”

  “You know. The lighting, sound, and film crews.”

  “The catering service?”

  She laughed. “That’s the only part you care about.”

  “Well, movie shoots are a bit boring. I need something to distract me.”

  “It won’t be as good as this place,” Nicole said.

  “Is anything?”

  “No. This is the best.”

  “Better than Captain Rocky’s?”

  “Not sure I’d go that far.”

  “Good answer.” I smiled. “But I don’t believe you.”

  She gave me a mock pout. “You’ve hurt my feelings.”

  “I doubt that. But lucky for you, or maybe I should say Uncle Charles, Pancake isn’t here. Otherwise he’d have to double his catering budget.”

  Our waitress returned with the wine and bruschetta. While she went though the opening and pouring ceremony, she asked if we had any questions about the menu or if we needed more time. We didn’t. Nicole ordered her usual, the fettuccine Romano, me, the lobster ravioli.

  While we devoured the bruschetta, we talked about the party at Uncle Charles’ place in the Malibu Colony. A private enclave where the roster of A-List actors, producers, and directors, as well as corporate moguls and rock stars, who either did or had lived there was staggering. Folks like Johnny Carson, Jack Nicholson, Tom Hanks, Paris Hilton, Eddie Van Halen, Steven Spielberg, and Sly Stallone, and from a bygone era, Bing
Crosby, Clara Bow, Jack Warner, Gloria Swanson, and the list goes on. Money talks and massive money speaks loudly.

  “Knowing Uncle Charles, it will be epic. Food, wine, and folks you see on TV and the big screen all the time.”

  “Not to mention your parents and Kirk Ford.”

  She nodded. “I’m curious about how Kirk is doing. That entire Kristi Guidry ordeal did a number on him. At least, that’s what Uncle Charles said.”

  “I’d be surprised if it hadn’t. But it sounds like he and the franchise survived.”

  “Yeah, I suppose. But I’m not sure you ever truly recover from something like that. The public outrage and scrutiny.”

  “Until the next Space Quest movie,” I said. “Folks will line up to see it and all will be forgiven.”

  “Celebrity does trump all.”

  Boy, was that ever true. Back when I was a major-league pitcher, I had seen it many times. Hell, I had lived it. Booze and babes. An excess of each. In every town. Road trips were exhausting.

  “If it gets that far,” she said. “I guess a lot of it will depend on how the public accepts Kirk’s return. Murderwood is the test case.”

  “No pressure though.”

  “No. None. I’m not worried at all.”

  “Liar.”

  She smiled. “Maybe a little.”

  The truth was that she had fretted over exactly that. As if she, and her movie, were the salvation, or death knell, for all of Hollywood. Silly, but perception was reality. We had talked about it a lot over the past month. I knew she felt the pressure, which on many levels was very real. Sometimes perception reflects reality. If the movie failed, if Kirk’s fans abandoned him, Nicole would be crushed. No doubt about that. This was her big moment. To make it as a serious writer. To be accepted. For Uncle Charles, the stakes were measured in billions of dollars. I reassured her, and that did help, but didn’t completely tamp down her anxiety.

  “It’ll be fine,” I said. “Your movie will be a mega-hit and all of Tinsel Town will be indebted to you.”

  She reached over and clutched my hand. “You’re the best.”

  “I am.”

  “Don’t let it go to your head.”

  Our food arrived and we fell silent for a few minutes as we ate. Finally, Nicole spoke.

  “What do you really think about the dude who’s sending Megan all those emails and texts?” she asked.

  “Not sure. Most likely, he’s just a fan, but I have to admit some of them carry an uncomfortable undercurrent.”

  “That’s my feeling.” She took a bite of fettuccine. “God, I love this stuff.”

  “You get it every time.”

  “No one makes it like this anywhere else.” She took a sip of wine. “I just keep remembering the stalkers I’ve had. At first, I felt good about the attention. You know, like someone thought I was good, or hot, or whatever. But each time it evolved into something else. Especially the really bad one.” Another sip of wine. “I have the same feeling here.”

  “Hopefully Pancake can track the dude down and we can see just how dangerous he is.”

  “If anyone can, the big guy can.”

  A lot of truth to that. Pancake did know his way into the dark corners of the cyber world.

  We finished our meal, shared a Linzer torte for dessert, paid the bill, and walked back to the car. The night was clear, warm, but with a slightly cool breeze.

  “What do you want to do now?” I asked. “You.”

  “No argument here.”

  As we drove back north on PCH, my cell chimed. Pancake.

  I answered, placing it on speaker. “What’s up?”

  “I have something,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Got a couple of other things to get into, to be sure, but I don’t like it.”

  “Don’t like what?” Nicole asked.

  “It’ll wait until I get there.”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked.

  “I’m headed your way in the morning.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that,” Nicole said.

  “Here I thought you’d be glad to see me, darling.”

  “I will. We both will. But it’s that you feel the need to be here that’s bothersome.”

  “It might be nothing,” Pancake said.

  “Or it might be something,” Nicole replied.

  “Maybe.”

  “Then tell us what’s up,” I said.

  “Let’s just say that I think this guy is indeed a stalker. Or is at least moving down that path. Feels to me he’s not simply a casual fan but rather a more obsessive one.”

  “Based on what?” Nicole asked.

  “The language he uses. The fact that his messages are becoming more personal, and aggressive. In the later ones he is pushing her for a face-to-face meeting.”

  “Which she has refused,” I said.

  “Something she should continue to do. Politely but firmly.”

  “Do you think he’s dangerous?” Nicole asked.

  “Don’t know yet. From what you’ve said he hasn’t physically confronted her. Shown up at her work or home. Anything like that. True?”

  “That’s right,” Nicole said.

  “We’re early into this so it’s hard to make a judgement on his state of mind yet. But, for sure, he’s smart and careful to cover his tracks.”

  “So you haven’t tracked him down yet?”

  “Nope, but I’m getting there.”

  “What do we need to do?” Nicole asked.

  “Sit tight. Keep an eye on Megan. Tell her to be aware and to not provoke him in any way.”

  “You’re beginning to scare me,” Nicole said.

  “Don’t be. But a healthy concern might be in order.”

  After Pancake hung up, Nicole called Megan, putting her iPhone on speaker.

  “Are you at home?” Nicole asked.

  “Yeah. All tucked in and reading a book.”

  “Make sure all your doors and windows are locked.”

  “Why?” Megan asked.

  “Pancake found out some stuff about this guy. Not sure of the details but he asked me to tell you to be careful and aware.”

  “Why? What did he find?”

  “He didn’t say,” Nicole said. “Not specifically. Except that this guy is clever and careful.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Just that,” I said. “Pancake said you should be aware and be careful. Lock up and hunker down. He’ll be here tomorrow and then we’ll see what’s what.”

  Megan sighed. “You’re not helping my sleep here.”

  “Sorry. We thought you should know.”

  “I know. Thanks. I’ll go check the doors and windows. Maybe pick another book to read. I don’t think Dean Koontz is a good choice about now.”

  CHAPTER 10

  LAST NIGHT, AFTER hanging up with Jake, Pancake had reached out to one of Ray’s guys at the NSA. Dude named Graham Gordy. Deep into the cybersecurity world. Pancake had brought him up to speed on the problem he and Ray were facing. Well, him anyway. Ray was busy with the other case. “The real one,” as Ray had said. Pancake told Gordy that he’d tracked the phones used for communication, all burners, to a store in Denver. He spoke with the store’s owner but he had no memory of the guy. Yes, he had a security video system but it overwrote itself every thirty days. He confirmed the buyer had made a cash purchase of a dozen prepaid phones.

  Graham had told him that the burners would be hard to track. In real time anyway. Particularly if the dude was using multiple devices. He added that he couldn’t work on this at the shop but would do so on his setup at home, which is where he was at that time. Not as robust as the equipment he had access to at work, but good enough. Not to mention it would violate fewer federal laws than if he did it in-house. Regardless, he said he’d sniff around the dark web and see if anything was out there on the guy. He explained that sometimes a group of these stalker types would huddle in a cyber room and share notes. H
e suggested that Pancake give him a call the next morning before he jumped on the plane for California. So, after Pancake got through security at the Mobile airport, grabbed a couple of bacon, egg, and cheese biscuits from McDonald’s, located his gate, and found a seat, he called.

  “Anything?” Pancake asked.

  “Not much,” Gordy said. “He’s definitely not using a VPN. None of the IP addresses associated with that phone lead down that road.”

  “What about the dark web?”

  “Not a whiff. That would require he use a TOR browser, or something similar, and there’s no evidence that he’s done that. At least not from the phones in question. But he could have a laptop connected to the onion router and that would open up a whole other can of worms. That would take a lot of time and bandwidth to solve and even then it could be a dead end. Let me ask you, is this guy smart enough to rummage in that world?”

  “Don’t know yet. So far he seems to be lower key and lower tech.”

  “Good,” Gordy said. “I take it that other than the emails and texts your client hasn’t had other types of communication from him.”

  “Nope. Only the nineteen emails and forty-seven texts.”

  “No calls? Personal appearances?”

  “None. Not yet anyway.”

  “Yet being the operative word,” Gordy said.

  “That’s the concern. You know how some of these guys get frustrated, obsessed, and escalate.”

  “Unfortunately, I do. They all too often do so in a hurry. Some trigger and they go from zero to sixty in a heartbeat.”

  “Let’s hope that doesn’t happen here.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Sit tight right now. I don’t have a lot yet but thought I’d ask you to take a look and see if I’d missed anything.”

  “You didn’t. Burner phones, emails, texts. As you said, fairly low tech. Also, very effective for staying off the radar.”

  Wasn’t that the truth. Simple, cheap, easy, and very effective. Pancake knew that even though these phones hooked into the internet and the cellular network just like any other phone, and that they had a unique identifying ISP number, not knowing who owns the device or whose hand it was in made identifying that person nearly impossible. That’s why drug dealers and terrorists used them all the time.