by D P Lyle
“Elvis?”
“Oh, yeah. Talk about a prisoner in a gilded cage. He couldn’t go out in public. He was so recognizable and his fans were certifiably insane. They would’ve ripped his clothes off.”
“I guess that’s true,” Megan said.
“It was. Think about it. He couldn’t go out to dinner, or a movie, or to the grocery store. It would’ve been chaos on steroids. So he had everything brought to him and watched movies at home.”
“A big price for stardom,” Megan said.
“What about you?” Abby asked Kirk. “You’re definitely recognizable. Have you had any really scary stalkers?”
“Of course. Most are simply overzealous fans, but some got a little too aggressive. You know, not just sending notes and gifts, but making a scene at the studio or when I’m out somewhere. Or climbing the fence to my home.”
“Really?”
He laughed. “Once I found a pair of naked teenage girls in my swimming pool. Drunk, splashing around, hollering. They weren’t too happy the Beverley Hills PD showed up.” He laughed. “I didn’t press charges. They seemed like nice young ladies. Of course, my attorney filed a restraining order against them to prevent a repeat performance.”
“Smart move,” Nicole said.
“You know what the most concerning part was? That I was home alone with two underage and under-clothed girls in my pool. They could have alleged anything. Two against one. The courts and the tabloids would have shredded me. Reminded me of the movie. Wild Things.”
“Oh yeah,” Megan said. “Neve Campbell and Denise Richards.”
“And Kevin Bacon and Matt Dillon,” Abby added. “Good movie.”
“It was. That movie actually crossed my mind. That’s why I stayed inside with the door locked until the police showed up.”
“But did you have any that really scared you?” Abby asked. “You know, physically?”
“Sure. I’ve had my house broken into, my car damaged, even had a girl attack me on Rodeo Drive. She said I had been ignoring her and that she wouldn’t be taken for granted.” He gave a headshake. “I had no idea who she was but later found she had sent a series of letters over several months. Each professing her love. A couple asking for me to marry her.”
“Let me guess,” Nicole, said. “You never saw her letters. Your people who handle that sort of stuff sent her polite responses and a thanks for being a fan?”
“Exactly.”
“Then I had one that painted my door with chicken blood.”
“What?” Megan asked.
“Funny now. It wasn’t then. Turned out she was a follower of voodoo and was blessing my home and blocking evil spirits.”
“That’s crazy.”
“Actually, she was completely sane, just a voodoo priestess. She was simply protecting me.”
“Another restraining order?” Nicole asked.
“Yeah. That makes twenty-four and counting.”
“Twenty-four?” Megan asked. “Here I am worried about one.”
“Nicole told me about it. What’s the story?”
Megan sighed. “Some guy, I don’t know who, has been sending emails and texts and gifts. Most are benign but some have an edge.”
“More than an edge,” Abby said. “Not to mention he left lingerie at your front door.”
“Hmmm,” Kirk said.
“What?” Megan asked.
“All I can tell you, from personal experience and from what I’ve learned from a few experts in this arena, is that as long as they send notes and gifts and stay at arm’s length they aren’t usually a threat. Once they start showing up at your home or work or on the street, wherever, that changes things. That type of behavior elevates the danger factor. A P.I. I once hired called it ‘closing the gap.’ That seemed a good description to me.”
Megan looked at him. “I don’t want to hear that.”
“You have to. Remember, it’s better to overreact than underreact.”
“That’s what I’ve been telling her,” Abby said. “But she’s stubborn.”
“We did go to the police,” Megan said. “Not that they can do anything. He hasn’t really done anything overtly threatening.”
Kirk nodded. “Always the problem. Which ones to ignore and which to go full protection with. My guys, the ones that go with me to events, keep digital files of photos and whatever else they can put together on the ones that could be a problem. Costs me a fortune.”
“I suspect so,” Nicole said.
“You have no idea. Home alarm systems, armed guards, security checks of hotels and venues. It’s a huge drain.” He sighed. “But at least here, in The Colony, I can give them the day off and enjoy the beach.”
CHAPTER 23
A-LIST. A-LIST. A-LIST. B movie scream queen. A-list. Hollywood icon. Multiple Academy Award winner. Rock star. A-list. Producer with a long list of scandals. Director who made last year’s number one blockbuster. A-list.
I scanned the room, taking inventory. Everyone was beautiful. Perfect teeth, perfect hair, perfect skin. Most of the women showed a lot of it.
Uncle Charles knew how to throw a party and who to invite. Plus the connections and clout to do so. One couple flew in from “our place” in Grand Cayman. The lead singer of an always-on-the-charts rock group flew in from Switzerland with his painfully thin, glassy-eyed, over-amped super-model girlfriend. I figured she controlled her weight with a combination of coke and meth. Seemed to work as she had graced the cover of every fashion magazine known and probably raked in more money than her rock star boyfriend.
Others came from New York, Paris, and of course Beverly Hills and other high-dollar neighborhoods in LA. Some were his neighbors and simply strolled down the beach. The latest Hollywood power couple arrived by Uber. Consciously showing their disdain for conspicuous consumption. Well, except for the gold and diamonds that draped her neck and swayed from her ears. I mean, you can only take this austerity stuff so far.
Nicole’s director, Lee Goldberg, came. Tall, handsome, and gregarious. A much sought-after director who dropped everything and immediately jumped on board when Charles Balfour called. Did I say Uncle Charles had clout? Goldberg had had a series of hits and I suspected adding him to the team greatly assured the success of Murderwood. Right now he huddled, sipped champagne, and shared laughs with a pair of other industry heavyweights.
Then there was Kirk Ford. Speaking of assuring success. If the public forgave him, that is. I was sure they would. Hollywood and scandal being interchangeable words.
But among all these power brokers, there was no doubt that Kirk and Nicole were the costars of Uncle Charles’ little soiree. Nicole to introduce her to the Hollywood elites she didn’t already know, make her name known as a serious screenwriter, and Kirk to celebrate his return to the big screen. Show that he was alive, well, out of jail, and ready to snatch up the reins of the Space Quest franchise once again.
Kirk was in his element. He sat in the jacuzzi, a young starlet on each side. I noticed these two were different from the pair I had seen earlier. Was there a rotation involved? A schedule? A sign-up sheet?
Nicole and Megan sat on the opposite side of the jacuzzi, legs dangling in the water. Abby lay on a lounge chair, soaking up some sun, and chatting with a young actress who spoke more with her hands than anything else.
The sun hung low, sunset still an hour or so away, and its glow painted the sky, the water, the deck, everything with a warm, yellow-orange hue. Seemed Uncle Charles had even arranged for the lighting to be perfect. He was a producer, after all.
I stood near the catered spread, munching on a small crab cake with perfect remoulade sauce. Pancake refilled his plate—for the third time—prime rib, grilled lobster bites, and a dozen boiled shrimp.
“Pretty good grub,” he said.
“Sure is,” I said.
“Lots of it, too.”
“They knew you were coming.”
One of the catering staff walked up. The young lady who had
earlier brought Pancake his sandwiches. “Need anything?” she asked.
“What else do you have?”
“Lots more of the same. Plus we have some lobster quesadillas and shrimp tacos coming. Oh, and some incredible crab-fried rice.”
“Sounds good.” Pancake gave her a look. “What’s your name?”
“Carrie.”
“Nice to meet you. I’m Pancake. This is Jake.”
She smiled, seemed to register the names, but never looked at me. She stared at Pancake. “Pancake? That’s not your real name, is it?”
“It is now. My mom named me Tommy but everyone calls me Pancake.”
“I like it.”
“Me too.”
“If you want to go outside and enjoy the sun, I’ll come find you when the new items come out. Or bring you anything you need.”
Again, her focus never left the big guy.
“Cool. But I think I’ve found my spot.”
She laughed. “Save some room though. We have some fabulous desserts coming.”
“I got room.”
“Looks that way.” She blushed. “Sorry. That didn’t come out right.”
“Sure it did,” Pancake said. He patted his abdomen. “This thing doesn’t ever fill up.”
“He’s telling the truth,” I said. “He could demolish this entire table. Literally. He’s just being polite.”
“That’s me. Mr. Polite.”
“I’m glad I don’t have to grocery-shop for you,” she said. “I’d need a bigger car.”
“That’s why he has a massive truck,” I said.
“I’ll go check on the quesadillas. You’ll love them.” She headed toward the kitchen area.
“She likes you,” I said.
“Of course she does. All women do.”
“Probably your modesty.”
“That’s part of it.”
“And the rest?”
“I’m handsome, charming, suave, and debonaire.”
“Don’t forget dripping with humility.”
“That, too.”
Nicole and Megan walked up. They now wore swimsuit coverlets. Megan’s white terrycloth, Nicole’s thin black mesh that hid nothing.
“Did Pancake leave us anything?” Nicole asked.
“Some,” I said. “Just watch out for the gnaw marks.”
“He’s funny,” Pancake said. “He really is.”
“One of his many charming qualities,” Nicole said.
“See,” I said to Pancake. “You’re not the only one who’s charming.”
“I’m just better at it.”
Carrie appeared with a tray of quesadillas and tacos. We each took a taco. Pancake three, plus a couple of quesadillas. She smiled, held his gaze a few extra seconds, and then weaved through the crowd in the living area, extending the offerings to each. Abby, coming in from the sun, intercepted her, grabbing a napkin and a taco. She continued our way.
“Having fun?” I asked.
“This is all so amazing. I mean, this house. The people I’ve met. Unbelievable.”
“Uncle Charles does throw a good party,” Nicole said.
We managed to crowbar Pancake from the spread and gathered at one of the shaded outdoor tables. We ate. The consensus was that the food was over the top good.
Megan’s phone dinged an incoming text. She removed her phone from her jacket pocket and read the message. Her breath caught; her face paled.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Him.” She handed me the phone.
I read:
“Why do you treat me this way? I professed my love and put my heart out there. I asked you to marry me. This is your reply? You run off to Malibu with the beautiful people? Are you fucking some actor? Maybe Kirk Ford?”
I showed the text to Nicole, Pancake, and Abby.
“How did he know where you are?” Abby asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Who else knows where you were going?” I asked.
She considered that for a beat. “My station manager. Darren.” She looked at me. “He knows.”
“I see.”
“It’s not Darren,” Megan said. “There is no way.”
“Are those the only two who knew?” Pancake asked.
She seemed to think for a beat and then nodded. “Yes.”
“Also Jimmy Fabrick,” Nicole said.
“The guy who rents your boat slip?” I asked.
“Yeah. He was there this morning. I introduced him to Megan. He asked what we were up to. I told him we were headed to Malibu for a party.”
“Anything there?” I asked.
“With Jimmy? No. He just met Megan this morning. How could it be him?”
“Maybe he saw her on TV,” Pancake said. “Which is how we think this guy latched on to Megan in the first place. Built his obsession from her image.”
“Does that make any sense?” Nicole asked. “What are the odds? The guy who parks his boat at my place somehow becomes infatuated with a friend? No way he could know Megan and I were friends. Or even knew each other.”
“It does stretch the limits of probability,” Pancake said.
“Stretches?” Nicole asked. “It breaks them. I mean, life is full of serendipity, but this? It doesn’t pass the probability, or even believability, test.”
Megan’s phone chimed again. She looked at it, her brow furrowed as she studied the screen, then her eyes popped wide and she dropped the phone on the table.
I picked it up. A photo. Of Megan, Nicole, Abby, and Kirk Ford. Walking down the beach. Just a few hours ago.
Another text chime:
“Are you fucking him?
ARE YOU FUCKING HIM?”
CHAPTER 24
“THIS IS VERY upsetting,” Connie said. She handed Megan’s phone back to her. “It brings back too many memories of what Nicole went through.”
It was the next morning. Megan had showed Connie and Bob and Uncle Charles the photo and the texts she had received last night.
“This is worse,” Nicole said. “I knew who my douchebag was. I could recognize him every time I saw him. Which meant I knew where to point the police.”
“Yes, but until he sent all the photos and videos he had taken of you, you had no idea he was following you everywhere you went. That his obsession ran that deep.”
“True. But when he did send them, I knew who they were from. He certainly made no mystery of who he was and what he wanted.” She reached over, grabbed Megan’s hand. “Megan has no idea who this is.”
We—Nicole, Pancake, Megan, Abby, Bob, Connie, and Uncle Charles—were seated at the dining room table, having just finished a wonderful breakfast. No remnants of last night’s party remained, everything restored to its pristine perfection. Except there was no sun. The typical morning marine layer had settled a gray cap over everything. Wouldn’t last long. By midmorning the sun would reappear and SoCal perfection would be restored.
Not so Megan. The sun’s appearance would not return her world to anything resembling normal.
I watched her fold into herself. Head down, shoulders forward, she suddenly seemed tired and frayed. I was sure her nerves were in even worse condition. Hell, mine were sparking pretty good.
“Trust me,” Megan said. “I’ve been racking my brain to come up with something. Anything or anyone.” She wound her napkin around one finger. “After that—” she nodded toward her phone—“I stayed awake all night.”
“Me, too,” Uncle Charles said. “At least until the wee hours. I have security cameras around the house. Some face the beach, of course. I thought I might see someone taking the photo. But the beach is full of people, even here in The Colony. Public access and all.”
I had read somewhere that that had been a point of contention many years ago. The folks in The Colony felt that the beach was their private backyard. I suspected that fell in line with what they paid for their homes. You’d think twenty or more million would buy you a beach. But in California, the beaches
are public domain. So, the residents had to create paths between a few of the houses that led down to the sand.
“Lots of sunbathers, strollers, surfers, even folks taking photos of the ocean and the houses. But I didn’t see anyone focused on you guys. Or anyone acting odd in any way. At least not right here in the range of my cameras.”
“I can’t believe you did that,” Megan said. Her eyes glistened with tears.
“You’re a guest in my home. You’re a friend of Nicole’s. You’re a special young lady. I take this personally. It’s an invasion of privacy. Mine, yours, everyone’s.”
“Still, that was so nice of you to do.”
“I’ll tell you right now, I’ll do more. Whatever it takes.”
Megan nodded, fought back tears.
“What are we going to do?” Nicole asked.
“Get more aggressive,” Pancake said. “This little stunt proves he has access to you in real time. To your comings and goings. That means there’s a digital trail; we just need to find it.”
“How?” Bob asked.
“When we get back to The OC, I’ll give Ray a call and see what we can come up with.”
“If anyone can, you two can,” Nicole said.
Pancake shrugged, opened his palms.
“I have an idea,” I said.
“This’ll be good,” Pancake said.
I scanned the faces around the table. “See what I have to put up with?”
“Poor, poor Jake,” Pancake said.
Nicole ruffled my hair. “He has a good idea rattling around in that pretty head every now and then.”
“I had a couple last night,” I said.
“That you did.” She smiled. “Very good ideas.”
“You started it.”
“You were available. What’s a girl supposed to do?”
“Glad I could be there for you, and available.”
“You make me so proud,” Connie said. “Proof that you’re indeed my daughter.” She gave me a raised eyebrow and a wicked smile. “Apple—tree.”
See? I told you. Connie was simply a slightly older version of Nicole.
“Okay, enough of Animal Planet,” Pancake said. “What was your big idea?”
“Maybe we should do a one-eighty. You’ve been keeping this guy at arm’s length. Why not reel him in?”