by D P Lyle
“I’m listening,” Pancake said.
“Why not send him a reply? One that says how sorry she is? How she didn’t realize the depth of his love. That she hasn’t been very fair to him. That they should meet. See if there’s a future for them.”
“Do you think he’ll fall for that?” Abby asked. “After all that’s happened?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “It was just a thought.”
“I like it,” Pancake said. “Let me think on it. See what we can come up with.”
The doorbell rang.
“Wonder who that is?” Uncle Charles said. He stood. “I don’t get many Sunday morning visitors.” He walked toward the door.
My thinking was that someone had left a purse or cell phone and was returning to get it. Or maybe a pair of panties. The party had gotten pretty wild. I did remember a few bare breasts in the jacuzzi late last night. Most rubbing up against Kirk.
Uncle Charles returned, a white flower box in his hand. “I thought it might be for Nicole,” he said. “But it says it’s for Megan.”
I saw Megan stiffen. “Me?”
He handed it to her. She fingernailed the tape and opened it. Inside were twelve roses. Dead, brown, crinkled. She caught her breath. A card fell out. She opened it.
It read:
“Dead flowers for a dead girl. I can take your mocking only so long. You will be mine or you will be no ones.”
“He was here?” Megan said. Her pupils now black with fear. “Right outside the door?”
Uncle Charles worked his iPhone. He brought up the security camera out front. Scrolled back and found what he was looking for. He pressed PLAY. We watched.
A kid. He placed the box against the door, pressed the buzzer, hopped on his bicycle, turned left, and rode out of view.
“Let’s go,” I said to Pancake.
CHAPTER 25
“HE WENT THAT way,” Pancake said.
I was driving the Range Rover, Pancake shotgun. I turned west down Malibu Colony Road. The kid was nowhere in sight. We rolled past the backside of the seamless row of mansions. All seemed quiet, no one out and about, then we saw a kid on a bike, coming our way, my side of the road. Not the dude we were looking for but rather a girl with short blond hair and a yellow bathing suit. I stopped, lowered my window.
“Excuse me,” I said.
She jerked to a halt and gave us a suspicious look.
“Did you see a kid on a bike come by?” I asked.
She stared but said nothing.
“Longish light brown hair, baggy gray shorts, light blue tee shirt.”
“Why?”
“No time to explain, but if you saw him, it would help.”
“Is he in trouble?”
“No. We need to ask him something though.”
She hesitated. “Yeah. I know him. His name’s Sean.” She jerked her head. “He was headed that way.”
“Any idea where he’s going?”
“Probably down to the parking lot to hook up with Danny and Chris. They like to do wheelies and stupid stuff down there.”
“Which lot?”
“On around the corner on Malibu Road.”
“Thanks,” I said.
She took off.
“That’s good intel,” Pancake said.
“Unless she calls the cops to report a couple of strange dudes asking about kids.”
Pancake grunted. “There is that.”
We continued and quickly approached the road’s intersection with Malibu Road.
“There,” Pancake said. He pointed.
The kid swung right, hugging the shoulder, pumping the peddles of his bike. We followed. A half a block later, he wheeled into a parking lot where a couple of other kids straddled bikes and waited. They appeared to be twelve or so. I eased up near the trio and came to a stop. They gave us questioning looks.
“Sean?” I asked.
He stared at me but said nothing. Probably deciding whether to run or not. Pancake and I stepped from the car.
“Can I ask you something?” I said.
“How do you know my name?”
I pasted on my friendliest smile. “The young lady on the bicycle told us.”
“Marsha?”
“She didn’t say. Yellow bathing suit.”
“Yeah, that’s her.”
I scanned the other two boys. “You guys must be Danny and Chris.”
“She tell you that, too?” one of them asked.
“She did.”
“She talks too much.”
I tossed him another one of my smiles and lowered my voice as if we were co-conspirators. “Girls usually do.”
The three boys laughed as if we were now teammates in the locker room, snickering about the mysteries of the opposite sex. Boy, if they only knew what was headed their way. In a year or two their attitude would do a one-eighty and some cute girl with bright eyes and a big smile and evolving body parts would turn their brains into oatmeal. Voice of experience here.
“They sure do,” Sean said.
“I want to ask you about the flowers you just delivered.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“You’re not in trouble,” Pancake said. “We simply want to know who you delivered them for.”
“Why?” He worked the brake levers on the bike’s handlebars. Made me wonder if he was getting ready to bolt. If so, the next question could be critical to him making that decision. How much to tell him? The truth, the whole truth, or something else? I opted for the later.
“They were beautiful,” I said. “The lady who got them was impressed. But there was no sender’s name. She wants to know who to thank.”
He seemed to relax, no longer fidgeting with the brakes. “I don’t know who he was. Never seen him before.”
“How’d you get elected to deliver them?” Pancake asked.
“I got here a little early to hook up with Danny and Chris. This dude comes up and asks if I’ll deliver a present for him. I told him no, that I was busy. He offered me forty bucks.”
“So you took it?”
“Sure.” He nodded toward his friends. “Means we can have pizza later.”
“What did this guy say?”
“Said he had something for a friend and he wanted it to be a surprise.” He shrugged. “So, I said okay.” He patted his pants pocket. “Forty bucks is forty bucks.”
“He gave you the address?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
“He write it down or anything?”
“No. Just told me. I live a few doors down so I knew where it was.”
“This guy?” Pancake asked. “What’d he look like?”
“A dude. A regular guy.”
“How tall?” I asked.
“Shorter than you. More like my dad’s height. Five-eleven I guess.”
“Weight? Was he thin? Fat? Muscular?”
“More muscular.” He looked at Pancake. “Not nearly as big as you but he looked pretty fit.”
“What was he wearing?” Pancake asked.
“Jeans and a tee shirt. Sort of purple or brown. Something like that.”
“Maroon?” I asked.
“Yeah. That’s probably the best word for it.”
“How old would you think?”
“Not real old but some older. I’d guess thirty or something like that.”
Only a twelve-year-old would think thirty was older. But then he’d likely think that forties was ancient. That would be Sean’s “real old.” So I felt the guy’s age was probably just as Sean suspected, late twenties to early thirties.
“Hair, eyes?”
“He had both.”
The trio giggled.
“Good one,” I said. “You guys should have your own TV show.”
“We’re working on it,” Chris said.
Of course they were. Everyone around here was working on developing a TV show, a movie, a YouTube channel, anything to get their image out there. I guess you could say most had alre
ady made it or they’d live elsewhere. The Colony wasn’t for those who didn’t make the cut.
“So, what color were they?” I asked.
“Brown hair. It was cut fairly short. I don’t remember his eye color.”
“What about his car?” Pancake asked.
“Didn’t see one.” He pointed across the street to several buildings and a road that angled off Malibu Road. “He walked from over there somewhere. I didn’t see a car.”
“Okay. So he gave you the box, an address, and forty bucks. What happened then?”
“He headed back across the street and I took off to deliver the package.”
“Did you see him again?” Pancake asked.
“Nope. Never before and never since.”
“Anything else that you remember about him?”
“He had cool sunglasses. Sort of bronze-colored wraparounds.” We asked a few more questions but gathered no useful information. The truth was, the kid didn’t know much else. But he had helped a lot and to me seemed to possess excellent recall. I mentioned that to Pancake as we drove away.
“He did. Now we have a picture to work with.”
That was true. Five-eleven, sort of muscular, late twenties or so, short brown hair, and cool sunglasses. At least cool to Sean. Problem was that his description fit countless thousands of dudes in SoCal.
CHAPTER 26
WHILE WE ORGANIZED our bags in the Range Rover’s rear compartment, Pancake called Ray and brought him up to date. We said our goodbyes, thanking Uncle Charles and telling him, Bob, and Connie we’d see them at the studios in a couple of weeks when the filming began.
While Uncle Charles hugged Nicole, he said, “I’ll have a surprise for you when I next see you.”
“What?”
“If I told you it wouldn’t be a surprise.”
“That’s not fair,” Nicole said. “To tease me that way.”
Uncle Charles released his embrace and laughed. “Trust me. You’ll love it.”
Nicole tried to pout but it wouldn’t stick. A smile broke out, then to Connie she said, “Mom, your brother is being a brat.”
“He was born a brat.”
Then we were off. As we left The Colony and merged into the always heavy traffic on PCH, Pancake elaborated on the kid’s description of the dude who sent the flowers.
“That could be almost anyone,” Nicole said.
“At least it clears Darren,” Megan said. “He’s nothing like that. Not that he ever needed clearing.”
“Clears your boat dude, too,” I said to Nicole.
“Jimmy Fabrick?” Nicole said. “He never needed clearing either.”
“I don’t know. He seems like a shady character to me.”
“Are you jealous?” Megan asked.
“Jake doesn’t do jealous,” Nicole said. “He’s just messing with me.” I caught her gaze in the rearview mirror. Smiled.
She thumped the back of my head. “He also knows he’ll pay for it later.”
“I love it when a plan comes together,” I said.
“Will someone throw water on these two?” Pancake said.
That got a laugh from everyone, but then we rode in silence for a good thirty minutes. Like everyone had turned inward, probably thinking about all that had transpired in the past twelve hours or so. The photo, the flowers, the mysterious dude who had had them delivered. Finally, we reached Santa Monica and merged onto I-10 East. The traffic thinned, somewhat, and I picked up speed.
“I have a question,” Abby said. “What if the guy hired someone else to do the dead flowers deal? I mean, this is a long way from Orange County.”
“I’ve been thinking on that,” Pancake said. “Flowers hand-delivered to Megan’s door in Costa Mesa, and now here in Malibu.”
“It’s doable,” I said. “Not that far apart. At least distance-wise.”
Pancake grunted.
“You don’t think so?” I asked.
“Actually, I do. Stalking like this is always personal. He wouldn’t want to share it with someone else.”
“Seems risky,” Abby said.
“It is. But that’s part of the thrill. Anything that causes Megan stress and grief, he’d want to do himself. Want to be close. Sense the fear.”
“But he did pass it to a kid to deliver?” Megan said.
“Practical,” Pancake said. “Didn’t want to expose himself.”
“But he did. To a kid.”
“Yeah, but not on Uncle Charles’ video system.”
“How would he know that he had one?” Megan asked.
“Common sense,” Pancake said. “Bet there isn’t a single home in The Colony that doesn’t have a pretty robust security system.”
“I suppose that’s true,” Megan said. “But if he wanted to feel the thrill, or sense the fear as you say, he still didn’t. He wasn’t present when I freaked over the dead flowers.”
Pancake sighed. “That’s what’s been bothering me. He keeps everything at arm’s length as if he’s afraid to get too near you. Like he wants to feel it, experience it firsthand, but he’s afraid to let that happen.”
I merged onto I-405 where the traffic thickened. A couple of cholos rolled by, their Toyota lowered so much that it looked like a sled, and the base from a sound system that probably cost more than the car cranked up to the point that it threatened to crack the concrete. Maybe even rev up the San Andreas Fault.
“Cyber stalkers do that,” I said. “They work their mischief online.”
“True. But they usually don’t creep up to your door either. Or expose themselves to a third party, like a kid on a bicycle. They live in that internet world of electrons and think if they stay there, they’ll never be found. Hell, many of them are far away from the victim. Sometimes different states, or countries. They get off on the fear and terror in the victim’s replies.”
“But I haven’t really replied,” Megan said. “Except to respectively decline his advances and offers of marriage.”
I glanced at Pancake. “You said earlier that you might have a plan to draw him out. Maybe change the narrative. Any thoughts?”
“I’m working on it.”
We soon entered The OC, the airport a few miles ahead on the right, South Coast Plaza on the left.
“Can we stop by my place for a second?” Megan asked. “I need to pick up some fresh clothes.”
“No problem,” I said.
“Cool,” Abby said. “I’ve never seen your place. Can I come in and take a peek?”
“Sure.”
“I hear it’s pretty cool.”
“From who?” Megan asked.
“Darren.”
“Yeah. He’s been there a couple of times.” Megan caught my gaze in the rearview mirror. “To pick up some work stuff and no, he’s not the stalker.”
“I didn’t say anything,” I said.
“But you thought it.”
I shrugged.
“You’ve got to quit doing that, Jake,” Nicole said.
“Doing what?”
“Thinking.”
I can’t win. In fact, I’m not even in the race. As my grandfather often said, “Sometimes you’re the windshield and sometimes you’re the bug.”
CHAPTER 27
I PULLED INTO The Oasis, Megan’s condo project, and found an empty slot near the front door of her unit. A couple walked by, pushing a stroller, but otherwise all was quiet and peaceful. Megan had picked a pleasant place to call home. Even if this psycho had forced her to flee. Her reflection in the rearview mirror clearly showed the toll this was taking on her. I really wanted to deliver a baseball bat to this creep’s melon. Better yet, turn Pancake loose on him. That I’d love to see.
“I still can’t believe I’ve been run out of my own home,” Megan said.
“It’s just temporary,” Nicole said.
“Define temporary. Haven’t some of these stalking things gone on for years?”
“Don’t dwell on that kind of thing,” Nicole sai
d. “Let’s get you some clothes and then go from there.”
“Worst case,” Pancake said, “we’ll beef up your security so you can return.”
“How?”
“Cameras, better door and window security, maybe a weapon or two.”
“I don’t like guns.”
Pancake grunted. “You will. Nothing quite like them in a pinch.” He looked over his shoulder. “It probably won’t come to that, but if it does, I’ll teach you everything you need to know.”
“Handguns are scary. I might shoot myself.”
“They’re only scary until you get used to them. Then they’re comforting.”
Megan gave a headshake. “There’s an oxymoron. Guns and comforting.”
“I wouldn’t get you a handgun anyway,” Pancake said. “Better to have a shotgun.”
“Why?”
“A pistol requires more skill. Easy to miss a barn when you’re hyped up or scared. A shotgun is autofocus. Point and shoot.”
“You can always repaint and re-carpet,” I said.
“This is such a pleasant conversation,” Megan said.
Nicole pushed open her rear car door and she and Abby stepped out. “Let’s go get your stuff.”
“We’re all going,” I said.
“Why?” Megan asked. “I’m only going to grab a couple of things.”
“Pancake and I’ll check it out first.”
“What? You don’t think he’s here, do you?”
“No way to know until we know,” Pancake said.
We all piled out and climbed the four steps to Megan’s front door. She worked the lock and pushed the door open. Pancake took the lead; I followed. But he only made it a couple of steps before he jerked to a stop. I couldn’t see past the big guy, but my senses jumped to the redline. What did he see? What could make Pancake screech to a halt? I’d seen three-hundred-pound defensive linemen fail at that. Hell, even a brick wall once. He ran right through it.
He moved forward and now I saw what had grabbed his attention. I heard Megan gasp behind me.
Her living room was cool, classy, well appointed, and had a soaring ceiling. Behind the sofa a blank white wall was no longer blank. The bright-red, spray-painted graffiti seemed almost three-dimensional. As if the words lifted from the background and jumped right in your face.