The OC

by D P Lyle

“That’s ’cause you know me too well, darlin’.”

  Nicole called and ordered ribs, pulled pork, and hot links along with a ton of sides, and off we went to pick them up. It took all of a half hour. While we ate, Pancake unfolded his research.

  “I started out looking at celebrity stalkers in the US. Amazingly, there’re more than you might think. Hundreds that led to investigations, convictions, and the like. Probably thousands of others that never made it that far.”

  “Lot’s of sick souls out there,” Nicole said.

  Pancake forked a wad of coleslaw in his mouth and spoke around it. “I then looked at TV personalities. I took all the Hollywood-types out of the equation. Still more than you want to know.” He gnawed a rib.

  “Why eliminate them?” I asked. “The movie folks?”

  “These guys, these stalkers, tend to focus on a single person or a single type. Often it’s a one-off, but some do become serial stalkers and jump from victim to victim. Much like serial killers.”

  “Serial killers?” Nicole asked.

  Pancake nodded. “Not a big leap. A stalker who latches onto a single person, say a teacher, a classmate, a neighbor, or someone they know at work or socially, tends to focus solely on that person. The drama plays out between the two of them.”

  “Sort of a one-woman man?” Nicole asked.

  “Yeah, that works,” Pancake said. “Anyway, they either ultimately back off or the law gets involved. Or they do something more dramatic.”

  “Like kill the woman?” I asked

  “Exactly. Or her lover or husband or someone close who he perceives is blocking her from accepting him as her one true love. Either way, that often ends things. Either the focus of his obsession is dead or he’s in prison or dead himself. Done deal.” A bite of hot link. “If they’re still free and roaming around, some will then move on to another target. Often one that is similar in appearance, in occupation, in whatever stirs his chili.”

  “That makes sense,” I said.

  “My thinking is that this guy’s done this before.”

  “Based on?” Ray asked.

  “His MO. He uses a series of burner phones and stays completely off the radar. To me that means he’s methodical and not some out-of-contol, obsessed, lovesick puppy who fell in love with the face on TV and got all frantic and drooly.”

  “Is drooly a word?” Nicole asked.

  “It is now.” Pancake bounced his eyebrows. “Anyway, to me, his methods and caution could also imply some experience in this arena.”

  “Does that make him more or less dangerous?” Nicole asked. “Good question. The answer is, I don’t know. From what I’ve seen, I don’t read him as someone who’s likely to go all postal as would a more frantic or disturbed dude. He seems more careful and thoughtful than that. Even his threats have been somewhat controlled.”

  “He goes back and forth. One text professes love and the other makes threats.”

  Pancake nodded. “But even the threats seem well controlled. Planned, if you will. Not the frenzied ramblings of someone who is truly disturbed.”

  “I don’t know,” Nicole said. “They seem scary to me.”

  “They are. They’re intended to be. That’s the game plan. So far, at least.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Pancake shrugged. “That we don’t know his endgame. What his ultimate plan is.”

  “Not very comforting,” Nicole said.

  “No, it’s not. So far, he hasn’t physically confronted Megan. Either to harm her or to beg her to give him the chance to show her that he’s the one for her. He tracks her, follows her, and has even invaded her space. In a well-populated condo project. A risky move, but still, he’s never stepped up and confronted her face-to-face.”

  “That’s a good thing,” I said.

  “No doubt. This guy knows what he’s doing and he hasn’t made any mistakes. Makes me think this is very well orchestrated and that he’s been there, done that.”

  “So he’s a serial stalker,” I said. Not really a question.

  Pancake shrugged. “Let’s hope he isn’t or doesn’t evolve into a serial killer. Too often these obsessions end in murder.”

  “You’re just filled with pleasant thoughts,” Nicole said.

  “Is what it is.”

  “Let’s get back to what you’ve uncovered,” Ray said.

  “I then looked into TV personalities in smaller markets. Like here with Megan. I found a passel of them. A disturbing number actually. There’s a whole tribe of obsessed dudes out there. Or to give them the benefit of the doubt, lovesick hombres. I’ve culled out those that are closer to home. Meaning the West Coast area.”

  “Why West Coast only?” Nicole asked.

  “Comfort. Knowledge of the area. Predators have a preferred domain, a hunting ground, so that’s where I started. The Rockies and west. He bought the phones he’s using in Denver so I used that as the dividing line. For now anyway. I also narrowed my search to only the past two years. Since this guy is active, I don’t think he would have a lot of down time. I figured that more recent events was the best place to start.” He shrugged. “Of course, that is if he’s done this before and I’m not overreading things here.”

  “You’re not,” Ray said. “I like this line of reasoning.”

  “That’s what you pay me for.” Pancake raised an eyebrow. “Not enough though.” He shrugged. “Anyway, I found twenty-seven cases.”

  “That many?” I asked.

  Pancake nodded. “Just now getting into them, but I suspect I’ll stumble on a few more. I’d bet most of them will be minor. Facebook and social media stuff with no police involvement. Next I’ll weed those out and focus on those that are more egregious.”

  “You’re thinking the guy who’s harassing Megan is the egregious type?” Nicole asked.

  “If he’s not then there’s less urgency in this. An annoyance is just that, and no big deal, but I’m more concerned by those that cross the line.”

  “Sounds like you have a lot more to do,” I said.

  “I do. As soon as I finish lunch, I’ll dive back in.” He attacked another rib.

  CHAPTER 31

  NICOLE AND I had little to do. Pancake and Ray busied themselves at the dining table, each buried in cyberspace, and Megan was at the studio. We cleaned the kitchen—after extracting the leftovers from Pancake. Wasn’t easy but Nicole convinced him that the odor was getting a little stifling and that the meats would stay fresher in the fridge and that if he wanted any more, she would reheat it for him. He took two more ribs and a hot link and let her have her way. Of course, the fridge was only five feet away so he could keep an eye on it, and raid it at will.

  Nicole and I grabbed some coffee and sat on her deck. I slid down in the chair and propped my bare feet on the top of the railing. This was my idea of work.

  “What do you think about what Pancake said?” Nicole asked. “That this guy has done this before?”

  While we cleaned the kitchen, I had mentally run through everything he had said. A lot to digest. I tried to twist it and look at it from various angles, hoping to somehow make sense of all of it. No easy task as everything seemed to have a multitude of moving parts and unknown facts.

  I agreed with Pancake’s take that this dude was methodical, careful, and not all squirrely. Twisted for sure but not frantic. To me, that didn’t guarantee that the fuse hadn’t been lit and that he wasn’t on the verge of exploding into violence. It’s possible that his ultimate plan included such a flame-out. Hadn’t the careful, deliberate Ted Bundy done just that at Florida State University?

  It’s odd, but all this reminded me of a house fire Pancake and I had witnessed as kids. I think we were eight. The fire broke out a couple of blocks from where we lived so we pumped our bikes in that direction. The flames shot out of windows and the fire ate its way through the roof. The firemen released arcs of water over everything, which created massive clouds of steam. Then with cracks and creaks, the roof co
llapsed, followed by an explosion of flames. We were across the street, straddling our bikes on the sidewalk, yet the heat wave hit us like someone had opened a hot oven. Even the firemen took a step back. Then, just like that, it was over. As if the fire had taken its final breath before dying.

  Part of me felt that with this guy we might be dealing with a smoldering house fire, the final outcome yet to be determined. As if calm and methodical could take a hard left into crazy and chaos in a heartbeat.

  The question that hung out there was what did this guy want? What was his finish line? Murder? Rape and murder? Simply scaring the hell out of a vulnerable woman? I was rooting for the latter, but the truth was we had no idea.

  I remembered talking with an FBI agent once. A friend of Ray’s. Couldn’t recall his name right now, but he was an expert in serial predators and had worked on a couple of task forces that tracked active serial killers. He had said at one point that the irony of his job was that the more murders the killer performed, the better it was for law enforcement. More data points, more chances to leave behind the one clue that would end the terror. So he found himself in the uncomfortable position of hoping the killings would end while wishing they had just one more. The one that left breadcrumbs right to the killer’s door.

  It felt like we were there with Megan’s stalker. As long as he stayed at arm’s length, didn’t expose himself, kept using burner phones, kept everything electronic, we might never find him. Then we’d be left with him getting bored or finding another target or whatever. Of course, if he did simply fade away, Megan would have to live with an undercurrent of fear that he could reappear at any time. That would be a slowly simmering hell.

  I told Nicole of my thoughts, ending with, “Which means that if he has left a trail of other victims and if Pancake can find them, we will have more pieces of the puzzle. Maybe enough to ID the guy.”

  She sat quietly for a couple of minutes, considering everything. Finally, she said, “Let’s jump in the shower.”

  “What? After what I just said you want to have sex?”

  “No. I want us to scrub up and get over to the studio.”

  “Why?”

  “I need to see Megan. Make sure she’s okay.”

  “She is. She’s with people.”

  “Humor me.”

  We showered, no fun stuff though, dressed, and headed toward the studio. We left Ray and Pancake doing what they do.

  It was three thirty when we entered Channel 16. We found Megan, Abby, and Darren Slater in the conference room across from their offices, huddled around the long table, going over an array of orange grove photographs. Megan looked up.

  “What are you guys doing here?” Concern wrinkled her brow.

  “We wanted to watch your show live,” I said.

  “Jake was bored,” Nicole added. “If I don’t keep him busy, he gets in trouble.”

  I thought of better ways to keep me occupied but refrained from voicing them. Part of my ongoing efforts to disconnect my brain from my mouth.

  Megan laughed. “Well, I’m glad you came. Want some coffee?”

  We declined.

  “Well, I need some. Abby?”

  “That would be great.”

  A Keurig coffee maker sat on a small table in one corner. Megan loaded a pod and waited while the machine did its thing.

  “I keep meaning to get one of these for home,” Megan said.

  “Me, too,” Abby said.

  “I’m sure someone around here carries them.”

  “I know a couple of places,” Abby said. “I’ll check it out and see where we can get the best price.”

  “You don’t need to do that,” Megan said.

  “No problem. Besides, isn’t my job here to do research?” She smiled.

  “What’s all this?” Nicole asked. She pointed toward the tabletop.

  “Going over some images. Trying to decide which ones to use in the show.”

  Now she spread out even more grove photos. Some bright and colorful, others black and white, definitely older. “The piece is on how the orange groves that littered Orange County are mostly gone and replaced by houses and strip malls.”

  “I never knew there were so many orchards around here back then,” Abby said. “I’m sorry I never saw it.”

  “Before our time,” Megan said. “Go back thirty or forty years and Orange County was mostly a farming community.” Megan tapped two images—one older, the other more recent. “Let’s go with these two.”

  “I agree,” Abby said.

  “You got it.” Darren scooped up all the pictures, nodded to us, and left the room.

  “Anything new?” Megan asked.

  I hadn’t noticed this morning, probably because everyone was just getting up and hadn’t really awakened for the day, but Megan appeared even more tired and worn. Deeper lines of stress infiltrated the corners of her eyes and mouth.

  “Ray’s here,” I said. “He and Pancake are hard at it.”

  “Ray?” Abby asked. “That’s your father, right?”

  I nodded.

  “He’s a bulldog,” Nicole said. “Between him and Pancake, they’ll find this guy.”

  “If he’s findable,” Megan said.

  “He seems like a ghost,” Abby said.

  “He’s not,” I said. “Sooner or later, he’ll make a mistake.” Megan’s lips tightened, narrowed. “I’ll go with sooner.”

  “She got more emails today,” Abby said.

  “What did he say?” Nicole asked.

  “Depends. Some were professing endless love, others were nastier.”

  We headed to the office area. Megan settled in her chair and pulled her phone from her pocket. She worked it and then handed it to Nicole. I read over her shoulder.

  The messages were a mixed bag. There were apologies where he said things like:

  I’m so sorry I caused you any discomfort. I only meant to let you know how painful it is that we aren’t together.

  You speak to my soul. We were truly meant for each other.

  And then others:

  You mock me and don’t take my love seriously.

  You rejected my marriage proposal. My offer to make you happy for the remainder of your life. By so doing, you crushed my very being.

  You are the whore of the earth.

  “Then there’s this one,” Megan said. She opened a text. “I answered this one. Here’s the thread.”

  Him: I offered you my heart and my soul and you rejected me.

  Megan: I didn’t. Truly I didn’t. It’s just that how can you expect me to commit to someone I’ve never met?

  Him: Can’t you feel my love and devotion? Feel how deeply I care for you?

  Megan: I do. Let’s meet for a drink or dinner. You name the time and place.

  Him: We will meet. Soon. I alone will decide the time and place.

  Megan: OK. When?

  The thread ended.

  “I never heard back,” Megan said.

  “Forward those to me,” Nicole said. “I’ll send them on to Pancake and Ray.”

  She did. “Now what?”

  “You do your show,” I said. “Let us work on finding this guy.”

  “Before he does something,” Abby said. She laid a hand on Megan’s arm. “Something awful.”

  “So far he’s kept his distance,” Nicole said.

  “Really?” Abby said. “He left flowers at her door. He followed her to Malibu. He damaged her condo.” She raised her jaw. “That doesn’t seem very far away to me.”

  She had a point.

  CHAPTER 32

  “THIS’S TAKING ITS toll on her,” Abby said, her voice lowered to a whisper.

  “I know,” Nicole said, also a whisper. “I wish I knew what to do. Or even what to say.”

  We were standing in the shadows near the back of the studio. Well away from the producer who flanked one of the two cameramen. The stress that ate Megan was obvious. Her usual welcoming smile and energetic eyes, even her hair, h
ad lost their sparkle. She looked worn and haggard; her voice was weak and she stumbled over a couple of the words that scrolled at her from the teleprompter. Though definitely off her game, she struggled and fought her way through her story until it wrapped and moved on to a prerecorded package. Relief fell over her. She unhooked her lapel mic and headed our way. Her producer intercepted her near where we stood.

  “Good piece,” he said.

  “No. I screwed it up.”

  He hugged her. “It’s not as bad as you think.” He pushed her back and looked at her. “You’ll see. Now go get some rest.”

  She nodded. “Thanks.”

  We moved back to the office area. The show continued on the monitor in one corner.

  “You did good,” I said.

  “It was awful. I felt like I had oatmeal for brains.”

  “Let’s get out of here,” I said.

  “Sounds good.”

  “I’ll ride with you,” Nicole said. “Jake can follow us.”

  “I’ve got some errands to run.” Abby grabbed her purse. “I’ll walk out with you guys.”

  I headed to the public parking out front. I climbed in the Range Rover, cranked it up, and waited for them to ascend from the underground employee parking area. Seemed to take a while. Or maybe I was simply anxious to get back to Nicole’s place and see what Pancake and Ray had uncovered. If anything.

  Nicole ran up the ramp, head on a swivel. She gave me a frantic “come on” wave. I shut the engine down, jumped out, and hurried in her direction.

  “What is it?”

  She didn’t reply but rather turned and scampered back down the slope. I followed.

  Megan and Abby stood next to Megan’s car. At first all looked normal, then I saw the tears that streaked Megan’s face. That’s when I noticed her rear tires. Both were flat.

  “He was here,” Megan said.

  Abby hugged her. Megan’s shoulders lurched with sobs. “It’s okay. Take a breath.”

  I walked around the car. All four tires showed deep slashes through the side walls. What the hell? I turned and scanned the other half dozen cars, looking for signs of someone, but saw nothing. No real place to hide down here. Except one of the cars. I did a tour of each, but found them empty, tires intact.