by Evan Ronan
Lucy Hale has a bright future.
If she can live long enough to realize it.
Jack-of-all-trades Greg Owen gets a call one day from an old high school buddy. His daughter, Lucy, has a stalker. Home for the summer, Lucy had planned on spending her days training for an upcoming triathlon—a qualifying event for the next Olympics.
But there’s this boy from school … he won’t leave her alone … and he thinks they’re going to be together forever …
Greg’s job, which he gladly accepts, is to protect Lucy while she’s home from school and trains.
But as the case develops, things keep taking strange turns. Greg soon discovers there is more to the story. A lot more.
And as the qualifier draws near, Lucy’s stalker becomes more and more unhinged …
THE STALKED GIRL is the second in an exciting new hard-boiled, amateur sleuth series featuring everyman Greg Owen. One of these days he’ll retire … or die trying. In the meantime, Greg will keep fighting for the underdog and righting wrongs where he can.
The Stalked Girl
Evan Ronan
One
Let’s get this out of the way—
My name’s Greg Owen, and there are three kinds of people in this world:
Those who are good at math.
And those who aren’t.
Two
And also—
When it comes to stalking, men tend to be the experts.
Don’t get me wrong. The world has its shares of femme fatales, though that archetype tends to be overrepresented in the hard-boiled noir world of fiction. And the world also has its share of chicks who will boil bunnies to make a point.
But men are much better at stalking.
Much better.
I don’t know this from personal experience. Meaning, I’ve never stalked before. But I have—
Longed.
Yearned.
Pined.
Gotten my heart broken.
Was a touch obsessed with Jeanine in fifth grade.
Haven’t always taken the first No for an answer when I asked a woman out. (I’ve always taken No for an answer in the bedroom.)
And, when me and Lorelei split up, I felt totally lost for a year. I’d married her thinking this was it. Despite my being a very red-blooded male, I was good to go with that deal. But we weren’t good married. We were very good at everything else.
Anyway, stalking.
Yeah, stalking.
It tends not to end well for anybody. If there’s such a thing as a gateway crime, it’s stalking. There are no harmless obsessions in the opposite sex after you’ve reached the age of majority. Stalkers deserve to be stereotyped out the ass.
I swing by the pool hall to make sure, you know, Bernie is actually working and not off somewhere while potential customers come in looking for a table. I don’t mind him working on his Great American Novel while he’s there. So long as he’s actually minding the register.
He perks up when I enter, flips a sloppy salute. “Hey, Greg.”
“Carry on,” I do in my Marine voice. I used to be a leatherneck, long time ago, so I can manage it just fine. But I don’t salute Bernie back, because the guy is just not officer material as they say.
“Carrying on.” He flips another salute, before sitting back down behind the register. His laptop is open next to it on the counter, a Word document filling the screen.
“How’s the book?”
He smiles. “Writing is rewriting.”
I nod sagely. The guys in the hall have laid odds on Bernie, the line set at fifty copies for his book when he self-publishes it. Like the foolish romantic I am, I took the over. I can’t bet against somebody. I just can’t. If the cause is totally hopeless, then I won’t take the bet.
Anyway, laying money on Bernie … that’s fifty bucks I’ll never get back. So it goes. Despite the fact I want to kill him most days, I also want to see him succeed.
Why?
Because it’s the American Dream. Everybody’s got their own version of it. I’ve got mine. And seeing others succeed inspires.
To the guys at the hall, that makes me a sucker. And cruel though they may be, they’re also usually right. They are, after all, men who make a living off gambling.
Everybody hustles.
Wally and Roy continue their match of straight pool at table two, where they always play.
“The last time you walked a ball that far, it was your own testicle,” Roy smartly points out.
Wally waves the jibe away. “Last time your wife walked a ball that far—”
Roy wisely jumps in. It’s always better to get out ahead of the joke rather than stand in somebody’s comedic crosshairs.
“It belonged to somebody else. Ha. Ha. Ha.”
Wally, for the record, manages to walk the seven ball three quarters of the way down the rail and gets position on his next shot, a duck in the corner. He pockets the next one, leaves the cue ball right where he wants with a shot on the lone remaining ball, the thirteen, right where he’ll be able to scatter the rack once Roy sets it up.
These guys are good. And I’m smart enough never to let them take my money on the pool table at least. Once upon a time, I could keep up with them. One of these days I’ll get back to the game in earnest.
I just need to hit a home run.
Wally and Roy are playing to a billion and lose count of where they stand at least three times a week. They’re sharks, but not good enough to make the big show. But you don’t have to be the best at a thing to make a living doing it. You just have to be really, really good. Better than most. And you’re golden. Einstein’s Theory of Relative Expertise.
“Oh, Greg.” Bernie is up out of his seat again, holding a sticky note out in front of him. “There was a guy here looking for you.”
“Did he look rich and want to discuss a bunch of exciting new opportunities?” I ask.
Bernie frowns. “Should I have asked?”
I’m about to say no, then: “Yes. Next time, you ask. Always ask.”
Bernie looks at me like he can’t tell if I’m joking and I don’t clear things up for him. “He left his name and number. Said he knew you.”
Everybody knows everybody.
I take the note.
“Bob Haley.” It takes a moment. “Robby Haley?”
Bernie shrugs. “He said Bob.”
“Bob.” It must be the same guy. “Thanks, Bernie.”
“Hey, Greg.” Bernie comes out from behind the counter. “I wanted to talk to you about compensation.”
Bernie has worked here less than two months. All he has to do is make sure people pay what the computer tells him they should pay. And give them the change the register instructs him to. Sometimes he has to microwave soft pretzels or cook hot dogs.
That’s all.
“Okay, Bernie,” I say.
“I feel like I’ve shown you I’m a capable employee and—”
I can’t. I just can’t.
“Bernie, far as I’m concerned, you’re still working off your tab here.” Bernie was notorious until recently for rarely having paid to play. If I sold hamburgers, his nickname would have been Wimpy.
“Point taken.” Bernie raises a palm. “You’re right. Gotta pay my dues. But, Greg?”
“Yes?”
“What do I have to do to get to the next level at this company?”
Company?
I own the place and there is a skeleton crew of part-timers, almost all of whom are insidiously unreliable. Since somebody bought me out of the convenience store—thank God—I’ve made my home here, covering most of the shifts.
“Let’s, uh, reevaluate the situation when you’ve been here six months. Thanks for all the hard work, Bernie.”
People, these days.
I go into the back where my cell reception is lousy but I at least have privacy. My office is clean for a change, and I finally put a new picture up of my daughter, Tammy. She just turned thirteen and next year she’ll be in eighth grade. Time doesn’t fly—
It warps.
I dial the number Little Robby, aka Bob, Haley left with Bernie, the working man’s champion.
“Greg Owen,” Bob Haley answers.
“That’s me,” I say. “Is this Robby Haley, or am I having a premature senior moment and forgetting about another Haley I know from way back?”
He’s silent a moment. “You don’t remember me?”
Oh shit.
I stumble. “In the Marines, I was bonked on the he—”
“Just messing with you, Greg. It’s me.”
I let out an audible sigh of relief. “How the hell are you, Robby?”
“It’s Bob these days,” he says, nicely enough. “How long’s it been?”
“Class of ’95,” I say. “I haven’t been back since.”
“No point, right?” He laughs, but there’s something forced about the sound. “Most everybody’s still around.”
Truth. “Every time I stop at the bar, it’s senior week all over.”
This time he doesn’t even put up the front of laughing. I can feel the tidal shift of this conversation from holy shit how long’s it been to—
There’s a reason I stopped by your pool hall when—
more than twenty years ago—
we hardly knew each other.
“Hey, Greg, I wanted to discuss a private matter with you,” he says formally, like we just kicked off a business meeting. “Can we meet in person?”
I was hoping it had something to do with business, because I’m still in search of that first million. But from the sound of his voice, I can tell it’s not.
“Sure thing. I can—”
“I’ll come to you. Just say where.”
I check the time. Bernie’s shift goes another couple hours.
“Let’s meet at Hurley’s.”
Three
Hurley’s is the local watering hole. It used to be Thompson’s Drug Store. Before that, it was McKenna’s Drycleaning. Before that, it was the Lucky Thirteen Ice Cream Parlor. And, before that, it was Jordan’s Bar.
I walk right the hell by Bob Haley. He used to be known as Little Robby because he was the proverbial runt of the class litter, but these days he’s almost six feet tall and must be tipping the scales at three hundred and fifty pounds.
Give or take.
“Hey, Greg.”
I realize I’ve done it. Walked right by him. And also I realize there’s no smooth way of saying, Gee, didn’t recognize you, so I just say—
“Sorry, it’s been awhile and I didn’t recognize you.”
Bob Haley smiles and once more I see the young boy I knew all those years ago. Little Robby Haley and I went to school together for twelve years, often students in the same class, and never developed anything more than a passing familiarity. I can’t think of a reason why either, because I don’t remember him being a dick and I, of course, was the Greatest and Coolest Kid Ever That Everybody Loved and Wanted To Be Friends With … bottom line is we had nothing against each other. And nothing for each other, I guess.
He’s gracious enough to pat his bulging gut. “I’ve put on a little weight.”
“We all have,” I say, shaking his beefy hand and settling onto the stool next to him. “Ready for another?”
I gesture at his empty mixed drink.
“Oh.” He picks up the glass like he forgot about it.
Rory, the bartender, saunters over. “Hey, Greg. Usual?”
Sometimes it’s annoying that everybody knows everything about you in this town. But it’s also nice to have a “usual.”
“Thanks, Rory.” I point at Bob’s glass. “And whatever Bob is having. Looks like something and Coke.”
Rory nods and goes to make the drinks.
“It’s just Coke,” Bob says, almost apologetically. “I don’t drink.”
“Oh shit, you should have said something,” I say. “We could have gone anywhere.”
“I’m a big boy.” He smiles. “I can handle a pub.”
I nod. We talk about my favorite subject—the weather of all goddamned things—till Rory brings my stout and Bob’s Just Coke. I sip my beer and Bob doesn’t touch his soda. Somebody comes into the bar, and Bob peers over my shoulder with intense eyes.
Like he’s looking for somebody.
“Greg, I called you because my daughter is in trouble,” he says.
I nod slowly, let him come to the problem in his own way.
Bob finally gets around to sipping his soda. “She’s got a stalker.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
He looks at me like I was just being insincere.
Then he continues. “This guy won’t leave her alone.”
“Send him a message,” I say.
Bob sighs. “We are against violence.”
“Far be it from me to get into a philosophical discussion with you, Bob, especially when I’ve got a pint glass in front of me, but may I ask why?”
Bob reaches under his shirt and pulls out a crucifix. “If a man raised a hand at me, I would turn the other cheek.”
I can’t help myself. “Except you have a daughter.”
“I do.” He arches an eyebrow. “As do you, I understand.”
“You understand correctly.” I sip the stout. It tastes good, roasted and creamy. “And if anybody stalked her, the only lawyer I’d need would be the guy I called to defend me after I busted the knucklehead up.”
He nods again. “You were a Marine.”
“Even if I wasn’t.” I shake my head. “That’s how I’d be.”
“He won’t leave her alone.”
I take down some more stout. “How does he know her?”
“From school. They go to—”
“Monroe,” I say. “Where, I hear, your daughter is quite an athlete.”
He smiles proudly. “The Lord has given her a gift, and she is using it. But this is getting out of hand. She moved out of her dorm and came back home.”
I do some mental math. “Tough commute. Monroe is a good—”
“Seventy-four minutes each way.” He shakes his head, and anger fills his eyes. “But she didn’t feel safe living on campus with him there. Now it’s beginning to affect her grades.”
“What did the school do about it?” I ask.
“The Dean didn’t feel like there was enough to expel Adam.”
Adam. The first mention of his name.
“So, that was it?” I ask. “They didn’t do anything?”
“My daughter, Lucy, filed a complaint with the Dean’s office. The Dean personally spoke to Adam, advising him to stay away from her. But as big a school it is, it’s also very small. They’re both sports science majors.”
“So they share classes?”
“They did. The Dean asked Adam to rearrange his schedule, and the kid complied so now they don’t have any of the same classes. He’s a swimmer also, and he agreed to stay away from the pool while the girls practice, but that’s next-to-impossible without him quitting the team. The coaches can’t arrange the team’s schedules so these two never see each other.”
“Sounds like they didn’t do much,” I say, and, solipsistically, my mind drifts to my own thirteen-year-old daughter. So far I haven’t had to deal with boyfriends but I know that’s right around the corner—if it hasn’t happened already without my knowledge. I’m not naïve, nor am I one of these hypocrite parents that thinks their children wouldn’t ever behave in a fashion similar to the way they did. When I was a thirteen-year-old boy, I had a raging hard-on most of the time. It’d be stupid of me to pretend like Tammy doesn’t have the same teena
ge hormones that I once possessed, or that there wouldn’t be guys who are just as horny as I was.
“Adam saw the school counselor,” Bob says, interrupting my own mounting parental fears. “Because he rearranged his class schedule, promised to stay away from the girls’ swim team, and agreed to speak to someone, the Dean thought he showed genuine remorse and a willingness to move on.”
“But still, Lucy didn’t feel safe?” I ask.
“Adam had a habit of showing up where she was.” Bob shakes his head angrily. “In the gym. At the coffee shop. At parties. He’s in a fraternity, and Lucy stopped going to their parties when this all started, but then Adam started popping up at other fraternities.”
“Which is weird.” From what little I know about frats.
“Which is weird,” he agrees. “Lucy said most brothers wouldn’t do that.”
“Did you go back to the Dean?”
“We did. But the Dean felt like there wasn’t enough there.”
“Have you gone to the police?” I ask.
“They won’t do anything without a restraining order,” Bob explains.
“Have you got one?”
“In the process.” Bob turns fully to me, his bulk pressing against the bar. “We hired an attorney but she’s hedging her bets on the outcome.”
“So it could go either way.”
He nods.
I take another drink of my stout and think about things. I’m not sure what I can do to help, except—
“You want me to scare him off?”
Bob hesitates. “No.”
“So that’s what you want.”
He looks away. “No … I mean, if we have to do that, then yes.” He sits a little taller. “Yes. If we have to.”
“Why don’t you just do it?” I ask, waiting for that hand to go to the crucifix once more.
“Look.” He shakes his head. “That’s not why I called you.”
“Why did you?” I put my beer down. “Because other than putting the fear of God into Adam, I don’t know how I can help.”
“I called you because you were a Marine and you’re a private investigator—”
“Was a Marine many moons ago. Was a PI.” I shake my head. “For all of five minutes.”