The OC Read online

  ALSO BY D.P. LYLE

  The Jake Longly Series

  Deep Six

  A-List

  Sunshine State

  Rigged

  The Cain/Harper Series

  Skin in the Game

  Prior Bad Acts

  The Dub Walker Series

  Stress Fracture

  Hot Lights, Cold Steel

  Run to Ground

  The Samantha Cody Series

  Original Sin

  Devil’s Playground

  Double Blind

  The Royal Pains Media Tie-In Series

  Royal Pains: First, Do No Harm

  Royal Pains: Sick Rich

  Nonfiction

  Murder and Mayhem

  Forensics For Dummies

  Forensics and Fiction

  Howdunit: Forensics; A Guide For Writers

  More Forensics and Fiction

  ABA Fundamentals: Forensic Science

  Anthologies

  Thrillers: 100 Must-Reads (contributor); Jules Verne, Mysterious Island Thriller 3: Love Is Murder (contributor); Even Steven; For the Sake of the Game (contributor); Bottom Line

  Copyright © 2021 by D. P. Lyle

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, businesses, locales, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN 978-1-60809-460-8

  Published in the United States of America by Oceanview Publishing

  Sarasota, Florida

  www.oceanviewpub.com

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  To my wonderful agent, Kimberley Cameron of Kimberley Cameron & Associates, for her guidance, advice, dedication, and friendship. KC, you’re the best.

  To Bob and Pat Gussin and the great folks at Oceanview. Thanks for your hard work and creativity in making this book the best it can be.

  To my always first reader and editor, Nancy Whitley.

  To Nan for everything.

  CHAPTER 1

  “SHE LIKES YOU.”

  “Everybody likes me.”

  “Yeah, but she likes you in that I-want-to-sit-on-your-lap way.”

  “So do you.”

  “Hmmm. Sounds like a plan.”

  “These seats aren’t that big.”

  Okay, a little perspective here. I’m Jake Longly, ex-pro baseball player, restaurant/bar owner, and lover of women. Well, the one sitting next to me anyway. That would be Nicole Jamison. Funny, smart, and insanely beautiful. Sometimes annoying. Actually, she excels at that.

  We were seated in first class, Row 5, Seats A and B, on an American Airlines flight into Orange County, California’s John Wayne Airport. The OC, baby.

  We had started out early this morning in Gulf Shores, Alabama, where my restaurant, Captain Rocky’s, sits on the sand, and where we both live. This trip was in part a vacation from—I’m not sure from what. I work very little. My manager, Carla Martinez, runs the joint so I have essentially zero to do. Except hang out with Nicole and Pancake. Nicole is my girlfriend, or whatever. We haven’t yet decided what we are. Let’s say, she likes me. See? I told you, everybody likes me. Tommy “Pancake” Jeffers is my best friend. All the way back to when we terrorized the neighborhood as kids. He likes hanging out at Captain Rocky’s, too. Mainly because the food and drink are free. My God, that boy can eat. Gnaws on my profits. If there are any. I’m never very sure since Carla rarely tells me. I don’t worry too much about it since the place is always packed. Also, I share the profits with her, so I figured that if we were bleeding out, she’d let me know.

  Nicole, besides being smart and hot, and at times snarky, also writes screenplays. That’s the other reason for our trip to the left coast. Her new film was teed up to begin shooting in three weeks. Her other two screenplays had been minimalist productions, indies that made it to a couple of small film festivals. This one was on an entirely different level. It would be shepherded by her uncle Charles Balfour, the A-list producer and CEO of Regency Global Productions, RGP for short. He’s the driving force behind the multibillion-dollar Space Quest series. Yeah, billion with a B.

  Me and Uncle Charles go way back. I’ve never actually met him but I’ve spent many a night in the home he owns near Gulf Shores. That’s where Nicole lives. Or hangs out anyway.

  Nicole also lives in The OC, in a Newport Beach condo, but she’s rarely there. For the past year or so, that’s how long we’ve been together, she’s mostly stayed in Uncle Charles’ mega-mansion very near my Gulf Shores home.

  “These seats aren’t that small,” Nicole said.

  “There’s no leg room.”

  “That’s because you have long legs.”

  “You don’t?”

  She laughed. “If memory serves, you do pretty well in tight spaces.”

  I looked at her “I’ll let that one slide by.”

  The flight attendant returned, smiling, saying, “Can I get you anything?” Her gaze locked on me for a beat too long. Her name tag said she was Maryanne.

  “I think we’re good.” I smiled back.

  She moved on down the row.

  Nicole elbowed my ribs. “See? What’d I tell you?”

  “Maybe she’s using me to get to you?”

  “Could be. Maybe I should be glad you have the aisle seat,” Nicole said.

  “Pancake’s better at running interference. He’s built for it.”

  “In this situation, I think you’ll do fine.”

  Through the opening that led into the galley, I saw flight attendant Maryanne lift the microphone from its wall perch. She looked at me and smiled. Her announcement informed us that we would be landing in thirty minutes so any last-minute trips to the restroom might be a good idea.

  “I think she wants you to join the mile-high club,” Nicole said.

  “She’s doing her job.”

  “The aforementioned restroom is right behind her. Looked like an invitation to me.”

  “Might disturb the pilots,” I said. “Besides, speaking of tight spaces. Not much room to maneuver.”

  “Bigger than the front seat of my car.”

  Nicole drives a Mercedes SL convertible. More than once, or twice, or thrice—I love that word—we’ve watched a sunset from the front passenger seat, her settled on my lap.

  “We could try the one in back,” she said. “See if it’ll work.”

  “And get cuffed by those TSA folks when we step off the plane.”

  “You’re no fun.”

  “Wait until we get to your place.”

  “Your girlfriend’s headed this way.” She nodded toward the galley area. “I think she wants your phone number.”

  I looked up as Maryanne approached, a scrap of paper and a pen in her hand.

  “I hate to bother you,” she said. “But could I get your autograph for my son. He’s a big baseball fan.”

  I guess she didn’t want my number.

  This happened from time to time. Less so with each year that flowed by since my days in the Bigs. Still felt good though. I mean being an old, washed-up athlete is better than being a forgotten, old, washed-up one.

  “How old is he?” I asked.

  “Eight. Going on thirty.” She gave a headshake. “He’s much more mature than his father.” She laughed. “He can be such a goof.”

  “It’s a guy thing,” Nico
le said. “They only mature until about age fourteen. That’s their ceiling.”

  I would have defended my manhood but I was outnumbered, surrounded, and couldn’t think of a clever comeback. Which was likely their point.

  “Don’t I know it.” Maryanne extended the paper toward me.

  “What’s your son’s name?” I asked.

  “Scott. We call him Scotty.”

  “What position does he play?”

  “He pitches and plays shortstop.” She beamed. “He’s really very good.”

  I started to sign the paper but then said. “I have something he’ll like more.” I foot-tugged my carry-on from beneath the seat and lifted it into my lap. I unzipped it and rummaged inside until I found what I was looking for. A baseball.

  I always traveled with several baseballs. Rarely to sign one for a fan but mostly to throw at bad guys. Like Victor Borkov’s crew. Baseballs are great weapons. But I didn’t tell Maryanne any of that. Instead, I said, “I always carry a couple of these for just such occasions.”

  “You don’t have to do that,” she said.

  “My pleasure.” I signed the ball to Scotty and handed it to her.

  “He’ll be thrilled.” She gave me another smile and a quick nod. “Thank you so much.”

  “I think you just made her day,” Nicole said as Maryanne walked away.

  “Scotty’s, too, I hope.”

  “Definitely.” She hooked her arm in mine. “You deserve a reward.”

  “Like what?”

  “The usual.”

  Me likey the usual.

  CHAPTER 2

  THE USUAL TURNED out to be unusually wonderful. The unusually part wasn’t exactly true. Anytime I crawled in the shower with Nicole it was memorable.

  After we landed at John Wayne, said goodbye to Maryanne, and grabbed our luggage and our rental, we drove the few miles to Nicole’s condo. We had opted for a Range Rover, figuring with all the driving around we would be doing, LA, Malibu, and wherever else we might have to go, the extra room would come in handy. We didn’t bother to unpack, but rather dumped our suitcases on the living room floor, shed our clothes, and climbed in the shower. The fun started there and ended on her bed.

  Now, we lay on the sheets, the covers having been kicked to the floor, Nicole resting in the crook of my arm.

  “That was fun,” she said.

  “It was. Not sure what revved your engine but I like it.”

  “Flying always cranks up my rpms.”

  “Everything seems to redline your rpms.”

  She tilted her head upward. “You complaining?”

  “Not even remotely.”

  “What time is it?”

  I scooped up my iPhone from the bedside table and punched it to life. “Almost four.”

  “We better unpack and get ready.”

  “I’m ready.”

  I was. She reached down and squeezed me. “Put it away, cowboy.” She laughed. “Until later.”

  “What about now?”

  She rolled out of bed in all her magnificent nakedness. “We’re meeting Megan at five thirty. I need to call Mom and Dad, and Uncle Charles, and let them know we made it.”

  I swung around to sit on the edge of the bed. “You’re no fun.”

  “That’s not what you said a little while ago.”

  “That was then. This is now.”

  “Quit pouting and get ready to go.”

  I wasn’t pouting. Not much. “Okay, okay. I need to take another shower.”

  “Or I can simply throw cold water on you.”

  “A hot shower sounds better.”

  “Make it quick, I’m right behind you.”

  I stood. “Or, you can join me.”

  “No. That thing might get in the way.”

  “What thing?”

  “Get in the shower, Jake.”

  I did, then dressed, and walked out on the deck while Nicole made her calls. Her condo, top floor, the third, in a fairly large cluster, hung along a narrow boardwalk and looked down on a line of Newport Harbor boat slips. The late-day sun glinted the water and cast long mast shadows over its surface. Down a few slips, a couple seemed to be prepping their sailboat for a sunset cruise. Popular around here. The guy lifted a blue cooler over the gunwale and settled it on the stern seat. That reminded me, I was hungry. Made me wonder what the boaters had on the menu. Sandwiches and beer would be fine with me, but I suspected Nicole would have wanted lobster, some sort of cheese I couldn’t pronounce—Frenchy and nasty-tasting—and Champagne. Toss in some avocado and quinoa and it would be like so California. Not that Nicole was all that high-maintenance, actually far from it, but out on the ocean in a cool-looking sailboat, she’d likely want to climb up the cuisine food chain.

  Well before five, Nicole was all spiffed up and ready to go. Didn’t take long because she didn’t need much spiffing.

  Took all of three minutes to walk to The Cannery, a Newport Beach institution. It was an old fish canning facility built a century ago that nearly fifty years ago evolved into a popular restaurant/bar. Even had its own boat slips so folks could sail or motor up and have lunch, dinner, drinks, whatever.

  The hostess led us to a waterside table on the covered deck that looked down on the water. We ordered drinks, and since it was a half hour before Megan was due, Nicole added a dose of extra-crispy French fries.

  “How is everyone?” I asked.

  “I talked with Mom. She’s so excited about the movie.”

  “As she should be. It’ll be great.”

  “You’re saying that to tamp down my anxiety about it.”

  “No. It’s true. It’s a great story.”

  It was. Based on a real Hollywood murder case. An unsolved one. Of course, Nicole’s screenplay only loosely followed the real events. Poetic license at its best. She had transformed the complex and confusing case into a first-rate script. Lots of quirky characters and a thrill-ride plot.

  Our drinks and the fries appeared. Our waitress, an attractive young lady named Willa, asked if we wanted to order any food.

  “We’re meeting someone,” Nicole said. “We’ll wait for them.”

  Willa nodded and disappeared toward the bar area.

  “It’ll be good to see them again,” I said.

  “Mom can’t wait.” Nicole smiled. “She has a crush on you.”

  “As I have on her.”

  That was true. Connie was basically Nicole in twenty years. Trim, fit, blond, and funny. Nicole had a good template to age into. Made me say a silent prayer that I wouldn’t grow into Ray. Not likely. I was taller and leaner and took more after my mom. Sometimes the inheritance roulette wheel spun in the right direction. Not that Ray wasn’t a good-looking guy, and smart, and oh so tough, but Mom had a sense of humor and calmness that seemed to have filtered down to me. Which rankled Ray on a daily basis. He, of course, loved my mom and losing her hammered him hard. Me too. But he had always hoped I’d get the sense of urgency and focus that defined his life. That ship sailed long ago.

  “Uncle Charles is hosting a party at his place on Saturday. Mom and Dad will be there.”

  “Good.”

  “So will Kirk Ford.”

  Kirk Ford. The star of Uncle Charles’ mega-hit Space Quest series. A couple of billion dollars worldwide, so far, and still counting. Uncle Charles had not only played the domestic and foreign market game to the hilt; he held the episodes closely and milked each through rereleases as long a possible. Then on to cable and the various streaming services and he needed 18-wheelers to roll in the money. Not literally, of course, but I liked that image.

  All systems hummed, the franchise growing like kudzu, and then it jumped the rails. Kirk’s involvement in the whole Kristi Guidry murder case down in New Orleans nearly did the franchise in. His reputation, and the reputation of Uncle Charles’ Regency Global Productions, took a hit. Big-time. Now, Uncle Charles was gradually pasting it all back together and was planning the next installment for next year.
As a way to reintroduce Kirk to the world and test the water temperature, Uncle Charles slotted him to star in Murderwood, Nicole’s movie.

  “Well, he is the star,” I said. “How’s he doing?”

  “According to Uncle Charles, well. Seems to have put it all behind him and is eager to get back to work. Hopefully, the public is ready for his return.”

  “They will be. He’s a certified superstar.”

  “I guess we’ll see.”

  “It’s been a rough road for him, I’m sure.”

  “Oh yeah. But Kirk’s resilient.”

  “And pretty.”

  Nicole laughed. “He is that.” She munched on a fry. “So we’re off to Malibu.”

  “Can’t wait to see Uncle Charles’ place there. Bet it’s nice.”

  “You have no idea. Makes the house I stay in look like a beach shack.”

  The beach shack in question was Uncle Charles’ mansion in Gulf Shores. In The Point, the high-dollar, beachfront enclave where Tammy, my ex, also lived. Despite that, the neighborhood was envied by all who didn’t, or couldn’t, afford to live there. Uncle Charles’ home was one of the biggest and classiest in the area. Massive, modern yet warm and cozy, with a large deck that hung over the beach, and best of all, a large hot tub, where Nicole and I had passed some quality time.

  “That’s hard to imagine,” I said.

  “Here comes Megan.” Nicole waved

  CHAPTER 3

  “SORRY I’M LATE,” Megan said as she walked up.

  Megan Weatherly. I had last seen her six months earlier when Nicole and I were in The OC for a few days. Back when Nicole’s movie project was in the early development stages. We came out to “take a few meetings.” See? I know Hollywood-speak. Megan, as pretty as ever, was nearly as tall as Nicole’s five-ten and had flowing mahogany hair, bright green eyes, and a perfect smile. She wore her “on-screen” clothes—ivory blouse, navy blue slacks, and a matching sports coat. Still had the Channel 16 button on the lapel.

  Nicole and I stood, we exchanged hugs, sat again.

  “You’re not late,” I said.

  She glanced at her watch, shrugged. “Guess not. Sure feels that way.”

  “One of those days?” Nicole asked.