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  “Sure. A dozen over the past couple of years. Most send a handful of emails and then go away. A couple kept it up for a few months but even they gave up.” She shrugged. “I guess they realized I was a TV image and not their friend.”

  “But this guy looks at you as his lover,” Abby said. “That’s creepy and scary.”

  CHAPTER 5

  THE NEXT MORNING, Nicole and I decided to take a walk along the Newport Beach bike path. It ran virtually the entire length of Balboa Peninsula, a spit of land that embraced Newport Harbor, as well as Lido Isle and Balboa Island, both packed with seven-figure, some eight-figure, homes, and protected the harbor from the Pacific’s sometimes churning waves. The pathway, a thin ribbon of concrete, separated the broad sand beach and the multimillion-dollar houses that stood shoulder to shoulder like beachy row homes. A few million didn’t buy you much land around here but enough zeroes could get you a great view.

  Nicole wore black Lycra knee-length shorts that appeared to have been spray-painted on and a gray cropped tee shirt. A black baseball cap and gray New Balance jogging shoes completed her outfit.

  Wow, just wow.

  Me? Shorts and a tee shirt. Nothing special. No one was going to notice me anyway with Nicole alongside.

  We headed over to the Newport Pier, only a five-minute walk from Nicole’s condo, where we could jump on the bike path. But that wasn’t our destination. Not yet. Nicole needed nourishment first. Even though we had had a rather substantial meal last night, I was hungry too.

  Near the base of the pier and nestled among a few shops and other eateries was Charlie’s Chili. Like The Cannery, a Newport Beach institution and famous for their massive and perfectly spicy Chili Cheese Omelet. Nicole’s favorite restaurant and dish. Every time we came out to the left coast, a stop at Charlie’s was mandatory.

  We found a booth along the back wall. Our waitress poured coffee and took our orders.

  “I think you like this place better than Captain Rocky’s,” I said.

  “I do right now.”

  “You do?”

  “We’re here. That makes it number one.”

  “My feelings are hurt.”

  “No, they’re not. I eat enough meals at Captain Rocky’s to own stock.”

  “But like Pancake, you eat for free.”

  “Here too. You’re buying.”

  “Why me? You’re the big Hollywood mogul.”

  “Oh, I forgot. Okay, I’ll buy. But you’ll pay later.”

  “I’ll pay later anyway.”

  “That’s true.”

  Our omelets appeared, coffee cups refilled, and we dug in. I had to admit, it was outstanding. Nicole shoveled in a couple of bites then said, “Heaven. Pure heaven.”

  “Spicy.”

  “Wimp.” She pointed her fork at me. “You should serve breakfast at Captain Rocky’s.”

  “I do. We have breakfast burritos on the menu.”

  “Yeah but you don’t open until eleven. Open at seven. Serve real breakfast.”

  “Carla would mutiny.”

  Carla Martinez, my manager, and the one who really kept the doors open and the books balanced. I was simply the “face man.” If I told her we were opening four hours earlier, she’d shoot me. Literally.

  “Probably true,” Nicole said. “But if you did, you’d have to put this on the menu.”

  “You might get fat if you ate this everyday.”

  She smiled. “I’d find a way to work it off.”

  “Would that include me?”

  “It would.”

  “Then I’d better eat up.”

  “You go, cowboy.”

  We each cleaned our plates, and then Nicole did indeed pay the bill. We walked outside.

  “Okay, let’s walk this off,” Nicole said.

  “When you said work it off earlier, I had something else in mind.”

  “I did too. But right now, I need to walk.”

  The typical morning marine layer blocked the sun and the light onshore breeze felt cool. That would soon change as the sun burned away the cloud layer and heated up the sand. We followed the bike path for the next half hour, down the peninsula past the Balboa Pier and way out to the peninsula’s tip, to The Wedge. One of the many surfing cathedrals along the Southern California coastline. A place where the western swell shoved the water against the elbow created by the harbor’s rock-pile breakwater barrier and the sandy beach. An arrangement that created churning waves and a beach break. Meaning the water slammed directly onto hard-packed sand. Dangerous, The Wedge had caused more spinal injuries than folks cared to talk about. Yet it still attracted body surfers and boogie boarders of all skill levels.

  We stood on the beach and watched a group of teenage boys get thrashed by the waves. A couple of them smacked the sand fairly hard but came up spitting and coughing and laughing. One, a skinny kid with stringy blond hair and dark blue baggies, kissed the beach with a firm whack—off the top of a wave and flat against the sand. He rolled over and sat up, while his buddies whooped and hollered, one shouting that it was an epic face-plant. It was. Fortunately, the kid shook it off and dove back into the surf. Kids that age, especially boys, are indestructible, or at least think they are. Growing up, Pancake and I were exactly the same. The difference being that Pancake actually was indestructible. I tried to picture him thumping the beach like that. Wouldn’t be pretty. Pancake one, beach zero.

  Pancake and I didn’t have big waves like those at The Wedge along the Gulf Coast so we found other venues for our stunts. Like jumping off the roof of the garage. Yeah, we actually did that. Thought it was fun. Go figure. Or swinging on a rope lashed to a tree limb to propel ourselves out over a shallow creek. The drop was a rush, the water cool, the bottom hard and craggy. Seemed we did such crazy crap all the time. Sort of explained many a southern boy’s final words: “Here, hold my beer and watch this.”

  We retreated to the bike path and turned toward home. Nicole took my hand.

  “What do you think about what Megan said last night?” she asked.

  “That dude?”

  “Yeah. Her stalker.”

  “That’s a little harsh, don’t you think?”

  “No. I didn’t feel comfortable with the note he included with the candy. It sounded a little too desperate.”

  “Guys with crushes do and say all kinds of stupid stuff.”

  “You’d know.”

  I looked at her. “What does that mean?”

  “It means you’re a guy. You think with the wrong head way too often.”

  “In our defense, we can’t help it. It’s biological. Besides, I thought you liked that about me.”

  “I do.” She slapped my butt. “But your advances aren’t exactly unwelcome.”

  “Maybe this guy’s aren’t either.”

  “Really? Don’t you think Megan’s uncomfortable with all this?”

  “Is she? Nothing she said last night made me think she was upset or concerned in the least.”

  “Hmmm.” Nicole seemed the think that over. Maybe mentally running through last night’s conversation. “She’s at least not taking him very seriously.”

  “My point. The truth is there is no way to know who or what this guy is. Or even form a coherent impression. We just heard about it, and only the highlights. She’s been living with it for a few weeks.”

  “She’s a pretty together woman. Not one to go all crazy about anything.”

  “So she might be right? This is a big nothing?”

  “Maybe.” She sighed. “I don’t know why, but for some reason I have a bad feeling about it.”

  “Why?”

  “Maybe it’s the stalkers I’ve had. That could be coloring my reading of this.”

  “Still, you have good instincts.”

  She smiled. “Sometimes.”

  “Most times.”

  She kissed my cheek. “You’re sweet.”

  “I am. I’ll tell you what. Let’s go see Megan today. Take a look at all the
communications she’s had from this guy.”

  “So, you’re concerned, too?”

  “Not really. Well, maybe a little. But if you’re feeling things are wrong, it warrants looking into.”

  “Isn’t that what P.I.s do?”

  “I’m not a P.I.,” I said.

  “We’ll see.”

  “Ray isn’t anywhere around here. In fact, he’s two thousand miles away.”

  “Yeah, but he’s like Santa Claus. He’s everywhere.”

  That I couldn’t deny.

  CHAPTER 6

  THE WALK BACK up the bike path was pleasant. The morning marine layer began to break up and the sun made a sketchy appearance, its orb visibly pushing through the low clouds. Looked like it was going to be a great day.

  Why wouldn’t it be? Every day in The OC bordered on perfect. Well, except for June. The exception that made the rule. A month when the marine layer would hang around for days, relegating the sun to forgotten visitor status. Locals called it the June Gloom. Not sure why it happened, but it was a seasonal phenomenon. Fortunately, this wasn’t June so another stellar day hung on the horizon. Besides, we had had an excellent breakfast, a pleasant walk, and when we got back to Nicole’s place we would need a shower. Oh yeah.

  “What are you smiling about?” Nicole asked as we strolled past the Balboa Pier and the Fun Zone, a collection of shops, restaurants, and even a small Ferris wheel. Also, the peninsula terminus of the ferry that slid back and forth to nearby—meaning a hundred or so yards—Balboa Island. The area was quiet this time of morning, just a few walkers out and about, but it would soon crank up and become chaotic.

  “I was smiling?”

  “You were.”

  “Just thinking about the shower when we get back.”

  She bumped a hip against mine. “Of course, you were.” Another bump. “Me, too.”

  Yes, it was destined to be a perfect day.

  Then it wasn’t.

  My cell buzzed. The screen read “Tammy.” My ex. Tammy the Insane. Past history dictated that ignoring her was not an option. She would only call and call and call. A war of attrition that she always won. I mean, how many chimes and buzzes could you stand? Soon the anticipation of the next call became worse than the chirping itself. She once called every two minutes for well over a half an hour. As I said, Tammy the Insane.

  Nicole and I veered off the bike path, away from the other walkers, and moved across the beach toward the water. Out of earshot. I punched the speaker button, but before I could say anything, Tammy jumped right into the issue of the day.

  “Jake, where are you?”

  “California.”

  “Oh. I forgot.”

  She knew Nicole and I were coming out for the shooting of Nicole’s movie.

  Tammy continued. “I need you here.”

  “Why?” As soon as it escaped my mouth, I regretted it. Never a good idea to encourage Tammy. Never ask a question, never offer advice, never seem interested, never, never, never. Yet, with a single word, I had opened the door. Stupid is as stupid does.

  “I don’t know what to do,” Tammy said. “I want you to talk to Walter.”

  Walter Horton. Tammy’s husband. A mega lawyer along the Gulf Coast. The one that took me for a bundle when he handled our divorce. Then married Tammy. In the end, not all that bad for me.

  “Walter and I don’t talk,” I said.

  “That’s because Walter’s busy. And smart. You’re neither.”

  Gotta love her. She can insult you and ask for help and never take a breath between. “So, why would I talk to Walter now?”

  “Because he needs you.”

  My brain screamed “Don’t ask.” But I had to admit the old cat curiosity thing reared its head. “Needs me for what?”

  “He’s talking crazy. About closing his practice and retiring.”

  “Okay.”

  “Don’t you see? How will we live? If Walter quits, we’ll be destitute.”

  Depends on your meaning of destitute. Walter probably had eight figures in the bank, a multimillion-dollar house on The Point, and likely a pile of accounts receivable that exceeded my net worth. Hard to muster much sympathy for the Horton clan.

  “I think Walter will be fine,” I said.

  We reached the firmer sand near the waterline and turned up the beach, toward the Newport Pier.

  “What about me?” Tammy said. “What will I do?”

  “Maybe get a job.”

  That stopped her for a few seconds. Such brief moments of silence is all you could ask for in any conversation with Tammy. A fleeting hope, but then doesn’t that always spring eternal? Or explodes in your face.

  “Jake, be serious.”

  Hmm, I thought I had been. But then Tammy and work were like oil and water.

  “All I’m asking is that you talk to him,” she went on. “Tell him everyone has bad weeks.”

  I failed to see how I would have any insights into Walter’s issues with his practice, his mood, or his life. But this is Tammy’s world. Nothing ever really makes sense. Or to be charitable—rarely does. Her brain is like the cloud of electrons that whirl around an unstable plutonium nucleus. See, I did pay attention in school. The point is that somewhere in her head there’s a lot of swirling and flashing and chaos, and every now and then a couple of those electrons collide, and an idea pops out. Not always one that makes sense though.

  “What are you talking about?” I asked.

  “Walter’s had a couple of difficult cases. Pro bono so he did them for free. I keep telling him not to. That he doesn’t owe anyone anything.” That’s the Tammy we know and love. Always so warm and fuzzy. “He spent a lot of time on them. Even lost one of them. He’s depressed and thinks he’s too old and should walk away.”

  “Maybe he should.”

  “Jake, whose side are you on?”

  “I don’t have a side.”

  “You never do.”

  “Okay, I’ll bite. What could I possibly say to Walter that he’d listen to?”

  “Tell him that bad times don’t mean the end of anything. Tell him about the time you gave up four home runs in two innings.”

  Not my best night. Yankee Stadium. I hung a couple of curveballs and the Bronx Bombers made me pay. Three single homers and one two-runner. Before the second inning was over, I was in the showers.

  Tammy reminded me of the night all too often. Her way of saying I wasn’t as good as ESPN said I was.

  “Walter doesn’t want to talk to me about anything, much less his life choices,” I said. I thought about adding that his decision to marry Tammy pretty much meant he made poor ones, but I held that in. Wasn’t easy.

  “But you have some insights that might help him. You know, about losing and all. Granted, yours were silly baseball games and his are more serious lawsuits, but still, he might like to hear how you handled it.”

  “You don’t remember?” I asked. Dammit, Jake, just shut up.

  “The brunette?”

  “Redhead.”

  A moment of silence and then, “Oh yeah, the stripper.”

  “She wasn’t a stripper. She danced on Broadway.”

  “In A Chorus Line. Isn’t that about strippers?”

  Does her brain ever work? “No. It’s about chorus line dancers. They’re serious professionals and work hard.”

  “Just one of your many dalliances.”

  “If memory serves, you were packing all my shit in boxes and changing the locks.”

  “So?”

  “Sort of meant the marriage was over, don’t you think?”

  “Well yeah, but still.”

  “Look, Tammy. I could walk down memory lane all day but I don’t see the point. Neither do I see the point in talking with Walter.”

  “So you aren’t going to help him? Help me?”

  “I will give you some advice. I think your major worry is that if Walter isn’t working, he’ll be home all day and you don’t know how to handle that. So back to
my original suggestion—get a job.”

  “It’s not that easy. I’ve never really had a job. What on earth could I possibly do.”

  “Maybe a stripper?”

  That did it. She railed and spewed for a good five minutes, closing with, “You’re such an ass.” She hung up.

  “That was fun,” Nicole said.

  “I need a shower.”

  She grabbed my hand. “Poor baby, you sure do.”

  CHAPTER 7

  CHANNEL 16, DEFINITELY a small market enterprise and touted as “OC’s Most Reliable Local News Source,” broadcasted to all of Orange County as well as much of Los Angles, San Bernardino, Riverside, and San Diego Counties. From what I read, the broadcast hours ran from 8:00 a.m. until midnight. Except for several daily news reports and some local interest stories, most programming appeared to be prerecorded and packaged. Things such as community service and educational spots, travel stories, and locally produced infomercials for everything from the SoCal AAA to a local hairstylist to how to make money in the always hot—their word—Orange County real estate market. They also aired classic movies, high school stage productions, and highlights from local high school sporting events. Some of Megan’s reports were prerecorded but most were live during the Monday through Friday 4:00 p.m. to 6:00 p.m. time slots. Typically five to ten minutes long, her show broadcast times varied daily and moved around within that two-hour window.

  The studio, located just over a block from the intersection of Newport Boulevard and 19th Street in Costa Mesa, hung on the end of an industrial strip center next door to a printing company. The sign that stretched over the entryway read: “Channel 16 Local News You Can Trust.”

  Inside, Nicole and I encountered a pleasant receptionist who sat at a small desk behind a counter. Her name tag read: “Phyllis P.”

  “Can I help you?” Phyllis P asked with a welcoming smile.

  “We’re looking for Megan Weatherly,” Nicole said.

  “You must be Nicole and Jake.”

  “We are.”

  “She said you were coming by.” Her phone rang. She answered, saying, “Please hold for a sec.” She pressed the phone against her chest and pointed toward the door along the far wall. “Through there. She’s in the last room on the right.”