Vanessa King had long blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, and big blue eyes behind large round glasses. In her mid-20s, slim, she wore loose jeans and a leather jacket over a crisp white blouse, and she was sitting across from me in a diner booth, with a large Coke and a bowl of grapefruit in front of her.
“I’m being stalked,” she said. “I don’t know who. They send me pictures of a dog.”
I pushed my half-eaten plate of waffles aside and picked up my coffee. “What kind of dog?”
“I don’t know. A small one. Here.” She held up her phone.
The dog in the photo had brown fur and was sitting in a bed of flowers with a “What did I do?” look on its tilted face. I nodded. “It’s a Yorkshire terrier. Cute.”
She shuddered. “I hate it. He keeps sending me these pictures every day, dozens of times a day. Email, regular mail, and that means he knows where I live. On my Twitter, my Facebook, Instagram, and—other places.” She sighed. “Okay, I might as well tell you. I’ve got a ManyFans account. It’s how I basically make my living since I lost my library job last year.”
I didn’t judge. Lots of my clients have, well, unorthodox backgrounds. Performing on a website that featured nudity, sex, and stripper heels wasn’t even in the top 10.
So I nodded again. “How long has this been going on?”
“About two months. The thing is—” She leaned forward. “I keep thinking I see the same dog outside. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen a guy walking this dog when I’m grocery shopping, or visiting my mom.”
I nodded. “Do you have any idea who it might be?”
“How would I know?” She crossed her arms. “I mean, it can’t be any of my friends. Even my exes—I never got any death threats or anything from them. Hell, none of them even own dogs. But this job?” She rolled her eyes. “You attract the weirdos. I mean, even if they’re weirdos, they’re mostly not dangerous. Just annoying. And they go away most of the time if you block them and ignore them. But I’ve had people say they’re going to rape me, or rip my body to pieces and feed it to their fish, that kind of stuff. That freaks you out. But this is—different.”
She sipped her Coke through a straw. “He just keeps coming, like he’s got nothing to do all day but generate fake email addresses. It’s driving me crazy.”
“Okay.” I thought for a moment. “So I can do a few things. Forward me a couple of emails. I might be able to trace one of them back to the source.” I wasn’t optimistic, but my girlfriend Rachel knows a lot more about hacking the internet than I do. “I can track your social media looking for suspects—there’s a profile for stalkers that might help. If you haven’t shut everything down.”
“I can’t shut anything down.” Vanessa looked disgusted. “It’s how I make money.”
“I understand. Also I can follow you and look for the dog. And the man. You’ll have to give me some notice and leeway about when you go out—”
She nodded. “I don’t go out that much. Since the corona. Groceries, visiting my mom—she’s in assisted living. Sometimes friends, but since this started I’ve been staying at home mostly.” She grinned. “Fortunately I can do my work from home. Sometimes I find other places, but you’ve got to be careful.”
We discussed money. She wanted to Venmo me a retainer, but I didn’t know how to do that, so we agreed on Paypal. Being a private detective has changed since the days of Sam Spade.
I paid for breakfast—credit card—and we headed for the door. “I’ll follow you back home,” I told Vanessa. “If that’s all right.”
“It’s just a few blocks.” She pointed. “Here’s my address.” She took out a business card and scribbled on the back. Then she printed a few words and symbols below the address. “And here’s a pass to get onto my page. In case you need it. It’s good for 30 days.”
The card gave her name as “Vee Viking,” and featured an image of her in a low-cut blouse, bra strap visible. I wondered if Rachel would really believe I was scanning a Manyfans page strictly for business. Probably not. “Uh, if we do spot the guy, do you want me to confront him?” Please no, please no, please no . . .
She shook her head, to my relief. “Not outside. Maybe just follow him? If you can?”
I nodded. “Sounds good.”
We were in a trendy neighborhood on the north side of Chicago, filled with cafés and boutiques, along with shoe stores, jazz clubs, and Thai restaurants. Vanessa left first, carrying her Coke. I counted to five and stepped outside, looked up and down the sidewalk as if deciding which direction to take, then turned to follow her as she sauntered down the sidewalk.
The morning was warm, and for a Tuesday the street was busy, Mothers and nannies were pushing kids in strollers to the park, UPS and Amazon workers juggled stacks of packages in their arms from double-parked trucks, and men and women scrolling through their phones, trying not to collide with signposts, cars, or each other.
Vanessa walked slowly down the street, stopping to peer inside shop windows, taking her time at crosswalks, and sipping on her Coke. I didn’t get too close, but I stayed with her, my eyes darting far and wide in search of a man and a dog.
She paused for a light and looked back in my direction, casually. Then she stiffened, tossed her Coke into a garbage can, and pulled out her phone.
My phone buzzed an instant later. “Tom Jurgen—”
“It’s him!” Her voice was an urgent whisper. “Behind you. Dark hat, long coat. Don’t let him—”
“Okay,” I said loudly. “That’s eggs, bacon, orange juice, and what else?” I hung up but pretended to listen as I turned slightly, frowning as if annoyed by having to pick up groceries for my spouse.
I spotted the dog first. It looked like the Yorkie from the photos, but I’m no dog expert. I leaned against a doorway and kept talking on my phone, hoping to get a picture as the man passed.
He was tall, broader than me, in a black fisherman’s cap and a long gray raincoat, even though the sun was shining and most people wore light jackets, shirts, or running shorts.
I managed one snapshot of his profile. He glanced over at me, but I kept talking without looking in his direction, and he walked past.
I headed after him. He followed Vanessa four blocks until she reached her apartment building. After she went inside he stood out in front for five minutes, then pulled his dog along back in my direction. I ducked inside a bar, enjoyed the aroma of beer and fried food for 30 seconds, then slipped back out and took up the slow pursuit.
Tailing someone on foot is easier than doing it in a car, but it has its challenges. People get in your way, the subject can cross the street unexpectedly, and it takes just a moment to lose track of someone even in a small crowd. Fortunately the dog kept him from moving too fast, checking out fire hydrants and parked cars, and the guy had to stop twice to clean up after it.
After 20 minutes my subject turned down a side street. Trees filtered the sun, and a cool breeze streamed from the east. A mail carrier pushed a cart. A middle-aged woman lugged a canvas bag of groceries, and a car honked as a teenager raced a skateboard down the street.
The man stopped in front of a five-story apartment building and took off his cap. After a moment, he climbed the front stairs and slipped a key into the lock on the front door. The dog followed him inside, and the door closed.
I kept walking to the end of the block. Across the street was a park with a view of Lake Michigan. I sat on a bench where I could see the building and waited for 15 minutes. When he didn’t come out again, I walked on the far side of the street to the building and took a picture. It was brown brick, with bars across the bottom of every window and a fence on the roof that probably guarded a sun deck.
After looking both ways to avoid skateboarding teenagers, I crossed the street and climbed the five stone steps to the front door. There was no list of tenants outside, no buzzers, just an electronic keypad. You needed a password just to access the tenant list. No pushing random buttons and hoping someone would buzz you in without any questions. Those were the good old days.
I headed back down to the sidewalk before anyone came out.
Back home I sent an email to my client with the address and photo of the house. Then I started digging, looking for the owner and its tenants. It could take a while.
Rachel, on the other side of the office, turned from her computer, yawning and stretching. “So what’s the case?”
Rachel’s my girlfriend. She’s got short red hair and hazelnut eyes, and she helps me out on my cases when her psychic powers call for it. She’s also a graphic designer, and some months she makes more money than I do.
“Stalking.” I sipped the last of my coffee. “Guy sending cute dog pictures, and following the client around. I actually followed him home, though. This may be the easiest case ever.”
“Great kid. Don’t get cocky.” She picked up her empty mug and walked over to pick up mine for refills. She saw the house and the dog on my computer screen—and she also spotted Vanessa King’s card on my desk.
“This is your client?” She picked up her card and turned it over. “ManyFans?”
“It’s a living for lots of people.” I tried not to sound defensive. “And her money’s good.”
“Hey, I’m all for female empowerment. Girl power, sex positivity, supporting our sisters, all that jazz. Let’s check her out.” She brought coffee from the kitchen, pulled her chair over next to mine, and waited for me to go to the ManyFans website and log in using the password Vanessa had given me.
“Wow.” Rachel grabbed my mouse and scrolled down Vanessa’s page. Her pictures were—explicit. She was mostly solo and generally nude, although she was pretty inventive with accessories like colorful scarves, stiletto heels, thigh-high stockings, jewelry, and the like. For props she made creative use of fruits, vegetables, wine bottles, and sex toys that looked like science fiction movie props. Her handful of partners were muscular and enthusiastic.
“That position doesn’t look comfortable at all,” Rachel commented on one image. I kept my mouth shut—the wrong comment could get me punched.
Eventually she scooted her chair back to her side of the office. “Well, if my business crashes and burns, I guess I’ve got that as an option.”
“Your sexiness would crash the internet in a day,” I told her.
“I shall use my power wisely.” She yawned and turned back to the computer.
My phone buzzed. Vanessa King. “That house? It’s only like, two blocks away from where my mother is, in assisted living. I don’t know if it’s a coincidence or what.”
“I’m checking it out right now.” I closed her ManyFans page. Somehow seeing a client naked while talking to her on the phone felt unprofessional. “It’s owned by a company called Barkley Properties. I’m working on a list of tenants.”
“Okay. Good. Thanks.” She paused. “Did you, uh, check out my page?”
“I did, yes.” What to say? “My girlfriend and I thought it was, uh, nice.”
“Nice?” She laughed. “I’m going for ‘super sexy mega hot’ here. ‘Nice’ doesn’t bring in the pervs.”
“Well, let’s say it worked for me.” I was glad I didn’t have the call on speaker for Rachel to hear.
“That’s better.” Vanessa hung up.
Half an hour later I had the names of the 40-some residents. The list included just basic information—names, move-in date, number of people in each unit—and also pets. Seventeen people had either cats or dogs registered with the office.
I sent the list of dog owners to Vanessa, then went to work on some other cases. It’s good to keep busy if you have enough clients to juggle.
She called, but it wasn’t about the names. “Go look at my page. Right now. I’ll wait.”
I found the bookmark and logged in. Somehow Rachel was right behind me instantly. Either she’d heard Vanessa or her psychic powers were kicking in. I put the phone on speaker and said, “Okay, here we are.”
“I posted the top picture an hour ago. Do you see it?” Vanessa was in a living room, nude, standing in front of a full-length window. Obviously not worried about the neighbors across the street. Hands over her head, a wide smile on her face, a gold chain around her waist. The caption read: “Sunny day! Too hot for clothes! Wish you all were here!!!”
Next to her on the carpet was the Yorkshire, wagging its tail.
“What—did he get inside your apartment?”
“No! It’s not here! There was no dog here! It just—popped up in my picture!” Her breath was ragged. “I checked all the pics I took, he’s not in them. I deleted the post and did it again—and it was there! How can they do that?”
I looked at Rachel. “Any ideas?”
She shook her head. “Someone could have hacked you and posted a photoshop.”
“This happened right away! The minute I posted it! Oh god, now people are asking me about it. God, that’s sick, I’m blocking this guy—wait, who are you again?”
“Rachel. I work with Tom. I’m his girlfriend.” She still gets territorial with me.
“Oh. Okay. What do you guys think is going on?”
I hesitated. “I don’t know. This seems like more than simple stalking. How this guy could . . .” I looked at Rachel. “You can’t get anything from this, can you?”
She punched my shoulder. “It doesn’t work that way. Let me—” She planted her fingertips on my screen, moving them around between Vanessa and the dog. “No, of course not. But that doesn’t mean it’s not magic.”
“Magic? What? This is crazy!”
“I’m psychic,” Rachel said firmly. “I can read things from people, but generally they have to be right in front of me, not pictures on a computer.”
“And we have some experience with—strange phenomena,” I added. “I know it’s hard to believe. I still think there’s some way this could be a photoshop thing, but we all need to keep an open mind.”
We heard Vanessa take a deep breath. “Okay. One of my girlfriends is in a coven. I mean, I think she’s just playing games, but—whatever. If we can figure out who that guy is, we can find out how he did this, right?”
“Hopefully.” This had seemed like a straightforward stalking case. Now—I didn’t know what to think.
We hung up. Rachel gazed at Vanessa’s image again for a moment. “What do you think? See anything?”
She punched my shoulder again. “I see that I’m redesigning a website for a plumbing company and you’re getting paid to look at porn.”
“Just lucky some days.” I saved the image to my case file—research, right?—then logged off and went back to work.
Vanessa didn’t recognize any names. Checking out all 40 of them would be time-consuming and expensive. I started with just the male names. Background checks can only tell you so much, but maybe I’d find a restraining order or a stalking complaint in someone’s history.
No luck. I found unpaid parking tickets, tax liens, and a few arrests for drugs, bad checks, and one disturbance of the peace,, but nothing related to harassment or hacking.
Late that afternoon I tailed her to the grocery store and the drugstore. We didn’t see the stalker or the dog. I hung out across the street from her apartment building for half an hour without any luck. When I called, we agreed that I’d show up tomorrow at noon so she could walk to her mother’s facility for lunch.
Rachel made dinner—vegetarian chili, enough for leftovers, so I could just reheat it when it was my turn tomorrow night—and when I finished cleaning up I found her in the living room on her laptop, looking at Vanessa’s ManyFans page.
“Do you think I’d look good like that?” She peered at an image of Vanessa naked in high-heeled boots, brandishing a whip.
I sat next to her. “Do you have heels like that?”
“I’d fall down.” She tilted her face. “I do have a whip.”
I’d seen it in the closet, but I’d never had the nerve to ask. “So—Ted Lasso?” I picked up the remote.
She pulled it out of my hand. “Maybe later. Get your Minolta.”
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