Stalker (13 page)

“Like in the movies? ‘Take that, you bastard.’” She made a face. “
Daaad
…Isn’t that a little clichéd?”

Criminals were clichés. They were cardboard cutouts—strictly interchangeable parts
. Decker said, “So no one spoke?”

“If someone did, I didn’t hear it.”

“Were you walking or standing when the shooting started?”

“I…we…standing near his car, I think.”

“But you’re not sure.”

“No, we might have been walking toward his car.”

“You were walking him to his car?” Marge asked. “He wasn’t walking you to your car?”

“His car was parked closer to the entrance,” Cindy said. “And that would make sense, wouldn’t it? Someone stationing himself near Crayton’s car. Because Crayton was the target, right?”

Nobody answered her, making Cindy even more nervous.

Finally, Marge spoke. “How many shots were fired?”

“I don’t know,” Cindy said. “I wasn’t counting.”

“One, two…more?”

“Maybe more.”

“Any of the bullets come close to you?”

“Sure seemed like it.”

“How close?”

“How would I know?” Cindy said. “I ducked behind the car as soon as I heard the pops.”

“His car?” Decker asked.

“Yeah, his car. The red Corniche.”

“Did his car get hit with bullets?”

“Most likely it did. But it couldn’t have been hit that bad. Because he was driving it the next time we met at the gym.”

“He
came back
to the gym?” Decker asked.

“Yeah. Guess he figured he was safe. That the shooter wouldn’t try the same thing twice.”

“That’s awfully naïve,” Decker said. “And you know for certain he was driving the Corniche when he came back?”

“Yes. Because I asked him how his car was. And he said fine. Then both of us changed the subject. I maybe saw him three, four times after that. I must have been subconsciously avoiding him. Then, of course, when I started working on the force, I didn’t have as much time, so I began using the stationhouse gym.”

Marge said, “When the shooting started, it seems like you two were almost stationary objects.”

“I guess.”

“So if the shooter had been pro, he could have probably picked either of you off.”

“I suppose.” Cindy shrugged. “If you’re implying the shooter was after me, then using your same logic, he could have picked me off with one shot as well.” The stark reality of the words gave her goose bumps. She rubbed her arms but didn’t say anything.

Decker said, “She’s saying that maybe the shots were a warning from a jealous wife.”

“Oh,” Cindy said. “Then again, for all we know, the shots could have been kids getting a kick out of totaling a Rolls.”

“That’s why I asked if the car was hit,” Decker said. “You said the damage wasn’t too bad.”

“Maybe it was,” Cindy said. “I don’t remember, Daddy!”

The doorbell rang. Decker stood, but Cindy beat him to it. “Father, it’s my place, remember?”

Decker sat back down. “Try to do someone a favor.”

Oliver walked in. “Sorry I’m late.”

“Did you find out anything?” Decker asked.

“I think you’re going to be happy.” He took off his jacket and looked at Cindy. “Can I hang this up somewhere?”

“I’ll do it for you. Have a seat, Scott.” Cindy looked around her living room, anywhere but at him. “Anyone want anything to drink, by the way?”

“Nothing for me, thanks.” Oliver sat next to Marge. “Someone bring me up-to-date, please?”

Cindy filled him in. When she was done, she said, “I realize you have this whole revenge thing mapped out. But I had nothing to do with Crayton’s business affairs. Why would anyone shoot at me?”

“Crayton was married,” Oliver stated. “Could your relationship have been misconstrued as an affair?”

“We were just going over that. I
suppose
if someone wanted to see it that way…” She sat back down. “Have you met his wife?”

Oliver looked at Marge. “Interviewed her this morning.”

Decker said, “Tell me about her.”

Marge said, “Young, gorgeous, chesty, and probably doing fine in the money department now that Crayton’s life insurance has come in—”

“Ah!” said Decker. “It came through. When did they pay off?”

“She said three weeks ago,” Marge answered.

Decker raised his eyebrows. “It’s been over a year. Someone did a thorough investigation.”

“We’re on it, Loo,” Oliver said.

Decker thought a moment. “She was the one who called the cops. Think she could have staged the entire kidnapping?”

“The car crash was real,” Marge said. “That’s for certain.”

“The car fell over the embankment, then exploded.” Decker held up a finger. “I wonder how long it took from the point of impact to the point of explosion? Because despite what happens in the movies, when a car tumbles over an embankment, unless it’s down a direct drop, the car usually doesn’t explode on impact. First the gas line has to break and spill. Then the sparks have to ignite, then the explosion happens only when the gas tank is reached.”

Oliver tapped his foot. “Someone detonated the car after the kidnappers escaped?”

“Or the car had been monkeyed with prior to the kidnapping. Let’s not lose sight of the fact that Crayton was a con artist. If someone is carjacking women to vent his hatred against Crayton, we should go over his business dealings again.”

Cindy said, “Armand talked like a scamster. Always full of ideas, of making a big killing. Like the land thing.”

“What exactly was he doing?” Oliver asked.

“Armand told me he was buying land at cheap prices to turn it over for a quick buck.”

Decker said, “I’ve done a little research since we last talked. It seems to me that he was pyramiding, conning from one investor to buy things like land or shares of speculative companies. Then he used those items as collateral
for more loans to buy more things. When times are good, no one complains. But when the bottom drops out, he’d be stuck without cash to cover the other investments.”

“His wife told us he left her in deep debt,” Marge said. “She seemed pissed about it.”

“But he had life insurance to cover the debts,” Cindy said.

“Who said he took out the policy on himself?” Decker remarked. “Maybe his wife took out the policy on him?”

“We’re working on it,” Oliver said.

“You seem to be working on lots of stuff,” Decker said.

“I know,” Oliver answered. “Want to hear what I have on Elizabeth Tarkum?”

“Go,” Marge said.

“No investments with Crayton under her name,” Oliver said. “But Crayton had a lot of dealings with Tarkum’s
husband
, Dexter Bartholomew. Better known in circles as Dex the Tex. Only he’s not from Texas. He’s from Tulsa, Oklahoma.”

“How’d you find
this
out?” Decker asked.

“From the original file—known associates. Bartholomew made money with Armand, so he was passed over as a suspect. Besides, no one made a connection between Tarkum and Crayton because of the different last name. Also, the investments were in Dex’s name, not Tarkum’s. Lastly, the Tarkum jacking took place in Hollywood, not Devonshire. It’s only when you go through the two cases at the same time that it all comes together.”

“Tulsa’s an oil town,” Decker said. “Is he in the business?”

Oliver said, “You better believe it. He manufactures pipes and pipe joints and pressure valves, and all the things you need to get the oil from the wells to the refineries.”

“And he invested with Crayton?”

“Yes,” Oliver said. “In land sales. Bartholomew made out like a bandit. He’s loaded…which explains the young wife in the red Ferrari.”

“Tell me about the jacking again,” Decker said.

“Elizabeth Tarkum went inside her car, turned on the
motor. Next thing she knew, she was dumped twenty miles from home. The car was never recovered.”

“They knocked her out?”

“She doesn’t remember.”

“Raped?”

“If she was raped, she didn’t file.”

Decker said, “Why has it taken us this long to make the connection?”

“Every substation has had carjackings, Loo,” Oliver said. “We’re just looking into all of them now because we’ve had a rash of them in our own district. And even if we were looking for similar jackings, Tarkum wouldn’t have come up. Because she was a lone woman, not a woman with a kid.”

Cindy said, “Uh, can I say something?”

Three pairs of eyes looked in her direction.

She smiled, but it was a nervous one. Again she avoided eye contact with Oliver. “One of the detectives down at Hollywood…Craig Barrows…about ten months ago, at a party, I was talking to him about Armand. Because another jacking had just happened. Now that I think about it, maybe it was the Tarkum case. He mentioned that he thought it sounded similar…in a way…to the Crayton case.”

“How’d it come up?” Marge asked.

“Craig brought it up. I don’t know why.” Cindy thought for a moment. “Actually, I think Rick Bederman brought it up. He was the one who caught the original call when the hikers phoned it in.”

“Hikers?” Marge asked.

“Yeah, she was found near Griffith Park.”

“So, she was left in a remote area just like Crayton,” Decker said.

“But miles away from Crayton,” Cindy said. “And she wasn’t murdered.”

“It sure would have been nice to hear about this months ago.”

Cindy stiffened. “It was at a party, Dad. I thought Barrows was blowing smoke.”

“You could have at least mentioned—”

“Pete…” Marge warned.

Decker held up his hands. “Forget it.”

Cindy looked down. “I should have—”

“Forget it.” Decker stood. “No big deal. I shouldn’t even be here.”

“As long as you’re here, you might as well stay,” Cindy said.

Decker smiled at his daughter. “That’s very kind of you, Cindy, but it’s getting late.” He turned to his detectives. “Let me mull this over. We’ll conference in the morning. My office. Ten o’clock.”

“I’ll walk you to your car,” Cindy said.

As soon as they were alone outside, Decker said, “I’m sorry I embarrassed you.”

“I took it as a compliment,” Cindy said. “You treated me like one of your own, not like a daughter.” She paused. “Just hearing you guys go over things I learned a lot. I see street life as an officer, but I never get a chance to work with the detectives in any meaningful way. This was great!”

Decker hugged her. “You’re a sweetie. Take care…” He waited a moment. “Everything’s okay with you, right?”

“What do you mean?”

“No strange letters or phone calls?”

Cindy was prepared for the question. The lie came out as natural as a yawn. “Nothing.”

“No weird people following you home?”

“Daddy, no one has anything against me, I assure you.”

“But you’d tell me if—”

“Absolutely. I’m fine! Go home. Regards to Rina and the kids. Tell Rina thanks for the invitation for Friday night. I’ll take her up on it.”

Decker beamed. “Really?”

“Really.” She gave him her warmest smile. “I need a good meal.”

“You got it. Love you, princess.”

“I love you, too.” She turned and walked away, resisting
the urge to unload her problems and confess everything to her dad—the Post-it scrawled with the word
remember
on it, the misplaced picture, the reversed sweater drawer, the general uneasiness she felt. It would have been lovely to have Daddy soothe her worries and allay her fears.

She sighed, thinking: Priests were definitely called fathers for a reason.

Cindy watched her
father drive off, mindful that he was trying his best. He had been big enough to apologize, no small feat because not only was Cindy a daughter but also an underling. She thought about that as she walked back to her apartment. Opening the door, she wondered what would happen next.

In the three minutes she had been gone, Marge and Scott had usurped her personal space for their workstation, spreading out on her coffee table. She could have been offended. Instead, Cindy thought it was cool: an opportunity to listen and learn. Marge was riffling through sheaves of papers. “Was Dexter Bartholomew ever interviewed about Crayton’s murder?”

“Probably.”

“I can’t find it.”

“I’ll help,” Cindy offered.

They looked up at her and stared…as if they had forgotten she lived there.

“Uh, thanks.” Marge handed Cindy a stack. “All you’re looking for is an interview sheet with Dexter Bartholomew’s name on it. Start with the ones that are tagged blue. Those are from Webster’s file.” Several silent minutes passed, then Marge was triumphant. “Found it. Bert talked to Bartholomew about a month after Crayton was murdered. I wonder why he waited so long to interview the guy.”

“Maybe Bartholomew was out of town,” Oliver answered.
“Anyway, since Dex made money with Crayton, he wouldn’t have been a priority suspect.”

Marge said, “From what I can glean from the report, it looks like the majority of Bartholomew’s deals with Crayton were closed around two months before Crayton was iced.”

Cindy said, “Around the same time that someone took potshots at us.”

They stared at her.

“I’m just making an observation,” Cindy said. “It probably doesn’t mean anything.”

Oliver said, “Actually, it’s a good point. It’s possible that Bartholomew knew something was heating up, that Crayton was going down fast, and that’s why he pulled out.”

Marge said, “So then we should check up on Crayton’s activities just prior to his demise.”

“Okay, so we’re looking into Bartholomew and his dealings with Crayton. Also Lark and the insurance. What else?” He regarded Cindy. “You weren’t going to make coffee, were you?”

She got up. “If you say please.”

He gave her a gentle smile. “Please.”

Cindy looked down. “Decaf?”

“Please.”

“Marge, how about you?”

“I’d love a—” Marge suddenly turned reticent. “We’re not keeping you up, are we?”

“Marge, I haven’t had a nine o’clock bedtime for twenty years.” She walked into the kitchen and started brewing coffee. “Stay as long as you want. So you really think Elizabeth Tarkum is related to Crayton?”

Oliver said, “Possibly.”

“How?” Marge asked.

“Any number of ways.”

Cindy said, “Maybe someone had a grudge against Dexter Bartholomew regarding his former business dealings with Crayton and took it out on his wife?”

Oliver nodded. “Now that’s something to think about.”

Cindy felt her face go hot with the compliment. To hide her red face, she busied herself making coffee.

“Sending Dex a message via his wife,” Marge said. “So maybe we should also contact those who made money with Crayton. Find out if any of them or their spouses have been threatened.” She plunked down the folders. “Tom and Bert must have had some logic behind prioritizing their interviews. It’s just not apparent to me.”

The room fell quiet as the two detectives sifted through paperwork. In the background, the coffeepot gurgled. Cindy pulled back the drapes on the kitchen window. In a finger snap, she caught a glimpse of something…a fleeting shadow. Instantly, a shot of adrenaline coursed through her veins. A split second later she felt the after-math—a quickened pulse and a coat of sweat. She bit her lip and said nothing, hoping they wouldn’t notice her hot cheeks and shaking hands.

And of course they didn’t, being too involved in their work. Which was good. As quietly as she could, Cindy tore off a paper towel, wet it down with cold water, and wiped her face. The dousing served a twofold purpose: to wipe the sweat away
and
to take the blush out of her complexion. All this talk about revenge as a motive: It was driving her imagination into a frenzy.

Or was it her imagination?

Of course it was. Forget it, Decker. You’re seeing things
.

Besides, if she told them what she had seen, Cindy knew they’d stop in an instant. They’d start asking questions. They’d search the area. They’d call out the uniforms. Of course, they wouldn’t find anything because whoever or whatever it was would have been long gone. So what would they do next? They’d put a watch on her, follow her, call her up all the time. And tell her father, of course. All this unwanted attention would virtually shut her down as a working cop. Because how could she function with three ace detectives breathing down her neck?

In a moment, she came to the realization. If there were something going on—a big if—she’d have to discover it
on her own. The thought scared her, but it also emboldened her. She had to be mistress of her own destiny—without favors.
Not from Tropper, not from Scott, not from Marge, not from Dad—especially not from Dad
.

Without looking up, Oliver asked, “How’s the coffee doing?”

Cindy found her voice. “Not too well, Oliver. I think it’s singing the blues.”

Oliver laughed and caught her eye, then frowned. Immediately, she averted her glance. “It’ll be ready in a minute.”

Oliver continued to study her, unsure of what he was reading in her face. He raised his eyebrows but went back to his paperwork. Something was off. As he debated the wisdom of asking Cindy what was wrong, Marge spoke. “This case feels like we’re starting from scratch. There’s something in Crayton’s file about land development in Belfleur. Where the hell is Belfleur?”

“Around thirty miles west of Palm Springs,” Oliver answered.

“You
know
the place?” Marge said.

“Pass it every time I go down there. It’s about two, maybe three freeway exits long. A small little desert town.”

“Actually, it has cherry trees.” Cindy poured the coffee into three mugs, took out milk and sugar, then brought everything out on a tray. “My folks used to take me cherry picking there.”

“They grow cherry trees in the desert?” Marge gave her coffee a dot of milk and sipped. “Ah, this is good.”

“Thanks,” Cindy said. “Actually Belfleur is not strictly desert. It gets some of its climate from the San Bernardino Mountain area. It’s not quite as dry as Palm Springs. And it gets much colder. You need the cold for cherry trees. I know that because when Dad first moved into the ranch house, I wanted him to plant cherry trees. He said we couldn’t because it didn’t get cold enough.” A thoughtful pause. “Funny what you remember from your childhood.
Anyway, I’m going back around fifteen years. I don’t know what Belfleur is like now.”

“Judging from the freeway view, it hasn’t changed much.” Oliver picked up the mug and polished off half of it. “If I’m thinking straight, I remember seeing several antiques stores. So Crayton invested there?”

“There was the class action suit about land in Belfleur,” Marge said. “But it was either dropped or settled about two months before Crayton died.”

“Around the same time that Bartholomew pulled away from Crayton,” Oliver said.

“Around the time he was shot at,” Cindy said. “So where’s the connection?”

“We started off with Elizabeth Tarkum,” Marge said. “But instead we got Dexter Bartholomew. You think it’s possible that Bartholomew’s wife could have been investing with Crayton under her husband’s name without the husband knowing about it?”

“Could be,” Oliver answered.

Marge nursed her coffee. “You know, I’m thinking we should talk to Bert or Tom again. There’s too much going on here—one murder, two carjackings, shady land deals…how’d we get into this? Oh yeah, the carjackings in our area. We’ve digressed a bit.”

Oliver said, “Maybe it’s all related.”

“I don’t know, Oliver,” Marge said. “This is like that old Chinese finger puzzle—the harder you pull…Anyway, if we’re going to meet with Decker at ten, let’s try to talk to either Bert or Tom beforehand. There’s much too much work here for just two people.”

“I’ll help,” Cindy broke in.

Oliver said, “If you have time to help us out, Hollywood ain’t working you hard enough.”

“I just meant I could read through a couple of files. Take some notes for you two.”

“Thanks, Cindy, but we’re fine.” Marge turned to Scott. “How about we meet with them at around eight? Then afterward, we’ll meet with Decker—Big Decker—to hash
this out and divide up the tasks…which seem to be multiplying by the moment.” She checked her watch. “It’s getting late.”

“It’s not even nine-thirty,” Cindy protested.

“Yeah, but I don’t like to leave Vega alone for more than a couple of hours at a time.”

“How’s she doing, Marge?” Cindy asked with sincerity.

“Superficially, she’s doing just great. Acing ninth grade academically. Emotionally, I wouldn’t know because Vega doesn’t talk much. I have to depend on nuances to tell if she’s happy or not.”

“Sounds like a typical teenager to me,” Oliver said.

Marge didn’t argue because she had no idea what was typical. She knew when she adopted the little thirteen-year-old girl that it wasn’t going to be easy. She expected behavioral problems—big ones. Instead what she got was a parent’s dream: a brilliant student with a strong work ethic and a completely compliant child. The perfect kid…which worried Marge a great deal. Vega had unnaturally high standards coupled with a fear of showing feelings. Even the psychologist had expressed doubts. How much could you alter a thirteen-year-old, especially one who had been raised in such a severe—although not technically abusive—manner? And, on top of that, Vega was always receiving heaps of praise and reinforcement and awards at school for her academic prowess. It was as if the girl had been doomed to perfection by her superior intellect.

She said, “Let’s clean up here and go home.”

Oliver said, “You’re going to work more once you get home?”

“Maybe just read a couple more files while I’m in bed.”

He said, “I’ll take Bert’s, you take Tom’s.”

“It’s a deal.” Marge began sorting the files. Tom’s were blue-tagged, Bert’s were red. Everything in bureaucracy was color-coded. It took her about five minutes to divvy them up. Then she stood. “Cindy, thanks for everything.”

Cindy managed a weak smile. “I just wish I could help more. I really don’t mind reading some interviews.”

Marge patted her back. “I’m sure you wouldn’t mind,
but it isn’t a good idea. Cindy, you’re expecting too much in too short a time. Concentrate on where you are and stop thinking about where you want to be. Everyone knows you’re book brilliant. You’ll get your gold shield soon enough. In the meantime, take all you can out of the streets.”

Cindy nodded. “You’re right. I should just concentrate on the basics.”

“Exactly.” Marge kissed her cheek. “Good-bye, honey. Take care of yourself.” She turned to Scott. “You ready?”

“You go ahead,” Oliver said. “I’ve got to use the john.” To Cindy, he said, “And your bathroom is…where?”

Cindy pointed.

“If you don’t mind, I’m gonna leave now,” Marge said. “I’m anxious to get home.” Saying her good-byes, she shut the door behind her.

Cindy started to clean up, knowing what was coming. For lack of anything better, she figured the best defense was a strong offense. Make herself so damn obnoxious that he’d simply give up worrying about her. He came out a minute later, hands in his pockets. She noticed it this time. He had also combed his hair. Picking up on the details. That’s what it was all about.

Oliver said, “Are you going to tell me or do I have to pry it out of you?”

She started to rinse out the mugs. “Tell you what?”

“So we’re going to play that game. Okay. Fine. I’ll ask you. Cindy, what happened in the kitchen about twenty minutes ago?”

“I don’t know what you’re—”

“Yes, you do know what I’m talking about.”

“Everything’s fine.” She turned off the tap. “Go home.”

But he didn’t go home. Instead, he walked over to her, put his hands on her shoulders. Speaking to the nape of her neck, he made his voice gentle and alluring. “Tell me what happened.”

She turned to face him. Looking right into his eyes. Her own voice was clear and cold. “Nothing happened. But if it’s that important to you, I can make something up.”

He regarded her but said nothing.

“Go home,” she repeated. “I’m tired. I want to go to bed. But I can’t if you’re around.”

“Why are you lying to me?”

Because I don’t want to tell you the truth
.

“Why don’t you trust me?”

Because you’re a liar
.

“Something’s going on,” he said. “You’ve got misplaced pictures and strange notes in your cruisers—”

“It was a note left behind from someone in service—”

“Saying to
remember
?” Oliver grimaced. “Remember
what
?”

“The Alamo, perhaps?”

Oliver said, “Witty, Cin. Now let’s move on. Something happened tonight. If you don’t tell me, I can’t help you.”

“Nothing’s going on.”
And I don’t need your help, buster
. She turned her back to him and busied herself with the dishes. “You can let yourself out.”

No answer. Still, she knew he was there. She could hear him breathing—low, soft breaths. “Did you hear—”

“Yes, I heard you,” Oliver answered. “I can let myself out. All right. I’ll let myself out. And let me tell you something, Decker. It’ll be a cold day in hell before I let myself back in.”

Holding a cup of coffee, Martinez came into the interview room. Marge and Oliver were already there. Papers covered nearly two thirds of the table. God only knew how long they’d been at it because he was right on time.

“Hey, Bert,” Marge said. “Have a seat.”

Martinez laid his mug down on an empty spot. He hung his black jacket over the back of a chair. “Anyone for coffee? I just made a fresh pot.”

“There’s a pal for you.” Oliver glared at Marge. “She refused to make coffee—”