Stalker (15 page)

“Do you like Elizabeth being protective?”

“I do like it. I like being protected by a young woman very much. You got that right. So why don’t you quit your questions now while you’re on a high note?”

“Did you ever have Lark and Armand over to your house?”

He broke into staccato laughter. “Now, it’s one thing to let yourself be dragged over to the house of a person you detest. It’s another to entertain people you abhor. Even I couldn’t ask Elizabeth to do that. So, in answer to your question, no, we never had them over to my place. Which was a shame. Because Armand Crayton had no taste in design. No, I take that back. Armand had taste. He just had terrible taste. And I might have been able to teach him a
thing or two about designing elements if he would have stuck around longer.”

Bartholomew stood up.

“In summary, Detective, I don’t know who kidnapped my wife, I don’t know why he or she did it, and it had nothing to do with the Armand Crayton murder because Elizabeth had nothing to do with Crayton. So I have nothing more to tell you. Furthermore, I have an appointment and that appointment’s not with you. So if you’ll excuse my bluntness, you have to go. And even if you won’t excuse it, you still have to go. I hope you got what you wanted. Good-bye!”

He stuck out a waiting hand. Marge paused, then stood and shook hands. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Bartholomew.”

“You should thank me for my time, Detective. Because I make roughly twenty thousand dollars an hour. So I figure that this little interview cost me around ten grand—the price of a little diamond pin that my wife was looking at. And now, because of this interview costing me ten grand, I’m not going to buy it for her.” Again the feral smile. “So I guess you served a purpose. Because if she asks me why I didn’t buy her the pin, I’ll tell her to blame it on the police.”

Cruising down the
Hollywood Freeway, Cindy tried to empty her mind of today’s garbage. Being grumpy and sleep-deprived was bad enough. But then Beaudry had the audacity to be in a bad mood as well, making it a shift from hell. He had basically bowed out of every arrest, giving her all the dirty work, which he could do because he was the vet and she was the rookie. No matter that she was six weeks away from permanent status, he was the boss. So she took orders and tried to maintain. Two angry cops with loaded weapons and a shotgun, holed up together for eight, tension-filled hours. It was a miracle that police officers didn’t routinely shoot one another.

Then, there was Tropper, who was suddenly her buddy, giving her the nod and his paperwork. She was usually pretty good at reading people, but she couldn’t tell if he was interested in her as a workhorse or as a lay. She found herself avoiding him, sidestepping around his cubicle, then wondering if she was being obvious about it.

Her car started shaking. She had worked herself up to a righteous indignation and in the process had pressed the pedal to the metal. She was now going around eighty, so instinctively she looked around for an evil ticket-giving cop. Then she smiled. She
was
the enemy. If she were pulled over by LAPD, she probably wouldn’t get a ticket. But highway patrol was another thing. They’d cite her because times were tough, revenue was
scarce, and there was no interagency cooperation anymore. Born too late to fix tickets: What a pisser!

Again she gave a quick glance in her rearview mirror as she lessened the force on the gas pedal. No cop cars, but a red Toyota Camry with a dented fender and no front license plate—a thirty-six-dollar ticket—was keeping pace with her even though she was still going seventy-five. The car appeared to be around five years old and in need of a good wash. She turned on her right-hand signal and moved over to the next lane. Then she slowed, waiting for the Camry to pass her so that she could get the back plate. But it didn’t. It slowed as well.

Actually, it did more than just slow. It changed lanes, then dropped two car-lengths behind her. She thought a moment, wondering why it was important to her to get the Camry’s license plate. She was off-duty, going to her father’s house for what hopefully would be a relaxing dinner, so what the hell did she care about some misdemeanor license plate infraction?

Her mind wasn’t on her driving. Now she was going too slowly. Cars were passing her on the left
and
on the right. She increased her speed, then glanced in her driver’s mirror. The red Camry had narrowed the distance between them, one lane over and a half car-length behind.

Forget about it, Decker
.

Though Cindy didn’t know why Beaudry had been in a bad mood, she damn well knew why she was crabby. It had something to do with cryptic messages, misplaced pictures, rearranged sweaters, and Scott Oliver. Her resentment toward him surprised her, so she knew it was more than just his obnoxious behavior. She was lonely; Scott had been a brief reprieve.

Again, her eyes danced to the rearview mirror. The Camry was still with her. Involuntarily, her chest tightened and her stomach knotted. She entertained a thought that the car was following her, but that was ridiculous. Why would someone be following her? The Crayton case rearing its ugly head? But the Tarkum woman—or her husband Dex—had been involved with Crayton financially.
She had nothing to do with the Craytons or his shenanigans. Yet the damn Camry was still with her.

C’mon, Decker. You’re getting paranoid
.

Suddenly, she hit the interchange to the Valley—where the 101 meets the 170—and the steady stream of cars slackened to a sluggish crawl, the freeway arteries clogged as far as the eye could see. A quick turn behind her back and she realized that the Camry had dropped out of sight. Involuntarily, she let out a gush of air.

Not that she was really worried, she told herself. Only now she was irritated. She was east and south of where she wanted to be. In general, the 101 was notoriously bad at this time of the evening. Adding that it was Friday, she was in for one thick traffic jam. As she battled the stop-and-go, she thought about her bad luck with men. All of her relationships had involved unattainable guys. Not married men per se, but rather guys with baggage or commitment insecurities and/or career aspirations who put personal relationships in a distant second place. Then there were
her
hangups and goals, including her career aspirations in law enforcement that basically got in the way of everything else.

She thought about all this as she idled on the freeway, screening her eyes from a sun-reflecting wall of chrome bumpers now at a standstill. Surface streets
had
to be better than this. She inched to the right, and using a pinch of space, she nudged her car into the abutting lane. She rolled down her window and tried eye contact with the black SUV Jeep next to her. The bastard was pretending not to see her.

You’re not going anywhere, bub. Why’re you being so stubborn
?

Again she thought of Oliver, cutting in line at the coffee shop yesterday, using badge muscle when he should have behaved like a civilian. Cindy thought his behavior rude and snobbish.
Ah well, how the mighty succumb when stuck in traffic jams
! She let go with a horn honk, attracting Mr. SUV Jeep’s attention. He glared at her, and she responded by showing him her badge.

He paled.

She shouted, “Move over! I gotta get somewhere!”

He did.

So she was turning into a jackass. But she was able to laugh about it. Inching her way over to the right-hand side, she finally exited at Laurel and merged with the oncoming traffic from the canyon. The streets were dense with cars, except now she had traffic lights to deal with.

Maybe getting off the freeway wasn’t such a charmed idea. But now she was stuck. For forty minutes, she maneuvered the Saturn through the dense metal fog of Valley commuter traffic, then picked up the 405 at Burbank and Sepulveda. The freeway wasn’t empty, but at least the cars were moving. Since she had a while to go before her father’s exit, she figured she might as well let speed work for her and began the arduous process of moving over to the left. A gap between an Explorer and a Volvo provided her with the opportunity for advancement. Just a quick glance over her shoulder to be safe…

Instantly, her heart took off. The dented red Camry had suddenly materialized.

Bastard! Bastard, bastard, bastard
!

Think, Decker
!

Okay, the car’s following you. So get a license plate number, run it in, get the down-and-dirty on this dude. A good strategy except that when she slowed, so did the Camry—always
behind
her.

She could play it safe and call it in. Have a local cruiser come from behind and read off the plates. She could do that easily. She had a cell phone in her purse. Except how would that look to the big boys: her being tailed by a broken-down car (one that needed a wash to boot) and not being able to handle it. At the very least, she should be able to get the Camry’s plates.
That
was a basic.

Since Camry man’s goal was to avoid a head-to-head, she’d have to catch him by surprise. She could do that if she pulled a U-turn, gunned the accelerator, and whizzed past him before he could react. But that couldn’t be done on the freeway. She had to get off. She assumed the car
would get off, too. But
where
to get off? She was still twenty minutes from her father’s new house. She knew that area pretty well, but not as well as the northeast Valley, where Dad had kept a ranch house for over a decade. Located around the foothills, the northeast area was less populated and eventually merged into Angeles Crest National Forest. Lots of dirt roadways and hilly terrain. Deeper into the hills, the streets cut through a heavy cover of brush and foliage.

Quiet…isolated…

She wondered if the Camry would be stupid enough to follow her. Because once she started into the mountains, he’d have to know that she had made his tail. She merged back into the 118, then joined up with the 210 North. She sped up, then slowed down. The Camry kept pace.

Okay, she had no choice then. She’d lead him to his own demise. Find the spot, then suddenly swing around before he knew what hit him. If he rabbited at that point, she could still get the plate.

As the freeway thinned, the cars sped faster, her Saturn cruising around seventy. Because visibility was better, the Camry had dropped farther back. Heart slamming against her chest, she rooted through her purse with her free hand until she found her gun. It felt good in her grip, and though she would have liked to leave it out on the seat, she kept it in her bag. Next, she lifted her foot off the gas pedal and slowed. It was amazing. Her self-pitying thoughts had disappeared as she designed a mental game plan.

Reaching Foothill Boulevard, she got off the freeway and waited at the traffic light. From behind, she spied the Camry now only one car-length behind. The light changed and she plowed forward on the four-lane street. The first ten minutes of driving took her through the commercial area, passing a couple of strip malls, a newly remodeled Kmart, a couple of brickyards, U-Hauls for rent, lumber companies, and a nursery.

One mile, two miles, three…

The Camry was there, but in the background. And with each turn and twist, it had dropped back. She could pull
the U-turn now and hope for the best. But there were still lots of cars. Best to make the move when she was farther along. She figured maybe another mile.

Gradually, the commercial buildings gave way to untamed open lands of thick grass sprinkled with wildflowers and patches of brush as she headed into the mountains. The road began to climb. She could hear the car engine whine under the ascent. As she moved up the hillside, the lane narrowed, cutting through dense overgrowth.

Her eyes swept over the rearview mirror: The Camry was gone. Well, that was and wasn’t good. She did feel an immediate sense of relief, but she was also sorely disappointed in herself. She should have gotten the plates!

Had it dropped out completely or was it still following her at a very safe distance behind? And if it was still following her, perhaps she should turn around and try to catch it. No sense driving deep in the foothills by yourself, trying to lure a phantom car. The road continued its tortuous pathway, winding and curling, plowing through untamed woodlands. She felt very isolated.

Turn around, Cindy! This isn’t cool
!

Except now she couldn’t because the asphalt had turned into a skinny two-lane rut that was sided by hundred-foot drops. Daylight became muted as the foliage laced over much of the sun-giving skies.

Cindy made a face. At the time, it seemed like a good idea to lead Camry man here. God, she was
impulsive
!

Don’t panic
!

She knew there had to be a turnabout somewhere.

Get a grip, Decker. Paranoia is a dangerous thing
.

She traveled another half a minute and there was still no turnabout. But the small ribbon of asphalt widened just enough to constitute a lane
and
a shoulder. And her car was small enough to take advantage of the several feet of off-road space.

She pulled over to the right and waited for a bit. No Camry came chugging up behind her.

Damn! Another opportunity bites the big one
!

She turned around, heading back toward Dad’s house,
wondering if she should mention Camry man to him. Of course, if she did, he’d either go ballistic with worry or think she was an incompetent jerk…which she was.

Down the road. Down, down, down, her tires screeching as she rounded the curves. Yes, she was driving too fast. Yes, she was shaken more than she’d care to admit even though the Camry was old, dented, and needed a wash.

Down, down, down until once again she was on level terrain, back on Foothill, back to the freeway. She switched on the radio, then turned it off. The music was giving her a massive headache. Or maybe it was just adding to the one already there. She was about fifteen minutes from her dad’s. It would be good to get there even if it wouldn’t be wholly relaxing. Hannah would snag her as soon as she walked through the door, asking her to play dolls or do video games or watch her Rollerblade—the six-year-old was quite good…

Mr. Camry was back.

How the hell had she missed him
!

Two car-lengths back. She’d have to pull a quick U-turn. All she needed was a little clearance. One, two three…there it was.

Now or never, Deck. Put some feeling into it
.

She turned the wheel full-rotation, her tires shrieking protest. But her tactics backfired; her sudden movement a clear giveaway to the Camry that she was on to it. The car bolted forward and sped off. Immediately, she flip-flopped, pulling another U-turn in the midst of traffic, causing an Explorer and a Taurus to slam on the brakes, both of them inches from plowing into her broadside and from crashing into each other. They blared out their rage in a symphony of horn honks accompanied by curses.

Fuck you
, she thought,
I’m being chased, you morons
!

She had nearly wiped out, but the gravity of her rashness barely registered. She was charged with anger, internal voices admonishing her foolishness while her actual voice was yelling strings of obscenities. The Camry was several hundred feet up, but pulling away by the moment.
She floored her gas pedal, weaving in and out of rush-hour commuter traffic at unsafe speeds as she tried to close distance between them. Camry must have been some kind of pro driver because the car moved seamlessly while she dived and ducked to keep pace with it. Finally, she saw the car whoosh onto the 210 on-ramp. She honked at the autos in front of her, changed lanes, then entered the freeway proper about four cars behind her quarry.

Traffic was steady but there was room for maneuvering. Squinting while speeding, Cindy could make out part of the license plate: 4-A-C—then either an O or a D…