Stalker (21 page)

“So start with the basics, Ms. Decker,” Oliver said. “Any guys acting weird around you lately?”

“No.”

“Anyone seem hostile toward you?” Decker said.

“No.”

“You blow off anyone in the last few weeks?”

“I don’t blow people off,” Cindy said. “I just kind of…work my way around them. If I want my distance from certain miscreants, I avoid them.”

“Are you in that kind of situation now?” Decker asked.

“I was speaking metaphorically. No one’s interested in me.”

“The contrary, Cindy, someone is very interested in you. You’re being stalked. Scott told me that the Camry was following you. Why didn’t you say something to me?”

Cindy didn’t answer. There was no need to state the obvious. Decker didn’t press it. But he couldn’t quite keep his irritation from surfacing. “When did you notice that the car was tailing you?”

“I was over the hill…in the Valley. Somewhere on the Hollywood Freeway going into the 134. That’s when I first noticed it. But it could have been tailing me from the start, from the moment I left the police station.”

“So what really happened?” Decker asked. “This time the truth, please.”

Cindy took in her father’s skeptical eyes. “No need for the reprimand. It wasn’t my intention to chase down the Camry. I just wanted to get the plates. But I was too obvious. Or the driver was very astute. As soon as I made a couple of maneuvers on him, he fled. I got caught up in the situation. I started chasing him.”

“The Camry fled from you?” Decker asked.

“Yes.”

“And you lost it in Angeles Crest?”

“Yes.”

Decker said, “And up until now nothing strange has been going on?”

Oliver jumped in. “Why don’t you start with the picture frame—”

“What picture frame?” Decker asked.

“The one that had been moved off her mantel. It had a picture of Hannah in it.” Oliver’s eyes skipped across the room. “I can’t find it, as a matter of fact.”

“I have it.” Decker removed Hannah’s picture from his pocket. “I picked it up from the floor.”

“Tampering with evidence, Dad?” Cindy said.

“At least you haven’t lost your sense of humor. Tell me about this picture frame.”

“It was so insignificant, it’s hardly worth mentioning,” Cindy said.

“Not so insignificant that you didn’t ask me about it.” Oliver turned to Decker. “The day after I took her home, she called me and asked if I had moved Hannah’s picture from the mantel to the table, was it?”

“Yeah, the table,” Cindy answered. “I found it on the table. I don’t remember putting it there. I always keep the family photos on the mantel.” She shrugged. “As long as we’re getting silly, I suppose I should mention the Post-it.”

Oliver said, “Someone left a Post-it in her cruiser with the word
remember
on it.”

“Jesus!” Decker said. “Remember
what
?”

“I don’t know, Dad!” Cindy snapped. “I don’t think it was even meant for me. And no, I don’t have it. I threw it away. How was I to know it could be important?”

Decker held his tongue. “Anything else we should know about?”

“Okay. I’m telling you everything now. I keep my cotton sweaters on the left side, the wool on the right. I found them reversed. Maybe I did it. Maybe the home wrecker did it.”

“Someone went through your things before tonight?” Decker said.

“
Maybe
.” Cindy crossed, then recrossed her legs, trying to find a comfortable position. The arm of the sofa simply wasn’t made for sitting. “That is all of it. I swear, even if you put me on the rack, I have nothing more to add.”

Decker asked, “When did all this start to happen?”

“The night Scott brought me home. That’s when I first noticed that the picture was out of place.”

Decker said, “Give me the date.”

“I have it. That’s when I met Osmondson…” Oliver thumbed through his pocket calendar and gave him the date.

Decker said, “Around a week ago.” He turned to Oliver. “Any jackings on that date?”

“No,” Oliver said. “Anything else happen to you on that day, Cindy?”

“Nothing.”

“What about work?” Decker said. “Did you arrest anyone that swore a vendetta against you?”

Cindy shook her head. “Perps talk, perps make threats all the time. But I can’t recall anything particularly nerve-racking.”

“What did you do that day?” Decker asked.

“I don’t remember offhand,” Cindy said.

Oliver said, “Did you piss off anyone at work?”

“I don’t
know
!”

“Cindy, you remember the night in Bellini’s. You were sitting at a table with Hayley and some other woman—a black gal…she didn’t look like a cop. More like a civilian.”

“Rhonda,” Cindy said. “She’s a secretary for Detectives.”

“I know Rhonda,” Decker said.

“Yeah, she mentioned you. She says hi—”

“Can I get a thought out?” Oliver barked. “Okay, it was you and Hayley and Rhonda. What were you talking about?”

“Men. How all the good ones are married or gay. I wasn’t in a good mood and I was shooting down beers.”

“Why weren’t you in a good mood?” Decker asked.

“Dad, I’m never in a good mood.”

Decker smoothed his mustache. “Okay. Let’s try this. The women…did you come in with them? Did you meet them there?”

She exhaled. “Actually, I came in with Graham…Graham Beaudry…my partner.”

“When you were first assigned to him, you said he was okay,” Decker said. “Do you still feel that way?”

“Yes, basically. Graham’s a bit lazy, but not a bad sort.”

“Has he ever put the make on you?” Decker asked.

“No.”

“Any subtle signs?” Oliver wondered.

“No. Beaudry treats me like a human being.”

Oliver said, “Who doesn’t treat you like a human being?”

“Everyone treats me okay to my face,” Cindy said. “Behind my back, they whisper.”

“About what?” Decker asked.

“Being snotty…too smart for my own good…arrogant because I have a lieutenant father.”

“Any of it true?” Decker asked.

“All of it is true.” Cindy bit her bottom lip. “I think that was the day we confronted the lady with the gun at her husband’s balls. I was talking to Beaudry about the arrest.”

“What about it?” Decker asked.

“The lady…her name was…” Cindy screwed up her face. “Estella…lovely Estella Ojeda. She was thoroughly pissed off at her husband. She found out about his
puta
and was pointing a sawed-off shotgun at her husband’s
cojones
. I talked her down almost single-handedly. I handled it masterfully.”

“Did Beaudry have a problem with that?” Decker asked.

“Beaudry didn’t. But I sure as hell pissed off my sergeant.”

Decker and Oliver exchanged glances. Decker said, “How so?”

“By showing him up. He’d been making wisecracks about my being educated—like I was the snooty ivory-tower intellect while he had all the street smarts. He’d sent me in thinking I’d blow it. I proved him wrong. At the bar, Beaudry was telling me that I was off-base and I didn’t do myself a favor by embarrassing him.”

Decker said, “That’s certainly true. Who’s the sergeant?”

“Tropper.”

“Does he have a first name?”

“Clark,” Cindy replied. “Anyway, he’s nothing to worry about. For the last week I’ve been typing his reports on my own time to get on his good side.” She smiled, but it was forced. “He hasn’t hassled me since.” What she didn’t tell them was that Tropper had gone from ice to fire. She didn’t have to tell them. The info was stamped on her face, which both of them read quite well.

Decker said, “Does he come on to you, Cindy?”

“No—”

Decker said, “If you have any inkling that he may be responsible for this—”

“I have no inklings, Dad.” Cindy shrugged. “Of course, I’m not sure of anything right now. Is Tropper capable of doing this? Of course he is. He’s a macho cop with a Wild West attitude. But why would he want to hassle me? I’ve cut his paperwork in half.”

Decker spoke to Oliver. “You worked Hollywood. What do you know about Tropper?”

“Nothing. He came on after I left. I can find out—”

“Do that,” Decker said. “It’ll look better coming from you than from me.” He focused in on Cindy. “Any other guys take an interest in you?”

She shrugged. “No one really. Well, there’s Andy Lopez. I went to the academy with him. He offered to drive me home the night I got drunk. I declined.”

“Do you think it made him angry?” Decker asked.

“No, he didn’t seem angry. But then later on Hayley Marx…the cop I was with when I got tipsy…she told me he was hurt. That she thought he had a crush on me.”

“Does he?”

“We’re casual acquaintances,” Cindy said. “I don’t know what he thinks about me.”

“Okay,” Decker said. “Anyone else we should know about?”

“Speaking of Hayley Marx…” Cindy licked her lips
and turned to Oliver. “Did she mention that we ran into each other last night?”

“She mentioned seeing you,” Oliver said. “She didn’t go into details. Why?”

“Do you know where I met up with her?”

“No.”

“At Prenner’s Park,” Cindy said. “The park where the road dead-ends. I pulled over because my car was smoking. All of a sudden, Hayley Marx shows up out of nowhere.”

Decker was too stunned to speak. He raised his brows. “You didn’t think this was
odd
enough to mention?”

“I thought it was awfully odd. But I knew she couldn’t have been following me. She was driving a Mustang, not a Camry.”

“Cars can be switched,” Decker said.

“Not that fast—”

“Yes, that fast.”

“Dad, she couldn’t have possibly done
this
.” Her arm glided through air, showcasing the room. “Scott was with her the entire evening.”

“She could have hired out,” Decker said.

“Why would she? She doesn’t have anything against me. She even acts like she likes me. I just thought it was—well…strange.”

“Too strange to be a coincidence,” Decker answered. “She seems to have a vested interest in your personal life…telling you about Andy Lopez—”

“It sounds worse than it is, Dad. We were just spouting harmless girl talk—”

“Maybe she was riling up this Lopez fellow against you—”

“Now you’re getting paranoid—”

“Cindy, I am working within a framework!” Decker raised his voice. “Look at this mess!”

“I agree it’s a mess,” Cindy answered calmly. “I just have doubts that Hayley is involved.”

“Even though she just happens to run into you in the
middle of the wilderness?” Decker said. “What did she say she was doing up there?”

“Killing time before she met with Oliver.”

“What time was it?”

“Around five. She said she was going to meet Scott later.”

“That’s all true,” Oliver said.

Decker said, “I don’t buy it for one second. Why would she be roaming around Angeles Crest?”

“She probably took the same route out that I did, Dad. And if she thought like me, she probably got off the freeway when it jammed up. Maybe she decided to go to Angeles Crest to mellow out.”

“No, she didn’t,” Decker said. “She went there because she was following you—”

“She wasn’t driving a Camry!”

“I didn’t say she was the Camry person. I’m not even saying she was behind the Camry person. But it’s just too weird to pass off as one of those strange things.”

Oliver said, “It does sound weird. Still, she told me she saw Cindy. And Cindy’s right. Hayley couldn’t have trashed the place because I was with her the entire evening.”

“Hayley is one of the few women who talk to me,” Cindy said. “Why would she do this?”

“I’m not considering motive right now, Cindy,” Decker said. “Only candidates. And from what you’ve told me, you’ve built up quite a good slate of those in the running.”

By four in
the morning, most of the mess had been sorted, cataloged, and carted away. The floors had been swept and vacuumed—the dust bags saved for evidence, of course—the counters had been cleaned, and her fridge had been restored, albeit barren in the food department. Her sleeping quarters had been freshened, the air thick with the scent of lilac room deodorant. Her comforter was gone, but she did have a spare blanket and her sheets were clean, crisp, and free of debris. Tidied up, her place was tolerable, even livable, but it went down like a bad aftertaste. As dictated by good manners, Oliver had left her place first.

Her father insisted on stalling, begging her to come home with him. But she declined his invitation with a weary smile, telling him to go home to his family. She’d be fine. And even if she wouldn’t be fine, she’d have to learn on her own how to be fine again. Literally pushing him out the door. As soon as he left, she swung the dead bolt into the jamb, then leaned against the door, exhaling aloud. Her place was sterile, as welcoming as a budget hotel. All her personal touches had been bagged and taken away by her father and Oliver. They would keep it quiet for now, but who knew how long that would last. She surveyed the space with dry eyes and detachment.

Wired by raw nerves dipped in stress hormones, she trembled more from her body’s natural chemicals than from fear, feeling much too unsettled to sleep. If she was
going to spend the remainder of the night awake and sane, she needed a game plan. She could take two approaches: She could bemoan her fate and eventually freak out, or she could remain aloof and treat her situation as if she were the primary cop who caught the call.

That would mean securing pencil and paper and writing stuff down. She wondered if she even had pencil and paper. She kept her supplies in one of the kitchen drawers, and most of their contents had been dumped during the raid. Did she have any supplies left? She felt restless and mean, stalked by an unknown hunter with unclear intentions. Was this just a warning? If he really meant harm, why attack her house?

Write it down
!

Which meant she was back to square one: Get pencil and paper. Sleep deprived and unsteady, she trudged over to the kitchen area and opened her supply drawer. It now contained her cutlery. She took out the cutlery tray and opened the cutlery drawer, now empty except for a can opener and a measuring spoon for coffee. The wood was still damp from where Oliver had washed it down. She really should have lined her drawers with coated paper. It would have made the cleanup so much easier. She removed the can opener and the measuring spoon and put the items in the cutlery tray, placing the entire ensemble back in the silverware drawer. Her supply drawer was now empty. She was without provisions.

How could she get anything done without provisions?

There was a twenty-four-hour drugstore about five minutes by car from where she lived. It was time to check out who actually shopped at five o’clock in the morning. She put on her coat, picked up her purse, rooting through it to make sure her gun was accessible. Lastly, she took out her keys. She spied out the window, discerning only odd, lifeless forms and shapes in charcoal and steel. With great caution, she opened the door, then locked it, venturing out to her car.

Though her poor Saturn had run the gauntlet, it started up valiantly after a few preliminary sputters, reminding
her of an invalid trying to hide the illness. Again she checked her purse for her revolver. She put the car into gear and puttered her way over to Buy Rite Drugs, her eyes jockeying back between the windshield and the rearview mirror. She pulled into a near-empty parking lot. The inside was a ghost town: empty, long, brightly lit aisles reflecting polished linoleum floors. The fluorescent tubes hummed as she walked. As she passed shelves of analgesics, she spotted a frantic mother buying a hefty supply of Infant’s Tylenol. A moment later she noted a hype with greased hair and stringy arms, clumsily holding a box of tissues and a half-dozen assorted candy bars. She made her way into the stationery supplies and picked up a ream of lined paper, a bag of pencils, a bag of felt-tipped pens, a box of paper clips, two pads of Post-its, two pencil sharpeners, a yellow highlight marker, and a three-ring binder. She threw it all in a shopping cart.

While she was there, she picked up milk, eggs, margarine, orange juice, two boxes of Neapolitan ice cream, a box of corn flakes, a bag of sugar, and a bottle of pancake syrup that she’d probably never use. But the bogeyman had spilled out her old syrup and psychologically she needed to replace it. So as long as she bought the syrup, she might as well try making pancakes via a mix. And while she was on a pancake kick, she bought a can of blueberries because, hell, what could be more cheerful than blueberry pancakes, orange juice, and fresh coffee? Which reminded her that she needed coffee, having used up the last remaining bag four hours ago.

She checked her watch. Starbucks would open in twenty minutes. Might as well get the good stuff. She dawdled away twenty minutes by buying a birthday card for her mother (her birthday was next month), sorting through discontinued makeup items from a table marked all sales final, and browsing through a magazine rack.

She checked out around five-fifty and walked to the parking lot. Night was still nursing its beer, but dawn was up and coming, the horizon a wash of purples and pinks. Everything was so still and fresh. Things had to get better!

After buying coffee and a newly baked croissant, she was on her way home, noticing that her heartbeat quickened the closer she got to her apartment. By the time she was slogging up the stairs, she felt an all-out adrenaline rush—heart thumping, head throbbing, hands clammy and quivering. Her system was on hyper-alert and she couldn’t stop the shakes.

Though she took out her gun, she knew it was for show only. She was trembling so hard, she couldn’t have shot a whale from ten feet away. Somehow she managed to insert the key in the lock. Somehow she managed to open the door. Still holding her gun, she kicked her bags inside with her right foot, stepping into the living room at the same time. One more shove and she and the groceries were inside. She locked the dead bolt, put down her gun, and sank to the floor, holding her head between her hands, squeezing her eyes shut to prevent them from overflowing with water.

Deep-breathe
!

Better yet. Do something normal! Something so utterly mundane that it could be done by a decorticate monkey
!

She stowed her gun back in her purse, then stood up and picked up the bags, and began to put the groceries away. As her fridge filled, it gave her heart. So much heart that she thought she might forget about the croissant and attempt the pancakes. Her search for her mixing bowl was interrupted by a modulated knock. Instantly her heart took flight. Rationally she knew it was a friend because intruders didn’t give warning. Still, out came the gun. A check through the peephole; it was Scott carrying a grocery bag. She let him inside but made a point of looking at her watch. “The early-bird special is down the block. All the cholesterol and ptomaine you can eat for two ninety-nine.”

“As tempting as it sounds, I decided to bag it.” He held up the paper sack. “I have fresh rolls, butter, strawberry jam, grapefruit juice, and whole bean coffee with a grinder.” He grinned. “Yuppified to the max.” A second glance and he noticed the revolver in her shaking hand. “You can put the gun away. I promise I’ll behave.”

Her smile was laced with tears. “Thanks.”

He put his bag on the counter, then noticed her empty grocery bags. “Looks like we had the same idea. Where’d you go?”

“Buy Rite Drugs. I bought some pancake mix. I was going to make blueberry pancakes.” She held up the can and offered it by way of proof. “Here are the blueberries.”

“I see that.”

“I’ve never made pancakes before,” Cindy said. “Do you think it’s difficult?”

“No, it’s not difficult with a mix. I used to make them all the time when my boys were young. Back when I had a purpose to life.”

“Such a devoted father. My dad never made me pancakes, let alone blueberry pancakes.”

“Guess that makes me the superior parent.” Oliver smiled. “For some reason, you look very wiped out. Why don’t you let me whip up a batch?”

“He buys me food, then cooks for me. How lucky can a woman get?”

Slowly, Oliver walked over to her and put his hand around hers. He slipped the gun from her grip and laid it on the kitchen counter. “I’ve got a great idea. Go lie down, and I’ll not only make you pancakes, I’ll scramble up some eggs. Then I’ll set the table and call you when everything’s ready. Full-service butler and cook and I don’t require a tip.”

“Can’t beat that.”

“No, you can’t. Go to bed, Cin. The chef needs some elbow room.”

But she didn’t move. “You live forty-five minutes away. Obviously, you didn’t go home.”

“Obviously.”

“Where’d you go?”

Oliver chuckled. “Drank some strong coffee, then went grocery shopping. Go to bed.”

“Sure it’s not too—”

“I have to tank up anyway,” Oliver said. “Gotta meet
with Marge and find out about a Camry that took a nosedive.”

“Oh yeah. I forgot about that.”

“Go to bed.”

Go to bed…
her
bed that was now free of shit. She wanted to ask Oliver what he had done with the pile, but she figured it might dampen his enthusiasm for cooking. Rule number one: If a guy wants to cook for you, let him.

“I’ll walk you in,” Scott said.

“I think I can find my bed without your help.”

“Think so?”

Cindy nodded, then kissed his cheek. “Thanks, Oliver. This means a lot to me.”

He turned, then brushed her lips. “You’re welcome. Go lie down.”

She paused, knowing that she could make it more. With a single touch of her fingers on his, she could make it a lot more. So tired, yet aroused. So weary, yet energized by the smell of his cologne and body oils from his all-night vigil. Her own body was a sorry concoction of out-of-whack hormones.

“I’ll be in the bedroom,” she said.

“I know.” With that, he started to open her supply drawer, now jammed with office accoutrements. He opened the cutlery drawer and pulled out the can opener. “You switched drawers on me.”

Cindy stared at him. “I would never switch a man’s drawers.”

Oliver burst into laughter. “Get out of here!”

He sounded like he meant it. Slowly, Cindy made her way to her bedroom, almost molding with the mattress as she slipped inside the covers. Within minutes, the fragrance of homemade cooking tweaked her olfactory system. She had only meant to close her eyes for a moment…just for a moment. But her bed was so comforting and the smell was so wonderful and she couldn’t seem to reopen her eyes. Besides, she wasn’t alone. Oliver was here…

She awoke in a hot, wet sweat, her chest drumming an arrhythmic cadence. Too scared to move but not too scared to open her eyes. For a moment, she spun with vertigo, but after a fashion the room decided to stop pirouetting. She managed to take in the face of her nightstand clock. It was a little after two. No doubt still the afternoon because the sun was up and this wasn’t the North Pole in the summer. The wonderful cooking smells had dissipated, leaving in their wake the stale odor of congealed grease. Getting up on two feet was no easy trick, but eventually she did find her balance
and
her pink robe to boot. She trudged out into her living room.

Scott was gone, and his pancakes had been wrapped in Saran and stowed in the fridge. The dishes had been washed. The counters had been cleaned, just as she had left them, except now she had a coffee grinder. She opened the refrigerator once again and took out a bag of whole beans, placing a scoop in the grinder.

The sucker worked, turning the beans into aromatic mocha sand. At this point, she didn’t even care about the coffee. The fragrance was enough to lift her spirits. She put on a pot, then headed for the shower. Did a backtrack and checked the door. Of course it was locked, but since Oliver didn’t have a key, it wasn’t bolted. She remedied the situation with a twist of her wrist.

Once out of the shower, she dressed in loose sweats, her damp hair tickling the back of her neck. She reheated the pancakes in the microwave, poured herself a glass of orange juice, and doused her coffee with half-and-half. She was in breakfast heaven, scarfing down butter and sugar and fat and all the bad stuff, but relishing each bite. She made it through half a stack when the phone rang, sending her heart into paroxysms. Taking a deep breath, she lifted the portable out of the cradle. “Hi.”

“Are we still on for dinner?”

Mom.

“Uh…sure,” Cindy replied. “That’d be great.”

A pause. Mom said, “You forgot about it.”

“Not at all—”

“Yes, you did. But I won’t hold it against you.”

She was already holding it against her. Cindy said, “What time, Mom?”

“How about five?”

That was only three hours away. “Mom, that’s a little early. I ate a late lunch—”

“See. I told you, you forgot about it. Why else would you eat a late lunch?”

Sherlock had caught her in her fib. Cindy was annoyed. “You never eat so early. What’s going on?”

“I just thought maybe we’d
chat
before dinner.” Another guilt-inducing pause. “But if it’s too hard for you to get here—”

“How about six-thirty?” Cindy interrupted.

“I suppose—”

“Great,” Cindy chirped. “I’ll see you then.”

She hung up, placing the phone on her kitchen table, dreading the upcoming date. As of late, she had much more in common with her father than with her mother. And it seemed that every time Mom had found out about a dinner at Dad’s, she had followed it up with an invitation of her own. She loved her mother but wondered why she was still competing for her daughter’s love nearly twelve years after the divorce when both parties seemed happily remarried. Real relationships were tricky jobs. It was no wonder there were so many lonely hearts surfing the chat rooms. Electronic boyfriends were perfect. In the privacy of the mind, they were always perfect. They never farted or burped, they never hogged the conversation (probably because their fingers got tired of typing), and they were forced to listen to what you had to say because they were more or less forced to read your response. If only the tactile part could be worked out—the hugging, the kissing, the holding, the stroking, the sex…