Stalker (28 page)

Oliver regarded him with awe. “You wrote all that down?”

“It’s all in the key words. You want to finish up?”

“Okay. Lark asked Dex for a little help and Dex gave her Bederman.”

“Why would Dex help her out?”

“’Cause he was pissed at Armand for screwing his wife,” Oliver answered. “Then, on her own, Lark decides to get Tarkum and uses her same contact—Bederman. Great, now things are going along fine for a couple months, half a year, more. Then we get a rash of carjackings and start looking in other areas. And I happen to come across Tarkum in Hollywood and start asking questions. To see if I can’t tie it into these recent jackings. And, of course, I can’t because Tarkum is probably unrelated to Devonshire’s jackings. You said that yourself.”

“I said it might be unrelated,” Decker said.

Oliver said, “So now I come across Tarkum, and you
think of Crayton because the two jackings both involve rich people with fancy cars instead of hapless mothers and children in beaten-up cars. Then I tell Osmondson that Tarkum reminds me of Crayton. And Osmondson starts talking about it, and Bederman finds out. He gets a little nervous. First thing he does is contact Lark. She admits to him that she had a bad case of little loose lips with Stacy Mills, and tells Bederman to scare her into silence. Which of course makes us even more curious because now instead of just two similars we have three similars. But Lark doesn’t bother to think about that. She just wants Stacy out of the picture.”

Decker said, “Why would Bederman agree to do it?”

“To save his skin.”

“He’s a cop, Scott. He’d have to know that it would pique our curiosity.”

“So maybe Bederman is stupid.”

“Or maybe…” Decker thought a moment. “Maybe Bederman thought he could stuff the Mills jacking in with the others in Devonshire. Then
I
get into the act, and start reinvestigating Crayton. Bederman gets nervous because Cindy is not only my daughter but also
knew
Crayton.”

“And then Bederman starts thinking that maybe he didn’t plug as many holes as he thought,” Oliver said. “So he gets a little
more
nervous. He has to know how much Cindy knows. How does he find that out?”

“Through Beaudry,” Decker said. “Bederman can’t pump Cindy, because he’s afraid that she might talk to me, and then he’d be in real trouble. So what does he do? He asks his ex-partner to do him a favor and pump her for him. So why would Beaudry agree to something like that?”

“I think I might know,” Oliver asked. “Cindy told me that Beaudry has a rep of being slow physically. Maybe Bederman’s pulled him out of a couple of tight squeezes, and he figured it was time for Beaudry to pay the piper. The problem is that it hasn’t been Beaudry who’s doing the pumping, it’s been more like Hayley. I still can’t figure out whose side she’s on.”

Decker paused, then said, “
Has
Beaudry pumped Cindy for information about Crayton?”

Oliver said, “I’ll ask her. Or you can ask her. Somebody should ask her.”

“It’s a nice theory,” Decker said. “Of course, I’d like it a lot better if we found something that ties Bederman into the case.”

Oliver said, “I’ll start looking.” He paused. “Be nice if I had my
partner
—”

“Leave Marge alone. She’s waited a long time for this.”

“I know. I wish her well. Hope she knows what she’d doing. I sure didn’t.”

“No one does. That’s the marvelous thing about parenthood. There are no formal rules.”

It was a
suspension bridge fashioned from slats of gray oak and held together by bolts of some kind of superstrength steel. The construction had to be superstrength to weather the abuse given to it: hour after hour, day after day, and year after year of jackhammer jumping.

Rina’s voice could barely be heard above the school-age squeals. “Hannah, stop running! That little girl is trying to get across.”

Miraculously, Hannah halted in her tracks, put her hand to her missing-a-front-tooth mouth, and giggled. “Sorry.” She went over to the tot of around two and held out her hand. She spoke in an exaggeratedly maternal tone, making the pitch of her child-soprano range even higher. It was a wonder the dogs didn’t start howling. “You want some help, sweetie?”

The girl of two stuck her thumb in her mouth. Hannah took the other hand and walked her across the wobbly bridge. Once the tot was safe on the other side, Hannah resumed her wild play. Marge was watching her in awe.

Rina said, “I know. She’s hyperactive in the sense that she never stops.”

“You must be exhausted.”

“I would be
if
I didn’t say to myself it’s the last time and it goes so quickly…which it does.” Rina looked around. The park was relatively quiet, the usual crowd sleeping in because it was Sunday. It was a nice park, meaning it was small enough for Rina to keep her eye on Hannah. There
was a fenced-off region that contained lots of play equipment—climbing apparatus, monkey bars, swings, and slides, some of them with loads of twists and turns and tubes that could rival theme parks. The majority of the recreational zone was devoted to a block-long grassy section big enough for football and baseball—there was a backstop and one set of splintered, paint-peeling bleachers—with room left over for picnic benches and built-in barbecues. The curb abutting the park had filled up with cars, but there were plenty of spaces across the street.

“Where’s Vega?” Rina asked.

Marge pointed to a far bench near the diamond’s backstop. Vega was curled up, her eyes buried in a book. “I brought her here to teach her how to ride a bike. Nobody can say I’m not trying.”

Rina was puzzled. “Trying to do what?”

Marge frowned. “What do you think?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking you.”

“I’m trying to make her…no, that’s not the right word.” Marge gave an exasperated sigh. “I’m trying to
help
her catch up on the childhood she missed. You know, do things like…like ride a bike or skate or listen to music I can’t stand or jeez, even watch TV.”

Rina held back a smile. “You want her to watch TV?”

“Not be glued to the TV!” Marge gave up. “I know I must sound like an idiot. My kid reads all the time! Such problems. But it’s to the exclusion of everything else. It isn’t healthy.”

“Probably not healthy for her eyes. But it’s great for the brain—”

“You don’t understand.”

Rina shrugged philosophically. “Maybe not.”

Now Marge felt doubly stupid. She had just told a mother of three, who had been raising kids for nearly twenty years, that she didn’t understand child rearing. And here was Marge, the expert, having had custody of one teenaged girl for eight months. She tapped her foot. “You don’t think it’s a problem? That she reads all day?”

“Correct me if I’m wrong. But I don’t think you’re con
cerned about her reading, you’re concerned about her ability to integrate socially.”

Marge was quiet. “So what do I do?”

Rina put her arm around Marge’s waist. She would have looped it around her shoulder, except that Marge was too tall. “Personally, I think you’re doing great. She seems very happy—”

“She’s so
quiet
. Except with you! Man, she talks to you. Maybe I’m just not the right—”

“Stop it.”

“Okay, okay.” Marge made a face. “Look, I know she went through an ordeal! I know she grew up in an isolated, weird environment. But she’s not in that environment anymore. There’s an entire world out there.”

Rina smiled. There were things she could tell her friend, but she refrained from giving lots of advice because it usually backfired. “I wouldn’t worry too much.”

“Really?”

Rina nodded, then yelled, “Hannah, stop screaming!” Softly, she said, “I swear that child is going to give herself throat polyps.”

“See, you worry, too!” Marge pointed out.

“Pardon?”

“You worry about Hannah getting throat polyps!”

Rina laughed. “Yes, I worry. I worry whether Sammy will be safe in Israel. I worry about Jacob, and wonder if he’ll ever survive adolescence. I worry about Hannah. She’s so little and vulnerable. I worry about Peter every single day he straps on his gun and goes to work. But no matter how much I worry, how much I fret, how much I wring my hands and pound my forehead, I know that my getting an ulcer is
not
going to help. More likely, it’ll probably hurt because I won’t be in good shape when my family
really
needs me. So my credo is to bury my head in the sand and don’t think about the bad until it smacks me in the face. Crises happen to everyone sooner or later. Why anticipate them?”

Immediately, Marge felt her stomach turn over. Rina spoke from experience—widowed at twenty-four, raising
two small boys by herself, a victim of crime at twenty-six, hysterectomy at thirty. And here was Marge, complaining because her adopted daughter read too much.

Rina went on. “Vega’s a lovely girl, Marge. You’re giving her lots of emotional sunshine. You watch. She’ll bloom beautifully.”

“What wouldn’t I give for your attitude!”

“It’s because of your profession. All you ever see is the bad people and people in distress. You wonder how I’m so calm as a mother, I wonder how you and Peter and Scott and the lot of you go out there every day.”

Marge chuckled. “You’re trying to shut me up with flattery.”

“Maybe.”

They both laughed. At that moment, Hannah lost her footing on one of the ladders and fell to the ground, landing on her rear. “Oh dear!” Rina ran to her, picking up the tearful little girl. “What happened, sweetie?”

“I fell down and hurt myself!” A wail. “Oh, look! I’m
bleeding
!”

Sure enough, a trickle of blood was leaking from her left kneecap. The right one fared better, but was still scraped raw. “Oh my!” Rina brushed off the seat of Hannah’s dress. “Maybe we should go to the bathroom and wash that off—”

“I want to go
home
!” she screeched.

Rina looked at her watch. It was a little after twelve. They had been there almost two hours. On top of being mortally wounded, the child was probably tired and hungry. She threw her bony arms around her mother’s neck. “Are you tired?”

“I’m not tired!” Hannah said, between sobs. “See!” She scrambled down from her mother’s grip and did ten jumping jacks, her standard act that served to contradict her parents whenever they claimed she was tired. “I just hurt myself!”

More sobbing.

“Okay.” Rina picked her up again. “How about we go home and get some lunch?”

Hannah nodded and sniffed. Marge was at their side. “What’s the verdict?”

“I think she’s had enough.”

“Good going, Hannah,” Marge said. “I’ve had enough, too. Next time I take Vega out, I’ll take her to the library. At least I’ll be off my feet!”

“Marge—”

“I’m kidding.” She stared at Vega. “If I shout from here, do you think she’ll hear me?”

Rina picked up a bag filled with sand toys and snacks. “Let’s just walk over there. My vocal cords have had it.”

“Here!” Marge took the bag. “I’ll get it.”

They had made it about halfway across the lawn when Marge’s nose started twitching. A telltale raw odor that came from an animal’s excrement. “You smell something?”

“I do.” Rina put Hannah down and checked her shoes. “I hate to add to your already jolly mood, but it isn’t coming from me.”

Marge checked the bottoms of her sneakers. “Oh God!”

“Eeeeeeuuuuu!” Her bloody knee temporarily forgotten, Hannah was holding her nose. “Peeeeeyeuuuuuw! It
stinks
!”

“That’s enough, Hannah!” Rina took back her tote bag and pulled out a packet of wipes.

Marge snatched the wet towels and muttered, “This is fu—perfect! Just perfect!”

“Can I help?”

“Not unless you want to clean my shoes!”

“I’ll pass—”

“What kind of friend are you?”

“Eeeeeuuuuu! Gross!”

“Cool it with the commentary, kid,” Marge snapped.

Rina smiled. “How about if you clean yourself off and I take Hannah to the car. We’ll wait for you there.”

“You know what I hate about athletic shoes?”

“All the grooves—”

“Exactly! Ick! What a fu—what a mess!”

“Vega’s coming over. Maybe you can get her to clean your shoes?”

“Yeah, right!”

“Eeeeuuu—”

Rina clamped her hand over Hannah’s mouth. The little girl giggled. She was clearly delighted at being disgusted and grossed-out. With the stench growing stronger, Rina figured it was a good time to make an exit. She picked up her oversized tote. “See you in a moment.”

As she trudged her way to her Volvo, she realized how heavy Hannah was. A ring of sweat was sitting behind the collar of her shirt and her back felt a twinge. Hannah was still the youngest, but she wasn’t a baby.

“Sweetie, I have to put you down.”

“Please?” Hannah begged. She tightened her legs around her mother. “My knee hurts.”

With the dog stuff gone as a distraction, Hannah had gone back to her earlier wounds. “My back hurts,” Rina explained.

Reluctantly, the girl slid down. “I’m sorry, Eema.”

“Thank you, sweetheart.”

Hannah used to call her Mommy. Since starting first grade, she’d switched to Eema, to be big like her older brothers. The first-grader said, “I’ll help you carry the bag—”

“It’s okay. I have the bag.”

“No, I’ll help you.” She began yanking the straps. Since Rina didn’t want to play tug of war, she ceded the sack to the victor. She watched Hannah struggle, her red curls bouncing as she walked unsteadily. Her eyes caught the sun, reflecting back a deep olive color. She looked like she should have been a Colleen or a Megan.

Rina said, “Can I give you some help?”

“No, I can do it.” Grunt, grunt. Moaning and sighing, she was in top-notch form, doing her best imitation of Sarah Heartburn. “I…ugh…got it.”

All of her kids were so different. Her sons, born from the same mother and father, were diametric opposites.
Shmuel was serious, Yonkie was lighthearted…at least he was until he reached the magic sixteen mark with his hormones kicking into high gear.

They reached the curb to cross the street. Rina bent down and picked up one of Hannah’s soft little hands. She took the bag with the other. “C’mon,” she said.

Together, mother and daughter, they crossed the street. Rina reached inside the bottomless pit of the bag and fished out her keys. She opened the hatch door to her station wagon and immediately Hannah climbed in the back.

“Hannah,” Rina scolded. “Come around the right way. Stop climbing over the upholstery.”

“Please, please, please?”

Rina sighed. “Get out of the way so I don’t slam this on you.” She shut the hatch with force, kicking up dust from the dirty carpet. She sneezed loudly as Hannah disappeared into the bowels of the Volvo. Walking to the driver’s door, she started excavating the bottom of her purse for a tissue.

Simultaneously, as foreign fingers grasped her right arm, something cold and hard dug into her backbone. Instinctively, she knew what was pressing against her spine. She realized what was happening even before he spoke.

“You scream or you move, then I kill you.”

The voice was raspy…accented. Rina stood in place as the gun pushed deeper into her back. Unlike the other carjack victims, she knew the drill. She knew what he was going to do. But that was neither here nor there because she was immobilized by fear.

The voice said, “You listen or you’re dead. You walk to other side of the car, and open the door. Do it!”

Rina translated,
He’s telling me to walk over to the passenger’s side. You know what’s going to happen. Use it to your advantage
.

She looked out at the park, at the distant people and a distant Marge, who was still messing with her shoes.

For God’s sake, look up at me
! she shrieked inside her head.

But Marge was completely absorbed in her task.

Rina was on her own. She thought of the memorial service of Yizkor, a prayer she still said for her late husband.

Man is like a breath, his days are like a passing shadow…

Don’t think about that now
!

If she screamed, she would probably get shot. But it might be worth it because Hannah was in the car.

“You go now!” he whispered vehemently. “You go or I shoot you dead!”

Hannah was in that car
!

Dead or not dead, she wouldn’t let him have the car when Hannah was inside!

Slowly, Rina started to move toward the passenger door, again turning her head toward Marge. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Vega looking in her direction, the two of them locking eyes for just a millisecond. But it was enough, because the teen began tapping Marge’s shoulder. The gun burrowed itself into her muscles until she winced in pain.

He growled. “You look straight. Go!”

Do something
!

Okay, Marge. I’ll make a deal. I’ll do something, if you do something. And, God, it wouldn’t hurt if you helped things along
.

Rina let her keys fall from her hand until they dropped to the ground; the kerplunk was audible.

“What you do—”

“I dropped my keys—”

“What!”

With all her weight, Rina fell to the ground, breaking contact with the muzzle of the firearm for just a moment. Perhaps a moment would be enough. She curled up in a compact ball, holding her body tightly packed with her knees against her chest, her forearms covering her ears. She couldn’t hear Marge’s voice saying, “Police! Freeze!” But she could hear the deafening pop of gunfire and feel the wind of whizzing bullets. She drew herself inward and started to sob as something big and smelly slammed onto
her back, oozing hot, wet liquid down her neck. She screamed, shaking off the intruder with jerky, uncontrolled movements. She was still screaming even as Vega put her arms around her. Still screaming even as Marge brought her up to her feet and hugged her tightly.