Stalker (5 page)

“Oh.” Cindy thought for a moment, processing the words.
He has to call a cab
. “I can do it for you.”

Oliver kept his eyes on her face, then let out a chuckle. “I suppose you could. But I’d prefer to wait inside rather than freeze my ass off.”

“Oh.” Cindy thought again.
Yeah, that made sense
. “Sure. Come on in.” She nodded but didn’t move.

Oliver took her elbow, gently guiding her. “What’s the number?”

“Three-oh-two. There’s an elevator—”

“We’ll take the stairs. The walk’ll do you good.”

“I’m okay.” She blinked. “Really.”

He didn’t respond. He was pushing her along, his fingers wrapped around her triceps. She felt like an errant child being led to her room. When they got to her unit, Oliver took out the keys and held them aloft. “Which one?”

“The metal one.”

“Cindy—”

“Gold…” Cindy said. “It’s gold. A Schlage. That’s as specific as I can get right now.”

After several tries, he unlocked the bolt, pushed the door wide open. “After you.”

“A real gentleman.” Cindy smiled. “Phone’s somewhere. Will you excuse me?”

She didn’t wait for an answer. She made a beeline for the bedroom and slammed the door shut, peeling off her sweat-soaked, beer-stinking, smoke-reeking pantsuit, cursing herself because the cleaning bill was going to be outrageous. Plopping down on her bed, she lay faceup in her
underwear, watching the ceiling fixture go round and round and round and round…

Oliver was yelling from the other room.

“What?” she screamed.

“Cab company wants to know the number here,” he called back.

“Eight-five—”

“What?”

“Wait a sec.” Slowly, she rose from the bed, opened the door a crack, and gave him the number. She heard him repeating it, presumably to the cab company. She was almost at her bed when her stomach lurched. She didn’t even try to tame it—a lost cause. She ran to the bathroom, hoping she could retch quietly. But after the first round, she didn’t even care about that. When she had finished, she crawled to the sink, and while still on her knees, she washed her mouth and face.

At last, she was able to stand without feeling seasick. She took a gander at her visage in the mirror. She looked how she felt—like a warmed-over turd.

She thought about going into her kitchen—fixing herself a cuppa—but
he
was there.

Well, too damn bad! Whose place was it anyway? She donned her pink terry-cloth robe, then gazed one last time in the mirror. Nothing had changed. She still looked horrible—pink nose, sallow complexion, watery eyes, and, thanks to the fog, bright red frizzy hair that made her look as if she were on fire. Still, there was something really nice about talking to a man (even Scott Oliver, who was like her father’s age) while looking like shit. It spoke of confidence.

She opened the door to her bedroom and emerged a proud, pink, nappy thing. Oliver’s eyes were focused out the window. He pivoted around, hands in his pockets, and stifled a smile when he saw her. “Hard day, Decker?”

“I won’t even deign to bother you with my pathetic little story.” She went into her kitchenette and filled the coffee carafe with water. “I’m making decaf. You want?”

“Pass.” He peeked out the Levelors. “A word of unsolicited advice. Try orange juice. Vitamin C’s good for hangovers.”

Cindy stared at the coffeepot. “Okay.” She spilled the water out in the sink, and took out a pint of orange juice. She poured herself a glass. “Bottoms up.”

“What happened, Cindy?”

“It’s really not very interesting, Scott.”

He shrugged. “Got nothing better to do right now.”

“I ruffled some feathers. No big whoop. I’ll fix it.”

“Learning young.” He nodded. “Good for you.”

“Thank you,” Cindy said. “So why do I detect a note of condescension?”

Oliver went back to the window, busying himself with the slats. “No condescension meant.”

She sipped orange juice. It burned as it went down her gullet. “So I’m wrong in assuming that your innocuous off-the-cuff comment bore any sort of indirect ill will toward my dad, right?”

The room fell silent. Stayed that way for a few moments.

“Let’s swap favors, all right?” Oliver turned to face her. “I won’t say anything to your father about tonight if
you
forget what I said earlier in the evening.”

“About my dad being a slimy interloper?”

“That’s the one.”

“Deal.”

Oliver ran his hands through his hair. “He’s a good man, Cindy. A good man, and a more than decent boss.”

“You don’t have to sell him to me.” No one spoke for a moment. Then she said, “So what kind of business did you have with Osmondson?”

“We were doing some cross-referencing.”

“Does it have anything to do with the carjackings that’re plaguing Devonshire?”

Oliver didn’t answer right away, wondering just how much he should say. What the hell, she probably talked to her old man anyway. “Maybe.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know yet, Cindy. I just picked up the folders.”

“Sorry. I don’t mean to be nosy.” She finished her orange juice and placed it on the counter. “Actually, I do mean to be nosy, but I see I won’t get anything out of you, either.” She raised a finger. “But that won’t stop me from trying. There’s always Marge.”

“You’re feeling better.”

“A bit. Although my head’s still pounding, and I still smell like a brewery.”

“Get some sleep.”

A horn cut through the night, the phone ringing shrill and loud. Oliver picked up the receiver. “Yo…thanks.” He disconnected the line and said, “My cab’s here.”

“Wait!” Cindy dashed into her bedroom and pulled a twenty out of her wallet. Between the ten she’d given to Jasmine and this twenty, she was down to five bucks and coinage. Which meant, at least, she wouldn’t be wasting any more bread on booze. Clutching the bill, she came out and held the money out to him. “For your efforts…and the cab fare.”

Oliver looked at the crumpled bill, damp from her sweat. Then he regarded her face. “You’ve
got
to be kidding.” He laughed softly, then tousled her hair and closed the front door behind him.

She remained in place, staring at nothing. She heard his footsteps clacking down the metal staircase, heard a car door slam shut. An engine revved, then roared, but eventually receded until there was silence. The absolute quiet of her apartment.

But within moments, the ambient noises reappeared—the whir of the refrigerator and the humming of the battery-operated wall clock. She glanced around the living room. Her furniture seemed foreign to her eyes—big unfriendly globs of cream cloth. Even the pillows. Instead of decoration, they appeared as evil red eyes, glaring at her with malevolence. Her glass coffee table reflected the eerie green light of her VCR, which flashed an ever-present 12
P.M.

Outside, a loud thumping interrupted her overwrought imagination and caused her to jump in place.

Calm down.

Just a car stereo with the bass cranked up to the max.

Why was she standing here? What purpose did it serve? None, she decided. She blinked several times. Then she bolted the door and went to bed.

“
Hollywood had six
similars over the last two years,” Oliver explained. “All of them are opens. Two are out of the loop, but the four I flagged have common details.”

They were in Decker’s office—not much more than a cubicle except it had a ceiling and a door that closed to afford privacy for those inside. Decker was sitting behind the desk; Oliver and Marge sat on the other side. Decker’s phone lights were blinking, but the ringer was off.

Paging through one of the red-marked folders, Decker took in the basics—the crime, the place, the time, the weapon, the extenuating circumstances. “The woman didn’t have a kid. Or did I miss something?” He handed the file back to Oliver.

“No, she didn’t have a kid. But she was carrying groceries, which means that her hands were occupied. Perp used the same method of approach. Sneaking up behind her and putting a gun in her back. Asking
her
to drive. Not
all
of our cases involve a kid.”

“Only one didn’t involve a child,” Marge said. “The rest had infants and toddlers.”

“So maybe this one was Hollywood’s exception,” Oliver answered. “Look, I’m just bringing it to your attention. You want to throw it out, be my guest.”

“It has been brought and duly registered,” Marge said.

Oliver said, “By the way, how’s your kid doing?”

Marge tried to hold a smile. “Vega’s…adapting very well.”

“How are
you
adapting to motherhood?” Decker asked.

“I’m doing fine,” Marge answered. “Look, the way I figure, even if it does get rocky over the next few years, it’s time limited. She’s thirteen now. When they’re eighteen, they’re out of your life, right?”

The men broke into instantaneous laughter.

“What?” Her eyes darted from Oliver to Decker. “Fill me in. I could use some yucks.”

Decker shook his head. “Margie, it’s just one of those…parental things. You’ve just got to
be
there.”

“Why spoil her fantasy?” Oliver asked. “And that’s what she’s talking about—a
real
fantasy.”

Marge said, “I’m going to ignore both of you.”

Decker let out a final chuckle, then rummaged through another case file. This one hadn’t been flagged. He studied the folder for several minutes. “So you think this one with the lady and the red Ferrari
isn’t
a match.”

Oliver said, “First off, it’s a hard thing to carjack a Ferrari. The car has manual transmission. And even if you can drive a stick, you gotta know how the gears go. And even if you know the gears, you gotta know how to drive a very temperamental car. Also, she was a lone woman and wasn’t carrying anything to slow her down. It’s not the same MO. Kidnapping for ransom. She was rich.”

Marge said, “Sounds like the Armand Crayton case.”

Decker said, “Except she didn’t die like Crayton. Or maybe she did.” He looked at Oliver. “What happened to her?”

“I assumed that the ransom was paid, and she’s fine.”

“And the kidnappers were never apprehended.”

“Obviously not. Otherwise the case wouldn’t be open.”

“Odd,” Decker said. “Kidnapping has the highest solve rate. Did they get the car back?”

“I don’t know,” Oliver said. “I’ll give Osmondson a call and do some follow-up.”

Decker said, “This lady drove a red Ferrari, Crayton drove a red Corniche. You don’t think there could be a connection?”

“What?” Oliver said. “Like a two-tiered ring?”

“One for high-end, one for low-end.”

“A couple of the mother-baby jackings have involved Mercedeses,” Marge remarked.

“Two Mercedeses, five Volvos, one Beemer, one Jeep,” Decker said. “Not in the same league as Ferraris and Corniches.”

“In the Crayton case, the kidnappers didn’t ask for ransom,” Marge said.

“They never got that far,” Decker said. “The car plunged over an embankment and exploded. Crayton was burned to death.”

“All I’m saying is that his widow never got a call.”

“Armand Crayton had been implicated in criminal activity,” Oliver said. “He’d had dealings with scumbags. We never ruled out a hit.”

“That’s true,” Decker said. “When he died, he had several suits against him.”

“The Ferrari driver…what’s her name?”

Decker flipped through the papers. “Elizabeth Tarkum.”

“So far as I know, she didn’t have a rap sheet. She was just a rich wife in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“A rich,
young
wife,” Decker said. “Twenty-six, and she was driving a Ferrari.”

Oliver raised his brow. “Crayton was what? Thirty?”

“Thirty-one,” Decker said.

Marge said, “What was Crayton involved in? Like a pyramid scheme?”

Oliver said, “He was selling land he didn’t own…something like that.”

“No, he owned the land he was selling,” Decker said. “But for some reason, he went bust. Details were always hard to come by. I always had the feeling that someone was fighting me.”

“Like who?”

“Don’t know,” Decker answered. “I sent Webster after the wife, but he never got anywhere.”

Marge said, “Maybe this Tarkum lady had some skele
tons of her own. You know…driving a Ferrari at twenty-six.”

“There’s nothing to suggest that in the case file,” Oliver said.

Decker said, “How old’s her husband?”

Oliver shrugged. “Haven’t a clue.”

Marge picked up her cup and dripped coffee on her lap. Frowning, she wiped the spot off of her pants with her fingers. “That’s why I wear black. I can be a slob and no one notices.”

Decker handed her the tissue box. “It’s why I wear brown. Then you really don’t notice.”

“You’re the only one in the entire department who can get away with baggy brown suits,” Oliver said. “They’re so out, they’re in.”

Decker smiled. “That’s me. A real trendsetter.”

Oliver glanced up from his file. Deck had a deskful of family pictures—Cindy, his little one, Hannah, his stepsons, several of his wife, Rina. They were angled so Oliver could see them. He had never noticed them before. The smell of Marge’s coffee had tingled his nose. His stomach growled. He’d left his own cup at his desk. He seized Marge’s mug, took a drink, and made a face. “What the hell did you do to this?”

“What?” Marge said. “I put Equal in it—”

“How can you drink that shit?”

“Oliver, it’s
my
coffee.”

Decker smiled. “You want mine, Scotty? It’s black. A little tepid, by now, but it’s unadulterated.”

“I’ll get my own, thanks.” He stood and took Decker’s mug. “As long as I’m up, I’ll pour fresh.” His eyes went to Marge. “Do you and your chemicals want a warm-up?”

“At least my chemicals don’t give me a hangover.”

“You’ve got a point. Now do you want a fresh cup or not?”

“He gets fresh, I get fresh.” She handed him her cup. “Two cream powders, one Equal.
Don’t
say a word.”

He flashed her the peace sign. “Be back in a sec.” Mugs in hand, he walked to his desk to retrieve his own coffee
cup when his phone rang. He put down the crockery and picked up the receiver. “Oliver.”

“Hi.”

He hesitated a moment. “Hi.” Then to let her know that he recognized the voice, he added, “How are you feeling?”

“I’ll be glad when the day is over.”

“What are you doing?” Oliver flipped his wrist, looked at his watch. Ten-thirty. “It’s way too early for lunch.”

“Code seven—ten-minute break.”

“Ah, doughnuts and coffee.”

“Just the coffee,” Cindy answered. “Everybody’s watching the fat.” She waited a beat. “Is this a bad time?”

“Sort of.” He glanced over his shoulder, eyes on Decker’s office. The door was still closed. Then he wondered why he was so concerned. “What’s up?”

“I’ll make it quick. I just wanted to properly thank you. In my stupor last night, I think I had forgotten.”

“Forget it—”

“No, I won’t forget it, I’ll learn from it. I’m embarrassed, Scott. Not so much that I was tipsy, but that I attempted to drive. That was really stupid. More than that, it was really dangerous.”

“Yes, it was.”

She laughed over the phone. It was light and airy. “At least you’re honest. Anyway, it won’t happen again.”

“We all mess up,” Oliver said softly. “If you learn from it, you’re one step ahead.”

“Again, thanks for rescuing me. Bye—”

“Look, do you…Nothing.”

“Would you please complete the sentence?” Cindy requested. “Do I…
what
?”

Again Oliver looked over his shoulder. “Maybe we should talk over a cup of coffee. I still know lots of guys in Hollywood. I could fill you in on a couple of things.”

“Such as?”

“Give you the lowdown.”

“The lowdown on the guys…” A pause. “Or the lowdown on me.”

“Maybe both.”

Cindy sighed. “Don’t bother, Oliver. Beaudry has already pointed out my deficiencies. Apparently, they are many and varied.”

“Has he told you the good points?”

“He’s still searching.” A few seconds passed. “
Are
there good points?”

He took another glance behind his back. Marge had opened the door, holding out her hands like a balance scale—a “what gives” sign. He held up a finger, indicating one minute, and whispered, “This isn’t the right time. Look, you get off at three, I get off around five. I’ll come to your side of town. How about Musso and Frank at seven?”

“A bit rich for my pocketbook, Oliver.”

“It’s my treat.” He spied Marge motioning to him. “I gotta go. Your father needs my swift insights.”

“Don’t say hi for me.”

“Sweetheart, I have no intention of bringing up your name.”