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Authors: Faye Kellerman

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“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Isn’t he in Homicide?”

“Yes, he is.”

“Sure, now I remember,” she said. “About three months after I arrived at Hollywood, one of the vets threw a party and actually invited us rookies. Some of the gold shields were there. I chatted with Detective Barrows for about ten minutes.” Cindy pushed away her salad plate. Immediately, the busboy removed the dish. She said, “From that one lone conversation, he thinks I’m smart?”

“You must have impressed him.”

“I think it was the red hair.”

“You attribute an awful lot to your hair, you know that?”

She chuckled and looked up into the dour face of their server. He placed the sand dabs on the table. “For the
lady
.”

“Why, thank you.” Cindy picked up a French fry and bit it. “Perfect.”

The waiter cracked a smile. “You’re welcome.” He served Oliver his dinner. “More wine?” He looked pointedly at Cindy. “It seems to agree with you.”

“Wine agrees with everyone,” she stage-whispered to him. “Thank you. Half a glass. I must save room for dessert.”

The waiter poured wine for both of them. “Anything else?”

Cindy said, “I believe we’re fine.” She looked at Oliver. “Are we fine?”

“We’re very fine,” Oliver answered. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” the waiter said. “Watch out for pin bones.”

Again he left.

“Awwww, he cares about us,” Cindy said. “He doesn’t want us choking on a fish bone. He’s definitely thawing.”

“Either that or you’re buzzed, so your perspective has changed.”

“Could be, could be.” She ate another French fry. “Why do you say I’m buzzed?”

“You’ve got color in your formerly pale cheeks.”

“Oh, that! It’s just the makeup kicking in.”

Oliver laughed. “What did you and Craig talk about?”

“Pardon?”

“Craig Barrows. At the party? You chatted for ten minutes?”

“Gosh, it was so long ago.” She tried to bring the memory back into focus. “I think we talked about Armand Cray—” She felt her cheeks get hot. “About the Armand Crayton case. It was me, my partner, Graham Beaudry, and Slick Rick Bederman—”

“When did that take place? About eight months ago?”

“About. The case had been all over the papers. It was such a weird thing with the wife witnessing the whole ordeal.” She glanced at Scott, who was staring at her. “Just idle chitchat.”

Oliver said, “Cindy, what aren’t you telling me?”

“What do you mean?”

“Sweetheart, you’re blushing. What’s up with Armand Crayton? Did you know the guy?”

“What do you care?”

Oliver audibly plunked down his fork and sat back in his seat. “What do I care? The file is open, darling. What
are
you hiding?”

Cindy waited a moment, then sighed and said, “Okay. Here’s the deal. I used to work out at Silver’s gym in the Valley before I moved into town. I went there for maybe a year. We struck up a casual acquaintance.”

“Did you date him?”

“I said casual—”

“Did you sleep with him?”

“Oliver, do you know the definition of the word
casual
?”

“Sex is casual with lots of people.”

“He was married, Scott.”

“Meaning?”

“I don’t sleep with married guys! Ever!”

“The guy was known as someone who fucked around,” Oliver persisted. “Did he ever tell you he was married?”

“No, he didn’t. But I, being perceptive and astute, stood clear of his advances.”

“So he tried to pick you up?”

“Not in a big way,” Cindy said. “You know, sometimes we’d have a drink at the juice bar after our workouts. A couple of times he asked me if I wanted to go someplace else for a cup of coffee. I told him no.”

Oliver gulped down a prawn, trying to spit out the tail without looking crass. “What’d you talk about?”

“Nothing that would shed any light on the case.”

“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?” Oliver frowned. “What’s going on, Cindy? Why are you acting so squirrelly? Knowing you, I think you’d
jump
in head-first to help crack a major homicide. At least, you’d tell your dad—”

He stopped talking.

“Okay. Now, I get it. You
did
tell your dad. You told him, and Big Deck told you not to talk about it. You want to tell me the details? Or should I just ask your father?”

Cindy smiled, wickedly. “Exactly how do you intend to bring it up with him? ‘Uh, Deck, I happened to be having dinner with your daughter and—’”

“Oh, fuck you!” Oliver threw a prawn tail at her. “Cindy, fill me in. Pretty please?”

Cindy hesitated, then said, “Our acquaintance was never any big deal, Scott. Our conversations were strictly lightweight—buffing up our bods, how our workouts went. Stuff like that. Once in a while, he mentioned a hot business deal he was doing. I think he was trying to impress me.”

“Sounds like it.”

“Well, it didn’t work. Usually, when he started his business-speak, I zoned out. It wasn’t our conversations that alarmed my dad.”

“Go on.”

“It was one of those extremely bad cases of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. After one of our juice encounters, we were walking back together to our respective cars.” Cindy picked up her wine but put the glass down without drinking. “Someone took some potshots at us—”

“Jesus!”

“Yeah, it was frightening.” She looked away. “This was several months before he was murdered. I was in the academy by then, so I had my gun. But I didn’t use it.”

“That was very smart.”

“Yeah, that’s what Dad said, but I felt like…” She blew out air. “I felt that I should have done
something
.” Her voice lowered to a whisper. “Oliver, it scared the shit out of me.” She felt her eyes moisten. “Not the gunfire, although that was very scary. But the fact that I froze—”

“Why? What’d you do? Just stand there?”

“No, I ducked behind a car.”

“That’s exactly what you should have done.” Oliver sipped wine. “Sure as hell what I would have done.”

She was quiet.

Oliver said, “Cindy, what do you think you
should
have done? Turned the parking lot into the O.K. Corral?”

She swiped at her face. “I don’t know. I keep thinking what if this had been the streets and—”

Oliver interrupted her. “If, God forbid, something like this happens on the street, you’ll know what to do. You’ll have your mike, you’ll have your gun, and, going back to our
original
discussion, you’ll have
backup
. The potshots took you by surprise. Don’t worry about it.”

“Doesn’t shooting always take you by surprise?”

“Sometimes, sure it does,” Oliver said. “But when you’re working, you’re looking out for it.”

She looked away. “Maybe.”

Oliver said, “So you told your dad about the shooting?”

“Yes.” She paused. “But only after Armand Crayton died.”

“So you didn’t tell him when it first happened?”

“No, I didn’t. Because I didn’t want to freak him out. Also, I didn’t want to admit that I froze. I was embarrassed.”

“Cindy, you didn’t
freeze
, you
ducked
! Ducking is different from freezing.” He ate another prawn. “Okay, so you told your father about the potshots after Crayton was kidnapped and murdered. And your dad told you not to say anything to anyone.”

“Yes.”

Oliver analyzed what might have gone on in Pete’s head. “Did the shooter get a look at you, Cindy?”

“I…don’t know. I was really scared when it happened. My initial thought was that the shooter was his wife. That she wrongly assumed that Armand and I were having an affair. But after he was killed, and all the stuff about him came out, I actually
stopped
worrying. Armand had a very long list of detractors. The shots weren’t meant for me. They were probably a gift from some disgruntled investor.”

“You’re not holding back? You never dated him?”

“No, never. We were gym buddies. That’s it.”

“You told your father all this.”

“Yes. And I’m sure that if Dad thought that my involvement was important, he would have told you and Marge and the rest of you guys everything.”

“He never said anything to me about it.”

“So he didn’t think it was important.”

“More like he was more concerned with your safety.”

“He wouldn’t jeopardize the case, Scott. Even for my sake.”

Oliver laughed. “Sure, dear!”

“I’m serious. Dad has principles!”

“Dad also loves his family. Between work and your safety, hell, it isn’t even close.” He waved her off. A busboy thought he was waving at him, because he immediately cleared the plates.

To Cindy, Oliver said, “Do you want dessert?”

“No, I’m pretty full. Thank you, dinner was delicious.”

“No prob.” Oliver scratched his face. “So you and Craig Barrows were talking about the Crayton case?”

“Just in generalities.” Cindy wiped her mouth.

“What kind of generalities?”

“We got on the discussion of follow-home shootings.” She perked up. “You know, I think Barrows told me that he and Osmondson were working together on a follow-home that sounded similar to the Crayton case.”

Oliver felt like pulling out his notebook, but restrained himself. The conversation was too chockablock. He’d have to grill her in a quiet setting. Take her through the entire thing from start to finish. “Do you remember anything about the case he was referring to?”

Cindy tapped the tabletop. “For some reason, a red Ferrari comes to mind.”

Elizabeth Tarkum
. Oliver said, “You know what we’re working on in Devonshire, don’t you?”

“Of course—the carjackings and follow-homes. You think the Crayton case is related to them?”

“Maybe.”

Cindy said, “You want to interrogate me, don’t you?”

“We call it interviewing.”

“Okay,” Cindy said. “Suppose I say yes? Do you want to do it behind my dad’s back?”

“It might be simpler.” Oliver was not at all happy. “How about if I come to your apartment tomorrow evening. You tell me everything you know about Armand Crayton and your conversation with Craig Barrows. If it becomes clear to me that your relationship with Crayton is important to his murder case—or any of our current jacking cases—I’ll tell your dad about this dinner…which won’t be a pretty scene! But if you can shed any light on what’s going on with these horrible jackings, I’ve got no choice.”

“You’re being very professional.” She grinned. “I’m impressed.”

“No, I’m not a professional.” He rubbed his forehead. “What I am is an idiot for taking you to dinner.”

Cindy softened her voice. “You were being nice. Because you felt sorry for me after last night. I appreciate it, Scott.”

He smiled, plunking down the credit card to pay the bill. “You’re a nice kid.”

“Thank you,” Cindy said. “Want to go Dutch?”

He laughed. “This one’s on me. The next one’s on you.”

“Is there going to be a next one?”

It was Oliver’s turn to blush. Quickly, Cindy changed the conversation. “What time do you want to come to my apartment?”

He stared at her.

“For the interview tomorrow night…remember?”

Oliver laughed. “Uh, yeah, I remember. I took my ginkgo biloba. How about seven?”

“Seven it is.”

She stared at the tabletop. She had wanted to ask Scott about Hannah’s picture; why it was on her coffee table instead of perched atop her mantel. She was feeling quite paranoid, especially after their weird conversation. But now it seemed like a suspicious and rude thing to do. So she decided to ask him about it tomorrow. It would make more sense then. He’d interview her; she’d interview him.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Absolutely.” She stood. “Walk me to my car?”

“Of course,” Oliver answered. “And with any luck, no one will snipe at us.”

It had been
an exhausting morning, but worth the effort. The little number that Stacy had eyed two months ago had been reduced fifty percent. Black, lightweight wool, it was perfect in almost every SoCal season except maybe summer. And even then she could probably wear it at night because so many of the restaurants were overly air-conditioned, the nasty machines breathing arctic ice down on the sexy halter number you wore to look so fine. Trying to look like you’re having a good time with frost dripping from your nose, and your breath fogging up the menu. Don’t these ultra-hip, ultra-cool, too-too places have any sense of temperature?

Ah well, at least she now owned the perfect black dress for any situation, especially appealing because it was half-off
wholesale
. And since she saved so much money on the dress, she had extra for the shoes, and the scarf, and a couple of pairs of designer stockings that usually cost more than a good meal at a local café. She also had enough for two cashmere sweaters reduced by seventy percent—last year’s styles, but the colors were neutral. She loved sweaters. They showed off her tight, perfect body courtesy of genetics and lots of proper physical exercise.

Stacy left the mall through one of the six main entrances, and stepped out into the dirty sunlight, squinting in the glare. Dragging her packages a couple hundred feet, she scanned the acreage of asphalt, trying to spot her red Beemer convertible sold to her by a rich
client at a fraction of its worth. It was a sassy, smart bitch, but the problem was that it was so low down to the ground and hard to find among all these sub
urban
vans and souped-up four-wheel-drives. She cursed her stupidity. Why didn’t she pay attention to the designated signs—red four, eight purple, whatever. It would have made her life a lot easier, and her arms a lot less tired. Walking through rows and rows of metal, hitting her shoulder on a low-slung rearview mirror.

Was there a landmark she could remember? A tree or a wall or the back of one of the stores or even what side of the boulevard she had parked on? But nothing came to mind. Sweat began to trickle down her brow. It was cloudy but muggy, the moistened air pricking the back of her neck. She touched the crown of her scalp and felt the puff of her tresses, not unlike the aerated fluff of cotton candy.

Great! Her hair was frizzing up. After she spent forty-five goddamn minutes blow-drying it straight, not to mention slopping her hair with all those tonics that promised to keep the dampness and the frizz out of her locks.

Where was the goddamn car
?

Another walk through the maze of vehicular steel.

Pretend you’re in a funhouse
.

Then Stacy remembered that she never liked funhouses.

More walking, and walking, and walking. Feeling so close, yet so far away. Then she hit her head, dummy that she was. She placed her packages on the ground, then rooted in her purse until she found her keys. Holding on to the remote, she pressed down on the
panic button
.

In the not so far distance, she heard her horn’s intermittent blare—beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep. Ah, such sweet music. She picked up her packages and followed the dulcet tones until her red BMW jumped into her line of vision, looking as welcoming as beefcake. She depressed the panic button once again and the annoying honking ceased.

She hurried over to the car, putting down her packages as she opened the door. Within seconds, she felt the presence of another body breathing on her neck. As she started
to turn, she was slammed against the hood of the car, her face pushed against the hot metal, her keys ripped out of her grasp, cutting across her palm. Something hard was pressed against her temple.

A voice said, “Don’t move! Don’t talk, don’t scream, don’t do anything. You do anything, you’re dead. Am I clear? Nod for yes.”

She managed to nod yes, even though she was mashed against the hood.

“You’re nice,” the voice told her. “You’re very nice. But I’m in a hurry, so you’re lucky. Now hit the ground, bitch!”

Stacy was confused, her terror only adding to her befuddled state. The voice hissed in her ear. “I said, hit the goddamn ground! Do it now, bitch!”

Hands clenched the nape of her neck and shoved her entire body against the pebbly asphalt. Her forehead smacked against the hard rock ground, her cheek scraped and bleeding. A foot was on her throbbing head, pressing hard against it.

I should yell
, she told herself.
I should really yell
. But she couldn’t find her vocal cords.

The voice said, “Now, if you’re a good little bitch, and you stay where you are and keep your mouth shut for a long, long time, you’ll live. If you talk, you’ll die. Is that clear?”

Stacy managed to nod.

The foot came off her head and then gave her a sharp kick in the ribs. Her eyes burned as pain shot through her nervous system. Another kick, but this one directed to her back. She moaned as agony squeezed her like a vise. The foot then pushed her aside.

The car door swung open and hit her in the ribs.

Bang went her car door as it slammed shut.

Vroom, vroom went her pretty little convertible engine.

Screech went the tires as the car backed out of its space.

Stacy was left with two overwhelming thoughts. The first was that she was still alive. If this were the worst of it,
she’d be okay…eventually. Her second notion was that the thief hadn’t taken the packages.

At least, she still had her sexy little number.

 

Marge was reading from the computer sheet. “We’ve got another one. A straight carjack. Vic was a lone woman. No kid.”

“What kind of car?” Oliver asked.

“BMW convertible. Korman, from GTA, caught the call about twenty minutes ago. I’m sure he’s still there. We should go to the scene and find out the details.”

Oliver said, “Any reason why
we
weren’t called when it came through?”

“We should have been called. Everyone knows that we’re working on the carjackings. Someone screwed up.”

“See, that’s the problem.” Oliver stood and put on his jacket. “If our own details don’t know each other’s business, how can we expect interdepartmental cooperation? You got cases in Hollywood, you got cases here, and who knows where else…no one’s fitting the pieces together.”

“I thought that’s what you were doing last night. You met with him long enough. I called you maybe four times in three hours to find out if you learned anything.” She closed and locked her file drawer. “Did you?”

Oliver’s brain started racing.
What was she talking about
? “Who’d I tell you I was with?”

“Rolf Osmondson from Hollywood.” Marge eyed him. “Didn’t you take him out to dinner last night?”

Oliver tried to cover. “No, it was the night before.”

Marge was insistent. “No, Scott, you told me you were meeting with Osmondson to clarify a few details about the Elizabeth Tarkum case.”

That’s the trouble with lying when you’re over forty. You forget things
. Oliver tried to act casual. “Nah, I wasn’t with Osmondson. I was on a date. I did phone up a couple of Hollywood Dees. Maybe that’s where you’re getting mixed up.”

“Who?”

Shut up, Marge
! “Uh, a guy named Craig Barrows. I didn’t mention him to you?”

“No.”

“Yeah, well, we talked a little over the phone. Nothing big.” He squirmed. “You ready?”

“I’m ready.” Marge swung her bag over her shoulder. “I don’t think she was hurt too badly. She was talking…the woman in the Beemer.”

“That’s good,” Oliver said. “Does she have a name?”

“Stacy Mills. She’s a personal trainer.”

“Think it’s related to Crayton?”

Marge was taken aback. “I don’t know. Any reason why it should be related?”

“Car’s not typical for our mother-kid jackings.”

“It doesn’t sound related to Crayton,” Marge said. “The jacking took place in the parking lot of the West Hills Outlets.”

They walked out of the stationhouse, found Marge’s Honda, and then took off. Marge drove the car onto Devonshire, the main artery that linked the north section of the east and west San Fernando Valley. The police station was located in the burbs, which did wonders for the real estate prices in the surrounding area. It gave the illusion that the neighborhood was impenetrable. That wasn’t the case, although the response time was quicker. As she drove farther west, the street broadened and the homes thinned. Rolling hillside swept over the acreage: Los Angeles as farmland. Way back when that had been the case—orchards and fields. Go up another forty miles to Oxnard, and it’s still the case.

Marge said, “In all this open space around, you’d think a red BMW convertible would be easy to spot.”

“It’s red?”

“Yeah. Didn’t I tell you that?”

“No, you didn’t,” Oliver said. “Crayton’s Corniche was red.”

“So are a zillion other cars. But it is interesting.” She glanced at her partner. He seemed restless. “Something on your mind, Scott?”

“Nope.” He looked at his lap. “Maybe I’m a little tired. Am I acting tired?”

“A little.”
Tired and strange
, Marge thought. But she didn’t push it. In the distance, she began to see hints of the Spanish tile rooftops. As Marge’s Honda chugalugged down the steep curve of the hill, the mall ascended inch by inch over the horizon. It seemed as if the construction had been dropped in the middle of nowhere. But a few miles northeast were wealthy areas—golf course developments and large ranch spreads that appealed to professional athletes and urban mountain men who ascribed to the rugged life as long as their SUVs came with cell phone and computer stations.

The mall was composed of a half-dozen Mediterranean-style buildings that housed, among other things, some high-end discount outlets—Off-Saks, Barneys, Donna Karan, St. John’s Sports, Versace, Gucci, and other Italian names real or otherwise. The developer had obviously chosen the spot because the vast amount of land gave the mall room for expansion as well as lots of parking.

Oliver surveyed the blinding sea of chrome. “Where’s the crime scene?”

“I think Korman said something about the newly added parking lot.”

“How can you tell which building is new? It’s all new. Place is one big maze. I hate shopping, and I really hate malls. They represent the worst in human homogenization. They all look the same, they all have the same stores—”

“This is discount—”

“Nothing is individualized anymore,” he bemoaned. “Whatever happened to the old-fashioned store? You know, a store…fronted by an actual street…that has parking in the back—”

“You’re showing your age.” Marge turned left into miles of asphalt. “You’re a well-dressed guy. Where do you get your clothes?”

“I have a few places that know me and my budget. They call right before the sales. I go in after-hours.”

“Pretty good service. Sure you aren’t fixing someone’s ticket?”

“I wish I had the power.” He ran his fingers through his black hair. “Would do me wonders with the women.”

She smiled. “You’re complaining all of a sudden?”

“With women, there’s always a complaint, no offense to your gender. I mean,
look
at this place. Look how crowded it is!”

“There’re men here. They like to save money, too.”

“It’s ratio, Marge. Me, I like something, I buy it. With women, it’s not just shopping, it’s an
adventure
. You’d think they were stalking a snow leopard instead of buying a T-shirt.”

Marge rolled her eyes. “Bad night, Oliver?”

He realized he was whining. He stared out the windshield. “These places just depress me.”

Marge was disconcerted. It wasn’t like Oliver to act this way. Cynical, yes. Obnoxious, yes. But not depressed. She wondered if there was something wrong with his health, but she didn’t ask. There was work to be done.

He said, “As a matter of fact, I had a fine night!”

Marge waited for him to explain. When he didn’t, she asked, “Does that mean she
had
a brain?”

“For your information, I can attract women that aren’t bimbos. When I put my mind to it, I can actually carry on a conversation—”

“Scott, you’re acting constipated. What the hell is wrong with you?”

“I told you, I don’t like malls…there.” He pointed. “At three o’clock.”

The place was roped off by a yellow crime scene ribbon. Marge eased the Honda over to the spot and pulled in behind one of the four cruisers. Milt Korman had arrived at the scene in a black-and-white. The brass had dictated that unmarkeds were to be used only when the element of surprise was necessary. Otherwise, it was preferred that the Dees use standard cop cars. It gave the appearance of more police out on the road. Marge thought about that as
she got out of her Honda. No one said anything to her, so she was a happy camper.

The door to Korman’s cruiser was open, and the victim was sitting in the back, her sandal-shod feet dangling outside, brushing the asphalt. She looked to be in her early thirties with a round face and saucer-shaped brown eyes, made bigger by judicious application of eyeliner. Some of the liner had run down her cheeks, giving her an Emmett Kelly sad clown look. She had wedge-cut platinum hair and wore bright copper lipstick.

Korman was leaning against the black-and-white, writing in his pad. He was in his late fifties. A no-nonsense second-grade Dee, he had thick, peppered hair, florid skin, and a misshapen, bulbous nose fashioned from boxing and drink. Upon seeing Oliver and Marge, he waved them over. “This isn’t just a standard GTA, it’s a jacking. You should have been called right away. Anyway, I’ll tell you what I know, and you can question the vic according to your needs…. The deal was this. She was shopping, looking for her car…” He glanced up, his eyes panning the parking lot. “Big mother place.”

“Don’t you just hate malls?” Oliver said.

“Yeah, I hate shopping,” Korman groused. “Anyway, she was lost and was so intent on finding her car, she didn’t notice if the perp was following her or not.”

“The perp was definitely a he?” Oliver asked.

BOOK: Stalker
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