Книга - Stalker

Stalker
Faye Kellerman


The twelfth book in the hugely popular Peter Decker and Rina Lazarus series from New York Times bestselling author Faye KellermanSomeone is watching your every move…Detective Peter Decker knows all too well the risks of police work, so he was horrified when his daughter Cynthia entered the LAPD. But as a first-year rookie, Cindy is fast proving she has the same razor-sharp instincts as her father.Now though, Cindy’s skills are put to the test like never before. Things in her apartment are moved, her possessions are destroyed, and an unnerving tingle down her spine tells her that someone is following her.As her stalker grows bolder by the day, Cindy must do all she can to discover who is after her. Can she stop them before she’s trapped in a nightmare with no escape?









Stalker

Faye Kellerman










Copyright (#u96b5b233-67d1-5974-9f81-9ec20ca7d221)


Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)

First published in the United States by William Morrow, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers, 2000

This ebook edition published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2019

Copyright © Faye Kellerman 2000

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018

Cover photography © Shutterstock.com (http://Shutterstock.com)

Faye Kellerman asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © March 2019 ISBN: 9780008293598

Version: 2018-12-12




Dedication (#u96b5b233-67d1-5974-9f81-9ec20ca7d221)


To Jonathan, my #1 guy

To Barney, my #1 agent

To Carrie, editor par excellence,

who is always there for me


Contents

Cover (#u83d748de-d9b9-592f-8874-8ec6f32cbb9b)

Title Page (#u0de7d0b2-7623-58d1-8081-c21f58c0a80e)

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Keep Reading

About the Author

Faye Kellerman booklist

About the Publisher







1 (#u96b5b233-67d1-5974-9f81-9ec20ca7d221)


It should have happened at night, in a secluded corner of a dimly lit parking lot. Instead, it occurred at one twenty-five in the afternoon. Farin knew the time because she had peeked through the car window, glancing at the clock in her Volvo—purportedly one of the safest cars on the road. Farin was a bug on safety. A fat lot of good that was doing her now.

It wasn’t fair because she had done everything right. She had parked in an open area across the street from the playground, for God’s sakes! There were people in plain view. For instance, there was a man walking a brown pit bull on a leash, the duo strolling down one of the sunlit paths that led up into the mountains. And over to the left, there was a lady in a denim jacket reading the paper. There were kids on the play equipment: a gaggle of toddlers climbing the jungle gym, preschoolers on the slides and wobbly walk-bridge, babies in the infant swings. Mothers were with them, keeping a watchful eye over their charges. Not watching her, of course. Scads of people, but none who could help because at the moment, she had a gun in her back.

Farin said, “Just please don’t hurt my bab—”

“You shut up! You say one more word, you are dead!” The voice was male. “Look straight ahead!”

Farin obeyed.

The disembodied voice went on. “You turn around, you are dead. You do not look at me. Understand?”

Farin nodded yes, keeping her eyes down. His voice was in the medium to high range. Slightly clipped, perhaps accented.

Immediately, Tara started crying. With shaking hands, Farin clutched her daughter to her chest, and cooed into her seashell ear. Instinctively, she brought her purse over Tara’s back, drawing her coat over handbag and child. Farin hoped that if the man did shoot, she and the purse would be the protective bread in the Tara sandwich, the bullet having to penetrate another surface before it could—

The gun’s nozzle dug into her backbone. She bit her lip to prevent herself from crying out.

“Drop your purse!” the voice commanded.

Immediately, Farin did as ordered. She heard him rooting through her handbag, doing this single-handedly because the gun was still pressing into her kidneys.

Please let this be a simple purse snatching! She heard a jangle of metal. Her keys? Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the passenger door to her station wagon had been opened. Again, she felt the press of the gun.

“Go in. From passenger’s side! You do it or I shoot your baby!”

At the mention of her baby, Farin lost all resolve. Tears poured down from her eyes. Hugging her child, she walked around the front of the car, thoughts of escape cut short by the metal at her tailbone. She paused at the sight of the open door.

“Go on!” he barked. “Do it now!”

With Tara at her bosom, she bent down until she found her footing. Then she slid into her passenger’s seat.

“Move across!” he snapped.

Farin tried to figure out how to do this. The car had bucket seats and there was a console between them. With clumsy, halted motions, and still holding Tara, she lifted her butt over the leather-cushioned wall, and into the driver’s seat, both now scrunched behind the wheel. Again, Tara started to cry.

“You shut her up!” he barked.

She’s a baby! Farin wanted to shout. She’s scared! Instead, she began to rock her, singing softly into her ear. He was right beside her, the gun now in her rib cage.

Don’t look at him, Farin reminded herself. Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look!

Staring straight ahead. But she could tell that the gun had shifted to Tara’s head.

Think, Farin! Think!

But nothing came into her hapless brain, not a thought, not a clue. Fear had penetrated every pore of her being as her heart banged hard against her breastbone. Her chest was tight; her breathing was labored. Within seconds, Farin felt her head go light, along with that ominous darkening of her vision. Sparkles popped through her brain … that awful sensation of floating to nothingness.

No, she hadn’t been shot. She was going to pass out!

Don’t pass out, you fool. You can’t afford—

His voice brought her back to reality.

“You give me the girl! Then you drive!”

Tara was still on her lap, little hands grabbing Farin’s blouse. Once Tara was out of her grip, Farin knew they both were helpless unless she did something.

Farin knew she had to move. Without warning, she pivoted around, using the solid weight of her shoulder bone to slam it against his gun-toting hand. Although the sudden move didn’t dislodge the gun from his grip, it did push his hand away, giving Farin about a second to spring into action.

This time, the console was her friend. Because now he had to get over it to do something to her. She jerked down on the door handle, then kicked open the metal barrier to the max. Still holding Tara, Farin bolted from her seat, and attempted to run away.

But her shoe caught and she tripped, falling toward the pebbly road.

What a klutz!

Thinking as she plunged downward: Break the fall with your hip, cover Tara, then kick …

She contorted, managing to land on her hip and shoulder, scraping her right cheek on the unforgiving, rocky asphalt. Immediately, she rolled on top of Tara. Finding her vocal cords, she let out a scream worthy of the best B horror movies.

A deep male voice shouting, “What’s going on over there?”

Even from her poor vantage point, Farin thought that the shout might belong to the man with the brown pit bull.

Several popping sounds.

Oh God, she thought, he’s shooting at me!

Farin prepared for the worst—the sting, the pain, the writhing and horror, or whatever was to come … because she’d never been shot.

But nothing penetrated her body.

Instead, the popping turned out to be her car’s engine. Within moments, the Volvo’s tires screeched as they peeled rubber. One of the back radials smashed over her left foot and ankle as the car blasted from its launch pad.

Now came the pain! It burst into her head and made her sob. Loud, but it didn’t drown out Tara’s piercing cries.

Oh God! My baby is hurt! She called out, “Somebody help me!” Her foot and ankle were pulverized, but agony also stabbed her entire lower body—specifically legs and hips. Her stomach was a bucking storm, her face felt as if attacked by a raging hive of bees. She could hardly breathe. She felt as if she were having a heart attack. At least, she could wiggle the toes on her right foot so she knew she wasn’t paralyzed.

While moaning back excruciating sobs of anguish, she could see the man with the brown pit bull running toward her. He was yelling for help, that Farin could tell. The pit bull was barking wildly … menacingly. It was pulling against the restraints. Suddenly, the dog broke loose from its owner, galloping toward them at full speed!

Lunging toward them!

A huge leap into the air!

The final touch! She was going to be eaten alive!

The dog was within inches of her face.

She passed out just as the pit bull started to lick her tearstained cheek.

The husband was pissed, trying to make Decker go away by throwing him dirty looks. Not that Decker blamed the guy. Nor did Decker, or his twenty-five years of experience, take it personally. Part of the job with a capital J.

“Look at her!” he exclaimed. “She’s in pain—”

“Jason, I’m okay—”

“No, you’re not okay!” Jason interrupted. “You’re a wreck. You and Tara have gone through hell!” Anger had made him red-faced. Suddenly, his lower lip quivered. “You need your rest, Farin!”

He was about an inch away from breaking down. Decker understood the feeling firsthand, the helplessness that clouded and infuriated. Men were supposed to protect their families. When they couldn’t, the guilt washed over them like a tidal wave.

Truth be told, Farin Henley was a mess. The woman had deep lacerations on her left cheek, probably down her entire body as well. Her left leg was in a thigh-high cast. Not that the leg was broken, the docs had told Decker. But her ankle had sustained multiple fractures. The more the leg was immobilized, the better the ankle would heal.

Even through the scrapes and scratches, Decker could tell that Farin was a “cute” woman. She had a round, pixie face framed with clipped, honey-colored hair. Big blue eyes, which were red-rimmed at the moment. She appeared to be in her late twenties. Husband Jason was probably around the same age. Light skin surrounding dark brown eyes. He had a head of thick brown hair that had been blow-dried. His black eyebrows were shaped in a perfect arch. His teeth gleamed white, although he had yet to smile. Medium height, but well built. Jason worked out.

Rather than a direct hit, Decker used the sideswipe approach. He looked down at the crib abutting Mom’s hospital bed, peering at the sleeping form. Tara’s porcelain complexion was marred with scratches, but the wounds appeared superficial. The baby was sucking in her slumber.

Decker said, “What is she? About eighteen months?”

Farin wiped her tears. “Exactly.”

Jason remained hostile. “What is this? A pathetic attempt to gain rapport?”

“Jason!” Farin scolded.

“Are you going to catch this monster?” Jason rolled his eyes. “Probably not. You have no idea—”

“We have an idea.”

The room fell silent.

“And?” Jason asked expectantly.

Decker turned his attention to Farin. “Did you see your assailant’s face, Mrs. Henley?”

Farin licked her cracked lips, and shook her head no. “He told me not to look.” A hard swallow. “He said he’d shoot me if I did.”

Jason said, “You don’t look surprised, Lieutenant.”

“We’ve had other reported carjackings,” Decker said. “Most of them have been in daylight involving women with small children. The jacker—or jackers because we think it’s a ring—tells you not to look or he’ll shoot the kid.”

“That’s right!” Farin exclaimed. “He said he’d shoot …” She lowered the volume to a whisper. “He said he’d shoot …” She pointed to Tara’s crib. “What happened to the other women? Are they okay?”

“They’re okay.”

“Well, thank God for that.” Farin was quiet. “Did I do the right thing, Lieutenant? By trying to escape?”

“You survived, Mrs. Henley. That means you did the right thing.”

“Did the other women escape like I did?”

Decker ran his hands through his graying ginger locks. More silver than red at this point. What the hell! Rina loved him, and people rarely mistook Hannah for his granddaughter. Decker supposed he looked okay. Not young, but decent for a rugged, older guy. “They’re alive,” he answered. “They’re ongoing cases. I can’t tell you the specifics.”

The specifics being the home invasions, the robberies, the beatings, and the rapes. The jackings had started two months ago, and had escalated in their violence. If the crimes continued unbridled, murder would be next. He had ten full-time Dees working the area—a joint effort between sex-crimes, CAPS, and GTA. With some luck, the crimes would stay in those three details, and leave Homicide out of the picture.

Jason squirmed. “This asshole has my wife’s purse. I already changed the locks and canceled the credit cards.”

“That’s good thinking.”

“Has …” Jason closed his eyes for just a second, then opened them. “In the other cases, did any of these … these people come back to the house?”

“No,” Decker said.

Not yet, he thought.

Relief passed through Jason’s eyes. He regarded his wife. “See, I told you this guy is a coward. Crooks who prey on women are cowards. Just let him come to me. He isn’t going to come back, Farin. And if he does, I’m prepared for the SOB!”

Prepared meaning a gun. A bad idea unless Jason knew how to handle a firearm under pressure. Few gun owners did. There was nothing Decker could do to stop this man from buying protection. And he understood the motivation. He just hoped Henley was smart enough to stow the gun away from the kid. He’d have to get Henley alone and mention a few gun safety rules.

Farin said, “I keep thinking there was something I should have done … something I should have noticed.”

Decker shook his head. “These guys are pros, Mrs. Henley. You did really well.”

“So what are you doing to catch them?” Jason demanded to know.

“Talking to people like your wife … hoping they can furnish us with some important details.”

“You just said the creeps ordered the women not to look.”

“Maybe one of them managed to sneak a glance.”

“So you have nothing. Basically, you’re sitting on your derriere until someone does your work for you.”

“Jason!” Farin scolded. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant—”

“You don’t have to apologize for my behavior,” Jason interrupted. He turned to Decker. “What are you doing about it?”

Five women working undercover, Decker thought. And it ain’t easy, bud, because we can’t use babies as decoys. We’ve got to use dolls or dogs or other undercovers dressed up like elderly. Something to make these motherfuckers think they’ve got a mark.

“I wish I could tell you more, Mr. Henley.” Decker spoke calmly. “But I can’t.”

“Probably doing nothing.”

Decker didn’t answer him. To Farin, he said, “Are you up for walking me through the ordeal?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?” Jason asked.

“I’m sure.”

Decker looked at Jason. “Do you want to hear this?”

“Of course, I want to hear it.”

“It’ll make you mad.”

“I’m already mad!” Jason snapped. “I’m furious! I’m … I’m …” He stopped talking and rubbed his forehead. “Do you have an aspirin on you? I’d ask the nurse, but the hospital charges five bucks per tablet.”

Decker took out an ever-present bottle of Advil from his coat pocket and tossed it to him. “Will this do?”

Jason popped two pills in his mouth and tossed them back. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” Decker pulled out his notebook and said to Farin, “Take it slowly.”

Farin nodded.

Pencil poised, Decker said, “Fire when ready.” He grimaced. “Sorry. Bad choice of words.”

Farin smiled. “That’s okay.”

A bad choice of words that Decker had used with the five other carjacking victims. It had gotten a smile out of all of them, and it brought a smile to Farin, as well. Batting one thousand in the smile department. Too bad his solve rate wasn’t nearly as impressive.







2 (#u96b5b233-67d1-5974-9f81-9ec20ca7d221)


Cindy wasn’t the first cop to show on the scene, but she was the first female officer. By the time she and her partner, Graham Beaudry, were curbside, there was already a sizable gathering in front of the house. The group was confined to the sidewalk area, the lawn having been roped off by yellow crime scene tape. Items ejected from the dwelling lay on the ground, mostly woman’s clothing strewn across the desiccated grass like an impromptu garage sale. Within seconds, a toaster came flying out the open window. Crash landing, it spilled its coiled guts over the sidewalk.

The masses cheered.

Great, Cindy thought. Giving the jerks encouragement.

Immediately, the couple launched into screams, most of them female and shrill. The sounds cut through the stilted midmorning air like a siren.

The original complaint had come through the RTO as a domestic dispute, the cases most despised in the department because of their propensity to turn violent. Three other cruisers had already arrived, including Sergeant Tropper’s black-and-white. So it’d be Sarge who’d call the shots.

The urban neighborhood consisted of postwar Vet-bill housing. The homes were one-storied, stucco jobs that held three bedrooms and two baths on the inside, plus a yard big enough for a swing set. The area was predominately Hispanic; lots of Hollywood was. And what wasn’t Hispanic was some other ethnicity surfing the lower third of the socio-economic strata. Some richer Caucasians lived in the district, inhabiting the private hillsides or the secluded canyons. But these whites weren’t the screamingly wealthy. Those of the rarefied resided in the more posh West Hollywood (its own city) or Beverly Hills (also its own city) or the Westside section of L.A., which was patrolled by LAPD. But the elite might as well have had their own city with all the mansions being stashed behind private gates patrolled by rent-a-cop security guards.

As Cindy got out of the car, she felt her lungs sting. It was turning into a smoggy day in the basin, the glaze hanging over the mountains like a wash of rust. She and Graham joined the others, Beaudry doing his famous duck waddle. Graham was low-waisted and had overly developed thighs to boot. It made him a slow runner, something that Cindy had learned the hard way. Once when they had been giving chase to a street mugger, she had left him in the dust.

But Beaudry had his good points. He treated her respectfully, but that was probably in deference to her high-ranking lieutenant father.

Megaphone in hand, Sergeant Tropper nodded to both of them. Sarge was around her father’s age, probably older. Mid-fifties, about six feet with a dense build. His head sprouted uneven strands of fine gray hair combed to the side, trying to hide a smooth, bald pate. His jaw was square, its thickness exaggerated by bulging muscle. His eyes were fixed and cold. Today, Tropper was riding with Rob Brown, who took them aside and filled them in.

“A pair of real sweethearts. She says she’s got a gun aimed at her husband’s balls. He ain’t denying it.”

Cindy looked around. “Shouldn’t we clear the area?”

“That isn’t the big picture right now, Officer Decker. There’re kids inside. Mamacita starts shooting, we’ve got real problems.”

“How old are they?” Cindy asked.

“Seven and nine.” Brown popped a stick of gum into his mouth. “Sarge is figuring out the next move.”

“Can’t you talk her down?” Beaudry said.

“Not so far,” Brown said. “She is pissed!” He looked at his watch. “Three-fucking-fifty-two in the afternoon. Couldnah waited for the four o’clock shift.”

“Decker!”

Cindy turned and saw Tropper beckoning her with a crooked finger; then he handed her the megaphone. “We’re pretty sure she has a gun. If she uses it, it would be bad.”

“Very bad,” Cindy agreed.

“I want you to talk to her, woman to woman. Keep her distracted. The rest of us are going in to rescue the kids.”

Her eyes darted between Sarge and the amplifier. “What if she hears you coming in?”

“You just make sure she doesn’t. Just keep her engaged in conversation. Keep the tongues wagging. That shouldn’t be so hard to do. Here’s a chance for you to use some of your fancy college psychology training.”

Sarge’s lips gave way to a smirk, showing straight but stained teeth. But underneath the sarcasm, Cindy could tell he was tense. At college, she had studied postgraduate criminology, not psychology. But now was not the time to correct him.

“What are their names, sir?”

“Ojeda,” Sarge answered, overenunciating. “Luis and Estella Ojeda.” Then he walked away to confer with the others.

She stood alone, megaphone in hand. Left out of the raid even though she was far slicker on her feet than Beaudry. Then she told herself to be charitable. Perhaps—just perhaps—Tropper really did feel she was the only one who could handle this woman. The situation was far too dangerous to be a simple rite of rookie passage. Even so, win or lose, she knew she was going to be judged.

Maybe Tropper wants you to garner some firsthand experience. Hmm. Did he even know what garner meant?

As much as she tried to be one of the gang, deep down, she was an elitist snob. You can take the girl out of the Ivies … Sarge was gesticulating … giving her the “go” sign. Confidence, she told herself. Show ’em how it’s done, college girl. Depressing the button on the megaphone, she said, “Hey, Estella! You know you have some clothes out here?”

No response. Sarge was making frantic motions that said, Keep talking, keep talking.

Cindy said, “Looks like pretty good stuff—”

“Eeez sheet!” Estella yelled out from inside. “All de clozzes is sheet! He give all de nice clozzes to his puta!”

Luis said, screaming, “I no have puta! She es crazy!”

“He es liar!”

“She es crazy!”

“I kill him!”

“Es true,” Luis shouted. “She kill me. I no move ’cause she kill me. She es crazy woman!”

Cindy spoke calmly. “Do you have a gun, Estella?”

“She have a big gun!” Luis answered. “She es crazy woman! Loca en la cabeza!”

Luis wasn’t helping his case. Cindy said, “Come on out, Estella. We’ll talk about it.”

“I no talk no more times,” Estella answered. “He talk. All he essays es lies!”

What next, Decker? Say something! Again, Cindy depressed the button. “Hey, where’d you get that little red dress, Estella? Over at Pay-off? I saw one just like it in the store window. I thought it was real cute. You’ve got good taste.”

A moment. Then Estella said, “You buy it?”

“Nah, I didn’t buy it.”

“Why you no buy it?”

“I’m a redhead,” Cindy said. “You gotta have dark hair for that number. You have dark hair, Estella?”

“I have dark hair,” Estella answered. A pause. “Some peoples es in my house!”

“No, I’m outside,” Cindy said.

“No, I hear peoples in my house!”

“Nah, we’re all outside!” Quickly, Cindy said, “You know, Estella, there are lots of people looking at your terrific clothes. You’ve got great taste. You ever think of doing a yard sale? You could make some real money.”

“The clozzes is sheeet!”

“No, they’re not shit. I’m telling you, you have good taste.” Cindy resisted the temptation to look at her watch. She knew she hadn’t been talking for more than a minute, though it felt like hours. “I like that slinky little purple dress. You must look dynamite in it.”

“Porple no good for redheads,” Estella answered.

“Yeah, you’re right about that,” Cindy said. “I also like the green satin blouse. Green’s good for redheads.”

“You like it, you take it. I no need no clozzes after I kill him.”

Cindy said, “I’m telling you, Estella, you could make some real money with these clothes.”

A long pause. Then Estella said, “How much you thin’?”

“Hundred bucks—”

“I no care! He gives all de money to de puta!”

“I don’ have puta!” Luis screamed. “She es crazy!”

The woman’s voice was laced with frenzy. “I no crazy!”

Cindy butted in. “Estella, come out here and we’ll talk about it.” From the corner of her eye, she saw Sarge leading the kids into one of the cruisers. Thank goodness for that! But her job was far from finished. “I’ll help you pick up the clothes—”

“You arress her!” Luis shouted. “You put her crazy ass in jail!”

Cindy said, “Luis, shut the hell up!”

“I shut him up for you—”

“No, no, no, Estella. Come on out. We’ll talk—”

“I no move, Missy Redhead. I move, he take de gun. He estrong man. I no move. I no go no place. He move, and I shoot hole in his cojones.”

“I no move, I no move,” Luis said. “Estella, mi amor. Te quiero mucho. Tu sabes que tu estás mi corazón!”

Estella was quiet and that was scary. Sarge suddenly materialized at Cindy’s side. “Tell her we’ll send a couple of men into the house. Tell her they’ll handcuff him. That way, he can’t hurt her if she moves. He can’t take the gun away. And we’ll be there to protect her.”

Cindy nodded, and told the woman the plan. Estella was less than convinced of its workability. “I no wan no menses in de house. De menses no listen to de womans never! I hate de menses!”

“How about if I come in?” Cindy blurted out.

“What?” Sarge whispered. “Retract that immediately!”

Cindy took her finger off the button. “Why?”

“Because she’s a loose cannon, Decker. Take it back or I’ll charge you with insubordination.”

Cindy knew he wouldn’t do it. Her father wielded far too much power. She said, “I guess I misunderstood you, sir. You said you were sending officers into the house. I’m an officer, so I didn’t understand the problem. As a matter of fact, I still don’t.”

It wasn’t exactly what Tropper had said. Sarge had talked about sending men inside. Still, Sarge was stuck. She could claim discrimination. He swore under his breath.

“You come in, Missy Redhead?” Estella was asking.

Cindy looked at Tropper. “What do I say, sir?”

Tropper’s jaw was working a mile a minute. “Tell her you’ll come in with several other officers—”

“How about with just my partner—”

“Decker, you want more of us than them. That way, Luis Ojeda doesn’t even think about an overtake. Now shut up and do what I tell you to do!”

His point was a good one. Depressing the button, Cindy said, “Yeah, I’ll come in, Estella. But I’m bringing a couple of buddies with me. Just in case Luis tries something funny.”

“I no try nothin’,” Luis protested. “She kill me.”

Cindy said, “Is that okay with you, Estella?”

An elongated moment of silence. Then Estella said, “You come in and put de hancuff on? You arress him?”

“I’ll put the handcuffs on him, Estella. You got my word on that.”

“Hokay,” the woman answered. “You can come in, Missy Redhead.”







3 (#u96b5b233-67d1-5974-9f81-9ec20ca7d221)


She felt Trapper’s breath on her neck, his presence so palpable it was as if he was giving her little shoves. Flanking him were Graham Beaudry and Rob Brown. Plenty of backup, but she was still point person—the first one out as well as the most vulnerable. They had decided that Estella must see her first. It showed that the police could be trusted. In the currently charged atmosphere of police corruption, every point scored by the good guy carried some weight. Cindy’s heart smashed against her chest. Yet, the fear invigorated instead of paralyzed.

They had come into the house through the back door—a safer move and less confrontational than front-door entries. The place was stuffy, the air moist and heavy.

Cindy shouted, “We’re in the kitchen now, coming into the dining area. Don’t move, Estella. We don’t want any problem.”

“Keep talking,” Tropper whispered.

She said, “You don’t want problems, and neither do we.”

“No, I no like problems,” Estella said.

“I no like problems, too,” Luis agreed.

As Cindy stepped behind the dinette set, she could see Estella’s red-shirted back hunched over, a swath of black hair resting over her shoulders like epaulettes. The woman had a shotgun jammed between her husband’s legs.

Cindy stretched her neck far enough to make out Luis’s face. Drenched in sweat, his skin looked like steaming milk-laced coffee. A small man with small bones, he possessed a narrow face, which was rather effeminate except for a sparse mustache and a plug of hair between his lower lip and his chin. Traces of acne roughened his cheeks. He resembled a petulant teenager rather than the father of two children.

Leaning backward, she spoke to Tropper. “I see them. He’s facing me, but she’s got her back to us.”

Tropper gave a signal to the others, and the three men drew their weapons. “Okay. You tell her that you’re coming out in the open. Tell her we’re behind her with our weapons drawn. Tell both of them not to move.”

“Don’t move, Estella,” Cindy said. “I’m right in back of your dinette set, but do not turn around. I don’t want Luis to make a grab for the gun.”

“No, I no move,” Estella answered.

“Good.” Suddenly, Cindy realized that droplets were running down her own forehead. “Now, I’m stepping out into the open so Luis can see me and my buddies. I want him to see that we have guns aimed at his face. So he doesn’t try anything dumb. You see me, Luis?”

“I see you—”

“She have red hair?” Estella interrupted.

“Sí, she have red hair.”

“Real or no real,” Estella inquired.

“Es look real?” Luis answered.

“It is real.” Perspiration rolled down Cindy’s nose. “You see our guns, Luis?”

“I see.”

“They work, Luis. They work really well and really fast. So don’t do anything stupid.”

“I no move.”

Sarge whispered, “Tell her to remove the shotgun from his balls and lift it into the air. Tell her to move slowly. Then you take the gun; we take it from you. After that, you cuff her and the party’s over.”

“I cuff her?”

“Yeah, Decker, you cuff her,” Tropper barked. “She’s the one with the barrel in his crotch. What’s the problem? Are you gonna do this or not?”

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.” A one-second pause. Then Cindy said, “Estella, I want you to take the gun and slowly, slowly lift it in the air—”

“I move, he take gun.”

“He won’t move now,” Cindy said. “We have three guns pointed at his face.”

“I no move, I no move,” Luis said frantically.

But Estella was also agitated. “I no move de gun. Why you no do what you say, Missy Redhead? You say you put hancuffs and arress him. Why you no do that?”

Tropper said, “Keep telling her that he’s not going to try anything, that we’ve got the guns pointed at him!”

Cindy hesitated. “She sounds upset, sir. Why don’t I just placate her, and do what I said I was going to do?”

“Because, Decker, if you walk around to cuff Luis, you’re in line with her shotgun barrel.”

Oh. Good point!

“Go get the gun,” Tropper ordered. “Go on! Start talking!”

Cindy wiped her face with her sleeve. “I’d like to do what you want, Estella, but if I handcuff him, I’m right in front of your shotgun. That’s not going to work.”

“Why? I no shoot you, jus’ Luis.”

“You could shoot me accidentally. I know you wouldn’t mean it, but it’s just not going to work.”

“You lie to me!” Estella hissed. “You es liar jus’ like him!”

“Estella, we have three revolvers aimed at Luis’s face. He’s not going to move—”

“I no move,” Luis concurred.

“Well, I no move, too,” Estella said. “Luis estrong. I move, he take de gun and shoot me.”

Cindy blurted out, “How about if I come next to you, and I take the gun?” Immediately, she heard Tropper swear, but didn’t dare turn to face him. “If you just stay still and don’t move, I can do that. I’ll take the gun—”

“Then Luis take gun from you.”

“I’m a very big woman, Estella. I could take Luis down in a minute.”

Luis said, “She es bery beeeg, Estella! You give her de gun.”

Shut up, Luis! Cindy was thinking. Anything you say, she’ll do the opposite. Time moving in slo-mo, she waited for a response.

Estella said, “Luis is bery estrong—”

“So am I!” Cindy said. “Look, I’ll talk so you can hear me, so you know I’m not sneaking up on you. Then I’ll tap your shoulder when I’m right behind you—”

“I no sure …” Estella said. “I no thin’—”

“I’ll talk you through it.”

Tropper was growling! “This isn’t what I ordered!”

“But she’s going to go for it, Sarge!” Cindy persisted. “This way I’m not facing the barrel of her gun, and you three will be right behind me.”

One second passed, then two …

“Please, Sergeant Tropper,” Cindy whispered forcefully. “I can disarm her—”

Estella said, “I no hear you. Wha’ you sayin’? I getting mad.”

She looked at Tropper’s furious face, knowing he was trapped. If he didn’t respond soon, the situation would escalate. His voice snapped like a leather whip. “Do it! But tell her we’re right behind you!”

Cindy said, “Okay, Estella, I’m coming in. My buddies are going to be right behind me, so Luis can see them. I’m starting now. I’m taking a couple of steps forward. You hear me, don’t you—”

“Sí, I hear you! Wha’ you thin’? I no have ears?”

“Now I’m taking a couple more steps. Luis is looking right at my buddies … at their guns. Is my voice getting closer?”

“Sí, I hear you.”

“Okay, I’m right behind you now. I’m going to tap your shoulder. Don’t move—”

“I no move.”

“Luis, you don’t move, either—”

“I no move.”

“That’s good. No one is going to move except me,” Cindy said. “Now I’m putting my hand on your shoulder …” She touched the woman’s bony joint. Estella remained motionless. “That’s my hand—”

“Hokay.”

“Estella, listen carefully, okay?”

“Hokay.”

“I am going to bend down and put my arms around your waist, okay? Don’t move—”

“I no move!”

Slowly, Cindy bent over, her chest touching the woman’s back, her head peering over Estella’s red-clad shoulder. She slipped her arms around a trim middle and wiggled her fingers. “You see my hands?”

“I see.”

“You see my fingers?”

“Sí.”

“Okay, I’m going to take the gun from you now.”

“Hokay.”

“Don’t move!”

“I no move!”

“Luis, if you move and I slip, you no have cojones. Do you understand me?”

“I no move, I no move!”

Cindy had had the primary academy training with shotguns. But she hadn’t done much private practice with them on the range, choosing to hone an expertise with her service Beretta. But she did know that shotguns weren’t warm and fuzzy firearms. They were hard to control, because they were heavy mothers. Estella was keeping hers stabilized by resting the stock in her lap. Her right hand was clenched around the pistol grip, the index finger inside the guard, resting on the trigger. Her left hand was underneath the slide handle—the pump. Both of her hands were shaking noticeably.

Cindy spoke quietly. “Don’t move. I’m going to touch your hands.” She placed her palms over Estella’s fingers. Her skin was hot and damp.

“You feel my hands?”

“Sí.”

“Don’t move your body, okay?”

“Hokay!”

Cindy began sliding her hands up and down the shotgun, feeling around for a stable, strong area to grip. It was difficult to find a spot because the wood and metal were wet and sticky from Estella’s sweat. She hunted until she found a couple of semidry places that gave her leverage with the weapon. She grasped the gun, not talking until she was certain she had a strong hold on the weapon.

Finally, she said, “Take your hands away.”

“I take my hans off?”

“Yes, take your hands off the gun, but don’t move your body.”

“You have de gun?”

“Yes, I have the gun. I’ve got a good grip on it. Take your hands away.”

“Hokay …” But still she didn’t move. “You está segura you have de gun?”

“I have the gun.” Cindy remained calm. “I have a good hold on it. Take your hands away, but don’t move your body.”

“Hokay.”

As soon as Estella’s fingers were off the weapon, Cindy stood up and lifted the shotgun high in the air. Instantly, Beaudry took the gun. Luis jumped up, wiping sweat from his face. He screamed, “You arress that crazy bitch!”

“Cuff her, Decker.”

“Wha’?” Estella turned an irate face toward Cindy. She was a pretty woman with big black eyes, high cheekbones, smooth skin, and deep, full lips. Why the hell would Luis want someone else?

More than that, what the hell did she see in him?

Maybe he had a big—

“Wha’ he say?” Estella was screaming. “You arress him! He have de puta!”

Cindy took out the handcuffs from her belt and, in one fluid motion, turned Estella around and brought the woman’s right arm against her back. She was seconds away from securing the left arm, but then Estella suddenly realized what was happening. Wrestling in Cindy’s grip, Estella started spewing out high-pitched Spanish, punctuating her tirade with curses and spit.

“Don’t make this difficult—”

“You es una beetch! You eslying daughter of a put—”

“Let’s not get personal.” Cindy kneed her in the back of her legs just hard enough to get Estella to buckle. Once the woman’s legs were bent, it was a snap to bring her down, and lay her facedown on the floor. Again, using knees and elbows to restrain the writhing body, Cindy held Estella’s right arm flat against her back and rooted about for the left one, which was trying to sock her in the face. Estella was no match for her in strength, but her resistance—the bucking and rolling—made Cindy sweat from exertion.

Here was the big showdown, and it was mano a mano. Because none of the others were making even the slightest effort to help her. Instead, they were standing around, watching with amusement as she struggled. Luis was buoyant, a big smile on his ugly face.

He said, “You go to cárcel, you estúpida, loca—”

Again, Estella spit in his direction. “He the one with the puta! He go to jail! Why he no go to jail!”

Luis was doing a victory dance. “Have fun wit de other beeeg ladies—”

“Graham, will you shut him up!” Cindy snapped.

To Luis, Beaudry said, “Shut up!”

Finding the flaying arm, Cindy gripped it and shoved it against Estella’s back. She snapped on the loose cuff, then held her manicled arms firmly, and brought Estella to her feet. She said, “We can’t send him to jail, Estella, because adultery isn’t against the law. Otherwise politicians would have rap sheets a mile long.”

Luis made kissy noises at his wife. Struggling against Cindy’s hold, Estella tried to break away and kick him.

“Don’t do that,” Cindy said. “Otherwise, I’ll have to tie your feet—”

“I hope de matrona in de cárcel is a beeeg woman—”

“You es un diablo with a pequeño pecker—”

“You arress her!” Luis shouted. “Slam her lardo ass in jail!”

“I no have lardo ass!” Estella screamed. “Your whore have lardo ass, beeg, fat ass!”

“Shut up! Both of you!” Cindy broke in. “Luis, you’ve got to come down to the station, you know.”

“Wha’?” Luis’s smiled waned. “Me? Wha’ I do?”

“We’ve got to take your statement,” Cindy said. “Also, you’re going to have to go to court and speak to a judge if you want to get your kids back. Otherwise, your kids’ll end up in foster care.”

“Me?” Luis’s face registered shock. “I go do it?”

“Yeah, you, buddy,” Cindy said. “Your wife can’t do anything if she’s in jail.”

Tropper was glaring at her. She looked back at him with innocent eyes, and tried to smile. It wasn’t easy because she was still restraining Estella. “I was just informing Mr. Ojeda of the procedure for securing his children, Sergeant. That’s assuming he wants them.”

Estella started foaming at the mouth. “You send de children away, I curse you from mi cama de muerte! I speeet on you!”

“No, no, Estella,” Luis said gravely. “I no send de children away! I tell de judge. Don’ worry.”

Ron Brown muttered, “No way a judge is going to give you your kids back. Not with a shotgun in the house.”

“I no shoot my kids!” Luis was appalled. “You take de gun. I no need it.”

Estella was crying. “They take de kids away, Luis! You no let them—”

“They no take de kids!”

“You can petition to get them back, sir,” Cindy said. “Or course, if your wife’s in jail, you’ll be responsible for them. That means you stay home at night baby-sitting while your buddies are out having fun—”

“Decker …” growled Tropper.

“Not that I’m trying to influence your decision to press charges, of course.”

“They’re not going to give them back the kids, anyway,” Brown said. “You need to be a responsible adult to raise kids.”

“Maybe there are other relatives,” Beaudry said.

“Her mother.” Luis brightened.

“You really think her mother’s gonna watch your kids after you’ve slammed her daughter’s butt in jail?”

“Decker, you’ve said enough!”

Cindy slammed her mouth shut. She couldn’t understand why Tropper was taking it so personally when she’d seen her colleagues talk other domestic cases out of pressing charges time and time again. Maybe it had something to do with a gun aimed at a pair of nuts.

Estella was sobbing. “They take de kids, Luis! They take de kids!”

Luis’s sassy petulance had been replaced by panic. “No, they no take de kids, Estella.” He looked at Tropper. “I no charge my wife! She no do nothin’. You let her go! Then, we come down and get de kids.”

Tropper was swearing to himself. “I don’t believe this!”

Estella said, “He say I no do nothin’. You let me go!”

“It’s not that simple,” Cindy said. “Even if Luis doesn’t press charges, Estella, we’ve still got to take you down to the station and book you for the illegal possession and negligent use of a firearm.”

“Then wha’?” Luis asked.

Cindy said, “She’ll wait in jail until her arraignment, which will be in maybe three, four hours. Then a judge will probably let her off on her own recognizance. Which means you won’t have to pay any bail—”

“De judge don’ put her in jail?”

Cindy shrugged. “I don’t know what he’ll do. But we’ll have to put her in jail until a judge sees her.” Tropper was giving her the evil eye. She pretended not to see him. “Usually illegal possession and negligent use of a firearm if it’s a first-time offense doesn’t warrant jail time. But I don’t know what a judge will decide. It’s not up to me.”

“If he says I go home, do we get de kids?” Estella said, anxiously.

“No,” Cindy said. “That’s up to another judge—”

“But es better if there is a mother, yes?” Luis asked.

“Probably.”

“So I no put charges,” Luis said. “You let her go.”

Brown chuckled with amazement. “She held a gun to his balls, and you’re letting her off.”

“He es hokay,” Estella said.

“I hokay!” Luis confirmed.

Tropper said, “Bring them down. Charge both of them with felony possession.”

“Charge me?” Luis said. “I no do nothin’.”

“Yeah, yeah!” Tropper turned Luis around and cuffed him. “If you’re telling me that you were both fooling around with the gun, the charges are possession and negligence against the both of you. That means you and your wife get slammed.” Tropper paused. “Unless you change your mind about charging your wife.”

“No, I no change my mind!”

“Then you’re both under arrest,” Tropper stated. “You made your bed, buddy. Now you lie in it.”

“That’s hokay,” Estella said, nodding. “He eslie in de bed, but only with me.”

Tropper rolled his eyes and propelled Luis forward. “Let’s go!”

As they stepped outside and onto the front porch, cheers and hoots from the neighborhood crowd greeted them. Estella had lowered her head as they walked to the cruisers, but Cindy noticed that Luis was smiling broadly. Probably would have waved if his hands hadn’t been cuffed.

His thirty seconds of fame. That’s Hollywood for you. Everyone’s a friggin’ star.







4 (#u96b5b233-67d1-5974-9f81-9ec20ca7d221)


Though Bellini’s hadn’t become Cindy’s second living room, at least it was comfortable. More than just a hard-core cop bar, it offered chops and sandwiches as well as salads and soups for the lighter fare. Cozy in size, the place had dim lighting, jazz music, and a big-screen TV, which, at the moment, was airing baseball—Giants-Padres. The floors were pine-planked and worn, and the ceilings held acoustical tiles. A half-dozen tables sat in the center area while red-Naugahyde booths lined the left wall. The right side was dedicated to the bar, its mirrored wall reflecting a black counter, which spanned the length of the restaurant. Technically, the law mandated the eatery to be smoke-free. But the patrons skirted the issue by opening up the back door, claiming the area to be an extension of a nonexistent patio. A moot point because who was going to cite the owner when the law was puffing away?

As Beaudry came in, he waved to a few of his friends. Cindy waved just to feel like one of the gang. Ron Brown was sitting on one of the bar stools, but Tropper wasn’t with him. In an eye blink, Cindy caught sight of someone’s back as he left the place. It could have been Sarge, but she wasn’t sure. There were several others that she knew by name. Andy Lopez was an academy acquaintance. There was also Slick Rick Bederman and his partner, Sean Amory. Bederman was solidly built with dark eyes and thick, curly hair, his face, as always, stamped with arrogance. She had met him once at a party … hadn’t liked the way he had looked at her. Amory was lighter in his coloring, but also projected ’tude. Beaudry must have caught her ambivalence. He said, “Feel like being social?”

“Maybe later.”

They ordered their beers, then took a booth, sipping for a few moments without talking. Beaudry was beating time to the music, fingertips drumming the table. It was soft jazz, the sax singing in a breathy voice which teased like foreplay.

Finally, Beaudry said, “So you did all right today.”

“Thanks.”

“Chalk one up for the good guys.”

Cindy said, “Are we the good guys? You wouldn’t know it by reading the papers.”

Beaudry waved her off. “This ain’t the first scandal and it won’t be the last.”

“That’s too bad.”

“Yeah, I suppose.” Beaudry picked up his mug. “Still, I’m not losing sleep over it. So you’re sure you’re okay with today?”

“I’m okay with it.” Cindy managed a smile. “I doubt if Tropper’s okay with it. So he’s pissed at me. He’s not the first, he won’t be the last.”

Beaudry raised his eyebrows, but said nothing.

“What?” Cindy asked. “You’re gonna give me some advice?”

“If you’re okay with it, I’ve got nothing to offer.”

“So why’re you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like I’ve got herpes—”

“You’re being touchy, Decker. I’m not looking at you at all. And if I was looking at you, I wouldn’t be thinking about herpes. I’d be thinking that you look good in that black pantsuit outfit you’re wearing. That it goes good with your hair, which looks pretty when it’s loose.” He sipped beer. “That wasn’t a come-on. I’ve got a marriage, and I want to make it last. That’s just an old-fashioned, blue-collar compliment, so don’t go filing any sexual harassment complaints.”

“I look good tonight?”

“You look good tonight.”

“Thanks.” Cindy took another sip of suds, then licked the foam off her lips. “So you think I fucked up?”

“Nah, you didn’t fuck up as far as the incident goes. You handled the situation pretty good.” He looked around at nothing. “Nah, you didn’t fuck up with the situation.”

“But I fucked up with Tropper!” Cindy tapped her toe. “Do you think I fucked up with Tropper?”

“Not exactly—”

“What does that—”

“Wait, wait, wait!” Beaudry held out his palms in a stop sign. “Give me a sec, okay. You didn’t fuck up with him, meaning that he isn’t gonna make a federal case out of it. But you might think of doing something nice for him.”

“Like what?” She sneered. “Getting him coffee? One lump or two—”

“Don’t be a brat. Just … think about it.”

She laughed. “I haven’t been called a brat in a while.”

“But you’ve been called one before.”

“Oh yeah.”

“It’s written all over your face, Decker. ‘I am a brat. Not only a brat, but a snotty, educated brat.’”

Cindy maintained the smile, but the eyes dimmed. “That’s how you see me?”

“No, that’s not how I see you.” Beaudry sighed. “It’s just that you’re out there, Decker. Like today. You put yourself … out there. Right in the firing line. And when you’re out there, people notice you. Like Tropper.”

“It worked.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Silly me, I thought it was.”

Beaudry wiped suds off his mouth with his sleeve. “Listen, we don’t have to be talking about this. We can talk about other stuff. You tell me your gossip, I’ll tell you mine. I’m just trying to … you know. Tell you like it is.”

She averted her stare. “Look, Graham, no offense, but I’m not in the mood to be dissected.”

“That’s fair enough.”

“On the other hand, no sense being on the outs with Tropper.” She stared at her beer. “What should I do for him?”

Beaudry looked around, then called her closer. She leaned in, elbows on the table.

He said, “Tropper isn’t a stupid man—”

“I didn’t say he—”

“Just shut up and listen, okay?” He lowered his voice. “He isn’t stupid, Cin. He’s got great street smarts. He knows how people operate.”

He waited. Cindy said, “I’m listening.”

“If you ask him to recount an incident, he’s crystal. He can recap from A to Z in perfect detail. The problem comes when he tries to write it down in a report. He’s a fish out of water. It takes him centuries to finish his forms. Writing confuses him. He gets things out of order—”

“He can’t sequence?”

“Something like that. He’s constantly rewriting his reports because the old ones are always messy-looking.”

“Why doesn’t he just use Word?” she asked. “You know … cut and paste?”

“He has trouble with computers. The keyboard confuses him.” Beaudry finished his first brew, held up a finger, signaling the waitress for a second. “Computers probably aren’t your problem, right?”

“Not word processing.”

“And I don’t imagine you have trouble with report writing, either.”

“I find it mind-numbing, but it’s not difficult. I did lots of papers in college. I usually outlined them before I wrote. You know, occasionally, I’ll still outline a report if the incident was complicated—lots of people coming and going. You might suggest he try that.”

“I don’t suggest anything to Tropper, and you shouldn’t either. I think the Sarge got into the academy with a GED. So now you know why he sneers at you.”

Beaudry locked eyes with her.

“It’s something you should be aware of, Cindy. The guys and gals you’re working with are the salt of America. Lots of us are ex-military. We’re G-workers who hate the nine-to-five, but still want a good pension. You’re from another planet—a college brat who somehow wandered into law enforcement. Not only college, but a private college—”

“Let’s not forget an Ivy Leaguer.”

“See, that’s what I mean!” Beaudry pounded the table for emphasis.

“I’m sorry.” She tried to stop smiling. “It was just too tempting—”

“Forget it.”

“Graham, I hear you.” She poked her finger into the suds and licked it. “You know, if the guys think I grew up rich, then they’re stupid. My father climbed through the ranks the hard way.”

“Which brings us to another point, Decker. You gotta stop talking about your father—”

“Ah, c’mon! Now you’re getting personal!”

“I’m just telling you for your own good.”

“Do I do anything right?”

“Not much.”

Cindy looked away, biting her lip to control her rising temper.

Beaudry said, “Every time we start shooting the bull, talking about the day, you say things like, ‘Yeah, my father once had a case like that.’”

“I’m trying to relate.”

“It pisses people off. It makes them think that their experiences are nothin’ special. Everyone wants to feel special. You already feel special because you’ve got all this college. You gotta remember that the average Joe on the force is a high school graduate, maybe a couple of years at a junior college like me. If you’re real smart, okay, you do a four-year state, then enter the academy with the idea of doing the gold.”

“Like my dad—”

“Stop mentioning your dad. He isn’t a legend, Decker, he’s a pencil pusher.”

For the first time, Cindy was genuinely offended. “That’s crap, Beaudry! He was down in the trenches when the Order blew up.”

“Yeah, and a lot of people have said he could have handled that better.”

Her face grew red with anger. “What a truckload of bullshit!” She whispered fiercely. “He saved dozens of kids—”

“But lots of adults were pulverized—”

“He wasn’t in charge, Graham. He wasn’t calling the shots!” She winced. “Ah, screw it! I’ve had enough.”

Beaudry caught her arm before she got up. “I’m not criticizing your dad, Cindy. Just repeating what I’ve heard. You gotta know these things.” He let go of her. “Otherwise, you’re working blind.”

She didn’t answer, staring at the bottom of her empty glass. Beaudry said, “Take a refill.”

“No, thanks,” she said stiffly.

Within moments, a waitress appeared. She wore a low-cut red tank top, a petticoat-red miniskirt topped by a white, ruffled apron, and red heels. Her hair was short, blond, and sprayed stiff. She placed a glass of beer in front of Beaudry.

“How about another for my partner, Jasmine,” he said.

“I’m fine, thank you,” Cindy said.

Under the table, Beaudry kicked her.

“On the other hand, another would go down real smooth.” Cindy gave the waitress her empty glass and a ten spot.

Jasmine smiled. “Boss says that tonight it’s on the house. Just as long as you don’t get greedy.”

“What did I do to rate?”

“He’s been watching you. You came three times this week. He wants to reward your loyalty.”

“Tell him thanks.” Cindy forced herself to smile. “Really. And keep the bread.”

Jasmine’s smile turned into a grin. “A cop with class. Be back in a minute.”

When she was gone, Beaudry said, “Ten’s a big tip.”

“Easy come, easy go.”

He slid his glass across the table. “Here, take mine.”

“No, that’s okay.” She slid it back.

He took a long swig. “You’re pissed, Decker. You look like my wife did when I fucked up with her anniversary gift.”

“I’m fine.”

Beaudry waved her off. “The gossip about your dad is sour grapes, Cin. The little guys getting back at the one who’s made it. Any of us would love to be in Big Decker’s shoes. But that’s not the point. You keeping talking about Daddy, it looks like you’re hanging on to his coattails. It also reminds the rank and file that they haven’t gotten as far. Not that your dad doesn’t deserve it. His rep is a good one. But you gotta stop being so concerned about him and start being more concerned about yourself. Start thinking about what you’ve done lately.”

Again, Cindy averted her glance. She reached across the table and took Beaudry’s brew. “So getting back to Tropper … what do I do?”

“Tell him you have some free time and it makes you antsy. Ask him if he needs any favors.”

“He’ll say no.”

“Course, he’ll say no. Then you say something about the pile of crap lying inside his ‘in’ box. You say something like, ‘Hey, Sarge. Lemme clear some of your paperwork. I’m doing some of my own reports. Lemme type up a couple of your handwritten ones.’”

“He’ll see right through it.”

“Yeah, he will. He’ll know you’re trying to kiss ass. But I bet he’ll take you up on it. He’ll act like it’s no big deal. Real casual. But he’ll remember it.”

“And that’ll be that?”

“That’ll be that.” Beaudry looked around the place. It was filling up by the minute. “I’ve got to get home to Sherri and the kids. What’s today?”

“Today’s the twenty-first.”

“What day of the week?”

“Thursday.”

“Ah … that’s our chili night. That’s a good one. You drink up my beer. I want to save some room for the brewskis with my dinner. Chili and beer. Now there’s a perfect marriage for you. If only men and women were chili and beer.”

At that point, she probably should have cut her losses and gone home. Instead, Cindy surveyed the room for civil faces if not friendly ones. Beaudry’s comments had left her disconcerted. She didn’t want to play the role of the stand-alone, crusading against the world. The maverick made for fine fiction, but was a bitch in reality.

What she wanted was to blend in. What the hell was wrong with her?

Ah well, she sighed. She couldn’t change the past, so she concentrated on the present. Andy Lopez and his partner, Tim Waters, were still at the bar. Andy seemed like a straight-up guy. Tim didn’t impress her much. Conversation with them would be strictly lightweight.

Gotta do better than that.

At one of the tables were Hayley Marx and Rhonda Nordich. About thirty, Hayley was a seven-year vet. She was tall—at least five ten—and had short blond hair and sharp brown eyes. Rhonda was a civilian who worked the front desk at the detectives’ squadroom. She was older … in her forties, maybe even fifties. She had deep, smoky skin and short kinky hair that was more salt than pepper. Cindy had exchanged pleasantries with Hayley, but had never spoken to Rhonda. But they seemed preferable to Lopez and Waters.

Beer in hand, she stood and ambled over. Hayley looked up, then went back to her white wine. “Get a load off.”

“Thanks.” Since the two women were across from each other, she was forced to sit beside one. She turned to Rhonda and held out her hand. “Cindy Decker.”

“Rhonda Nordich.” She shook Cindy’s hand. “I worked with your father way back when.”

“In Foothills?”

“Yeah, in Foothills. He’s at Devonshire now, isn’t he?”

She nodded.

“He was a nice guy.” Rhonda chuckled and swirled her club soda. “Probably still is. Why do you do that? Talk about a person you knew in the past like they was dead?”

Cindy smiled. “I don’t know.”

“Well, say hi for me.”

“I will.”

No one spoke. Everyone drank.

Hayley said, “I see they got you partnered with Beaudry.”

“Yeah.”

“So what do you think?”

Cindy was taken aback by the frankness of Marx’s question. “He’s a good guy.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Why? Is there something I should know?”

Hayley sipped her Chardonnay. “Well, put it this way. He ain’t gonna qualify for the marathon.”

“Oh … that. Yeah, I already know about that.”

“About what?” Rhonda asked.

Cindy said, “He’s a little slow with his footwork.”

Hayley said, “You know, rumor has it that Slick Rick Bederman requested a transfer because of that. He was wrestling with a perp who had a knife. By the time Beaudry got there, the perp almost sliced an ear off. I’m not saying Beaudry’s not a good guy. Just telling you the pitfalls. So don’t go thinking I’m talking against him.”

“Not at all.” Still, Cindy felt uncomfortable. “I appreciate it. But I’m okay with him.”

“Suit yourself.” Hayley finished her glass of wine. “Are you just drinking tonight or what?”

“I’ve got nothing special on my roster.”

“We’re going to have some grub. You’re welcome to join us.”

Cindy smiled. “Well, there is that two-day-old bowl of pasta in my fridge.”

Hayley finally smiled. “That’s pathetic.”

Rhonda said, “You young ones just don’t cook anymore.”

Cindy said, “I can cook.” A pause. “I just choose not to—”

“Uh-huh,” Rhonda said.

“It’s a volitional thing,” Cindy said.

Hayley said, “Now, Rhonda, if you’re dying to cook for us—”

“After four kids, I’ve had enough with feeding mouths. Only mouth I want to feed right now is my own.”

Cindy said, “What’s good here?”

“How hungry are you?” Hayley asked. “Sandwich hungry? Or steak or chop hungry?”

“More sandwich than chop.”

“Try the beef dip,” Hayley said.

“Maybe I’ll have the beef dip,” Rhonda said. “Although I should have the turkey dip. I’m watching the fat.”

“Turkey dip’s not as good as the beef dip.” Hayley turned to Cindy. “It’s very dry.”

Cindy said, “You know, Rhonda, I’ll have the beef dip, and we can split, if you want.”

“If you’re having the beef dip, then maybe I’ll have the tuna,” Hayley said. “You don’t mind if I steal a little from you … although tuna and beef dip don’t exactly go together.”

“Well, it’s not steak and lobster,” Cindy said.

“Maybe I’ll have the pastrami on rye,” Hayley said. “Do you like pastrami, Cindy?”

“I love pastrami.”

“Now I’m not touching that!” Rhonda said. “Talk about fat.”

“That’s no good,” Hayley said. “If you want to split, Ro, I’ll take something else. How about ham and cheese?” She turned to Cindy. “You like ham and cheese?”

“Not really. I don’t eat ham. I’m Jewish.”

“Oh …” Hayley thought for a moment. “So you’re kosher?”

“No, I’m not kosher, I just don’t eat ham. We never had it growing up. Although sometimes we did have bacon.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“I know.” She shrugged.

Hayley said, “So if I had a club, you’d split that?”

“Yeah, I’d split that.”

“And that’s okay with you, Ro?”

“What’s in a club?”

“Turkey, bacon, and avocado.”

“Skip the avocado. It’s not that I don’t like avocado.” She patted her sizable middle. “It doesn’t like me.”

Hayley pouted. “But that’s the best part.”

“All right, so keep the avocado.”

Cindy said, “What are we ordering? I’m confused.”

“I’ll handle it.” Hayley motioned Jasmine over. She said, “A beef dip with extra onions and lots of gravy, French fries and slaw, a turkey dip with extra cranberries, mashed potatoes instead of stuffing, and slaw, and a club on toasted rye, half with avocado, half plain.”

“You want fries with that, Marx?”

“Yeah, you can give me fries.”

“Refill on the wine?”

“Yeah.”

“Another Miller Lite for you, hon?”

Cindy thought a moment. “Better make it a Diet Coke.”

“Why?” Hayley asked. “How many beers have you had?”

“I just finished number three. I’m okay, but let’s not tempt the booze fairy.”

“I’m also on number three.” Hayley made a face. “Make mine a Diet Coke, too.”

“Got it.” Jasmine looked over the order, then at Cindy. “Which order is yours?”

“Why?” Hayley asked.

“Because hers is on the house.”

Rhonda and Hayley started hooting.

“Why?” Cindy smiled. “What’s so funny?”

Hayley said, “Doogle is at it again.”

“Who is Doogle?”

“The horny leprechaun who owns the place.”

Jasmine said, “Don’t listen to them, honey. They’re just jealous. Now what’s your order?”

“What is my order?” Cindy asked the others. “The beef dip?”

“What’s the most expensive item we have?” Rhonda asked.

“The club.”

“Hers is the club.”

Jasmine laughed. “You guys!” She turned and walked away.

Cindy said, “Who is this Doogle?”

“A very little man.” Hayley marked about two feet off the ground with her hand. “Hits on all the women.”

“On cops?”

“On anything with a moo-moo,” Rhonda said.

“A moo-moo?”

Hayley said, “He could suck my pussy standing up if I’d let him.”

“How tall is he?”

“’Bout five three. Maybe fifty years old—”

“He sounds perfect,” Cindy said. “Actually, he sounds like my last blind date.”

“He’s got money,” Rhonda said.

“Well, that part isn’t bad.”

“Those types are always stingy,” Hayley said. “You know, I make it, I spend it. You lick my balls, and maybe I’ll give you meter money.”

Cindy laughed. “Been there, done that.”

Hayley laughed, too. “Are we sounding drunk yet?”

“No, just plain bitter,” Cindy said.

“Uh-oh!” Hayley said. “Look who just walked in. Ole sleaze in a bottle.” She gave him a little wave. “Look out, he’s coming our way.”

Cindy turned around, then felt her skin go hot. She hoped they hadn’t noticed, but knew they had. She was saddled with a near white complexion and that was a dead giveaway. She blushed whenever she became angry, embarrassed, or extremely aroused.

Or so she had been told.







5 (#u96b5b233-67d1-5974-9f81-9ec20ca7d221)


He was dressed ninja-style—black T-shirt and black cords under a black leather jacket, a blazer as opposed to a bomber. His dark hair was combed straight back, and silvered at the temples. His eyes gave off that wary cop look that Cindy had seen umpteen times on her father’s face. But his body was loose, and at ease. He didn’t walk over to them; he ambled, as if being a detective afforded him rights to which low-life uniforms weren’t privy. He took the empty seat across from Cindy, but he regarded Hayley straight-on. It seemed to unnerve her.

“So what brings you out here?” Hayley managed eye contact while wolfing down the last of her Chardonnay. “Slumming?”

“Some of us actually work after hours, Marx.”

“And what are you working on?” Hayley asked. “The new scouts don’t come in until September.”

He grinned a mouth full of white teeth, while signaling the waitress for a drink. “How you talk to your superiors.”

“You aren’t my superior,” Hayley retorted.

“Not right now, but never say never.”

Hayley looked to her left, at Cindy. “Cindy Decker, Scott Oliver.”

“We know each other.” Oliver’s tone was breezy. “I work with her daddy. Or rather I work for her daddy now. Big Decker is my loo.”

“You work Devonshire?” Rhonda asked.

“Yeah,” Oliver answered. “I was there in Homicide a full two years before Deck came on board—the slimy interloper.”

“Uh-oh,” Cindy said. “Do I want to hear this?”

“Nothing to hear.” Oliver flashed her a mouthful of teeth. “I’ve made my peace with it.”

But the look in his eyes said that was debatable. Cindy said, “How is he as a boss?”

“Depends what day you catch him on.” Oliver turned his eyes to her. “How is he as a father?”

“Depends what day you—”

“Uh-huh.”

Cindy chuckled. “You probably see him more than I do.”

“Probably.” Oliver returned his attention to Marx. “You’re looking well.”

“No thanks to the scuzzballs out there.”

“Was that a dig at the present company?”

Hayley smiled. “I’m taking the fifth.”

Jasmine came over with their food and drink. “Hey, Oliver. I haven’t seen you in a long time. Revisiting old haunts?”

“Wish it were the social thing,” Oliver said. “I’m meeting Osmondson.”

“So you’re doing beeswax. Should I reserve the corner booth?”

“Thank you, that would be nice.”

The table fell silent as Jasmine doled out the sandwich plates—the club for Cindy, the turkey dip for Rhonda, and the beef dip for Hayley. She plunked a beer in front of Oliver. “You know what Rolf is drinking these days?”

“Last time I saw him it was straight Stoly,” Oliver said.

“I think he’s off the booze. I’ll bring over a club soda. If he wants something stronger, he can ask for it.”

Oliver looked at his beer. “You know what, Jasmine? I’ve actually got to concentrate tonight. I’ll take a club soda.”

“I’ll switch you,” Cindy said. “One Diet Coke for a beer.”

Hayley chuckled. “She’s going for the buzz.”

“Nah, I’m fine—”

“Famous last words.”

Oliver gave Cindy his beer. “It’s on me. And you can even keep your Diet Coke.”

Hayley was looking at the bar stools. Andy Lopez and Tim Waters were giving them eyes. “You’re attracting the gnats.”

Oliver laughed. “Nah, Marx, it’s your pheromones—”

“No, it’s you,” Hayley interrupted. “Since you’re here, your species thinks it’s okay to approach.”

“My species?” Oliver said. “Last time I took science, we’re the same species.”

“Not according to anyone I’ve ever talked to.”

“Now that is a very good point.” Oliver’s eyes went to the door. He stood up. “I see my date.”

Cindy turned around. Rolf Osmondson was big, bald, with a sizable belly. He wore a handlebar mustache. He looked as if he’d been exploring the fiords. She said, “He doesn’t seem like your type, Scott.”

Oliver regarded her with a mock aghast expression. “Now you’re getting in the act?”

“Just showing solidarity with my sisters.”

Oliver wagged a finger at her. “Don’t draw lines in the sand, Decker, unless you’re prepared for battle.” He ran his index finger across Hayley’s shoulders. “See you later, ladies.” Then: “Or maybe not.”

Cindy watched him go, greeting the Norseman, shaking his hand. They took up the reserved booth in the back. Out of Cindy’s range of vision, which, she supposed, was what they wanted: privacy to discuss a case. She sneaked a sidelong look at Hayley, who was clearly upset. The woman was making a stab at her beef dip, tearing off a grizzled corner and chewing it slowly.

No one spoke.

Finally, she said, “He’s such an idiot!” Then she whispered, “I’m an intelligent woman. Why does he have this effect on me!”

Cindy picked up a French fry. “You know that Sheryl Crow song—‘My Favorite Mistake.’ We all have them.”

“Well, I wish mine wasn’t such an asshole!” She got up from her chair. “I gotta go reapply my lipstick.”

After Hayley was gone, Rhonda took a bite out of her turkey dip. “Poor thing.”

“She covered it well.”

“Except her armpits are the size of swimming pools.”

“How long were they going together?”

“I don’t think they were ever going together. It was just a casual thing.”

“Not to her,” Cindy answered. She glanced at her plate, at the ceiling, at the bar stool. Anywhere but behind her back. Andy Lopez caught her eye. Involuntarily, she nodded, which was a dumb thing to do. Because Andy nudged Tim. Then they both got up.

“Oh dear.” Cindy downed some beer for fortification. “Here they come.”

Rhonda licked her fingers, which were coated with turkey gravy. “You be nice. You’re way too new to be jaded. How old are you? Twenty-one?”

“Twenty-five.”

Rhonda made a surprised face.

“I know. I look young.”

“I would think eighteen except you’re drinking.”

“Hey, Decker.” Tim Waters plunked his scotch on the table. He had a medium build with light brown hair, murky green eyes, and bland features. He struck Cindy as Any-man USA. “Heard you were a big hit with Tropper.”

“Good news travels fast.” Cindy pointed to the chairs. “Take a seat. But bring over another one for Hayley.”

Waters said, “After seeing Oliver, we thought she took off.”

His smirk was ugly. Cindy stared at him long and hard. It must have been effective, because his cheeks pinked. She said, “No, Hayley’s still here … just in the john.”

Waters grabbed another chair and sat. Andy Lopez took up space next to Rhonda. He was on the small, slight side. But Cindy remembered him in the weight room, bench-pressing 320.

Lopez said, “Actually, Brown said you did okay.”

She focused her eyes on him. “That’s good to hear.” She wrinkled her brow. “So why do I feel that there’s an addendum to that statement?”

Lopez stared at her.

She said, “What else did Brown say?”

“Brown’s sitting right over there.” Waters cocked his head toward the bar stools. “Why don’t you go ask him?”

“Because I’m eating my dinner.” Cindy gulped down more beer. “What’d he say, Andy?”

“Just that …” Lopez stole one of Cindy’s French fries. “You know …” His voice faded.

“Perhaps he said something about me and frankfurters?” Cindy caught Jasmine’s eye, mouthing another beer. “I wasn’t hotdoggin’ anything!”

“I believe you, Cin—”

“It was a very tense situation. I was doing the best I could.”

“Brown said you did good,” Waters answered. “What are you bitching about?”

“Because Tropper’s pissed.”

“Yeah, Tropper’s real pissed,” Lopez said.

Cindy stared at him. “And?”

Lopez ate another French fry. “Jesus, Decker, I’m just letting you know. Don’t kill the messenger.”

Waters said, “Forget it, Decker. Tropper won’t do anything.”

Almost word for word what Beaudry had said. “How do you know?” Cindy asked. “What? Is he afraid of my father or something?”

Waters sipped his scotch. “Let’s just say he has a healthy respect for authority.”

Jasmine came with a fresh brew. She regarded Cindy with concern. “You know, maybe you should eat a little. It’s good to get something in your stomach so it doesn’t go to your head.”

Cindy took a bite of her sandwich. It went down like lead. She drank half of her suds. “I’m okay. Honestly.”

Waters smiled. “And if you’re not okay, I can always drive you home.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

Hayley came back, freshly made up. Cindy thought she looked dynamite good. Apparently Waters did, too. His eyes lingered on her chest a bit too long. Marx glared and said, “Who let the riffraff in?”

“I plead guilty.” Cindy raised her hand. Mother Jasmine had been right. After four-plus beers, she was getting a definite buzz and needed something in her stomach. She attempted another bite, but it came out a nibble. Andy was glancing at her sandwich with longing in his eyes.

“You want some, Lopez?” Cindy asked. “I’m really not that hungry.”

“Well, if you’re not going to eat it.” Lopez grabbed a half. “Why let it go to waste?”

Suddenly, the smoky air was oppressive, constricting her chest movement. She felt short of breath but didn’t dare gasp. The current tension had been magnified by the residual strain from the afternoon. Combined with the liquor, Cindy felt as if she were climbing out of her skin.

She needed out and right away. Quickly, she stood up. Just as quickly, the room started to spin. She slammed her palms against the table for balance.

“You okay, Decker?” Hayley asked. “Sit down, girl. You look pale.”

“No, I’m fine.” Attempting a smile. “I’m just tired.”

Andy said, “Lemme drive you home, Cin.”

She knew he meant it sincerely. And it made sense because she was woozy. But the thought of being alone in a car with him didn’t settle well. “Thanks, Andy.” Again a smile. “I’m really fine.”

“I’ll drive you,” Rhonda offered. “Hayley can pick me up later—”

“It’s not necessary!”

Her voice sounded harsher than she had intended. “Really, Rhonda. Thanks, but I’m fine. I’ll see you all later.”

She threw her bag over her shoulder. Knowing that they were studying her sobriety, she made sure to walk away on steady feet. But as soon as she got outside, she broke into a sweat. Her heart started pounding, her hands shook, and her vision blurred. She was drowning from the stress of conformity. Standing in the middle of the parking lot, staring at the sea of cars. Where the hell was hers?

“Please, God,” she prayed. “Just let me get home in one piece, and I’ll never do it again.”

She walked down one row, then another. The misty night air did little for her revitalization. But it did frizz up her hair.

Finally, she spied it—her Saturn. She would have never noticed it except that she had parked under a light. Her car was that sparkly, neon green color that had been in vogue a couple years back. Now the tint was passé, and the coupe looked like an old, painted whore.

She teetered over to her wheels and fumbled with her keys while perspiration poured off her brow. She managed to unlock the sucker, but then the world started spinning. She shut her eyes, but the reeling wouldn’t stop. She leaned against the metal, plopping her head against the thick cool glass, praying she wouldn’t upchuck.

“Give me—”

Cindy started, jumping backward, almost plowing into his chest. She turned and glared at him, sweaty face and all. “Do you always sneak up on people like that?”

“Only if they’re felons,” Oliver answered. “Which is what you’re going to be if you drive in that condition. Give me the keys.”

She was too sick to argue. She handed him her ring.

“Can you make it around to the other side?”

“I suppose I can if I walk slow enough.”

Oliver opened the driver’s door. “Slide in.”

“Thank you.”

She managed to trudge her body from the driver’s side to the passenger’s seat, then threw her head back and closed her eyes. Everything was still spinning. She clutched her legs, hoping the tactile sensation would settle her stomach.

Oliver reached over and fastened her seat belt. “Here. Chew these.”

She opened her eyes and stared at the proffered cup. “What is it?”

“Ice chips. It reduces nausea. When you left, you looked a bit unsteady … a little green.”

She took the cup, biting her lip to hold down her stomach. “Were you spying on me?”

He ignored her. “Where am I going?”

“Philosophically?”

“Cindy—”

“Turn left at the first light—”

“Give me an address.”

“To my apartment?”

“Yes, Cindy, to your apartment.”

“It’s off Bagley. Three blocks north of Venice. You know the area?”

“That’s near Culver City, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. Exactly.” She crunched the frozen water between her teeth and gave him the number. “Sorry about this.”

“S’right.”

She let out a deep, beer-filled exhalation. She wanted to say more, to explain herself, but she couldn’t get the words from her throat. She stared out the windshield, fixing her eyes on the asphalt road ahead.

They rode in silence, the protracted twenty-five minutes feeling like hours. Each turn or lane shift sent acid-coated waves up her esophagus. She sucked ice chips and swallowed often. She wiped sweat from her face with tissues, then wrinkled her nose because the Kleenex stank of beer.

Five pints and she was reeking. She stole a glance at her driver. If the stench was bothering him, he had the decency to remain stoic.

Finally, finally, he parked the car in familiar territory. She somehow got out on her own, dragging her bag along so that the straps scraped the ground. Oliver came over, and Cindy held out her hand for the keys. “I think I can take it from here.”

“I need to use your phone.”

Cindy opened and closed her mouth, staring at him through squinted, suspicious eyes.

Oliver said, “I’ve got to call a cab, Cindy. My car is still at Bellini’s.”

“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.







6 (#u96b5b233-67d1-5974-9f81-9ec20ca7d221)


“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 skeletons 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.”







7 (#u96b5b233-67d1-5974-9f81-9ec20ca7d221)


Traffic was light and should have been moving since the street was zoned for speeds up to thirty-five miles per hour. The trouble was coming from a truck, which was not just crawling, but swerving as well. It was one of those ancient things: a heavy job with lots of primed, curvaceous metal, and a grill big enough to barbecue an ox. The back taillight had been punched out, the tags were expired, and the exhaust pipe was belching smoke. The bumper was sheared down the middle, and in need of a rechroming. Beaudry typed the license plate number into the MOT—the computer’s central hookup into the DMV. A minute later the monitor displayed the basic identification on the truck and its owner.

“Fifty-one Chevrolet,” Beaudry said out loud. “Well, that matches. No wants or warrants on the vehicle. Registered to Anatol Petru-ke—” He squinted as he spelled. “P-e-t-r-u-k-i-e-v-i-ch.”

“Petrukievich,” Cindy said.

“Sounds Russian.”

“Probably,” Cindy, said. “Whoever he is, he’s no doubt inebriated.” She flipped on the lights and siren. The truck neither slowed down nor sped up. It just kept going at its snail’s pace.

Beaudry unhooked the bullhorn. “Pull your vehicle over now!”

“Graham, do you really think he understands what a vehicle is?”

“He’ll get the message.” They rode a few seconds, watching. “Is he slowing?”

“At seven miles an hour, it’s hard to tell.” She waited. “Yeah, he’s skewing his way over to the curb.”

“See, he understood what the word vehicle meant.”

“Maybe it was the flashing lights and siren.”

“You’re just being a sore loser. Call it, Decker. Heads or tails?”

“Tails.”

He tossed the coin, flipped it over to the back of his hand, then showed her the quarter; George Washington was smirking at her.

Beaudry said, “Since it’s my call, I say you take the driver.”

“I get all the luck.” She rolled her eyes. “Who needs luck anyway? A good cop makes her own luck, right?”

“Whatever you say, Decker.”

Cindy parked behind the plated dinosaur and got out, leaving the door open for protection. She waited a moment to see if the driver was staying put.

He was—at least for now.

She unsnapped her holster. Cautiously, and with her hands on her hips, she began her approach, moving across the left side of the vehicle. The cabin of the truck was tattooed with a boxed-in ad, reading TOP CHOICE PAINTING in bold black letters. A smiling paintbrush had underlined the words. The phone number was a Hollywood exchange. Mr. Petrukievich was a local. Or at least his business was.

As she closed in, Cindy’s hand was on her weapon and her eyes were on high alert. As soon as she was at the driver’s window, the door started to open.

Forcefully, she said, “Stay inside your truck, sir.”

Either he ignored her or didn’t understand because the door swung out and a pair of feet planted themselves on the ground. Cindy prepared herself for the worst. Because when he stood, he loomed over her. He was not only tall, but big. Big as in big and big-boned. As in Dad’s size.

“Stay right where you are, sir,” she ordered.

He froze, his face registering confusion. His complexion was a pale pink, except for the nose, which resembled a gigantic raspberry. Straight amber-colored hair was brushed over his nude chunk of forehead. His beard was thin and blond. He reeked of booze.

Cindy looked for Beaudry’s backup, but it appeared as if her partner had his own problems. The truck also held a passenger as big as the driver. Probably equally drunk because Mr. Passenger’s gait was wobbly. Graham was trying to keep him upright.

Meanwhile, the driver began rocking on his feet. “I do notink.” He nodded vigorously, hair flying over his eyes.

Cindy stood firm, enunciating clearly. “Sir, go back inside the truck.”

“Back?” It came out beck. The man wrinkled his brow, then turned around and showed Cindy his spinal cord.

“No,” Cindy said. “Not your back. Back inside the truck. In the truck! Turn aroun—turn …” She swirled her index finger in a whirlpool motion. The man complied by spinning in circles. “Dees?”

He was drunk as a skunk, but not belligerent. Forget about getting him in the car. She placed a hand on his meaty shoulder to stop his rotating. His body lurched forward while his head continued to loll about. Stumbling, he managed to support his unsteady weight by placing his hands on the hood of the truck. Change the context, and it played as broad comedy. But as the situation stood now, he was a behemoth-size drunk who could turn nasty at any minute.

Warily, Cindy said, “I need to see your license, sir.”

The man managed to make eye contact. The orbs were unfocused.

“Your license … to drive.” Cindy tried to pantomime it. She received a blank stare for her efforts. She called out to Beaudry, “Does your guy speak any English?”

“I don’t think so,” Beaudry answered. “But he has a good set of teeth. I know because he’s smiling a lot.”

Cindy looked up at her charge. “Burly” was a fitting adjective for him. No wonder the former U.S.S.R.’s mascot had been the bear. “Your license to drive.” She steered an imaginary car wheel. “Driving.”

The man nodded. “Da.” He pointed to his truck.

He didn’t get it.

“License,” Cindy repeated louder. As if turning up the volume would increase his comprehension of English. “License.”

The man repeated, “Li-cense.”

She cried out, “Officer Beaudry, can you get the Breathalyzer?” She figured if he was over the legal limit, she wouldn’t even need to see his license. She’d just arrest him on the spot.

“I’m watching someone,” Beaudry said. “Just put him through a field sobriety test.”

Meaning Beaudry didn’t want to leave her alone with two drunken big guys. Okay. That was legitimate. So she’d put the driver through a field sobriety test. She could handle that.

She said, “Are you Anatol Petrukievich?”

The man broke into an instant grin. “Da!” He nodded again. “Da!” He launched into a slur of foreign words, ending his oration with a big smile. She smiled back. Then he grinned like a schoolboy.

Great. They were now buddies.

She said, “Lookie here, Anatol.”

At the use of his name, his eyes went to her face. Again, the goofy grin.

“Look at my leg. See what I’m doing?” Cindy stood on her right foot and lifted her left about three inches off the ground. She counted to ten aloud. Then she pointed to him. “You! Anatol! Anatol does this, okay? You do it. Capische?”

He stared at her.

Which made sense because capische was Italian. She put her leg back down and slowly picked it up a second time, once more counting to ten. She pointed at his chest. “You try it.”

“Da!” He took the challenge and attempted to stand on his right foot. But he faltered as the last of his toes cleared the sidewalk. Anatol reddened, tried again, and failed again. Clearly, the man’s cerebellum was in need of a tune-up. He spoke to her in Russian. From his tone, he appeared to be apologizing.

“No, it’s okay,” she found herself saying.

“O-key?” He smiled brightly.

“No, not okay.” She shook her head. “Not okay, just … do this!” She extended her arms out at her shoulder, made fists, then stuck out her right index finger. She brought the tip of the finger to her nose by bending her elbow. She did it without lowering her arms. “Now, Anatol, you do this. You.”

The man nodded, but didn’t move.

She tried to give him a jump-start by raising his right arm to his shoulder and extending it. But as soon as she let go, the arm fell to his side.

So far, he was getting an F. But there was that thing called a language barrier. Harking back to her life as a grad-school researcher, Cindy decided to gather more objective data before hauling him in. Gently, she turned him around until he faced the Chevy’s side. She took his hands and placed them, palms down, on the roof. Then, she brought them behind his back, one at a time, and cuffed him.

Absolutely no resistance.

He was big and drunk, but a damn happy guy.

Carefully, she led him to the cruiser, his feet dragging against the ground as they approached the patrol car. His body swayed and staggered with each step. Cindy found herself propping him up. The teddy bear was a heavy man with a capital H. She linked her hands around the cuffs and tried to keep his spine erect. But instead of being his guide, she found herself being jerked from side to side as he sidled like a monstrous stoned crab.

Finally, they reached the cruiser.

“Easy does it, Anatol.”

She opened the back door and positioned him parallel to the seat.

“In.” She gave him a gentle prod. “In.” She pushed down on his head so he wouldn’t bump his rather thick skull on the car’s ceiling. Partial success. Anatol’s head and body were safely ensconced inside, but his shoes still dangled in the street’s gutter.

Holding up an index finger, she declared, “Wait here.”

Anatol grinned. He didn’t seem the least bit perturbed. Cindy brought out the Breathalyzer from the trunk. At the sight of the machine, the Russian’s eyes lit up in recognition. Without directions, he took the protective paper off the blow hose and exhaled enough sodden breath to knock out a rhino.

“Whew!” Cindy said. “We’ve got a sizeable BAL. You are drunk, sir.”

Anatol grinned and measured off an inch of space between his thumb and index finger. “Dis much vodka.”

Cindy spread her arms out. “More like this much vodka.”

Anatol laughed.

“Do you have one of these?” Cindy reached in her wallet and pulled out her own license.

Anatol shook his head. “No hev.”

“You don’t have your license or you never had a license?”

The subtlety of English grammar was lost on him. “No hev.”

“I see we’re in a rut.” Cindy bent down, picked up his paint-splattered gunboat-size shoes, and placed them in the car. She shut the door. “Officer Beaudry,” she called out, “I got him trussed and ready to go.”

“I’m coming.” As Beaudry started toward the cruiser, the other drunk Russian dogged his heels.

Beaudry turned to face him. “No, you stay here.” He pointed to the wizened truck. “Sit in there. Call up a lawyer for your friend.” Beaudry mimicked a phone call, then pointed to Petrukievich. “Call up help for your friend. He’s going to jail.”

A perplexed look. “Jail?”

“Yeah, jail.”

Cindy watched Beaudry as he tried to act out a prison scene. He wasn’t Cagney, but he got the point across.

“Ah!” Drunk Passenger smiled. He got back into the truck, threw his head back, and closed his eyes. Bunking down for a snooze.

Cindy said, “Do we arrest him as well?”

“For what?” Beaudry answered. “Sleeping? Let’s go!”

Since the backseat was divided from the front by a metal grate, and since Anatol was still handcuffed, they left him sitting solo behind them.

Cindy started the motor, then gripped the automatic transmission shift knob. Something tickled her flesh. A small yellow Post-it had stuck to her sweaty palm. She peeled the paper off her skin. On it was written the word “Remember,” the printing done with a black felt-tipped marker. The dampness on her palm had caused the word to smear. She showed it to Beaudry. “You leave this here?”

He glanced at the paper. “No.”

“I didn’t, either.”

Beaudry shrugged.

Cindy said, “How’d it get here?”

“With traffic being this light, I’m sure it took the freeway—”

“I’m serious—”

“How the hell should I know, Decker? Maybe you put it there and forgot.” He smiled. “Maybe that’s why it says to remember.”

“Very funny.”

Beaudry said, “Maybe the guys over at servicing left it there.”

“Then I would have noticed it when I drove the car out of the lot. I certainly would have noticed it when I pulled Mr. Petrukievich over. Are you sure you didn’t put it there?”

“Yes, I’m sure. I’d remember something like that.”

Cindy was perturbed, but she didn’t say anything. She stared at the paper.

Beaudry said, “Decker, it’s late. I’m tired. Let it go. And let’s go.”

She crumpled the mysterious message. Shifting the car into drive, she released the hand brake and took off. Beaudry called in the arrest, giving the RTO an estimated time of arrival to the stationhouse.

Remember.

Cindy tried to erase it from her mind. “How long do you think it will take to process our friend?”

“What do we have on him?”

“Reckless driving, a DUI with a BAL of over point-two, and operating a moving vehicle without a license.”

“Maybe an hour.”

“Criminy!”

“Why? You got something planned?”

“Later on.”

“I hope you’re not tight for time,” Beaudry said, “because if our drunk tank is filled, then we gotta either take him down to Parker Center or find another substation that can handle him. That means it’s gonna take longer.”

“Graham, it’s three-thirty in the afternoon. How many drunks could there possibly be?”

“Lots of people just hanging, Cin. For them, cocktail hour starts right after the soaps.”

Wrapped in a white terry-cloth towel, Cindy stared into her clothes closet. It was too early in the season to wear the light fabrics. (Besides the fact that it was way too chilly outside.) However, it wasn’t heavyweight wool weather, either. That left her with several options.

Option one:

Her midweight, sleeveless black gabardine dress. Always appropriate dinner wear, but way too sexy for a business meeting with a superior, let alone a man who worked with her father. Now, she could wear her black blazer over the dress. That would certainly tone it down. But the jacket was a more bluish-black while the dress was more greenish-black. Which never made sense to her; why black came in so many different shades.

Option two:

An olive-drab skirt suit, which looked great with her red hair. But it was militaristic in style, replete with spangles and epaulettes. She had to be in the right mood to wear it. Tonight, she didn’t feel like WACing it.

Option three: her last selection.

A single-breasted navy pantsuit—good cut around the hips, not too tight around the ass, no plunging neckline. It said, I am all business so don’t even think about it. Maybe it was even a little unfriendly. She supposed she could gussie it up with a scarf.

Except that she hated scarves.

There were women who were naturals with them, tossing them over their shoulders in a carefree serape manner or winding them like jeweled chokers around the neck. She, on the other hand, never could get the damn things to sit properly. On her, scarves always looked like weather wear rather than stylish accessories. Besides, with her red tresses, she had to be careful with multicolored objects.

She unhooked the plain Jane pantsuit from the closet pole and regarded the sedate outfit. It would suffice. To accent it, she’d wear a simple gold chain around her neck and gold stud earrings. Definitely nothing about that ensemble could be deemed inappropriate. Not that she thought that Scott had ideas, but men were men. Even old men were men.

She gave herself a final toweling, then put on her undergarments. Next came the pants, which fit nicely, even a little loose. Well, that was a nice surprise.

She slipped her arms through the jacket and began to button it. She was shocked to find it pulling across her chest. She took off the blazer and checked herself out in the mirror. Her boobs hadn’t gotten any bigger, but her underlying chest musculature sure had. Her shoulders had also widened.

She wondered why she hadn’t noticed before. Probably because she wasn’t a preener. She checked herself out only when necessary, which meant before dates. And they hadn’t happened for a while. Not that this shindig with Scott was a date, but at least it was dinner outside the house with a man who wasn’t a relative. She accredited the change in her physique to a regimen of weight lifting and exercise, including a daily workout of a three-mile jog, fifty push-ups, and two hundred crunches.

So the blazer stretched across her chest. No big whoop! She just wouldn’t button it. Except now she’d have to wear something under the blazer. Her blouses would probably pull, too. So that left her with sweaters. Most of them were too thick and too casual to wear with a suit. Except she did have one black-ribbed turtleneck.

Did black go with navy?

Alas, she thought. Cursed with a pathetic sense of style. If only she had been brought up with a mother who knew about these things. A mother who knew how to knot scarves and how to coordinate separates and just what shade of lipstick would work.

Her mother was just as fashion-blind as she was. Mom’s attire consisted mainly of cotton caftans or peasant blouses worn with ruffled skirts. Her jewelry was almost always chunky bead necklaces or Southwestern sterling-and-turquoise numbers. Cindy never understood why her mother dressed in such a shapeless manner, since she had a nice trim figure. When Cindy had been heavily into psych, she once had told her mother that wearing loose clothes was akin to denying sexuality. Her mother—also into psych—had said she liked sex just fine (If you want confirmation, go ask your father. Yeah, right!), and her choices had more to do with comfort.

Cindy put on the turtleneck. It was tight, but it would suffice. The blazer, of course, softened her protruding bustline. In midsized heels, she stood a svelte five ten, one hundred forty-five. She regarded herself in the mirror. All she needed were sunglasses and a two-way squawk box, and she could have been typecast as a Fed.

She smoothed some blush over her cheekbones, and covered her lips with something gooey and shiny. Rolling her shoulder-length tresses into a knot, she then pinned her hair up with a butterfly clip. She slipped the strap of her bag over her shoulder and went out of the bedroom. Just as she was about to lock up, she tossed a final glance around her living room.

Her eyes landed upon the mantel, staring at it longer than necessary.

Because something struck her as off.

She walked over to the fireplace and studied the knick-knacks perched atop the ledge. There was a bud vase, a small Waterford crystal clock (a birthday gift given by her stepmother, Rina), a dozen miniature porcelain animals (her childhood collection), and several pictures of her parents in silver frames.

That was it!

Hannah’s picture was missing. Cindy’s eyes scanned the area until they lit on the coffee table. There sat her six-year-old half-sister, a boisterous smile plastered over her little mug. She picked up the silver frame and restored the photo to its rightful place.

How’d it get on the coffee table? Cindy knew she hadn’t touched it since she had set it on the mantel.

Or maybe she had moved it when she had last dusted.

God, when was the last time she had dusted?

She checked the clock that read twenty to seven. Even if she were lucky with traffic, she’d barely make it to the restaurant on time.

She’d deal with the picture later. After locking the bolt securely, tugging on the knob to make sure everything was buttoned up, she left her apartment, bolting down the three flights of stairs.

Maybe Oliver had moved the picture last night. Maybe he had walked over to her mantel and picked it up, walking around with it as he waited for her. Then, when he went to put it back, he had forgotten where it belonged.

Which really didn’t make sense. All he had to do was look at the mantel and see the other photographs.

She looked around, checked over her shoulder, then unlocked her car. Sliding into the driver’s seat, she immediately locked the car. She took a final glance around before she started the motor.

Maybe Oliver had been walking around with it, then had put it down quickly when she had come into the room. Because he hadn’t wanted her to catch him looking at her personal stuff.

Now that made some sense.

You know how it is. You’re alone in a strange place; you get curious and start touching things you shouldn’t be touching. Then the person comes in and you don’t want him or her to see you snooping.

She started the engine, let it idle, then took off. After a block, she checked her rearview mirror. Free and clear—both in front of her and behind her.

No doubt that was it. Oliver probably moved it.

She’d ask him about it … after he picked up the tab.







8 (#ulink_3bb81b77-e299-5830-a680-b41829fe373c)


As she approached the table, Cindy saw Oliver stand up. Like Dad, Scott was from the old school, a guy who probably opened doors and pulled out chairs for the ladies. So unlike her own generation, where every person was on his or her own—good for self-reliance, bad for manners.

Scott looked good. His attire was not only dressier than last night, but also far less slick. He wore a camel-hair jacket over a cream-colored shirt, a red tie, and charcoal slacks. When he held out his hand, Cindy took it. Instead of shaking it, he pulled her forward and gave her a peck on the cheek, leaning over the corner of the table to reach her face. He let go, his eyes giving her a quick once-over.

“You look lovely.”

“Thank you. So do you.”

“I look lovely?”

“Uh, I mean good. You look good.”

“Good is fine. I’ll even take lovely. Have a seat.”

Cindy slid her body between the tabletop and a red leather banquette, parking herself catercorner to Oliver. The table itself was from another century, surfaced with linoleum designed to look like marble. It was so tiny that their knees touched. She readjusted her position to break the contact. If Scott noticed, he didn’t say anything.

The place was a blast from a long-ago past, when Hollywood glamour meant Grauman’s Chinese Theatre and the Walk of Fame instead of piercing salons and tattoo parlors. The interior decor could best be described as a hunting lodge, with beamed ceilings, wood-grained moldings, and prints of the chase complete with hart, hare, and hound. Below the coursing images were dark-stained wood panels. Old wood … good wood. A mirrored-back bar ran the length of the room, the specialty of the house being a dry martini with an olive or—if you’re supersophisticated—a pearl onion. Busboys, identified by green jackets and smiles, poured the water and gave them bread. A waiter, identified by his red jacket and surly expression, handed them menus and asked them if they wanted a drink.

“Wine at dinner?” Oliver asked Cindy.

“Sounds good.” She looked up at her server. “Any specials not on the menu?”

The waiter regarded her with suspicion. “The menus are printed daily.”

“Oh.” Cindy perused the carte du jour. “So you have everything on the menu then?”

“Not the linguine and langostino, not the western omelet, not the lobster bisque—”

“So why was the menu printed with linguine and langostino if you don’t have it?”

The waiter glared at her. “Do you want to take it up with the owner?”

“Not particularly.”

“Are you ready to order, ma’am?”

The menu was extensive and was done in small print. “Can I have a few more minutes?”

The waiter turned and walked away.

Cindy said, “Think we’ll ever see him again?”

“If you keep raggin’ like that, maybe not.”

She shrugged. “Just asked a simple question.”

Oliver regarded her face. “You must have been fun to raise.”

She smiled. “I don’t remember my father complaining.”

“Maybe not to you—”

“Why? Has he said anything to you?”

Oliver was taken aback by the force in her voice. “No. Just making conversation. Someone give you a hard time today, Decker?”

“No one … unless you’re referring to the Russian drunk driver I arrested this afternoon.”

He looked up. “How’d it go?”

“He’s in the drunk tank sleeping it off, and I’m here. I suppose that’s a victory for society as well as for me.” She was silent. “Nah, everything at work is fine.” She rotated her shoulders. “Just fine.”

Oliver put the menu down and studied her face. “You look kind of tense … the way you’re sitting.”

“I’m not tense.” She slouched just to prove the point. “My muscles may be a little stiff. I’ve been doing some extra typing. You know, hunched over the keyboard with no lumbar support. The department doesn’t think ergonomically.”

“What are you writing?”

“Case reports. Which are big pains because you have to type them using a certain format. You know, making sure you don’t go over the tabs or else the words’ll run between the lines instead of on top of them when the form prints out. I thought a hot shower would take care of the aches. Actually, it did, but only for a while.”

“Any reason why you’re typing so many reports?”

Cindy put down her menu. Immediately, the waiter reappeared. “Have you decided?”

To Cindy, the words sounded like Have you decided to go away? Please? She said, “Yes, thank you. I’ll have the sand dabs. Does that … never mind.”

“If you have a question, go ahead and ask it. I may sneer, but I don’t bite.”

Cindy smiled. “How are they prepared?”

“Lightly coated and pan-fried,” the waiter answered stoically. “They come with boiled potatoes. If you want French fries, I can get you French fries.”

“French fries would be great.” She handed him the menu. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He looked at Oliver. “For you, sir?”

Oliver handed him the menu. “Prawns and your best bottle of Chardonnay.”

“Caesar for two to start?”

“Sure.”

Without ceremony, the waiter left.

Cindy whispered, “Is he going to spit in our food?”

“I don’t think so.”

“I was sufficiently polite this time?”

“Better.” He smiled. “Why are you typing so many reports?”

“Doing favors.” Cindy looked at the ceiling. “Trying to extricate myself from Sergeant Tropper’s shit list by completing his reports—his least favorite chore.”

“Tropper?” Oliver thought a moment. “He must have been after my time. What’d you do to get on his shit list?”

“You mean besides being a college-educated woman? Well, I did have the nerve to handle a tense situation competently. It ruffled his feathers.”

Oliver raised his eyebrows. “Department likes team players, Cindy.”

“So I should just step aside and let …”

She stopped talking, seeing the red-jacketed waiter approach with a bottle of wine and two Caesar salads. He set the plates in front of them, then uncorked and poured the wine, giving Oliver a taste. Scott swirled it, sniffed it, sampled it.

“It’s good.”

Dutifully, the waiter poured two full glasses, then placed the bottle in an ice bucket. “Ground pepper for the salads?”

“Sure,” Cindy answered.

The waiter picked up the pepper mill and plunked it down in front of Cindy. “Help yourself.” Then he left.

Cindy gave her salad a healthy dose of pepper. “That man doesn’t like me. Maybe it’s my red hair.”

“Maybe it’s the attitude.”

“Oh, please!” Cindy speared a chunk of lettuce into her mouth and chewed slowly. “Ordinarily, I would get upset by that. But the food’s too good. Tension is bad for digestion.”

“Indeed.” Oliver raised his wineglass.

They clinked stemware. Cindy said, “To what? To being a good team player?”

“How about to keeping you safe?”

Cindy took a sip. “Safe from the felons or safe from my fellow workers? Aren’t you supposed to be giving me some kind of lowdown?”

“Watch your ass.”

“Hard to walk when you do that, Scott.”

“I’m serious, Cindy. You need to look over your shoulder now and then. You’re way too cocky. I don’t know if it’s the inexperience, the fact that you’re educated, the position of your dad, or just your sparkling personality. But you have to be aware of yourself. More important, you’ve gotta know how your ’tude affects your colleagues. Being out there on the street, your life could depend on any one of them.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“See, that’s a big fallacy. And a dangerous one.” He lowered his voice and moved in closer. “You can’t take care of yourself. Out there, no one can. Everyone has to look out for one another. Policing is a team sport, sweetheart. You want solo activity, become a spy.”

“Well, that’s an idea. Don’t you just love the dark sunglasses?”

“You’re quick with the repartee. I’ll give you that.” He sat back. “Unfortunately, your retorts won’t do dick against a .357. Or even a .22, for that matter.”

“You know, Oliver, even if I wanted the help from my colleagues, they wouldn’t give it to me. So I figure why bother waiting around for it!” She put down her salad fork. “All these crazy hazing rituals they put us women through. They deal with me like I’m one big fraternity prank. Take yesterday. I’m trying to contain this crazy Latina … think any of the guys there offered me a finger of help?” She shook her head. “Man, I’d love to have a woman partner, so this whole competition thing wouldn’t be an issue.”

“It’s an issue with your partner?”

She took a healthy swallow of her Chardonnay. “No, Beaudry’s not a bad guy.”

“So what are you bitching about?”

“I’m not bitching! I’m just saying … forget it.” Cindy retreated into her salad, stabbing at a crouton that kept sliding under the tines. “I’m only talking about work because you asked about it. Generally, I keep my mouth shut and do the job. If no one trusts me, what can I do?”

“You’re only a rookie, Cin. You couldn’t have pissed off everyone that fast.”

“It’s been eleven months. That’s plenty of time.” She smiled, but it was a tense one. “So you tell me what’s going on.”

“First tell me why you think the guys don’t trust you.”

“A multitude of reasons.” She sipped wine. “Starting with the fact that they can’t get into my pants.”

“Okay. I can buy that. Guys’ll try, no big deal. Once they see you’re a stand-up gal, they’ll get over it.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“What about the women?”

“I haven’t been to any of the policewomen meetings yet. Too busy. Maybe I should go.”

“Maybe you should.”

She sighed. “Even the women I know … they have this look in their eyes. I think they view me with suspicion because I’m college educated.”

“You’re telling me you have no friends? You looked pretty social last night. Tipsy, but social. Did something happen that I don’t know about?”

“No, last night was okay. Hayley’s nice, actually. Well, I think she’s nice.” She regarded Scott. “What happened between you two?”

Oliver didn’t answer.

Cindy smiled brightly. “I guess we’re not going there.”

“Good guess.”

She poured them both another glass of wine. “I’m still waiting for the lowdown on me.”

Oliver said, “We’re talking general consensus, not any one opinion.”

“Got it.”

“You’re smart—”

“I could have told you that—”

“Shut up, Decker, and listen. You’re smart, quick-thinking, and, more important, quick on your feet. You’re good with the masses out there. Calm, assured—not in your face, but you don’t back off. You’ve got good physical energy and good physical strength, especially for a broad—”

“Must be the Wheat—”

“You’re reliable, you’re on time, and don’t seem to have any big bad vices. That’s the word that gets back to your dad.” He looked at her. “I hear that, too. But I also hear other things.”

Cindy felt her stomach drop. She was about to blurt out a wiseguy comment, but it stuck in her throat. “Go on.”

“You’re no problem on the streets, but you’ve got this ‘I’m superior’ ’tude in the stationhouse. You’re snotty, Decker. Or like my grandmother used to say, someone who gets above her raising.”

“For your information, I’m acting perfectly acceptable for an Ivy Leaguer.”

“Well, Decker, to that, I say, you’re not in college anymore.” Again he leaned over. “You’re pissing people off … the very people you might need someday. Maybe you should start using some street psychology.”

“Yeah, yeah—”

“Stop brushing me off and just listen. ’Cause I—like Daddy—have your welfare at heart. Life and death, split-second decisions are not analyzed, Cindy. You just jump in there and hope for the best. And the vast majority of us on the force will jump in to rescue a colleague at a big risk to our own lives. We’re acting on instinct. It’s an emotional thing. But we’re human, too. I’ll jump into the pyre, sure. But I’ll do it a lot quicker if I like the person. Stop being a snob. Especially because your father isn’t like that, and he has much more reason than you to be arrogant—”

“I’m not arrogant!”

Oliver stopped talking and focused in on her face. She was crushed but trying to hide it. He knew he was coming on too strong, although it didn’t make his words any less true. Lecturing to her just as he had done with his own sons. He had always been so anxious to get the words out; he had never bothered to think how his brutal remarks had affected them.

Cindy stared into her wineglass. “You want to know the irony of all this?”

Oliver nodded.

“I’m actually shy,” she said. “I mask it in superiority. Because in a cop’s world, it’s better to be egotistical than shy.” She looked up and made eye contact with him. “If you give off even an inkling of fear, no one’ll ride with you.”

“That’s true.”

“If some of the guys knew how nervous I was, they’d dissolve me in acid.”

“Everyone’s nervous at first.”

“It’s different being a woman.”

“I’m sure you’re right—”

“Better to eat than to be eaten.” She stared at her plate. “Who thinks I’m smart, by the way? Or did you make that up to console me?”

“Nah, I didn’t make it up. For starters, the detective I was consulting with yesterday—Rolf Osmondson. He says you’re smart.”

She was skeptical. “I don’t know why he’d say that. First time I ever laid eyes on the man was last night.”

“Apparently, he’s laid eyes on you.”

“Suddenly second-grade detectives are noticing uniformed rookies?”

“If the second-grade detective is a heterosexual male and the uniform rookie is a lovely young female, you bet your ass he notices. Also, Craig Barrows mentioned you to me.”

“Craig Barrows?”

“You don’t know him, either?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

Oliver said, “About my height. Long face. Sandy-colored hair that’s thinning. Blue, bloodshot eyes—”

“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 bus-boy 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.”







9 (#ulink_2ad4c4d0-72f1-5426-a0e6-014d8ec212e7)


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 suburban 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 vie 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.

“She said it was a he.”

Marge became animated. “She saw him?”

“No. Hold on a minute.” Korman turned cranky. “Let me get this out, okay? She didn’t notice anyone following her. She finally found her car by pushing on the panic button.”

Oliver said, “Another thing wrong with malls. You always forget where you parked.”

“Can I get this out?” Korman asked. “She pushed the panic button, then found her car. Started to open the door, then, at that point, she did sense another being. Never saw the guy. He pushed her down, facedown, on the hood, then shoved her to the ground.”

“So she doesn’t know it’s a he.”

“He talked. It was a he.”

“Accented?” Oliver asked.

“Don’t know.” Korman squinted as the chrome bumpers reflected sunlight. “The perp took her keys and her car. I put out an APB right away on the car. No response?”

“Not so far,” Oliver answered.

“Weird,” Korman said. “How far can you go with a red BMW convertible? It’s pretty conspicuous. Unless he had the semi waiting and the perp immediately drove it into the trailer. Maybe we should put out a bulletin to look for a rig big enough to house a car.”

“Either that or there’s a chop shop nearby.”

Korman said, “I haven’t heard about it. But there sure as hell been enough carjackings to justify a chop shop in these parts.” He shook his head. “You want to interview the vic now?”

“Fine with me,” Marge said.

Korman walked them over to his car. “Ms. Mills, I’d like you to meet Detective Dunn and Detective Oliver. They’d like to ask you a few questions.”

The woman stole a glance at Marge, then focused her gaze on her nails—long, hard acrylic nails done in the same bright copper tone as her lipstick. Her voice had an air of resignation that comes from being victimized. “I’m tired. I’d like to go home. Can’t we do this another time?”

Marge said, “We won’t take too long.”

Oliver said, “You want us to call somebody for you?”

“I already called my sister.”

“And she’s coming?”

“Yes.” The woman held her head. “I suppose I can talk to you until she gets here. What do you want to know? I didn’t see him.”

“But you heard him,” Marge stated.

“Yeah.”

“Male?”

“Definitely.”

“What did he sound like?” Oliver asked.

“A maniac!” She glared at him, then returned her eyes to her lap. At this point, Oliver knew that any male was probably at the top of her shit list.

He said, “Did the voice sound accented?”

Stacy pursed her lips. “No, he sounded American. Why?”

“Just trying to gather infor—”

“No, you asked me that for a reason.” She became agitated. “Why’d you ask me that? Do you suspect a foreigner?”

Marge said, “I wish I could give you more information, but—”

“You cops are all alike!”

What did she know about cops? Oliver wondered. “Did he have a weapon?”

“I didn’t see one. But I think he held a gun to me. I felt something hard against my head.” Tears leaked from Stacy’s eyes. “He kicked me … once in the ribs and once in the back. I’m very strong, but shit … he hurt me. I’m in a lot of pain!”

“I’m so sorry.” Marge turned to Korman and mouthed the word—Ambulance?

Stacy caught it. “I sent the paramedics away.” She shrugged. “These ambulances are a scam. All they ever do is rack up hospital bills. They’re all in cahoots … I don’t want anyone I don’t know touching me.”

Marge could understand that. “But you will get checked out—”

“My sister will take me to my doctor. She’s already called him.” She caught her breath. “Think you’ll find my car?”

“We’re working on it,” Korman answered.

“That means no. I’d really like to be left alone until my sister gets here.”

Oliver said, “You didn’t recognize this guy’s voice or anything?”

Stacy regarded him as if he were a moron. “No.”

“So you don’t think this was some kind of revenge thing?”

“No!” Stacy became jumpy. “Why would I think that? What are you driving at?”

“Ms. Mills,” Oliver asked, “did you ever know a man by the name of Armand Crayton?”

Stacy’s face lost all expression. “Why are you asking me these questions?”

A surprised Oliver regarded Marge. “I’m sorry if I upset—”

“This entire episode upset me! You’re just another cog on the wheel.” She got out of the patrol car. “Can you leave now?”

But Oliver pressed on. “It’s just that this jacking reminded me of Crayton—”

“Except I’m alive and he’s dead!” Stacy shrieked. “Please leave now!”

“I’m trying to help you—”

“I don’t need help! Go away now!”

“This isn’t going to go away, Ms. Mills—”

“Out!” she screamed. Then her face crumpled. “Please, leave … please?”

“All right.” Oliver nodded. “I’ll leave.” He waited a few moments, then fished through his wallet. “If by any chance you want to talk to me, here’s my card.” He held out the square piece of paper.

To everyone’s surprise, Stacy Mills took the card.







10 (#ulink_aadba307-0a40-57b3-a8ee-b735e8c51e01)


Feeling a headache coming on, Decker rubbed his temples. From across his desk, he glanced at Oliver, looking his natty self, and Marge, wearing a utilitarian black pants outfit. He said, “Who brought up Crayton?”

“Yo,” Oliver replied.

“Why?” Decker asked.

“Because she drove a red BMW convertible. Crayton’s car was a red Corniche, and Tarkum’s car was a red Ferrari. Maybe a pattern?”

Marge said, “He hit a nerve. You should have seen the way she reacted. She freaked. Told us to get the hell out. But she took Oliver’s business card. Stacy’s sitting on something. The question is, what?”

Again, Decker rubbed his temples. What color was Cindy’s Saturn? Some weird teal green. It certainly wasn’t a luxury car. He sat up straight and tried to appear objective. “What do you think she’s hiding?”

Oliver unbuttoned his blue suit jacket, but refrained from loosening his tie. He was hot and wondered why no one else appeared uncomfortable. “Some revenge thing. The same jackers that took down Crayton may be out to get her.”

“Did the jacker make any attempt to kidnap her?”

“No.” Marge picked a speck of lint off her black pants. “According to Stacy’s story, he told her to hit the ground and expressed regrets that he didn’t have more time, because she was nice.”

“Nice, as in he’d like to have raped her?”

“That was the implication,” Oliver said. “Agreed, Crayton and Mills aren’t mirror images of each other. But I think there’s a connection. Especially given Stacy’s reaction.”

“The crime sounds more like the Elizabeth Tarkum case,” Decker said.

“So maybe they’re all connected.”

Decker said, “And the common thread is …”

Oliver shrugged. “Crayton made enemies. There could be lots of reasons for people wanting him dead. Maybe he was associated with these ladies. Because these cases don’t fit in with the other jackings. The women weren’t carting kids, and the vies weren’t forced inside, their vehicles.”

“So why jack the women now when the Crayton case is old?”

Oliver said, “First off, Elizabeth Tarkum was jacked around six months ago. Second, maybe he figured now was a good time to do Mills because the police might lump her jacking with the ones that have been making the news.”

Marge added, “Stacy also said the perp sounded American. Some of our women with kids said the perp sounded foreign.”

“But Stacy didn’t see him.”

“No.” Marge regarded Decker—her former partner who was now her superior. Instead of being excited about the information, he looked stressed by it. “Crayton’s an open case. I think we should root through the case files again and see if Stacy Mills or Elizabeth Tarkum fit in somewhere.”

Decker sat back in his chair. “Let’s do this. Compile a list of Crayton’s former friends and associates, then go check out if any of them have been threatened or robbed or received any strange phone calls … or been shot at.”

The room fell silent. Oliver tried to hide his apprehension. But Decker wasn’t paying attention to him. He looked up at the ceiling. “This means I’ve got to talk to my daughter.”

Marge widened her eyes. “Cindy? Whatever for?”

“She knew Crayton,” he said.

In a heartbeat, Oliver felt enormous relief. But he played along with it and acted confused. “What? How?”

“They used to go to the same gym,” Decker admitted. “They struck up a casual friendship.”

“A casual friendship?” Marge repeated.

“That’s her version.” Decker was pained. “What she told me was this. One day they walked out to the gym’s parking lot together. Someone took potshots at them—”

“Jesus!” Oliver emoted. “When was this?”

Decker made a face. “Around a year-plus ago. Just before Crayton was murdered.”

“And you’re just telling us now?” Oliver tried to add outrage in his tone of voice.

“That’s correct.” Decker’s face was flat. “I’m just telling you now. She didn’t tell me until after Crayton was whacked. When she finally did fess up, I questioned her extensively. She claims she didn’t see the shooter, and had no suspicion as to who might have done it. It didn’t appear like she was holding back, so I took it for the obvious. That Crayton was the intended target and she was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“She must have been petrified,” Marge said. “Poor thing.”

“I’m sure at the time, she was very shaken.” Decker took out a cigarette and played with it, rolling it between his fingers. “When she told me, she seemed to be handling it well.”

His office fell quiet.

Decker bit the ends of his mustache. “I told her to keep her mouth shut. I also told her to call me immediately if anything remotely threatening pops up. So far, she hasn’t said anything to me, but Cindy keeps her private life … well, private.”

Oliver shook his leg. “She needs to be told what’s going on for her own protection. Also, we’ve got to talk to her to make sure she’s leveled with you.”

“I’ll talk to her,” Decker said.

Oliver said, “Let Marge and me interview her. We can be objective. You can’t. Plus, she’ll talk more openly to us—”

“I don’t know about that.”

Marge said, “Pete, she might be embarrassed to tell you if she had a thing with this guy.”

Decker winced. “I don’t know if she was having an affair with him.”

“So let Marge and me find out.” Oliver attempted to be helpful. “Look, I’ll call her, okay? She’s in Hollywood, right?” He spoke glibly. “I had wanted to go over the Tarkum case with Rolf Osmondson anyway. Him and this other Dee named Craig Barrows, who had mentioned to some of the guys that Tarkum had some similarities to Crayton—”

“What kind of similarities?” Decker asked.

“Offhand, I don’t know. As long as I’m out there, I’ll set up an interview with Cindy.”

Decker didn’t say anything. Oliver took his silence for approval. “I’m not busy tonight. Let’s get this over with for Deck’s peace of mind.” He looked at Marge. “How about you?”

“I’ll have to make a couple of phone calls … rearrange some appointments.”

Oliver said, “She should be interviewed pronto. If you can’t do it, I’ll do it myself.”

Decker’s eyes slowly shifted from his desktop to Oliver’s face. Scott was smart enough to catch the implication. He didn’t jump. Instead he shrugged. “Hey, you can come with us, boss, but it might inhibit her.”

“What makes you think she’ll talk to you?”

Oliver was frustrated. He really did want to warn Cindy. And he wanted to talk to her alone. But that had to do with personal reasons. He said, “I think I could get something out of her. But if you have doubts, I’ll wait for Margie. She’s your daughter. You call the shots.”

Decker looked at Marge. “Rearrange your schedule.”

“It shouldn’t be a problem,” Marge said.

“Great!” Oliver feigned enthusiasm although he was a tad disappointed that Marge now had to play tagalong. Deep down, he knew it was best. He said, “Around eight, Margie?”

“Actually that would work out perfectly,” Marge answered. “Where does she live?”

“Near Culver City,” Decker said.

Oliver said, “I was planning to go into Hollywood at around six. I’ll meet you at Cindy’s around eight.” He looked pointedly at Decker. “Is that okay with you?”

Reluctantly, Decker agreed. Although he hated losing control, he knew Scott was right. He couldn’t be objective. He glanced at his watch. “I’ll call her … explain the situation and let her know you two are coming by at eight. In the meantime, you two reacquaint yourselves with the Crayton file. Divide up the search and interview as you see fit. Also, you should ask Korman if there’s been a proliferation of other luxury red car thefts.”

Oliver stood. “Sounds like a plan.”

“One more thing.” Decker got up and opened his door. “In Stacy Mills’s case, the perp ordered her to hit the ground. Now, he could have picked out the phrase from the movies or from those real-life cop shows, but you might want to consider that the guy has had some training somewhere.”

“Perp’s a cop?”

“A cop, a former cop, someone rejected from the academy, someone kicked out of the force, HPD, sheriff’s department, a security guard, a former security guard, ATF, the military—anyone who wears a uniform and has power needs.”

Cindy shifted the receiver over to her other ear. “My father was very vague. How’d this all come out?”

“Your dad brought it up because of a recent case—”

“What?” she screamed. “I can’t hear you.”

“Your dad brought it up!”

“My dad! Why? What were you guys talking about?”

“Cindy, I can barely hear you.” He was at a pay phone about a block away from the stationhouse. Traffic on the boulevard was fierce and loud. Oliver looked around. Not a soul to be seen. And even if someone were, what would he see? “I’ll explain when I see you.”

“How can you explain things with Marge there?”

Oliver said, “Look … your dad said we’d be there around eight, right?”

“Right.”

“Marge and I aren’t traveling over the hill together. So I’ll be there like we planned. Around seven-thirty.”

“Make it seven. I’ve got a lot of questions for you.”

Oliver hesitated, then said, “Seven-thirty, Cindy. I’ll be there at seven-thirty.”

There was silence over the line.

Coolly, Cindy said, “Okay, seven-thirty.”

Oliver said, “I have the feeling your dad’s going to show up unexpectedly. He doesn’t like delegating when it comes to his family. You’re his daughter, he’s got a personal interest in all this.” He waited a beat. “I know he’s going to show up at your doorstep with some excuse. I feel it like I feel the wind. Now I can explain being there twenty minutes, even a half hour early … traffic was light, I got done with Hollywood early, blah, blah, blah. But I can’t explain away snowing up an hour early. That would mean that I have plans.”

“What plans are those, Scott?”

“Now you’re being a wise guy.”

Cindy said, “Okay. Seven-thirty it is. Doesn’t matter to me.”

“Good. I’ll see you later.” Oliver smiled as he hung up the phone. Her words said it didn’t matter. But her voice said it did.

Webster raked his fingers through caramel-colored hair. He sat slouched over his desktop, a gray tweed jacket hanging over the back of his chair. He had just turned thirty-five, and his wife had mentioned something about a party. As far as Webster was concerned, he didn’t want to think about birthdays. Age was a mindset and, since he still looked young, he might as well feel young, too, although life in the big city sure moved faster than it did in Tupelo. He wondered if L.A.’s frenetic pace aged the body by pumping it full of adrenaline.

He sifted through the Crayton folders: both of them hefty, containing lots of dog-eared, multicolored pages. There were sections for the autopsy report: graphic photos of a savaged body with exposed bones that had been charred brittle black. There were a dozen black-and-white crash scene photos along with an itemization of what had been found in the burned-out Rolls. Then there was the personal material on Crayton, several sheets depicting a con man with all the rackets, angles, and scams. The files also contained legal documents stemming from lawsuits of several disgruntled individuals, along with a class action suit that had later been dropped.

Armand had had his fair share of enemies.

Webster looked up from the papers, his baby blues focusing on Marge’s face. “Sit. I’m straining my neck.”

“Sorry.” She pulled up a chair.

Webster said, “Bert and I interviewed the prime suspects. Three or four looked promising … the ones most likely to carry a grudge.” He handed her a list. “We came up empty.”

Marge eased herself back in the chair as she scanned the list. “What did you find?”

“They all had their excuses. Bert and I kept feeling that we were missing something or that someone was holding back. Namely the widow. She kept telling us that it was okay … that we were doing our best. Talking like we were schoolkids taking a hard test. Her attitude surprised us. Then I began to reckon that there was this real possibility that she didn’t want us to look too hard.”

“Why?”

“She was scared of someone coming back to get her.”

“Did she mention feeling threatened?”

“Matter of fact, she downplayed it, saying that the kidnapping was a random thing because Armand drove a very noticeable and expensive car. It could have happened to anyone. It was always Bert’s and my contention that she wanted the minimum—just to make it look good for Armand’s mother. While I feel very bad for this Stacy Mills, I am happy that she breathed some life into the Crayton case.”

Marge said, “So you never interviewed either Stacy Mills or Elizabeth Tarkum?”

“No. But I’m sure Armand kept secrets that he took to his grave. With Mills and Tarkum and the wife, you have a distinct advantage over Crayton, Margie. The girls are still alive.”

“Who’d you go with first?” Marge asked. “The wife?”

Webster nodded. “Definitely the wife. And if you find out something that I missed, don’t rub it in.”







11 (#ulink_2dddfc24-0d58-55c0-b9ed-38168f9db114)


Armand Crayton had lived in a posh development in the far west portion of the San Fernando Valley. Thirty homes were sprawled over half-acre lots, built around artificial lakes and lagoons, and an emerald-green golf course that rose and dipped like a gentle tide. A resident health club, spa, and two tennis courts were situated in the back, near the foothills, but Oliver and Marge never got that far. Crayton’s manse was located in the front section. To get through the gated entrance, Marge rang in through an intercom and announced herself. No response, but a moment later the wrought-iron barrier opened.

It made Marge wonder about how the kidnappers got in or out. She asked Oliver about it.

“Bert had a couple of theories,” he answered. “The kidnappers got hold of a magnetic card key, or maybe they rang one of the residences at random, said they had a delivery, and a naive soul opened the gate. Which would have been a stupid move because all regular delivery people had pass cards. FedEx, UPS, the mail carrier, the local laundry, the gourmet market, mobile pet groomer, et cetera, et cetera.”

“Which means there are lots of cards in circulation.”

“Yep, they’re very easy to come by,” Oliver answered. “By the way, the ‘ring the house and open the gate’ theory wasn’t borne out by any of the resident interviews. No one admitted to letting them in.”

“An inside job?”

“Probably, but that doesn’t mean the wife did it. As far as getting out, the arm lifts automatically. Still, it’s not a slam dunk for a kidnapper.”

Marge agreed. She parked the car, got out, and stretched, looking at the quiet estate that had once been a crime scene. Mediterranean in style, the house was two-storied—as were all the homes in the neighborhood—and square, accented with cornerstones, windowed balconies, and a roof composed of overlapping red, pseudo-Spanish tiles. It was faced with light, apricot-colored stucco and sat behind a screen of palms, banana plants, and tree ferns. But the place showed signs of neglect. The lawn was a bit overgrown, there were weeds in the planting area, and light gray smudges streaked down the plaster from the window corners, giving the impression that the house had been crying. The entrance door was recessed under an arched portico. Marge rang the bell. A young woman in her twenties answered the door.

“Mrs. Crayton?” Marge asked.

“Call me Lark,” the woman answered. “Mrs. Crayton is my former mother-in-law. You’re the police?”

“Detective Oliver,” Scott said. “This is Detective Dunn. Thank you for agreeing to see us.”

“Yeah, sure.” Lark opened the door all the way. “Come in.”

As Oliver crossed the threshold, he wondered why the hell Tom and Bert hadn’t mentioned the widow’s comeliness. Tall and slender, with lots of chest filling out a bright, white T-shirt. Legs that didn’t quit even if they were hidden under jeans. Her face was all acute angles—a sharp jawline, a strong chin, and pronounced cheekbones. Ash-blond hair had been tied back into a ponytail, gray eyes were outlined in black liner. Naturally lush lips—killer lips.

She brought them through a two-story entry hall and into the living room/family room/den. It was hard to tell what official function the room served because the floor plan was so open. Beige walls surrounded oversized tan and ivory furniture. The floor was covered by plush ecru carpet. Potted plants added some life to the colorless decor, as did the undraped windows outlining views of the requisite backyard aqua-jeweled pool. She pointed to a sofa, then took a seat on one of the room’s enormous chair-and-a-halves—the latest in chichi accoutrements.

Lark draped her legs over the chair’s arm.

Seductive, Oliver thought. The way she was looking at him gave him goose bumps. That pose had probably served her well in the past. When she spoke, she gazed directly into his eyes. “Did you find out anything new?”

Oliver said, “Nothing earth-shattering, but we’re still—”

“Yeah, yeah.” Lark broke the stare and lapsed into ennui, picking up a cigarette case from the side table and pushing a button. The lid popped open. She pulled out a smoke and spoke to Marge. “Throw me that lighter, will you?”





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