Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 12

by Stalker

  “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 mind-set 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

  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 naïve 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?”

  Marge hesitated. Speaking to her in a dismissive voice, as if she were hired help. She found a silver-etched box on the coffee table and held it aloft. “Is this it?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Lark said. “Just throw it over.”

  Marge resisted the temptation to fastball it. Instead, she tossed it gently. Lark one-handed it, turned the flint wheel, and lit up. She laid the lighter and case back on the coffee table, then blew out a long, languid plume of smoke. Again to Oliver, she said, “So why are you here?”

  “There have been a few incidents recently that have piqued our interest.”

 
; Lark took another drag. “What kinds of incidents?”

  “Carjackings,” Marge answered. “We think they might be related to what happened to your husband.”

  “I don’t see how,” Lark said. “What I’ve read about involve women with kids.”

  “There’ve been others that maybe you don’t know about,” Marge answered. “The crimes are escalating. We were just wondering if you’ve had any threatening calls lately—”

  “You think someone’s out to get me?” Lark’s expression was sour and dubious. “Little late for that, don’t you think? My husband’s murder happened a year ago.”

  “So you haven’t had any threatening—”

  “No. Nothing. I told the cops early on that I thought it was a random thing. Because Armand drove this mother red Corniche, and he dressed very flashy. You know, gold necklaces and a big Oyster Rolex. And he was an out-there kind of guy.” Lark tapped her foot. “Someone cased him…knew his habits…saw him as an easy target because Armand was just…out there. No one’s coming back for me. Lightning doesn’t strike twice, you know.”

  But it does, Marge thought. She said, “Your husband had made enemies.”

  “You’re successful in business, that’s what happens.” She took another slow drag on her cigarette. “Never a shortage of resentful people. You know, the papers have made this big thing about Armand being a major player. They never talk about the long hours he put into his business. He had a dream. Some scumbag motherfucker took it away from him.” She blew out smoke. “I’ve done a lot of thinking this past year while waiting for the insurance to come through—”

  “Has it?”

  “Finally!” Lark announced. “Three weeks ago. Took them long enough, the scumbags. The house is now in escrow. As soon as that’s a done deal, I’m gone. Armand and I have a condo in the Marina. It’s got everything I need including a doorman. This place is way too big for me…not to mention the memories. And I need the house money to pay off Armand’s debts. God, he had enough of those. Not to mention the lawsuits.” Her voice grew bitter. “Jesus, what a mess. I’m almost done with the creditors and bankruptcy court. It’s been one hell of a year.”

  Marge said, “Must have been horrible dealing with monetary issues while still grieving.”

  “Yeah, well, whatever.” Lark crushed out her cigarette in a pottery ashtray. “I’ve got two more court dates and then the lawyer says I’m a free bird.”

  “Are you still in contact with any of Armand’s former associates?” Marge asked.

  “Lady, I’m not even in contact with any of Armand’s former friends. I’m making a clean break. Not that I didn’t have a good ride with Armand. But now I just want out.”

  Not exactly the distraught widow, Oliver thought. But who could blame her? She probably married this guy, expecting to live the good life—money, drugs, sex, affairs with the delivery boy when the old man was away. Instead, she wound up with a murdered husband, mounting debts, and—the worst possible thing in L.A.—bad press coverage.

  Oliver said, “So you haven’t received any strange mail or weird phone calls?”

  “Unless you mean the breather?”

  Oliver stared at her.

  “I’m kidding!” Lark said. “No strange calls except from attorneys on the other side. And let me tell you something, Detective Oliver. I’d rather deal with an obscene breather than a lawyer any day of the week.”

  She almost got away with it, but Tropper caught her just as she was leaving the report room. She nodded politely. He returned the greeting with what sounded like an accusation.

  “Calling it a day, Officer Decker?”

  “And a long day at that, sir,” Cindy answered. How many extra hours did he expect her to put in?

  “Where’re you off to?” he asked.

  “Dinner with my dad,” she lied.

  Tropper nodded. “One day I’d like to meet the lieutenant.”

  Now how do you respond to that? Cindy somehow managed a smile. “Great.”

  He was silent, seemed to be waiting for more. Surely he didn’t expect an instant invitation? “Well, I’d better be going.” Another forced smile. “Shouldn’t keep a superior officer waiting.”

  “I like that, Decker,” the Sarge answered. “That’s very good.”

  “Good day, sir,” Cindy answered. Slowly and with great self-control, she turned and walked away. As soon as he was out of sight, she ran to the locker room, angry that sweat had soaked through her clothes. Hayley Marx was there, combing her hair, peering into a mirror with hard-ass eyes. If she noticed Cindy’s wet armpits, she didn’t comment on them.

  “Hey, Decker. We missed you last night at Bellini’s.”

  Cindy opened her locker, then slowly began stripping off her uniform. “What happened?”

  “Joey Goudis got drunk and chunked on Andy Lopez—”

  “Oh God. Poor Andy!”

  “Screw him! He was acting like an asshole, anyway. Spilled his bourbon over my silk blouse.”

  “Was he drunk?”

  “Nah, just being clumsy. He asked about you. Lopez, I mean. He asked who drove you home a couple of nights ago. I told him you drove yourself home. He thought that was dumb because you looked pretty messed. I defended you, but it was dumb, Decker.”

  “I didn’t drive myself home,” Cindy said. “I was going to drive myself home, but I didn’t. Scott Oliver took my keys away from me.”

  Hayley turned around and took in Cindy’s face. “Oliver took you home?”

  Cindy unbuttoned her shirt. “Yep. I suppose it wouldn’t have been cool with Dad if they had found me wrapped around a telephone pole with a BAL of one million, and Oliver hadn’t interceded.”

  Hayley waited a few beats, then closed her locker, her eyes still bearing down on Cindy’s face. “What did he say to you? Oliver?”

  “Before or after I upchucked?”

  Hayley suppressed a smile. “Not very good for a first date, Decker.”

  “It wasn’t a date.”

  Hayley evaluated her sincerity and decided she was telling it legit. “So he took you home, huh?”

  “Yeah, Marx. He just took me home. What else do you want to know?”

  Hayley rolled her eyes. “I’m acting like a jerk.”

  “Nah, it’s just men. Did your blouse clean out?”

  “Don’t know yet,” Hayley answered. “Haven’t gotten it back from the cleaners.” She paused. “I haven’t even taken it to the cleaners. No time. Anyway, Andy seemed disappointed that you didn’t choose him as designated driver.”

  “Tell Andy next time.”

  “Why don’t you come to Bellini’s tonight and tell him yourself? Besides, I hear Doogle’s running a three-drinks-for-the-price-of-two special.”

  Cindy smiled internally. Someone in the department liked her. Even after she admitted to having the woman’s ex-boyfriend drive her home. Of course, she wouldn’t dare tell Hayley about last night’s dinner…or tonight’s meeting. What was the point? Besides, it wasn’t her business. It wasn’t anyone’s business. “Let’s do it tomorrow. I’ve got to go marketing. Right now, all I have in my fridge is a wilted bag of salad, a carton of sour milk, a six-pack of beer, and a six-pack of Diet Coke.”

  Hayley smiled. “You can borrow my Miracle Whip to make salad dressing.”

  “Sounds like a feast!”

  “Shop later on. I’ll come with you.”

  “So shop with me now. I’ve got an obligation later on.”

  “As in a hot date obligation?”

  “Only if you’re into incest. I think my dad’s coming over.”

  “You’re sick.” She hesitated. “He’s married, isn’t he…your dad?”

  Cindy laughed. “Yes, he is.”

  “Does he cheat?”

  “My dad is the most straitlaced person—”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Hayley shrugged. “I’ve heard that one before!”

  “Honest! Anyway, why would you want to mess around with a married guy?”<
br />
  “He’s a loo. It’s good to know people in high places.” She draped an arm around Cindy’s bare shoulder. “Why do you think I’m hanging around you?”

  “And here I thought it was my charming personality.” Cindy pushed a white turtleneck sweater over her head. “If you want married men, Hayley, you’ve got a selection out there.”

  “Ain’t that the truth. They’re all married or gay.” Hayley parked herself on the bench in front of Cindy’s locker. “It gets depressing, you know.”

  “What? Dating married men? I imagine it wouldn’t be too fulfilling.”

  “It’s not even that. It’s the whole thing. I like the job, but I don’t want to be doing this forever.”

  Cindy nodded but didn’t answer. She loved the job. Getting somewhere in the department held the number one spot on her to-do list. The last thing she wanted was to settle down.

  Hayley said, “I’d like the basics one day. You know…the picket fence, the pitter-patter, the white van with all those ridiculous cup holders and the bumper sticker that says: Baby on Board. It’s lonely being macho. You’ll see when you’re at it long enough. You’ve got to be tough. And once you’re tough, guys treat you like a guy. Which I guess is their way of accepting you. But it gets to you after a while.”

  “I’m sure you’re right.” Cindy zipped up her pants. “How long have you felt the burnout?” Meaning How long before I feel that way?

  She shrugged. “It creeps up on you, Decker. Maybe it has something to do with finding the dead baby.”

  About three months ago, a newborn infant was found in an alley Dumpster. Hayley had been the one to fish her out…holding the lifeless naked body in her hands. Cindy restrained from shuddering. She placed a hand on Hayley’s shoulder. “You want to go food shopping with me?”