Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 12

by Stalker

  She picked up the mug and put it in the kitchen sink, then took down a goblet and poured a glass of white wine, knowing it was dumb to drink on an empty stomach. She’d been doing quite a few dumb things of late, most of them having to do with Oliver.

  Holding her drink, she came back into her living room, her eyes sweeping over the fireplace mantel. The family pictures and her porcelain animals were exactly as she had left them: pigs, cats, dogs, and cows aligned together in perfect interspecies unity.

  She parked herself in front of the TV and turned on the boob tube with the remote control. The screen filled with images of two people tearing down a supermarket aisle, throwing dozens of cellophane-wrapped hams into their respective shopping carts. Because the sound had been muted, the racing shoppers looked even more comical, as if acting in a Keystone Kops silent movie. She thought about Oliver, wondering if he was scaring her on purpose. Assuming that he was, the next question would be: Why would he want to do that?

  Could be he had a Superman complex, the type who stepped in to rescue the damsel in distress. Dad called them HOTS, or Heroes of the Story. No matter how they told the tale, somehow they’d wind up saving the day. The hero—and notice she was thinking about a hero instead of heroine, because HOTS were usually male—used phrases like “If I hadn’t been there” or “If it wasn’t for me” or the pseudo-modest “So they asked me my opinion, and I suggested such-and-such, which just happened to work out perfectly.”

  So what could turn Oliver into a HOT? An insecurity complex? Or maybe he had been secure until he hit middle age. Maybe his need to be a HOT stemmed from the same fears that propelled him to chase after women half his age. He needed a youth-affirming ego boost. Or perhaps he was trying to make points with the boss by helping his daughter. But that didn’t make much sense because he was secretive about their interactions. Then again, just maybe he had legitimate concerns about her safety in this Crayton thing.

  Her watch—which she purposely set five minutes fast—read seven thirty-three. She had enough time to make herself some grub. And that probably would be a good idea because she shouldn’t do an interview on just a wine-coated stomach. She forced herself up and put a frozen pizza pocket into the toaster.

  Ah, the thrill of single life. Even Mom, who was no great whiz in the kitchen, could cook better than this. Cindy did have a standing invitation with her dad and stepmom to come for Friday night dinner, the meal that inaugurated the Jewish Sabbath. Though she hated to impose, maybe this was a good week to take Rina up on it. Her stepmother was very religious; her father had become that way because of her. Their way of life was alien to her. She likened it to a finely crafted Victorian chair—charming and beautiful but impractical for everyday life. But it served her father well, made him happy, and that said a lot.

  The pizza pocket popped into the air, landing a half-foot away from the toaster and onto her counter. Gingerly, she picked up the hot pastry and wrapped it in a napkin, munching on it as she headed for her bedroom. What was the dress of choice for being grilled by one’s own colleagues…or maybe the better choice of word was superiors.

  Dad as her superior. After she had spent almost a decade trying to break free from his paternal bonds.

  So who told you to go into police enforcement?

  She decided to keep on her current outfit—the white turtleneck and black slacks—even though she would have preferred donning jeans and a sweatshirt. Her dress made for a more professional image. Picking up a brush, she smoothed out her red locks, then reapplied her makeup.

  Was she nervous about talking to them? Maybe a little. She didn’t like her personal life dissected, especially since Crayton had been a poor choice for a friend. She’d look to Marge for support. Marge was cool. She had been her father’s partner since Cindy was a teen, had always acted as her advocate when Dad got unreasonable.

  She tucked the turtleneck into her pants, then noticed an almost imperceptible stain. She must have dripped coffee, although she didn’t recall anything spilling. But that was always a problem with white clothing. Just a speck of brown coffee would show up like a dusted fingerprint. She took off the top and opened her sweater drawer.

  Immediately, her heart started hammering—loud, big thumps. On the surface, everything looked fine. Her tops were folded and neatly stacked. But within an eyeblink, she knew that someone had gone through the drawer. Because her cotton tops were on the right side of the drawer and her woolens were on the left. She always, always put her woolens on the right and her cotton sweaters on the left. She quickly opened the three other drawers in the bureau—pants and shorts, sweatshirts and pajamas, underwear, socks, and stockings.

  They seemed in perfect array. Just the sweater drawer was off.

  Or maybe she was wrong.

  Or maybe she was going nuts.

  As she stared at her clothing, she felt sweat pouring off her brow, her armpits warm and wet, her hands shaking. Her stomach had bunched into a tight, hot knot. Sparkly lights began to dance in her head. She took two steps backward, until her calves knocked against the edge of her bed. She sank down, dropping her head between her knees, red hair cascading down her skull and tickling the carpet. This wasn’t from just the sweaters, it was also the booze. She had to stop drinking.

  Breathe in, breathe out. Okay, think. When was the last time you straightened your drawers?

  A month ago? Maybe even longer? Was it possible that she had reversed the stacks, putting the woolens on the left instead of on the right and the cotton on the right instead of on the left? Because analyzing it with calm eyes, she realized that her sweaters had been folded precisely the way she had always folded her sweaters. And the stacks were neat. She always made nice, neat piles thanks to an obsession with order and detail. Maybe this was nothing more than an overactive imagination due to Oliver’s suggestibility.

  Damn him!

  She threw her head back and plopped her spine down onto her mattress, staring at the ceiling. Still garbed in only pants and a bra, she felt her sweat-coated body evaporating water. The process chilled her skin.

  Put some clothes on, Decker.

  With great care, she managed to stand up. Trudging over to the evil drawer, she fished out a black ribbed-cotton crew.

  She hoped that she was making an unnecessary big deal about this left-right thing. She had probably done it herself, although she thought that she might have noticed the reversal. Maybe she only realized it now because she was searching for something awry.

  She was about to don the crewneck sweater, but her nose told her she smelled ripe. She needed a shower. Not only would water cleanse her body, it would also clear her mind. She stripped down, stuck her hair in a plastic cap, and turned on the tap until the water steamed. Stepping into the cubicle of hot needles, she bristled, then luxuriated into the combination of pleasure and pain. By the time she emerged from the stall, her skin was lobster pink. Again she felt light-headed, but this time it was from low blood pressure rather than anxiety. Sitting on the seat of her toilet, wrapped in a towel, she dropped her head and tried to stave off an oncoming headache.

  Her paranoia was running away with her. After all, how could anyone get in without tampering with the locks? And she had checked the dead bolt on her door and the windows…well, at least she had checked the dead bolt.

  Maybe she should check the windows before the mod squad descended on her like locusts. Slowly arising, she went into her bedroom and donned all-black attire. She brushed out her hair and put on fresh makeup—just a hint of blush and lipstick—and popped two Advils prophylactically. She picked up the remnants of her pizza pocket and threw it away in the kitchen garbage. While she was there, she checked the side window, which would have been a hard climb because it was flush with the building and two stories up. The lock was latched, the frame devoid of any telltale marks. The paint around the woodwork was without chips and flakes. If the imaginary sweater intruder had somehow gotten inside her house, he hadn’t used the doors or the ki
tchen window.

  Or he was a professional.

  That didn’t sit well with her.

  She was about to examine the front windows when the doorbell rang at seven fifty-two—according to her fast watch. Through the peephole, she was relieved to see her father. The last thing she wanted was to be alone with Oliver. She threw open the door and tried to appear normal: giving him a chastising look for showing up even if she was secretly happy to see him.

  “Dad…”

  “I was in the neighborhood.”

  “Yeah, you’re in the neighborhood because you drove yourself to the neighborhood.”

  Decker smiled. He hoped it was disarming. “Can I come in?”

  “I suppose it would be unseemly to let a police lieutenant beg in the halls.” She stepped aside. “Come in. I’m not answering anything until the others get here. I’ve already gone over this before. I’m not repeating myself more than I have to.”

  “Fair enough.” He went over to her mantel and picked up the picture of Hannah. He smiled. “Where was this from? From the zoo, right?”

  “Yep. You never saw it before?”

  “Actually I think I did. I just forgot how cute it was. You should make me a copy.”

  Maybe Dad had moved the picture. When was the last time he was here? Months ago. “Admit it. You think number two daughter is cuter than number one.”

  “I think you’re adorable. You just don’t look as cute toothless as she does.”

  “That’s a definite point.” She picked up her sweater and then put it down again. “Is this interview really necessary?”

  Decker shrugged. “We’ll find out.”

  “It’s a waste of time. I already told you everything.”

  “Oliver and Dunn think I might have an objectivity problem.” Decker put the picture back on the mantel. “They may be right.”

  The doorbell rang again. This time it was Marge. She kissed Cindy on the cheek and threw her purse down on the couch. “You fixed this place up since the last time I was here.”

  “New blinds, a couple of throws, not much else.”

  Marge looked at Decker. “Why did I know you were going to be here?” Her eyes went to Cindy. “Can you talk if he’s around?”

  “Yes, of course. This whole thing is unnecessary, Marge. I barely knew the guy.”

  Marge took out a notepad from her jacket. “You mean Armand Crayton?”

  “Yes. We worked out together. End of story.”

  “Except for the potshots,” Marge added.

  “I see you filled her in,” Cindy said to her father.

  “Not the details.”

  “That’s because there are no details.” To Marge, Cindy said, “They may have been meant for him, they may have been random. Certainly they weren’t meant for me.”

  Decker said, “Maybe we should wait for Scott before we go any further.”

  Marge said, “He’s running behind. His interviews with Hollywood got off to a late start.”

  “Is he showing up?” Decker wanted to know.

  “Yeah, but it’s going to take him a while.”

  “Does he have something on the jackings?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  Cindy said, “Since this might concern me, can someone please tell me what’s going on?”

  Marge sat on the couch. “Sure bet. Have a seat, Cin. Let me tell you our thoughts.” And she did, repeating almost word for word what Oliver had told her an hour earlier. “We’re checking out these women to see if they had dealings with Crayton because the jackings are similar. Also, we’re talking to women who knew him. That’s why we’re here.”

  “First off, I was never a real friend, just a casual acquaintance. We were gym buddies. Nothing beyond that.”

  “No business dealings?”

  “Nope. Even if I had wanted to invest with him, I couldn’t have. No money.”

  Decker said, “Did he talk to you about business?”

  “In generalities—”

  “Like what?”

  “Gosh, it was so long ago…” She frowned as she concentrated. “Land deals mostly. If I recall…don’t hold me to this…the idea was to buy the land and turn it around for a quick profit. Catch people while the interest rates were low and real estate was high.”

  Decker said, “Why do you think he talked to you about it if you had no money?”

  “Bragging, Dad,” Cindy said. “He was showing off. Probably to make some time with me. It didn’t work.”

  “He put the move on you?” Marge asked.

  “Not in a cloddish way,” Cindy said. “But if something were to happen, I don’t think he would have been unhappy.”

  “Did he ever suggest meeting you outside the gym?”

  “A couple of times for coffee. I said no. That was it.” She turned to her father. “I told all of this to you.”

  “I know. But it sounds different with Marge here.”

  Marge said, “When you were shot at, Cindy, did someone say anything?”

  “No one was shooting at me.”

  Marge rephrased the statement. “When they shot at Armand and you were there, did someone say anything?”

  “No.”

  Decker said, “Nothing?”

  “Nothing. Why would they?”

  “Well,” Decker began. “If it’s a revenge thing against Crayton, someone might say something to identify the reason behind the crime.”

  “Like in the movies? ‘Take that, you bastard.’” She made a face. “Daaad…Isn’t that a little clichéd?”

  Criminals were clichés. They were cardboard cutouts—strictly interchangeable parts. Decker said, “So no one spoke?”

  “If someone did, I didn’t hear it.”

  “Were you walking or standing when the shooting started?”

  “I…we…standing near his car, I think.”

  “But you’re not sure.”

  “No, we might have been walking toward his car.”

  “You were walking him to his car?” Marge asked. “He wasn’t walking you to your car?”

  “His car was parked closer to the entrance,” Cindy said. “And that would make sense, wouldn’t it? Someone stationing himself near Crayton’s car. Because Crayton was the target, right?”

  Nobody answered her, making Cindy even more nervous.

  Finally, Marge spoke. “How many shots were fired?”

  “I don’t know,” Cindy said. “I wasn’t counting.”

  “One, two…more?”

  “Maybe more.”

  “Any of the bullets come close to you?”

  “Sure seemed like it.”

  “How close?”

  “How would I know?” Cindy said. “I ducked behind the car as soon as I heard the pops.”

  “His car?” Decker asked.

  “Yeah, his car. The red Corniche.”

  “Did his car get hit with bullets?”

  “Most likely it did. But it couldn’t have been hit that bad. Because he was driving it the next time we met at the gym.”

  “He came back to the gym?” Decker asked.

  “Yeah. Guess he figured he was safe. That the shooter wouldn’t try the same thing twice.”

  “That’s awfully naïve,” Decker said. “And you know for certain he was driving the Corniche when he came back?”

  “Yes. Because I asked him how his car was. And he said fine. Then both of us changed the subject. I maybe saw him three, four times after that. I must have been subconsciously avoiding him. Then, of course, when I started working on the force, I didn’t have as much time, so I began using the stationhouse gym.”

  Marge said, “When the shooting started, it seems like you two were almost stationary objects.”

  “I guess.”

  “So if the shooter had been pro, he could have probably picked either of you off.”

  “I suppose.” Cindy shrugged. “If you’re implying the shooter was after me, then using your same logic, he could have picked me off with one s
hot as well.” The stark reality of the words gave her goose bumps. She rubbed her arms but didn’t say anything.

  Decker said, “She’s saying that maybe the shots were a warning from a jealous wife.”

  “Oh,” Cindy said. “Then again, for all we know, the shots could have been kids getting a kick out of totaling a Rolls.”

  “That’s why I asked if the car was hit,” Decker said. “You said the damage wasn’t too bad.”

  “Maybe it was,” Cindy said. “I don’t remember, Daddy!”

  The doorbell rang. Decker stood, but Cindy beat him to it. “Father, it’s my place, remember?”

  Decker sat back down. “Try to do someone a favor.”

  Oliver walked in. “Sorry I’m late.”

  “Did you find out anything?” Decker asked.

  “I think you’re going to be happy.” He took off his jacket and looked at Cindy. “Can I hang this up somewhere?”

  “I’ll do it for you. Have a seat, Scott.” Cindy looked around her living room, anywhere but at him. “Anyone want anything to drink, by the way?”

  “Nothing for me, thanks.” Oliver sat next to Marge. “Someone bring me up-to-date, please?”

  Cindy filled him in. When she was done, she said, “I realize you have this whole revenge thing mapped out. But I had nothing to do with Crayton’s business affairs. Why would anyone shoot at me?”

  “Crayton was married,” Oliver stated. “Could your relationship have been misconstrued as an affair?”

  “We were just going over that. I suppose if someone wanted to see it that way…” She sat back down. “Have you met his wife?”

  Oliver looked at Marge. “Interviewed her this morning.”

  Decker said, “Tell me about her.”

  Marge said, “Young, gorgeous, chesty, and probably doing fine in the money department now that Crayton’s life insurance has come in—”

  “Ah!” said Decker. “It came through. When did they pay off?”

  “She said three weeks ago,” Marge answered.

  Decker raised his eyebrows. “It’s been over a year. Someone did a thorough investigation.”