by Stalker
Cindy managed a weak smile. “I just wish I could help more. I really don’t mind reading some interviews.”
Marge patted her back. “I’m sure you wouldn’t mind, but it isn’t a good idea. Cindy, you’re expecting too much in too short a time. Concentrate on where you are and stop thinking about where you want to be. Everyone knows you’re book brilliant. You’ll get your gold shield soon enough. In the meantime, take all you can out of the streets.”
Cindy nodded. “You’re right. I should just concentrate on the basics.”
“Exactly.” Marge kissed her cheek. “Good-bye, honey. Take care of yourself.” She turned to Scott. “You ready?”
“You go ahead,” Oliver said. “I’ve got to use the john.” To Cindy, he said, “And your bathroom is…where?”
Cindy pointed.
“If you don’t mind, I’m gonna leave now,” Marge said. “I’m anxious to get home.” Saying her good-byes, she shut the door behind her.
Cindy started to clean up, knowing what was coming. For lack of anything better, she figured the best defense was a strong offense. Make herself so damn obnoxious that he’d simply give up worrying about her. He came out a minute later, hands in his pockets. She noticed it this time. He had also combed his hair. Picking up on the details. That’s what it was all about.
Oliver said, “Are you going to tell me or do I have to pry it out of you?”
She started to rinse out the mugs. “Tell you what?”
“So we’re going to play that game. Okay. Fine. I’ll ask you. Cindy, what happened in the kitchen about twenty minutes ago?”
“I don’t know what you’re—”
“Yes, you do know what I’m talking about.”
“Everything’s fine.” She turned off the tap. “Go home.”
But he didn’t go home. Instead, he walked over to her, put his hands on her shoulders. Speaking to the nape of her neck, he made his voice gentle and alluring. “Tell me what happened.”
She turned to face him. Looking right into his eyes. Her own voice was clear and cold. “Nothing happened. But if it’s that important to you, I can make something up.”
He regarded her but said nothing.
“Go home,” she repeated. “I’m tired. I want to go to bed. But I can’t if you’re around.”
“Why are you lying to me?”
Because I don’t want to tell you the truth.
“Why don’t you trust me?”
Because you’re a liar.
“Something’s going on,” he said. “You’ve got misplaced pictures and strange notes in your cruisers—”
“It was a note left behind from someone in service—”
“Saying to remember?” Oliver grimaced. “Remember what?”
“The Alamo, perhaps?”
Oliver said, “Witty, Cin. Now let’s move on. Something happened tonight. If you don’t tell me, I can’t help you.”
“Nothing’s going on.” And I don’t need your help, buster. She turned her back to him and busied herself with the dishes. “You can let yourself out.”
No answer. Still, she knew he was there. She could hear him breathing—low, soft breaths. “Did you hear—”
“Yes, I heard you,” Oliver answered. “I can let myself out. All right. I’ll let myself out. And let me tell you something, Decker. It’ll be a cold day in hell before I let myself back in.”
Holding a cup of coffee, Martinez came into the interview room. Marge and Oliver were already there. Papers covered nearly two thirds of the table. God only knew how long they’d been at it because he was right on time.
“Hey, Bert,” Marge said. “Have a seat.”
Martinez laid his mug down on an empty spot. He hung his black jacket over the back of a chair. “Anyone for coffee? I just made a fresh pot.”
“There’s a pal for you.” Oliver glared at Marge. “She refused to make coffee—”
“I didn’t refuse,” Marge interrupted. “I just said it was your turn.”
“I don’t make coffee,” Oliver said. “It’s not that I’m a pig, just that my coffee looks and tastes like mud.”
“Because you won’t learn how to do it properly—”
“There’s no problem here,” Martinez said. “The coffee’s made. I said I’d get you both a cup.” He sounded disapproving. “Be right back.”
Oliver looked at his watch. “We put him in a bad mood in roughly twenty-eight seconds. That’s gotta be a record. Especially for an even-tempered guy like Martinez.”
“I don’t know why you can’t make coffee.” Now Marge was irked. “You take a scoop—”
“I’m not interested.”
“Pour water into the machine—”
“Give it up.”
“How’d you stay married for twenty-one years?”
“Twenty-three.” Oliver tapped his pencil against his notepad. “I dunno, Marge. I guess even saints have limits.”
His tone had become doleful. Marge felt bad. She’d hit a nerve. To cover her embarrassment, she busied herself with paperwork until Martinez came back. He handed each a mug of java, then took a seat. “Tom’s gonna be late—if he makes it at all. He took his wife to the ER last night. Her blood pressure skyrocketed again.”
“How far along is she?” Marge asked.
“Eight months—”
“They should just induce labor.”
“I think they’re planning to do that,” Martinez said. “Or maybe a C-section. Because she can’t go on in her current state. Neither can Tom. Guy hasn’t slept through the night in two months. And that’s before the baby’s born.”
“Who’s taking care of the other one?” Marge asked. “How old’s his little boy?”
“Six.” Martinez smoothed his mustache. “Her mother’s been living with them—”
“Tom must love that.”
“Actually, he’s very grateful to her. Also, my wife helps out when Grandma is at her wit’s end. James is about the same age as one of my grandsons.”
Oliver said, “You work hard to have kids, you work hard to raise them. Then you turn around one day and they’re gone along with your youth.”
Marge said, “Don’t mind him, he’s in a foul mood.”
Martinez picked up a folder. “Why?”
“Do I need a reason?” Oliver asked.
“What are you doing exactly?” Martinez asked. “Attempting to tie in the recent jackings with Armand Crayton? We tried that. Nothing meshed. So what did I miss?”
“You didn’t miss anything. We don’t think the Crayton case has anything to do with our current mother-kid jackings.” Marge handed him the Tarkum file. “But we think this one may be related: Elizabeth Tarkum, age twenty-six, carjacked about eight months ago. Her husband, Dexter Bartholomew, was a former associate of Armand Crayton.”
“Sure, I remember Bartholomew—a man you don’t forget.” Martinez leafed through the file. “So his wife was carjacked? Where’d the case come from?”
“Hollywood,” Oliver answered. “Detective Rolf Osmondson was the primary investigator on it. Both the Crayton and the Tarkum jackings involved expensive red cars. And then we have another one…Stacy Mills. Her red BMW was just jacked a couple days ago.”
“Expensive red cars,” Martinez noted. “Jacker’s in a rut. What happened to the Tarkum woman?”
“She was found dazed about twenty miles from where she was jacked.”
“So she wasn’t murdered like Crayton,” Martinez said.
Marge said, “We’ve been thinking that maybe Crayton wasn’t supposed to die.”
“Maybe yes, maybe no. At this point, it’s all speculation.”
“Well, then let’s speculate for a minute,” Marge said. “Suppose the kidnapping was a revenge thing thought up by someone who lost money investing with Crayton and the kidnappers were people for hire. The plan was to take Crayton and demand a ransom. That way, the duped investor could recover some of his lost money. But something got mucked up. Maybe Lark Cr
ayton wasn’t supposed to be home. But she was. She witnessed the kidnapping from the house and phoned it in to the police. Suddenly, the kidnappers had the police on their tail. The Corniche tried to outrun them. Instead, things got wilder and wilder until the car plunged over the embankment. So there went Crayton along with the hopes of getting back the lost money. The avenger investor couldn’t get Crayton, so he moved on to one of Crayton’s partners.”
Martinez said, “Interesting scenario, Margie, except they didn’t kidnap Bartholomew, they carjacked the wife. Plus she was found intact, and you never mentioned ransom.”
“I don’t think there was a ransom demand,” Marge said. “Maybe the car was taken in lieu of ransom.”
Martinez’s look was neutral at best. She sipped coffee, deciding to turn the tables. Let him suggest a script. “So what did you and Tom come up with if a revenge motive wasn’t on your list?”
“Revenge was definitely one of the angles we considered. But we thought about other possibilities, too.” Martinez finished his cup. “I’m pouring myself another. Anyone else want a refill?”
Oliver stood. “I’ll do it.”
Marge stared at him slack-jawed.
Oliver said, “If I get third-degree burns, I’m going to blame you.” He took everyone’s cups and left.
Martinez said, “He’s not a bad guy.”
“You don’t have to sell him to me,” Marge said. “I remember the hospital visits.” She smiled at him. “I remember you, too.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, I wasn’t as zonked out as you thought. I couldn’t talk, but I heard everything.”
Martinez licked his lips. “I bet you’re glad to put all that behind you.”
“You bet.”
A moment later, Oliver came back. “What’s going on? You two look funny.”
“We were extolling your virtues,” Marge said.
“Virtues?” Oliver distributed the coffee and sat down. “You mean, not only do I have a virtue, I have more than one?”
Marge said, “Well, so far the only thing we’ve come up with is your full head of hair. But we’re still working on it.”
Oliver smiled, then said, “Bert, what motives did you consider besides a revenge kidnapping?”
“A simple theft that went bad. The guy was driving a Rolls Corniche.”
“Crayton had money on him when he died,” Oliver told him.
“That’s why I said it was a theft gone bad.”
“So why not just steal the car?” Marge said. “Kidnapping the driver made it a lot more complicated.”
“You’re assuming it was an organized thing,” Martinez said. “Lark Crayton’s description made the jackers sound like punk, impulsive kids.”
“And you’re assuming that Lark was telling you the truth.”
“At the time, we interviewed her right away. There didn’t seem to be any reason to doubt her story. She called it in as it was happening. She saw them force Crayton into the trunk at gunpoint. We went over her 911 tape. She sounded like she was in a real panic. There were at least five police cars tailing the Rolls before it went down. The area was heavily wooded. Somehow, the perps got away.”
Oliver said, “The perps got away with five cop cars tailing the Rolls?”
“Scott, you know how fast these things happen,” Martinez said.
Oliver did know. “Could they have jumped out of the car before it went over?”
“Sure, anything’s possible.”
“And you haven’t ruled out a revenge thing.”
“Nah, we never ruled it out, because Crayton was in deep debt.”
“He also had a life insurance policy,” Marge said.
“Yeah, two mil,” Martinez said. “He took it out, and Lark was the beneficiary. Insurance was suspicious, and so were we. But we couldn’t trip her up. She kept her story vague and simple…almost like she was rehearsed. The more vague and simple, the harder it is to find a chink. We did a background search on her. She wasn’t a nun, but she didn’t have a sheet. Did insurance ever pay off the policy?”
“Three weeks ago,” Oliver said.
“So insurance didn’t find anything on her, either.”
“Yeah, we want to talk to them about that. The offices open at nine. We’ll call and see what they turned up.” Marge warmed her hands on the coffee mug. “You really think the kidnapping was done by punk kids?”
“At first, no. Tom and I were sure it was some disgruntled investor. But after countless hours of interviewing…well, you’ve seen all the reports. We couldn’t find anything. We were hoping that insurance came up with dirt on Lark Crayton. But if they paid off…”
Marge said, “What about Dex Bartholomew?”
“What about him?”
“Did he seem off to you?”
“Completely. Guy’s an eccentric from the get-go. But we couldn’t find anything to link him to Crayton’s death.” Martinez looked down at the Tarkum file. “That was before you found this. We must have gone through a hundred people. It seemed like such a simple thing. Guy owes money, somewhere there has to be a grudge. But we just didn’t get anywhere with that angle. Okay, so the grudge doesn’t pan out. The wife is beneficiary of a two-mil insurance policy. You go with that angle. And that doesn’t work out, either. After a while, you think, hey, maybe it was just plain old bad luck. Crayton being in the wrong place at the wrong time.” He hefted the Tarkum folder. “Maybe it’ll open a door. I assume someone interviewed Bartholomew with regards to his wife’s carjacking?”
“Osmondson,” Oliver said.
“Did he bring up Crayton?” Martinez asked.
Oliver shook his head. “I don’t know if he was aware of the link to Crayton until I told him about it. Bartholomew needs to be interviewed again. You were primary first time around. Do you want to do it?”
Martinez said, “Since the Tarkum thing is your baby, you two go ahead with the husband/wife interviews.”
Marge spoke to her partner. “You take Elizabeth Tarkum, the wife, I’ll do Dex.” She smiled. “Doing Dex sounds like doing a designer drug, eh?”
“Wishful thinking.” Oliver tapped his pencil again. “Any reason why you want it boy/girl, boy/girl? If Tarkum was having an affair with Crayton, she’d admit it easier to you.”
Marge was taken aback. “Why do you think she was having an affair with Crayton?”
“She’s a young woman married to an old man. Then Crayton comes along, throwing away cash like bubblegum wrappers. He partied big time and had a rep for being a playboy.” Oliver shrugged. “But if your gut says you can do this…”
“Okay,” Marge said. “I’ll take Dexter Bartholomew. Also if he’s this oil millionaire macho man, he’s less likely to posture with me—a woman.”
Oliver said, “That’s true enough. It’s hard to play wienie wag with a wienieless opponent.”
“Wienieless in the physical dimension only,” Marge said. “Because I can swagger along with the best of them.”
15
Marge had a picture in her mind of the Texas—technically Oklahoma—oilman. Dexter Bartholomew would be a bruiser of a guy; around six eight with a giant ten-gallon hat perched atop the head and wisps of sandy-colored hair—touched with gray—peeking out from the brim. He’d have a florid face and a bulbous nose from too much drinking. Piggy deep-set eyes would stare from a wide forehead. He’d dress in khakis with a string tie, and a saggy, baggy beer gut would hang over a genuine croc belt. A deep voice, for sure, with an exaggerated drawl.
When his secretary brought her into Bartholomew’s office, she shook hands with a man no taller than five three. She towered over him, a slim man with long, tapered fingers and manicured nails. Dex didn’t wear a hat. But he had donned a designer navy pin-striped suit. His shirt was white, his tie bright gold and held in place by a diamond tack. A bit of flash, yes, but it was tasteful. He had a brown croc belt, so she’d gotten that right, and matching croc loafers housed his feet. He had a small head to g
o with his small body. Bald on top with sandy hair fringing the base of his skull. (She’d gotten the hair color right, too.) Brown eyes—though not piggish—rested behind glasses. An aquiline nose bisected his face with perfect symmetry. He flashed her large, white teeth. Marge figured it had been meant to be a smile. Instead, he came across like a wolverine baring his fangs.
She managed to smile back.
The office was as comfy as a hotel lobby—furnished like one as well, but the room had class. The walls had been wainscoted with walnut paneling on the bottom, ruby red walls on top. Lots of seating arrangements; there were several wing chairs upholstered in blue oiled leather, a half-dozen carved wooden chairs with floral patterns on the seats, and three sofas—one covered with a deep pink silk, another in white jacquard silk, and the third done up in needlepoint tapestry. Several Persian rugs covered the dark-stained running-board floors. Lots of side tables dressed with floral arrangements. It was stylized but elegant, the two things at odds with the Old World look being a straight-grained sleek rosewood desk and the abstract artwork gracing the walls. The place was situated in a high-rise on Sunset, so it presumedly had a view. But all Marge could make out were bits of rooftops through the haze of L.A.’s smoke-colored marine layer.
“Well, come on in,” Dex told her, pumping her hand. “You got business, I got business. It behooves me to let you do your business. Because the sooner you do your business, the sooner I can go back to doing my business. Which I’m not doing now because I’m talking to you.”
Marge extricated her hand and nodded. He had the drawl—a big one—but the voice was high and tinny. He spoke at a machine-gun clip. She looked around for a place to park herself. He caught her indecision immediately.
“Sit anywhere you like, young lady. You can sit on the chair, you can sit on the sofa, you can even sit on the floor. Once I had a client who loved to sit on the floor. He came from somewhere in the Mideast where they do a lot of floor sitting because they don’t have a surplus of chairs over there. I thought about that as a business for a while…importing chairs to the Mideast. Not these kinds of chairs. These are English—nineteenth-century Victorian. Nice to look at, but not top quality when it comes to collectibles. See, I keep the good ones at home where I don’t have all these philistines putting their derrieres on five-hundred-dollar-a-yard fabric. Or worse, parking their behinds on the original fabric, which is as frail as a woman with consumption. Back home, I got Queen Anne chairs, I got Georgian chairs, I got Regency chairs. I also got an original Chippendale chesterfield desk and a serpentine sideboard. Big pieces meant for another time. I had to break apart the doorframe to get them inside the house. The dealer told me she’d requisitioned them from a castle in northern England, but that’s a long story and probably apocryphal as well. The main thing to take out of this is that the pieces are in perfect condition with the original finish and hardware. The Regency pieces are pretty wild—the Egyptoid stuff. My wife likes that kind of thing. Are you interested in English furniture at all or am I boring you to tears? Go on. Speak up!”