Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 12

by Stalker

  “No, sir, I don’t know much about it,” Marge said. “Except that the office looks lovely.”

  “Now, I am so glad you like it,” Dex said. “See, I can tell right away that you are a lady with taste. I can tell that. I can tell that and lots of things because I am a perceptive man. But no sense going into that right now. Because you have business, and I have business. So I suggest we forget about the aesthetics and get down to business. Because that’s what we’re all here for. So have a seat. Because we’re not going to do business until you sit down and until I sit down. So sit down.”

  Marge took a wing chair. Dex sprawled out on the tapestry couch. His eyes stared from behind his glasses. “I assume that, being a detective, you intend to do some detecting. Now if you just want to tell me what this is all about, I may even be able to help you. Go on. I’m listening…all ears…all eyes and ears. That’s your clue to speak, Detective.”

  His gaze was laser intense. She offered him a smile, but he wasn’t buying. She said, “Just a couple of questions regarding your wife’s ordeal—”

  Dex butted in. “You want to talk about my wife’s ordeal? You want to talk about my wife’s ordeal? You want to talk about my wife’s ordeal? Well, ma’am, if you want to talk about my wife’s ordeal, you should be talking to my wife and not to me. ’Cause, y’see, what do I know about my wife’s ordeal? Was I there? I’m asking you, was I there? Was I there?”

  “I don’t believe you were—”

  “Damn right, I wasn’t there. No, ma’am, I was nowhere near there. Because if I had been there, those idiots would have been signed, sealed, and delivered, you know what I’m talking about? I tell you what I’m talking about. I’m talking about the real thing. Done with! Finito! No one gets away with that kind of stuff with me. But I wasn’t there. That’s the problem. While Elizabeth was cruising around Hollywood Boulevard, I was here doing my thing.”

  “You manufacture oil equipment, Mr. Bartholomew?” Marge asked.

  “That is only part of the picture. If you want to be satisfied with part of the picture, then fine. I manufacture oil equipment. But if you want the whole picture, that is not the whole picture. Yes, I do manufacture oil equipment. But first of all, I don’t do it in this office…or even in this state. This office here is dedicated to my businesses and my finances and my investments, as well as the companies’ businesses and finances. Now, that’s not my offices in Tulsa and Oklahoma City.”

  “No?”

  “No, ma’am, my offices there are whole ’nother animals, which’re bluer than blue collar.” He sat up and leaned over to her, speaking earnestly. “You see, Detective, to understand this world—which is slowly closing in…you know, imploding because of technology and the Internet…you’re laughing, but I’m not joking.”

  His face had become flushed. Marge said, “No, sir, I’m not laughing. I see your point—”

  “You don’t see my point because I haven’t told you my point,” Dex broke in. “Technology is a good thing. Yes, it is. It’s a good thing. But it is a very dangerous thing. But that doesn’t have anything to do with what we’re talking about.” He paused. “What were we talking about?”

  “How to understand the world.”

  “Precisely. You got to relate to all sorts of people—rich, poor, black, white, women, men, children, criminals—everyone. You really got to talk to anyone and everyone. Gotta have that patter down, you know what I’m talking about. The patter, the speech, the spiel, the pitch. You don’t have that, you can kiss your business ass good-bye. Now! Why are you here?”

  “To talk about your wife’s carjacking—”

  “And whether I was there or not. And I wasn’t. I told you that. I assure you, I wasn’t there. So why are you talking to me about it?”

  Marge knew she had to talk fast and in short sentences. “Any idea who might have done it?”

  “Now, if I had an idea of who might have done it, don’t you think I would have talked to the police about it? Now, you are the police. You are the police. And I’m telling you right here and now, I don’t know who did it. I don’t have the faintest idea who did it, and furthermore, I’d just as soon forget about who did it for Elizabeth’s sake. Because every time someone has the bad taste to bring it up, she gets all tense. And let me tell you something, I don’t need a tense wife. No, that’s not what a man wants—a tense wife. So no, I don’t know who did it. Furthermore, I don’t even have any idea who did it. Any other questions?”

  Marge honed in on his face. “Have you ever considered that the jacking had something to do with Armand Crayton?”

  Again Dex showed his teeth. The wolverine was going in for the kill. “Armand Crayton. Uh-huh. You want me to tell you something about Armand Crayton? I’ll tell you something about Armand Crayton. He didn’t deserve to die like that. No, ma’am, he didn’t deserve that at all.”

  “You had business dealings with him,” Marge pointed out.

  “Yes, I did have some minor business dealings with him.”

  “You made money—”

  “Well, of course, I made money! That’s the idea, Detective, to make money in business.”

  “Some people lost money—”

  “If some damn fool invested with Crayton and lost money, then…well, then I’d say, don’t go into business. ’Cause you don’t know what you’re doing. Because what you shouldn’t be doing is losing money. Now that’s not to say I’ve never lost money. Course I lost money. But not money I couldn’t afford to lose. See, that’s the difference between whether it works and it don’t work. It’s what you can afford to lose. The fuck-you money, pardon my French. The catbird seat. You always want to be in the catbird seat.”

  “Maybe Crayton wasn’t telling his clients all the risks involv—”

  “Caveat Emporium or whatever the saying is! Let the buyer watch his ass. You can’t watch your ass, you shouldn’t be in business. I watched my ass, I made money with Crayton. You don’t watch your ass, you lose money. And that’s not what I do…lose money. I make money. That’s what I do. Any other questions. Because frankly, Miss Detective, I don’t see much rhyme or reason to your questions.”

  “Whether or not you made money with Crayton is irrelevant to our investigation, Mr. Bartholomew. The point is—”

  “Making money is irrelevant to your investigation, but it’s relevant to me. That’s the whole point of business…to make money. So if your investigation isn’t relevant to me, why should I answer your questions? Can you answer me that?”

  Marge tried to hold on to her patience. “Mr. Bartholomew—”

  “What I’m asking you, Detective, is what are you driving at? What are you driving at!”

  Marge blurted out, “Someone may have kidnapped your wife for revenge on Crayton—”

  “Bah and humbug!” Bartholomew brushed her off. “Elizabeth had nothing to do with Crayton. She didn’t even like the man. She thought he was a piss bucket, excuse my French. Every time we went over there, she moaned and groaned and carried on like she was Marie Antoinette being carted off to the guillotine.”

  Marge broke in. “You were social friends with Crayton?”

  “I’m social friends with everyone—”

  “By that I mean you went to his house and he came to yours?”

  “You’re interrupting me,” Dex said. “Now, if you go on interrupting me, you’re not going to know what I mean. But if you don’t interrupt me, then I’ll tell you what I mean and you won’t have to wonder what I mean. ’Cause I’ll tell you what I mean.”

  “Okay, sir,” Marge said. “What do you mean?”

  “What were we talking about again?”

  “You being social friends with Mr. Crayton.”

  “I’m social with all my business associates. Because that’s how you do good business. You do good business by being a person first and a businessman later. Course, if you aren’t much of a businessman being a person isn’t gonna help much. Gotta have both—the person and the business h
orse sense. Am I making myself clear?”

  “Had you ever been to Mr. Crayton’s house?”

  “Didn’t I tell you that, Detective? Didn’t I say to you that dragging Elizabeth to Crayton’s house was akin to sending Antoinette to the rack—”

  “Guillotine—”

  “Rack, guillotine…some instrument of torture.”

  “You must have hundreds of business associates.”

  “Maybe even thousands—”

  “Do you and your wife go to everyone’s house?”

  “Now, you interrupted me again. But I see your point. And I’ll explain it to you. No, I don’t go to every business associate’s house. Not if the associate lives in Singapore, not if he lives in Japan or China or Europe or Australia unless I’m visiting Singapore or Japan or China or Australia. You see what I’m getting at?”

  “You do a lot of foreign business.”

  “Damn if you aren’t a smart girl.” He grinned with sharp teeth. “Yes, I do lots of foreign business. Crayton is a local boy, so if he invites me over to dinner, well, being a gentleman, I go. You get invited, you go. Unless you detest the man. I didn’t detest the man. I found him to have a certain amount of charm. And then there was his wife; she was lovely. Which I think is the main reason that Elizabeth didn’t want us going over there. She disliked Crayton, but she detested Lark. Because Lark is young and beautiful. You know how wives are.”

  “Jealous?”

  “I like the word protective. Elizabeth is protective of me, y’see, because I’m the only thing in her life that’s worth protecting. But I liked going to Armand’s, because he was a funny guy. Yes, he was very funny. Truly entertaining. And Lark, being a young and lovely thing, kept Elizabeth on her toes. Yes, it did. And when you’re sixty-one with a twenty-six-year-old wife, it’s nice when she’s kept on her toes.”

  “So she was jealous of Lark?”

  “I told you I don’t like the word jealous. Elizabeth was protective of me when it came to Lark. Because Lark knew winners and losers. And where she wasn’t so sure about her husband, she was damn sure that I was a winner. Unfortunately for her, I’m taken. But we all know how fast that can change.”

  “Do you like Elizabeth being protective?”

  “I do like it. I like being protected by a young woman very much. You got that right. So why don’t you quit your questions now while you’re on a high note?”

  “Did you ever have Lark and Armand over to your house?”

  He broke into staccato laughter. “Now, it’s one thing to let yourself be dragged over to the house of a person you detest. It’s another to entertain people you abhor. Even I couldn’t ask Elizabeth to do that. So, in answer to your question, no, we never had them over to my place. Which was a shame. Because Armand Crayton had no taste in design. No, I take that back. Armand had taste. He just had terrible taste. And I might have been able to teach him a thing or two about designing elements if he would have stuck around longer.”

  Bartholomew stood up.

  “In summary, Detective, I don’t know who kidnapped my wife, I don’t know why he or she did it, and it had nothing to do with the Armand Crayton murder because Elizabeth had nothing to do with Crayton. So I have nothing more to tell you. Furthermore, I have an appointment and that appointment’s not with you. So if you’ll excuse my bluntness, you have to go. And even if you won’t excuse it, you still have to go. I hope you got what you wanted. Good-bye!”

  He stuck out a waiting hand. Marge paused, then stood and shook hands. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Bartholomew.”

  “You should thank me for my time, Detective. Because I make roughly twenty thousand dollars an hour. So I figure that this little interview cost me around ten grand—the price of a little diamond pin that my wife was looking at. And now, because of this interview costing me ten grand, I’m not going to buy it for her.” Again the feral smile. “So I guess you served a purpose. Because if she asks me why I didn’t buy her the pin, I’ll tell her to blame it on the police.”

  16

  Cruising down the Hollywood Freeway, Cindy tried to empty her mind of today’s garbage. Being grumpy and sleep-deprived was bad enough. But then Beaudry had the audacity to be in a bad mood as well, making it a shift from hell. He had basically bowed out of every arrest, giving her all the dirty work, which he could do because he was the vet and she was the rookie. No matter that she was six weeks away from permanent status, he was the boss. So she took orders and tried to maintain. Two angry cops with loaded weapons and a shotgun, holed up together for eight, tension-filled hours. It was a miracle that police officers didn’t routinely shoot one another.

  Then, there was Tropper, who was suddenly her buddy, giving her the nod and his paperwork. She was usually pretty good at reading people, but she couldn’t tell if he was interested in her as a workhorse or as a lay. She found herself avoiding him, sidestepping around his cubicle, then wondering if she was being obvious about it.

  Her car started shaking. She had worked herself up to a righteous indignation and in the process had pressed the pedal to the metal. She was now going around eighty, so instinctively she looked around for an evil ticket-giving cop. Then she smiled. She was the enemy. If she were pulled over by LAPD, she probably wouldn’t get a ticket. But highway patrol was another thing. They’d cite her because times were tough, revenue was scarce, and there was no interagency cooperation anymore. Born too late to fix tickets: What a pisser!

  Again she gave a quick glance in her rearview mirror as she lessened the force on the gas pedal. No cop cars, but a red Toyota Camry with a dented fender and no front license plate—a thirty-six-dollar ticket—was keeping pace with her even though she was still going seventy-five. The car appeared to be around five years old and in need of a good wash. She turned on her right-hand signal and moved over to the next lane. Then she slowed, waiting for the Camry to pass her so that she could get the back plate. But it didn’t. It slowed as well.

  Actually, it did more than just slow. It changed lanes, then dropped two car-lengths behind her. She thought a moment, wondering why it was important to her to get the Camry’s license plate. She was off-duty, going to her father’s house for what hopefully would be a relaxing dinner, so what the hell did she care about some misdemeanor license plate infraction?

  Her mind wasn’t on her driving. Now she was going too slowly. Cars were passing her on the left and on the right. She increased her speed, then glanced in her driver’s mirror. The red Camry had narrowed the distance between them, one lane over and a half car-length behind.

  Forget about it, Decker.

  Though Cindy didn’t know why Beaudry had been in a bad mood, she damn well knew why she was crabby. It had something to do with cryptic messages, misplaced pictures, rearranged sweaters, and Scott Oliver. Her resentment toward him surprised her, so she knew it was more than just his obnoxious behavior. She was lonely; Scott had been a brief reprieve.

  Again, her eyes danced to the rearview mirror. The Camry was still with her. Involuntarily, her chest tightened and her stomach knotted. She entertained a thought that the car was following her, but that was ridiculous. Why would someone be following her? The Crayton case rearing its ugly head? But the Tarkum woman—or her husband Dex—had been involved with Crayton financially. She had nothing to do with the Craytons or his shenanigans. Yet the damn Camry was still with her.

  C’mon, Decker. You’re getting paranoid.

  Suddenly, she hit the interchange to the Valley—where the 101 meets the 170—and the steady stream of cars slackened to a sluggish crawl, the freeway arteries clogged as far as the eye could see. A quick turn behind her back and she realized that the Camry had dropped out of sight. Involuntarily, she let out a gush of air.

  Not that she was really worried, she told herself. Only now she was irritated. She was east and south of where she wanted to be. In general, the 101 was notoriously bad at this time of the evening. Adding that it was Friday, she was in for one thick traffic jam. A
s she battled the stop-and-go, she thought about her bad luck with men. All of her relationships had involved unattainable guys. Not married men per se, but rather guys with baggage or commitment insecurities and/or career aspirations who put personal relationships in a distant second place. Then there were her hangups and goals, including her career aspirations in law enforcement that basically got in the way of everything else.

  She thought about all this as she idled on the freeway, screening her eyes from a sun-reflecting wall of chrome bumpers now at a standstill. Surface streets had to be better than this. She inched to the right, and using a pinch of space, she nudged her car into the abutting lane. She rolled down her window and tried eye contact with the black SUV Jeep next to her. The bastard was pretending not to see her.

  You’re not going anywhere, bub. Why’re you being so stubborn?

  Again she thought of Oliver, cutting in line at the coffee shop yesterday, using badge muscle when he should have behaved like a civilian. Cindy thought his behavior rude and snobbish. Ah well, how the mighty succumb when stuck in traffic jams! She let go with a horn honk, attracting Mr. SUV Jeep’s attention. He glared at her, and she responded by showing him her badge.