Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 12

by Stalker

Decker chuckled. “Because someone slipped up. Or someone just never thought about the license plates. We Americans seem to be obsessed with the brilliance of the devious criminal mind. In reality, most felons are just plain dumb.”

  20

  Hot, sweaty, tired , dirty, disgusted, self-loathing, inept, and more than a little bit frightened. And this was just a partial list of adjectives she’d use to describe her raw emotions. What Cindy desperately needed was a shoulder to cry on, but with no one available she’d have to settle for a hot bath and bed.

  It was well after the witching hour when they finally returned from their forest foray, but the only one who was sleeping was Hannah. An exhausted Marge had grabbed Vega, who was still filled with questions, and left muttering apologies to Rina for taking her husband away on the Sabbath. When it had been Cindy’s turn to say good-bye, both Rina and Decker had begged her to stay until the morning, her father being particularly worried about her driving home. True, Cindy’s weariness bordered on debilitating, and equally true, her car had been spewing smoke signals earlier in the evening. Still, she had stubbornly refused to spend the night. She needed her own shower, her own mattress, her own space.

  Call when you get in, Dad had pleaded. Please?

  You worry too much. Besides, you won’t answer the phone because of the Sabbath.

  I’ll wait up to hear your voice.

  Dad, please don’t.

  Okay, I won’t wait up. But leave a message anyway.

  Reluctantly, she agreed. He was concerned because he knew deep in his heart that something was amiss. If only he weren’t so damn perceptive.

  She drove home in a state of paranoia. Hypervigilant, she made each look over her shoulder count, eyes constantly meandering from the front to the back, from her rearview mirror to her side mirrors. She changed lanes often; she made abrupt moves. She’d suddenly speed up, she’d slow down. If she’d seen herself driving, she’d have pulled herself over on a DUI. But she did have rhyme and reason for her blunt actions. Her erratic driving was meant to bring out a tail.

  But there was no tail. At least, no one appeared to be following her. Getting off the 10 freeway at National, she twisted and turned her way toward home. There was still some early Saturday morning traffic buzzing along, a car radio thumping out rap at an ear-splitting level. Cindy cited the violation in her head, then turned east, just slightly north of Culver City. The route home took her past her favorite Indian vegetarian restaurant and sweet shop, an army surplus store, a designer clothing outlet, a law corporation that advertised on daytime TV during the soaps, a health-food store chain that was always jammed with alternative health foodies, and a series of old one-story buildings that had somehow made it through L.A.’s numerous earthquakes.

  A quick left, then a right, and she found herself tooling down suburban streets lined with apartment buildings. It was an integrated area: African Americans, Hispanics, Indians (from India), Asians, Jews, and some working-class whites thrown in for contrast. She loved the pulse of this sleepy town, a throwback to a gentler L.A., housing so many different people with their different languages, their regional dress, and their varied cuisines. She had only lived in the area for seven months, yet, for her, it was as right as rain.

  She pulled into her parking space in front of the building and turned off the motor, her eyes scouting her surroundings. The area appeared quiet…deserted. With great caution, she opened the car door and got out—keys in left hand, the fingers of her right wrapped around the butt of her gun. No one jumped from the shadows, no one popped out of anywhere. Boringly serene and that was the way she liked it. Still, she felt her breathing quicken. It had been such a long night…

  Walking to the front of her building, up the steps.

  Constantly glancing behind.

  Jingling the keys while holding fast to her gun.

  By now she was panting, sweating…

  Get ahold of yourself, Decker.

  A look to the left…to the right…over her shoulder.

  Slipping the key into the lock…

  Something was terribly, terribly wrong. As she inserted the key, the door opened to an inch’s worth of space with no dead bolt latched to hold it in place. For a moment, she felt her head going light, her chest banging like a bass drum. Then she quickly regained her senses. Standing stock-still, trying to evaluate the situation without panicking.

  She left the key halfway in the lock, then liberated her gun from her purse.

  Door unlocked. Was someone there? Was someone still there? Dark inside. Is there any noise? Do you hear anything?

  But she was only able to discern the frantic sounds of her own raspy gulps of oxygen.

  Keep thinking. Go inside or go away? Call someone? But who? Police?

  She was the police.

  Don’t press your luck! Get away, get away! Get away! Or maybe…maybe just a quick peek inside. If you’re going to do that, don’t touch anything. Don’t touch…get away makes more sense. Who to call? Who to call? Just a quick peek.

  With the barrel of the gun, she further nudged the door ajar. A fetid whiff assaulted her nostrils. After tonight she thought she was beyond smelling, but she was proven wrong. Another prod with her gun. By now there was an eight-inch gap of space connecting the outside of her apartment to the inside. She stopped, she listened, she looked, but she couldn’t see a thing. Her place was dark.

  No sounds except for her breathing. Sweat pouring off her brow onto her nose and mouth. She licked up the dirty, salty water with the tip of her tongue. Her armpits were soaked; there was dampness between her legs.

  Did she piss in her pants? No, just sweat…lots and lots of sweat.

  Again she pushed the door with her gun. Now she could make out things even in the darkness. Things in disarray…

  Get away!

  But that would show weakness. She refused to show weakness, even to herself. Taking a baby step forward, but a foot outside the door just in case. Using the barrel of her gun, she flipped on the living room lights. A fraction of a second for her eyes to adjust. When they did, she wished they hadn’t. It was more than disarray. Her home, her refuge—someone had turned into refuse—a literal garbage dump of wreckage and breakage, of shit and trash. A sickening altar to some demon god, constructed by some maniac, some horrible, terrible, sadistic…

  Tears welled in her eyes. Her brain shut down. She couldn’t even think, she was so stunned. Instead, all she could do was stare in helplessness. Her very being had been violated, ravaged by some two-legged wild animal. She slumped, then leaned against the doorjamb for support, her gun still in her shaking hand.

  Don’t fritz out on me now, she mentally yelled. Someone may still be there.

  She swallowed, forced herself into action, holding her service piece with a two-grip stance. Her eyes surveyed the terrain, specifically the floor and how to step around the piles of tossed books mixed with littered pictures and broken glass—a massive, reeking mountain of a mess!

  Think!

  How to move so she wouldn’t trip. How to get cover if needed. The couch was still upright…more like the frame was upright. The back was intact but several cushions had been ripped.

  Get a plan! Check the place out!

  First, she looked through the living room, then the kitchen, then the bedroom and bathroom. The advantage of a small apartment: fewer rooms to check out when someone guts them. Methodically, she crept forward, her eyes panning across the open interior doors, her footwork planned and careful as she sidestepped mounds of trash and filth. Turning on the kitchen light, what she saw knocked the wind from her roiling gut. Pots, pans, food, rubbish, shards of broken dishes, scattered cutlery, puddles of milk, juices, and maybe urine for as much as she could tell. Certainly stank like someone had pissed.

  But her kitchen wall clock remained intact. According to the cat with the swinging tail, it was one twenty-two.

  Opening the refrigerator with the back of her hand, she saw a catastrophe of sticky food,
broken eggs, and spilled drinks. She closed it immediately and opened the cupboards: The maniac had had the courtesy to save some of her dishes—around half intact, half dumped on the floor scattering ceramic dust.

  She moved back into the living room, debris crunching under her feet as hot tears ran down her cheeks. Slowly making her way into the bedroom, each step forward agonizing because she knew what she’d find. Turning on the light, she saw it was worse than she imagined. Her clothing, her pictures, her perfume bottles, her combs and brushes, her jewelry, her makeup, her shoes and underwear and socks and hose—all of it scattered and tossed and disregarded. Her bedding had been ripped off her mattress, her comforter vomiting up pieces of hypoallergenic foam. On top of her mattress cover was a steaming pile of what looked to be dog shit.

  She sniffed back tears and bit her lip to keep it from shaking.

  Her drawers half open with her garments spilling out. Her closet door…it was half closed.

  Someone hiding?

  With great trepidation, Cindy approached. Her footwork was steady but far from silent. Each step gave her presence away. Imagining herself in a raid.

  Take a deep breath, she told herself. A deep breath now. One…two…three. Go!

  She kicked the door open and pointed her gun at her hanging pink robe.

  “Freeze!” she screamed.

  But there was no response, only the grating noises made by her choppy breathing. Using her foot, she kicked through her apparel, filtered through the garments just to make sure no one was hiding. Clearly no one was there. When she was satisfied, she came out from her clothing niche, desperately trying to staunch the flow of tears. Suffused with resignation and despair, she inched her way over to the bathroom. She knew what to expect because some of the contents of her medicine cabinet were lying on the floor between the two rooms. As she neared her bathroom, she felt a chill down her back. She bolted around, but no one was there.

  Going crazy, are we?

  Shut up! She said it out loud.

  Now she was talking to herself.

  She turned back to the bathroom. Felt the chill again and was about to look over her shoulder. Before she could pivot, a voice from behind shouted, “Freeze! Don’t move, don’t move, don’t move!”

  She froze, paralyzed by fear. Fear that seemed somewhat out of place. Because she knew rationally that maniacs don’t say freeze. Cops say freeze.

  “It’s me, Cindy,” the voice said. “Scott Oliver. Don’t move!”

  She remained motionless.

  “I am crouched by the side of your bed, staring at a pile of shit with my gun drawn over the mattress. I can see you. You’re holding your revolver in your right hand. I’m telling you all this because I don’t want to stand up and have you shoot me. I’d really like to avoid any stupid tragedy, okay?”

  She didn’t answer. He spoke softly but forcefully at the same time. How did he do that?

  Oliver said, “Okay. How about you turn around first so you can see me…or the gun? Then I stand up.”

  She remained silent.

  Oliver said, “Or I can stand up first, but then you can’t see what’s going on.”

  “I’ll turn around,” Cindy said. Her voice sounded tremulous, as if she were talking underwater.

  Oliver said, “Fine. Just don’t shoot—”

  “I won’t shoot.” She turned around. “I see your gun.”

  “Good. I’m getting up now.” As he stood, he heard his knees crack. Clearly getting too old for this. When he was on his feet, he almost gasped when he saw her. Her face was sodden and covered with dirt. Staring at him with wild eyes, she looked feral. For a full minute, they locked eyes. Neither spoke and neither moved. Finally he said, “Are you alone?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “I mean…” He swallowed hard. “Is someone here? I mean, can I put my gun down? Or maybe someone’s still in the place…I mean have you checked everything out?”

  She still didn’t answer.

  He held up his revolver, then slowly put it down on the bed. “I’m going to walk toward you—”

  “Don’t!”

  “Sure. Okay! Fine. I’ll stay here. Won’t move a muscle. You tell me what…” Again he swallowed. “Are you all right?”

  She didn’t answer. She couldn’t answer.

  “I mean…I know you’re not all right…” He sighed heavily and looked at the ceiling. “Do you need to go to the hospital?”

  She shook her head.

  “Were you assaulted?”

  She shook her head again. “I…It was like this when I came home.” Then she said, “Why are you here?”

  “I left a message on your machine…” He smiled, but the side of his mouth twitched. He was sweating buckets. “I suppose you haven’t gotten around to checking your messages. Jesus fucking Christ, what the hell happened?”

  She stared at him.

  Oliver said, “Marge called me about fifteen, twenty minutes ago…she told me about the Camry and the…you following it and it going over the mountain and the crash. And…” He exhaled deeply and blew it out. He folded his arms across his chest to prevent his hands from shaking. “And she wanted me…or her and me…or she and I…to go over there tomorrow…to the crash site…and check it out and…and I was in the area and knew you were coming back, so I figured you’d be up. So I thought I’d ask you a couple of questions…about the crash. And about the car…you know, to get background. And maybe I thought it would be nice to see you.”

  She remained motionless.

  Oliver licked his lips. “I saw the light on in your place, but the door was open so…I saw this fucking mess…I wanted to make sure…” He stopped talking. “I…I…I think you get the picture.”

  “Where were you?” Cindy asked softly.

  “Pardon?”

  Her cheeks were wet and felt as if they were on fire. “You said you were in the area.” She cleared her throat. “Where were you?”

  “I was out in the area…just out. What difference does it make? I was ou—” Again he smiled. Again his mouth twitched. “You don’t think that I…” He stopped talking.

  Slowly, she neared him, emphasizing each step—one, two, three, four, five, six. Until she was right in front of his face. Until she could see every pore oozing brine from his face. Until she could almost taste the salt of his sweat. Until she smelled the anxiety in his sour bad breath. She whispered, “I know where you were. You were at Hayley Marx’s apartment. You were fucking her, weren’t you? So why didn’t you just come out and say, ‘I was at Hayley Marx’s apartment, fucking her!’ Huh? Why didn’t you just say that?”

  Oliver felt his face go hot. He chuckled and shrugged, his eyes darting about the room. “Okay. I was out fucking Hayley Marx.”

  She threw back her hand and smacked him across the face. “You bastard! You fucking asshole bastard!” She slapped him again, catching his nose against the palm of her hand. Immediately blood began to pour from his nostrils. Instead of deterring her actions, it heightened them. She slammed her fist into his shoulder. Then she started pummeling him. Punching him until it made her hands hurt; he made no effort to block her jabs. “You filthy, rotten son of a bitch—”

  The phone rang, shocking her into passivity. Sobbing, she jumped back and hugged herself. “Oh God, I’m sorry, Scott. I’m so sorry, I’m so very sor—”

  “It’s okay,” he croaked out, holding his hand over his nose. “Your phone’s ring—”

  “I am so, so sorry—”

  “Cindy, your phone—”

  “Oh God, oh God, oh God—”

  “Shhhh…”

  “So sorr—”

  “Quiet!” Oliver barked. “I’m trying to hear your machine…” He swabbed his bloody nose with his shirt. “It’s your dad. I’ll get—”

  “No!” She grabbed his arm. “No, no, no!”

  “He wants to know where you are—”

  “No!” Cindy dug her nails into his arm. “If you tell him about this
, then he’ll know I lied about the car.”

  He yanked his arm away and rubbed his forearm. “What car? What are you talking—”

  “I’ll have to tell him that the Camry was following me instead of me following it. And then he’ll know I lied. And he’ll never, ever trust…and I signed that statement—”

  “The Camry was tailing you?” Oliver asked. “You didn’t tell your father that there was a car tailing you?”

  “You don’t understand!” she wailed. “I couldn’t, Scott! I just couldn’t. If I did, he’d take over and—”

  “Cindy, you’ve got to—”

  “No!”

  “Then let me—”

  “No, no, no! You can’t tell him, Scott. You’ve got to promise me that you…just promise me—”

  “Cindy, at this point, we have no choice—”

  “Then he’ll know you’re here—”

  “Cindy, I don’t fucking care if he knows I’m here. You need him, baby. As a matter of fact, I need him. I could do with a little professional input.”

  “You can’t tell him!”

  “I’ve got to tell him!”

  Again she hauled back and attempted to slug him. But this time he grabbed her wrists. “Stop hitting me!”

  “Let me go!” she screamed. “Let me go, let me…” Suddenly, she wilted against his chest and started sobbing—big, deep, uncontrollable wails. Oliver released his grip on her arms, then hugged her tightly.

  “It’s okay!”

  “It’s not okay!”

  She was right. It wasn’t okay. He felt his skin prick with anger. Who the fucking hell did this? “I am so fucking sorry…” Again the phone rang. Oliver started, jumped back, breaking the contact. Sweating with a spasm in his right eyelid. Not to mention his nose, which was still leaking blood. Yet he could keep his voice controlled and even. “That has to be your dad again. He’s worried that you didn’t make it home. If you don’t tell him you’re okay, he’s going to call out the National Guard. Or, at the very least, come over here.”

  “I’ll talk to him,” Cindy said.