Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 12

by Stalker

  “As tempting as it sounds, I decided to bag it.” He held up the paper sack. “I have fresh rolls, butter, strawberry jam, grapefruit juice, and whole bean coffee with a grinder.” He grinned. “Yuppified to the max.” A second glance and he noticed the revolver in her shaking hand. “You can put the gun away. I promise I’ll behave.”

  Her smile was laced with tears. “Thanks.”

  He put his bag on the counter, then noticed her empty grocery bags. “Looks like we had the same idea. Where’d you go?”

  “Buy Rite Drugs. I bought some pancake mix. I was going to make blueberry pancakes.” She held up the can and offered it by way of proof. “Here are the blueberries.”

  “I see that.”

  “I’ve never made pancakes before,” Cindy said. “Do you think it’s difficult?”

  “No, it’s not difficult with a mix. I used to make them all the time when my boys were young. Back when I had a purpose to life.”

  “Such a devoted father. My dad never made me pancakes, let alone blueberry pancakes.”

  “Guess that makes me the superior parent.” Oliver smiled. “For some reason, you look very wiped out. Why don’t you let me whip up a batch?”

  “He buys me food, then cooks for me. How lucky can a woman get?”

  Slowly, Oliver walked over to her and put his hand around hers. He slipped the gun from her grip and laid it on the kitchen counter. “I’ve got a great idea. Go lie down, and I’ll not only make you pancakes, I’ll scramble up some eggs. Then I’ll set the table and call you when everything’s ready. Full-service butler and cook and I don’t require a tip.”

  “Can’t beat that.”

  “No, you can’t. Go to bed, Cin. The chef needs some elbow room.”

  But she didn’t move. “You live forty-five minutes away. Obviously, you didn’t go home.”

  “Obviously.”

  “Where’d you go?”

  Oliver chuckled. “Drank some strong coffee, then went grocery shopping. Go to bed.”

  “Sure it’s not too—”

  “I have to tank up anyway,” Oliver said. “Gotta meet with Marge and find out about a Camry that took a nosedive.”

  “Oh yeah. I forgot about that.”

  “Go to bed.”

  Go to bed…her bed that was now free of shit. She wanted to ask Oliver what he had done with the pile, but she figured it might dampen his enthusiasm for cooking. Rule number one: If a guy wants to cook for you, let him.

  “I’ll walk you in,” Scott said.

  “I think I can find my bed without your help.”

  “Think so?”

  Cindy nodded, then kissed his cheek. “Thanks, Oliver. This means a lot to me.”

  He turned, then brushed her lips. “You’re welcome. Go lie down.”

  She paused, knowing that she could make it more. With a single touch of her fingers on his, she could make it a lot more. So tired, yet aroused. So weary, yet energized by the smell of his cologne and body oils from his all-night vigil. Her own body was a sorry concoction of out-of-whack hormones.

  “I’ll be in the bedroom,” she said.

  “I know.” With that, he started to open her supply drawer, now jammed with office accoutrements. He opened the cutlery drawer and pulled out the can opener. “You switched drawers on me.”

  Cindy stared at him. “I would never switch a man’s drawers.”

  Oliver burst into laughter. “Get out of here!”

  He sounded like he meant it. Slowly, Cindy made her way to her bedroom, almost molding with the mattress as she slipped inside the covers. Within minutes, the fragrance of homemade cooking tweaked her olfactory system. She had only meant to close her eyes for a moment…just for a moment. But her bed was so comforting and the smell was so wonderful and she couldn’t seem to reopen her eyes. Besides, she wasn’t alone. Oliver was here…

  She awoke in a hot, wet sweat, her chest drumming an arrhythmic cadence. Too scared to move but not too scared to open her eyes. For a moment, she spun with vertigo, but after a fashion the room decided to stop pirouetting. She managed to take in the face of her nightstand clock. It was a little after two. No doubt still the afternoon because the sun was up and this wasn’t the North Pole in the summer. The wonderful cooking smells had dissipated, leaving in their wake the stale odor of congealed grease. Getting up on two feet was no easy trick, but eventually she did find her balance and her pink robe to boot. She trudged out into her living room.

  Scott was gone, and his pancakes had been wrapped in Saran and stowed in the fridge. The dishes had been washed. The counters had been cleaned, just as she had left them, except now she had a coffee grinder. She opened the refrigerator once again and took out a bag of whole beans, placing a scoop in the grinder.

  The sucker worked, turning the beans into aromatic mocha sand. At this point, she didn’t even care about the coffee. The fragrance was enough to lift her spirits. She put on a pot, then headed for the shower. Did a backtrack and checked the door. Of course it was locked, but since Oliver didn’t have a key, it wasn’t bolted. She remedied the situation with a twist of her wrist.

  Once out of the shower, she dressed in loose sweats, her damp hair tickling the back of her neck. She reheated the pancakes in the microwave, poured herself a glass of orange juice, and doused her coffee with half-and-half. She was in breakfast heaven, scarfing down butter and sugar and fat and all the bad stuff, but relishing each bite. She made it through half a stack when the phone rang, sending her heart into paroxysms. Taking a deep breath, she lifted the portable out of the cradle. “Hi.”

  “Are we still on for dinner?”

  Mom.

  “Uh…sure,” Cindy replied. “That’d be great.”

  A pause. Mom said, “You forgot about it.”

  “Not at all—”

  “Yes, you did. But I won’t hold it against you.”

  She was already holding it against her. Cindy said, “What time, Mom?”

  “How about five?”

  That was only three hours away. “Mom, that’s a little early. I ate a late lunch—”

  “See. I told you, you forgot about it. Why else would you eat a late lunch?”

  Sherlock had caught her in her fib. Cindy was annoyed. “You never eat so early. What’s going on?”

  “I just thought maybe we’d chat before dinner.” Another guilt-inducing pause. “But if it’s too hard for you to get here—”

  “How about six-thirty?” Cindy interrupted.

  “I suppose—”

  “Great,” Cindy chirped. “I’ll see you then.”

  She hung up, placing the phone on her kitchen table, dreading the upcoming date. As of late, she had much more in common with her father than with her mother. And it seemed that every time Mom had found out about a dinner at Dad’s, she had followed it up with an invitation of her own. She loved her mother but wondered why she was still competing for her daughter’s love nearly twelve years after the divorce when both parties seemed happily remarried. Real relationships were tricky jobs. It was no wonder there were so many lonely hearts surfing the chat rooms. Electronic boyfriends were perfect. In the privacy of the mind, they were always perfect. They never farted or burped, they never hogged the conversation (probably because their fingers got tired of typing), and they were forced to listen to what you had to say because they were more or less forced to read your response. If only the tactile part could be worked out—the hugging, the kissing, the holding, the stroking, the sex…

  By now, her pancakes had lost their luster, leaving a buttery film on her teeth. She put the half-eaten stack back in the refrigerator, spilled out the orange juice, but helped herself to a second cup of coffee. Time to get down to business.

  Out came the paper and pencil.

  First she wrote down Crayton? Why would the mess in her apartment have anything to do with Armand Crayton? Even if Scott and Marge and her father were on the verge of digging up something about the case, why would the perp take it out
on her?

  But what if the perp had known about her prior acquaintance with Crayton, and thought she knew something about his murder?

  But then why would he satisfy himself with just messing up the apartment? Why not just…gulp…kill her? Was this a warning of some sort?

  Warning about what?

  Remember.

  If it wasn’t Crayton, who could it be? Her dad had suggested three possibilities—Lopez, Marx, and Tropper. Take them and the motives one by one.

  Suppose Lopez trashed her place because she didn’t let him drive her home. Rather unstable gent if that indeed was the case. She’d watch him over the next couple of days, talk to him…maybe even mention the incident and judge his reaction. But she’d have to do it subtly so as not to arouse suspicion.

  She put a check by Andy Lopez’s name.

  Tropper. Everyone at the scene had witnessed her triumph with Estella and how she got the gun away from her, deflecting what could have been a tragedy of domestic violence. Despite Tropper’s best efforts to make her look like a fool, Cindy had come through like a hero. Tropper was pissed, not only because she emerged victorious but also because her victory was done in public. He had tried to put her in her place, and instead she put him down. He had to have felt some embarrassment. Could he still be holding a grudge?

  If he was, he was nursing it slowly, allowing Cindy to type up his reports, fetch his coffee, and do his filing. Clark Tropper seemed more amiable than he had ten days ago. Downright friendly at times…asking her to introduce him to her father. Maybe presumptuous was the correct word. Was he luring her into believing all was fine, while rearranging her animals into Kama Sutra positions?

  The phone rang again. She picked it up from the table and punched in the talk button. “Yo.”

  “Weren’t we supposed to hook up?”

  It was Hayley Marx. Cindy said, “We left it that you were supposed to call me.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. I overslept.”

  “So, it must have gone well last night,” Cindy announced. She hoped her voice was appropriately casual as well as bored.

  “It was all right.” She sounded less than enthusiastic. “He was preoccupied.”

  Cindy bit her lip. “About what?”

  “He mentioned all the carjackings that are going on in his area. I think the heat’s on. You’d probably know more about it than I would since your dad’s in Devonshire.”

  “You think my dad talks to me about work?”

  “I dunno. You two seem close.”

  “We are close. But Dad keeps his work to himself.”

  Hayley said, “That’s cops in general—tight-lipped. Anyway, lunch has come and gone. How about dinner?”

  “Where were you ten minutes ago? My mom just called. I’m going over to her place at six-thirty.”

  “Dinner with Dad, then with Mom?” Hayley commented. “Cindy, you’ve got to get a life.”

  Mocking her. Cindy said nothing.

  Hayley’s voice sounded casual. “I suppose we could go out to Bellini’s afterward. How about if I meet you there at, say…nine?”

  How long did she have to stay at her mom’s to be polite? “Make it nine-thirty. If I leave too early, I’ll hear about it from Mom for the next month.”

  “I think you’re too enmeshed with your parents.”

  “And I think you should give up the closet psychology.”

  Hayley’s laugh was full. “Okay. Bellini’s at nine-thirty. It ain’t all that great, but at least they know my name.”

  Then she disconnected the line. Picking up the pencil, Cindy tapped it against the sheet several times. Under the title of candidates, she wrote down Hayley Marx at the top of her list.

  23

  Decker woke up with a blistering headache. He wasn’t used to sleeping in the daytime, and this particular sleep had been cruel, replete with distorted images that he was now desperately trying to erase. His sheets were sweat-soaked and his face felt swollen and itchy. Despite the pounding in his head, he realized the house was quiet. It was close to five. His family had probably gone back to shul, the boys for Mincha services and Rina had most likely taken Hannah to the afternoon youth program. Decker labored as he got out of bed, the soles of his feet tingling when they touched the ground. Trudging to the bathroom, he wiped his face and neck with a wet towel, brushed his teeth, then ingested a couple of Advil, knowing that while the tabs might not conquer the pain, they might hold back the army of throbbing nerve endings.

  He put on his bathrobe and ventured out, finding Rina stretched out on the couch, her head and feet propped up on pillows of lace and satin. She looked up from her book, then closed it. “How are you feeling?”

  “Do you really want me to answer that?”

  Rina took her feet off the couch. “Come, sit down.”

  “You don’t want me near you.”

  “S’right. I’m used to musky, wild beasts.” She tapped the seat cushion. “Sit.”

  Decker did so, albeit reluctantly. “Where are our progeny?”

  “The boys took Hannah back to shul.”

  “Did they offer or did you make a request?”

  “Actually, they offered.”

  Decker raised his eyebrow. “They actually displayed some altruism. That’s nice. She didn’t call, did she?”

  “No.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I didn’t hear anything, and there’re no new messages on the machine.” Rina shrugged. “You knew she wasn’t going to.”

  “No. It would have been a nice courtesy, but I guess that’s asking too much.”

  “It has more to do with assertion than courtesy, Peter.”

  “You’re right about that,” Decker answered. “Anything I do will be interpreted as interference. You know, as pissed as I am at Oliver, there’s this side that says, hey, he’s a good cop. If she’s willing to accept his help, that’s not so bad. So wait till this resolves. And then when it’s all over, I’ll go ahead and beat the crap out of him—”

  “Peter—”

  “I’m kidding.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  He rubbed his forehead. “Do you believe his story? He just happened to be there when she got drunk.”

  Rina said, “Actually, I do.”

  Peter gave her an incredulous look. “You can’t be serious.”

  “Peter, you knew he was in Hollywood, talking to that detective about the carjackings. It seems reasonable that he might run into Cindy.”

  Decker grumped. “I don’t believe in coincidences. I bet he planned to meet her there and this drunk story is just a cover. They’re doing this to spite me.”

  “With all due respect, I don’t see Scott as a predator. He’d never seek Cindy out, but if she was around and needy…I could see him saying, ‘Well, why not?’ Cindy, on the other hand, is very anxious to prove that she’s your equal. By coopting Oliver, she’s become one of your detectives, de facto—”

  “Oh, please!”

  “Which makes you not just her father but her peer. Which is why she’s so stubborn about accepting your help. She doesn’t want to break this facade about you two being equals.” She took his hand. “We know she’s terrified. I’m just wondering if there’s a way we can help her without getting in her face.”

  “There’s a way,” Decker said. “I can find out who this bastard is and mow him down. It would be preferable to do it with her help, but not essential. If she’s keeping secrets from me, then I can keep secrets from her.”

  “That’s all very well and fine except you haven’t any ideas about his identity.”

  “She gave me some ideas,” Decker said. “I’m not exactly starting from square one.”

  Rina said, “What kind of ideas?”

  “A couple of co-workers. And I’m still not ruling out that this has something to do with the Crayton case.”

  “That was over a year ago.”

  “But it’s not over. We all feel that some of these recent jac
kings are connected to it.”

  “What about the other jackings?”

  Decker looked pained. “We’re still working out the details. Why does she do this to me? She knows how much I worry.” He bounced up and took the cell phone from its recharger. “Drives me crazy! I guess I have to realize that I’m the adult in this relationship.”

  “Maybe that’s part of the problem. That you feel you’re the only adult.”

  He stared at her. “Since when have you become so shrinky?” He made a face. “It’s those community college courses you’re taking. I hope it’s a passing phase. Whenever the wife starts getting too interested in psychology, watch out for the marriage.”

  Rina laughed. “Don’t worry. You’re stuck with me.”

  “I certainly hope so.” Cindy’s machine kicked in. Decker dutifully waited for the beep. “Hi, sweetheart, I just called to find out how you’re doing. Please call me back and let me know you’re okay. I love you.” He punched the end button. “Done.”

  “Except now you’re worried about her not being home.”

  “Exactly.” Decker tried her cell phone. When he didn’t get any response other than that terrifically maddening recorded message—the mobile customer you are trying to reach is unavailable—he paged her. Either she was slow to respond or she was purposely ignoring him. After ten minutes of flattening the floor, he gave up and sank into the couch. He held his head. “I’m at a loss here. Help me. What should I do?”

  Rina took his hand. He was suffering. She was suffering, too. Yet she had to be the rational one, her concerns and feelings secondary because Cindy was his daughter. “You want to go over there, don’t you?”

  “I don’t know!”

  Rina said, “I think that when kids are born, they should be implanted with subdermal locators. The nurse could put it in right when he or she does the silver nitrate drops.”

  “Wouldn’t that be nice.”

  “Instead of schlepping out there, why don’t you page Oliver?” Rina suggested. “Maybe he’s with her.”