Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 12

by Stalker

  “You’re getting red in the face, Mr. Harper. Just what is your blood pressure?”

  “I don’t know ’cause it’s rising by the minute.”

  “Just watch yourself,” Cindy admonished. “My CPR skills are rusty.”

  “It may be worth it.”

  “Who actually owned the Desert Bloom land?”

  “That would be Armand.”

  “So he actually was selling land that he owned.”

  “Well, I suppose technically the bank owned it. But Armand had the deeds. Mr. Crayton owned the plots, and more important, the rights to develop them.”

  “Who were Armand’s clientele?”

  “Lots of working-class stiffs from Los Angeles. And for a while it looked like Armand was going to pull it off. The locals were ecstatic.”

  “Did any of the locals buy in?”

  “Most didn’t. Don’t think they fully trusted Armand and they turned out to be right. But that was neither here nor there. A development like Desert Bloom could completely revitalize the town. City planning commission couldn’t wait to approve the plans. This was what everyone was waiting for. They, like the rest of us, could almost taste that influx of fresh greenery. And it was promising for a while. Armand had down-payment money and everything. How do I know? Because Crayton had his business accounts banked locally. And there was money in the account. Real money. We all thought that the project looked like a go.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Guess you don’t follow the market much.”

  “I would if I had money.”

  “Touché,” Harper said. “I know that situation. Well, Cindy, what happened is that the market dipped…a big dip.”

  “Armand pulled out,” Cindy said.

  “No, he didn’t pull out. But his partner did, the actual man with the money to develop. When the plug was pulled by Dex, everything fell through.”

  “Dex being Dexter Bartholomew,” Cindy said.

  Harper regarded her. “Yep, you’ve done your homework. The good old boy from Oklahoma had us all going for a while. But then…” He snapped his fingers. “Gone. He suddenly refused to develop Desert Bloom, claiming that Armand didn’t have enough initial buyers to develop a project of such magnitude. Hell, he needed way more money just to get started. You know, to run the utility lines—the water, the sewage, the electricity, the phone lines, though God knows there were plenty of phone lines already set up. But everyone here knew what the real story was. Dex took a beating in the market and didn’t have the play money anymore.”

  “But Armand had banked the down-payment money.”

  “Yes, ma’am, he did.”

  “So he refunded his investors.”

  “No, ma’am, he didn’t. I said he banked the money. I never did say the money stayed in the bank permanently.”

  “He spent it.”

  “Yes, he did. Not on wine, women, and song—although I’m sure that was part of it. Mostly, he spent it to acquire more land to make the development even bigger. When the bust hit, and Dex pulled out, Armand was left with a slew of angry investors.”

  “Any particular irate citizen come to mind?”

  “Nope.” Harper sighed. “It was very pi-tee-ful. Dex left Crayton with worthless land and a lot of explaining to do. In the end, he was forced to declare bankruptcy. The bank took back the land that Armand owned, and the dream vanished. Now the people who had already bought plots, course they still owned the land. But now it was worthless. There was a class action suit, but nothing ever came of it because Crayton didn’t have anything. Of course, that didn’t stop him from living in a fancy house or driving a fancy car. Which really tweaked a few noses.”

  “Never let them see you sweat, Mr. Harper.”

  “Mebbe, though it wouldn’t have hurt to be a little more sensitive to the situation.”

  Cindy drank her coffee, remembering Crayton. He was a man of flash and dreams, as insubstantial as a Hollywood pitch line. She said, “You know, the rumor was that Bartholomew actually made money off Armand. But it sure doesn’t sound like that was the case.”

  Harper chuckled. “Don’t cry for Dex. Once Armand went broke, Dex—as a gentleman’s courtesy to those unfortunate souls who went bust—offered to buy back the land. His largesse was tempered by the fact that he offered deep discount prices. Still, twenty percent on the dollar is better than zero. Dex did just fine.”

  “How’s that if the land’s worthless?”

  “Worthless as a housing development, but not worthless as land. Lots of stone underneath here, Cindy Decker. Good, solid stone. But you need capital to quarry it up. Lucky for Dex that he had capital from his oil pipe business. If you keep going northeast, you’ll run into the pits. Now we Belfleurians are a forgiving type, so we don’t hold it against him. Also, he’s created more than a few local jobs. Dex is doing just fine, thank you very much.”

  “And everybody sold out to him?”

  “Almost.” Harper broke into a big smile. “See, I don’t believe in selling land at a deep discount if it’s my money. I’d rather sit on it.”

  “You were an initial buyer in Desert Bloom Estates, Mr. Harper?”

  Harper hung his head in mock shame. “I regretfully admit that I got caught up in the frenzy. Sometimes I think that I’m just a crazy old fool.”

  Crazy like a fox, Cindy thought. “You don’t seem so upset by it.”

  “I’m not. And it turned out to be a good thing. Because my little plot actually bisects key parts of Dex’s quarry. Makes it very hard for him to get from point A to point B without trespassing on it.”

  “He’s offered you a premium price for it, then.”

  “Many times, Cindy, many times. But I don’t believe in gouging the man. Instead, I just charge him a tiny bit of money every time he crosses my land.”

  “Just a tiny bit.”

  “A tiny, tiny bit,” Harper said.

  “How many times does he cross your land a day?”

  “’Bout two hundred.” Harper burped. “Those tiny bits do add up.”

  “Aren’t the others resentful?”

  “Mebbe a few. More are impressed with my real estate savvy.” He took his feet off the table. “Are you impressed?”

  “Yes, I am.” Cindy looked at the ceiling, then said, “You wouldn’t, by any chance, have a list of Crayton’s investors…would you?”

  “If I had a list, that would be a confidential thing, young lady.”

  Cindy looked at Harper, but said nothing.

  Harper said, “Course we could negotiate a price.” His smile widened. “And it doesn’t have to be money.”

  Cindy said, “What do you have in mind?”

  “I could relax my impeccable standards for…say, a quick blow job.”

  Cindy pulled out her badge. “You’ve just solicited a police officer.”

  Harper’s grin remained in place, but it lost its wolfish leer. “Ah, you can do better than that, Cindy Decker. We both know you have no authority here.”

  “I could still make trouble for you, Elgin.”

  “Nah, you don’t understand the system.” Harper got up. “I got friends in the department.”

  Cindy supposed that was true enough. She moved in close, then gave him a peck on the cheek. She whispered, “Please?”

  “Give me tongue and we might have a deal.”

  “Elgin, I wouldn’t want to be responsible for your infarct.” She beamed. “Be a love and help me.”

  Harper sneered. “I suppose it won’t create much of a problem if you take a quick peek at it here in the office.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “We’re back to ‘sir,’ are we? I liked it better when you called me Elgin. You know why I’m doing this for you? You didn’t wrinkle your nose at my cigar. City folks can stuff pounds of cocaine up their noses, but a little tobacco smoke riles them into hysteria. You’re okay, Cindy Decker. You know how to work people.”

  “Why thank you, Elgin. It was very
kind of you to say that.”

  Harper yanked out a drawer from his ancient file cabinet. It squeaked when it opened. “I’ll have to get organized one day.”

  “What for?” Cindy asked. “You seem to know your way around your paperwork.”

  “More or less.” Harper rooted through sheaves of multicolored papers—yellow, pink, white, blue-lined paper, graph paper, newspaper. It was a total mess. But a minute later, victory was his. “Here we go.” He handed her the list and looked at his wall clock. “I’ll give you thirty seconds, young lady. Fair enough?”

  “Fair enough, Elgin.” Cindy gave the list a quick once-over. She didn’t even need the thirty seconds. Since the names were in alphabetical order, Richard Bederman was placed almost at the top.

  32

  Having the information but not knowing what to do with it. Yes, Rick Bederman had been one of the investors from the ill-fated Desert Bloom Estates, but Cindy had nothing to connect him to any crime. And why would Bederman, more than anyone else on the list, enact revenge on Crayton and Bartholomew? Lastly, what, if anything, did that have to do with her recent problems?

  It was after seven, dark by the time she got home. She pulled into her outdoor parking space and checked her rearview mirror before she unlocked the door. All was quiet. She quickly got out of the car and climbed up the two flights of stairs to her unit. But before she went inside, she checked the bottom of her door. She had strung a tress of her hair from the edge of the door to the frame. It was still there and that was encouraging. Unlocking the door, she stepped into the living room, then bolted the lock. To her delight, the place was undisturbed. Even the magazine she had left on the coffee table was still open to the same page—a Lexus advertisement. Things were looking up.

  She put on a pot of decaf and checked her phone messages. The longest one was from Mom telling her how much she’d enjoyed dinner and would like to do it again when Cindy had more time to stay and chat awhile. That was okay. Mom’s complaints were normal, and normal was good. There were other communications including two from Scott (Hi, how are you? Are you okay? Things are going well. Call.), two from Dad (Just tell me you’re okay!), and one from Hayley Marx (Call when you get a minute). There had also been several hangups. Under ordinary circumstances, she wouldn’t have given them a second thought, but the events of the past week had magnified every seemingly potential threat.

  What she should have done was return the calls to assure everyone that she was okay. But she was entirely spent, most of the fatigue coming from a lack of nutrition. The doughnut from the Belfleur coffee shop had done little to tide her over. Perhaps after dinner she’d have more energy to make chitchat.

  She made a sliced smoked turkey sandwich with tomato and lettuce, smearing on generous amounts of mustard and mayo. Putting down the place mat, she set up a table for one, tucking the napkin under the flatware. She swiped the countertop while the espresso bean blend was brewing away, leaking its heavenly aroma. When the coffee was ready, she sat down for a solo dinner. She was becoming a regular domestic animal, and this made her happy. Just last week, she was feeling sorry for herself. Now she was thrilled with the privacy and the ordinariness of the situation: eating dinner unmolested.

  She was ravenous, each bite awakening her taste buds. She forced herself to eat slowly, to savor the moment. After she was done, she wiped her mouth, cleared the dishes, and then treated herself to a glass of white wine for dessert—an imported Vouvray given to her by an old high school friend after she graduated from the academy. It was lemony and light. As she sipped her drink, she washed her dish, her cup, her fork and knife. When she had finished with supper, she took out a piece of paper and a pencil, then sat down at the table, and began making diagrams—the who, what, and where.

  No matter how she mutated the possibilities, she kept coming back to the same obvious conclusion: After Bederman got burned, he kidnapped and killed Crayton for revenge, and carjacked Dex’s wife to pawn her Ferrari and recover some of his lost money from the Desert Bloom project. What would make a person go to such extremes?

  Theory A: Bederman invested all his money with Crayton and was now broke. He needed cash to survive.

  Rebuttal: If Bederman was going to resort to crime to solve his financial problems, there were ways for a cop to get instant money—lean on a dealer or a pimp or, like Scott said, just skim a couple of ounces from the supply room. Far easier methods than kidnapping a prominent citizen’s wife for ransom. But maybe because of the scandals, lots of cops were looking over their shoulders. Maybe the supply room wasn’t an option anymore.

  Theory B: He not only wanted the money, he wanted to teach Crayton and Dexter Bartholomew a lesson.

  Rebuttal: Murder is one hell of a lesson, not to mention tricky business. Especially knocking off someone like Crayton. Armand’s life and finances were bound to be scrutinized, meaning the Desert Bloom fiasco would come out. But, then again, just how much would really come out? Because here she was—a novice—finding out things that the original teams hadn’t. True, it could be that at the time of Crayton’s murder, the people in Belfleur hadn’t been so forthcoming. Perhaps they had been so overwhelmed or scared by the killing that they had hidden, forgotten, or repressed crucial information. Certainly, Cindy couldn’t picture Elgin Harper just handing over the list of investors. She had gone in a year after the murder. By then, people felt safer talking.

  But since there was no statute of limitations on murder, the killer could always be brought to justice. The killer would always be fair game. Bederman would know that. Would he be willing to take that big a risk, seeking revenge while knowing he could be hauled in at any moment?

  Theory C: Bederman wanted the money, wanted to teach Crayton and Dex a lesson, and he didn’t care about the risk. Again, her thoughts kept coming back to all the recent scandals. The phony setups with cops thinking they’re above the law because they put their asses on the line every night. So what if they pick up a little drug money, or grab a little hooker pussy, or pocket a little graft to look the other way just this one time.

  Bederman could have been one of those. And maybe he had thought he beat the system, because the crime was still unsolved an entire year later. But there was a kicker. None of the big-time spender shtick seemed to apply to Bederman. So far as she knew, he hadn’t been taking any expensive vacations, or bought any designer duds, or leased any fancy cars. His idea of recreation was drinking at cop bars after work or Sunday barbecues, watching the game with the guys. As for mistresses, Bederman didn’t need money to get a woman on the side. There was a subspecies of the feminine sex who gravitated toward anything in power and/or in a uniform.

  She doodled on her paper, making swirls and whirls, doing her name in bubble letters. She felt like a kid struggling to write an in-class essay.

  Did Bederman have a woman on the side? Was that why he changed to the night shift? Lark had mentioned an ace in the hole. Scott felt that Bederman was as good a candidate as any.

  She needed help in sorting out the information. She needed Scott or Marge or Dad. They’d know what to do with the data. But that would mean explaining to them how she got all this information. Not that she did anything illegal, but she was still uncomfortable about it. She was supposed to be working as a uniform cop, not as a detective.

  The flip side was that Crayton was Dad’s unsolved case. She’d be doing him a big favor, giving him the information, not to mention the possibility of reeling in a dirty cop.

  The door knocker interrupted her thoughts, the loud thumping making her jump. She sprang up, and peered through the peephole, shocked to be looking at Rick Bederman’s face. Panic swelled in her body as she gave him a curt “Just a minute.”

  Had he followed her home?

  No, she was sure he hadn’t. She’d checked. She’d checked!

  Quickly, she picked up her notes and stuffed them into the kitchen drawer. Then she took out her gun, gripping it tightly in her hand. She forced herself to inhale, th
en exhale slowly. She did unlatch the bolt, but kept the chain on when she opened the door.

  “What do you want?”

  Bederman seemed annoyed. “Uh, can I come in, please?”

  Instantly, Cindy sized up her options, deciding that fear not only lowered her Q as a cop, but also immediately stamped her with a big V for victim. She couldn’t allow him to see her as a victim. She took off the chain and swung open the door, trying to appear peeved but casual at the same time. “What are you doing here?”

  Bederman’s eyes fell to her gun. “Planning on shooting someone?”

  “Hope not.” She stepped away from the threshold. “Come in.”

  Bederman walked into her living room, his eyes still on her revolver. Finally, he glanced around, his gaze settling on a lone spring poking out of her sofa cushion. “I think you need new furniture.”

  “My furniture was fine until someone vandalized my apartment this weekend.”

  Bederman’s eyes widened. “You’re kidding!”

  “No, I’m not. Have a seat.”

  “Is that why you’re holding your piece?”

  “Probably. At the moment, I’m not a trusting person.”

  “You opened the door for me.”

  “Any reason why I shouldn’t?”

  Bederman smiled. He wore a tweed jacket over a white shirt and jeans. Cowboy boots on his feet. “Take it easy. You sound very uptight.”

  “I call it businesslike. What can I do for you, Officer Bederman? You’re still welcome to sit down, you know.”

  Bederman stalled, then finally sat down on one of her chairs. More like sank into it. He placed his hands underneath his neck, and spread his legs wide open. Like he expected a blow job. But his face was tense. “I didn’t come here to make time with you.”

  Silence. Cindy waited for the explanation.