Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 12

by Stalker

  “Actually, I came here because I wanted to…you know, dispose you of that idea.”

  Dispel, Cindy thought. Or maybe he did want to dispose her. She remained silent.

  Bederman leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I’m a confident person. I come on strong. Too strong, some say.” He unbuttoned his jacket, showing her his filled holster. “I was talking to Graham this afternoon—”

  “At your barbecue?”

  “Yeah, how’d you…oh, you heard me and Tim talking last night.”

  Cindy nodded.

  “Yeah, it was at the barbecue. Graham was there. I somehow got to telling him about what I told you…about Hayley Marx making mistakes…and that you shouldn’t make those mistakes.” He scratched his nose. “Graham told me that what I said…it could leave you with the wrong impression.”

  “Meaning?”

  Bederman gnashed his teeth, causing his cheeks to bulge. “Meaning that I got a solid marriage and I want to keep it that way. I don’t want any rumors that could be of the nasty kind.”

  “Most rumors are nasty.”

  “Yeah. Right. Anyway, I’d like it if you’d just forget about what I said. I’m the first to admit that it wasn’t very smart of me to talk like that.”

  “Far as I’m concerned, it’s forgotten.”

  Bederman fidgeted. “All right. Good. Forgotten. Not that I think I did anything wrong…just that I don’t want you to get the wrong impression.”

  No one spoke for a moment. Then Cindy stood up. “I know what you mean. You can go now. Mission accomplished.”

  Slowly, Bederman got to his feet. “You don’t like me, do you?”

  “Bederman, I don’t know you well enough to dislike you. And right now, I’m distrustful. Do you blame me?”

  “Nope.” Bederman buttoned his jacket. “You don’t think I did anything, do you?”

  Cindy’s lie was smooth. “Why in the world would I think you’d be responsible for trashing my apartment?”

  “Just that you’re still holding the gun.”

  She looked at her piece. “Figured I might as well clean it. Nothing better to do.”

  “Well, I’d better be getting back.” But he didn’t move. “Any ideas about the perp?”

  “Some.”

  “You want to talk about it? I might be able to help. I’ve been at this kind of thing much longer than you have.”

  Establishing his superiority. If she rejected him, he’d take it personally. Change the subject, idiot! “Who won, by the way?”

  Bederman made a face. “What are you talking about?”

  “The game. Weren’t you guys watching the Sunday Dodgers’ game?”

  “Yeah, we were. The Dodgers won. Why are you asking? You got money riding on it?”

  “Wish I did because the spread would have been great. I can’t believe they actually won. They must have had an enormous lead because they always blow their lead.”

  “They were ahead six-nothing until McGwire hammered a bases loaded into right field at the bottom of the seventh. Then they put in this new kid from the bullpen. Maybe they brought him up…I don’t know, a month ago from Albuquerque. Somehow, he managed to stall the opposition for the last two innings. Not that they didn’t get hits off of him. Just no runs.”

  “Amazing.”

  Bederman smiled. “You like baseball, Decker?”

  “I take an interest in all the sports. It helps me keep up with the guys.”

  “That’s important to you?” Bederman’s eyes held her straight on. “To keep up with the guys?”

  Cindy kept her gaze steady. “I like to get along, Rick. Just ask Graham. You two are still real tight even after your breakup. That’s not the usual. Know what it tells me? That you like to get along, too.”

  “Sure I like to get along. But believe me, I can hold my ground. You don’t want to mess with me, ever.”

  A veiled threat or was it just posturing? “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Do that.”

  “Okay. See you later, then.”

  But Bederman made no attempt to move. “See, with Graham, it was nothing personal. That’s why we still get along. It was nothing personal.”

  “Good to hear—”

  “It was no big deal, Cindy. My wife was working a demanding job with early hours, and I decided that I should be there in the morning for the kids. So I transferred to Night Watch. That way I could help while my wife was at work. You know, make ’em breakfast, take ’em to school. Kids have to have a father, too, you know.”

  “I know. I adore my dad.”

  Bederman stiffened. “That’s right. Your dad is a detective—lieutenant, right?”

  Cindy nodded. As if he hadn’t known.

  “Must be nice.”

  “It doesn’t affect me, Bederman. I still get my fair share of shit. When did you sleep?”

  “What?”

  “Doing the watch, helping the kids in the day,” Cindy said. “You must have been working pretty hard. Did you ever sleep?”

  “Yeah, sure. During the day when the kids were in school, I slept then. It was tough, though. Eventually, my wife quit the job for something less…demanding. I went back to days as soon as I could.”

  “That must have been a relief.”

  “It was. But that’s off the original point. I just wanted to tell you that the breakup was nothing personal. He’s a good guy and a good partner.”

  She smiled and stood. “You’re right.”

  Bederman smiled back—a big, toothy smile. Cindy could tell that he liked being right. Slowly, he stood up, then ambled his way out. She was thrilled to lock the door behind him.

  “He hasn’t gotten back from Oxnard yet,” Rina said. “I’ll tell him you called. He’ll be very grateful. You know how he worries.”

  “I know.” Cindy shifted the phone to her other ear. “So you don’t have any idea when he’s coming home?”

  “No, but it’s probably going to be late. It’s going very well. And when it goes well, it means long hours.” Rina paused. “Cindy, you sound like you need something. Are you in trouble?”

  “Not at all—”

  “But you’re bothered by something specific,” Rina said. “Why don’t you just call him on his cell? I know he wouldn’t mind.”

  “Nah, it’s not important enough to interrupt his business. I know they’ve all been waiting a long time for a break in the jackings. I just wanted to go over some ideas, but it’ll keep.”

  “Honey, you’re welcome to come over and wait. After what we have both gone through, we could use a little company.”

  Cindy felt her face go hot. She had been so wrapped up in her affairs, she had completely forgotten about Rina’s woes. Quickly, she asked, “How are you doing? How is Hannah doing? Do you want me to come over there and help out with her?”

  “Hannah’s asleep, boruch Hashem. Whether or not she stays asleep is a different story.”

  Cindy sighed. “How about if I swing by in an hour—around ten. Would that be too late?”

  “Not at all. I’ll see you then.”

  “Bye.”

  “Cindy?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Be careful, please. And bring your gun.”

  Cindy stopped before she closed her apartment door. From the passageway, she could see the street. She looked over each car, and decided she recognized them all. The VW Bug belonged to the girl with the long dark hair who played salsa music. The Taurus belonged to the couple who argued over money and lived in an apartment across the street. The Mitsubishi four-wheel drive was owned by Greig, a set designer for the Ahmanson.

  She shut the door and bolted it. Gun in hand, she descended the stairway, speed-walked to her car, got in, then locked up with the simple click of a button. She started the motor, checked her gas gauge—full—and backed out of her space, checking the rearview and side mirrors. She threw the gear into drive and zoomed away.

  The streets were quiet, which made it easy for her
to spot any tail. Nothing jumped out. She got on the freeway and pressed the pedal to the metal until she was going at a good, fast clip. Twenty minutes into her drive, the engine started to whine. Moments later it began to sputter and her car started decelerating even though her gas gauge still read full. Heart beating wildly, she depressed the gas pedal, but that didn’t do anything. The car was definitely slowing. If she didn’t get over to the right soon, she’d be stuck in the middle lane of the freeway with cars, trucks, semis, and other heavy vehicles whizzing by her in every direction, not to mention the possibility of a fatal rear-end collision. It was dark, and travelers didn’t expect lanes being blocked by stalled cars.

  Think!

  Trying to keep a grip on her runaway panic, she managed to maneuver her Saturn onto the right shoulder. A moment later, it coughed and died. All she could hear was her own shallow breathing. She blew on her hands while she looked in her rearview mirror, keeping that position for a few minutes. No one appeared to be stopping, which was a sad commentary on Los Angeles, but very good because it appeared that nobody had been following her.

  She knew she had to do something. And she would. But first, she just wanted to rid herself of the tension, the awful feeling of being set up. Rooting through her purse, she found the number for Triple A in her address computer, then dialed out on her cellular.

  It told her the system was busy.

  Her breathing quickened.

  Again she dialed out.

  Again the system was busy.

  She went into the back of her phone, played with the battery, and tried again.

  The steady beep, beep, beep told her that either her number had been cloned or somebody had tampered with the phone itself. Either was very disconcerting.

  Instantaneously, her chest tightened. Yelling at herself because the panic had to stop. She was a damn officer of the law. She had to do better than this. She felt around her purse for her gun. At least, she knew that was working.

  A pair of bright lights grew in her rearview mirror, filling up the reflective space. She turned around, saw the car slowing behind her…slow, slow, slow until it parked around twenty feet away. But it wasn’t just any car. It was…highway patrol!

  Yes!

  Never had that CHP emblem looked so cool.

  Cindy looked down at her right hand gripped around the butt of her service revolver. It wouldn’t be cool for him to see her holding a gun. It might give him the wrong impression. She put the gun back, but took out her ID and badge. She slid over the console and got out on the passenger’s side, walking a few feet until his face came into view.

  At first, she thought she was imagining things, but she knew she wasn’t. The agitation she felt was both horrific and overwhelming. It made her head go light and her knees shake. She willed herself to stand erect, because her other thoughts were either to run or to faint—untenable options because he had a shotgun. He was carrying it so that the length was nestled against his arm, and the barrel was pointing down. But that position could change in an eye blink.

  Play dumb!

  Which wasn’t hard. She was dumb!

  Did he follow her or had he been waiting outside her apartment all this time?

  But she would have noticed a highway patrol car—

  “Having car problems, Decker?” he said. “Maybe I can help.”

  His voice broke into her terrified thoughts.

  “Have you always moonlighted for the highway patrol?” she asked. “The uniform looks swell on you.”

  He slowly raised his outstretched arm, like a Nazi about to give a Heil Hitler, but stopped short with the barrel of the gun aimed at her stomach. “If you want to live a little longer, you should shut up. And don’t do anything silly. Things like running or screaming or trying to hotdog it in a one-on-one. Because my trigger finger’s twitching, and I’ll cut you down as easily as I’ll cut a fart. You get it?”

  “Got it.”

  “Who knows, Decker? Maybe with those fancy words of yours, you can talk me down.” He smiled. Cindy could make out the teeth in the moonlight. He said, “You’re a clever gal. What do you think?”

  “I’m going to give it a try.”

  “C’mon.” He waved the gun from left to right, then lowered it. But the barrel was still near her groin. She had heard that stomach wounds were very painful—excruciatingly painful. But death was worse.

  He was talking. “…going to take a little ride. Just the two of us. We’ll take my car. Gentleman always does the driving. Besides, maybe you’ve always wanted to see the inside of a highway patrol vehicle.”

  “Golly gee! Will you turn on the siren and flash the lights, too?”

  “Always the wiseass.” He was now glaring at her. “Let’s see how funny you are when you’re begging for mercy.”

  She thought about faking him out, telling him that she had phoned her dad and he was on the way. But maybe that would set him into a panic of rash reaction. Never panic someone holding a shotgun. She could feel his eyes boring in, her mind emptying of ideas and blanking out conscious thought. But Freud did have something with that little gizmo called the unconscious. Because seconds later, she found that she had leapt over the side railing, and was rolling like a ball down the embankment of the freeway. Hugging herself and praying…where did that come from?

  One second, two seconds, three and four.

  Fire exploded past her head. She screamed, pain stinging her scalp as buckshot grazed her cranium. She dove into brush and dropped onto her belly, creeping to a spot that afforded the best camouflage, trying to hide and escape at the same time. Blood was seeping from the side of her head. She touched the wound and winced, then inhaled deeply, trying to get air into her lungs. As she slithered along the solid ground, stones and rocks scraped her stomach.

  She could hear him coming down, making his descent, the sounds of thick soles dragging loose earth. She needed to get away.

  What do animals do when they’re being hunted?

  They run. (That would make her visible.)

  They crawl and creep and hide. (Crawling or creeping made noise.)

  They fight. (He had a gun and outweighed her by seventy pounds of muscles and years of experience!)

  They play dead.

  Go for it, kid!

  She stopped in her tracks, trying to paralyze every muscle in her body. It was hard because her bladder and bowels weren’t in great shape. Though she managed to hold still, she could still hear her own terrified breathing. Even with the cars racing by, it was audible. If she could hear it, maybe he could hear it, too. She opened her mouth, hoping not only to get in more oxygen but also to decrease the gasping breaths.

  But his footsteps kept getting closer. Silently, she turned her head until his form, silhouetted by moonlight, became visible. He was scouting out the brush for her body, pulling back the limbs of the foliage, parting the bushy leaves and peering inside for her.

  He was the hunter, she was prey. How long could it last? How long could she last?

  If he found her, crouched like a wounded animal, she was as good as dead meat. She’d have to have a plan if he came upon her. Because she did have the element of surprise.

  Her confused and addled thoughts pointed to two choices. Because it was unlikely that she could outrun him without being shot—he was noted as a terrific marksman—she figured she’d have to attack him directly or try to dislodge the gun from his grip. If she could disable him, it would be easier to dislodge the gun. But if she fell short of the mark, she’d be dead.

  Gun or him? Gun or him?

  Then she thought: You don’t have to make that decision now. Seize whatever meager opportunity he’ll give you.

  He came closer and closer, his eyes running over the terrain, moving in on her. Parting the leaves with the barrel of the gun, which would mean that the barrel would be pointing at her face if he found her. Feet were always more deadly than arms.

  Imagine yourself to be a kangaroo.

  What’
s my motivation?

  He’s going to blow off your head if you don’t succeed.

  A foot away…then it came down to inches. Eleven, ten, nine…

  She held her breath and silently positioned herself.

  Eight inches, seven inches.

  The leaves began to separate, letting in the moonlight.

  She caught him hard between the legs. As he doubled over, she thrust her feet upward and pushed them into the cartilage of his nose. Instantly, it shot out blood. She bolted up, grabbed his arm as she had been taught at the academy, and gave it a solid twist, wrenching it with all her force. But he’d also gone to the academy. He’d been taught the same maneuvers. Despite his handicaps—a throbbing groin and a bleeding nose—he pulled from a bottomless reservoir of strength.

  She should have made the break to freedom when she’d had the opportunity. Except that she didn’t want that. She wanted to win! Under her force, she saw the gun slip from his grip. She was almost there. Then it was hand to hand. She was smaller, more agile. Without the gun, she had a chance.

  But then he fooled her. His left hand had the audacity to reach around her neck, pulling her back tightly against his chest. She was forced to let go of his left hand, then tried to do the old flip she had learned from the academy.

  He had also gone to the academy. He was prepared. And he was strong…so strong.

  The light was fading.

  So were the sounds.

  I love you, Mom.

  33

  Decker gripped his cellular phone. “How long ago did she call?”

  Rina stemmed her own anxiety to keep him calm. “She said she’d be here at around ten—”

  “That was an hour ago! Did you call her?”

  “Yes, of course. She’s not answering her phones or her pager. Maybe she’s going over the mountains. Sometimes the reception isn’t so good.”

  But Decker wasn’t hearing it. The fear was immediate and raw. “How many times have you tried to call her?”

  “Around a half-dozen,” Rina admitted.

  “Good God!” He paced as he spoke. “I’m coming home. But first I’m going to call up Hollywood and ask them to send a cruiser by her house. Hopefully, it won’t be driven by one of those assholes that have been giving her a hard time. Okay…” He was talking as much to himself as he was to Rina. “First we’ll see if she’s home. Next we’ll see if her car’s gone. If her car’s gone, I’ll put out a bulletin on it. Which means I’d better call CHP. To get to the house, she’d take the freeway.”