Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 12

by Stalker

  “Do you want me to go out looking for her?”

  “Absolutely not! You stay by the phone. God, what a nightmare!”

  Rina closed her eyes. She didn’t know what to say other than to agree with his assessment. Obviously, that certainly wouldn’t be productive. “I’ll call you immediately if something comes up—”

  “She didn’t say anything about what she wanted to talk to me about?”

  “No, nothing.”

  “Not a hint?”

  Rina hesitated, to weigh her words carefully. “Nothing specific. She did seem rather…enthusiastic over the phone. Like she found out something—”

  “Oh, great! That’s even more ominous! Her poking around stuff, pissing people off—”

  “Peter, maybe I’m wrong—”

  “You’re never wrong! What made you use the word enthusiastic?”

  “Maybe the correct word is preoccupied. She forgot to ask about Hannah’s welfare until I mentioned the incident in passing. Then she got all concerned about how Hannah was doing. That’s not her at all…to forget about her sister. You know how she feels about Hannah.”

  “Cindy hasn’t been home all day! She’s been nosing around something, and it caught up with her. God, how can someone so smart be so damn stupid!”

  “Maybe she just got a flat tire.”

  “Right. And chickens have lips!” Decker cursed under his breath. “Maybe Scott knows something. I’ve got to go.”

  “Peter, don’t worry. It’ll work out.”

  Decker wanted to believe her. He really wanted to believe her. He also wanted to believe that good was rewarded and evil was punished. But even the great prophet Moses wasn’t privileged to know God’s system of justice. Why should he, a mere mortal, be privy to the crazy way the world worked?

  The car wasn’t in her parking space, so it was logical that Cindy was still out. Ridiculous to try the apartment, but Hayley figured what the hell. Nothing better to do. Maybe Cindy had taken her car into the shop, and was driving a loaner. The Saturn was sure smoking pretty bad on Friday. It would make sense for Cindy to check it out. Hayley climbed up the two flights of steps, and knocked hard for several moments. Of course, no one answered.

  So what? No big deal that she wasn’t home.

  But something prevented Hayley from turning around and going home. This itch…this pang in her stomach…like something from another sphere was talking to her. Telling her that something was wrong. So she took out a hairpin and tried to pick the lock. As soon as she realized it was a dead bolt, she stopped and gave up.

  Now she definitely should have turned around and gone home. But the itch was growing stronger, propelling her to start in on the windows. They were locked: no big whoop about that. Someone had broken into her apartment, so Cindy was probably extra-diligent about locking her windows.

  At that point, she would have surely turned around and gone home if she hadn’t seen fresh scratches near the sills that made her feel downright jumpy. She pounded on the window, but that didn’t accomplish anything except rattle the glass. No more options save two—go home or break the glass.

  She exhaled out loud. Then she wrapped her jacket around her fist and gave it all she had, punching a jagged hole in the pane. She snaked her hand in, avoided a particularly lethal shard of glass, and somehow managed to unclick the lock with her padded fingertips. Up came the window and a moment later, Hayley was inside.

  She called out Cindy’s name, but no one responded. Scoping out the rooms, she found nothing lurking behind the shower curtain. Norman Bates had decided not to camp here today.

  Now she felt doubly stupid: A. She was worried about a grown woman, a cop nonetheless, and B. she’d broken the window, which she’d probably have to pay for. And how would she explain it to Cindy, who was already looking at her like she was a little weird. Who could blame her? Cindy couldn’t possibly understand what drove Hayley to break the window or tail that Camry. How could Hayley explain her unfailing intuition, stemming from that dreadful day when she had been stuck for three hours in the middle of Joshua Tree National Park in blistering desert heat because some asshole in the department thought it funny to drain her radiator fluid and run down her phone battery? Luckily, some Good Samaritan motorist did eventually stop. And miracle of miracles, he wasn’t a psycho or a pervert. He was just a nice guy who let her use his cell phone and waited with her until Triple A showed up. Later, after she was safe, she had sent him money—fifty bucks, which had been a lot, back then. The envelope came back stamped: Return to Sender…addressee unknown. At that point, Hayley swore up and down that he had been her guardian angel. And who couldn’t use a guardian angel—someone looking after your ass? Cindy was a nice kid with potential if the jerks didn’t get in her way.

  For the sake of completion, Hayley gave the place a quick once-over. Everything seemed okay (except for the broken window, which she should board up before she left). Without thinking, Hayley pressed the button on Cindy’s phone message machine: one from Mom, a couple from Daddy, and a couple from Oliver. Not that Scott said his name but Hayley recognized the voice. She smiled, having known something was up from the moment he had followed Cindy out of Bellini’s. It seemed so predictable. Cindy was trying to prove something to her father, and Oliver was trying to prove something to his boss. The two of them were a chemical reaction waiting for the catalyst.

  Out of habit and boredom, she started opening drawers, first in the bedroom, then the desk in the living room, and finally in the kitchen. That’s when she came across notes with Bederman’s name scribbled all over the pages. The papers had been stuffed behind a cow-shaped pot holder. Hayley smoothed out the sheaves, then sorted them one by one. Lots of charts and diagrams, and lots of doodling…Bederman’s name, Cindy’s name in bubble letters, and the name Armand Crayton with arrows pointing every which way. The last page she looked at gave directions to a place called Belfleur.

  Where the hell was Belfleur?

  More important, where the hell was Cindy?

  Someone, in a beaten-up red Camry, had tailed Cindy into the hills last Friday. Then someone had trashed the kid’s apartment. Now she wasn’t home, and it was past eleven, and she was up to something that had to do with Armand Crayton.

  Crayton was dead.

  This wasn’t looking good, and the itch was growing by the second. Rooting through her pocketbook, Hayley found her electronic notebook and looked up Oliver’s cellular number. As the phone rang, she wondered how she would explain herself to him, whether he’d think she was a partial or an absolute idiot.

  He picked up on the third ring. “Detective Oliver.”

  His voice sounded tense. She said, “It’s Hayley Marx.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Do you have Cindy Decker’s father’s phone number?” she stammered out. “I need to talk to him.”

  “Why?” Scott shot out. “What’s this about?”

  His agitation was palpable. She said, “Maybe you can help me, Scott. Do you know where Cindy Decker is?”

  “No!” he barked out. “Why do you want to know?”

  “Probably for the same reason you’re snapping at me. I’m worried. I’m at her apartment now, her car isn’t here. She hasn’t been home all day. I know her place was broken into—”

  “Where are you exactly?”

  “Inside her apartment,” Hayley repeated. “I broke the window and let myself in. Because I have this…this feeling—”

  “What feeling?” Oliver cried out. “What’s wrong? Anything out of place?”

  “No, except for the window, which I’ll board up. But I found some notes in her handwriting. They had Rick Bederman’s name on them. Even creepier, some also had Armand Crayton—”

  “Oh God!” Oliver moaned. Did the bastard get to her? “Her stepmom just called her dad about five minutes ago. Cindy is supposedly on her way to her father’s house, but she hasn’t shown up.”

  “Well, maybe I can help with that. In her notes, s
he wrote down directions to a place called Belfleur. Do you know what that’s about?”

  “Yeah, I have an idea,” Oliver muttered. “This isn’t good. Her dad was here a few seconds ago, but left after his wife called. We were all in Oxnard, raiding a chop shop. Hold on. Let me see if I can catch him.”

  Hayley waited, noticing that her breathing was shallow. It seemed as if she had been put on hold for a very long time. Then an anxious, deep voice broke through the line.

  “Tell me everything that you know.”

  Hayley cleared her throat. “I know that a Camry had tailed her on Friday. I know that the Camry fell down the mountainside. I know that her house was broken into. I found some scratches on her windowsills. Other than that, nothing seems out of order, sir.”

  “So why are you calling me?”

  Hayley’s throat became dry. “I don’t know how to say this—”

  “Then just spit it out.”

  She cleared her throat. “There’s some odd men in my division, Lieutenant.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Well, she had Rick Bederman’s name scrawled on some of her notes.”

  “Okay. What about Bederman’s partner, Tim Waters?”

  “He’s also odd. But there were no notes with his name on them.”

  “She also mentioned some kid that she went to the academy with—Andy Lopez. What do you know about him?”

  “He’s a jerk, but he doesn’t strike me as dangerous. She also didn’t write his name down.”

  “She had a run-in with a sergeant there—”

  “Clark Tropper. She’s been typing up some papers for him. I thought they ironed things out.”

  “Maybe not. Do you have phone numbers for any of these yahoos?”

  “I can get them in a snap. I’ll call them for you, if you want.”

  “No, I’ll call. Just get me the numbers.”

  “Sir, it might be less obvious if I call Bederman. But I’ll do whatever you want.”

  She was right. Decker said, “Do you think Bederman would hurt her?”

  “Yeah, if she made him angry enough. All of these men have tempers.”

  Decker told her to hold a moment. To Oliver, he said, “This Marx girl. Can she be trusted?”

  Oliver thought long and hard. “She’s a pain in the butt. Sarcastic, bitchy, intrusive. But I never recall her being dishonest. What does she want?”

  “She wants to call up Bederman and sound him out. If she’s sincere, it’s a good idea because it’ll look less suspicious. But if she’s setting us up, then it’s a bad idea.”

  “If she’s setting us up at Bederman’s behest, then he knows about this phone call, Deck.” Oliver ran his hand through his thick, greasy hair. “Marx isn’t the sharpest knife in the block, but I’d take the chance. Because right now, she’s a lot closer to the situation than either of us.”

  Decker hoped that Oliver was right. To Marx, he said, “All right. You take Bederman and Waters and Lopez. They’re your peers. Tropper’s a sergeant. You call him up, you’re in a one-down position. Being a loo, I’m in a one-up position. I’ll take Tropper.”

  “That makes sense.” Hayley cleared her throat. “Sir, again, I don’t know how to tell you this, so…I put a tracer on Cindy’s car—”

  “You what!?”

  “I put a tracer on Cindy’s Saturn. After that guy in the Camry tailed her into the mountains, I got concerned. When I first started on the force, some wise guy in the department made sure my car broke down in the middle of the desert. It was so traumatic that I swore to myself it wouldn’t happen to any other woman rookie if I could help it. I know I must sound idiotic. But as God is my witness, I like your daughter.” Hayley’s eyes started watering. “I’d feel horrible if anything should happen to her.” She sniffed back an onslaught of tears. “Do you want me to activate it?”

  “Hell, yeah, activate it!”

  She winced at the aggression in his voice. “Okay, sir. I’ll do that. The mechanism is back at my house. I’m fifteen minutes away from it. I’ll call you as soon as I get a signal. Then I’ll take care of Bederman. I’m sorry about this, sir.”

  “So am I.” Decker gave her six phone numbers. “Call any of those lines if you hear anything, no matter how trivial it seems to you.”

  “I will.”

  Decker hung up. To Oliver, he said, “Hayley said she was worried about Cindy, so she put a tracer on her car. Goddamn it, I should have done that! What the fuck is wrong with me?”

  What the fuck is wrong with both of us? Oliver said, “Marx is smarter than I gave her credit for. Always been my downfall…underestimating the gray matter of women. That’s why my ex has a new Mercedes and I’m driving a ten-year-old Plymouth.”

  34

  First she felt a deep throbbing in her head; sharp, stabbing thrusts underneath her eyeballs and a dull, aching soreness in her ribs. The pain was so intense that it almost shut out all other sensations. But Cindy wouldn’t allow that to happen, because she wanted to live. She concentrated on her other senses, which were rendered almost nil by the agony, forcing herself to bring them to consciousness. The rhythmic rumble of the engine bounced her incapacitated body up and down. It was only a few millimeters, but in her compromised position they were enough to send electric shock waves down her spine and through her teeth. She hurt in a new way, as if an alien had descended upon her and was eating her up, tendon by tendon, bone by bone.

  Concentrate!

  Slowly, other stimuli crept into her cognizance; the back of her hands crunched against each other, her ankles were tightly affixed together. The taut ropes were chafing her skin or, worse, cutting into her flesh. There was also something thick and nappy stuffed into her mouth, tasting vaguely medicinal. Her ears discerned background sounds: cars whooshing past, an occasional horn or ambulance. There were the kinetics of the car speeding along, not stopping or doing any sharp turns. They were probably on a freeway. Her eyes could see, except that there was nothing really to see, just shadows and darkness. A part of her did not want to remember what had brought her to this doom. But she did remember.

  Cindy knew exactly how she had gotten there. Except for the blackout—that period of time after her useless efforts to save herself. She didn’t recall being bound or gagged, but that was certainly how she had ended up. Being vanquished was a horrible feeling. Doing everything she could have done, and still it had not been enough.

  Her solace was that she was still alive. If he had wanted to murder her from the top, he could have done so. Obviously, he had other things in store. Unpleasant things…torturous things.

  The chemical smell permeated her nostrils, making her woozy enough to be passive but not too woozy to think. And if she was going to get out of this, she’d have to think.

  Country music was playing on the radio. Her dad liked country music; Cindy did not. But whenever they were in a car together, she deferred to him. She knew a couple of the singers—artists as they called themselves. She knew this one: Cheli Wright being a single white female looking for love. The lyrics and the upbeat tempo seemed to be mocking her pathetic state. Just a week ago she had thought her lack of a love life was an insurmountable problem. Then, just days ago, after being stalked, her personal effects were violated. She had been sure that things couldn’t get worse.

  Well, they had.

  What wouldn’t she give to be just aggravated about silly issues like her love life or stupid co-workers or unpaid bills or driving an ugly car. If only God would grant her one more day to be irritated at Mom for her intrusiveness or to be annoyed at Dad for being so controlling. One more day to use her cell phone or eat a sandwich or put on her uniform or go to the bathroom.

  Without realizing it, she was crying, tears running silently down her face until her cloth gag absorbed them. By now, she could feel it as a gag, bisecting her mouth and slicing across her face, finally being knotted at the back of her neck. She had something to be thankful for. He hadn’t taped her face, so she cou
ld breathe easily. And another thing to be grateful about: Her hands were bound by ropes and not cuffs. That surprised her. She would have figured him for a cuff man.

  Which said to her that maybe…just maybe baby, he didn’t want to hurt her too much. Now that could be wishful thinking. But he hadn’t killed her when he had the chance. And he must have had lots of chances because she hadn’t remembered his tying her up—

  “You awake, Decker?”

  His voice snapped her into superconsciousness…hyperalertness. She should have been using the quiet time for planning and scheming. Instead she had been free-associating—great if she had been in therapy, but very bad since she was being kidnapped and probably about to be tortured.

  “I know you’re up. I can hear the difference in your breathing. Come on, Officer Decker. It’s okay to give me a sign of life. Grunt or something.”

  She could have grunted. She could have given him some kind of signal that she had heard him. Perhaps that’s what she should have done. Encouraged him and kept him talking. Instead she said nothing, did nothing.

  He kept waiting. She stayed frozen: out of fear, out of defiance.

  “I know damn well you can hear me, Decker. Let me tell you something, Officer. You aren’t in any position to jive me, so cut the crap and answer me.”

  If she didn’t give him a sign, he’d probably hurt her. He was used to giving orders and having them obeyed. She was now paying the price for having questioned his absolute authority. Sure enough, when she didn’t respond, he turned around and whacked her across the cheek. It wasn’t even a hard whack. But because she was so sore from what had probably been a previous beating, it stung her face like a splash of boiling water. Damn well made her want to pass out again. Instead she moaned.