Faye Kellerman - Stalker

“You want fries with that, Marx?”

“Yeah, you can give me fries.”

“Refill on the wine?”

“Yeah.”

“Another Miller Lite for you, hon?”

Cindy thought a moment. “Better make it a Diet Coke.”

“Why?” Hayley asked. “How many beers have you had?”

“I just finished number three. I’m okay, but let’s not tempt the booze fairy.”

“I’m also on number three.” Hayley made a face. “Make mine a Diet Coke, too.”

“Got it.” Jasmine looked over the order, then at Cindy. “Which order is yours?”

“Why?” Hayley asked.

“Because hers is on the house.”

Rhonda and Hayley started hooting.

“Why?” Cindy smiled. “What’s so funny?”

Hayley said, “Doogle is at it again.”

“Who is Doogle ?”

“The horny leprechaun who owns the place.”

Jasmine said, “Don’t listen to them, honey. They’re just jealous. Now what’s your order?”

“What is my order?” Cindy asked the others. “The beef dip?”

“What’s the most expensive item we have?” Rhonda asked.

“The club.”

“Hers is the club.”

Jasmine laughed. “You guys!” She turned and walked away.

Cindy said, “Who is this Doogle?”

“A very little man.” Hayley marked about two feet off the ground with her hand. “Hits on all the women.”

“On cops?”

“On anything with a moo-moo,” Rhonda said.

“A moo-moo ?”

Hayley said, “He could suck my pussy standing up if I’d let him.”

“How tall is he?”

“’Bout five three. Maybe fifty years old—”

“He sounds perfect,” Cindy said. “Actually, he sounds like my last blind date.”

“He’s got money,” Rhonda said.

“Well, that part isn’t bad.”

“Those types are always stingy,” Hayley said. “You know, I make it, I spend it. You lick my balls, and maybe I’ll give you meter money.”

Cindy laughed. “Been there, done that.”

Hayley laughed, too. “Are we sounding drunk yet?”

“No, just plain bitter,” Cindy said.

“Uh-oh!” Hayley said. “Look who just walked in. Ole sleaze in a bottle.” She gave him a little wave. “Look out, he’s coming our way.”

Cindy turned around, then felt her skin go hot. She hoped they hadn’t noticed, but knew they had. She was saddled with a near white complexion and that was a dead giveaway. She blushed whenever she became angry, embarrassed, or extremely aroused.

Or so she had been told.

He was dressed ninja-style—black T-shirt and black cords under a black leather jacket, a blazer as opposed to a bomber. His dark hair was combed straight back, and silvered at the temples. His eyes gave off that wary cop look that Cindy had seen umpteen times on her father’s face. But his body was loose, and at ease. He didn’t walk over to them; he ambled , as if being a detective afforded him rights to which low-life uniforms weren’t privy. He took the empty seat across from Cindy, but he regarded Hayley straight-on. It seemed to unnerve her.

“So what brings you out here?” Hayley managed eye contact while wolfing down the last of her Chardonnay. “Slumming?”

“Some of us actually work after hours, Marx.”

“And what are you working on?” Hayley asked. “The new scouts don’t come in until September.”

He grinned a mouth full of white teeth, while signaling the waitress for a drink. “How you talk to your superiors.”

“You aren’t my superior,” Hayley retorted.

“Not right now, but never say never.”

Hayley looked to her left, at Cindy. “Cindy Decker, Scott Oliver.”

“We know each other.” Oliver’s tone was breezy. “I work with her daddy. Or rather I work for her daddy now. Big Decker is my loo.”

“You work Devonshire?” Rhonda asked.

“Yeah,” Oliver answered. “I was there in Homicide a full two years before Deck came on board—the slimy interloper.”

“Uh-oh,” Cindy said. “Do I want to hear this?”

“Nothing to hear.” Oliver flashed her a mouthful of teeth. “I’ve made my peace with it.”

But the look in his eyes said that was debatable. Cindy said, “How is he as a boss?”

“Depends what day you catch him on.” Oliver turned his eyes to her. “How is he as a father?”

“Depends what day you—”

“Uh-huh.”

Cindy chuckled. “You probably see him more than I do.”

“Probably.” Oliver returned his attention to Marx. “You’re looking well.”

“No thanks to the scuzzballs out there.”

“Was that a dig at the present company?”

Hayley smiled. “I’m taking the fifth.”

Jasmine came over with their food and drink. “Hey, Oliver. I haven’t seen you in a long time. Revisiting old haunts?”

“Wish it were the social thing,” Oliver said. “I’m meeting Osmondson.”

“So you’re doing beeswax. Should I reserve the corner booth?”

“Thank you, that would be nice.”

The table fell silent as Jasmine doled out the sandwich plates—the club for Cindy, the turkey dip for Rhonda, and the beef dip for Hayley. She plunked a beer in front of Oliver. “You know what Rolf is drinking these days?”

“Last time I saw him it was straight Stoly,” Oliver said.

“I think he’s off the booze. I’ll bring over a club soda. If he wants something stronger, he can ask for it.”

Oliver looked at his beer. “You know what, Jasmine? I’ve actually got to concentrate tonight. I’ll take a club soda.”

“I’ll switch you,” Cindy said. “One Diet Coke for a beer.”

Hayley chuckled. “She’s going for the buzz.”

“Nah, I’m fine—”

“Famous last words.”

Oliver gave Cindy his beer. “It’s on me. And you can even keep your Diet Coke.”

Hayley was looking at the bar stools. Andy Lopez and Tim Waters were giving them eyes. “You’re attracting the gnats.”

Oliver laughed. “Nah, Marx, it’s your pheromones—”

“No, it’s you,” Hayley interrupted. “Since you’re here, your species thinks it’s okay to approach.”

“My species?” Oliver said. “Last time I took science, we’re the same species.”

“Not according to anyone I’ve ever talked to.”

“Now that is a very good point.” Oliver’s eyes went to the door. He stood up. “I see my date.”

Cindy turned around. Rolf Osmondson was big, bald, with a sizable belly. He wore a handlebar mustache. He looked as if he’d been exploring the fiords. She said, “He doesn’t seem like your type, Scott.”

Oliver regarded her with a mock aghast expression. “Now you’re getting in the act?”

“Just showing solidarity with my sisters.”

Oliver wagged a finger at her. “Don’t draw lines in the sand, Decker, unless you’re prepared for battle.” He ran his index finger across Hayley’s shoulders. “See you later, ladies.” Then: “Or maybe not.”

Cindy watched him go, greeting the Norseman, shaking his hand. They took up the reserved booth in the back. Out of Cindy’s range of vision, which, she supposed, was what they wanted: privacy to discuss a case. She sneaked a sidelong look at Hayley, who was clearly upset. The woman was making a stab at her beef dip, tearing off a grizzled corner and chewing it slowly.