Faye Kellerman - Stalker

Oliver reached over and fastened her seat belt. “Here. Chew these.”

She opened her eyes and stared at the proffered cup. “What is it?”

“Ice chips. It reduces nausea. When you left, you looked a bit unsteady … a little green.”

She took the cup, biting her lip to hold down her stomach. “Were you spying on me?”

He ignored her. “Where am I going?”

“Philosophically?”

“Cindy—”

“Turn left at the first light—”

“Give me an address.”

“To my apartment?”

“Yes, Cindy, to your apartment.”

“It’s off Bagley. Three blocks north of Venice. You know the area?”

“That’s near Culver City, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. Exactly.” She crunched the frozen water between her teeth and gave him the number. “Sorry about this.”

“S’right.”

She let out a deep, beer-filled exhalation. She wanted to say more, to explain herself, but she couldn’t get the words from her throat. She stared out the windshield, fixing her eyes on the asphalt road ahead.

They rode in silence, the protracted twenty-five minutes feeling like hours. Each turn or lane shift sent acid-coated waves up her esophagus. She sucked ice chips and swallowed often. She wiped sweat from her face with tissues, then wrinkled her nose because the Kleenex stank of beer.

Five pints and she was reeking. She stole a glance at her driver. If the stench was bothering him, he had the decency to remain stoic.

Finally, finally, he parked the car in familiar territory. She somehow got out on her own, dragging her bag along so that the straps scraped the ground. Oliver came over, and Cindy held out her hand for the keys. “I think I can take it from here.”

“I need to use your phone.”

Cindy opened and closed her mouth, staring at him through squinted, suspicious eyes.

Oliver said, “I’ve got to call a cab, Cindy. My car is still at Bellini’s.”

“Oh.” Cindy thought for a moment, processing the words. He has to call a cab. “I can do it for you.”

Oliver kept his eyes on her face, then let out a chuckle. “I suppose you could. But I’d prefer to wait inside rather than freeze my ass off.”

“Oh.” Cindy thought again. Yeah, that made sense. “Sure. Come on in.” She nodded but didn’t move.

Oliver took her elbow, gently guiding her. “What’s the number?”

“Three-oh-two. There’s an elevator—”

“We’ll take the stairs. The walk’ll do you good.”

“I’m okay.” She blinked. “Really.”

He didn’t respond. He was pushing her along, his fingers wrapped around her triceps. She felt like an errant child being led to her room. When they got to her unit, Oliver took out the keys and held them aloft. “Which one?”

“The metal one.”

“Cindy—”

“Gold …” Cindy said. “It’s gold. A Schlage. That’s as specific as I can get right now.”

After several tries, he unlocked the bolt, pushed the door wide open. “After you.”

“A real gentleman.” Cindy smiled. “Phone’s somewhere. Will you excuse me?”

She didn’t wait for an answer. She made a beeline for the bedroom and slammed the door shut, peeling off her sweat-soaked, beer-stinking, smoke-reeking pantsuit, cursing herself because the cleaning bill was going to be outrageous. Plopping down on her bed, she lay faceup in her underwear, watching the ceiling fixture go round and round and round and round …

Oliver was yelling from the other room.

“What?” she screamed.

“Cab company wants to know the number here,” he called back.

“Eight-five—”

“What?”

“Wait a sec.” Slowly, she rose from the bed, opened the door a crack, and gave him the number. She heard him repeating it, presumably to the cab company. She was almost at her bed when her stomach lurched. She didn’t even try to tame it—a lost cause. She ran to the bathroom, hoping she could retch quietly. But after the first round, she didn’t even care about that. When she had finished, she crawled to the sink, and while still on her knees, she washed her mouth and face.

At last, she was able to stand without feeling seasick. She took a gander at her visage in the mirror. She looked how she felt—like a warmed-over turd.

She thought about going into her kitchen—fixing herself a cuppa—but he was there.

Well, too damn bad! Whose place was it anyway? She donned her pink terry-cloth robe, then gazed one last time in the mirror. Nothing had changed. She still looked horrible—pink nose, sallow complexion, watery eyes, and, thanks to the fog, bright red frizzy hair that made her look as if she were on fire. Still, there was something really nice about talking to a man (even Scott Oliver, who was like her father’s age) while looking like shit. It spoke of confidence.

She opened the door to her bedroom and emerged a proud, pink, nappy thing. Oliver’s eyes were focused out the window. He pivoted around, hands in his pockets, and stifled a smile when he saw her. “Hard day, Decker?”

“I won’t even deign to bother you with my pathetic little story.” She went into her kitchenette and filled the coffee carafe with water. “I’m making decaf. You want?”

“Pass.” He peeked out the Levelors. “A word of unsolicited advice. Try orange juice. Vitamin C’s good for hangovers.”

Cindy stared at the coffeepot. “Okay.” She spilled the water out in the sink, and took out a pint of orange juice. She poured herself a glass. “Bottoms up.”

“What happened, Cindy?”

“It’s really not very interesting, Scott.”

He shrugged. “Got nothing better to do right now.”

“I ruffled some feathers. No big whoop. I’ll fix it.”

“Learning young.” He nodded. “Good for you.”

“Thank you,” Cindy said. “So why do I detect a note of condescension?”

Oliver went back to the window, busying himself with the slats. “No condescension meant.”

She sipped orange juice. It burned as it went down her gullet. “So I’m wrong in assuming that your innocuous off-the-cuff comment bore any sort of indirect ill will toward my dad, right?”

The room fell silent. Stayed that way for a few moments.

“Let’s swap favors, all right?” Oliver turned to face her. “I won’t say anything to your father about tonight if you forget what I said earlier in the evening.”

“About my dad being a slimy interloper?”

“That’s the one.”

“Deal.”

Oliver ran his hands through his hair. “He’s a good man, Cindy. A good man, and a more than decent boss.”

“You don’t have to sell him to me.” No one spoke for a moment. Then she said, “So what kind of business did you have with Osmondson?”

“We were doing some cross-referencing.”

“Does it have anything to do with the carjackings that’re plaguing Devonshire?”

Oliver didn’t answer right away, wondering just how much he should say. What the hell, she probably talked to her old man anyway. “Maybe.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know yet, Cindy. I just picked up the folders.”

“Sorry. I don’t mean to be nosy.” She finished her orange juice and placed it on the counter. “Actually, I do mean to be nosy, but I see I won’t get anything out of you, either.” She raised a finger. “But that won’t stop me from trying. There’s always Marge.”

“You’re feeling better.”

“A bit. Although my head’s still pounding, and I still smell like a brewery.”

“Get some sleep.”

A horn cut through the night, the phone ringing shrill and loud. Oliver picked up the receiver. “Yo … thanks.” He disconnected the line and said, “My cab’s here.”