Faye Kellerman - Stalker

“Wait!” Cindy dashed into her bedroom and pulled a twenty out of her wallet. Between the ten she’d given to Jasmine and this twenty, she was down to five bucks and coinage. Which meant, at least, she wouldn’t be wasting any more bread on booze. Clutching the bill, she came out and held the money out to him. “For your efforts … and the cab fare.”

Oliver looked at the crumpled bill, damp from her sweat. Then he regarded her face. “You’ve got to be kidding.” He laughed softly, then tousled her hair and closed the front door behind him.

She remained in place, staring at nothing. She heard his footsteps clacking down the metal staircase, heard a car door slam shut. An engine revved, then roared, but eventually receded until there was silence. The absolute quiet of her apartment.

But within moments, the ambient noises reappeared—the whir of the refrigerator and the humming of the battery-operated wall clock. She glanced around the living room. Her furniture seemed foreign to her eyes—big unfriendly globs of cream cloth. Even the pillows. Instead of decoration, they appeared as evil red eyes, glaring at her with malevolence. Her glass coffee table reflected the eerie green light of her VCR, which flashed an ever-present 12 P.M.

Outside, a loud thumping interrupted her overwrought imagination and caused her to jump in place.

Calm down.

Just a car stereo with the bass cranked up to the max.

Why was she standing here? What purpose did it serve? None, she decided. She blinked several times. Then she bolted the door and went to bed.

“Hollywood had six similars over the last two years,” Oliver explained. “All of them are opens. Two are out of the loop, but the four I flagged have common details.”

They were in Decker’s office—not much more than a cubicle except it had a ceiling and a door that closed to afford privacy for those inside. Decker was sitting behind the desk; Oliver and Marge sat on the other side. Decker’s phone lights were blinking, but the ringer was off.

Paging through one of the red-marked folders, Decker took in the basics—the crime, the place, the time, the weapon, the extenuating circumstances. “The woman didn’t have a kid. Or did I miss something?” He handed the file back to Oliver.

“No, she didn’t have a kid. But she was carrying groceries, which means that her hands were occupied. Perp used the same method of approach. Sneaking up behind her and putting a gun in her back. Asking her to drive. Not all of our cases involve a kid.”

“Only one didn’t involve a child,” Marge said. “The rest had infants and toddlers.”

“So maybe this one was Hollywood’s exception,” Oliver answered. “Look, I’m just bringing it to your attention. You want to throw it out, be my guest.”

“It has been brought and duly registered,” Marge said.

Oliver said, “By the way, how’s your kid doing?”

Marge tried to hold a smile. “Vega’s … adapting very well.”

“How are you adapting to motherhood?” Decker asked.

“I’m doing fine,” Marge answered. “Look, the way I figure, even if it does get rocky over the next few years, it’s time limited. She’s thirteen now. When they’re eighteen, they’re out of your life, right?”

The men broke into instantaneous laughter.

“What?” Her eyes darted from Oliver to Decker. “Fill me in. I could use some yucks.”

Decker shook his head. “Margie, it’s just one of those … parental things. You’ve just got to be there.”

“Why spoil her fantasy?” Oliver asked. “And that’s what she’s talking about—a real fantasy.”

Marge said, “I’m going to ignore both of you.”

Decker let out a final chuckle, then rummaged through another case file. This one hadn’t been flagged. He studied the folder for several minutes. “So you think this one with the lady and the red Ferrari isn’t a match.”

Oliver said, “First off, it’s a hard thing to carjack a Ferrari. The car has manual transmission. And even if you can drive a stick, you gotta know how the gears go. And even if you know the gears, you gotta know how to drive a very temperamental car. Also, she was a lone woman and wasn’t carrying anything to slow her down. It’s not the same MO. Kidnapping for ransom. She was rich.”

Marge said, “Sounds like the Armand Crayton case.”

Decker said, “Except she didn’t die like Crayton. Or maybe she did.” He looked at Oliver. “What happened to her?”

“I assumed that the ransom was paid, and she’s fine.”

“And the kidnappers were never apprehended.”

“Obviously not. Otherwise the case wouldn’t be open.”

“Odd,” Decker said. “Kidnapping has the highest solve rate. Did they get the car back?”

“I don’t know,” Oliver said. “I’ll give Osmondson a call and do some follow-up.”

Decker said, “This lady drove a red Ferrari, Crayton drove a red Corniche. You don’t think there could be a connection?”

“What?” Oliver said. “Like a two-tiered ring?”

“One for high-end, one for low-end.”

“A couple of the mother-baby jackings have involved Mercedeses,” Marge remarked.

“Two Mercedeses, five Volvos, one Beemer, one Jeep,” Decker said. “Not in the same league as Ferraris and Corniches.”

“In the Crayton case, the kidnappers didn’t ask for ransom,” Marge said.

“They never got that far,” Decker said. “The car plunged over an embankment and exploded. Crayton was burned to death.”

“All I’m saying is that his widow never got a call.”

“Armand Crayton had been implicated in criminal activity,” Oliver said. “He’d had dealings with scumbags. We never ruled out a hit.”

“That’s true,” Decker said. “When he died, he had several suits against him.”

“The Ferrari driver … what’s her name?”

Decker flipped through the papers. “Elizabeth Tarkum.”

“So far as I know, she didn’t have a rap sheet. She was just a rich wife in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“A rich, young wife,” Decker said. “Twenty-six, and she was driving a Ferrari.”

Oliver raised his brow. “Crayton was what? Thirty?”

“Thirty-one,” Decker said.

Marge said, “What was Crayton involved in? Like a pyramid scheme?”

Oliver said, “He was selling land he didn’t own … something like that.”

“No, he owned the land he was selling,” Decker said. “But for some reason, he went bust. Details were always hard to come by. I always had the feeling that someone was fighting me.”

“Like who?”

“Don’t know,” Decker answered. “I sent Webster after the wife, but he never got anywhere.”

Marge said, “Maybe this Tarkum lady had some skeletons of her own. You know … driving a Ferrari at twenty-six.”

“There’s nothing to suggest that in the case file,” Oliver said.

Decker said, “How old’s her husband?”