Faye Kellerman - Stalker

Oliver shrugged. “Haven’t a clue.”

Marge picked up her cup and dripped coffee on her lap. Frowning, she wiped the spot off of her pants with her fingers. “That’s why I wear black. I can be a slob and no one notices.”

Decker handed her the tissue box. “It’s why I wear brown. Then you really don’t notice.”

“You’re the only one in the entire department who can get away with baggy brown suits,” Oliver said. “They’re so out, they’re in.”

Decker smiled. “That’s me. A real trendsetter.”

Oliver glanced up from his file. Deck had a deskful of family pictures—Cindy, his little one, Hannah, his stepsons, several of his wife, Rina. They were angled so Oliver could see them. He had never noticed them before. The smell of Marge’s coffee had tingled his nose. His stomach growled. He’d left his own cup at his desk. He seized Marge’s mug, took a drink, and made a face. “What the hell did you do to this?”

“What?” Marge said. “I put Equal in it—”

“How can you drink that shit?”

“Oliver, it’s my coffee.”

Decker smiled. “You want mine, Scotty? It’s black. A little tepid, by now, but it’s unadulterated.”

“I’ll get my own, thanks.” He stood and took Decker’s mug. “As long as I’m up, I’ll pour fresh.” His eyes went to Marge. “Do you and your chemicals want a warm-up?”

“At least my chemicals don’t give me a hangover.”

“You’ve got a point. Now do you want a fresh cup or not?”

“He gets fresh, I get fresh.” She handed him her cup. “Two cream powders, one Equal. Don’t say a word.”

He flashed her the peace sign. “Be back in a sec.” Mugs in hand, he walked to his desk to retrieve his own coffee cup when his phone rang. He put down the crockery and picked up the receiver. “Oliver.”

“Hi.”

He hesitated a moment. “Hi.” Then to let her know that he recognized the voice, he added, “How are you feeling?”

“I’ll be glad when the day is over.”

“What are you doing?” Oliver flipped his wrist, looked at his watch. Ten-thirty. “It’s way too early for lunch.”

“Code seven—ten-minute break.”

“Ah, doughnuts and coffee.”

“Just the coffee,” Cindy answered. “Everybody’s watching the fat.” She waited a beat. “Is this a bad time?”

“Sort of.” He glanced over his shoulder, eyes on Decker’s office. The door was still closed. Then he wondered why he was so concerned. “What’s up?”

“I’ll make it quick. I just wanted to properly thank you. In my stupor last night, I think I had forgotten.”

“Forget it—”

“No, I won’t forget it, I’ll learn from it. I’m embarrassed, Scott. Not so much that I was tipsy, but that I attempted to drive. That was really stupid. More than that, it was really dangerous.”

“Yes, it was.”

She laughed over the phone. It was light and airy. “At least you’re honest. Anyway, it won’t happen again.”

“We all mess up,” Oliver said softly. “If you learn from it, you’re one step ahead.”

“Again, thanks for rescuing me. Bye—”

“Look, do you … Nothing.”

“Would you please complete the sentence?” Cindy requested. “Do I … what ?”

Again Oliver looked over his shoulder. “Maybe we should talk over a cup of coffee. I still know lots of guys in Hollywood. I could fill you in on a couple of things.”

“Such as?”

“Give you the lowdown.”

“The lowdown on the guys …” A pause. “Or the lowdown on me.”

“Maybe both.”

Cindy sighed. “Don’t bother, Oliver. Beaudry has already pointed out my deficiencies. Apparently, they are many and varied.”

“Has he told you the good points?”

“He’s still searching.” A few seconds passed. “ Are there good points?”

He took another glance behind his back. Marge had opened the door, holding out her hands like a balance scale—a “what gives” sign. He held up a finger, indicating one minute, and whispered, “This isn’t the right time. Look, you get off at three, I get off around five. I’ll come to your side of town. How about Musso and Frank at seven?”

“A bit rich for my pocketbook, Oliver.”

“It’s my treat.” He spied Marge motioning to him. “I gotta go. Your father needs my swift insights.”

“Don’t say hi for me.”

“Sweetheart, I have no intention of bringing up your name.”

Traffic was light and should have been moving since the street was zoned for speeds up to thirty-five miles per hour. The trouble was coming from a truck, which was not just crawling, but swerving as well. It was one of those ancient things: a heavy job with lots of primed, curvaceous metal, and a grill big enough to barbecue an ox. The back taillight had been punched out, the tags were expired, and the exhaust pipe was belching smoke. The bumper was sheared down the middle, and in need of a rechroming. Beaudry typed the license plate number into the MOT—the computer’s central hookup into the DMV. A minute later the monitor displayed the basic identification on the truck and its owner.

“Fifty-one Chevrolet,” Beaudry said out loud. “Well, that matches. No wants or warrants on the vehicle. Registered to Anatol Petru-ke—” He squinted as he spelled. “P-e-t-r-u-k-i-e-v-i-ch.”

“Petrukievich,” Cindy said.

“Sounds Russian.”

“Probably,” Cindy, said. “Whoever he is, he’s no doubt inebriated.” She flipped on the lights and siren. The truck neither slowed down nor sped up. It just kept going at its snail’s pace.

Beaudry unhooked the bullhorn. “Pull your vehicle over now!”

“Graham, do you really think he understands what a vehicle is?”

“He’ll get the message.” They rode a few seconds, watching. “Is he slowing?”

“At seven miles an hour, it’s hard to tell.” She waited. “Yeah, he’s skewing his way over to the curb.”

“See, he understood what the word vehicle meant.”

“Maybe it was the flashing lights and siren.”

“You’re just being a sore loser. Call it, Decker. Heads or tails?”

“Tails.”

He tossed the coin, flipped it over to the back of his hand, then showed her the quarter; George Washington was smirking at her.

Beaudry said, “Since it’s my call, I say you take the driver.”

“I get all the luck.” She rolled her eyes. “Who needs luck anyway? A good cop makes her own luck, right?”

“Whatever you say, Decker.”

Cindy parked behind the plated dinosaur and got out, leaving the door open for protection. She waited a moment to see if the driver was staying put.

He was—at least for now.

She unsnapped her holster. Cautiously, and with her hands on her hips, she began her approach, moving across the left side of the vehicle. The cabin of the truck was tattooed with a boxed-in ad, reading TOP CHOICE PAINTING in bold black letters. A smiling paintbrush had underlined the words. The phone number was a Hollywood exchange. Mr. Petrukievich was a local. Or at least his business was.