Faye Kellerman - Stalker

“Why? What’d you do? Just stand there?”

“No, I ducked behind a car.”

“That’s exactly what you should have done.” Oliver sipped wine. “Sure as hell what I would have done.”

She was quiet.

Oliver said, “Cindy, what do you think you should have done? Turned the parking lot into the O.K. Corral?”

She swiped at her face. “I don’t know. I keep thinking what if this had been the streets and—”

Oliver interrupted her. “If, God forbid, something like this happens on the street, you’ll know what to do. You’ll have your mike, you’ll have your gun, and, going back to our original discussion, you’ll have backup. The potshots took you by surprise. Don’t worry about it.”

“Doesn’t shooting always take you by surprise?”

“Sometimes, sure it does,” Oliver said. “But when you’re working, you’re looking out for it.”

She looked away. “Maybe.”

Oliver said, “So you told your dad about the shooting?”

“Yes.” She paused. “But only after Armand Crayton died.”

“So you didn’t tell him when it first happened?”

“No, I didn’t. Because I didn’t want to freak him out. Also, I didn’t want to admit that I froze. I was embarrassed.”

“Cindy, you didn’t freeze , you ducked ! Ducking is different from freezing.” He ate another prawn. “Okay, so you told your father about the potshots after Crayton was kidnapped and murdered. And your dad told you not to say anything to anyone.”

“Yes.”

Oliver analyzed what might have gone on in Pete’s head. “Did the shooter get a look at you, Cindy?”

“I … don’t know. I was really scared when it happened. My initial thought was that the shooter was his wife. That she wrongly assumed that Armand and I were having an affair. But after he was killed, and all the stuff about him came out, I actually stopped worrying. Armand had a very long list of detractors. The shots weren’t meant for me. They were probably a gift from some disgruntled investor.”

“You’re not holding back? You never dated him?”

“No, never. We were gym buddies. That’s it.”

“You told your father all this.”

“Yes. And I’m sure that if Dad thought that my involvement was important, he would have told you and Marge and the rest of you guys everything.”

“He never said anything to me about it.”

“So he didn’t think it was important.”

“More like he was more concerned with your safety.”

“He wouldn’t jeopardize the case, Scott. Even for my sake.”

Oliver laughed. “Sure, dear!”

“I’m serious. Dad has principles!”

“Dad also loves his family. Between work and your safety, hell, it isn’t even close.” He waved her off. A bus-boy thought he was waving at him, because he immediately cleared the plates.

To Cindy, Oliver said, “Do you want dessert?”

“No, I’m pretty full. Thank you, dinner was delicious.”

“No prob.” Oliver scratched his face. “So you and Craig Barrows were talking about the Crayton case?”

“Just in generalities.” Cindy wiped her mouth.

“What kind of generalities?”

“We got on the discussion of follow-home shootings.” She perked up. “You know, I think Barrows told me that he and Osmondson were working together on a follow-home that sounded similar to the Crayton case.”

Oliver felt like pulling out his notebook, but restrained himself. The conversation was too chockablock. He’d have to grill her in a quiet setting. Take her through the entire thing from start to finish. “Do you remember anything about the case he was referring to?”

Cindy tapped the tabletop. “For some reason, a red Ferrari comes to mind.”

Elizabeth Tarkum. Oliver said, “You know what we’re working on in Devonshire, don’t you?”

“Of course—the carjackings and follow-homes. You think the Crayton case is related to them?”

“Maybe.”

Cindy said, “You want to interrogate me, don’t you?”

“We call it interviewing.”

“Okay,” Cindy said. “Suppose I say yes? Do you want to do it behind my dad’s back?”

“It might be simpler.” Oliver was not at all happy. “How about if I come to your apartment tomorrow evening. You tell me everything you know about Armand Crayton and your conversation with Craig Barrows. If it becomes clear to me that your relationship with Crayton is important to his murder case—or any of our current jacking cases—I’ll tell your dad about this dinner … which won’t be a pretty scene! But if you can shed any light on what’s going on with these horrible jackings, I’ve got no choice.”

“You’re being very professional.” She grinned. “I’m impressed.”

“No, I’m not a professional.” He rubbed his forehead. “What I am is an idiot for taking you to dinner.”

Cindy softened her voice. “You were being nice. Because you felt sorry for me after last night. I appreciate it, Scott.”

He smiled, plunking down the credit card to pay the bill. “You’re a nice kid.”

“Thank you,” Cindy said. “Want to go Dutch?”

He laughed. “This one’s on me. The next one’s on you.”

“Is there going to be a next one?”

It was Oliver’s turn to blush. Quickly, Cindy changed the conversation. “What time do you want to come to my apartment?”

He stared at her.

“For the interview tomorrow night … remember?”

Oliver laughed. “Uh, yeah, I remember. I took my ginkgo biloba. How about seven?”

“Seven it is.”

She stared at the tabletop. She had wanted to ask Scott about Hannah’s picture; why it was on her coffee table instead of perched atop her mantel. She was feeling quite paranoid, especially after their weird conversation. But now it seemed like a suspicious and rude thing to do. So she decided to ask him about it tomorrow. It would make more sense then. He’d interview her; she’d interview him.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Absolutely.” She stood. “Walk me to my car?”

“Of course,” Oliver answered. “And with any luck, no one will snipe at us.”

It had been an exhausting morning, but worth the effort. The little number that Stacy had eyed two months ago had been reduced fifty percent. Black, lightweight wool, it was perfect in almost every SoCal season except maybe summer. And even then she could probably wear it at night because so many of the restaurants were overly air-conditioned, the nasty machines breathing arctic ice down on the sexy halter number you wore to look so fine. Trying to look like you’re having a good time with frost dripping from your nose, and your breath fogging up the menu. Don’t these ultra-hip, ultra-cool, too-too places have any sense of temperature?

Ah well, at least she now owned the perfect black dress for any situation, especially appealing because it was half-off wholesale. And since she saved so much money on the dress, she had extra for the shoes, and the scarf, and a couple of pairs of designer stockings that usually cost more than a good meal at a local café. She also had enough for two cashmere sweaters reduced by seventy percent—last year’s styles, but the colors were neutral. She loved sweaters. They showed off her tight, perfect body courtesy of genetics and lots of proper physical exercise.