Faye Kellerman - Stalker

Stacy left the mall through one of the six main entrances, and stepped out into the dirty sunlight, squinting in the glare. Dragging her packages a couple hundred feet, she scanned the acreage of asphalt, trying to spot her red Beemer convertible sold to her by a rich client at a fraction of its worth. It was a sassy, smart bitch, but the problem was that it was so low down to the ground and hard to find among all these sub urban vans and souped-up four-wheel-drives. She cursed her stupidity. Why didn’t she pay attention to the designated signs—red four, eight purple, whatever. It would have made her life a lot easier, and her arms a lot less tired. Walking through rows and rows of metal, hitting her shoulder on a low-slung rearview mirror.

Was there a landmark she could remember? A tree or a wall or the back of one of the stores or even what side of the boulevard she had parked on? But nothing came to mind. Sweat began to trickle down her brow. It was cloudy but muggy, the moistened air pricking the back of her neck. She touched the crown of her scalp and felt the puff of her tresses, not unlike the aerated fluff of cotton candy.

Great! Her hair was frizzing up. After she spent forty-five goddamn minutes blow-drying it straight, not to mention slopping her hair with all those tonics that promised to keep the dampness and the frizz out of her locks.

Where was the goddamn car?

Another walk through the maze of vehicular steel.

Pretend you’re in a funhouse.

Then Stacy remembered that she never liked funhouses.

More walking, and walking, and walking. Feeling so close, yet so far away. Then she hit her head, dummy that she was. She placed her packages on the ground, then rooted in her purse until she found her keys. Holding on to the remote, she pressed down on the panic button.

In the not so far distance, she heard her horn’s intermittent blare—beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep. Ah, such sweet music. She picked up her packages and followed the dulcet tones until her red BMW jumped into her line of vision, looking as welcoming as beefcake. She depressed the panic button once again and the annoying honking ceased.

She hurried over to the car, putting down her packages as she opened the door. Within seconds, she felt the presence of another body breathing on her neck. As she started to turn, she was slammed against the hood of the car, her face pushed against the hot metal, her keys ripped out of her grasp, cutting across her palm. Something hard was pressed against her temple.

A voice said, “Don’t move! Don’t talk, don’t scream, don’t do anything. You do anything, you’re dead. Am I clear? Nod for yes.”

She managed to nod yes, even though she was mashed against the hood.

“You’re nice,” the voice told her. “You’re very nice. But I’m in a hurry, so you’re lucky. Now hit the ground, bitch!”

Stacy was confused, her terror only adding to her befuddled state. The voice hissed in her ear. “I said, hit the goddamn ground! Do it now, bitch!”

Hands clenched the nape of her neck and shoved her entire body against the pebbly asphalt. Her forehead smacked against the hard rock ground, her cheek scraped and bleeding. A foot was on her throbbing head, pressing hard against it.

I should yell, she told herself. I should really yell. But she couldn’t find her vocal cords.

The voice said, “Now, if you’re a good little bitch, and you stay where you are and keep your mouth shut for a long, long time, you’ll live. If you talk, you’ll die. Is that clear?”

Stacy managed to nod.

The foot came off her head and then gave her a sharp kick in the ribs. Her eyes burned as pain shot through her nervous system. Another kick, but this one directed to her back. She moaned as agony squeezed her like a vise. The foot then pushed her aside.

The car door swung open and hit her in the ribs.

Bang went her car door as it slammed shut.

Vroom, vroom went her pretty little convertible engine.

Screech went the tires as the car backed out of its space.

Stacy was left with two overwhelming thoughts. The first was that she was still alive. If this were the worst of it, she’d be okay … eventually. Her second notion was that the thief hadn’t taken the packages.

At least, she still had her sexy little number.

Marge was reading from the computer sheet. “We’ve got another one. A straight carjack. Vic was a lone woman. No kid.”

“What kind of car?” Oliver asked.

“BMW convertible. Korman, from GTA, caught the call about twenty minutes ago. I’m sure he’s still there. We should go to the scene and find out the details.”

Oliver said, “Any reason why we weren’t called when it came through?”

“We should have been called. Everyone knows that we’re working on the carjackings. Someone screwed up.”

“See, that’s the problem.” Oliver stood and put on his jacket. “If our own details don’t know each other’s business, how can we expect interdepartmental cooperation? You got cases in Hollywood, you got cases here, and who knows where else … no one’s fitting the pieces together.”

“I thought that’s what you were doing last night. You met with him long enough. I called you maybe four times in three hours to find out if you learned anything.” She closed and locked her file drawer. “Did you?”

Oliver’s brain started racing. What was she talking about? “Who’d I tell you I was with?”

“Rolf Osmondson from Hollywood.” Marge eyed him. “Didn’t you take him out to dinner last night?”

Oliver tried to cover. “No, it was the night before.”

Marge was insistent. “No, Scott, you told me you were meeting with Osmondson to clarify a few details about the Elizabeth Tarkum case.”

That’s the trouble with lying when you’re over forty. You forget things. Oliver tried to act casual. “Nah, I wasn’t with Osmondson. I was on a date. I did phone up a couple of Hollywood Dees. Maybe that’s where you’re getting mixed up.”

“Who?”

Shut up, Marge! “Uh, a guy named Craig Barrows. I didn’t mention him to you?”

“No.”

“Yeah, well, we talked a little over the phone. Nothing big.” He squirmed. “You ready?”

“I’m ready.” Marge swung her bag over her shoulder. “I don’t think she was hurt too badly. She was talking … the woman in the Beemer.”

“That’s good,” Oliver said. “Does she have a name?”

“Stacy Mills. She’s a personal trainer.”

“Think it’s related to Crayton?”

Marge was taken aback. “I don’t know. Any reason why it should be related?”

“Car’s not typical for our mother-kid jackings.”

“It doesn’t sound related to Crayton,” Marge said. “The jacking took place in the parking lot of the West Hills Outlets.”

They walked out of the stationhouse, found Marge’s Honda, and then took off. Marge drove the car onto Devonshire, the main artery that linked the north section of the east and west San Fernando Valley. The police station was located in the burbs, which did wonders for the real estate prices in the surrounding area. It gave the illusion that the neighborhood was impenetrable. That wasn’t the case, although the response time was quicker. As she drove farther west, the street broadened and the homes thinned. Rolling hillside swept over the acreage: Los Angeles as farmland. Way back when that had been the case—orchards and fields. Go up another forty miles to Oxnard, and it’s still the case.

Marge said, “In all this open space around, you’d think a red BMW convertible would be easy to spot.”

“It’s red?”

“Yeah. Didn’t I tell you that?”