Faye Kellerman - Stalker

“Yeah.”

“Male?”

“Definitely.”

“What did he sound like?” Oliver asked.

“A maniac !” She glared at him, then returned her eyes to her lap. At this point, Oliver knew that any male was probably at the top of her shit list.

He said, “Did the voice sound accented?”

Stacy pursed her lips. “No, he sounded American. Why?”

“Just trying to gather infor—”

“No, you asked me that for a reason.” She became agitated. “Why’d you ask me that? Do you suspect a foreigner?”

Marge said, “I wish I could give you more information, but—”

“You cops are all alike!”

What did she know about cops? Oliver wondered. “Did he have a weapon?”

“I didn’t see one. But I think he held a gun to me. I felt something hard against my head.” Tears leaked from Stacy’s eyes. “He kicked me … once in the ribs and once in the back. I’m very strong, but shit … he hurt me. I’m in a lot of pain!”

“I’m so sorry.” Marge turned to Korman and mouthed the word— Ambulance?

Stacy caught it. “I sent the paramedics away.” She shrugged. “These ambulances are a scam. All they ever do is rack up hospital bills. They’re all in cahoots … I don’t want anyone I don’t know touching me.”

Marge could understand that. “But you will get checked out—”

“My sister will take me to my doctor. She’s already called him.” She caught her breath. “Think you’ll find my car?”

“We’re working on it,” Korman answered.

“That means no. I’d really like to be left alone until my sister gets here.”

Oliver said, “You didn’t recognize this guy’s voice or anything?”

Stacy regarded him as if he were a moron. “No.”

“So you don’t think this was some kind of revenge thing?”

“No!” Stacy became jumpy. “Why would I think that? What are you driving at?”

“Ms. Mills,” Oliver asked, “did you ever know a man by the name of Armand Crayton?”

Stacy’s face lost all expression. “Why are you asking me these questions ?”

A surprised Oliver regarded Marge. “I’m sorry if I upset—”

“This entire episode upset me! You’re just another cog on the wheel.” She got out of the patrol car. “Can you leave now?”

But Oliver pressed on. “It’s just that this jacking reminded me of Crayton—”

“Except I’m alive and he’s dead!” Stacy shrieked. “Please leave now!”

“I’m trying to help you—”

“I don’t need help! Go away now! ”

“This isn’t going to go away, Ms. Mills—”

“Out!” she screamed. Then her face crumpled. “Please, leave … please ?”

“All right.” Oliver nodded. “I’ll leave.” He waited a few moments, then fished through his wallet. “If by any chance you want to talk to me, here’s my card.” He held out the square piece of paper.

To everyone’s surprise, Stacy Mills took the card.

Feeling a headache coming on, Decker rubbed his temples. From across his desk, he glanced at Oliver, looking his natty self, and Marge, wearing a utilitarian black pants outfit. He said, “Who brought up Crayton?”

“Yo,” Oliver replied.

“Why?” Decker asked.

“Because she drove a red BMW convertible. Crayton’s car was a red Corniche, and Tarkum’s car was a red Ferrari. Maybe a pattern?”

Marge said, “He hit a nerve. You should have seen the way she reacted. She freaked. Told us to get the hell out. But she took Oliver’s business card. Stacy’s sitting on something. The question is, what?”

Again, Decker rubbed his temples. What color was Cindy’s Saturn? Some weird teal green. It certainly wasn’t a luxury car. He sat up straight and tried to appear objective. “What do you think she’s hiding?”

Oliver unbuttoned his blue suit jacket, but refrained from loosening his tie. He was hot and wondered why no one else appeared uncomfortable. “Some revenge thing. The same jackers that took down Crayton may be out to get her.”

“Did the jacker make any attempt to kidnap her?”

“No.” Marge picked a speck of lint off her black pants. “According to Stacy’s story, he told her to hit the ground and expressed regrets that he didn’t have more time, because she was nice .”

“Nice, as in he’d like to have raped her?”

“That was the implication,” Oliver said. “Agreed, Crayton and Mills aren’t mirror images of each other. But I think there’s a connection. Especially given Stacy’s reaction.”

“The crime sounds more like the Elizabeth Tarkum case,” Decker said.

“So maybe they’re all connected.”

Decker said, “And the common thread is …”

Oliver shrugged. “Crayton made enemies. There could be lots of reasons for people wanting him dead. Maybe he was associated with these ladies. Because these cases don’t fit in with the other jackings. The women weren’t carting kids, and the vies weren’t forced inside, their vehicles.”

“So why jack the women now when the Crayton case is old?”

Oliver said, “First off, Elizabeth Tarkum was jacked around six months ago. Second, maybe he figured now was a good time to do Mills because the police might lump her jacking with the ones that have been making the news.”

Marge added, “Stacy also said the perp sounded American. Some of our women with kids said the perp sounded foreign.”

“But Stacy didn’t see him.”

“No.” Marge regarded Decker—her former partner who was now her superior. Instead of being excited about the information, he looked stressed by it. “Crayton’s an open case. I think we should root through the case files again and see if Stacy Mills or Elizabeth Tarkum fit in somewhere.”

Decker sat back in his chair. “Let’s do this. Compile a list of Crayton’s former friends and associates, then go check out if any of them have been threatened or robbed or received any strange phone calls … or been shot at.”

The room fell silent. Oliver tried to hide his apprehension. But Decker wasn’t paying attention to him. He looked up at the ceiling. “This means I’ve got to talk to my daughter.”

Marge widened her eyes. “Cindy? Whatever for?”

“She knew Crayton,” he said.

In a heartbeat, Oliver felt enormous relief. But he played along with it and acted confused. “What? How? ”

“They used to go to the same gym,” Decker admitted. “They struck up a casual friendship.”

“A casual friendship?” Marge repeated.

“That’s her version.” Decker was pained. “What she told me was this. One day they walked out to the gym’s parking lot together. Someone took potshots at them—”

“Jesus!” Oliver emoted. “When was this?”

Decker made a face. “Around a year-plus ago. Just before Crayton was murdered.”

“And you’re just telling us now ?” Oliver tried to add outrage in his tone of voice.

“That’s correct.” Decker’s face was flat. “I’m just telling you now. She didn’t tell me until after Crayton was whacked. When she finally did fess up, I questioned her extensively. She claims she didn’t see the shooter, and had no suspicion as to who might have done it. It didn’t appear like she was holding back, so I took it for the obvious. That Crayton was the intended target and she was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”