Faye Kellerman - Stalker

“She must have been petrified,” Marge said. “Poor thing.”

“I’m sure at the time, she was very shaken.” Decker took out a cigarette and played with it, rolling it between his fingers. “When she told me, she seemed to be handling it well.”

His office fell quiet.

Decker bit the ends of his mustache. “I told her to keep her mouth shut. I also told her to call me immediately if anything remotely threatening pops up. So far, she hasn’t said anything to me, but Cindy keeps her private life … well, private.”

Oliver shook his leg. “She needs to be told what’s going on for her own protection. Also, we’ve got to talk to her to make sure she’s leveled with you.”

“I’ll talk to her,” Decker said.

Oliver said, “Let Marge and me interview her. We can be objective. You can’t. Plus, she’ll talk more openly to us—”

“I don’t know about that.”

Marge said, “Pete, she might be embarrassed to tell you if she had a thing with this guy.”

Decker winced. “I don’t know if she was having an affair with him.”

“So let Marge and me find out.” Oliver attempted to be helpful. “Look, I’ll call her, okay? She’s in Hollywood, right?” He spoke glibly. “I had wanted to go over the Tarkum case with Rolf Osmondson anyway. Him and this other Dee named Craig Barrows, who had mentioned to some of the guys that Tarkum had some similarities to Crayton—”

“What kind of similarities?” Decker asked.

“Offhand, I don’t know. As long as I’m out there, I’ll set up an interview with Cindy.”

Decker didn’t say anything. Oliver took his silence for approval. “I’m not busy tonight. Let’s get this over with for Deck’s peace of mind.” He looked at Marge. “How about you?”

“I’ll have to make a couple of phone calls … rearrange some appointments.”

Oliver said, “She should be interviewed pronto. If you can’t do it, I’ll do it myself.”

Decker’s eyes slowly shifted from his desktop to Oliver’s face. Scott was smart enough to catch the implication. He didn’t jump. Instead he shrugged. “Hey, you can come with us, boss, but it might inhibit her.”

“What makes you think she’ll talk to you ?”

Oliver was frustrated. He really did want to warn Cindy. And he wanted to talk to her alone. But that had to do with personal reasons. He said, “I think I could get something out of her. But if you have doubts, I’ll wait for Margie. She’s your daughter. You call the shots.”

Decker looked at Marge. “Rearrange your schedule.”

“It shouldn’t be a problem,” Marge said.

“Great!” Oliver feigned enthusiasm although he was a tad disappointed that Marge now had to play tagalong. Deep down, he knew it was best. He said, “Around eight, Margie?”

“Actually that would work out perfectly,” Marge answered. “Where does she live?”

“Near Culver City,” Decker said.

Oliver said, “I was planning to go into Hollywood at around six. I’ll meet you at Cindy’s around eight.” He looked pointedly at Decker. “Is that okay with you?”

Reluctantly, Decker agreed. Although he hated losing control, he knew Scott was right. He couldn’t be objective. He glanced at his watch. “I’ll call her … explain the situation and let her know you two are coming by at eight. In the meantime, you two reacquaint yourselves with the Crayton file. Divide up the search and interview as you see fit. Also, you should ask Korman if there’s been a proliferation of other luxury red car thefts.”

Oliver stood. “Sounds like a plan.”

“One more thing.” Decker got up and opened his door. “In Stacy Mills’s case, the perp ordered her to hit the ground. Now, he could have picked out the phrase from the movies or from those real-life cop shows, but you might want to consider that the guy has had some training somewhere.”

“Perp’s a cop?”

“A cop, a former cop, someone rejected from the academy, someone kicked out of the force, HPD, sheriff’s department, a security guard, a former security guard, ATF, the military—anyone who wears a uniform and has power needs.”

Cindy shifted the receiver over to her other ear. “My father was very vague. How’d this all come out?”

“Your dad brought it up because of a recent case—”

“What?” she screamed. “I can’t hear you.”

“Your dad brought it up!”

“My dad! Why? What were you guys talking about?”

“Cindy, I can barely hear you.” He was at a pay phone about a block away from the stationhouse. Traffic on the boulevard was fierce and loud. Oliver looked around. Not a soul to be seen. And even if someone were, what would he see? “I’ll explain when I see you.”

“How can you explain things with Marge there?”

Oliver said, “Look … your dad said we’d be there around eight, right?”

“Right.”

“Marge and I aren’t traveling over the hill together. So I’ll be there like we planned. Around seven-thirty.”

“Make it seven. I’ve got a lot of questions for you.”

Oliver hesitated, then said, “Seven-thirty, Cindy. I’ll be there at seven-thirty.”

There was silence over the line.

Coolly, Cindy said, “Okay, seven-thirty.”

Oliver said, “I have the feeling your dad’s going to show up unexpectedly. He doesn’t like delegating when it comes to his family. You’re his daughter, he’s got a personal interest in all this.” He waited a beat. “I know he’s going to show up at your doorstep with some excuse. I feel it like I feel the wind. Now I can explain being there twenty minutes, even a half hour early … traffic was light, I got done with Hollywood early, blah, blah, blah. But I can’t explain away snowing up an hour early. That would mean that I have plans .”

“What plans are those , Scott?”

“Now you’re being a wise guy.”

Cindy said, “Okay. Seven-thirty it is. Doesn’t matter to me.”

“Good. I’ll see you later.” Oliver smiled as he hung up the phone. Her words said it didn’t matter. But her voice said it did.

Webster raked his fingers through caramel-colored hair. He sat slouched over his desktop, a gray tweed jacket hanging over the back of his chair. He had just turned thirty-five, and his wife had mentioned something about a party. As far as Webster was concerned, he didn’t want to think about birthdays. Age was a mindset and, since he still looked young, he might as well feel young, too, although life in the big city sure moved faster than it did in Tupelo. He wondered if L.A.’s frenetic pace aged the body by pumping it full of adrenaline.

He sifted through the Crayton folders: both of them hefty, containing lots of dog-eared, multicolored pages. There were sections for the autopsy report: graphic photos of a savaged body with exposed bones that had been charred brittle black. There were a dozen black-and-white crash scene photos along with an itemization of what had been found in the burned-out Rolls. Then there was the personal material on Crayton, several sheets depicting a con man with all the rackets, angles, and scams. The files also contained legal documents stemming from lawsuits of several disgruntled individuals, along with a class action suit that had later been dropped.

Armand had had his fair share of enemies.

Webster looked up from the papers, his baby blues focusing on Marge’s face. “Sit. I’m straining my neck.”

“Sorry.” She pulled up a chair.

Webster said, “Bert and I interviewed the prime suspects. Three or four looked promising … the ones most likely to carry a grudge.” He handed her a list. “We came up empty.”

Marge eased herself back in the chair as she scanned the list. “What did you find?”