Faye Kellerman - Stalker

The specifics being the home invasions, the robberies, the beatings, and the rapes. The jackings had started two months ago, and had escalated in their violence. If the crimes continued unbridled, murder would be next. He had ten full-time Dees working the area—a joint effort between sex-crimes, CAPS, and GTA. With some luck, the crimes would stay in those three details, and leave Homicide out of the picture.

Jason squirmed. “This asshole has my wife’s purse. I already changed the locks and canceled the credit cards.”

“That’s good thinking.”

“Has …” Jason closed his eyes for just a second, then opened them. “In the other cases, did any of these … these people come back to the house?”

“No,” Decker said.

Not yet , he thought.

Relief passed through Jason’s eyes. He regarded his wife. “See, I told you this guy is a coward. Crooks who prey on women are cowards. Just let him come to me. He isn’t going to come back, Farin. And if he does, I’m prepared for the SOB!”

Prepared meaning a gun. A bad idea unless Jason knew how to handle a firearm under pressure. Few gun owners did. There was nothing Decker could do to stop this man from buying protection. And he understood the motivation. He just hoped Henley was smart enough to stow the gun away from the kid. He’d have to get Henley alone and mention a few gun safety rules.

Farin said, “I keep thinking there was something I should have done … something I should have noticed.”

Decker shook his head. “These guys are pros, Mrs. Henley. You did really well.”

“So what are you doing to catch them?” Jason demanded to know.

“Talking to people like your wife … hoping they can furnish us with some important details.”

“You just said the creeps ordered the women not to look.”

“Maybe one of them managed to sneak a glance.”

“So you have nothing. Basically, you’re sitting on your derriere until someone does your work for you.”

“Jason!” Farin scolded. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant—”

“You don’t have to apologize for my behavior,” Jason interrupted. He turned to Decker. “What are you doing about it?”

Five women working undercover , Decker thought. And it ain’t easy, bud, because we can’t use babies as decoys. We’ve got to use dolls or dogs or other undercovers dressed up like elderly. Something to make these motherfuckers think they’ve got a mark.

“I wish I could tell you more, Mr. Henley.” Decker spoke calmly. “But I can’t.”

“Probably doing nothing.”

Decker didn’t answer him. To Farin, he said, “Are you up for walking me through the ordeal?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?” Jason asked.

“I’m sure.”

Decker looked at Jason. “Do you want to hear this?”

“Of course, I want to hear it.”

“It’ll make you mad.”

“I’m already mad !” Jason snapped. “I’m furious! I’m … I’m …” He stopped talking and rubbed his forehead. “Do you have an aspirin on you? I’d ask the nurse, but the hospital charges five bucks per tablet.”

Decker took out an ever-present bottle of Advil from his coat pocket and tossed it to him. “Will this do?”

Jason popped two pills in his mouth and tossed them back. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” Decker pulled out his notebook and said to Farin, “Take it slowly.”

Farin nodded.

Pencil poised, Decker said, “Fire when ready.” He grimaced. “Sorry. Bad choice of words.”

Farin smiled. “That’s okay.”

A bad choice of words that Decker had used with the five other carjacking victims. It had gotten a smile out of all of them, and it brought a smile to Farin, as well. Batting one thousand in the smile department. Too bad his solve rate wasn’t nearly as impressive.

Cindy wasn’t the first cop to show on the scene, but she was the first female officer. By the time she and her partner, Graham Beaudry, were curbside, there was already a sizable gathering in front of the house. The group was confined to the sidewalk area, the lawn having been roped off by yellow crime scene tape. Items ejected from the dwelling lay on the ground, mostly woman’s clothing strewn across the desiccated grass like an impromptu garage sale. Within seconds, a toaster came flying out the open window. Crash landing, it spilled its coiled guts over the sidewalk.

The masses cheered.

Great, Cindy thought. Giving the jerks encouragement.

Immediately, the couple launched into screams, most of them female and shrill. The sounds cut through the stilted midmorning air like a siren.

The original complaint had come through the RTO as a domestic dispute, the cases most despised in the department because of their propensity to turn violent. Three other cruisers had already arrived, including Sergeant Tropper’s black-and-white. So it’d be Sarge who’d call the shots.

The urban neighborhood consisted of postwar Vet-bill housing. The homes were one-storied, stucco jobs that held three bedrooms and two baths on the inside, plus a yard big enough for a swing set. The area was predominately Hispanic; lots of Hollywood was. And what wasn’t Hispanic was some other ethnicity surfing the lower third of the socio-economic strata. Some richer Caucasians lived in the district, inhabiting the private hillsides or the secluded canyons. But these whites weren’t the screamingly wealthy. Those of the rarefied resided in the more posh West Hollywood (its own city) or Beverly Hills ( also its own city) or the Westside section of L.A., which was patrolled by LAPD. But the elite might as well have had their own city with all the mansions being stashed behind private gates patrolled by rent-a-cop security guards.

As Cindy got out of the car, she felt her lungs sting. It was turning into a smoggy day in the basin, the glaze hanging over the mountains like a wash of rust. She and Graham joined the others, Beaudry doing his famous duck waddle. Graham was low-waisted and had overly developed thighs to boot. It made him a slow runner, something that Cindy had learned the hard way. Once when they had been giving chase to a street mugger, she had left him in the dust.

But Beaudry had his good points. He treated her respectfully, but that was probably in deference to her high-ranking lieutenant father.

Megaphone in hand, Sergeant Tropper nodded to both of them. Sarge was around her father’s age, probably older. Mid-fifties, about six feet with a dense build. His head sprouted uneven strands of fine gray hair combed to the side, trying to hide a smooth, bald pate. His jaw was square, its thickness exaggerated by bulging muscle. His eyes were fixed and cold. Today, Tropper was riding with Rob Brown, who took them aside and filled them in.

“A pair of real sweethearts. She says she’s got a gun aimed at her husband’s balls. He ain’t denying it.”

Cindy looked around. “Shouldn’t we clear the area?”