Faye Kellerman: Stalker

“Decker …” growled Tropper.

“Not that I’m trying to influence your decision to press charges, of course.”

“They’re not going to give them back the kids, anyway,” Brown said. “You need to be a responsible adult to raise kids.”

“Maybe there are other relatives,” Beaudry said.

“Her mother.” Luis brightened.

“You really think her mother’s gonna watch your kids after you’ve slammed her daughter’s butt in jail?”

“Decker, you’ve said enough!”

Cindy slammed her mouth shut. She couldn’t understand why Tropper was taking it so personally when she’d seen her colleagues talk other domestic cases out of pressing charges time and time again. Maybe it had something to do with a gun aimed at a pair of nuts.

Estella was sobbing. “They take de kids, Luis! They take de kids!”

Luis’s sassy petulance had been replaced by panic. “No, they no take de kids, Estella.” He looked at Tropper. “I no charge my wife! She no do nothin’. You let her go! Then, we come down and get de kids.”

Tropper was swearing to himself. “I don’t believe this!”

Estella said, “He say I no do nothin’. You let me go!”

“It’s not that simple,” Cindy said. “Even if Luis doesn’t press charges, Estella, we’ve still got to take you down to the station and book you for the illegal possession and negligent use of a firearm.”

“Then wha’?” Luis asked.

Cindy said, “She’ll wait in jail until her arraignment, which will be in maybe three, four hours. Then a judge will probably let her off on her own recognizance. Which means you won’t have to pay any bail—”

“De judge don’ put her in jail?”

Cindy shrugged. “I don’t know what he’ll do. But we’ll have to put her in jail until a judge sees her.” Tropper was giving her the evil eye. She pretended not to see him. “Usually illegal possession and negligent use of a firearm if it’s a first-time offense doesn’t warrant jail time. But I don’t know what a judge will decide. It’s not up to me.”

“If he says I go home, do we get de kids?” Estella said, anxiously.

“No,” Cindy said. “That’s up to another judge—”

“But es better if there is a mother, yes?” Luis asked.

“Probably.”

“So I no put charges,” Luis said. “You let her go.”

Brown chuckled with amazement. “She held a gun to his balls, and you’re letting her off.”

“He es hokay,” Estella said.

“I hokay!” Luis confirmed.

Tropper said, “Bring them down. Charge both of them with felony possession.”

“Charge me?” Luis said. “I no do nothin ’.”

“Yeah, yeah!” Tropper turned Luis around and cuffed him. “If you’re telling me that you were both fooling around with the gun, the charges are possession and negligence against the both of you. That means you and your wife get slammed.” Tropper paused. “Unless you change your mind about charging your wife.”

“No, I no change my mind!”

“Then you’re both under arrest,” Tropper stated. “You made your bed, buddy. Now you lie in it.”

“That’s hokay,” Estella said, nodding. “He eslie in de bed, but only with me.”

Tropper rolled his eyes and propelled Luis forward. “Let’s go!”

As they stepped outside and onto the front porch, cheers and hoots from the neighborhood crowd greeted them. Estella had lowered her head as they walked to the cruisers, but Cindy noticed that Luis was smiling broadly. Probably would have waved if his hands hadn’t been cuffed.

His thirty seconds of fame. That’s Hollywood for you. Everyone’s a friggin’ star.

Though Bellini’s hadn’t become Cindy’s second living room, at least it was comfortable. More than just a hard-core cop bar, it offered chops and sandwiches as well as salads and soups for the lighter fare. Cozy in size, the place had dim lighting, jazz music, and a big-screen TV, which, at the moment, was airing baseball—Giants-Padres. The floors were pine-planked and worn, and the ceilings held acoustical tiles. A half-dozen tables sat in the center area while red-Naugahyde booths lined the left wall. The right side was dedicated to the bar, its mirrored wall reflecting a black counter, which spanned the length of the restaurant. Technically, the law mandated the eatery to be smoke-free. But the patrons skirted the issue by opening up the back door, claiming the area to be an extension of a nonexistent patio. A moot point because who was going to cite the owner when the law was puffing away?

As Beaudry came in, he waved to a few of his friends. Cindy waved just to feel like one of the gang. Ron Brown was sitting on one of the bar stools, but Tropper wasn’t with him. In an eye blink, Cindy caught sight of someone’s back as he left the place. It could have been Sarge, but she wasn’t sure. There were several others that she knew by name. Andy Lopez was an academy acquaintance. There was also Slick Rick Bederman and his partner, Sean Amory. Bederman was solidly built with dark eyes and thick, curly hair, his face, as always, stamped with arrogance. She had met him once at a party … hadn’t liked the way he had looked at her. Amory was lighter in his coloring, but also projected ’tude. Beaudry must have caught her ambivalence. He said, “Feel like being social?”

“Maybe later.”

They ordered their beers, then took a booth, sipping for a few moments without talking. Beaudry was beating time to the music, fingertips drumming the table. It was soft jazz, the sax singing in a breathy voice which teased like foreplay.

Finally, Beaudry said, “So you did all right today.”

“Thanks.”

“Chalk one up for the good guys.”

Cindy said, “Are we the good guys? You wouldn’t know it by reading the papers.”

Beaudry waved her off. “This ain’t the first scandal and it won’t be the last.”

“That’s too bad.”

“Yeah, I suppose.” Beaudry picked up his mug. “Still, I’m not losing sleep over it. So you’re sure you’re okay with today?”

“I’m okay with it.” Cindy managed a smile. “I doubt if Tropper’s okay with it. So he’s pissed at me. He’s not the first, he won’t be the last.”

Beaudry raised his eyebrows, but said nothing.

“What?” Cindy asked. “You’re gonna give me some advice?”

“If you’re okay with it, I’ve got nothing to offer.”

“So why’re you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like I’ve got herpes—”

“You’re being touchy, Decker. I’m not looking at you at all. And if I was looking at you, I wouldn’t be thinking about herpes. I’d be thinking that you look good in that black pantsuit outfit you’re wearing. That it goes good with your hair, which looks pretty when it’s loose.” He sipped beer. “That wasn’t a come-on. I’ve got a marriage, and I want to make it last. That’s just an old-fashioned, blue-collar compliment, so don’t go filing any sexual harassment complaints.”