Stalker
Faye Kellerman
Copyright
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in the United States by William Morrow, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers, 2000
This ebook edition published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2019
Copyright © Faye Kellerman 2000
Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018
Cover photography © Shutterstock.com
Faye Kellerman asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © March 2019 ISBN: 9780008293598
Version: 2018-12-12
Dedication
To Jonathan, my #1 guy
To Barney, my #1 agent
To Carrie, editor par excellence,
who is always there for me
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Keep Reading
About the Author
Faye Kellerman booklist
About the Publisher
It should have happened at night, in a secluded corner of a dimly lit parking lot. Instead, it occurred at one twenty-five in the afternoon. Farin knew the time because she had peeked through the car window, glancing at the clock in her Volvo—purportedly one of the safest cars on the road. Farin was a bug on safety. A fat lot of good that was doing her now.
It wasn’t fair because she had done everything right. She had parked in an open area across the street from the playground, for God’s sakes! There were people in plain view. For instance, there was a man walking a brown pit bull on a leash, the duo strolling down one of the sunlit paths that led up into the mountains. And over to the left, there was a lady in a denim jacket reading the paper. There were kids on the play equipment: a gaggle of toddlers climbing the jungle gym, preschoolers on the slides and wobbly walk-bridge, babies in the infant swings. Mothers were with them, keeping a watchful eye over their charges. Not watching her, of course. Scads of people, but none who could help because at the moment, she had a gun in her back.
Farin said, “Just please don’t hurt my bab—”
“You shut up! You say one more word, you are dead!” The voice was male. “Look straight ahead!”
Farin obeyed.
The disembodied voice went on. “You turn around, you are dead. You do not look at me. Understand?”
Farin nodded yes, keeping her eyes down. His voice was in the medium to high range. Slightly clipped, perhaps accented.
Immediately, Tara started crying. With shaking hands, Farin clutched her daughter to her chest, and cooed into her seashell ear. Instinctively, she brought her purse over Tara’s back, drawing her coat over handbag and child. Farin hoped that if the man did shoot, she and the purse would be the protective bread in the Tara sandwich, the bullet having to penetrate another surface before it could—
The gun’s nozzle dug into her backbone. She bit her lip to prevent herself from crying out.
“Drop your purse!” the voice commanded.
Immediately, Farin did as ordered. She heard him rooting through her handbag, doing this single-handedly because the gun was still pressing into her kidneys.
Please let this be a simple purse snatching! She heard a jangle of metal. Her keys? Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the passenger door to her station wagon had been opened. Again, she felt the press of the gun.
“Go in. From passenger’s side! You do it or I shoot your baby!”
At the mention of her baby, Farin lost all resolve. Tears poured down from her eyes. Hugging her child, she walked around the front of the car, thoughts of escape cut short by the metal at her tailbone. She paused at the sight of the open door.
“Go on!” he barked. “Do it now!”
With Tara at her bosom, she bent down until she found her footing. Then she slid into her passenger’s seat.
“Move across!” he snapped.
Farin tried to figure out how to do this. The car had bucket seats and there was a console between them. With clumsy, halted motions, and still holding Tara, she lifted her butt over the leather-cushioned wall, and into the driver’s seat, both now scrunched behind the wheel. Again, Tara started to cry.
“You shut her up!” he barked.
She’s a baby! Farin wanted to shout. She’s scared! Instead, she began to rock her, singing softly into her ear. He was right beside her, the gun now in her rib cage.
Don’t look at him, Farin reminded herself. Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look!
Staring straight ahead. But she could tell that the gun had shifted to Tara’s head.
Think, Farin! Think!
But nothing came into her hapless brain, not a thought, not a clue. Fear had penetrated every pore of her being as her heart banged hard against her breastbone. Her chest was tight; her breathing was labored. Within seconds, Farin felt her head go light, along with that ominous darkening of her vision. Sparkles popped through her brain … that awful sensation of floating to nothingness.
No, she hadn’t been shot. She was going to pass out!
Don’t pass out, you fool. You can’t afford—
His voice brought her back to reality.
“You give me the girl! Then you drive!”
Tara was still on her lap, little hands grabbing Farin’s blouse. Once Tara was out of her grip, Farin knew they both were helpless unless she did something.
Farin knew she had to move. Without warning, she pivoted around, using the solid weight of her shoulder bone to slam it against his gun-toting hand. Although the sudden move didn’t dislodge the gun from his grip, it did push his hand away, giving Farin about a second to spring into action.
This time, the console was her friend. Because now he had to get over it to do something to her. She jerked down on the door handle, then kicked open the metal barrier to the max. Still holding Tara, Farin bolted from her seat, and attempted to run away.
But her shoe caught and she tripped, falling toward the pebbly road.
What a klutz!
Thinking as she plunged downward: Break the fall with your hip, cover Tara, then kick …
She contorted, managing to land on her hip and shoulder, scraping her right cheek on the unforgiving, rocky asphalt. Immediately, she rolled on top of Tara. Finding her vocal cords, she let out a scream worthy of the best B horror movies.
A deep male voice shouting, “What’s going on over there?”
Even from her poor vantage point, Farin thought that the shout might belong to the man with the brown pit bull.
Several popping sounds.
Oh God, she thought, he’s shooting at me!
Farin prepared for the worst—the sting, the pain, the writhing and horror, or whatever was to come … because she’d never been shot.
But nothing penetrated her body.
Instead, the popping turned out to be her car’s engine. Within moments, the Volvo’s tires screeched as they peeled rubber. One of the back radials smashed over her left foot and ankle as the car blasted from its launch pad.
Now came the pain! It burst into her head and made her sob. Loud, but it didn’t drown out Tara’s piercing cries.
Oh God! My baby is hurt! She called out, “Somebody help me!” Her foot and ankle were pulverized, but agony also stabbed her entire lower body—specifically legs and hips. Her stomach was a bucking storm, her face felt as if attacked by a raging hive of bees. She could hardly breathe. She felt as if she were having a heart attack. At least, she could wiggle the toes on her right foot so she knew she wasn’t paralyzed.
While moaning back excruciating sobs of anguish, she could see the man with the brown pit bull running toward her. He was yelling for help, that Farin could tell. The pit bull was barking wildly … menacingly. It was pulling against the restraints. Suddenly, the dog broke loose from its owner, galloping toward them at full speed!
Lunging toward them!
A huge leap into the air!
The final touch! She was going to be eaten alive!
The dog was within inches of her face.
She passed out just as the pit bull started to lick her tearstained cheek.
The husband was pissed, trying to make Decker go away by throwing him dirty looks. Not that Decker blamed the guy. Nor did Decker, or his twenty-five years of experience, take it personally. Part of the job with a capital J.
“Look at her!” he exclaimed. “She’s in pain—”
“Jason, I’m okay—”
“No, you’re not okay!” Jason interrupted. “You’re a wreck. You and Tara have gone through hell!” Anger had made him red-faced. Suddenly, his lower lip quivered. “You need your rest, Farin!”
He was about an inch away from breaking down. Decker understood the feeling firsthand, the helplessness that clouded and infuriated. Men were supposed to protect their families. When they couldn’t, the guilt washed over them like a tidal wave.
Truth be told, Farin Henley was a mess. The woman had deep lacerations on her left cheek, probably down her entire body as well. Her left leg was in a thigh-high cast. Not that the leg was broken, the docs had told Decker. But her ankle had sustained multiple fractures. The more the leg was immobilized, the better the ankle would heal.
Even through the scrapes and scratches, Decker could tell that Farin was a “cute” woman. She had a round, pixie face framed with clipped, honey-colored hair. Big blue eyes, which were red-rimmed at the moment. She appeared to be in her late twenties. Husband Jason was probably around the same age. Light skin surrounding dark brown eyes. He had a head of thick brown hair that had been blow-dried. His black eyebrows were shaped in a perfect arch. His teeth gleamed white, although he had yet to smile. Medium height, but well built. Jason worked out.
Rather than a direct hit, Decker used the sideswipe approach. He looked down at the crib abutting Mom’s hospital bed, peering at the sleeping form. Tara’s porcelain complexion was marred with scratches, but the wounds appeared superficial. The baby was sucking in her slumber.
Decker said, “What is she? About eighteen months?”
Farin wiped her tears. “Exactly.”
Jason remained hostile. “What is this? A pathetic attempt to gain rapport?”
“Jason!” Farin scolded.
“Are you going to catch this monster?” Jason rolled his eyes. “Probably not. You have no idea—”
“We have an idea.”
The room fell silent.
“And?” Jason asked expectantly.
Decker turned his attention to Farin. “Did you see your assailant’s face, Mrs. Henley?”
Farin licked her cracked lips, and shook her head no. “He told me not to look.” A hard swallow. “He said he’d shoot me if I did.”
Jason said, “You don’t look surprised, Lieutenant.”
“We’ve had other reported carjackings,” Decker said. “Most of them have been in daylight involving women with small children. The jacker—or jackers because we think it’s a ring—tells you not to look or he’ll shoot the kid.”
“That’s right!” Farin exclaimed. “He said he’d shoot …” She lowered the volume to a whisper. “He said he’d shoot …” She pointed to Tara’s crib. “What happened to the other women? Are they okay?”
“They’re okay.”
“Well, thank God for that.” Farin was quiet. “Did I do the right thing, Lieutenant? By trying to escape?”
“You survived, Mrs. Henley. That means you did the right thing.”
“Did the other women escape like I did?”
Decker ran his hands through his graying ginger locks. More silver than red at this point. What the hell! Rina loved him, and people rarely mistook Hannah for his granddaughter. Decker supposed he looked okay. Not young, but decent for a rugged, older guy. “They’re alive,” he answered. “They’re ongoing cases. I can’t tell you the specifics.”
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?”
“That isn’t the big picture right now, Officer Decker. There’re kids inside. Mamacita starts shooting, we’ve got real problems.”
“How old are they?” Cindy asked.
“Seven and nine.” Brown popped a stick of gum into his mouth. “Sarge is figuring out the next move.”
“Can’t you talk her down?” Beaudry said.
“Not so far,” Brown said. “She is pissed!” He looked at his watch. “Three-fucking-fifty-two in the afternoon. Couldnah waited for the four o’clock shift.”
“Decker!”
Cindy turned and saw Tropper beckoning her with a crooked finger; then he handed her the megaphone. “We’re pretty sure she has a gun. If she uses it, it would be bad.”
“Very bad,” Cindy agreed.
“I want you to talk to her, woman to woman. Keep her distracted. The rest of us are going in to rescue the kids.”
Her eyes darted between Sarge and the amplifier. “What if she hears you coming in?”
“You just make sure she doesn’t. Just keep her engaged in conversation. Keep the tongues wagging. That shouldn’t be so hard to do. Here’s a chance for you to use some of your fancy college psychology training.”
Sarge’s lips gave way to a smirk, showing straight but stained teeth. But underneath the sarcasm, Cindy could tell he was tense. At college, she had studied postgraduate criminology, not psychology. But now was not the time to correct him.
“What are their names, sir?”
“Ojeda,” Sarge answered, overenunciating. “Luis and Estella Ojeda.” Then he walked away to confer with the others.
She stood alone, megaphone in hand. Left out of the raid even though she was far slicker on her feet than Beaudry. Then she told herself to be charitable. Perhaps—just perhaps—Tropper really did feel she was the only one who could handle this woman. The situation was far too dangerous to be a simple rite of rookie passage. Even so, win or lose, she knew she was going to be judged.
Maybe Tropper wants you to garner some firsthand experience. Hmm. Did he even know what garner meant?
As much as she tried to be one of the gang, deep down, she was an elitist snob. You can take the girl out of the Ivies … Sarge was gesticulating … giving her the “go” sign. Confidence, she told herself. Show ’em how it’s done, college girl. Depressing the button on the megaphone, she said, “Hey, Estella! You know you have some clothes out here?”
