Oliver wagged a finger at her. “Don’t draw lines in the sand, Decker, unless you’re prepared for battle.” He ran his index finger across Hayley’s shoulders. “See you later, ladies.” Then: “Or maybe not.”

Cindy watched him go, greeting the Norseman, shaking his hand. They took up the reserved booth in the back. Out of Cindy’s range of vision, which, she supposed, was what they wanted: privacy to discuss a case. She sneaked a sidelong look at Hayley, who was clearly upset. The woman was making a stab at her beef dip, tearing off a grizzled corner and chewing it slowly.

No one spoke.

Finally, she said, “He’s such an idiot!” Then she whispered, “I’m an intelligent woman. Why does he have this effect on me!”

Cindy picked up a French fry. “You know that Sheryl Crow song—‘My Favorite Mistake.’ We all have them.”

“Well, I wish mine wasn’t such an asshole!” She got up from her chair. “I gotta go reapply my lipstick.”

After Hayley was gone, Rhonda took a bite out of her turkey dip. “Poor thing.”

“She covered it well.”

“Except her armpits are the size of swimming pools.”

“How long were they going together?”

“I don’t think they were ever going together. It was just a casual thing.”

“Not to her,” Cindy answered. She glanced at her plate, at the ceiling, at the bar stool. Anywhere but behind her back. Andy Lopez caught her eye. Involuntarily, she nodded, which was a dumb thing to do. Because Andy nudged Tim. Then they both got up.

“Oh dear.” Cindy downed some beer for fortification. “Here they come.”

Rhonda licked her fingers, which were coated with turkey gravy. “You be nice. You’re way too new to be jaded. How old are you? Twenty-one?”

“Twenty-five.”

Rhonda made a surprised face.

“I know. I look young.”

“I would think eighteen except you’re drinking.”

“Hey, Decker.” Tim Waters plunked his scotch on the table. He had a medium build with light brown hair, murky green eyes, and bland features. He struck Cindy as Any-man USA. “Heard you were a big hit with Tropper.”

“Good news travels fast.” Cindy pointed to the chairs. “Take a seat. But bring over another one for Hayley.”

Waters said, “After seeing Oliver, we thought she took off.”

His smirk was ugly. Cindy stared at him long and hard. It must have been effective, because his cheeks pinked. She said, “No, Hayley’s still here … just in the john.”

Waters grabbed another chair and sat. Andy Lopez took up space next to Rhonda. He was on the small, slight side. But Cindy remembered him in the weight room, bench-pressing 320.

Lopez said, “Actually, Brown said you did okay.”

She focused her eyes on him. “That’s good to hear.” She wrinkled her brow. “So why do I feel that there’s an addendum to that statement?”

Lopez stared at her.

She said, “What else did Brown say?”

“Brown’s sitting right over there.” Waters cocked his head toward the bar stools. “Why don’t you go ask him?”

“Because I’m eating my dinner.” Cindy gulped down more beer. “What’d he say, Andy?”

“Just that …” Lopez stole one of Cindy’s French fries. “You know …” His voice faded.

“Perhaps he said something about me and frankfurters?” Cindy caught Jasmine’s eye, mouthing another beer. “I wasn’t hotdoggin’ anything!”

“I believe you, Cin—”

“It was a very tense situation. I was doing the best I could.”

“Brown said you did good,” Waters answered. “What are you bitching about?”

“Because Tropper’s pissed.”

“Yeah, Tropper’s real pissed,” Lopez said.

Cindy stared at him. “And?”

Lopez ate another French fry. “Jesus, Decker, I’m just letting you know. Don’t kill the messenger.”

Waters said, “Forget it, Decker. Tropper won’t do anything.”

Almost word for word what Beaudry had said. “How do you know?” Cindy asked. “What? Is he afraid of my father or something?”

Waters sipped his scotch. “Let’s just say he has a healthy respect for authority.”

Jasmine came with a fresh brew. She regarded Cindy with concern. “You know, maybe you should eat a little. It’s good to get something in your stomach so it doesn’t go to your head.”

Cindy took a bite of her sandwich. It went down like lead. She drank half of her suds. “I’m okay. Honestly.”

Waters smiled. “And if you’re not okay, I can always drive you home.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

Hayley came back, freshly made up. Cindy thought she looked dynamite good. Apparently Waters did, too. His eyes lingered on her chest a bit too long. Marx glared and said, “Who let the riffraff in?”

“I plead guilty.” Cindy raised her hand. Mother Jasmine had been right. After four-plus beers, she was getting a definite buzz and needed something in her stomach. She attempted another bite, but it came out a nibble. Andy was glancing at her sandwich with longing in his eyes.

“You want some, Lopez?” Cindy asked. “I’m really not that hungry.”

“Well, if you’re not going to eat it.” Lopez grabbed a half. “Why let it go to waste?”

Suddenly, the smoky air was oppressive, constricting her chest movement. She felt short of breath but didn’t dare gasp. The current tension had been magnified by the residual strain from the afternoon. Combined with the liquor, Cindy felt as if she were climbing out of her skin.

She needed out and right away. Quickly, she stood up. Just as quickly, the room started to spin. She slammed her palms against the table for balance.

“You okay, Decker?” Hayley asked. “Sit down, girl. You look pale.”

“No, I’m fine.” Attempting a smile. “I’m just tired.”

Andy said, “Lemme drive you home, Cin.”

She knew he meant it sincerely. And it made sense because she was woozy. But the thought of being alone in a car with him didn’t settle well. “Thanks, Andy.” Again a smile. “I’m really fine.”

“I’ll drive you,” Rhonda offered. “Hayley can pick me up later—”

“It’s not necessary!”

Her voice sounded harsher than she had intended. “Really, Rhonda. Thanks, but I’m fine. I’ll see you all later.”

She threw her bag over her shoulder. Knowing that they were studying her sobriety, she made sure to walk away on steady feet. But as soon as she got outside, she broke into a sweat. Her heart started pounding, her hands shook, and her vision blurred. She was drowning from the stress of conformity. Standing in the middle of the parking lot, staring at the sea of cars. Where the hell was hers?

“Please, God,” she prayed. “Just let me get home in one piece, and I’ll never do it again.”

She walked down one row, then another. The misty night air did little for her revitalization. But it did frizz up her hair.

Finally, she spied it—her Saturn. She would have never noticed it except that she had parked under a light. Her car was that sparkly, neon green color that had been in vogue a couple years back. Now the tint was passé, and the coupe looked like an old, painted whore.

She teetered over to her wheels and fumbled with her keys while perspiration poured off her brow. She managed to unlock the sucker, but then the world started spinning. She shut her eyes, but the reeling wouldn’t stop. She leaned against the metal, plopping her head against the thick cool glass, praying she wouldn’t upchuck.

“Give me—”

Cindy started, jumping backward, almost plowing into his chest. She turned and glared at him, sweaty face and all. “Do you always sneak up on people like that?”

“Only if they’re felons,” Oliver answered. “Which is what you’re going to be if you drive in that condition. Give me the keys.”

She was too sick to argue. She handed him her ring.

“Can you make it around to the other side?”

“I suppose I can if I walk slow enough.”

Oliver opened the driver’s door. “Slide in.”

“Thank you.”

She managed to trudge her body from the driver’s side to the passenger’s seat, then threw her head back and closed her eyes. Everything was still spinning. She clutched her legs, hoping the tactile sensation would settle her stomach.

Oliver reached over and fastened her seat belt. “Here. Chew these.”

She opened her eyes and stared at the proffered cup. “What is it?”

“Ice chips. It reduces nausea. When you left, you looked a bit unsteady … a little green.”

She took the cup, biting her lip to hold down her stomach. “Were you spying on me?”

He ignored her. “Where am I going?”

“Philosophically?”

“Cindy—”

“Turn left at the first light—”

“Give me an address.”

“To my apartment?”

“Yes, Cindy, to your apartment.”

“It’s off Bagley. Three blocks north of Venice. You know the area?”

“That’s near Culver City, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. Exactly.” She crunched the frozen water between her teeth and gave him the number. “Sorry about this.”

“S’right.”

She let out a deep, beer-filled exhalation. She wanted to say more, to explain herself, but she couldn’t get the words from her throat. She stared out the windshield, fixing her eyes on the asphalt road ahead.

They rode in silence, the protracted twenty-five minutes feeling like hours. Each turn or lane shift sent acid-coated waves up her esophagus. She sucked ice chips and swallowed often. She wiped sweat from her face with tissues, then wrinkled her nose because the Kleenex stank of beer.

Five pints and she was reeking. She stole a glance at her driver. If the stench was bothering him, he had the decency to remain stoic.

Finally, finally, he parked the car in familiar territory. She somehow got out on her own, dragging her bag along so that the straps scraped the ground. Oliver came over, and Cindy held out her hand for the keys. “I think I can take it from here.”

“I need to use your phone.”

Cindy opened and closed her mouth, staring at him through squinted, suspicious eyes.

Oliver said, “I’ve got to call a cab, Cindy. My car is still at Bellini’s.”

“Oh.” Cindy thought for a moment, processing the words. He has to call a cab. “I can do it for you.”

Oliver kept his eyes on her face, then let out a chuckle. “I suppose you could. But I’d prefer to wait inside rather than freeze my ass off.”

“Oh.” Cindy thought again. Yeah, that made sense. “Sure. Come on in.” She nodded but didn’t move.

Oliver took her elbow, gently guiding her. “What’s the number?”

“Three-oh-two. There’s an elevator—”

“We’ll take the stairs. The walk’ll do you good.”

“I’m okay.” She blinked. “Really.”

He didn’t respond. He was pushing her along, his fingers wrapped around her triceps. She felt like an errant child being led to her room. When they got to her unit, Oliver took out the keys and held them aloft. “Which one?”

“The metal one.”

“Cindy—”

“Gold …” Cindy said. “It’s gold. A Schlage. That’s as specific as I can get right now.”

After several tries, he unlocked the bolt, pushed the door wide open. “After you.”

“A real gentleman.” Cindy smiled. “Phone’s somewhere. Will you excuse me?”

She didn’t wait for an answer. She made a beeline for the bedroom and slammed the door shut, peeling off her sweat-soaked, beer-stinking, smoke-reeking pantsuit, cursing herself because the cleaning bill was going to be outrageous. Plopping down on her bed, she lay faceup in her underwear, watching the ceiling fixture go round and round and round and round …

Oliver was yelling from the other room.

“What?” she screamed.

“Cab company wants to know the number here,” he called back.

“Eight-five—”

“What?”

“Wait a sec.” Slowly, she rose from the bed, opened the door a crack, and gave him the number. She heard him repeating it, presumably to the cab company. She was almost at her bed when her stomach lurched. She didn’t even try to tame it—a lost cause. She ran to the bathroom, hoping she could retch quietly. But after the first round, she didn’t even care about that. When she had finished, she crawled to the sink, and while still on her knees, she washed her mouth and face.

At last, she was able to stand without feeling seasick. She took a gander at her visage in the mirror. She looked how she felt—like a warmed-over turd.

She thought about going into her kitchen—fixing herself a cuppa—but he was there.

Well, too damn bad! Whose place was it anyway? She donned her pink terry-cloth robe, then gazed one last time in the mirror. Nothing had changed. She still looked horrible—pink nose, sallow complexion, watery eyes, and, thanks to the fog, bright red frizzy hair that made her look as if she were on fire. Still, there was something really nice about talking to a man (even Scott Oliver, who was like her father’s age) while looking like shit. It spoke of confidence.

She opened the door to her bedroom and emerged a proud, pink, nappy thing. Oliver’s eyes were focused out the window. He pivoted around, hands in his pockets, and stifled a smile when he saw her. “Hard day, Decker?”

“I won’t even deign to bother you with my pathetic little story.” She went into her kitchenette and filled the coffee carafe with water. “I’m making decaf. You want?”

“Pass.” He peeked out the Levelors. “A word of unsolicited advice. Try orange juice. Vitamin C’s good for hangovers.”

Cindy stared at the coffeepot. “Okay.” She spilled the water out in the sink, and took out a pint of orange juice. She poured herself a glass. “Bottoms up.”

“What happened, Cindy?”

“It’s really not very interesting, Scott.”

He shrugged. “Got nothing better to do right now.”

“I ruffled some feathers. No big whoop. I’ll fix it.”

“Learning young.” He nodded. “Good for you.”

“Thank you,” Cindy said. “So why do I detect a note of condescension?”

Oliver went back to the window, busying himself with the slats. “No condescension meant.”

She sipped orange juice. It burned as it went down her gullet. “So I’m wrong in assuming that your innocuous off-the-cuff comment bore any sort of indirect ill will toward my dad, right?”

The room fell silent. Stayed that way for a few moments.

“Let’s swap favors, all right?” Oliver turned to face her. “I won’t say anything to your father about tonight if you forget what I said earlier in the evening.”

“About my dad being a slimy interloper?”

“That’s the one.”

“Deal.”

Oliver ran his hands through his hair. “He’s a good man, Cindy. A good man, and a more than decent boss.”

“You don’t have to sell him to me.” No one spoke for a moment. Then she said, “So what kind of business did you have with Osmondson?”

“We were doing some cross-referencing.”

“Does it have anything to do with the carjackings that’re plaguing Devonshire?”

Oliver didn’t answer right away, wondering just how much he should say. What the hell, she probably talked to her old man anyway. “Maybe.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know yet, Cindy. I just picked up the folders.”

“Sorry. I don’t mean to be nosy.” She finished her orange juice and placed it on the counter. “Actually, I do mean to be nosy, but I see I won’t get anything out of you, either.” She raised a finger. “But that won’t stop me from trying. There’s always Marge.”

“You’re feeling better.”

“A bit. Although my head’s still pounding, and I still smell like a brewery.”

“Get some sleep.”

A horn cut through the night, the phone ringing shrill and loud. Oliver picked up the receiver. “Yo … thanks.” He disconnected the line and said, “My cab’s here.”

“Wait!” Cindy dashed into her bedroom and pulled a twenty out of her wallet. Between the ten she’d given to Jasmine and this twenty, she was down to five bucks and coinage. Which meant, at least, she wouldn’t be wasting any more bread on booze. Clutching the bill, she came out and held the money out to him. “For your efforts … and the cab fare.”

Oliver looked at the crumpled bill, damp from her sweat. Then he regarded her face. “You’ve got to be kidding.” He laughed softly, then tousled her hair and closed the front door behind him.

She remained in place, staring at nothing. She heard his footsteps clacking down the metal staircase, heard a car door slam shut. An engine revved, then roared, but eventually receded until there was silence. The absolute quiet of her apartment.

But within moments, the ambient noises reappeared—the whir of the refrigerator and the humming of the battery-operated wall clock. She glanced around the living room. Her furniture seemed foreign to her eyes—big unfriendly globs of cream cloth. Even the pillows. Instead of decoration, they appeared as evil red eyes, glaring at her with malevolence. Her glass coffee table reflected the eerie green light of her VCR, which flashed an ever-present 12 P.M.

Outside, a loud thumping interrupted her overwrought imagination and caused her to jump in place.

Calm down.

Just a car stereo with the bass cranked up to the max.

Why was she standing here? What purpose did it serve? None, she decided. She blinked several times. Then she bolted the door and went to bed.

“Hollywood had six similars over the last two years,” Oliver explained. “All of them are opens. Two are out of the loop, but the four I flagged have common details.”

They were in Decker’s office—not much more than a cubicle except it had a ceiling and a door that closed to afford privacy for those inside. Decker was sitting behind the desk; Oliver and Marge sat on the other side. Decker’s phone lights were blinking, but the ringer was off.

Paging through one of the red-marked folders, Decker took in the basics—the crime, the place, the time, the weapon, the extenuating circumstances. “The woman didn’t have a kid. Or did I miss something?” He handed the file back to Oliver.

“No, she didn’t have a kid. But she was carrying groceries, which means that her hands were occupied. Perp used the same method of approach. Sneaking up behind her and putting a gun in her back. Asking her to drive. Not all of our cases involve a kid.”

“Only one didn’t involve a child,” Marge said. “The rest had infants and toddlers.”

“So maybe this one was Hollywood’s exception,” Oliver answered. “Look, I’m just bringing it to your attention. You want to throw it out, be my guest.”

“It has been brought and duly registered,” Marge said.

Oliver said, “By the way, how’s your kid doing?”

Marge tried to hold a smile. “Vega’s … adapting very well.”

“How are you adapting to motherhood?” Decker asked.

“I’m doing fine,” Marge answered. “Look, the way I figure, even if it does get rocky over the next few years, it’s time limited. She’s thirteen now. When they’re eighteen, they’re out of your life, right?”

The men broke into instantaneous laughter.

“What?” Her eyes darted from Oliver to Decker. “Fill me in. I could use some yucks.”

Decker shook his head. “Margie, it’s just one of those … parental things. You’ve just got to be there.”

“Why spoil her fantasy?” Oliver asked. “And that’s what she’s talking about—a real fantasy.”

Marge said, “I’m going to ignore both of you.”

Decker let out a final chuckle, then rummaged through another case file. This one hadn’t been flagged. He studied the folder for several minutes. “So you think this one with the lady and the red Ferrari isn’t a match.”

Oliver said, “First off, it’s a hard thing to carjack a Ferrari. The car has manual transmission. And even if you can drive a stick, you gotta know how the gears go. And even if you know the gears, you gotta know how to drive a very temperamental car. Also, she was a lone woman and wasn’t carrying anything to slow her down. It’s not the same MO. Kidnapping for ransom. She was rich.”

Marge said, “Sounds like the Armand Crayton case.”

Decker said, “Except she didn’t die like Crayton. Or maybe she did.” He looked at Oliver. “What happened to her?”

“I assumed that the ransom was paid, and she’s fine.”

“And the kidnappers were never apprehended.”

“Obviously not. Otherwise the case wouldn’t be open.”

“Odd,” Decker said. “Kidnapping has the highest solve rate. Did they get the car back?”

“I don’t know,” Oliver said. “I’ll give Osmondson a call and do some follow-up.”

Decker said, “This lady drove a red Ferrari, Crayton drove a red Corniche. You don’t think there could be a connection?”

“What?” Oliver said. “Like a two-tiered ring?”

“One for high-end, one for low-end.”

“A couple of the mother-baby jackings have involved Mercedeses,” Marge remarked.

“Two Mercedeses, five Volvos, one Beemer, one Jeep,” Decker said. “Not in the same league as Ferraris and Corniches.”

“In the Crayton case, the kidnappers didn’t ask for ransom,” Marge said.

“They never got that far,” Decker said. “The car plunged over an embankment and exploded. Crayton was burned to death.”

“All I’m saying is that his widow never got a call.”

“Armand Crayton had been implicated in criminal activity,” Oliver said. “He’d had dealings with scumbags. We never ruled out a hit.”

“That’s true,” Decker said. “When he died, he had several suits against him.”

“The Ferrari driver … what’s her name?”

Decker flipped through the papers. “Elizabeth Tarkum.”

“So far as I know, she didn’t have a rap sheet. She was just a rich wife in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“A rich, young wife,” Decker said. “Twenty-six, and she was driving a Ferrari.”

Oliver raised his brow. “Crayton was what? Thirty?”

“Thirty-one,” Decker said.

Marge said, “What was Crayton involved in? Like a pyramid scheme?”

Oliver said, “He was selling land he didn’t own … something like that.”

“No, he owned the land he was selling,” Decker said. “But for some reason, he went bust. Details were always hard to come by. I always had the feeling that someone was fighting me.”

“Like who?”

“Don’t know,” Decker answered. “I sent Webster after the wife, but he never got anywhere.”

Marge said, “Maybe this Tarkum lady had some skeletons of her own. You know … driving a Ferrari at twenty-six.”

“There’s nothing to suggest that in the case file,” Oliver said.

Decker said, “How old’s her husband?”

Oliver shrugged. “Haven’t a clue.”

Marge picked up her cup and dripped coffee on her lap. Frowning, she wiped the spot off of her pants with her fingers. “That’s why I wear black. I can be a slob and no one notices.”

Decker handed her the tissue box. “It’s why I wear brown. Then you really don’t notice.”

“You’re the only one in the entire department who can get away with baggy brown suits,” Oliver said. “They’re so out, they’re in.”

Decker smiled. “That’s me. A real trendsetter.”

Oliver glanced up from his file. Deck had a deskful of family pictures—Cindy, his little one, Hannah, his stepsons, several of his wife, Rina. They were angled so Oliver could see them. He had never noticed them before. The smell of Marge’s coffee had tingled his nose. His stomach growled. He’d left his own cup at his desk. He seized Marge’s mug, took a drink, and made a face. “What the hell did you do to this?”

“What?” Marge said. “I put Equal in it—”

“How can you drink that shit?”

“Oliver, it’s my coffee.”

Decker smiled. “You want mine, Scotty? It’s black. A little tepid, by now, but it’s unadulterated.”

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