Stalker

“Of course—the carjackings and follow-homes. You think the Crayton case is related to them?”

“Maybe.”

Cindy said, “You want to interrogate me, don’t you?”

“We call it interviewing.”

“Okay,” Cindy said. “Suppose I say yes? Do you want to do it behind my dad’s back?”

“It might be simpler.” Oliver was not at all happy. “How about if I come to your apartment tomorrow evening. You tell me everything you know about Armand Crayton and your conversation with Craig Barrows. If it becomes clear to me that your relationship with Crayton is important to his murder case—or any of our current jacking cases—I’ll tell your dad about this dinner … which won’t be a pretty scene! But if you can shed any light on what’s going on with these horrible jackings, I’ve got no choice.”

“You’re being very professional.” She grinned. “I’m impressed.”

“No, I’m not a professional.” He rubbed his forehead. “What I am is an idiot for taking you to dinner.”

Cindy softened her voice. “You were being nice. Because you felt sorry for me after last night. I appreciate it, Scott.”

He smiled, plunking down the credit card to pay the bill. “You’re a nice kid.”

“Thank you,” Cindy said. “Want to go Dutch?”

He laughed. “This one’s on me. The next one’s on you.”

“Is there going to be a next one?”

It was Oliver’s turn to blush. Quickly, Cindy changed the conversation. “What time do you want to come to my apartment?”

He stared at her.

“For the interview tomorrow night … remember?”

Oliver laughed. “Uh, yeah, I remember. I took my ginkgo biloba. How about seven?”

“Seven it is.”

She stared at the tabletop. She had wanted to ask Scott about Hannah’s picture; why it was on her coffee table instead of perched atop her mantel. She was feeling quite paranoid, especially after their weird conversation. But now it seemed like a suspicious and rude thing to do. So she decided to ask him about it tomorrow. It would make more sense then. He’d interview her; she’d interview him.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Absolutely.” She stood. “Walk me to my car?”

“Of course,” Oliver answered. “And with any luck, no one will snipe at us.”

9

It had been an exhausting morning, but worth the effort. The little number that Stacy had eyed two months ago had been reduced fifty percent. Black, lightweight wool, it was perfect in almost every SoCal season except maybe summer. And even then she could probably wear it at night because so many of the restaurants were overly air-conditioned, the nasty machines breathing arctic ice down on the sexy halter number you wore to look so fine. Trying to look like you’re having a good time with frost dripping from your nose, and your breath fogging up the menu. Don’t these ultra-hip, ultra-cool, too-too places have any sense of temperature?

Ah well, at least she now owned the perfect black dress for any situation, especially appealing because it was half-off wholesale. And since she saved so much money on the dress, she had extra for the shoes, and the scarf, and a couple of pairs of designer stockings that usually cost more than a good meal at a local café. She also had enough for two cashmere sweaters reduced by seventy percent—last year’s styles, but the colors were neutral. She loved sweaters. They showed off her tight, perfect body courtesy of genetics and lots of proper physical exercise.

Stacy left the mall through one of the six main entrances, and stepped out into the dirty sunlight, squinting in the glare. Dragging her packages a couple hundred feet, she scanned the acreage of asphalt, trying to spot her red Beemer convertible sold to her by a rich client at a fraction of its worth. It was a sassy, smart bitch, but the problem was that it was so low down to the ground and hard to find among all these suburban vans and souped-up four-wheel-drives. She cursed her stupidity. Why didn’t she pay attention to the designated signs—red four, eight purple, whatever. It would have made her life a lot easier, and her arms a lot less tired. Walking through rows and rows of metal, hitting her shoulder on a low-slung rearview mirror.

Was there a landmark she could remember? A tree or a wall or the back of one of the stores or even what side of the boulevard she had parked on? But nothing came to mind. Sweat began to trickle down her brow. It was cloudy but muggy, the moistened air pricking the back of her neck. She touched the crown of her scalp and felt the puff of her tresses, not unlike the aerated fluff of cotton candy.

Great! Her hair was frizzing up. After she spent forty-five goddamn minutes blow-drying it straight, not to mention slopping her hair with all those tonics that promised to keep the dampness and the frizz out of her locks.

Where was the goddamn car?

Another walk through the maze of vehicular steel.

Pretend you’re in a funhouse.

Then Stacy remembered that she never liked funhouses.

More walking, and walking, and walking. Feeling so close, yet so far away. Then she hit her head, dummy that she was. She placed her packages on the ground, then rooted in her purse until she found her keys. Holding on to the remote, she pressed down on the panic button.

In the not so far distance, she heard her horn’s intermittent blare—beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep. Ah, such sweet music. She picked up her packages and followed the dulcet tones until her red BMW jumped into her line of vision, looking as welcoming as beefcake. She depressed the panic button once again and the annoying honking ceased.

She hurried over to the car, putting down her packages as she opened the door. Within seconds, she felt the presence of another body breathing on her neck. As she started to turn, she was slammed against the hood of the car, her face pushed against the hot metal, her keys ripped out of her grasp, cutting across her palm. Something hard was pressed against her temple.

A voice said, “Don’t move! Don’t talk, don’t scream, don’t do anything. You do anything, you’re dead. Am I clear? Nod for yes.”

She managed to nod yes, even though she was mashed against the hood.

“You’re nice,” the voice told her. “You’re very nice. But I’m in a hurry, so you’re lucky. Now hit the ground, bitch!”

Stacy was confused, her terror only adding to her befuddled state. The voice hissed in her ear. “I said, hit the goddamn ground! Do it now, bitch!”

Hands clenched the nape of her neck and shoved her entire body against the pebbly asphalt. Her forehead smacked against the hard rock ground, her cheek scraped and bleeding. A foot was on her throbbing head, pressing hard against it.

I should yell, she told herself. I should really yell. But she couldn’t find her vocal cords.

The voice said, “Now, if you’re a good little bitch, and you stay where you are and keep your mouth shut for a long, long time, you’ll live. If you talk, you’ll die. Is that clear?”

Stacy managed to nod.

The foot came off her head and then gave her a sharp kick in the ribs. Her eyes burned as pain shot through her nervous system. Another kick, but this one directed to her back. She moaned as agony squeezed her like a vise. The foot then pushed her aside.

The car door swung open and hit her in the ribs.

Bang went her car door as it slammed shut.

Vroom, vroom went her pretty little convertible engine.

Screech went the tires as the car backed out of its space.

Stacy was left with two overwhelming thoughts. The first was that she was still alive. If this were the worst of it, she’d be okay … eventually. Her second notion was that the thief hadn’t taken the packages.

At least, she still had her sexy little number.

Marge was reading from the computer sheet. “We’ve got another one. A straight carjack. Vic was a lone woman. No kid.”

“What kind of car?” Oliver asked.

“BMW convertible. Korman, from GTA, caught the call about twenty minutes ago. I’m sure he’s still there. We should go to the scene and find out the details.”

Oliver said, “Any reason why we weren’t called when it came through?”

“We should have been called. Everyone knows that we’re working on the carjackings. Someone screwed up.”

“See, that’s the problem.” Oliver stood and put on his jacket. “If our own details don’t know each other’s business, how can we expect interdepartmental cooperation? You got cases in Hollywood, you got cases here, and who knows where else … no one’s fitting the pieces together.”

“I thought that’s what you were doing last night. You met with him long enough. I called you maybe four times in three hours to find out if you learned anything.” She closed and locked her file drawer. “Did you?”

Oliver’s brain started racing. What was she talking about? “Who’d I tell you I was with?”

“Rolf Osmondson from Hollywood.” Marge eyed him. “Didn’t you take him out to dinner last night?”

Oliver tried to cover. “No, it was the night before.”

Marge was insistent. “No, Scott, you told me you were meeting with Osmondson to clarify a few details about the Elizabeth Tarkum case.”

That’s the trouble with lying when you’re over forty. You forget things. Oliver tried to act casual. “Nah, I wasn’t with Osmondson. I was on a date. I did phone up a couple of Hollywood Dees. Maybe that’s where you’re getting mixed up.”

“Who?”

Shut up, Marge! “Uh, a guy named Craig Barrows. I didn’t mention him to you?”

“No.”

“Yeah, well, we talked a little over the phone. Nothing big.” He squirmed. “You ready?”

“I’m ready.” Marge swung her bag over her shoulder. “I don’t think she was hurt too badly. She was talking … the woman in the Beemer.”

“That’s good,” Oliver said. “Does she have a name?”

“Stacy Mills. She’s a personal trainer.”

“Think it’s related to Crayton?”

Marge was taken aback. “I don’t know. Any reason why it should be related?”

“Car’s not typical for our mother-kid jackings.”

“It doesn’t sound related to Crayton,” Marge said. “The jacking took place in the parking lot of the West Hills Outlets.”

They walked out of the stationhouse, found Marge’s Honda, and then took off. Marge drove the car onto Devonshire, the main artery that linked the north section of the east and west San Fernando Valley. The police station was located in the burbs, which did wonders for the real estate prices in the surrounding area. It gave the illusion that the neighborhood was impenetrable. That wasn’t the case, although the response time was quicker. As she drove farther west, the street broadened and the homes thinned. Rolling hillside swept over the acreage: Los Angeles as farmland. Way back when that had been the case—orchards and fields. Go up another forty miles to Oxnard, and it’s still the case.

Marge said, “In all this open space around, you’d think a red BMW convertible would be easy to spot.”

“It’s red?”

“Yeah. Didn’t I tell you that?”

“No, you didn’t,” Oliver said. “Crayton’s Corniche was red.”

“So are a zillion other cars. But it is interesting.” She glanced at her partner. He seemed restless. “Something on your mind, Scott?”

“Nope.” He looked at his lap. “Maybe I’m a little tired. Am I acting tired?”

“A little.” Tired and strange, Marge thought. But she didn’t push it. In the distance, she began to see hints of the Spanish tile rooftops. As Marge’s Honda chugalugged down the steep curve of the hill, the mall ascended inch by inch over the horizon. It seemed as if the construction had been dropped in the middle of nowhere. But a few miles northeast were wealthy areas—golf course developments and large ranch spreads that appealed to professional athletes and urban mountain men who ascribed to the rugged life as long as their SUVs came with cell phone and computer stations.

The mall was composed of a half-dozen Mediterranean-style buildings that housed, among other things, some high-end discount outlets—Off-Saks, Barneys, Donna Karan, St. John’s Sports, Versace, Gucci, and other Italian names real or otherwise. The developer had obviously chosen the spot because the vast amount of land gave the mall room for expansion as well as lots of parking.

Oliver surveyed the blinding sea of chrome. “Where’s the crime scene?”

“I think Korman said something about the newly added parking lot.”

“How can you tell which building is new? It’s all new. Place is one big maze. I hate shopping, and I really hate malls. They represent the worst in human homogenization. They all look the same, they all have the same stores—”

“This is discount—”

“Nothing is individualized anymore,” he bemoaned. “Whatever happened to the old-fashioned store? You know, a store … fronted by an actual street … that has parking in the back—”

“You’re showing your age.” Marge turned left into miles of asphalt. “You’re a well-dressed guy. Where do you get your clothes?”

“I have a few places that know me and my budget. They call right before the sales. I go in after-hours.”

“Pretty good service. Sure you aren’t fixing someone’s ticket?”

“I wish I had the power.” He ran his fingers through his black hair. “Would do me wonders with the women.”

She smiled. “You’re complaining all of a sudden?”

“With women, there’s always a complaint, no offense to your gender. I mean, look at this place. Look how crowded it is!”

“There’re men here. They like to save money, too.”

“It’s ratio, Marge. Me, I like something, I buy it. With women, it’s not just shopping, it’s an adventure. You’d think they were stalking a snow leopard instead of buying a T-shirt.”

Marge rolled her eyes. “Bad night, Oliver?”

He realized he was whining. He stared out the windshield. “These places just depress me.”

Marge was disconcerted. It wasn’t like Oliver to act this way. Cynical, yes. Obnoxious, yes. But not depressed. She wondered if there was something wrong with his health, but she didn’t ask. There was work to be done.

He said, “As a matter of fact, I had a fine night!”

Marge waited for him to explain. When he didn’t, she asked, “Does that mean she had a brain?”

“For your information, I can attract women that aren’t bimbos. When I put my mind to it, I can actually carry on a conversation—”

“Scott, you’re acting constipated. What the hell is wrong with you?”

“I told you, I don’t like malls … there.” He pointed. “At three o’clock.”

The place was roped off by a yellow crime scene ribbon. Marge eased the Honda over to the spot and pulled in behind one of the four cruisers. Milt Korman had arrived at the scene in a black-and-white. The brass had dictated that unmarkeds were to be used only when the element of surprise was necessary. Otherwise, it was preferred that the Dees use standard cop cars. It gave the appearance of more police out on the road. Marge thought about that as she got out of her Honda. No one said anything to her, so she was a happy camper.

The door to Korman’s cruiser was open, and the victim was sitting in the back, her sandal-shod feet dangling outside, brushing the asphalt. She looked to be in her early thirties with a round face and saucer-shaped brown eyes, made bigger by judicious application of eyeliner. Some of the liner had run down her cheeks, giving her an Emmett Kelly sad clown look. She had wedge-cut platinum hair and wore bright copper lipstick.

Korman was leaning against the black-and-white, writing in his pad. He was in his late fifties. A no-nonsense second-grade Dee, he had thick, peppered hair, florid skin, and a misshapen, bulbous nose fashioned from boxing and drink. Upon seeing Oliver and Marge, he waved them over. “This isn’t just a standard GTA, it’s a jacking. You should have been called right away. Anyway, I’ll tell you what I know, and you can question the vie according to your needs … The deal was this. She was shopping, looking for her car …” He glanced up, his eyes panning the parking lot. “Big mother place.”

“Don’t you just hate malls?” Oliver said.

“Yeah, I hate shopping,” Korman groused. “Anyway, she was lost and was so intent on finding her car, she didn’t notice if the perp was following her or not.”

“The perp was definitely a he?” Oliver asked.

“She said it was a he.”

Marge became animated. “She saw him?”

“No. Hold on a minute.” Korman turned cranky. “Let me get this out, okay? She didn’t notice anyone following her. She finally found her car by pushing on the panic button.”

Oliver said, “Another thing wrong with malls. You always forget where you parked.”

“Can I get this out?” Korman asked. “She pushed the panic button, then found her car. Started to open the door, then, at that point, she did sense another being. Never saw the guy. He pushed her down, facedown, on the hood, then shoved her to the ground.”

“So she doesn’t know it’s a he.”

“He talked. It was a he.”

“Accented?” Oliver asked.

“Don’t know.” Korman squinted as the chrome bumpers reflected sunlight. “The perp took her keys and her car. I put out an APB right away on the car. No response?”

“Not so far,” Oliver answered.

“Weird,” Korman said. “How far can you go with a red BMW convertible? It’s pretty conspicuous. Unless he had the semi waiting and the perp immediately drove it into the trailer. Maybe we should put out a bulletin to look for a rig big enough to house a car.”

“Either that or there’s a chop shop nearby.”

Korman said, “I haven’t heard about it. But there sure as hell been enough carjackings to justify a chop shop in these parts.” He shook his head. “You want to interview the vic now?”

“Fine with me,” Marge said.

Korman walked them over to his car. “Ms. Mills, I’d like you to meet Detective Dunn and Detective Oliver. They’d like to ask you a few questions.”

The woman stole a glance at Marge, then focused her gaze on her nails—long, hard acrylic nails done in the same bright copper tone as her lipstick. Her voice had an air of resignation that comes from being victimized. “I’m tired. I’d like to go home. Can’t we do this another time?”

Marge said, “We won’t take too long.”

Oliver said, “You want us to call somebody for you?”

“I already called my sister.”

“And she’s coming?”

“Yes.” The woman held her head. “I suppose I can talk to you until she gets here. What do you want to know? I didn’t see him.”

“But you heard him,” Marge stated.

“Yeah.”

“Male?”

“Definitely.”

“What did he sound like?” Oliver asked.

“A maniac!” She glared at him, then returned her eyes to her lap. At this point, Oliver knew that any male was probably at the top of her shit list.

He said, “Did the voice sound accented?”

Stacy pursed her lips. “No, he sounded American. Why?”

“Just trying to gather infor—”

“No, you asked me that for a reason.” She became agitated. “Why’d you ask me that? Do you suspect a foreigner?”

Marge said, “I wish I could give you more information, but—”

“You cops are all alike!”

What did she know about cops? Oliver wondered. “Did he have a weapon?”

“I didn’t see one. But I think he held a gun to me. I felt something hard against my head.” Tears leaked from Stacy’s eyes. “He kicked me … once in the ribs and once in the back. I’m very strong, but shit … he hurt me. I’m in a lot of pain!”

“I’m so sorry.” Marge turned to Korman and mouthed the word—Ambulance?

Stacy caught it. “I sent the paramedics away.” She shrugged. “These ambulances are a scam. All they ever do is rack up hospital bills. They’re all in cahoots … I don’t want anyone I don’t know touching me.”

Marge could understand that. “But you will get checked out—”

“My sister will take me to my doctor. She’s already called him.” She caught her breath. “Think you’ll find my car?”

“We’re working on it,” Korman answered.

“That means no. I’d really like to be left alone until my sister gets here.”

Oliver said, “You didn’t recognize this guy’s voice or anything?”

Stacy regarded him as if he were a moron. “No.”

“So you don’t think this was some kind of revenge thing?”

“No!” Stacy became jumpy. “Why would I think that? What are you driving at?”

“Ms. Mills,” Oliver asked, “did you ever know a man by the name of Armand Crayton?”

Stacy’s face lost all expression. “Why are you asking me these questions?”

A surprised Oliver regarded Marge. “I’m sorry if I upset—”

“This entire episode upset me! You’re just another cog on the wheel.” She got out of the patrol car. “Can you leave now?”

But Oliver pressed on. “It’s just that this jacking reminded me of Crayton—”

“Except I’m alive and he’s dead!” Stacy shrieked. “Please leave now!”

“I’m trying to help you—”

“I don’t need help! Go away now!”

“This isn’t going to go away, Ms. Mills—”

“Out!” she screamed. Then her face crumpled. “Please, leave … please?”

“All right.” Oliver nodded. “I’ll leave.” He waited a few moments, then fished through his wallet. “If by any chance you want to talk to me, here’s my card.” He held out the square piece of paper.

To everyone’s surprise, Stacy Mills took the card.

10

Feeling a headache coming on, Decker rubbed his temples. From across his desk, he glanced at Oliver, looking his natty self, and Marge, wearing a utilitarian black pants outfit. He said, “Who brought up Crayton?”

“Yo,” Oliver replied.

“Why?” Decker asked.

“Because she drove a red BMW convertible. Crayton’s car was a red Corniche, and Tarkum’s car was a red Ferrari. Maybe a pattern?”

Marge said, “He hit a nerve. You should have seen the way she reacted. She freaked. Told us to get the hell out. But she took Oliver’s business card. Stacy’s sitting on something. The question is, what?”

Again, Decker rubbed his temples. What color was Cindy’s Saturn? Some weird teal green. It certainly wasn’t a luxury car. He sat up straight and tried to appear objective. “What do you think she’s hiding?”

Oliver unbuttoned his blue suit jacket, but refrained from loosening his tie. He was hot and wondered why no one else appeared uncomfortable. “Some revenge thing. The same jackers that took down Crayton may be out to get her.”

“Did the jacker make any attempt to kidnap her?”

“No.” Marge picked a speck of lint off her black pants. “According to Stacy’s story, he told her to hit the ground and expressed regrets that he didn’t have more time, because she was nice.”

“Nice, as in he’d like to have raped her?”

“That was the implication,” Oliver said. “Agreed, Crayton and Mills aren’t mirror images of each other. But I think there’s a connection. Especially given Stacy’s reaction.”

“The crime sounds more like the Elizabeth Tarkum case,” Decker said.

“So maybe they’re all connected.”

Decker said, “And the common thread is …”

Oliver shrugged. “Crayton made enemies. There could be lots of reasons for people wanting him dead. Maybe he was associated with these ladies. Because these cases don’t fit in with the other jackings. The women weren’t carting kids, and the vies weren’t forced inside, their vehicles.”

“So why jack the women now when the Crayton case is old?”

Oliver said, “First off, Elizabeth Tarkum was jacked around six months ago. Second, maybe he figured now was a good time to do Mills because the police might lump her jacking with the ones that have been making the news.”