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Oliver interrupted her. “If, God forbid, something like this happens on the street, you’ll know what to do. You’ll have your mike, you’ll have your gun, and, going back to our original discussion, you’ll have backup. The potshots took you by surprise. Don’t worry about it.”
“Doesn’t shooting always take you by surprise?”
“Sometimes, sure it does,” Oliver said. “But when you’re working, you’re looking out for it.”
She looked away. “Maybe.”
Oliver said, “So you told your dad about the shooting?”
“Yes.” She paused. “But only after Armand Crayton died.”
“So you didn’t tell him when it first happened?”
“No, I didn’t. Because I didn’t want to freak him out. Also, I didn’t want to admit that I froze. I was embarrassed.”
“Cindy, you didn’t freeze, you ducked! Ducking is different from freezing.” He ate another prawn. “Okay, so you told your father about the potshots after Crayton was kidnapped and murdered. And your dad told you not to say anything to anyone.”
“Yes.”
Oliver analyzed what might have gone on in Pete’s head. “Did the shooter get a look at you, Cindy?”
“I … don’t know. I was really scared when it happened. My initial thought was that the shooter was his wife. That she wrongly assumed that Armand and I were having an affair. But after he was killed, and all the stuff about him came out, I actually stopped worrying. Armand had a very long list of detractors. The shots weren’t meant for me. They were probably a gift from some disgruntled investor.”
“You’re not holding back? You never dated him?”
“No, never. We were gym buddies. That’s it.”
“You told your father all this.”
“Yes. And I’m sure that if Dad thought that my involvement was important, he would have told you and Marge and the rest of you guys everything.”
“He never said anything to me about it.”
“So he didn’t think it was important.”
“More like he was more concerned with your safety.”
“He wouldn’t jeopardize the case, Scott. Even for my sake.”
Oliver laughed. “Sure, dear!”
“I’m serious. Dad has principles!”
“Dad also loves his family. Between work and your safety, hell, it isn’t even close.” He waved her off. A bus-boy thought he was waving at him, because he immediately cleared the plates.
To Cindy, Oliver said, “Do you want dessert?”
“No, I’m pretty full. Thank you, dinner was delicious.”
“No prob.” Oliver scratched his face. “So you and Craig Barrows were talking about the Crayton case?”
“Just in generalities.” Cindy wiped her mouth.
“What kind of generalities?”
“We got on the discussion of follow-home shootings.” She perked up. “You know, I think Barrows told me that he and Osmondson were working together on a follow-home that sounded similar to the Crayton case.”
Oliver felt like pulling out his notebook, but restrained himself. The conversation was too chockablock. He’d have to grill her in a quiet setting. Take her through the entire thing from start to finish. “Do you remember anything about the case he was referring to?”
Cindy tapped the tabletop. “For some reason, a red Ferrari comes to mind.”
Elizabeth Tarkum. Oliver said, “You know what we’re working on in Devonshire, don’t you?”
“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 (#ulink_2ad4c4d0-72f1-5426-a0e6-014d8ec212e7)
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?”
