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“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 (#ulink_aadba307-0a40-57b3-a8ee-b735e8c51e01)
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?”
