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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.
6 (#u96b5b233-67d1-5974-9f81-9ec20ca7d221)
“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?”
