Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 12 Page 12

  “Nah!” Hayley shook her head. “I’d rather go torture Doogle.” She unlatched the top three buttons of her blouse. “Think this’ll do?”

  “That’ll torture ’em all, Hayley.”

  “Good. That’s what I had in mind.”

  Oliver checked his watch. It was a quarter to six, leaving him almost no time to make it over the canyon, interview Hollywood, and eat and see Cindy by seven-thirty. Which was going to be a total waste anyway because he knew that Decker was going to show up. Meaning that he wouldn’t get a chance to see her alone. And, more likely than not, Decker would stay for the entire interview so he couldn’t catch her alone afterward. So maybe what he should do is call Cindy on the cell phone and ask her to meet him for coffee in about an hour. Then they could talk alone for a few minutes, about what was happening with the Crayton case and why Decker brought her up in the first place. And how to handle the questioning. Then they’d leave in separate cars and—

  “Hey, Scott, I’m talking to you.”

  Oliver bolted around. “I didn’t hear you, Margie. What’s up?”

  “How could you not hear me? I’m standing right next to you.”

  He tapped his temple. “I was concentrating on the Crayton case.”

  “What in particular?”

  Oliver gave her a thoughtful look while his brain tried to think of a response. “How things can change and a dead issue can be jump-started alive. A couple of red cars and…boom. Course we’re far off from solving anything.”

  “Well, I was thinking about it, too,” Marge said. “Specifically, our conversation with Lark.”

  “Now there’s a queer bird.”

  “More like a vulture,” Marge said. “Scott, do you remember her talking about Armand wearing an Oyster Rolex?”

  “Yeah. Sure. What about it?”

  Marge said, “It got me thinking. If Crayton was a random thing because he was rich, I was thinking maybe they robbed him before they took him—”

  “Didn’t have too much time for that, Margie,” Oliver said. “Lark saw the whole thing, called the police right away. The chase was pretty close to immediate.”

  “You’re absolutely right. So going over the path report, I wasn’t surprised that he had his wallet on him.”

  “He was burned up,” Oliver said. “The pathologist could tell he had his wallet?”

  “The original team found bits of money and patches of leather. Actually, there were bits of high-denomination money.”

  “So like we said, he wasn’t robbed. Although if he was carrying large bills, maybe robbery was the original intent.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I was thinking.” Marge cleared her throat. “You know, people wear watches like they’re part of their bodies. You put on your clothes, you put on your makeup—well, I put on my makeup. Last and final thing I do is put on my watch. My wrist feels naked without it.”

  “Don’t tell me,” Oliver said. “He wasn’t wearing a watch. So you think he was robbed?”

  “He was wearing a watch, Scott, but it wasn’t a Rolex. Enough of it survived for Path to state that it was a Timex.”

  Oliver decided to play devil’s advocate. “So he didn’t wear the good stuff that day.”

  “You picture a guy like Armand going out wearing a Timex?”

  “Obviously he did.”

  “Or somebody switched his timepiece before he was burned to a crisp,” Marge answered. “Lark specifically said that she thought the kidnappers were attracted to his flashy stuff—things like the car and his Oyster Rolex. Scott, why mention the watch if it wasn’t on him that day?”

  “Maybe she’s talking in abstracts. Or maybe she didn’t know he wasn’t wearing it.”

  “Or maybe she did know.”

  Oliver said, “What are you saying? That she knew Armand was going to be kidnapped, so she took his good watch and gave him a loaner?”

  Marge shrugged. “You met the woman. Did she seem grief-stricken?”

  “Not at all. You know, Martinez and Webster delved into the woman’s past and didn’t find anything. They told me that during the interview she said the right things to cover her butt. Also, the insurance company must have looked into her past long and hard before giving her the money. It took them a year to issue the check.”

  “So maybe we should check out their research. Nothing to lose by calling.”

  Oliver agreed that a call was in order. Lark was dangerously beautiful and callously aloof. She’d be perfect in the role of the “evil widow.” Lark needed to be probed. Although the kind of probing he was thinking about had little to do with the widow’s past.

  12

  The line was long, and service was slow because too many people were waiting for a half-caf, nonfat, soy mocha cap—with a hint of amaretto syrup and go easy on the milk even if it’s not real milk—coffee. Cindy was cooling her heels behind five others when Oliver walked in. He looked harried with his black hair mussed and his eyes darting about. It gave him kind of a feral mountain-man look. Yeah, mountain man in a tailored suit and a Gucci tie. She left her place, then hooked her arm through his. “No cup of coffee is worth this long a line. We can grab some McMocha at a McDonald’s drive-through and talk in the car.”

  Oliver smiled. “McMocha?”

  “I made that up. Think I should try to sell it to Ray Kroc?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “Minor inconvenience.”

  “Why on earth were you waiting in line?”

  “What?”

  Oliver broke away, walked up to the counter, and flashed his badge. “I’m in a rush. Two coffees.”

  Behind the counter was a stunned teen with a pierced nose. She stared at the badge but obligingly filled the order. A moment later the two cops walked outside together, Oliver holding two steaming paper cups of java. He gave them to Cindy and opened the passenger door. “Give the cups back to me.”

  Cindy got in and took her drink back. After they were inside, she sipped, then said, “Thanks, though it’s not my style to flex muscle.”

  Oliver said, “So, it’s okay for you to risk your life every day out on the streets, getting abused by drunks, felons, and various miscreants. But you can’t let yourself butt in line to get your cup of coffee—which I paid for—”

  “I’ll pay you back.”

  “That’s not what I meant.” Oliver sipped, then gulped. “Not even hot. What’s wrong with these people? I’m referring to these asshole corporate places that don’t give public servants even a simple break like a free cup of coffee—”

  “Ah, the good old days.”

  “You scoff, but it’s true. Nowadays, you can’t borrow a tissue to wipe your nose without someone thinking you’re on the dole.”

  “Scott, that’s a good thing.”

  “What is?”

  “Not getting things for free. It gives the wrong impression.”

  “So you’re saying that for the average cop, being comped a cup of coffee leads to planting evidence to obtain murder indictments,” he groused. “You’re way too new to be self-righteous.”

  “But I am anyway. That’s the charm of youth. On a more relevant note, what’s happening with the Crayton case, Scott? How’d my name come up?”

  “I told you, your father brought you up.”

  “In what capacity?”

  “As a friend of Armand’s—”

  “A casual friend. I hope he said that.”

  “He’s still reserving judgment.”

  Cindy made a face. “I knew he didn’t believe me. He gave me that look.”

  “What look?”

  “The parental look that says ‘You spent your milk money on candy, didn’t you.’”

  “What prompted the whole thing was another jacking this afternoon,” Oliver said. “This one was a lone woman in a red Beemer. Crayton’s car was a red Corniche, and Elizabeth Tarkum—the woman that Craig Burrows was talking to you about—drove a red Ferrari. Tarkum was kidnapped like Crayton, taken with the car. L
ater on, she was dropped off, unharmed but very shaken. We’re looking into a connection between the three cases.”

  “What kind of a connection? Red cars?”

  “That, and maybe these women were associated with Crayton.”

  “Associated how?” Cindy asked. “Business or pleasure?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “So you’re talking about a long shot.”

  Oliver said, “We’re talking about a year-old unsolved murder that has similarities with current cases. We’d be neglectful if we didn’t investigate every angle.”

  “So what does this have to do with me?” she asked. “I drive a seasick-green Saturn.”

  Oliver stared at her. “Did you hear what I said, Cindy? Women who may have been associated with Crayton. You’re a woman who was definitely associated with Crayton. A woman who someone took potshots at. Your dad is worried that kidnapping may be next.”

  “That’s utter nonsense.”

  “Why? Because you want it to be?”

  “No, because my association with Armand was minimal. And you don’t even know if these jackings have anything to do with him. And what are you going to ask me tonight that my father and you haven’t already asked?”

  “Just to go over your relationship with Armand—”

  “I already told you and Dad about that.”

  “Well, maybe Marge’ll have some insights.”

  “I don’t see what.”

  “We’ll also ask you if you’ve had any unusual phone calls, weird letters—”

  “Nothing.”

  “No threatening messages, no aura of someone following you?”

  Cindy hesitated just long enough for Oliver to pick up on it. “What?”

  “Nothing,” Cindy answered.

  “Cindy—”

  “Nothing unusual. No weird phone calls, no spooky letters, no one following me. My life is in perfect order, everything buttoned up tight, and nothing out of place…unless you mean the picture of my sister that you moved off my mantel.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The night you took me home.” Cindy tried to remain calm. “While I was in the bathroom trying to hold down my stomach, you were looking at the pictures on my fireplace mantel.”

  Oliver stared at her.

  “Right?” Cindy asked.

  “Right. And…”

  “You were looking at my baby sister’s picture. You picked it up—”

  “I didn’t touch anything.” He stopped. “No, I take that back. I used your phone to call my cab and I peeked through your blinds to look for it. So I touched your phone and your blinds. But that was the extent of it.”

  Cindy stopped talking, trying to figure out her next move.

  Oliver said, “I don’t touch other people’s things, let alone move them around. When I’m casing a house, I walk around with my hands in my pockets. Force of habit from the job. Don’t touch what could be evidence. What’s this about someone moving your sister’s picture?”

  Cindy didn’t answer, thinking about the night. When she had come out to her living room, his hands had been in his pockets.

  Oliver crushed his empty paper cup. “Are you going to answer me or not?”

  “Sure.” Cindy tried to appear calm. “I thought you moved the picture frame. If you didn’t, I probably moved it when I was dusting and forgot to put it back.”

  A bald lie and they both knew it. Oliver said, “Have your doors been tampered—”

  “No—”

  “Locks on your windows—”

  “Everything’s intact—”

  “Your drawers haven’t been gone through?”

  “No—”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes—”

  “When was the last time you were home?”

  “This morning!” She frowned. “Why are you making such a big deal—”

  “I’m not making a big deal, I’m asking questions. No weird letters or messages on your machine?”

  “I told you no—” She stopped herself.

  “Spit it out!” Oliver ordered.

  “A Post-it on the wheel of my cruiser,” Cindy answered. “It said ‘remember’—”

  “Oh my God!”

  “It was nothing, Scott. Probably a reminder that one of the service guys wrote to himself.”

  “Do you still have it?”

  “No, I threw it away. Stop looking at me like that. How was I to know that it could be significant?”

  Oliver checked his watch. It was ten to seven. “I’d like to have a look around your apartment before the others come. See if anything’s out of place—”

  “You’re being ridiculous!”

  “You’re in denial—”

  “No, I’m not. I love myself. If something was off, I’d let you know.”

  “So humor me. Let me come over early.”

  Cindy regarded Oliver’s intense expression. His voice had also taken on a professional demeanor. All of it gave her a disquieting feeling that she tried to brush off. “Sure, if you think it’s that important.”

  Oliver nodded. “Thank you. Also, you’re going to have to tell your dad what you told me…about the Post-it and the picture!”

  “And freak him out over nothing? Absolutely not! And you’re not going to tell him about it, either. Because to admit to the picture, you’d have to admit being in my apartment, and you don’t want to do that.”

  Oliver’s tone darkened. “Decker, I have no problem with telling your father that I took you home because you were plastered. I just thought you may have a problem—”

  “No problem whatsoever,” Cindy said assuredly. “As a matter of fact, I told Hayley Marx about it because I’m the type who has nothing to hide.”

  Oliver stared at her, a dumbfounded expression stamped across his face. “You didn’t really do that, did you?”

  “Indeed I did.” Cindy folded her arms across her chest and waited for his retort.

  He said, “Why the hell did you tell Hayley Marx that I took you home?”

  “What’s the big deal, Oliver? I was drunk, you gave me a lift. End of discussion.”

  Oliver slumped in the seat and slapped his forehead. “I can’t believe you did that! It’s going to get back to your dad—”

  “So what? You were just like…doing a public service—”

  “Christ!” Oliver was pissed. “Of all the people to tell! Hayley Marx and her big mouth! She’s a one-woman tabloid! Not to mention the spin she’ll put on it to make me look bad.”

  “She seemed okay with it considering she still likes you.”

  “Decker, this isn’t about Hayley Marx. It’s about your dad knowing that I drove you home. I didn’t want to deal with it. Especially since I suggested that Marge and I interview you instead of him. Your dad didn’t take to the idea right away. Now, he’s definitely going to have his suspicions. He’s my boss, Cindy. Didn’t you think about that?”

  She really hadn’t.

  He glared at her with a sour face. “I suppose you told Hayley about our dinner as well.”

  “Now why would I do that?”

  “Uh, let’s see now. Could it be because you speak before you think?”

  Cindy glowered at him with hot, fierce eyes. “You’re even a bigger asshole than your reputation has it. And, FYI, I’m not going to tell my dad about that night or about the stupid misplaced picture or the Post-it. I’m not going to bring any of this up tonight. So if you want to tell Dad about the picture, you’re going to have to tell him about this conversation!”

  Oliver studied her angry visage. She was impetuous and hot-tempered, and she pissed him off. Still, he tried to modulate his voice. “Did it ever enter your brain that I’m concerned about you? Concerned as a father? Concerned because I work with your father? Concerned because despite that fresh, impulsive mouth of yours, I know you’re a good kid and would feel terrible if something happened to you.”

  She stared at her lap, then l
ooked upward and spoke to the car’s ceiling. “Funny me. I thought you were concerned because maybe you like me.”

  “That, too.” He waved her off. “I should just stick to airheads. They’re closer to my IQ and have no expectations. Get out of here. Go home. Check your door locks. I’ll see you at eight.”

  “So you’re not coming early?”

  “No, I’m not coming early.” Oliver stared out the windshield.

  Cindy drummed the dashboard for a moment, then unlatched the door. “I’ll see you at eight, then.”

  “Just watch your ass, okay?”

  “Fine. I’ll watch my ass.”

  She got out, closed the door gently, but hesitated before she left.

  Waiting for him to stop her.

  Screw that! She was just too fucking complicated.

  All the good ones came with complications.

  Oliver saw her rock on her feet, then tie the arms of her black sweater around her neck. He watched her slowly walk toward her car. The rise and fall of her white turtleneck shirt with each inhalation, her hips swaying against her black slacks. She had a reputation as a fast sprinter. But she also had a graceful walk. He sighed.

  Who was watching whose ass?

  13

  Dad wasn’t waiting for her; Scott had gotten that wrong. And her dead bolts and locks were latched and secured. Cindy also studied her doorjamb: no notches or pry marks. Everything appeared undisturbed. Feeling a bit less apprehensive, she unlocked the door and stepped inside her apartment, throwing her black sweater on the couch. A quick glance told her that the place remained just as she had left it. Morning coffee cup still on the side table, the newspaper opened to the editorial page.

  Okay. So that was taken care of. She was relieved, but she also felt a twinge of disappointment. Her job provided hours of unpredictability and novelty. In contrast, her personal life seemed mundane and listless. Still, she knew she should be careful what she wished for. Interesting was an adjective in a Chinese curse.