Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 12 Page 6

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

  “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?”

  “Thirty-one,” Decker said.

  Marge said, “What was Crayton involved in? Like a pyramid scheme?
”

  Oliver said, “He was selling land he didn’t own…something like that.”

  “No, he owned the land he was selling,” Decker said. “But for some reason, he went bust. Details were always hard to come by. I always had the feeling that someone was fighting me.”

  “Like who?”

  “Don’t know,” Decker answered. “I sent Webster after the wife, but he never got anywhere.”

  Marge said, “Maybe this Tarkum lady had some skeletons of her own. You know…driving a Ferrari at twenty-six.”

  “There’s nothing to suggest that in the case file,” Oliver said.

  Decker said, “How old’s her husband?”

  Oliver shrugged. “Haven’t a clue.”

  Marge picked up her cup and dripped coffee on her lap. Frowning, she wiped the spot off of her pants with her fingers. “That’s why I wear black. I can be a slob and no one notices.”

  Decker handed her the tissue box. “It’s why I wear brown. Then you really don’t notice.”

  “You’re the only one in the entire department who can get away with baggy brown suits,” Oliver said. “They’re so out, they’re in.”

  Decker smiled. “That’s me. A real trendsetter.”

  Oliver glanced up from his file. Deck had a deskful of family pictures—Cindy, his little one, Hannah, his stepsons, several of his wife, Rina. They were angled so Oliver could see them. He had never noticed them before. The smell of Marge’s coffee had tingled his nose. His stomach growled. He’d left his own cup at his desk. He seized Marge’s mug, took a drink, and made a face. “What the hell did you do to this?”

  “What?” Marge said. “I put Equal in it—”

  “How can you drink that shit?”

  “Oliver, it’s my coffee.”

  Decker smiled. “You want mine, Scotty? It’s black. A little tepid, by now, but it’s unadulterated.”

  “I’ll get my own, thanks.” He stood and took Decker’s mug. “As long as I’m up, I’ll pour fresh.” His eyes went to Marge. “Do you and your chemicals want a warm-up?”

  “At least my chemicals don’t give me a hangover.”

  “You’ve got a point. Now do you want a fresh cup or not?”

  “He gets fresh, I get fresh.” She handed him her cup. “Two cream powders, one Equal. Don’t say a word.”

  He flashed her the peace sign. “Be back in a sec.” Mugs in hand, he walked to his desk to retrieve his own coffee cup when his phone rang. He put down the crockery and picked up the receiver. “Oliver.”

  “Hi.”

  He hesitated a moment. “Hi.” Then to let her know that he recognized the voice, he added, “How are you feeling?”

  “I’ll be glad when the day is over.”

  “What are you doing?” Oliver flipped his wrist, looked at his watch. Ten-thirty. “It’s way too early for lunch.”

  “Code seven—ten-minute break.”

  “Ah, doughnuts and coffee.”

  “Just the coffee,” Cindy answered. “Everybody’s watching the fat.” She waited a beat. “Is this a bad time?”

  “Sort of.” He glanced over his shoulder, eyes on Decker’s office. The door was still closed. Then he wondered why he was so concerned. “What’s up?”

  “I’ll make it quick. I just wanted to properly thank you. In my stupor last night, I think I had forgotten.”

  “Forget it—”

  “No, I won’t forget it, I’ll learn from it. I’m embarrassed, Scott. Not so much that I was tipsy, but that I attempted to drive. That was really stupid. More than that, it was really dangerous.”

  “Yes, it was.”

  She laughed over the phone. It was light and airy. “At least you’re honest. Anyway, it won’t happen again.”

  “We all mess up,” Oliver said softly. “If you learn from it, you’re one step ahead.”

  “Again, thanks for rescuing me. Bye—”

  “Look, do you…Nothing.”

  “Would you please complete the sentence?” Cindy requested. “Do I…what?”

  Again Oliver looked over his shoulder. “Maybe we should talk over a cup of coffee. I still know lots of guys in Hollywood. I could fill you in on a couple of things.”

  “Such as?”

  “Give you the lowdown.”

  “The lowdown on the guys…” A pause. “Or the lowdown on me.”

  “Maybe both.”

  Cindy sighed. “Don’t bother, Oliver. Beaudry has already pointed out my deficiencies. Apparently, they are many and varied.”

  “Has he told you the good points?”

  “He’s still searching.” A few seconds passed. “Are there good points?”

  He took another glance behind his back. Marge had opened the door, holding out her hands like a balance scale—a “what gives” sign. He held up a finger, indicating one minute, and whispered, “This isn’t the right time. Look, you get off at three, I get off around five. I’ll come to your side of town. How about Musso and Frank at seven?”

  “A bit rich for my pocketbook, Oliver.”

  “It’s my treat.” He spied Marge motioning to him. “I gotta go. Your father needs my swift insights.”

  “Don’t say hi for me.”

  “Sweetheart, I have no intention of bringing up your name.”

  7

  Traffic was light and should have been moving since the street was zoned for speeds up to thirty-five miles per hour. The trouble was coming from a truck, which was not just crawling, but swerving as well. It was one of those ancient things: a heavy job with lots of primed, curvaceous metal, and a grill big enough to barbecue an ox. The back taillight had been punched out, the tags were expired, and the exhaust pipe was belching smoke. The bumper was sheared down the middle, and in need of a rechroming. Beaudry typed the license plate number into the MOT—the computer’s central hookup into the DMV. A minute later the monitor displayed the basic identification on the truck and its owner.

  “Fifty-one Chevrolet,” Beaudry said out loud. “Well, that matches. No wants or warrants on the vehicle. Registered to Anatol Petru-ke—” He squinted as he spelled. “P-e-t-r-u-k-i-e-v-i-ch.”

  “Petrukievich,” Cindy said.

  “Sounds Russian.”

  “Probably,” Cindy said. “Whoever he is, he’s no doubt inebriated.” She flipped on the lights and siren. The truck neither slowed down nor sped up. It just kept going at its snail’s pace.

  Beaudry unhooked the bullhorn. “Pull your vehicle over now!”

  “Graham, do you really think he understands what a vehicle is?”

  “He’ll get the message.” They rode a few seconds, watching. “Is he slowing?”

  “At seven miles an hour, it’s hard to tell.” She waited. “Yeah, he’s skewing his way over to the curb.”

  “See, he understood what the word vehicle meant.”

  “Maybe it was the flashing lights and siren.”

  “You’re just being a sore loser. Call it, Decker. Heads or tails?”

  “Tails.”

  He tossed the coin, flipped it over to the back of his hand, then showed her the quarter; George Washington was smirking at her.

  Beaudry said, “Since it’s my call, I say you take the driver.”

  “I get all the luck.” She rolled her eyes. “Who needs luck anyway? A good cop makes her own luck, right?”

  “Whatever you say, Decker.”

  Cindy parked behind the plated dinosaur and got out, leaving the door open for protection. She waited a moment to see if the driver was staying put.

  He was—at least for now.

  She unsnapped her holster. Cautiously, and with her hands on her hips, she began her approach, moving across the left side of the vehicle. The cabin of the truck was tattooed with a boxed-in ad, reading TOP CHOICE PAINTING in bold black letters. A smiling paintbrush had underlined the words. The phone number was a Hollywood exchange. Mr. Petrukievich was a local. Or at least his business was.

  As she closed in, Cindy’s hand was on h
er weapon and her eyes were on high alert. As soon as she was at the driver’s window, the door started to open.

  Forcefully, she said, “Stay inside your truck, sir.”

  Either he ignored her or didn’t understand because the door swung out and a pair of feet planted themselves on the ground. Cindy prepared herself for the worst. Because when he stood, he loomed over her. He was not only tall, but big. Big as in big and big-boned. As in Dad’s size.

  “Stay right where you are, sir,” she ordered.

  He froze, his face registering confusion. His complexion was a pale pink, except for the nose, which resembled a gigantic raspberry. Straight amber-colored hair was brushed over his nude chunk of forehead. His beard was thin and blond. He reeked of booze.

  Cindy looked for Beaudry’s backup, but it appeared as if her partner had his own problems. The truck also held a passenger as big as the driver. Probably equally drunk because Mr. Passenger’s gait was wobbly. Graham was trying to keep him upright.

  Meanwhile, the driver began rocking on his feet. “I do notink.” He nodded vigorously, hair flying over his eyes.

  Cindy stood firm, enunciating clearly. “Sir, go back inside the truck.”

  “Back?” It came out beck. The man wrinkled his brow, then turned around and showed Cindy his spinal cord.

  “No,” Cindy said. “Not your back. Back inside the truck. In the truck! Turn aroun—turn…” She swirled her index finger in a whirlpool motion. The man complied by spinning in circles. “Dees?”

  He was drunk as a skunk, but not belligerent. Forget about getting him in the car. She placed a hand on his meaty shoulder to stop his rotating. His body lurched forward while his head continued to loll about. Stumbling, he managed to support his unsteady weight by placing his hands on the hood of the truck. Change the context, and it played as broad comedy. But as the situation stood now, he was a behemoth-size drunk who could turn nasty at any minute.

  Warily, Cindy said, “I need to see your license, sir.”

  The man managed to make eye contact. The orbs were unfocused.

  “Your license…to drive.” Cindy tried to pantomime it. She received a blank stare for her efforts. She called out to Beaudry, “Does your guy speak any English?”