Читать книгу Stalker - Faye Kellerman, Faye Kellerman - Страница 13

As she approached the table, Cindy saw Oliver stand up. Like Dad, Scott was from the old school, a guy who probably opened doors and pulled out chairs for the ladies. So unlike her own generation, where every person was on his or her own—good for self-reliance, bad for manners.

Scott looked good. His attire was not only dressier than last night, but also far less slick. He wore a camel-hair jacket over a cream-colored shirt, a red tie, and charcoal slacks. When he held out his hand, Cindy took it. Instead of shaking it, he pulled her forward and gave her a peck on the cheek, leaning over the corner of the table to reach her face. He let go, his eyes giving her a quick once-over.

“You look lovely.”

“Thank you. So do you.”

“I look lovely?”

“Uh, I mean good. You look good.”

“Good is fine. I’ll even take lovely. Have a seat.”

Cindy slid her body between the tabletop and a red leather banquette, parking herself catercorner to Oliver. The table itself was from another century, surfaced with linoleum designed to look like marble. It was so tiny that their knees touched. She readjusted her position to break the contact. If Scott noticed, he didn’t say anything.

The place was a blast from a long-ago past, when Hollywood glamour meant Grauman’s Chinese Theatre and the Walk of Fame instead of piercing salons and tattoo parlors. The interior decor could best be described as a hunting lodge, with beamed ceilings, wood-grained moldings, and prints of the chase complete with hart, hare, and hound. Below the coursing images were dark-stained wood panels. Old wood … good wood. A mirrored-back bar ran the length of the room, the specialty of the house being a dry martini with an olive or—if you’re supersophisticated—a pearl onion. Busboys, identified by green jackets and smiles, poured the water and gave them bread. A waiter, identified by his red jacket and surly expression, handed them menus and asked them if they wanted a drink.

“Wine at dinner?” Oliver asked Cindy.

“Sounds good.” She looked up at her server. “Any specials not on the menu?”

The waiter regarded her with suspicion. “The menus are printed daily.”

“Oh.” Cindy perused the carte du jour. “So you have everything on the menu then?”

“Not the linguine and langostino, not the western omelet, not the lobster bisque—”

“So why was the menu printed with linguine and langostino if you don’t have it?”

The waiter glared at her. “Do you want to take it up with the owner?”

“Not particularly.”

“Are you ready to order, ma’am?”

The menu was extensive and was done in small print. “Can I have a few more minutes?”

The waiter turned and walked away.

Cindy said, “Think we’ll ever see him again?”

“If you keep raggin’ like that, maybe not.”

She shrugged. “Just asked a simple question.”

Oliver regarded her face. “You must have been fun to raise.”

She smiled. “I don’t remember my father complaining.”

“Maybe not to you—”

“Why? Has he said anything to you?”

Oliver was taken aback by the force in her voice. “No. Just making conversation. Someone give you a hard time today, Decker?”

“No one … unless you’re referring to the Russian drunk driver I arrested this afternoon.”

He looked up. “How’d it go?”

“He’s in the drunk tank sleeping it off, and I’m here. I suppose that’s a victory for society as well as for me.” She was silent. “Nah, everything at work is fine.” She rotated her shoulders. “Just fine.”

Oliver put the menu down and studied her face. “You look kind of tense … the way you’re sitting.”

“I’m not tense.” She slouched just to prove the point. “My muscles may be a little stiff. I’ve been doing some extra typing. You know, hunched over the keyboard with no lumbar support. The department doesn’t think ergonomically.”

“What are you writing?”

“Case reports. Which are big pains because you have to type them using a certain format. You know, making sure you don’t go over the tabs or else the words’ll run between the lines instead of on top of them when the form prints out. I thought a hot shower would take care of the aches. Actually, it did, but only for a while.”

“Any reason why you’re typing so many reports?”

Cindy put down her menu. Immediately, the waiter reappeared. “Have you decided?”

To Cindy, the words sounded like Have you decided to go away? Please? She said, “Yes, thank you. I’ll have the sand dabs. Does that … never mind.”

“If you have a question, go ahead and ask it. I may sneer, but I don’t bite.”

Cindy smiled. “How are they prepared?”

“Lightly coated and pan-fried,” the waiter answered stoically. “They come with boiled potatoes. If you want French fries, I can get you French fries.”

“French fries would be great.” She handed him the menu. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He looked at Oliver. “For you, sir?”

Oliver handed him the menu. “Prawns and your best bottle of Chardonnay.”

“Caesar for two to start?”

“Sure.”

Without ceremony, the waiter left.

Cindy whispered, “Is he going to spit in our food?”

“I don’t think so.”

“I was sufficiently polite this time?”

“Better.” He smiled. “Why are you typing so many reports?”

“Doing favors.” Cindy looked at the ceiling. “Trying to extricate myself from Sergeant Tropper’s shit list by completing his reports—his least favorite chore.”

“Tropper?” Oliver thought a moment. “He must have been after my time. What’d you do to get on his shit list?”

“You mean besides being a college-educated woman? Well, I did have the nerve to handle a tense situation competently. It ruffled his feathers.”

Oliver raised his eyebrows. “Department likes team players, Cindy.”

“So I should just step aside and let …”

She stopped talking, seeing the red-jacketed waiter approach with a bottle of wine and two Caesar salads. He set the plates in front of them, then uncorked and poured the wine, giving Oliver a taste. Scott swirled it, sniffed it, sampled it.

“It’s good.”

Dutifully, the waiter poured two full glasses, then placed the bottle in an ice bucket. “Ground pepper for the salads?”

“Sure,” Cindy answered.

The waiter picked up the pepper mill and plunked it down in front of Cindy. “Help yourself.” Then he left.

Cindy gave her salad a healthy dose of pepper. “That man doesn’t like me. Maybe it’s my red hair.”

“Maybe it’s the attitude.”

“Oh, please!” Cindy speared a chunk of lettuce into her mouth and chewed slowly. “Ordinarily, I would get upset by that. But the food’s too good. Tension is bad for digestion.”

“Indeed.” Oliver raised his wineglass.

They clinked stemware. Cindy said, “To what? To being a good team player?”

“How about to keeping you safe?”

Cindy took a sip. “Safe from the felons or safe from my fellow workers? Aren’t you supposed to be giving me some kind of lowdown?”

“Watch your ass.”

“Hard to walk when you do that, Scott.”

“I’m serious, Cindy. You need to look over your shoulder now and then. You’re way too cocky. I don’t know if it’s the inexperience, the fact that you’re educated, the position of your dad, or just your sparkling personality. But you have to be aware of yourself. More important, you’ve gotta know how your ’tude affects your colleagues. Being out there on the street, your life could depend on any one of them.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“See, that’s a big fallacy. And a dangerous one.” He lowered his voice and moved in closer. “You can’t take care of yourself. Out there, no one can. Everyone has to look out for one another. Policing is a team sport, sweetheart. You want solo activity, become a spy.”

“Well, that’s an idea. Don’t you just love the dark sunglasses?”

“You’re quick with the repartee. I’ll give you that.” He sat back. “Unfortunately, your retorts won’t do dick against a .357. Or even a .22, for that matter.”

“You know, Oliver, even if I wanted the help from my colleagues, they wouldn’t give it to me. So I figure why bother waiting around for it!” She put down her salad fork. “All these crazy hazing rituals they put us women through. They deal with me like I’m one big fraternity prank. Take yesterday. I’m trying to contain this crazy Latina … think any of the guys there offered me a finger of help?” She shook her head. “Man, I’d love to have a woman partner, so this whole competition thing wouldn’t be an issue.”

“It’s an issue with your partner?”

She took a healthy swallow of her Chardonnay. “No, Beaudry’s not a bad guy.”

“So what are you bitching about?”

“I’m not bitching! I’m just saying … forget it.” Cindy retreated into her salad, stabbing at a crouton that kept sliding under the tines. “I’m only talking about work because you asked about it. Generally, I keep my mouth shut and do the job. If no one trusts me, what can I do?”

“You’re only a rookie, Cin. You couldn’t have pissed off everyone that fast.”

“It’s been eleven months. That’s plenty of time.” She smiled, but it was a tense one. “So you tell me what’s going on.”

“First tell me why you think the guys don’t trust you.”

“A multitude of reasons.” She sipped wine. “Starting with the fact that they can’t get into my pants.”

“Okay. I can buy that. Guys’ll try, no big deal. Once they see you’re a stand-up gal, they’ll get over it.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“What about the women?”

“I haven’t been to any of the policewomen meetings yet. Too busy. Maybe I should go.”

“Maybe you should.”

She sighed. “Even the women I know … they have this look in their eyes. I think they view me with suspicion because I’m college educated.”

“You’re telling me you have no friends? You looked pretty social last night. Tipsy, but social. Did something happen that I don’t know about?”

“No, last night was okay. Hayley’s nice, actually. Well, I think she’s nice.” She regarded Scott. “What happened between you two?”

Oliver didn’t answer.

Cindy smiled brightly. “I guess we’re not going there.”

“Good guess.”

She poured them both another glass of wine. “I’m still waiting for the lowdown on me.”

Oliver said, “We’re talking general consensus, not any one opinion.”

“Got it.”

“You’re smart—”

“I could have told you that—”

“Shut up, Decker, and listen. You’re smart, quick-thinking, and, more important, quick on your feet. You’re good with the masses out there. Calm, assured—not in your face, but you don’t back off. You’ve got good physical energy and good physical strength, especially for a broad—”

“Must be the Wheat—”

“You’re reliable, you’re on time, and don’t seem to have any big bad vices. That’s the word that gets back to your dad.” He looked at her. “I hear that, too. But I also hear other things.”

Cindy felt her stomach drop. She was about to blurt out a wiseguy comment, but it stuck in her throat. “Go on.”

“You’re no problem on the streets, but you’ve got this ‘I’m superior’ ’tude in the stationhouse. You’re snotty, Decker. Or like my grandmother used to say, someone who gets above her raising.”

“For your information, I’m acting perfectly acceptable for an Ivy Leaguer.”

“Well, Decker, to that, I say, you’re not in college anymore.” Again he leaned over. “You’re pissing people off … the very people you might need someday. Maybe you should start using some street psychology.”

“Yeah, yeah—”

“Stop brushing me off and just listen. ’Cause I—like Daddy—have your welfare at heart. Life and death, split-second decisions are not analyzed, Cindy. You just jump in there and hope for the best. And the vast majority of us on the force will jump in to rescue a colleague at a big risk to our own lives. We’re acting on instinct. It’s an emotional thing. But we’re human, too. I’ll jump into the pyre, sure. But I’ll do it a lot quicker if I like the person. Stop being a snob. Especially because your father isn’t like that, and he has much more reason than you to be arrogant—”

“I’m not arrogant!”

Oliver stopped talking and focused in on her face. She was crushed but trying to hide it. He knew he was coming on too strong, although it didn’t make his words any less true. Lecturing to her just as he had done with his own sons. He had always been so anxious to get the words out; he had never bothered to think how his brutal remarks had affected them.

Cindy stared into her wineglass. “You want to know the irony of all this?”

Oliver nodded.

“I’m actually shy,” she said. “I mask it in superiority. Because in a cop’s world, it’s better to be egotistical than shy.” She looked up and made eye contact with him. “If you give off even an inkling of fear, no one’ll ride with you.”

“That’s true.”

“If some of the guys knew how nervous I was, they’d dissolve me in acid.”

“Everyone’s nervous at first.”

“It’s different being a woman.”

“I’m sure you’re right—”

“Better to eat than to be eaten.” She stared at her plate. “Who thinks I’m smart, by the way? Or did you make that up to console me?”

“Nah, I didn’t make it up. For starters, the detective I was consulting with yesterday—Rolf Osmondson. He says you’re smart.”

She was skeptical. “I don’t know why he’d say that. First time I ever laid eyes on the man was last night.”

“Apparently, he’s laid eyes on you.”

“Suddenly second-grade detectives are noticing uniformed rookies?”

“If the second-grade detective is a heterosexual male and the uniform rookie is a lovely young female, you bet your ass he notices. Also, Craig Barrows mentioned you to me.”

“Craig Barrows?”

“You don’t know him, either?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

Oliver said, “About my height. Long face. Sandy-colored hair that’s thinning. Blue, bloodshot eyes—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Isn’t he in Homicide?”

“Yes, he is.”

“Sure, now I remember,” she said. “About three months after I arrived at Hollywood, one of the vets threw a party and actually invited us rookies. Some of the gold shields were there. I chatted with Detective Barrows for about ten minutes.” Cindy pushed away her salad plate. Immediately, the busboy removed the dish. She said, “From that one lone conversation, he thinks I’m smart?”

“You must have impressed him.”

“I think it was the red hair.”

“You attribute an awful lot to your hair, you know that?”

She chuckled and looked up into the dour face of their server. He placed the sand dabs on the table. “For the lady.”

“Why, thank you.” Cindy picked up a French fry and bit it. “Perfect.”

The waiter cracked a smile. “You’re welcome.” He served Oliver his dinner. “More wine?” He looked pointedly at Cindy. “It seems to agree with you.”

“Wine agrees with everyone,” she stage-whispered to him. “Thank you. Half a glass. I must save room for dessert.”

The waiter poured wine for both of them. “Anything else?”

Cindy said, “I believe we’re fine.” She looked at Oliver, “Are we fine?”

“We’re very fine,” Oliver answered. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” the waiter said. “Watch out for pin bones.”

Again he left.

“Awwww, he cares about us,” Cindy said. “He doesn’t want us choking on a fish bone. He’s definitely thawing.”

“Either that or you’re buzzed, so your perspective has changed.”

“Could be, could be.” She ate another French fry. “Why do you say I’m buzzed?”

“You’ve got color in your formerly pale cheeks.”

“Oh, that! It’s just the makeup kicking in.”

Oliver laughed. “What did you and Craig talk about?”

“Pardon?”

“Craig Barrows. At the party? You chatted for ten minutes?”

“Gosh, it was so long ago.” She tried to bring the memory back into focus. “I think we talked about Armand Cray—” She felt her cheeks get hot. “About the Armand Crayton case. It was me, my partner, Graham Beaudry, and Slick Rick Bederman—”

“When did that take place? About eight months ago?”

“About. The case had been all over the papers. It was such a weird thing with the wife witnessing the whole ordeal.” She glanced at Scott, who was staring at her. “Just idle chitchat.”

Oliver said, “Cindy, what aren’t you telling me?”

“What do you mean?”

“Sweetheart, you’re blushing. What’s up with Armand Crayton? Did you know the guy?”

“What do you care?”

Oliver audibly plunked down his fork and sat back in his seat. “What do I care? The file is open, darling. What are you hiding?”

Cindy waited a moment, then sighed and said, “Okay. Here’s the deal. I used to work out at Silver’s gym in the Valley before I moved into town. I went there for maybe a year. We struck up a casual acquaintance.”

“Did you date him?”

“I said casual—”

“Did you sleep with him?”

“Oliver, do you know the definition of the word casual?”

“Sex is casual with lots of people.”

“He was married, Scott.”

“Meaning?”

“I don’t sleep with married guys! Ever!”

“The guy was known as someone who fucked around,” Oliver persisted. “Did he ever tell you he was married?”

“No, he didn’t. But I, being perceptive and astute, stood clear of his advances.”

“So he tried to pick you up?”

“Not in a big way,” Cindy said. “You know, sometimes we’d have a drink at the juice bar after our workouts. A couple of times he asked me if I wanted to go someplace else for a cup of coffee. I told him no.”

Oliver gulped down a prawn, trying to spit out the tail without looking crass. “What’d you talk about?”

“Nothing that would shed any light on the case.”

“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?” Oliver frowned. “What’s going on, Cindy? Why are you acting so squirrelly? Knowing you, I think you’d jump in head-first to help crack a major homicide. At least, you’d tell your dad—”

He stopped talking.

“Okay. Now, I get it. You did tell your dad. You told him, and Big Deck told you not to talk about it. You want to tell me the details? Or should I just ask your father?”

Cindy smiled, wickedly. “Exactly how do you intend to bring it up with him? ‘Uh, Deck, I happened to be having dinner with your daughter and—’”

“Oh, fuck you!” Oliver threw a prawn tail at her. “Cindy, fill me in. Pretty please?”

Cindy hesitated, then said, “Our acquaintance was never any big deal, Scott. Our conversations were strictly lightweight—buffing up our bods, how our workouts went. Stuff like that. Once in a while, he mentioned a hot business deal he was doing. I think he was trying to impress me.”

“Sounds like it.”

“Well, it didn’t work. Usually, when he started his business-speak, I zoned out. It wasn’t our conversations that alarmed my dad.”

“Go on.”

“It was one of those extremely bad cases of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. After one of our juice encounters, we were walking back together to our respective cars.” Cindy picked up her wine but put the glass down without drinking. “Someone took some potshots at us—”

“Jesus!”

“Yeah, it was frightening.” She looked away. “This was several months before he was murdered. I was in the academy by then, so I had my gun. But I didn’t use it.”

“That was very smart.”

“Yeah, that’s what Dad said, but I felt like …” She blew out air. “I felt that I should have done something.” Her voice lowered to a whisper. “Oliver, it scared the shit out of me.” She felt her eyes moisten. “Not the gunfire, although that was very scary. But the fact that I froze—”

“Why? What’d you do? Just stand there?”

“No, I ducked behind a car.”

“That’s exactly what you should have done.” Oliver sipped wine. “Sure as hell what I would have done.”

She was quiet.

Oliver said, “Cindy, what do you think you should have done? Turned the parking lot into the O.K. Corral?”

She swiped at her face. “I don’t know. I keep thinking what if this had been the streets and—”

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.”