Stalker (14 page)

“I didn’t refuse,” Marge interrupted. “I just said it was your turn.”

“I don’t make coffee,” Oliver said. “It’s not that I’m a pig, just that my coffee looks and tastes like mud.”

“Because you won’t learn how to do it properly—”

“There’s no problem here,” Martinez said. “The coffee’s made. I said I’d get you both a cup.” He sounded disapproving. “Be right back.”

Oliver looked at his watch. “We put him in a bad mood in roughly twenty-eight seconds. That’s gotta be a record. Especially for an even-tempered guy like Martinez.”

“I don’t know why you can’t make coffee.” Now Marge was irked. “You take a scoop—”

“I’m not interested.”

“Pour water into the machine—”

“Give it up.”

“How’d you stay married for twenty-one years?”

“Twenty-three.” Oliver tapped his pencil against his notepad. “I dunno, Marge. I guess even saints have limits.”

His tone had become doleful. Marge felt bad. She’d hit a nerve. To cover her embarrassment, she busied herself with paperwork until Martinez came back. He handed each a mug of java, then took a seat. “Tom’s gonna be late—if he makes it at all. He took his wife to the ER last night. Her blood pressure skyrocketed again.”

“How far along is she?” Marge asked.

“Eight months—”

“They should just induce labor.”

“I think they’re planning to do that,” Martinez said. “Or maybe a C-section. Because she can’t go on in her current state. Neither can Tom. Guy hasn’t slept through the night in two months. And that’s before the baby’s born.”

“Who’s taking care of the other one?” Marge asked. “How old’s his little boy?”

“Six.” Martinez smoothed his mustache. “Her mother’s been living with them—”

“Tom must love that.”

“Actually, he’s very grateful to her. Also, my wife helps out when Grandma is at her wit’s end. James is about the same age as one of my grandsons.”

Oliver said, “You work hard to have kids, you work hard to raise them. Then you turn around one day and they’re gone along with your youth.”

Marge said, “Don’t mind him, he’s in a foul mood.”

Martinez picked up a folder. “Why?”

“Do I need a reason?” Oliver asked.

“What are you doing exactly?” Martinez asked. “Attempting to tie in the recent jackings with Armand Crayton? We tried that. Nothing meshed. So what did I miss?”

“You didn’t miss anything. We don’t think the Crayton case has anything to do with our current mother-kid jackings.” Marge handed him the Tarkum file. “But we think this one may be related: Elizabeth Tarkum, age twenty-six, carjacked about eight months ago. Her husband, Dexter Bartholomew, was a former associate of Armand Crayton.”

“Sure, I remember Bartholomew—a man you don’t forget.” Martinez leafed through the file. “So his wife was carjacked? Where’d the case come from?”

“Hollywood,” Oliver answered. “Detective Rolf Osmondson was the primary investigator on it. Both the Crayton and the Tarkum jackings involved expensive red cars. And then we have another one…Stacy Mills. Her red BMW was just jacked a couple days ago.”

“Expensive red cars,” Martinez noted. “Jacker’s in a rut. What happened to the Tarkum woman?”

“She was found dazed about twenty miles from where she was jacked.”

“So she wasn’t murdered like Crayton,” Martinez said.

Marge said, “We’ve been thinking that maybe Crayton wasn’t supposed to die.”

“Maybe yes, maybe no. At this point, it’s all speculation.”

“Well, then let’s speculate for a minute,” Marge said. “Suppose the kidnapping was a revenge thing thought up by someone who lost money investing with Crayton and the kidnappers were people for hire. The plan was to take Crayton and demand a ransom. That way, the duped investor could recover some of his lost money. But something got mucked up. Maybe Lark Crayton wasn’t supposed to be home. But she was. She witnessed the
kidnapping from the house and phoned it in to the police. Suddenly, the kidnappers had the police on their tail. The Corniche tried to outrun them. Instead, things got wilder and wilder until the car plunged over the embankment. So there went Crayton along with the hopes of getting back the lost money. The avenger investor couldn’t get Crayton, so he moved on to one of Crayton’s partners.”

Martinez said, “Interesting scenario, Margie, except they didn’t kidnap Bartholomew, they carjacked the wife. Plus she was found intact, and you never mentioned ransom.”

“I don’t think there was a ransom demand,” Marge said. “Maybe the car was taken in lieu of ransom.”

Martinez’s look was neutral at best. She sipped coffee, deciding to turn the tables.
Let him suggest a script
. “So what did you and Tom come up with if a revenge motive wasn’t on your list?”

“Revenge
was
definitely one of the angles we considered. But we thought about other possibilities, too.” Martinez finished his cup. “I’m pouring myself another. Anyone else want a refill?”

Oliver stood. “I’ll do it.”

Marge stared at him slack-jawed.

Oliver said, “If I get third-degree burns, I’m going to blame you.” He took everyone’s cups and left.

Martinez said, “He’s not a bad guy.”

“You don’t have to sell him to me,” Marge said. “I remember the hospital visits.” She smiled at him. “I remember you, too.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I wasn’t as zonked out as you thought. I couldn’t talk, but I heard everything.”

Martinez licked his lips. “I bet you’re glad to put all that behind you.”

“You bet.”

A moment later, Oliver came back. “What’s going on? You two look funny.”

“We were extolling your virtues,” Marge said.

“Virtues?” Oliver distributed the coffee and sat down.
“You mean, not only do I have
a
virtue, I have more than one?”

Marge said, “Well, so far the only thing we’ve come up with is your full head of hair. But we’re still working on it.”

Oliver smiled, then said, “Bert, what motives did you consider besides a revenge kidnapping?”

“A simple theft that went bad. The guy was driving a Rolls Corniche.”

“Crayton had money on him when he died,” Oliver told him.

“That’s why I said it was a theft gone
bad
.”

“So why not just steal the car?” Marge said. “Kidnapping the driver made it a lot more complicated.”

“You’re assuming it was an organized thing,” Martinez said. “Lark Crayton’s description made the jackers sound like punk, impulsive kids.”

“And you’re assuming that Lark was telling you the truth.”

“At the time, we interviewed her right away. There didn’t seem to be any reason to doubt her story. She called it in as it was happening. She saw them force Crayton into the trunk at gunpoint. We went over her 911 tape. She sounded like she was in a real panic. There were at least five police cars tailing the Rolls before it went down. The area was heavily wooded. Somehow, the perps got away.”

Oliver said, “The perps got away with five cop cars tailing the Rolls?”

“Scott, you know how fast these things happen,” Martinez said.

Oliver did know. “Could they have jumped out of the car before it went over?”

“Sure, anything’s possible.”

“And you haven’t ruled out a revenge thing.”

“Nah, we never ruled it out, because Crayton was in deep debt.”

“He also had a life insurance policy,” Marge said.

“Yeah, two mil,” Martinez said. “He took it out, and Lark was the beneficiary. Insurance was suspicious, and so
were we. But we couldn’t trip her up. She kept her story vague and simple…almost like she was rehearsed. The more vague and simple, the harder it is to find a chink. We did a background search on her. She wasn’t a nun, but she didn’t have a sheet. Did insurance ever pay off the policy?”

“Three weeks ago,” Oliver said.

“So insurance didn’t find anything on her, either.”

“Yeah, we want to talk to them about that. The offices open at nine. We’ll call and see what they turned up.” Marge warmed her hands on the coffee mug. “You really think the kidnapping was done by punk kids?”

“At first, no. Tom and I were sure it was some disgruntled investor. But after countless hours of interviewing…well, you’ve seen all the reports. We couldn’t find anything. We were hoping that insurance came up with dirt on Lark Crayton. But if they paid off…”

Marge said, “What about Dex Bartholomew?”

“What about him?”

“Did he seem off to you?”

“Completely. Guy’s an eccentric from the get-go. But we couldn’t find anything to link him to Crayton’s death.” Martinez looked down at the Tarkum file. “That was before you found this. We must have gone through a hundred people. It seemed like such a simple thing. Guy owes money, somewhere there has to be a grudge. But we just didn’t get anywhere with that angle. Okay, so the grudge doesn’t pan out. The wife is beneficiary of a two-mil insurance policy. You go with that angle. And that doesn’t work out, either. After a while, you think, hey, maybe it was just plain old bad luck. Crayton being in the wrong place at the wrong time.” He hefted the Tarkum folder. “Maybe it’ll open a door. I assume someone interviewed Bartholomew with regards to his wife’s carjacking?”

“Osmondson,” Oliver said.

“Did he bring up Crayton?” Martinez asked.

Oliver shook his head. “I don’t know if he was aware of the link to Crayton until I told him about it. Bartholomew needs to be interviewed again. You were primary first time around. Do you want to do it?”

Martinez said, “Since the Tarkum thing is your baby, you two go ahead with the husband/wife interviews.”

Marge spoke to her partner. “You take Elizabeth Tarkum, the wife, I’ll do Dex.” She smiled. “Doing Dex sounds like doing a designer drug, eh?”

“Wishful thinking.” Oliver tapped his pencil again. “Any reason why you want it boy/girl, boy/girl? If Tarkum was having an affair with Crayton, she’d admit it easier to you.”

Marge was taken aback. “Why do you think she was having an affair with Crayton?”

“She’s a young woman married to an old man. Then Crayton comes along, throwing away cash like bubblegum wrappers. He partied big time and had a rep for being a playboy.” Oliver shrugged. “But if your gut says you can do this…”

“Okay,” Marge said. “I’ll take Dexter Bartholomew. Also if he’s this oil millionaire macho man, he’s less likely to posture with me—a woman.”

Oliver said, “That’s true enough. It’s hard to play wienie wag with a wienieless opponent.”

“Wienieless in the physical dimension only,” Marge said. “Because I can swagger along with the best of them.”

Marge had a
picture in her mind of the Texas—technically Oklahoma—oilman. Dexter Bartholomew would be a bruiser of a guy; around six eight with a giant ten-gallon hat perched atop the head and wisps of sandy-colored hair—touched with gray—peeking out from the brim. He’d have a florid face and a bulbous nose from too much drinking. Piggy deep-set eyes would stare from a wide forehead. He’d dress in khakis with a string tie, and a saggy, baggy beer gut would hang over a genuine croc belt. A deep voice, for sure, with an exaggerated drawl.

When his secretary brought her into Bartholomew’s office, she shook hands with a man no taller than five three. She towered over him, a slim man with long, tapered fingers and manicured nails. Dex didn’t wear a hat. But he had donned a designer navy pin-striped suit. His shirt was white, his tie bright gold and held in place by a diamond tack. A bit of flash, yes, but it was tasteful. He had a brown croc belt, so she’d gotten that right, and matching croc loafers housed his feet. He had a small head to go with his small body. Bald on top with sandy hair fringing the base of his skull. (She’d gotten the hair color right, too.) Brown eyes—though not piggish—rested behind glasses. An aquiline nose bisected his face with perfect symmetry. He flashed her large, white teeth. Marge figured it had been meant to be a smile. Instead, he came across like a wolverine baring his fangs.

She managed to smile back.

The office was as comfy as a hotel lobby—furnished like one as well, but the room had class. The walls had been wainscoted with walnut paneling on the bottom, ruby red walls on top. Lots of seating arrangements; there were several wing chairs upholstered in blue oiled leather, a half-dozen carved wooden chairs with floral patterns on the seats, and three sofas—one covered with a deep pink silk, another in white jacquard silk, and the third done up in needlepoint tapestry. Several Persian rugs covered the dark-stained running-board floors. Lots of side tables dressed with floral arrangements. It was stylized but elegant, the two things at odds with the Old World look being a straight-grained sleek rosewood desk and the abstract artwork gracing the walls. The place was situated in a high-rise on Sunset, so it presumedly had a view. But all Marge could make out were bits of rooftops through the haze of L.A.’s smoke-colored marine layer.

“Well, come on in,” Dex told her, pumping her hand. “You got business, I got business. It behooves me to let you do your business. Because the sooner you do your business, the sooner I can go back to doing my business. Which I’m not doing now because I’m talking to you.”

Marge extricated her hand and nodded. He had the drawl—a big one—but the voice was high and tinny. He spoke at a machine-gun clip. She looked around for a place to park herself. He caught her indecision immediately.

“Sit anywhere you like, young lady. You can sit on the chair, you can sit on the sofa, you can even sit on the floor. Once I had a client who loved to sit on the floor. He came from somewhere in the Mideast where they do a lot of floor sitting because they don’t have a surplus of chairs over there. I thought about that as a business for a while…importing chairs to the Mideast. Not these kinds of chairs. These are English—nineteenth-century Victorian. Nice to look at, but not top quality when it comes to collectibles. See, I keep the good ones at home where I don’t have all these philistines putting their derrieres on five-hundred-dollar-a-yard fabric. Or worse, parking their
be
hinds on the original fabric, which is as frail as a woman with consumption. Back home, I got Queen Anne chairs, I got Georgian chairs, I got Regency chairs. I also got an original Chippendale chesterfield desk and a serpentine sideboard. Big pieces meant for another time. I had to break apart the doorframe to get them inside the house. The dealer told me she’d requisitioned them from a castle in northern England, but that’s a long story and probably apocryphal as well. The main thing to take out of this is that the pieces are in perfect condition with the original finish and hardware. The Regency pieces are pretty wild—the Egyptoid stuff. My wife likes that kind of thing. Are you interested in English furniture at all or am I boring you to tears? Go on. Speak up!”

“No, sir, I don’t know much about it,” Marge said. “Except that the office looks lovely.”

“Now, I am
so
glad you like it,” Dex said. “See, I can tell right away that you are a lady with taste. I can tell that. I can tell that and lots of things because I am a perceptive man. But no sense going into that right now. Because you have business, and I have business. So I suggest we forget about the aesthetics and get down to business. Because that’s what we’re all here for. So have a seat. Because we’re not going to do business until you sit down and until I sit down. So sit down.”

Marge took a wing chair. Dex sprawled out on the tapestry couch. His eyes stared from behind his glasses. “I assume that, being a detective, you intend to do some detecting. Now if you just want to tell me what this is all about, I may even be able to help you. Go on. I’m listening…all ears…all eyes and ears. That’s your clue to speak, Detective.”

His gaze was laser intense. She offered him a smile, but he wasn’t buying. She said, “Just a couple of questions regarding your wife’s ordeal—”

Dex butted in. “You want to talk about my wife’s ordeal? You want to
talk
about my wife’s ordeal?
You want to talk about my wife’s ordeal
? Well, ma’am, if you want to talk about my wife’s ordeal, you should be talking to
my wife and not to me. ’Cause, y’see, what do I know about my wife’s ordeal? Was I there? I’m asking you, was I there?
Was I there
?”

“I don’t believe you were—”

“Damn right, I wasn’t there. No, ma’am, I was nowhere
near there
. Because if I had been there, those idiots would have been signed, sealed, and delivered, you know what I’m talking about? I tell you what I’m talking about. I’m talking about the real thing. Done with! Finito! No one gets away with that kind of stuff with me. But I wasn’t there. That’s the problem. While Elizabeth was cruising around Hollywood Boulevard, I was here doing my thing.”

“You manufacture oil equipment, Mr. Bartholomew?” Marge asked.

“That is only part of the picture. If you want to be satisfied with part of the picture, then fine. I manufacture oil equipment. But if you want the whole picture, that is not the whole picture. Yes, I do manufacture oil equipment. But first of all, I don’t do it in this office…or even in this state. This office here is dedicated to my businesses and my finances and my investments, as well as the companies’ businesses and finances. Now, that’s not my offices in Tulsa and Oklahoma City.”

“No?”

“No, ma’am, my offices there are whole ’nother animals, which’re bluer than blue collar.” He sat up and leaned over to her, speaking earnestly. “You see, Detective, to understand this world—which is slowly closing in…you know, imploding because of technology and the Internet…you’re laughing, but I’m not joking.”

His face had become flushed. Marge said, “No, sir, I’m not laughing. I see your point—”

“You don’t see my point because I haven’t told you my point,” Dex broke in. “Technology is a good thing. Yes, it is. It’s a good thing. But it is a very dangerous thing. But that doesn’t have anything to do with what we’re talking about.” He paused. “What were we talking about?”

“How to understand the world.”

“Precisely. You got to relate to all sorts of people—rich,
poor, black, white, women, men, children, criminals—everyone. You really got to talk to anyone and everyone. Gotta have that patter down, you know what I’m talking about. The patter, the speech, the spiel, the pitch. You don’t have that, you can kiss your business ass good-bye. Now! Why are you here?”

“To talk about your wife’s carjacking—”

“And whether I was there or not. And I wasn’t. I told you that. I assure you, I wasn’t there. So why are you talking to me about it?”

Marge knew she had to talk fast and in short sentences. “Any idea who might have done it?”

“Now, if I
had
an idea of who might have done it, don’t you think I would have talked to the police about it? Now, you are the police. You
are
the police. And I’m telling you right here and now, I don’t know who did it. I don’t have the faintest idea who did it, and furthermore, I’d just as soon forget about who did it for Elizabeth’s sake. Because every time someone has the bad taste to bring it up, she gets all tense. And let me tell you something, I don’t need a tense wife. No, that’s not what a man wants—a tense wife. So no, I don’t know who did it. Furthermore, I don’t even have any idea who did it. Any other questions?”

Marge honed in on his face. “Have you ever considered that the jacking had something to do with Armand Crayton?”

Again Dex showed his teeth. The wolverine was going in for the kill. “Armand Crayton. Uh-huh. You want me to tell you something about Armand Crayton? I’ll tell you something about Armand Crayton. He didn’t deserve to die like that. No, ma’am, he didn’t deserve that at all.”

“You had business dealings with him,” Marge pointed out.

“Yes, I did have some minor business dealings with him.”

“You made money—”

“Well, of course, I
made
money! That’s the idea, Detective, to make money in business.”

“Some people lost money—”

“If some damn fool invested with Crayton and lost money, then…well, then I’d say, don’t go into business. ’Cause you don’t know what you’re doing. Because what you shouldn’t be doing is losing money. Now that’s not to say I’ve never lost money. Course I lost money. But not money I couldn’t afford to lose. See, that’s the difference between whether it works and it don’t work. It’s what you can afford to lose. The fuck-you money, pardon my French. The catbird seat. You always want to be in the catbird seat.”

“Maybe Crayton wasn’t telling his clients all the risks involv—”

“
Caveat Emporium
or whatever the saying is! Let the buyer watch his ass. You can’t watch your ass, you shouldn’t be in business. I watched my ass, I made money with Crayton. You don’t watch your ass, you lose money. And that’s not what I do…lose money. I make money. That’s what I do. Any other questions. Because frankly, Miss Detective, I don’t see much rhyme or reason to your questions.”

“Whether or not you made money with Crayton is irrelevant to our investigation, Mr. Bartholomew. The point is—”

“Making money is irrelevant to your investigation, but it’s relevant to me. That’s the whole point of business…to make money. So if your investigation isn’t relevant to me, why should I answer your questions? Can you answer me that?”

Marge tried to hold on to her patience. “Mr. Bartholomew—”

“What I’m asking you, Detective, is what are you driving at? What
are
you driving at!”

Marge blurted out, “Someone may have kidnapped your wife for revenge on Crayton—”

“Bah and humbug!” Bartholomew brushed her off. “Elizabeth had nothing to do with Crayton. She didn’t even like the man. She thought he was a piss bucket, excuse my French. Every time we went over there, she
moaned and groaned and carried on like she was Marie Antoinette being carted off to the guillotine.”

Marge broke in. “You were social friends with Crayton?”

“I’m social friends with everyone—”

“By that I mean you went to his house and he came to yours?”

“You’re interrupting me,” Dex said. “Now, if you go on interrupting me, you’re not going to know what I mean. But if you don’t interrupt me, then I’ll tell you what I mean and you won’t have to wonder what I mean. ’Cause I’ll tell you what I mean.”

“Okay, sir,” Marge said. “What do you mean?”

“What were we talking about again?”

“You being social friends with Mr. Crayton.”

“I’m social with all my business associates. Because that’s how you do good business. You do good business by being a person first and a businessman later. Course, if you aren’t much of a businessman being a person isn’t gonna help much. Gotta have both—the person and the business horse sense. Am I making myself clear?”

“Had you ever been to Mr. Crayton’s house?”

“Didn’t I tell you that, Detective? Didn’t I say to you that dragging Elizabeth to Crayton’s house was akin to sending Antoinette to the rack—”

“Guillotine—”

“Rack, guillotine…some instrument of torture.”

“You must have hundreds of business associates.”

“Maybe even thousands—”

“Do you and your wife go to everyone’s house?”

“Now, you interrupted me again. But I see your point. And I’ll explain it to you. No, I don’t go to every business associate’s house. Not if the associate lives in Singapore, not if he lives in Japan or China or Europe or Australia unless I’m visiting Singapore or Japan or China or Australia. You see what I’m getting at?”

“You do a lot of foreign business.”

“Damn if you aren’t a smart girl.” He grinned with
sharp teeth. “Yes, I do lots of foreign business. Crayton is a local boy, so if he invites me over to dinner, well, being a gentleman, I go. You get invited, you go. Unless you detest the man. I didn’t detest the man. I found him to have a certain amount of charm. And then there was his wife; she was lovely. Which I think is the main reason that Elizabeth didn’t want us going over there. She disliked Crayton, but she detested Lark. Because Lark is young and beautiful. You know how wives are.”

“Jealous?”

“I like the word
protective
. Elizabeth is protective of me, y’see, because I’m the only thing in her life that’s worth protecting. But I liked going to Armand’s, because he was a funny guy. Yes, he was very funny. Truly entertaining. And Lark, being a young and lovely thing, kept Elizabeth on her toes. Yes, it did. And when you’re sixty-one with a twenty-six-year-old wife, it’s nice when she’s kept on her toes.”

“So she was jealous of Lark?”

“I told you I don’t like the word
jealous
. Elizabeth was protective of me when it came to Lark. Because Lark knew winners and losers. And where she wasn’t so sure about her husband, she was damn sure that I was a winner. Unfortunately for her, I’m taken. But we all know how fast that can change.”