Stalker (16 page)

Keep on the tail, baby! Keep it in sight if nothing else.

She was gaining some ground but the Saturn had severe speed limitations. It wasn’t meant for movie-stunt chases.

And neither are you
!

As the license plate became clearer, she read the letters and numbers out loud until she had it committed to short-term memory. A few more repetitions and long-term memory would kick in. The interchange was coming up and the Camry had decided to merge back onto the 405. The driver must have gunned its motor because the car jerked back, then sped off at warp speed. When Cindy tried to push the car, the engine shook and rattled in protest. Still, she was able to keep the red car in her line of vision.

One mile, one and a half, two miles…

She could call in the license plate but operating the phone would require her to slow down, and that would cause her to fall behind even farther. Knowing the license gave her an edge and made her feel cocky. Now she wanted to pull the SOB over and find out who the hell he was and why he was following her. At least she assumed it was a he.

Two and a half miles, three miles…

The car got off at Devonshire. Perfect! The route he was taking was on the way to her dad’s. Perhaps she could catch a criminal
and
make it to dinner on time. She finagled her way over to the far right lane and exited at a madman’s speed. But just as she reached the bottom of the off-ramp, she was caught by a red light. Forced to stop,
she hit the wheel and cursed loudly as she spied a flash of Camry red tear down Devonshire east.

Stuck, stuck, stuck! Even though she was the first car in the left-hand lane! She was tempted to try the turn, but that would be too much fate-tempting. She already had used up her allotment of lucky breaks. Pecking around in her purse for the cell phone, she bemoaned the fact that she needed to make a left turn and was living in the U.S. and not Britain or Japan or Australia. When the operator came on, she asked for the nearest DMV. But by the time she had the number, the light had changed to green. Feeling immortal, she did a classic no-no, immediately turning left, relying on that half-second brain-to-pedal reaction time to jump out in front of oncoming traffic. She bore down on the gas. To her surprise, she caught sight of the Camry.

Which pleased her at first, but then, when rational thought kicked in, it startled her. Logic dictated that he should have turned off onto a side street and been long gone.

So what was he doing here within catchable range
?

If he had disappeared, she would have called in the plates and let it go at that. But now he was getting personal. Taunting her like some modern-day gingerbread man. Well, she’d be damned if she was going to be bettered by some cookie-aping asshole.

She juiced the engine and shot forward, trying to close the distance. But the Camry must have had some added muscle to its ordinary engine because it leapt ahead, racing down Devonshire, swinging in and out of traffic lanes with the deftness of a pickpocket. Going faster whenever she kicked out of the jams. Mocking her, deriding her.

Can’t catch me, I’m the gingerbread man
.

And here she was playing the fool. Retracing her steps as he pushed her farther east, past the commercial buildings, past the markets and strip malls, past the residences sprinkled with large citrus and apricot trees laden with green fruit; arboreal leftovers that spoke of agricultural Los Angeles. She raced with the Camry, the car having the
good luck to make every light. Finally, it encountered a red and cross-traffic, so it was forced to swerve on two wheels and hang a hairpin turn to the right, almost colliding with an oncoming station wagon filled with kids. Cindy screamed as the Camry missed the wagon by the width of a fingernail.

Okay! That was it! She was calling it in.

Just as soon as she had a free hand.

Because now she felt it incumbent to follow the bastard, not to lose him. She leaned on the horn, holding up her badge to the blocking cars and squeezing into the spaces they gave her. Within moments, she was free and clear. The Camry had turned into a distant speck. She floored the pedal and her car jackrabbited as if spring-loaded. Still pressing the horn, she tore forward until the Camry went from being a dot to a definite form. From a form it became a car.

Her car started shaking, the doors rattling in complaint, the windows humming in indignation. She had images of the vehicle coming apart, of tires spinning from under the chassis and metal parts flying outward with centrifugal force.

Why was she hotdogging this? She had the license number, she had a description of the car. Why didn’t she leave it at that? She should be playing by the rules. Instead, she was winging it cowboy style. But she couldn’t stop herself.

Pushing the car harder until it trembled like a cowering puppy.

This is crazy
!

She saw the Camry make a sharp right, spin out, find its wheels, and zoom off. She saw it grazing the foothills, hugging the pathways back into Angeles Crest National Forest. Another sharp right, then a left, then a right, it burrowed deeper into the wilderness, toward the nature preserve, winding up the twisting roads and lanes. As Cindy continued to push her Saturn, she heard a telltale cough of the motor, informing her that the engine was about to go belly-up. Since she couldn’t go any faster, she lost the Camry, leaving behind the wind of its exhaust.

With nothing left to do, she slowed to a reasonable pace, her heart going a mile a minute. She picked up her phone to call in the license plate, but a road sign distracted her. On it was printed: lane ends 200 feet.

Lane ends
.

Sure enough, the road reached a cul-de-sac fronted by a nature park replete with picnic benches and barbecue grills. Behind the flat mesa of lawn and tables was hillside with trails slicing through overly tall grasses thanks to the recent rains, towering eucalyptus, canopied sycamores, California oak, and brush and chaparral.

There was an empty rutted lot for parking. She pulled in and killed the motor, noticing that the hood was belching smoke—which was why she kept a two-gallon container of water in the trunk. She decided to have a peek around while the engine was cooling. Gripping her bag, she got out and shut the door. She took her gun out, although she couldn’t see why she’d use it. The place seemed devoid of human life except for hers.

She looked into the distance, shielding her eyes with a tent of fingers. Squinting as she took in the area. Nothing appeared to be out of place. A few lazy birds hovered in the milky sky. No signs or sounds of the invasion from
Homo sapiens
, only the chittering of birds, the buzzing of insects basking in the last bits of sunlight. Dusk was at hand.

She ambled about the picnic area, hoping to find some tire tracks skittering off the dirt path, but no indentations popped up. A quick examination of the surrounding brush showed the foliage intact. Nothing had been pushed down, knocked over, or displaced. She had to have missed a turnoff somewhere between the time she lost sight of the Camry and when she’d got up here. It was a very likely scenario, since she hadn’t been paying attention to anything but finding the Camry.

Again she scouted around the grounds, but saw only vast expanses of tree, grass, and copse, a funnel of gnats spinning in the sunlight. The near silence was shortly broken by the plaintive wail of a coyote. A moment later its call was answered by others as loud and piercing as a con
voy of sirens. It lasted almost a minute and made her heart jump. Her eyes darted from side to side as she slapped away pesky gnats.

Then, in the distance, she heard the rumbling noise of an approaching car, its motor sounds magnified by the Doppler effect. An acrid smell pierced her nose. Had the Camry doubled around and was it now going to
trap
her? She found herself running back to her car, diving into the driver’s seat, and crouching down low, gun in hand, her eyes just above the visibility line of her window, staring at the road.

An old white Mustang appeared, its motor rumbling as gravel churned under the tires. It pulled about ten feet away, then the motor’s growling died.

Silence.

Cindy felt the gun slip from her sweaty grip. She wiped her right palm on her pants and held the butt tightly, feeling her chest thump. Then the Mustang’s door opened and she heard the sound of shoes scraping gravel, as if the rocks were being shushed. Her stomach was raw acid and pain jabbed her skull.

Come on, baby
! Cindy thought.
Come into my friggin’ view
.

Scrape, scrape, scrape. Whoever it might be was moving slowly. Finally, Cindy caught sight of a pair of flat black loafers covered by cuffs from black slack pants—women’s pants. She raised her head an inch to get a better view.

To her utter astonishment, she was looking at Hayley Marx. Her colleague was wearing a loose-fitting silk blazer over a white shirt. A yellow and black scarf was casually tied around her neck. Bizarre did not even approximate Cindy’s stunned emotions.

“Hey,” Hayley called out.

Cindy popped into view and Hayley jumped back. Cindy saw the woman’s hand dive into her purse, so she rolled down the window and shouted, “It’s Decker.”

“
Decker
?” Hayley’s shock sounded genuine. “What the hell are you doing up here?”

Cindy placed her gun in her purse, opened the car door, and got out slowly. She took a couple of steps forward, noticing that her so-called friend had her hand in her purse, presumedly hunting for her own gun. “I could ask you the same thing, Marx.”

Hayley stared at her, then broke into a smile. “We’re kinda staring each other down here.”

“Gunfight at the O.K. Corral,” Cindy said.

Neither spoke. Cindy forced herself to breathe slowly, cock her hip, and wait for an explanation, as if Marx were a child who had broken something. Hayley took the bait. “Your car’s smoking like a bong head. Being a public servant, I figured maybe somebody needs some help.”

Cindy’s temptation was to look at the car, but she didn’t. “Yeah, I understand that. But why are you
here
?” Thoughts were bouncing in her brain. “Me, I was just hanging out, killing time before I go to my dad’s. He lives about twenty minutes away and I didn’t want to be too early.” Nervous laughter. “You know how that is.”

“Remarkable.” Hayley’s giggle was anxious as well. “I was killing time, too. I’m meeting Scott Oliver and didn’t want to show up too early.” Another grin. “You know how
that
is.”

It took a half-second for Cindy to recover from her shock. Oliver had just told her how he couldn’t stand Marx. “
Oliver
?” She feigned disinterest. “What are you? A masochist?”

Hayley laughed. “That could be.” She took her hand out of her purse and held them both up in a helpless gesture. “I left him a message on his machine yesterday. He called me back.” Again a shrug. “I don’t know what came over me.”

Cindy smiled, but inside she was pained. She walked toward Hayley. “We’re talking to each other like from ten feet away.”

Hayley met her, then went over to Cindy’s Saturn. “What the eff happened to your wheels? Wanna pop the hood?”

“Yeah, I was just letting it cool off first—”

“This is cooled off?”

Cindy sighed. “Perfect topper to a shitty day.” She got back into her car and opened the hood. Smoke billowed into the darkening sky. She popped the trunk. “I got some water in there.”

“I’ll get it.” Hayley fetched the water and an old dirty towel. She moved over to the front of the car and started fanning away exhaust. “Amazing…both of us meeting up here like this.”

“Do you believe in coincidences?” Cindy questioned.

“Not much,” Hayley answered. “But this is certainly one.”

Maybe yes, maybe no. At this point, Cindy’s skepticism was off the charts. “How’d you even know about this place?”

“Didn’t,” Hayley said. “I left the city early to avoid traffic, so I’ve just been driving around…can I use this to open the radiator cap?”

“Yeah.” Cindy got out of the car and joined her. “When are you due to meet Oliver?”

Hayley checked her watch. “About an hour—”

“Whoa, you really did leave early.”

“I’m nervous,” Hayley admitted. “Driving calms me down. Wanna go out for a drink or something before our respective engagements?”

Cindy looked at her watch. “I should be going to my father’s. You want to do something tomorrow or are you working?”

“No, I’m off. Wanna do lunch or dinner?”

“Dinner. Saturday night is too depressing alone.”

“Really,” Hayley said. “But I reserve the right to cancel if Oliver happens to be any less of a dickhead than I remember.”

“Deal.” Cindy felt very low. “Good luck.”

“I’ll need it. I really do think I’m a first-class idiot. Want me to use up all the water?”

“Yeah, go ahead. I’ll get more when I get to Dad’s.”

Hayley regarded Cindy. “You look a little pale.”

Cindy smiled. “Like I said, it’s been a shitty day—”

“Why were you crouching down in your car?”

Now they were eyeing each other again. Cindy said, “Isolated up here. Just wanted to see who was coming my way.”

Hayley broke the staring contest. “You’re even more paranoid than me. Is something bothering you, Decker?”

Cindy ran her tongue in her cheek. Then she said, “The world, Hayley. The world is bothering me.”

With Hayley on
her tail, Cindy gently guided the Saturn down the hillside. The hood was still hot, but the engine had ceased smoking. Dad’s place wasn’t that far, and Cindy was pretty sure the car would make it. A mile down, they parted ways, Hayley sending her off with a smile and a wave. Perhaps a little too enthusiastic a wave, Cindy thought. She wondered just how much Hayley had believed her. She also wondered just how much she had believed Hayley. Still, they were meeting tomorrow and maybe they’d iron out their mutual wariness. At the moment, Hayley was not high on the worry list. A red Camry was on her mind, not a white Mustang.

Theories tumbled in her brain, starting with Crayton. Was she next in a long list of victims? But why would she inspire
revenge
? She was a plain Jane, not much in the scheme of things. So maybe it had nothing to do with Armand. Cindy knew that the area had been plagued with recent carjackings. But if this had been an attempted theft he had to have been the most timid jacker on earth. Besides, the area’s jackers had been preying upon unsuspecting women with children, ladies who had parked in isolated spots. She had been on a very public road in open view. Perfect for a tail, bad for a kidnapping.

But someone had been following her.

A chill went down her spine.

Deep breathe, Decker. You can handle it
!

By the time she found herself in front of her father’s
new house, she had gained the upper hand on her emotions. She wasn’t relaxed, but she wasn’t as tense.

The place was not nearly as large as her father’s old ranch, but the area was less remote, ergo deemed better for the kids. Except that Rina’s sons were almost gone. Sammy, the older one, was graduating from high school and leaving for Israel in less than six months. Jake was going into the eleventh grade, but was planning to leave in a year. Dad’s new family would be down to one kid, her half-sister, Hannah. Cindy wondered why they had bothered to uproot themselves—not to mention a year’s worth of fiddling with the house—for one little girl who had seemed perfectly happy on the old ranch. Then again, Hannah would be happy anywhere. The child was pure sunshine, in contrast to Dad’s older daughter, who, at the moment, was sullen and suspicious.

She parked in the newly tarred driveway, the oil gleaming in the bright sunlight. As soon as she got out, the radiator started spraying out plumes of steam. Rina had stepped out to meet her. Her stepmother wore a loose-fitting dress and her black hair was pinned under a red tam. Together they stared at the car and frowned.

“It doesn’t look happy,” Rina said.

“It isn’t.” Cindy shook her head.

“Want me to follow you down to the nearest service station? It’s about six blocks from here.”

“It’s just overheated. I’ll douse it with coolant before I leave.”

“Who were you racing?”

My imagination, perhaps
.

“I’ll have your dad look at it before Shabbos,” Rina continued. “I wouldn’t want you to get stuck anywhere.”

Cindy resisted the urge to shudder. “Now that’s
not
necessary. Don’t even tell him. He’ll just worry.” She managed a smile. “I have to make a phone call. Can I make it from the house rather than on the cell?”

“Of course.” The two of them strolled to the front door. Rina put her arm around her stepdaughter and said, “You look tired, Cindy.”

“It’s been a long day.”

“By the looks of it, not a particularly good day, either.”

Cindy let out a stiff laugh. “True, true.”

Rina gave her shoulder a slight squeeze. “Maybe I can drown your troubles in copious amounts of food.”

“If anyone is up to the task, you’re it.” As soon as Cindy crossed the front threshold, her nose did a happy dance. The cooking smells were savory and aromatic. Her mouth began to water.
Nothing but a Pavlovian dog
. She said, “Smells heavenly.”

“Thank you. I hope you’re hungry.”

“Starved almost beyond redemption.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Only your turkey can save me.”

“That’s too bad because I made chicken and rack of lamb.”

“That’ll do in a pinch.” Cindy looked around the remodeled living room. They had opened up the low, flat ceiling, replacing it with a fifteen-foot cathedral number secured with pecan wood beams. Tall picture windows let in lots of natural light. The walls were paneled in the same wood as the ceiling, and hosted an enormous entertainment unit—TV, stereo, CD, bookshelves, video shelves, and dozens upon dozens of framed pictures. Gone were Dad’s leather and buckskin furniture. Instead there were upholstered couches and chairs in all sorts of blue-and-white prints—gingham checks, solids, Delft patterns. Lots of denim throw pillows edged with white lace or eyelet. A solo rocker sat on one side of the stone fireplace; on the other was an oxblood leather chair and ottoman looking like a lost ship in a blue sea—an homage to her father’s taste, no doubt. The floors were done in wide wood planks; the area rug was oatmeal-colored and woven with various textures to emulate waves.

“This is cool,” Cindy said. “Really homey.”

“Grab a chair and sit a spell.”

“Did you do the throw pillows?”

Rina nodded. “And I refinished the rocker. Your dad did the wall unit.”

“Super. It came out fab.”

“That it did. He somehow squeezed it in between the extra bathroom and bedroom. Our next project is the kitchen, Lord deliver us. We’re waiting until Sammy leaves. One less eating child.”

Cindy smiled. “As opposed to children who don’t eat?”

“That would be your sister.”

“Where is she?”

“Watching a video.”

“Should I say hi?”

Rina regarded her stepdaughter. “Why don’t you let it ride? That way you can relax a little before dinner.”

“I won’t argue.”

Jingling car keys with one hand and carrying leaflets with the other, Sammy walked into the living room. He wore a white shirt, black slacks, and black shoes. His hair was wet and looked much darker than its natural sandy color. Many of the locks were hidden by a black velvet yarmulke. He picked up a pillow and threw it at Cindy. “Hey, Red.”

Cindy one-handed it. “Hey.” Sammy had recently cleared six feet. Nearly eighteen, he was almost a man. And a good-looking one at that. She realized her voice sounded listless, so she tried a pleasant smile. It didn’t quite work.

Sammy eyed his stepsister. “Hard day?”

“Something like that.”

“You can give me the details over dinner. I gotta go put these in shul before Shabbos.” He held up the leaflets. “I had to write a lecture on this week’s Torah section, which has to do with the various sacrifices. Not exactly easy biblical reading, but I did a fantastic job. Wanna read it?”

“Will I understand any of it?”

“Of course. I not only write brilliantly but I’m also terse and lucid.”

Cindy laughed. “I meant is it in English or Hebrew?”

Sammy handed her his lecture. “It’s mostly in English and the little bit of Hebrew is translated.” He turned to his mother. “Did you read this, Eema?”

“No.”

Sammy handed her one. “Concrete proof that your thousands of dollars of Jewish day-school education was not for naught.”

“When are you coming back?” Rina asked. “It’s a quarter to six.”

“When are you lighting candles?”

“Six-fifteen.”

“The way I drive, it’s plenty of time,” Sammy crowed. “Besides, Dad’s not even home yet.”

Rina stared at him. “What does that have to do with you?”

“Absolutely nothing. See you.” Sammy slammed the door behind him. Rina jumped at the noise. “Things I
won’t
miss when he leaves.” She felt her eyes get misty and looked down. “Use the phone in our bedroom, Cin. It’ll be quieter.”

“Thanks. Where is your bedroom?”

“End of the hallway. The one with the view of the backyard weeds. Landscaping hasn’t been a top priority.”

“The front looks okay.”

“That’s because the front has all those wonderful oaks and sycamores.” A kitchen timer dinged. “My cookies are calling. Find your way into the kitchen when you’re done. It won’t take away your troubles, but at least it smells good.”

Cindy nodded, feeling cared for if not actually better. She went down a short hallway, its walls decorated by a mishmash of photographs and Hannah’s preschool artwork. The left side held a closed door vibrating with each thump of an overactive bass line—the boys’ room. On the right side was another closed door leaking the maniacal yelps of a toon being squashed by a falling safe or a frying pan—Hannah’s room.

She went to the end and entered the master bedroom. The majority of space was taken up by a twin and a double bed pushed together to make a larger-than-king-size mattress. Though her father was very tall, she knew that wasn’t the reason behind the weird bed arrangement. It
had something to do with Jewish religious purity. Rina had tried to explain it to her once, but Cindy listened with only half an ear: her fields of interest didn’t extend to fertility rites.

When around her father’s family, she felt at a loss religiously, like somehow she was spiritually inferior. It wasn’t due to Rina’s attitude; it had more to do with the fact that her six-year-old sister read Hebrew better than she did. Cindy knew it was simply because her sister was educated—and smart—but it still made her feel small. Oftentimes, she sensed that her father, raised Christian and only Jewish for the last eight years, had similar feelings. Still, he masked it well. When he made Kiddush—the ritual blessing over the wine for the Sabbath dinner—he seemed to speak the Hebrew words flawlessly.

The phone was on Rina’s side, so she sat on her bed and sank into a fluffy comforter. Cindy would have loved to curl up and go to sleep. Instead she picked up the phone and called in the license plate number of the errant Camry. Of course, the woman put her on hold. Cindy’s eyes swept around the space. Rina had chosen pale yellows, sky blues, and whites for the decor, pulling off the cheer without the cheese. The picture window did indeed show a magnificent view of a weed-choked lot. Still, interspersed with the flotsam were some bright yellow dandelions, the purple florets of statice flowers, and orange California poppies, their papery leaves swaying in the breeze. There were also a half-dozen mature, leafy trees. The property went back quite a ways, plenty of room for Hannah to run around and play queen of the forest. (Did kids still do that?)

A few moments later the woman was back on the line.

The plates were stolen: no big surprise. They had been taken off an unrecovered vehicle. On the surface, that wasn’t too big a thing. Stolen cars were often dissected, their parts parceled out to various fences and sold to the highest bidder. But the fact that
this
plate came from a stolen car made her think about all the recent carjackings, along with the Tarkum case and the newest one.

Pressing further, Cindy was able to get the name and make of the vehicle from which the plates had been stolen—an early nineties Volvo diesel wagon. The woman was looking up the information on its former owner when her father walked into the room. He looked hot and sweaty and beat. She hung up immediately. “Hey there.”

Decker kissed her forehead. “You didn’t have to cut the conversation short for my sake.”

“You look rushed.”

“Not at all. I’ve got a whole twenty minutes to shower and shave.”

“A whole twenty,” Cindy repeated. “That isn’t even enough time for me to do my eyebrows.”

“What do you need to do them for?” He threw his jacket on the bed and began to loosen his tie. “All you ever do is furrow them in disgust!”

“Yadda, yadda, yadda.” She stood up. “I think I’ll go help Rina. I can toss a salad with the best of them.” She kissed her father’s cheek. “Thanks for having me over. I can really use a good meal.”

“Any time.” Her father went into the bathroom, turned on the shower, then came back out. “I have a special assignment for you. Marge and her daughter, Vega, are coming for dinner—”

“Cool.”

“Vega is still very baffled by the outside world. Our customs are probably going to throw her for a loop. I’d like you to act as liaison.”

“More like an interpreter.”

Decker sat down on the bed and took off his shoes. “That, too. How’s it going, sweetheart? You look tired.”

“I am tired.”

“Everything okay?”

“Dandy.”

Decker said, “You don’t sound like you mean it.”

“I think it’s just starvation. I’m looking forward to dinner. It’ll be nice not to eat something out of a can. Get ready for Shabbos. We’ll talk later.”

Decker smiled at her. But her troubled expression made his heart sink. If only he didn’t care so much.

Rina told her to use the kitchen phone. She also told her to watch the broccoli so that it didn’t get overcooked while she got dressed for Shabbos. The area was small, the counters were old, the refrigerator was cramped and crammed, and the oven and cooktop could have come out of a 1950s appliance advertisement. Claustrophobic, the kitchen did need a complete overhaul. But it didn’t stop Rina from cooking up a storm; the food looked fabulous and smelled even better. Cindy’s salivary glands were working overtime. Her own mother’s kitchen had been redone as a caterer’s kitchen—spacious and modern. But Mom never cooked and Mom never catered. Now that it was just her and Alan, they spent most of their time traveling or eating out. So the fancy kitchen remained as dark as most theaters on Monday night.

She took out her notebook, then got DMV back on the line and, of course, was put on hold again. Comforted by the aroma of rosemary, she held the receiver in the crook of her neck while she stirred the florets with the garlic cloves, taking the pot off the fire when the broccoli turned bright green. She had tossed the salad by the time the woman returned with the information.

The original plates belonged to a couple named Sam and Roseanne Barkley. Looking up the address in the
Thomas Guide
, Cindy saw that they lived four miles away from Dad, on a side street. Probably a neighborhood of houses as opposed to apartments or condos, although she was just guessing on that one. A few more calls and she had Roseanne’s driver’s license number. From that Cindy got the woman’s height, weight, and age: brown hair, hazel eyes, twenty-nine years old—prime breeding years. Roseanne could easily have a baby. Cindy wondered if the woman had been a recent carjacking victim. To get those kinds of specifics she’d have to find the original case report, and that would be hard to do over the phone. Any
way, as it was Friday and after 6
P.M
., most of the detectives were gone.