Stalker (23 page)

Oliver and Dunn
reached the condo development right as the sun was setting, bleaching white a dozen low-profile pink stucco buildings that were topped with Spanish tile roofs. The apartments were scattered over golf-course-type acreage with lots of rises and dips made green by liberal use of lawn sprinklers. Not a lot of flowers or bushes, but there were several lily ponds, a couple of swimming pools, a quad of tennis courts, and many bubbling Jacuzzis. The structures were identical and it took the duo a few passes before they found Stacy Mills’s specific abode, which had been christened The Windsome.

The aerobics instructor lived on the second floor: a two-bedroom, two-bath unit with a niche that passed for a state-of-the-art kitchen. She answered the knock, her expression sour and suspicious. She was a wiry thing in black latex, her arms well defined if not big. She seemed very nervous, her eyes skipping between the two cops. Her eggplant-painted lips were pressed against each other as if glued shut. “Since you’re not going away, you might as well come in.”

She led them into her carton-size living room, which held two mullioned French doors leading out to a patio. The walls held several prints of saccharine-sweet sunsets; the floor was covered in cream-colored pile carpet. The furniture was chunky and square, the couches and chairs upholstered in what passed as chic. But to Marge’s eyes, the cloth looked more like Granny’s white slipcovers.
There were no throw pillows atop the couches, only two white, long-haired, ennui-stricken cats, which blended in with the fabric.

Oliver chose one of the chairs; Marge abutted one of the bored cats. It lifted its head, then decided to roll over. Marge stroked its belly and it purred contentedly. Stacy’s eyes narrowed, regarding the cat like an errant lover.

“How long is this going to take?” Stacy snapped. “I have clients.”

Marge settled into the couch. She wore a plain white blouse tucked into gray slacks; her jacket was midnight blue and unstructured. She pulled out her notebook from a floppy straw bag. “What kind of work do you do?”

“I’m a personal trainer. I work with many important people—industry people.”

Industry meaning Hollywood. Oliver said, “How long have you worked as a PT?”

“What is this? A job interview?” Stacy exhaled, clamping her arms across her chest. “Why am I talking to you? You haven’t recovered the car, right?”

“Right,” Marge answered.

“So what good are you? I’ve got a dinner date in a few hours. Can you leave?”

Oliver said, “How long have you worked as a personal trainer?”

Stacy regarded him with steely eyes. “Didn’t you just ask me that?”

“Yes, but you haven’t answered the question.” He reached for his notebook tucked into the inside pocket of his lightweight gray jacket—a previously owned Valentino that he picked up at a fraction of its retail cost, probably a discard from someone in the
Industry
. He completed the designer blazer with a sky-blue shirt, patterned tie, charcoal pants, and black tie shoes. “It’s a simple question, Ms. Mills.”

“About ten years.”

“Really?” Oliver smiled. “You started your field while still in your teens?”

“Ha, ha, ha…” But the compliment wasn’t lost on
Stacy. “I work hard at looking good. It’s my stock-in-trade.”

“I’ll bet,” Marge said. “No one wants to get advice from someone who doesn’t look the part. Like your obese doctor telling you to lose weight.”

Stacy said, “Can we dispense with the chitchat and get down to business? Exactly why are you here?”

Marge said, “I’d like to ask you a few questions about Armand Crayton—”

“I knew it!” Stacy began to pace, arms swinging like rotor blades, her feet squashing the white nap of her carpet. “I didn’t
know
him. But if it’ll get you out of here quicker, I’ll say I did.”

Marge said, “You didn’t know him?”

“That’s right!”

“Did you ever meet him?” Oliver asked.

Stacy glared at him. “Yes.”

“And you still insist you didn’t know him?”

“I exchanged hellos with him. ‘Hello, how are you. Hi, how you doing? Hey, what’s up?’ That’s not
knowing
a person.”

“Sounds to me like you saw him on a regular basis,” Marge said. “Would you care to explain?”

“Not really.”

Abruptly, Oliver sat up. “I interviewed Lark Crayton. She takes good care of herself. She’s one of your clients, right?”

“Was,” Stacy corrected. “I stopped working with her after he died. First off, she was in no state to train. Secondly, money became tight.”

“Did you like her?” Oliver said.

“She paid her bills. For me, that constitutes liking a person.”

“Did you have a personal relationship with her?”

“No.” Stacy stopped walking about. “Anything else?”

“People tell their trainers all sorts of personal stuff, don’t they?” Marge said.

“Yes, they do.”

“You must feel like a shrink half of the time.”

“Yes, I do,” Stacy said. “But a good trainer, like a good shrink, keeps confidentiality.”

“But unlike a shrink,” Marge said, “you’re not bound by rules of confidentiality.”

“It gets out I talk about things, I lose my clients, Detective.”

“It doesn’t have to get out,” Oliver said.

“Why don’t I believe you?”

“Because you’re perceptive,” Oliver answered. “I’m a rotten guy for a boyfriend, but an honest cop.” He turned to Marge for confirmation.

“I can vouch for the honest cop part,” Marge answered. “Look, we all know that the carjacking scared you—”

“Of course, it
scared
me! It
terrified
me! You want to get me to trust you, solve the damn crime. And don’t tell me you need my help to do that. You should be able to do that without my help. That’s why I pay taxes!”

Oliver said, “Ms. Mills, your clients pay you to help them stay in shape or get into shape. But no matter what you do, if they don’t exercise and watch their diet, you’re not going to work miracles. That’s all we’re asking. If you give us a little background, it could go a long way.”

Marge said, “We know Lark was dissatisfied with Crayton. Fill us in on the details.”

Stacy checked her watch. Then she marched over to the fridge and took out a water bottle. She gulped greedily as if Crayton had sucked out her life force. “What do you want to know? She was unhappy with her marriage. So what else is new in this city?”

“What were her specific complaints?” Marge asked.

“He worked too hard, he worked too long. He wasn’t around, he had women on the side. He didn’t make enough, though she seemed to have lots of money to my eye. But I’ve worked long enough to know that lots of SoCals live on the edge, especially those in the Industry. Even the ones who make it can’t seem to hold on to it. It’s amazing how fast they go through the millions. If it’s not cars, it’s clothes. If it’s not clothes, it’s jewelry. Actually, if they’d stick to clothes and jewelry and fancy cars, they’d
be okay. It’s the lavish parties, the chartered jets, the hundred-foot yacht, the three vacation homes along with the residence in Holmby Hills and the apartment in New York. You think they live in any of the zillions of houses? I have this one client…he’s got a four-thousand-square-foot Upper East Side apartment in New York with a view of the park that was decorated by some
Architectural Digest
biggie. I think the place was featured in
Architectural Digest
. Do you think he stays in the apartment when he’s in New York? No, of course not. That would make too much sense. He rents out a suite at the Carlyle because he likes the room service. If he stays at his apartment, he’s gotta get a cook and a maid and a valet and a haircut guy and a gym guy: It’s easier to use the hotel’s services. So I ask him, ‘Why do you keep the apartment? It must cost a fortune in upkeep.’ You know what he says?”

“What?” Marge duly responded.

“He’s says he uses it for entertaining—for his parties. Can’t have a dinner party at a hotel. But when the party’s over, his hired help cleans up, and he goes back to a clean hotel room. Can you beat that?”

Marge smiled. “Maybe you can borrow it from him at a reduced rate?”

“He’s offered to take me more than once. Supposedly to keep him in shape when he’s in New York. Yeah, to keep his pecker muscles in shape.” She bent down and picked up a cat. The feline was passive and drooped in her arms like a muffler. “Let me tell you something. I earn my money honestly. I’m nobody’s whore.”

Oliver said, “You have a lot in common with us. We’re pushed around all the time—”

“Who says I’m pushed around!” Stacy sounded resentful.

“Maybe you aren’t, but we are,” Marge answered. “We can’t move without worrying about the ACLU or the IAD or some other citizens’ group bringing charges against us. And it’s hard to be methodical when arresting someone who’s drunk or stoned or irrationally angry.”

“Sorry, but I don’t bleed for cops,” Stacy said, stroking her pet.

“And you shouldn’t,” Marge said. “I’m not bitching. I knew the job when I got into it. I imagine that you did, too. You tell people you work for all these rich movie stars who offer you perks and free trips and whatnots. They think you got it made. But everything has a price, right?”

Stacy said, “Excuse me, but what does all this have to do with Crayton?”

“You tell us,” Oliver said. “You’re the one who reacted so strongly when we mentioned his name.”

Stacy turned away, placing the cat back onto the sofa. “Okay. This is it. Armand was a typical case in point. With a little charm and a lot of ambition, he pyramided his way up. He had the house, the beautiful wife, the clothes, the Rolls, the parties, and the clients who invested with him. But beneath the surface it was built on quicksand, just waiting to cave in.” A breath, then an exhale. “Lark told me she was worried. He was up to his neck in shenanigans.”

“What kind of shenanigans?” Oliver asked.

“Lark didn’t get into specifics, only that Armand was behind in payments and needed some quick cash. His lifestyle was eating him up. But he couldn’t sell off his stuff because that would alert people that he was in trouble. Meanwhile, she’s spending a hundred bucks an hour to have me watch her sweat. Lark kept obsessing on the car. The Corniche was leased, of course, and the payments were taking a hefty bite out of his wallet.”

“Why didn’t he walk away from it?”

“He couldn’t get out of the contract without stiff penalties, let alone ruin the image. When people see you desperate, they chuck you out like vomit. Look, I’m not totally innocent of that kind of thing. I have to keep a certain face for show. I drive a Beemer…well, I used to drive a Beemer. You need a good car for show, but I got mine at a very good price—all cash. Now it’s gone, but insurance’ll take care of me. I could easily be in hock like the rest. But I’m not because I’m the bargain-shopping queen.” She
turned to Oliver. “Like your jacket. It looks like Valentino. I could get that today for seventy-five percent off retail because it’s last year’s style.”

Oliver said, “I didn’t do badly. I got it last year for sixty off.”

“No, that’s not bad at all. Where’d you get it?”

“Retails for Less.”

“I’ve been there. Off-seasons and seconds.”

“And previously owned.”

“Good for you. If Hollywood had your money sense, movies wouldn’t cost twelve bucks a pop.”

Marge said, “Getting back to the Rolls. Armand wanted to get out of the lease?”

“According to Lark, yes. All my information about Armand was according to Lark. So if it turns out to be bullshit, don’t blame me.”

Oliver said, “Did Armand have any ideas on how to break the contract?”

Stacy sighed. “She mentioned something to me about him faking an accident…you know, ramming it into a wall and totaling it. She asked me if I thought that would look suspicious.”

“What did you say?”

“I told her I thought it was a real dumb idea. It not only would look phony but he could hurt himself. Crashing into walls to total cars isn’t something that should be done by amateurs.”

“What’d she say?”

“She dropped the subject.”

“And that was that?” Oliver said.

“No,” Stacy admitted. “A couple weeks later she asked me if I knew anyone who’d be willing to not only steal a car but to get rid of it. Like because I train lots of people, I know a big criminal element.” She stopped talking, again folding her arms across her breast. “I was really insulted.”

“What did you tell her?”

“I told her I don’t know anyone. I tried to be calm, but it really pissed me off. Then when the carjacking happened…only it turned out to be more than just a jacking.
Man, I was nervous. If she had planned this, and I kinda knew what was going on…what did that mean for me? I must have spent six months looking over my shoulder, waiting for something to happen.”

“How many days passed between the time she asked you about stealing the car and the actual jacking?”

“About a month.”

“So, for a month, she didn’t mention anything about the Corniche?”

“No…well, no more schemes. She still complained about Armand, though. How he couldn’t manage money. When the jacking happened, I called her to offer my condolences. She wasn’t home at the time, but she did call me back a week later, telling me she was in no state to see anyone. And even if she was in a state to see someone, she couldn’t afford me anymore. I returned that phone call, but again she wasn’t home. That was the last of it. Until last week—when I was carjacked.”

She tapped her foot, then again took a big swig from her water bottle.

“I let my guard down because it’s hard to live in a state of paranoia. Big mistake.”

“Why do you think you were carjacked?” Oliver asked.

“Who knows? The car’s flashy, I look vulnerable, a random thing, or…a reminder to keep my mouth shut.” Stacy’s eyes moistened. “I don’t know. If someone wanted to warn me, why wait a year?” She stared at the detectives. “Right?”

Marge and Oliver nodded simultaneously. But it didn’t seem to console her.

“This has been a real nightmare,” Stacy went on. “I can’t eat, I can’t sleep. I take on more clients than I should because work seems to drive away the fear. That’s the only positive. I’m making more money than usual.” She stood and picked up the other cat. This one sensed the tension and squirmed in her arms. But Stacy held on tight. Maybe a little too tight. “The way I’m working…it can’t go on forever. I’m wrecked!”