Stalker (30 page)

“I’ve thought about that.”

“I’m sure you have.” Decker looked at his feet, then squatted down to examine the ground about him. He put up markers next to Marge’s footprints. Then he examined the tree trunk. Starting at the bottom, Decker’s eyes started walking up the dips and folds of the shaggy bark. Around twenty inches off the ground, he stopped and stared.

“Look here. Something nicked off the bark. See, we have a nice radial, half-moon pattern. This looks like a bullet graze. Martinez will bag the hands just as soon as the photographer’s gone. We’re going to find residue. I’m sure he shot at you.”

“So that’s good. Be better if we had the bullet.”

“We’ll search the park. But even so, you’re all right. The nick should help the shooting team with their angles and trajectories.” He marked the spot with a piece of tape. “Guy was a good aim. You’re lucky.”

“Hodges is here,” Marge announced.

Decker stood up. “Rina’s making a statement now. After she’s done, she’ll take Hannah and Vega to our house. Depending on what Hodges and the others want, we may have to talk to Vega.”

“I know.”

“But maybe not.” Decker waved the detective over. Hodges, like all members of the OIS team, was from Robbery/Homicide. He was a good detective—analytical—and a decent fellow. He was still muscular in his build, but had grown soft around the middle. A man with a face filled with character—graying hair, gray eyes, and lots of facial crags and creases. In his early fifties, he was two and a half years off his twenty-five-year pension.

“Lieutenant,” Hodges said.

“Are you doing the interviewing or the analyzing?”

“Arness and Renquist are on their way down.” Hodges
turned to Marge. “Renquist will take you down to the stationhouse. He’ll take a statement from you. How’re you feeling?”

Marge nodded nervously. “I’m all right.”

“Good.” Hodges shifted on his feet. “I’ll wait for Arness. You looked like you were looking for something, Loo. Kneeling down and all. Find anything?”

“Just what I marked off with tape. Here on the tree and Detective Dunn’s prints on the grass. How long do you think the analysis is going to take?”

“Usual.”

“Three…four hours?”

“About.”

“Scott’s getting a statement from my wife. Then I’d like to take her home. So I’ll be gone about a half hour…maybe forty-five minutes.”

“I’m real sorry about your wife. What a bitch of a thing to happen.”

“She’s all right. That’s all that matters.”

“Thank God.”

“Loo?” Martinez ran across the street and stopped in front of the trio. “Hey, Ross, how’s the curve ball coming?”

“We’re a shoo-in against Van Nuys, Bertie. Parks twisted his ankle on a skiing trip. The Department won’t let him pitch. Threatened him with suspension if he did. He isn’t going to risk it being three years from pension.” Hodges turned to Decker. “When are you gonna join the team, Loo? Bet you’ve belted your fair share out of the park.”

“See the size of my strike zone?” Decker remarked. “Besides, I was slow when I was young, I’m even slower now.”

“That’s the whole point of the over-forty league, sir,” Hodges stated.

“As tempting as it sounds, I’ll still pass.”

“There’s Renquist.” Hodges waved him over, then turned to Marge. “You’ll be fine. Just take it slow. Good luck.”

“I’m all right,” Marge said. And for the first time, she
almost meant it. She had saved Rina’s life: that made her a hero. And the guys were acting so nice and normal. Maybe things would actually be all right.

Decker said, “Did you have something, Bert?”

“Yeah. Right!” Martinez suddenly remembered why he was there. “I went through the pockets of the perp.”

Hodges said, “Did you move the bod—”

“No, I didn’t move the body—”

“Screw up the angles—”

“I didn’t move the body!”

“I moved the body,” Marge said.

“Don’t say anything yet,” Hodges said. “Wait for Renquist.”

“What’d you find, Bert?”

“Okay. His driver’s license says he’s Luk-Duc Penn, twenty-five, five six, one-thirty. No green card, so maybe he’s legal. He lives…lived in Oxnard.” Martinez gave Decker the exact address. “We’re spending all this time on looking at similars in L.A. and the guy lives out of town. From this area, all he has to do is take the 101 North and within thirty, forty minutes, he’s in another jurisdiction. Wide-open spaces between here and Oxnard. You can get to the backfields without using conventional routes.”

“Oxnard’s mainly Hispanic,” Marge said.

“It’s mainly
migrant
,” Martinez said. “Because of all the agriculture, it’s a magnet for anyone poor and illiterate. Look at the recent influx of Southeast Asians in SoCal. They compete with the Central American migrants for jobs and probably compete in the crime market as well. If we start hunting up north, I’m sure we’ll find chop shops.”

“Sounds reasonable,” Decker said. “Let’s contact the Oxnard PD and a judge up there, and grab ourselves a couple of warrants.”

Having been a
recent crime statistic herself, Cindy felt genuine empathy about what had happened to Rina and Hannah. Her immediate reaction wasn’t just emotional, but physical, being overcome with that terrible sensation of momentary light-headedness. But her father had assured her that they were
fine
, whatever that meant, because how could
anyone
be fine after such an ordeal. Dad had also been quick to tell her that Hannah hadn’t seen anything. And that the carjacker had been shot dead by Marge. Cindy’s immediate reaction was relief. Rina wouldn’t have to go through a trial, and they could honestly tell Hannah that the bad man was gone for good.

Then, after she had hung up the phone and thought about what had occurred, she sank under the enormous burden of being forced to take a life. The incident roiled up questions in Cindy’s mind. Could she shoot to kill? At this point, she felt that she could. Yet, when someone had shot at her and Crayton, she had ducked behind a car, frozen with fear.

Heart beating wildly, she had an immediate impulse to fly over the freeway and see that her sister and Rina were indeed
fine
. But things were a mess right now.

Why don’t you check up on us in about an hour
? her father had said. Then he had added,
I’m still thinking about you. Are you okay
?

I’m fine, Daddy. Really. Everything here is almost back
to normal
. She hesitated.
Actually, I can’t help but wonder why all this garbage is happening to us
.

Her dad had laughed, but it was without mirth.
I know that no one is without problems. So, I guess it’s our turn. I just hope that if I’m taking some kind of big life test, I’ve passed the damn thing already
.

I’m really sorry, Dad. Are you okay
?

My family’s fine, I’m fine
. He paused.
I love you, princess. Please be careful. Ease your old man’s psychic pain and, at the very least, keep in touch
.

I will, Dad. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of myself
.

She felt horrible for him. But there
was
this tiny, tiny upside. She finally had time to herself. With Dad occupied with the latest developments, he couldn’t dwell on her. That went for Marge and Oliver, too. The freedom gave her space to think…to analyze.

She picked up the morning coffeepot and began to wash it. Her thoughts drifted back to last night with Scott. It had all happened so fast and furiously that she wondered if it had happened at all. The whole thing was made even more surreal because she had woken up and found him gone. (Although the couch was covered with rumpled bedding, so she knew he had slept there. And there was the minimal note—
Call you later
.) And when he
had
phoned her, it had only been to tell her that he had been with her father, but now they both had to leave because of what had happened at the park.

She dried the carafe and put it back into the machine.

A really weird night, but infinitely better than the night before. She didn’t remember the sex too well—her mind had truly been elsewhere—but she did recall the discussion about Bederman, about how Scott had said that partners don’t usually break up and still remain best friends. It made her curious about Graham and about Rick Bederman, since his behavior last night had been odd, talking against Hayley like that. It made Cindy wonder if there hadn’t been another reason for Bederman wanting out of the partnership.

To get the transfer, Rick would have had to put down his
request in writing. Ergo, the department would have a written record of the request in Bederman’s file. If she could just get hold of the file, she’d find out the ostensible reason behind the transfer. Wouldn’t that be nice?

But there were problems. Files not only were confidential, but were kept downtown in Parker Center. Access to the folders was just about impossible without the proper paperwork, and the personnel department was shut down on weekends, the room probably locked up tight. Maybe there was a civilian skeleton crew kept on to man other necessary offices, but that was about it. Going downtown was out.

She started wiping the counter with the dishtowel, but it was sodden by now, leaving streaks across the Formica. She draped the cloth over the faucet, and released a couple of sheets of paper towels from the dowel. Thinking as she wiped, she concluded most stationhouses were quiet over the weekends. Detectives tried to work a schedule of weekdays, nine to five. Not that they weren’t available, but it was an on-call system, and if the case could wait until Monday, it did.

Cindy threw away the wet paper towels and went to the fridge. Pulling out a cluster of grapes, she popped one into her mouth, the sweet, fleshy explosion drowning out a sour taste that had previously languished. She sank into her couch, put up her feet, and thought as she ate.

Hollywood had to have some rudimentary file system on its cops. After all, there were attendance records, requests for vacation days, accounting of sick days, and leaves of absence. Roll call was usually done by hand by the watch commander, but Cindy figured that the handwritten information probably got logged into a computer by a civilian, someone who was now home watching the game or planting flowers or out for the day. Perhaps she’d have some luck gaining access to the stationhouse’s local computer software. Certainly she’d have an easier time getting in the building.

But if the stationhouse were less populated, would her presence there attract more or less attention?

Finishing the grapes, she held the empty branches and turned them over in her hands. The fruit was a meshwork, a system. Just like everything in life, one had to know how to work the system. If someone asked, she could always say she was catching up on report writing, or helping out Tropper because he had been swamped with paperwork. People knew she’d been doing that, so no one would doubt her in that regard.

The downside was that it would take time to break any kind of software code. And there was the possibility that she couldn’t break it at all. And if she did break it, what was she looking for? Still, she got off the couch and picked up her bag. It was better to
be
doing something than to wonder if you
should be
doing something.

She unlocked the door, stepped outside her apartment, and then bolted the door shut. She looked around, her eyes scanning the walkways, the stairs, the street, the rooftops…all that was about her.

By now, vigilance had become habit.

First, she changed into her uniform because she thought she’d fit in better. Then, she went to the report room and pretended to be tidying up the loose ends of her paperwork. She was lucky. The stationhouse was quiet, and those that were there didn’t seem interested in a rookie typing up forms. Beyond a few passing glances, she moved about either unnoticed or disregarded.

When the timing seemed right, she got up and moved down the hallway to where the stationhouse’s records were likely to be kept. Getting into the cubicle turned out to be a snap. The lock was minimal, and she penetrated it with a simple credit card. Why bother with a dead bolt because who would steal stuff from a police station? Except that stuff did have a way of disappearing: pencils, pens, paper, pads, envelopes, folders, Post-its. Cindy figured it was like people in a hotel room, taking stationery not because they needed it, but because it was there.

Breaking into the computer was as complicated as turning on the switch. Within seconds, she faced around two
dozen window options. She checked them out, one by one, until she came to a sheet program that listed the daily assignments—rotations, car assignments, street assignments, court dates, days off, days on, who patrolled with whom, which detectives were assigned to what details. The schedules were filed by date; the cops were filed alphabetically. It wasn’t hard to find out Bederman’s daily assignments over the past few years, but it would be time-consuming.

She did have the time, but what was the point? Finding out Rick’s attendance record told her nothing about the man. But it was better than pacing the floors of her tiny apartment, jumping up at nonexistent sounds, peeking through the curtains every five minutes, and checking the locks, doorjambs, and windowsills for pry marks, pick marks, or other scratches.

Her favorite computer key turned out to be the Backward one. Going back, date by date, month by month. It was boring, it was stupid, and it accomplished nothing. Rick was there at roll call by six-thirty, he logged out by three-thirty. Six days on, three days off. Sometimes he took longer shifts to get more days off in a row.

Two months into the past, then three months, then six months. The flesh beneath her eyes began to twitch as she scaled through the massive piles of small print. There was nothing subjective on these charts, no comments good or bad about any individual. Just record keeping.

Eight months, nine months, eleven months…right around the time Cindy became a part of Hollywood. Prior to her arrival, Graham Beaudry’s assignments had him riding solo. A few flips back in time, then, to Cindy’s amazement, she found out that Graham had been partnered with another woman named Nicole Martin. As she looked backward in the files, she discovered that Graham had worked with her for over
a year
.

That was odd. Everyone talked about Graham and Rick being former partners, but no one had mentioned Nicole Martin to Cindy. Not even Graham had spoken about her. Cindy followed Martin’s path for a while. Further hunting
showed that Nicole had been transferred to Pacific—specifically into Detectives, Juvenile Detail. To verify, she called up Pacific and asked for Detective Martin’s voice mail. When the machine kicked in, she hung up.

Okay. Graham’s last partner got the gold. Maybe that’s why Graham never mentioned her, too embarrassed because Martin had gone on to bigger things. Still, even Hayley never mentioned her. Maybe Hayley was embarrassed as well, because Martin went gold and she was still pounding the streets.

It was all very odd. Or, rather, it could be that Cindy didn’t understand the organization. There were so many unwritten rules and laws and the only way to learn about them was by breaking them unwittingly.

It made for very nervous rookies.

Before Nicole, Graham had been with Bederman.

So what was Bederman’s history after he and Graham had split? Going into this thing, Cindy had assumed that Bederman had immediately hooked up with his current partner, Sean Amory. But looking over the roll call sheets, she was reminded once again why she never went to Vegas. Her assumptions were always wrong.

Not only had Bederman
not
been partnered with Sean, but
also
he had not been partnered with anyone. Plus, Bederman had transferred to the Evening Watch. No, not the
Evening
Watch—the
Night
Watch. Wee hours in the morning. The least favorite shift of most officers because the calls were usually serious ones. Shunned by those who would prefer normal working hours
unless
you just happened to be hooked on vices.

Which of course wasn’t fair at all. Plenty of decent officers worked the watch. Some of them just liked being free during the daylight hours, some were single mothers and fathers who liked the hours because it allowed them time with the kids—breakfast before they went to school, then dinner before they went off to work, and the kids went to bed.

But being on the night shift also meant getting away with the hanky-panky and not having to explain anything
to the wife. Being on the night shift meant easier access to the dark side—literally and figuratively. Because there was that element, those cops who thrived on thrill, who got their kicks out of skirting the boundaries, hanging around the sleaze—the hookers, the pimps, the pushers, the punks—thinking that they’d never be affected, that they’d never succumb. But they always did. Many past news items were testaments to cops who had fallen from grace.

But Cindy had no indication that Rick had been one of those. He could have had a very legitimate reason for wanting the night shift. She knew he had young children. Maybe his wife had to work days, so Bederman worked nights to be with the kids. He didn’t impress her as being domestic. But then again, didn’t he say something about leaving early to be home with his wife? So maybe she had him all wrong. Maybe he was a straight shooter.

Her logic was objective, but her gut feeling was skeptical.

Rick had spent about two years on the dark side. And those same two years just happened to be the same two years of Armand Crayton’s greatest financial success. It was during those specific two years that Crayton was throwing parties, buying Rolls-Royces, making plans,
and
dealing with Dexter Bartholomew.

Coincidence?

Again, Cindy scrolled through the assignment charts—backward, then forward, then backward again, charting the Beaudry/Bederman progression. A half hour later, she felt she had it down, surprised by the results.

Beaudry and Bederman had been partners for nearly
ten
years. They had started right around the time Oliver had remembered Bederman coming into Hollywood. Right around the time that Oliver had left and gone to Devonshire.

Partners for
ten
years.

If Bederman had been leery of Beaudry’s physical ability to catch criminals, he certainly took his time doing something about it.

Scott was right on. Something wasn’t making sense.

Okay, Cindy told herself. They had been partners for ten years. Then what? Then they split up, Beaudry riding with Nicole Martin, and Bederman working nights by himself.

Then Martin was promoted to Detective, and Beaudry rode solo for six months. Back at the ranch, around the same time, Bederman switched to the day shift once again, where he rode solo for three months. Finally, his assignment sheet showed him with current partner Sean Amory.

Amazing what you can find out by perusing simple assignment records!