Stalker (36 page)

“Nothing makes sense because we don’t know what’s going on.”

“Well, thank you for that pithy explanation.” Decker stomped away from Oliver and began to walk back and forth. The uselessness of his actions made them pitiable. Paralyzed, Oliver watched him for a moment, trying to shake stupor from his shoulders. Slowly, he put one foot in front of another, bending down to search Cindy’s car. It smelled of her and that drove him crazy. Using his nose, he realized that it
only
smelled of her. Whoever had done this…he hadn’t dragged her out. She had come to him.

Oliver forced concentration upon his brain, taking out a flashlight though it provided dim illumination. He went
through her purse. The first thing he noticed was that Decker was right. Her gun was sitting at the bottom of her bag. So was her pocketbook with the money still in the billfold. So where was her standard-issue police wallet, which contained her officer’s badge and ID? Maybe it had fallen out. Cindy’s bag was more of a sack. It wasn’t zipped up, meaning things could easily tumble out. He began to search the car…under the mats and seat cushions, in between the seats and the console, in the glove compartments and door recesses.

Nothing.

He heard sirens in the distance. Soon the place would be crawling with cops. If she were near, they’d find her.

Without thinking, his hand went to the ignition to turn on the motor, just to see if the car was working. But there weren’t any keys in the slot.

Come to think of it, Oliver didn’t recall seeing keys in her purse. He searched again.

No badge
and
no keys.

He waited a moment, then got out of the car and walked around it, shining the light on the ground. Maybe she dropped her keys. But he didn’t find anything. No keys, no billfold, not even any footprints to speak of, at least not in this light. Nothing to suggest anything sinister. He walked several yards behind the car and illuminated the pavement. Tire tracks that didn’t extend to Cindy’s Saturn. Different tire tracks, but that wasn’t exactly a big deal. One would expect to find tire tracks on the shoulder of the freeway. That’s where cars pull over when they have road problems. But these seemed fresh, like the car—

“You find anything?”

Oliver was startled. “You crept up on me.”

“Sorry. What’re you thinking?”

He regarded his boss. The ravages of hell had trod over Decker’s face. With the flashlight, Oliver traced the beam of light over the ground. “Look at these.”

“Tire tracks.”

“Look new to you?”

“The bastard pulled up behind her,” Decker said. “He
saw that her car had stalled, pulled up, then dragged her out of the car.”

Oliver hesitated, then said, “Cindy wears sneakers most of the time, doesn’t she?”

Decker didn’t answer because he knew where Oliver was going. No drag marks had been left from the shoes.

Oliver said, “You know what else I didn’t find in her purse? Keys.”

Decker looked at him.

“For what it’s worth,” Oliver said, “I think she got out voluntarily, took her badge and keys, and met someone. Maybe we got it all wrong. Maybe someone was stalled on the shoulder, and she went to help him and it turned out he was a psycho—”

“Someone was stalking her. If she had bothered to take her billfold and keys, she would have taken her gun, Scott. She
would
have taken her gun.”

No one spoke.

“But she did take her keys.” Decker was thinking out loud. “She got out and took her keys so she didn’t accidentally lock herself out…she took her badge but not her gun—”

Think!
Think
!

But nothing came.

Decker said, “Heard from Marx?”

“She still hasn’t tracked down Bederman or Tropper.”

“Bastards! Call her again!” Decker barked. “Maybe she’s lying!”

Oliver took out his phone and started dialing. In an instant, an idea invaded Decker’s thoughts. What did Bederman and Tropper and Marx and all the others have in common? They were all
cops
.

“Hang up for a second!” Decker shouted.

Oliver pressed the end button. “What?”

“How about this? She was stalled, Scott. She was stalled because some fucking psycho in her department was playing games with her car. So here she was, stalled on the freeway, then suddenly someone pulls over to help
her. If it were just Joe Blow, she would have taken out her gun to meet him. But it wasn’t Joe Blow. It was someone she wasn’t afraid to meet.”

“Someone she knew.”

“No, that would make her even more suspicious…if someone she knew just happened to find her stalled on the freeway.”

Decker was right, of course. Oliver said, “Go on.”

“How about a cruiser?” Decker suggested.

Oliver hit his forehead. “Of course. She sees a cop pulling behind her. She’d know better than to approach a cop with her gun in her hand.”

“And that’s why she took her ID. To identify herself—”

“Pete!” Marge called out.

“Oh God!” Decker’s knees buckled. Oliver caught him before he caved in. Marge came running over and spoke rapidly. “I didn’t find anything…I mean I didn’t find her.” She broke into tears. “I mean I didn’t find her body!”

“What did you find?” Oliver asked.

The sirens got louder.

Marge said, “There are lots of crushed bushes. I think there was a struggle down there.”

“Blood?” Decker asked.

“Not that I can see.”

But Decker sensed that she was telling partial truths. He felt his head going light. “I’ve got to sit down.”

Marge eased him into Cindy’s car. He felt hot tears well up in his eyes. He blinked them back and looked away.

Oliver said, “Marge, get me my cell phone. Or better yet, can you call up Hollywood and find out if Tropper or Bederman is on duty. If they’re not, find out if either had checked out a patrol car, or if a cruiser’s missing.”

“Why?”

Oliver explained Decker’s theory.

“I’ll do it right away.” Marge turned to use her cell phone.

“Also…” Decker cleared his throat. “Also, call up CHP.”

“Why?”

“Just…” Again, Decker cleared his throat, along with a sharp intake of air. He felt as if he were suffocating even though the night air was clear and crisp. “Ask if all their cruisers are accounted for.”

Marge looked at him.

Decker said, “If I were Cindy…not knowing who was with me or who was against me…I’d be suspicious of a patrol car. It might be Bederman…it might be Tropper.” Another big breath. “But a CHP cruiser…if I were stalled and I saw a CHP cruiser…I’d be very happy. I’d get out of the car without my gun…but with my badge…and say…and say, ‘Hey, can you help me?’”

From the safety
of her car, Hayley spoke into her cell phone. “Lopez is accounted for. He’s been at his parents’ for the last four hours. Tropper’s still a question mark. I did get hold of Bederman’s wife. She expects him back any moment—”

“Back from where?” Oliver interrupted.

“From a drive. He goes out for a drive by himself sometimes—”

“That sounds like total bullshit to me.”

Hayley felt the same way. “He’s got a pager. I’m trying to track him down.”

“If he hasn’t answered, Marx, he doesn’t want to answer!”

“You want to put out an APB on the car?”

“I’d love to except we don’t have anything concrete on him. Plus, he’s a cop.” Oliver was very conflicted. “Give me the license plate.”

“He’s got two civilian cars—a Ford Aerostar minivan and a Camaro convertible. His wife said he took the Camaro…which is his car.” Hayley gave him both license plate numbers. “But I’m also thinking, Scott, that if he’s doing something nasty maybe he has the van and the wife isn’t coming clean.”

“Why don’t you go to the house and see what’s missing?”

“Yeah, sure…good idea. I’m also five minutes away from Graham Beaudry’s house. He’s Cindy’s current partner—”

“Isn’t he also Bederman’s
ex
-partner?”

“Yeah. But they’re still friends. They still hang together.”

“Right. Cindy told me that. I think it’s weird.”

“You gotta know Graham. He’s just that kind of guy. I’m thinking that maybe Graham knows where Bederman is. Or at least, maybe he knows where Bederman hangs out. Because they are still friends.”

“You checked Bellini’s?”

“Yeah, I called. He’s not there. Graham’s a nice guy. Let me ask—”

“You’re looking at Graham as a nice guy. You ever consider him as a possible perp?”

“I don’t see it, but if he is involved, then I definitely should go see him. So what should I do first? See Graham or check out Bederman’s vehicle?”

No one spoke for a moment.

Hayley changed the subject to give him time to think. “How’s it going over there?”

“We’ve located some torn bits of clothing.”

“Hers?”

“I don’t know, Hayley.”

His voice sounded flat. She said, “But…you know…you haven’t found her.”

“We wouldn’t be having this conversation if we had.”

“It was a stupid question.”

“No, it wasn’t.” Oliver softened his voice. “It was a very normal question. I’m real testy.”

“Understandable. How’s the lieutenant?”

“Stuck in hell.”

The conversation was playing hard on Hayley’s already overwrought anxiety level. She felt her throat swell. “So what should I do?”

“You’re close to Beaudry’s house?”

“Five minutes.”

“Go check him out. Call if you find out anything.”

“Likewise.” She disconnected the line, and started the motor of her car—a ten-year-old Mustang that had been giving her problems of late. Something about a nervous
transmission. But she couldn’t afford to repair it. She had renamed the wheels “bucking bronco.” Sure enough, when she put it in drive, it hesitated before lunging forward. Seconds later, she was on her way to Beaudry’s.

Graham lived in a simple one-story house in a residential area of one-story houses. The neighborhood was hilly, and the streets moved up and down like a baby roller coaster. Since the suburb was near the ocean, the homes at the top had a nice view. But Beaudry lived at the base of the knoll in a white, wood-sided home with flower beds lining the walkway. No skyline or ocean view, but the area was not at all unpleasant. She parked across the street and was about to get out when a car in his driveway came alive with red backup lights. There was just enough light for her to make out the license plate.

Bederman.

She let him go for a half block, and followed him without headlights until they were on Venice Boulevard. Then she popped the illumination switch and dropped back a couple of car lengths, following him east for several miles. When he turned into the residential area of Culver City, she again tailed him without headlights. His particular block was a flat street with a gated condo development on one side, and faceless one-story homes on the other. Bederman pulled into the condo driveway, inserted a card into the magnetic slot, and the mechanical arm lifted upward, allowing him entrance.

Hayley continued on for another half block and then parked the car, thinking about what to do next. If Bederman had been at Graham’s for the past two hours, he couldn’t have been with Cindy unless Bederman and Beaudry were in on it together. Nothing surprised Hayley anymore. She had seen the best of fathers brought down for diddling their daughters, she had seen pastors who were wife beaters. She had arrested rich kids for shoplifting candy bars, she had seen poverty-stricken illiterates do the most amazing heroics. Appearance meant nothing and lots of times first impressions were wrong. Still, there was something off-kilter when she tried to picture Bederman
and Beaudry hanging at a Sunday barbecue planning Cindy’s demise. She called up Scott and told him what had happened.

She said, “He was driving the Camaro. I found that somewhat encouraging. Mainly because it’s harder to hide a body in a car that small. Even the trunk is small.”

“Yeah.” Except that Oliver was discouraged. He would have been far happier had Hayley found Bederman with Cindy—alive and gagged and whatnot. Instead, the verdict was still out, the terror of the uncertain rotting away his ability to think.

“Are you there, Scott?”

“Yeah, I’m here.” In body, he was there. But his mind wasn’t processing.

Hayley said, “I don’t think Bederman’s going anywhere for a while. Maybe I should concentrate on Graham.”

Oliver thought about that. “Maybe Bederman’s switching cars and is going to go out again.”

“Do you want me to wait here?”

“As opposed to…”

“Going to Beaudry’s place. I’m just thinking that if Bederman did something nasty, maybe he went to Graham’s to confess or something.”

“Maybe he went there to ask Graham to give him an alibi,” Oliver said. “What do you hope to accomplish by talking to Beaudry?”

“I have a better relationship with Graham than I do with Bederman. And he is Cindy’s current partner. On the surface, they seem to get along. I’m just thinking that I’d get more out of Beaudry than I would out of Bederman.”

“What do you expect to get out of Beaudry?”

“If there’s something off about Bederman.” She sighed. “I don’t know. I’m not a detective. How about a little guidance?”

That was always Hayley’s style—straight out with it. Oliver said, “Nothing much is happening here…which I suppose is better than finding something. Look, Hayley, I’ll do Bederman, you do Beaudry. I should be there in…twenty minutes.”

“Want me to wait for you?”

“Yeah…wait for me.” Silence for several seconds. “Any word from Tropper?”

“No. I called about three minutes ago. Maybe we should put out the APB on him?”

“It’s the same problem, Hayley. We don’t have anything on him. Not answering your pager isn’t a crime. Also, if he’s in a cop car, putting an APB on his civilian car won’t do any good. It might even hurt because Tropper has tactical lines on the car’s radio. If he has Cindy and hears that we’re looking for him, it could panic him.”

Hayley agreed. “So maybe we should crash his apartment or something?”

“Yeah, who needs due process—Hold on. What?”

Hayley heard muffled speech in the background. From what she could tell, there was excitement in the voices. She rubbed her hands together as she waited. It was getting cold in the car and the coffee she had purchased an hour ago was a mass of cold mocha and congealing cream. A moment later, Oliver came back on the line.

“Hayley, do you know if Tropper or any of them has anything to do with CHP?”

“I’m not sure what you’re asking me.”

“We think whoever took Cindy was using an official cruiser—maybe a CHP vehicle. Do you know anyone in Hollywood who has a CHP officer as a friend?”

“No. But I’m sure there’s someone out there who fits the category.”

“What do you know about Tropper?” Oliver asked.

“Not much. He’s been with Hollywood for at least ten years. Hard-nosed kind of guy. He’s got a good record.”

“How many times has he gotten bagged with an excess force complaint?”

“Nothing to tag him as a problem.”

“You’re sure?”

“No, I’m not
sure
.”

“Married?”

“Divorced.”

“Kids?”

“I’m not sure. We’re not buddies.”

Oliver said, “I’ll go to Tropper’s. You might as well talk to Graham.”

“You know, all these dudes live within twenty minutes of each other. Do you have Tropper’s civilian license plate? Just in case?”

“Yeah. But if you happen to come across it, don’t even think about going after him by yourself!”

“I wouldn’t do that,” Hayley lied. “But who knows? Maybe I’ll get extremely lucky and bump into the car. If I have the license, I can call you up.”

“I think that’s unlikely.”

“Stranger things have happened.”

But Hayley did not get extremely lucky: not that she didn’t try. She drove around for a half-hour trying to second-guess where Tropper might be, but she came away empty-handed. She was stippled with anxiety—fearful for Cindy’s safety, for her own safety as well. Hayley couldn’t help wondering if she was the next victim on some psycho’s list.

It was close to one when she finally arrived at Beaudry’s house. The windows were dark, but the porch light over the door was on. Approaching the place, she felt trepidation. On the one hand, she wanted Graham to be a good guy. On the other, she had to view him as a potential psycho.

She rang the bell. Several minutes elapsed before a light went on from the inside, someone peering out the peephole. Beaudry opened the door, his hair a carpet of cowlicks, his squinting eyes made into slashes by the harsh light from the porch. He was clad in robe and slippers. With his fingers, he tented his brow so he could see her better. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Cindy’s missing—”

“What!” His mouth dropped open. “What do you mean, ‘missing’?”

“Can I come in?”

He retreated and she came into his house. His mouth was still agape. “What’s going on?”

Hayley regarded his expression—projecting the proper
image of being shocked and appalled. “Did you know she was having trouble, Graham?”

“What kind of trouble?”

“Male Chauvinist Pig trouble.”

Beaudry blinked several times. “From who?”

“From lots of people. From your friend, Bederman, for starts. Then there was Clark Tropper—”

“Tropper gives everyone a hard time.” He stared at her. “Do you think Tropper hurt her?”

“I don’t know.” Hayley was amazed at how cool and casual she sounded. “She’s missing, and he’s not answering his pages. Any idea where he might be?”

But Beaudry sidestepped the question. “How long has she been missing?”

“About three hours—”

“That’s not too bad.”

“Lots can happen in three hours, Graham.”

“I know that.” He started pacing. “What happened?”

“She was en route to her father’s. She never showed up. Her car was left abandoned on the shoulder of the freeway—”

“Oh my God!”

From the way he responded, Hayley couldn’t keep accusation out of her voice. “Do you know anything about it?”

Beaudry stiffened. “I don’t like your tone, Marx.”

“That’s because I’m fucking scared, Beaudry!”

A female voice called out. “Graham? What is it?”

The wife. Hayley had woken her up. She cocked her head in the voice’s direction. “Take care of her.”

“Oh my God! What a horrible mess!” Graham rubbed his face. “Hayley, I’m on your side—”

Hayley interrupted him, her fury barely under control. “If you fucking A are on my side, then tell me what you
know
!?”

“Graham?” The voice was very plaintive this time.

“Hold on! I’ll be right there!” he shouted. To Hayley, he said, “Lemme get rid of her, then I’ll tell you everything. I’ll make it quick.”

After he disappeared down a dark hallway, Hayley
looked around the living room. Matching muslin slipcovers, white sofa and love seat. A glass coffee table rimmed with brass matched the side tables. Wall-to-wall carpet in a low pile weave. There were landscapes and seascapes on the walls. Everything matched, but looked plastic. Or maybe she was just jealous because the house seemed so perfect and her life was so messy. Ten minutes later, he returned, dressed in proper street clothes, a gun in his hand. “Shouldn’t we be doing something to help? Like look for her, maybe?”

“Look
where
, Graham? Look in Rick Bederman’s Aerostar?”

“Rick’s been with me for the last couple of hours.”

“Doing
what
? Establishing an alibi?”

“Maybe.”

The admission shocked Hayley. “What’s going on?”

“I’ll tell you what I know, but it isn’t much.” Graham’s voice was tense. “Bederman has a problem with Cindy. I told him he should lay off her, but he’s got this problem with her.”

“He wants to fuck her?”

“Rick wants to fuck everyone, but that’s not the problem. It had to do with the Armand Crayton case. You remember that—”

“Go on.”

“Rick was fucking Crayton’s wife. They had like a two-year affair. She’s got pictures.”

“Who does?”

“The wife. Lark.”

“Lark has pictures of Rick and her fucking?”

“Actually, they’re videos. You wanna know the stupid thing? Rick took the videos, not her. That guy is such a fucking moron—”

“But you’re still friends with him?”

“Because he’s got a wife who is my wife’s best friend. Because he’s got children. You partner with a guy for a long time, he does you favors, you do him favors!”

“It’s nice that you’re a loyal friend, but what does this have to do with Cindy?”

“The Crayton case is still an open file. Right after the murder, Bederman broke off the diddling with Lark, but the two of them were still tangled up. First off, Rick had invested in Crayton’s business and lost money. Money that he didn’t want his wife to find out about. Second, there were the videos. So he struck some kind of deal with Lark. She’d keep her mouth shut about the two of them and he’d do her favors—”