her in a quiet setting. Take her through the entire thing from start to finish. “Do you remember anything about the case he was referring to?”
Cindy tapped the tabletop. “For some reason, a red Ferrari comes to mind.”
Elizabeth Tarkum. Oliver said, “You know what we’re working on in Devonshire, don’t you?”
“Of course—the carjackings and follow-homes. You think the Crayton case is related to them?”
“Maybe.”
Cindy said, “You want to interrogate me, don’t you?”
“We call it interviewing.”
“Okay,” Cindy said. “Suppose I say yes? Do you want to do it behind my dad’s back?”
“It might be simpler.” Oliver was not at all happy. “How about if I come to your apartment tomorrow evening. You tell me everything you know about Armand Crayton and your conversation with Craig Barrows. If it becomes clear to me that your relationship with Crayton is important to his murder case—or any of our current jacking cases—I’ll tell your dad about this dinner … which won’t be a pretty scene! But if you can shed any light on what’s going on with these horrible jackings, I’ve got no choice.”
“You’re being very professional.” She grinned. “I’m impressed.”
“No, I’m not a professional.” He rubbed his forehead. “What I am is an idiot for taking you to dinner.”
Cindy softened her voice. “You were being nice. Because you felt sorry for me after last night. I appreciate it, Scott.”
He smiled, plunking down the credit card to pay the bill. “You’re a nice kid.”
“Thank you,” Cindy said. “Want to go Dutch?”
He laughed. “This one’s on me. The next one’s on you.”
“Is there going to be a next one?”
It was Oliver’s turn to blush. Quickly, Cindy changed the conversation. “What time do you want to come to my apartment?”
He stared at her.
“For the interview tomorrow night … remember?”
Oliver laughed. “Uh, yeah, I remember. I took my ginkgo biloba. How about seven?”
“Seven it is.”
She stared at the tabletop. She had wanted to ask Scott about Hannah’s picture; why it was on her coffee table instead of perched atop her mantel. She was feeling quite paranoid, especially after their weird conversation. But now it seemed like a suspicious and rude thing to do. So she decided to ask him about it tomorrow. It would make more sense then. He’d interview her; she’d interview him.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Absolutely.” She stood. “Walk me to my car?”
“Of course,” Oliver answered. “And with any luck, no one will snipe at us.”
It had been an exhausting morning, but worth the effort. The little number that Stacy had eyed two months ago had been reduced fifty percent. Black, lightweight wool, it was perfect in almost every SoCal season except maybe summer. And even then she could probably wear it at night because so many of the restaurants were overly air-conditioned, the nasty machines breathing arctic ice down on the sexy halter number you wore to look so fine. Trying to look like you’re having a good time with frost dripping from your nose, and your breath fogging up the menu. Don’t these ultra-hip, ultra-cool, too-too places have any sense of temperature?
Ah well, at least she now owned the perfect black dress for any situation, especially appealing because it was half-off wholesale. And since she saved so much money on the dress, she had extra for the shoes, and the scarf, and a couple of pairs of designer stockings that usually cost more than a good meal at a local café. She also had enough for two cashmere sweaters reduced by seventy percent—last year’s styles, but the colors were neutral. She loved sweaters. They showed off her tight, perfect body courtesy of genetics and lots of proper physical exercise.
Stacy left the mall through one of the six main entrances, and stepped out into the dirty sunlight, squinting in the glare. Dragging her packages a couple hundred feet, she scanned the acreage of asphalt, trying to spot her red Beemer convertible sold to her by a rich client at a fraction of its worth. It was a sassy, smart bitch, but the problem was that it was so low down to the ground and hard to find among all these suburban vans and souped-up four-wheel-drives. She cursed her stupidity. Why didn’t she pay attention to the designated signs—red four, eight purple, whatever. It would have made her life a lot easier, and her arms a lot less tired. Walking through rows and rows of metal, hitting her shoulder on a low-slung rearview mirror.
Was there a landmark she could remember? A tree or a wall or the back of one of the stores or even what side of the boulevard she had parked on? But nothing came to mind. Sweat began to trickle down her brow. It was cloudy but muggy, the moistened air pricking the back of her neck. She touched the crown of her scalp and felt the puff of her tresses, not unlike the aerated fluff of cotton candy.
Great! Her hair was frizzing up. After she spent forty-five goddamn minutes blow-drying it straight, not to mention slopping her hair with all those tonics that promised to keep the dampness and the frizz out of her locks.
Where was the goddamn car?
Another walk through the maze of vehicular steel.
Pretend you’re in a funhouse.
Then Stacy remembered that she never liked funhouses.
More walking, and walking, and walking. Feeling so close, yet so far away. Then she hit her head, dummy that she was. She placed her packages on the ground, then rooted in her purse until she found her keys. Holding on to the remote, she pressed down on the panic button.
In the not so far distance, she heard her horn’s intermittent blare—beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep. Ah, such sweet music. She picked up her packages and followed the dulcet tones until her red BMW jumped into her line of vision, looking as welcoming as beefcake. She depressed the panic button once again and the annoying honking ceased.
She hurried over to the car, putting down her packages as she opened the door. Within seconds, she felt the presence of another body breathing on her neck. As she started to turn, she was slammed against the hood of the car, her face pushed against the hot metal, her keys ripped out of her grasp, cutting across her palm. Something hard was pressed against her temple.
A voice said, “Don’t move! Don’t talk, don’t scream, don’t do anything. You do anything, you’re dead. Am I clear? Nod for yes.”
She managed to nod yes, even though she was mashed against the hood.
“You’re nice,” the voice told her. “You’re very nice. But I’m in a
