clenched the nape of her neck and shoved her entire body against the pebbly asphalt. Her forehead smacked against the hard rock ground, her cheek scraped and bleeding. A foot was on her throbbing head, pressing hard against it.
I should yell, she told herself. I should really yell. But she couldn’t find her vocal cords.
The voice said, “Now, if you’re a good little bitch, and you stay where you are and keep your mouth shut for a long, long time, you’ll live. If you talk, you’ll die. Is that clear?”
Stacy managed to nod.
The foot came off her head and then gave her a sharp kick in the ribs. Her eyes burned as pain shot through her nervous system. Another kick, but this one directed to her back. She moaned as agony squeezed her like a vise. The foot then pushed her aside.
The car door swung open and hit her in the ribs.
Bang went her car door as it slammed shut.
Vroom, vroom went her pretty little convertible engine.
Screech went the tires as the car backed out of its space.
Stacy was left with two overwhelming thoughts. The first was that she was still alive. If this were the worst of it, she’d be okay … eventually. Her second notion was that the thief hadn’t taken the packages.
At least, she still had her sexy little number.
Marge was reading from the computer sheet. “We’ve got another one. A straight carjack. Vic was a lone woman. No kid.”
“What kind of car?” Oliver asked.
“BMW convertible. Korman, from GTA, caught the call about twenty minutes ago. I’m sure he’s still there. We should go to the scene and find out the details.”
Oliver said, “Any reason why we weren’t called when it came through?”
“We should have been called. Everyone knows that we’re working on the carjackings. Someone screwed up.”
“See, that’s the problem.” Oliver stood and put on his jacket. “If our own details don’t know each other’s business, how can we expect interdepartmental cooperation? You got cases in Hollywood, you got cases here, and who knows where else … no one’s fitting the pieces together.”
“I thought that’s what you were doing last night. You met with him long enough. I called you maybe four times in three hours to find out if you learned anything.” She closed and locked her file drawer. “Did you?”
Oliver’s brain started racing. What was she talking about? “Who’d I tell you I was with?”
“Rolf Osmondson from Hollywood.” Marge eyed him. “Didn’t you take him out to dinner last night?”
Oliver tried to cover. “No, it was the night before.”
Marge was insistent. “No, Scott, you told me you were meeting with Osmondson to clarify a few details about the Elizabeth Tarkum case.”
That’s the trouble with lying when you’re over forty. You forget things. Oliver tried to act casual. “Nah, I wasn’t with Osmondson. I was on a date. I did phone up a couple of Hollywood Dees. Maybe that’s where you’re getting mixed up.”
“Who?”
Shut up, Marge! “Uh, a guy named Craig Barrows. I didn’t mention him to you?”
“No.”
“Yeah, well, we talked a little over the phone. Nothing big.” He squirmed. “You ready?”
“I’m ready.” Marge swung her bag over her shoulder. “I don’t think she was hurt too badly. She was talking … the woman in the Beemer.”
“That’s good,” Oliver said. “Does she have a name?”
“Stacy Mills. She’s a personal trainer.”
“Think it’s related to Crayton?”
Marge was taken aback. “I don’t know. Any reason why it should be related?”
“Car’s not typical for our mother-kid jackings.”
“It doesn’t sound related to Crayton,” Marge said. “The jacking took place in the parking lot of the West Hills Outlets.”
They walked out of the stationhouse, found Marge’s Honda, and then took off. Marge drove the car onto Devonshire, the main artery that linked the north section of the east and west San Fernando Valley. The police station was located in the burbs, which did wonders for the real estate prices in the surrounding area. It gave the illusion that the neighborhood was impenetrable. That wasn’t the case, although the response time was quicker. As she drove farther west, the street broadened and the homes thinned. Rolling hillside swept over the acreage: Los Angeles as farmland. Way back when that had been the case—orchards and fields. Go up another forty miles to Oxnard, and it’s still the case.
Marge said, “In all this open space around, you’d think a red BMW convertible would be easy to spot.”
“It’s red?”
“Yeah. Didn’t I tell you that?”
“No, you didn’t,” Oliver said. “Crayton’s Corniche was red.”
“So are a zillion other cars. But it is interesting.” She glanced at her partner. He seemed restless. “Something on your mind, Scott?”
“Nope.” He looked at his lap. “Maybe I’m a little tired. Am I acting tired?”
“A little.” Tired and strange, Marge thought. But she didn’t push it. In the distance, she began to see hints of the Spanish tile rooftops. As Marge’s Honda chugalugged down the steep curve of the hill, the mall ascended inch by inch over the horizon. It seemed as if the construction had been dropped in the middle of nowhere. But a few miles northeast were wealthy areas—golf course developments and large ranch spreads that appealed to professional athletes and urban mountain men who ascribed to the rugged life as long as their SUVs came with cell phone and computer stations.
The mall was composed of a half-dozen Mediterranean-style buildings that housed, among other things, some high-end discount outlets—Off-Saks, Barneys, Donna Karan, St. John’s Sports, Versace, Gucci, and other Italian names real or otherwise. The developer had obviously chosen the spot because the vast amount of land gave the mall room for expansion as well as lots of parking.
Oliver surveyed the blinding sea of chrome. “Where’s the crime scene?”
“I think Korman said something about the newly added parking lot.”
“How can you tell which building is new? It’s all new. Place is one big maze. I hate shopping, and I really hate malls. They represent the worst in human homogenization. They all look the same, they all have the same stores—”
“This is discount—”
“Nothing
