with some excuse. I feel it like I feel the wind. Now I can explain being there twenty minutes, even a half hour early … traffic was light, I got done with Hollywood early, blah, blah, blah. But I can’t explain away snowing up an hour early. That would mean that I have plans.”
“What plans are those, Scott?”
“Now you’re being a wise guy.”
Cindy said, “Okay. Seven-thirty it is. Doesn’t matter to me.”
“Good. I’ll see you later.” Oliver smiled as he hung up the phone. Her words said it didn’t matter. But her voice said it did.
Webster raked his fingers through caramel-colored hair. He sat slouched over his desktop, a gray tweed jacket hanging over the back of his chair. He had just turned thirty-five, and his wife had mentioned something about a party. As far as Webster was concerned, he didn’t want to think about birthdays. Age was a mindset and, since he still looked young, he might as well feel young, too, although life in the big city sure moved faster than it did in Tupelo. He wondered if L.A.’s frenetic pace aged the body by pumping it full of adrenaline.
He sifted through the Crayton folders: both of them hefty, containing lots of dog-eared, multicolored pages. There were sections for the autopsy report: graphic photos of a savaged body with exposed bones that had been charred brittle black. There were a dozen black-and-white crash scene photos along with an itemization of what had been found in the burned-out Rolls. Then there was the personal material on Crayton, several sheets depicting a con man with all the rackets, angles, and scams. The files also contained legal documents stemming from lawsuits of several disgruntled individuals, along with a class action suit that had later been dropped.
Armand had had his fair share of enemies.
Webster looked up from the papers, his baby blues focusing on Marge’s face. “Sit. I’m straining my neck.”
“Sorry.” She pulled up a chair.
Webster said, “Bert and I interviewed the prime suspects. Three or four looked promising … the ones most likely to carry a grudge.” He handed her a list. “We came up empty.”
Marge eased herself back in the chair as she scanned the list. “What did you find?”
“They all had their excuses. Bert and I kept feeling that we were missing something or that someone was holding back. Namely the widow. She kept telling us that it was okay … that we were doing our best. Talking like we were schoolkids taking a hard test. Her attitude surprised us. Then I began to reckon that there was this real possibility that she didn’t want us to look too hard.”
“Why?”
“She was scared of someone coming back to get her.”
“Did she mention feeling threatened?”
“Matter of fact, she downplayed it, saying that the kidnapping was a random thing because Armand drove a very noticeable and expensive car. It could have happened to anyone. It was always Bert’s and my contention that she wanted the minimum—just to make it look good for Armand’s mother. While I feel very bad for this Stacy Mills, I am happy that she breathed some life into the Crayton case.”
Marge said, “So you never interviewed either Stacy Mills or Elizabeth Tarkum?”
“No. But I’m sure Armand kept secrets that he took to his grave. With Mills and Tarkum and the wife, you have a distinct advantage over Crayton, Margie. The girls are still alive.”
“Who’d you go with first?” Marge asked. “The wife?”
Webster nodded. “Definitely the wife. And if you find out something that I missed, don’t rub it in.”
Armand Crayton had lived in a posh development in the far west portion of the San Fernando Valley. Thirty homes were sprawled over half-acre lots, built around artificial lakes and lagoons, and an emerald-green golf course that rose and dipped like a gentle tide. A resident health club, spa, and two tennis courts were situated in the back, near the foothills, but Oliver and Marge never got that far. Crayton’s manse was located in the front section. To get through the gated entrance, Marge rang in through an intercom and announced herself. No response, but a moment later the wrought-iron barrier opened.
It made Marge wonder about how the kidnappers got in or out. She asked Oliver about it.
“Bert had a couple of theories,” he answered. “The kidnappers got hold of a magnetic card key, or maybe they rang one of the residences at random, said they had a delivery, and a naive soul opened the gate. Which would have been a stupid move because all regular delivery people had pass cards. FedEx, UPS, the mail carrier, the local laundry, the gourmet market, mobile pet groomer, et cetera, et cetera.”
“Which means there are lots of cards in circulation.”
“Yep, they’re very easy to come by,” Oliver answered. “By the way, the ‘ring the house and open the gate’ theory wasn’t borne out by any of the resident interviews. No one admitted to letting them in.”
“An inside job?”
“Probably, but that doesn’t mean the wife did it. As far as getting out, the arm lifts automatically. Still, it’s not a slam dunk for a kidnapper.”
Marge agreed. She parked the car, got out, and stretched, looking at the quiet estate that had once been a crime scene. Mediterranean in style, the house was two-storied—as were all the homes in the neighborhood—and square, accented with cornerstones, windowed balconies, and a roof composed of overlapping red, pseudo-Spanish tiles. It was faced with light, apricot-colored stucco and sat behind a screen of palms, banana plants, and tree ferns. But the place showed signs of neglect. The lawn was a bit overgrown, there were weeds in the planting area, and light gray smudges streaked down the plaster from the window corners, giving the impression that the house had been crying. The entrance door was recessed under an arched portico. Marge rang the bell. A young woman in her twenties answered the door.
“Mrs. Crayton?” Marge asked.
“Call me Lark,” the woman answered. “Mrs. Crayton is my former mother-in-law. You’re the police?”
“Detective Oliver,” Scott said. “This is Detective Dunn. Thank you for agreeing to see us.”
“Yeah, sure.” Lark opened the door all the way. “Come in.”
As Oliver crossed the threshold, he wondered why the hell Tom and Bert hadn’t mentioned the widow’s comeliness. Tall and slender, with lots of chest filling out a bright, white T-shirt. Legs that didn’t quit even if they were hidden under jeans. Her face was all acute angles—a sharp jawline, a strong chin, and pronounced cheekbones. Ash-blond hair had been tied back into a ponytail, gray eyes were outlined in black liner. Naturally lush lips—killer lips.
She brought them through a two-story entry hall and into the living room/family room/den. It was hard to tell what official function the room served because the floor plan was so open. Beige walls surrounded oversized tan and ivory furniture. The floor was covered by plush
