Stalker. Faye Kellerman
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He was dressed ninja-style—black T-shirt and black cords under a black leather jacket, a blazer as opposed to a bomber. His dark hair was combed straight back, and silvered at the temples. His eyes gave off that wary cop look that Cindy had seen umpteen times on her father’s face. But his body was loose, and at ease. He didn’t walk over to them; he ambled, as if being a detective afforded him rights to which low-life uniforms weren’t privy. He took the empty seat across from Cindy, but he regarded Hayley straight-on. It seemed to unnerve her.
“So what brings you out here?” Hayley managed eye contact while wolfing down the last of her Chardonnay. “Slumming?”
“Some of us actually work after hours, Marx.”
“And what are you working on?” Hayley asked. “The new scouts don’t come in until September.”
He grinned a mouth full of white teeth, while signaling the waitress for a drink. “How you talk to your superiors.”
“You aren’t my superior,” Hayley retorted.
“Not right now, but never say never.”
Hayley looked to her left, at Cindy. “Cindy Decker, Scott Oliver.”
“We know each other.” Oliver’s tone was breezy. “I work with her daddy. Or rather I work for her daddy now. Big Decker is my loo.”
“You work Devonshire?” Rhonda asked.
“Yeah,” Oliver answered. “I was there in Homicide a full two years before Deck came on board—the slimy interloper.”
“Uh-oh,” Cindy said. “Do I want to hear this?”
“Nothing to hear.” Oliver flashed her a mouthful of teeth. “I’ve made my peace with it.”
But the look in his eyes said that was debatable. Cindy said, “How is he as a boss?”
“Depends what day you catch him on.” Oliver turned his eyes to her. “How is he as a father?”
“Depends what day you—”
“Uh-huh.”
Cindy chuckled. “You probably see him more than I do.”
“Probably.” Oliver returned his attention to Marx. “You’re looking well.”
“No thanks to the scuzzballs out there.”
“Was that a dig at the present company?”
Hayley smiled. “I’m taking the fifth.”
Jasmine came over with their food and drink. “Hey, Oliver. I haven’t seen you in a long time. Revisiting old haunts?”
“Wish it were the social thing,” Oliver said. “I’m meeting Osmondson.”
“So you’re doing beeswax. Should I reserve the corner booth?”
“Thank you, that would be nice.”
The table fell silent as Jasmine doled out the sandwich plates—the club for Cindy, the turkey dip for Rhonda, and the beef dip for Hayley. She plunked a beer in front of Oliver. “You know what Rolf is drinking these days?”
“Last time I saw him it was straight Stoly,” Oliver said.
“I think he’s off the booze. I’ll bring over a club soda. If he wants something stronger, he can ask for it.”
Oliver looked at his beer. “You know what, Jasmine? I’ve actually got to concentrate tonight. I’ll take a club soda.”
“I’ll switch you,” Cindy said. “One Diet Coke for a beer.”
Hayley chuckled. “She’s going for the buzz.”
“Nah, I’m fine—”
“Famous last words.”
Oliver gave Cindy his beer. “It’s on me. And you can even keep your Diet Coke.”
Hayley was looking at the bar stools. Andy Lopez and Tim Waters were giving them eyes. “You’re attracting the gnats.”
Oliver laughed. “Nah, Marx, it’s your pheromones—”
“No, it’s you,” Hayley interrupted. “Since you’re here, your species thinks it’s okay to approach.”
“My species?” Oliver said. “Last time I took science, we’re the same species.”
“Not according to anyone I’ve ever talked to.”
“Now that is a very good point.” Oliver’s eyes went to the door. He stood up. “I see my date.”
Cindy turned around. Rolf Osmondson was big, bald, with a sizable belly. He wore a handlebar mustache. He looked as if he’d been exploring the fiords. She said, “He doesn’t seem like your type, Scott.”
Oliver regarded her with a mock aghast expression. “Now you’re getting in the act?”
“Just showing solidarity with my sisters.”
Oliver wagged a finger at her. “Don’t draw lines in the sand, Decker, unless you’re prepared for battle.” He ran his index finger across Hayley’s shoulders. “See you later, ladies.” Then: “Or maybe not.”
Cindy watched him go, greeting the Norseman, shaking his hand. They took up the reserved booth in the back. Out of Cindy’s range of vision, which, she supposed, was what they wanted: privacy to discuss a case. She sneaked a sidelong look at Hayley, who was clearly upset. The woman was making a stab at her beef dip, tearing off a grizzled corner and chewing it slowly.
No one spoke.
Finally, she said, “He’s such an idiot!” Then she whispered, “I’m an intelligent woman. Why does he have this effect on me!”
Cindy picked up a French fry. “You know that Sheryl Crow song—‘My Favorite Mistake.’ We all have them.”
“Well, I wish mine wasn’t such an asshole!” She got up from her chair. “I gotta go reapply my lipstick.”
After Hayley was gone, Rhonda took a bite out of her turkey dip. “Poor thing.”
“She covered it well.”
“Except her armpits are the size of swimming pools.”
“How long were they going together?”
“I don’t think they were ever going together. It was just a casual thing.”
“Not to her,” Cindy answered. She glanced at her plate, at the ceiling, at the bar stool. Anywhere but behind her back. Andy Lopez caught her eye. Involuntarily, she nodded, which was a dumb thing to do. Because Andy nudged Tim. Then they both got up.
“Oh dear.” Cindy downed some beer for fortification. “Here they come.”
Rhonda licked her fingers, which were coated with turkey gravy. “You be nice. You’re way too new to be jaded. How old are you? Twenty-one?”
“Twenty-five.”
Rhonda made a surprised face.
“I know. I look young.”
“I would think eighteen except you’re drinking.”
“Hey, Decker.” Tim Waters plunked his scotch on the table. He had a medium build with light brown hair, murky green eyes, and bland features. He struck Cindy as Any-man USA. “Heard you were a big hit with Tropper.”
“Good news travels fast.” Cindy pointed to the chairs. “Take a seat. But bring over another one for Hayley.”