Stalker. Faye Kellerman
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smoothed some blush over her cheekbones, and covered her lips with something gooey and shiny. Rolling her shoulder-length tresses into a knot, she then pinned her hair up with a butterfly clip. She slipped the strap of her bag over her shoulder and went out of the bedroom. Just as she was about to lock up, she tossed a final glance around her living room.
Her eyes landed upon the mantel, staring at it longer than necessary.
Because something struck her as off.
She walked over to the fireplace and studied the knick-knacks perched atop the ledge. There was a bud vase, a small Waterford crystal clock (a birthday gift given by her stepmother, Rina), a dozen miniature porcelain animals (her childhood collection), and several pictures of her parents in silver frames.
That was it!
Hannah’s picture was missing. Cindy’s eyes scanned the area until they lit on the coffee table. There sat her six-year-old half-sister, a boisterous smile plastered over her little mug. She picked up the silver frame and restored the photo to its rightful place.
How’d it get on the coffee table? Cindy knew she hadn’t touched it since she had set it on the mantel.
Or maybe she had moved it when she had last dusted.
God, when was the last time she had dusted?
She checked the clock that read twenty to seven. Even if she were lucky with traffic, she’d barely make it to the restaurant on time.
She’d deal with the picture later. After locking the bolt securely, tugging on the knob to make sure everything was buttoned up, she left her apartment, bolting down the three flights of stairs.
Maybe Oliver had moved the picture last night. Maybe he had walked over to her mantel and picked it up, walking around with it as he waited for her. Then, when he went to put it back, he had forgotten where it belonged.
Which really didn’t make sense. All he had to do was look at the mantel and see the other photographs.
She looked around, checked over her shoulder, then unlocked her car. Sliding into the driver’s seat, she immediately locked the car. She took a final glance around before she started the motor.
Maybe Oliver had been walking around with it, then had put it down quickly when she had come into the room. Because he hadn’t wanted her to catch him looking at her personal stuff.
Now that made some sense.
You know how it is. You’re alone in a strange place; you get curious and start touching things you shouldn’t be touching. Then the person comes in and you don’t want him or her to see you snooping.
She started the engine, let it idle, then took off. After a block, she checked her rearview mirror. Free and clear—both in front of her and behind her.
No doubt that was it. Oliver probably moved it.
She’d ask him about it … after he picked up the tab.
As she approached the table, Cindy saw Oliver stand up. Like Dad, Scott was from the old school, a guy who probably opened doors and pulled out chairs for the ladies. So unlike her own generation, where every person was on his or her own—good for self-reliance, bad for manners.
Scott looked good. His attire was not only dressier than last night, but also far less slick. He wore a camel-hair jacket over a cream-colored shirt, a red tie, and charcoal slacks. When he held out his hand, Cindy took it. Instead of shaking it, he pulled her forward and gave her a peck on the cheek, leaning over the corner of the table to reach her face. He let go, his eyes giving her a quick once-over.
“You look lovely.”
“Thank you. So do you.”
“I look lovely?”
“Uh, I mean good. You look good.”
“Good is fine. I’ll even take lovely. Have a seat.”
Cindy slid her body between the tabletop and a red leather banquette, parking herself catercorner to Oliver. The table itself was from another century, surfaced with linoleum designed to look like marble. It was so tiny that their knees touched. She readjusted her position to break the contact. If Scott noticed, he didn’t say anything.
The place was a blast from a long-ago past, when Hollywood glamour meant Grauman’s Chinese Theatre and the Walk of Fame instead of piercing salons and tattoo parlors. The interior decor could best be described as a hunting lodge, with beamed ceilings, wood-grained moldings, and prints of the chase complete with hart, hare, and hound. Below the coursing images were dark-stained wood panels. Old wood … good wood. A mirrored-back bar ran the length of the room, the specialty of the house being a dry martini with an olive or—if you’re supersophisticated—a pearl onion. Busboys, identified by green jackets and smiles, poured the water and gave them bread. A waiter, identified by his red jacket and surly expression, handed them menus and asked them if they wanted a drink.
“Wine at dinner?” Oliver asked Cindy.
“Sounds good.” She looked up at her server. “Any specials not on the menu?”
The waiter regarded her with suspicion. “The menus are printed daily.”
“Oh.” Cindy perused the carte du jour. “So you have everything on the menu then?”
“Not the linguine and langostino, not the western omelet, not the lobster bisque—”
“So why was the menu printed with linguine and langostino if you don’t have it?”
The waiter glared at her. “Do you want to take it up with the owner?”
“Not particularly.”
“Are you ready to order, ma’am?”
The menu was extensive and was done in small print. “Can I have a few more minutes?”
The waiter turned and walked away.
Cindy said, “Think we’ll ever see him again?”
“If you keep raggin’ like that, maybe not.”
She shrugged. “Just asked a simple question.”
Oliver regarded her face. “You must have been fun to raise.”
She smiled. “I don’t remember my father complaining.”
“Maybe not to you—”
“Why? Has he said anything to you?”
Oliver was taken aback by the force in her voice. “No. Just making conversation. Someone give you a hard time today, Decker?”
“No one … unless you’re referring to the Russian drunk driver I arrested this afternoon.”
He looked up. “How’d it go?”
“He’s in the drunk tank sleeping it off, and I’m here. I suppose that’s a victory for society as well as for me.” She was silent. “Nah, everything at work is fine.” She rotated her shoulders. “Just fine.”
Oliver put the menu down and studied her face. “You look kind of tense … the way you’re sitting.”
“I’m not tense.” She slouched just to prove the point. “My muscles may be a little stiff. I’ve been doing some extra typing. You know, hunched over the keyboard with no lumbar support. The department doesn’t think ergonomically.”
“What are you writing?”
“Case reports. Which are big pains because you have to type them using a certain format. You know, making sure you don’t go over the tabs or else