Stalker. Faye Kellerman
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you just hate malls?” Oliver said.
“Yeah, I hate shopping,” Korman groused. “Anyway, she was lost and was so intent on finding her car, she didn’t notice if the perp was following her or not.”
“The perp was definitely a he?” Oliver asked.
“She said it was a he.”
Marge became animated. “She saw him?”
“No. Hold on a minute.” Korman turned cranky. “Let me get this out, okay? She didn’t notice anyone following her. She finally found her car by pushing on the panic button.”
Oliver said, “Another thing wrong with malls. You always forget where you parked.”
“Can I get this out?” Korman asked. “She pushed the panic button, then found her car. Started to open the door, then, at that point, she did sense another being. Never saw the guy. He pushed her down, facedown, on the hood, then shoved her to the ground.”
“So she doesn’t know it’s a he.”
“He talked. It was a he.”
“Accented?” Oliver asked.
“Don’t know.” Korman squinted as the chrome bumpers reflected sunlight. “The perp took her keys and her car. I put out an APB right away on the car. No response?”
“Not so far,” Oliver answered.
“Weird,” Korman said. “How far can you go with a red BMW convertible? It’s pretty conspicuous. Unless he had the semi waiting and the perp immediately drove it into the trailer. Maybe we should put out a bulletin to look for a rig big enough to house a car.”
“Either that or there’s a chop shop nearby.”
Korman said, “I haven’t heard about it. But there sure as hell been enough carjackings to justify a chop shop in these parts.” He shook his head. “You want to interview the vic now?”
“Fine with me,” Marge said.
Korman walked them over to his car. “Ms. Mills, I’d like you to meet Detective Dunn and Detective Oliver. They’d like to ask you a few questions.”
The woman stole a glance at Marge, then focused her gaze on her nails—long, hard acrylic nails done in the same bright copper tone as her lipstick. Her voice had an air of resignation that comes from being victimized. “I’m tired. I’d like to go home. Can’t we do this another time?”
Marge said, “We won’t take too long.”
Oliver said, “You want us to call somebody for you?”
“I already called my sister.”
“And she’s coming?”
“Yes.” The woman held her head. “I suppose I can talk to you until she gets here. What do you want to know? I didn’t see him.”
“But you heard him,” Marge stated.
“Yeah.”
“Male?”
“Definitely.”
“What did he sound like?” Oliver asked.
“A maniac!” She glared at him, then returned her eyes to her lap. At this point, Oliver knew that any male was probably at the top of her shit list.
He said, “Did the voice sound accented?”
Stacy pursed her lips. “No, he sounded American. Why?”
“Just trying to gather infor—”
“No, you asked me that for a reason.” She became agitated. “Why’d you ask me that? Do you suspect a foreigner?”
Marge said, “I wish I could give you more information, but—”
“You cops are all alike!”
What did she know about cops? Oliver wondered. “Did he have a weapon?”
“I didn’t see one. But I think he held a gun to me. I felt something hard against my head.” Tears leaked from Stacy’s eyes. “He kicked me … once in the ribs and once in the back. I’m very strong, but shit … he hurt me. I’m in a lot of pain!”
“I’m so sorry.” Marge turned to Korman and mouthed the word—Ambulance?
Stacy caught it. “I sent the paramedics away.” She shrugged. “These ambulances are a scam. All they ever do is rack up hospital bills. They’re all in cahoots … I don’t want anyone I don’t know touching me.”
Marge could understand that. “But you will get checked out—”
“My sister will take me to my doctor. She’s already called him.” She caught her breath. “Think you’ll find my car?”
“We’re working on it,” Korman answered.
“That means no. I’d really like to be left alone until my sister gets here.”
Oliver said, “You didn’t recognize this guy’s voice or anything?”
Stacy regarded him as if he were a moron. “No.”
“So you don’t think this was some kind of revenge thing?”
“No!” Stacy became jumpy. “Why would I think that? What are you driving at?”
“Ms. Mills,” Oliver asked, “did you ever know a man by the name of Armand Crayton?”
Stacy’s face lost all expression. “Why are you asking me these questions?”
A surprised Oliver regarded Marge. “I’m sorry if I upset—”
“This entire episode upset me! You’re just another cog on the wheel.” She got out of the patrol car. “Can you leave now?”
But Oliver pressed on. “It’s just that this jacking reminded me of Crayton—”
“Except I’m alive and he’s dead!” Stacy shrieked. “Please leave now!”
“I’m trying to help you—”
“I don’t need help! Go away now!”
“This isn’t going to go away, Ms. Mills—”
“Out!” she screamed. Then her face crumpled. “Please, leave … please?”
“All right.” Oliver nodded. “I’ll leave.” He waited a few moments, then fished through his wallet. “If by any chance you want to talk to me, here’s my card.” He held out the square piece of paper.
To everyone’s surprise, Stacy Mills took the card.
Feeling a headache coming on, Decker rubbed his temples. From across his desk, he glanced at Oliver, looking his natty self, and Marge, wearing a utilitarian black pants outfit. He said, “Who brought up Crayton?”
“Yo,” Oliver replied.
“Why?” Decker asked.
“Because she drove a red BMW convertible. Crayton’s car was a red Corniche, and Tarkum’s car was a red Ferrari. Maybe a pattern?”
Marge said, “He hit a nerve. You should have seen the way she reacted. She freaked. Told us to get the hell out. But she took Oliver’s business card. Stacy’s sitting on something. The question is, what?”
Again, Decker rubbed his temples. What color was Cindy’s Saturn? Some weird teal green. It certainly wasn’t