Stalker (7 page)

Option two:

An olive-drab skirt suit, which looked great with her red
hair. But it was militaristic in style, replete with spangles and epaulettes. She had to be in the right mood to wear it. Tonight, she didn’t feel like WACing it.

Option three: her last selection.

A single-breasted navy pantsuit—good cut around the hips, not too tight around the ass, no plunging neckline. It said,
I am all business so don’t even
think
about it
. Maybe it was even a little unfriendly. She supposed she could gussie it up with a scarf.

Except that she hated scarves.

There were women who were naturals with them, tossing them over their shoulders in a carefree serape manner or winding them like jeweled chokers around the neck. She, on the other hand, never could get the damn things to sit properly. On her, scarves always looked like
weather
wear rather than stylish accessories. Besides, with her red tresses, she had to be careful with multicolored objects.

She unhooked the plain Jane pantsuit from the closet pole and regarded the sedate outfit. It would suffice. To accent it, she’d wear a simple gold chain around her neck and gold stud earrings. Definitely nothing about that ensemble could be deemed inappropriate. Not that she thought that Scott had ideas, but men were men. Even
old
men were men.

She gave herself a final toweling, then put on her undergarments. Next came the pants, which fit nicely, even a little loose. Well, that was a nice surprise.

She slipped her arms through the jacket and began to button it. She was shocked to find it pulling across her chest. She took off the blazer and checked herself out in the mirror. Her boobs hadn’t gotten any bigger, but her underlying chest musculature sure had. Her shoulders had also widened.

She wondered why she hadn’t noticed before. Probably because she wasn’t a preener. She checked herself out only when necessary, which meant before dates. And they hadn’t happened for a while. Not that this shindig with Scott was a date, but at least it was dinner outside the house with a man who wasn’t a relative. She accredited
the change in her physique to a regimen of weight lifting and exercise, including a daily workout of a three-mile jog, fifty push-ups, and two hundred crunches.

So the blazer stretched across her chest. No big whoop! She just wouldn’t button it. Except now she’d have to wear something
under
the blazer. Her blouses would probably pull, too. So that left her with sweaters. Most of them were too thick and too casual to wear with a suit. Except she did have one black-ribbed turtleneck.

Did black go with navy?

Alas, she thought. Cursed with a pathetic sense of style. If only she had been brought up with a mother who knew about these things. A mother who knew how to knot scarves and how to coordinate separates and just what shade of lipstick would work.

Her
mother was just as fashion-blind as she was. Mom’s attire consisted mainly of cotton caftans or peasant blouses worn with ruffled skirts. Her jewelry was almost always chunky bead necklaces or Southwestern sterling-and-turquoise numbers. Cindy never understood why her mother dressed in such a shapeless manner, since she had a nice trim figure. When Cindy had been heavily into psych, she once had told her mother that wearing loose clothes was akin to denying sexuality. Her mother—also into psych—had said she liked sex just fine (If you want confirmation, go ask your father.
Yeah, right
!), and her choices had more to do with comfort.

Cindy put on the turtleneck. It was tight, but it would suffice. The blazer, of course, softened her protruding bustline. In midsized heels, she stood a svelte five ten, one hundred forty-five. She regarded herself in the mirror. All she needed were sunglasses and a two-way squawk box, and she could have been typecast as a Fed.

She 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 knickknacks 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 the words’ll run between the lines instead of on top of them when the form prints out. I thought a hot shower would take care of the aches. Actually, it did, but only for a while.”

“Any reason why you’re typing so many reports?”

Cindy put down her menu. Immediately, the waiter reappeared. “Have you decided?”

To Cindy, the words sounded like
Have you decided to go
away?
Please
? She said, “Yes, thank you. I’ll have the sand dabs. Does that…never mind.”

“If you have a question, go ahead and ask it. I may sneer, but I don’t bite.”

Cindy smiled. “How are they prepared?”

“Lightly coated and pan-fried,” the waiter answered stoically. “They come with boiled potatoes. If you want French fries, I can get you French fries.”

“French fries would be great.” She handed him the menu. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He looked at Oliver. “For you, sir?”

Oliver handed him the menu. “Prawns and your best bottle of Chardonnay.”

“Caesar for two to start?”

“Sure.”

Without ceremony, the waiter left.

Cindy whispered, “Is he going to spit in our food?”

“I don’t think so.”

“I was sufficiently polite this time?”

“Better.” He smiled. “Why are you typing so many reports?”

“Doing favors.” Cindy looked at the ceiling. “Trying to extricate myself from Sergeant Tropper’s shit list by completing his reports—his least favorite chore.”

“Tropper?” Oliver thought a moment. “He must have been after my time. What’d you do to get on his shit list?”

“You mean
besides
being a college-educated woman? Well, I did have the nerve to handle a tense situation competently. It ruffled his feathers.”

Oliver raised his eyebrows. “Department likes team players, Cindy.”

“So I should just step aside and let…”

She stopped talking, seeing the red-jacketed waiter approach with a bottle of wine and two Caesar salads. He set the plates in front of them, then uncorked and poured the wine, giving Oliver a taste. Scott swirled it, sniffed it, sampled it.

“It’s good.”

Dutifully, the waiter poured two full glasses, then placed the bottle in an ice bucket. “Ground pepper for the salads?”

“Sure,” Cindy answered.

The waiter picked up the pepper mill and plunked it down in front of Cindy. “Help yourself.” Then he left.

Cindy gave her salad a healthy dose of pepper. “That man doesn’t like me. Maybe it’s my red hair.”

“Maybe it’s the attitude.”

“Oh, please!” Cindy speared a chunk of lettuce into her
mouth and chewed slowly. “Ordinarily, I would get upset by that. But the food’s too good. Tension is bad for digestion.”

“Indeed.” Oliver raised his wineglass.

They clinked stemware. Cindy said, “To what? To being a good team player?”

“How about to keeping you safe?”

Cindy took a sip. “Safe from the felons or safe from my fellow workers? Aren’t you supposed to be giving me some kind of lowdown?”

“Watch your ass.”

“Hard to walk when you do that, Scott.”

“I’m serious, Cindy. You need to look over your shoulder now and then. You’re way too cocky. I don’t know if it’s the inexperience, the fact that you’re educated, the position of your dad, or just your sparkling personality. But you have to be aware of yourself. More important, you’ve gotta know how your ’tude affects your colleagues. Being out there on the street, your life could depend on any one of them.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“See, that’s a big fallacy. And a dangerous one.” He lowered his voice and moved in closer. “You
can’t
take care of yourself. Out there, no one can. Everyone has to look out for one another. Policing is a team sport, sweetheart. You want solo activity, become a spy.”

“Well, that’s an idea. Don’t you just love the dark sunglasses?”

“You’re quick with the repartee. I’ll give you that.” He sat back. “Unfortunately, your retorts won’t do dick against a .357. Or even a .22, for that matter.”

“You know, Oliver, even if I
wanted
the help from my
colleagues
, they wouldn’t give it to me. So I figure why bother waiting around for it!” She put down her salad fork. “All these crazy hazing rituals they put us women through. They deal with me like I’m one big fraternity prank. Take yesterday. I’m trying to contain this crazy Latina…think any of the guys there offered me a finger of help?” She
shook her head. “Man, I’d love to have a woman partner, so this whole competition thing wouldn’t be an issue.”

“It’s an issue with your partner?”

She took a healthy swallow of her Chardonnay. “No, Beaudry’s not a bad guy.”

“So what are you bitching about?”

“I’m not
bitching
! I’m just saying…forget it.” Cindy retreated into her salad, stabbing at a crouton that kept sliding under the tines. “I’m only talking about work because you
asked
about it. Generally, I keep my mouth shut and do the job. If no one trusts me, what can I do?”

“You’re only a rookie, Cin. You couldn’t have pissed off everyone that fast.”

“It’s been eleven months. That’s plenty of time.” She smiled, but it was a tense one. “So you tell me what’s going on.”

“First tell me why you think the guys don’t trust you.”

“A multitude of reasons.” She sipped wine. “Starting with the fact that they can’t get into my pants.”

“Okay. I can buy that. Guys’ll try, no big deal. Once they see you’re a stand-up gal, they’ll get over it.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“What about the women?”

“I haven’t been to any of the policewomen meetings yet. Too busy. Maybe I should go.”

“Maybe you should.”

She sighed. “Even the women I know…they have this look in their eyes. I think they view me with suspicion because I’m college educated.”

“You’re telling me you have no friends? You looked pretty social last night. Tipsy, but social. Did something happen that I don’t know about?”

“No, last night was okay. Hayley’s nice, actually. Well, I think she’s nice.” She regarded Scott. “What happened between you two?”

Oliver didn’t answer.

Cindy smiled brightly. “I guess we’re not going there.”

“Good guess.”

She poured them both another glass of wine. “I’m still waiting for the lowdown on me.”

Oliver said, “We’re talking general consensus, not any one opinion.”

“Got it.”

“You’re smart—”

“I could have told you that—”

“Shut up, Decker, and listen. You’re smart, quick-thinking, and, more important, quick on your feet. You’re good with the masses out there. Calm, assured—not in your face, but you don’t back off. You’ve got good physical energy and good physical strength, especially for a broad—”

“Must be the Wheat—”

“You’re reliable, you’re on time, and don’t seem to have any big bad vices. That’s the word that gets back to your dad.” He looked at her. “I hear that, too. But I also hear other things.”

Cindy felt her stomach drop. She was about to blurt out a wiseguy comment, but it stuck in her throat. “Go on.”

“You’re no problem on the streets, but you’ve got this ‘I’m superior’ ’tude in the stationhouse. You’re snotty, Decker. Or like my grandmother used to say, someone who gets above her raising.”

“For your information, I’m acting perfectly acceptable for an Ivy Leaguer.”

“Well, Decker, to that, I say, you’re not in college anymore.” Again he leaned over. “You’re pissing people off…the very people you might need someday. Maybe you should start using some
street
psychology.”

“Yeah, yeah—”

“Stop brushing me off and just listen. ’Cause I—like Daddy—have your welfare at heart. Life and death, split-second decisions are
not
analyzed, Cindy. You just jump in there and hope for the best. And the vast majority of us on the force
will
jump in to rescue a colleague at a big risk to our own lives. We’re acting on instinct. It’s an emotional thing. But we’re human, too. I’ll jump into the pyre, sure.
But I’ll do it a lot quicker if I
like
the person. Stop being a snob. Especially because your father isn’t like that, and he has much more reason than you to be arrogant—”

“I’m not arrogant!”

Oliver stopped talking and focused in on her face. She was crushed but trying to hide it. He knew he was coming on too strong, although it didn’t make his words any less true. Lecturing to her just as he had done with his own sons. He had always been so anxious to get the words out; he had never bothered to think how his brutal remarks had affected them.

Cindy stared into her wineglass. “You want to know the irony of all this?”

Oliver nodded.

“I’m actually shy,” she said. “I mask it in superiority. Because in a cop’s world, it’s better to be egotistical than shy.” She looked up and made eye contact with him. “If you give off even an inkling of fear, no one’ll ride with you.”

“That’s true.”

“If some of the guys knew how nervous I was, they’d dissolve me in acid.”

“Everyone’s nervous at first.”

“It’s different being a woman.”

“I’m sure you’re right—”

“Better to eat than to be eaten.” She stared at her plate. “Who thinks I’m smart, by the way? Or did you make that up to console me?”

“Nah, I didn’t make it up. For starters, the detective I was consulting with yesterday—Rolf Osmondson. He says you’re smart.”

She was skeptical. “I don’t know why he’d say that. First time I ever laid eyes on the man was last night.”

“Apparently, he’s laid eyes on you.”

“Suddenly second-grade detectives are noticing uniformed rookies?”

“If the second-grade detective is a heterosexual male and the uniform rookie is a lovely young female, you bet
your ass he notices. Also, Craig Barrows mentioned you to me.”

“Craig Barrows?”

“You don’t know him, either?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

Oliver said, “About my height. Long face. Sandy-colored hair that’s thinning. Blue, bloodshot eyes—”