Stalker. Faye Kellerman

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СКАЧАТЬ I’m …” He stopped talking and rubbed his forehead. “Do you have an aspirin on you? I’d ask the nurse, but the hospital charges five bucks per tablet.”

      Decker took out an ever-present bottle of Advil from his coat pocket and tossed it to him. “Will this do?”

      Jason popped two pills in his mouth and tossed them back. “Thanks.”

      “No problem.” Decker pulled out his notebook and said to Farin, “Take it slowly.”

      Farin nodded.

      Pencil poised, Decker said, “Fire when ready.” He grimaced. “Sorry. Bad choice of words.”

      Farin smiled. “That’s okay.”

      A bad choice of words that Decker had used with the five other carjacking victims. It had gotten a smile out of all of them, and it brought a smile to Farin, as well. Batting one thousand in the smile department. Too bad his solve rate wasn’t nearly as impressive.

       2

      Cindy wasn’t the first cop to show on the scene, but she was the first female officer. By the time she and her partner, Graham Beaudry, were curbside, there was already a sizable gathering in front of the house. The group was confined to the sidewalk area, the lawn having been roped off by yellow crime scene tape. Items ejected from the dwelling lay on the ground, mostly woman’s clothing strewn across the desiccated grass like an impromptu garage sale. Within seconds, a toaster came flying out the open window. Crash landing, it spilled its coiled guts over the sidewalk.

      The masses cheered.

      Great, Cindy thought. Giving the jerks encouragement.

      Immediately, the couple launched into screams, most of them female and shrill. The sounds cut through the stilted midmorning air like a siren.

      The original complaint had come through the RTO as a domestic dispute, the cases most despised in the department because of their propensity to turn violent. Three other cruisers had already arrived, including Sergeant Tropper’s black-and-white. So it’d be Sarge who’d call the shots.

      The urban neighborhood consisted of postwar Vet-bill housing. The homes were one-storied, stucco jobs that held three bedrooms and two baths on the inside, plus a yard big enough for a swing set. The area was predominately Hispanic; lots of Hollywood was. And what wasn’t Hispanic was some other ethnicity surfing the lower third of the socio-economic strata. Some richer Caucasians lived in the district, inhabiting the private hillsides or the secluded canyons. But these whites weren’t the screamingly wealthy. Those of the rarefied resided in the more posh West Hollywood (its own city) or Beverly Hills (also its own city) or the Westside section of L.A., which was patrolled by LAPD. But the elite might as well have had their own city with all the mansions being stashed behind private gates patrolled by rent-a-cop security guards.

      As Cindy got out of the car, she felt her lungs sting. It was turning into a smoggy day in the basin, the glaze hanging over the mountains like a wash of rust. She and Graham joined the others, Beaudry doing his famous duck waddle. Graham was low-waisted and had overly developed thighs to boot. It made him a slow runner, something that Cindy had learned the hard way. Once when they had been giving chase to a street mugger, she had left him in the dust.

      But Beaudry had his good points. He treated her respectfully, but that was probably in deference to her high-ranking lieutenant father.

      Megaphone in hand, Sergeant Tropper nodded to both of them. Sarge was around her father’s age, probably older. Mid-fifties, about six feet with a dense build. His head sprouted uneven strands of fine gray hair combed to the side, trying to hide a smooth, bald pate. His jaw was square, its thickness exaggerated by bulging muscle. His eyes were fixed and cold. Today, Tropper was riding with Rob Brown, who took them aside and filled them in.

      “A pair of real sweethearts. She says she’s got a gun aimed at her husband’s balls. He ain’t denying it.”

      Cindy looked around. “Shouldn’t we clear the area?”

      “That isn’t the big picture right now, Officer Decker. There’re kids inside. Mamacita starts shooting, we’ve got real problems.”

      “How old are they?” Cindy asked.

      “Seven and nine.” Brown popped a stick of gum into his mouth. “Sarge is figuring out the next move.”

      “Can’t you talk her down?” Beaudry said.

      “Not so far,” Brown said. “She is pissed!” He looked at his watch. “Three-fucking-fifty-two in the afternoon. Couldnah waited for the four o’clock shift.”

      “Decker!”

      Cindy turned and saw Tropper beckoning her with a crooked finger; then he handed her the megaphone. “We’re pretty sure she has a gun. If she uses it, it would be bad.”

      “Very bad,” Cindy agreed.

      “I want you to talk to her, woman to woman. Keep her distracted. The rest of us are going in to rescue the kids.”

      Her eyes darted between Sarge and the amplifier. “What if she hears you coming in?”

      “You just make sure she doesn’t. Just keep her engaged in conversation. Keep the tongues wagging. That shouldn’t be so hard to do. Here’s a chance for you to use some of your fancy college psychology training.”

      Sarge’s lips gave way to a smirk, showing straight but stained teeth. But underneath the sarcasm, Cindy could tell he was tense. At college, she had studied postgraduate criminology, not psychology. But now was not the time to correct him.

      “What are their names, sir?”

      “Ojeda,” Sarge answered, overenunciating. “Luis and Estella Ojeda.” Then he walked away to confer with the others.

      She stood alone, megaphone in hand. Left out of the raid even though she was far slicker on her feet than Beaudry. Then she told herself to be charitable. Perhaps—just perhaps—Tropper really did feel she was the only one who could handle this woman. The situation was far too dangerous to be a simple rite of rookie passage. Even so, win or lose, she knew she was going to be judged.

       Maybe Tropper wants you to garner some firsthand experience. Hmm. Did he even know what garner meant?

      As much as she tried to be one of the gang, deep down, she was an elitist snob. You can take the girl out of the Ivies … Sarge was gesticulating … giving her the “go” sign. Confidence, she told herself. Show ’em how it’s done, college girl. Depressing the button on the megaphone, she said, “Hey, Estella! You know you have some clothes out here?”

      No response. Sarge was making frantic motions that said, Keep talking, keep talking.

      Cindy said, “Looks like pretty good stuff—”

      “Eeez sheet!” Estella yelled out from inside. “All de clozzes is sheet! He give all de nice СКАЧАТЬ