Stalker. Faye KellermanЧитать онлайн книгу.
taking you to dinner.”
Cindy softened her voice. “You were being nice. Because you felt sorry for me after last night. I appreciate it, Scott.”
He smiled, plunking down the credit card to pay the bill. “You’re a nice kid.”
“Thank you,” Cindy said. “Want to go Dutch?”
He laughed. “This one’s on me. The next one’s on you.”
“Is there going to be a next one?”
It was Oliver’s turn to blush. Quickly, Cindy changed the conversation. “What time do you want to come to my apartment?”
He stared at her.
“For the interview tomorrow night … remember?”
Oliver laughed. “Uh, yeah, I remember. I took my ginkgo biloba. How about seven?”
“Seven it is.”
She stared at the tabletop. She had wanted to ask Scott about Hannah’s picture; why it was on her coffee table instead of perched atop her mantel. She was feeling quite paranoid, especially after their weird conversation. But now it seemed like a suspicious and rude thing to do. So she decided to ask him about it tomorrow. It would make more sense then. He’d interview her; she’d interview him.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Absolutely.” She stood. “Walk me to my car?”
“Of course,” Oliver answered. “And with any luck, no one will snipe at us.”
It had been an exhausting morning, but worth the effort. The little number that Stacy had eyed two months ago had been reduced fifty percent. Black, lightweight wool, it was perfect in almost every SoCal season except maybe summer. And even then she could probably wear it at night because so many of the restaurants were overly air-conditioned, the nasty machines breathing arctic ice down on the sexy halter number you wore to look so fine. Trying to look like you’re having a good time with frost dripping from your nose, and your breath fogging up the menu. Don’t these ultra-hip, ultra-cool, too-too places have any sense of temperature?
Ah well, at least she now owned the perfect black dress for any situation, especially appealing because it was half-off wholesale. And since she saved so much money on the dress, she had extra for the shoes, and the scarf, and a couple of pairs of designer stockings that usually cost more than a good meal at a local café. She also had enough for two cashmere sweaters reduced by seventy percent—last year’s styles, but the colors were neutral. She loved sweaters. They showed off her tight, perfect body courtesy of genetics and lots of proper physical exercise.
Stacy left the mall through one of the six main entrances, and stepped out into the dirty sunlight, squinting in the glare. Dragging her packages a couple hundred feet, she scanned the acreage of asphalt, trying to spot her red Beemer convertible sold to her by a rich client at a fraction of its worth. It was a sassy, smart bitch, but the problem was that it was so low down to the ground and hard to find among all these suburban vans and souped-up four-wheel-drives. She cursed her stupidity. Why didn’t she pay attention to the designated signs—red four, eight purple, whatever. It would have made her life a lot easier, and her arms a lot less tired. Walking through rows and rows of metal, hitting her shoulder on a low-slung rearview mirror.
Was there a landmark she could remember? A tree or a wall or the back of one of the stores or even what side of the boulevard she had parked on? But nothing came to mind. Sweat began to trickle down her brow. It was cloudy but muggy, the moistened air pricking the back of her neck. She touched the crown of her scalp and felt the puff of her tresses, not unlike the aerated fluff of cotton candy.
Great! Her hair was frizzing up. After she spent forty-five goddamn minutes blow-drying it straight, not to mention slopping her hair with all those tonics that promised to keep the dampness and the frizz out of her locks.
Where was the goddamn car?
Another walk through the maze of vehicular steel.
Pretend you’re in a funhouse.
Then Stacy remembered that she never liked funhouses.
More walking, and walking, and walking. Feeling so close, yet so far away. Then she hit her head, dummy that she was. She placed her packages on the ground, then rooted in her purse until she found her keys. Holding on to the remote, she pressed down on the panic button.
In the not so far distance, she heard her horn’s intermittent blare—beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep. Ah, such sweet music. She picked up her packages and followed the dulcet tones until her red BMW jumped into her line of vision, looking as welcoming as beefcake. She depressed the panic button once again and the annoying honking ceased.
She hurried over to the car, putting down her packages as she opened the door. Within seconds, she felt the presence of another body breathing on her neck. As she started to turn, she was slammed against the hood of the car, her face pushed against the hot metal, her keys ripped out of her grasp, cutting across her palm. Something hard was pressed against her temple.
A voice said, “Don’t move! Don’t talk, don’t scream, don’t do anything. You do anything, you’re dead. Am I clear? Nod for yes.”
She managed to nod yes, even though she was mashed against the hood.
“You’re nice,” the voice told her. “You’re very nice. But I’m in a hurry, so you’re lucky. Now hit the ground, bitch!”
Stacy was confused, her terror only adding to her befuddled state. The voice hissed in her ear. “I said, hit the goddamn ground! Do it now, bitch!”
Hands clenched the nape of her neck and shoved her entire body against the pebbly asphalt. Her forehead smacked against the hard rock ground, her cheek scraped and bleeding. A foot was on her throbbing head, pressing hard against it.
I should yell, she told herself. I should really yell. But she couldn’t find her vocal cords.
The voice said, “Now, if you’re a good little bitch, and you stay where you are and keep your mouth shut for a long, long time, you’ll live. If you talk, you’ll die. Is that clear?”
Stacy managed to nod.
The foot came off her head and then gave her a sharp kick in the ribs. Her eyes burned as pain shot through her nervous system. Another kick, but this one directed to her back. She moaned as agony squeezed her like a vise. The foot then pushed her aside.
The car door swung open and hit her in the ribs.
Bang went her car door as it slammed shut.
Vroom, vroom went her pretty little convertible engine.
Screech went the tires as the car backed out of its space.
Stacy was left with two overwhelming thoughts. The first was that she was still alive. If this were the worst of it, she’d be okay … eventually. Her second notion was that the thief hadn’t taken the packages.
At least, she still had her sexy little number.
Marge was reading from the computer sheet. “We’ve got another one. A straight carjack. Vic was a lone woman. No kid.”
“What kind of car?” Oliver asked.
“BMW convertible. Korman, from GTA, caught the call about twenty minutes ago. I’m sure he’s still there. We should go to the scene and find out the details.”
Oliver said, “Any reason why we weren’t called when it came through?”
“We should have been called. Everyone knows that we’re working on the