“I thought that’s what you were doing last night. You met with him long enough. I called you maybe four times in three hours to find out if you learned anything.” She closed and locked her file drawer. “Did you?”
Oliver’s brain started racing. What was she talking about? “Who’d I tell you I was with?”
“Rolf Osmondson from Hollywood.” Marge eyed him. “Didn’t you take him out to dinner last night?”
Oliver tried to cover. “No, it was the night before.”
Marge was insistent. “No, Scott, you told me you were meeting with Osmondson to clarify a few details about the Elizabeth Tarkum case.”
That’s the trouble with lying when you’re over forty. You forget things. Oliver tried to act casual. “Nah, I wasn’t with Osmondson. I was on a date. I did phone up a couple of Hollywood Dees. Maybe that’s where you’re getting mixed up.”
“Who?”
Shut up, Marge! “Uh, a guy named Craig Barrows. I didn’t mention him to you?”
“No.”
“Yeah, well, we talked a little over the phone. Nothing big.” He squirmed. “You ready?”
“I’m ready.” Marge swung her bag over her shoulder. “I don’t think she was hurt too badly. She was talking … the woman in the Beemer.”
“That’s good,” Oliver said. “Does she have a name?”
“Stacy Mills. She’s a personal trainer.”
“Think it’s related to Crayton?”
Marge was taken aback. “I don’t know. Any reason why it should be related?”
“Car’s not typical for our mother-kid jackings.”
“It doesn’t sound related to Crayton,” Marge said. “The jacking took place in the parking lot of the West Hills Outlets.”
They walked out of the stationhouse, found Marge’s Honda, and then took off. Marge drove the car onto Devonshire, the main artery that linked the north section of the east and west San Fernando Valley. The police station was located in the burbs, which did wonders for the real estate prices in the surrounding area. It gave the illusion that the neighborhood was impenetrable. That wasn’t the case, although the response time was quicker. As she drove farther west, the street broadened and the homes thinned. Rolling hillside swept over the acreage: Los Angeles as farmland. Way back when that had been the case—orchards and fields. Go up another forty miles to Oxnard, and it’s still the case.
Marge said, “In all this open space around, you’d think a red BMW convertible would be easy to spot.”
“It’s red?”
“Yeah. Didn’t I tell you that?”
“No, you didn’t,” Oliver said. “Crayton’s Corniche was red.”
“So are a zillion other cars. But it is interesting.” She glanced at her partner. He seemed restless. “Something on your mind, Scott?”
“Nope.” He looked at his lap. “Maybe I’m a little tired. Am I acting tired?”
“A little.” Tired and strange, Marge thought. But she didn’t push it. In the distance, she began to see hints of the Spanish tile rooftops. As Marge’s Honda chugalugged down the steep curve of the hill, the mall ascended inch by inch over the horizon. It seemed as if the construction had been dropped in the middle of nowhere. But a few miles northeast were wealthy areas—golf course developments and large ranch spreads that appealed to professional athletes and urban mountain men who ascribed to the rugged life as long as their SUVs came with cell phone and computer stations.
The mall was composed of a half-dozen Mediterranean-style buildings that housed, among other things, some high-end discount outlets—Off-Saks, Barneys, Donna Karan, St. John’s Sports, Versace, Gucci, and other Italian names real or otherwise. The developer had obviously chosen the spot because the vast amount of land gave the mall room for expansion as well as lots of parking.
Oliver surveyed the blinding sea of chrome. “Where’s the crime scene?”
“I think Korman said something about the newly added parking lot.”
“How can you tell which building is new? It’s all new. Place is one big maze. I hate shopping, and I really hate malls. They represent the worst in human homogenization. They all look the same, they all have the same stores—”
“This is discount—”
“Nothing is individualized anymore,” he bemoaned. “Whatever happened to the old-fashioned store? You know, a store … fronted by an actual street … that has parking in the back—”
“You’re showing your age.” Marge turned left into miles of asphalt. “You’re a well-dressed guy. Where do you get your clothes?”
“I have a few places that know me and my budget. They call right before the sales. I go in after-hours.”
“Pretty good service. Sure you aren’t fixing someone’s ticket?”
“I wish I had the power.” He ran his fingers through his black hair. “Would do me wonders with the women.”
She smiled. “You’re complaining all of a sudden?”
“With women, there’s always a complaint, no offense to your gender. I mean, look at this place. Look how crowded it is!”
“There’re men here. They like to save money, too.”
“It’s ratio, Marge. Me, I like something, I buy it. With women, it’s not just shopping, it’s an adventure. You’d think they were stalking a snow leopard instead of buying a T-shirt.”
Marge rolled her eyes. “Bad night, Oliver?”
He realized he was whining. He stared out the windshield. “These places just depress me.”
Marge was disconcerted. It wasn’t like Oliver to act this way. Cynical, yes. Obnoxious, yes. But not depressed. She wondered if there was something wrong with his health, but she didn’t ask. There was work to be done.
He said, “As a matter of fact, I had a fine night!”
Marge waited for him to explain. When he didn’t, she asked, “Does that mean she had a brain?”
“For your information, I can attract women that aren’t bimbos. When I put my mind to it, I can actually carry on a conversation—”
“Scott, you’re acting constipated. What the hell is wrong with you?”
“I told you, I don’t like malls … there.” He pointed. “At three o’clock.”
The place was roped off by a yellow crime scene ribbon. Marge eased the Honda over to the spot and pulled in behind one of the four cruisers. Milt Korman had arrived at the scene in a black-and-white. The brass had dictated that unmarkeds were to be used only when the element of surprise was necessary. Otherwise, it was preferred that the Dees use standard cop cars. It gave the appearance of more police out on the road. Marge thought about that as she got out of her Honda. No one said anything to her, so she was a happy camper.
The door to Korman’s cruiser was open, and the victim was sitting in the back, her sandal-shod feet dangling outside, brushing the asphalt. She looked to be in her early thirties with a round face and saucer-shaped brown eyes, made bigger by judicious application of eyeliner. Some of the liner had run down her cheeks, giving her an Emmett Kelly sad clown look. She had wedge-cut platinum hair and wore bright copper lipstick.
Korman was leaning against the black-and-white, writing in his pad. He was in his late fifties. A no-nonsense second-grade Dee, he had thick, peppered hair, florid