Stalker by Faye Kellerman Page A

was referring to?”
    Cindy tapped the tabletop. “For some reason, a red Ferrari comes to mind.”
    Elizabeth Tarkum . Oliver said, “You know what we’re working on in Devonshire, don’t you?”
    “Of course—the carjackings and follow-homes. You think the Crayton case is related to them?”
    “Maybe.”
    Cindy said, “You want to interrogate me, don’t you?”
    “We call it interviewing.”
    “Okay,” Cindy said. “Suppose I say yes? Do you want to do it behind my dad’s back?”
    “It might be simpler.” Oliver was not at all happy. “How about if I come to your apartment tomorrow evening. You tell me everything you know about Armand Crayton and your conversation with Craig Barrows. If it becomes clear to me that your relationship with Crayton is important to his murder case—or any of our current jacking cases—I’ll tell your dad about this dinner…which won’t be a pretty scene! But if you can shed any light on what’s going on with these horrible jackings, I’ve got no choice.”
    “You’re being very professional.” She grinned. “I’m impressed.”
    “No, I’m not a professional.” He rubbed his forehead. “What I am is an idiot for 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.”

9
    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 richclient at a fraction of its worth. It was a