“I can’t say that I enjoyed it. But I have been completely honest with you. I shouldn’t have to say this, but I’ll say it anyway. I expect complete confidentiality with my thirty-year-old secret. It’s nobody’s business but mine.”
Decker nodded. His secret wasn’t anyone’s business.
Unless it became a reason for murder.
12
Oliver tightened his grip on the wheel of an unmarked Matador. “If I see one more shopping mall, I’m gonna throw up.”
Marge sipped coffee from a thermos, stared out the window at an endless stretch of freeway. The asphalt bisected hillocks covered with untrimmed crabgrass, California orange poppies, mustard wildflowers, and royal purple statice. “Not much to do here. Shop, eat, sleep. Maybe have an affair.”
“Last option sounds like a winner, especially if I was female. Doesn’t cost anything and it burns off calories.”
Marge glanced at him, then returned her eyes to the front windshield. Oliver drummed his fingers on the wheel. “What’s the contact’s name again?”
“Gordon Shockley.”
“Dr. Shockley, right?”
“Right.”
Silence except for the staccatoed communications between the radio dispatchers and the patrol officers. Oliver started to whistle-tuneless, formless. Marge was about to say something, but changed her mind. The tweetie noises were annoying, but so was the quiet.
Forty-five minutes into the ride, and Marge was going nuts. Probably, Scott wasn’t doing much better. The first twenty minutes had been passable because they had talked shop, gossiped a little. Now they had run out of small talk. Desperation time, because neither wanted to open the door marked personal.
Oliver said, “Mind-numbing out here.” He paused. “Not that I do so much at home…”
“But you have the option,” Marge filled in.
“Yeah. Exactly.”
A long pause.
“Any more coffee?” Oliver asked.
“Sure.” Marge handed him the thermos. “You want me to take a shift, Scott?”
“Nah, I’m fine.” He swigged some java. “I’m not looking forward to this.”
“Why?”
“I hate talking to these kinds of guys. Especially because we have to ask technical questions. Which means we’ll get technical answers. Makes me feel like I should have stayed longer in college.”
“You and me both.”
“How many years did you go?”
“BA in sociology.” Marge laughed. “Like that’s really going to help.”
“You finished, then.”
Marge looked at him, smiled. “Are you impressed?”
“Yeah, kinda.”
“It’s only State.”
“But you’re still a college grad. Me? I majored in pool and beer.”
“Bet you got straight As in that.”
“You’d better believe it, sister, I’m a card-carrying member of the Sigma Beta Tau. We threw the best parties west of the Mississippi, east of the Ohio, and anywhere else in between.”
“That’s everywhere.”
“That’s right! No one gave parties like Sigma Beta Tau.”
The car grew silent as Oliver fell into a blue funk. Finally, he said, “Yeah, we had parties. Unfortunately, chucking your cookies in rhythm to ‘Stayin’ Alive’ didn’t turn out to be a marketable skill.”
Marge smiled. “Did you actually attend any classes?”
“A few.” Oliver ran tapered fingers through thick, black hair. “I think I even took a sociology course. Something like Group Thinking.”
“That sounds like sociology.”
“Yeah, I thought it was.”
“I think I had the same course,” Marge said. “Only we called it Group Analysis. At the onset, the class was given a number of questions and asked to find solutions. First, we were told to solve the problems by ourselves. Then we divided up into teams, and were told to seek resolutions to the same problems.”
“Then compare the results?”
“Exactly. I told you it was the same class.”
“God, this brings back some Kodaks. The minute we started up in teams, everything got bogged down-”
“All these slow people dragging their asses-”
“Stupid people,” Oliver said. “Got so mired in procedure-”
“Future LAPD brass,” Marge said.
They both laughed.
“Everyone had to have a turn,” Oliver expounded. “Whether they had something to say or not. Especially these touchy-feely broads.”
“Yeah, we had a couple of those,” Marge said. “I kept saying, fuck the feelings and let’s get on with the task. I made this one girl cry. Her friend chewed me out, said…get this…‘You don’t have to be so brutal!’”
Oliver gave Marge a wide grin. “I love it when women are brutal.”
Marge dropped her smile, then looked away.
They rode the next few minutes without conversation.
Oliver muttered, “Talk about touchy-feely.”
Marge didn’t answer.
“Jesus Christ, Dunn, I was just making a joke.”
“I know.”
“So what are you getting so pissed about?”
“I’m not pissed.”
“Dunn, I know when a woman is pissed. And you’re pissed.”
“Oliver, I want a partner I don’t have to worry about, okay.”
“You don’t have to worry about a thing, lady. It’s the farthest thing from my mind.”
“Good.”
“Just trying to stroke your ego-”
“My ego doesn’t need stroking.”
“Funny. Everyone else’s does.”
Marge stared at him. “You want to stroke my ego, tell me I’m a good cop.”
Oliver spoke quietly. “You’re a good cop.”
Marge paused. “Thank you.” Again, she hesitated. “So are you.”
Oliver pushed hair off his forehead. “Thanks.”
He started whistling again. This time Marge recognized the tune-the refrain of “Stayin’ Alive.” His mouth pucking sounds came out as sharp, shrill stabs. Over and over and over and over.
After five minutes, Marge said, “Can you cool it with the bird songs?”
Oliver quit whistling. “What?”
“You sound like an avian mating call. I half-expect some mesmerized, horny robin to fly into the car and start showing you her tail feathers.”
“Dunn, you talk that way, you get me hot-”
“I don’t believe you, Oliver. You’re doing it again.”
“Lady, you started it, talking about horny robins and tail feathers. What’s an old goat to think?”
Marge was about to speak, but laughed instead. She did kind of set him up. Besides, she got her point across. No sense belaboring it.
The industrial park was blocks long, set on acres of rolling, manicured lawn that sported a variety of specimen willows and elms. The commercial buildings ranged in size, but each was fashioned from brick and landscaped with shocking pink impatiens, pastel pink azaleas, and emerald ferns, giving the development uniformity. In the middle of the complex was a rock waterfall that emptied into a pond complete with goldfish and koi.
Fisher/Tyne’s entry faced the waterscape. It was a two-storied structure with double doors. The lobby was masoned with white marble, the furniture sleek-suede couches, glass tables and chrome lamps. Oversized unframed canvases hung on the walls, the artwork being modern and stark. A couple of trim, blond, blue-eyed receptionists wearing headsets sat behind a glass window. Marge glanced at her partner, wondering if Oliver would be distracted by the view. His eyes revealed nothing.
He took out ID and showed it to one of the cuties in the see-through cage. “We’re here to see Dr. Gordon Shockley.”
The cutie stared at the ID, spoke into a mike. “It’s about Dr. Sparks, right?”
Oliver pocketed his badge. “Is Dr. Shockley in, ma’am?”
“I’ll check.” She punched a couple of buttons, spoke into the headset that encircled her face. To Oliver, she said, “He’ll be down in just a few minutes. Would you like some coffee?”
Oliver turned to Marge.
“Pass.”
“Maybe later,” Oliver said.