Cold Heart (22 page)

‘You shit,’ she screamed, crying with anger now. He had known she couldn’t report him to the police because she would have been charged for her part in it. He had screwed her into the ground. The fact that he was dead made no difference – he had betrayed her, as he had betrayed Sonja before her, and what a fool she had been, trusting him, a blind, trusting fool . . . just like Sonja.

As soon as she had seen Harry, she had wanted him and she had told herself at the time that it was love. But it had been something darker and more complex. All her life she had wanted to get out from under, to belong, to be on the inside, and she had known that she had the potential to do that, to lead a life that her parents in Kansas had never dreamed of. Harry Nathan was the most attractive and dynamic man Kendall had ever met: when Sonja had hired her he had been making movies that did reasonable business, still had some respectable friends in the industry. He was charm itself when Sonja brought Kendall out to the house to introduce her, talked to her easily, naturally, as though she was his equal, and over the coming weeks she felt that he took a special interest in her – used to chat to her for a few minutes on the phone if he called the gallery to speak to his wife.

Kendall had soon come to feel that she was like Sonja – her clothes became more elegant, her movements more graceful, the inflections of her voice smoother – but also that, as she herself became more attractive, Sonja was deteriorating. She had never been as beautiful as Sonja, about that she had no illusions, but she was twelve years younger, and she was prepared to make Harry the project of her life in a way that Sonja could not. It was not difficult to get him into bed, though the whole business felt rather perfunctory, almost tawdry, the first time a quick fuck at her apartment, after which he had immediately said he had a meeting and had to go. Kendall had wondered whether perhaps there was some truth in a few remarks Sonja had made, hinting that her husband was selfish and unaccomplished in bed.

Harry had been reluctant either to tell Sonja about their affair or to contemplate leaving her. Some deep, sick, neurotic bond held them to one another, Kendall decided, particularly since Sonja said she had almost finished some major project which she planned on exhibiting. Harry seemed to have bought into all that garbage about disturbing her creativity. That was fine, Kendall reckoned, as she visited her gynaecologist for shots to enhance her fertility – she gets her baby, I get mine.

Sonja produced a remarkable piece of work: a huge construction of a series of storefronts, not unlike the block where the gallery was on Beverly Drive, in which the stones in the sidewalk, the trash cans, the merchandise in the stores seemed to be living, watching the parade of humanity with strange, childlike faces.

At the opening Kendall was quiet. She was wondering whether the quick fuck Harry had given her on just the right day two weekends ago, while Sonja was working at the studio, had done the trick.

She received confirmation of her pregnancy a week later, and served this information on Harry like a writ. She intimated, too, suitably indirectly, that if he didn’t leave Sonja and marry her he would indeed receive a writ in the form of a paternity suit. Harry had no option now but to tell Sonja, as Kendall would soon start to swell, and she could see, too, that the idea of a child had worked its old magic, primitive but effective, on his vanity as a man. So that was settled. Sonja received the news as silently as a dagger slid expertly under her ribs, packed her bags and went.

While Kendall was pregnant things hadn’t been too bad – the prospect of the child had interested Harry more than its mother – but after she had her daughter the marriage went downhill fast. Now that Kendall was preoccupied with the baby, clucking endlessly about the contents of bottles and diapers, she bored Harry and got on his nerves.

She was baffled by the deterioration of their relationship, as though they had fast-forwarded, somehow, through what was meant to be the honeymoon period and had settled down into the stress, irritation and distance that longer-term marriages seemed to wallow in.

Then their little girl died suddenly, inexplicably, at seventeen months old, and neither of them was ever the same again. Kendall never forgave Harry for his insensitivity to her at the funeral, spending more time with that low-life closet case Vallance than with her, and he became embittered, his humour blacker and sicker, his lifestyle tackier and more decadent by the hour. Kendall knew they were in trouble now, but when she tried to talk to her husband on the odd occasions that she saw him, he said his actions were fuelled by anger at the child’s death.

It was in the weeks following the funeral that Harry had developed his interest in adult parlour games. Kendall hung on grimly, no matter what she had to go along with and how much of a blind eye she had to turn to his other playmates. She refused to become a member of the army of divorced and discarded women the city was thronged with. Vallance’s revenge for Kendall’s hostility had been to introduce Harry to Cindy and - after they had been married a little less than four years - Kendall knew she had lost him.

As her divorce settlement, he gave her a half share in the gallery and although she thought maybe she could have got more, she was glad to have the link of a business partnership with him, just to retain some contact. Devoid of sexuality herself, she had never been able to understand its power over others, and she was certain that the Harry-Cindy alliance would last no longer than her own marriage.

On the other hand, Kendall had always had a keen business mind, and unencumbered by the tasks of parenthood, she soon put her mind to making money again. The gallery did well enough, but she figured that to make serious money, you had to bend the rules a little. Harry had jumped at the idea of the forgeries, and if it was his money that financed the scam, it had been her brains that set it up.

Everything had gone sweetly up until now, and as Harry grew predictably disenchanted with Cindy and stories of the couple’s rows and public slanging matches circulated around the city, Kendall permitted herself to fantasize that he would realize what an asset she had been to him - how transitory the delights of the flesh, how enduring the joys of bank accounts containing seven-, even eight-figure sums. Kendall had convinced herself that when the fraud came to fruition and the paintings were sold on elsewhere, Cindy would be kicked out in the cold and she would be reinstalled as Harry Nathan’s wife.

All those dreams were now in ruins around her. She had nothing: he’d cleaned her out, just as he had Sonja, and he had dumped her for good, just as he had Sonja.

Kendall took another swig from the bottle, but she didn’t feel drunk. Harry had used her and lied to her, but she knew him well enough to be sure he wouldn’t have been able to arrange this latest deal alone - hadn’t had the intelligence. He must have had someone assisting him. Vallance? Cindy was out of the question, and she wondered if Sonja could have played any part in it. She began to pace up and down the room, drinking and stumbling around over the floral parterre rugs, which were meant to make the green carpet look like a garden, a witty allusion to the black Astroturf beyond. Sonja was the obvious person: she knew more about art than either Kendall or Harry. Was it possible that she had come back into Harry’s life?

Kendall wouldn’t allow herself to believe it. What about Harry’s brother Nick? He was an artist, he could have been behind it, and there was Harry’s mother – she had a considerable interest in art and antiques.

Abigail Nathan had been so friendly when Harry and Kendall were married, so pleased that Harry had got rid of Sonja, and overjoyed about her first grandchild. But Kendall had known in her heart that Abigail cared only about her sons. In her eyes they could do no wrong, and Kendall wondered if the whole Nathan family had ganged up against her. She remembered Cindy saying that someone had broken into the house and Abigail had keys, so the family could have taken the paintings, but how could she prove it without implicating herself?

Kendall began to search her desk drawers: Harry might not have kept up the house insurance premiums, but she had always paid the insurance of the gallery personally. Now it was all she had, and she knew what she would do: torch it, and claim the insurance. At least she would come out with something, and the more she thought about it, the better she felt. It could be done easily enough – the workshop was full of inflammable spirits, canvases and wooden frames and would catch fire quickly. As it was attached to the gallery, the whole site would go up.

She hurled everything out of the desk drawers, until she found the documents: the gallery was well insured, and the stock valued at two million dollars. She checked the insurance papers, just to make sure that, in the event of fire, she was fully covered, then crammed the rest of the documents, including the mass of crazy notes she had received from Cindy Nathan, back into the drawer. Those were certainly best out of circulation – she didn’t want anyone thinking she had had anything to do with that fucked-up bimbo’s death.

Kendall hurried out of her apartment to her Mitsubishi jeep. She loaded the cans of white spirit she kept in her garage into the back of it, muttering drunkenly that nobody was ever going to treat her like a doormat again. She would show that bastard and his family, and she was laughing as she drove out past Lorraine Page, who had parked a few yards from her front door, and whom she did not see. She was too intent on planning her revenge. Kendall wouldn’t be left penniless like Sonja, wouldn’t walk away without a fight.

Lorraine adjusted her driving mirror and watched the two-toned Mitsubishi jeep career down the road. She had hoped to challenge Kendall about Jose’s statement that he had seen her car on the morning of Harry Nathan’s death as well as Cindy’s suggestion of some fraud to do with the paintings, and her subsequent mysterious death. She tried to follow the jeep, but lost it after a few minutes. Kendall was going somewhere and fast: Lorraine wondered if Feinstein had already called her.

Lorraine returned to her office and tossed the car keys to the valet parking attendant, who gave her a wide grin. ‘Hi there. Nice day. You having one?’

‘Yep. How about you?’

‘Could be better,’ he said, getting into the Mercedes.

She rode the elevator up to her floor, headed for her office, and was about to enter when she heard voices.

Decker was serving coffee and chocolate madeleines, which he must have rushed out and bought, to Lieutenant Jake Burton. Lorraine hesitated, then smiled. ‘Hello.’

Burton stood up with a smile. ‘Off duty. Wondered if I could have a few moments?’

‘Sure, go into my office. I’ll just get rid of my coat.’

Decker ushered Burton into Lorraine’s office and closed the door behind him. ‘He just called in. Been here a few minutes,’ he whispered. ‘Single white male his age – don’t pass him up. I’d pull him.’

Lorraine made a face and walked into her office. She went behind her desk and sat down. After what Decker had just said she found it hard to look at Burton.

‘Off the record, Mrs Page, I called to say thank you for sending over the videos and for your . . . other assistance, and to tell you that as yet we’ve had no news from the county morgue on the Cindy Nathan autopsy.’

He kept staring at her, then added, ‘That’s all really. Thank you.’

He walked to the door. ‘Is your dog a cross between a German shepherd and . . .’

‘I’m not sure – I kind of inherited him, but he’s got malamute or maybe wolfhound somewhere.’

‘I used to have a Dobermann,’ he said. ‘Miss them when they go – especially the walks. Kind of clears your head, or it did with me. Anyway, thank you again.’

He was about to open the door when Lorraine said, ‘Whenever you feel like walking, just call me – he’s always available.’

He gave a shy smile. ‘I will. I’d like it even better if there was some company too. Anyway, I’d better make tracks. Thank you again.’

‘Let me give you my home number,’ she said suddenly. She wrote on one of her cards, and passed it to him.

‘I’ll take you up on that.’

She followed him out, and he asked where she usually walked. ‘Oh, sometimes the park, but on nice evenings I drive to the promenade. He loves the beach.’

Decker was listening, but pretending to be busy. Tiger raised his head as they passed and Burton patted him, then nodded to Lorraine, and grinned at Decker. ‘Nice meeting you again – goodbye.’

Lorraine watched him leave, and Decker rolled his eyes. ‘My God, you are so
slow.
He was
begging yon
for a date – when a guy talks about taking your dog for a walk, you know, sweetheart, it’s you he wants to go walkieswith.’

‘Oh, shut up,’ she said, returning to her office.

‘So what
did
he want?’

Lorraine shrugged. ‘Nothing, really, just to thank me for sending the videos over.’

‘Oh, really?’ Decker said, raising his eyebrows. ‘He had to come and see you to do that? So he
is
after your ass.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ Lorraine said dismissively.

He laughed. ‘Sweetie, trust me, you’ll have to make the running. He’s all male, all testosterone and incapable of coming out with the line “I suppose a fuck is out of the question”,
but
he has major hot pants for you, trust me.’

‘Not in a blue moon, Decker. I wouldn’t trust you as far as I could throw you.’

‘If you could see your face – ’ he giggled ‘ – go take a look!’

She slammed her office door, and scurried to look at herself in the make-up mirror she kept in a filing cabinet. She was flushed, and she did have the hots for Burton. Decker was just a sex-obsessed fag – but intuitive.

Kendall turned into the alley that ran along the back of the gallery, overlooked by barred windows and full of huge commercial garbage bins. Most businesses left their back yards open to use as a parking area, but Kendall had enclosed all the space that belonged to her to construct a workroom, and she pulled up now in front of the high iron gates she had installed. On the other side of the alley were the backs of the shops and other properties that fronted Canon Drive. One was a men’s accessories shop, run by a guy called Greg Jordan. Now she saw him standing at the back door of his shop. She waved across to him, making sure he saw her, not wanting to appear furtive. ‘Hi, how’s business?’ she called loudly.