Cold Heart (32 page)

Rosie had the coffee ready and waiting now. She’d even found some biscuits and laid them out on a silver plate – solid silver, she had noticed. As she poured the coffee, there was a strange, uneasy silence that continued until Rosie banged down the coffee pot and nudged Rooney. ‘Before you barged in and interrupted us, Lorraine was just telling me about this case she’s working on. Do you remember a movie star called Raymond Vallance?’

‘No,’ Rooney said, selecting a biscuit.

‘Tell him, Lorraine,’ Rosie said, settling back on the sofa beside her husband. The pair sat riveted as Lorraine filled them in on the case. She was concise but made sure she left nothing out – except the threats on her life. She didn’t want to worry her friends. When the silence fell again, it was like old times. Rooney was leaning back, eyes closed, but not sleeping even though it was way past eleven. He was ‘thinking’, and so was Rosie, twisting a strand of hair round and round in her fingers.

‘Well, you got all the facts, almost.’ Lorraine looked at Rooney, wanting him to give her the answer she couldn’t put her finger on. His eyes opened, but he shook his head, pulled himself onto his feet and stuffed his hands into his pockets.

Rosie broke the silence. ‘I think it’s Vallance. He, out of everyone, had the most to lose, am I right? Do you think it’s him, Bill?’ Rosie was excited, her cheeks flushed: from what Lorraine had told them, everything pointed to the actor.

Rooney still said nothing. Lorraine was fascinated because he had suddenly become his old self: Rooney the cop. He was acting the way he used to, not wanting to give away too much, not wanting to make a mistake by jumping the gun, staring at the wall, not meeting Lorraine’s eyes. Finally, his hands digging deeper into his pockets, the loose change jangling as he turned a coin in his fingers, he said, ‘I think there’s a hidden agenda. Christ only knows what it is, but there’s something. It may even be staring you in the face, sweetheart.’

‘Is that it?’ Rosie blurted out.

Rooney’s eyes now met Lorraine’s, a steady rather unnerving gaze. He touched her hand. ‘I’ll call you, all right? Let me sleep on this.’ Then he caught Rosie’s hand. ‘We should go, darlin’, it’s late.’ There was a firmness in his voice and Rosie didn’t argue. They said their goodbyes, waving from the car, blowing kisses to Lorraine by the open window, watching them drive away. She didn’t wave, she just stood, arms folded.

Rosie took a sidelong look at her husband. She had been about to tell him about the new man in Lorraine’s life when he swerved to the side of the road and pulled on the handbrake like his life depended on it.

‘What happened? I didn’t see anything,’ Rosie said, looking back to the road.

‘I just needed to think,’ he said in a gruff voice that made him sound like a stranger. He had known Lorraine for a long, long time. He knew her heartbreak and had witnessed her pain. He had been disgusted by her spiral into the gutter and would never have believed she would climb back, just as he would have laughed if someone had said he would end up not only working alongside her, but admiring and loving her.

‘I know her, Rosie, God help me for saying this, but I have known her when she was not worth the shit on my shoe. I have seen her humiliated and heartbroken. She’s been beaten within an inch of her life and I’ve picked her up out of stinking, garbage-strewn gutters.’

‘Is all this going someplace?’ Rosie asked, staring out of the car window rather than looking at her husband. He was unapproachable, made her feel uneasy, and she almost cringed back from him when he hit the steering wheel with the flat of his hand, hit it so hard the car rocked.

‘Yes, it’s fucking going somewhere, for Chrissakes. I just needed to work it through, to think about it, because she was fucking hiding something. She wasn’t telling us the truth.’

‘Why would she lie?’ Rosie said, easing round to look at him.

‘I know her so well, Rosie.’ He ran his finger round his collar: he was sweating.

‘Yeah, you said, and so do I. We both know her pretty well, I’d say.’ She rolled down the window, feeling hot herself.

‘Rosie, I have never seen fear in that woman’s face, no matter what she has been through, not once, not ever. I saw it tonight. She tried to hide it but I know she’s in trouble and I’m afraid for her.’

N
EXT MORNING,
Lorraine leaped back into action: her flight was at noon, and Rosie’s visit had taken up virtually all of the previous day. Jake had called and said that as he happened to be off duty, he would like to see her and drive her to the airport, and that today he could take Tiger for her.

Lorraine had packed an overnight bag, changed and tidied the apartment, and was now becoming impatient, afraid she would miss her plane. He was late, only arriving at ten thirty. In the car, she gave him instructions about Tiger, plus Rosie and Bill’s telephone number in case the dog was in the way, or she had to stay longer in the Hamptons than she expected. ‘You think you might?’ he asked, as they hurried through the terminal building.

‘No, but you never know, just covering all the options,’ Lorraine said. It had crossed her mind that the legacy to Sonja Nathan would not take effect until midnight the following night, and she wondered whether the next forty-eight hours might be more eventful than she was anticipating – but there was no point in worrying him. She handed over her ticket to a stewardess, who said that the flight was already boarding and she should go straight to the gate.

Jake kissed her, and Tiger almost choked himself on his lead as he tried to follow her into the departure lounge. Lorraine walked away, but then had an urge to turn back, so strong she couldn’t resist it. Jake was still standing there, and Tiger still straining at his lead. Jake waved, mouthed that he loved her, and their eyes locked. She wanted to run back to him, stay with him, but she forced a smile and hurried out of sight.

The duration of the flight was only five hours, but with the time difference between the west coast and the east, they wouldn’t arrive until almost eight thirty in the evening. Lorraine had been in such a hurry she hadn’t brought any books or magazines, so she read the inflight journal over dinner, and slept for the rest of the flight. After the plane had landed and she had retrieved her bag, she caught a taxi to Queens and waited for the last Jitney bus to the Hamptons.

It was right on time at nine fifty, and the driver smiled pleasantly as he stowed her bag in the hold, then helped her up the steps into the cool, air-conditioned interior. She chose one of the wide, comfortable seats midway up the aisle, next to the tinted windows – this was no ordinary bus, and the occupants were not ordinary people, either arty or glamorous: one woman even climbed on board with two Pekinese and a chauffeur.

Lorraine looked out of the window for a while, but then closed her eyes, not sleeping, just wrapped in daydreams about Jake, still hardly able to believe it was all true. He did love her – she had seen it at the airport. In some way if he had turned and walked away before she had said her last goodbye, it would have been a bad omen, but he had waited, and the last thing she remembered was his smile, and that he had said he loved her.

Rosie was grimly washing a mass of arugula in the little farm-style kitchen of the apartment Rooney had shared with his first wife, putting together a big salad. She and Bill had both half-heartedly decided to diet.

‘I hate this job,’ Rooney moaned, emptying the dishwasher.

‘So does everybody,’ Rosie answered.

‘Anyway,’ he said, clattering the plates into the glass-fronted dresser, ‘Jim Sharkey couldn’t believe his ears. He kept on saying I had to have it wrong, it couldn’t be Burton. Are you sure you got the name right?’

‘How many Lieutenant Jake Burtons are there, for Chrissakes?’ Rosie said, tossing the salad.

‘They don’t like him,’ Rooney said, stacking more dishes.

‘You mean Jim Sharkey doesn’t,’ Rosie said.

‘No, Jim said the boys don’t like him, said he’s a real bastard. Everyone knows there’s a bit of a trade that goes on with information – you know, a backhander here and there. Everybody knows that. We even dish dough out of our own pockets to some informers. I’ve done it, we’ve all done it, but he’s watching them like a hawk.’

Rosie started to set the table. ‘Well, that Jim Sharkey certainly had his hand out when we worked with him, didn’t he? You remember, when we needed the lists of statements taken in connection with the Anna-Louise Caley murder. And he got a four-course dinner, beer, wine, and five hundred dollars on top of it.’

Rooney took the plastic cutlery basket out of the machine and banged the knives and forks into the dresser drawer. ‘All I said was they think he’s a tight ass.’

‘You shouldn’t have been asking questions, I never told you to do that. I said find out what he looks like. That’s not the same as rapping with Jim Sharkey, is it?’

Rooney slammed the cupboard door shut, replaced the basket and closed the dishwasher.

‘So, what does he look like?’ she asked, hands on hips.

‘I dunno. I never saw him, did I?’

Rosie pushed past Rooney to the fridge.

‘Young? Old? Good-looking? Short? Tall? What kind of cop were you?’

Rooney slapped her behind. ‘He’s about fifty-five, five feet seven with a paunch, red face and bulbous nose, but . . . a lot of women think he’s sexy.’

Rosie laughed at his description of himself, kissed his plump cheek, and they settled to their meal.

The Jitney bus made its way through Southampton, then Bridgehampton, with few passengers getting off and none getting on. The street-lights were turned on, and the little towns looked like some magical place that time had passed by, with old-world shops selling antiques and pine furniture on every corner, along with street markets and traders offering logs for sale.

They eventually arrived at East Hampton, and the bus drew up outside the Palm Hotel. Lorraine waited as the driver fetched her bag, and pointed out the Maidstone Arms Hotel, which was just across the street.

By the time she had unpacked and taken a shower it was after one o’clock in the morning, and even though she felt hungry, she decided to go straight to bed.

Next morning, breakfast was served in the dining room, and Lorraine, dressed in a smart tan skirt, cream silk blouse, oyster tights and court shoes with a low Cuban heel, came down and sat in one of the Queen Anne chairs. She ordered scrambled eggs, brown toast and coffee, which was served promptly by an attractive blonde girl, who also presented Lorraine with the
New York Times.
When she had finished, Lorraine took a brisk walk along the main street. The shops were all elegant, and what prices she could see were expensive. Sight-seeing over, she returned to the hotel and ordered a taxi to take her to Sonja Nathan’s address in an area known as the Springs. The same pretty blonde girl who had served breakfast was now acting as a receptionist. She handed Lorraine a street map and said she would order the taxi straight away.

Lorraine returned to her room, and put in a call to Jake. He wasn’t at home, but when she called his office, she was told that he hadn’t got in yet, so she went downstairs to wait for her cab. She watched some of the rather elderly guests coming down for late breakfast, everyone apparently talking about the weather – it had, as Lorraine heard a number of people say, turned into a lovely clear day.

‘Mrs Page,’ the blonde girl called, ‘your taxi is here.’ Lorraine went out of Reception and turned down a narrow path that led into the car park, expecting a yellow cab but finding a gleaming limo. ‘Mrs Page?’ the driver enquired, doffing his cap.

Lorraine nodded, and gave Sonja Nathan’s address. ‘Is it far?’ she asked.

‘No, ma’am, nothing’s too far round here. Be there in ten minutes.’ They drove on in silence for four or five. ‘Turned out a real nice day,’ the driver said, smiling at Lorraine via the driving mirror. ‘You from New York?’

‘California.’

He spent the rest of the drive listing which movie star had bought which local residence, and was very proud to have driven Barbara Streisand, Paul Simon and Faye Dunaway. Suddenly he screeched to a halt, peered at a narrow gateway, marked with only a red mailbox, checked the number, then reversed about two hundred yards, stopped again, reversed again and turned into a narrow dirt-track drive.

‘This is it,’ he said, now concentrating on his driving, as the track was narrow, overhung with high hedges and brambles. He made his way slowly past yellow notices nailed to the trees stating
NO SHOOTING
and
TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED.
The tall fir trees became more dense, and now there were big red notices:
DRIVE SLOW – DEER.
The driveway began to curve to the right, and there was yet another notice:
TURTLES CROSSING
.

They were crawling along now and Lorraine was finding the drive, which, she calculated, was at least two miles long, spookier by the minute.

‘Does all this land belong to Mrs Nathan?’ ‘I guess so, but it’s protected round here. This is an animal sanctuary.’ He swerved to avoid a lump of rock. Suddenly the wilderness began to appear more cultivated, and the drive widened into a tree-lined circle. Lorraine got out of the car to see a huge outdoor swimming pool, surrounded by a fence built of thick timber slabs, its margins ablaze with brilliantly coloured flowers.

The sun beat down, giving a clean dry heat, completely different from the fug of LA. She paid the driver, who asked if she would be needing him later. She said she would call.

The shingled, wood-frame house looked small, vulnerable and unoccupied, with both garage doors shut. Lorraine looked again at the garden and knew, by the flourishing, sweet-scented borders and beautiful conifers, that the garden was lovingly cared for. She tilted her head to the sun, her eyes still closed, then opened them rapidly as she thought she heard someone call. She listened, but hearing nothing more, she set off up the front steps, whose shallow treads were made of slabs of wood like stone.

The screen door was shut, as was the inner door. The bell did not work, so she tapped and waited, then knocked a little louder. The gravel crunched at the side of the house, and Lorraine turned sharply to see a tall, suntanned man with pepper and salt hair, who seemed almost as shocked to see Lorraine as she was to see him. ‘I’m looking for Mrs Nathan,’ she said.