Cold Shoulder (29 page)

‘The cab will be here in about fifteen minutes.’

‘Thanks.’ She decided to start doing the job she was there for. ‘You have a wonderful home, do you live here alone?’

‘No, my brother’s here as well. You want me to show you around?’ Politely, he led her through one vast ornate room after another. He was obviously uninterested, so they viewed each quickly and Lorraine hardly said a word. It was not until they went upstairs that his closeness made her feel uncomfortable. He touched her elbow as he showed off the master bedroom, with floor-to-ceiling white silk curtains that Barbara Stanwyck might have draped herself in. It lacked the freshness of the other rooms.

This room’s different,’ Lorraine said, and walked further inside, her feet sinking into thick-piled, soft rose-coloured carpets.

‘My mother’s room. She likes it kept this way.’

She saw photographs in heavy silver frames, at least fifteen, clustered on the dressing table. The main one was of an astonishingly beautiful woman, pale blonde hair, elegant, a classic beauty.

‘My mother.’

‘She’s stunning, very beautiful.’

‘Yes, she is — or was. She’s now made herself into a plaster cast, hardly recognizable as the same person. I don’t think she has a single feature she hasn’t attempted to freeze in time. She refused to age gracefully. And that was my father. I think the only reason it’s here is because she looks so wonderful in the same photograph. He died a long time ago.’

Lorraine picked up a smaller picture frame. ‘That’s my brother, well, a half-brother. I think I was four, he’d be about twelve, different fathers.’

They heard the sound of a car heading up the drive. He replaced the picture and, crossing to the window, drew back the drape.

‘Is that my cab?’

‘No, they’ll call from outside. It’s just the staff returning.’ He walked briskly to the door, impatient for her to follow, yet he remained the gentleman, holding the door open until she passed him, about to head down the stairs.

‘No, come into my office.’ He gripped her elbow and they walked along the landing and through another archway. ‘Go in and sit down, I’ll be right with you.’

He crossed to the banisters and looked down as the front door slammed. ‘Don’t put the alarms on, I’m waiting for a cab.’

‘Are you going out?’

Lorraine was just about to go into the office. She paused. Although she had heard a man’s voice, she had also heard the
click-click
of high heels.

‘I’ve got somebody here — they’re just going so stay down there.’

The
click-click
faded and a door below closed. Brad beckoned her into his so-called office, which was mostly windows with a vast array of books lining the walls. A modern desk was covered with a word processor and stacks of manuscripts.

‘What kind of books do you write?’

He closed the door. ‘You mean attempt to write! I haven’t done it yet.’

He frowned as footsteps could be heard on the polished wooden stairs but they carried on up to the floor above them. Then he seemed to relax, pointing to a photograph of a vintage car. ‘I have a collection.’

‘Do you keep them all here?’ Lorraine asked.

‘No, I have a garage. I bought it to house my own vehicles, then I hired a mechanic to keep them in condition, and every other day somebody with a comparable car would appear and ask if my mechanic could help them repair it or where they could get a part, so I opened up a garage, dealing only in vintage imported or American cars.’

He looked up as the footsteps passed over the ceiling from the room above. ‘Excuse me.’

He walked out and closed the door. As soon as it shut, Lorraine was at his desk, opening drawers, checking. She found stacks of notepaper with the S and A logo, envelopes, drawers full of magazines and more manuscripts. She looked over the bookcase — novels, theology, medicine, dictionaries, biography, autobiography — then opened a door into another room and saw the professionally equipped gym. She suddenly looked up as she heard low voices arguing. It was frustrating because she couldn’t hear a word they were saying. A door slammed and then there were running footsteps. Lorraine hurried to sit down as Brad returned.

‘Maybe you should call me another cab.’

He walked to the bookcase and removed a book. The entire wall fell back to reveal a large bedroom.

Brad bowed. ‘There’s even a private staircase leading out and down to the garden. If the cab hasn’t arrived by the time we get there, I’ll run you home.’

Lorraine passed him to walk into the bedroom. The king-size bed had several mirrors above it yet it didn’t feel overtly sexual. The room was too orderly, everything pale oatmeal, even the polished wooden floors. The walls were covered with photographs, mostly of blonde women.

‘My harem, as Dilly calls them.’ Lorraine moved closer and he stood directly behind her. ‘She says they were interchangeable. What do you think?’

She could feel the heat of him but she calmly looked from one girl to the next. ‘I think they’re lovely,’

He touched her shoulder, a light feather touch, and then slowly traced down her arm. He reached for her hand and drew it back slightly to feel his erection.

‘I want to fuck you.’ His voice was hardly audible.

She did not withdraw her hand but allowed him to press it against his erect cock. Her whole body seemed to catch fire, and then she laughed. ‘Billy’s painting doesn’t exaggerate, does it?’

She moved her hand, without his assistance, slowly over his erection and he moaned. She closed her eyes, she didn’t want it to happen. He pressed closer and his right hand began slowly to unbutton her blouse, pushed beneath her bra to feel her nipples. They were hard and he knew she was aroused. He bent his head to kiss her neck. His tongue licked as he pulled her blouse further open, while her legs began to spread as if out of her control.

‘No,’ she whispered. ‘Please don’t do this to me. I don’t want this, I have to go.’

She wanted to scream, wanted him to go on. She could feel herself start to pant as he massaged her nipples. She knew that if he reached down, put his hand between her legs, she wouldn’t be able to resist — but she had to make it stop, walk away from him. She pushed his hands off but he turned her roughly to face him and kissed her lips. It was a sweet, gentle kiss and she craved more and pressed against him. She felt her arms lifting to hold him.

‘How did you get this?’ He traced the scar on her cheek. ‘It drives me crazy, you know that? It’s so sexy, the way you tilt your head. You have beautiful eyes. I want to make love to you, Lorraine.’

She was embarrassed about her body, her scars, and hearing his husky voice, saying things she had never expected to hear from any man, let alone one as handsome as he was, made her want to weep.

‘I have to go.’

‘No, not yet.’

‘Yes. Just get away from me.’

He stepped back as she buttoned her blouse, pulled down her skirt. She had to keep talking because if he laid so much as a finger on her again, she’d be unable to say no. ‘I don’t know what you think I am but you’ve got a fucking nerve. Now just stay the hell away from me — go fuck one of your classy blonde college kids but don’t come on to me because I’d make you pay, sweetheart. You picked the wrong lady.’

He stepped away from her, his face like a boy’s in his confusion. She ran her hands through her hair and looked up to the mirrors. ‘They may get turned on by this crap with the mirrors but please don’t play out your fantasies with somebody you don’t know, and will never know. Now, did you really call me a cab or was that all part of your pussy-suckin’ game?’

‘How much do you charge?’ His face was taut with anger.

‘I choose my clients. Now how do I get out of here?’

He grabbed her wrist and she did a quick twist, released her hand and brought it up to slap his face. ‘Stay off me, rich boy.’

‘I said, how much?’

She could feel her stomach lurch, wanting him to hold her, wanting him to stop her foul mouth, wanting him to kiss her just like he had a moment ago.

‘Name your price!’

She looked for the door to get out. Shocking him hadn’t worked. He was humiliated, angry, and even more attractive.

‘I said name your price.’

She glared at him. ‘You don’t have it.’

‘Want to bet? Five hundred? You want more? Seven fifty? You don’t look like a thousand-dollar whore to me but if that’s your price…’

He crossed to a wardrobe, opened one of the drawers and took out a wad of notes. Just as he was about to proffer them, the telephone rang. He tossed the money at her as he picked up the receiver. He listened and then let it drop. ‘It’s your cab. Why don’t you leave me your number? Maybe we’ll make it another night.’

She laughed as he opened the hidden door leading to the staircase into the garden. She didn’t wait for him to direct her but headed straight down. He didn’t follow, but stood, watching her.

‘I meant what I said, Lorraine.’

She paused and looked up at him. ‘I’m not a whore, Brad. I don’t want you or your money. Goodnight.’

He waited until the door below closed, then relocked it automatically, stood to see her stride down the pathway, and pause to give the dog a few words. Then he used the remote switch on the main gates, saw her hesitate as they swung open, but she didn’t look back. Maybe she didn’t know he could see her.

He lay down on his bed, looking up at himself in the mirror, confused and still smarting from her rejection. He was not used to it, nor was he used to meeting a woman who excited him so much. The phone rang. He sighed with irritation and snatched it up.

‘What do you want?’

‘Did you switch the security lock on the gates?’

‘Yes.’

Steven Janklow replaced the phone and walked into his bathroom, closing the door silently. Locked inside the house he felt safe and secure. He let his silk dressing gown fall away from his body, gazing at himself admiringly as he stepped into the perfumed water. As he slid slowly beneath the soft warm bubbles, he sighed with satisfaction.

Lorraine travelled home in style. The car was a stretch Mercedes, the driver wearing uniform. He did not say a word the entire journey. She was glad, she didn’t feel like talking. Rosie, however, was still up and ready to launch in as soon as Lorraine opened the front door.

‘You cut me off before I could tell you.’

‘Rosie, I’m real tired. Can’t this wait until morning?’

‘No. I got the photographs developed. I went back to the Janklow house.’

‘You did
what?
Lorraine snapped.

Lorraine chucked her purse down. ‘Listen to me, Rosie. This is not a game. You
never
— do you understand me? —
never
do anything unless you run it by me first. This is work for me.’

Rosie stuck out her lower lip like a child. ‘I was only trying to help and then the car broke down. I hadda walk miles and get it towed back. I walked from the Janklow house all the way down—’

Lorraine interrupted, ‘Jesus Christ, you broke down outside the house? I don’t believe it.’

‘Good thing I did because I saw the Mercedes and I got a good picture of the driver.’

Lorraine was hooked. ‘Janklow?’

‘Yeah, well, I think so. You tell me.’

Lorraine stared at the photographs, lingering longest on the blonde woman driver.

‘It that a man or a woman? You tell me.’ Rosie made an elaborate show of matching the two sets of photographs, the ones with Steven Janklow driving, and the ones with the blonde woman.

‘It would be hard to tell if it wasn’t for the mouth.’

It was a wide mouth, a mouth Lorraine was sure belonged to the man who had attacked her. But she was concerned about Rosie, that she was becoming too involved and might do something that would get her into trouble or, even worse, get her hurt. ‘We’ll see if we can get them enlarged. Now, if it’s okay with you, I’m going to bed.’

Lorraine slipped into her bed on the couch and drew the covers close up around her chin. She gripped the sheet tight, twisting it round her knuckles. She had wanted to be loved tonight, she had wanted to be held, kissed, but she had been so afraid because, after all this time, after so much loss, she didn’t think she had any feelings left. Lubrinski’s death had been the worst moment of her life. He was the only person who had given her the love she craved from her husband, who had loved her for what she was and asked nothing in return.

It began with a single, dry sob, wrenching upwards from the pit of her stomach. Afraid Rosie would hear, she bit the sheet, held it between her teeth as the second sob shook her body. She told herself to get control. ‘Fucking take control of yourself, Page. People depend on you to be a rock. You start howling and you’ll make us a laughing stock. There’s a mother out there needing to know if her little girl is alive or dead — you show any emotion and she won’t be able to take it. You want to weep, do it in your home, never on duty. You hearing me, Page?’

‘Mrs Bradley, I’m sorry but we’ve found Laura, and I’m sorry to tell you… Laura’s dead, Mrs Bradley.’

Rosie sat up. Something had woken her and she was afraid for a moment. Then she heard the strangled, awful sounds. She threw back the blanket and went in to Lorraine. She was rigid, the sheet clenched between her teeth, her knuckles white from the strain of gripping her fingers so tightly. The sound was like a wounded animal, a low mewing sound, as she tried to suppress the desire to scream. Rosie reached over and picked her up in her arms, holding her and rocking her. ‘Let it go, Lorraine, let it free. It’s only me, it’s only big fat Rosie. You have a cry, let’s hear you cry…’

The dam broke and the mewing sound erupted into gasping sobs as the tears flowed. Lorraine held onto Rosie as if she was drowning, as if she was terrified to let her go. She sobbed for almost two hours. She wept for everything she had lost, for her children, her husband, her dead mother, her brother, her father. She cried for the boy she had shot, she cried for Lubrinski and called out that she was sorry, sorry, and at long last she wept for herself, for what she had done to herself, for what she had forced herself to become.