Cold Shoulder (40 page)

‘I know, I know…’ He felt his stomach turn over. What if Bean was right? Could she be that much involved?

Bean sank into a chair. ‘Well, you put the cat among the pigeons. It sounded like hot shit to me.’ Rooney looked puzzled. ‘It was nice to watch you in action, Captain.’

Rooney smiled. ‘I was always one of the best. Now, why don’t you go get some sandwiches and coffee?’

Bean picked up his jacket again. ‘Gonna be a long night, is it?’

As the door closed behind him Rooney slumped in his chair. He wasn’t one of the best — he doubted if he ever had been — but she was. It was
she
who was hot shit and she’d proved it. He just hoped to God she was right, that she hadn’t done a runner. Did he want to crack this so badly he was going to let her risk her neck? He knew he still had the trump card that she was the witness. If he was forced into a corner he’d bring it out. He wondered how long it would be before they brought her in, then suddenly felt cold. What if Bean was right? What if she had been ducking and diving all along? What if she’d never been a witness but a killer, and the description was just to put them all off the scent? He picked up the phone and punched out her number. No answer. Where the hell was she? If she wasn’t brought in within the hour, he’d go out looking for her personally. She wasn’t the killer — that was dumb, that was
crazy —
but he felt a horrible nag at his gut. She was connected to Didi and Mathews; he’d told the FBI that she had been with Mathews the night Holly was murdered. He should have brought her in with him, he shouldn’t have trusted her. She might even now be in some bar drinking herself into a stupor — she’d threatened as much…

Bean came in. He’d called for a takeout to be brought in rather than schlepp out for it himself.

‘What else did Fellows say about it maybe being a woman?’

‘None of the victims had been sexually abused, there’d been no trace of semen, not even on Holly. Victims all struck from behind, just their faces mangled.’

Rooney swallowed and tapped the edge of his desk. ‘Is Lorraine Page being brought in?’

‘Changing your theory, are you?’

Rooney sniffed and waved to Bean to get out, but he hovered at the door. ‘She was an ex-cop, right? She’s capable of taking care of herself, she’s tough, I’ve heard you say it, and she’s been out hooking. She’s got a record. Maybe, just maybe, she’s also got a lot of venom in her, a hatred of women that look like her.’

Rooney hit the desk hard. ‘No. No way.’

He watched Bean walk away down the corridor. He couldn’t have lost his touch to that extent. He shut his eyes and recalled Lorraine’s face, the way her pale eyes bored into him, the scar making her face switch between vulnerable and street tough. He read through her file again: the arrests, the charges, the no-shows at court, the attacks on arresting officers, even that she had been held in a strait-jacket. Drunk and disorderly was recorded time and again. Drunk in charge of a vehicle, drunk when arrested for breaking into a liquor store — she had fought the arresting officer, bitten him, kicked him and punched him in the face. It had taken four of them to get her into the wagon. She’d been held in the cells for three days, charged with assault and spent two months in the women’s jail. If he hadn’t known her, he would have described her without hesitation as dangerous. Could she be capable of murder? His feet ached as he walked up and down, swearing alternately at Fellows — for throwing this ‘woman killer’ angle into the investigation — at Lorraine, and lastly at himself.

When Bean returned with the food, Rooney seemed distracted and had taken a bottle from one of the drawers. He took the top off his coffee, gulped a few mouthfuls and topped it up with bourbon. ‘Check that vice charge, the Janklow thing, get on that first.’ Bean didn’t say he was already working on it, he just left Rooney alone. He’d seen these dark moods often and didn’t want to be at the receiving end of one today.

Rooney closed Lorraine’s file. She had sunk lower than he could ever have imagined and he felt a certain remorse. The question uppermost in his mind was, had she sunk so low then forced herself back up just to take revenge? Should he warn all officers that she might be dangerous? He knew if he gave that out, and she resisted arrest, she might be shot.

Rooney opened the lowest drawer in his desk, took out his gun and searched for his holster. He rarely, if ever, wore it, even though he knew he should. Now he strapped it on, checked the weapon, and slipped it into place. He shrugged back into his jacket and was just about to walk out when Bean returned. ‘We got no record in any Vice section regarding Steven Janklow. This is the second time I’ve checked, so now I’ve requested they go back in Records to the time of the first murder. There’s nothing on him or the Thorburns. Nothing. Even if there had been a possible charge, we’d at least have a record or it would have been on file — that includes if charges were dropped for any reason, like string-pulling.’

Rooney passed Bean, reeking of bourbon. ‘You got your peppermints handy?’ he asked him, as if he knew what he was thinking.

‘You going home?’ Bean asked.

‘Nope, I’ll call in. I need some fresh air.’

‘What about the extra cars out looking for Lorraine Page? They still haven’t picked her up.’

‘I’ll bring her. Just hang out here until I find her.’

‘Don’t you want me to drive?’

Rooney turned on him. ‘No, I fucking don’t. Just stay put — I’ll call in soon as I find her!’

He slammed the door so hard the blinds rattled.

Lorraine asked Rosie to wait and she walked up the drive to Andrew Fellows’s home. She rang a couple of times before Dilly answered. She was wearing a nightgown with a shawl wrapped round her shoulders.

‘I’m sorry, did I get you out of bed?’

‘No, didn’t feel like getting up today, I was just watching TV. Sit down, I’ll get us some tea. He shouldn’t be too long — he called in to say he was on his way home hours ago.’

Lorraine sat down within sight of Brad’s portrait. Dilly came to sit on the sofa, curling her feet up beneath her. ‘He went to meet the FBI agents at the station. He gets talking and then he forgets the time.’

‘Dilly, tell me about Brad.’

She giggled. ‘Oh, another conquest, is it? Well, just let me warn you, he’s some hunk but don’t get too interested. He’s got a terrible reputation — screws them, sometimes marries them, but then he gets icy, ditches them. He’s ditched more than I can count.’

The kettle boiled and she went to make the tea. Lorraine looked at the portrait again.

‘He had it all, you see, given on a plate. Loaded and handsome, always a fatal combination.’ Dilly’s head appeared above the kitchen counter. ‘He’s so glamorous, motor racing — God, he looks so sexy in those white jumpsuits. Now he’s writing thrillers, or whatever he calls them, but he’ll never finish a book, I know him… Do you take sugar?’

‘What about his family?’ Lorraine asked.

‘Oh, you
are
hooked — or are you seeing cash registers?’

‘Just interested.’

‘I bet. His family are mega-rich. I’ll tell you something weird. His brother — he’s got an older brother, did I tell you?’

‘Go on…’

Dilly snuggled down and sipped her tea. She loved to gossip. ‘Well I only met him once. They’re like chalk and cheese. He’s quite small whereas Brad is tall and well-built, dark. Steven’s fairish, short-sighted, sort of prissy. I only saw him for a few minutes when I was up at their house. They have Christ knows how many homes — well, Brad does, he was left everything. They have different fathers — obvious, I suppose, they got different names, right? Janklow was her first husband, wealthy, I think, but it was Thorburn who had the big bucks. She was a great socialite, beautiful, pampered and I think she was in movies at one time, very early on. She’s ancient.’

‘And she’s still alive?’

‘Oh, yeah, in some expensive home. I’ve never met her but I think Andrew has. But he’s useless, I ask him all these questions about his patients and he won’t gossip but I love it.’

‘She was a patient?’

‘Oh no — well, I don’t think so. I just knew he met her once and she sometimes stays with Brad. She has this bedroom, very Greta-Garbo-style, different from Brad’s taste. His is all macho wood and the bare essentials.’

Lorraine was getting impatient.

‘How long will Andrew be, do you think?’

Dilly shrugged. ‘You asking me? All I know is he phoned to say he was on his way. Do you want another cup of tea?’

Brad offered Fellows a glass of wine, which he refused. They walked into the living room.

‘What did you want to talk to me about?’

Fellows sat down, unsure how to begin. ‘Is Steven home?’

Brad looked perplexed. ‘He may be. He keeps to his part of the house. Why do you ask?’

Fellows fiddled with the fringe on the sofa. ‘Just something I overheard tonight. I was at the cop shop — FBI agents, they’ve been brought in to oversee these murders. Have you read about them?’

Brad sipped his wine. ‘Be hard not to. Are you working on them?’

Fellows tugged frantically at his ear. ‘They brought up this guy Norman Hastings, one of the victims. Did we talk about him?’

Brad leaned back. ‘I don’t remember.’

‘Well, I suggested they dig deep — may be they’d missed something. As it turned out, I was right.’ He smiled. ‘He was a cross-dresser, you know, a transvestite.’

‘And?’ Brad said softly. His voice was deep, attractive, and he sank down lower on the sofa.

Fellows looked away. ‘I don’t think I was supposed to hear it, about this Hastings guy. Did you know he parked his car at your garage?’

Brad frowned. ‘Somebody mentioned it to me but I have no idea who parks there half the time. It’s supposed to be just for the employees.’

‘Have you been questioned?’

‘No, but the police have been talking to all the employees — in fact I was meaning to talk to you about it… because I think I might write something, and I know you sometimes assist the homicide squad. I just thought maybe you could help me.’

Fellows stood up. ‘Maybe I’ll have a glass of wine, after all.’

‘Sure,’ Brad said easily. He uncoiled his perfect body, picked up his glass and walked out towards the kitchen. Fellows followed. As he passed the stairs he looked upwards, instinctively, as if he knew someone was looking down at him, but there was no one in sight. ‘Is Steven home?’ Fellows asked again. Brad poured two glasses of Chablis and offered one to him. ‘Just I thought I saw someone on the landing.’

‘You asked that already, Andrew! You tired or something? You never did say why you came. Are you cancelling our squash game?’

‘Oh, no, that’s fine, it was—’

Brad walked ahead of him. ‘Remember the last time we played? That woman was waiting to see you — Lorraine Page? Maybe I should have told you, she came here.’ Brad was sprawled on the sofa again. ‘She was looking for someone up the road.’

Fellows sipped his wine, wondering if he should tell his friend what he had come to say. He couldn’t make up his mind.

Brad balanced his glass on the sofa arm, twisting the stem. ‘Actually, she’s rather attractive, has an odd way of looking at you, sort of sly but not—’

Fellows drained his glass and stood up. ‘Stay away from her, she’s bad news. She’s not what she seems.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean! I thought she was a friend of yours. She was at your place for dinner, wasn’t she?’

Fellows decided he’d tell Brad, whether it was ethical or not. ‘She’s a hooker and a police informer. She’s also wanted in connection with these murders. But there’s something else… The cops were discussing your garage and the fact that Hastings parked his car there.’

‘They don’t suspect anyone at the garage, do they?’

‘They were discussing your brother. Apparently he knew Hastings. He was found dead in his own car so maybe someone at your place had access to it. Look, I’m just repeating what I overheard. Maybe you can tip Steven off, have a chat to him.’

Brad walked Fellows to the front door. ‘He’s not mentioned any of this to me but we’re not exactly best of friends. But thanks, I’ll have a word with him.’

Fellows stood on the porch. ‘This is advice, Brad. I’d stay clear of Lorraine Page if she should make contact. The lady could be desirable but her past life isn’t.’

Brad watched Fellows drive away. He would have liked his friend to explain himself, but then he saw Steven standing on the first-floor balcony. Brad banged the gate with his fist and walked back into the house. He ran up the stairs two and three at a time until he reached his brother’s quarters. He tried the door, but it was locked. ‘Steven, open the door — I know you’re in there so open the fucking door. I want to talk to you.’ He waited, hit the door again, but there was silence. ‘Steven, open the door or I’ll get the master keys.
Steven?’

He pressed his ear to the door. He could hear water running. He fetched the spare keys. He returned to his brother’s bedroom and slipped in the key. He walked inside, bare-foot, leaving the door wide open behind him.

Brad looked round the immaculate room. He could still hear the sound of the bathwater running as he crept across the room. He’d wait, Steven would have to come out at some time. The room was different from his own, but similar to his mother’s — floral drapes at the window, a canopied bed with swathes of silk caught in a coronet and tied with large satin bows. The carpet was oyster pink, as were the silk-covered walls. The stereo equipment was built into banks of mirrors; the television section was mirror-fronted to match the rows of wardrobes. Steven’s tapes and videos were neatly stacked and listed in alphabetical order, hundreds of CDs, old records and tapes. Brad caught his own reflection over and over again. There was no corner of the room in which you couldn’t see yourself. It was all elegant, expensive, even tasteful, if you liked that kind of décor. Brad hated it.

He looked over the dressing table — more fitting for a woman than a man, with jars of creams and perfumes in neat symmetrical rows, silver-backed mirrors and hairbrushes, and rows of silver-framed photographs. Brad had only ever entered this room two or three times and now he looked around slowly, taking everything in. He opened one wardrobe door after another to reveal rows of linen jackets and a vast array of shirts, each one covered in plastic. The shoes were packed in boxes with colour coordinations marked. There were racks of ties, silk handkerchiefs, even straw hats, a few he recognized as having belonged to his father.