Cold Heart (28 page)

‘I’m compiling a list from the papers Feinstein gave you, but it’d be better if I could get access to the gallery books,’ Decker said.

‘I doubt if sales like this went into any official ledger, but there might be a record of them at the Nathan house.’

‘Good thinking – you want me to go there?’

‘No, I’m going to go out there myself and try to get Feinstein’s art expert to confirm whether those paintings are real or fakes before we go any further,’ Lorraine said. ‘I’ll call Jose now.’ She dialled the Nathan house, and Jose said she could come straight over – he and Juana would be there, and they wanted to speak to her in any case: they had been given a formal letter from Feinstein terminating their employment. ‘We have to leave the property by the end of this week,’ he said angrily. They still had not been paid any back salary. Next call was to Feinstein. When she told him that she thought Nathan had been keeping the original canvases at his own house, he agreed readily to call the man who had authenticated the paintings for him. Within two minutes he was back on the line and said that Wendell Dulane would join her at Nathan’s house in half an hour.

‘Okay, Decker, I’ll be out until lunchtime, possibly,’ Lorraine said, picking up her purse.

‘Don’t you even want a cup of coffee, dear?’ he said in his best mom voice.

We had breakfast.’ She couldn’t resist using the plural, and Decker laughed.

Jose opened the door when Lorraine arrived at Harry Nathan’s house, but she said she would wait outside in the sun for Dulane to show up. Within a few minutes someone buzzed at the gate and a low-slung sports car drew up on the gravel. An elegant individual, dressed in a green linen suit, got out and introduced himself as Wendell Dulane.

She and Jose showed him where the paintings were hung, both on the ground floor and upstairs.

‘I’ve seen a number of these pictures before – one or two on Joel Feinstein’s behalf,’ Dulane said at once. ‘If they aren’t the originals, they aren’t crassly detectable fakes.’

‘We were hoping you could tell us the difference,’ Lorraine said. ‘They all look the same to me.’

The man nodded. ‘Certainly. I’ll call you when I’m through.’

Jose was evidently itching to talk to her about the letter he had received from Feinstein, and sure enough, when he ushered Lorraine into the kitchen, a small pile of correspondence had been set out on a black and white laminated table.

Juana came across to greet her. ‘Mrs Page, I’m so glad you have come. Did Jose tell you we have been told to leave?’

‘Have you been able to find any other employment?’ Lorraine asked, sitting down at the table to read Feinstein’s note and his brief apology for being unable to settle any outstanding accounts until the Nathan estate was in order.

Jose shrugged, and Juana pulled out a chair. ‘We have no references. We asked Mr Feinstein to provide some for us, but he doesn’t mention it in his letter and it is difficult to get decent employment here in LA without them. We have a few things we are looking into, but nothing definite. We were wondering if you could help us.’

‘I would if I could,’ Lorraine said. She didn’t know many people who could afford live-in help, but there were always movie people needing housekeepers.

‘But not without good references. We have worked for Mr Nathan for so many years . . .’

Lorraine knew what they wanted, and didn’t mind their rather obvious way around asking her for it directly. She said that she could give them some kind of reference and would speak to Feinstein again about their back salary and proper references. And then she had an idea. ‘Perhaps Sonja Nathan could give you a reference,’ she suggested, and saw a look pass between the couple.

‘We have written to her,’ Juana said, looking at her husband.

‘She hired you, didn’t she?’ Lorraine said, fishing for more information about Harry Nathan’s enigmatic first wife. ‘Was she easy to work for?’

‘Very easy,’ Juana said. ‘She was a lady. The rest were whores.’ There was a fierce look in her eyes, and a note of finality in her voice. Lorraine glanced at Jose.

‘Harry Nathan robbed her,’ he said slowly, ‘as he robbed us.’

A polite cough sounded behind her. Dulane had appeared in the doorway, Lorraine got up and motioned him into the hall where they could speak more privately.

‘It’s bad news, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘They’re fakes, all right – carefully executed, but I don’t think there can be any doubt. Just as well, I suppose, considering the damage some of them have sustained. Tell Feinstein I’ll call him later. Nice meeting you, Mrs Page,’ he said.

As Jose appeared to show Dulane to the door, something suddenly occurred to Lorraine. She walked back into the kitchen and asked Juana if the police had taken Nathan’s diary. ‘They took a lot of things from here. He had personal things like that in his briefcase, and they took that away, but there was an appointment book – it was stacked with the magazines.’

Lorraine followed her out to the main living area and across the large light room to a glass-topped table on which a number of upmarket glossies were spread out. Juana moved them aside, brought out a leather appointments book and handed it to Lorraine. She riffled through it: there were weeks without anything written in at all, then a few scrawled appointments. ‘Can I make a few notes?’ she asked, and Juana nodded, then withdrew. Lorraine took out her notebook and jotted down any name she came across – there was none she had heard mentioned before, and she wondered if they were art dealers, which Decker could check out. She turned page after mostly blank page. Some had a single line drawn through them and, she almost missed it, just the single letter S printed right at the top. The Ss were more frequent in the weeks leading up to the murder, but there was never more than one in a week. Lorraine noted each date, and wondered if the letter stood for ‘Sale’. Or could it refer to the first Mrs Nathan?

Juana returned with a sandwich of smoked chicken and salad leaves, in sun-dried tomato bread, neatly laid out on a tray with a napkin and some iced water. ‘Juana, if I run through some dates with you, can you see if you can recall them for any reason? Visitors, or even Kendall Nathan being here?’

Lorraine listed date after date but Juana shook her head, so Lorraine asked her to send in Jose. He, too, was unable to recall anything specific regarding the dates. ‘How about two days
before
the murder? Can you remember anyone coming here?’

Jose shook his head, but then he came closer and asked for more dates. ‘You remember somebody?’ Lorraine asked.

‘No, but I think . . . I am sure most of the dates are . . . wait. Let me talk to Juana.’ He hurried out and a minute later returned with her. This time Juana carried a small cardboard-backed diary, and Lorraine read the dates again.

‘Ah! I may be wrong, but most of the dates you want to know about are our days off. They weren’t usually on the same day every week, Mr Nathan would just tell us we could have the day off.’

Nathan must have made sure that his domestics were not in the house so they wouldn’t know who came or went, what paintings were exchanged or hung or, most importantly, who was taking items away.

‘Did you ever notice anything unusual going on with the paintings?’ Lorraine asked.

Juana raised her hands in an uncomprehending gesture. ‘They were changed so many times. Mr Nathan was always asking if anyone had been to the house, if anyone had seen them – he acted like he never wanted anyone to see them.’

‘Was there anyone in particular who used to come to look at the paintings?’

The couple looked at Lorraine. ‘No one in particular.’

‘Did Kendall Nathan still come to the house after the divorce?’

‘Many times,’ Juana answered. ‘She used to bring paintings out here and say where they were to be hung. Sometimes the new ones looked identical to the old ones.’

‘Did anyone ever come with her to help hang the paintings?’

Lorraine waited as they thought about it. ‘Sometimes she had a black kid who was her odd-job man. They were big canvases, and she couldn’t carry them in and out of the house on her own.’

Lorraine pushed back her chair and stood up. ‘During the last few days or weeks before Harry Nathan was shot, did anyone come and take away paintings? Or replace paintings?’

Jose said, ‘Yes, once, but we didn’t see him – it was our afternoon off. Mr Nathan said it was a man from the insurance company checking on them.’

‘Where was Cindy when this went on?’

‘I don’t remember, she never paid any attention to the paintings.’

‘Can you give me the date the insurance broker was here?’

‘It was a Monday, a week or two before the murder. I remember because Mr Nathan gave me three thousand dollars for household expenses, and to pay the gardener. I remember the day, too, because later in the evening, we had just served dinner and he called us into the dining room. He poured us glasses of champagne, said he was going to be a father, that Cindy was pregnant, just a few days, but pregnant.’

‘I see,’ Lorraine said. ‘Well, thank you for all your information. I’d better get myself back to my office.’ She got up to go, having deliberately held back the question she most wanted to ask until last.

‘I don’t suppose Sonja ever came here after she and Harry Nathan split up?’ she asked casually, as the couple walked out into the hall with her.

‘Sonja, never,’ Juana said, without hesitation, her eyes meeting Lorraine’s. ‘She never came here again.’

Decker was just hanging up the phone when Lorraine arrived at the office, and seemed very upbeat. ‘I just got an address from the welfare department for the kid who worked for Kendall Nathan,’ he said. ‘The one on Feinstein’s payroll was out of date.’

‘Well, check him out,’ Lorraine said. ‘Feinstein’s art guy said all the paintings at the house are fakes.’

‘I’ll get over to his home right now.’

‘Ask him if he ever met Sonja Nathan,’ Lorraine added. ‘Did you fix me up a flight to New York?’

‘I’ll get on to it as soon as I get back,’ he said.

Almost as soon as Decker had closed the door the phone rang and she picked it up: ‘Page Investigations.’

‘Hi! It’s me.’ It was Jake. She pushed away her notes and leaned back in her chair.

‘I was wondering if you’d like dinner at my place tonight.’

‘Yes.’ She laughed, and said she knew she was supposed to play hard to get, but . . .

‘Pick you up from your office at about six thirty?’ he suggested.

‘Yep. Oh, just one thing – the Cindy Nathan autopsy. Did it come in?’

Jake told her the results. Then Lorraine said, ‘I don’t think the note was genuine. Or, at least, she didn’t write it that day.’

‘Well, it’s possible she wrote it on a piece of paper she cut in two herself, for some reason,’ Burton replied. ‘I’m not going to push an investigation unless another suspect emerges besides Kendall Nathan.’

Lorraine said nothing, having decided not to mention her suspicions that either Raymond Vallance or Sonja Nathan might have some connection to Cindy’s death until after she had seen Sonja.

Burton went on, ‘The forensic team are still sifting through the debris of the gallery workroom, but they seem to think Kendall died accidentally, possibly while trying to start a fire. Wouldn’t surprise me if she was trying to burn the place down for the insurance – the business was in debt, and she couldn’t afford to renew the lease.’

‘Anyone else involved?’ Lorraine asked, and Burton said that, according to the witness, Kendall had been alone.

‘When did you know about her death?’ she asked.

He had been told the previous day. Lorraine wanted to ask him why he hadn’t mentioned it, but she didn’t because she wanted to avoid any awkwardness between them. At the same time she thought perhaps he should have told her, and, as if reading her mind, he said, ‘I was going to tell you about it last night, but . . . I got a little sidetracked, if you remember.’ He laughed, in a low, intimate fashion, then had to cut short the call as there was another waiting. He reminded her that he would pick her up later, then hung up.

The light on the answerphone was blinking. Feinstein wanted Lorraine to come over to his office at her earliest convenience.

Lorraine sighed. Now that the attorney was paying her, she had no choice but to do as he asked, and by just before four she was in his reception in Century City.

Dulane had informed Feinstein that further fake copies of his paintings had been found at Harry Nathan’s house, and Feinstein demanded to know what the hell was going on.

Well,’ Lorraine said, ‘it looks like Nathan did to Kendall what she did to you and swapped the paintings again.’

‘Jesus,’ Feinstein swore. ‘Crooked fucking bastard. Where the fuck are the paintings now?’ He glared at Lorraine as though she must know the answer.

‘It looks to me like they’ve either been sold on to other buyers, probably outside the US, or he had another partner who’s got them stashed somewhere,’ she said.

‘Find them,’ Feinstein said, rubbing his eye sockets wearily. ‘Just fucking find them.’

‘Right now my assistant is checking out the man who worked for Kendall Nathan,’ Lorraine said smoothly, ‘and when I have his report, I will give you a further update. We’re still checking out auction-houses, galleries and other possible outlets for the paintings.’ Feinstein pursed his lips. ‘You know, Mr Feinstein,’ Lorraine went on, ‘you could report this to the police. You have been used in a serious fraud.’

‘No,’ he snapped.

‘May I ask why not?’

Feinstein pinched the bridge of his nose, then leaned back in his chair. ‘One, I do not wish to appear like a total asshole and, believe me, if the media get a hold of this, you think anyone is going to want me to represent them? The schmuck that didn’t even know when he was being ripped off? I have my reputation to think of and . . .’ he spread his hands on his desk ‘. . . like I said, sometimes clients, like Nathan, do certain deals in cash . . .’

‘Did you benefit from cash payments, Mr Feinstein?’ Lorraine enquired.

Feinstein half sighed, half hissed his reply. ‘Not cash, exactly. I thought I made that clear.’