Cold Heart (44 page)

‘Lorraine,’ he said, ‘I’ve stopped by the office a couple of times and there’s someone calling you all the time.’

‘Well,’ Lorraine said, ‘if they’re looking for my professional services you can tell them I’m about to retire.’

‘It’s not that,’ Rooney said. ‘Whoever it is hangs up the whole time – no message. Rosie and I thought it might be Jake, but you’ve spoken to him, haven’t you?’

‘Yes, I have. He’s too busy for that kind of thing, anyway,’ Lorraine said.

‘That’s what I thought. There’s so many calls it’s like someone’s doing it deliberately, to make you realize someone’s trying to get to you – it’s like they think you must know who it is. I was just wondering if you’ve trodden on someone’s tail.’

‘Well, that’s a possibility,’ Lorraine said thoughtfully. ‘How long has this been going on?’

‘A few days,’ Bill said.

That meant it could hardly be anything to do with Nick Nathan, which left only Sonja and Arthur, Lorraine thought, but said nothing to Rooney.

‘Is there anything I can do from this end?’ he asked.

‘There is, Bill. In my office there are two plastic bags. They’ve got a lot of catalogues from art galleries, with notes from Decker. Can you go through them and find out about a painting by Julian Schnabel? It would have been in the Nathan gallery about four years ago. It’s not on my list, but see if there’s any record of it, and I’ll call you from Chicago.’

‘Okay, will do . . . and you look after yourself.’

She caught Burton at the station, and once she heard his voice she wondered what the hell she was doing planning yet another detour.

‘So,’ he said, ‘I get three guesses, right? You’re coming home late, you’re coming home late, or you’re coming home late?’

‘Well,’ she said, ‘I did say it might be tomorrow.’

‘I know you did,’ he said, easily. ‘I bought you an extra-specially non-perishable present.’

‘I bought you one too,’ she said. A timeless work of art by Nick Nathan.’

‘Mine’s pretty timeless too,’ he said, and something in this voice told her immediately what it was.

‘Oh,’ she said softly. ‘Do I get three guesses?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to spoil the surprise. Just get your ass back here fast.’

‘Will do,’ Lorraine said. ‘I swear I’ll see you tomorrow even if I pass all of Feinstein’s paintings at a garage sale on the way to the airport.’

‘If
that
happens,’ he said, with a deep laugh, ‘you can miss the plane. Otherwise, see you then.’

She was about to hang up when she remembered what Rooney had said about the messages left at the office. ‘Just one thing,’ she said. ‘You haven’t been calling my answerphone at the office for any reason? Rooney says there’ve been some weird calls.’

He laughed again. ‘I’m flattered I’m the first person you thought of but, much as I miss you, the answer is no.’

After they hung up, she had another fifteen minutes of considerably less cordial conversation with an irate agent at the airline before she succeeded in rearranging her flight, but she was en route to Chicago by late afternoon.

Sonja and Arthur waited for their luggage in the terminal at Tegel, the airport at Berlin, having already enlisted the services of a porter with a trolley. They had arranged for a car to pick them up outside. Sonja got in and leaned back, closing her eyes. ‘God, I feel nervous, now that we’re actually here. I kept thinking someone was going to challenge us when we went through customs.’

‘Why would they? The paintings are at the gallery now.’ He took her hand and squeezed it. ‘We’re here, and the paintings are here, it’s nearly over. Just stay calm. We’ve already got over the most difficult part.’

‘Yes, but you’ve still got to do the deal.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Arthur said. ‘The buyers are lined up and waiting and they’ll eat right out of my hand.’

Lorraine booked into the Chicago Hyatt, where the room was pleasant and well-furnished, and called Abigail Nathan at once. Her voice sounded young, and when Lorraine explained that she was working for Mr Feinstein in connection with her son’s estate, she immediately said she was free that evening or Lorraine could call the following morning. It was already after ten and Lorraine asked if she could come at nine the next day.

She planned an early night to be refreshed and ready for Mrs Nathan, so she showered, booked an alarm call for six and went straight to bed.

Rooney let himself into Lorraine’s office and crossed to check the answerphone: the light was flashing, and the new message indicator was displaying the figure twenty-two. He replayed the messages to discover that only one was legitimate, from Feinstein. On the remainder the phone had been put down. The caller’s attempts to alarm Lorraine had, however, intensified, and there were ominous silences, sometimes heavy breathing, and, on the last, what sounded like six blasts of gunfire. This was clearly intended as a threat, and Rooney was certain that the caller believed their identity was known to Lorraine.

He picked up the plastic bags he had come to collect, turned off the lights and left the building.

Back home, Rosie was cooking up a storm, trying out a new recipe for pork tenderloin with a complicated pink sauce, and was red-faced and flustered. ‘I don’t know what I’ve done with this sauce – I put enough cornstarch in it to hang wallpaper, but it’s not thickening like it should,’ she said, waving a wooden spoon.

‘Whatever you serve up, honey, will be fine by me.’

He went to get a beer, and they jostled each other for space in the small, but well-equipped kitchen. ‘Go on, go sit down. Table’s already set,’ Rosie said, pushing Rooney away gently.

He plodded out with his beer, then turned back to her. ‘Usual creepy messages on her answerphonei,’ he said.

‘Probably Jake.’ She laughed.

‘Yeah, probably,’ he said. He was on the point of telling her about the gunshots, but decided to wait until after dinner, not wanting to spoil the meal she had taken such trouble with: Rosie worried enough about Lorraine as it was. Almost as soon as they had finished eating, however, Rosie’s former AA sponsor called and asked if she would help him out at a meeting where he needed someone to sponsor a young girl.

‘Do you mind, Bill?’ she said. ‘I know I said I’d stay home this evening, but if someone had been too busy to sponsor me, I never would have quit drinking.’

‘And you would never have been working for Lorraine and I would never have met you.’ Bill smiled. He knew that Rosie had a genuine desire to put something back into the organization that had changed her life. ‘Go on out – I’ll go through this stuff of Lorraine’s.’ She dropped a kiss on top of his head, got her coat and hurried off, with a promise not to be too late.

Left alone, Rooney spread out the catalogues and thumbed through them, looking for the painting Lorraine had mentioned. He found no record of it. He flicked through Decker’s notes of dates and times for each gallery he had visited, saddened by the task – the boy had been so organized, such a good find for the agency, and it was dreadful that he had died in such a terrible way, so young and, as his voluminous notes testified, so eager to prove himself. Rooney kept on flicking backwards and forwards, matching catalogues to Decker’s notes on the galleries, then saw something that made his blood run cold.

In Decker’s neat handwriting was a name and address – Eric Lee Judd, employee at Nathan’s art gallery. Rooney sat back and drank some beer. He couldn’t be mistaken. He knew it had been a long time, but it was a name he would never forget. When she had been drunk on duty, Lorraine Page had shot a teenager. The boy’s name had been Tommy Lee Judd.

Rooney put in a call to Jim Sharkey’s home, but he was out on a case so he left a message asking him to call. It was after nine and he wondered if it was too late – bad district to go calling on anyone late in the daytime, never mind at night, but he mulled it over, and drained his beer. To hell with it, he thought, why not? His adrenalin buzzled like old times – it was too much of a coincidence, and he wondered if he had just solved the mystery of Lorraine’s unidentified caller.

Half an hour later, Rooney was heading towards the eastern suburbs of LA, having packed a shooter – he wasn’t taking any chances. Like Decker before him, he had a hard time making out the numbers of the houses on the side-street near Adams and, like Decker too, he passed the Lee Judd bungalow and had to reverse back to it down the street. Lights blazed, so he knew someone was at home. He got out, took a good look around, locked the car and walked up the drive to the front door. He rapped hard and waited several minutes before knocking again. This time he saw the outline of a figure shuffling towards the door through the dirty glass.

‘Who is it?’

‘Bill Rooney. Mrs Lee Judd? Is that you? I’m Bill Rooney – used to be Captain Rooney, you remember me?’

The front-door chain was eased off, and she peered through, fear on her big moon face.

‘It ain’t bad news? Please, God, you ain’t come with bad news?’

‘No, Mrs Lee Judd, no bad news, not this time, but I need to talk to you.’

The door opened, and the woman looked up with frightened hazel eyes. Her dyed blonde hair showed two inches of dark root growth, and mulberry lipstick ran in rivulets round her flaccid lips. She was grotesquely overweight and her body gave off the distinctive stale smell of sweat. ‘You ain’t lying to me, are you?’

‘No, ma’am, I’m not lying, but I need to talk to you.’

Rooney stared at the photograph. The boy was wearing the jacket with the yellow stripe down the back, his face half turned towards the camera. Unlike the other children in the photograph, Tommy took after his mother and was pale-skinned, while all his brothers and sisters had the dark colouring of their father, Joshua Lee Judd.

‘Tommy’s been gone a long time now,’ she said sadly.

‘Yes, a long time, Mrs Lee Judd, but never forgotten.’

She shook her head. ‘You don’t forget a boy you’ve given birth to, no matter what he done, or what they say he done. He was my youngest, you know?’

‘I know. Can I sit down?’ he asked.

‘Sure, you want something to drink?’

‘No, nothing.’

She eased her bulk into a worn armchair, and Rooney sat opposite her.

‘So, how have you been keeping?’

‘My legs give out on me – knees all swelled up – and they say my heart’s beatin’ too hard or something, but I’m near sixty.’

There was a terrible tiredness about her, which made her seem much older.

‘How’s your family?’ Rooney asked kindly.

She sucked her teeth. ‘Joshua upped and left with some little girlfriend of his daughter’s – may the good Lord forgive him, for I sure don’t. I had six mouths to feed, and all he could think of was having his way with an eighteen-year-old. Some husband, some father.’

‘I’m sorry.’

She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Saved me from gettin’ beat on regular, and good riddance, but sometimes he could be a real sweet-hearted man – it was just the liquor turned him mean. I’ve heard he’s straightened out, got himself a regular job – not that he sends me no money – and got himself another couple of kids too, so I don’t press for payments. I know it’s takin’ from the mouths of his new family, and you always got to put them first.’

‘You’re a good mother.’

‘Yes, sir, when the good Lord takes me, he’ll know that. It’s all I was put on this earth for, ‘cos God knows I ain’t been good for much of anything but rearing kids. Losing my little Tommy hurt me bad. When they die young, they stay young.’

‘How’s all his brothers doing?’

She took a wheezy breath. ‘I got one working for a real estate outfit, suit an’ all, another in a bakery, another in prison, and I got one . . . He was going bad, but he straightened out real good. He had a job uptown.’

‘Doing what?’

‘Odd jobs. For an art gallery – hanging paintings, sweeping up, cleaning. It was permanent, but the pay wasn’t good, so he’s looking elsewhere right now.’

‘Was it the Nathan gallery?’

‘Yes, sir, but a lot of bad things happened. There was a fire and she – the lady that owned it – was killed in it, so he was out of a job. Since then he’s been looking hard.’

‘That’d be Eric?’

‘Yes, Eric, my oldest. I know he was in trouble a few times, but I swear to you, he’s a good boy now.’

‘He live at home with you?’

‘Sometimes. He got his old room, but he comes and goes. He sees I don’t go short, though. Why you come here? On account of my Eric?’ She leaned forward. ‘What you want here in my house?’

‘I’m not sure – just an answer to a few things. Did you ever meet with a guy, maybe asking questions about the gallery?’

‘No, sir.’

‘You sure about that? Only I have some notes he made and, according to them, he paid a visit to you. It’d be a while back now.’

‘No, sir, I had no one visit me.’

‘How about someone calling to see Eric?’

‘No, sir, no one has been here, I’d swear to that on the Holy Bible.’

‘Is Eric around now? Could I see him?’

‘No, he’s out right now.’

Rooney was sweating – the cluttered room was stifling hot, even though only the screen door was closed. There was no breeze from the yard, and no air-conditioning.

‘Does Eric drive?’

‘Sure he drives. He needed a clean licence for his work at the gallery, and Mrs Nathan, she provided a van for him to deliver an’ collect. He was workin’ there quite a while.’

‘Did you ever go to the gallery?’

‘Who me? No, sir, I don’t get to go no place, not with my condition.’

‘Did you ever meet Mrs Nathan?’

‘No, Lord have mercy on her, I never did. I’m praying my boy gets work soon – see, with her gone, who’s gonna give him a reference? An’ he worked a long time for that gallery.’

Rooney turned to the bank of family photographs, dominated by the large one of the dead Tommy.

‘Which is Eric?’

She smiled and pointed. ‘The sharp-lookin’ one. He always was a fancy dresser.’

Rooney stared at the picture of Eric, gold chains round his neck, leaning against a wall and smiling to reveal a gold-capped tooth. Rooney had seen a few other photographs of Eric – in police files. ‘So he’s been straight since he got out?’