Cold Heart (47 page)

The net was closing, and Lorraine felt an almost ungovernable impulse to follow Sonja to Europe and run her to earth. She would have to act immediately – but the thought of telling Jake that she had to make just this one trip, follow this one lead, pushing his patience and understanding yet again was too much for her. She knew that next time he saw her, he wanted to give her a ring and make their engagement public. Suddenly she wanted nothing more than to see him, Rosie, Rooney, Tiger. She had been away too long.

S
ONJA STOOD in one of the airy, vaulted halls of the Hamburger Bahnhof in Berlin, the former railway station that had been stunningly restored as an art gallery. All the pieces she had executed during the past seven years were placed around her. People stood sipping drinks in front of them, but even more were gathered before her latest work, a huge rectangular structure draped in a black cloth, which was to be unveiled later in the evening. She scanned the unmistakably prosperous but vapid-looking crowd as she waited for Arthur to come back with her drink, and reflected that art snobs were the same all over the world.

Arthur returned with a glass of champagne for her just as she observed the two organizers of the exhibition bearing down on her. ‘Arthur, I think I’m about to be carried off.’

He knew that she wanted him to go and, glancing at his watch, saw that it was almost time for him to pick up the car that would take him to Kreuzberg.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’m afraid I have to run. Good luck, Sonja.’

Outside, the car was waiting, and Arthur switched his mind to the negotiations, which had been complex, though on the surface not illegal – none of the paintings he was about to sell were known to be stolen, none had been reported as such. By the time that happened he and Sonja would be long gone, and if the Japanese buyer he had lined up took the bulk, he wouldn’t care. In Japan if a buyer of a painting could prove ownership for two consecutive years, the work became irrecoverably his or hers, and could be shown with impunity. This evening’s sale had taken years of planning, years of secret meetings and hours of his time forging the artists’ work. It was his own work now that he was thinking about: if this deal came off he would have the rest of his life to paint in luxury. If it went wrong, then he might spend it in prison. Either way, he mused, he’d be able to paint.

Because California time was two hours behind Chicago, it was only mid-afternoon when Lorraine got back to LA. She went straight to her office, eager to check Decker’s research, but it wasn’t until she was there that she remembered Rooney had it. She dialled Feinstein’s number. To her irritation, he was in court, so she left a message. Next she called Rosie and Rooney, and left a message asking Rooney to bring Decker’s carrier bags to her apartment as soon as he could.

At that moment Rosie and Rooney were with Jake Burton in his office. He had listened intently to everything Rooney had to say about Eric Lee Judd.

He had warmed immediately to the couple, knowing how highly Lorraine regarded them. ‘Did she mention anything to either of you about her brake cables being cut and that someone broke into her office?’

They shook their heads.

‘Well, whoever it was did some damage – didn’t steal anything but made their presence known by using acid to destroy some tapes.’ He shrugged. ‘Could be whoever it was had been hired by one of the suspects and discovered something else in the office.’

‘Like what?’ Rooney interjected, leaning forward.

‘That it was someone from her past who knew her, had a grudge against her,’ Burton said.

Rooney looked to Rosie. ‘I said there was some kind of hidden agenda, didn’t I?’

Rosie was chewing her lip. She felt very uneasy. ‘Do you think Lorraine knows?’ she asked Burton.

‘No, I don’t, but she must be told. Have you any idea when she’ll be back from Chicago?’

Rosie tried to recall exactly what Lorraine had said when they had last spoken. ‘I’m sure she said she’d be back in LA this evening.’ She looked up as Burton eased from his chair. He cracked his knuckles. He was obviously worried.

‘Is she in danger?’ Rosie asked.

‘Not for the moment but, all the same, I want you to go back to your apartment in case she makes contact. In the meantime, I’ll check out this Eric Lee Judd, maybe get someone to monitor what he’s up to.’ Burton put an arm around Rooney. ‘I appreciate all you’re doing for Lorraine, but don’t worry, I won’t let any harm come to her.’

Rooney coughed and stuck out his hand, which Burton clasped. ‘I wasn’t sure about you, not at first, but . . . we also appreciate everything you’ve done for our girl. She’s very special.’

‘Yes, I know,’ Burton said softly.

As he closed the door behind the Rooneys he stood in the centre of the room. He could feel an ominous tug in the pit of his belly because just the thought of any harm coming to Lorraine made him realize again how much he loved her and wanted to protect her.

It was almost six when Lorraine was dropped outside her apartment, paid off the cab, and checked all her luggage and parcels. She had quite a few, plus the painting from Nick Nathan, so her hands were full as she opened the street door and climbed the stairs. The apartment door was ajar, and she smiled, sure that Rosie was inside. She called her friend’s name as she pushed open the door with her case. ‘Rosie? Are you here? Rosie?’

She put down the briefcase containing the phone records Abigail Nathan had given her, her overnight bag and painting, and turned to close the door. She didn’t see or even hear her assailant, as the blow to the right side of her head had such force it lifted her off the ground. She tried to roll away, curling her body against the blows that continued to thud into her. One slammed into the small of her back and it felt as if her kidneys were exploding. She straightened out with a scream of agony, but the blows kept on coming, no matter which way she tried to fend them off. She couldn’t tell if she was being kicked or punched. The pain was so vivid it was as if she was on fire. She couldn’t cry out, she had no strength, and the last blow to the side of her head rendered her unconscious. Lorraine had not even glimpsed her attacker, who now, out of some reflex instinct for robbery, rapidly searched through her overnight bag. He found nothing of value, and as the briefcase was locked, he took it, throwing it into the back of his car before he drove off.

She lay motionless, face down, her battered body twisted like a broken doll, blood forming a dark pool around her head.

Sonja waited for the applause to subside as she stood on the small podium at the front of the gallery. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ she said, ‘first of all I would like to thank the board of this exciting new treasure house of contemporary art,’ she turned to smile at the two women behind her, ‘for the honour they have done me in asking me to open the series of shows dedicated to living women working in sculpture. This will, however, be an occasion of endings as well as beginnings,’ she went on, ‘because as well as inaugurating a chapter in the work of this great new gallery, this evening will mark the end of my career.’ She delivered the words in clear, ringing tones, knowing that they would take everyone present by surprise. ‘My work has been my tyrant, my torturer, and it has come close to being my murderer,’ she went on. ‘It did not exorcize and transform the dark parts of myself, it fed and magnified them, and it has left me to live with the result, which is what I, and the man who has been brave – or foolish – enough to make a commitment to me, now intend to do.’

Somehow it was the mention of Arthur, of her private life, that turned the murmuring and head-shaking to hissing and booing: Sonja looked at the audience with the gaze of a heretic, hearing the crackle of her reputation burning around her.

Rosie was first up the steps. She knew something was wrong: Tiger was barking and yelping frantically, running from the open front door to the apartment and back inside. Rosie called Lorraine’s name, but when she made it to the top of the steps she started to scream.

Lorraine lay slumped by the side of the front door, her face unrecognizable. Her shirt and shoulders were soaked in blood, which had sprayed up the walls and splashed over the door, and formed a puddle beside her head. Rooney pushed her out of the way and knelt down beside Lorraine, feeling for the pulse on her neck, then her wrist, shouting instructions to his wife to call the emergency services. He could feel only a faint throbbing, so faint that at first he had thought Lorraine was dead. ‘She’s alive – get me blankets, hurry. Are they on their way?’

Rosie was weeping, nodding, running into the bedroom. Rooney had to knock Tiger out of the way as he tried to get to Lorraine, then growled at him. He had to shout to Rosie to get the dog out of the room.

Rosie rode with Lorraine in the ambulance to the nearest hospital, St John’s in Santa Monica, and Rooney followed behind in his car. He felt icy cold, shaken to the core, and he doubted that Lorraine would survive.

Jake had to sit down, his whole body shaking. It was some time before he could speak. ‘How bad is it?’

Rooney wanted to weep, but gritted his teeth. ‘She’s hurt real bad. She’s in a coma and they’ve taken her into Intensive Care.’ He swallowed as the tears welled up. ‘It’s bad, Jake, real bad. They don’t think she’s gonna make it.’

‘I’ll be with you in ten, fifteen minutes depending on the traffic’

Jake let the phone drop back onto the cradle. His body felt stiff and his mind blank. He was unable to take in what Rooney had said. He made himself go over the call again, then picked up his coat like a robot, and walked out. She was not going to die, he told himself. She was going to be all right.

Rosie handed Rooney a cup of coffee from the machine and sat close, resting against him. ‘She’s going to be all right, isn’t she?’

‘Yes.’ He sipped the lukewarm excuse for coffee. ‘She’s as strong as an ox. She’s gonna be okay.’ But his words sounded hollow. Rosie’s tears trickled down her face. They had been waiting for news, any news, for fifteen minutes.

Jake walked in, his features drawn and frightened. ‘How is she?’

Rooney stood up, offering his hand. ‘We don’t know – they told us to wait here.’

‘You want to tell me what happened?’

‘We don’t know. We got to her apartment and found her. At first I didn’t think she was alive – she’d taken one hell of a beating. He used a baseball bat, left it by the door.’

‘Who did you call?’

‘Local guys, Pacific Area Homicide. They were on the spot within minutes, so were the paramedics. They brought her into Accident and Emergency to get her blood matched for a transfusion, and did some X-rays.’

Jake sat down and clasped his hands. ‘You get a name? Someone I can talk to?’

Rooney wiped his face with his hand. ‘Yeah, officer said his name was Larry Morgan.’

‘I’ll go call him.’

Jake was gone for several minutes. When he came back there was an almost pleading expression on his face – begging for news, good news, but there had been none. He sat down beside Rooney. ‘They’ve taken the baseball bat for finger-printing, and they also got some bloody shoe-prints, some kind of sneaker. It looks like he broke in and was lying in wait – they found some screwed-up cans of Coke by the bed, as if he’d been waiting for her in the bedroom.’

Rosie said, ‘I was there yesterday. I watered the plants, and there were no Coke cans then. I’d have seen them, put them in the trash can.’

There was an awful silence, as all three sat staring straight ahead.

‘I’ve put out a warrant for this Lee Judd guy’s arrest,’ Jake said softly.

‘Good,’ Rooney said.

‘You think it was him?’ Jake asked, frowning.

We’ll soon find out. They get prints off the Coke cans?’

‘Too early yet – it’ll take a couple of days.’ Jake got up, then sat down again.

Rosie took out a tissue and blew her nose. She had been crying off and on ever since she found Lorraine. No sooner did she get a grip on herself than the tears poured down her cheeks again.

Rooney lit a cigarette, ignoring a prominent ‘No Smoking’ sign. He leaned forward with his elbows resting on his knees, inhaling deeply and hissing out the smoke. He could think of nothing more to say to Jake, could think only about the lady he had grown to love and admire so much, sure that this couldn’t be the end: life couldn’t be that cruel.

Jake sat straight-backed, gripping the arm of the grey airport-style armchair, still in shock, still unable to believe that he might lose the woman he felt it had taken him his whole life to find.

The three sat in silence, but all with the same hope, that Lorraine would live. They were each wrapped in their own thoughts and memories of her, knowing there was nothing they could do but wait. That was the worst part of it all – the awful waiting, and the helplessness.

‘Perhaps I’m addressing myself particularly to other women artists,’ Sonja said. She had to raise her voice to be heard over the critical rumblings from the crowd gathered around the podium. ‘The relationship of art to life is a complex one, on which wiser commentators and greater artists than myself have expended a considerable amount of thought. Whatever else is true of art, it is true that its practice changes the nature of one’s relations with other people – and I think it deprives those relations of precisely the qualities of equality and repicrocity which women, in particular, cherish as ideal. For those reasons I think some women artists are not kept out of art by hostile conspiracies, but choose to remove themselves from it – as I now choose myself.’

The room erupted into chaos: Sonja’s face had returned to mask-like impassivity, and she stood motionless on the podium, as people continued to shout, jeer, and hurl incoherent questions at her.

As she turned to descend the steps, the crowd parted with ill grace to allow her to pass. She made her way to where her latest work was waiting to be unveiled. Taking a deep breath, she turned back to face the crowd.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Sonja said, ‘I consider art to be a sort of second-hand synthesis and simulacrum of other more truly destructive arts, acts in real life, of which the artist is also the author.’ She finished quickly before the reaction to her words set in. ‘That is certainly the case with this piece, my last, entitled
Quietus Est
, which I present to you now.’