Cold Shoulder (31 page)

Rooney had been waiting outside Mrs Hastings’s house for fifteen minutes. She was not in but, according to a neighbour, was probably taking her daughters to school so would not be long. He took another few swigs of bourbon, screwed on the cap tightly, then unwrapped another peppermint. He settled back, reached for one of the newspapers he had bought and broke wind loudly as he glared at the front page.

Mrs Hastings finally returned. She parked her car in the drive and carried a bag of groceries inside. Rooney figured he’d wait a while longer before paying his visit. He looked into his driving mirror and saw Lorraine walking up the road. She paused as if checking she had the correct address. As she walked past his car, Rooney lowered the window. ‘Morning,’ he said loudly.

When she saw it was Rooney Lorraine said, ‘Hi, I was going to talk to Mrs Hastings.’

‘I’ll come in with you.’

Rooney saw her hesitate and then, ‘Fine, but maybe I can get more out of her without you.’

‘You seen this morning’s paper? It’s not public yet but it wasn’t a she, it was a he — or an it, according to the pathologist. That’s why I came here — thought I’d have another go at Mrs Hastings.’

Lorraine didn’t react to the information. This was the moment she should have discussed Janklow but she didn’t.

‘Says they got a suspect in custody.’

‘Brendan Murphy, husband of one of the victims. The suits have arrived. They brought him in from Detroit. I’ve not even had access to him yet but…’

‘But?’

‘It’s not him, I know it. Let’s talk to Mrs Hastings.’

‘Let me try before you, Bill. You been checking out that vintage car garage?’

‘I got two guys on it this morning.’

She could smell liquor on his breath. ‘You okay?’

He shook his head. ‘Nah, they gave me the fucking kiss-off this morning. Well, until the FBI are ready to roll. They want me for a briefing later today.’

Lorraine straightened. ‘You mind if I say something, Bill? It’s just that I can smell the booze — that and peppermints. If I was you, I’d grab a cup of coffee. Mrs Hastings sounds like the type of woman who’d report you and you don’t want to give the FBI a rope to swing you on…’

Rooney swore and cupped his hands round his mouth, blowing into them. His jowled face wobbled childishly. ‘Okay, I’ll be back in fifteen. I’ll grab a bite to eat. If you’re through wait for me on the roadside.’

He found a deli about four blocks along and parked the car. As he waited for his order he thought how incongruous it was for Lorraine to be telling him to sober up. He’d always been a heavy drinker but now he was drinking more during working hours than he ever had. He wondered if that was the way Lorraine had started. She’d had marital problems but, then, so did all the men. He dreaded the thought of being retired and at home with his wife. It gave him nightmares, as she wittered on about them getting a trailer and travelling round the country. He could think of nothing worse. He couldn’t recall the last time he had taken his wife out to dinner, or, for that matter, when he had taken her anywhere. He became more and more despondent as he ploughed through his breakfast. Everything he did revolved around his station, his men, and now it was going to end. Pushing these morose thoughts out of his mind, he tried to concentrate on the case. He wondered why Lorraine had wanted him to check out the vintage car garage. Did she have something for him, something she’d held back? She hadn’t made it sound important, but in the old days Lorraine always kept her cards close to her chest. He’d reprimanded her about it, reminding her that she was not a one-woman agent but part of a team. He remembered her snapping back at him, saying the day the men treated her as part of the team, she would work with them. She had put him down hard and fast because at that time she held a higher rank. It had always needled him, needled a lot of men, that she had gained her stripes before them.

‘You got a problem with the men?’ he could see himself leaning against his old wooden desk as she stood straight-backed in front of him. ‘You want to make a complaint?’

‘No complaints, but if one of them sends me out on any more fucking wild goose chases with that Merton, who wants to open fire on any kid he sees within ten yards of him, then I will. He’s a lousy back-up, he’s in need of treatment and everyone on this unit knows it.’

Rooney had promised to look into it but he never did. Even when the shoot-out happened and she was almost killed he had not given her anyone decent. Just suggested she take a refresher course at the shooting training gallery.

‘I’m the crack shot, Bill. I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t and neither would my partner. It’s him that needs a refresher course.’

Lorraine had taken two weeks off for further training and her ex-partner died in a shoot-out the next time he was called out. Maybe she’d been right but no one ever bothered to make an official inquiry. Officer Colin Merton was given a posthumous medal for bravery and Lorraine a new partner. Rooney had expected fireworks from John Lubrinski when he’d been told he was to partner a woman but he’d said nothing. He wondered if it was Lubrinski that had started Lorraine on her drinking sessions. The two of them were always in the bars together, Lubrinski a famous hard drinker, and it was rumoured that she was matching him. It was Lubrinski who nicknamed her Hollow Legs.

They were partners for three years. When he was injured in cross-fire, she’d made a tourniquet round his leg with her tights. He’d taken three bullets, one in his thigh, one in his shoulder and a third in his stomach. It was the last that had killed him. She had returned to duty the next week and had never spoken about Lubrinski until the internal investigation, He, too, received a posthumous award and she gained a commendation, which many of the men opposed, insinuating that, had the officer had one of them as back-up instead of a woman, they would still be alive. She had never complained or asked for an easier assignment or taken up the offer of a few weeks’ compassionate leave. She had gone straight back to work and remained on the same beat for another year. Rooney wondered if perhaps she had begun drinking alone then. Then, at her own request, she was moved from Vice to the Drug Squad. Six months later she had shot the kid. No one ever knew what she had felt on that night or why she had been drinking.

Rooney pushed his half-eaten ham and eggs across the table. For the first time he felt guilty that he, like everyone else, had given Lorraine the cold shoulder. He decided that, even though it was too late, he would talk it through with her. Maybe because he himself felt as if he could finish his bottle of bourbon and not care that he was on duty. He was past caring and he wondered if she had felt that way all those years ago. Angry. In some ways they were similar because he had never complained; he was the man who had always drummed into his officers, get on with the job no matter how tough, never complain, complaints are for losers. It didn’t matter if they were male or female, nobody deserved any favours. If they couldn’t take it then they weren’t tough enough to gain respect. Nobody respected him now, he reckoned, and nobody had respected Lorraine Page.

‘My name is Lorraine Page,’ she said to a nervous Mrs Hastings. ‘I wonder if I could come in and talk to you for a few moments, to iron out a few things about the inquiry into your husband’s murder. It won’t take long.’

Sitting in the living room, Lorraine was relaxed and complimentary about the neat house, calming Mrs Hastings’s nerves.

‘I’ve told that detective Rooney everything. I just can’t understand what more there is to discuss. This only makes it worse, these constant questions.’

Lorraine opened her file and smiled. ‘Well, let’s get this over with as fast as possible, shall we?’

She asked if Norman Hastings had ever owned a vintage car, or used a garage in Santa Monica, which specialized in imported vehicles. She went through the different makes of car to see if Mrs Hastings reacted, but the woman shook her head and said that her husband could never have afforded anything so expensive. Lorraine asked if he owned a car before they were married.

‘Yes, of course, but I’ve no idea what kind it was.’ Lorraine said nothing, seemingly more interested in her file. ‘I’ve got a photograph of it, I think,’ Mrs Hastings added.

Lorraine looked up and smiled encouragingly. ‘Can I see it?’

Mrs Hastings left the room and Lorraine took out the photographs she and Rosie had taken. She then made a quick drawing on a blank sheet of paper. Mrs Hastings returned with a photograph album and began to sift through the pages until she found what she was looking for. ‘I think that’s it. ‘I’ve no idea what make it was and I’m sure it wasn’t one of the cars you mentioned.’

Lorraine looked at the snapshot taken in 1979, the date neatly printed below the photograph. Norman Hastings, in shirt sleeves, stood beside the car. It was a low sports car, a British-made Morgan — and, by the look of it, quite an old model.

‘Do you have any idea where he bought it?’

Mrs Hastings shook her head again. She had never seen it.

‘Your husband was a few years older than you,’ Lorraine observed, about to turn the album page, but Mrs Hastings took it back.

‘Yes, fifteen, but we were happy.’ She hesitated. ‘I suppose you know about Norman’s little problem. I told that man Rooney.’

‘I don’t think we need discuss it. You were brave to tell Captain Rooney about it — it must have been very distressing.’

Lorraine passed over her drawing. ‘This isn’t very good but I wondered if your husband owned a pair of cufflinks like these? They could be gold or silver but with that distinct S and A logo in the centre.’

Mrs Hastings looked at the picture. ‘They’re silver, but the chain’s broken.’

‘Do you still have them?’

She left the room again and Lorraine leaned back in the sofa. Next she wanted Mrs Hastings to look at the photographs. It was going well but the woman was tricky, nervous and jumpy. Lorraine wanted her nice and calm. The cufflinks were still in their little cardboard box and one was broken. Lorraine examined the links, then looked at the box. No date, just the same logo and the Santa Monica address.

‘What do you want to see these for?’ Mrs Hastings asked.

Lorraine replaced the cufflinks, shut the box. ‘We may have a possible link to the killer. We think he was wearing something similar. Can I keep these?’

Mrs Hastings agreed. She was beginning to pluck at her dress in agitation. ‘Will it all come out? About Norman?’

Lorraine put the box into her purse. ‘I doubt it. I always think personal details that have no connection to the case should not be released to the press, especially if the family have requested them not to be.’

Mrs Hastings clasped Lorraine’s wrist. ‘Oh, thank you. ‘I’ve been so worried — the children — then there’s Norman’s parents and his friends at work.’

‘He was an engineer, wasn’t he?’

‘Yes, yes, he was, for ice-boxes and domestic appliances.’

‘Did he work on his car engines?’

‘He could repair anything from a toaster to a car. The neighbours were always asking him to fix things and he was such a kind man, he’d never say no.’

Lorraine used the opening and showed the photograph of Janklow. ‘Did he ever help this man out?’

‘I couldn’t tell, there’s not all his face there, but I don’t think so.’

Lorraine showed the second picture, each one taken at the S and A garage. Mrs Hastings looked at one after the other and then tapped one. ‘This one. He came here once to talk to Norman about his car.’

Then she showed the photo of the white Mercedes driven by Janklow in blonde wig and make-up. Mrs Hastings glanced at it. ‘I don’t know her.’

‘Have you ever seen the car?’

Mrs Hastings took the photograph and stared at it. ‘I don’t know, a lot of people came to see him. As I said, he was always helping people out.’

‘It’s a Mercedes sports car, drop head. It would also have a hard top. Maybe you saw it with that on?’

Mrs Hastings frowned. ‘I don’t know. There’s something familiar about it, it’s difficult to say. What colour is the hard-topped hood?’

Lorraine took a chance, reckoning if the body was white maybe the roof was too.

‘Well, no, I remember a similar car out in the drive once but it had a black top, sort of dipped.’

Lorraine began to put away the photographs, still relaxed. ‘Did you see who was driving it? Who it belonged to?’

‘No, they were in the garage out in the yard. Norman used to keep odd spare parts out there so that was another reason why he had so many people coming round. He’d charge them — just expenses, it was his hobby but I hated it. It made his hands all dirty, and oil on everything.’

Lorraine stood up and smiled. ‘Thank you very much. You’ve been very helpful, and I really appreciate it. Would you mind if I come back if I get a better photograph of the man in the Mercedes?’

‘No, I don’t mind. In fact, I haven’t minded talking to you at all.’

Rooney was just drawing up when he saw Lorraine walk out. She waved to Mrs Hastings and he saw her glance towards his car. He opened the passenger door as Mrs Hastings shut her front door and Lorraine got in beside him. ‘I’d stay clear of her — she’s nervous, more worried about her husband’s “little problem”, as she calls it, getting out to the press than she is about the murder.’

Rooney sniffed. ‘You got anything for me?’

‘I might have a suspect but until I’m sure I’d prefer to do a bit more digging around — maybe in a few days.’

‘I need anything you’ve got now. I don’t have a few days.’

She pursed her lips. ‘Give me until the end of the day. I also need anything you’ve got on the latest victim.’

‘I told you all I’ve got. Until they’ve finished the tests, that’s it. She was a man and her last meal was banana bread.’ She had her hand on the door ready to leave when he said, ‘You and Lubrinski, were you an item?’

‘Why do you want to know?’

‘I’m just trying to figure you out.’

‘Bit late for that, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah, I know. I was just mulling things over, and I started to think about him, he was a great guy.’