Cold Shoulder (34 page)

Lorraine waited, half wanting Janklow to turn round so that she could see his face but not wanting him to catch sight of her. He was wearing a pale blue linen jacket, white slacks and sandals. Slim, immaculate, his hair cut short and tight to his head — blondish-brown hair — just as she remembered. Steven Janklow was the man who had attacked her, she was sure of it. If only she could get a good look at his face.

Hunter appeared at the showroom doors. ‘We’ve a customer who wants a trial drive, Mr Janklow. It’s the Silver Cloud but we’ve already got someone that asked if we’d contact them if it looked like we’d got a sale.’

Janklow walked slowly towards him and Lorraine pressed closer to the wall. They were about to enter the building, Hunter stepping aside to allow Janklow to go in ahead, when Hunter saw her and waved. ‘I won’t be a moment, Mrs Page, I’m sorry to keep you waiting.’ As soon as they disappeared, Lorraine hurried along the wide lane, past the Mercedes, to the road, hoping that Janklow’s attention would be on the customers.

As Janklow was walking towards the Japanese customers, Hunter mentioned that the police had been to speak to him that morning about Norman Hastings. He added, ‘There’s another insurance broker, or something to do with Hastings’s car, here. She was in my office but I just saw her outside. She wanted to know about Hastings parking his car in the hangar.’

Hunter was used to Janklow’s mood changes but he was stunned when the man pushed past him and walked back out the way they had come in.

‘What about the Silver Cloud, Mr Janklow?’

Janklow’s fists were clenched as he strode along the corridor to Sheena’s office and opened the door. She gave a nervous smile at the sight of him. ‘Where is this woman from the insurance company?’ he demanded.

‘She just left me, Mr Janklow.’

‘What did she want?’

Sheena swallowed. ‘Same as the other two officers. She was making inquiries about vehicles we allowed to be parked in the hangar.’

Janklow picked up the log book. ‘Did you get her name?’

‘I presumed Mr Hunter must have. She was interviewing him this morning.’

‘What do you mean, interviewing?’

‘Well, just talking to him. I don’t know what he said or anything. I was only doing what I was told, Mr Janklow.’

He walked out and into his own office, banging down the heavy book in a fury. He then rang through to the showroom.

Hunter was turning the engine over, the Japanese looking on with interest, when the phone went. Hunter excused himself and went to answer it. Janklow seemed hysterical, screaming for him to get into his office immediately. He didn’t care if they had customers, he wanted to speak to Hunter this second. If he valued his job he would get himself over there. Before Hunter could reply the phone was banged down.

Lorraine ran towards Rosie and climbed in beside her.

‘Thanks a lot, I’ve been roasting alive out here. Have you any idea how long I’ve been waiting? I’ve been round the block four times and I’m dying of thirst.’

Lorraine told Rosie to get out of sight of S and A. She hit the dashboard with her fist. ‘I’ve got him, Rosie, I know he did it. Maybe he did them all but I’m damned sure for one that Janklow killed Norman Hastings. We got an A-l suspect for Rooney.’

Rooney was sweating in spite of the chill of his air-conditioned office. He expected the FBI any minute to talk to him and the rest of the day would be spent discussing the murders, and his lack of progress. He’d finished the bottle of bourbon, his nose was redder than ever and his eyes were bloodshot. Bean put a large mug of black coffee and a packet of peppermints in front of him. Rooney had seemed less than interested in the new victim; he’d merely glanced at the reports and photographs. ‘What was she? Man, woman or what?’ Rooney muttered.

‘A transsexual prostitute. It’s in the report, happened last night around ten thirty.’

The only thing different about this one was that she had been hammered to the side of the head first, and had no rear scalp wound but multiple facial injuries. It had not yet been ascertained if the weapon was the same as that used in the previous murders.

‘Any witnesses?’ Rooney asked.

‘Nope. She or he was seen on the streets, then said she was going to have a break because she’d got something wrong with her right foot.’

‘That it?’

Bean nodded.

‘Well, let these smart-alecks sort it. Any sign of them yet?’

‘Due any time. They went out for lunch. Oh, you wanted a low-key inquiry run off at the S and A garage about the workers. Well, it’s all here. Hastings’s car was parked there in a hangar but he removed it the day before he was killed. He used it as a free parking lot — he knew the management. Place belongs to the Thorburns.’ Bean tweaked two fingers up when he said the name. ‘You want to take it further?’

‘If his fuckin’ car wasn’t parked there on the day he died then it’s not much use to us, is it?’

The phone rang and Rooney motioned for Bean to leave. Out of the corner of his eye, Bean saw Rooney swivel round to face the wall behind him, the report of the morning’s interviews at S and A left untouched on his desk. He hoped Rooney would get his act together before the FBI grilled him. He looked shot and stank of liquor.

Lorraine was using a public call box.

‘You got something for me?’ Rooney snapped.

‘Yeah, but I don’t want to discuss it over the phone.’

‘Dunno if I can get away. There’s been another one.’ He gave Didi’s real name and that she was a transsexual prostitute. ‘She was in the car like the others, similar head wounds. Car was reported stolen a few hours after we found it.’

‘When did it happen?’ she asked bluntly.

‘Last night, around ten. Nicknamed Didi. You ever heard the name?’

They agreed to meet in an hour and a half’s time at Rooney’s favourite Indian restaurant. Just as he picked up the reports, the phone rang again. He was required in the Chief’s office. The FBI were waiting.

Lorraine joined Rosie in the car. ‘Where to now, partner?’ Rosie asked.

‘Didi’s dead — one of the transsexuals you met at the gallery.’

Rosie switched on the engine and Lorraine told her to put her foot down: she was meeting Rooney but wanted to talk to Nula first.

‘You going to tell him everything?’ Rosie yelled over the noise of the car engine. ‘Only you could maybe get some more dough out of him if you got a suspect.’

Rooney slipped the knot of his tie closer to his sweat-stained collar. The Chief cracked his knuckles, waiting impatiently for an answer. ‘I don’t need this, Bill. Who the fuck did you send there?’

Rooney shifted his weight. ‘Lieutenant Bean and another officer.’

‘The complaint was about a woman.’

‘She used to be a cop and she’s been doing some work for me on the streets.’

‘This isn’t on the street, Bill, this is somebody impersonating a police officer.’ Rooney pulled at his tie again. He had no idea what Lorraine had been doing at the S and A, or why his chief was getting so hot under the collar. ‘It’s not in any report, Bill. What was she fucking doing there? That family have big connections and they’re screaming about this. I want you to go there personally, iron it out. We’ve got enough bad press as it is and I don’t intend losing my job over this.’

Rooney gave a half smile. ‘Yes, sir. They that powerful? This garage a big deal, huh?’

The Chief glared. ‘It’s the Thorburn family, old money, big money. Fucking back off them. Go on, get out.’

‘What about the suits? I thought I was having a briefing with them.’

‘Sort this out first.’

Rooney knew who the Thorburns were, not that you heard much about them nowadays but their donations to police charities were legendary. Lorraine Page had better have something for him.

Nula was distraught. Her face, devoid of make-up, looked haggard, her eyes without their false eyelashes were puffy and red from weeping. As soon as she saw Lorraine she broke down again. She wore a silk kimono and bedroom slippers. In the raw light of day the apartment was claustrophobic with its drapes and stuffed animals. Rosie hovered, finding it difficult not to stare at the overtly sexual pictures that hung on all available wall space. Lorraine fetched a glass of water and sat by Nula, holding her hand.

‘Tell me what happened.’

Nula wiped her face with a sodden tissue. ‘She used to have a number of regulars, she often stayed out all night. When she didn’t come back I thought she’d scored. It wasn’t her at the door when you phoned — it was the cops to tell me.’

‘Do you have a list of her regulars?’ Lorraine asked.

‘No, of course I don’t. Nothing was ever arranged, they’d just turn up on the streets and sometimes she used that motel Roselee, but the rooms there were getting expensive. Sometimes she brought them back here, I dunno their names. I’ve got my own clients and she’s got… Oh, God—I don’t know what I’m going to do without her.’

‘Can you describe any of her johns? Did you see any that night?’

‘
No!
She was with me one minute and then she just walked off.’

Lorraine opened the envelope. ‘Will you look at these photographs and tell me if there’s anyone you recognize?’ Nula looked at each one, sniffing and blowing her nose. Lorraine saved the blonde in the Mercedes until last. ‘What about this woman?’

Nula took the photograph. It was the only one she showed any interest in, but she shook her head.

‘Are you sure? Keep looking at it, Nula, look at the car — it’s an old Mercedes sports car. Look at the woman… is it a woman?’

Nula turned away. ‘I don’t know, I don’t
know.
I want to be left alone, please,
please
just leave me alone.’

Rosie leaned forward. ‘That car was driving along Sunset last night. Did you see Didi speak to the driver — maybe get into the car?’

Lorraine gave Rosie a discreet wink. Rosie remained silent, eyes swinging from Lorraine to Nula; she was impressed with her friend, she was hot shit.

Nula scrutinized the picture of the blonde. ‘Does this woman have something to do with Didi?’ Nula asked. ‘Do you think she had something to do with her murder?’

‘She might, but do you recognize her?’

‘No, I just said so, didn’t I?’ Nula passed the picture back.

Lorraine stood up and packed away the photographs. Nula began to sob again, burying her face in her hands.

‘We’ll let ourselves out, Nula, and I’m so sorry, really sorry.’

Nula hugged her kimono tighter around herself, the tissue in shreds now as she plucked at it with her long, painted fingernails. ‘She was the nicest person I’ve ever known. I’m all on my own now, I’ve nobody, she was my best friend. I don’t know what I’ll do. I can’t afford this place — I’ve got no money.’

‘What about Art? Do you know where you can contact him?’

‘He’s left town. We haven’t heard from him since the gallery closed. I’m not sure where he is.’

Nula waited until she heard their car driving away before she went into the bedroom and opened a drawer in the bedside table. She took out a black diary and thumbed through the pages. Just seeing Didi’s childish scrawled writing made her want to weep again but she gulped back her tears, flicking over the pages until she found what she was looking for. She went back to the hallway and picked up the phone. She pressed each digit and waited.

‘Hi, this is Art. I’m not in, but please leave me your name and number, and I’ll get back to you, okay? And wait for the tone before you leave your message.’

‘Art, it’s Nula. Will you call me? It’s very urgent. We have to talk.’

She replaced the receiver and went into the bathroom. She’d have a long perfumed soak, that would make her feel better, and she was going to feel better. But before she turned on the taps, she went into the bedroom and knelt down by the bedside table. Lifting the curtain, she opened the bottom drawer and withdrew a large, square manilla envelope. She pulled out a number of photographs, then sat back on her heels. The one she wanted was black and white, of a woman sitting on a bed, wearing a long fifties evening gown with padded shoulders, a bit like Barbara Stanwyck, of that era. She was elegant, exceptionally beautiful. He had wanted to look like her, had brought the photograph for Didi to match, and she had worked for hours on him. The wig had been on a stand for days as she had teased and set it, ready for him. He had paid a lot of money for the session and Art had taken the photographs, draping the room to his specifications, down to the flower arrangements. The blonde woman was the same as the one in the picture Lorraine had shown her. Nula didn’t panic. She slowly got to her feet and began to search through all the stacks of photographic files.

Rosie dropped Lorraine outside the Indian and drove off.

Rooney was already sitting at a table with a glass of beer. ‘This had better be good and you’d better have a fucking good reason for barging into that S and A place. What the fuck were you doing there?’

Lorraine picked up the menu, asked if he’d ordered, but he said he wasn’t hungry.

‘You run a check on the S and A employees like I asked?’ she said.

Rooney swigged his beer, banging the glass onto the table.

‘There was a vice charge against Steven Janklow. You got a record of it? Be a few years back. Picked up for pavement crawlin’, I think. He part owns the garage. His brother is Brad Thorburn.’

‘What’s your interest in him?’

Lorraine laid her hands flat on the table. ‘I think he’s your killer.’

Rooney pulled at his nose. ‘What evidence have you got?’

She rubbed her cheek. ‘I don’t, but I do know that Hastings’s car was left in their hangar.’

‘You any idea who Janklow’s family is?’

She shrugged. ‘I guess they must be important if they’ve got you running. Can you check if there was a vice charge? If there was, you can get him for questioning, see if he can account for himself over Hastings. It’s him, Bill, I’m sure.’

‘Why?’