Cold Shoulder (37 page)

Art Mathews had been brought in for questioning. He had attempted to run from the police, who had been about to tell him that he was not being charged with anything but was required to assist their inquiries. As they entered his new studio, though, he had dived past them, which aroused their suspicions and they gave chase. He gave himself up after an abortive run between oncoming cars, zig-zagging across the road, nearly getting himself killed. A routine search of his studio yielded a vast selection of pornography stills.

Rooney had begun to question Mathews as soon as he was brought in. He was expansive and over-talkative, as if high on drugs. He had not as yet asked for a lawyer. He admitted to mild pornography but it was not until one of the officers entered the room with a black and white photograph of Holly that the interview took an upward spiral. Art admitted knowing her; he had even taken photographs of her. Agitated and sweating, the little man tried to recall where he was on the night of her murder.

At almost every turn he incriminated himself. When he admitted that he also knew the most recent murdered transsexual, Didi, Rooney could feel the hair lift on the back of his neck. He knew they had to get legal representation for Art and fast, and suggested as much to him. If he so wished, they would be prepared to wait. Rooney had also asked for a doctor to examine him: if he was drugged up they needed to know as they would have to wait until he came down from whatever he was on.

Suddenly Art jumped up, spittle forming at the sides of his mouth. ‘This is crazy! You think I killed Holly? Why would I do a thing like that? This is all a misunderstanding.’

At no time had Rooney suggested there was any suspicion that Art was involved in the murder. He had him on selling pornographic material by his own admission. Now it seemed he was about to talk himself into being accused of murder.

As the interview swung up a notch, the tension in the room grew tighter. Rooney began to ask him about each of the victims.

‘What? Why?’ Art began to screech, his voice getting higher and higher in his agitation. ‘Why are you asking me about these women? This is insanity. You think I had anything to do with those murders? This is crazy. I’ve admitted I knew Holly, okay, I knew Didi—’

Rooney probed into Art’s business, his background, his previous criminal record. Only then did he detect the fear. Art now demanded legal representation: he would not answer any more questions. Rooney knew that most of what he had admitted might not hold up in court, especially as he had still not been checked out for drugs. He was so wired up when they brought him in, he could have confessed to any number of crimes. But Rooney was pushing, he was excited, he felt that old rush of adrenalin. Art Mathews was like a scared rabbit almost caught in a trap and Rooney was eager to snap the door shut on him. So much was riding on his gaining results, on grabbing them right under the FBI’s noses.

When Art eventually quietened, Rooney took it as a sign of guilt. It was obvious to all in the interrogation room that he had only become uncooperative when the murders were mentioned. While they waited for the lawyer to arrive, Art continued to declare his innocence. He kept rubbing his shining bald head, looking from one man to the next. ‘Just because I knew Didi and Holly doesn’t mean I’d kill them. This is some kind of frame-up. Did somebody rip you off about me? Is that what this is all about? Did some piece of shit put me in it?’

He demanded to know what time Didi had been killed, as he had been with friends the entire evening, but when told and asked where he was between nine and ten thirty he suddenly refused to say where he was or who he was with until he had a lawyer present. A doctor examined him and gave him the all-clear but suggested they give him plenty to drink as he was sweating so much from nerves.

His lawyer arrived and he was allowed a private discussion. Once that had been completed, he was faced yet again with all the questions that had been asked earlier. One of the reasons he had refused to state where he was on the night Didi died was also that he had been filming a session. Having already served time for selling pornographic videos and working with under-age kids, he was scared that he’d be charged with a similar offence. He was also becoming increasingly alarmed that details of his blackmail activities might leak out. The more he was questioned the more nervous he became. When the lists of the dead women started unfolding he became hysterical, screaming that they were setting him up, and some of the murders had happened so long ago he couldn’t remember where he had been living. He might even have been serving a sentence. Meanwhile, his new studio was being ransacked, and more pornography discovered.

He was taken down to the cells. It was almost three in the morning and both Rooney and Bean were still working. Rooney’s head ached but he was back on form, though he was sure now that Art was not their killer. He had found out that when two of the earlier murders had been committed, Art had been in jail.

When he returned to his office, Bean was waiting. ‘They still haven’t brought your informant in, this Lorraine Page.’

‘I think we’ve been wasting our time, Bean. That little bastard should be locked up but not for murder. He’s just into his porno and probably the blackmail rackets again.’

Bean threw up his hands in despair. ‘Does that mean Lorraine Page is into all that as well?’

Rooney sighed. ‘I don’t know. Maybe you should get this information ready for the suits. Lay it out on the Chief’s desk, let him see we’ve worked our butts off tonight.’

Bean took Mathews’s prison record to the FBI agents’ office and Rooney glanced at his watch. In all fairness it was too late to call Lorraine but he reckoned he wouldn’t get any sleep. He’d give it a couple more hours and call her after he’d shaved and washed.

He was running his small battery-operated shaver over his fat chin when Bean peered into the washroom. Rooney gave him a worn-out smile and clicked off the shaver. ‘I don’t suppose we just got lucky and Art Mathews admitted killing eight women and Norman Hastings?’ he asked sarcastically.

Bean ran the cold water into the basin. ‘No. Prime suspect is sobbing his heart out down there in the cells. Meanwhile his lawyer doesn’t want us to press criminal charges if he admits to what he was doing on the night of the last murder. He has already remembered where he was when Holly was murdered and this you’re not gonna believe.’

‘Try me,’ Rooney said heavily.

‘Art Mathews was working in that gallery right next to your Indian curry place. He worked there until late, all night, and Lorraine Page is one of his alibis.’

Rooney stared at his reflection. Bean dried his hands on the roller towel. ‘Any money the FBI’ll release him on bail, he’ll get locked up for a few years for his porno trade. Been a long night for nothing. Pity we don’t have something — there’s press outside. Somebody tipped them off we got a suspect.’

Rooney hitched up his pants. ‘Yeah, maybe the same person who tipped us off about Art Mathews. I’m going to call that two-faced bitch now.’

Bean followed Rooney down the corridor. ‘You know they got Andrew Fellows coming in to talk to the FBI later this morning? Maybe you should hang around — canteen’ll be open soon.’

Rooney had been about to call Lorraine even though it was only five thirty. He changed his mind. He didn’t give a shit if he woke her up or not. He was gonna go one better and do it personally. As he drove out of the station yard, he watched two new patrol cars pulling in with the FBI men all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed even if they had been hauled out of their beds at this ungodly hour. He drove away, his anger mounting. Art Mathews had been another of Lorraine’s theories. She had been partly right: he
had
known Holly and Didi, but he had no connection with Steven Janklow. There was no record on him in Vice. Rooney might even force her to give him back his dough. Maybe he’d have her hauled in, spill it about her being the witness they’d been searching for. He’d like to grab her by her scrawny throat and strangle her. He was through, period. The more he drove, the angrier he became. As he headed towards Lorraine’s apartment, he was ready to explode. He really needed to sound off at somebody so it might as well be her! The two-faced, lying whore.

Rosie shot out of bed when the doorbell rang. She grabbed a robe and scuttled to the door. Lorraine was sitting up on the sofa yawning. ‘What time is it?’

‘Six o’clock in the morning! Who the hell is ringing the bell at this time?’

Rosie opened the door and stepped back. Rooney was leaning against the doorframe. He looked past Rosie to Lorraine. ‘I’m gonna arrest you.’

Lorraine drew a cardigan around her nightdress. ‘Arrest me? Why, for chrissakes?’

He sauntered in. ‘Art Mathews, sweetheart. You were with him the night the…’ He couldn’t remember Holly’s name. ‘You were with him the night she was murdered, you’re his fucking alibi.
You!’

Lorraine filled a tumbler with water and drank it straight down. ‘Is that why you sent cops here? Did you do that to me?’

Rooney tossed his hat aside. ‘Be the FBI wanting you next, sweetheart, time’s up.’

She faced him in a fury. ‘Did you tell them about me? Bill, did you tell them I was attacked?’

‘You know I didn’t but I sure as hell intend to because you are full of bullshit and you’ve lied to me right along the way. When I tried to help you out, all you did was lie.’

Lorraine glared at him. ‘They still holding Mathews?’

‘Far as I know. Maybe you were mistaken about this Janklow and maybe it was Mathews attacked you in the gallery when you were working together, hanging up pictures, the night Holly died.’

She sighed. ‘That’s stupid. He’s right-handed.’

‘What?’

‘Art Mathews is right-handed. The guy who attacked me was left-handed, according to all the forensic and pathology reports and even the reports from Andrew Fellows. The killer is left-handed, opens the glove compartment with his right, holds their heads down with his left…’

Rooney looked at her, then turned away. ‘Get dressed. We’re out of here.’

‘No. You sit right where you are.’

He pouted and then tugged a bottle of bourbon out of his pocket. He slowly unscrewed the cap and took a heavy pull. He dangled the bottle towards Lorraine.

Rosie eyed it and then eyed Lorraine. She was walking towards it.

Rooney watched Lorraine. ‘Want a drink?’

Lorraine snatched the bottle and marched to the sink, about to pour it down the drain, when the smell suddenly hit her. She wanted a drink, everything started to crystallize, all she could think of was reaching for a glass and drinking. She didn’t care about Art Mathews or Steven Janklow, she wanted a drink. She slowly lifted the bottle to her lips, closing her eyes in anticipation.

‘Don’t do it, Lorraine.’ It was Rooney. ‘Chuck it out, don’t do it. I’m sorry, Here, Lorraine, give it to me.’

Rooney had to prise her hands away from the bottle. It shocked him, made him feel wretched. He leaned on the sink pouring the booze away, as Lorraine tried to wrest the bottle from him. He turned on the taps so the water splashed into the sink and over him. ‘Shit. I’m soaking wet.’

‘Aren’t we all?’ snapped Lorraine. ‘Old washed-up soaks,’ she said as she took down coffee cups. ‘I suppose it’s black coffee all round?’

There was a sudden hard tap at the front door. Rosie went to open it but Rooney stopped her. He peered out of the window and told Lorraine to get into the bedroom. She obeyed immediately, closing the door behind her as the front door was tapped hard again.

‘Don’t say anything,’ Rooney said quietly to Rosie. ‘Just leave this to me.’

The two officers framed in the doorway asked for Lorraine Page. Rosie held the door wider to reveal Rooney standing in the centre of the room with a cup of coffee in his hand. They seemed fazed by his presence and made no move to enter the room.

‘Captain Rooney.’

‘You come to pick her up?’

They nodded, and one passed him a warrant for Lorraine’s arrest.

‘I’ll hang on to this. I’m staying put until she shows. Go back to base. Soon as I got her I’ll call in.’

Rooney pocketed the warrant, carried his coffee towards the sofa, and sat down. ‘Unless you want to hang around here.’

‘We’ll leave it to you, Captain.’

A few moments later Lorraine came out of the bedroom. She leaned against the doorframe, looking at the squat Rooney. ‘Why did you do that, Bill?’

‘Christ only knows, I must be nuts.’

She cradled her coffee cup in her hands and sat in the easy chair opposite him while Rosie hovered, uncomfortable and ill-at-ease with them.

‘I’m sorry for bringing the booze in,’ Rooney said.

‘That’s okay,’ and Rosie wandered to her bedroom, feeling in the way.

‘She seems a nice woman,’ Rooney said.

‘Rosie’s great.’ Lorraine got up for a refill. She leaned over the back of the sofa towards Rooney. ‘You wanna hear my developments? What ‘I’ve come up with this evening?’

He wanted to say no but he didn’t. Instead he let her talk without interruption, listening intently as she pieced together her talk with Nula, then her meeting with Craig Lyall.

Lorraine’s face was expressionless as she explained clearly, emotionlessly, what had happened when she had been attacked. She described walking up to the car, how he had driven her to the parking space, how she had fought him, bitten hard into his neck, hung on for her life as he tried to push her away from him. He was strong, she said. The grip on her hair had been like a vice, and it had taken all her strength to lever up her body to turn and bite. She was sure if they hadn’t been disturbed by the Summerses, she would have been dead. She then told Rooney that she had also taken Norman Hastings’s wallet.

Rooney closed his eyes and kept them closed. He was scared that if he opened them he’d charge at her like a mad bull with fury.

There’s something else. At first I didn’t think it was important. It was his cufflinks. They had a logo. I didn’t think it was important until I saw the same logo on a letterhead. At my husband’s place — Mike, you remember Mike? He has nothing to do with this, I know that, but it gave me the first clue to the killer.’