Cold Shoulder (48 page)

Bickerstaff returned to his seat. He asked the other officer to contact Brad Thorburn. Janklow did up his shirt.

‘Did you ever use Norman Hastings’s car, Mr Janklow?’

‘Oh, I might have — yes, I did… well, not drive it. I sat in it once, and — oh, I remember it very well. I was sitting talking to Norman, and I had a dreadful nosebleed because I have a weak septum.’

‘What date would that be?’

‘I borrowed his handkerchief to stem the bloodflow. Brad saw it, because I looked dreadful, very white and shaking. So I have a witness to that as well.’

Janklow buttoned up his shirt and unbelted his trousers as he tucked in the shirt tails, giving hideous flirtatious glances round the room. ‘I did not kill anyone, I did not attack anyone, I am an innocent man, and now I would like to go home as I’m tired.’

Bickerstaff would not let up. He asked again where exactly Janklow had had the nosebleed, and on what date. Janklow yawned and said in the front seat of Hastings’s car — he’d been parking it for him in the garage.

‘What date would that have been?’

‘I have no idea, around the sixteenth, I suppose. That was why I didn’t come into work the following day, the seventeenth, because I felt poorly. I spent the day with my mother instead.’

Bickerstaff began to collect his files. ‘I think, Mr Janklow, you can leave. We will, of course, have to check all this information, make inquiries to verify your alibis, both with Mr Brad Thorburn and Mrs Thorburn. I would also like you to pass to us further details of your whereabouts on the other dates you were unable to recall where you were.’

‘Yes, of course. I’ll check back in my diaries, give the relevant information to Mr Kophch and, as they say in the movies, I’ll get back to you.’

Lorraine looked at Rooney in disbelief. ‘He’s going to walk! They’re going to let him walk out of here.’

‘Looks like it,’ Rooney said bluntly.

‘But it’s obviously him! You know it, they must know it.’

‘We’re not through with him yet.’

Lorraine kicked at her chair. ‘What about me? Don’t I count? I’ve said it was him, I
know
it was him — he did
this
to me!’ She showed Rooney the scar at the back of her head and then slumped in her chair. ‘Jesus Christ, I even feel like some of the women I used to take statements from, the whores beaten within an inch of their lives. They always used to say to me, “Nothing will happen, nobody cares about us, nobody cares if they beat us to a pulp, because we don’t matter.” Are all those dead women of no consequence? Because you know, Rooney, if he walks now he’ll never be brought back in.’

As if to confirm what she was saying, the chairs were scraping back in the interview room, Kophch assisting Janklow to stand up. He was joking about his crumpled shirt.

Lorraine pushed past Rooney and made for the door. He grabbed her. ‘No, don’t do it, Lorraine, you don’t go out there.’

She wrenched her arm free. ‘He’s
walking out
, Bill! I swear before God I’ll make a citizen’s arrest! I’m not going to let him get away with this—’

‘He just did. Now sit down.’

When Janklow and Kophch had departed, the atmosphere in the incident room was of exhaustion and depression. Bickerstaff looked at Lorraine and lifted his hands in a gesture of defeat. Lorraine’s hands were on her hips. ‘Get me a wire — get me set up. I’ll get him to incriminate himself. I swear before God I’ll bring that piece of shit in.’

Bickerstaff was worn out, but he grinned at her. ‘That’s what I hoped you’d say. Go home and get some rest. We’ll talk in the morning.’

Bean drove her home and, as he had been instructed, remained with her, sleeping outside in the patrol car. Bickerstaff had taken him aside and warned him to keep her under watch day and night. Janklow knew who she was, maybe even knew her address. The following morning he was to get her some decent clothes before he brought her back into the precinct. Now she was all they had and everything depended on her. He was not to let her out of his sight for a moment.

Lorraine, accompanied by Bean and Rosie, set off early for Rodeo Drive. She chose an elegant suit, with a tight, pencil-slim skirt with a thigh-length slit, and loose jacket with a soft creamy silk blouse beneath. She chose high-heeled shoes with matching clutch bag. Conscious that she was to be wired, she also bought a fitted, slightly padded, brassière and matching panties. A suspender belt and fine pale stockings completed the outfit. She had her hair streaked, cut and blown dry, a manicure and a facial. Rosie and Bean trailed from one place to the next, sitting in the salon as she was made up by an expert. The whole process took three hours so she did not arrive at the station until after twelve.

Rooney gaped at the bill and even more when he saw her. He flushed with embarrassment. She always had been one hell of a looker, but now she was stunning. He blew it, however, when he said, intending a compliment, ‘Holy shit, they sure done a hell of a job on you.’

Rooney was not the only one taken aback by Lorraine’s appearance. Bickerstaff’s jaw dropped and the Chief, who had screamed bloody murder when he had seen the cost, also complimented her. Lorraine found it almost amusing the way they suddenly drew out chairs for her, jumped to light her cigarette. She loved the feel of the soft kid leather handbag, containing new lipstick, powder compact, silk handkerchief, calf-leather wallet, silver lighter and cigarette case.

She was to wear a small pick-up mike disguised as a decorative pin attached to a gold chain round her neck. It was in the shape of a heart and could record from a five-mile radius. She was impressed by its sophistication: she had half expected the old box in a belt strapped to her waist as she had been used to in the past. Even if she was stripped naked, Rooney said half in jest, it would be hard to find. She had flicked him a look, wondering if they were all aware she had been to bed with Brad Thorburn. It seemed likely as she was warned that the only time she would lose contact with the radio surveillance truck would be if she took a shower.

Lorraine was then closeted with Bickerstaff and his team, Rooney standing glumly to one side as they discussed her approach to Janklow. They knew he was at home and they also knew that Brad Thorburn was with him but a telephone tap had revealed that Thorburn was intending to leave for France and had been arranging his flight. Janklow had returned to the house directly after leaving the precinct but had made no phone calls. Mrs Thorburn had been interviewed again and repeated the statement she had made. Brad Thorburn had also verified everything his brother had said. Two calls had been recorded from the tap on the Thorburn home, both from Alfred Kophch, requesting that Janklow visit him in his office at his earliest convenience. Kophch had also said that on no account should Janklow make outgoing calls, but speak to him only personally at his office.

As Bickerstaff and Lorraine discussed the new developments, a report came in that Mrs Thorburn had just called Brad and asked him to visit her. She had refused to speak to Steven.

‘That’s good,’ Lorraine said. ‘The only time I saw Janklow really upset was whenever you made any reference to her and if she’s not talking to her nasty little pervert son, he might be even more on edge.’

‘You’re very confident, Lorraine. How can you be sure you’ll get into the Thorburn house?’

‘I’m sure.’

Bickerstaff was growing to like her. He patted her shoulder. ‘Well, you take care — and I mean it. Use your back-up and scream the fuckin’ place down when you feel any kind of threat.’

Bickerstaff looked up as Rooney returned, tapping his wrist-watch. It was really time for Lorraine to leave. She tried to make light of it — they were all so concerned — and asked if Andrew Fellows was still working for them. Rooney dismissed him out of hand: the last thing he had suggested was that the killer might be a woman. They had all joked that she had even been under suspicion, and Lorraine laughed out loud.

She was presented with a clean driving licence and a Mustang, also wired up to the main base, was ready in the yard. The only thing she did not have was a weapon.

Rooney walked her to the car. He opened the driving door, winking to warn her not to say anything because she was wired. Then he took his gun from his shoulder holster and stashed it in the glove compartment. ‘We’re all with you and we’ll be on hand. You know what to do?’

Lorraine nodded. They had given her the code word ‘Rosie’. If she mentioned it the back-up cops were to stand by; it meant she was heading into deeper trouble than she could handle. If ‘Rosie’ was coupled with ‘Partner’ they were to come in no matter what else she said. This was an old scam she and Lubrinski had worked, just the name of someone they could start to talk about, which would give no warning to the suspect that it was, in fact, a warning.

Lorraine shut the glove compartment. ‘Thanks, Bill.’

Rooney pulled at his nose. ‘Fuck off, and get a move on.’ He’d always said that and it touched her but she slammed the door and started the engine. She didn’t look back but headed for Beverly Glen. It would take an easy hour and a quarter. She knew Brad and Janklow were in, and that no further outgoing or incoming calls had been made. The housekeeper and gardener were there but Lorraine knew they left about four. From then on, it would just be the brothers.

Moving way behind Lorraine was a dry-cleaning truck with two overalled police officers up front. In the back were Bickerstaff, Rooney and another FBI agent. Lorraine’s car bleeped on the grid up ahead of them but they made no effort to sit on her tail. They didn’t need to — they knew where she was heading and even if they were miles back they could still monitor the car, and her personal microphone.

Lorraine parked right outside the gates, clearly visible from the house, and rang the doorbell by the intercom. The dry cleaning truck parked a good distance down the tree-lined street.

‘Who is it?’

Lorraine recognized Brad’s voice. ‘Let me come in — it’s Lorraine.’

‘Are you alone?’

‘No, I got surveillance trucks and a couple of uniformed cops. What the hell do you think, Brad? Let me in.’

The gates opened and Brad came out onto the porch. He watched her as she walked up the gravel path, then frowned. ‘What have you done to yourself?’

She did a slow turn, hands out, one holding her purse. ‘I’ve spent all day at the beauty parlour. How do I look?’

‘What do you want?’ he asked abruptly.

‘To talk.’ He stared at her and she laughed. ‘What are you so suspicious of? Here, you want to check my bag?’ She tossed it to him and remained standing on the pathway.

He caught it in one hand but didn’t open it. ‘I don’t think I’ve got anything to say to you.’

She moved closer. ‘You let me in, though. How about a coffee?’

He looked back to the hallway and then down at her as she remained on the lower step. ‘I’m going away — this isn’t a good idea.’

‘Why don’t you just hear me out — hear why I’ve come? I have a reason.’

‘I gathered,’ he said, as he turned and walked into the house. She followed him, eyes flicking upwards to the bedroom above. Was he there? Was he watching her? She saw nothing; no curtain moved aside; it was very still.

In the kitchen, Brad took her things out of her bag, laid them all out.

‘Satisfied?’

He went to the fridge and took out a bottle of chilled wine, held it up and then slammed the fridge door. He poured himself a glass as she perched on a stool and began to put everything back into her purse. He switched on the coffee percolator and leaned against the sink.

‘Don’t you ever wear shoes?’ she asked, smiling.

‘What’s this, a rerun of last night?’

‘I know they took your brother in for questioning.’

‘They also released him.’

‘So I gather.’

He sipped his wine, leaning against the sink.

‘Where are you going?’

‘France.’

‘For how long?’

‘I don’t know. What do you want?’

She opened the cigarette case, held it up as if for his permission, and he fetched a cup for her coffee. She still found attractive every move he made, even just pouring coffee. He had such a great body, but his ease was what made him so sexy. When he moved close to give her the coffee he smelt of soap. ‘You just showered?’

‘Yeah, I had a game of tennis. I was going to play squash with Andrew but he refused to speak to me.’

‘Why?’

He smiled. ‘Maybe his wife has told him about her fantasy, that she and I were a hot number, but it’s all in her head.’

‘Is it made up, or did you fuck her?’

He passed her an ashtray. ‘You like to talk dirty? What does it mean to you if I screwed her or not?’

‘It was just a question. I like her — he’s okay too.’

Brad picked up his glass, tilted it towards her, and drank the contents. ‘What do you want?’

‘Money.’

He ran his glass under the sink. ‘So what’s your hourly rate, then?’

She chortled. ‘Oh, this isn’t
hourly
! This is going to cost you and Steven a lot, lot more.’

‘
Steven?
’

Lorraine blew on the hot black coffee, looking at him over the rim of the cup. ‘Let’s not waste any more time playing games. I want money, Brad. Your brother may have walked but you take a good look at me. Now put me in court in front of a jury. You think they’re gonna say, “Oh, she’s just a hooker, oh, she’s just a fucked-up piece of shit, an ex-cop who killed a kid.” You take a good look at me, Brad, because I reckon I look good. I look good enough to sway a jury, make them doubt all that shit about me, make them look at me, see the scar on the back of my head. They’ll listen real good when I say it with tears, and I can conjure up tears, Brad, I’ll have them running down my cheeks when I tell them what he did to me.’

He couldn’t deal with her at all. It was as if she’d become two, even three people. This hard, sophisticated woman was not the same woman who had wept in his arms.

He looked so confused that she felt suddenly guilty, wanting to comfort him. It was stupid. She lit a cigarette, blowing the smoke out high above her head. ‘I’ll have your brother charged with assault and then they’ll think again about the murders, same blow as the one to the back of my head. He wanted to kill me — he
tried
to kill me — and you may say in court that he was bitten by your dog, big Mr Brad Thorburn, but wait till I tell them, weeping, holding my head in my hands, that when he struck me with the hammer I fought for my life. I bit him in the neck and I hung on until my teeth broke his skin, until he screamed like a stuck pig… It was Steven who attacked me, Brad. Why don’t we stop all the bullshit and get down to just how much you’ll pay me to keep my mouth shut?’