Cold Shoulder (50 page)

Lorraine’s part in Janklow’s arrest was not leaked to the press. The only thing she got out of it was the few bucks from Rooney, the clean driving licence and the new clothes. She had to hand back Rooney’s gun because he had to return it with his badge. She and Rosie were flat broke.

‘The bastards! Don’t you get a reward?’

Lorraine laughed. ‘No! But I got my self respect, Rosie.’

‘Well, it ain’t gonna pay the rent, sweet face, so now what do you do?’

She was looking good, she knew it; she’d been back on form and she knew that too. Working again had filled in her days, her nights, and yet somehow she wanted or expected more. She studied her reflection in the bathroom mirror: so much for respect. If they really thought she was something, how come they didn’t offer her a job? How come, at the end, she was still broke, and worse, back to square one? She gripped the washbasin and bowed her head.

‘Tea’s ready,’ Rosie yelled out.

Lorraine looked up at herself; it wasn’t over, she hadn’t beaten it. ‘Jesus Christ, I want a drink.’

Rosie cut a thick slice of banana bread and poured tea for each of them. ‘Home-made that — got it at the deli near the corner.’ Lorraine choked suddenly. ‘What’s the matter? Don’t you like it?’

Rosie watched as she grabbed the file from the Janklow case and began to thumb through it. Half an hour later she looked up. ‘I got to go out. If you want something to do can you find out who we contact to rent that place Art Mathews had as a gallery, and how much? I’m gonna see if I can raise some dough, then we’ll open up Page Investigation Services. I’ll be back or I’ll call in, okay?’

Rosie followed her onto the steps outside the apartment. ‘Where are you going?’

Lorraine ran down the stairs, turning at the bottom. She waved and called back something about the banana bread, then she formed her right hand into the shape of a gun, and pretended to fire it. Rosie went back inside and glanced at the papers wondering what Lorraine had been so excited about. The file was open at Didi’s autopsy report. Rosie grimaced in distaste and went back to her bread. It didn’t taste so good. The pathologist’s findings stated that David Burrows’s last meal had been banana bread.

E
D BICKERSTAFF had been in a heavy meeting all morning discussing Janklow’s mental deterioration. His family, via their lawyers, were insisting he be declared insane and therefore incapable of standing trial.

Bickerstaff had spent many hours with Janklow since his arrest, during which he talked compulsively, almost with pride, about what he had done. He showed no guilt or remorse, but the reverse; he gloated in detailing how the women had died. He was still sketchy when it came to Didi and Holly, but was adamant that he had killed them. He was constantly smiling, always polite and cheerful, and continued to talk freely when he was alone in his cell.

The last meeting Bickerstaff had with Janklow had been two days ago. His head was bruised and swollen and he was wearing a white gown with ties at the back as he had just been for a brain scan. He sat on the bed dangling his feet, and midway through the interview he started to sing some long-forgotten song. He could only remember the chorus, and repeated the same words over and over. ‘If you say you love me, do you care? If you say you love me, do you care?’

When Bickerstaff was told that Lorraine Page was asking for him, he agreed to see her. He hadn’t liked the way she’d been hanging around the station so he intended making this meeting short and sweet. She was ushered into his office — Rooney’s old patch. He got up as she entered and shook hands.

‘Is he insane, then?’ she asked without any preamble.

‘Well, they’re certainly trying to prove it.’

‘What do you think?’ she asked.

‘Well, he may be putting up one hell of a performance — who’s to tell? I don’t know.’

Bickerstaff rested his chin in his hands. ‘That was one hell of a performance you gave at his place. Class act — but then old Rooney said you were good. What he never said was just how good. You mind if I ask you something personal?’

‘Go ahead.’

‘That shooting incident — one with the kid — how come you fired six times when you could have brought him down with one shot?’

She hadn’t expected him to bring up the shooting and it caught her off guard. ‘I’d had a few drinks. I didn’t see the boy, just his jacket. It had this yellow stripe down the back… I had a partner I was fond of. He was in a shoot-out. The man that killed him had a black sweater with a yellow stripe and I didn’t see the boy — it wasn’t him I was firing at but somebody else.’

He stood up and, just like Rooney used to do, flicked at the blind. ‘You could be useful to me, maybe, sometime in the future. You got any plans?’

Lorraine reminded him about the investigation agency. She caught him looking at his watch and knew he wanted her to leave, but she hadn’t come for praise or even a tentative offer of future work. Not that she believed him about that. ‘I need money. I’m broke.’

He frowned. She lit a cigarette and kept it between her lips as she spoke. ‘I don’t think Janklow murdered David Burrows or Holly.’

Bickerstaff leaned on the back of his chair. ‘He’s admitted both.’

Way it sounds, he’s admitting to any stiff we had in or around LA since nineteen sixty-five.’ He laughed and she took the cigarette out of her mouth. ‘How much if I get you proof that it was Art Mathews? You wouldn’t look so dumb about his suicide. As it stands now, Janklow said he killed them which makes Art Mathews look as if he was put under so much pressure he killed himself—’

‘You want me to hire you?’

‘You can call it what you like. I just need cash to get cards printed, a word processor, pay a bit of rent.’

‘You withholding further evidence, Mrs Page?’

‘No, and maybe I’m wrong but I think Art Mathews killed both Holly and Didi. And if he didn’t, I’d like to find out who did. And, if you don’t have Janklow on the stand, maybe you’ll have somebody else, because I’m sure Art didn’t do the murders alone.’

‘You gonna give me a name?’

‘I don’t have one yet, but I’m workin’ on it. Come on, I know there’s a kitty for informers — you can call me that if you like. It’s not as if the FBI are broke, and it might be useful to you, Mr Bickerstaff.’

He smarted at her audacity. ‘How much?’

She stubbed out her cigarette. ‘Ten grand, in cash, in an envelope.’

He sucked in his breath and stuffed his hands in his pockets. ‘Make it five and you’ve got a deal — if you get the proof that Art Mathews did the murders.’

She tossed the hair out of her eyes. ‘You just got a deal, Mr Bickerstaff. I’ll be in touch.’

Lorraine headed off in search of Curtis. She found him in a bar with a blonde Holly-lookalike on his arm. When he saw her he whistled and she pivoted for him like a model.

‘I want to talk to you, Curtis, some place private.’ She swore she was on the level and they headed into a back room. They were only there for about ten minutes before they returned to the bar.

‘You want a drink, Lorraine?’

‘I’m not drinking today, but thanks for the offer.’ She banged out of the bar into the brilliant afternoon sunshine. She hadn’t thought he’d bite but he
had
cared for Holly and what was a couple of grand? His girls were making that in a night for him.

She hailed a taxi and went home, where Rosie was waiting. Half an hour later they left together with an overnight bag. They hired not a wreck but a decent car. They had a long drive ahead of them, maybe six or seven hours: they were heading for San Francisco.

Rosie did most of the driving while Lorraine map-read. They only stopped for gasoline but it was after midnight when they arrived in San Francisco and booked into a cheap motel on the outskirts. Rosie was hungry so went out for a takeout hamburger and french fries, bringing one back for Lorraine, who was deeply asleep so Rosie ate it herself. She couldn’t sleep, and tossed and turned, her bed creaking ominously, but Lorraine slept on. Rosie propped herself up on her elbow and looked over to her friend. In the blue light from the forecourt that broke through the motel’s thin curtains, she studied Lorraine’s sleeping face. The transformation from when they had first met was astonishing. She was a different woman in every way — less aggressive, more content within herself, more confident, more womanly.

Lorraine woke early. Rosie was dead to the world so she slipped into the bathroom and took a shower. As she soaped herself she thought about Brad Thorburn. She heard the way she had spoken to him, saw him so hurt, so bewildered. They would probably never meet again and he would never know just how much he had meant to her, what he had done for her. He had made her feel loved, wanted, had made some dead part of her revive. Brad Thorburn had woken her as a woman.

After breakfast, Lorraine took a street map of San Francisco, marked their destination with a cross and passed it over to Rosie. ‘You’re the driver. That’s where we got to get to.’

‘Who we seeing?’

Lorraine hesitated. In all fairness Rosie should know why they had come here. ‘I
think
that Janklow didn’t kill Holly or Didi. Nula lied to me. She said that she and Didi were working together the night Holly was killed but Holly’s pimp said Nula was on her own. I think it’s got something to do with Art. Also, I think Nula lied about where Didi was the night she was murdered. It’s Nula we’re going to see. Curtis gave me the address but I don’t want to scare her off. I just want her to tell me a few things.’

‘Are you gonna get paid for this?’

‘Five thousand dollars from Ed Bickerstaff, and Curtis said he’d give me two grand if I got Holly’s killer, so we’ll have enough to open the agency.’

Lorraine called Nula’s number. A sleepy voice answered and she hung up. She recognized Nula’s voice.

She and Rosie left the motel, bought a morning paper and Rosie headed into the city. They were hemmed in by traffic and the streets were a confusing mass of one-way systems but they finally turned into Delaware Road.

‘Slow right down, real slow,’ Lorraine said. ‘Let’s check the numbers, it’s apartment building 182. There it is!’

Rosie pulled up outside a dilapidated four-storey building.

Lorraine gazed up at it, checked the fire escape and then opened the car door. ‘I’ll be about half an hour. Sit tight.’ Rosie picked up the newspaper and prepared herself for the wait. Lorraine checked the names on the apartments and then made her way up an old stone staircase littered with garbage to the third floor. She rapped hard on the door of apartment 23 and waited.

‘Who is it?’

‘Surprise, Nula, open up, it’s me.’

The eye-hole slid back, and bolts and chain locks were removed. Nula opened the door. ‘Jesus Christ, how did you find me?’

‘Curtis said you were here. As I was passing, I thought I’d call in.’ Nula opened the door wider and Lorraine stepped inside. Nula was wearing a tatty kimono and she was barefoot. ‘It’s only nine o’clock, for chrissakes.’

Lorraine apologized and followed her into the bed-sitting room. It was a mess, crammed with dresses and bags, cases half unpacked and old food cartons. ‘I just moved in, bit of a come-down but then I’m not gonna be here permanently. It used to belong to a friend and they’re on tour in a big show so I’ve got it for a few months. Sit down.’ Nula folded her arms and looked over Lorraine. She pursed her lips. ‘Looking very chic, dear, come into money? That’s a very expensive suit.’ She sat at her dressing table, fiddled with her hair and checked her face. ‘I look like a piece of shit but I was working nearly all night. Girl’s got to do what she has to do to earn a living but Christ, this is a shit-hole. The pay isn’t half as good as in LA.’

Lorraine told Nula about Janklow, how he had admitted all the murders, including Didi and Holly. Nula closed her eyes. ‘Thank God. I’ve been praying they get the bastard and I know about Art. I cried my heart out but he took his life so I guess that’s what he wanted. Those bastards pushed him, the shits, and he was innocent. But why are you here?’

‘Work. I’m with an investigation agency.’

Nula shrieked with laughter, then pointed at Lorraine. ‘You were a cop, weren’t you? Well, I hope you’ve not come to arrest me.’ She brushed her hair, looking at Lorraine in the mirror. She was getting uneasy, Lorraine could sense it.

‘What
do
you want?’ Nula asked.

‘Well, I’m trying to piece a few things together. You said on the night Holly died Didi was with you, that you both saw her cross the road but Curtis said Didi wasn’t there, you were alone.’ She paused.

Nula motioned for her to continue.

‘Nula, I think Art killed Holly
and
Didi but I got to have evidence to prove it. Whatever you tell me won’t be used against you — I’ll keep your name out of it and it won’t hurt Art because he’s dead. It’ll really help me. It’s Mrs Thorburn’s jewellery I’m interested in or what pieces you’ve got left.’

Nula blinked rapidly and swivelled round. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

Lorraine got up and walked towards Nula. ‘The last meal Didi ate was home-made banana bread. She was at home, wasn’t she? Not, as you said, out working. Curtis said she didn’t show that night because her foot was still hurting. You said she’d been out all day with a regular, but that wasn’t true, was it? Now, did Art come round?’

Nula began to paint her nails. ‘Bullshit, dear. She went out, and then I was told she’d been murdered. You even called the apartment.’

‘The ring on Didi’s finger, the one you said she couldn’t take off, was Mrs Thorburn’s, wasn’t it? Well, I’d never seen her wearing it before so she must have been able to get it off. So I think it’s something to do with that ring. Is that why Art killed her? Because of the ring?’

Nula painted the last nail of her right hand and began on the left with studied concentration. Lorraine moved closer. ‘Didi and Art were blackmailing Steven Janklow. Art was cleaning up, wasn’t he? He used Didi to make contact and to pick up the jewels. Where did she pick them up from? Janklow’s garage? Was that where they did the exchange?’