Cold Blood

Chapter 13

Nick had sunk more than a few beers with Bill Rooney. They had traded notes, discussed the new findings, and Rosie joined them with her notes about the meeting at the museum. They’d continued to discuss their developments over supper together in a nearby bistro. All three felt that Robert Caley was no longer their main suspect and they should concentrate on the Juda Salina, drugs and voodoo connection, especially after hearing that Fryer Jones had actually been questioned by the police regarding Anna Louise Caley’s disappearance.

It was after ten when they got back to the hotel. Rooney and Rosie were tired out but Nick was fully alert; he had always been a night owl. When they were told that Lorraine was in her room but had requested not to be disturbed, it irritated the hell out of Nick but the other two were thankful.

Nick went up to his room, paced around, and drank a quarter of a bottle of vodka he had bought before he decided to go and see Lorraine. He tapped on her door and waited, then looked quickly up and down the empty corridor and took out his own room key. He’d been in more hotels than enough, and he wondered if, as was often the case, the security aspect of the keys left a lot to be desired. He was right — his key fitted, and he opened Lorraine’s door.

He stood looking at her, slowly unscrewing the cap from the bottle and taking a long slug. She lay on her belly, one arm hanging over the side of the bed, the other tucked under her pillow, and the sheet thrown back to the base of her back. He padded closer, sitting on the bed opposite to drink her in, wanting to lie naked beside her more than anything he had ever known. Lorraine slept soundlessly, her lips slightly parted, and even in the dim light he could see the scars on her arm and back. With the alcohol, his inhibitions relaxed more and more, until he tucked the bottle down beside the bed and ran his palm gently along the curve of her spine: she stirred, and slowly turned to face him as she woke.

‘Nick?’ she murmured, still half-asleep.

‘Yeah,’ he said softly. She turned over, reaching unhurriedly for the sheet to cover her naked breasts.

‘How the hell did you get in?’

He smiled. ‘Oh, I huffed and I puffed an’ I blew the door down.’

‘You’re drunk,’ she said, yawning.

‘Not yet, but I couldn’t stay away from you.’

She sat up, drawing the sheet closer. ‘You’d better go, this is crazy, Nick.’

‘I know, but like I said — I couldn’t keep away.’

Lorraine sighed: she didn’t need this, and it was beginning to irritate her. ‘I need to sleep, Nick.’

He stood up, suddenly almost boyish. ‘I know, I’m sorry, I always was a dumb bastard, but...’

She flopped back, looking up at him. ‘But what?’

He hitched up his jeans, avoiding her eye.

‘But what, Nick?’

He laughed softly. ‘Do you think I could have just one kiss, just one, and then I’m gone.’

‘You’re nuts, you know that, don’t you?’

‘Yep, but that’s all I want — well, it isn’t, I’d like a whole lot more, but maybe this isn’t the time for you and me to dive between the sheets.’

‘You’d better go,’ she said again, but she was smiling. She couldn’t help it, he was getting to her, she knew it, and maybe so did he.

‘Come here, Bartello, an’ the deal is...’

‘One kiss,’ he said, almost jumping across the bed to sit close to her and wrap her in his arms. She reached up and kissed him on the lips, and as the sheet fell away from her breasts he bent his head to kiss her nipple.

‘Nick, that’s enough.’

He moaned, tracing her breast with his tongue, and then drew the sheet gently back over her.

‘Goodnight, princess. I love you.’

She watched him limp to the door, half-turning for a last look at her, and then he was gone. Sometimes he was so like Jack Lubrinksi it made her want to weep, but he wasn’t Jack, he was Nick Bartello, and as she snuggled down she felt the warmth of his love, and although she didn’t want to admit it, it felt good.

Back in his own room, Nick found it impossible now to sleep. He was still restless by eleven, so decided he would go back to Fryer’s bar, see what else he could pick up. It was almost twelve when he passed through the silent lobby, where only the night porter was on duty. Like Rosie and Rooney, the other, mostly elderly guests had all flaked out, it seemed.

Robert Caley sat with a bottle of Scotch. He had been drinking since around seven and had now almost drunk himself sober. The only woman he had cared about for so long he couldn’t remember not only didn’t return his calls but had betrayed him to such an extent he didn’t know whether he wanted to kill her or himself. Lloyd Dulay had been round like a man possessed, accusing him of fucking his daughter and telling him with pleasure that the Governor had told him privately that there was no question of Caley being awarded the licence to operate the casino. An official public announcement would be made shortly, but the Governor had indicated that he considered a broader distribution of ownership to be appropriate, and he, Lloyd, had had no hesitation in accepting the invitation to join their number which had been extended to him by Doubloons. Finally, Dulay said grimly, he figured that Caley had walked himself into one hell of a mess, and if he used one cent more of his daughter’s trust fund to bail himself out of it, he would find himself in court.

‘Who did you get all this crap from?’ Caley had snapped angrily.

Dulay had hesitated, and then looked Caley straight in the face. ‘The investigator, Lorraine Page.’

Caley was stunned. The accusations had been like blows to his heart. Why, he kept on asking himself, why was she doing it? How could she lie in his arms one night and the next day systematically try to destroy him, unless that had been her intention all along? He just couldn’t believe it. The booze helped numb the pain and the more drunk he became the more he convinced himself she wouldn’t have done this to him. But when call after call to her remained unanswered, he began to get angry at himself for being a sucker, angry that maybe all his adult life he had been just that, a sucker.

The anger built when he received a cable saying that Elizabeth had discharged herself from the clinic and had ordered Edward to stand by to fly her to New Orleans. Caley called Phyllis in LA to be told that Lloyd Dulay had called to speak to Elizabeth. Phyllis had given him the clinic’s phone number.

By twelve Caley was drunk, hurt and bewildered — and also facing bankruptcy. But he kept on calling Lorraine, needing to speak to her, to give her the chance of explaining to him, because he still could not believe that she would betray him. Nothing else mattered to him, not the money, not even Anna Louise, just that Lorraine, the woman he had fallen totally and stupidly in love with, had used him. Even when he received a call from Elizabeth, he felt numb. She sounded calm and distant, and angry. She refused to tell him why she had discharged herself, merely stated that she would not be coming to the hotel but going straight to their home in the Garden District.

Caley knew that Dulay must have said something to her but he didn’t have the energy to argue on the phone, preferring to see her face to face. He did, however, ask if Lorraine Page had also contacted her at the clinic. Elizabeth seemed surprised. Then he heard the fear creep into her voice.

‘Has she found out something?’

Caley sighed, dragging on a cigarette. ‘Maybe, but I don’t think it has anything to do with Anna Louise...’

‘What, then?’ Elizabeth asked, her voice wavering.

‘You’re the one with the secrets, Elizabeth. I’m just the dumb bastard that went along with everything.’

There was a lengthy pause. ‘You think we should stop payments?’

‘We? We? You’re the one who instigated this investigation, Elizabeth, not me. You hired her, you fire her. She’s only on it for two weeks, isn’t she? Just stop the payments.’

Again there was a long pause and he could hear her rapid breathing, knew she was suffering a panic attack, but this time he didn’t care, this time he wasn’t on hand to sort it all out, carry her to bed.

‘There was a bonus,’ she said softly.

‘What?’ he asked, lighting another cigarette from the stub of his last. ‘What are you talking about?’

Again there was a pause and then he heard a deep intake of breath. ‘Don’t be angry at me, but I offered to pay a one million bonus if they found Anna Louise.’

He closed his eyes. She was crying and he felt like weeping himself. ‘Well, that’s your business. I’ll see you at the house.’ He replaced the receiver before she could reply, then pressed for the desk and gave instructions he was not to be disturbed.

Caley lay on the bed, inhaled deeply and let the smoke drift slowly from his lungs. One million bonus! No wonder she made love to him. A man who felt foolish and betrayed, a man who felt as inadequate as he now felt was dangerous, because if Lorraine Page had walked in at that moment he would have taken her by her throat and squeezed the life out of her.

Lorraine was in a deep, dreamless, exhausted sleep. She had pushed away the sheet and lay curled up naked, her body glistening with perspiration. But nothing woke her, not the red blinking dot on her telephone as the calls came in, one at midnight, one at a quarter past, and the last at one-fifteen.

Juda Salina woke, her massive body soaked in sweat. She could feel the horrific restriction on her throat and knew that what she had seen a few days before was now happening.

‘Raoul,’ she croaked, and then screamed out, ‘Raoul get in here’.

He stood bleary-eyed at her bedroom door. ‘Yes? What you want?’

‘Water, get me some water.’

It was going down, it was happening, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. What she had seen, what she had felt, she would have to go through, and it made her angry that she was an open avenue for such pain. But that was her God-given power, and as much as she hated it, she had to give way and let it happen. It was the will of the spirits, she had been chosen, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

Raoul passed her a glass of tepid water and she gulped it down, her fat hand shaking as she drained the glass. He hovered, waiting. ‘You sick?’

She shook her head and lay back on her mound of pillows with a sigh. ‘No, I’m not sick, we’ll still be going.’

‘You want some more water?’

‘No, maybe just sit with me a while, talk to me.’

He sat on the edge of her bed, his short cotton wrap tied tightly round his waist.

‘All be buzzin’ back home, starts any day now, and Ruby is all jumpy with nerves.’

Juda sighed again. ‘You talk to your mama?’

He nodded. ‘Sure, said she’d whacked Jesse and Willy with a broom, they been getting drugged up at Fryer’s bar, and Sugar May’s a handful, wants to be a singer so she hangs out there as well. It’s making Mama go crazy with worry.’

Juda nodded her head. ‘Ruby’s got a beautiful face and a lovely tight body, but I don’t think she has the knowledge, that’s why I think she’s gonna be okay. But when we get home you sit your brothers down and you tell them they should keep well away from Fryer Jones. If they don’t, they’re gonna get hurt bad, and the same goes for Sugar May.’

She closed her eyes and he chewed his fingernails, his foot tapping against one of the bed legs.

‘You don’t do those drugs anymore, do you, Raoul?’

‘No, Aunty Juda, not now I’m working for you.’

‘That’s a good boy, they no good for you. Stop that tapping on the bed, Raoul, gettin’ on my nerves. You’re a real jumpy boy lately so if you can’t sleep, make yourself some of that tea I get for Mrs Caley.’

That’d take an elephant out,’ he said, still chewing his nails.

‘Well, I’ve had to increase the strength over the years...’

He uncrossed his legs and then promptly recrossed them, his foot tapping into the dark night. He couldn’t stop it, his whole body was twitching, and he needed to get back to his pipe, had just been smoking up when she’d called out to him. If she’d looked close into his eyes she would have seen for herself: Raoul had advanced; he was no longer rolling the ganja, he was using crack cocaine now, and most nights. As soon as he saw she was asleep he would slip out to the clubs, and be back before she woke, back before she knew he’d been out to score.

Nick headed towards Fryer Jones’s bar, hands stuffed into his jeans pockets, cigarette dangling from his mouth. He heard the car backfire, like a gunshot, and he automatically ducked, turned and side-stepped to the wall. Crack, it backfired again, and then he heard the loud, screeching music as an old broken-down Camaro careered towards him.

Willy was high, his brother Jesse hanging out of the window, yelling, ‘I said it was him, it’s him, Willy! Pull on over now.’

Nick sighed with irritation, not in any way scared of the two stoned kids, but his hands were out of his pockets and he was looking up and down the road, making up his mind which way to go, to see if there was anyone who’d witness what he knew was going to go down.

‘Eh! You mother fucker, you?

The old Camaro lurched to a standstill just a few yards ahead of Nick. He moved closer to the wall, fists clenched, ready to thrash them both, knowing that if it came to it he’d go for the .22 stashed in his boot.

Willy crashed the gears into reverse and the Camaro screamed backwards. He hadn’t intended to mount the pavement, he just misjudged the kerb. Jesse was still hanging out of the passenger window, swearing and cursing at the guy who had beaten the hell out of them the previous night. Only tonight he was on his own, no old bastard Fryer Jones around. As Nick moved to one side to avoid being crunched by the car, his leg gave way. He stumbled and had just straightened up when Jesse came at him, screeching, doing a farcical kung fu sidekick. Nick grabbed his foot and twisted it, throwing Jesse off balance and making him fall on his hands and knees.

‘Get the shit, Willy, get him!’

Willy ran at Nick, carrying a baseball bat, and swung wildly, striking him on his forearm as Nick protected his face. His leg buckled again, giving Jesse a few moments to get back on his feet. He grabbed the baseball bat from his brother and as the two of them closed in on him, Nick ducked and dived and took off, heading towards a lit-up bar. He ran as fast as he could, hampered by his bad leg, needing a moment to get his pistol out of his boot. But the kids were on his heels, Jesse swinging the baseball bat in a frenzy. He clipped Nick on the shoulder but he kept on running. Just before the safety of the bar he stumbled again. Willy moved in front of him and Nick saw the knife come out. He held up his hands, gasping for breath.

‘Hey! Come on, just take it easy, huh...?’ Nick saw the alley right across the road and dived between them both, but not before Jesse took another swing with the baseball bat. This time it hit Nick just on the left side of the head above his ear, making him reel. He could see the neon sign of a liquor store and was trying to make it there, hoping there would be someone around to help. His breath rasped in his chest, the shooting pains in his leg were crippling him and his head thudded, but he made it right up to the doorway. The door was locked. He jammed his finger on a security buzzer and hurled his body against the door.

‘Open the door, open the fucking door.’

The two boys were grinning, one swinging the bat, the other opening the flick-knife. They had him cornered; the alley was a dead-end and there was nowhere to run to. Nick was trapped.

Raoul still sat by his aunt’s bed, his whole body twitching now, and he was desperate to get back to his pipe.

‘You still need me to stay with you?’

She didn’t answer. He stood up and leaned closer, sure she was sleeping, when she scared the hell out of him. She sat bolt upright, her hands clutching at her throat, and started retching. He backed away, not that he hadn’t seen this before, his mama often went into spasms and he hated it, just like he hated the way all his life people had come to their run-down house and started screaming and shouting in that dark front room, the kids banished to the back yard.

She twisted and turned on the bed, making it creak and groan from her weight. At one point part of the bed actually lifted as she rolled to one side. He saw it then, the old wooden box, and became even more agitated, frightened by her grunting and moaning. Saliva trickled down her fat chin, frothed at the corners of her mouth, but all he could think about was the box, because he knew what was inside it.

Nick Bartello couldn’t run anywhere. He’d tried to reach his hidden .22 but the baseball bat had swung down on his arm and he’d felt the bone crack. He was defenceless but he remembered their faces, so young, the two arrogant black kids he’d given a whipping at Fryer’s bar. When they hemmed him in he still put up a good fight, but he knew it was the end, and with the pain in his leg he didn’t have a chance to defend himself. He curled up as they kicked at him, putting his hands up to protect himself. Then one of the boys leaned over him and he saw the blade close up, saw his whole life as it ran before him. Lorraine’s face was the last image he saw as they cut his throat, giving him one last kick to turn his body over.

Fryer Jones was in his usual seat at the bar. Willy and Jesse Corbello walked in and drew up stools next to him. Fryer held on to his trombone as Willy threw the gris-gris necklace on to the bar.

‘This yours, Fryer?’

He picked it up, felt the blood still sticky on the white bones, and he sighed. ‘Boys, you just done somethin’ bad, these were mine, given in good faith.’

‘You not given us what you promised, you old bastard, and besides, you gonna do the same for us as we done for you, right? We been here all night, man, never left your bar,’ Jesse said, and leaned over to get himself a beer.

Willy opened Nick Bartello’s wallet. ‘Who gives a fuck? Nobody saw us anyway, we was cool. Hey! Drinks on the house, we just scored a few bucks.’

Fryer eyed the boys and kissed his teeth. They were running out of control, getting into bad trouble, just like their crazy brother Raoul. He looked at the gris-gris he had given to that poor bastard. He picked it up, tipped his beer over it, washing the blood away with his gnarled thumb, then hung it round his neck.

‘Think I’ll play a set,’ he said to no one. He eased off the bar stool and wended his way back to the mirrored stage. As he passed two thickset black men playing bid whist, he murmured, ‘Thrash ’em hard, they gotta be taught a lesson from somebody, and they’re getting outta hand, way out.’

The two young boys were sitting on the bar stools, laughing and joking, guzzling their free beer, confident they were running the show, confident no one would touch them. They were the Salina sisters’ boys.

‘Where’s Nick?’ Lorraine asked as she joined Rosie and Rooney at the breakfast table for waffles and cream.

‘I dunno, but we all had an early night,’ said Rooney, squinting over the menu. ‘I called his room, no answer.’

Lorraine sat down and brought out all the small white envelopes with her messages.

‘How did it go last night?’ Rosie asked as she signalled for the waitress.

Lorraine began slitting the envelopes open. ‘They haven’t got the exact time Tilda Brown hanged herself but they think about two or three hours after I left.’ There were fifteen messages from Robert Caley, one saying his wife was arriving in New Orleans. Dulay had called four times, and Nick twice. She noted the time of the last call. ‘I would say Nick is sleeping one off, seems he didn’t take such an early night.’ She tossed the message over to Rooney.

Rosie had been studying the menu and turned to Rooney.

‘Maybe we should cut down on all this sugar. I know we had a deal, but I don’t know about you, I felt a lot better before we made pigs of ourselves here.’

He nodded. ‘You order for me, then.’

‘Okay, maybe just some fresh fruit.’

‘Fine,’ he said, and then flushed as he caught Lorraine looking at him and smiling.

‘What you looking at me like that for?’ he said defensively.

‘Because it’s nice to see you two getting along so well.’

‘I noticed you and Nick were real friendly too,’ Rosie put in, afraid that Lorraine disapproved of her friendship with Rooney, or thought it unprofessional.

‘Hell, don’t be so defensive, Rosie, and you’re right, I’m getting on really well with Nick, he’s okay, but that doesn’t mean we’re up for a double wedding or—’

Rooney gasped. ‘Who’s talking about weddings? Me and Rosie are just on the same diet.’

Rosie brought her menu up quickly to cover her face, not wanting Rooney to see that his remark had upset her.

‘So,’ she said expressionlessly, ‘it’s fruit all round, is it?’

Juda Salina eased her bulk into the shower, calling out for Raoul to put the coffee on and bring round the car to take them to the airport. It had been a bad night but it was over, the dark cloud had lifted. It came down like a blanket fifteen minutes later when she kicked open the kitchen door and there was no coffee on the stove, just Raoul’s sleeping bag left in the middle of the floor. And it got darker when she went back into her bedroom, because just sticking out from under her bed was her precious box. Fat as she was, she got down on her knees fast and dragged it out. It was never this close to the edge, she was no fool. In fact, she slept feeling it through the mattress and the bed springs on purpose so nobody would ever steal it from under her at night.

She screamed out loud when she realized all her savings were gone, every single dollar, more than 150 thousand dollars. Money to put towards Ruby’s float, her Mardi Gras gowns, money for her sister, her kids. Her savings, all gone.

At first Edith Corbello thought it was one of her clients screeching down the phone; it was a while before she realized it was her own sister.

‘Hush now, Juda, hush now, I can’t understand a word you’re saying.’

Juda eventually gasped out that Raoul had stolen everything she possessed, all her life’s savings; everything she’d worked so hard for in order to come back to New Orleans and live in style was gone.

‘No, no, honey, you got to be mistaken.’

‘I am not mistaken, he’s even taken my car, my car, Edith, that little shit’s got my fucking car.’ Juda gripped tightly on to the bed, gasping for breath, her massive bosoms heaving. ‘I never done evil work, Edith, you know that, but so help me God, I will on Raoul. I’ll fill that boy full of stuff to eat his guts alive, he’s gonna wish he never saw the light of day!’

Juda slammed the phone back on the hook. She slumped into a chair, put her head in her hands and wept. How many times had she been told by Mrs Caley to put her money in the bank and she had always refused? Through her tears she ranted and raged against Raoul. She didn’t even have enough money to go home for Carnival, wouldn’t see Ruby crowned.

Eventually the tears and rage subsided into a deep depression and she sat as if wedged into the chair. ‘How could he do that to me?’ she said to herself over and over, and then looked at the ceiling. ‘How come the spirits talk with me and I don’t know when my own blood is stealing from me?’

She wiped her face with a tissue and sniffed, and picked up the phone again. Maybe she’d help her out, like she’d helped her for all these years.

Phyllis answered, stunned to hear the plaintive voice at the other end. ‘Juda? Mrs Salina, is this you?’

‘Yes, Phyllis. Something terrible has happened and I need to speak to Mrs Caley.’

Phyllis pursed her lips; she was going to enjoy this. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Salina, but Mrs Caley is not at home.’

‘Can you get her to contact me?’

‘Well, if she calls home I will tell her you rang.’

Phyllis was sure the horrible creature was crying, and when she thought of all the years she had been treated like a piece of worn carpet by the big fat woman, she enjoyed her moment of power.

‘You know, Phyllis, I’ve been a good friend to Mrs Caley, we go back a long time, so please, I’m asking you, if she calls home, tell her to contact me. This time it’s me that needs her and I need her bad.’

‘As I said, Mrs Salina, I will relay the message to Mrs Caley. Goodbye.’

She replaced the phone as Peters walked into the hallway.

‘Who was that?’

Phyllis followed him into the breakfast lounge. ‘That wretched fat woman, Juda, wanted to speak to Mrs Caley. I said I would relay the message, but somehow I think it might just slip my mind. I’ve always hated her, she’s a blood-sucking leech and Mr Caley loathes her as well.’

Phyllis sat opposite Peters as they ate breakfast together, and Peters stared from the window.

‘Nice to have the place to ourselves, isn’t it?’

‘Are you all right, Mrs Caley?’ Edward asked, and Elizabeth dropped the magazine.

‘Shouldn’t you be at the controls?’

He smiled. ‘It’s on automatic pilot, Mrs Caley.’

She turned away. ‘You are paid to fly this plane, Mr Hardy, not the automatic pilot. Please stay in the cockpit, you know how nervous I am about flying.’

Mario looked up from his book, seated at the far end of the plane. Edward flicked him a glance and returned to the cockpit.

‘Can I get you anything at all, Mrs Caley?’ Mario asked.

‘No, nothing, thank you.’

She picked up the magazine again, the glossy pages blurring before her eyes. The models in their glamorous poses and gowns only reminded her of the last trip with Anna Louise, and she could hear her voice: ‘I like this one, Mama, what do you think?’

She had replied that she simply adored it, not even really looking at it. Just watching her daughter had pained her; she was so young, so very pretty, with her whole life ahead of her. She was envious of Anna Louise’s youth, her athletic talent. She took after her father so much it sometimes unnerved Elizabeth just to look at that fair hair and bright blue eyes.

Elizabeth sighed. The secret of Anna Louise’s parentage didn’t matter in this day and age, nobody would care, but when she had been Anna Louise’s age, and coming from where she did, it had mattered a great deal. She closed her eyes and thought back over her life, knowing without doubt that if she had it to live over again she would not have become involved with the movies — or that movie. It had destroyed her, made her dependent on Juda Salina and her kind, and somewhere deep inside she yearned to be free of it all. Perhaps that was why she took so many drugs, dicing with her own life. She longed for freedom, for air, for sunshine, the sun she was afraid to let touch her milky-white skin — not because it burned, but because it turned a rich, dark shade of brown.

Elizabeth’s beautiful slanting eyes brimmed and tears spilled as if in slow motion down her cheeks. She’d used the ability to cry on cue often in her film career and had been proud of it, but now there was no ‘action’, no cameras. The tears were for her own empty, silly, frightened life.

All the diners had left the breakfast room, leaving Rooney, Rosie and Lorraine the only people still sitting round their table.

‘Okay, let’s get the day started,’ Rooney said, pushing his chair back.

Lorraine stubbed out her cigarette. ‘Try Nick’s room again, Rosie. If he’s not back, shove a message under his door, tell him where we’ll all be so he can make contact.’

‘Will do, and you take care.’

Lorraine smiled. ‘Yes, ma’am...’

‘Listen, about this video—’

Lorraine walked towards the exit, her arm loosely round Rosie’s shoulders.

‘What about asking Lloyd Dulay? He’s known Elizabeth all these years, and as you’re going to see him, I just thought...’

‘Good idea, I’ll ask him, Rosie.’

Rooney was standing by the lobby desk. He turned as the women approached. ‘That bastard’s not in his room, he’s been out all night.’

‘Well, he’s probably with some hooker someplace,’ Lorraine said, slightly irritated, as she headed for the elevator. Her reaction surprised her: she was jealous, but concealed it immediately. She smiled and told Rooney to let Nick sleep it off, but not for long. They had only one week left.

Edith Corbello found Jesse out back on the old car seat. He had been severely beaten, his nose and right arm broken. He was bruised and crying in agony, but when she asked who had done this to him, he just whimpered that he had fallen down the stairs.

She had just started to clean her son up when she heard the front door closing and footsteps shuffling down the corridor.

‘That you, Willy? Willy get your ass in here?

She believed that Willy had beaten up his brother and when he came into the kitchen she was sure of it. Both his eyes were black, his nose was bleeding and he had a lump on his forehead the size of a mango. She would have slapped him hard but he could only just about walk.

‘I had enough of you boys fightin’ each other, I’m gonna get Fryer here to sort out the pair of you. I can’t handle you no more, and it’s time he took some responsibility.’

‘It was Fryer that done it,’ Willy said, and Jesse kicked him so hard that he howled in agony. He had so many bruises to his body it was hard to miss one.

‘You tellin’ me that bastard did this to you both? Yes?

Jesse shook his head. ‘No, Mama, we done it to each other, honest, we just started foolin’ around and...’

Edith glowered. ‘You git your brother to a hospital right now, you both lookin’ all beat and your sister about to be crowned. I’m wiping my hands of you both. I am ashamed, you hear me? Ashamed’?

Edith banged out. She wanted to weep; what with Raoul gone and Juda screaming at her it had been a bad day and it wasn’t even nine o’clock. But she knew it would get worse, a whole lot worse, when she had to tell Ruby that there was no money for her gown, already half stitched up and near finished.

Ruby was lying on her bed, in the best bedroom of the tiny rundown house, with a treatment pack on her face. She was being photographed tomorrow for one of the hair trade papers, just a promo for the salon where she worked, but it was a start. When she heard what her mama had to say, she got off the bed in a rage. ‘You tellin’ me Raoul stole all Aunty Juda’s money, he stole it?’

‘That’s what she said, and she don’t even have the money for the plane ride for the parade.’

Ruby screamed with rage; she was damned if her crazy, crackhead brother was going to stand in her way out of this house and away from everyone in it. She sobbed and clawed at the walls with her nails, her tears making trickles on her white mask until at last she hunched up in a corner like a little girl, the fight gone out of her.

‘Ah, Mama, what are we gonna do, what are we gonna do?’

Below, Sugar May listened up and grinned from ear to ear. Served that mean stuck-up bitch right. Ruby Corbello always got everything she wanted, never had to wear anyone’s cast-off clothes like she did. She skipped out of the house in delight as an old yellow cab drew up to take Jesse and Willy to the hospital.

Edith sat on her daughter’s bed, near to tears herself. She felt worn out by it all.

‘Maybe ask Father Leroy, Ruby?’

Ruby shook her head. ‘With a wife and two kids he needs his money, Mama. There ain’t no fortunes to be made in the kind of investigation work that’s on his level. You know who the only one with money is, you know.’

Edith shook her head. ‘I’m not asking Fryer, I wouldn’t ask him to spit in a jam jar.’

‘I didn’t mean Fryer,’ snapped Ruby. ‘Why don’t we ask her lady friend, one who’s been paying out all that money for years? We ask her direct, she’s rich, isn’t she?’

Edith shook her head. ‘No, we don’t cross Juda’s territory, Ruby. That Mrs Caley is her wages and it’s her money been keeping us all. I wouldn’t go behind Juda’s back.’

Ruby stood in front of her mother. ‘I know you done things for money, things you’ve always been against, I know that, Mama.’

‘You shut up now,’ Edith said with a warning slap.

Ruby dodged aside. ‘I saw you making it, Mama, I saw Juda coming here for her so-called tea. I know.’

Edith hit out again. ‘You saw nobody come in here, girl, you hear me? You say one word about that business to anyone and I am warning you—’

Ruby stood her ground. ‘No, Mama, I am warning you because my day is gonna be the best day in my life and nobody will mess it up for me.’

Ruby ran out of the room and Edith covered her face. She heard the front door slam hard and crossed to the window. There was Ruby striding down the street, arms swinging, still with treatment cream all over her face. It was a terrible morning, like some kind of train running out of control. And there was more to come.

As she made her way heavily down the narrow staircase, Sugar May passed her with a rolled-up newspaper. She swatted a fly with it.

‘If that is today’s paper, Sugar May, don’t you go screwing it up like that before I’ve even cast my eye over it.’

The young girl chucked the paper at her mother. ‘I’m gonna run away, I’m gonna find Raoul and share in all his millions.’ She stuck out her tongue and her mother used the same paper to hit her across the side of the head. Sugar May just laughed and ran out.

Halfway down the front page was an article headed ‘Former Debutante Commits Suicide’. Edith sank on to the stairs, her eyes popping out on stalks as she read the detailed article about the suicide of Tilda Brown. She felt as if there was a noose round her throat, getting tighter and tighter, taking the breath out of her body.

Ruby knelt in front of the high white tomb in the First St Louis Cemetery. On the ground, in front of it she had drawn the ve-ve of Marie Laveau, the swirling hieroglyph that would invoke the spirit of the voodoo queen, and now she drew another cross to add to the hundreds already on the monument, pressed her hand flat against it, and knocked on the tomb. She was so intent in prayer to the dead priestess’s spirit, straining every fibre of her being, that she did not hear Leroy Abie’s soft-footed approach. Her face was still streaked with white cream and for a moment Able thought he was seeing a woman risen from the tomb, and he froze.

‘Ruby?’

She turned round.

‘I thought you didn’t believe in all that.’ It had been one of Edith’s great griefs that her elder daughter seemed to have no time for her heritage, sneering at it as a lot of superstitious African rubbish that would keep her in the ghetto when she was going to go to New York and be the new Veronica Webb.

‘Well,’ said Ruby gruffly, embarrassed to have been seen. ‘Can’t do no harm, I don’t reckon. Something terrible has happened. Raoul run off with the money for my gown and it’s half-stitched, I only got two more fittings.’

‘Come out of sight here, quickly now, the place is full of tourists coming round looking at the graves. Hurry up, get out of sight.’

Ruby let Leroy draw her away from Marie Laveau’s tomb to a less frequented part of the cemetery where the brick-oven tombs of people too poor to afford a private sepulchre lined the perimeter walls. She took the handkerchief he offered her and sank down to sit on the ground, cleaning her face and stretching her long slender legs out in front of her. She had changed since last time he saw her, and her beautiful, oval face, deep, slanting black eyes and waist-length, wavy hair had begun to look more and more like those of the great queen; she could have been her daughter, or Marie Laveau herself come back to life and youth a second time.

‘We’ll find the money, Ruby, everyone will give towards the gown, you don’t have to worry about that. The krewe won’t let you go without. You’re just being a silly girl.’

She sighed. ‘Maybe, but things are bad at home, Leroy, really bad, and my brothers are all messed up. Even my sister is going to get herself in trouble, she hangs out at that shit bar, they all do.’

He bent down and stroked her soft hair. ‘But you don’t?’

‘No,’ she said softly.

‘Because you’re different?’

‘You know I’m different. I have more in front of me than that neighbourhood or this whole damn city, least I had till Raoul fucked things up, but there’s nothing I won’t do to get that money and have my day, I even told Mama to call up...’

She bit her lip and turned away. He frowned. ‘Call who?’

Ruby shook her head. ‘I said too much.’

‘No, Ruby, you haven’t said anything at all. Who did you tell your mama to contact?’

Ruby kept her head down. ‘Mrs Caley.’

Leroy stood up, towering above her. ‘No, you don’t do that, you hear me? Since her daughter disappeared there’ve been police enquiries, private investigator enquiries, and they’re still going on, you hear me? You stay away from all that. I mean it, Ruby, you don’t ever get involved.’

She looked up rebelliously. ‘But what about my gown, Leroy? If we don’t pay Alma Dicks she won’t finish it.’

He drew her to her feet. She seemed so light, so fragile. ‘Your gown will be ready, Ruby, and you will be the most beautiful queen Mardi Gras has ever seen.’

She smiled. ‘Wanna see something Leroy?’ She began to move her body sinuously. ‘I can do the snake dance, Leroy, like Mama used to do.’ She twisted her hips and rolled her head. She was as lithe, as hypnotic as a serpent, and he wanted to reach out and draw her into his arms, but she danced towards the high tombs and suddenly she had passed between two of them and was gone. It was as if she had never been there. Leroy sighed. He had changed in so many ways since he had come back from LA. It was not just the responsibility of having a wife and two children; he had come back and found his roots, rediscovered himself and his beliefs, but sometimes it was hard to lose that other Leroy that would fuck anything that swayed in front of him in a skirt. And being confronted by beauty such as Ruby Corbello’s was a real test of his faith.

Nick Bartello’s naked body was in the morgue, his clothes folded into paper bags. They found no identification on him, and as his pockets had been stripped, it was surmised that it had been a mugging, even though he didn’t look like a tourist from the main routes, more like a drifter coming in for the Carnival. There were a lot of Nick Bartellos found and never identified, and they would have left it that way but for a tattoo on his left forearm: a shield, the LAPD badge.

Leroy Able was back in his office and back in his public persona when he got the call. When the sergeant asked if he’d been contacted by any old buddies, he frowned and leaned his elbows on his desk. ‘Nope, why do you ask?’

‘We got a stiff found early this morning, an’ you was in the LAPD, weren’t you?’

‘Yeah, why?’

‘Well, this guy’s got a tattoo of a shield, no other ID found on him. He’s also got a couple of bullet scars in his right leg.’

Leroy hesitated. ‘You want me to take a look?’

‘Found him up in an alley two blocks from Fryer’s bar, wouldn’t you know!’ The fat officer waddled ahead of Leroy, who came up to his elbow. ‘Throat slit and he’d taken a beating, no witness, no nothing.’

The sheet was drawn away from Nick’s face and Leroy stared down. He breathed in. ‘Nope, sorry, never set eyes on him. You know these old hippies get tatted up, don’t mean anything too much.’

Lorraine had time to study every bonbonnière, trinket tray, hand-painted lampshade and china parakeet in Lloyd Dulay’s cavernous drawing room: he had kept her waiting for over an hour, and she was furious when he eventually strode towards her, hand outstretched.

‘My apologies, but I was kept waiting at the airport, I was there to meet Elizabeth Caley. Then I had to drive with her to the house and it was hard to get away.’

‘That’s all right,’ she said coldly.

He sat on the scarlet and gold sofa, stretching out his long legs. ‘Even harder when we talked about Anna Louise’s trust fund...’

She stared. ‘Really?’

‘Yes, down by near forty-two million.’

She coughed. ‘Robert Caley?’

He made an expansive gesture with his huge hands. ‘Couldn’t be anyone else. He knows I know, and I also pulled out of the casino deal, man is nothing but a thief. He didn’t deny it and I wanted to beat the hell out of him. He wanted to do the same to me when I told him I knew about him and Anna. He denied it, swore to me he had never touched her. I don’t know if he was telling me the truth or not.’

She licked her lips. ‘You think he might also have killed her?’

‘What?’

‘If what you say is true, and Robert Caley has used Anna Louise’s trust fund, do you think he might have anything to do with her disappearance?’

‘You didn’t say that at all, Mrs Page.’

‘No, well, I’m asking it now.’

He got up and rubbed at his shock of white hair. ‘He wouldn’t need to kill his daughter to cover it up, she probably wouldn’t find out.’

‘If the casino deal went through.’

‘Yes.’

‘But if it didn’t?’

He shrugged. ‘I can’t give you an answer because I truthfully don’t know.’

‘Could you tell me just how much money Elizabeth Caley is probably worth?’

He crossed the priceless Bessarabian rug to stand by the windows. ‘She’s always used the best financial advisers to invest her money, I know because I am one of them...’ He remained with his back to her. ‘Elizabeth had a very substantial inheritance, so I would estimate her fortune to be somewhere in the region of two hundred million, perhaps more.’

Lorraine blinked: she had not been in any way prepared to hear a figure like that.

Dulay turned towards her. ‘You know, Robert also had access to a lot of that, from what I can gather, but he’s a stiff-necked bastard. Wanted to make it on his own. ‘Course, she was always bailing him out.’ He gestured dismissively. ‘I guess Elizabeth will bail him out of this fuck-up he’s got himself into right now.’

‘Is that possible?’

‘Is what possible?’

‘For him to be bailed out, as you say?’

He looked at her as if she was a stupid child. ‘Well, yes and no. The way the wind’s blowing, he’s not going to get any casino licence, but I guess whoever does will have to negotiate with him for the land. If Elizabeth gives him something just to tide him over, maybe he won’t have to sell at an undervalue because he needs the cash.’

She was taken aback again and looked away, not wanting him to see her confusion, but he was not looking at her. He was fiddling with a gold chain tucked into his waistcoat. ‘I’m going to tell you something that is highly confidential, Mrs Page, and as such I want you to swear it will not go further than this room.’

She folded her arms. ‘Well, I can’t really do that, if it has any criminal connection...’

‘It doesn’t.’

‘Then you have my word, Mr Dulay.’

He sat down heavily again.

‘If there was anything going on, it would not exactly be incest.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘I said, Mrs Page, it would not be incest. I am referring to what you suggested yesterday, that Caley was having a sexual relationship with Anna Louise.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Anna Louise is not Robert Caley’s daughter. She’s mine, Mrs Page, which is why I was able to find out about the trust fund, because the funds in it were mine too. Anna Louise is my daughter, not Robert Caley’s.’

‘Does he know?’

‘Of course.’

‘Did Anna Louise know?’

‘No.’

She took a deep intake of breath. ‘You confronted Robert about the trust fund, and he admitted it, but you said you were not sure if he was having a sexual relationship with Anna Louise?’

‘If you want it word for word, I said that if he was abusing my daughter, I would shoot his head off his shoulders, and he said, and I quote, Mrs Page, that if I was ever to make such a disgusting accusation again, then the head would come off my shoulders!’

‘But did you or did you not believe him?’ she asked quietly.

‘Yes, I suppose I did, because he was very shocked. In fact, he went through a range of emotions I didn’t honestly think he was capable of, but in the end he was just violently angry.’ He leaned forward in his chair, his small, hard eyes bored into her flushed face. ‘Maybe check out all the facts before you throw dirt, Mrs Page.’

She stood up and snapped back at him. ‘If I had been given them maybe I would not have needed to. I am just trying to do my job, Mr Dulay.’

He stuffed his hands into his pockets and as she was already walking to the door he followed. Suddenly she stopped.

‘Do you have a video of Mrs Caley’s film The Swamp I could see?’

‘Good God, whatever do you want that for?’

‘Just part of my job, to know everything I possibly can know about my clients.’

He went to an antique fruitwood cabinet in the corner of the room and slid the doors apart: this was where he kept his video library.

‘She won’t be happy about this, it’s a terrible film, cheap, shoddy, but she is wonderful.’ He handed her the video.

Lorraine put it in her briefcase. She was shaking and angry with herself. She had jumped so quickly to such disgusting conclusions she was ashamed of herself. If she had been unable even to return Robert Caley’s phone calls the previous evening, the thought of facing him now made her cheeks flush with shame, so she pushed it to one side, refusing to dwell on what she would have to do to repair the damage.

She ordered her driver, the same one as the day before, to take her back to Tilda Brown’s house.

‘You know, Bill, I’m getting worried,’ Rosie said as they sat at a sidewalk café near the French market.

‘Me too, it stinks. They pick up this bastard, an anonymous tip off says they saw him talking to Anna Louise Caley and—’

‘I’m not talking about Fryer Jones,’ Rosie said.

Rooney looked at his watch. ‘He always was a horny son of a bitch.’ But it sounded hollow even to him.

‘Why hasn’t he called in?’

‘I don’t know, do I?’ Rooney snapped and then patted her hand. ‘Sorry, sorry. Look, tell you what, say we give it to one o’clock when Lorraine’s due back at the hotel. If Nick’s not shown, then we’ll start looking for him.’

‘Like where? This is a big city.’

Rooney downed his third café au lait. ‘Start with the cop shop, if they haven’t got him banged up or on a slab...’

‘What?’

He wiped the froth from his mouth. ‘Morgue, Rosie, start at the lowest point and work upwards. I know one thing for sure, until that two-bit shit shows up I’m not going near that bar of Fryer Jones, and I hope to God Lorraine doesn’t take off without coming to us first. If you look at the list of so-called eye witnesses that give that trombone player one hell of a tight alibi, half are made up of Juda Salina’s relatives, including Raoul Corbello.’

‘I tried to get in touch with Juda, it was engaged for almost an hour then no reply.’

‘What about Edith Corbello?’

Rosie’s cheeks went pink. ‘She’s not in the phone book, I was going to try other ways when you came back.’

Rooney stood up. ‘Well, let’s go back to the hotel and have another try. Right now, until Lorraine gets back, we got nothing else to do.’

Mrs Brown’s sister, Helen Dubois, came into the drawing room, a modern interior of metal and glass and bare boards polished to shine as though lacquered, the walls covered in severely tasteful beiges and oatmeals the better to display a collection of fashionable yarn paintings and Primitive art. In this stark setting, the plump, distressed woman looked all too human and out of place. ‘I am afraid neither Mr or Mrs Brown can see you, Mrs Page. They are still very shocked and my sister is under sedation.’

‘Yes, I’m so very sorry, please pass on my sincere condolences.’ Lorraine took her time gathering up her purse and her briefcase. ‘The police called me in to give a statement, I was here earlier in the day, I interviewed Tilda.’

‘Yes, I know.’

‘I can’t help but think that maybe it was something I said that may have sparked off...’

‘We won’t ever know, will we?’ Mrs Dubois said sadly.

‘But the police said Tilda left a note.’

‘Yes, but it didn’t give any reasons.’

‘May I ask what it said?’

Helen Dubois took out a handkerchief and pressed it to her eyes. ‘Just, “May God forgive... Tilda”.’

They walked towards the front door, Lorraine really taking her time as they passed more Mexican-looking textiles and a jardinière of desert flora in the hallway. ‘Mrs Dubois, do you know why I was here, why I came to see Tilda?’

‘Yes, I believe you wanted to question her about Anna Louise Caley.’

‘Could I see Tilda’s bedroom?’

‘Why?’

Lorraine hesitated, trying to think of the best way around it. ‘Well, for one, Anna Louise may still be alive, it is a possibility, and she and Tilda were very close friends. After yesterday’s tragedy, I would pray to God that I did not leave any stone unturned in my search for her. At the same time, even though I cannot think of anything, maybe I did inadvertently say something... I have a terrible feeling of guilt, Mrs Dubois, and I just think if I could perhaps sit a moment in Tilda’s room, rethink everything we discussed, perhaps I will have more of a clue as to why she did it, and it would give some comfort to her poor parents.’

Mrs Dubois hesitated, looked up the open-tread wooden staircase. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Is the police cordon still in place?’

‘No, no, they took it down about two hours ago.’

Tilda’s bedroom had a similar feel to Anna Louise Caley’s — large enough to accommodate a turquoise sofa on back-tilted metal legs, a dresser, cheval mirror surrounded by more Mexican-looking embossed metal, and a king-size bed. All but the sofa was white, and the room seemed strangely bare, characterless, but the exigencies of decorator taste had been relaxed to permit a fitted white carpet and a wall of built-in closets on each side of a door which led to a spacious bathroom. The room showed few signs that the occupant had only been in her teens.

The carpet was marked near the window by a number of dust footprints, more than likely from the police and the medics that had removed the body, and some faint, washed-out brown stains, already dry, which could have been coffee or perhaps, as is usual in suicides by hanging, Tilda’s bowels might have opened and the mess been cleaned up. There was no other sign that anything untoward had occurred in the room; even the curtain rail Tilda had hanged herself from remained in position, and the dressing-table stool, covered in white fabric with silver upholstery buttons like out-size sequins, was back in place in front of the triptych mirrors.

Mrs Dubois stood in the open doorway, pressing a handkerchief to her eyes to try to stop herself from weeping.

‘You don’t have to stay with me,’ Lorraine said softly.

‘Thank you.’ Mrs Dubois turned away, just as Lorraine saw the white bear resting on the pillows of the bed. ‘Oh, just one thing, Mrs Dubois.’ Lorraine picked it up, sure it was similar to the white fluffy bears she had seen lined up on Anna Louise’s bed. ‘Do you know where Tilda got this bear from?’

Mrs Dubois swallowed, her brow puckering.

‘It’s just that Anna Louise had the same bears, and I wondered who gave it to Tilda.’

Mrs Dubois shook her head. ‘I really don’t know, it’s been there quite a while, I think. I recall seeing it before... it’s a Polar bear, is it?’

‘Polar,’ Lorraine said softly.

‘Yes, that’s what she called it, Polar.’

Mrs Dubois began to weep again and excused herself as Lorraine replaced the bear on the pillow. As soon as she was alone she drew back the covers and felt beneath the pillows, the sheets and the mattress, getting to her knees to look beneath the heavy woven cotton bedspread, but there was nothing hidden in the bed or underneath it.

Lorraine made a slow tour of the neat bedroom, sitting at the dressing table and opening each drawer. Some contained underwear, lingerie, all very expensive items folded with tissue paper placed between the garments. Even the rolled-up tennis socks were lined up like balls. In the closets, Tilda had as extensive a wardrobe as Anna Louise’s and rows of shoe boxes. Lorraine bent down, wondering if she would get lucky twice, that any personal mementoes might have been hidden in the same way Anna Louise kept hers, but she found nothing other than shoes. She recalled the room she herself had had as a teenager, full of junk, books and magazines, cards stuck and pasted to the shabby wallpaper, and all the pictures of the rock stars and movie stars she’d had the hots for. But it was clear that in Anna Louise’s and Tilda’s rooms their parents’ decorators’ taste predominated, and they had hardly a knick-knack of their own, apart from the somehow pitiful soft toys. Even the display of cosmetics and perfumes was more fitting for a much older woman; Tilda’s creams in the immaculate bathroom were for dry skin and wrinkles, intensive moisturizers, serums and chemical peels. Nothing was used — everything down to the toothbrush looked brand new.

Lorraine sighed. A girl had hanged herself inside this whiter than white, innocent room, but there was no sign of the tragedy, no sense of who Tilda Brown was. She closed her eyes, trying to remember their conversation. According to Tilda, Anna Louise was jealous of anyone being shown any affection by her father: had Robert Caley given the girls the white polar bears? Was that the reason she used the name Polar on her secret messages? Was that who the Valentine cards and birthday gifts were from? Did Robert Caley use the name Polar?

Lorraine picked up one of the tennis racquets stacked neatly in a row in the closet Tilda had set aside for her sport and ski equipment. Even if Robert Caley did sign himself Polar, what did that matter now? Even if he had been sexually abusing Anna Louise or having willing intercourse with her, she was not his own flesh and blood.

Lorraine leaned forward and replaced the racquet alongside the row of others. She glanced at one racquet, whose cover bulged slightly on one side — perhaps a pair of socks? Lorraine drew back the zipper and felt inside. Her fingers touched a package of some kind and she took it out. The newspaper-wrapped package was about eight inches long, string wrapped tightly around it. Lorraine sat on the dressing-table stool, carefully untying the knot, then unwinding the string. She put it to one side and placed the package on to the mirrored dressing table, moving aside mother of pearl-backed combs and brushes.

The paper, she noted, was dated February 15, the year missing where the newspaper had been torn across. It was also dirty, stained with what looked like mud, some of the print smudged. She eased the paper away from the contents and almost dropped it, springing up from the stool with shock because of the horrible smell. Urine and human faeces were caked around a doll, whose trunk, arms and legs were made of crudely stuffed and tied sacking wound round with wool. It had a white dress, equally crudely hand-stitched, made from what looked like an old piece of T-shirt. The head was cheap plastic, like the head of a Barbie doll, and glued on to the face was a picture of Tilda. An ordinary dressmaker’s pin was stuck through the left eye of the doll, protruding right through the back of the head. When Lorraine turned it over there were two or three long blonde hairs and what appeared to be dried specks of blood attached to a tiny, pinkish-brown fragment of skin tied to the torso with cross-bands of wool.

‘Mrs Page,’ called out Helen Dubois, and Lorraine quickly rewrapped the doll and put it in her briefcase just before the door opened.

‘I think perhaps you should go. Mrs and Mrs Brown have the chaplain coming to arrange the funeral, and...’

‘It’s all right, I was just leaving.’

The driver started the engine as soon as he saw Lorraine emerge from the house. She sat back in the hot, stuffy car, slowly rolling down one of the windows. She could smell the doll in her briefcase, so she pushed it away from her. She didn’t want to take it out, didn’t want to handle it again unless there was soap and water handy. She washed her hands as soon as she got back to her hotel room, over and over again. Then she dried them, sniffing at them, and stared at the wrapped parcel.

‘Lorraine? Are you in there?’ It was Rosie.

Lorraine let her in, turning straight back towards the bed. ‘You will not believe what I found at Tilda Brown’s place, it’s already stinking out the room, and...’

Rosie was red-eyed from weeping, clutching a big white handkerchief. ‘Lorraine... I’ve got something to tell you.’

She knew something was wrong when the big, bulky figure of Rooney walked in behind Rosie and quietly closed the door.

‘What is it? What’s happened?’ She could feel her legs shaking.

Rooney didn’t mean it to come out so bluntly but there was no other way. ‘It’s Nick, he’s dead, Lorraine.’

Her face drained of colour. She looked at Rosie, back to Rooney, hoping it was some kind of a joke, but she knew it wasn’t by the expression on their faces. She felt for the end of the bed and sat down, trying to keep calm and steady.

‘How did it happen?’

Rooney helped Rosie to sit down. ‘He was murdered, throat cut. The cops found him in an alley early this morning, no wallet, no ID on him, and he was taken to the city morgue. They haven’t done an autopsy yet.’

Rooney gestured helplessly. ‘The only identifying mark was a tattoo of the LAPD badge on his arm, lot of them had it done when they were rookies.’

‘Yes, I know,’ she said softly. ‘Jack Lubrinski had one, wasn’t on his arm though, it was on his butt.’

Lorraine’s lips trembled and she clenched her teeth, needing to be alone. ‘You mind giving me a few minutes by myself, just want to be on my own for a while.’

Rooney nodded and took Rosie’s arm. ‘Sure, you give us a call when you want us.’ He knew intuitively that it was better to leave, but Rosie hung back.

‘Just go, Rosie. Come on, sweetheart.’ He pushed her towards the door and closed it behind them, leaving Lorraine still standing motionless, her hands clenched by her sides.

Rosie turned on him in the hall. ‘God, she’s a cold-hearted bitch, imagine even talking about that guy Lubrinski, I mean, Nick, Nick’s...’ Rosie began to sob and Rooney put his arm around her and supported her down the corridor.

‘She didn’t show any feelings about him at all,’ Rosie wept, but Rooney knew different: he’d been a cop too long not to recognize that look on someone’s face, often followed by a joke or some casual comment, anything to conceal the blow to the heart. Lorraine would weep for Nick, he knew that, but not in front of anyone else. She would try to come to terms with Nick’s death in her own way, the way he knew too, privately — you never wanted to show anyone the pain.

Lorraine splashed cold water on her face, still dry-eyed and shocked, still not really registering the fact that she wouldn’t see Nick again. She whispered his name, over and over again, half-questioningly, as she patted her face dry, and then walked into the bedroom and looked first at the bed where she had been sleeping when he woke her, then at the bed opposite where he had sat. She lay down on her own bed, curled up facing the empty one, wanting to reach out to him as though he were still there.

‘Nick?’ she whispered again. ‘Oh, Nick...’ she repeated, and then the tears came, her face crumpling like a child’s as she wept for Nick Bartello, lovely and crazy as he had been. She wept until she was exhausted, cried out, and then sat with her head in her hands.

It was then she caught sight of the bottle of vodka he had left. It had fallen on its side and rolled just beneath the bed. She stared at it, unable to look away, and it drew her like a magnet until she got down on her knees to retrieve it. She held it in her hands, examining the bottle, almost caressing it, and then slowly unscrewed the cap. Just one drink: she just needed the one to get herself back together and be able to work. Just the one and she’d be able to put the bottle away. She was sure of it.