Cold Heart

Chapter 17

By the time Lorraine arrived in New York it was almost eleven thirty p.m. and her flight to Los Angeles had long gone. She booked into the Park Meridian hotel and started to make some calls. She had to arrange travel to Santa Fe, first thing in the morning, and she knew she had to call Jake. As she dialled his number, part of her longed to hear his voice, but the other part, knowing what she was about to say, hoped that his answerphone would pick up.

Jake answered the phone almost immediately it rang.

‘Lorraine!’ he said, pure pleasure in his voice. ‘Where are you? Do you want me to come pick you up?’

‘Actually,’ she began weakly, ‘I’m still in New York.’

‘New York?’ he repeated, unable to mask his disappointment. ‘What are you doing there?’

Well,’ she said, ‘I got stuck in traffic and I missed the flight.’

‘What a drag,’ he said sympathetically. ‘Can you get a flight in the morning?’

‘Oh, sure,’ Lorraine said. ‘It’s just that I have to make a detour, just for a day, to interview someone.’

‘Where to?’ he asked.

‘Santa Fe. Nathan’s brother is an artist out there — I think he might have been the one forging the paintings. I’m pretty sure it was him and that’ll wrap up the case — I mean, I can’t just dump Feinstein, I said I’d try to trace his art...’

‘Lorraine,’ Jake said gently, ‘you don’t have to make excuses to me about doing your job.’

‘I know, it’s just that I don’t want you to think I don’t care about you. I’d give anything to be coming straight home.’

‘I know you would,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry about it. When will I see you?’

‘Tomorrow — or at worst the day after.’

‘That’s okay,’ he said, with a laugh. ‘I waited for you for forty-five years so I figure I can manage another forty-eight hours.’

‘This is going to be the last time I go away like this,’ she said. ‘I’m winding up the agency after this case — just as soon as I can get Feinstein off my back.’

‘You don’t have to do that, sweetheart,’ Jake said, clearly taken aback. ‘Why don’t we talk about it when you get back?’

‘I don’t need to talk about it,’ Lorraine said. ‘It’s my decision and I’ve thought about it. Bill Rooney was right — you get dirty in this business, dealing with sick people, damaged people, crooks all day. I’ve had enough.’

‘Well,’ Jake said, ‘let’s see if you feel the same way when you come home. It sounds as though the case still has its teeth in you for now.’

‘Yeah, I know,’ she said wryly. ‘Don’t worry, I can cut loose.’

‘Sure you can,’ he said, with a laugh. ‘Hurry home.’

God, she thought, what had she done to deserve a guy like that? And why had she put off calling him for so long? She had assumed he would be irritated and resentful that she had been delayed, but it was clear that his only concern was to make life easier for her. There weren’t many like him out there.

Next she called Rosie, who had now met Jake when he had brought Tiger around. ‘You’re a lucky lady — he loves you, and he was open about it, came right out with it. He said he was gonna marry you, and me and Bill never even mentioned it, I swear.’

Lorraine felt warm inside. ‘He said that to you?’

‘Yeah, and to Bill — like he wanted our approval. He and Bill got on like a house on fire, and you know what a prick Bill can be. Well, they acted like old buddies, and the best thing is, Jake started asking about Mike and your girls. He said he felt you should get to know them. I think he kinda wants a family... are you there? Hello?’

‘Yes, Rosie, I’m here.’

‘He also said he was missing you and you didn’t call often enough.’

‘Well,’ Lorraine said, ‘I just called him, so that’s taken care of.’

‘About time!’ Rosie said. ‘This one you don’t let off the hook.’

Lorraine felt so good she laughed.

Then Rosie told Lorraine that all she wanted was for her to find the same happiness she had found, and she reckoned that, of all the people she knew, Lorraine deserved it the most. ‘See, I love you, and so does Bill.’

Lorraine lay back on the bed. ‘I love you, too, and I’ll see you both very soon.’

‘How soon is that?’ Rosie asked. ‘Something tells me it’s slightly later than planned.’

Well,’ Lorraine said sheepishly — how well her friend knew her! ‘I got a bit of a lead on this case, so I’m going to Santa Fe — just one interview, then I’ll be on my way home.’

‘Lorraine!’ Rosie said, exasperation in her voice. ‘There’s some things more important than this case and that interview, you know. You gotta take care of the rest of your life.’

‘Jake’ll take care of me for the rest of my life,’ Lorraine said, knowing that that was what her friend wanted to hear. ‘Just after this one interview, okay? I’m still working for Feinstein and I can’t just drop the case.’

‘Okay,’ Rosie said resignedly. ‘We’ll take care of Tiger, and I’ll stop by your place and water the plants. It’s hot as hell here.’

‘Can you check my fridge too? And there’s a crate of dog food under the sink.’

‘Okay, he sure does eat. So when will you be back?’

‘Tomorrow evening, next day at worst.’

‘I’ll be waiting.’

‘Great, see you then — and, Rosie, give that Bill Rooney a big hug from me.’

‘I will. ‘Bye now.’ Rosie hung up.

Lorraine rolled off the bed, her spirits high. She took a shower, washed her hair and got into bed. It was just after two, and she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

It was only six when she woke up, but she couldn’t go back to sleep. As there was still an hour before the breakfast she’d ordered would arrive, she got up and sat at the writing desk in her room. Just as she had on the bus from the Hamptons, she went over the case — her last case, she said to herself, and as it was the last, she would not rest until she’d cracked it.

Something still unexplained which irked Lorraine was the phone call, apparently from Cindy, that she had received the day Nathan died. Lorraine would have bet her bottom dollar that it was either Kendall or Sonja, and if so, one of them had known about the murder virtually at the time it was committed. Or had Cindy called one of them to ask for help, and then that person had called Lorraine? Kendall would not have given Cindy the time of day, but Sonja had seemed to feel some measure of concern for her — that had struck Lorraine as odd because she did not consider Sonja either caring or altruistic.

She was still sitting hunched over her notebook when her breakfast arrived. Half an hour later, Reception called to say her car was waiting to take her to the airport.

Sonja lay back in the luxurious, king-sized bed, her breakfast tray beside her. She had arranged a hair-dressing appointment, manicure and massage in the hotel, leaving plenty of time to prepare for the flight, and was looking forward to being back in Europe again. She always looked on the Old World, where she had grown up, as home. Harry was dead, Raymond was dead, and she had vowed that the years of pain and obsession would be buried with them. She would choose the right man now where she had chosen the wrong one before, would choose a real life now over a living death. There was just one final statement she had to make.

Arthur, smart in a navy suit with broad pinstripes, walked in from the dining area with an armful of newspapers. ‘Vallance got good coverage — they’re using photographs of him from back in the fifties. There’s the New York Times, LA Times, Variety...’ He had not questioned Sonja any further about Vallance’s death, fearful of disturbing the fragile equilibrium of her mood.

Sonja read the articles, then turned to the arts page in the LA Times. She glanced over at Arthur. ‘You read this?’ Arthur sat on the edge of the bed and Sonja went on, ‘It’s about the fiasco in Spain at the Prado — they fired some art historian who wrongly hailed some painting found in the archives as an undiscovered Goya. It was already registered as a Mariano Salvador Maella.’

Arthur picked up a piece of toast and bit into the crust. ‘He was one of Goya’s contemporaries, lesser known, but how the hell they could confuse his work with Goya’s is beyond me.’

Sonja continued to read, then looked over at him again. ‘They only had a preliminary sketch listed as Maella and registered in their records.’

‘Typical,’ he said, shrugging. ‘But these national art galleries have so many political strings attached and are run by assholes.’

‘It says that they should have bought Goya’s Marianito?

‘Better still, they should have snapped up Condesa de Chinchon — it’s recognized as his best work. That’s in private hands, though.’

‘Is it?’ Sonja peered at the paper. ‘They say they don’t have the funds to do renovations so that they can show one of the finest art collections in the world. It’s bursting at the seams with nine out of ten of its treasures buried in vaults for lack of space...’ She smiled at him. ‘Would you like to be let loose in there?’ He wandered to the window without replying. ‘Could you do a Goya?’ she asked, turning to the fashion page.

‘No. I can’t do anyone that good — every brushstroke is a signature. The stuff Harry had wasn’t in the same class.’

She lowered the paper. ‘Are you all right? Not nervous about the deal, are you?’ He kept his back to her, so she crossed to him. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘Nothing.’

He tried to move away, but she caught his arm. ‘Tell me what it is.’

‘It’s nothing, sweetheart. Now, if you’re going to get your hair done, I should—’

‘I don’t need to. I can stay with you.’

‘Don’t be stupid. Not that you need any primping — I love you any way you look.’

She reached up and touched his cheek. ‘Thank you, but it gives me confidence to look good. You know how I hate standing up on platforms, let alone giving speeches. Though this will be the last one.’

‘Sonja, don’t talk that way. You’ll work again if you want to. Just give it time.’

‘I’ve given all the time I intend to give to my work in this lifetime,’ Sonja said, a trace of bitterness in her voice. ‘That’s over now. Harry killed something deep inside me, and it just won’t come alive again.’

She was about to say more, but Arthur swore, almost frightening her. The tension he had been suppressing since he walked into the room now rushed to the surface in a torrent of words. ‘He’s dead, Sonja, for God’s sake — the man is dead. You make everything I am, everything we are, second best, second rate. Whenever you bring up that son-of-a-bitch — and you do, at every opportunity—’

‘I certainly don’t,’ Sonja said, needled. ‘I don’t know what more I could have done to put him out of my life. It was just that PI asking questions about him stirred up the memories again.’

‘Really? Well, I’m sick of hearing his name, and I’ve been patient, but I don’t know how much longer I can go on living with just the leftovers. I don’t want to hear about him any more. Whatever he did, whatever happened between you, is in the past, and if you want to keep it in the present, then I’m past, Sonja, because I can’t take it. I never wanted to get involved in this paintings scam, I did it for you. I—’

‘It’s going to make you very rich,’ Sonja snapped.

Arthur moved quickly across the room and grabbed her. ‘You don’t hear me, Sonja. Believe me, I know how much we’ll be worth. We’ve had to wait for it long enough, but without you, and I mean all of you, it won’t mean anything. All I want is some kind of assurance that he’s not going to dominate your life from his fucking grave. I don’t understand how you can keep on and on about him, keep loving such a cheap bastard.’

‘You think I still love him?’

‘It’s obvious. You can’t stop talking about the man! You go on and on about him to anyone who’ll listen, even to a woman digging around for stuff that could put us in jail. If that’s not love, then...’ He raised his hands in a helpless gesture.

Sonja put her arms around him. ‘I don’t love him, you big fool.’

He had to prise her away from him, wanting to look into her green-grey eyes see if she was lying. They were steady, and she didn’t flinch from his gaze.

‘I hated him, and I have hated with such intensity I have hardly been alive. He betrayed and destroyed everything I valued, he made everything I was meaningless. He threw all I had done for him back in my face, mangled all the love and care I gave him. It was as if he held me in his bare hands and kept wringing me like a rag, until—’

Arthur interrupted, his voice soft, ‘I’ve heard this before, Sonja. I’m not listening to you, but you should listen to me. I don’t want his leftovers, I need more — and if you can’t be free of him, then, for my own sanity, I have to be free of you.’

The phone rang and Arthur snatched it up, exchanged a couple of curt words with the caller, then said Sonja would be right down. ‘The hair salon — you’re late.’

He made as if to leave, but she held out her arms to him in entreaty. This time he did not, as he always did, cradle her to him and say it was all right.

‘I’ll be ready in a couple of hours,’ she said, letting her arms fall back by her sides. ‘I’ll never mention his name again.’

He wanted to smack her, shake her, throw her across the bed. He said, ‘Not enough — that’s not enough. I don’t give a shit if you talk about him, that’s not what I’ve been trying to get across to you and you know it. Whether it’s love or hate is immaterial. I’m just sick and tired of him being between us. When he was alive it was bad enough, but now he’s dead... I sometimes wish to Christ I’d pulled the trigger.’

She gave a strange, sad smile. ‘No, you didn’t, but I did.’

He felt as if he’d been punched. He swallowed hard. ‘Go and have your hair done.’

‘I love you,’ she said softly.

Arthur halted in his tracks. ‘Say that again.’

She was smiling again now, but a different smile of fun and pleasure. ‘I love you.’ She laughed.

‘No, what you said before that. After I said I wished I’d pulled the trigger. Repeat what you said.’

‘I said I wished I did.’

‘No, you didn’t. You said, “I did.”’

‘Artistic licence — I needed an exit line.’

‘No, your exit line was after you said you loved me. So-was it a joke?’

She closed her eyes. It was not that she was afraid to look at him, she was afraid she might lose him, that as soon as she had decided wholeheartedly to commit herself to him, he would be the one to back away. Suddenly she knew that that was more than she could bear.

‘Of course it was a joke,’ she said. ‘I mean, if you wanted to pull the trigger, do you think I didn’t?’

‘Open your eyes,’ he said, bending closer, and she did as he asked.

‘Give me the exit line, only this time look at me.’

‘I love you,’ she said softly.

‘You got me,’ he said, his voice gruff. He had waited a long time to hear her say it, and mean it.

Lorraine ate her plastic lunch on the nine thirty flight out of Newark, eager to get the interview with Nick Nathan over and done with, and hoping the journey wouldn’t be a waste of time. She landed in Albuquerque just after lunch and stepped out into the surprisingly pleasant dry air of a high altitude and to the limitless New Mexico sky: even in fall it was like walking on the bottom of an ocean of blue, which made even the mountains surrounding the desert city seem only knee-high. She carried her jacket over her arm, her briefcase in one hand and made her way through the terminal to the travel agent’s. She picked up a rental car, a Buick, then, armed with road maps, pulled out of town into the landscape of grey rock, desert pine and juniper to look for signs for the I-25 to Santa Fe.

As she joined the Interstate, Lorraine noticed on the map that its first thirty miles followed the course of the Rio Grande, and she could not resist turning off the highway for a few minutes to look at the great canyon, plunging down hundreds of feet to a truly breathtaking depth. Its sheer scale produced an overwhelming sense of the measureless, almost the eternal, and Lorraine understood now why so many artists and writers had chosen to make New Mexico their home. Still, she allowed herself only a couple of minutes’ delay — one middle-aged painter was all the scenery she had come to see.

Sonja came back from the beauty salon feeling glossy, gleaming and beautiful from top to toe, and she knew that part of the feeling of newness and freshness had nothing to do with the beauty treatments or the new hairdo: she felt that she and Arthur had turned the corner at last. It had been her fault, she knew, that it had taken so long, but she would make it up to him now.

When she got back Arthur was not in the suite, but there was plenty of time to dress, and she decided to wear a tailored navy suit with a crisp white shirt, dark navy stockings and matching navy court shoes. She had a Valentino navy and white check trench-style coat that she would slip around her shoulders. She had made up carefully and slightly more heavily than usual, glossing her lips in a deep pink shade she had bought downstairs to match her expertly lacquered nails, and she smiled in the mirror at her new manicure. It had been months, years, since she had taken such care of her hands, but she could have inch-long talons covered in scarlet glitter now if she wished. It had been months, too, since she had bothered to accentuate her eyes, her most striking feature, with shadow and mascara and the fine tracing of dark liner on the lids, which extended their length. When she had finished she studied her reflection carefully — a new woman, she thought, or, rather, a transformed one, risen from the ashes of the old.

She checked her soft leather document case for her passport and tickets, then snapped it shut and cast an eye over the rest of the luggage, which she had lined up by the main door of the suite. She checked that Arthur’s cases were packed and ready, then searched the room to make sure nothing had been left behind. The limo would be arriving any minute, and she wondered where Arthur had got to. She hated last-minute scrambles to get to airports.

The phone rang — Reception, as she had expected, to say that their car was waiting. She told them to send up a porter for the luggage, and to take the other items the concierge was holding for her to the car. When the porter arrived with the trolley and loaded the luggage, there was still no sign of Arthur and Sonja sat at the writing desk drumming her fingers.

She didn’t hear him come in, but she turned as she heard his voice. He counted the luggage, and then, as Sonja had done, reminded the porter not to forget the other things with the concierge. ‘They know, I told them,’ she said, then gasped. Arthur was wearing a white shirt with a Russian collar and a dark grey pinstriped suit. His hair had been trimmed and he was sporting a pair of round Armani sunglasses with steel frames. ‘My, my, you’ve been shopping,’ she said, smiling, and he posed with one hand on his hip.

‘What do you think? It’s too straight?’

‘You look fabulous — turn around.’ He did so, and Sonja clapped. ‘You look so good — I really like it. My God, new shoes as well.’

Arthur looked down and removed his shades. ‘Yeah, got everything from the same place, and I had a haircut and a shave at the barber’s in the hotel, and...’ He dug in his pocket and produced a small leather box, which he tossed to her. Then he looked closely at her, and took in her appearance with surprise: it had been months since he had seen her looking so elegant, so feminine, and he was almost unnerved by it. ‘You look very grown-up,’ he said, walking round her.

‘I’ve had all these things for ages,’ she said. ‘Just never got around to wearing them.’ She opened the box and gasped — it contained a solitaire diamond ring. She snapped it shut as the porter wheeled out their luggage. ‘Are you crazy? I thought we’d agreed to be careful until... afterwards. How much did this cost?’

He pointed to the box. ‘That was a legitimate hole in my legitimate earnings. Now open it again. You’re supposed to look at me, all dewy-eyed, then I put it on your finger.’

‘What?’

‘Jesus Christ, it’s an engagement ring — didn’t you look at it properly?’

Sonja opened the box again and started to laugh gently. ‘Engagement? Aren’t we a bit old for that kind of—’

Arthur took the box from her and removed the ring. He hurled the box across the room. ‘Now, gimme your hand and let me do this properly.’

The ring was a little too large for her finger, but it didn’t matter — it made Sonja feel happy and warm. Arm in arm, they went to the elevators, where the porter was waiting.

Sonja twisted the ring round and round her finger, then she held up her hand to look at the stone. Arthur laughed as she examined it closely, and by the time the elevator stopped on the ground floor they were both laughing: the jewel was a fake, but an exceptionally good one. Sonja kept turning it on her finger as she watched the luggage being loaded into the trunk of the limo. Arthur’s ‘wardrobe’ of paintings had been sent ahead on an earlier flight so that the canvases would be stretched, framed and ready for collection on their arrival in Germany, as had the new piece of work Sonja proposed to exhibit for the first time in Berlin. While she was receiving her award, Arthur would be delivering his own exhibition to the small independent gallery in Kreuzberg — a cover for negotiating the sale of a second collection, accumulated over years and valued at twenty million dollars, with the list of private buyers he and Sonja had carefully selected.

After leaving the Rio Grande flood plain, Lorraine drove through a switchback of gently rolling hills before she reached the lower slopes of La Bajaba, and began the ascent of the notoriously steep mountain. At last she reached the plateau and the centuries-old settlement of Santa Fe came into view, surrounded by the same backdrop of mountain landscape against the huge, azure sky. She drove into town, chose a small motel near the downtown area almost at random and booked a room in which to change and make phone calls.

She rang Nick Nathan’s number. A woman answered and was at first wary, asking how Lorraine had got their number. She told her that Raymond Vallance had suggested she call: she was opening a gallery and needed to find work by unknown artists. Vallance had recommended Nick. The woman kept her waiting for some time before she returned to give the address and a time at which it would be convenient to call. Lorraine had two hours to kill, so she decided to check up on some of the local galleries and enquire whether any of Nathan’s work was on sale.

Lorraine walked past a number of galleries in the Plaza and the surrounding streets, and even without specialist knowledge of art she could tell that some of the works displayed were as sophisticated as anything she had seen in LA. It was clear that the old town was an art snob’s heaven. Everywhere, too, was the beautiful American-Indian jewellery, glowing rows of semi-precious stones surrounded by silver settings, whose traditional designs Lorraine recognized as the height of current fashion. She studied piece after piece in turquoise, lapis, amethyst, citrine, rose quartz, freshwater pearls and a dozen other stones, whose names she didn’t know, before eventually buying a serpentine ring for Rosie, some lapis cuff-links for Rooney, and an elaborate necklace of five inlaid hearts suspended from a beaded choker, all in precious minerals and stones, for herself. She savoured, too, the opportunity to look for a gift for Jake. It had been so long since she had had someone special to shop for that the time flew past. Then she saw two heavy silver cuff bracelets, set with bars of turquoise and speckled leopard-skin jasper. She went into the shop and bought them both. When the assistant remarked on how beautiful they looked on her wrist, she spoke without thinking. ‘They’re for my daughters.’

As she waited for the bracelets to be wrapped, she repeated, ‘They’re for my daughters,’ in her mind. She knew that what Jake had said, and Rosie had repeated to her, meant yet another step towards her future.

When she returned to the car, she checked the map, then began to concentrate on how she would question Nathan, and, most important of all, what she needed to get out of the interview.

The narrow alleyway ran between two four-storey houses with shop fronts, situated in the most rundown part of town. She headed down the alley past boxes of old garbage from both of the shops, and found a peeling door marked 48. As it was ajar, Lorraine pushed it open.

The hallway was narrow, cluttered with bits of broken furniture and a mattress was propped up against a door. A girl of about nine was sitting on the stairs, whose bare boards were dusty and well worn.

‘Hi, I’m looking for someone called Nick. Do you know which floor?’

The child wiped her nose with the back of her grubby hand. ‘Up, number eight,’ she said, and held out her hand. Lorraine opened her purse and gave her a dollar, and the little girl ran out, squealing with pleasure.

Lorraine tidied her hair, then tapped on the door. She could hear a male voice talking and laughing, so rapped again louder, then hit the door with the flat of her hand.

A chain was removed, and the door opened an inch. ‘Yes?’

‘I’m Lorraine Page — I called earlier.’

‘Oh, yes, one moment.’ A dark-haired woman unhooked the chain and opened the door wide, stepping back almost to hide behind it. ‘Come in.’

Lorraine followed her into the apartment. The cramped hallway was dark, with coloured shawls tacked to the wall. A fishing net was draped over a doorway, and a large papier-mâché sun hung above a stripped pine door, which stood open.

Lorraine was surprised — the room was large, and very bright. The sloping ceiling and walls were painted white, while the bare floorboards had been stripped and stained, then varnished to a gleaming finish. All four windows were bare of curtains, as the room was obviously used as a studio, and the light was important. Paintings were displayed on easels, and stacks of canvases lined the walls, propped against one another.

The woman, who had still not introduced herself, moved with a lovely fluid grace from window to window, drawing down blinds for much-needed shade: the room was unbearably hot. ‘We don’t have air-conditioning,’ she said.

Lorraine recognized her vaguely from Harry Nathan’s funeral. She was pale, almost unhealthy-looking, with large brown eyes, quite a prominent nose, and a rather tight mouth with buck teeth. She was not unattractive, but there was a plainness about her, and her straight dark hair, swept away from her face with two ugly hair-grips, needed washing. She wore leather sandals and a loose-fitting print dress, which left her arms bare, and she held her hands loosely in front of her.

‘Do you want some coffee?’ Her voice was thin, and she kept her head inclined slightly downwards, as though she didn’t want to meet Lorraine’s eyes.

‘Yes, please, black, no sugar — but if you have some honey...’

‘Sure.’

She started to walk out, but stopped and performed a sort of pirouette when Lorraine asked if she was Nick’s wife. ‘I suppose so — I’m Alison. Please look around. He won’t be long — he’s just on the phone.’

As the door closed Lorraine smiled. She began to look first at the half-finished work on the easel, a portrait of a dark-haired man with finely cut features, but full, sensual lips, apparently looking through water, with flowers resting against his cheek and the lips slightly parted, as if he were gasping for air. The painting was unnerving, because Lorraine was sure the subject was Harry Nathan. She didn’t like it, not that the work wasn’t good, for it was, but it had a childish, almost careless quality. She turned her attention to some of the bigger canvases on the walls, all of which had a similar wash of pale colour in the background, and featured the same man from different angles and in a variety of poses — hidden by ferns, screaming and, in one, with a sports shoe carefully painted on top of his head.

Other canvases were traversed by a series of palmprints, or featured pieces of fabric and leaves, but all appeared half-finished, as if the artist had grown bored mid-way and moved on to something else. Lorraine looked closely at a painting on the wall furthest from the door, which showed a group of tall trees with some scrawled writing superimposed on them.

She turned as Alison reappeared with a large chipped mug, and held it out to her. ‘Coffee.’ Lorraine took it, and the woman remained standing nearby, her head still bowed.

‘Are you a painter?’ Lorraine asked, with false brightness: there was a servile quality about Alison that made her skin crawl, as if she were afraid of something.

‘No.’

She was tough to make conversation with.

‘Have you lived here long?’

‘Awhile.’

Alison straightened up and flexed her shoulder. She began to massage the nape of her neck, then gave a faint smile and left the room.

Lorraine could hear what they were saying in the next room.

‘I’m going out now — I’ve got a class.’

‘Okay, see you.’

She moved closer to the open door: Alison was standing in the doorway opposite and the conversation continued in audible whispers.

‘Is she looking at them?’

‘Yes, she was when I took her coffee in.’

‘I’ll give her a few minutes, then. What’s her name again?’

Alison replied, but Lorraine couldn’t hear what she said, nor could she see the man she presumed was Nick. A phone rang, and Alison turned to cross to the front door, but waited a minute listening. Nick said hello to the caller, and Alison left.

Lorraine finished her coffee. She was becoming irritated — the call went on and on. She set the mug down on the floor and started to detach some of the canvases from the stack — all of the same man. She moved to the next group. These were much better, stronger. She found one she liked a lot and pulled it out. It was a crude, but powerful, life-sized portrait — not, for once, of the dark man but of an Indian brave in feathered headdress. She put it to one side, planning to ask the price — it would make a nice present for Jake. She was about to move to the next group of canvases when she heard a loud shriek, sustained for some time. She ran over to the open door.

‘It says what? Go on! How old does it say he was?’

The cries continued. Lorraine stepped into the hallway and made her way to the doorway at the end of the passage. She stood just outside the kitchen.

Nick Nathan had his back to her and was leaning against the side of a table talking on a wall-mounted phone. His dark, slightly greying hair was pulled back, as it has been at the funeral, with a rubber band. He was barefoot and wore torn, dirty jeans and a paint-stained cotton shirt, whose sleeves were rolled up to reveal muscular arms, one wrist encircled by a heavy silver bracelet, and a similar ring on the third finger of his other hand.

‘Vallance shot himself? You’re kidding me.’

He listened, then shrieked again in the same high-pitched fashion. He was almost bent double, and Lorraine realized suddenly that he was laughing. And whoever was on the other end of the line was telling him about the suicide of Raymond Vallance.

The call continued for another ten minutes. Lorraine returned to the studio, wishing there was somewhere to sit down. She lit a cigarette, and had smoked half of it when the shrieking stopped.

Finally Lorraine heard the receiver banged down. She hoped that Nick Nathan would finally come in and greet her, but then heard the clatter of dishes, and his voice calling the cat. At last the man came in like a whirlwind. ‘Hi — sorry to keep you waiting. I’m Nick.’

He danced across to her, and pumped her hand up and down. His eyes had a manic look, and he was sweating profusely, his thinning hair sticking to his scalp. He darted close to her, then moved just as rapidly away, looking pointedly at the cigarette and opening a window.

‘I’m sorry.’ She gestured to her cigarette, but Nick shrugged.

‘You want to die, it’s your choice.’

He smiled suddenly, showing even white teeth, but his eyes were hunted, and he couldn’t keep still, wandering around the room dragging out one canvas after another. Now that she had seen him, Lorraine wondered if the man in the paintings was himself, but he didn’t have the same high cheekbones — his face was flatter and plainer than his brother’s.

‘I’m interested in that one,’ Lorraine said, tossing the cigarette out of the window.

Nick whipped round to look at the painting she had pulled out of the stack.

‘How much?’ she asked, uncomfortable. She couldn’t seem to get centred around Nathan — he was so off-beam that he unnerved her.

‘Five thousand dollars,’ he snapped, as if challenging her, but she didn’t flinch.

‘I’ll take it,’ she said calmly, and he beamed, picking the piece up to admire it himself. Then he started to drag out canvases at an alarming rate, laying them around the room. He babbled to her, asking about her gallery, if she was looking for a one-man show, or intended displaying a number of artists’ work together.

‘How did you find me?’ he said, so intent on finding work to show to her that he didn’t appear interested in her reply.

‘Raymond Vallance suggested I call you,’ she said, and saw him stiffen.

‘He’s dead,’ he said, staring at her.

‘I know, he committed suicide.’

She was wondering how in the hell she could start to question him — the reason she had come — but knew that she had to tread carefully. From what she had seen of his work, Nathan did not have the technical virtuosity to imitate better artists, and he seemed so mentally unstable that he would be too dangerous to have in on any scam — but she had come all this way to interview him and she intended to do so.

Lorraine took out her cheque book and started writing. ‘Do you show your work mainly in Santa Fe?’ she said, pretending to make conversation but paving the way for the real question she wanted to ask.

‘I guess,’ Nathan said. ‘I’ve shown in California too.’

‘Did you work with your brother’s gallery?’ Lorraine said casually.

Nick eyed her suspiciously. ‘How do you know my brother had a gallery?’ he asked.

‘Oh, just contacts,’ Lorraine said airily. ‘I know a lot of people in the art world — I’ve come across Kendall too. It must have been very useful, having a gallery in the family, so to speak.’

Nick said nothing for a while. Then, ‘I had a few pieces in there.’

‘Did you ever live in Los Angeles?’

‘No. I just stayed at his place a few times.’

Lorraine finished writing the cheque with a flourish and Nathan slowly relaxed. ‘I hated LA,’ he said. ‘Full of fucking phoneys. They wouldn’t know art if it walked up and bit them in the face.’

‘That’s a pity. I’m sure Kendall could have promoted your work.’

He sneered, ‘The only person Kendall ever promoted was herself, money-grubbing bitch. My brother wanted more of my work, but she wouldn’t have it.’

‘Her gallery was successful, though,’ Lorraine said.

‘Bullshit! Filled with crap, wallpaper paintings.’

‘Yes, some of those paintings look as though just about anyone could do them,’ Lorraine said innocently. ‘I’m sure you could do stuff in exactly the same style if you wanted to.’

‘You bet I could,’ Nick said. ‘If I wanted to.’

‘It must be a great temptation,’ Lorraine said, flattering him, ‘I mean, for a real artist, if money’s tight, to know you could make a lot more just by imitating someone who happens to be flavour of the month.’

‘Well,’ he said, ‘sometimes I’ve worked in a particular way because that was what a buyer wanted — that’s the difference between working to a commission and working for yourself.’

‘You haven’t ever copied, say, a specific painting?’ Lorraine went on.

‘What? You mean an exact copy of a named work?’ Nick said. ‘Absolutely not — that’s forgery, in case you hadn’t heard.’

‘But it must be quite a temptation,’ Lorraine persisted.

‘Not to me,’ Nick said. ‘I couldn’t do it if I tried — it’s a specific skill, and besides, my own work’s too strong.’

‘You don’t know anyone connected with your brother who maybe... wouldn’t have quite the same scruples?’ she asked. She tore out the cheque and laid it on the table.

‘Who the fuck are you?’

‘Someone who’s got five thousand dollars on the table for you, but I need you to answer a few questions.’ He shook his head, and kept on shaking it. ‘I’m a private investigator.’ She flipped him her card, but he didn’t take it. ‘I’ve been hired by your brother’s lawyer, Mr Feinstein. Do you know him?’ Nick glared at her, his arms wrapped around his body. ‘I’ve been hired to trace assets missing from your brother’s estate.’ This elicited a flicker of interest. ‘Paintings.’

‘What?’

She’d hooked him. ‘Either there’s a mountain of valuable art concealed somewhere, or there’s several million dollars hidden in an undetected account.’ She took the list of missing paintings from her briefcase, and passed it to him. ‘These are the works I’m looking for.’

He took a long time reading the list, then let the paper drop onto the table. ‘I wouldn’t pay a hundred bucks for any one of those assholes’ pictures.’

‘Maybe you wouldn’t, but other people did — or at least they thought they did. Various buyers at Gallery One viewed an original, got it authenticated, but then someone copied it, and it was the copy that was hung on their walls.’

‘Well,’ Nick said, ‘it was nothing to do with me. Nice scam, though — I wish the bastard had cut me in on it.’

Lorraine studied him. Her gut feeling was that he was telling the truth. ‘You don’t know of anyone Harry could have been working with?’ she asked.

‘Well, Kendall’s a pretty obvious candidate, isn’t she?’ he said. ‘She would have dug up her grandmother’s grave if she thought there was a nickel in it.’

‘She was certainly involved in setting up the initial part of the operation with Harry, but he switched the paintings again to cut her out. I was just wondering if that was all his idea, or if someone else was pulling the strings.’

‘They must have been,’ Nick said. ‘Harry was never like that.’ Unexpectedly, he started to weep uncontrollably, rubbing at his eye sockets while Lorraine watched in fascinated horror at this sudden switch of mood. The crying jag ended as suddenly as it had begun. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘My brother was better-looking than me, better at everything. He was a hard act to follow, and all my life, until he died, I was kind of following... I still can’t believe he’s dead.’

‘Kendall’s dead, too, now, did you know?’ Lorraine said.

‘Yeah,’ he replied. He was obviously not interested in discussing Kendall’s death so Lorraine changed tack.

‘What does Alison do?’

He smiled, and stretched out his arms. ‘She’s a dancer, but dancing’s a hard world, almost as hard as painting.’ Then he asked, ‘You know Sonja?’

‘I’ve met her.’

‘She sent you here, didn’t she?’ he demanded.

‘No, I told you, it was Raymond Vallance.’

He shrieked with laughter again, mouth wide open. ‘That old queen! He clung to his past glories like a falling climber.’

‘At least he had some to cling to,’ Lorraine said quietly, but her sarcasm was lost on Nathan, who gave another loud hoot of laughter.

‘He was in love with my brother, everybody was in love with him. Everybody always thought he was something special, and you know something, I did too. It wasn’t until he was dead that I realized he was a loser.’

Lorraine had heard enough and Nick Nathan irritated her. The trip to Santa Fe had been largely a waste of time, but at least she knew he hadn’t been responsible for the forgeries. It was interesting, too, that the family’s suspicions, like her own, seemed to centre on Sonja...

‘I have to go,’ she said. ‘Can you pack up the picture for me?’

He parcelled it in newspaper and handed it to her, saying that if she wanted any more of his work, all she had to do was call.

‘Just for my records,’ she said, ‘could you tell me when you last saw your brother?’

‘Must be a couple of years ago, just before he and Kendall broke up. Come to think of it, they were talking about getting some painting copied. I thought they meant onto a slide — it was one of that asshole Schnabel’s.’ He moved out into the corridor, heading for the stairs, and Lorraine followed.

‘Was it just Harry and Kendall, or was anyone else there?’

‘There was another guy — Arthur something, I don’t know his last name. It was after a show Kendall had, and he and I had a kind of fight — over the Schnabel. I said it wasn’t worth the hook it was hanging from and he kind of went for me. Fucking asshole.’ Nick stopped on the landing to continue his tirade against Julian Schnabel, talentless bum, in his opinion, promoted by a clique of art insiders interested in lining their own pockets by inflating the prices of certain court favourites’ work. ‘Everything’s fixed, you realize that? Art has got nothing to do with the market.’ He jabbed his finger into Lorraine’s chest. ‘I’ve trailed my work round every fucking New York gallery. I send in my slides and they lose them. Then they buy a fucking piece of canvas with a wooden plank sticking out of it. That’s not art.’

Lorraine stepped back to avoid Nathan’s finger, and decided to risk interrupting him. ‘Do you recall anything more about this Arthur?’

‘Big guy, dark,’ Nick said, setting off down the stairs.

‘Do you know if he was a painter?’ Lorraine asked, hurrying after him.

‘I don’t know. Bastards like Schnabel probably pay people like him to talk up their work. He hung around after the show, like he was waiting for me to go, and I thought, Fine, screw you, I’m just the guy’s fucking brother, so I walked out. Then I forgot my jacket so I go back, and the three of them were out back in a kind of workroom, and Kendall and Harry were standing behind him, and he was using this big lamp, looking over the canvas, right, and...’

‘What exactly did he say?’ Lorraine asked. ‘It’s very important.’

‘Oh, I can’t remember. Kendall said something about having a buyer and he said something about getting a copy made quickly. Maybe he’s your rip-off artist.’

‘Did you ever see him again?’ Lorraine asked.

‘No, I never went back to LA,’ Nick said, then gave a boyish smile, and clapped his hands together, like a salesman who had just clinched a big deal. ‘I hope you enjoy my work, and you have a real nice day. Been great meeting you, Loretta.’

Lorraine didn’t correct him. ‘Nice meeting you too, Nick,’ she said, turning to go. Had he really just remembered this vital detail from the past, or was it a ploy on the part of Nathan’s family to incriminate Sonja and her lover?