Cold Heart

Chapter 20

Mike Page met Jake Burton in the hospital reception area: neither knew enough about the other to be embarrassed, nor were they there to find out about their respective places in Lorraine’s life and affections. They shook hands and went to the small hospital coffee shop, stood in line to order their coffee, and didn’t speak until they sat down at a small corner table.

Mike pulled at his collar with nerves. ‘I haven’t been allowed to see her yet. The head honcho was in the unit, said maybe in half an hour.’ He sipped his coffee and coughed. ‘They told me there had been no improvement — did they say that to you?’

Jake nodded. He had seen Mike arrive and had introduced himself: Mike had been a little confused to begin with, presuming he was there in his police capacity, but then Jake had quietly told him that he and Lorraine had planned to be married.

‘Do we know what happened to her?’ Mike asked.

‘All we know is, she was attacked on entering her apartment. We had a suspect in custody, but we released him — no evidence.’

‘Does anyone know why it happened? I mean, I know she must have met some unsavoury types, but was she investigating something or... Was she still not drinking?’

Jake stirred his coffee. ‘She was on a case, but as yet I haven’t found any connection to her death. We’re still checking it out. She was not drinking.’

‘So this suspect — was he found there?’

‘No.’

Jake was still deeply shocked and unsure how much he should tell Mike. He was unsure about everything but his own despair.

‘Who was the suspect?’ Mike enquired.

‘He had a possible connection to an incident that happened a long time ago.’

‘Like what?’

Jake looked away. ‘He was the elder brother of the boy Lorraine shot.’

‘Oh, Jesus, God...’ Mike bowed his head. There was a lengthy pause during which neither man could say anything, each immersed in his own thoughts, until Mike looked at his watch. ‘Time to go to the unit.’

Jake pushed back his chair. Then, as he stood up, he asked if Mike minded him saying something personal. ‘Sure, say anything you want,’ Mike said apprehensively.

‘Bring her daughters to see her. Just before this happened she and I talked. I know she wanted to be reunited with them and...’

‘I don’t know if it’s such a good idea. They haven’t had any communication with her for a long time, and it would be unsettling for them.’

‘She’s their mother,’ Jake said quietly, and Mike flushed.

‘I’ll think about it — I’d like to see her first. Been nice meeting you, and I’m very sorry. Maybe she’ll pull through. She always was a fighter, and she’s taken a lot of punishment in her life.’

Jake walked past him, teeth gritted. ‘Nice meeting you.’

Mike was ill-prepared for Lorraine’s appearance. He focused on her hands, resting on top of the linen. They were white, with an almost bluish tinge.

He sat in a chair beside her and just said he was there, then slowly inched his hand over the sheet to touch hers. There was no response, so he withdrew it, and stayed for another few minutes without saying anything, just remembering. ‘I’ll bring the girls to see you,’ he whispered. Again, there was no reaction, and he left the unit quietly. He asked to speak to whoever could give him most information about Lorraine’s condition. What he heard was not good: there had been no improvement since Lorraine had been brought in; she remained in a deep coma, unable to breathe unaided; her pulse rate remained low; they were concerned about her kidneys and had a dialysis machine standing by.

Jake Burton came twice and also sat with Lorraine, talking and talking to her, willing her to react, but there was no response. He returned to the station, where Jim Sharkey and two other detectives were scrutinizing her files and notes, first with regard to the murder inquiry, then poring over the art scam, of which they had not previously been notified. When Burton returned they discussed it with him and he suggested that perhaps they should interview Feinstein. If their first suspicions regarding Eric Lee Judd had proved unfounded, perhaps Lorraine’s attacker could be connected to the art fraud.

Feinstein was irate. He did not wish to bring charges as he was dealing with a client’s private affairs, and if he did not wish to press any formal charges then the police had no right to do so. He also knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that none of the other police who had been stung by Nathan would want their names associated with a police inquiry.

Sharkey tried to change Feinstein’s mind: what if the murder of Harry Nathan was connected to the art fraud: Maybe he was content to let whoever was behind the scam walk away scot-free, but perhaps someone else had cared enough about it to shoot Nathan? Feinstein almost wet himself, but refused to pursue any further enquiries in relation to the fraud. Sharkey asked if the money could be traced. But Feinstein refused to be drawn. How could he know what a dead man did or did not do? Yet again he insisted that he did not wish to pursue the fraud.

Sharkey stared at him with distaste, then rose slowly to his feet, buttoning his jacket. ‘Thanks for your time,’ he said curtly.

‘So that’s it, is it?’ Feinstein hovered at the side of his desk.

‘Might be for you, Mr Feinstein, sir, but we will still be investigating the art seam’s possible connection to the murder of Harry Nathan.’

‘But I refuse to press charges,’ Feinstein said, his voice rising an octave.

‘That is your prerogative, sir, but whether you like it or not it’s a police matter and it will therefore be treated as an ongoing investigation.’

‘But everybody connected is fucking dead!’ Feinstein screeched.

Sharkey was at the door, his back to the room. ‘Yeah, I’d say that was a pretty good reason not to try to sweep it all under the carpet. Maybe you won’t have to give evidence. There again, you just might not be able to get out of it. Have a nice day.’

Feinstein slumped into his leather swivel chair, took a deep breath and turned slowly towards the large empty space on the wall that had once been occupied by one of Harry Nathan’s fakes. The faint dust line indicated the painting’s proportions and the spotlight fitted to show it off was still trained on the blank wall. He didn’t scream the words as he usually did, but almost spat them with venomous hatred: ‘God damn you, Harry Nathan, you bastard!’

Burton rocked in his chair, drumming his fingers, his mouth down-turned. Feinstein’s refusal to co-operate infuriated him.

‘Any news?’ Sharkey asked. Burton shook his head. ‘Holding her own, is she?’ he persisted, then saw that Burton could hardly answer.

‘Not quite... but we’re hoping. Okay, thanks for the extra work, I appreciate it.’

Sharkey and the two other detectives walked out to the nearest bar.

‘That Feinstein is a prick,’ one detective said, as Sharkey carried the beer to their table.

‘Yeah — what kind of guy can be stung outa that much dough an’ not want to do something about it?’

‘Not just him. How many others got stung? Mind-blowing. I mean, if some shit diddled me outa a hundred bucks, I’d have to go after him. Wouldn’t you, Jim?’

‘Yep, but that’s the difference between you and me and the likes of Feinstein and his rich clients. They got more fucking money than they know what to fucking do with, and he’ll more’n likely make it up off their bills. So if they don’t miss it, fuck ’em. They’ll hopefully be made to look like real assholes by the press. I’d like to see them get a hell of a lot more, but you know how long these fuckin’ fraud cases take to unravel. Not like somebody got away with murder...’ He didn’t finish the sentence, but took a deep gulp of his beer.

‘You know some son-of-a-bitch just might,’ said one, a thin film of beer froth on his upper lip.

Sharkey turned his head. ‘What?’

Well, they got nobody for Lorraine Page’s beatin’ and word is she’s not gonna make it.’

Sharkey drained his beer in one, and banged down the glass.

One of the men had known her from the old days, when she had partnered Lubrinski, and he grinned. ‘But she ain’t dead yet, an’ that lady’s one hell of a fighter. Did I ever tell you about that story, with this guy, he’s dead now... Yeah, Jack Lubrinski. Well, they go to this bar right, downtown someplace...’

They continued telling anecdotes about Lorraine and Lubrinski, and, as often happens, the good memories obliterated the bad. It was like some kind of wake. No one spoke of the shooting of Tommy Lee Judd, and Lorraine Page’s decline into alcoholism and drug addiction. They were remembering her as a good cop, the one that took the hassle and never made a complaint.

Three days later, to the amazement of everyone, Lorraine was still hanging on to life. She remained in a coma, still on the critical list, and the specialists testing her brain were noncommittal.

Reports of Lorraine’s condition were relayed to Rosie and Rooney, and they were heartened to hear that she was still battling for life, but they knew that even if she did pull out of the coma, there was a strong possibility of permanent brain damage, causing severe physical incapacity.

‘Is she paralysed?’ Rooney asked.

‘We’re unable to do tests to ascertain the degree of paralysis with coma patients,’ Hudson told him. ‘As the sedation wears off and time passes, all we can do is wait and see if motor function returns.’

Day four, and still she clung on, the medical team reporting a slow improvement in her breathing.

Mike Page visited every other day, while Burton, Rosie and Rooney came daily. On day six Mike brought his and Lorraine’s daughters. Rosie had been told they would be there and she brought the gifts Lorraine had bought for the girls in Santa Fe. They clung to their father as they were led into the unit.

The girls sat in awed silence. The bandaged woman in front of them was a stranger, and they didn’t know what to say to her. When Mike encouraged Sally to touch her mother’s hand she wouldn’t, whispering that she was too frightened.

The doctors and all the staff were kind and thoughtful, suggesting to the girls that although their mother could not respond, they should talk to her to let her hear their voices. The girls looked at each other. Hearing this woman called their mother felt wrong, and Julia began to cry, saying she wanted to go home.

Two weeks passed slowly and the number of tubes attached to Lorraine’s body gradually diminished. More tests to determine brain damage had been done, but she remained in a coma. The healing process of the external damage had been rapid though: she no longer looked like a monster for the terrible bruising to her face was fading and the bandages were removed.

The girls came regularly now, and the more they got used to seeing her, the more freely they chatted about ordinary, girlish things. They never called her Mom, but Sally often touched her hand, and Julia stroked her mother’s pale arm. Both girls wore the bracelets she had chosen for them.

Rosie and Rooney divided their visiting time between them, and talked and talked, never giving up hope of a response. Jake came before and after work, spending hours sitting beside her, planning their wedding. He brought the ring he had bought for her, and asked her if he could put it on her wedding finger.

Christmas was now a week away, and Lorraine was still in a coma, her eyes closed, as if she was sleeping. The ventilator tube had been moved from her mouth to pass through a tracheotomy incision in her neck, and there was hope, hope that none had believed possible. She remained in the intensive care unit, as she still needed to be monitored round the clock. She was dressed now in her own nightclothes, and Rosie combed her hair and cared for her. She read magazines and books to Lorraine, played music tapes, and when she was through, Rooney took over. He talked for hours, all about his old work, and found it quite therapeutic to chat to Lorraine, asking her if she recalled this or that case.

Jake would take over from him, and sat holding her hand, willing her to acknowledge him. He brought fresh bouquets every other day, unable to bear the sight of flowers wilting, always insisting that fresh ones replaced them. Like Rooney, he talked about his work, discussing things with her as if she was replying. When it got to week eight, everyone was tired — and angry that Lorraine was still a prisoner in some alien world. She looked almost like herself — and yet she wasn’t there. Rosie had brought in a small artificial Christmas tree and had decorated it with baubles and ribbons. Small gifts for the nurses were arranged beneath it, all bearing tags: ‘Happy Christmas, with love from Lorraine.’

The first time she heard his voice was at the moment he had put the ring on her finger. She had started talking to him, saying how happy she was, and asking him why he didn’t reply to her questions. It was frightening that she could hear them talking to her but they couldn’t hear her.

The visits were the worst, when they seemed to ignore what she was saying, talking at her, not to her, not hearing when she called their names. Then she listened intently, and realized that the high-pitched chattering voices she had been hearing day after day belonged to her daughters, talking about what they wanted for Christmas. She wanted to cry with happiness that they were there with her — but why couldn’t they hear what she was saying? She could hear Mike, and told him how pleased she was that he had brought the girls, asked him if he had met Jake. She asked so many questions, and sometimes she laughed at what they were saying, especially old Bill Rooney, forever droning on about some case he knew he should have beaten, then complaining that Tiger had chewed up his best sweater. Her visitors came and went, not hearing her answers, her voice, and when it was night she wept, because it felt as if she would never see them again, and she couldn’t understand what had happened, or where she was. She started to be strict with herself, telling herself to pull herself together, that she had to straighten out. Crying every night was not doing any good: it was just using up all her energy, and she had to start thinking about other things. She forced her brain to be active, even though it hurt to think — yet she had to do something.

Lorraine felt as if she was gritting her teeth with determination, that if she could just get through the pain barrier her mind had erected, then she was sure she would be able to see again, see her loved ones. She told herself that she was having a nightmare, that she’d wake up soon, but that she had to make herself do it by retaining a mental connection with her active, waking self and her life, and convince herself that she would soon be coming back to them.

Worst of all were those silent night hours when all she heard was the clatter of things around her, the alien whispers, sounds that reminded her of a hospital, and her mind drifted back to the last time she had been in a hospital, when she’d had the plastic surgery on her cheek to get rid of the scar in an expensive private establishment. She made herself visualize the place, taking herself on a tour of her room, the corridors, the television lounge, the day room, the other patients.

Lorraine had had no visitors then — no one had even known she was undergoing surgery — so she spent many hours alone in the sunny, comfortable TV lounge, not that she had ever had much interest in television but this was the only room in which patients were allowed to smoke, and she had passed the time by watching the others, playing detective as to their real ages and backgrounds.

Most were women between forty and sixty, and some had already had so much surgery that at first sight they looked much younger, but there was always some incongruity between their faces, uniformly taut, tanned, slightly android-looking, and the way they dressed, moved or, most noticeably, spoke, that betrayed their real age. There were other dead giveaways too: the slight slackening of skin tone on the under surface of the arm that no amount of exercise could firm, plus, of course, the hands and feet. There were a couple of veritable Zsa Zsa Gabor lookalikes, dyed blonde hair piled up, stretched and lifted faces that could have passed for mid-forties, but with the liver-spotted hands, thickened knuckles and prominent tendons of old age. Only a lucky few seemed to escape that tell-tale sign of time’s passing. There had been a woman in a wheelchair, wearing dark glasses and still bandaged so that virtually none of her face could be seen. Lorraine had assumed, from the few visible strands of white hair, that she must be in her sixties or seventies, but she had noticed that the woman’s large, fine, restless hands were those of someone much younger, conveying an unusual impression of simultaneous flexibility and strength. She remembered noting how short the nails were cut, and had thought at the time that the woman must use her hands — perhaps as a musician or, at her age, a music teacher — which would explain how they had escaped shrivelling into an old lady’s claws. Now she knew that the woman was no musician, no teacher, and no old lady: it had been Sonja Nathan, she would have taken an oath on it.

The woman had kept herself to herself, only coming into the TV lounge once and taking no part in any of the casual conversations that were going on around her. Lorraine had thought, though, that she had seemed to pay attention when she herself had revealed to a chatty lady who worked for a real estate company that she was a private detective — they had commented quietly that they seemed to be in a minority here of working women: most of their fellow patients were pampered wives. When Lorraine had said she might be looking to rent a new office shortly, the woman had insisted on knowing Lorraine’s full name and the name of her company, Lorraine remembered, and she remembered, too, how she had thought of trying to draw the bandaged woman into their conversation, but some separateness and aloofness in her demeanour had deterred her from doing so. It was that indefinable froideur, as much as anything in Sonja Nathan’s physical appearance, that now made Lorraine certain it had been her.

Sonja Nathan had left the clinic knowing exactly who Lorraine was and, weeks later, had been able to recall those details.

Sonja had said that she had not been in Los Angeles at all for the previous year. That was a lie, and Lorraine was positive now that Sonja had also lied when she had said she had not made the call to Lorraine’s office on the morning of the murder. Lorraine already had documentary evidence — presumably lying in her apartment, she thought, in her briefcase — that Sonja and Harry Nathan were in contact after their divorce. Now she had the last piece of the jigsaw: proof that Sonja Nathan had been in LA the day her ex-husband was killed. She was sure now that if she ever got out of this goddamn hospital and was able to get voice experts to analyse the recording Decker had made of the call which had to be somewhere on that tape, they could identify some feature of Sonja’s mid-Atlantic, faintly European accent. That would be the final link and would put the woman behind bars.

It was painful to drag up each memory, worse than any headache she had ever known. The pain was excruciating, but Lorraine wouldn’t, couldn’t stop. Now everything had fallen into place, and Lorraine understood Sonja’s odd concern about Cindy, her saying that she wished she had given her more time — ‘or assistance’. Sonja’s lack of interest in the fact that so much money was missing from the estate had also seemed strange — but not, Lorraine thought wryly, when one knew that the assets had been taken before the bizarre sequence of events that had left Sonja, ironically, Harry Nathan’s legitimate heir.

Sonja Nathan knew the house, the gardens, and more than likely her ex-husband’s routine — or she could readily have arranged to meet him in advance. Sonja was clearly capable of premeditation, as she must deliberately have hired a jeep identical to Kendall’s to conceal her comings and goings at Nathan’s house — perhaps she had even hoped to incriminate Kendall, Lorraine thought, and she had managed to take every nickel of the woman’s money through the art fraud. Even if Kendall’s death really had been accidental, Sonja bore some indirect responsibility, as it had been after realizing that she had lost her stake in the paintings that Kendall had been tempted to try to burn down the gallery for the insurance. That must have given Sonja considerable satisfaction, Lorraine thought, for, as Arthur had said, she was all too human — or inhuman — under the cool, superior façade, and had clearly hated Kendall as intensely as she had ever loved Nathan.

As for the paintings, Lorraine now knew that Harry Nathan had been to Germany, to make preparations for the sale of the real works of art, and she was sure, too, that once she got out of here and could get to Berlin, she could find out exactly how Sonja and Arthur, the expert copier, had stepped into Nathan’s shoes and netted the proceeds of sale.

Lorraine’s head throbbed, but she carried on, piecing the jigsaw together. All the dead faces floated in front of her — Harry Nathan, Cindy, Kendall, Vallance — faded, and then became clearer, but her concentration was wavering like a guttering torch. It was on Vallance’s death that she tried to shed the last of its light. Lorraine knew now how Sonja had killed him — or made him kill himself — by threatening to release the porn videos, the murder weapon Jake Burton had innocently sent her. Sonja could not, of course, be made to bear legal responsibility for that murder, or for Cindy’s death, for which she was also morally responsible: Vallance had strangled his former mistress, believing mistakenly that she, not Sonja, had killed the man he had idolized and lusted after all his life. Christ, Lorraine thought, that this should be the woman to whom she had poured out her own most private griefs to turn Sonja’s mind from suicide — but once she got out of here... The faces blurred and parts of the conversations she was trying to recall began to crackle and echo in Lorraine’s brain. The pain grew worse and worse: she was losing her grip, unable to think any more. She screamed in agony, as if a red-hot iron were forging up from her spine, blinding her, exhausting her, and she couldn’t take it any more.

Rooney went pale. Even though he was outside Intensive Care, on his way to see Lorraine, he knew something had happened. Nurses and doctors, running as if for their own lives, entered the unit, and the curtains were drawn across the viewing window. Lorraine was shielded from his sight, and the last thing he saw as they clustered around her was the heart monitor, bleeping loudly.

A little later, Jake Burton walked up the corridor with fresh flowers, and Rooney turned to him. ‘Something’s happened, I don’t know what, but they shut the curtains and there’s got to be eight of them round her. I don’t know for sure, but I think it’s her heart.’

Sonja had had one white wedding, and she had decided that this time she would get married in deep red, a rich colour more suitable for both a Swiss wedding in winter, she thought, and for a mature bride. The close-fitting crimson suit, with rich brown fur collar and cuffs, accentuated her tall, slim figure, while she had bought a frighteningly expensive hussar’s cap in the same fur, which she was now wondering whether or not to wear.

She put it on, took it off, fluffed out her hair, then crossed to the far side of the room across the expanse of pale green carpet: she and Arthur had booked the Grace Kelly Suite in the best hotel in Geneva, with private sitting and dining rooms and a marvellous view of the lake. She walked towards her reflection in the long cheval mirror, studying it intently.

‘Too much fur?’ she asked, as Arthur appeared. ‘I don’t know whether or not to wear the hat.’

He was wearing a smart suit, with a rose in the buttonhole, and a matching waistcoat, and was knotting his tie. ‘Put it on and let me see,’ he said.

Sonja did as he asked and turned to face him: she looked beautiful, he thought, but she was different now, and it wasn’t just the unfamiliar new costume. For all these years he had yearned to possess her without Harry Nathan, but now that Nathan’s shadow had gone, she was not the same woman, less driven, less intense, as though someone had dropped the end of a rope she had pulled against for years, sometimes seeming younger, sometimes older. Was she free now, he wondered, or adrift?

She had always been able to read his moods, almost his thoughts, and it was as though she sensed his scrutiny. ‘You’re sure you want to do this?’ she said quietly. ‘You know you can still back out.’

‘I don’t want to back out,’ he said. You could never tell with love, he thought, whether it would last or fade, stay constant or change. You just had to trust and step in. ‘Wear the hat.’

Sonja looked at herself again in the mirror, then turned. ‘Shall we go?’ she said, her expression grave.

Arthur tossed something towards her. ‘Here — this time it’s not a fake.’ She caught the ring box in both hands, knowing that the price of the jewel didn’t matter now: all the money had been transferred to Switzerland, and they would decide later how to move it back to the United States if and when they needed it.

He watched her take the ring from the box, admire it, then hold it out. ‘You put it on.’

He took it and held her hand, slipping it onto her wedding finger. Then he bent down to kiss her.

‘Well, we did it,’ he said softly, then smiled. ‘And we got away with it. Was it worth the wait?’

‘Yes, yes, it was.’ She was not looking at him. ‘Believe me, it was worth it.’

She turned away to catch another glimpse of herself as Arthur checked the time. They should go down to Reception, the limo would be waiting. Arthur crossed to the doors: as a small surprise, he had ordered some deep red roses as a bridal bouquet.

‘Give me two minutes... I’ll join you,’ she called.

He held the door half open.

‘Two minutes. See you down there.’

She waited for him to leave, adjusted her hat, needing a moment alone to look in her room of memories one last time before she turned the key. She remembered crossing the lawn, seeing Harry towelling himself dry after his swim. She had not decided then that that would be the day she killed him — a day she had been thinking about for a long time, and neither of them had known then that everything Harry Nathan did that day he was doing for the last time. It was when she had seen the gun on the table, one of Nathan’s own guns, and had known that there would be no difficulty in disposing of a weapon, that she had felt she had received the signal to put the plan into action, had known that there would never be a better chance.

Harry had tossed aside his towel, not bothering to cover his nakedness in front of her, vain as ever of his body. Sonja had taken a handkerchief out of her pocket. He had paid no attention when she picked up the gun, turning it in her hand and covering it with the cloth. It felt cold and heavy — like her heart. She had raised it first to his chest, then a little higher, and he had smiled, told her to be careful as it was loaded. Then his face had slowly drained of colour as she aimed it at his neck, then tilted the barrel to his face.

‘I’ve wanted to kill you for a long time, Harry, and until now I never thought I could. But you know something, Harry, I can.’

He had backed away, terror visible in his face, as his eyes widened in fear. Then she had pulled the trigger, and he stumbled two steps forward, then toppled into the pool. She had stood there, watching the petals of blood unfold from his head, as he floated face down, arms outstretched, the image that had never left her, and that she had felt driven to replicate, partly as a triumphal shout, a final exorcism — and partly as a confession that no one had heard.

She had then picked up her shoes, and walked back across the gardens, returning to the rented Mitsubishi jeep — Harry had agreed she should get one as close to Kendall’s as possible just in case anyone saw her driving in and out of the house for their meetings and to remove the paintings. Suddenly she knew how fortunate that was. Sonja could not have cared less if the phoney, odious Kendall ended up paying the penalty for Harry Nathan’s death.

No one else could possibly be incriminated, she had thought — but Cindy had been her one mistake. She had thought Nathan had told her on the phone, when they arranged the meeting, that he and Cindy had had a fight and she had left. It was only when she had heard the girl’s scream after the killing that she had realized that she must have misunderstood. He must have said that Cindy had threatened to go, or was about to. Poor Cindy, she had thought. She had had no desire to see the pathetic, abused girl stand trial, and it must have been fate that had ensured she had not only met a local private investigator a few weeks previously but had remembered the woman’s name. She had stopped the jeep at once, had got the number from Information, then called Lorraine Page’s office from a public phone.

Her plane trip back to New York was, as always, booked in a different name, and she had carried the paintings like posters in rolls of cardboard. She was never stopped or questioned.

By the time she had returned to the Hamptons, the news had broken that Harry Nathan had been murdered and Cindy Nathan arrested. Next day, it had transpired that things were worse than Sonja had thought: the gun she had used had been Cindy’s.

After that she had just sat back and watched the aftermath. Now there was no one left to hate, no one left to blame. She had told the world of her guilt, but no one had noticed, and it was over at last, she thought. Quietus est.

Rosie was out of breath as she joined Burton and Rooney — she’d rushed to the hospital as soon as she had heard.

‘What happened? Is she all right?’

Rooney sat her down. ‘There’ve been complications. Her breathing has deteriorated, and her temperature’s started rising. She’s holding her own, but now they’re worrying that her heart’s been under too much strain.’

Jake took Rosie’s hand. ‘Mike’s on his way in, and the girls. It’s just a matter of time now.’

‘No, no, I don’t believe it — she was getting better. They said her breathing wouldn’t stabilize — well, it did. She’ll get over this relapse — it’s just a kind of a relapse, right? Look, I know her, I know her, and...’ Rosie’s face crumpled but she kept on talking about how she and Lorraine had first met — how ill Lorraine had been, how she was so thin and weak that no one would have ever believed she could recover, quit her alcohol addiction...

‘It’s part of the problem, Rosie, sweetheart. Her body took so much punishment for so long, it’s just tired out.’ Rosie started to sob and Rooney gripped her hand tightly. ‘Now you listen to me, her daughters are coming in, and we don’t want them upset and scared. Just pull yourself together — there’s been enough tears, and you don’t want Lorraine to see you crying.’

‘She can’t see me, she’s in a coma,’ Rosie said, wiping her nose.

‘I know, but nobody knows if that means she can’t hear. So dry your eyes, and go freshen up.’

Rosie went to the powder room, and Rooney felt exhausted. He had no tears left to cry, and he looked at the quiet, composed Jake. ‘You okay?’

Jake was far from okay, but he nodded, and Rooney sighed heavily. ‘You know, maybe it’s for the best. I mean, it’s likely she’s got brain damage, and I wouldn’t want to see her all crumpled up, unable to do anything for herself. I know she wouldn’t want that either.’

Both men stood up as Dr Hudson came out of the unit and gestured to them to sit down. He asked if Lorraine’s daughters were coming in to see her, and Jake said they were on their way.

‘You want it straight?’ he said, pulling at the collar of his white coat. They both nodded. ‘I’ve always been level with you, and I’ve got to admit I didn’t think we’d be able to hold her for this long, but this recent development... Her organs are just giving way, and I am afraid there’s nothing more we can do. It really is a matter of hours. She’s in no pain, but her heart is now in trouble, and what with that and the cumulative malfunction of her kidneys and lungs...’

‘How long?’ Jake said quietly.

‘I doubt if she’ll last the night. I’m very, very sorry.’

Jake stood up and looked at Rooney. ‘I’d like some time alone with her, before her daughters arrive.’ He turned his gaze to the doctor. ‘Can I go in?’

The doctor nodded: the staff were already making Lorraine look more presentable by removing some of the drips and machines from the room, which was already screened off from the rest of the unit to give more privacy. ‘The nurse will come out in a minute, but I’ll be here if you need me. Just tell the duty nurse, or Reception to buzz me.’ The doctor hovered for a moment, then walked away from the tiny overheated anteroom with a grave nod.

Five minutes later, when Rosie had returned, a nurse came out. She smiled cheerfully and held the door ajar. ‘You can see her now. Thank you for all the gifts.’

‘They were from Lorraine,’ Rosie said firmly. The nurse moved away, and Rosie saw as she went in that the little Christmas tree had been taken down.

Sonja and Arthur exchanged their vows in a quiet ceremony, with only one other person as a witness, a clerk from the mayor’s office, a small, balding man who had obviously performed this function on innumerable occasions. He gave them an encouraging smile, signed the register with a flourish, and wished them every happiness in their future life. They walked out arm in arm, Sonja’s bouquet of roses matching Arthur’s buttonhole.

‘Holy shit, they gone an’ put my nightdress on back to front,’ Lorraine said, then angrily told Burton that one of the nurses should be fired as she had a rough bedside manner. He drew up a chair and sat close to the bed.

‘I have to say you must have shares in a florist!’ Lorraine joked. ‘I mean, this is getting to be ridiculous. When I get out of here, I’m taking that bunch with me, the lilies — I always liked lilies, it’s the smell. I’ve been meaning to ask you, though it’s a bit embarrassing, do I smell? I know they clean me up, but that fucking nurse, the one with the frizzy hair, I don’t think she’s a pro. She almost had me out of the bed earlier you know, whipping out the fucking tubes as if she was playing an organ.’ He touched her hand, and let one finger trace the dark bruises where the needles and drips had been attached. ‘I know — they think they’re digging for gold trying to find a vein.’ She laughed, then frowned.

‘I worry about wearing this ring — I don’t know if you can trust these nurses. I remember when my dad was in hospital, you couldn’t leave fifty bucks. Mind you, he wasn’t in a private ward like this. Thank Christ I blew so much on a private medical plan.’

He gently traced her fingers, touching each nail. ‘I love you, will never forget you, and with this ring I thee wed. You are the wife I always wanted and never believed I’d find, but we did find each other, didn’t we? If just for a short while.’

‘Yeah, we sure did, and you know I’ve never been the romantic kind, but... remember the beach? The first time you came walking with me and Tiger — I knew I was in love with you then. Actually I knew when you knocked on the door. Did I tell you that? You have a way of holding your head, on one side, and when you’re going to say something romantic, you get these two red dots in your cheeks. You’ve got them now...’

‘Remember the first time we walked on the beach?’

‘Yes, I just said that. But it was even better later with all that takeaway food — my God, we ordered every single thing off the menu. You know I truthfully never thought I’d have someone love me.’

‘I love you.’

‘I love you, too, with all my heart, and... Hey, where you going? Don’t go yet, I want to kiss you. Don’t go, let me kiss you.’

Jake got to the door, stopped, turned back. He found it almost unbearable to see Lorraine propped up, but with her eyes closed, just as if she was sleeping. He returned to the bed and gently kissed her lips, then rested his head against hers and touched her cheeks. For the first time her flesh felt cold.

‘I don’t call that a kiss, and listen, we have to talk before you go. Listen to me, it’s very important. I cracked the Nathan case. Sonja Nathan killed him, I’m sure of it. I know I’ve got nothing but circumstantial evidence, but you’ve got to get my briefcase and get some phone company records out of it, and contact the clinic where I had my scar fixed. I’m sure she was there. You’ve got to get the tape recording Decker made of that call that was made to my office too — the one Cindy never made. He couldn’t find it, but it’s just got to be there somewhere. It was Sonja. Why don’t you listen to me? Where are you going?’

Jake leaned out into the corridor. ‘Bill, you want to come in? I’ll just take five minutes, go to the John.’

Rooney came in, sweating as usual, wanting to take off his jacket, but not sure that he should.

‘Sit down, Billy, before he gets back. We got to talk — he doesn’t seem to take me seriously, but I think I cracked the Nathan case. I’ll need help, and there could be big bucks in it if we can recover the stolen art work. It’s worth millions and I have a damned good idea where it is. Germany. I also know Sonja Nathan killed her husband.’

‘Rosie’s with me, she won’t be a minute.’

‘Okay. Let me get this sorted out before she comes in. First you have to check out Nathan’s fake passports, there’s a letter in my purse he sent to his mother from Germany. I think — in fact, I’m sure — Sonja Nathan was working with her ex-husband on this art fraud scam. It’s big money, Bill, not a few hundred thousand dollars, but millions.’

He looked at her, lying so still, eyes closed as if she was sleeping.

‘You look beautiful, darlin’,’ he said softly.

‘Oh, quit with the flattery. Listen to what I’m saying. We trace those paintings, we’ll all be in for a few bucks to retire on, Billy. I’m out after this case, and all I want to do is crack it — you know the way I am. Now, I need you first to contact Feinstein, then get my briefcase out of the apartment, Bill. Then you and Rosie do another trip to Europe. I want this case cleared before I quit, know what I mean? I get married to Jake and... You like him, don’t you? He’s an okay guy, isn’t he? And I’m going to tell you something. I was so scared, Bill — you know, I didn’t think I had any right to love or be loved. He loves me, Billy.’

‘We’re taking care of Tiger,’ Rooney said, trying to think of something to say, then told her how the dog had already destroyed their new sofa.

Lorraine laughed, that big, bellowing laugh of hers. ‘Hey, Bill, did you ever tell Rosie about that guy, remember him? With the lottery ticket? God, that was funny.’

Rosie came in, smiled at Bill, and drew up a chair.

‘Hey, Rosie, did Billy ever tell you about Chester Brackenshaw? When we were working together. Well, this guy Chester was a real pain in the butt, always going on about what he would or wouldn’t do when he won the lottery, and he was a real practical joker, wasn’t he, Bill? Anyways...’

‘She looks beautiful,’ Rosie said.

‘Thank you, but my nightdress is on back to front. Anyway, Chester goes every Friday to this club, an’ me and the guys work this scam out — like I said, he was a real practical joker — and we get his lottery ticket numbers. It was you, wasn’t it, Bill? You got ’em out of his wallet. Anyway, hasn’t Bill told you this, Rosie?’

‘She’s got her nightdress on back to front,’ Rosie said, fussing.

‘I know, I know... but listen, he goes to the club, right? And we get the DJ in on the joke and tell him to announce the winning lottery numbers. So he stops playing records and he announces all Chester’s numbers, and we all expected him to start buying drinks for the house. After we’d got him to spend his wages, we were going to let him in on the joke, but... he did nothing. Like, we saw him check his card, but he puts it back in his wallet, right, Bill?’

‘Shall I comb her hair?’ Rosie said to Bill.

‘Leave it, just leave it, and listen... we all think he knows he’s been had, and we’re all waiting for him to get back at us some way, but he doesn’t, but then as we’re all leaving the place, he suddenly throws his car keys at his wife, Sandra — her name was Sandra, wasn’t it, Bill? Yeah, “Sandra,” he says, “take the car, it’s yours, and you can have the house. I hate your guts and I’ve been screwing your sister for two years, but I’ve won the lottery, so fuck you!”’ She roared with laughter, seeing all the guys lined up behind Chester trying to make him shut up.

Lorraine fell silent then as Sissy, Mike’s wife, appeared in the doorway. ‘Mike’s coming, he’s in court,’ Sissy said, ushering in the girls. Just hearing her daughters made Lorraine feel so emotional she couldn’t joke any more. The two girls took Rooney and Rosie’s chairs, side by side, and she was so proud of them.

‘Come on in, Sissy, don’t be embarrassed, I’m not. In fact, I’d like to say something to you. It’s... well, it’s thank you. You’ve taken such care of my girls, and I want you to know I don’t resent you. I did, but I don’t now. In fact, I’d like to kiss you.’

Sissy leaned over the bed and kissed Lorraine’s cheek. ‘I’ll be outside if you need me,’ she said to the girls, then left them alone with Lorraine.

Julia was the first to reach out to the still, cold hand. ‘I’m wearing the bracelet you got for me.’ She hesitated and then said softly, ‘Thank you, Mom.’

‘Oh, now, don’t you cry — I don’t want to see you crying,’ Lorraine said, but then was so close to tears herself she couldn’t continue.

Julia turned to Sally: ‘Say thank you to Mommy, Sally, go on.’

Sally gently touched Lorraine’s fingers. ‘Thank you, Mommy.’

Lorraine burst into tears: she had never believed she would hear them call her that again. She told them how proud she was, that she knew Julia was a great tennis player and Sally was a gold medalist at her college for swimming. ‘One day, maybe you’ll understand — I wasn’t really me for such a long time, but all the times I wasn’t with you, all the times I should have been there, I never stopped loving you both with all my heart. I want you to have a good and happy future, and I know you’ve got a good father... because I loved him too. Hey, Mike, I was just talkin’ about you.’

Mike came and stood between his daughters, then took Lorraine’s hand and kissed it.

‘Say goodbye to your mom.’

Both girls whispered goodbye, and Lorraine was upset that they were crying — she didn’t want them to cry. She watched them leaving the room, and called after them, called each daughter by name, and they turned and looked at her.

‘I love you, babies. I love you.’

She wanted Jake again, needed him, in fact wanted him to be there more than Mike or the girls. She felt so light, as if she were floating, and she wanted him to hold on to her. She had the eerie feeling she was going somewhere, and she called out his name.

He stood in the doorway, and she sighed with relief. For a few moments she had thought he had gone, but he came to her side. ‘I’m here, darling, I’m here,’ he said softly, and she began to relax, knowing he was holding her hand.

‘I want you to know, I don’t care how long it takes, but I’ll get him. We even had him in custody, but we had nothing to hold him on — there were no prints on the baseball bat, nothing.’

She was confused for a while, not understanding what he was talking about, but then he said the name. Eric Lee Judd. Where had she heard that name before? Then she remembered the alley and the moment she had shouted at the boy to stop. She remembered it all now, all the years she had tried to bury the guilt with drink and wanted to pay for what she had done: now she knew that at long last she was paying the ultimate price.

She knew then that it was over, and the last thing she heard, and would ever hear as she floated free of pain was Jake’s voice, filled with love, the love that had given her a happiness she felt she had no right to enjoy, and that now absolved her of guilt and gave her final release. She began to float, way above the bed, and the pain stopped. It was such a relief when the awful pain in her head stopped, and she felt at peace. Hearing him say that he loved her had freed her soul: it was the best way to go.

Lorraine had left life surrounded by people who loved her dearly, and reunited with her daughters. But she would never be able to tell anyone the solution to her last case.

None of her private analysis of the murder had been discussed with anyone, none of her notes made on her travels had been read by anyone. Lorraine’s last case appeared to have died with her — the only time a case had not ended in success. Sonja Nathan had not only got away with murder, but with a massive fraud that netted her twenty million dollars.

Lorraine had been at rest for six months when a battered briefcase, its lock forced, was found by a garbage sifter. Lennie Hockum made his living scavenging in garbage dumps, salvaging anything he could recycle and sell on. It often surprised him just how much some of the junk he collected was worth. The briefcase was leather with a suede lining and he was sure he could fix the locks, or make them look good enough for a local garage sale.

Lennie did not inspect the contents of the briefcase thoroughly until he was back at his trailer. There was nothing of immediate value, not even a pen, but there were hotel receipts, sales stubs from various stores and a few business cards in the name of Lorraine Page Investigations. There was also a thick notebook with scrawled writing covering almost every page. Lennie skim-read it, flicking the pages over with his gnarled thumb. Some pages had lists of names with some underlined, but nothing made much sense to him. But he had the woman’s card, he had her address. Maybe he could make a few more bucks if he returned the case to its rightful owner.

Lennie took the case to Lorraine’s office, but he was disappointed when the valet told him the office was closed and had been taken over by another company. He held up the case, asking if the valet knew where he could find the woman.

It was almost a month before Jake Burton was contacted and the briefcase brought into his office. He sat staring at it, then slowly ran his hands along the top. It smelt of mildew and leather polish. Inside there were water stains and the suede had green mould at the edges. The thick notebook seemed fatter due to the damp and some of the pages were stuck together, but he recognized Lorraine’s handwriting. Burton read every page, made copious notes as he went along. Then he had to wait a further week before the Nathans’ housekeepers were traced. He used favours to gain access to their personal finances, but it was evident that they had improved considerably lately: they had purchased a small but quite expensive condo, just off the Ventura highway. They also owned a new Pathfinder and appeared not to be employed.

Using Lorraine’s notes, and with Sharkey as backup, Burton questioned and requestioned Juana and Jose, putting pressure on them to give details of their income. They insisted that they had simply been paid their back salary from the Nathan estate, but when they were informed that it would take only a phone call to verify their statement they began to waver. When they were taken to the station for the interview and questioned separately the cracks began to show. Juana broke first, sobbing hysterically and insisting it was money they were owed, that they had had no choice and had been forced to agree or they would not have been given what was rightfully theirs.

‘I am sure you were owed a lot of money, but as you were not paid out of the Nathan estate, who did pay you?’ Burton asked. He repeated, ‘Who paid for the apartment, the car? Please answer the question. Who is financing you?’

Jose was the one to admit that it was Sonja Nathan and, like his wife, he started to weep. They had promised Mrs Nathan they would use the money to return to Mexico, but had changed their minds. He kept insisting they had done nothing wrong except lie to Mrs Nathan about moving back to Mexico...

Distressed, Juana revealed that Sonja Nathan had always been kind to them, had promised always to take care of them. ‘She was only keeping her promise. She was a good woman...’

Burton kept up the pressure. He was calm, encouraging, and yet relentless. ‘So, on the morning of the murder, you have stated that you saw no one and that you did not hear anything, but were drawn towards the swimming pool when you heard Cindy Nathan screaming. Do you still maintain that to be the truth?’

Sharkey waited as the couple sat, heads bowed. The room so silent you could hear the desk clock ticking. After an interminable silence Burton softly asked again: ‘Did you see anyone else on that morning?’

No reply.

‘Did anyone you know arrange to be at the house on that morning?’

No reply.

Sharkey shifted his weight, looking from Juana to Jose as they sat, their hands clasped tightly in front of them. He then looked at Burton, who was staring at a large silver-framed photograph on the desk. Sharkey couldn’t see the front, but he knew it was a photograph of Lorraine.

Burton continued, in the same calm, almost disinterested voice, ‘Did you see anyone in the grounds of the house on the morning Harry Nathan was murdered?’

‘Yes.’

It was hardly audible. Sharkey had to lean forward to hear it.

Juana reached over to hold her husband’s hand. ‘Tell him. Tell him. I don’t want to lie any more.’

Jose clung to his wife’s hand and took a deep breath, but refused to look up and meet Burton’s eyes.

‘Sonja Nathan.’

Sharkey’s jaw dropped. Burton sat down. ‘Thank you, that will be all for now. I suggest you get legal representation before we question you again. You may take one of the tapes we have used to record this interview. Thank you for your co-operation.’

Sharkey ushered the couple out and into the corridor. As he looked back into the room, Burton was sifting through a notebook, head bowed.

‘Pick up Sonja Nathan?’ Sharkey asked.

‘Yes.’

‘She almost got away with it,’ Sharkey said, closing the door.

Burton sighed, running his hand over Lorraine’s closed notebook, then laying his palm flat against it. He looked sadly at the photograph on his desk. Her face smiled back. It was a photograph he had taken on the beach: she had been so happy, so full of life, her head tilted back, her arms lifted towards the camera, as if about to break into laughter. He knew she had been happy — it shone out of her like the sun that glinted on her silky blonde hair.

‘Well,’ he said softly, ‘you got your man and you’ll be pleased to know you got your killer too.’