Cold Shoulder

Chapter 10

The following morning Lorraine could not summon any energy and had no idea how to progress, so at eight o’clock she took herself off to Fit ’N’ Fast.

‘I just feel so tired all the time,’ she complained to Hector.

He shrugged. ‘Bound to feel that way, you’ve punished the hell out of your body for years, right? You can’t suddenly force it into feeling fit. Nothing happens overnight, it takes time and dedication.’ He agreed to make out a diet and a tough work-out programme for every other day, including weights, a strict high-carb diet, and a high-protein drink. Armed with a boxful of new vitamins, Lorraine went home.

Rosie looked over the array of cans and pills, and the charts Lorraine was pinning up. ‘I’d join you, but I’ve got a built-in resistance to all of this kind of stuff.’

Lorraine laughed. ‘Well, you’re so full of energy you don’t need it. Do you have a camera?’

‘It’s in the pawn shop — been there about seven months.’

‘Can I get it out?’

‘I dunno where the ticket is, and it’ll cost a few dollars. It’s a very expensive model.’ Rosie started sifting through her papers and eventually found the pawn ticket: there was a hundred and fifty dollars to pay. Lorraine wondered if she could buy a cheap camera instead.

‘Has it got a zoom lens?’

‘I dunno, there’s all kinds of attachments for it. I never used it so I dunno what it’s got.’

‘Okay, go get it, I’ll wait here for you. You’d better take this — it’s the last of my stash.’

Rosie departed, moaning about being used as a gofer but when Lorraine asked if she had anything better to do, she said, ‘I guess not but why do you need it?’

‘To take photographs.’

Lorraine worked through the telephone directory, matching the names on Rosie’s list. She called each one, checked if they worked at the garage, and slowly narrowed down all the wrong numbers. She was still busy when Rosie returned two hours later.

The camera was a professional fast-slide action with zoom lens. Rosie watched in fascination as Lorraine quickly checked over all the accessories, testing out the viewfinder, attaching the different lenses and grinning in triumph because it even had a laser night shutter: she could photograph at night.

‘How come you know so much about cameras?’ she asked.

‘Part of my job. On surveillance we used high-tech equipment and I went on a couple of courses—’

The phone rang. It was Rooney. ‘You out on the streets? What you doing?’

‘Gimme time, for chrissakes. Like I said, as soon as I have anything, I’ll be in touch. One thing, this Fellows guy, can I get in touch with him?’

‘Why?’

Lorraine could hear his chesty breathing down the phone. ‘Just like to talk to him. I won’t if you don’t want me to.’

‘Maybe stay away from him, okay?’ Rooney said flatly. ‘Call me. I need anything you can come up with.’

Rooney hung up. Why did she want to talk to Fellows? He remembered how intuitive she was. Perhaps she’d come across something he’d missed — or was she just ripping him off?

Bean reminded him that the second shift team were waiting for the morning’s briefing. Rooney slowly stood up. ‘Be right with you.’

Bean joined the men in the incident room. When he saw Chief Michael Berillo pass, he hoped he wasn’t going to see Rooney, as that meant keeping everyone waiting, but Rooney appeared right behind the Chief.

He snapped out orders to his men to begin spreading their inquiries to drag clubs and transvestite hang-outs. ‘I want everyone, and this is priority, to check out Norman Hastings’s contacts. Hastings is our main link to the killer because out of all the murders he’s the odd man.’

There was a loud guffaw, and when Rooney saw the funny side, he snorted. He also divulged that he now had a reliable informant working on the streets, who he hoped would soon bring in some information.

The Chief hitched up his pants, and jerked his head for Rooney to follow him to his office. ‘Who’s your informant?’

‘She’s a hooker, been arrested a number of times, she owes me a favour. She’s asking round the street girls, the pimps. Some of them won’t talk to us, so she’ll be useful.’

The Chief nodded. ‘That’s it then, is it?’

Rooney attempted to bluff his way out, saying there’d been the breakthrough with Mrs Hastings. ‘Not enough, Bill. I can’t let this continue, I’m under pressure, I’ve had the Mayor on to me, City Hall. I need an arrest, Bill. There’s seven fucking women dead.’

The desk phone rang. The Chief picked it up. He listened and scribbled on a notepad which he passed to Rooney. ‘They just got Brendan Murphy, bringing him across State today.’ He underlined the word State three times, his face darkening, and then he repeated the name ‘Bickerstaff’, and put the phone down.

‘Good news, they picked up Murphy, your number one suspect. Bad news is it’s now FBI business as they’ve had to get the documents to bring him back to us. He’s in Detroit. Looks like you’re gonna have to hand over the entire inquiry to a guy called Ed Bickerstaff, you know him?’ Rooney swore under his breath. ‘I don’t like it but I’ve no option. I’ve even been asked if you’re capable of controlling the case. I’ve gone out on a limb for you, especially as I know you’ll be retiring soon. Bill, if you don’t pull the stops out, you’ll be taking retirement even earlier than you anticipated.’

Back in his office, Rooney opened a fresh bottle of bourbon and poured himself six fingers, downing it in one gulp before he repeated the dose. Not until his third hit did he relax and begin to think straight. What possibilities had he missed, or glossed over? The FBI would go through everything with a fine-tooth comb. It pissed him off, even more so as he was sure Brendan Murphy was not their man. He rubbed his chin. This was the most complicated inquiry he had ever been on and he was nowhere. He had so little that he was almost depending on that whore Lorraine Page to come up with something. He reached for the phone to call her again. There was no reply.

Lorraine sat with Rosie in the car outside the address of Suspect One from the S and A garage, a Sydney Field. When he pulled up outside his house, Rosie got out and asked if he was a Mr Sam Field. He shook his head. She carried a clipboard. ‘I’m doing some market research, Mr Field. Do you work in computers?’

‘No.’ He was surly.

‘But you are Mr Sam Field, aren’t you?’

‘No, Sydney Field. I’m a mechanic, you got the wrong man.’ Rosie turned to leave and gave an almost imperceptible nod to Lorraine, who took two photographs. They spent the rest of the evening checking five more names listed from the vintage car garage. It had been a long, tedious afternoon and an even longer night. Six down, two more to go, and Lorraine had not yet seen the man who had attacked her.

The cost of the car rental and payment to get the camera out of hock meant she was already out of pocket, so the next morning she called Rooney. ‘I need some more money, Bill.’

‘Give me something first,’ he snapped.

‘I’m checking somethin’ out. I’ll have it by the end of the day.’

‘Drop by, I’ll give you a hundred bucks but this is out of my pocket and I’ll be out of here in forty-eight hours. FBI taking over.’

‘I’d prefer if we didn’t meet at the station.’

He swore and then agreed to see her near his Indian restaurant.

Lorraine replaced the receiver and turned, knowing Rosie had overheard.

‘What’s going on?’ Rosie asked.

‘Just trying to get us some more cash.’

Lorraine chewed her lips. ‘I’m doing this work for an old cop friend, that’s all.’

‘That why we’re taking photographs?’

Lorraine had underestimated Rosie’s dogged persistence. ‘This cop, he wouldn’t be the one you saw outside the gallery? Captain Rooney? Only he’s on these murders, isn’t he?’

Lorraine made no answer. If d be dark soon and if they were to make the most of what daylight remained they’d better leave.

They drove into the outskirts of Beverly Hills and parked outside a neat row of bungalows on Ashdown Road, a heavily gay area. Men were already parading up and down or gathering on street corners talking. A blonde woman was tap-dancing on a small square piece of cardboard, tap-tapping away, her flowered hat on the pavement beside her.

A car drew up and Rosie got out with her clipboard. Lorraine suddenly felt the adrenalin pumping. She knew he was not the man, which left only one to go. Who had to be the man, if — if — she was right.

Rosie returned to the car, smiling. ‘This is better than sticking down goddamned envelopes. Where to next?’

The final address was on the other side of town, on Beverly Glen. With a screech of tyres, Rosie took a sharp right, directly across the traffic.

‘Bastards, it’s my right of way!’ Lorraine clung to the side of the car as Rosie swerved across the road, and steered onto Sunset Boulevard. She peered over to Lorraine. ‘You sure we’re on the guy? This is movie-star territory.’

‘Yeah, it’s off to the right.’

They drove past the Bel Air Gates and took a left onto Beverly Glen. They headed up the winding road, passing the signposts to the Bel Air Hotel. Rosie veered from one side of the road to the other as she glimpsed the magnificent properties on either side of them.

Eventually she pulled up outside a secluded, three-storey house, surrounded by a high wall, a barred gate, and signs warning of guard dogs and electric fences. It was here that Steven Janklow lived, the last name on the list. Rosie got out and crossed the road to look through the gates. A Buick was parked in the drive, alongside an old Mercedes SL 180. She rang the intercom bell at the side of the huge gate. ‘Hi, I am doing market research into computer users and we have a query for a Michael Janklow. Could I please speak to him a moment?’

The phone went dead. Rosie rang again and repeated as much of her rehearsed speech as she could before the phone went dead again. A gardener tending the well-kept lawns walked towards the gates. Rosie smiled and waved at him. ‘Can you gimme a minute?’

He didn’t speak very good English, so she had to ask two or three times if a Michael Janklow was at home.

‘No, no, his name not Michael.’

‘Does he work in computers?’

‘No, he work in big garage, you have wrong man, go away.’

Rosie returned to the car. ‘I think he’s the last guy.’ She repeated what the gardener had said and gave the car registration numbers.

They waited over an hour but only saw the gardener drive out in an old truck, the gates closing automatically behind him. Then they saw a German shepherd dog sniffing and prowling around inside the gates.

Lorraine told Rosie to go home and that they would come back early next morning. She didn’t want Rooney to meet Rosie and it was nearly time for their appointment. She made the excuse that she wanted to work out, so Rosie dropped her off at Fit ’N’ Fast.

Fifteen minutes later Rooney arrived. ‘What you got for me?’ he asked as soon as Lorraine had got into the car.

She hesitated. ‘Well, I’ve been questioning a lot of the hookers. So far nothing much but a couple of them remembered a guy picking them up, real edgy, and I’m trying to find Holly’s pimp to see if he can help. You got anything on a vintage car garage, Santa Monica?’ She talked about one of the girls seeing the cufflinks, that she, herself, had discovered that fifty odd workers might have a pair. ‘What I’m doing is narrowing it all down, taking shots of the workers, taking them round to the girls. It might be your man, then again it might not. It’s costing, though, I had to get a good camera and I gotta pay a friend to drive me around, hire a car.’

Rooney took out his wallet. Lorraine leaned closer. ‘I’d like to talk to this profiler guy. Can’t you swing it for me?’

‘Why do you want to see him?’

Lorraine ran her hands through her hair. ‘Maybe I just want to talk to him. I was always good at piecing jigsaws together and he sounds like he knows what he’s talking about.’

He folded a hundred and fifty dollars and passed it to her. ‘Take it, but I want those photographs, and in the meantime I’ll do a quiet check on the men who work at this garage, see if there’s anyone with a record.’

‘Do it quietly, Bill. If your man works there, you don’t want to tip him off.’

He grunted.

‘I’ll call you.’ She had her hand on the door handle.

Rooney hesitated, and then muttered grudgingly, ‘I’ll give this Fellows a call. You can see him if he agrees. I’m up against it. Anything, Lorraine, anything, for chrissakes get it to me fast, you know what snot-nosed bastards those FBI agents are.’

She got out of the car and he watched her walking down the street, long legs, tight ass. All the guys had tried to get into her pants but she had never, to Rooney’s knowledge, got it on with anyone of the old team. It pissed them all off that she refused to have a scene with any of them and they had made her life as unpleasant as possible. To her credit she had treated it as a joke, but then she had always been tough.

‘You got any complaints?’ Rooney had asked.

‘No, no complaints,’ she had said, quietly and firmly. She never complained or put any man on the line, even when she found out they were having free fucks from the hookers. She was so tough no one would have believed she would plummet out of control. Rooney wondered now just how long she had hidden her drinking. He had liked Lorraine, admired her tenacity. She had proved her guts too. As he drove Rooney remembered how he and his partner had been called out to an affray in a down-town bar. Neither was prepared to confront the young Mexican holding a waitress by the throat. He’d already knifed two men, everyone was hysterical, and crowds were gathering on the pavement outside.

Rooney called for back-up which arrived in the shape of the young rookie Page, and her beer-gut partner, Brian Dullay. Dullay waddled over to Rooney, bellowing for an update. Suddenly there was a single terrible scream from inside the bar. They needed a decoy: someone to go in the front, distract the Mexican, so they could unarm him from behind. No fucking way, Dullay said. Just as Rooney was about to order him inside, Lorraine stepped forward. ‘I’ll do it. We can’t leave that girl in there,’

While Dullay and Rooney’s partner headed for the escape at the back, Lorraine opened the door to the bar. The terrified girl was held by the deranged barman, a knife already cutting through her neck, blood streaming down her dress. Her legs were buckled, she had pissed in her pants with terror, and her face was stricken, frozen, her mouth open wide.

Lorraine walked in holding her hands above her head. ‘I’m alone, Roberto, just let her go and you and me can talk.’

The man pushed the girl down to the floor and stamped on her head, holding her firm with his foot. He grinned crazily as he lifted the knife. ‘It’s too late, no talk now, no more talk.’

Lorraine held her gaze, never flinching when he switched the knife from his right to his left hand. Then he snatched a gun from his belt and pointed it at her. She stood still, without taking her eyes off him. ‘It’s never too late to talk. Why don’t you tell me what’s been going on?’

‘They kick me out my place, they take my kids, they got no right to do that, I work hard, I pay my taxes, they got no right, I been to the right people, weeks I been goin’ an’ they say it’s okay, nobody can take your place, but they—’

Rooney fired first, then Dullay. The bullet blew the back of the Mexican’s skull apart, his blood and brains splattering Lorraine, his body falling over the sobbing waitress.

The girl clung to Lorraine. Even when the ambulance came she wouldn’t let go, so Lorraine sat with her until the sedatives took effect then slowly stepped out of the ambulance.

Rooney was talking to Dullay as Lorraine approached him. ‘There was no need to kill him,’ she said flatly.

Rooney had glared at her. ‘He would have used this. You got a complaint?’ He had shoved the dead Mexican’s gun under her nose.

‘No,’ she said quietly. ‘No complaint.’

Rooney was still thinking about her when he let himself into his home an hour later. He remembered Lubrinski. He was sure there had been something going on between them. They were real close, used to drink together after duty. Thinking of the dark, handsome officer Rooney felt sad. He was one of the best he’d ever come across, bit of a loner but a real man’s man. When Rooney had partnered Lorraine with him, he had expected fireworks but instead she and Lubrinski had formed one of the strongest teams he’d ever had. He wished he had a twosome like them with him now but they only come once in a blue moon. Page and Lubrinski, chalk and cheese and yet...

Lorraine kept on walking after seeing Rooney. Then she took a bus to Sunset and set off towards the hookers’ hangouts and on until she got to the gay quarter. She stopped outside a coffee bar with a few tables planted on the dirty street. She was looking for Nula or Didi but couldn’t find them so asked around for Curtis and was told he would be in the Bar Q further along the stretch. The bar was dark, with music so loud it was deafening. There were only a few customers dotted around, none Lorraine knew, so she sat at the bar and ordered a Coke.

‘How you doing?’ smiled the black bartender. ‘Not seen you in a long while.’

Lorraine grinned. ‘Is Curtis out back?’

‘Yeah, he’s got a game going.’

Lorraine could see a few men in the small pool room. She strolled in and stood sipping the Coke, watching Curtis play with three other dudes in snazzy suits and flash ties. Printed silk was the rage among pimps, reminiscent of Micky Spillane. She knew better than to interrupt, but Curtis looked up suddenly. ‘You want me, sugar?’

‘When you got a second.’

Curtis chalked his cue. As she moved away, he asked one of the players, ‘Who’s that?’

The man couldn’t put a name to the face. Curtis continued the game.

Lorraine went back to the bar and ordered another Coke. A few more customers had drifted in and a bleached blonde with heavy breasts was perched on an end stool, talking to a boy in leathers. She was all of forty, her tight leather skirt up round her crotch. He leaned forward as if hanging on her every word but his eyes were focused on her deep cleavage. Her breasts were pushed up by a wired bra and burst through the clinging Lycra. Lorraine was almost amused to watch the old pro at work. Every move was sexual — she didn’t even reach for her drink without the carefully orchestrated swing of her hips, or opening her legs further, constantly touching her breasts, and licking her thickly painted lips. The boy moved closer, desperate to touch her, and Lorraine waited, knew Blondie would talk money any second. Sure enough, she saw her whisper, then lean back, resting her elbows on the bar, and the boy was hooked.

He passed some bills and the come-on act dropped. Blondie downed her drink, slid off the stool and, arm in arm, they walked out. Lorraine reckoned she’d have a room in one of the motels close by and that the boy was probably a college kid high on grass and desperate to get his rocks off. Well, he would, but he would probably not have reckoned on it being so fast.

Curtis leaned on the bar next to Lorraine. He ordered a beer.

‘You know some friends of mine, Didi and Nula. I’m lookin’ for them, but they’re not on the strip,’ she said.

‘Bit early for them. What do you want?’

‘I’m a friend of Art’s.’

‘You want some videos?’

‘Maybe.’

Curtis suddenly moved close to Lorraine. ‘So you know Didi and Nula.’ He stripped her with his eyes, then focused on her crotch. ‘But you’re not one of them. You want to turn a few tricks?’ he asked casually, as if offering her a drink.

‘No, I want to see them and I don’t like goin’ to their place in case I interrupt a session.’

Curtis tilted his head back and laughed. ‘Not party to that, girlie, not with kids, not my scene.’

Lorraine smiled back. He was relaxing, trusting her, and even more so when a skinny black hooker, Elsa, breezed in and saw Lorraine.

‘Hey, how you doin’?’ she screamed across the bar, then wiggled over and slipped her arms around Lorraine. ‘Long time no see, an’ you cleaned yerself up. Baby, you’re lookin’ great.’

Lorraine was entwined in strong skinny arms and the thick black curly wig tickled her face as Elsa kissed her on the lips. Curtis looked on, as Elsa, still clasping Lorraine tightly, told him how many good times the two of them had had together. She traced the scar on Lorraine’s face with her thumb, its long, hooked, bright-red nail like a claw. ‘Oh, Jesus, do I remember that night.’

‘More than I do,’ said Lorraine.

The barman summoned Curtis to take a call and Elsa perched on a stool next to Lorraine. ‘So, what you been doin’, sugar? I thought maybe you were dead.’

‘No, I’m alive. You want a drink?’

‘Sure, Coke an’ bourbon, if you’re buyin’.’

They carried their drinks to a booth, but Elsa’s attention flitted constantly to the entrance, waiting for a customer.

‘Did you know Holly?’

‘Sure, sweet kid, one of Curtis’s. He’s been cut up bad about it.’

Lorraine led the conversation round to which was Holly’s pitch but Elsa couldn’t remember: she moved about because some of the girls could get nasty and they reckoned Holly was hedging in on their territory. Curtis was small fry: he only had a few girls and was too weak to get heavy with any of the other pimps. He mostly had trannies because nobody else wanted them — trannies and a few young chicks that he screwed more than any john. Holly was his girl.

‘The night she died, did you see her at all?’

‘Nah, I was in the Long Down Motel. I got a room there now.’

Lorraine tried to ask as much as she could about Holly without it sounding suspicious but Elsa would only say that on the night of the murder, it had been real slow for business and any john was picked up fast. ‘You get good nights and bad nights.’

‘Yeah,’ murmured Lorraine, but then Curtis returned and Elsa moved off to a prospective client.

He leaned on the back of the booth. ‘You still want videos? I can maybe get some in a couple of hours, I got business right now. Come back later.’ The barman waved him over to take another call. Curtis did his video and drug trade in the bars, just small stuff. His girls made the drops for him. Lorraine gave him an uneasy feeling. He watched her walking out. He didn’t believe the line she’d fed him about wanting a porno video.

‘Elsa!’ She sauntered across and Curtis covered the phone. ‘Who was the blonde?’

Elsa looked back to her john, and scratched the front of her wig. ‘Hooker, used to hang round the pool halls, did a few tricks with her way back. She was something else, man, a real sleaze lady, but boozed out — Lorraine. We called her Lazy Lorraine. She’d never score a john, just waited until she was so smashed she wouldn’t have known if she had one or not. She went with some weirdos, didn’t give a fuck.’ She hesitated a moment and then leaned closer. ‘Maybe don’t trust her too much, okay?’

Curtis gripped her wrist. ‘What you mean?’

Elsa twisted free, pissed off because he’d hurt her. ‘Word was she used to be a cop, that’s all.’

Lorraine walked along the strip, stopped at two more bars and then spotted Nula paying off a cab. She called, Nula turned, was puzzled for a moment, and then recognized her.

‘You got time for a drink?’ Lorraine smiled.

‘No, I just come on, I’m late.’

‘How’s Didi?’

Nula shrugged and they walked down the strip together. ‘She’s still got problems with her foot but she won’t see a doctor — hates them.’

Lorraine asked again if she had time for a drink. Nula looked at her watch and agreed, but only a quickie. They went to a small coffee bar and sat with two espressos. Nula was edgy, constantly looking out at the strip.

‘I wanted to ask you about the night Holly was murdered. A friend of mine was picked up by a real creep. He had wet slobbery lips, rimless glasses, quite middle America, not beat up... and she was uneasy about him. She figured she’d seen him the night Holly died — maybe it was him picked her up. Anyway, she did the business and got the hell out of his car.’

Nula stirred her coffee. ‘Never saw nobody like that the night she got it. I tell you somethin’ though. Didi, right, she was duckin’ and divin’, she sees the guy cruisin’ down the road, right, she reckons she’s scored but little Holly beat her to the punch.’

‘Wait a minute. Are you telling me Didi saw Holly being picked up?’

‘She said it was a guy in a sort of beige-coloured car.’

‘Have you told anybody this?’

‘No, why should I?’

‘Because he might have been the guy who killed her.’

‘Yeah, he might not. It was early, just after I come on, so...’ Lorraine didn’t like to push too hard. She started asking casual questions about how they worked it, the trannies and the straight chicks, but Nula wasn’t interested.

‘You think the john that picked up Holly might have been wanting Didi?’

‘Jesus, I dunno. Why you askin’ all these questions?’

Lorraine lit a cigarette. ‘Just curious. Is Didi workin’ tonight, then?’

Nula said she was at a motel with a regular, but she’d be around later. ‘I gotta go. With Art gone, we’re short of cash.’ Nula rested her hands on the table. ‘I said I’d not talk to you again because of Art. That was a bad thing you did, Art was a decent guy.’

‘Come on, Nula, he was getting kids screwed. I saw the photographs, even saw Holly in a few of them.’

Nula leaned in close. ‘How come you’re so interested in Holly? What’s she to you?’

‘She’s dead. Maybe I feel sorry for her — she was only seventeen.’

‘So was I once! We had cops around — some fucker gave them a tip-off. We haven’t done any photographic work for weeks — that’s because of you, isn’t it? You know, I been trying to place your face, like Didi says, we was at an AA meeting but. . I don’t trust you. Stay away from us.’

She walked out and Lorraine took the tab to the counter. As she turned to leave, she saw Curtis outside with Nula, who pointed to the coffee bar. Curtis pushed her, they seemed to be arguing, and then he turned to look in at the window. Lorraine saw the sign to the toilets and walked out. Curtis came in, asked for Lorraine and the waitress pointed.

Lorraine stood on the toilet seat. She heard the door creaking open, then footsteps and the other cubicle door pushed open. As there were just the two, she knew he would try the next door, and find her, but just as his footsteps stopped outside her door, the waitress walked in and told him to get out. Lorraine waited fifteen minutes before she eased open the door and peered into the coffee bar. Curtis was standing directly outside and there was no back exit, or none she could see, so she decided to front it out.

He turned fast when she came out. Suddenly his arm shot out and he grabbed her elbow. ‘You askin’ questions about Holly an’ I wanna know why. What you askin’ questions about my little baby for?’

She could see in his face he wasn’t going to hurt her. He wasn’t scared, just upset.

‘What’s it to you?’ she asked.

‘She was my girl.’

Lorraine pulled her arm free. ‘Maybe for no reason but that I liked her.’

‘You knew her?’

‘Yeah, not well, but I knew her.’ He made to move off. ‘Curtis, wait a minute.’

He looked at her. ‘I dunno what you want but stay away from here.’

She took a chance. ‘Maybe I’m askin’ for the cops.’

He stepped back fast, his face altered, his hands tightened into fists. Suddenly she knew that if they were alone he would hurt her, really hurt her.

‘Not in the way you think, Curtis — come on, I was a hooker. All I’m doin’ is feedin’ back a bit of information, they got nothin’ on her killer. Don’t you want him caught? She was your girl, you just said so, she was beautiful, real beautiful, and—’

‘She’s dead, right, so fuck off.’

Curtis walked away and Lorraine followed. He turned into an alley and stopped. Now she no longer had the safety of other people around her.

‘You got a fuckin’ nerve, lady. Back off me.’

She stood four feet from him, far enough to keep out of range of a swinging fist. She held him in a steady gaze, not afraid, showing him she was on the level, letting him look at her.

‘I’m bein’ paid under the counter, fifty bucks. I’m not paid to do anythin’ else, just see if there was anyone who saw her that night, saw the john that picked her up. I don’t want to know anythin’ else. Help me. Why don’t you help me? Come on, man, she was your girl.’

Curtis leaned against the wall and, to her astonishment, started to cry. Lorraine moved closer. ‘She was picked up last time you saw her near Didi and Nula’s patch, that right?’ He nodded. She asked if he had seen anything, asked why Holly had been working the transsexual patch. He sniffed, wiping his face with the back of his hand. ‘She’d had a fight further up the strip, that’s all I know. She’d had this fight and we’d been talkin’, she said she wanted to move further down the strip, I was sortin’ it for her. I never got to tell her I really cared—’

‘Now’s your chance to make it up to her, Curtis. If you hear anything, know anybody that saw anything, will you contact me?’

‘I don’t work for cops.’

‘I’m not a cop.’

She made him write her telephone number on the back of his hand. Then he walked off down the alley.

Lorraine sighed. She was about to walk back the way she came when it hit her.

‘Freeze.’

The boy ran on, his Superman stripe lit up in the neon lights.

‘Freeze.’

He didn’t turn because he hadn’t even heard her, because it wasn’t a gun in his hand but a Sony Walkman.

Sweat broke out all over her body. Her mouth felt dry and rancid. All she could think of was getting a drink. She started to run, back up the alley, along the strip, banging into passers-by, her whole body aching, her brain screaming for a drink. ‘No, no, I won’t, don’t do it, don’t do it, just keep walking, keep walking.’ A lethal, whispering voice repeated over and over, ‘You killed the poor kid, he wasn’t involved, you emptied your gun into a litde kid’s back. How does that make you feel, you drunken bitch? You killed him.’

Lorraine walked until the panic attack subsided. She sat on a wall, gasping for breath, waiting for her heart to slow down. She knew what she had done, but refused to face it. She had never faced it.

‘You okay?’ Didi limped towards her. ‘You ran right past me like you’d seen a ghost.’

‘I did. I was just running from a drink.’

Didi laughed, understanding. ‘Well, if you’re okay I guess I’d better get a move on.’

‘No, please, I need to ask you something, about the night Holly died. Please just wait.’

Didi hobbled closer. ‘Listen, I don’t know nothin’, I didn’t see nothin’ and I don’t know why I’m talkin’ to you. We had cops asking questions, we can’t get a shoot together, we’re broke, all down to you.’

Lorraine faced her out. ‘I’m not a cop. I was once but so long ago even I can’t remember it. I’ve been hookin’ for years and drunk for as many, you know that.’

Didi pursed her lips. ‘Once one, always one.’

Lorraine caught hold of Didi’s sleeve. She gripped her hand, feeling the heavy ring on Didi’s finger. ‘Please just tell me about the guy. The one Nula said you saw. He picked her up right on your patch.’

‘I don’t remember nothin’, not even that night, they’re all the same to me.’

‘Come on, Didi, it was the night you got beat up. Did you see the john that picked her up, see his car?’

Didi shrugged. ‘Maybe. Nula’s been talkin’ to you, has she?’

‘Yeah, and Curtis. They both want to help me, so please, just tell me what happened that night.’

Didi told Lorraine almost the same story as Nula — how the car had cruised down the road, stopped, driven on, how Holly had run across the road and got into the passenger seat.

‘You think he really wanted maybe you or Nula?’

‘If he did we’re lucky then, aren’t we?’

‘Close your eyes and think, Didi. Was he dark, blond, balding? Think about him.’

Didi tried but her mind was blank.

‘Did he wear glasses, kind of rimless, pinkish-lensed glasses?’ Lorraine prompted.

‘Yeah, yeah, maybe he did.’

‘Was his mouth wide, wet? Did he have a crew-cut? Short-haired, blondish hair?’

‘Yeah, yeah, that’s right.’

‘He never cruised by you before?’

‘I remember anyone that’s near to a regular, darlin’. I’d never seen this guy.’

Lorraine cocked her head to one side. ‘You’re not holding anythin’ out on me, are you? You’re not just saying, yeah, yeah, because that’s what I said?’

‘Why would I do that? He kind of fitted the description you said but it was a while ago. Listen, I knew Holly, and like everybody else round here, we’d like that piece of shit put away, right?’

‘If you think of anything, will you call me?’

Didi nodded and limped off to earn her night’s cash.

Lorraine arrived home to find a note from Rosie saying Rooney had called and she had gone to a meeting. Rooney was not at the station so she called his home. When she got through he sounded hoarser than ever, she could hear his heavy rasping breathing. ‘You can go see Fellows now, he’s expecting you — and I’m expecting somethin’ soon for my dough, understand?’

Lorraine fixed some food, stuffed vitamins down herself and, a little refreshed, left the apartment.

Rosie, meanwhile, had returned to Janklow’s house on Beverly Glen. At night it was easier to park and remain semi-hidden. She pulled out the camera, double-checked the instruction manual and then took a few practice shots. She heard a car come up the hill behind her and stop in front of the barred gates. It was the Mercedes. Crouching, Rosie inched up over the front seat. ‘Come on, you bastard, get out of the car, lemme get a good shot.’

The driver opened the gates by remote control, never looking in Rosie’s direction. She could see the glint of his glasses but nothing more — the top of his head was hidden by the roof of the car. The gates closed behind him as he drove up to the house. Rosie got out and, still carrying the camera and keeping close to the hedges, made her way cautiously towards the gates, hoping to get a second shot as he got out of the car to go into the house. She fiddled and muttered, the zoom lens was loose, and by the time she had it tightened the man was inside.

Rosie returned to the car. She’d tried, she told herself. As she turned on the ignition, the engine coughed and died. She tried again, it coughed, spluttered and then died again with a low, whirring sound. ‘Oh, fuck it!’ She tried another three times to start it but the ominous whirring sound grew fainter and she was miles away from the main road. She got out and started to walk.

The road she was in was badly lit, so she kept to the centre as much as possible. Two cars passed her going down the Glen and, even though she stuck out her thumb, they didn’t stop. Her feet were aching and she was working up quite a sweat. She wished she’d locked the camera in the trunk; it was heavy and the strap cut into her shoulder.

When Rosie reached the main road, she was past caring about Janklow or anything else. She was hungry and it was getting chilly. She heard a car behind her and looked up to the traffic light. The ‘Walk’ sign was blinking and she reckoned she’d never make it across the wide road before it blinked off, so she hovered at the kerb. The Mercedes paused at the red light just as Rosie realized it was the car. She fumbled with the camera and made out she was taking a shot of the sign ‘Hollywood Stars’ Homes Maps Here’. She had the bonnet of the car in focus just as the lights changed to green, and then the car moved off. It was not a man driving, but a blonde woman, wearing dark glasses, a silk scarf wrapped round her throat.

Rosie got two, possibly three, reasonably clear-angled shots before the car disappeared out of sight. She caught a bus and got off at Sunset, called home, but when there was no reply decided she’d take the film round to the all-night Photomat Snap store, and get a set of prints made up while she waited. She also had to arrange with the rental company to collect the car. Suddenly being busy rather than in limbo, as she’d been for so long, made it all okay again. She handed over the roll of film and settled down outside the store with an ice-cream cone. She had half finished the big strawberry and chocolate ice cream when she saw the Janklow Mercedes passing. The blonde woman was alone, hunched over the driving wheel and wearing black gloves. She reminded Rosie of an old movie star, with her thick makeup, black sun-glasses, or maybe someone else, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. Rosie sucked her hand, sticky with ice cream. She was good at remembering faces. She could match those puzzles, the jigsaw faces of stars, faster than a bat of the eye. Julie Andrews’s lips, Goldie Hawn’s eyes, Jane Fonda’s nose. She concentrated and then remembered. She was sure she’d seen the blonde woman at the art gallery, the one Lorraine had worked at. Confident she was right, Rosie returned to the store and collected the photographs.

As she waited for the bus back to Pasadena, she ripped open the envelope and sifted through the pictures. On the whole they were disappointing, especially the ones she had taken up in Beverly Glen, but there was one clear set of the blonde woman. She couldn’t wait to tell Lorraine but, to her disappointment, the apartment was still empty when she got home. It was way after ten and she began to worry. She fed the cat, and then sat by the phone but when Lorraine didn’t call she started to lay out the photographs on the table. She turned the one of the woman round, held it up, studied it from every angle, and then it hit her. It was not a woman at all, but a man. When she squinted at the photograph of the driver who had first pulled through those gates in the Mercedes, even though it revealed only half his face, Rosie was sure that the blonde woman, and the man they presumed to be Steven Janklow, were one and the same.