Cold Shoulder

Chapter 15

Nula didn’t answer the door. Lorraine waited for almost an hour and then went home. There she hung about in case Rooney called but when it got to after six, she decided he’d got cold feet. ‘I guess he mulled it all over and decided against it.’

Rosie wondered what they should do next. Without Rooney she was worried it could be dangerous to try to see Janklow again. Lorraine grabbed her purse.

‘Where are you going?’ Rosie asked nervously.

‘You stay put so I can call Rooney back if he makes contact.’

‘Don’t you need me with you?’

‘I’d prefer it if you stayed put in case he calls. I’ve got to keep him sweet, ’cos if I don’t the old bastard is quite likely to get me arrested.’

Rosie sat moodily in front of the TV. She didn’t even say goodbye as Lorraine let herself out. So much for partnership — all she’d been doing was sitting waiting for Lorraine in the apartment. When she heard the rental car starting up Rosie shot to the window as fast as her bulk allowed her. She pushed up the window and was about to yell after Lorraine but it was too late, she was already at the corner.

It had been so long since Lorraine had driven that her knees were shaking but she talked herself down, hoping she wouldn’t get pulled over.

The lights were on in Nula’s apartment. Lorraine sighed with relief, locked the car and headed into the apartment block. She rang the bell and waited. Nula’s voice asked who it was but Lorraine rang again, afraid if she said her name that Nula wouldn’t let her in. She kept her hand on the bell, and eventually Nula peered out, the chain still on.

‘Fuck off.’

‘Let me in, Nula, I’ll stay here all night if needs be.’

Nula eventually opened up the door. Lorraine looked around. Suitcases had been dragged down from the wardrobes. Nula was on the move.

‘What happened?’

‘I’m going away.’

‘Why do you have to go?’

Nula hurled a cushion at her. ‘Stop asking me questions, just leave me alone.’

Lorraine took out the picture of Steven Janklow in drag. ‘Will you have another look at this, Nula?’

Nula picked up the cushion and hugged it to her chest. Lorraine dangled the photograph between finger and thumb. ‘It won’t hurt you to have a look at it. Is it Steven Janklow?’

‘If you fucking know who it is, why are you asking me?’

‘Because I need to be sure.’

‘I don’t know, do I?’

Lorraine was deflated. She didn’t know what her next move should be. She flopped back on the sofa.

‘You gonna leave now?’

Lorraine slipped the photograph back into the envelope and stood up, facing the big four-sectioned screen behind which the models changed for a session. It was plastered with photographs of males and females, males and males, part females. Nula looked at her, then to the screen. Lorraine started to move out then stopped and glanced back to Nula, who hid her face in the cushion. She stared at the screen. At first she wasn’t sure that she was right so she moved closer, then she bent down and peered. She straightened up and waved the file. ‘You don’t know him? Then why is his photograph up on the screen?’

‘Because it fitted the hole.’

‘Who took the photograph?’

‘Why?’

‘Because if you don’t know who it is, then whoever took the photograph might. Who took the picture, Nula?’

‘Art.’

Lorraine could feel the adrenalin pumping; it was all as crazy as Rooney had said. ‘What’s Art’s scene apart from the porno?’

‘Use your head, clever bitch. Where do you think he gets all his dough from?’

‘Why don’t you tell me?’

Nula stood up and leaned against the doorframe to the bedroom. ‘Blackmail. Some fucking detective you are. Art blackmails everybody, he’s a bleeder — you should know, you copped a few grand from one of his little leech jobs. I don’t know that blonde in that photo on the screen and I don’t know whoever it is in your precious folder. That’s not my screen, it’s Art’s. Now would you get out and leave me alone?’

‘Where’s Art?’

‘I don’t know.’

Lorraine followed Nula into the bedroom. ‘Was he blackmailing Steven Janklow?’

Nula kicked out at the wardrobe and screamed, ‘I don’t know, leave me alone? She began to pull clothes out of her wardrobe.

‘He was blackmailing him, wasn’t he?’

Nula was hurling dresses onto the bed.

‘The night Didi died—’

‘Yes, what about the night Didi died?’

Lorraine kept her distance. Nula was becoming increasingly hysterical, dragging things off their hangers, dropping them, kicking them. She suddenly turned to Lorraine in a fury. ‘He used us. If we had a john, he was sniffing around. He never let us have any peace, but then we couldn’t have any because he’d give a few dollars here, a few dollars there, he let us have this apartment, okay? He said we never had to pay rent, okay? Well, if you believe that you’re dumb. Art used me, used Didi, he made us both pay. Now if you don’t get out and leave me alone I swear before God I’ll scream this place down and have you arrested.’

Lorraine didn’t budge. ‘Was Art blackmailing Norman Hastings?’

Lorraine looked over the screen at the laminated photographs. She was frantically glancing from one blonde to another in a vague hope that one or other of the dead women as well as Hastings would have been photographed. ‘When did Art make this screen?’

‘Years ago. He brought it here with him when he left Santa Monica — he had a place there on the beach.’ Nula stood, hands on hips, smirking. She had decided to try another tactic to get rid of Lorraine.

‘Did he ever own a vintage car?’

Nula rolled her eyes. ‘What do you mean?’

‘A custom-made car or an old sports car.’

‘Nah, he had a Bentley once for about six months, then he went broke again and sold it.’

‘The blonde in the photograph, the one I showed you on the screen, did you meet him?’

Nula sighed. ‘No.’

‘What about Didi?’

Nula was holding a long chiffon dress. ‘This was her favourite. It never fitted her but she wouldn’t throw it out.’

‘Nula, please, did Didi know the blonde?’

‘She may have, she used to do wigs, she was always good with hair. Art used her sometimes for photo sessions, so she may have, I don’t know who she knew.’

‘Did Didi know Art before you?’

‘Yes, I met him through her.’

Lorraine’s mind was racing, trying to put two and two together but she wasn’t sure what she was trying to come up with. There was no point in staying any longer. Her priority now was to contact the photographer who had taken pictures of Norman Hastings. She asked Nula if she could use her phone.

Rosie was still watching TV when Lorraine called. No, there had been no contact from Rooney. Lorraine asked her to check in the files for the name and address of Hastings’s photographer. She hung on, waiting impatiently, until eventually Rosie found his name: Craig Lyall. She gave the address and phone number. Lorraine said she would call in again. If Rooney made contact, Rosie was to tell him that she would be back in about an hour: it was imperative she speak with him.

‘Have you ever heard of Craig Lyall, a photographer?’ she asked Nula.

Nula clicked the suitcase shut. ‘Professional, is he?’

‘Yeah, takes family shots, portraits.’

Nula shrugged. ‘Name isn’t familiar but then I’m never good with names.’

‘What about Didi? Do you have her address book? Maybe she has his number.’

Nula took a small key and locked the case. ‘No, she never kept one, and now, if you’ll excuse me, I am going to take a bath. Unless you want to watch me soaping my tits I suggest you leave.’

‘You need a lift? I’ve got a car.’

‘I’ll get a cab.’

‘Can I ask where you’re going?’

‘You can, but I don’t see why I should tell you.’

‘Just in case I need to get in touch with you.’

Nula carried her cases to the door, dumped them and went back to pick up two more bags.

‘Curtis knows how to contact me.’

Lorraine reached out to shake Nula’s hand but she turned away. ‘Goodbye, and thanks.’

Nula stood in the centre of the room, arms folded. As soon as she heard the front door slam behind Lorraine, she clutched the sides of her head and started to scream, ripping off her wig and hurling it across the room. She screamed and screamed.

Lorraine drove to Craig Lyall’s studio. She looked around for a phone kiosk to check with Rosie if Rooney had called. He hadn’t but two uniformed police officers had been there. Rosie hadn’t been unduly worried when they arrived, partly because she was expecting Rooney. She even asked if they were there because of him. They did not answer her questions but moved from room to room, even swishing back the shower curtain. When they asked if there were any other ways into the apartment, Rosie started to get uneasy. She was edgy after they left because they remained outside in their patrol car and didn’t look as if they had any intention of driving off.

Lorraine wondered what Rooney was playing at. She told Rosie she would call him right away and see her in a while.

‘Where are you?’

‘Ventura Highway. I’m gonna talk to this Craig Lyall. See you later.’ She hung up and called Rooney’s office.

‘Where are you?’ he barked.

‘Oh, just having a quick coffee, then I’m on my way home.’

‘Do me a favour and bring yourself to the station.’

‘You got a development?’

‘Maybe. I want you here where I can see you.’

‘I got something I want you to check out. Photographer, guy called Art Mathews. I think he’s involved, blackmailer, porno stuff. He knows Janklow... hello?’ The beep-beep-beep of her money running out cut off the call.

Rooney let the receiver drop back on the cradle. He waited, half hoping she would call again, wandering round his office, hitching up his pants. Through his Venetian blind he could see the suits working with the computer officers, sifting through the investigations. He let the blind fall back into place. He was, in some way, hiding out — he’d skirted around them all afternoon and evening.

Bean breezed in and Rooney jumped. ‘Fuckin’ knock, for chrissakes, you give me a heart attack. You ever heard of a porno photographer, Art Mathews?’

‘Nope.’

‘Run a trace on him, will you? And then bring him in. I want to have a talk to him.’

‘Okay, will do. You wanted to know if Vice had anything on a Steven Janklow? There’s no record, nothing... but the Thorburn family funded an entire section of the LAPD forensic lab and—’

‘Thank you,’ grunted Rooney.

‘You’re welcome,’ said Bean as he walked out.

Lorraine moved up the wood-slatted staircase to the small photographic studio belonging to Craig Lyall. She pressed the intercom and waited. Asked to identify herself, she said she was a friend of Art Mathews. Lyall unbolted the door. Small and dapper, he was shorter than Lorraine.

‘What do you want? You a cop?’

‘No, just a friend of Art’s.’

Lorraine followed Lyall up the narrow staircase towards his studio apartment. The TV was on loudly and he switched it off. ‘I was working in the dark room. Let me sort out these negs then I’ll be right with you. Make yourself at home,’

Lorraine put down her purse and remained standing, looking at all the framed photographs. She then crossed to two heavyweight albums, filled with portraits of kids and families. She turned over the heavy pages, awful smiling brats in over-colourful dresses, all much the same, similar to the pictures she had seen in Mrs Hastings’s home.

Lyall returned and offered her a drink. He seemed jumpy.

‘Art’s told me a lot about you.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah. He’s in trouble, you know that?’

‘He’s always been in trouble, ever since I’ve known him.’

‘Yeah, well, this time he’s involved in murder.’

Lyall pursed his lips. ‘Jesus Christ, it’s not this fucking Hastings thing again. I’ve had them here, you know, asking me all kinds of questions. All I did was take some photographs — poor bastard liked to drag up, right? What’s wrong in that?’

Lorraine perched on the edge of a hard-back chair. ‘Can I see them? Just out of interest. I’m trying to help Art. I wasn’t all that honest with you — I’m a private investigator and I need to get as much—’

Lyall jumped almost a foot in the air. ‘I’ve got nothing to do with him! I know him, that’s all, I just know him, and a few times I’ve taken the odd photo for him, or if he’s sent somebody to me. I’m discreet, okay? That’s all there is to it.’

Lyall was even more nervous now, walking up and down.

‘Did you ever use a transsexual called Didi?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Did you ever take photographs of her? Pornographic ones.’

‘No way. I wasn’t into that kind of thing. I just do straight portraits.’

‘But sometimes you photographed transsexuals, or transvestites?’

‘Yeah, they just wanted a photo of themselves, nothing wrong in that, is there?’ He fidgeted, repeating that it wasn’t against the law and that he’d answered all the questions about Hastings; the police had been to question him, he’d given them his photos.

‘Did you know Didi well?’

‘Yes and no. She was useful sometimes. She did their make-up and hair, that’s all.’

‘Did she do Norman Hastings’s wigs?’

‘Yeah, I think so.’ Lorraine watched as he bent down to a chest and took out some envelopes. ‘She was good, knew her stuff, could make even Hastings look reasonable.’ He showed her two or three photographs of Hastings. Lorraine complimented each photo, and Lyall preened himself, started to take out more. She asked nonchalantly if he’d ever photographed a man called Steven Janklow.

Lyall was still looking through his work admiringly and didn’t hear so she repeated the name and he straightened. ‘Look, I don’t always ask who my clients are. This is a private thing between me and them. I have to make them feel at ease — they get quite excited, and then when Didi has finished with them, they’re almost orgasmic. It’s a big turn-on for them and after the session they take away their photos and that’s it.’

Lorraine nodded. She didn’t immediately mention Janklow’s name again but took her time, letting Lyall relax.

‘Did Art help out on any sessions?’

‘Not for years. He did once — I didn’t have a dark room of my own and he had a big place over in Santa Monica, so I used to use his facilities. If I’m honest, he taught me a lot. Many of them have a bit of a problem — you know, the skin. Art taught me how to airbrush all that out, lines. I can make them look beautiful.’

She tried again. ‘Did you photograph this Janklow?’ Lyall paused. ‘I really don’t know. Some of them use assumed names, or call themselves by their female name. Is it important?’

‘He’s Art’s alibi.’

‘Why don’t you ask Janklow?’

‘I can’t trace him and Art thinks he wouldn’t want to come forward — doesn’t want his family to know about his private life.’

Lyall repacked his photographs in their envelopes.

‘Do you know the S and A vintage car garage?’

‘Yes, it’s in Santa Monica. I’m going back years now, but Art used to wheel around in an outrageous Bentley. He bought it from them but he’s useless mechanically. It was always going wrong. Art just about knew where to put the gas in.’

Lorraine took out the photo of the blonde woman and gave it to Lyall. ‘Have you ever taken that person’s photograph?’ she asked.

‘I can’t say. You’ve seen how many I’ve done and they’re just the recent ones.’

Lorraine took it back, and asked if the clients took away their negatives. That was part of the deal, Lyall said, suddenly becoming evasive again. ‘Look, I know what you’re inferring. My clients always have the negatives. Some even wait until I’ve done them. I’ve never been in trouble with the police and I would never — Look, we all know about Art and I’ve always said that’s his business. No way do I get involved.’

‘You mean his pornography?’

‘No. Blackmail.’

Lorraine nodded. ‘Yes, I’ve warned him about it and I think that’s why this witness won’t come forward. I reckon Art was blackmailing him.’

Lyall groaned. ‘Art’s been in prison and that didn’t stop him. He’s always after making the quick buck but it disgusts me. These poor bastards, they come here and they’re like kids, you know, shaking with excitement, and they’re so harmless. I mean, who does it hurt if a man likes to pretty himself up? It’s no crime but society makes them hide.’

Lorraine agreed. ‘I feel sorry for the guys Art’s been tapping. Poor Norman Hastings, a decent married man, scared it would come out—’

Lyall looked anxious. ‘I never told that to the police — I couldn’t, it would incriminate me. Then I’d have to tell them about Art.’

Lorraine asked if she could smoke. ‘I get asthma but go ahead.’ He fetched an ashtray and turned up the air-conditioning. She lit a cigarette and blew the smoke away from him.

‘How did Art get hold of Hastings’s pictures if, as you said, they always take the negatives away?’

Lyall flushed. ‘I don’t know.’

‘You didn’t give them to him, did you?’

‘No, of course not, but... maybe his friend did. I photographed Hastings’s family — I knew them and I wouldn’t want to hurt them. They’re not even wealthy, but that was Art, he’d even settle for fifty dollars a month — awful, I hated it.’

‘By his friend, do you mean Didi?’

‘Yes, I suspected it was her. She was here, she made Norman up — made a very good job of it.’

‘She’s dead.’

Lyall gaped. ‘But you were just talking about her. When? Why didn’t Nula call me? Or Art? I don’t believe it.’

‘Last night.’

Lyall seemed genuinely shocked, so she said, ‘Will you take another look at the photo I brought, in case you might remember. I think it’s a cross-dresser, don’t you?’

Lyall took the photograph again and held it to the lamp. He viewed the picture through an eyeglass for at least thirty seconds before he nodded. ‘Yes, but it’s a very good wig and make-up... It’s the jaw-line, I can always tell.’

‘You don’t recognize him then?’

‘No, I don’t think so, but I do so many...’

‘He never came here with Hastings?’

‘Norman was always alone, unless he was with his family.’

A buzzer sounded from the dark room and Lyall checked his watch. ‘I’ve got to get these ready for tomorrow. It’s a twenty-first portrait.’

Lorraine was heading for the door, when Lyall exclaimed, ‘Of course! Let me see that picture again.’

Lorraine watched him, almost willing him to say that he had taken pictures of Janklow. Instead he shook his head. ‘There was a famous society hostess, very wealthy — now, what was her name? She came for a sitting, very crippled, arthritic, in a wheelchair. She had two sessions, I think, but turned the pictures down. Well, honestly, if I’d airbrushed any more of her she’d not have had any face left, not a line left, and they paid just the sitting fee. That’s why I remember it, because I was out of pocket, and I’m going back a few years.’ He traced his thin lips with his tongue as he tried to remember, and then he beamed. ‘Thorburn, that was the name, Delia Thorburn, and it must have been at least eight, maybe nine years ago. She could even be dead by now. Isn’t it strange? Really weird.’ Lorraine waited for him to continue. ‘It’s odd that I can remember her so well and from that photograph, it’s just that... Let me have another look at it.’ He used his eyeglass again. ‘It isn’t her — she couldn’t drive, she was very crippled. But the way the scarf is draped reminds me of her. She always wore these chiffon scarves to hide her neck, and the blonde hair, that old-fashioned style, a Grace Kelly roll at the back or just flicked at the sides.’

‘Did Didi do her make-up and hair?’

‘Good God, no. She was Society. She wouldn’t want somebody like Didi around. I’m talking old money.’

Lorraine wasn’t sure where this new development was leading. She asked if Mrs Thorburn had been accompanied by anyone. ‘Yes, of course, she was in a chair. Her son, if I can recollect, he brought her.’

‘Did you hear his name?’

‘Well, I presumed it was Thorburn.’

‘Can you describe him?’

Lyall screwed up his eyes. ‘God, I’m going back years, and I’m sorry I can’t. But Art maybe could, he has a mind-blowing memory — he can even remember phone numbers.’

‘Art was here?’

‘Oh, no, it was in Santa Monica, I told you, we worked together, had our own clients. But then I left and came here.’

‘Was Art doing similar photo sessions, with transvestites or transsexuals?’

‘Oh, yes — in fact he started me off, sent me clients. I told you before.’

His dark-room buzzer rang loudly again. ‘I’ve really got to go, I can’t leave them soaking any longer.’

Lorraine returned to the car. She sat a while as she went over everything Lyall had told her. She now had a link between Hastings and Janklow. She even had a tentative link between Didi and both men, and Art was linked to them all. Art was blackmailing Norman Hastings, she concluded, and Hastings might have discussed this with Janklow. But what if Art was blackmailing Janklow as well?

She drove home deep in thought. What if she was wrong about Janklow and Art was the killer? But she knew that couldn’t be right. Her attacker hadn’t been Art Mathews. What was the link between each of the dead women who, apart from Holly, all resembled each other in age? But then she thought again about Holly’s murder; according to Didi, the killer had gestured to her, had wanted her. She had even said to Lorraine that she was lucky because if Holly hadn’t been picked up then it could have been her. What if it was Didi the killer had wanted? Just as she had said to Rooney the women were or could possibly have all been mistaken for Didi. She, Lorraine, was tall, about the same height as Didi, and blonde. Was the killer looking for one woman in particular, a woman he knew worked the streets, a woman he knew was a transsexual?

Lorraine had to pull over, her head throbbing with all the jagged sections of information. Her attempts at trying to make them all fit exhausted her. She closed her eyes. She had left Art Mathews in the gallery the night Holly had died. What had he done after she left and where did he go? Were he, Didi, Nula even, all connected to the murders? She was too tired to get it together, tired and hungry. She started the car again and headed back onto the freeway towards Pasadena.

Art Mathews had been brought in for questioning. He had attempted to run from the police, who had been about to tell him that he was not being charged with anything but was required to assist their inquiries. As they entered his new studio, though, he had dived past them, which aroused their suspicions and they gave chase. He gave himself up after an abortive run between oncoming cars, zig-zagging across the road, nearly getting himself killed. A routine search of his studio yielded a vast selection of pornography stills.

Rooney had begun to question Mathews as soon as he was brought in. He was expansive and over-talkative, as if high on drugs. He had not as yet asked for a lawyer. He admitted to mild pornography but it was not until one of the officers entered the room with a black and white photograph of Holly that the interview took an upward spiral. Art admitted knowing her; he had even taken photographs of her. Agitated and sweating, the little man tried to recall where he was on the night of her murder.

At almost every turn he incriminated himself. When he admitted that he also knew the most recent murdered transsexual, Didi, Rooney could feel the hair lift on the back of his neck. He knew they had to get legal representation for Art and fast, and suggested as much to him. If he so wished, they would be prepared to wait. Rooney had also asked for a doctor to examine him: if he was drugged up they needed to know as they would have to wait until he came down from whatever he was on.

Suddenly Art jumped up, spittle forming at the sides of his mouth. ‘This is crazy! You think I killed Holly? Why would I do a thing like that? This is all a misunderstanding.’

At no time had Rooney suggested there was any suspicion that Art was involved in the murder. He had him on selling pornographic material by his own admission. Now it seemed he was about to talk himself into being accused of murder.

As the interview swung up a notch, the tension in the room grew tighter. Rooney began to ask him about each of the victims.

‘What? Why?’ Art began to screech, his voice getting higher and higher in his agitation. ‘Why are you asking me about these women? This is insanity. You think I had anything to do with those murders? This is crazy. I’ve admitted I knew Holly, okay, I knew Didi—’

Rooney probed into Art’s business, his background, his previous criminal record. Only then did he detect the fear. Art now demanded legal representation: he would not answer any more questions. Rooney knew that most of what he had admitted might not hold up in court, especially as he had still not been checked out for drugs. He was so wired up when they brought him in, he could have confessed to any number of crimes. But Rooney was pushing, he was excited, he felt that old rush of adrenalin. Art Mathews was like a scared rabbit almost caught in a trap and Rooney was eager to snap the door shut on him. So much was riding on his gaining results, on grabbing them right under the FBI’s noses.

When Art eventually quietened, Rooney took it as a sign of guilt. It was obvious to all in the interrogation room that he had only become uncooperative when the murders were mentioned. While they waited for the lawyer to arrive, Art continued to declare his innocence. He kept rubbing his shining bald head, looking from one man to the next. ‘Just because I knew Didi and Holly doesn’t mean I’d kill them. This is some kind of frame-up. Did somebody rip you off about me? Is that what this is all about? Did some piece of shit put me in it?’

He demanded to know what time Didi had been killed, as he had been with friends the entire evening, but when told and asked where he was between nine and ten thirty he suddenly refused to say where he was or who he was with until he had a lawyer present. A doctor examined him and gave him the all-clear but suggested they give him plenty to drink as he was sweating so much from nerves.

His lawyer arrived and he was allowed a private discussion. Once that had been completed, he was faced yet again with all the questions that had been asked earlier. One of the reasons he had refused to state where he was on the night Didi died was also that he had been filming a session. Having already served time for selling pornographic videos and working with under-age kids, he was scared that he’d be charged with a similar offence. He was also becoming increasingly alarmed that details of his blackmail activities might leak out. The more he was questioned the more nervous he became. When the lists of the dead women started unfolding he became hysterical, screaming that they were setting him up, and some of the murders had happened so long ago he couldn’t remember where he had been living. He might even have been serving a sentence. Meanwhile, his new studio was being ransacked, and more pornography discovered.

He was taken down to the cells. It was almost three in the morning and both Rooney and Bean were still working. Rooney’s head ached but he was back on form, though he was sure now that Art was not their killer. He had found out that when two of the earlier murders had been committed, Art had been in jail.

When he returned to his office, Bean was waiting. ‘They still haven’t brought your informant in, this Lorraine Page.’

‘I think we’ve been wasting our time, Bean. That little bastard should be locked up but not for murder. He’s just into his porno and probably the blackmail rackets again.’

Bean threw up his hands in despair. ‘Does that mean Lorraine Page is into all that as well?’

Rooney sighed. ‘I don’t know. Maybe you should get this information ready for the suits. Lay it out on the Chief’s desk, let him see we’ve worked our butts off tonight.’

Bean took Mathews’s prison record to the FBI agents’ office and Rooney glanced at his watch. In all fairness it was too late to call Lorraine but he reckoned he wouldn’t get any sleep. He’d give it a couple more hours and call her after he’d shaved and washed.

He was running his small battery-operated shaver over his fat chin when Bean peered into the washroom. Rooney gave him a worn-out smile and clicked off the shaver. ‘I don’t suppose we just got lucky and Art Mathews admitted killing eight women and Norman Hastings?’ he asked sarcastically.

Bean ran the cold water into the basin. ‘No. Prime suspect is sobbing his heart out down there in the cells. Meanwhile his lawyer doesn’t want us to press criminal charges if he admits to what he was doing on the night of the last murder. He has already remembered where he was when Holly was murdered and this you’re not gonna believe.’

‘Try me,’ Rooney said heavily.

‘Art Mathews was working in that gallery right next to your Indian curry place. He worked there until late, all night, and Lorraine Page is one of his alibis.’

Rooney stared at his reflection. Bean dried his hands on the roller towel. ‘Any money the FBI’ll release him on bail, he’ll get locked up for a few years for his porno trade. Been a long night for nothing. Pity we don’t have something — there’s press outside. Somebody tipped them off we got a suspect.’

Rooney hitched up his pants. ‘Yeah, maybe the same person who tipped us off about Art Mathews. I’m going to call that two-faced bitch now.’

Bean followed Rooney down the corridor. ‘You know they got Andrew Fellows coming in to talk to the FBI later this morning? Maybe you should hang around — canteen’ll be open soon.’

Rooney had been about to call Lorraine even though it was only five thirty. He changed his mind. He didn’t give a shit if he woke her up or not. He was gonna go one better and do it personally. As he drove out of the station yard, he watched two new patrol cars pulling in with the FBI men all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed even if they had been hauled out of their beds at this ungodly hour. He drove away, his anger mounting. Art Mathews had been another of Lorraine’s theories. She had been partly right: he had known Holly and Didi, but he had no connection with Steven Janklow. There was no record on him in Vice. Rooney might even force her to give him back his dough. Maybe he’d have her hauled in, spill it about her being the witness they’d been searching for. He’d like to grab her by her scrawny throat and strangle her. He was through, period. The more he drove, the angrier he became. As he headed towards Lorraine’s apartment, he was ready to explode. He really needed to sound off at somebody so it might as well be her! The two-faced, lying whore.

Rosie shot out of bed when the doorbell rang. She grabbed a robe and scuttled to the door. Lorraine was sitting up on the sofa yawning. ‘What time is it?’

‘Six o’clock in the morning! Who the hell is ringing the bell at this time?’

Rosie opened the door and stepped back. Rooney was leaning against the doorframe. He looked past Rosie to Lorraine. ‘I’m gonna arrest you.’

Lorraine drew a cardigan around her nightdress. ‘Arrest me? Why, for chrissakes?’

He sauntered in. ‘Art Mathews, sweetheart. You were with him the night the...’ He couldn’t remember Holly’s name. ‘You were with him the night she was murdered, you’re his fucking alibi. You!’

Lorraine filled a tumbler with water and drank it straight down. ‘Is that why you sent cops here? Did you do that to me?’

Rooney tossed his hat aside. ‘Be the FBI wanting you next, sweetheart, time’s up.’

She faced him in a fury. ‘Did you tell them about me? Bill, did you tell them I was attacked?’

‘You know I didn’t but I sure as hell intend to because you are full of bullshit and you’ve lied to me right along the way. When I tried to help you out, all you did was lie.’

Lorraine glared at him. ‘They still holding Mathews?’

‘Far as I know. Maybe you were mistaken about this Janklow and maybe it was Mathews attacked you in the gallery when you were working together, hanging up pictures, the night Holly died.’

She sighed. ‘That’s stupid. He’s right-handed.’

‘What?’

‘Art Mathews is right-handed. The guy who attacked me was left-handed, according to all the forensic and pathology reports and even the reports from Andrew Fellows. The killer is left-handed, opens the glove compartment with his right, holds their heads down with his left...’

Rooney looked at her, then turned away. ‘Get dressed. We’re out of here.’

‘No. You sit right where you are.’

He pouted and then tugged a bottle of bourbon out of his pocket. He slowly unscrewed the cap and took a heavy pull. He dangled the bottle towards Lorraine.

Rosie eyed it and then eyed Lorraine. She was walking towards it.

Rooney watched Lorraine. ‘Want a drink?’

Lorraine snatched the bottle and marched to the sink, about to pour it down the drain, when the smell suddenly hit her. She wanted a drink, everything started to crystallize, all she could think of was reaching for a glass and drinking. She didn’t care about Art Mathews or Steven Janklow, she wanted a drink. She slowly lifted the bottle to her lips, closing her eyes in anticipation.

‘Don’t do it, Lorraine.’ It was Rooney. ‘Chuck it out, don’t do it. I’m sorry, Here, Lorraine, give it to me.’

Rooney had to prise her hands away from the bottle. It shocked him, made him feel wretched. He leaned on the sink pouring the booze away, as Lorraine tried to wrest the bottle from him. He turned on the taps so the water splashed into the sink and over him. ‘Shit. I’m soaking wet.’

‘Aren’t we all?’ snapped Lorraine. ‘Old washed-up soaks,’ she said as she took down coffee cups. ‘I suppose it’s black coffee all round?’

There was a sudden hard tap at the front door. Rosie went to open it but Rooney stopped her. He peered out of the window and told Lorraine to get into the bedroom. She obeyed immediately, closing the door behind her as the front door was tapped hard again.

‘Don’t say anything,’ Rooney said quietly to Rosie. ‘Just leave this to me.’

The two officers framed in the doorway asked for Lorraine Page. Rosie held the door wider to reveal Rooney standing in the centre of the room with a cup of coffee in his hand. They seemed fazed by his presence and made no move to enter the room.

‘Captain Rooney.’

‘You come to pick her up?’

They nodded, and one passed him a warrant for Lorraine’s arrest.

‘I’ll hang on to this. I’m staying put until she shows. Go back to base. Soon as I got her I’ll call in.’

Rooney pocketed the warrant, carried his coffee towards the sofa, and sat down. ‘Unless you want to hang around here.’

‘We’ll leave it to you, Captain.’

A few moments later Lorraine came out of the bedroom. She leaned against the doorframe, looking at the squat Rooney. ‘Why did you do that, Bill?’

‘Christ only knows, I must be nuts.’

She cradled her coffee cup in her hands and sat in the easy chair opposite him while Rosie hovered, uncomfortable and ill-at-ease with them.

‘I’m sorry for bringing the booze in,’ Rooney said.

‘That’s okay,’ and Rosie wandered to her bedroom, feeling in the way.

‘She seems a nice woman,’ Rooney said.

‘Rosie’s great.’ Lorraine got up for a refill. She leaned over the back of the sofa towards Rooney. ‘You wanna hear my developments? What ‘I’ve come up with this evening?’

He wanted to say no but he didn’t. Instead he let her talk without interruption, listening intently as she pieced together her talk with Nula, then her meeting with Craig Lyall.

Lorraine’s face was expressionless as she explained clearly, emotionlessly, what had happened when she had been attacked. She described walking up to the car, how he had driven her to the parking space, how she had fought him, bitten hard into his neck, hung on for her life as he tried to push her away from him. He was strong, she said. The grip on her hair had been like a vice, and it had taken all her strength to lever up her body to turn and bite. She was sure if they hadn’t been disturbed by the Summerses, she would have been dead. She then told Rooney that she had also taken Norman Hastings’s wallet.

Rooney closed his eyes and kept them closed. He was scared that if he opened them he’d charge at her like a mad bull with fury.

There’s something else. At first I didn’t think it was important. It was his cufflinks. They had a logo. I didn’t think it was important until I saw the same logo on a letterhead. At my husband’s place — Mike, you remember Mike? He has nothing to do with this, I know that, but it gave me the first clue to the killer.’

Rooney was fighting to control his temper. She looked directly at him and continued. She described how she and Rosie had gone to S and A’s garage, how she had narrowed the list of cufflink owners down and taken photographs of suspects. None resembled the man who had atacked her. She took the photographs out and passed them to Rooney and leant close to him as he examined the one of the blonde woman.

‘I think this is Steven Janklow. I think he’s a transvestite, and that he had a photographic session with either Mathews or Lyall. It could have been as far back as nine to ten years ago, maybe when he was just daring to come out. I think Mathews subsequently discovered who he was and started blackmailing him, realizing he’d found the golden goose. I think Art and Didi may have worked as a team. She was used or hired to do wigs and make-up. She made up Norman Hastings, fixed his hair for the photo session. Maybe she even tipped off Art, as Lyall said most of his clients always took the negatives. You interviewed Lyall, too, didn’t you?’

Rooney nodded. They’d come up with nothing as concrete as Lorraine. He couldn’t help but give a tight smile: she was good, always had been good. Now she began pacing up and down. There was something about the way she moved, tensing, relaxing her hands, and she rubbed her body, sexually, her face becoming more and more alive. She was exciting to watch, as she became increasingly animated.

‘I’ve got Hastings linked to Janklow — maybe they discussed the blackmail. Who knows what they discussed? Possible theory is, when Hastings went to the bank that morning, was he going to pay off Mathews? Pay off somebody? The strange thing is all his bank statements have been checked and the major transactions are accounted for.’ She suddenly stopped and clicked her fingers. ‘Unless Hastings was also tapping Janklow for money. It seems strange that he was allowed to park his car in the hangar. Nobody seems to know why he should have been when he no longer owned one of their cars. Did you know that at one time he owned a vintage car? Maybe that was where he could have found out that he and Janklow were the same kind of men. Whatever, we know they’re linked, and linked to Mathews through Didi. She’s very important. She may not have collected from Mathews’s blackmailing activities, but I’m beginning to think she may have been the go-between or, and this is a wild guess, maybe she was the person Janklow believed was blackmailing him. So that brings me to the last bit of guesswork.’

Lorraine took out the victims’ photographs and laid them along the sofa for Rooney to look at. ‘They have one thing in common apart from prostitution. Look at the make-up, the type of clothes they wore. Now, look at the morgue shots of Didi... Put her beside each one. You didn’t believe me earlier but what if Janklow was only after her — was only interested in tracking her down and killing her? He’s a Thorburn, right? His mother was a big society hostess, his brother is holding all the purse strings. What if Janklow has been paying out blackmail money because he’s scared his family will find out and it might be made public? Just as Hastings hid his private life from everyone who knew him.’

Lorraine tapped Rooney’s shoulder. He edged away, annoyed by her but more angry with himself. She had run rings around him and his department, and it infuriated him. But the only thing against her that he could think of was that she had withheld vital evidence.

‘You got to break Art Mathews — get him to admit this blackmail. If you do, then you got a clean motive and you’ve got Janklow — or at least enough to arrest him and take him in for questioning.’

Rooney’s head was spinning, and as he tried to assimilate everything she had told him he felt dizzy. She added, ‘And the guy has got to have some mark from where I bit him. Maybe the skin’s healed, even the bruising, but I held on for grim death.’

Rooney was unnerved by her toughness. ‘You faced him yet?’

‘I told you I hadn’t, I’m not stupid.’

‘You are one hell of a witness, you know that, don’t you?

‘Yeah.’ She stepped back, suddenly wary of him. He was a big man and when he stood up straight instead of his usual slouch it was surprising how much it added to his size.

‘You’ll have to come in with me. I’m sorry, Lorraine, there’s no way out of it now.’

‘Come on, Bill, don’t make me have to go to court, not now, not when I’m getting myself back together. I go to court, they can start throwing old charges at me, make me admit to what I was and they’ll dish the dirt on me, even bring up the shooting. Don’t do it to me, Bill.’

‘You were fucking attacked! That’s what you’d be in court for, nothing else.’

‘I know what he did but I won’t go to court. Don’t make them call me out, Bill.’

‘You’ve withheld evidence, and you even had Norman Hastings’s goddamned wallet! You never even told me about the cufflinks, so what do you expect me to do? You are the only witness. You gave me weeks of fucking waste of time. If you’d been upfront with me I’d have cracked this, I’d have been—’

She yelled, ‘Patted on the back and given a commendation before you retired, that’s what you’re pissed off about right now! Instead of moving on what I’ve just been spewing out for the past hour, you’re gettin’ the needle to me. You want me to face out Steven Janklow, then I’ll do it right now, I’ll go over to his place in Beverly Glen with you, with anyone you want, but I won’t go to court. Bill, I’m not standing up as ex-cop, ex-alcoholic, ex-hooker so you can get a slap on the back. I won’t do it, I’ll pack up and walk out right now and you won’t see me for dust.’

He waved the warrant. ‘l can take you in, Lorraine.’

Try it, just try it.’ Hands on hips she glowered at him. ‘Go get Art Mathews to talk, Bill, that’s what you should be doing. You know it, so stop bullshitting and get on with it. I won’t be taken in and I warn you, if they drag me into court, then I won’t pour the next bottle down the drain.’

He pointed at her with his index finger. ‘You don’t leave this apartment, you hear me? If you want I can make sure. I can have a squad car out front in two minutes. I can have you watched day and night, right round the clock, have guys on your doorstep.’

She sat down. ‘I won’t leave, Bill, I give you my word. Maybe just to the corner for groceries but I’ll stay put.’

His upright position relaxed and he resumed his habitual slouch. ‘I’ll call you, see what I can do, lie about you, I suppose. But don’t let me down, Lorraine, I couldn’t take it.’

She hugged him tightly. He smelt of cigarettes and booze and food and he grunted at her to get away from him. He walked out of the door without a word and slammed it behind him.

Lorraine slumped onto the sofa. She was hot, angry, frustrated and a little scared. She should have kept her mouth shut about Hastings’s wallet. There was no need for her to have mentioned it — that had been a big mistake. She wondered if Rooney would have the balls to keep her identity secret and not make her go to court. To have all her past made public, to have her daughters and Mike read about her made her anger turn to humiliation. For the first time she faced her shame. She was disgusted with herself. Tears slid down her cheeks, but she made no sound. Had she really been stupid enough to think that she could start a new career? Who would want to hire her if her past life was splashed across every tabloid? She knew they’d love it, that she’d be hounded, and she knew they’d rake up why she’d been forced to quit the police. She saw him again, the yellow zig-zag stripe down his jacket, his face as he fell, his hair flopping.

Rosie opened the bedroom door and Lorraine heard the heavy, plodding feet crossing the room. She waited, praying for Rosie to leave her in peace. She bit harder into her hand as she felt her friend’s weight subsiding on the edge of the sofa. Rosie stroked her hair. ‘I listened at the door just in case you needed me.’

Lorraine sighed. She never had any privacy. She almost forgot that this was Rosie’s place.

‘You serious about going into the investigation business? For real?’ Rosie asked quietly.

‘No, I’d never get a licence, I was just kidding myself.’

‘You shouldn’t. I was real proud of the way you just talked to Rooney, the way you were piecing it together. You’re good, you know, clever.’

Lorraine gazed up at the big plump face. ‘Did you hear it all?’

‘Yep, and that’s another thing you’re good at. He was right, you sure as hell can lie better than anyone I know.’

Lorraine laughed softly. ‘Yeah, I guess you just get used to it, part of a cop’s life that, you know. “No cause for alarm”, when a whole building’s about to collapse.’

Rosie rubbed Lorraine’s back, like a mother would her child’s. ‘Maybe if you had to go to court it wouldn’t be such a bad thing. Maybe your kids should know, maybe they’ll be proud that you’re fighting back, proving yourself — proving your worth.’

Lorraine grinned. ‘Rosie, you’re such an optimist.’

‘Yeah, but I’m looking out for me too. I think I could get used to this kind of work — being a private investigator’s more interesting than sticking down envelopes — computers, even!’

Lorraine moved away from the soothing warmth of Rosie’s reassuring hand. ‘You don’t know it all, Rosie. It’s not just the drinking, the whoring, it’s not just that...’ and she told her about the fourteen-year-old boy. Rosie didn’t say anything but she felt even more warmth towards Lorraine, and especially when after the telling of the story, she tilted her face slightly and gave her a sweet, sad smile. ‘I’m gonna take a shower now.’

The telephone rang and Rosie answered it. It was Rooney and she knew something was wrong straight away.

‘She’s just taking a shower, Captain Rooney, you want me to fetch her?’

Rooney coughed. ‘Rosie, I’ve got some bad news. Art Mathews committed suicide.’

Rosie gasped. ‘My God, but how — how did he do—’

Rooney interrupted, ‘I’m sorry, but you’d better warn Lorraine. There’s not a hope in hell of me keeping her out of this now, you understand?’

‘How long does she have before they get here?’

‘They’re already on their way.’

Rosie looked at the closed bedroom door. ‘She’ll be ready.’

Rooney wanted to say more but there was too much going on so he hung up. Rosie opened the bedroom door: she could hear Lorraine singing in the shower. ‘Run, rabbit, run, rabbit, run, run, run...’