Cold Shoulder

by Lynda La Plante

  “But Mr. Janklow was here then?”

  “Yes. Do you want to speak to him? He’s here but he doesn’t like seeing anyone without an appointment.” Sheena looked back down the corridor and then to Lorraine. “He can get moody sometimes, you know …”

  “Then I’ll just go see Mr. Hunter. Thanks for everything.”

  Lorraine walked out into the corridor. Her heart jumped as she passed Janklow’s office but he was not inside; through the blinds, she could see a secretary placing papers on the desk. She continued along the corridor, came into the boiling hangar, and walked quickly out into the hot sunshine. She stood for a moment to get her bearings and then took off toward the path winding around the building, intending to go back to Rosie, but without passing through the building itself. Then she saw the Mercedes parked by a car-wash area. She hugged the wall when she saw a man talking to one of the attendants. He was gesturing to the car’s wheels. Then he leaned into it and pointed to the interior. She saw the attendant nod, then heard him tell two black kids to wash and vacuum Mr. Janklow’s car, and polish up the chrome on the hubcaps and fenders.

  Lorraine waited, half wanting Janklow to turn around so that she could see his face but not wanting him to catch sight of her. He was wearing a pale blue linen jacket, white slacks, and loafers. Slim, immaculate, his hair cut short and tight to his head—blondish-brown hair—just as she remembered. Steven Janklow was the man who had attacked her, she was almost sure of it. If only she could get a good look at his face.

  Hunter appeared at the showroom doors. “We’ve got a customer who wants a test drive, Mr. Janklow. It’s the Silver Cloud but we’ve already got someone that asked if we’d contact them if it looked like we’d get a sale.”

  Janklow walked slowly toward him and Lorraine pressed closer to the wall. They were about to enter the building, Hunter stepping aside to allow Janklow to go in ahead. As soon as they disappeared, Lorraine hurried along the driveway, past the Mercedes, to the street, missing the fact that Hunter had caught sight of her.

  As Janklow was walking toward the Japanese customers, Hunter mentioned that the police had been in to speak to him that morning about Norman Hastings. He added, “There’s also an insurance broker, or something to do with Hastings’s car, here. She was in my office but I just saw her outside. She wanted to know about Hastings parking his car in the hangar.”

  Hunter was used to Janklow’s mood changes but he was stunned when he turned abruptly, pushed past him, and walked back out the way they had come in.

  “What about the Silver Cloud, Mr. Janklow?”

  Lorraine hurried to join Rosie and jumped into the passenger seat. She let out a yell as it was red hot. “Let’s go, I think we just got Rooney a suspect.”

  “Oh yeah? Well, I nearly got sunstroke out here, thanks, thanks a lot. Well? You gonna tell me? Did you see the guy? Is it him?”

  Janklow’s fists were clenched as he strode along the corridor to Sheena’s office and opened the door. She gave a nervous smile at the sight of him. “Where is this woman from the insurance company?” he demanded.

  “She just left, Mr. Janklow.”

  “What did she want?”

  Sheena swallowed. “Same as the two officers. She was making inquiries about vehicles we allowed to be parked in the hangar.”

  Janklow picked up the log book. “Did you get her name?”

  “I presumed Mr. Hunter must have. She was interviewing him earlier today.”

  “What do you mean, ‘interviewing’?”

  “Well, just talking to him. I don’t know what he said or anything. I was only doing what I was told, Mr. Janklow.”

  He walked out and into his own office, banging down the heavy book in a fury. He then rang through to the showroom.

  Hunter was turning the engine over, the Japanese looking on with interest, when the phone rang. Hunter excused himself and went to answer it. Janklow seemed hysterical, screaming for him to get into his office immediately. He didn’t care if they had customers, he wanted to speak to Hunter this second. If he valued his job he would get himself over there. Before Hunter could reply the phone was slammed down.

  Rooney was sweating in spite of the chill of his air-conditioned office. He expected the FBI any minute; it was ominous they hadn’t even asked to see him because he knew they’d been going over the case history, no doubt the murder inquiries, and his lack of progress. He’d finished the bottle of bourbon, his nose was redder than ever, his eyes were blood-shot, and he hadn’t as yet glanced over Josh Bean’s reports of the day. Bean walked in and plunked a large mug of black coffee and a roll of peppermint Life Savers down in front of him. Rooney gave him a hound dog look and sniffed the coffee.

  “It’s real, they got a percolator in one of the clerical offices and the peppermints you left in your car. Guessed you might be in need of one.”

  Rooney wagged a fat finger. “Don’t you get cocky with me, you son of a bitch. Is there sugar?”

  Bean nodded, watching Rooney down his coffee. He noticed that Rooney had seemed less than interested in the new victim; he hadn’t even glanced at the reports and photographs. “So, Mister Know-it-all, what was she? Man, woman, or what?” Rooney muttered.

  Bean indicated his report. “A transsexual prostitute. It’s in the report, happened last night around ten-thirty.”

  The only thing different about this one was that she had been hammered to the side of the head first, and had no rear scalp wound but multiple facial injuries. It had not yet been ascertained if the weapon was the same as that used in the previous murders.

  “Any witnesses?” Rooney asked.

  “Nope. She or he was seen on the streets, then said she was going to have a break because she had something wrong with her right foot.”

  “That it?”

  Bean nodded.

  “Well, let these smart alecks figure it out. Any sign of them yet?”

  “Due any time. They went out for something to eat. Oh, you wanted a low-key inquiry done at the S and A garage about the workers. One of the guys you put on it mentioned it to me so I did it.”

  Rooney nodded, now flicking over the report. Bean made no mention that the officers had said the captain was stinking of booze. He waited as Rooney still shuffled the papers, turning over one page, then back to another.

  “You were right, Captain. Hastings’s car was parked there in a hangar but he removed it the day before he was killed. He used it as a free parking lot—he knew the management. Place belongs to the Thorburns.” Bean rubbed his thumb and finger together when he said the name. “You want to take it further?”

  “If his fuckin’ car wasn’t parked there on the day he died then it’s not much use to us, is it?”

  The phone rang and Rooney motioned for Bean to leave. Out of the corner of his eye, Bean saw Rooney swivel around to face the wall behind him, the report of the interviews at S & A left open on his desk. He hoped Rooney would get his act together before the FBI grilled him. He looked shot and still stank of liquor. Lorraine was calling from a phone booth.

  “You got something for me?” Rooney snapped.

  “Yeah, but I don’t want to discuss it over the phone.”

  “Dunno if I can get away. There’s been another one.” He told her Didi’s real name, David Burrows, and that she was a transsexual prostitute. “She was in the car like the others, similar head wounds. Car was reported stolen a few hours after we found it.”

  “When did it happen?” she asked bluntly.

  “Last night, around ten. Nicknamed Didi. You ever hear the name?”

  They agreed to meet in an hour and a half at Rooney’s Japanese place. Just as he picked up the reports, the phone rang again. He was required in the chief’s office. The FBI was waiting.

  Lorraine joined Rosie in the car. “Where to now, partner?” Rosie asked.

  “Didi’s dead—one of the transsexuals you met at the gallery.”

  Rosie started the car and Lorraine told her to step on it
: she was meeting Rooney but wanted to talk to Nula first.

  “You going to tell him everything?” Rosie yelled over the noise of the car engine. “Only you could maybe get some more dough out of him if you got a suspect. Maybe then we could upgrade this rent-a-wreck.”

  Rooney slipped the knot of his tie closer to his sweat-stained collar. The chief cracked his knuckles, waiting impatiently for an answer. “I don’t need this, Bill. Who the fuck did you send there?”

  Rooney shifted his weight. “Lieutenant Bean and another officer.”

  “The complaint was about a woman.”

  “She used to be a cop and she’s been doing some work for me on the streets.”

  “This isn’t on the street, Bill; this is somebody impersonating a police officer.” Rooney pulled at his tie again. He had no idea what Lorraine had been doing at S & A, or why his chief was getting so uptight. “It’s not in any report, Bill. What was she fucking doing there? That family has big connections and they’re screaming about this. I want you to go there personally and iron it out. We’ve got enough bad press as it is and I don’t intend to lose my job over this.”

  Rooney gave a half-smile. “Yes, sir. They that powerful? This garage a big deal, huh?”

  The chief glared. “It’s the Thorburn family, old money, big money. Fucking back off them. Go on, get out.”

  “What about the suits? I thought I was having a briefing with them.”

  “Sort this out first.”

  Rooney knew who the Thorburns were, not that you heard much about them nowadays, but their donations to police charities were legendary. Lorraine Page had better have something for him.

  Nula was distraught. Her face, devoid of makeup, looked haggard, her eyes without their false eyelashes were puffy and red from weeping. She wasn’t wearing a wig and her kimono was torn and half open. As soon as she saw Lorraine she broke down again. In the raw light of day the apartment was claustrophobic with its drapes and stuffed animals. Rosie hovered, finding it difficult not to stare at the overtly sexual pictures that hung on all the available wall space. Lorraine poured a glass of water and sat by Nula, holding her hand.

  “Tell me what happened.”

  Nula wiped her face with a sodden Kleenex. “She used to have a number of regulars—she often stayed out all night. When she didn’t come back I thought she’d scored. It wasn’t her at the door when you phoned—it was the cops to tell me.”

  “Do you have a list of her regulars?” Lorraine asked.

  “No, of course I don’t. Nothing was ever arranged, they’d just turn up on the street and sometimes she used that motel Roselee, but the rooms there were getting expensive. Sometimes she brought them back here, why would I know their names? I’ve got my own clients and she’s got … Oh, God—I don’t know what I’m going to do without her.”

  “Can you describe any of her Johns? Did you see any last night?”

  “No! She was with me one minute and then she just walked off.”

  Lorraine opened the envelope. “Will you look at these photographs and tell me if there’s anyone you recognize?” Nula looked at each one, sniffing and blowing her nose. Lorraine saved the blonde in the Mercedes until last. “What about this woman?”

  Nula took the photograph. It was the only one she showed any interest in, but she shook her head.

  “Are you sure? Keep looking at it, Nula, look at the car—it’s an old Mercedes sports car. Look at the woman … is it a woman?”

  Nula turned away. “I don’t know, I don’t know. I want to be left alone, please, please just leave me alone.”

  Rosie leaned forward. “That car was driving along Sunset last night. Did you see Didi speak to the driver—maybe get into the car?”

  Lorraine gave Rosie a discreet wink. Rosie remained silent, eyes swinging from Lorraine to Nula; she was impressed with her friend, she was hot shit.

  Nula scrutinized the picture of the blonde. “Does this woman have something to do with Didi?” Nula asked. “Do you think she had something to do with her murder?”

  “She might, but do you recognize her?”

  “No, I just said so, didn’t I?” Nula passed the picture back.

  Lorraine stood up and packed away the photographs. Nula began to sob again, burying her face in her hands.

  “We’ll let ourselves out, Nula, and I’m so sorry, really sorry.”

  Nula hugged her kimono tighter around herself, the Kleenex in shreds now as she plucked at it with her long, painted fingernails. “She was the nicest person I’ve ever known. I’m all on my own now, I don’t have anybody, she was my best friend. I don’t know what I’ll do. I can’t afford this place—I’ve got no money.”

  “What about Art? Have you called him?”

  “He’s left town. We haven’t heard from him since the gallery closed. I’m not sure where he is.”

  Nula waited until she heard their car driving away before she went into the bedroom and opened a drawer in the bedside table. She took out a black diary and thumbed through the pages. Just seeing Didi’s childish scrawled writing made her want to weep again, but she gulped back her tears, flicking over the pages until she found what she was looking for. She went back to the hallway and picked up the phone. She methodically pressed each digit and waited.

  “Hi, this is Art. I’m not in, but please leave me your name and number, and I’ll get back to you, okay? And wait for the tone before you leave your message.”

  “Art, it’s Nula. Will you call me? It’s very urgent. We have to talk.”

  She replaced the receiver and went into the bathroom. She’d have a long perfumed soak, that would make her feel better, and she was going to feel better. But before she turned on the faucets, she went into the bedroom and knelt down by the bedside table. Lifting the curtain, she opened the bottom drawer and withdrew a large, square manila envelope. She pulled out a number of photographs, then sat back on her heels. The one she wanted was black and white, of a woman sitting on a bed, wearing a long fifties evening gown with padded shoulders, like Barbara Stanwyck, of that era. She was elegant, exceptionally beautiful. He had wanted to look like her, had brought the photograph for Didi to match, and she had worked for hours on him. The wig had been on a stand for days as she had teased and set it, ready for him. He had paid a lot of money for the session and Art had taken the photographs, draping the room to his specifications, down to the flower arrangements. The blond woman featured in the photograph set up by Art was the same as the one in the picture Lorraine had shown her. The woman driving the Mercedes. Nula didn’t panic. She slowly got to her feet and began to search through all the stacks of photographic files.

  * * *

  Rosie dropped Lorraine outside the Japanese restaurant and drove off. Rooney was already sitting at a table with a glass of beer. “This had better be good and you’d better have a fucking good reason for barging into that S and A place. What the fuck were you doing there?”

  Lorraine picked up the menu, calmly asked if he’d ordered, but he snapped back that he wasn’t hungry.

  “You run a check on the S and A employees like I asked?” she said, her eyes running down the long menu.

  Rooney swigged his beer, then banged the glass hard onto the table.

  Lorraine ignored it. “There was a vice charge against Steven Janklow. You got a record of it? Be a few years back. Picked up for soliciting, I think. He part-owns the garage. His brother is Brad Thorburn.”

  “What’s your interest in him?”

  Lorraine laid her hands flat on the table. “I think he’s your killer.”

  Rooney burped, gulped another mouthful of beer, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “What evidence have you got?”

  She noticed he wouldn’t meet her eyes. “I don’t, but I do know that Hastings’s car was left in their hangar.”

  Rooney lit a cigarette, inhaling hard and deep to make sure the smoke hit low down in his lungs. A killer draw. “Page, you got any idea who Janklow’s family is?
”

  She shrugged. “I guess they must be important if they’ve got you running. Can you check if there was a vice charge? If there was, you can bring him in for questioning, see if he can account for himself over Hastings. It’s him, Bill, I’m sure.”

  “Why?”

  Lorraine took her time, and then stared at him directly.

  “Because I got a good look at the bastard before I took a chunk out of his neck.”

  It didn’t sink in for a moment. Then he looked into the ashtray, stubbing out his partially smoked cigarette.

  “You wanna say that again?”

  “I think he was the man who attacked me. I’m your witness, Bill. I made the call to the station, me. It was me that gave you his description in the first place.”

  He leaned back, partly in disbelief, then got out his cigarettes again and stuck one in his mouth. He stared fixedly around the restaurant, feeling as if the floor was opening up. “You stupid bitch.”

  “I’m sorry, I was scared to come forward. I picked him up—”

  “Sweet Jesus.” Rooney shook his head.

  “He attacked me with a claw hammer. I’m sure it was Steven Janklow. You gonna light that cigarette or suck on it like a pacifier?”

  Rooney slapped the table hard with the flat of his hand.

  “You seen him face-to-face? Or, more to the point, has he seen you?”

  “No, I’ve held off facing him, I don’t want to tip him off.”

  Lorraine’s order was placed in front of her. Rooney waited until the waiter had moved off before he leaned toward her. “Say it is him—say he’s the guy that attacked you. You can identify him …”

  She had picked up her fork but put it down again. “I identify him, he denies it, he walks. It’s just the word of an ex-hooker, ex-drunkard against a fine, upstanding citizen, right? All he’s got to say is he wasn’t anywhere near the street where I was picked up and I got to admit I was picking him up for a few bucks. It wasn’t his car, it was Hastings’s car and Hastings’s body was in the trunk. Now, who’s gonna believe who?”