Cold Shoulder

by Lynda La Plante

  “No, go ahead.”

  “In fact, I was the one that did all the calls, his guest list, maybe we met there? Do you remember me?”

  Lyall twitched his shoulders, looking her up and down. She looked sort of scruffy, not Art’s type of weirdo in any way, but he was not so edgy. She lit her cigarette, offering the pack.

  “Art. 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 with that?”

  Lorraine shifted her seat on the edge of the sofa as he placed down a glass ashtray on the coffee table. “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 about 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. If he’s trying to con me for some cash, I don’t have any.”

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

  “Did you ever use a transsexual called Didi?”

  “What do you mean, use?”

  “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 with 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 makeup and hair, that’s all.”

  “Did she do Norman Hastings’s wigs?”

  Lyall chewed his lips. She could almost see his brain cells working as he started to say something, stopped and fidgeted with his collar, plucking at it.

  “There’s no big deal, I mean, if she did do his wigs, I’d just like to know. Did she?” Lorraine pressed.

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  “Could you check for me? I mean, do you have any photos that I could see?”

  Lyall pulled at his shirt again, sighing. “I didn’t get asked about this by the cops, why do you want to know? What has Art been saying about me?”

  Lorraine shrugged. “I’m interested, and you’re good, I can see by the pictures on the wall, very professional. Some of the kids look kind of posed … just, I might be able to put some work your way.”

  “Posed! Don’t I know it, dear, I loathe the little bastards. But you got to do bread and butter work. I don’t honestly know if I’ve got any around that Didi worked on, I mean, it wasn’t regular, just on the odd occasion, you know.”

  Lorraine watched as he bent down to a filing cabinet and took out some envelopes. He sifted through them, then searched in another drawer. “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 pretty 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 darkroom of my own and he had a big place over in Santa Monica, so I used to use his stuff. If I’m honest, he taught me a lot. Many of them have a slight problem—you know, the skin. Art taught me how to airbrush all that out—hair, 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. Art used to cruise around in an outrageous Bentley. He bought it from them but he’s useless mechanically. It was always breaking down. Art just about knew where to put the gas in.” Lyall gave a high-pitched giggle and smiled waspishly. “Art’s not much taller than me, and behind the wheel of that old thing he looked ridiculous. But he used it for cruising, said it was a come-on, but I wasn’t ever into his scene. That’s when we sort of parted, I just didn’t want to get involved. That said, he was a good friend, so if there is anything I can do to help … I mean, I didn’t even know he’d been arrested or anything.”

  Lorraine took out the photo of the blond 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 got to keep their negatives. That was part of the deal, Lyall said, suddenly becoming evasive again. “Look, I know what you’re implying. 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. He’s been done before, he won’t stop.”

  “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 figure Art was blackmailing him.”

  Lorraine was very good at teasing out the information from Lyall, her voice low and conversational, but inside her stomach was churning because she was getting closer, she knew it, could feel it. She was finding those jigsaw pieces and some of them were fitting into a strange connecting picture.

  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 stubbed out her cigarette.

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

  Lyall blushed, plucked at his shirt collar again. “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—did a really good job, too.”

  “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, just in case you might remember. I think it’s a cross-dresser, don’t you?”

  Lyall took the photograph again and held it near 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 makeup … It’s the jawline, 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 darkroom 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 wouldn’t have had any face left. 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 blond hair, that old-fashioned style, a simple Grace Kelly roll at the back.”

  “Did Didi do her makeup 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 wheelchair. Her son, if I can recall, 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 darkroom buzzer rang loudly again. “I’ve really got to go, I can’t leave them soaking any longer.”

  Lyall opened the front door. Lorraine thanked him but the buzzer from his darkroom was going again and he was eager for her to leave.

  “I hope you can help Art. He’s not all bad, most of him but not all!”

  Lorraine smiled as the door closed behind her and the bolt rammed into place. As she headed down the stairs, she heard the operatic aria start up again. She felt like singing herself and couldn’t wait to talk to Rooney.

  Lyall closed the darkroom door and set to work. He didn’t hear the telephone ringing, and he hadn’t heard it earlier either.

  Lorraine returned to the car. She was buzzing inside like Lyall’s timer, and since it was cooler now, she decided to sit and think everything through before she contacted Rooney. She rolled down the window and lit a cigarette. 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?

  Lorraine started up the engine and then turned it off again. 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 blond. Was the killer looking for one woman in particular, a woman he knew worked the streets, a woman he knew was a transsexual?

  By now the buzz had died down, Lorraine’s head throbbed 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 to the grocery store on Marengo to buy some supper, since she’d been too keyed up to eat the dinner Rooney had bought her. She parked the car and was heading into the store when she decided to call him.

  “Where are you?” he barked.

  “Oh, just doing some shopping, then I’m on my way home.”

  “Where are you shopping, Lorraine?”

  “What’s it to you? I’m at our local grocery, all right? Is that all right with you?”

  “You were supposed to call in, you said you were stayin’ at the apartment.”

  “Yeah, I was, but it was you who was gonna call. What’s with you, Rooney? You got a development?”

  “I got fuck all,” he snapped.

  “Well, Bill, 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 … Bill? You there?”

  “Yep. You going home, are you?”

  “Yeah, I just said. Are you okay?”

  Rooney hesitated and then lied, told her he was fine and he’d check into the Art Mathews guy. Lorraine replaced the receiver. Not a thank-you, he didn’t even cross-question her. It was strange; something was wrong.

  Rooney stared at his phone, his hand still resting on top of the receiver, then he pushed his chair back and began wandering around his office, hitching up his pants. Through the Venetian blinds he could see the suits working with the computer officers, sifting through the investigations. He let the blinds fall back into place. He was, in some way, hiding out—he’d skirted around them all afternoon and evening. He had nobody to take out or vent his anger on as he had virtually marooned himself in the office. Bean breezed in and Rooney jumped. “Fuckin’ knock, for chrissakes, you almost gave me a heart attack. You ever hear of a porno photographer, Art Mathews?”

  “No, Captain.”

  “Run a trace on him then. And then bring him in. I want to have a talk with him, me, understand? I don’t want you gabbin’ to the suits about this one, not until I’ve talked to him, so make it a priority. I just got a tip about him.”

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

  “Thank you,” grunted Rooney.

  “You’re welcome, and maybe have a word with your informant.”

  Rooney glowered, Bean eased the door shut. “The crew-cut one in the shiny gray suit, Bickerstaff, he sent two officers to Lorraine Page’s apartment, wanted her brought in for questioning.”

  “What?”

  Bean shrugged. “They’re checking out everythin’, Captain, and since we brought her in for that lineup …”

  “So they’re bringin’ her in? You serious?”

  “No, I’m making it up. I’m just telling you what I was told. They want to requestion Lorraine Page so they sent a squad car for her. I don’t know how long ago.”

  Rooney banged his desk. “Pull it off her, get it off her, I don’t want her questioned by those bastards. We need that Art Mathews brought in, right? So make it—”

  “Priority. Right, I hear you.” Bean walked out.

  Rooney glowered after him. He was getting on very well with the suits but then he would. He kept on watching Bean as he joined the FBI officers, saying something, and then passed into the main incident section. Rooney shut his door and called Lorraine.

  Rosie answered the phone. She hardly had time to say hello before Rooney barked out that he wanted to speak to Lorraine. Rosie told him she hadn’t returned home and he paused.

  “Go see if there’s a squad car outside your place, will you?” Rosie said that one had been there most of the evening, but she still crossed to the window and checked. It was just pulling out. She returned to the phone.

  “It’s just leaving. Is this Captain Rooney?”

  “Yeah, it’s Captain Rooney but not for much longer.”

  Rosie was fazed by the barking voice. “I know Lorraine wanted to speak with you.”

  “She just did, g’night.”

  Rosie stared at the receiver and then replaced it. She crossed back to the window, the street was empty and dark. She switched on the air-conditioning. It was going to be a hot clammy night.