Cold Shoulder

by Lynda La Plante

  Lorraine returned twenty minutes later, arms laden with groceries. Rosie opened the screen door. “Well, thank you. You know, I been stuck in this place all day and that cop pal of yours just called, rude bastard.”

  Lorraine passed Rosie, heading for the kitchen. “I just spoke to him, what did he want?”

  Rosie started to help take out the groceries from the brown paper bags. “First he asks if there’s a squad car outside, I says that there was one and it’d been out there most of the day.”

  “What? You tellin’ me the cops have been here?”

  Rosie banged down a yogurt. “Read my lips, the-cops-came, the-cops-went.”

  Lorraine opened the fridge. “What did they want?”

  Rosie waited for Lorraine to straighten before she said quietly, “I think they wanted you.”

  She saw Lorraine stiffen, her lips tighten, but she continued unpacking the groceries. She was freaking out; would Rooney have told them she was the witness? It was a while before she spoke again and her voice gave no hint of her worries. “Did Rooney say anything else?”

  Rosie took out a frying pan, banging open the cupboard doors, unaware of Lorraine’s fears. “No, but when I said the squad car was leaving, he hung up.”

  Lorraine washed the lettuce, trying to figure it all out. Maybe Rooney had kept his word, but one way or another she’d find out; she just hoped he hadn’t given her away. Rosie and Lorraine worked together, preparing their late supper side by side, tossing the salad, making the dressing.

  “You know what I’ve been thinking about? May sound dumb, but I was wondering …”

  “What?” asked Rosie, cutting up some bread.

  “Don’t laugh, but you know I still get a real buzz from putting all the pieces together—you know, interviewing possible suspects and—”

  “They’d never have you back, would they?” Rosie asked as she carried the cutlery to the table.

  “No way, not with my history. But what if I opened up an investigation agency of my own, what do you think?”

  Rosie put the cutlery out on the table and then cocked her head to one side. “I’m not laughing. I think you could do anythin’ you want. You certainly got nothin’ else on offer, unless of course …”

  Lorraine carried the salad bowl to the table. “Unless what?”

  “You get arrested. Be tough being a private dick from inside a prison.”

  Rosie saw Lorraine’s expression change. For a second she seemed afraid, so she went over to her and put her arms around her.

  “Joke, I was just joking.”

  At eleven o’clock 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 arrested, that they just wanted his assistance with their investigation. But as they entered his new studio he had dived past them, which aroused their suspicions, and of course they went after him. He gave himself up after an abortive run between oncoming cars, zigzagging 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 overtalkative, 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 recently 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; 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 something 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 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 adrenaline. 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 getting results, on grabbing them right under the FBI’s nose.

  “The suits,” as Rooney had always thought of them, were not even in the station, so he had Art all to himself. When Art eventually quieted down, Rooney took it as a sign of guilt. It was obvious to everyone 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 tip 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 Rooney told him 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 that he had been filming a session. Having already served time for selling pornographic videos and working with underage kids, he was scared that he’d be charged with a similar offense. 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 list 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 by the police, 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 in form, and he was sure now that Art was not their killer. He had learned that Art had been in jail when two of the earlier murders had been committed.

  When he returned to his office, Bean was waiting, equally worn out, and it pleased Rooney to note his shirt was stained with sweat and coffee—and was creased!

  Rooney eased his bulk into his chair and sighed. “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 coughed, waited a moment. All night they’d been
at it with Art Mathews. They had called more than twenty officers out and some were still bringing caseloads of pornographic tapes and photographs from his studio, and just like that Rooney dismisses him. He coughed again, worried. It was him after all who had instructed the squad to move on from outside Lorraine Page’s apartment and help on the Art Mathews arrest, so he wasn’t exactly sure where it left him; possibly in the shit. “Does that mean Lorraine Page is into all that, too?”

  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. It was too late or too early in the morning to call Lorraine, but he knew he wouldn’t get any sleep. He’d give it a couple more hours and call her after he’d showered and shaved.

  He was running his small battery-operated shaver over his beefy 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 him.

  Bean was even more crumpled than he had been earlier, and even had a faint stubble on his chin and upper lip. It was bad news. He ran the cold water into the basin, worried that when Rooney heard the latest development he’d be more than worried. “No, we didn’t get lucky. Our 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 Japanese 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 under the blow dryer, shouting over its roar. “Any money the FBI’ll release him on bail, he’ll get locked up for a few years for his porno trade, if we’re lucky. Been a long night for nothing and I won’t take any shit for pulling that squad car off Page, and just to make your day, there’s press outside. Somebody tipped them off we got a suspect.”

  Rooney swiped at the washbasin with his towel. “Shit! That stupid bitch! I’m going to call that two-faced bitch right 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—what do I tell them if they ask me about why I pulled officers off her?”

  Rooney snapped. “You tell ’em we needed every man we had on night duty to bring in fuckin’ Art Mathews and that’s the reason.” Rooney checked the time, it was coming up to five. He didn’t give a shit if he woke her up or not. As he drove out of the station parking lot, 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. And Janklow, yet another of Lorraine’s suspects, turned out to have no vice record. He felt he had really gotten himself into deep shit, acting on her information. 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 toward 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 noisily scuttled to the door. Lorraine was sitting up on the sofa yawning. “What time is it?”

  “Five-thirty in the morning! Who the hell is ringing the bell at this hour?”

  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 got up quickly and pulled a cardigan around her nightgown. “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 glass at the kitchen sink and drank it straight down. “Is that why you sent cops here? Did you do that to me?”

  Rooney tossed his hat aside. “They were courtesy of the FBI, 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 from the start. When I tried to help you out, all you did was lie.”

  Lorraine clenched her fist, she could have thrown a hell of a punch at him she was so angry. “They still holding Mathews?”

  “Far as I know. Maybe you were mistaken about this Janklow and maybe it was Mathews who 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 and all the others 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 left, holds their heads down with his right …”

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

  She pushed him onto the sofa “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 toward Lorraine.

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

  Rooney also 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 raising the open bottle to her mouth 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. “Pour it out, don’t do it. I’m sorry. Here, Lorraine, give it to me.”

  Rooney had to pry her hands away from the bottle. It shocked him, made him feel sick. He leaned on the sink pouring the booze away, as Lorraine struggled to wrest the bottle from him. He turned on both faucets so the water splashed out of 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 around?”

  There was a sudden hard pounding 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 pounded 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 center of the room with a cup of coffee in his hand. They were taken aback 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 the station. Soon as I got her I’ll call in.”

  Rooney pocketed the
warrant, carried his coffee toward the sofa, and sat down heavily. “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 across to him, hugging his big square shoulders. “Why did you do that, Bill?”

  “Christ only knows, I must be nuts.”

  She 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.” Rosie finally wandered into her bedroom, feeling in the way.

  “She seems like a nice woman,” Rooney said.

  “Rosie’s great.” Lorraine smiled at him. “You want to hear my developments? What I came up with last night?”

  He wanted to say no but 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, without emotion, 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 vise, and it had taken all her strength to lever up her body to turn and bite. She was sure that if they hadn’t been disturbed by the Summerses, she would be dead. She then told Rooney that she had also taken Norman Hastings’s wallet.

  Rooney closed his eyes and kept them closed, she was making him feel sick to his stomach, because every disclosure dragged him in deeper and deeper.

  “There’s something else. At first I didn’t think about it. It was his cuff links. 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, don’t worry, but it gave me the first clue to the killer.”

  Rooney opened his eyes. She was staring at him as he coughed, finding it hard to speak. He felt as if he’d been punched.