Lorraine hesitated. “You’re right, maybe you should get on a bus.”
“Oh come on, I was joking, I want to stay with you.”
Lorraine shook her head. “No, Rosie, you go home. Stop at the next bus stop, I mean it.”
“Great, some fucking partner I am, I’m not in on anything. I don’t know what you’re talking about half the time.”
Lorraine jerked her thumb back at the house. “That was the wife of the guy the cops brought in to help solve the case. He’s a professor of psychology, working for Rooney. If you ask me, he should do some work on his wife. She just blurted out she was infatuated with Brad Thorburn, I couldn’t believe it.”
Lorraine knew she would go and see him, as soon as she got rid of Rosie, and it was strange, she had a dull, low ache in the pit of her stomach. She wanted to see him, but it wasn’t just about the case. She wouldn’t admit that to herself, or that she was feeling sexually aroused. She refused even to contemplate that.
Rosie was still pissed off about being dumped at a bus stop, and still complaining bitterly about being left out of everything as Lorraine drove off.
Andrew Fellows let himself in and called his wife. She didn’t answer. In the kitchen, he noticed the two cups and saucers left on the draining board. He found her in the bedroom, huddled beneath the duvet, the TV on. “You had a visitor?” She looked at him, eyes red-rimmed. “You okay?”
“I’m fine. It’s a sad movie.”
“Who was here?”
Dilly sat up. “Your friend Lorraine Page. She wanted to speak to you—waited ages.” She swallowed and her eyes filled with tears. “She asked me questions about Brad and then she left. She had a friend waiting, she said.”
Fellows sat on the edge of the bed. “Just tell me exactly what she said, what questions she asked.”
Dilly reached for the remote and switched off the TV. She repeated everything Lorraine had said but deleted any reference to her own outburst. Fellows went into his den. He called the police station.
Brad sifted through the file he had taken from Steven’s room, examining bank statements and other private papers. He knew it had been going on for a considerable time—it was obvious from the receipts. Steven, meticulous as ever, had carefully recorded each sale of every item he had removed from his mother’s jewelry drawer. The four strands of pearls had been sold for five thousand dollars, although they were insured for three times that amount. The diamond rings, necklaces, the ruby and sapphire bracelets, the topaz ring—all had been listed but with a dash alongside each item. Brad calculated that his brother had accrued over a hundred and fifty thousand dollars, yet he had not paid it into his own bank accounts—unless he had another one somewhere.
Brad was aware that on his mother’s death she would leave the jewels to Steven. But that was no reason for him to have been selling them off without her permission—unless she knew about it. It was just after three. He decided against calling the nursing home: better to face Steven first when he came home. He replaced the papers in the briefcase, then went back into his mother’s room. One of the closet doors was slightly ajar and he opened it to close it properly. He looked at the rows of her wigs. He found them distasteful, as he found everything about her obsessive drive to retain her youth. The closet was crammed with flimsy gowns and negligees, not fitting for a woman in her seventies. Brad was sweating from the overheated room and the cloying smell of her perfume. He felt slightly nauseous, also guilty. She had always hated anyone touching her things. She herself had never liked to be touched. How often as a child he had run to embrace her, but she had always held up her perfectly manicured hands as if she was scared to be held by her own child. It had been different with Steven. If anything, she had favored him because he was so much older than Brad. She pointedly preferred his company. Brad remembered his father in one of his rages shouting up the stairs, as she stood quivering in pale lime chiffon, that if she didn’t want him, he would find other women who did. “Other women?” She had leered down at his father, her perfect red lips drawn back in a snarling smile. “No decent woman would come within a mile of you. Whores! You can only get a whore and that’s because you pay her!”
“You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you? Janklow picked you out of the chorus line. You were a ten-cent stripper—you think I don’t know? Movie star? The closest you ever got to a real movie was paying at the ticket window.”
She would throw things, she would rant and rage at him whenever he referred to her first husband, or her chorus line days, and he would roar with laughter, enjoying her fury, her humiliation, encouraging Brad to listen, warning him never to marry someone else’s used goods. She would become so hysterical that she would smash mirrors and china, and lock herself into her room for days on end. The only person who was ever able to calm her was Steven.
Back in his own room, Brad lay down, looking up at his mirrored ceiling. The mirror remained, a legacy from Tom Thorburn. Brad wondered if the other legacy was his predilection for young blondes. He had certainly married enough of them. But of late, like his father, he chose to go with whores rather than get involved in yet another relationship. It was rare for women to say no to him: on the polo field, at the racetrack, they were always available, like clutches of twittering starlings.
That was why he had liked Lorraine Page. She had said no but she had almost said yes. Just thinking about her gave him an erection. He was no longer worrying about his brother or what Andrew Fellows had hinted at. He was even able to put aside the Norman Hastings query, simply because he felt sure that the reason Steven had been so secretive was because of his systematic siphoning off of their mother’s jewelry. He wished he had just come out and asked Andrew for Lorraine’s phone number.
But even his relationship with Andrew was a mess because his wife was always wanting Brad to screw her, and she wasn’t the first—a lot of his friends’ wives wanted him. Some he had obliged but it always ended badly.
His erection subsided as he looked over his life. He had wasted it, he knew that. Even his attempt at writing a novel was futile. He had millions at his disposal, his vast charitable donations taken care of by trustees, but there never seemed any point. He hated what he had become: a dilettante—worse, a clone of his father.
Rosie was back in Pasadena, just crossing from Orange Grove onto Marengo at the intersection, when Rooney screeched to a halt alongside her.
“Where’s Lorraine? This is important, Rosie, there’s a warrant out for her arrest. If you know where she is you’ll be doing her a favor because they got every available officer out looking for her and if she resists arrest, she could get hurt.” Rosie said nothing and Rooney got out of the car. “Come on, sweetheart, where is she? If you care anything about her you’ll tell me.”
Rosie looked down the street. “She’s gone off in the car.”
Rooney asked her for the license plate number. Rosie was in a quandary but then she said truthfully she couldn’t remember it as it was only a rental. She’d said enough now and continued down the sidewalk. Rooney walked beside her.
“Where you going?”
“I got to go home, feed my cat.”
Rooney told her to stay in the apartment. If Lorraine came back she was to call him immediately. “You sure you don’t know where she is or where she was heading? When did you last see her?”
Rosie shouted that she’d told him all she knew and she hadn’t seen Lorraine since early morning.
“So what’s the name of the rental firm?”
Rosie sighed. He asked whose name the car was rented in and she admitted it was in her name, and came from W-rent W-rent Wreckers. She hurried to her apartment and quickly climbed the stairs, let herself in, and crossed over to watch him from the window. Rooney parked opposite the house, watching her. She opened the window and yelled out to him, “I don’t know where she is!”
Rooney looked up to the window, dialing on his portable. He’d get the car’s license plate number soon enough—put Bea
n on it.
Bean listened as Fellows reported that Lorraine Page had been at his home and had talked to his wife. He was very agitated and angry. Bean said he would send someone right over.
“She’s not here now, she’s left.”
When Rooney was put through to Bean at the station, he told him about the call. Lorraine had been with Fellows’s wife, and he seemed very distressed about it. Rooney took the address; he was on his way. He told Bean to trace the license number of the rental car and get it circulated. It would only be a matter of time before they brought her in.
Lorraine was parked a few houses up from the Thorburn mansion. She sat in the car, half hidden from the street, pondering whether or not to go in. She wished Rosie was with her. She’d feel safer having someone waiting so if anything did happen Rosie could help, maybe even call Rooney. Just thinking about Rooney made her nervous—he probably had the state police out looking for her by now. She opened her purse and checked her face, licked her lips, then combed her hair.… Abruptly she snapped her purse closed, told herself she was being stupid, that he might not even be home.
Lorraine got out of the car, locked it, and looked up and down the empty road with its palms and bushes and sweet perfumed trees. She hadn’t seen a single car while she’d been parked there. She walked slowly toward the big double-barred gates. The house could only partly be seen, and what she could see looked peacefully silent; the faint sound of a lawn mower buzzed from somewhere on the grounds. She pressed the intercom at the side of the gates. She rang again as the dog appeared. He barked and then stood looking at her through the gates. Brad answered.
“Who is it?”
“Lorraine Page.” She was fazed when he laughed. He didn’t say anything else, but the gates clicked open. It took a few more moments walking up the pathway before she saw the house and Brad Thorburn. He stepped out onto the porch and leaned against one of the thick white posts, a glass of wine in his hand. He was smiling, watching her as she walked slowly toward him. She was so tall and slim, and the sun made her hair seem more white than blond. She wore high-heeled sling-back shoes, a straight skirt with a slit to one side, revealing a fraction of her thigh. The jacket was loose, a little too large, and beneath it she wore a white shirt, open at the neck. She wore no jewelry and it didn’t look as if she had on any makeup. She carried only a clutch purse, in her right hand. As she reached the first white stone step of the porch, she tilted her head to one side. The sun was bright, almost blinding her, but Brad could see very clearly, even from this distance, the scar on her cheek, and her eyes like glittering blue stones.
“I was just thinking about you,” he said quietly. She wasn’t expecting him to be so gentle, just as she didn’t expect him to hold out his hand to her. It felt strong, gripping hers tightly.
“Do you know the police are looking for you?” he said, not taking his eyes from hers, trying to see what she wanted from him.
“Yes, but I have to talk to you.”
He guided her toward the hallway, his hand now at her elbow, with a firm but not threatening hold. They walked into the drawing room. He remained at the door, finishing his wine, watching her.
“Is your brother home?”
“No.”
“Are there any servants here?”
“Just the housekeeper, she’ll be leaving at four.” He ran his hand over his neck to the back of his hairline. The polo shirt opened a little and she could see part of his shoulder.
Silent, she stared hard at him and his eyes slid away, as if embarrassed by her clear, direct gaze. She opened her purse and took out her cigarettes, flicked open the pack, and placed one between her lips. “Do you have a light?”
He came in and put down his empty glass. She thought he was going to pick up a table lighter but instead he came close, took the cigarette out of her mouth, and tossed it aside. He then slipped his hand to the small of her back and pressed her to him. In her high heels she was almost as tall as he was. He kissed her and let his hand fall to her buttocks, pulling her even closer to him. He kissed her again and she responded, her tongue traced his mouth and she moved back just a fraction, taking his free hand to place on her heart. She was trembling. He scooped her up into his arms—she was so incredibly light—and carried her with ease out of the drawing room and up the stairs. One of her shoes fell off, then the other, as she rested against him. She was crying, her head buried in his shoulder. He had never known such sweetness, and by the time he laid her down on his bed, she was sobbing. He just held her, rocking her, soothing her, kissing her hair, kissing the tears that poured down her cheeks. He looked up and saw himself cradling her as if she were a child. He was scared of his own tenderness toward this woman, who both excited him sexually and aroused emotions he had not thought himself still capable of having. His arms tightened around her, until the weeping subsided and she lifted her lips to him. This time his kiss was not gentle but passionate, hard and crushing, and she responded.
Steven Janklow walked into the house. He looked into the spotless kitchen. The housekeeper had already left. He picked up his brother’s empty wineglass, took it into the kitchen, and put it carefully in the dishwasher. He lifted the lids of two covered dishes left out for dinner. He was hungry, but he didn’t know what he felt like eating; his appetite had never been good, he’d never liked rich foods and disliked eating in front of people; that had grown worse over the past few years. If he felt people were watching him he’d become very agitated, especially when he was dining out, which was rare, very rare these days. He’d always mistrusted restaurants, hotels even—full of the unwashed humanity, his mama used to say.
He started up the stairs and stopped. He saw the shoes, first one then the other. They offended him. He held them in disgust, cheap shoes, and carried them up the stairs, turning toward his brother’s quarters. He was just about to put them outside his door—he’d done it before, not just with shoes, but brassieres, skirts, and, more often than not, panties—when, as he drew closer, he could hear a high-pitched moan, like a mewing. It made him cringe. They all sounded alike, all his brother’s whores—even his wives. Janklow had intended simply to leave the shoes but the door was ajar. He put out his hand to close it, averting his eyes in case he got so much as a glimpse of their writhing naked bodies. The woman moaned again, and even though he didn’t want to look, he couldn’t help himself.
Her face was tilted toward him, eyes closed, mouth half open. She was astride his brother, her body like a young boy’s rather than a woman’s—that, perhaps, was what had made him stare. As she moved, thrusting forward, Janklow gasped, quickly covering his mouth with his hand. He didn’t shut the door; he didn’t dare make a sound as he backed away silently. Not until he was safely along the corridor did he turn and run. He clung to the toilet rim as he vomited, retching with terror, his whole body breaking out in an icy sweat. He couldn’t be mistaken, it wasn’t possible. There couldn’t be two women with that face, that scar. It was her—the woman he had picked up, the woman who had bitten his neck until he bled like a pig.
He ran cold water over his face to try to calm himself, but his hands trembled violently. His mind screamed out questions. Why was she here? How could she have traced him here? He tried to control his breathing, stop himself panting. Brad often dragged back whores and cheap bitches, but he would never have believed his brother would have sunk this low, not with that woman—she was disgusting. He flopped on his bed, saying to himself it was just a coincidence, it was that and nothing more, just a terrible coincidence. He rolled over, clenching his fists, trying not to break down and weep with fear. It was then that he saw his briefcase, knew at a glance that it had been moved, and worse, that it had been opened.
A thought struck him. He got up and went to his mother’s room, where he checked her jewelry drawer. He knew that the boxes had been taken out—they were all in the wrong order. Someone had been in here and into his own room, checking him out. Was it Brad? Or was it that woman? He returned to his bedr
oom and bolted the door. He had to get rid of her. If she was a call girl, if Brad had done his usual, brought her back to the house, he would just have to wait. They never stayed all night. When he saw her leave, he would follow. It was simple. He would kill her as he had almost done before, only this time he would make sure. He looked at his bedside clock, it was almost five. If she was like the others, she would probably be leaving after an hour or so to start work at night. Walking the streets as she had been doing when she had picked him up. He remembered how she had rested her hand on the car door, asked if he needed her help.
Janklow crept around the house until he found Lorraine’s purse; he opened and searched it. She had little money, no cards or checkbook. All she had in her purse was a pack of cigarettes, an old lipstick, a comb, matches, and, he smiled to himself, car keys. The key ring had the name of the rental company on a cheap plastic tag. He pursed his lips; he hadn’t seen a car in the driveway and wondered if she’d left it outside on the street.
He left the house, skirting the driveway. He saw Bruno look up and wag his tail, and hoped he wouldn’t start barking. He stood, frozen to the spot, until the dog lowered his head. The gardener was on the other side of the tennis courts, using some kind of spray, intent on his work. Janklow cracked opened the gate and walked out, sure that no one had seen him. There was no one on the street and no cars passed him.
He saw a parked car a short distance from the house. He walked casually toward it, turned back the way he had come, and then looked the other way as he tried the driver’s door with the key he had found in the slut’s purse. It was her car. He was feeling better now, more in control, already working out in his mind how he would kill her, because she had to die.
Rooney rang Andrew Fellows’s doorbell, keeping his finger on the button. Fellows opened up and sighed when he saw who it was. “I said everything on the phone to Lieutenant Bean. I didn’t think it was necessary for anyone to come out, especially not now. She was here before lunch.”
Cold Shoulder Page 38
