Cold Shoulder

by Lynda La Plante

  Rooney smiled. “Sorry about this. I just wanted to go over a few things, and I’d like to speak to Mrs. Fellows.”

  They went into the kitchen where Dilly was sitting. She looked upset, tear-stained. She repeated everything to Rooney, again without any mention of her outburst to Lorraine about Brad Thorburn.

  “Can I speak to you alone, Professor?” Rooney asked.

  “Of course. Dilly, this won’t take long.”

  Fellows took Rooney into his den. He looked a little sheepish.

  “You know the Thorburns?” Rooney asked.

  “Yes.”

  “You didn’t mention it this morning.”

  “No one asked me if I did or didn’t know them.”

  “When you left the station, did you come straight back home?”

  Fellows flushed a deep red. “No, I did not. I … I went to the Thorburn house.”

  Rooney stared hard in disbelief as Fellows told him what he had said to Brad. He was obviously ashamed and knew he had behaved unethically. Rooney listened silently, then asked for Thorburn’s address and phone number, He left shortly after, not reprimanding Fellows, not saying much at all.

  Fellows found his wife in the bedroom. She was crying again. He stared at her for a moment and then walked out. Not only humiliated but furious now, he dragged Brad’s portrait off the wall, smashed it against the open fireplace until the canvas ripped apart and the frame snapped. He stamped on it, then lit the log fire and watched it blaze. He had never felt so angry in his life—angry and bitter, but above all foolish. He hated that most of all. He had just jeopardized his work with the police and doubted he would ever be called upon again.

  As the flames slowly destroyed the painting, his anger subsided. Now he felt nothing but humiliation. Brad Thorburn’s nakedness had dominated his home and he had allowed it, joked about it, encouraged Brad to visit Dilly. What made it worse was that Brad had known of her instability, which made his affair with her even more of a betrayal. Fellows vowed never to speak to or see him again. He couldn’t even stay in this room, even though the painting was no longer hanging on the wall. The vast space where the life-size portrait had hung added insult to injury. He picked up a cup of cold coffee and headed into the den. As he shut the door, he could hear his wife still crying, but he had no intention of discussing Brad with her again. Fellows didn’t care if he had screwed her once or twice, it was immaterial. The fact that he had fucked her at all was what mattered.

  Fellows found little solace in his den. There were photographs of him and Brad together all over the walls, the two of them fishing, playing baseball, water-skiing in Miami, at squash tournaments, on tennis courts. Brad Thorburn and Andrew Fellows had known each other for many years, had always been competitive with each other as sportsmen. In the women stakes, Fellows had never moved in Brad’s social sphere, had never wanted to, could never have been any competition there. No man could, not with Brad’s looks and wealth.

  Fellows sat at his desk. He drew the file on the murder investigation closer and began to go over every detail once again. He had been so sure that Brad Thorburn could have no connection with the killings, but what if he had been wrong? What if he had missed something? If he had, he was determined to find it. It made him feel better. He wanted to hurt Brad Thorburn—better still, destroy him. Rooney reached his car and picked up the radio to tell Bean he was now on his way to the Thorburns.

  “You going to interview Janklow?” Bean asked.

  “Nope, I think Lorraine Page is trying to though, so get a squad car out there.”

  “You going to arrest her?”

  “You bet I’m gonna arrest that two-faced bitch.”

  17

  They lay naked side by side, the sheet loosely covering their bodies. She was on her stomach, her eyes closed. Brad drew the sheet back and ran his hand gently over her body. “How did you get these marks?” He leaned up on his elbow to trace the scar on her face. “And this?”

  She pulled away from him, and suddenly stood up, swishing the entire sheet from the bed, wrapping it around herself. “I’d better get dressed.”

  He remained naked on the bed as she crossed the room. Trailing the sheet, she started to pick up her clothes. Skirt in one hand, she looked around. “Where are my shoes?”

  Brad got up and opened a closet. He took out a white caftan and dragged it on over his head. “They must be downstairs. I’ll get them.” He stood behind her and wrapped his arms around her, kissing the nape of her neck. Then he frowned and brushed the short hair at the nape of her neck upward. “Jesus Christ, how did you get this one?”

  The scar, still pink and raised, zigzagged across her hairline.

  She tried to move away but he gripped her tightly. “Why don’t you answer me? Who did this to you?”

  She tried to release herself but he held her tighter. “I need to get dressed.”

  He let go of her shoulders. “I’ll be downstairs.”

  “Don’t go, not yet, we have to talk, the reason I came here.”

  Brad sighed. “You want to talk but if I ask you a question you refuse to answer. So you go ahead, you talk.” His face was tight with anger. He had thought she had come to see him, be with him. She continued to gather her clothes as he sat waiting.

  “Look, if it makes it any easier I know you’re a whore, you told me that yourself. Is it money you want?”

  She moved so fast and it was so unexpected that he did nothing to defend himself. The slap was hard and it hurt. He rubbed his cheek and laughed.

  “I didn’t come here for what we just did.” She stepped back, her fists clenched. He reached out his hand to her but she wouldn’t take it. She began to pace up and down, the sheet trailing on the floor. She stopped, head bowed, and slowly, almost as if he were watching her in slow motion, she lifted her chin and tilted her head to one side, as her tongue slowly passed over her lips. She murmured something. He didn’t catch what it was she said, she seemed to be trying to set something free. He saw her breathe in deeply; one moment she was frailty itself and astonishingly beautiful, and the next, as she tossed her head back, she became boyish, as if she were angry with herself, tightening the sheet around her slender body. Her shoulders lifted slightly when at last she spoke. “The scars I got from times when I was on the streets. I used to get drunk, I don’t know what I did, who I went with. I’m not proud of the hideous things or the cigarette burns, but I never felt them. I didn’t care enough about myself to care.”

  “And now?” he asked.

  “Now I just want you to listen—don’t interrupt me, just listen.”

  “Fine.” He sat down on the bed and leaned back against the pillows. He was not disgusted by anything she had said—in some ways he didn’t really believe it.

  “The scar on my cheek was a barroom fight over a bottle of vodka, that’s about as much as I can remember, nothing dramatic, nothing romantic. I got it, I live with it, and I was, so I was told, lucky not to lose the sight in my eye. I was a hooker but who I was with and when I don’t know. I don’t have AIDS, or any venereal disease, just in case you’re freaking out. I had myself checked. There’s a lot of my life I don’t remember. But I do know about this scar, this one at the back of my head, because this is one of the reasons I’m here.”

  She was very still, standing like a statue in front of him. She wasn’t frail or boyish now, but audacious. Her piercing blue eyes were watching him for a reaction, some kind of revulsion that would help her continue, but he gave none. Instead he patted the bed, indicating for her to lie beside him, but she shook her head.

  “I used to be a police officer. I was a lieutenant with the Pasadena Homicide Unit.”

  He half smiled and she glared at him. He lifted his hands in an apologetic gesture. She continued: she was now acting as a paid street informer for Captain Rooney. He had hired her because she knew the girls on the streets and he needed information about the hammer killer. She looked directly at him as he sat up, no longer smiling, b
ut staring at her. Without any emotion she told him about the night she had been attacked, half turning to reveal the scar again. She then told him how she had made an anonymous call to the police describing the man who had attacked her. As she gave Brad the description, she didn’t take her eyes off him. If she had described his brother, he showed not the slightest sign of recognition. She explained how she had taken Hastings’s wallet. She watched him continuously as she told him about Art Mathews, Didi, and Nula. He listened in silence. He only became tense when she described the cuff links with the S & A logo, the cuff links worn by the man who had attacked her. Brad got off the bed and crossed to a dresser. He opened the top drawer and took out a small leather case. He threw it onto the bed. “Like those?”

  Lorraine opened the box and took out the cuff links. She looked at them and nodded. He stood with his hands on his hips and after a moment he asked her to go on. She told him how she had gone to his garage, checked out the workers, checked out the cars in the hangar and had discovered that Norman Hastings had parked his car there the day before he was murdered. That no one could recall what time he had removed it or if he had driven it away himself. Maybe it had been taken by someone working at the company.

  Brad returned to the bed. Seeing a muscle working at the side of his neck, she knew he was on edge. His eyes also betrayed him, but he never mentioned his brother, just indicated for her to continue. The more she talked, the more he realized that, just as she had said, Lorraine Page had not come to his home for any sexual or romantic reason, but for information. He had misjudged her, misjudged his own prowess, he didn’t know this woman at all; he was becoming more and more wary of her.

  Lorraine detected his anxiety but continued, keeping her eyes on him constantly. She noticed that it was almost five-thirty on the bedside clock, and she started to hurry, telling Brad how she and her friend had photographed each of the workers and had eliminated them one by one. The reason she’d come to his house last time had been to continue the elimination process. “You mean me?” he asked.

  “Yes, we even took some photographs of your brother, but none were of much use, so I returned to the Hastings murder, to his wife, and to the man who had taken photographs of Hastings. His name is Craig Lyall.” She waited a beat but he didn’t react so she continued.

  “Norman Hastings was a transvestite.”

  Brad’s eyebrows lifted slightly. It was an open reaction without guilt.

  “I think the killer was being blackmailed,” Lorraine went on, “and probably for some considerable time. I think Hastings was, too, but he was only able to pay small sums that wouldn’t alert his wife and family. He was very protective of them, terrified his private life would be disclosed. I believe the blackmailers were Art Mathews and Didi, one of the victims, transsexual. She made up the men for photographs taken by Lyall. She was then able to tip off Mathews and he, I think, instigated the blackmail.”

  She had seen it, just a flicker in his eyes, on the word “blackmail” but he covered it well, nodding as if he wanted her to continue. She was combing her hair, watching him in the mirror. “I wouldn’t mind a cup of coffee,” she said, and smiled, then remembered the housekeeper would have left.

  He stood up immediately. “I’ll make it.”

  “And I still can’t find my shoes.”

  Brad opened the bedroom door. The shoes were neatly placed outside. He picked them up, held them by the straps, and tossed them to her. Lorraine slipped her feet into them before she remembered they had fallen off as he carried her up the stairs. Who had placed them outside the door? The housekeeper? Or someone else? Down in the kitchen, Brad felt himself start to sweat. Had Steven come home? By now the housekeeper and the gardener would have both left. He looked out of the window and couldn’t see the Mercedes. He was sure he hadn’t heard Steven return. Maybe he was still out. But if he was, who had put Lorraine’s shoes outside the bedroom door? Brad jumped when he heard her footsteps along the marble hall, and then approaching the kitchen.

  “Did you say the housekeeper left at four?” she asked nonchalantly, as he ground the coffee beans. She was trying to remember what time they had gone up to the bedroom. “I wondered who left my shoes outside your door.”

  “Probably Maria, she’s obsessively tidy. Am I one of your suspects?” he asked, smiling.

  “No, of course not.”

  He sat on the stool next to her. “Do you need me to call you a cab?”

  “No, thank you, I have a car.” She sighed, and turned to face him. “Now, can we stop playing games?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Tell me about Steven.”

  “What about him? Oh, you wanted to see him. Well, he’s out, but if you leave me your number I can get him to call you tomorrow.”

  “Don’t protect him, Brad. You’d better be honest with me. That’s what I meant about stop playing games. I want to talk about him, I want to see him to eliminate him. It was your brother I came to see—see him face-to-face.”

  Brad pointed at her. “Why don’t you stop? You eliminate him? You? There’s a warrant out for your arrest, as we both know.” Brad smiled as he poured the coffee. “You know, I’ve been fascinated by this monologue you’ve just delivered. The rogue cop, is that how you see yourself? Maybe the booze did something to your head, Lorraine. I know why you’re here.”

  She was off the stool, heading toward him. “Who told you about the warrant out for me? Was it Rooney? Did he speak to your brother?” Brad put his cup down. She had changed suddenly. He thought she was just scared but she said, steadily, “You’d better tell me, Brad. This man has killed nine times. He knows I’m alive and he’s looking for me. I’ll be next. Who was here and what did he tell you? Was it Captain Rooney?”

  “No, it wasn’t him, whoever he is.”

  She glared at him. How he could ever have imagined her as frail? She looked vicious right now. “Who was it? Did he speak to Steven? For God’s sake, stop playing around and tell me who was here.”

  Brad gripped her wrist. “It doesn’t matter. What matters to me is you have to stop this right now—whatever you’ve dug up on Steven, whatever filth you want to make up about him, about this family.”

  She jerked free. “What are you talking about?”

  “How much do you fucking want? You’re very clever at what you do, Lorraine. I’ve had it before, I just didn’t think I could be so wrong about someone. So how much and what have you got on Steven? Is that why you took such pains to explain the blackmail by those two whatever-their-names-were?”

  “You think I want to blackmail you?”

  “Isn’t that what you came here for? This family has always been an easy mark, so name your price.”

  “Nothing you could pay, Brad Thorburn. You just think what you want, I didn’t come here for any other reason than to—”

  “What?” he interrupted. He was angry but controlled.

  “I think your brother is a killer. You won’t be able to protect him or buy him out of this. You know why? Because I’ll prove it.”

  Brad sneered. “You expect me to believe a word you’ve told me? I’ve had threats from a lot better than you, sweetheart.”

  “What about your brother? Has he had threats?”

  “My brother is no concern of yours. Now get the hell out of my house! Now! Get out!”

  He wanted to slap her as she said calmly, “You mind if I get my purse, Mr. Thorburn?”

  She didn’t hurry out. He could hear her walking across the marble hallway, then, after a moment, the front door slamming behind her. He pressed for the electronic gate to open, waited a moment before he called his lawyer, asking him to contact a Mr. Kophch, tell him it was urgent and that he was to come to the house immediately.

  She was almost at the gates, heard them clicking open, when she saw a reflected blue light and knew a patrol car was nearby. She pushed the gate closed and ran to the shrubbery. She only just made it out of sight as Rooney appeared.

  No one res
ponded as he rang and rang the gate’s buzzer. Brad at first thought Lorraine had returned. Finally he pressed the intercom.

  “Yes?”

  “Captain Rooney, police, could I speak to a Mr. Thorburn, please?”

  Brad pressed for the gate to reopen, confused. Was Lorraine with him? He went out onto the porch, as Rooney walked up the path and stopped on the bottom step. “Is Steven Janklow home?”

  Brad shook his head and introduced himself. Rooney showed his ID and badge and repeated his name as they entered the house, Brad ushering him ahead. As he closed the door, Lorraine watched the interaction from the shrubbery. She felt safer now that Rooney was here. She wanted to get back inside and remembered the door at the back of the house opening onto the small corridor leading up to Brad’s bedroom. She crossed her fingers that it would be open and that the alarms had not been turned on.

  Rooney looked around the impressive drawing room. Brad offered him a drink but he refused. “Do you know where your brother is, Mr. Thorburn?”

  “No, I’m sorry, I don’t. What is this about?”

  “I think you know. Andrew Fellows stopped by earlier, didn’t he? So let’s cut the bullshit. Is Lorraine Page here?”

  “She was but she left.”

  “Do you know where she went?”

  “No, I don’t. I’m surprised you didn’t see her, she was here about ten minutes ago.”

  Rooney’s portable phone bleeped. He looked at Thorburn and took it out of his pocket. “Excuse me …”

  Rooney moved aside, listening to the caller. He turned to face Brad, still listening, then turned his back to him. “I’m inside the house, just have a look around, she was here ten minutes ago.”

  Rooney slapped his phone off. “Sorry. Okay, Mr. Thorburn, I won’t keep you, I’d just like a recent picture of your brother, Steven Janklow.”

  Rooney wandered over to a grand piano and looked at the silver-framed photographs. He picked one up and held it out. “This him?”