Brad said no, it was his father. He suggested that the following morning, when he had had time to speak to his brother, he would ask him to let Rooney have a photograph.
“I’d like to take a look at one now,” Rooney said stubbornly.
“Is it really necessary?”
“Yes, sir. This is a murder investigation.”
Brad disappeared and Rooney stood with his feet planted apart. The call had been to say a second squad car was at the gates. He was on dangerous ground, he knew, standing in the Thorburn household demanding a photograph without any warrant or supporting evidence except Lorraine’s theory. He took out his portable again and punched out Lorraine’s number. Rosie answered. “It’s Rooney. She call in at all?”
“No.”
“If she does, get her to contact me. I mean it. This is urgent, Rosie.” He put in another call to Bean. Still no sign of Lorraine from any of the street patrols, so he mentioned that Thorburn had said she had left his home only ten minutes before his arrival, that he already had a squad car out checking Beverly Glen. Suddenly, Rooney heard a car on the gravel driveway. He cut off the call, wondering if it was Janklow. His heart sank as he heard voices, Brad saying something about a police officer, a long, whispered conversation. Then Brad walked into the drawing room, with a small, pinstripe-suited, white-haired man wearing rimless glasses and carrying a briefcase.
“This is Alfred Kophch, Captain Rooney.”
Rooney shook the pallid little man’s hand. It was a very firm grip, which surprised him, and he remained standing. He didn’t need to be told who he was, he knew him by reputation: Kophch was one of the most high-powered criminal lawyers in L.A. Kophch sat down and opened his case. “You want a photograph of my client Steven Janklow, is that correct? Do you have a warrant to be on the premises?”
Rooney huffed and said that at this stage of his inquiries he did not require a warrant. It was an informal visit and Brad Thorburn had invited him in.
“Why do you want a photograph of my client?”
Rooney went a deep red. “Elimination purposes.”
“I would like to know why no one has contacted Mr. Janklow before, and why you have made an informal house call at six-thirty P.M.”
Rooney sat on the edge of the plush sofa. He was beginning to sweat, not with nerves but with contained agitation. This grilling made him feel as if he were the guilty party. He reached into his pocket and took out a dog-eared envelope with scrawled dates on the back.
“I would also like to ask—informally—Steven Janklow to tell me where he was on these dates. As he is not here, you can bring him with you in the morning, with a photograph.”
“Why do you need this photograph if Mr. Janklow is prepared to come in to see you in person?”
“An attack took place in the parking lot of the Glendale shopping mall. We believe the man that attacked the woman, our witness, is involved in a series of murders.”
Kophch sighed. “So now you’re saying that Mr. Janklow is a suspect for this attack?”
“Possibly.”
“And the name of the witness?”
Brad leaned forward. “It’s a prostitute called Lorraine Page. There’s a warrant out for her arrest and she’s involved in a blackmail case.”
“Is this correct?” snapped Kophch.
Rooney shuffled uneasily. “I am not prepared to disclose the identity of the witness.”
Kophch gave Rooney a warning look. “Blackmail? This is all getting out of hand, isn’t it? I suggest that when you have charges you wish to relate to my client, you contact my office. Until then you should leave these premises immediately and I will forward a complaint to your superiors.”
Rooney stood up slowly. “Fine. All I’m trying to do is track down a killer.”
Kophch faced Rooney. “And I am protecting my client. As you must be aware, the Thorburns are an influential family and have in the past been subjected to various blackmail threats and—”
Rooney interrupted, taking a flier, “Then there was the vice charge against Mr. Janklow that was dismissed. I am aware of certain activities in the past concerning this family, which is why I chose to make this an informal visit.” Suddenly, he was on a roll. He could see the hooded looks passing between the lawyer and Brad, and pushed it further. “However, this is not just a homosexual cruising or pickup, but a murder and one that has been the focus of huge media attention.”
Kophch was good. He didn’t back off as Rooney had expected but came straight back at him. “And in the late edition of the papers today there was an announcement that a man arrested for these murders had subsequently committed suicide. Are you now saying this man was not the perpetrator of these crimes?”
Rooney sniffed and pulled at his nose. “Possibly not.”
His face tight with contained anger, Brad snapped, “It appears that everything and everyone concerned in this investigation is only ‘possibly’ attached. I suggest that Mr. Kophch should contact your superior and discuss it with him. Now I’d like you to leave my house.”
Rooney was shown the door. The gates opened and he stepped through them, hearing them clang shut behind him. As he crossed to his car, he instinctively looked down the street, walked a few yards, and then squinted in the early evening light at the license plate of the parked vehicle. It was Lorraine’s. Two uniformed officers were already peering inside. They turned toward him.
“We drove up and down the entire road, we didn’t see her, but we ran this through, it’s the rental …”
Rooney wafted his hand for the officer to shut up. He called his office again to check if Lorraine had been traced. When he heard she hadn’t, his heart sank. He walked back to the Thorburn house as the alarm floodlights went out. The house seemed ominously dark and quiet apart from the ground floor, where Thorburn and Kophch must still be talking. The officers asked what he wanted done about Lorraine’s car. “Open it up and search it,” he snarled. In truth, he wasn’t sure about his next move. He felt a dull panic. Where the hell was she?
Lorraine had found the hidden door open and, in darkness, had made her way back up the narrow staircase into Brad’s bedroom. The sheet she had worn was on the floor where she’d dropped it, the pillows on the bed where she and Brad had made love were still dented from their bodies.
Lorraine crept along the landing. She had seen Rooney enter, and shortly after the arrival of another man. She didn’t know who he was, but was glad of the diversion as she moved silently toward the bedrooms, trying to determine which was Janklow’s. Below she could hear Brad talking and the low tones of another male voice, and again, knowing that Rooney was below made her feel safer. She had not seen him leave.
She tried two or three rooms before she entered what she thought must be Janklow’s and quietly closed the door. She looked around, checked the bathroom and closets, half hoping to find female clothes or wigs, but there was nothing. She was disappointed. All she wanted was a photograph, something she could take with her, but while there were many of his mother, and of him and Brad as boys, there were none of Janklow as a man. She was about to leave the room when she saw the briefcase.
She picked it up and froze when the locks clicked open loudly, but all she could hear was the low murmur from downstairs. She sifted through the papers as Brad had done, searching for a diary, anything that would give her an insight into Janklow. She found the receipts, all the recorded sales of jewelry, but replaced them and then studied Janklow’s bank statements. Again, like Brad, she noted that none of the sums paid to him for the jewels had been put into his accounts. And there was the neat methodical list of jewelry items—maybe these were to be sold? She replaced the briefcase and carefully walked out of the room.
Then she came to the mother’s bedroom. She went over to the dressing table and glanced at one silver-framed picture after another. Still none of Janklow as an adult. Lorraine picked up a photo of the glamorous Mrs. Thorburn—so like the woman driving the Mercedes as photographed by Rosie. It
looked posed, well lit, and touched up. She turned the frame over, was about to replace it, when she decided to see if the photographer was identified on the back of the picture.
As she opened the frame she almost dropped the glass but caught it in time. A second photograph had been placed inside. At first glance it looked like another photograph of Mrs. Thorburn, but on closer inspection it obviously wasn’t. The blond wig was identical, even the diamond necklace, the way the gloved hand rested beneath the sitter’s chin. But this sitter was not Mrs. Thorburn. It was someone attempting to look like her, but no amount of airbrushing and touching up could disguise the fact that the sitter was a man.
Lorraine took the photograph and replaced the frame. She checked three more before she found another hidden photograph of the same man. She could not be sure it was Janklow, or even the man who had attacked her, only that it was some man impersonating Mrs. Thorburn. She then heard an ominous creaking sound from above: footsteps pacing up and down.
Quickly, she peered at the back of the photograph and made out a pale imprint of the photographer’s name and contact number. It was so blurred that she needed more light, but she suspected it would be either Art Mathews or Craig Lyall. As she eased open the door, she jumped back as she heard voices, louder now. She hurried to the landing to look down to the hall. Should she confront Brad and Rooney together? Or get out, drive herself to the station, and show them the photographs? She crept farther along the landing; they were still talking. Then she heard the same pacing coming from above. Was it Janklow? She hesitated a moment and then moved silently down one stair at a time. She was within yards of the drawing room and she could hear clearly now.
“How serious is this?” she heard Brad ask.
“I have no idea but I will tomorrow, I’ll go there personally. It’s best not to worry about it. Just leave it to me.”
Lorraine was at the foot of the stairs, her heart pounding. She could easily have walked in, admitted being there, but why couldn’t she hear Rooney’s voice? She turned suddenly, certain someone was watching her. She pressed against the wall, trying to look up the stairs.
“You don’t think there’s any possibility of there being any truth in all this, do you?” Brad sounded tired. The clipped tone of the other man replied that he doubted there was anything to be worried about, he was fully aware of Steven’s sexual preference, and he would make sure it was never disclosed. But he would like to talk to him at the first opportunity. Where was he? Brad had no idea, but knew that he had been home earlier.
Why couldn’t she hear Rooney’s voice? Wasn’t he there? She looked toward the open kitchen doorway, then back to the drawing room, and stepped out of her shoes. She made it to the kitchen entrance and then stopped. She looked up again to the first landing, again sure she had seen someone.
“I’ll show you out.” It was Brad, and they were walking toward the hall. She dodged into the kitchen, seconds before the two men emerged from the drawing room. Lorraine could see them through a narrow chink between the door and its frame, but she still couldn’t see Rooney. He must have already left.
“One thing’s bothering me, Alfred. Do you know if Mother instructed Steven to sell off her jewelry?”
“I don’t deal with Mrs. Thorburn’s private accounts, of course, but I’ll get it checked out.”
“I’m sure there’ll be a reasonable explanation. I know the jewelry will be left to Steven on Mother’s death—it’s just that I find it strange that neither Mother nor Steven has mentioned it to me.”
Lorraine was terrified to move: they were so close. She was hoping and praying that if the front door was going to open, she could get out through the back kitchen door as the security system would still be off. She was headed for it when something Brad said made her freeze.
“This last business, I thought there was no possible way it could get out. You told me there would never be any repercussions and yet that Rooney brought it up as if it was still in the police files.”
Kophch again said that he would look into it. Although he had made certain there was no documented evidence left in any police file, he could not guarantee the silence of any officer who had been involved.
“Then pay them off, if necessary, whatever the cost.”
Lorraine flattened her body against the wall and inched toward the back door.
“You know, Brad, there’s only so much I can do. I cannot in any way jeopardize myself. Do you have any reason to believe that Steven could be involved in this? Because if you do, you must be honest with me. For example, this witness, do you know any more about her?”
Lorraine heard Brad discussing her visit, that he was sure she had only been trying to get money out of him. He sounded angry, his voice rising. “Well, I can have her taken care of if she contacts me again.”
He was interrupted. “No, you listen to me. If this woman shows up, you do nothing. Nothing. As I said, I was able to take care of things last time but this is bigger—this is murder—and if the press gets wind that either you or your brother have any involvement, you’ll be hounded. Do you understand? You do not do anything without first discussing it with me!”
Brad walked out onto the porch with his lawyer. They shook hands and Brad watched Kophch get into his car. Then he walked back to the house, pressing the buzzer to open the gates.
Lorraine edged to the kitchen door. She tried the handle: it was open. She said a silent prayer, only to find she was in the garage rather than outdoors as she had expected. She let the door close behind her, just as Brad shut the front door and switched on the alarm circuit.
She looked around the vast dark garage, which had room for at least six cars. At the side of the sliding doors was a row of numbered buttons to open them and above the buttons was an ominous unblinking red dot. She tried to go back the way she had come, but the door was now locked. She was trapped inside the garage.
Rooney was sitting in his car as the lawyer drove past. Kophch stared at him but did not stop. Lorraine’s car remained parked along the road; the two officers had found nothing inside. Rooney sat, hoping to see her and becoming more and more worried as the minutes ticked by. He wondered if she was in the house. He even wondered if he should go back in and demand to search the place, but he had no warrant.
The two officers hovered, waiting for instructions. Rooney rubbed his chin; his stubble itched. He was dog tired. “I think she’s maybe up at the house. Williams, go buzz the gate again. Ask if you can look around the grounds. I doubt if he’ll let you in but it’s worth a try. If that doesn’t work, take her car back to the station.”
Lorraine looked around her. A Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow, plus Brad’s sports car, two Harley-Davidson motorcycles, a Porsche, and, hidden from her sight at first, the Mercedes. She was sure the garage would be alarmed, like everything else in the house. She looked at the multiple doors, could see wires threaded everywhere. It was like a fortress. No way would she be able to get out that way; she’d have to return to the house. Then she heard the ringing of a distant doorbell. The garage doors began to slide open. She ducked behind a car as they began to whir and grind, pulling back. She peered up and could see Brad standing right outside the garage with a uniformed police officer.
“Take a look around in here and then wherever else you like but not in the house.”
She could see Brad’s bare feet beneath the cars, and the dark trouser legs of the police officer above his black rubber-soled shoes.
“I’ll show you around the back way,” Brad said. He hadn’t expected to see Steven’s car there and it had freaked him. He was sure his brother wasn’t in, but he covered his initial reaction by quickly offering to show the officer the gardens.
Lorraine waited until they were out of sight before she dashed out of the garage toward the front lawn and ran flat out until she reached the open gates.
Rooney and an officer were standing by her car, Rooney leaning forward for his cigarette to be lit. She headed to his car. It was open and s
he threw herself inside, onto the backseat. Rooney inhaled and let the smoke drift out of his nostrils. He checked the time again; it was almost seven o’clock. His stomach grumbling for food, he plodded back to the gates as Officer Williams appeared, a young, fresh-faced boy, who worked out. His muscles rippled beneath his pristine cop shirt and badge and he edged his nightstick away from his leg.
“There’s no one on the grounds, Captain, and Mr. Thorburn wants to lock up for the night. What do you want me to do? This place is alarmed all over, he’s standing with his hand on the buzzer, says we can’t go into the house.”
Rooney waddled toward him. “You didn’t see anything?”
“Been around the back, summerhouse, tennis courts, swimming pool—checked all over. She’s not on the grounds.”
Rooney went back to his car but he couldn’t just walk away. As the two officers stood in the road waiting to know what he wanted them to do, he reached in for his radio.
“Don’t let them take me in, Bill,” Lorraine said quietly from the backseat. “Please don’t.”
Rooney turned back to the officers, but they hadn’t heard her. “One of you take her car into the holding bays, the other follow. I’ll see you back at the station.”
Rooney got into his car and watched the two men split up, one going for Lorraine’s car, the other getting a set of pliers out of the patrol car. Rooney started his engine and pulled away, leaving them as they decided who should drive Lorraine’s car. Williams laughed as they reached down to fix the wires to start the engine. He said it had been a long time since he’d been caught doin’ this.
“You go first, Rambo, I’ll follow.”
Rooney didn’t even head up Mulholland but pulled over about a mile short of it. She’d have felt better if he’d slammed on the brakes and yelled at her, but instead he braked gently and switched off the engine, then slowly swiveled around to face her.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” He hit the seat with the flat of his hand.
She unfolded the photographs. “These were behind pictures of Mrs. Thorburn. Look at the back. Can you see who took them?”
Cold Shoulder Page 40
