Cold Shoulder

by Lynda La Plante

  Rooney snatched the pictures and reached into his glove compartment for a flashlight. He shone it onto the back of the creased photograph.

  “Can you make it out?”

  “Can you?” He passed the light across to her and she shone it on the faded photographer’s stamp. “Professional Photo Studio,” she said slowly, disappointed it did not say Art Mathews—yet it could have been his studio, or even Craig Lyall’s.

  “So you got photographs of a woman,” Rooney said flatly.

  “They’re not of a woman, Bill, it’s a man dressed up. And it’s not just any woman he’s dressed up to look like, but Mrs. Thorburn. I think it’s Janklow.”

  “Jesus Christ, now what you tellin’ me? That he’s a homo or a transvestite, or what? Is he or isn’t he the man who fucking attacked you, Lorraine?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know. Well, that is fucking great.”

  “I didn’t see him, Bill—that’s why I went there.”

  “I told you to stay in the apartment. You promised me. You’ve done nothing but jerk me around, Lorraine.”

  She sighed, watching her car being driven past followed by the patrol car. They tooted and waved at Rooney. As Lorraine’s car drove away, the patrol car slowed.

  “Everything okay, Captain?” The officer stared at Lorraine in the backseat.

  Rooney jerked his thumb at Lorraine. “Yeah, it’s all fine. I found her. Go on, I’ll see you back there.”

  They watched the patrol car move off and Rooney turned back to her. “I got to take you in. You got no option, I got no option.”

  “I went to an AA meeting, I was going to go straight back and wait for you but …”

  He fished in his pocket for his cigarettes, lighting one from the butt and tossing it out of his window. “But you didn’t. I’ve been running all over Pasadena, all over L.A. looking for you. They got half the cops on duty out looking for you. What the hell have you been doing?”

  “Getting laid,” she said flippantly.

  “Very funny, Lorraine, you always had a sense of humor. Well, this time the laugh is on me. Why didn’t you tell me you were with Art Mathews the night of Holly’s murder, with him all night? You were his friggin’ alibi.”

  She sighed, leaning forward to rest her arms along the front seat. “I wasn’t with him all night. I left quite late … Rosie’ll remember, maybe after twelve.”

  He passed her a cigarette without her asking for one. “I’m out of matches.”

  She delved into her purse. “What time was Holly murdered, or as near as they can give it?” He took the matches, struck one, then held the flame out to her. “Thanks.” She exhaled, waiting for him to answer her question.

  Rooney flicked the flame of the match out. There had been so many murders, he couldn’t remember offhand what time they had verified that Holly had died.

  Lorraine tapped his arm. “About eleven, wasn’t it? She was just starting work so it’d be around ten-thirty or eleven. I was with him so he couldn’t have done it.”

  Rooney lowered his window. “Doesn’t matter to him, he’s dead, but it matters to you because the FBI got your name from him. I can’t not take you in.” He started the engine.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “Back to the fucking station, where do you think? I just told you: I’m handing you over. I want you out of my hair, out of my life. You and your theory will land me in a straitjacket, never mind retiring me. You’ve been feeding me a line of bullshit from day one.”

  “Bill, I swear to you I haven’t.”

  He looked at her in the rearview mirror, his eyes watering from tiredness and smoke. “Holly was murdered after twelve. Lorraine, I was just testing you.”

  She punched his shoulder. He stopped the car. Suddenly he was really angry, his jowled face set rigid. “What the fuck were you doing at Thorburn’s house? And from what I gathered, you weren’t there for any interview with his brother. Trying to make a few bucks for yourself? Is that what you were up to? I wouldn’t put anything past you. Well, now I’m through with you.”

  “Was he in there?” she asked.

  “You tell me. We won’t get a foot in there without more evidence than that load of shit you got. I’m gonna get it in the neck about this.”

  He gunned the motor and the car shot forward. They headed up Mulholland, the road becoming steeper. His car coughed, protesting, but they picked up speed as they moved downhill. Suddenly Rooney stamped on his brakes as they came to the traffic lights at a dangerous intersection. The patrol car was there plus two more cars, and rammed between them, the entire driver’s side smashed to smithereens, was Lorraine’s car. Officer Williams was still inside, his blood spattering the broken windshield and soaking his muscular dead body.

  Rooney barked at Lorraine to stay out of sight. As he got out and crossed to the wreckage, she raised her head and peered out of the window. An ambulance and police van arrived and they began to release the driver.

  When Rooney came back, he didn’t turn to speak to her but stared straight ahead. “He’s dead. He was just a kid.”

  “Was it an accident?” she asked.

  “What would you say? There’s one, two, three other vehicles involved. He jumped the lights, this junction’s known to be a death trap. He drove straight into it.” He faced her. “This is your fault. It’s due to you, you hear me?”

  “Why?” she snapped back. “I wasn’t driving the goddamned car, was I?”

  Rooney walked back to the scene of the crash. A few people were gathering around to gape, more police, and now they had the dead man free. Lorraine saw Rooney and another officer prize open the car’s buckled hood. As they peered inside with a flashlight, another man crawled beneath the car. Rooney was there for almost fifteen minutes. When he got back he sat half in and half out of his car, his feet still on the roadside. “Brake hose is smothered in grease, sliced almost in two, and the emergency cable’s cut. Did anyone have access to the car keys?”

  “They were in my purse.”

  “They still there?”

  Lorraine fumbled nervously and took them out.

  “Did you leave it unattended while you were there?”

  “Yeah. For quite a while when I was talking to Brad Thorburn. We were in the bedroom. I left my purse downstairs.” She flushed.

  He looked at her and shook his head. “Christ, I thought you were joking before. Did you screw him?”

  “I wanted information, Bill.”

  “I bet you did.”

  “Why don’t we go back up there, Bill, just you and me? If Janklow’s there, it’s him you should be taking in, forget me! If I’d been in that car, it would have been me who was dead.”

  Rooney swung his legs in, slammed the car door, and started the engine. “No way. Not until I’ve discussed this with the chief. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it’s got to be.”

  Lorraine had been hoping against all hope that this would never happen, but now there was no alternative. She would become a witness for the prosecution and all it entailed. Any idea she had had of starting up as a private investigator would be ruined: when the press got to hear about her part in the murder investigation, she and her past would make the headlines. She stared out the window as they drove toward the precinct. She wanted a drink, could feel it sweeping over her. She wanted a drink rather than face it all.

  She hardly said a word as Rooney led her into the station. The duty sergeant noted down all her particulars, she was photographed, and her prints taken. Then she was led away to Rooney’s office. He had spoken to the chief, then shaved, but still wore the same shirt, even more stained and crumpled, and by now he was smelling pretty strong. He was drinking coffee and talking to Bean when Lorraine was brought into the room. Before leaving the office, Rooney introduced Bean, who shook her hand and pulled out a chair for her. “When we’re ready, we’ll take your statement. We’ll also tape it and film you, okay?”

  Lorraine as
ked if someone would be selling the movie rights but no one laughed. Bean found her some water and cigarettes and, as he seemed so helpful, she asked him if she could call her friend Rosie to let her know she was okay.

  Lorraine waited in Rooney’s office for some time. She was told they’d be held up until the FBI agents arrived; neither Rooney nor the chief could deny them access to her. When she was eventually taken into the large room where everyone was gathered, it was nearly midnight. She remained closeted there for a further four hours. In that time she gave a clear statement of everything that had happened since the day she had first been attacked in the parking lot. When asked why she had not come forward, she said it was because she had removed Norman Hastings’s wallet. She didn’t lie, she could see no point. She answered all their questions directly and truthfully. No one appeared impressed by her subsequent investigation or her attempts at piecing together the evidence she had accumulated.

  “Why are you so anxious to continue this investigation, even placing yourself at risk?” one of the agents asked. She didn’t like the look of this one: his square jaw, which worked overtime, his clean-cut face, his blond crew cut and neat gray suit. He looked like a Nazi.

  “I’m sorry, what did you ask me?”

  Bickerstaff stared at her, and then flicked the tip of his silver pen up and down, click, click. “I asked, Ms. Page, why you placed yourself at risk?”

  She looked over at Rooney, who nodded quickly. “I needed the money, I was being paid to do it by Captain Rooney.”

  Although they knew about her record since leaving the police force, they seemed unwilling to believe that that was the only reason she had taken such risks. Surely she had another motive?

  “I suppose I did. I hoped that if I succeeded in assisting the department, then it would stand me in good stead for the future if I ever wanted to start up as a private investigator. But if I have to be a prosecution witness, then it’ll destroy that chance. I know this case’ll get a load of publicity and like me, well, they’ll go for the jugular—that’s a joke. The ex-cop ex-hooker’ll make good copy, might even get a headline ‘Madame Dracula.’ I doubt I’ll be able to live it down. I might be able to move away, but I’ve got contacts here and you need contacts in the investigation business, right?”

  They made no answer, but she saw them glancing at each other before they all left the room, leaving her with a stone-faced policewoman. They returned an hour later. It was almost dawn. But Lorraine detected another undercurrent.

  The chief gave a grimace—she supposed it was some kind of smile, but because he was so tense his lips just curled over his top teeth. “Mrs. Page, would you be willing to continue assisting this inquiry?” Rooney wouldn’t meet her eyes and the chief continued, “There could be certain risks involved.”

  Lorraine looked at the chief, then Rooney. “You want to make a deal with me, don’t you? Well, I guess it would depend—”

  “On what?” the chief asked.

  “On what exactly you want me to do. If I work with you, you’ll have a tough time bringing me into court as a prosecution witness, won’t you? I have no doubt that anything connected to the Thorburns you’ll have to tread on lightly. What is it you want me to do? Is Janklow going in a lineup?”

  “The situation is this. If you pick Steven Janklow out of a lineup, it will be his word against yours. You are a chronic alcoholic, ex-prostitute—”

  She snapped, “I am also an ex-cop.”

  The FBI agent retorted, “We know that, and we’d be out of our minds to let that out. With your record, it would make you sound like an even sleazier witness than a hooker.”

  “What’s your name?” She glared at the blond crew cut and he didn’t flinch.

  “Edward Bickerstaff, Ms. Page. I think we’ve got Janklow to agree to come into the station. He’ll be accompanied by his lawyer. What we don’t want is a lineup at this stage. But you came face-to-face with him, you were attacked, so what I want from you is just a good look. We’ll set him up in an interview room with a one-way viewing section so you can watch him at your leisure. Because you have to be one hundred percent sure that the man you say attacked you was Steven Janklow.”

  Rooney took over. “You’re the only witness we have, but, that said, we’ll need a lot more. If he did attack you, then he will be charged with assault. If you’re sure it’s him, we can even press charges, but you and I both know, because of who you are and who he is, he’ll walk.”

  “What about the couple that saw me?”

  “At no time were they able to describe the man in the car with you, so they can’t be brought on as witnesses—well, not yet.” So far Lorraine couldn’t see any risk, but then she again intercepted the looks between the men. Rooney moved closer, his B.O. now overpowering. Here it comes, she thought.

  “You know Brad Thorburn, you’ve had sexual intercourse with him. He inferred that you may have been attempting to blackmail him. We don’t know yet if he has played any part in the murders, but he is Janklow’s brother, and you’ve told us he even has a pair of cuff links, so—”

  “You want me to blackmail Brad Thorburn?” she asked, smiling.

  “No,” Bickerstaff cut in, “we want you—and only if you’re sure that Steven Janklow is the man who attacked you …” Lorraine noticed that the Nazi was gradually taking over and she began to try to assess him and to fathom what they really wanted her to do. He was steely, assured. Eventually she gathered that he was trying to make her an offer to assist them without them saying it for themselves; whatever it was must be either illegal or, as they had implied, risky. They were all watching her, waiting for her to take the bait …

  “I think I get what you’re after. If I do recognize him and I’m a hundred percent sure that the man who attacked me was Steven Janklow, then you’ve still only got him on assault. You want to use me to do … what? Put pressure on him and see what it throws up, and at the same time find out if Brad Thorburn is also involved?”

  They all straightened and she knew she had not only bitten their bait but was offering to reel herself in. She looked over at Rooney and smiled. “I’ll do it, but there are certain conditions. If I can get Janklow to admit his part in the murders, maybe by confronting him at his home, if I can get him to admit it and I’m wired up, you won’t need to call me as a prosecution witness. You’ll already have enough evidence for a conviction. That what you’re after?”

  They didn’t say a word.

  “I’ll have a try, but I want your word you won’t release my part in any of this to the press.”

  “We can’t guarantee that,” snapped the chief.

  “Then bring him in and charge him. Just do what you have to do.”

  There was a low murmur and she looked to the only other woman present and asked if she could go to the bathroom. She took her time: she was exhausted, her eyes dry and her throat parched from too many cigarettes. Checking her clothes, she saw she was almost as crumpled as Rooney. She thanked God that at least she didn’t smell as bad. She sat on the toilet, thinking about everything they had discussed. When she was led back from the bathroom, she was taken into Rooney’s office. Only Rooney and Chief Berillo were there. Everyone else had gone.

  The chief motioned her to a chair. She had never seen such a dark five o’clock shadow on a man before, it looked as if it had been painted on with a thick brush, but compared to Rooney, Chief Berillo at least seemed to have retained some energy. Poor Rooney was out of it, his eyes half closed and his shoulders slumped forward.

  “We cannot agree to any deal, Lorraine, you know that, but what we will do is not press charges against you for withholding evidence, and we will endeavor to keep your name out of the proceedings. That’s the best we can offer.”

  She looked at Rooney and gave a half smile. “Okay, I’ll do it. Though it’s sure a one-sided deal. Now, I’ll need some new clothes and I need to get some rest. I also need a car so I’ll want a clean license—just so I don’t get picked up.”

>   Rooney winked at her as a warning not to press too hard for anything more.

  “When is Janklow coming in?” she asked the chief.

  “Not sure, but we don’t want to make it seem too urgent, so you’ll have time to change and rest up.”

  “Can Bill be my backup?” she asked, and smiled at Rooney, who looked at the ceiling. “He was always a good backup man, one of the best.”

  “No, I’m afraid not. Bill’s been seen in your company and by the look of him if he doesn’t get some sleep, he’ll fall down. You’ll have his lieutenant, Josh Bean. He’s a good man, and he’s waiting to drive you home right now.”

  Lorraine was confident, almost arrogant, as she said, “He gonna take me shopping? I want to look good.”

  The chief replied that they’d wait and see about the new clothes. First she had to view Janklow, then they’d see about the other things she’d asked for. She walked out of the room before the chief had finished talking, saying over her shoulder, “I guess you’ll call me when you need me.”

  “Can we trust her?” the chief asked Rooney. His head jerked up. He’d actually nodded off.

  “Huh?”

  “I asked if we can trust her.”

  “Much as any woman, and she hasn’t had a drink for nine months. She wants to go straight. You mind if I have a drink?”

  Berillo shook his head. “I’ll join you.”

  Rooney poured two good shots of bourbon into the only glass in his office, and drank straight from the bottle.

  “Did she tip you off to this Art Mathews? To the transsexual links? And all this possible blackmail scenario?” the chief asked quietly, and Rooney grunted. He knew that by bringing her in it’d come out in the open. He took another swig of bourbon and nodded. “She ran rings around most officers and, so help me God, I’ll never know why she blew it those years ago.”

  “Just hope she doesn’t blow it with us. If she puts a foot out of line, Bill, I’ll haul her in so fast, I’ll have her charged and put away for a long time. You should make sure she’s aware of just how serious this is. We’ve got to get this case wrapped up. And if she fucks up, it’s not just us, it’ll be the FBI who’ll make sure she never works again, not here or in any other state. Let her know that. Make sure she knows we can’t have any mistakes—there’s been too many as it is.”