Cold Shoulder

by Lynda La Plante

  Lorraine smiled and kept on walking. She and Rosie were stopping at most of the elegant shops, looking at clothes in the window, and then they’d both shake their heads.

  “Ms. Page, we should watch the time, you know. They said to be back in the station at …”

  Lorraine nudged Rosie, they were getting closer to Armani.

  “Twelve, Josh, I’m watching the time, don’t you worry, because I’ve got to have my hair done, and a manicure …”

  Before Bean could reply both women had done a quick right turn into the store. An elegant sales clerk approached Lorraine. She was wearing one of the designer suits, an overpleasant smile, spoke with a possibly fake French accent, and had a deadeyed stare that took in Lorraine and Rosie’s appearance in one swift appraisal. Lorraine went straight to a rack at the rear of the showroom, but it was Rosie who gasped when she saw the price tag dangling from one garment displayed on a dummy.

  “Five hundred dollars!” she hissed.

  Josh raised his eyebrow; that didn’t sound too bad. Then he realized the tag was just for the string of beads around the neck of the dummy. The price tag he succeeded in tracing to the sleeve was three and a half thousand dollars.

  “Oh, God, I’m gonna have to call Captain Rooney.”

  Rooney was in his office when Josh Bean called to say Ms. Page was spending an awful lot of money going shopping.

  “She’s gotta look good,” Rooney said, lighting a cigarette.

  “Well, this suit, I mean, she looks great, Captain, but it’s over two thousand dollars. And then there’s all the accessories …”

  Rooney closed his eyes. “Look, Josh, don’t tell me, take it up with the chief, okay? All I know is she’s gotta be very confident and back here by twelve so cut the shopping expedition short.”

  “I’m trying to, but now she’s in this plush hair salon getting a blow …”

  “A what?” Rooney barked into the phone.

  “She’s getting her hair done! I’m callin’ from the salon, they’re doing the alterations to the suit and …”

  Rooney closed his eyes. “Take it up with the fuckin’ chief. I’ve got to get her wire and a surveillance vehicle sorted out.” Rooney replaced the receiver. He gave a half-smile and then let rip with a bellow of a laugh: gotta hand it to the lady.

  Lorraine was wearing an elegant new Armani suit with a tight, pencil-slim skirt with a thigh-high slit and a loose jacket with a soft creamy silk blouse beneath. She chose high-heeled shoes with matching clutch bag. Conscious that she was to be wired, she also bought a fitted, slightly padded bra and matching panties. Her hair had been streaked, cut, and blown dry, she’d had a manicure and a facial, and then her makeup applied by an expert. It was after twelve by the time she arrived at the station.

  Already warned by Bean, Rooney still gaped at the bill and even more when he saw her. He blushed with embarrassment. She had always been one hell of a looker, but now she was stunning. But then he blew it when he said, intending a compliment, “Holy shit, they sure done a hell of a job on you.”

  Rooney was not the only one taken aback by Lorraine’s appearance. Bickerstaff’s jaw dropped and the chief, who’d had a screaming fit when he had seen the cost, also had to compliment her. Lorraine found it almost amusing the way they suddenly pulled out chairs for her, jumped to light her cigarette. She loved the feel of the soft kid leather handbag, containing new lipstick, powder compact, silk handkerchief, calf leather wallet, silver lighter, and cigarette case. The chief checked down the list of her accessories; he didn’t know how he was going to explain the calf leather wallet, let alone the lighter. Rooney had suggested, as they were no longer using Andrew Fellows, they could maybe add it to his fee. The chief had given him a scathing look.

  “How am I supposed to off-load these expenses on Fellows, in particular the lingerie and skirt?”

  Rooney grinned. “Well, it’s a case involving transsexuals, put him down as one!”

  “I dunno why you’re in such good humor,” Berillo snapped.

  Rooney suddenly went quiet. “Because maybe I know she could get herself hit over the head with a fucking claw hammer!”

  Lorraine was to wear a small pickup mike disguised as a decorative pendant attached to a gold chain around her neck. It was in the shape of a heart and could record from a five-mile radius. She was impressed by its sophistication: she had half expected the old box in a belt strapped to her waist that she’d been used to in the past. Even if she was stripped naked, Rooney said half in jest, it would be hard to find. She had flicked him a look, wondering if they were all aware she had been to bed with Brad Thorburn. It seemed likely, since she was specifically warned that the only time she would lose contact with the radio surveillance truck would be if she took a shower.

  Lorraine was then closeted with Bickerstaff and his team, Rooney standing glumly to one side as they discussed her approach to Janklow. They knew he was at home and they also knew that Brad Thorburn was with him, but a telephone tap had revealed that Thorburn was intending to leave for France and had been arranging his flight. Janklow had returned straight to the house after leaving the precinct but had made no phone calls. Mrs. Thorburn had been interviewed again and repeated the statement she had made. Brad Thorburn had also verified everything his brother had said. Two calls had been recorded from the tap on the Thorburn home, both from Alfred Kophch, requesting that Janklow visit him in his office at his earliest convenience. Kophch had also said that on no account should Janklow make outgoing calls, but speak to him only personally at his office.

  As Bickerstaff and Lorraine discussed the new developments, a report came in that Mrs. Thorburn had just called Brad and asked him to visit her. She had refused to speak to Steven.

  “That’s good,” Lorraine said. “The only time I saw Janklow really upset was whenever you made any reference to her, and if she’s not talking to her nasty little pervert son, he might be even more on edge.”

  “You’re very confident, Lorraine. How can you be sure you’ll get into the Thorburn house?”

  “I’m sure.”

  Bickerstaff was beginning to like her. He patted her shoulder. “Well, you take care—and I mean it. Use your backup and scream the fuckin’ place down if you feel any kind of threat.”

  Bickerstaff looked up as Rooney returned, tapping his wristwatch. It was really time for Lorraine to leave. She tried to make light of it—they were all so concerned for her—and asked if Andrew Fellows was still working for them. Rooney dismissed him out of hand: the last thing he had suggested was that the killer might be a woman. They had all joked that she had even been under suspicion, and Lorraine laughed out loud.

  She was presented with a clean driver’s license, and a Mustang, also wired to the surveillance truck, was ready in the garage. The only thing she did not have was a weapon.

  Rooney walked her to the car. He opened the driver’s-side door, winking to warn her not to say anything because she was wired. Then he took his gun from his shoulder holster and stashed it in the glove compartment. “We’re all with you and we’ll be on hand. You know what to do?”

  Lorraine nodded. They had given her the code word “Rosie.” If she mentioned it the backup cops were to stand by; it meant she was heading into deeper trouble than she could handle. If “Rosie” was coupled with “partner” they were to come in no matter what else she said. This was an old scam she and Lubrinski had worked, just the name of someone they could start to talk about, someone who would pose no threat to the suspect but which was, in fact, a signal. Lorraine shut the glove compartment. “Thanks, Bill.”

  Rooney blushed, turning away from her. “Fuck off, and get a move on.” He’d always said that and it touched her, but she quickly slammed the door and started the engine. She didn’t look back but headed for Beverly Glen. It would take an easy hour and a quarter. She knew Brad and Janklow were home, and that no further outgoing or incoming calls had been made. The housekeeper and gardener were there, but Lorraine knew t
hey left about four. From then on, it would just be the brothers.

  Moving way behind Lorraine was a dry-cleaning truck with two overalled police officers up front. In the back were Bickerstaff, Rooney, and another FBI agent. Lorraine’s car bleeped on the grid up ahead of them, but they made no effort to sit on her tail. They didn’t need to—they knew where she was going and even if they were miles back they could still monitor the car and her personal microphone.

  Lorraine parked right outside the gates, clearly visible from the house, and rang the doorbell by the intercom. The dry-cleaning truck parked a good distance down the tree-lined street.

  “Who is it?”

  Lorraine recognized Brad’s voice. “Let me come in—it’s Lorraine.”

  “Are you alone?”

  “No, I got surveillance trucks and a couple of uniformed cops. What the hell do you think, Brad? Let me in.”

  The gates opened and Brad came out onto the porch. He watched her as she walked up the path, then frowned. “What have you done to yourself?”

  She did a slow turn, hands out, one holding her purse. “I’ve spent all day at the beauty parlor. How do I look?”

  “What do you want?” he asked abruptly.

  “To talk.” He stared at her and she laughed. “What are you so suspicious of? Here, you want to check my bag?” She tossed it to him and remained standing on the pathway.

  He caught it in one hand but didn’t open it. “I don’t think I’ve got anything to say to you.”

  She moved closer. “You’ll let me in, though. How about some coffee?”

  He looked back to the hallway and then down at her as she remained on the lower step. “I’m going away; this isn’t a good idea.”

  “Why don’t you just hear me out, hear why I’ve come? I have a reason.”

  “I gathered,” he said, as he turned and walked into the house.

  She followed him, eyes flicking upward to the bedroom above. Was he there? Was he watching her? She saw nothing; no curtain moved aside; it was very still.

  In the kitchen, Brad gestured for her to sit down, then opened her purse, tipping out the contents. He flicked a look to her as he sorted through her wallet, compact, cigarette lighter, laying each item out, obviously suspicious.

  “Satisfied?”

  He went to the fridge and took out a bottle of chilled wine, held it up to read the label, and then slammed the fridge door. He poured himself a glass as she perched on a stool and began to put everything back into her purse. He switched on the coffee machine and leaned against the sink.

  “Don’t you ever wear shoes?” she asked, smiling.

  “What’s this, a rerun of the other night?”

  “I know they took your brother in for questioning.”

  “They also released him.”

  “So I gather.”

  He sipped his wine, leaning against the sink.

  “Where are you going?”

  “France.”

  “For how long?”

  “I don’t know. What do you want?”

  She opened the cigarette case, held it up as if for his permission. He got out a cup for her coffee. She still found every move he made attractive, even just pouring coffee. He had such a great body, but his ease was what made him so sexy. When he moved close to give her the coffee he smelled of soap. “You just showered?”

  “Yeah, I had a game of tennis. I was going to play squash with Andrew but he refused to speak to me.”

  “Why?”

  He smiled. “Maybe his wife told him about her fantasy, that she and I were a hot number, but it’s all in her head.”

  “Did she make it up, or did you fuck her?”

  He passed her an ashtray. “You like to talk dirty? What does it mean to you if I screwed her or not?”

  “It was just a question. I like her … he’s okay, too.”

  Brad picked up his glass, tilted it toward her, and then drank the wine in two swallows. “What do you want?”

  “Money.”

  He ran his glass under the faucet in the sink. “So what’s your hourly rate?”

  She chortled. “Oh, this isn’t hourly! This is going to cost you and Steven a lot, lot more.”

  “Steven?”

  Lorraine blew on the hot black coffee, looking at him over the rim of the cup. “Let’s not waste any more time playing games. I want money, Brad. Your brother may have walked, but you take a good look at me. Now put me in court in front of a jury. You think they’re gonna say, ‘Oh, she’s just a hooker, oh, she’s just a fucked-up piece of shit, an ex-cop who killed a kid.’ You take a good look at me, Brad, because I think I look pretty good. I look good enough to sway a jury, make them doubt all that shit about me, make them look at me, see the scar on the back of my head. They’ll listen real good when I say it with tears, and I can conjure up tears, Brad. I’ll have them running down my cheeks when I tell them what he did to me.”

  He couldn’t deal with her at all. It was as if she’d become two, even three people. This hard, sophisticated woman was not the same woman who had wept in his arms.

  He looked so confused that she felt suddenly guilty, wanting to comfort him. It was stupid. She lit a cigarette, blowing the smoke out high above her head. “I’ll have your brother charged with assault and then they’ll think again about the murders, same blow as the one to the back of my head. He wanted to kill me—he tried to kill me—and you may say in court that he was bitten by your dog, big Mr. Brad Thorburn, but wait till I tell them, weeping, holding my head in my hands, that when he struck me with the hammer I fought for my life. I bit him in the neck and I hung on until my teeth broke his skin, until he screamed like a stuck pig.… It was Steven who attacked me, Brad. Why don’t we stop all the bullshit and get down to just how much you’ll pay me to keep my mouth shut?”

  He looked at her with open hostility. She revolted him.

  “Okay, I’ll give you more. I had a tooth missing. They get a match on those marks on his neck, they’ll be able to verify it was my teeth—not your dog’s but mine.”

  He wouldn’t look at her.

  “You don’t like hearing me talk this way? Well, why don’t you get Steven down here? Why don’t the three of us discuss just how much it’ll take to buy me off, maybe send me to France to forget I was ever attacked.”

  “You’d do that?”

  “Sure. You wanted to know why I was here, well, now you do.” Brad was so obviously out of his depth she felt almost sorry for him, sorry to have to be so hard, but she had no option. In some ways she wanted him to throw her out, wanted him to be straight and honest because she liked him so much.

  “How much?” he said gruffly, his eyes lowered.

  She inhaled and let the smoke drift out slowly, then rested her chin on her hand. “A million. You can afford it. But I want it in cash, used notes.”

  He made a sound that was half laugh, half sob. “A million.”

  “And I guarantee that I’ll disappear, any charges will be dropped. Suddenly he didn’t look like your brother, suddenly I guess I was just mistaken. He’d never even have to go to court.”

  “I doubt if he will, anyway,” Brad snapped.

  “You want to bet? Because if they don’t press charges, then I will take out a citizen’s complaint. I’ll have every feminist group backing me up. You wouldn’t believe the stink I could create. You and your precious brother and your beloved mother would be hounded by the press. You won’t buy out of that, but you can buy me out now. Go talk to Steven. Is he home?”

  Brad made it to the doorway, his fists clenched. He wanted to grab her by her hair and throw her out bodily. He had never felt such loathing for another human being—let alone a woman.

  “Oh, I can see I got you real angry. Well, it’s up to you, I think I’m being fair and square. What’s a million to you, rich boy?” He moved so fast, one moment in the doorway, the next at her side. He slapped her face hard. She held her cheek. “That make you feel better, rich boy? It’s jus
t gone up another ten grand. Touch me again and, so help me God, I’ll walk out of here and start screaming my fucking head off. Now go talk to your sick pervert of a brother—better still, bring his ass down here. Let’s hear what he has to say.”

  He walked out. Lorraine was shaking all over—he had really hurt her. She rubbed her aching jaw and checked her face in her compact mirror. Her cheek was bright red and already getting swollen, but otherwise she looked better than she had in years. She snapped the compact shut, and moved cautiously, silently to the hall and looked up. Brad was nowhere in sight. She listened but could hear nothing, so she made her way into the empty drawing room.

  “He’s gone upstairs, I’m now in the drawing room.” She said it softly, tilting her head down to the tiny gold heart.

  Lorraine heard footsteps and leaned against the piano, as if she were looking over the framed photographs. “I’m in here, Brad.”

  He appeared in the doorway.

  “He’s agreed, a million, but he can’t get it for at least a couple of months.”

  Lorraine propped both elbows on the piano. “No deal, I can’t wait that long. I want it today. Why don’t you pay me? You got the dough, haven’t you?”

  “This has nothing to do with me. I wouldn’t pay you a cent.”

  “No, but you’d stand up in court and tell a jury that your dog bit him on the neck, your mother would say under oath that her son was with her all day and all night on the night he nearly killed me. You’re sick, you know that? Well, fuck you and fuck your brother. I’m getting out of here, I can make enough selling my story to the press.”

  Brad blocked the doorway. “He doesn’t have that amount of cash and neither do I. Everything’s tied up in property, trust funds. I can’t get that amount of money released in a day, it would be impossible.”

  “I don’t believe you and I want to talk to your brother. You’re a pain in the butt. Steven!”

  She heard footsteps; he was coming down the stairs. She saw Brad tense up, step back, and turn. She licked her lips nervously. She wanted to make sure they knew exactly what was happening outside in the surveillance vehicle.