Cold Shoulder

by Lynda La Plante

  Jake and Rosie were still plying Lorraine with water and coffee. She had no hangover now but her confidence had gone. She was afraid to confront Bickerstaff, and Rosie knew it.

  The doorbell rang, and Lorraine jumped. Bickerstaff stood on the steps, his shirt sticking to him, his tie loosened; he knew he could lose his job over this latest development. Having been told about Lorraine’s condition he wanted to see her for himself, and was immediately relieved to see she was looking sharp, well dressed, and sober.

  “I was just on my way,” Lorraine said lamely.

  “Let’s move it. We’ve got them for twenty-four hours and time’s running out. You’d better have a fucking good reason for setting this scene up. I got Berillo and their lawyer at me and the entire department wondering what the hell is goin’ on and they aren’t the only ones.”

  Lorraine followed him down the stairs. She stepped into the back of the patrol car, he slammed the door, and got into the front.

  “They both said you were drunk.”

  “They poured a bottle of vodka down my throat, so I guess I was.”

  “You okay now?”

  “Just a bit shaky.”

  “You should have told me who you were going after, and more important why. You wanna fill me in before we get there?”

  Lorraine took a deep breath. “I wasn’t sure, I knew Nula was possibly involved. What I didn’t know was that Lyall was, too.”

  Ed started the engine. “I’ve given them both a tough grilling and they stuck to their story. They were in Vegas to get married, or whatever kind of ceremony you’d call it in their case. They got preachers there who’ll marry anybody. They also maintain they don’t know a thing about Holly’s or David Burrows’s murder, but they do know that Janklow’s admitted to killing them. They also said you were drunk when you visited them and that they told you if you needed them they’d fly back after they got hitched.”

  There was silence for a moment. Then Bickerstaff asked bluntly, “How do you want to work this?”

  Lorraine was desperate for a drink. She didn’t dare take out a cigarette as her hands were shaking so much. “Maybe talk to Lyall first, break him. I don’t think he killed anybody. He’s dominated by Nula, maybe even scared of her, so go for him first.”

  Bickerstaff was uneasy. His brain ticked like the small hand on his watch as he tried to assimilate what she had just said.

  “It’s something to do with Mrs. Thorburn’s jewelry,” she added. “I need to look at the lists Janklow made out and I want to see the morgue shot of Didi—David Burrows.”

  Lorraine followed Bickerstaff through the maze of sterile corridors, stopping off at his office. In just a matter of weeks, all evidence of poor old Bill Rooney had disappeared: his big creaking swivel chair had gone, the desk was devoid of anything but telephones. Bickerstaff gestured for her to sit down, reaching for a phone. She looked around, sniffed, and guessed they’d even given the office a quick paint job. No wonder Rooney had hated the new precinct, there was something so anonymous and characterless about the vast building.

  Bickerstaff dialed an internal number and asked for Lyall to be brought up from the cells and taken to one of the small interview rooms with a one-way mirror. He replaced the phone and looked at his watch.

  “We’ll give it five minutes, then go down.”

  “I wonder if we can keep him waiting for a few minutes. I need a few things typed up—is there a clerk I could use? One that works with a Dictaphone so we can cut down the time?”

  Bickerstaff looked puzzled and she smiled. “I want to make a statement!”

  Lorraine worked with a young clerk for fifteen minutes and then Bickerstaff returned, saying he couldn’t wait any longer.

  Lorraine nodded and licked her lips. Her mouth felt bone dry, and she felt worse as they took the elevator down to the basement level. Her stomach lurched as the elevator stopped. When Bickerstaff looked at her, she was very pale.

  “You okay?”

  “I’ll need a glass of water.”

  Bickerstaff nodded as the elevator doors opened. They passed through the security checkpoints and into the interview areas, stopping when they saw an officer standing by an open door. Bickerstaff tapped Lorraine’s arm.

  “In here, we’ll watch him being brought in.”

  “Okay, um, I need that glass of water.” She was tensing up, clasping and unclasping her hands, her mouth thick and dry, as if she had eaten sawdust.

  “You’ll have it.” He turned to the officer standing by the door.

  “Make sure there’s a pitcher of water for Ms. Page.”

  Lorraine stood in the small, barren viewing room and stared at the glass partition in the room beyond. Lyall was being ushered in, nervous and repeatedly asking for his lawyer. He sat with his hands splayed out on the small bare table, his face set, his mouth a rigid line. Watched by Lorraine and Bickerstaff, he stared around the small windowless room and then looked directly at the one-way glass.

  “You want to go in?” Bickerstaff asked softly.

  Lorraine could feel the tension disappearing. She coughed again, lightly clearing her throat, rereading the freshly typed pages. “Just let him sweat a few more minutes. I’ll need some kind of official-looking file, good photographs of the dead women, lot of documents, pens, notepad—and keep his lawyer out for as long as you can. And for chrissakes, is somebody getting me some water?”

  “They’ll be here right away, and so will the water.”

  Bickerstaff glanced at his watch, constantly monitoring the time as it ticked away. A female rookie officer appeared with a thick file, passing it to Bickerstaff, who then handed it over to Lorraine. She began checking down Janklow’s list of jewelry. More copies of files were brought in, the photographs of the murdered women, two dummy files and she began stacking them in order, making notes on a notepad. She looked through the glass partition at Lyall, watching his every move, the way he clenched and unclenched his hands and kept running a finger around the inside of his collar. They could see him crossing and uncrossing his legs, his shoes scuffing the floor. Ten minutes later Bickerstaff was still waiting, Lorraine was now staring at Lyall, the files stacked neatly in front of her. She patted her pockets to make sure she had the cigarettes and lighter; she was no longer shaking but was feeling a buzz beginning inside her. She was almost ready. An officer appeared with the water and two glasses at long last. She poured half a glass and gulped it down, then passed it back to the officer.

  “Okay, take it in, but you are not to say a word, even if he asks a question.”

  She watched him enter the room. They heard Lyall asking how long he was to be kept waiting but the officer didn’t even look at him.

  Lorraine nodded to Bickerstaff. “I’m ready.”

  As she left the room he murmured “Good luck,” but she didn’t turn back.

  When Lorraine walked in, Lyall covered his surprise fast, turning away as she sat in the chair opposite. She paid no attention to him but opened the dummy file first and her notebook, carefully laid out her pens, cigarettes, and lighter. Then she reached over to the pitcher and poured herself a glass of water.

  Lyall cleared his throat and tapped his foot. Bickerstaff waited. Watching as she sat down, she then turned to the officer on duty.

  “Could you please bring me an ashtray? Thank you.”

  Lorraine slowly got out the photographs of Holly and placed them in front of Lyall. The officer slipped the ashtray onto the table, hovering until she told him he could leave the room.

  The officer nodded and walked out.

  “Please look at the photographs, Craig.”

  He turned away.

  “She was only seventeen and she was beautiful, wasn’t she? Take a look at her pretty face.”

  He glanced at the ten-by-six photograph. Then Lorraine pointed to the morgue shots, which showed the injuries that virtually obliterated her face, broken nose, eye sockets filled with blood, and the gaping mouth with the front teeth smas
hed.

  “Someone hammered her face, broke her skull, her nose, even her teeth. What kind of person do you think would do this? What kind of madness did this?”

  Lyall wouldn’t look at the photographs, instead keeping his eyes on the wall.

  “I keep on telling them that you couldn’t have done it, but they won’t believe me, you know why? Because—”

  “I didn’t do that. I’m innocent.” His voice was high-pitched, bordering on hysterical.

  “I know you are, of course you are. All you were involved in was blackmail. I know that but—”

  “Janklow did it, he admitted it—so why don’t you piss off and leave me alone? I want my lawyer here.” He sounded less hesitant now, his voice lower and more steady.

  “Your lawyer will be here, Craig, but he’s just finalizing Nula’s release. She’s going, so I hope you’ve made arrangements for your share of any money you had, because she …”

  Bickerstaff covered his face. She was really pushing it.

  “I don’t believe you,” Lyall said sullenly.

  “Believe what? That she’s being released?” Lorraine flicked through the dummy documents. “This is her statement. You can read it if you like, but you won’t be released, Craig, because Nula has stated that you were involved in murdering this girl and David Burrows.”

  Lyall sneered, “I know you’re lying.”

  Lorraine pushed forward Didi’s photographs, the before and after shots. “Am I? That’s naïve of you, Craig. You know Nula killed Didi, even though she insists that you did it—that you drove her to their apartment, sat and drank tea, even shared her banana bread. Didi lived on that banana bread of hers, didn’t she? Anyway, according to Nula, the three of you started to argue because Didi had kept a ring, one of Mrs. Thorburn’s pieces. You’d all agreed to get rid of everything because the items could be traced, but Didi kept a ring. This one. Look at this picture, Craig—that’s the ring, isn’t it? On the third finger of her right hand.”

  Bickerstaff had no idea what Lorraine was talking about. What ring? Was it in the files? He turned to his backup. “Get someone to bring me the original files down here, will you? And fast.” His backup turned to the young rookie and repeated Bickerstaff’s request. She whispered back to him, very flustered, and the agent turned to Bickerstaff.

  “Um, what exact file would that be? She, uh, Ms. Page has got …”

  “Copies, I want the file on the Thorburn jewelry. Now get out, go on, the pair of you.”

  He turned his attention back to the interview room.

  Lyall’s fists were clenched so tight the knuckles stood out white. Lorraine placed the full-length morgue shot of Didi in front of him. All she was wearing was the ring.

  “Just nod if it is the ring, Craig. You don’t have to say anything. I’m only trying to help you, you must know that. I’m not even pressing charges about your part in trying to kill me.”

  “What are you?” he snapped.

  “I’m a private investigator, not even attached to the station or the FBI, but because I was there in San Francisco they’re allowing me to talk to you. You both tried to kill me and you almost succeeded, but what you didn’t know was that I was wired, so everything you said in that apartment has been recorded. That’s why you were both arrested in Las Vegas.”

  He still didn’t believe a word.

  “Nula knew that she had to frame somebody to get herself released and that was you, Craig, because as soon as she saw me with the FBI agents she knew the game was up. She’s been talking since they brought her in. Look at these statements. Don’t you think it’s strange your lawyer isn’t here?”

  Bickerstaff could feel sweat running down his back. He was relieved no one else was privy to what Lorraine was saying as none of it was fact. She was making it up as she went along, coming out with one lie after another. None of it was confirmed evidence, all of it was supposition, and he knew that what was going on in that small enclosed room was illegal.

  “I never killed anybody,” Lyall snapped, but his hands were shaking now.

  Lorraine sipped her water. “I know that, Craig, but let me read you a section of Nula’s statement …”

  Lyall was sweating even more than Bickerstaff, who couldn’t believe Lorraine’s audacity—Nula’s statement was what she’d just had the clerk type up for her. He watched the way she took her time sifting through the dummy documents, and continued to talk quietly and calmly. She then pulled a page toward her and started to read it aloud.

  “ ‘It started as an argument between the three of us. Didi wouldn’t give the ring back, she said she couldn’t get it off her finger so then Craig said he would cut it off and she started to get hysterical.’ ”

  “That’s not true,” he interjected. Lorraine held up her hand as if to tell him to be patient, then continued reading in the same steady voice.

  “ ‘Craig became more and more angry because Didi could get us all into trouble. We’d been selling Mrs. Thorburn’s jewelry for years, in bits and pieces. Art would find the buyer and we would just collect, but because of the killings it was dangerous for Didi to walk around showing off this big ring. It was a topaz with a row of diamonds around it and it was worth a lot of money.’ ”

  Lorraine had made it all up, unsure herself. All she knew, or had pieced together, was that according to Janklow’s lists and description the ring belonged to Mrs. Thorburn and it was possibly the ring Didi was wearing. She looked at Lyall. “I presume when she says Art she is referring to Art Mathews, is that correct?”

  “Why are you asking me these questions?”

  “I used to be a cop, now I’m freelance, insurance claims, that kind of thing. Before they charge you I want to get my facts straight and until your lawyer is available they can’t talk to you. There’s nothing illegal about it—there’s nobody else here, we’re not even being taped.”

  He was really sweating now. “You mean it’s true? They’re releasing Nula?”

  She nodded, tapped the dummy file. “She’s given her statement and all I want to do is get on to her for my clients and before she skips the country. I don’t care who did what to whom just so long as I do my job.”

  Lyall tried to fathom how she was sitting in front of him. He knew she’d been dead drunk. How in hell had she gotten herself together?

  Bickerstaff shook his head, even more impressed. Lorraine was giving to him, piece by piece, a section of the jigsaw puzzle, the stolen jewelry, the blackmail scam, but Lyall had not as yet implicated himself in any way.

  Lorraine asked, “You took the photographs of Janklow, didn’t you?”

  Lyall sighed. “Art did. Well, some of them, years ago when he had a studio in Santa Monica. Janklow had this thing about looking like his mother, you know, all dragged up. At first Art didn’t know who he was—he’d used some false name, they all do—and then he saw him at some Society dinner with his mother, years ago, and started milking him. That’s all I know. I swear to God, I honestly had nothing to do with it. I didn’t even know it was going on …” He trailed off. “I don’t know what to do,” he said suddenly, helplessly.

  “Maybe tell me the truth. Then I’ll tell you what I think, as a friend, you should do, and in return, you tell me about the whereabouts of the stolen jewelry. I’m not interested in the murders. If you did them with Nula that’s not my problem.”

  “I didn’t,” he said flatly. “I’m so confused, I don’t know who I can trust and I don’t believe a word you’re telling me.”

  Lorraine snapped the file closed. “If that’s the way you feel I’ll just go. All I wanted to do was get my insurance claims sorted out. There’s more than three million dollars’ worth of gems missing. Mrs. Thorburn’s son Brad asked me to look into it. They’ve let me talk to you because they aren’t quite ready to charge you.” Bickerstaff’s mouth was bone dry. She was fishing in dangerous waters again: actually naming people—that could get him into real trouble.

  “They can’t charge me with
anything,” Lyall said shrilly.

  Lorraine slapped her hand hard on the table and Lyall jumped. “Don’t be so fucking stupid. Nula’s named you as Holly and Didi’s killer. You’re crazy if you think they’re not going to lock you up for a very long time. Art Mathews is dead so she’s only got you to blame. Now, if you’re saying you didn’t have any part in those murders then you’d better have a good alibi, because she’s given them evidence to prove you killed them both. Because you were in Didi’s apartment, weren’t you? If you didn’t kill her then Nula did, right?”

  He sniffed. “I didn’t touch her.”

  “So who did?”

  “She did, of course. Nula.”

  Lorraine felt as if she had been punched. She’d expected him to say Mathews, not Nula.

  Bickerstaff muttered to himself, “Fuck me …”

  “You saw her?” Lorraine asked, keeping her voice steady.

  Lyall put his head in his hands. “Yes, she said she pushed Didi and she fell and hit her head against the coffee table. We couldn’t find any pulse and she began to panic. Well, she had reason to.”

  “Because of Mrs. Thorburn’s jewelry?”

  “Yes. And then I panicked, it was just all confused and terrible. We couldn’t get it off her finger, the ring … we couldn’t get it off.”

  He broke down and started to sob.

  “So who decided to make it look as if it was one of the hammer murders?”

  “She did. She said no one would believe it if they just found her, especially not after Holly.”

  He sobbed, pleading with her to believe it wasn’t him, he hadn’t done anything.

  Lorraine reached across the table and touched his hand. “Craig, what do you mean ‘after Holly’? What about Holly?”

  Lyall flapped his hands wildly. “Oh, Christ, this is terrible, it isn’t right, I know it.”

  “Come on, Craig, get it off your chest, tell me.”

  He steadied himself. “Holly had somehow found out about the blackmail—God knows how but she had. She’d been picked up by some john, taken back to his place, and—”