Cold Blood

by Lynda La Plante

  ‘Don’t get up, please. I’m Phyllis Collins, Rosie’s friend. You must be Lorraine? If I may call you, er . . . Lorraine?’ She scurried across the room and shook Lorraine’s hand, and then acknowledged Rooney. ‘And you are William Rooney, Rosie told me all about you. Please don’t get up, Mrs Caley knows you are here and will be with you shortly.’

  Lorraine nodded her thanks. Rooney felt even more awkward in his chair but at least no longer felt the heat. On the contrary, the room was icy cold.

  ‘This has been a very distressing time,’ Phyllis said, hovering by the matching Louis XV chair opposite Rooney’s.

  ‘Will you be staying for—’ Lorraine couldn’t think how to describe the meeting.

  ‘No, no, Mrs Caley has asked me not to. I am really just her companion. She should be down any moment.’

  The moment stretched to three-quarters of an hour. They discussed Elizabeth Caley’s films and paintings, and Phyllis’s English background, but whenever Lorraine tried to steer the conversation towards the reason why they were there, Phyllis changed the subject. Lorraine had drunk two tall glasses of water and refused any further as she knew she would need the bathroom. Rooney had gulped his down and wished he hadn’t asked for carbonated water as he could feel the gas roaming around his belly. A clock chimed and all three looked at the large gold-embossed and glass-domed ormolu clock on the white mantel.

  ‘I presume these are photographs of Miss Caley?’ Lorraine asked, quietly indicating one of the ornate silver frames.

  Phyllis nodded, and was about to say something when they heard footsteps in the marble hall, the click-click of high heels, and then the doors were opened by the butler.

  ‘Mrs Elizabeth Caley.’

  Phyllis made the introductions and Lorraine rose to her feet, the cushions scattering around her. Rooney creaked out of his chair but Mrs Caley only fluttered her hand in his direction and he eased himself back down.

  Elizabeth Caley gently brushed Lorraine’s outstretched hand, just giving it a light feather touch, then smiled warmly at Rooney who blushed bright pink. She was, as one would picture a movie star of the late fifties or early sixties, perfectly made-up – her black hair was glossy and worn swept up from her beautiful, strong face, neatly clasped in a tortoiseshell comb. At a distance she could still be taken for a woman in her thirties, yet she was very much the wrong side of fifty, her many face-lifts giving her skin a tight, fragile falseness. Her creamy, low-cut blouse showed just enough cleavage of probably equally fake bosoms. She wore a straight, tight black skirt and pale stockings, which showed that her wondrous legs were still like a young woman’s, and high-heeled sandals which accentuated her slender ankles.

  Rooney was almost overcome. He could feel his heart thudding as her perfume seemed to wrap itself around him, a heavy magnolia that made one even more aware of her soft white skin. Elizabeth Caley was still a very stunning and sexy woman. She had full red lips, matching long red fingernails, and on her wedding finger a diamond and emerald ring the size of a small bird’s egg. She was also charming in her manner, almost deferential as she sat poised as if for flight on the edge of a small, hard-backed gilt chair. She gave only the slightest incline of her head to indicate that Phyllis should leave them alone. Phyllis silently closed the doors behind her.

  ‘My daughter.’ Mrs Caley gestured slowly towards a large colour photograph on a glass-topped corner table. Rooney and Lorraine both turned in the direction of the fluttering hand.

  Anna Louise Caley was as fair as her mother was dark. Similar wide eyes stared from the photograph but Elizabeth’s were a dark tawny brown while her daughter’s, judging from the photo, were light blue, and she had a faint smile on her sweet, childish lips, a secretive, shy smile.

  ‘She is very beautiful,’ Lorraine said softly.

  ‘Yes, she is.’ But Rooney couldn’t take his eyes off Mrs Caley, recalling all her films, one after another, and almost had to pinch himself to realize that he was sitting within a few feet of her.

  ‘I know you have already hired a number of private investigation agents,’ Lorraine began, as Mrs Caley stared vacantly ahead. ‘If we are to reopen the case—’

  ‘It is not closed,’ Mrs Caley said quietly.

  ‘I’m sorry, of course it isn’t, but if Page Investigations are also to begin making enquiries into your daughter’s whereabouts, then we will have to ask you a lot of questions. It may be very upsetting for you, but perhaps we will be able to uncover—’

  Mrs Caley bowed her head. ‘A clue?’

  ‘Yes. Often an individual or a company like my own, coming on to a case fresh, can uncover something that might have appeared inconsequential to others.’

  Mrs Caley nodded, her eyes studying the sparkling ring on her finger. ‘The reason I was interested in meeting you is that Phyllis explained to me that you had been involved in other similar cases.’

  Rooney frowned, giving Lorraine a questioning look. She ignored it, wondering just what Rosie had embroidered, and covered fast, keeping her voice low and encouraging.

  ‘Tracing missing persons can be a lengthy and costly process and we cannot give any guarantee of success. But that said, I am very confident that with my previous experience as a lieutenant with the Pasadena Police, and with the assistance of my partner, Mr Rooney, ex-captain, we will promise you . . .’

  ‘No stone will be left unturned?’ Elizabeth Caley’s wide eyes looked from Lorraine to Rooney and then returned to her ring. She laughed softly. ‘They have all promised me that, dear, and quite honestly I am not interested in the cost or how long it will take. I want my daughter found because every day is like a nightmare, every phone call a hope, and every night . . .’ She caught her breath and swallowed, taking a moment to gather her composure. If this was any indication of her acting prowess, her films must have been good. ‘I have never given up hope, even though it has been implied that after so long . . .’ Another intake of breath and her delicate hand stroked her milky-white neck. ‘Do you have any children, Mrs Page?’

  ‘Yes, I have, two daughters,’ Lorraine said softly.

  ‘Well then, you must be able to understand what it means to a mother. Every night I mark in my diary, another day passed, another night ahead without my darling, and I pray, I have prayed so much. And I have wept so much that I don’t think I have any more tears to shed.’

  Again came another slow, flowing hand gesture in the direction of her daughter’s photograph. ‘I stare at her face, saying over and over, where are you? Oh, my darling, dearest child, where are you?’

  Rooney was almost in tears. Lorraine looked suitably moved but was still of the mind that Mrs Caley was talking, or acting, as if she was in one of her movies. She thought this all the more when Elizabeth Caley sprang to her feet and began pacing up and down, her emotion spilling out as she moved soundlessly back and forth on the whiter-than-white carpet, her voice lifting slightly.

  ‘It was February fifteenth. We went to New Orleans, we always go for Mardi Gras. She didn’t come down for dinner, but we had only arrived a few hours earlier and we just thought she wasn’t hungry.’

  Elizabeth Caley began to move towards one of the gilt and glass-topped tables displaying one photograph after another of her pretty daughter – as a debutante at one of the Mardi Gras balls, at a special surprise birthday, at a film premiere. Elizabeth seemed almost to be dancing in front of them, then she traced one small gilt frame with her finger, tears brimming and then spilling down her perfectly made-up cheeks.

  ‘I will not give up, I cannot give up.’

  Rooney could have fallen to his knees, a fan for life. Lorraine simply wished that Mrs Caley would stop the dramatics and talk straight so that they could discuss how long they would be given to work on the case. Throughout Mrs Caley’s monologue, she had been calculating how much she could charge to keep three of them on the case, including travel expenses and meals, and as they would obviously have to go to New Orleans, they would have hotel expenses, car hir
e, etc.

  Lorraine coughed to draw Mrs Caley’s attention. ‘Mrs Caley, if you wish Page Investigations to begin work, can we discuss finances for a moment . . .?’

  Mrs Caley spun round on her high heels to face Lorraine. ‘Of course I want you to begin, why do you think I’ve asked you to my home? I want to hire you, I want you to find my daughter, haven’t I made that abundantly clear?’

  Lorraine licked her lips. ‘Good, but we must discuss what contracts you have with other private investigation agencies, as they are a little territorial and—’

  ‘They’ve done nothing! It’s been eleven months, eleven months, una I don’t cure who we’ve hired. Not one of them has found a single clue as to where she is.’ She was giving an Oscar-winning performance, her voice rising as she became more and more emotional. She picked up one of her daughter’s photographs and clasped it to her chest. ‘She is a sweet, innocent girl, she could not just disappear, she must be somewhere. Someone is doing this to me, it’s breaking my heart.’

  Lorraine looked at the bedazzled Rooney, wishing he’d help her. She could tell that Mrs Caley was building to a climax and could well collapse on them. Then they’d have to return, maybe even go through this a number of times before they had an agreement on paper. Then, to her consternation, the doors banged open.

  ‘Elizabeth, Elizubeth!’

  Mrs Caley turned towards the door, holding out the photograph of her daughter in a theatrically helpless gesture.

  ‘She is alive, Robert, I know it, she is alive. I won’t give up, I won’t give up.’

  Robert Caley didn’t even glance at Lorraine as he gestured to Phyllis, hovering behind him in the doorway. ‘Phyllis, help Elizabeth to her room, please, straight away.’

  ‘No, Robert, I won’t go. I need to talk to these people, they will trace Anna Louise.’

  Robert Caley was like a movie star himself. His face was etched with deep lines, made more prominent by his suntan, and his thick black hair, with two wings of grey at the temples, gave him an austere quality that matched the steel of his controlled voice and piercing dark blue eyes.

  ‘Please, Elizabeth, go to your room. It is pointless to upset yourself like this, to put yourself through this over and over again.’

  Elizabeth placed the photograph back in its position like a naughty schoolgirl. She pouted petulantly. ‘They are highly qualified, darling. At least give them a chance . . . give Anna Louise a chance.’

  Robert Caley studied the carpet for a moment, and Lorraine detected that he seemed to be desperately trying to control his anger. Then he looked up and stared coldly at her.

  ‘My wife, as you can see, Mrs Page, is distraught. I think it is better if you leave. At the moment we have more than enough investigation agencies, along with the police, attempting to trace my daughter without needing to hire anyone else. This is a waste of your time.’

  Elizabeth Caley confronted her husband, her hands clenched tightly. ‘I want them to begin as of this afternoon, Robert, I insist. Mrs Page has daughters of her own, she knows what it is like for a mother, and she has come very highly recommended . . .’

  ‘Really? I think all Mrs Page is interested in is ripping you off, Elizabeth. This has got to stop. I will not have you bringing these people into the house.’

  Lorraine stepped forward. ‘Excuse me, Mr Caley.’

  He turned that cold, arrogant stare on Lorraine again. ‘No, you excuse me, Mrs Page, because I don’t know what cock-and-bull story you have fed my wife but I do not think you are in any way qualified to assist us in tracing my daughter. We have had enough of journalists, enough of blood-sucking people calling themselves private investigators, people who care only for what they can milk out of us, people who are no better equipped to find Anna Louise than . . .’

  ‘Excuse me,’ Lorraine blurted out again.

  ‘I will not allow my wife to be subjected to yet another—’

  Lorraine interrupted him. ‘Yet another what, Mr Caley?’

  He took a deep breath, looked away for a moment and then turned back to Lorraine. ‘Sham, Mrs Page, and I think you are perhaps the lowest we have sunk to date. You see, I know all about your agency, if you can call it that, just as I am aware of your record for drunkenness. You were thrown out of the police for shooting a young and, I believe, innocent boy. You are an alcoholic with no experience whatsoever in private investigation work. And as for being a mother! You have had no contact with your daughters since you were divorced. Perhaps the agencies hired to trace my daughter have been incapable of gaining results but they were very swift and very informative regarding you. I would therefore be grateful if you would leave my house and not come back.’

  Lorraine felt the thick-pile carpet rising up and choking her. She turned and picked up her purse. Rooney, who had sat like a silent Buddha, now stepped forward, his face flushed red.

  ‘Mr Caley, I am Bill Rooney, and before you start in on me, if you have also done some background work on me, then you’ll know I recently retired from the police. I have started working with Mrs Page . . .’

  ‘Just leave, please.’

  ‘Oh, I’ll leave, Mr Caley, but not before I set a few things straight. Mrs Page may have been an alcoholic but she isn’t now. And whatever she did, she’s paid hard for it. But what she’s doing now is what she was good at, and I should know because I worked alongside her for long enough. She’s got more street knowledge, more intuition than any of the officers I’ve ever worked with, and she’s better than any hired dick you could find in or outside LA. If your daughter’s alive, she’ll find her, and without ripping you or your wife off, because first and foremost Lorraine Page is a professional. Thanks for the iced water.’

  Rooney’s face was even redder as he turned with his hand out for Lorraine. She had never needed it so badly since she’d quit drinking. They would have both walked out there and then had not Elizabeth Caley caught hold of Lorraine’s arm.

  ‘No, please don’t leave, please . . .’ She was not acting now, she was for real, and up close her youth had flown, leaving her face etched with pain. ‘Find my baby for me, please. Dear God, I beg you to help me, please.’

  Rooney tried to ease Lorraine out of the room, as Mrs Caley turned pleadingly to her husband.

  ‘Don’t send them away, you can’t send them away. Don’t let me give up hope, don’t do this to me, please.’

  Robert Caley deflated, refusing to look at any one of them. He had lost all his anger and now he sounded simply tired out. ‘You’re hired for two weeks, all expenses paid, whatever you need, whatever your charges. If you wish to talk with me, I can be contacted at my office during office hours. Phyllis, please take Elizabeth for a rest and then draw up whatever contract is required.’ He walked away.

  Elizabeth Caley sighed, leaning against the door. ‘I’m too tired to talk now, you’ll have to come back. Tomorrow maybe, Phyllis will organize everything.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Caley,’ Lorraine said.

  Elizabeth beckoned to her. She was not in any way out of control now, but almost steely. ‘I want a private word with you. Will you assist me to my room?’

  Rooney watched them leave before he smiled at Phyllis. She closed the doors with an abruptness that made it obvious she was angry that Rosie had misled her. She turned her small, frosty eyes to Rooney.

  ‘Well, what payments do you require, Mr Rooney?’

  ‘There are three of us who will be working on this. Thousand a week.’

  Phyllis nodded, moving further into the room. ‘Three thousand a week and expenses, which I presume will be at the same rate the other agencies have requested?’

  Rooney’s jaw dropped a fraction; he’d sort of calculated the thousand dollars was for the three of them.

  ‘I will need receipts of all your expenses,’ Phyllis said curtly as she flipped open a small note-book.

  Rooney beamed. ‘You’ll have them, Miss Collins.’

  He couldn’t believe their luck.

&nb
sp; Lorraine did not get in to see Elizabeth Caley’s bedroom. As they reached the door to her suite, she drew Lorraine closer.

  ‘Can you find her?’

  ‘I will most certainly try, Mrs Caley.’

  She nodded, chewing her lip, and then leaned closer still. ‘I will give you an incentive. If you find her, you will get a one-million-dollar bonus.’

  Lorraine blinked. ‘One million.’

  ‘Yes. I want my daughter traced, Mrs Page.’

  Lorraine turned to look down the wide staircase and then after a moment, keeping her voice as steady as she could, she repeated, ‘One million?’

  Mrs Caley nodded.

  Lorraine eased her weight from one foot to the other. Her voice was soft, as low as Mrs Caley’s, but she didn’t hesitate. ‘Dead or alive, Mrs Caley?’

  ‘If you trace her, dead or alive, Mrs Page, you will receive one million dollars.’

  ‘Can I have that in writing?’

  The soft white hand with the blood-red nails gripped hold of Lorraine’s in a firm, fast handshake, and she once again got the impression that Elizabeth Caley was like two people; publicly, she was the showcase movie star, the consummate actress, but beneath the show there was something else, something she had not picked up on earlier – and it wasn’t the underlying steely quality she’d expected. Elizabeth Caley was very, very frightened. Up close, the pupils of her slanting brown eyes were over-large, and Lorraine knew she was using drugs of some kind.

  Not until they had driven out of the electronic gates did Rooney let out a whistle. ‘One grand each for two weeks, all expenses on top. Plane tickets, hotels, we got total carte blanche, no expenses spared. Rosie was fucking right, this is a big cash deal all right.’

  Lorraine gave him a sidelong look and then stared ahead. ‘There’s a bonus,’ she said quietly. He looked puzzled. ‘If we find Anna Louise we get one million dollars.’