Cold Blood

by Lynda La Plante

  ‘What’s that?’ Lorraine asked.

  ‘I dunno, maybe a boutique, I didn’t ask.’

  ‘Okay, if you need me, I’ll have the mobile with me.’

  ‘Right, over and out.’

  Lorraine checked her watch, parking the rental on a meter on Rodeo Drive. She had over an hour to kill so she decided she’d have her hair trimmed and chose a salon at random, asking if they could do her hair straight away.

  ‘Okay, Lorraine, gonna make you a new woman.’

  Lorraine watched as Noël, the flamboyant Afro-American hairdresser, cut and snipped, looked at her with critical eyes, cut and snipped some more. She noticed on the shelf below the mirror some white tubes, the name Georgette Klinger printed down the side.

  ‘What is that stuff?’

  He looked up. ‘Oh, those are the real expensive treatments, they’ve a shop further up the Drive. Some of our customers,’ he made a sweeping gesture with his scissors, ‘swear by it.’

  At 2.45, armed with Noel’s card, she walked out. She still had fifteen minutes before she was to meet Phyllis so she walked down Rodeo until she got to the Georgette Klinger shop, peeked in, and then stepped back to admire herself in the window. The cut was good, tapered to the nape of her neck and long at the front. He’d made one side much longer, the scar side, and she liked the way it hid half her face when she leaned forward. In fact, she liked her new image. She was so busy admiring herself that she didn’t see Phyllis parking on the opposite side of the road, didn’t see her continue on to another parked car, a metallic green stretch Lincoln with black tinted windows, and get into the back seat.

  ‘Hi, I’m supposed to meet a friend, collecting something for Mrs Elizabeth Caley.’

  Lorraine’s confidence in her new look faltered slightly as the elegant French woman behind the counter swished back her waist-length blonde hair.

  ‘I am zo zorry, who?’

  ‘Mrs Elizabeth Caley.’

  ‘No, I am zo zorry but I am not expecteeng anyone, unless . . . one moment, pleeze.’ She checked a leather-bound book. Lorraine busied herself looking over the various Georgette Klinger serums and lotions. ‘No, Mrs Caley is waiting for some of our sun protection creams but they have not arrived yet, not until next week. I am zo zorry.’

  Lorraine asked for shampoo and conditioner and had a near heart attack when the bill was rung up. A second assistant walked in from the back of the shop, eager to help sell more products.

  ‘Theeze lady is a friend of Mrs Caley’s, she said she was expecting a delivery . . .’

  The second woman smiled at Lorraine. ‘I called two days ago to apologize for the delay. The sun creams won’t be here until the end of the month.’

  Lorraine collected her goods in their neat white plastic bag and left the shop. She checked her watch, worried she was going to be late for Phyllis.

  Juda’s heavy breathing and sweet perfume made Phyllis feel sick; she disliked the woman intensely. ‘I am afraid Mrs Caley’s husband has put his foot down, there is nothing I can do. Please do not call the house again. Mrs Caley said she would contact you at a later date.’

  ‘I see, well, it’s up to her. But you know she can’t make appointments and just keep cancelling like this. I make the time for her and I have a lot of clients.’

  Phyllis handed Juda an envelope. ‘I think this will suffice . . .’

  Juda took the envelope. ‘Please tell my dear Elizabeth not to give up hope. I still feel a strong presence of Anna Louise, tell her not to give up hope.’

  ‘I will.’

  Juda nodded, passing Phyllis a small square package, wrapped in brown paper. As Phyllis reached for the door, she said, ‘Perhaps Mr Caley is going away and Elizabeth can see me?’

  ‘I am sure Mrs Caley will call you. I must go . . .’

  Phyllis got out of the car. The driver half-turned towards the back seat; he was only about twenty, with deep olive skin, and he wore a white shirt open at the neck. He watched as Juda opened the envelope and began to count 100-dollar notes, a lot of them.

  ‘Where to now, Aunt Juda?’

  Juda glanced up, quickly stuffing the money into a soft leather purse. ‘Get me back home, Raoul, then go do a grocery shop. And keep your eyes to the front or you’ll be on the next bus.’

  He chuckled. ‘Nobody messes with you, huh?’

  She leaned back, staring out of the dark window. ‘You said it, sugar, an’ when they do, they get real sorry. Wait, stop a second, I just seen someone.’

  Lorraine hurried along Rodeo towards the Plaza. She saw Phyllis get out of the Lincoln, saw her waiting at the roadside, but by the time she had actually crossed the road, she was already ahead of Lorraine.

  Lorraine presumed the Lincoln was Mrs Caley’s, the chauffeur dropping Phyllis off for their meeting, so she didn’t give it a second glance. But Juda leaned forward in her seat as the nose of the Lincoln eased out from the parking bay. She was sure the blonde was the woman who had called on her, and by the look of it she was tailing Phyllis.

  ‘Lorraine,’ Juda said softly.

  ‘What? We stopping or moving on?’

  ‘Drive,’ Juda snapped.

  ‘A client?’ Raoul asked.

  ‘No, she’s no client that one, she’s a private investigator.’ She repeated the name Lorraine to herself and then clasped her fat sweating ringed hands together. Her chest heaved as her breath caught in her throat in loud rasps.

  ‘You got trouble?’ Raoul asked.

  ‘No, I not got trouble, but that lady is gonna have it, bad trouble.’

  He didn’t joke any more. When she said stuff like that, when her big, false-eyelashed eyes stared sightlessly as if she was seeing through and beyond him, his aunt scared him like his mama could . . . but then they were sisters. His hands clenched the wheel as he took another furtive look at Juda, then at the wing mirror, wondering if he would catch a glimpse of the woman his aunt had referred to. But Lorraine had disappeared.

  Lorraine caught her breath, joining Phyllis just as she sat down at one of the small white tables outside the coffee shop.

  ‘Sorry I’m a bit late but I wasn’t sure exactly which shop.’

  Lorraine smiled. ‘Would you like coffee?’

  ‘Yes, please, a cappuccino. No need to go to the counter, a waiter’ll bring it, it’s not self-service.’

  Phyllis spoke fast, nervously. Her eyes couldn’t fail to see Lorraine’s plastic bags from Georgette Klinger.

  ‘I don’t think you’ve been very truthful, Phyllis.’

  Two pink spots appeared on Phyllis’s cheeks and her mouth tightened. ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t imagine why you think that. You’ve had your hair cut.’

  ‘Yes, I had time to spare, and I also went to this store.’ She held up the bag of cosmetics and smiled.

  ‘Ah, yes, I was going to collect something for Mrs Caley.’

  ‘But it’s not in until the end of the month, I know.’

  ‘Yes, very irritating, waste of a journey. Still, I am free to see you, and you did want to see me, Rosie said, rather urgently.’

  A waiter hovered and Lorraine ordered the cappuccinos. Phyllis’s right foot tapped nervously against the chair.

  ‘But you knew they wouldn’t have Mrs Caley’s sun protection, they called you. Well, so the assistant told me.’

  ‘Good heavens, did you ask them? Well, really, I think that is all rather unnecessary.’

  ‘Maybe, but as I was there . . .’

  ‘If that is what you term being dishonest, then I am sorry. I was going to call in just to make sure it hadn’t arrived. I also have other things to collect, so I wasn’t lying, and I rather resent your implying that I have been. Mrs Caley suffers so much from the sun, she cannot sit out in it at all . . .’

  Tap tap went her foot, the table rocking a fraction, but she seemed unaware of it, constantly looking around, fiddling with her blouse collar. Lorraine let her stew for a while. The two pink spots on Phyllis’s cheeks faded before s
he spoke again.

  ‘Your hair is very nice, good cut, it’s all in the cut really, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, I just got lucky, I went to the salon further up the drive.’

  ‘St Julian’s?’ Phyllis asked. Her face reminded Lorraine of a bird’s, pecking, her thin nose sharp as she twisted her head and kept up the nervous kicking of the table. ‘My, you are taking your work to rather silly lengths.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘That’s Mrs Caley’s salon. Well, it was, they come to her now. But Anna Louise used it, she was always very particular about her hair.’

  ‘Really? Then it was just a coincidence, I walked in off the street. As I said, I got here early.’

  The coffee arrived, with tiny flaky pastries. Lorraine smiled her thanks to the waiter.

  ‘How long has Mrs Caley been a drug addict?’

  Phyllis’s pink spots returned with a vengeance. She stirred her coffee, her foot still tapping, and now her head twitched. ‘I have no idea what you are talking about.’

  ‘Yes, you do, and that’s why I wanted to see you.’

  ‘I really do not see that whatever medication Mrs Caley requires is any business of yours or Rosie’s.’

  ‘Medication? Come on, Phyllis, I know she’s on uppers, downers, cocaine, speed, you name it. Even her husband admitted—’

  ‘Mr Caley told you?’ Phyllis said, astonished.

  ‘Yes, but he implied they were simply pain-killers for an old injury and that Mrs Caley had, well, become dependent on them. But speed, cocaine, et cetera, are not what I would call pain-killers, and when I last saw her she seemed very hyper. She was also very disturbed.’

  Phyllis’s jaw was working overtime now. ‘I think in the terrible circumstances, Mrs Page, anyone would be disturbed. Her daughter is missing, she could obviously be dead . . .’

  ‘Yes, I know, Phyllis. That’s why I have to investigate every possible motive.’

  ‘You mean you suspect Mrs Caley?’

  ‘No, but I need to know who she was getting her drugs from because there may be a connection.’

  ‘There isn’t, I assure you.’

  ‘You assuring me, Phyllis, is not good enough, I’m afraid. And if you care about finding out the truth, then you’ll stop this silly game. You could be arrested for procuring drugs, you know that, don’t you? You see, I know how it used to work, Phyllis. The friendly, sympathetic doctor – he could be arrested for dealing. I know you collected from his surgery, just as I know you later dealt direct with a man called Gerry Fisher.’

  ‘Oh, God,’ Phyllis was shaking now. ‘Does Mr Caley know you are talking to me?’

  ‘No, this is a private discussion between you and me, it won’t go any further. But I need to know if anyone got nasty or made threats to Mrs Caley. A three thousand dollar a week habit is big money for some, it gets to be competitive, understand me? And I know you cut out the doctor at one point so he lost his share.’

  ‘It’s not three . . .’

  ‘Come on, Phyllis, we’re not here to worry about a few hundred dollars this way or that.’

  ‘It’s five . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sometimes a bit less, and obviously I would say a lot of that is for . . . confidentiality. I mean, if it was ever to get out, she is very famous, sits on a lot of charitable boards, and then of course there is Mr Caley to consider. If it was ever to be made public, it would be dreadful for him.’

  ‘He doesn’t use drugs of any kind?’

  ‘No, no, not at all, he’s very much against them. He has tried every means possible to persuade Elizabeth to stop. She’s been in so many clinics but no sooner is she released . . . it starts again, and with this tragedy it’s made things a lot worse. She’s in a stupor for most of the day, and then when Mr Caley comes home she starts taking anything that’ll wake her up, so then of course she can’t sleep and the spiral begins. It’s a wonder she hasn’t killed herself yet. She must have the constitution of a horse, the abuse her poor body takes, but she still manages to put on a good show when it is needed. Nobody would know, and that’s part of the problem. She’s very sly, very devious, and will swear on a Bible that she was clean if you asked . . .’

  Lorraine drained her cappuccino, Phyllis had hardly touched hers. She was not so agitated now, her hands folded in her lap.

  ‘How we’ve managed to keep it secret for so long I don’t know, I really don’t, but at least I haven’t got to meet that dreadful man.’

  ‘So who do you deal from now, Phyllis?’

  ‘Please, I don’t deal, Mrs Page. When Mrs Caley went to a rehabilitation centre, I told Mr Fisher his services were no longer required. Then it started again, I picked up her prescriptions from the surgery again, just something to help her sleep and relieve the anxiety. She’s not using the other things, that is the truth. He should be struck off but if he didn’t get what she wanted she would go elsewhere.’

  Lorraine nodded, really needing a cigarette. ‘So you never contacted any other street dealer, just the doctor?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So no one else knows, nobody is putting any pressure on her to use their goods?’

  ‘If they are, I don’t know about it.’

  ‘Mr Caley knows you are getting the stuff for her, does he?’

  Phyllis chewed her lips. ‘He knows about the painkillers.’

  ‘Do they sleep together?’

  Phyllis looked shocked. ‘I cannot discuss that, really.’

  ‘Do they share the same bedroom?’

  ‘They have different suites. What they do in their own time I really have no notion of. He is, to my mind, very caring and patient with her, and she can be extremely difficult, you know.’

  ‘What about Anna Louise?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  Lorraine sighed. ‘Phyllis, did Anna Louise know about her mother’s addiction to drugs?’

  Phyllis looked away. ‘Perhaps, well, it is hard not to if you live in the same house. Mrs Caley has extreme mood swings and sometimes she is quite irrational.’

  ‘Did they argue a lot?’

  Phyllis nodded.

  ‘Did Anna Louise use drugs?’

  ‘No, no, she hated them, she wouldn’t even smoke a cigarette, hardly ever drank. In fact, sometimes she seemed more like the mother than the child, which is why this is so awful for Mrs Caley.’

  Lorraine picked at her tiny pastry. ‘The day they left for New Orleans, what state was Mrs Caley in?’

  ‘She . . . she had taken something. She was very tense, always made the excuse she hated flying, that she needed something to calm down her nerves, but she was . . . I think the expression is “wired”. She kept on changing her mind about whether or not to go, but we got her packed and ready, and by the time Mr Caley returned, she was quite calm.’

  ‘How was Anna Louise?’

  ‘Well, she hated it when Mrs Caley got anxious, and I think at one point she said she didn’t want to go. But when Mr Caley came home they talked for a while, and then they all left.’

  ‘So the last time you spoke to Anna Louise was from the plane?’

  ‘Yes, that was the last time. She asked me to collect a dress, but you know this.’

  ‘And she sounded okay, not stressed out?’

  ‘She sounded relaxed and happy, as did Mrs Caley.’

  ‘So you also spoke to Mrs Caley?’

  ‘Yes, she was making sure I’d get the dress sent to the house and then I was to give it to the pilot who would return for it and take it on to New Orleans.’ Phyllis suddenly bowed her head. ‘It was a lovely dress, and . . . she never got to wear it. You think she’s dead, don’t you?’

  Lorraine signalled to the waiter. ‘I am not in any position to say that, not until I know more. Do you?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Do you think she’s dead, Phyllis?’

  She nodded, twisting her hands. ‘Yes, she would not do this to her mother, and especially not to her father, she
was a very thoughtful girl. You know, if she was going to be late she’d call home, and when she went away she would call her father two or three times a day.’

  Lorraine settled the bill for the cappuccinos; she could have bought a full meal in an Orange Grove coffee shop for what they charged. She collected her purchases and was rising to her feet, preparing to leave, when Phyllis spoke again.

  ‘It was very hard when she had friends to stay.’ She had sipped her cold cappuccino now and had a froth stain on her upper lip. ‘She was protective about Mrs Caley, afraid anyone would find out. You know, in this day and age it’s so difficult to trust people not to sell out to the tabloids. Poor Anna Louise was worried about how it would affect her mother, it seems so incongruous that she should be the one to make such headlines, in every paper too. And you know something extraordinary, sick really . . . after fifteen years, during which she could not get a phone call returned, well, not for serious work, maybe television but she would never do television parts, she’s suddenly been offered numerous scripts from some of the big studios. And one, it’s hard to believe, even hinted that they may make a film about Anna’s disappearance and they wanted to discuss Elizabeth playing herself. Disgusting, just disgusting. So it is understandable why she is so dependent, isn’t it? Even if it is very hard on me.’

  ‘Thank you for agreeing to see me and for being so honest, Phyllis. Obviously everything we have said was in confidence. And if there is anything, anything at all that you think may help me, will you call me? Or Rosie.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I will and . . . well, thank you for coffee.’

  Lorraine hurried out of the Plaza on to Rodeo, leaving Phyllis still sipping her cappuccino. She was relieved that Lorraine had only wanted to discuss the drug situation. She had been scared she knew more, and she could not, would not have talked about Juda Salina, she daren’t. She dabbed her lips with her napkin and looked around. Not until she saw Lorraine actually disappear from view did she get up and go into the café to use the public telephone. She gave a quick, furtive look around as she punched in the number, and waited.