Cold Blood

by Lynda La Plante

  Lorraine yawned, feeling her eyes droop with tiredness. Either way, she was convinced that the key to the disappearance of Anna Louise Caley was connected to her parents. The question was, which one? They had only two weeks to get that million, and two days were already gone.

  The faces became blurred; one moment Nick Bartello was calling out to her, then Lubrinski. She was trying to drag the body to safety from a hail of bullets . . . She was screaming, the body was heavy, bleeding and moaning. Lubrinski’s face became Nick Bartello’s, then Lubrinski’s again, and she was weeping, unaware she was crying out loud. It was her own cry that woke her: just before she came to, the man cradled in her arms had become Robert Caley. She sat up shaking, panting for breath, her body drenched in sweat, and it took her a moment to realize where she was. Then she flopped back on to her pillows, closing her eyes, but she couldn’t go back to sleep. She didn’t want the nightmare to return, didn’t want to go back to the memory of Jack Lubrinski dying in her arms. She felt cold, very cold.

  Nick Bartello was so like Lubrinski. He too always kept his notes in his back pocket, ripping pages out of her book to write in his thin, scrawled, unorthodox shorthand.

  Rosie had heard the screams. She had sat bolt upright in her bed listening then crept to her door. She eased it open and peeked into the living room. She saw Lorraine curled up like a little girl, hands clenched under her chin.

  ‘You all right, partner?’ she whispered.

  ‘Yep, just had a bad dream. Did I wake you?’

  ‘Nope, see you in the morning.’

  ‘Rosie, you always go for the same kind of guy?’

  Rosie leaned over the sofa and gently stroked Lorraine’s hair. ‘Listen, I been without one for so long, I’d go with anything offered, short or tall, fat or skinny, bald, blond or dark. Maybe not a red-head, never fancied red-haired guys.’

  Lorraine turned over and smiled up at Rosie. She had such a lovely, sweet smile, it was sad she so rarely used it. ‘I always liked dark-haired guys. You know, maybe that is what I need.’

  ‘What?’ Rosie looked worried.

  ‘A man.’

  Rosie laughed. ‘Thank Christ for that, I thought you were gonna say a drink. Mind you, in my experience they’re both as bad for you.’

  ‘Yeah, I guess so.’

  Rosie’s gentle hand stroking her head was calming and Lorraine was asleep before she knew it. She didn’t even feel Rosie carefully lay her duvet cover over her, didn’t know Rosie waited until she was asleep, watching in part-fascination as Lorraine’s long slender hands slowly uncurled from fists. It was moments like these that made it all right between them; only to Rosie did Lorraine show her frightening vulnerability. Whatever bad dreams made her scream in such a terrible way were never referred to. But they were now less frequent, like her sweet smiles.

  CHAPTER 7

  LORRAINE ARRIVED at the Caley home at two minutes to eleven, exactly two minutes before the appointment time which had been agreed through Rosie and Phyllis, but Mrs Caley was with her beautician and asked if Lorraine would be kind enough to wait. Lorraine was furious, and told Peters, the dour butler, that it was impossible for her to wait as she had other pressing business, and eventually Elizabeth agreed to see her despite the inconvenience, and she was led into the sun room.

  Elizabeth had a thick face-mask on, a soft towelling robe belted at the waist and a towel wrapped around her head. Two young women in white uniforms were hovering around her, one giving her a pedicure, the other a manicure. They were in the small massage room off the gymnasium built on to the rear of the house, with a polished pine sprung floor, weights, bicycles and a punchbag, and leather reclining chairs. Classical music drifted from hidden speakers and all the blinds were drawn on the arched windows, excluding the morning sunlight.

  ‘Mrs Page, this is Angela at my feet, and Barbara.’

  The two pretty, immaculately groomed girls smiled and continued working.

  ‘Pull up a chair, darling.’

  Lorraine drew a wicker basket chair forwards and sat down. ‘Thanks for seeing me, Mrs Caley.’

  Elizabeth was sipping her usual mint tea from a china cup placed on a small side table. ‘My dear, I am paying you, if you need to ask me about anything it would be rather stupid not to see you, would it not?’ She eased up into a sitting position and sipped her tea again. ‘You have any news for me?’

  ‘No, not yet, I’m sorry.’

  Barbara finished the last coat of blood-red varnish on Mrs Caley’s left hand and stood up. ‘I’m all through, Mrs Caley.’

  ‘Thank you, Barbara.’

  ‘I won’t be a moment, Mrs Caley, then I’ll take your mask off,’ said Angela, as she carefully massaged oil into the delicate feet.

  Lorraine did not want to ask any questions until the face-pack had been peeled, the skin cleaned with tonic lotion, then massaged and moisturized. It took a long time. Elizabeth kept her eyes closed throughout.

  Angela gave a series of small discreet smiles to Lorraine and then whispered, ‘She’s asleep.’

  Lorraine smiled understanding^ back when she would really have liked to get up and shake Elizabeth Caley awake. But she sat there like a fool as Angela crept around, packing up her vanity case. When she finished, she gave a silly little wave and crept out, closing the door silently.

  Elizabeth remained motionless, head tilted back on the head rest, seemingly deeply asleep. Lorraine stared at her first with irritation, then with a strange fascination: there wasn’t a line on the woman’s face or neck and, completely devoid of make-up, her skin was still flawless. Her beautiful hands rested on the white towel robe, and she was absolutely still.

  Lorraine suddenly felt panic-stricken – was she dead? She eased out of her chair and crept closer, sighing with relief when she could see her breathing, deep, slow, rhythmic breaths. Elizabeth Caley had a perfect face: cheekbones, nose, chin, lips – whether they were man-made or not was immaterial. Lorraine looked over the sleeping woman – could she really be ramming that amount of junk into herself? She could see no needle tracks, none on her slender marble-white arms, and none between her toes. Then she saw a small bruise and needle puncture on the right side of her neck, but only one. If Elizabeth Caley was injecting herself, then she must be very adept, possibly using her groin. But to move aside the towelling robe could wake her and God knows what the implications of that would be. Lorraine checked her watch and walked out, leaving the sleeping Mrs Caley to her Beethoven concerto.

  Peters was unsure, but Lorraine made it clear that as she had been hired by Mr and Mrs Caley to trace their daughter, it would be necessary to see Anna Louise’s room.

  ‘Perhaps you should ask Mr Caley for his permission,’ she said impatiently.

  ‘I’m afraid Mr Caley is dining out this evening.’

  ‘Well, it’s up to you, Peters, you are capable of making a decision, aren’t you?’

  It was no simple room but a vast suite consisting of a bedroom, lounge area and a bathroom bigger than Rosie’s entire apartment. It was like a showcase: unreal, unlived in, nothing out of place. The furnishings were soft shell-pinks and whites, and the king-sized bed had a row of white stuffed bears so pristine they were obviously for show rather than ever having been used as toys.

  Lorraine slowly looked around; no normal, full-blooded young girl could occupy this room and leave no trace of herself. She sat on the bed and let her eyes take in every corner, as if hoping the room itself would talk to her. She asked herself where she would put something if she wanted to hide it. Was there some kind of hidden safe?

  She moved through the suite, her feet buried in the soft thick oyster-pink pile of the carpet. She looked beneath the bed and found nothing, she searched behind the curtains, underneath the scatter-cushions and the bears: nothing. She went into the bathroom, looked inside the huge cabinet, the toilet cistern: nothing. She went back into the vast walk-in wardrobe and looked through the shelves: nothing, not even a faint smell of old perfume o
n any of the clothes. They seemed, like everything else, unused and unworn. She was just about to return to Mrs Caley when something caught her eye. All the shoe boxes had the contents stamped on cards – sandals, mules, loafers, brown, black, cream, etc. – apart from one; it had the same neat card, but without any description at all; it was blank.

  Lorraine eased the box out and discovered it was a designer-made shoe box, the cardboard covered in white silk. She took the lid off and smiled to herself. Inside she found little bundles of letters, birthday cards, mementos, a Valentine card. At last she was finding something interesting, something she could get a fix on. She opened the Valentine card.

  My one and. only Valentine. Love, Polar.

  Most of the other birthday and little gift cards were from Anna Louise’s various aunts and uncles, her mother and father, but five cards in all, accompanying floral deliveries, were from the same Polar guy. Lorraine sifted through the box, reading the letters. There were poems and a couple of invitations to college functions.

  She found nothing of interest until she had almost emptied the box – then she saw the condoms, held together with an elastic band. Anna Louise sure as hell had a neater-than-neat complex. Next came out several matchbooks, also tied together, not from any elegant restaurants but from the Viper Room, On the Rox, and the Snake Pit – all notorious nightclubs. But not until she drew out the pornographic magazines did she sit back, because they were not cheap material bought over the counter, but heavy hardcore porn.

  She flicked through them and found a folded note sellotaped to one of the centre-folds. Written on the note in tiny neat capital letters were the words,

  I LOVE YOU, I WANT TO FUCK YOU, I WANT YOU TO WANT ME, I WANT TO TAKE IT UP THE ASS, I WANT YOU TO LICK MY PUSSY UNTIL I COME AND I WANT YOUR DICK IN MY MOUTH. SMACK ME HARD, PLEASE, PLEASE HURT ME AND KISS ME BETTER.

  Lorraine slipped it into her pocket; it was the only thing she took out of the room. She had checked that the childish print was Anna Louise’s against one of her poems before slotting the ‘shoe box’ back into place.

  Peters was standing at the bottom of the stairs as she slowly made her way down.

  ‘It is a very beautiful room.’

  ‘Yes, it is. Mrs Caley is still sleeping and I really do not think I should wake her.’

  ‘I’ll come back tomorrow morning, say about nine.’

  ‘Mrs Caley does not rise until ten-thirty.’

  She hesitated. ‘I’ll be here at eleven. Goodnight.’

  Lorraine called Nick from the car.

  ‘Hi, how ya doing?’

  ‘You fancy going clubbing?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You know the club the Viper Room?’

  Nick laughed. ‘You’re a bit old, sweetheart, and far be it from me to say, not famous enough. You won’t get past the door.’

  ‘Wanna bet? Pick me up from Rosie’s about eleven-thirty.’

  Nick hesitated. ‘Shit, Lorraine, I ain’t no dancer, I got one and a half fuckin’ legs. What’s this about? You come across another chick screwing Robert Caley?’

  ‘Nope, I just got an insight into our sweet angel Anna Louise, some guy called Polar was givin’ it to her up the ass. See you later. And, Nick, have a bath, maybe a shave, huh?’

  Lorraine replaced the portable, well pleased. She figured she had now come up with something that no one else had even hinted at knowing. She was buzzing, and fully intended driving straight back to her apartment, and then on to an AA meeting before meeting Nick at the Viper Room. She had no intention of going to see Juda Salina again, but she pulled over as she drove along Doheny Drive, checked the time, and sat thinking for a moment. She couldn’t understand why she felt so drawn to follow up Juda Salina, but she was – maybe because Anna Louise had visited her, maybe because she knew intuitively that the woman knew a lot more about the missing girl than she was admitting. If she had the mystic connection she claimed with Anna Louise, maybe she might have some insight into who the character calling himself Polar was . . . And as Lorraine was virtually on her doorstep, why not?

  Lorraine pressed the intercom from the main apartment entrance. This time she was not about to play games trying to get in or out without permission. A bored voice asked who was calling.

  ‘My name is Lorraine Page, I need to speak with Mrs Salina.’

  ‘She’s sleepin’ right now.’

  ‘Then wake her up, this is important.’

  ‘What you say your name was?’

  The main door to the apartments opened and she stepped inside, heading directly down to the apartment along the narrow corridor.

  Juda slapped Raoul across the face, hard, and he pressed himself against the wall.

  ‘I dunno who she was, and you gotta a lot of freaks comin’ in, all jumpy and sayin’ it’s important. I thought she was a client.’

  She pushed at him again. ‘I said you check out my appointment book, you don’t let nobody in here unless /say so. Now you’ve gone and let this bitch in, well, I’m not seeing her.’

  ‘I said you was sleepin’ and she said to wake you.’

  ‘Fine, now you tell her I’m sick and not getting up for her or nobody else, you got it?’

  The door-bell rang and Juda swayed down to her bedroom, slamming the door shut. Raoul inched open the door, leaving it on the chain.

  ‘Hi, it’s Lorraine Page.’

  ‘She can’t see you, she’s sick.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Raoul, Ah’m her . . . Ah is her driver.’

  ‘Okay, Raoul, go tell Mrs Salina that unless she gives me ten minutes, I’m gonna go to the guy who runs these apartments and I’m gonna tell him that your aunt is runnin’ a business out of this exclusive apartment block. Now you go and make sure she understands that I am not moving away from this door.’

  Banished to the kitchen, the door firmly closed, Raoul put the kettle on. He was already wishing he hadn’t come to LA, but he couldn’t go back home, not for a while, and he had no other place to go. Living with his aunt was hideous; only if he sat in the box-like kitchen could he escape her bulk, but it was dark and claustrophobic, and Raoul didn’t like the dark, didn’t like what happened in the darkness.

  Juda lit an incense stick and wafted it for a moment. Lorraine sat in the same chair she had before.

  ‘I didn’t mean to be so pushy, Mrs Salina, but I really needed to ask you some questions.’

  ‘I’m sick, I got a migraine.’ She was wearing big dark glasses, another tent-like creation folded around her massive body, and a green turban. The long red talons wafted the heady incense perfume across the room, making Lorraine’s eyes water.

  ‘You never told me that Anna Louise Caley came to see you.’

  ‘I don’t recall you askin’.’

  ‘Did she come to you the day before she left for New Orleans?’

  Juda sighed. ‘I’ll check my book, but you know, I already told you I have to respect my clients’ confidence.’ She eased herself up and swayed slowly to the door, opening it. The apartment was so small she didn’t need to shout but she did. ‘Raoul, get me mah appointment book.’

  Raoul appeared at the door and passed a red leather book to his aunt. ‘Go get the car, Raoul, I need to be some place in fifteen minutes. Park outside, go on now, get your butt moving.’ She shut the door and flipped open the book.

  ‘Mrs Salina, I don’t want to see your appointment book, I want you to tell me if Anna Louise—’

  Juda shoved the book under Lorraine’s nose. ‘You see, Miss Page, you threaten me and tell me you’re gonna report me. Now, there it is in black and white, whole weeks before February fifteenth, and there is no Anna Louise listed, okay?’

  Lorraine stood up, flicking through the book, and saw that Juda did actually have an appointment that afternoon with a client called Eunice Bourdreaux. She closed the book. ‘Thank you. Why did Mrs Caley bring Anna Louise, were you reading her cards too?’

  ‘Sometimes she needed assist
ance, she used not to feel so good.’

  ‘I know why she didn’t feel so good, she was out of her head on drugs, so Anna Louise used to . . . what? Help her down the corridor?’

  Juda shrugged. Like her nephew, she seemed to enjoy slipping in and out of her Southern accent, sometimes accentuating it, other times not. Now she drawled, elongating her vowels.

  ‘Ah do not know about any drugs, Ah don’t know what you are trying to imply or why you are so interested. The little girl came, sat awhile and when Ahhh finished the session with her mother they left.’

  ‘Did you talk to Anna Louise, I mean, read her palm or tarot cards, for example?’

  ‘I may have, I don’t recall . . . mah client was Mrs Elizabeth Caley.’

  Lorraine sucked in her breath; the woman really annoyed her, with her sing-song voice and her huge dark glasses. She crossed her legs, one foot swinging with irritation.

  ‘You read tarot cards, you read palms, you feel people’s auras, and according to all those credentials you got pinned up on your walls, you also call yourself a medium . . . and you’re saying you cannot remember? Now, I personally don’t believe in all this, but that is just my opinion.’

  ‘You are entitled to your opinion, honey.’

  ‘I also know that you hand out a leaflet, where you state you assist with police enquiries. But the police told me you never helped solve any case. You just got a lot of publicity from it, and judging from the red appointment book, I’d say you need a whole lot more. It’s not exactly bulging with clients now, is it?’

  Juda smiled, her hands resting over her belly. ‘Right now I’m not doin’ so much business, in fact I might just well retire.’

  ‘Unless you don’t always note down your clients. So let me ask you again, did Anna Louise Caley ever come to see you alone?’

  Juda remained smiling, then shrugged her fat shoulders. ‘No, she did not. Like I said, she just came a few times with Mrs Caley.’

  ‘Who is the young man that let me in?’

  ‘Raoul? He’s my nephew, I am taking care of him, Miss Page, that’s all. Nothing illegal about that now, is there?’