Cold Blood

by Lynda La Plante

  ‘Mmm, that’s all. But you see, it isn’t quite as simple as that.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  He leaned forward, the candlelight illuminating his handsome features. ‘Let me try to explain something to you. Queen Marie is a very special part of our heritage. We are proud of her, we worship her, she brought hope and faith when there was none. We took great exception to this film you referred to. It was a betrayal of our faith, a typical Hollywood commercial vehicle that was a distortion of the facts. This film is dismissed, disowned, and no one in New Orleans, in the state of Louisiana, will acknowledge its existence.’

  ‘So it was about voodoo, this film?’

  He stared at her and then shook his head, smiling. ‘Let us say it was an attempt to portray our great queen and it was an insult to her memory. To begin with, they cast a white woman in the role: Elizabeth Seal may have black blood in her veins but she is ashamed to admit it, even though she has for many years been a generous benefactor to our cause.’ He gave a formal bow. ‘So if you will excuse me.’

  ‘Are you saying that Elizabeth Caley—’

  ‘Is a believer and a very generous and caring woman. Please pass on my condolences to her regarding her daughter. Good evening.’

  ‘Thank you very much,’ Rosie stuttered, still unsure if she had heard correctly. But she didn’t wait around. The drum-beats were in time with her own heart and it scared the hell out of her.

  Lorraine sat in the stifling, overheated office in the New Orleans police department. A female officer was taking down her statement. A wiry detective sergeant sat behind a cluttered desk, his chair creaking at every twist of his body.

  ‘So you do not know of any reason why Miss Tilda Brown would have taken this tragic course of action?’

  ‘No. As I have already said, I was there for no more than three quarters of an hour, going over, in fact, your previous enquiries, whether or not Anna Louise Caley visited her on the night she disappeared, routine questions . . .’

  ‘Did she seem perplexed or upset?’

  ‘Yes, she was Anna Louise’s best friend so she obviously got upset.’ Her brain was ticking over at ninety miles an hour, deciding not to mention the photograph, or the insinuations regarding Anna Louise and her father being lovers.

  ‘Well, it’s a tragedy, but who knows what goes on in a youngster’s mind?’ said the sergeant, his chair creaking ominously.

  ‘Yes, who knows?’ she repeated, and then hesitated. ‘Are you sure it was suicide? Did she leave a note?’

  He frowned. ‘We have no indication any other party was involved.’

  ‘So there was a note?’

  He nodded. ‘I am unable to disclose its contents as it was personal to her parents. She was their only child.’

  ‘But it was suicide?’

  ‘Yes, it was. She was wearing only a silk kimono and she had taken the belt, tied it to a curtain rail, stepped up on a small dressing-table stool and kicked it away. There were no visible signs of violence on her body other than the marks left by the belt. Her mother found her, and is under sedation. As I said, she was an only child.’

  Lorraine stopped at the hotel reception, said that although she was in she wanted no calls and did not want to be disturbed by anyone, that included her associates also staying at the hotel.

  There were more white envelopes with telephone messages posted beneath her door, but she stepped over them. She hadn’t even opened the ones she had taken with her. She felt drained and didn’t want to face anyone, talk to anyone, even Robert Caley, because she blamed herself for Tilda Brown’s death. She wanted to go over everything that she had said, everything Tilda Brown had said, because somewhere there would be a clue as to why a beautiful eighteen-year-old girl with everything to live for had gone to such tragic lengths. Maybe there was even a clue to Anna Louise Caley’s disappearance.

  CHAPTER 13

  NICK HAD sunk more than a few beers with Bill Rooney. They had traded notes, discussed the new findings, and Rosie joined them with her notes about the meeting at the museum. They’d continued to discuss their developments over supper together in a nearby bistro. All three felt that Robert Caley was no longer their main suspect and they should concentrate on the Juda Salina, drugs and voodoo connection, especially after hearing that Fryer Jones had actually been questioned by the police regarding Anna Louise Caley’s disappearance.

  It was after ten when they got back to the hotel. Rooney and Rosie were tired out but Nick was fully alert; he had always been a night owl. When they were told that Lorraine was in her room but had requested not to be disturbed, it irritated the hell out of Nick but the other two were thankful.

  Nick went up to his room, paced around, and drank a quarter of a bottle of vodka he had bought before he decided to go and see Lorraine. He tapped on her door and waited, then looked quickly up and down the empty corridor and took out his own room key. He’d been in more hotels than enough, and he wondered if, as was often the case, the security aspect of the keys left a lot to be desired. He was right – his key fitted, and he opened Lorraine’s door.

  He stood looking at her, slowly unscrewing the cap from the bottle and taking a long slug. She lay on her belly, one arm hanging over the side of the bed, the other tucked under her pillow, and the sheet thrown back to the base of her back. He padded closer, sitting on the bed opposite to drink her in, wanting to lie naked beside her more than anything he had ever known. Lorraine slept soundlessly, her lips slightly parted, and even in the dim light he could see the scars on her arm and back. With the alcohol, his inhibitions relaxed more and more, until he tucked the bottle down beside the bed and ran his palm gently along the curve of her spine: she stirred, and slowly turned to face him as she woke.

  ‘Nick?’ she murmured, still half-asleep.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said softly. She turned over, reaching unhurriedly for the sheet to cover her naked breasts.

  ‘How the hell did you get in?’

  He smiled. ‘Oh, I huffed and I puffed an’ I blew the door down.’

  ‘You’re drunk,’ she said, yawning.

  ‘Not yet, but I couldn’t stay away from you.’

  She sat up, drawing the sheet closer. ‘You’d better go, this is crazy, Nick.’

  ‘I know, but like I said – I couldn’t keep away.’

  Lorraine sighed: she didn’t need this, and it was beginning to irritate her. ‘I need to sleep, Nick.’

  He stood up, suddenly almost boyish. ‘I know, I’m sorry, I always was a dumb bastard, but . . .’

  She flopped back, looking up at him. ‘But what?’

  He hitched up his jeans, avoiding her eye.

  ‘But what, Nick?’

  He laughed softly. ‘Do you think I could have just one kiss, just one, and then I’m gone.’

  ‘You’re nuts, you know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Yep, but that’s all I want – well, it isn’t, I’d like a whole lot more, but maybe this isn’t the time for you and me to dive between the sheets.’

  ‘You’d better go,’ she said again, but she was smiling. She couldn’t help it, he was getting to her, she knew it, and maybe so did he.

  ‘Come here, Bartello, an’ the deal is . . .’

  ‘One kiss,’ he said, almost jumping across the bed to sit close to her and wrap her in his arms. She reached up and kissed him on the lips, and as the sheet fell away from her breasts he bent his head to kiss her nipple.

  ‘Nick, that’s enough.’

  He moaned, tracing her breast with his tongue, and then drew the sheet gently back over her.

  ‘Goodnight, princess. I love you.’

  She watched him limp to the door, half-turning for a last look at her, and then he was gone. Sometimes he was so like Jack Lubrinksi it made her want to weep, but he wasn’t Jack, he was Nick Bartello, and as she snuggled down she felt the warmth of his love, and although she didn’t want to admit it, it felt good.

  Back in his own room, Nick found it impossible now
to sleep. He was still restless by eleven, so decided he would go back to Fryer’s bar, see what else he could pick up. It was almost twelve when he passed through the silent lobby, where only the night porter was on duty. Like Rosie and Rooney, the other, mostly elderly guests had all flaked out, it seemed.

  Robert Caley sat with a bottle of Scotch. He had been drinking since around seven and had now almost drunk himself sober. The only woman he had cared about for so long he couldn’t remember not only didn’t return his calls but had betrayed him to such an extent he didn’t know whether he wanted to kill her or himself. Lloyd Dulay had been round like a man possessed, accusing him of fucking his daughter and telling him with pleasure that the Governor had told him privately that there was no question of Caley being awarded the licence to operate the casino. An official public announcement would be made shortly, but the Governor had indicated that he considered a broader distribution of ownership to be appropriate, and he, Lloyd, had had no hesitation in accepting the invitation to join their number which had been extended to him by Doubloons. Finally, Dulay said grimly, he figured that Caley had walked himself into one hell of a mess, and if he used one cent more of his daughter’s trust fund to bail himself out of it, he would find himself in court.

  ‘Who did you get all this crap from?’ Caley had snapped angrily.

  Dulay had hesitated, and then looked Caley straight in the face. ‘The investigator, Lorraine Page.’

  Caley was stunned. The accusations had been like blows to his heart. Why, he kept on asking himself, why was she doing it? How could she lie in his arms one night and the next day systematically try to destroy him, unless that had been her intention all along? He just couldn’t believe it. The booze helped numb the pain and the more drunk he became the more he convinced himself she wouldn’t have done this to him. But when call after call to her remained unanswered, he began to get angry at himself for being a sucker, angry that maybe all his adult life he had been just that, a sucker.

  The anger built when he received a cable saying that Elizabeth had discharged herself from the clinic and had ordered Edward to stand by to fly her to New Orleans. Caley called Phyllis in LA to be told that Lloyd Dulay had called to speak to Elizabeth. Phyllis had given him the clinic’s phone number.

  By twelve Caley was drunk, hurt and bewildered – and also facing bankruptcy. But he kept on calling Lorraine, needing to speak to her, to give her the chance of explaining to him, because he still could not believe that she would betray him. Nothing else mattered to him, not the money, not even Anna Louise, just that Lorraine, the woman he had fallen totally and stupidly in love with, had used him. Even when he received a call from Elizabeth, he felt numb. She sounded calm and distant, and angry. She refused to tell him why she had discharged herself, merely stated that she would not be coming to the hotel but going straight to their home in the Garden District.

  Caley knew that Dulay must have said something to her but he didn’t have the energy to argue on the phone, preferring to see her face to face. He did, however, ask if Lorraine Page had also contacted her at the clinic. Elizabeth seemed surprised. Then he heard the fear creep into her voice.

  ‘Has she found out something?’

  Caley sighed, dragging on a cigarette. ‘Maybe, but I don’t think it has anything to do with Anna Louise . . .’

  ‘What, then?’ Elizabeth asked, her voice wavering.

  ‘You’re the one with the secrets, Elizabeth. I’m just the dumb bastard that went along with everything.’

  There was a lengthy pause. ‘You think we should stop payments?’

  ‘We? We? You’re the one who instigated this investigation, Elizabeth, not me. You hired her, you fire her. She’s only on it for two weeks, isn’t she? Just stop the payments.’

  Again there was a long pause and he could hear her rapid breathing, knew she was suffering a panic attack, but this time he didn’t care, this time he wasn’t on hand to sort it all out, carry her to bed.

  ‘There was a bonus,’ she said softly.

  ‘What?’ he asked, lighting another cigarette from the stub of his last. ‘What are you talking about?’

  Again there was a pause and then he heard a deep intake of breath. ‘Don’t be angry at me, but I offered to pay a one million bonus if they found Anna Louise.’

  He closed his eyes. She was crying and he felt like weeping himself. ‘Well, that’s your business. I’ll see you at the house.’ He replaced the receiver before she could reply, then pressed for the desk and gave instructions he was not to be disturbed.

  Caley lay on the bed, inhaled deeply and let the smoke drift slowly from his lungs. One million bonus! No wonder she made love to him. A man who felt foolish and betrayed, a man who felt as inadequate as he now felt was dangerous, because if Lorraine Page had walked in at that moment he would have taken her by her throat and squeezed the life out of her.

  Lorraine was in a deep, dreamless, exhausted sleep. She had pushed away the sheet and lay curled up naked, her body glistening with perspiration. But nothing woke her, not the red blinking dot on her telephone as the calls came in, one at midnight, one at a quarter past, and the last at one-fifteen.

  Juda Salina woke, her massive body soaked in sweat. She could feel the horrific restriction on her throat and knew that what she had seen a few days before was now happening.

  ‘Raoul,’ she croaked, and then screamed out, ‘Raoul get in here’

  He stood bleary-eyed at her bedroom door. ‘Yes? What you want?’

  ‘Water, get me some water.’

  It was going down, it was happening, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. What she had seen, what she had felt, she would have to go through, and it made her angry that she was an open avenue for such pain. But that was her God-given power, and as much as she hated it, she had to give way and let it happen. It was the will of the spirits, she had been chosen, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

  Raoul passed her a glass of tepid water and she gulped it down, her fat hand shaking as she drained the glass. He hovered, waiting. ‘You sick?’

  She shook her head and lay back on her mound of pillows with a sigh. ‘No, I’m not sick, we’ll still be going.’

  ‘You want some more water?’

  ‘No, maybe just sit with me a while, talk to me.’

  He sat on the edge of her bed, his short cotton wrap tied tightly round his waist.

  ‘All be buzzin’ back home, starts any day now, and Ruby is all jumpy with nerves.’

  Juda sighed again. ‘You talk to your mama?’

  He nodded. ‘Sure, said she’d whacked Jesse and Willy with a broom, they been getting drugged up at Fryer’s bar, and Sugar May’s a handful, wants to be a singer so she hangs out there as well. It’s making Mama go crazy with worry.’

  Juda nodded her head. ‘Ruby’s got a beautiful face and a lovely tight body, but I don’t think she has the knowledge, that’s why I think she’s gonna be okay. But when we get home you sit your brothers down and you tell them they should keep well away from Fryer Jones. If they don’t, they’re gonna get hurt bad, and the same goes for Sugar May.’

  She closed her eyes and he chewed his fingernails, his foot tapping against one of the bed legs.

  ‘You don’t do those drugs anymore, do you, Raoul?’

  ‘No, Aunty Juda, not now I’m working for you.’

  ‘That’s a good boy, they no good for you. Stop that tapping on the bed, Raoul, gettin’ on my nerves. You’re a real jumpy boy lately so if you can’t sleep, make yourself some of that tea I get for Mrs Caley.’

  That’d take an elephant out,’ he said, still chewing his nails.

  ‘Well, I’ve had to increase the strength over the years . . .’

  He uncrossed his legs and then promptly recrossed them, his foot tapping into the dark night. He couldn’t stop it, his whole body was twitching, and he needed to get back to his pipe, had just been smoking up when she’d called out to him. If she’d looked close into his eye
s she would have seen for herself: Raoul had advanced; he was no longer rolling the ganja, he was using crack cocaine now, and most nights. As soon as he saw she was asleep he would slip out to the clubs, and be back before she woke, back before she knew he’d been out to score.

  Nick headed towards Fryer Jones’s bar, hands stuffed into his jeans pockets, cigarette dangling from his mouth. He heard the car backfire, like a gunshot, and he automatically ducked, turned and side-stepped to the wall. Crack, it backfired again, and then he heard the loud, screeching music as an old broken-down Camaro careered towards him.

  Willy was high, his brother Jesse hanging out of the window, yelling, ‘I said it was him, it’s him, Willyl Pull on over now.’

  Nick sighed with irritation, not in any way scared of the two stoned kids, but his hands were out of his pockets and he was looking up and down the road, making up his mind which way to go, to see if there was anyone who’d witness what he knew was going to go down.

  ‘Eh! You mother fucker, you?

  The old Camaro lurched to a standstill just a few yards ahead of Nick. He moved closer to the wall, fists clenched, ready to thrash them both, knowing that if it came to it he’d go for the .22 stashed in his boot.

  Willy crashed the gears into reverse and the Camaro screamed backwards. He hadn’t intended to mount the pavement, he just misjudged the kerb. Jesse was still hanging out of the passenger window, swearing and cursing at the guy who had beaten the hell out of them the previous night. Only tonight he was on his own, no old bastard Fryer Jones around. As Nick moved to one side to avoid being crunched by the car, his leg gave way. He stumbled and had just straightened up when Jesse came at him, screeching, doing a farcical kung fu sidekick. Nick grabbed his foot and twisted it, throwing Jesse off balance and making him fall on his hands and knees.

  ‘Get the shit, Willy, get him!’

  Willy ran at Nick, carrying a baseball bat, and swung wildly, striking him on his forearm as Nick protected his face. His leg buckled again, giving Jesse a few moments to get back on his feet. He grabbed the baseball bat from his brother and as the two of them closed in on him, Nick ducked and dived and took off, heading towards a lit-up bar. He ran as fast as he could, hampered by his bad leg, needing a moment to get his pistol out of his boot. But the kids were on his heels, Jesse swinging the baseball bat in a frenzy. He clipped Nick on the shoulder but he kept on running. Just before the safety of the bar he stumbled again. Willy moved in front of him and Nick saw the knife come out. He held up his hands, gasping for breath.