Fryer looked in astonishment as the big motherfuckers charged in from the back yard and through the front door. Even Zak gaped. Nobody had bust them for years, they paid a high price for it not to happen, so nobody was sure what the hell was going down. Glasses were shattered, mirrors cascaded into jagged pieces as the thugs came in, screaming and shouting for everyone to back up against the wall. It was a raid. Customers raised their hands in terror as they were thrown up against the wall, others ran for cover under the old bar tables.
Fryer turned on his bar stool and yelled in fury, ‘What you motherfuckers doing, for chrissakes?’
Batons clipped heads, boots kicked groins, as everyone inside the bar tried to disappear into the walls. The more the cops yelled and hit out, the more Fryer Jones screamed abuse. The cops were laying into the customers, asking between fists and batons what their names were. One of the thick-set cops had virtually thrown the Corbello kids on to the floor and they lay curled up as the boots went in, screaming and shouting they hadn’t done anything.
Raoul was hauled by his hair from his bar stool next to Fryer, but not one cop touched Fryer himself.
‘You better have a fucking good reason for this, you motherfuckers,’ Fryer screamed.
Lorraine couldn’t wait any longer and walked into the bar. It was mayhem, screaming and shouting, people huddled in corners, crying and hunched up as the boots and batons still went in.
Lorraine shouted, ‘This is for Nick Bartello, Nick Bartello!’
Fryer squinted in the darkness down to the end of the bar.
‘His throat was cut down an alley, one block from here.’
Fryer shook his head and pointed. ‘You are a crazy bitch, you know that?’
As they spoke, cops were hurling the drugs taken from the drawer beside the till on to the bar. Two more moved up the narrow back staircase to Fryer’s private quarters.
Rooney walked in as Fryer Jones spat a spray of his beer over Lorraine. ‘You gonna pay for this, you fucking whore. Nobody come in here and takes over my bar. Nobody!’
‘You want to bet, Mr Jones? I wouldn’t bother, we already took it over.’
Rooney edged closer and said to one of the cops kicking the shit out of a guy caught between the tables, ‘I’m with her, I’m with Mrs Page.’
Lorraine turned, and seeing Rooney she gave a quick grin before turning back to Fryer.
‘We will all walk out, Fryer, when you give us the names of whoever cut Nick Bartello’s throat. That’s all we want, all I want, no charges, you all hear me? No charges, but we want who cut my friend’s throat.’
One of the cops searching upstairs appeared in the doorway behind the bar. ‘Mrs Page?’
Lorraine turned to the cop, who gestured for her to come closer, and chucked Nick Bartello’s wallet on to the bar. Fryer looked, and then pursed his lips, swearing. He had fucked up, he had meant to destroy it. But he kept smiling. ‘This is gonna cost, you motherfuckers, this is gonna cost.’
Lorraine moved closer to him, and then reached out. He had on the necklace or a similar necklace to the one Nick had been wearing.
‘This is yours, Mr Jones, is it?’
Fryer looked at her, and laughed. ‘Sure is, honey, we make ’em for the museum, how many you want, huh? You fuckers are not even here on a warrant, are you?’
The second cop walked in from the backstairs. He held up Nick Bartello’s licence in a small plastic bag and tossed it down.
Harper looked over the wallet and the licence, then at Lorraine. ‘These your friend’s?’
Lorraine fingered the empty wallet, looked at the licence, and said, ‘Yes, these belonged to Nick Bartello.’
Harper held his hand up. ‘Okay, back off everyone, come on, quieten down in here. Quiet!’
He turned to face Fryer Jones and took out his handcuffs. ‘Okay, Fryer, you overstepped yourself, this is one you won’t wriggle out of.’
‘I never saw them before in my life!’ Fryer said calmly.
Harper clipped on the handcuffs, roughly pulling Fryer’s hands behind his back.
‘Well, they was under your pillow, Fryer, and they may very well have your prints all over them. So let’s walk out nice and quiet, shall we?’
Fryer Jones bowed his head. He could see Raoul shaking in one corner, his brothers huddled under a table, and Sugar May crying with the hookers. Fryer eased off his stool, his hands cuffed behind him. He was pushed past Lorraine, and he stared at her.
‘You got the devil in you, lady.’
Fryer Jones leaned back in the patrol car and closed his eyes. He could never name his own kin, maybe one of them even his own blood, so he sighed, and asked if they could bring him his trombone. It made Harper turn and stare, because he had reckoned in all honesty that Fryer had nothing to do with this Nick Bartello. He leaned out of the window and shouted to one of his pals, ‘Get this old buzzard his fucking trombone.’
Lorraine sat in the back of François’s car and wept. Rooney one side and Rosie the other. They just held her tightly between them, she didn’t need to say anything. In fact, they all felt tearful as François asked if they still wanted to make it to the airport.
They got there with five minutes to spare, bags and baggage intact.
Fryer Jones played his trombone in his cell until other prisoners asked for him to shut up, as they couldn’t sleep. He sat there in silence, staring up at the small window of his cell. He wouldn’t name the Corbello boys or Ruby or any of them. He guessed it was time he took responsibility, time he paid his dues, so he admitted to killing Nick Bartello. He didn’t ask to talk to a lawyer, the only call he made was to Juda Salina. She came, as he knew she would, all done up in her turban and false eye-lashes.
‘Elizabeth Caley’s dead.’
‘Uh huh.’
‘Anna Louise Caley’s body was found.’
‘Uh huh.’
She sighed, not meeting his eyes. ‘Ruby is ready to be crowned, no guilt, no remorse. That girl worries me – she’d better straighten out.’
‘Uh huh.’
‘Raoul’s back, with only half my savings.’
‘And I’m goin’ away for a murder I did not commit.’ He gripped the bars with his gnarled hand. ‘I’m doing it for you, Juda. You take over my bar, you keep those two young ones in line.’
She gently stroked his hand. ‘Why are you doing this, Fryer?’
He gave her that gappy gold-toothed smile. ‘Because once you were young and beautiful like Ruby. Nothing stays young or beautiful, Juda, only memories. Take care now.’
Juda wanted to cry, but she just walked away. She could hear him playing his trombone a long time after she left. She could still hear it in her small bedroom at Edith’s. Life played tricks on you like that, hearing things that weren’t there, seeing things that were about to happen. Life was full of strange things, especially in New Orleans and always just before Mardi Gras.
Rosie stood with her bags all packed, and two big boxed crates. Her apartment seemed suddenly bare.
‘Well, I got everything,’ she said sadly. She looked around again – stripped of her things, the place looked bigger. ‘If you are staying on, Lorraine, you should get a better kitchen put in.’
Lorraine smiled. ‘I intend to, Rosie, I’ll get the place done up. It’s a waste of money moving somewhere else, this will do me fine.’
Rosie chewed her lip. ‘You can always call me if you need someone in the office, you know, part-time. I’ll always be willing.’
‘And able. Yeah, I know, you told me four, no, five times. Now, the cheques, you got the two cheques?’
‘I certainly have,’ Rosie said, patting her purse.
Lorraine smiled. ‘You know, I never thought I’d be writing out cheques for that amount, and from my own bank account. We’re rich, Rosie, we all got over a quarter of a million, so, you feeling happy?’
Rosie nodded. ‘Well, not quite up to the brim, but I guess we’ll make it work. I’m gonna give it a try, and you
try to keep up the meetings, won’t you? Keep on going, because I’d hate to see you blow this chance, Lorraine.’
‘Rosie, I know I almost lost it, but I promise you I’m off the stuff now, and if it makes you feel any better, I give you my word that I’ll keep going to the meetings. I’ll contact Jake to be my sponsor, how’s that?’
Rosie kissed her, and then hugged her tightly.’Oh, hell, I’m gonna miss you.’
Before Rosie could become tearful, Rooney arrived and tooted from the street. Rosie began to take her bags and boxes and cases down, and he appeared, moaning as he helped her carry all her bits and pieces.
‘I don’t know if this is gonna work, Lorraine, but at least . . .’
She laughed.’You’ll give it a try? And you know there will always be a job open for you at Page Investigations, I’ve told Rosie that too. Office will be open Monday morning – you got the number?’
‘Right, thanks.’
Eventually it came to the real goodbyes; it was a bit awkward. They didn’t really know what to say to each other because for all the offers of work in the future, Lorraine knew it was the end of their partnership. Neither Rosie nor Rooney had actually said it, but she just knew. They all knew.
‘We might sort of go on an extended honeymoon,’ he muttered.
‘Great, you do that, but I will be invited to the wedding, won’t I?’
‘Hell, don’t be stupid.’
There was nothing left to say, but it was the last moment and they hung on to it. They seemed not quite to know how to walk out of the door, so Lorraine pushed them through it, saying that when they were settled they would all have a big celebration dinner, but until then they should just piss off and leave her alone.
Rosie started to cry, so Rooney told her to go on ahead, then turned back to Lorraine, half closing the door.
‘You know, if you need me for anything I’ll always be there for you, any time you feel, you know . . . if this drinking problem rears its head. You call me, call us, and we’ll be right with you.’
Lorraine reached out and held him close.’Bill, I’m okay, but I appreciate what you just said.’
He stood holding her for a few moments more, then turned abruptly and walked out, the screen door banging shut behind him.
Lorraine slumped down on the sofa bed, which she would now no longer have to sleep on. She would have Rosie’s room all to herself, and she suddenly felt good, looking around the room. Her room. Her apartment. She would start to redecorate the next day, and lay on the old sofa thinking about colour schemes, and drapes, and then she sat up sharpish, swearing. She’d forgotten him, in all the excitement of returning home and banking the million dollars, she’d forgotten him, forgotten her promise.
The kennels were just closing when she arrived. She’d made the promise, and she wouldn’t go back on it, but she began to doubt it when the kennelmaid started saying that he’d been a packet of trouble from the day he’d been left. He had attacked every one of the helpers and every canine they had in residence, and was now kept in solitary confinement.
Tiger didn’t greet her, he sat at the far end of his wire meshing, his blue eyes beady and angry.
‘Hi, kiddo, it’s just me, I’m afraid. Nick’s not gonna be able to take you home.’
He still sat, and then he bared his teeth.
‘Listen, man, it’s up to you, but I am the best bet you got. I walk away and it’s the lethal injection, know what I mean?’
The beady blue eyes froze, and she bent down.
‘Come on, Tiger, they want to close up, and I’m tired.’
Tiger slowly got to his feet, his head hung low as he padded towards her. Then his big bushy tail started to wag slowly.
‘Okay, man, we’re out of here.’
Turn the page to read an extract from
COLD HEART
also by Lynda La Plante
and available from Pocket Books
THE BULLET blew off virtually his entire face. He was naked, but he appeared to be wearing swimming trunks because of the band of untanned skin which they usually covered. His arms and legs were spread open and his body floated face down. She watched with sick fascination as the blood continued to spread like the petals of a poppy, wider and wider; he was brain dead, but his heart still pumped, and continued for longer than she had calculated. Suddenly his outstretched arms jerked, his fingers clenched and unclenched, and he gave a strange guttural snorting sound, as if his throat were clogged with blood. A few seconds more, and she knew he was dead. Only then did she move away from the edge of the pool.
The bentwood sun chairs were replaced neatly, his towel folded. His sunglasses she put back in their case, and his half-smoked cigarette she left in the ashtray to smoulder and die – slowly, as he had. She wrapped her hand carefully in the edge of her floating silk chiffon wrap to remove the glass she had used, slipped it into the deep pocket of her jacket, then walked soundlessly across the velvety lawn, past the sheets of lead and lumps of rock that Harry Nathan had considered to be sculpture, to enter the house through the garden doors. She took the glass from her pocket, rinsed it and replaced it in the kitchen cabinet. She was fast, meticulous, knowing every inch of the kitchen, even wiping the taps in case she had touched them inadvertently. She surveyed the immaculate kitchen, making sure nothing was left out of place, and then, still barefoot, she returned to the garden the way she had come. By now, Nathan’s cigarette had burned itself out, the ash extending for a curved inch and a half in front of the butt. She made her way round the edge of the pool, not even looking at the body, which still floated face down but was now drifting almost in the centre of the deep end. She looked round furtively before picking up the weapon, a heavy Desert Eagle, still wrapped in a silk headscarf. Then she hurried towards a small shrubbery, full of topiary trees clipped into strange geometric shapes that were clearly meant to echo the sculpture. She was careful not to step on the soil but to remain on the grass verge. She fired the gun into the shrubs then quickly tossed it free of the scarf, to land just in front of the first row of plants.
A bird screeched as the sound echoed of the weapon firing, and she thought she heard someone scream in the house, but she didn’t go to investigate, didn’t even glance back, intent on getting out of Nathan’s estate and knowing it would take her at least five minutes to reach her car, parked further down the avenue. She did not put on her shoes until she was standing beside the Mitsubishi jeep. She bleeped it open with the alarm key and gave only a brief, guarded look around to make sure she had not been seen by anyone before she got inside and inserted the key, her hands rock steady as she turned it. The engine sparked into life and she drove off. Harry Nathan was dead and she was now a wealthy woman, about to regain everything he had taken from her and more. She would savour for ever the look in his eyes when he had seen her take out the heavy gun, seen him step back, half lifting his hands in submission, and then, as she pulled the trigger, there had been a second when she saw fear. She would relish the fear, because she believed that, without doubt, she had just committed the perfect murder.
CHAPTER 1
12 August 1997
LORRAINE PAGE of Page Investigations had not, as yet, moved into a new office, though she had already used part of her cut of the million-dollar bonus from her last case to move from the tiny apartment in Los Angeles she had shared with her former partner Rosie, who had now married Bill Rooney, the ex-police captain who also worked with them. The couple had recently departed for an extended honeymoon in Europe.
The lost feeling hadn’t happened for a few days. She had been so caught up in making plans for the wedding, choosing what they would both wear, and the laughter when they forced Rooney to splash out on an expensive suit that had made the rotund man look quite handsome. Everything had been ‘fun’, particularly now that they had money to spend.
It was not until Rosie and Rooney had departed for their honeymoon that it really hit home: Lorraine missed them. Waving goodbye at the airport h
ad almost brought the tears that didn’t come until a few days later. She had been sitting in Rosie’s old apartment, now hers, looking at the wedding photographs, and she had no one to share them with, no one to laugh and point out how funny it had been when Rooney spilt champagne on his precious new suit. There was no one who would understand the three of them standing with solemn faces and their glasses raised. Rosie’s and Lorraine’s had, of course, contained non-alcoholic champagne, but they had raised their glasses for a private toast to their absent friend, Nick Bartello, who had died on their last case.
The photographs, like the small apartment, held such memories, some sweet, some so very sad, but they had made Lorraine decide to buy another place. It had not been an easy decision but she couldn’t stand the ghosts – it made the loneliness even worse.
Lorraine’s new apartment was on the upper floor of a two-storey condominium built on an old beach-house lot right on the ocean front in Venice Beach, one of four or five blocks where the little houses were so closely packed together that there was no room for front or back yards. Walking round the kooky old bohemian neighbourhood, she found she had already fallen for its lively energy and charm, and she loved the close proximity of the beach. Lorraine didn’t think of herself as ‘kooky’ or ‘bohemian’; in fact, in her neat suit and blouse she looked slightly out of place, but the neighbourhood reminded her of when she had been married. It had been tough, trying to juggle her job as a rookie cop and bring up two young kids while her husband studied at home and worked nights in the local liquor store. Money had always been tight, but friends had not, and there had been so much love. Lorraine had money now and she wanted, needed, more friends like Rosie and Rooney. Deep down she ached for all the love she had lost.
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