Cold Blood

by Lynda La Plante

  While viewing the new apartment, she had caught a glimpse of herself in a full-length mirror. Staring at her image, from the well-cut blonde hair down to her slim ankles in low Cuban heels, the ache had suddenly surfaced, making her gasp. It didn’t matter how long ago she and Mike had been divorced, how long it had been since she had seen her daughters, the pain was still raw. In the past she had obliterated it by getting drunk but she was stronger now. She could still feel the dreaded dryness in her mouth and feel herself shaking, but she forced herself to follow the real-estate agent round the rest of the apartment.

  ‘I’ll take it,’ she announced.’Just one thing, though. Do the other residents allow dogs?’ She lit a cigarette. Tiger, the wolfhound/malamute crossbred canine who had belonged to poor dead Nick Bartello, was now Lorraine’s responsibility, and she needed to be near an open space where she could exercise him – clearly, the beach would be perfect.

  ‘I don’t think that would be a problem. I presume—’

  ‘Tiger,’ Lorraine interjected, using her right hand to indicate with a patting motion that Tiger was about the size of a toy poodle.

  ‘I presume he’s house-trained. The landlords of the head lease do have a proviso with regard to animals.’

  ‘Oh, yes, he’s the perfect gentleman indoors, professionally trained, exceptionally obedient.’ Crossing her fingers behind her back, she hoped that this would soon be true. She didn’t want to risk losing the apartment: it felt right, it felt safe.

  ‘I think I could be happy here,’ she said softly, and flushed with embarrassment: it sounded stupid. But the agent smiled warmly, eager to do the deal but rather surprised that this elegant, if rather nervous, woman hadn’t even asked to see the kitchen. Lorraine insisted they drive to the real-estate office to finalize the sale. She required no mortgage, and arranged a banker’s draft for the full amount.

  ‘I’d like measurements of all the rooms so I can order furniture, curtains . . .’ She wafted her hand and, as she did, the agent noticed there was no wedding ring – in fact, she wore no jewellery at all. As Lorraine stood up and bent forward to pick up her purse, her silky blonde hair slid forward, revealing a jagged scar that ran from the corner of her eye, a scar that make-up couldn’t hide.

  Driving back to Rosie’s, she recalled her assurances about Tiger. It had proved impossible, to date, to house-train or instil any kind of normal dog behaviour into him. Rooney and Rosie had both tried, but he had become a liability during the pre-wedding arrangements. He would either attack anyone who came into the house, or disappear for days on end, and no matter how long they all cajoled him and fed him biscuits, he point-blank refused to wear a collar. Eventually, Lorraine had booked him into a kennel for extensive schooling with a former police-dog handler. If this failed it was unanimously decided that he would be joining his old master Nick Bartello – nobody had been able to train that son-of-a-bitch either.

  When she got back to the apartment, Lorraine contacted the kennels. Tiger was progressing but they suggested an extra two weeks’ training. They did not elaborate and Lorraine was quite pleased – she needed time to furnish the new apartment. She decided not to take anything from Rosie’s place but to start from scratch and buy everything new. At the same time she had resolved to do something about her scar, the scar that reminded her of who she had been, of what she had been. She no longer needed to force herself to look at the ugliness it represented. She wanted to put her past behind her, once and for all.

  Lorraine felt as if she was high – she could hardly sleep. The shopping trips to the Beverly Center to buy furnishings and fittings were like stepping back in time. She selected everything she thought she would need, from a bed, dining table and large white sofa to wineglasses, lamps, dishes and silverware, and arranged for it all to be delivered to the apartment. She wanted everything to be ready for her release from the clinic and she didn’t want to lift anything, carrying anything or move so much as a book.

  The surgery was extensive. She had decided to have a full face-lift, which was done at the same time as the operations on her scar, which was deep and required skin grafts. She decided to remain at the clinic, pampering herself with beauty treatments, until the wounds had healed. She was still paying for Tiger’s ‘rehabilitation’ and the kennels were beginning to worry that he would become a permanent fixture, but Lorraine assured them that she fully intended to take him back.

  When the surgeon, who had not allowed her to look at herself, finally held up a mirror to her face, she wanted to celebrate, to kiss and hug everyone close by.

  ‘You’re a very beautiful lady, Lorraine,’ the surgeon said softly, as she cocked her head from side to side, drinking in her smooth, scarless cheek, her perfect eyes, the taut skin beneath her chin. He leaned in close.’Mind you, I can’t take all the credit. You have a wonderful bone structure. I just did a little suction beneath your cheekbones, ironed out the laugh lines,’ he continued, pointing out what his magic knife had done, taking pride in his work. He asked the nurses their opinion, but Lorraine didn’t hear: she felt as if she was looking into her soul and it made her gasp.

  ‘Happy?’ the surgeon asked, lifting his funny bushy eyebrows.

  ‘I used to look like this,’ she whispered, wishing Rosie could be there to see the new Lorraine.

  While in the clinic, Lorraine had worked out and eaten well and, on her release, she felt fitter than ever before. She gave her entire wardrobe to charity and hit the designer shops with a vengeance. She had never spent so much, so fast. She had always had good taste but now she went for quality, and for the first time in her life she never looked at the price tag. Next she bought a brandnew Cherokee truck and a second-hand Mercedes, the car she had always dreamed of owning. It was in perfect condition, with only twenty thousand on the clock, immaculate leather upholstery, CD player and telephone. As she flicked open the make-up mirror it lit up and she sat smiling at herself, her new beautiful self, as the salesman hovered.

  ‘Yep, this’ll do nicely.’

  By mid-September, she had found a comfortable office in a small three-storey complex on West Pico Boulevard. Los Angeles had its rapidly changing fashions in office buildings, as it had in pizza toppings and nail extensions, and although the building had only been erected five years ago, the gleaming mirrored exterior was already considered behind the times. But as far as Lorraine was concerned this was an advantage, as it brought the rental more within the range she felt justified in paying. There was a smart lobby and a pleasant Filipino doorman, good security and – the biggest advantage – right across the street was Rancho Park with acres of grass for Tiger to run in. She thought about him, but kept putting off calling the kennels to say she would collect him.

  The air-conditioned office, tastefully decorated and filled with plain ash furniture, also boasted an en suite bathroom and kitchen, plus a reception area furnished with sofas and coffee table. ‘Page Investigations’ was printed in letters of gold leaf on the main entrance door by the electronic, security-coded entryphone. The letter-headed paper, cards and office equipment were chosen with meticulous care. Only the old computer hardware from her last office was retained.

  Ready to begin work, Lorraine deliberated over the wording for newspaper and magazine advertisements before committing to six-month runs. She then contacted three secretarial agencies, and asked that applicants should send their CVs before she interviewed them.

  By October, appointments had been scheduled with the three applicants she felt were most suited to the job. Still running high on her own adrenalin, she didn’t see them all: midway through the first interview she decided to offer the job to Rob Decker, even though she had really wanted a woman.

  Decker was about twenty-eight, tanned, blond and good-looking, had worked mostly for television executives, had even tried acting himself, and his account of his unsuccessful thespian attempts made her laugh. He had a top shorthand speed, understood computers, and had a deep, laid-back voice that harked back to hi
s theatrical endeavours. He was fit, with a tight, muscular body, and was wearing an expensive fawn linen suit, pale blue shirt and suede shoes with no socks. He had a Cartier wristwatch but, thankfully, no other jewellery. He carried his CV and other details of his varied career – knowledge of weapons and shooting skills – in a soft leather briefcase, with his karate certificates and gun licence. With her history, Lorraine would have found it difficult to acquire a licence, but it wasn’t the fact that she would have a gun-toting secretary that impressed her – she just liked him.

  Decker was relaxed but not too relaxed, respectful but not obsequious, and when she asked why he had applied for the job he shrugged, admitting without any embarrassment that it sounded better than working tables at a bar and that money was short. His last employer had refused to give him references which had made it difficult to get a decent job since. Lorraine was confused: she had references from his last employer in front of her on her pristine desk. Rob nodded towards the paper, and said he had typed it himself. When she asked why he had no references from his last employer, he told her that he had refused to go down on him and, equally candidly, that he was homosexual. Then he had laughed and added that she probably knew that already, and probably he had not got this job either.

  ‘Yes, you have.’ Lorraine surprised even herself. She hadn’t given it as much thought as she should have.

  Decker’s handshake was strong and he assured her that he would not let her down.