Cold Shoulder

by Lynda La Plante

  Was it the sweet lemon smell of her freshly washed hair? Or that she was stone-cold sober? She knew exactly what she was being paid to do, she’d done it plenty of times before. But never sober. Facedown between a John’s legs, having just been paid twenty dollars for a midafternoon blow job in a parking lot, the ghost of Lieutenant Lorraine Page resurfaced and fought back for a tiny fraction of respectability. She couldn’t suck him off.

  “I’m sorry. You can have your twenty dollars.”

  He held on to the back of her head, forcing her down. She pushed up with her hands trying to free herself. He was much stronger than she was and, leaning over the seat toward him, she was vulnerable, incapable of getting away. He was able to hold her down with only one hand, and her head was partly wedged under the steering wheel. She heard the click of the glove compartment being opened but couldn’t see what he had taken out. She forced herself to relax, to try to get into a better position so she could move off him, but he still had a tight grip on her hair.

  The first blow stunned her for a second—it glanced off the back of her scalp—but he had hit her with such force that he had automatically released his hold on her. She pushed upward with all her strength, propelling herself against his chest. He slipped back in his reclining seat, and it was then she saw the claw hammer. As he tried to raise it to strike her again, she knew he could kill her if he wanted.

  Lorraine twisted her face up toward his, and bit into his neck. She held on ferociously, her teeth breaking the flesh. He screamed, now more intent on getting her off than on using the hammer, but she wouldn’t release her bite.

  A family loading their groceries looked over to the sedan with its windows steamed up, but the screaming made the woman push her kids inside their car. She even shouted for her husband not to go across, but he ignored her, and as he reached the driver’s door, he called out: “You all right in there?” He turned back to his wife, who gestured for him to walk away, but he bent down, his hand tentatively reaching for the handle on the driver’s door. “You all right in there?” he repeated.

  As he opened the door, Lorraine fell out, face forward onto the cement, almost knocking him off his feet. The family started to shriek as they saw the back of her head covered in blood, and blood streaming from her mouth.

  The sedan jolted backward, dragging Lorraine with it—her dress was caught on the reclining seat lever. The man who had come to her assistance made a grab, almost had the driver by his sleeve, but then he, too, fell, as the car swerved to make a turn. The door slammed shut, and with burning rubber tires the blue sedan shot across the lot toward the exit.

  The woman was bending over Lorraine as she struggled to stand. At her feet was the wallet: it must have fallen from the John’s jacket in the struggle. She snatched it up. “He tried to rob me, he stole my bag and—”

  The woman shouted for her husband to call the police, but Lorraine shook her head. “No, no, it’s okay—I’ve got my wallet. I’m fine really—”

  “But you’ve been injured, look at you.”

  Lorraine backed away from their concerned faces. She touched her head. “It’s nothing, I’ll report it to security. Thank you very much.”

  By now the woman’s husband had run back to them, red-faced and shaking with nerves. “I’ll get the police. Are you okay?” The woman suddenly became suspicious of Lorraine, and caught her husband’s arm. “Get in the car, just leave her. She said she doesn’t want any help. Get back to the children!”

  He looked from his wife back to Lorraine, who managed a half smile. “I’m okay, thanks for your help.”

  Still, he hesitated, but his wife called him again, and as he hurried across to her, Lorraine could hear the shrill voice. “Can’t you see what she is? Didn’t you see her face? She’s a whore, she was probably trying to steal from him. Just get in the car! Report her to security, hurry up.” They continued to argue, and as they drove out he stared back at Lorraine, confused and shocked.

  In the ladies’ room Lorraine soaked a handful of paper towels and held it to the back of her head. She had lost a shoe, her dress was bloodstained, and she couldn’t stop the flow of blood from the back of her scalp. Her mouth, too, was bloody, and she panicked. Had he hit her in the mouth? But it wasn’t her blood, it was his, from the bite she had given him. She was shaking now, her legs jerky, and she had to sit down on the toilet seat to stop herself from fainting.

  With trembling hands she opened the wallet. A driver’s license with a photograph—but not of the man inside the car. There were odd ticket stubs and dry cleaning receipts, and more than three hundred and fifty dollars. She folded the money, and stuck it into her panties. Then she stuffed the wallet into the trash can. She remained at the washbasin for another fifteen minutes, using more towels soaked in cold water as a pad. When she had recovered enough to make her way slowly into the store, she crossed to the public phones. She still felt dizzy and faint as she ordered a cab to pick her up at the main entrance. She was about to give him Rosie’s address but said instead that she wanted to go to Orange Grove. Lorraine hardly had the strength to get out of the cab and she had to ask him to continue down the road to Marengo.

  The driver watched her stagger slightly, wearing only one shoe, as she headed across the street—it was not until he got back to his garage that he found his seat was bloodstained and he started cursing. Jake, who had returned to check on Rosie, was watching the display from the apartment window. He heard Lorraine stumble on the missing step of the fire escape. Thinking her as drunk as Rosie had been, he still helped Rosie carry her upstairs. When he spotted the wound on her head he insisted Lorraine go to the hospital. She refused. She didn’t want any hospital or police reports—she was fine. And she had not had a drink.

  The wound was still bleeding freely, so reluctantly Lorraine agreed to go with Jake to his old clinic to have it stitched. By the time they arrived she was subdued. She lay on the couch as a doctor examined the gash. Because she was with Jake, the doctor didn’t question her story, but Jake doubted her claim that the wound had been caused by her falling on a loose piece of sidewalk. It looked to him as if someone had struck her from behind; if the blow had landed an inch farther up, her skull could have been shattered. She’d been lucky.

  Lorraine returned home with Rosie and Jake, her head bandaged and her hair cropped. Rosie put her in her own bed, and gave her the sedatives and antibiotics the clinic doctor had prescribed. Once she was asleep, Jake began to quiz Rosie. “What did she tell you that you think is lies, Rosie?”

  Rosie shrugged. “Oh … just that she used to be a police officer.”

  Jake smiled, his eyes concentrating on unscrewing the hinges of the damaged screen door. “Well, that may be fantasy, of course. I think she’s a whore and that’s why she didn’t want to go to the police. Someone nearly killed her today, though. But my worry is you—because you are my main concern, Rosie dear, and you were doing so well before she came on the scene.”

  “She didn’t have anything to do with me tying on a load, Jake. That was thanks to my husband.”

  Jake squinted at the hinge. “Maybe, but you’re vulnerable right now, sweetheart, and it won’t take much to make you fall off the wagon. How long has she been dry? Not long, right?”

  Rosie knew he was right and that he meant well, but she couldn’t keep calling him just for social reasons—even though she had every right to call him when she was in trouble. “I get lonely, Jake. I need a friend.”

  Jake held up the new hinges. “Who am I to say what you should or shouldn’t do? I’ll have to come back and fix this tomorrow. These aren’t the right screws.”

  Rosie sighed and looked toward the bedroom. “I think we’ll be okay, for tonight anyway. It’ll take my mind off things, looking after her.”

  Jake put on his jacket. “Up to you, but keep your eye on her. I don’t trust her.”

  He had made no mention of Lorraine’s reaction when he had seen the thick wad of notes fall out from under her ski
rt. Her expression was angry and when he asked about the money she had told him to mind his own business; it was just her savings. Jake was sure she had a police record, he could tell by her face: that hardness. She must be as tough as any man to have taken such a crack and still be able to walk around, but he decided it wasn’t his business. He’d seen a lot of drunks with their heads cut open, maybe they survived because the amount of alcohol in their bloodstream acted like an anesthetic. Well, that was his theory.

  Rosie started to make some chicken soup, even though it was a warm evening outside—almost into the eighties. She was feeling a little wobbly herself and had almost eaten the entire pot before taking a small bowl in to Lorraine. She had been awake for quite a while but kept her eyes closed, wincing as Rosie collapsed onto the bed. Her head ached, a sharp nagging pain that pressed into her eyes.

  “Soup,” barked Rosie, holding up the bowl and a large spoon. Lorraine smiled. It was the last thing she would have thought of asking for on a warm clammy evening, but once she tasted the first spoonful, it hit the right spot—as her mother always used to say. She took the spoon from Rosie and fed herself, dunking the fresh white bread into the remains, and finally wiping the bowl clean.

  “I’d offer you some more but I made a pig of myself,” Rosie admitted as she took away the bowl.

  Lorraine snuggled down. “I’m full and it tasted so good … and I don’t mind you sleeping with me—you’ll never fit on that sofa out there.”

  Rosie laughed. “Well, thank you very much! I thought I’d take the cushions off and put them on the floor. I’d kick you out, but Jake said you should watch it, you know, not roll around or bang your head. I’ll manage out in the living room—but only for one night.”

  Lorraine listened to the plodding feet moving around. Her hand had slipped into her panties to feel the money. She was afraid that maybe Jake had mentioned it to Rosie. It was still there, and it acted as a comforter. She had more than three hundred dollars, enough to get away from Rosie.

  The bedroom floor shook as Rosie reappeared with some hot chocolate, slipped the mug onto the bedside table, turned on the night-light, and straightened the duvet. It was the caring that did it, simply being tucked in like when she was a little girl, that made Lorraine’s heart ache.

  “Rosie … you still there?” Lorraine whispered.

  “Yep, hovering like a hot-air balloon. Don’t forget to take your antibiotics.”

  Rosie watched Lorraine slowly raise herself on her elbow, her face twisted in pain. “You want an aspirin?”

  Lorraine nodded, and Rosie got two tablets and held the mug of hot chocolate to her lips. Lorraine felt the thick sweet liquid slip down her throat.

  “I’ll be right outside if you need me.”

  Lorraine flushed. “Rosie, I, um … well, I guess I do want my life back, and if it means going to those meetings, well, then we’ll go together.”

  Rosie nodded. “I should fuckin’ hope so. G’night, sleep tight. Tomorrow you’re back on the sofa.”

  Lorraine gave a soft laugh, and nestled down. She hadn’t heard the sound of her own laugh for so long that it warmed her now, and made her feel good, as did the soft duvet and big, squashy pillows. She tried to calculate how long she had been sober, since being picked up at the roadside. It was, she estimated, about five weeks, and she had not had one drink. Could she … did she really want to stay on the wagon? The money was a hard lump in her panties. She eased it out and tucked it under the pillow, keeping her hand on it, feeling drowsy, wondering vaguely why the driver’s license had a different picture from the guy who had picked her up. The car was probably stolen, she told herself, the wallet must have belonged to its real owner. She sighed deeply as she recalled the incident. The claw hammer kept in the glove compartment. Very convenient. The position he had forced her into on his lap, the reclining angle of the seat … as if he had done it before? Jake had said she was lucky to be alive, another fraction of an inch higher and he would have cracked her skull open. If she hadn’t bitten his neck she’d be dead. She knew she had marked him—the bite was deep. Should she call the LAPD in the morning, or contact someone at her old division, give them an anonymous tip? Describe the attacker? She yawned, maybe. Maybe she should just get some sleep, take it all day by day like Rosie said, but it unnerved her that she was even capable of thinking in that direction, like there was still some of the cop left inside her when she was damned sure that person was long dead and buried. In the end she drowsily just put it down to one of the problems of being sober. She never even thought about the nightmare screaming woman, she had not returned—not yet.

  Rosie pulled the cushions off the sofa, turned the TV set down low, and, from her reasonably comfortable position on the floor, propped herself on her elbow to see if there were any more game shows scheduled. She used the remote control to move from channel to channel, paying only a moment’s attention to the local news item that showed the photograph of Norman Hastings, whose body had been discovered in the trunk of his dark blue sedan. He had been beaten to death with some kind of hammer. His wallet was missing. Anyone with any information regarding the dead man was asked to contact the local police, and a number was flashed on the screen. Fifteen minutes later, she switched off the TV and settled down, with a regretful sigh. Tomorrow was another day, another meeting when she would have to admit she had slipped. She began to recite the twelve AA traditions. She rarely got beyond the sixth or seventh, and tonight was no exception. By the third she was sound asleep. “The only requirement for AA membership is a desire to stop drinking.”

  2

  The news bulletins about the discovery of Norman Hastings’s body were repeated on the early-morning television shows, but now included footage of the abandoned blue sedan and a further request for anyone who had seen him or his vehicle to come forward. The officer heading the murder inquiry at the Pasadena Homicide Division was Captain William “Bill” Rooney.

  Soon after the morning news, Rooney’s department received a phone call from a Don Summers. He was not 100 percent certain, but he thought he had seen the blue sedan in the Glendale shopping mall parking lot the previous afternoon.

  Rooney did not get around to questioning Summers until the following day. He doubted if Summers’s evidence could help, since he could not be positive that he had seen the exact car, and had not made a note of the license plate number. Neither had he had a clear view of the driver, only the woman who had been in the vehicle with him. Rooney was able to ascertain that at the time of Summers’s possible sighting of the blue sedan, Hastings, according to the autopsy report, was already dead. Rooney also had details of the dead man’s missing wallet, and knew that it contained a few hundred dollars, which Hastings had withdrawn from his bank on the morning of his death. He suspected that robbery was the murder motive as they had failed to come up with any other reason. Hastings appeared to be a happily married man, well liked at his job and without enemies or anyone with a grudge against him. Also, Hastings’s car had been found in another shopping mall, the Plaza, a much larger, more upmarket mall than the one in Glendale, so it was quite possible Summers was mistaken.

  Rooney did not review Summers’s call-in statement until he had further evidence from Forensic and the full autopsy report. Although the interior of the sedan had been cleaned and no prints found—not even those of the dead man—Forensic had discovered two further blood samples: one on the driver’s seat, the other on the inside of the glove compartment. What prompted Rooney to question Summers personally was the woman’s shoe found rammed beneath the front seat. It did not belong to Hastings’s wife.

  Rooney sat with Mr. and Mrs. Summers as Summers repeated his statement of how he had seen the blue sedan parked, heard the man screaming, and gone to investigate. He was now more sure that it was the car in the photographs shown to him by Rooney. His wife was convinced that if it was not the same car, it was the identical model and color.

  “Okay, now, can you tell me about the woman? T
he one you stated was in the car?”

  Summers gave a good description. Tall and thin, she was wearing a bloodstained, flower-print dress. She was injured, her mouth was bleeding, and he thought she had a head wound. She was also clutching a purse. She had told him the man had tried to rob her. Summers’s wife interjected that she had thought it was a lie, because when they offered to call the police or for some assistance the woman had refused, insisting that she was all right.

  Rooney asked for a more detailed description of the woman. Summers was hesitant but his wife wasn’t, recalling the thin, wispy, badly cut blond hair, that the woman was about five feet eight inches tall but exceptionally thin and sickly looking. She remembered remarking to her husband that the woman might be a prostitute.

  “What made you think that?” Rooney asked.

  Mrs. Summers bit her lip. “I don’t know, just something about her, a toughness. She was very rough-looking, sort of desperate—and, of course, she was covered in blood.”

  “That doesn’t mean she’s a whore,” said Rooney.

  Don Summers glanced at his wife. “Maybe she wasn’t. All I can say, and I got a closer look than my wife, was that the woman was terrified—and she was really hurt, blood all over her dress.”

  Rooney showed them the shoe found in Hastings’s car and they said they believed that the woman had been wearing only one.

  “We need to find our Cinderella,” Rooney joked, but the Summerses didn’t find his comment amusing. They were overawed by the massive new Pasadena police station, a high-tech palace, the computerized holding cells below. The vast new complex prided itself on its modern amenities—all the cells were glass and nicknamed “pods” by the officers, as each cell could hold up to twenty-five people. There was a computerized locking system, all gates patrolled and watched from panels via television monitors. Other signposted areas identified medical examination sections, fingerprint areas, interview rooms in the basement. Occupying the entire first floor was a massive, tiled central lobby opening onto three chromed elevators. Even the staircase was tiled, as were the various floors containing the community relations section, reference section, neighborhood crime task force, patrol and field officers section, then a large traffic section and the main supervisors’ offices. In fact, the building was so modern and spacious it made Rooney feel uncomfortable. Lorraine had never even seen what her old precinct had turned into. Not that she would have felt like Rooney—she would have applauded the improved facilities. Rooney on the other hand hated so many soulless corridors, rooms, and sections, so many clerks. The old days, when a guy could pass a pal in the narrow, paint-peeling halls, have a chat, smoke a cigarette, were over. Nearly every office had no smoking signs; some officers had even stuck them on their computers. Only Captain Rooney continued to work in a haze of cigarette or cigar smoke, his office door closed as the new laws required. The truth of the matter was that he didn’t quite fit in with the new highfliers who surrounded him, but retirement was looming shortly. He figured the Hastings murder would be his last case and he hoped to crack it fast, get a good retirement bonus, and then be put out to pasture. He was unsure about life outside the police, which had been the only world he had known since he was eighteen. And the prospect made him uneasy, but then so did the new station.