Rooney felt inadequate. This big-eared windmill of a man, after just a few days’ thumbing through their files, was throwing out mind-blowing stuff. He half expected Fellows to have another pull at his ear and then name the killer. But Fellows had become silent, and was sitting staring down at his sneakers.
“He is a sick man, a tormented man, deeply disturbed, and I think he has killed regularly. I don’t think he’s ever been put away or locked up. On the contrary, he’s walking around confident, very confident, because he’s gotten away with it for years. Now, with this press coverage, will it make him stop killing? Possibly. I hope so. But it may make him irrational. You see, he’ll want to prove, even more, just how clever he is. You won’t catch him unless he makes mistakes. On the other hand, the press coverage could also make him stop, for a while anyhow. But he won’t be able to stop completely, because, I would say, these murders are the only way he’s able to get sexual gratification.”
Fellows got up again and marched up and down the wall of victims, peering at the faces, turning to retrace his footsteps. “He must be in full employment, possibly some kind of traveling sales executive. He’s moving around a lot of areas. He could even be a car salesman—he certainly knows about cars and how to steal them. I would say he might have a garage, or a storage place where these cars can be hidden. I doubt if he has a family—no wife or children. This man has a hatred of older women, a terrible hatred—”
Rooney interjected to ask about Angela Hollow. Fellows took a deep breath. “Yes. She was young—and the most recent victim? Prostitute, working the streets the night she was killed?” He looked at the picture of Holly. “Find out if, on the night she was killed, any other girl or woman was next to her. Maybe Holly crossed to him when he was really after another girl close by—it’s possible. Because I have to admit she makes my theory wobble, as she’s not in the same category as the others. This worries me …”
He tapped the picture of Norman Hastings. “There’s something odd about him, too, if we talk it through. He leaves his car, I can’t recall the exact location, our Teacher steals it, or is even in the process of stealing it, and is caught red-handed. Hastings calls out, may even try and stop Teacher, so, in that case, why the wound to the back of his head like the women? Unless Hastings was actually opening his car, Teacher, ready for the kill, simply walks up and strikes him?”
Rooney wiped the sweat from his upper lip with the back of his hand; he was feeling very inadequate. “He went to the bank and—”
Fellows wafted his hand. “That’s immaterial—Teacher’s not after money, he even left the victims’ jewelry on their bodies. No, he’s not after something as mundane as that, he’s not a robber. He’s a sex killer, he wants sexual gratification, nothing more.”
Rooney waited, almost afraid to interrupt. Fellows sighed, and sat down, looking at the picture of Hastings. “It’s possible they knew each other. I could be wrong, and nothing in the reports gives any indication, other than that Hastings was an unfortunate man who was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. What’s not clear is where that place was. Outside his bank? In a parking lot? No one has come forward to say they saw Norman Hastings on the day of his death, so where did it happen? We don’t know.”
Fellows fell silent, chewing his lower lip before he returned to the photo wall, to the graphs and memos. He stared at the photographs of the vehicles in which the dead women had been found. A Lincoln Continental, a Chrysler Le Baron, a Saab, a Mercedes, a Cadillac Eldorado—the last the wreck from outside the Paradise Apartments where Helen Murphy had been found. Then he looked over the chart of the locations. Glendale shopping mall, Plaza Mall, Holly—odd that, girl’s nickname being the same as the road she was found on … never mind! It’s of no consequence. Next, West Hollywood, Santa Monica Boulevard, Century City, and lastly the Santa Monica shopping center. He stood staring for at least three minutes, his eyes roaming the photographs, the locations. Santa Monica or Pasadena. There had to be a link between them, a pattern beyond the method of the murder itself. He needed to know as accurately as possible the times when, one, Helen Murphy was killed, two, the attack in the Glendale shopping mall occurred—on the woman they had been presuming was Helen Murphy—and, three, what time Holly was murdered. The three incidents were crucial because Holly’s murder was the most recent, and the failed attempt would have been between the last two murders.
“How close are these, time-wise?” Fellows flicked his hand to Helen Murphy and Holly.
Bean crossed to the information section and looked up. “The reported attack on the woman in the Glendale shopping mall was on the same day Hastings was killed, the seventeenth of May. This woman, Helen Murphy, was, as close as the lab can tell us, murdered about three days before we found her.”
Fellows nodded. “But they can’t be exactly sure, can they? I mean, it could be a day either side. Her body was pretty high, wasn’t it? Already decomposing?”
Bean nodded and then checked the information on Holly. Fellows had taken a small black leather diary from his pocket and was flipping through it, licking his fingers as he pushed the small pages over. “And, Lieutenant, Holly was killed on what date?”
Bean looked at Rooney. “June twentieth.”
Fellows pursed his lips. “You got dates for all the others? See if it’s always around the same time. I know some of them are four to six years old, but I’d like to get a calendar made up. Would you do that for me?”
Bean nodded. Fellows turned to Rooney and gave a glum smile. “I’m sorry, but that’s about it for today. It’s not much because I need more time; hopefully I’ll come up with something else. I expect you’ve already come to the same conclusions yourselves. Basically, a lot of what I do in the end is simply common sense.”
He picked up his briefcase. “You’re not going, are you?” Rooney asked anxiously. “I mean, the whole team is coming in today to talk this over—”
Fellows snapped his case shut. “I’m sure you can repeat everything, and I have a golf game waiting. If you just keep me informed of any new developments, I’ll get back to you.”
“What did you think of him?” asked Bean after he’d shown Fellows out.
“I take back everything I said. How’s that for starters?”
Bean grinned. “Odd character, wasn’t he?”
“Big ears.” Rooney sighed. “We’re almost back at the starting gate, aren’t we? From what he’s said, we’re off by a long way with Murphy’s husband. Nobody’s found the fucker anyway.”
He flicked at the blinds on his office window. “You know, way back I was on a case, a missing kid—long time ago—but we’d all given up, we just had nothing. You remember that woman I saw that night when we went to the Kwok restaurant?”
Bean raised an eyebrow. He had good reason to remember it, he’d spent most of that night in the bathroom; so much for raw fish.
“Well, she was on the same case, a little girl missing. She found her body at the school. She was such a cute little kid, and …” Rooney sighed, seeing the little girl’s face again. “Anyway, Lorraine—that was her name, didn’t I tell you about her?”
“Drunk on duty, right?”
“This was before she became a lush, years before, and she was a good cop, dedicated—well, as much as a woman can be. Anyway, she wouldn’t let go, she was so sure it was this janitor, but we had nothing on him. He even had a strong alibi for the afternoon the girl disappeared. We’d all scrapped him as a suspect; she was even warned off from visiting the school and his place. Did it on her own time. She just wouldn’t back off him. And we had not one shred of evidence, it was just her intuition …”
Bean yawned and looked at his watch, he could hear the team members starting to arrive outside, and he wondered where the story was leading. Rooney, too, seemed uncertain, still flicking at the blinds with his fat stubby finger. “She broke him down. I don’t know how, none of us did. She brought him back into the station for maybe the tenth time, questioned him
over and over, and meanwhile there was the captain going ape-shit, saying we’d be accused of harassment. Then she walked out, and she had this look on her face like some prizefighter. She lifted up her fist, said he’d admitted it, that he’d just broken down and admitted killing the little girl …”
Bean wasn’t listening, his attention on the doorway as he looked at the men that passed. “Everyone’s gathered. You want to go in?”
Rooney hitched up his pants, displaying his socks as his trousers lifted ankle-high. Red socks, Bean noted, and wondered where on earth Rooney bought his crumpled suits. He had never seen him wearing a decent one, and they were always creased like an accordion. “Maybe we try again with Hastings’s wife, maybe we’ve been going too softly, maybe he wasn’t such a good, upright, honest citizen. And we start trying to trace that missing witness again. We don’t back off, but keep on going—okay?”
Bean sighed. “You know, even if we do find her, maybe all she knows is what she told us and that won’t help.”
Rooney jabbed at him with his finger. “Wrong. She never said where he picked her up. She probably knows a hell of a lot more than she let on. Now, let’s get fucking cracking before the entire day’s been pissed away. We got to trace that bitch and all leave is canceled starting now …”
The cab drew up outside a narrow, three-story house facing the ocean that didn’t look like much but, Lorraine knew, would have to be worth at least three million dollars. Mike Page was certainly doing a lot better for himself nowadays. The cabdriver, who had been watching the clock, now turned to face Lorraine. “You want to drive around some more or are you getting out?”
“Drive around a while longer.”
He sighed. “Okay. Anything you want, lady, this is your ride.”
They did another tour of Santa Monica, then returned and parked in exactly the same place as before.
“This is it, lady. I got an account customer I need to pick up, so, if you don’t mind …”
He was lying, she knew, he just wanted her out of his cab, probably because it was Sunday and he wanted to get home. She paid the fare and stepped out. Hardly had the cab door shut behind her before he tore off. She felt marooned, afraid to walk the few yards to Mike’s front door, yet unable to turn and walk away. She stood there, frozen.
“Lorraine?” The voice was unmistakable. It was Mike. She turned and shaded her eyes. He was wearing an open-neck shirt, white slacks, and flip-flops. A big dog with long scruffy hair padded beside him. Her heart was thudding and she knew she must be flushed a bright red. Her whole body broke out in a sweat. Mike had a deep suntan and his teeth gleamed; his dark brown eyes had lines at the side, crow’s feet, but apart from that he didn’t seem much older than when she had last seen him.
“Hi!” He stood about a foot away from her. “I wasn’t expecting you until later.”
“I got a taxi.”
He smiled, reached for her bag, and she let him take it.
“I got something for the girls. I don’t want you to think I’m staying over …”
He took her elbow, about to lead her toward the house, then he stopped. “They’re out swimming but they won’t be long, so we can have a chat, catch up.”
She followed him toward the front door, but he went down some steps to enter the house through large French windows that opened onto a veranda.
“This is nice,” she said lamely.
“Yep—and it’s breaking me financially, but the kids love it.” He paused. “Oh, maybe you don’t know. I’ve got two sons—they’re with the girls and Kathy.”
Lorraine nodded, presuming Kathy to be their stepmother. She stepped into the big open room, where toys and newspapers, even breakfast dishes, had been left on a huge round table facing the ocean window.
“Sorry about the mess but Sundays we just let everything hang out. Now sit down and I’ll get some coffee going.”
Lorraine sat on the wide sofa. She looked slowly around the room, at the paintings, the throw rugs, the grains of sand that sparkled on the floor. “Can I smoke?”
Mike cleared the table, and looked up. “Sure, I’ll find you an ashtray.”
She lit up, her hand shaking so much that she glanced over to see if he’d noticed, but he was carrying a stack of dishes into the kitchen. The door closed and she inhaled deeply, letting the smoke fill her lungs. She got up and stood by the open window, taking deep breaths to calm herself.
Mike held on to the edge of the sink, shaken. Nothing had prepared him for the way she looked. She had aged so much—she was skin and bone, her face scarred so badly she seemed to squint. He shook his head, wishing he had more time to prepare the girls. Then he heard Sissy calling, and before he had time to warn her not to come down, she was in the drawing room. He listened at the door.
Sissy was wrapped in a cotton kimono. She was deeply tanned and had waist-length, ash-blond hair. She was as tall as Lorraine, but full-breasted, her legs muscular and taut. Her long arms and perfect hands immediately pulled the kimono closer as she had no belt and was naked beneath it. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know anyone was here.”
Lorraine bowed her head. “I’m, er … well, I guess you knew I was coming. I’m Lorraine.”
“Oh, yeah, I’m sorry. Where’s Mike?”
Lorraine swallowed. “He’s making me some coffee.”
She wondered who the beauty was, but Sissy seemed totally at ease, striding toward the kitchen. “Darling, you should have said, or yelled up that Lorraine was here. I’ll go back up and get dressed, leave you two to have a chat … Mike?”
He walked out of the kitchen and slipped his arm around Sissy. “Well, you’ve met. This is my wife, Sissy.”
Lorraine forced a smile as Sissy walked out and up the stairs. “She’s very beautiful,” she said quietly.
Mike nodded. “The girls adore her, and—well, lemme get the coffee.”
Lorraine looked out onto the veranda and lit another cigarette from the stub of the last one. Then she started to cough, one of her awful, chesty, phlegmy coughs that made her feel weak and her eyes run. She gasped, trying to control it as Mike appeared with a glass of water.
“You should give that up!”
She shrugged, still coughing, and took the glass. Mike returned to the kitchen, and Lorraine remained outside on the veranda, sitting on one of the wooden bench seats. She drained the glass and set it carefully on the table. At least her hands were no longer shaking.
Mike carried out the tray of coffee and set it down. He poured a cup, and she smiled. It was the first time she even faintly resembled her old self: Mike noticed that she still had the palest of blue eyes.
“So. It’s been a long time, hasn’t it? I’ve often wondered how you were, hoped you’d get in touch.”
He waited for her to reply but she stared ahead. He could see the deep scar down her cheek, and her body shaking slightly. He’d sometimes wondered how he would react to seeing her again. He’d expected to feel anger, or perhaps attraction, rather than this deep sadness. He had worried that she might have some custody query, or have become financially secure enough to want the girls to live with her. But the cheap, old-fashioned safari suit, the run-down shoes, everything about her looked seedy and worn. Worse still was Lorraine herself. She had always been so positive, arrogant even, now all he could see was a pitiful shell of what she had once been. That was what he felt more than anything: pity, and an overwhelming relief she was no longer part of his life.
“I don’t drink anymore, Mike.” Her voice was smoky from too many cigarettes, deeper than he remembered.
“Good, that’s good …” he said, hesitantly.
“But I sure as hell could do with one now!”
7
Lorraine sat on the veranda shading her eyes, waiting for the first glimpse of her daughters. Mike stepped out carrying two photo albums, and came to sit beside her. Momentarily her shoulder rubbed against his.
“These are my boys—Chip, whose real name is Charles, and this
is Mike junior.” They were both blond, both as beautiful as their mother. She quickly turned the pages back to the beginning, barely interested in Mike’s sons. The first photograph was one she remembered: the girls were sitting side by side on a piano stool, Sally with a front tooth missing.
Mike looked up, hearing a shout from the beach. “Here they are … that’s our nanny, she’s wonderful, that’s Kathy.”
Lorraine stood up and leaned on the rail. Sissy had one boy by each hand, and behind her walked Kathy, a dark-haired teenager—but running up ahead were the girls. Sally and Julia, torn jeans, faded T-shirts, as suntanned as Sissy, they shouted and waved. Lorraine was stunned. They were both so tall, so different … she would have passed them in the street and not recognized them. “My God,” she murmured.
Mike laughed. “Yeah, they grow up fast, don’t they?”
Sally was ten, Julia twelve. Six years was a very long time. Their initial exuberance faltered as they reached the veranda, and they turned to Sissy as if they needed her to be with them, but Mike called for them to come on up. Julia was tall for her age and as slim as Lorraine had been at twelve.
“Hello.”
Lorraine smiled. She would have liked to put her arms around her daughter, but she wasn’t sure if that was what Julia wanted. Sally wouldn’t come close; she hung back as if afraid. Sissy slipped her arm around Julia’s shoulder. “Now, why don’t you three show Lorraine the photo album, and I’ll make some lunch?”
“Okay,” said Julia.
Sally sat beside Lorraine, but Mike followed Sissy into the house and pulled the doors half closed behind him. Kathy called out to Mike that she was not staying for lunch and would be back later, then smiled warmly at Lorraine before she walked toward the driveway. Mike watched for a moment before joining his wife in the kitchen.
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