8
Lorraine didn’t panic. She calmly picked up her cigarette pack and headed for the bedroom.
“Jake, if they ask for a Laura Bradley, she’s not here. She stayed awhile and then left.”
“They coming for you?” Rosie asked.
“Yeah, but I swear I’ve done nothing wrong. I just got a lot of outstanding violations, and—”
Jake took her by the elbow, pushing her even farther into the safety of the bedroom. “Why Laura Bradley? Who the fuck is she?”
“It was the name I told them, they came here before. That fat cop, the one you recognized, Rooney, must have told them where they could find me. I dunno, please, Jake, get them off my back and I swear I won’t kill myself!”
“It’s a deal,” Jake said as he closed the door.
Rosie hardly said a word, just gave her name. Jake did the rest, smooth-talking, open, and friendly. Sorry he couldn’t help them, but Laura Bradley had left. The young uniformed cop smiled, tipped his hat: with his perfect white teeth and suntan he could have come straight out of a movie. He returned to his partner, waiting below in the car, and Rosie watched them pull away.
The patrol car traveled one block up and parked. The cabdriver had said a short balding guy and a fat woman had helped the injured woman, so they radioed in for further instructions.
In some ways Lorraine knew they’d be back—even wished she hadn’t played games and had come forward, rather than involving Jake and Rosie. They heard the cops returning, and Lorraine gave a long sigh. “Okay. Remember that night I cracked my head? Just tell them we were all at an AA meeting, agreed? That’s what you say and you stick to it.”
“Why do we have to lie?” Rosie gasped, the footsteps almost at the screen door.
“So I don’t get arrested for nonappearance in court. I got traffic violations. I also blackmailed Art Mathews, and you, Rosie, spent the dough—you need any more reasons?”
There was a knock on the door and Lorraine opened it. She stood there waiting for them, with her jacket, purse, and cigarettes. “Okay, guys, I’m Laura Bradley, and I’m all yours.” She smiled at their surprise. “You wanted to talk to Laura Bradley, right? Well, that’s me, you gonna take me in?”
Lorraine held out her hands as if for cuffs and nodded toward Jake and Rosie. “They don’t know anythin’ about it so let’s go.” As a second squad car drew up outside, sirens blasting, a crowd started gathering around their building. Rosie and Jake were driven off in one squad car, while Lorraine traveled solo with two officers in another. She was chatty, overchatty, on the short drive to the station and then fell silent as they drove her around the new building—or new to her—to the station’s main entrance. Both officers were very cordial, taking her gently by the elbow as they steered her into the building. “Wow, been some changes since I was last taken in.”
Lorraine continued to be awestruck as she was led through the vast building and up to the second floor. The officers had instructions to take her straight to Josh Bean on her arrival, and they had to ask her to move it along as she kept stopping and staring at the high-tech building. She was truly impressed, but covering up at the same time the fact that she was getting more and more tense at what she knew was ahead of her—meeting Rooney face-to-face for one thing, and for a second trying to explain away why she had used Laura Bradley’s name. Stupid.
She was taken straight in to see Josh Bean, and offered a seat. Rooney was not evident and without hesitating Lorraine admitted that she had lied, that she was Lorraine Page. He seemed to accept her excuse that she hadn’t wanted to get involved, because, as she presumed he already knew, she was an ex-cop. As they spoke, from the corner of her eye, she could see her details rolling off the fax machine. But she was relieved that Captain Rooney was not around. Just being inside the station had put her in a cold sweat, but she was in control.
Bean elaborated as to why they had asked her to accompany the officers. He told her they were investigating a murder and asked where she was on the night of the seventeenth of May.
Lorraine said she was at an AA meeting and gave the address. Bean was quiet, almost too friendly and apologetic for any inconvenience they had caused. “You see, we’re searching for a witness, a woman we believe is a very valuable witness.”
Even as he spoke she could see him scrutinizing her, and it was obvious he doubted that she could be the same woman as described—she had all her teeth, for a start. Lorraine remained in control, smiled and joked. He was so young, so spic-and-span—she wondered how he got along with the loudmouthed Rooney.
“Well, we sure get a lot of riffraff in the street. Only the other night there was some drunken woman out there, screaming the place down. Used to be a good area, but maybe before your time. We had to clear it up, drug pushers used to park up and down Marengo.”
In a second interview room, Rosie and Jake kept to the AA meeting story. They were being questioned by a fresh-faced officer, even younger than Bean. Rosie told how she had met Lorraine in the hospital, how long she had been staying. When they were asked if they had assisted a woman from a taxi on the night of the seventeenth, a woman with injuries to her head and face, both repeated that they were not at home that evening. But they kept glancing nervously at each other.
“You ever see a blue sedan parked in your street, like this one?” They were shown a photograph of Hastings’s car.
“No, not that I can recall.” Rosie peered at the picture. “This has been on the TV, hasn’t it?”
“Do you know or did you know a Mr. Norman Hastings?” Rosie shook her head.
“He was the guy that was murdered, right?” Jake asked.
“I didn’t know him,” Rosie said, “but I seen all the papers. What’s this got to do with us?”
Rosie and Jake were released, but were told that they should inform the police of any change of address in case they were required for further questioning. Jake asked if Lorraine was also free to go, and was told that she was still being questioned.
“We’ll wait.”
Rosie and Jake huddled together to review the officer’s questions. They were confused. It seemed a lot more serious than Lorraine had said, but now they were in too deep, and the spacious waiting room made both feel small and conspicuous. It was to be a long wait.
Four hours after Lorraine had entered the station she was told she was being held for a lineup. She remained calm, accepting a tepid cup of coffee and an extra pack of cigarettes. When she heard that her friends were waiting for her, she asked for someone to tell them they should go home. So at two A.M. Rosie and Jake left the station. They had no idea why Lorraine was still being detained. But Jake had been around too many cops, in too many stations not to know that this was something a lot heavier than traffic violations.
Lorraine knew the procedure by heart, and made it clear she was more than willing to cooperate. She waited patiently, knowing what a runaround would be going on behind the scenes. Captain Rooney had still not made an appearance and for that she was grateful. She figured they must be searching around for a bunch of tall blond women to stand with her in the lineup. She breathed a little easier when she was told that Jake and Rosie had left the station.
The lineup corridor annex was like all the others she had dealt with years before, but much larger and with better equipment. The more she looked around the Pasadena station the more impressed she was with the massive building. She wondered how Rooney fitted in, recalling his old squalid office, his grimy-walled, smoke-stained room so different from these white, neon-lit, airy offices with the red no smoking signs on every door.
Lorraine spent an exhausting, nervous night in the station, waiting until morning when the Summerses could be phoned to come in and view the lineup. Unfailingly polite and pleasant, Bean had begun to get on her nerves by the time he finally ushered her toward the viewing room to join the other women. She chose place number seven, for no particular reason except to avoid being dead center or at either end, which were n
ot good positions. The other eleven women carried in their cards and lined up on the small, narrow platform. Some were prisoners; others Lorraine could not imagine where they had been dragged in from. Probably a couple of hookers, housewives, or coffee shop workers, maybe station clerks. Anyone was acceptable if they looked right, and most people, when asked, were always willing to make a few bucks.
When Mr. and Mrs. Summers arrived, Bean told them to take their time, to look at each subject closely. If they recognized the woman they should walk out and give the number. If they wished her to speak they must ask the officer at their side to repeat whatever they wanted the prisoner to say. Mr. Summers stared through the glass at each woman in turn. Then he left the room. Next came his wife. She, too, took her time, but she was confused since she was even more sure than her husband that they had already identified the woman. They also felt slightly guilty. Had they made a mistake earlier? Both had been so certain that the deceased Helen Murphy was the woman they had seen in the parking lot.
“Could they all smile?” Mrs. Summers asked nervously. “I want to see their teeth.”
Captain Rooney walked into the viewing room. There was Lorraine, at number seven, taller than any of the others. It was strange to see her, chin up, holding the card in front of her, her face expressionless. He moved closer to the glass and stared at the deep scar running down her cheek. She looked different, meaner, harder; and yet there was still an attractiveness about her. Her clear eyes seemed to stare back at him through the one-way glass, almost as if she knew he was there.
The third person to be led across the lineup was the cabdriver, unshaven, having been ordered out of bed as he was now working night shifts. He was bad-tempered, asking over and over if he was going to get paid for all the time they had used up. He had already identified the woman, hadn’t he? In some ways he’d half expected a row of corpses.
Rooney turned to Bean. “Anything?”
“Yeah. The Summerses both said it could be number four—she’s from Records! And the cabdriver said it was the skinny woman, number two. She’s a hooker, but she was locked up on the seventeenth for breaking into a car.”
“Great.” Rooney sighed.
Lorraine was asked to wait in reception. She was exhausted from keeping up her calm front during the hours she’d spent at the station, as well as from standing very erect in the lineup—that was another little tip: never slouch, makes you look guilty, always look straight ahead. Never smile, just look. They can’t deal with a straight confrontation.
Rooney sat at his desk, swiveling his chair from side to side. In front of him were Rosie’s and Jake’s statements, and Lorraine’s own statement. Why had she used that poor little mite’s name? It made him angry. He sighed and then stared at Bean, who was looking over Lorraine’s charge sheet. “We can hold her if you want. You have a look at this? Vagrancy, prostitution … she’s got twenty-five traffic violations, five nonappearances for court hearings …”
“Yeah, I know,” muttered Rooney.
“She said she was at an AA meeting, so did her friends. We can check it if you want.”
Rooney shrugged. Lorraine didn’t fit their description, she looked to him to be doing okay for herself—and she was sober. “I can understand why she didn’t want to be brought in.” He held out his hand for the sheets. “I’ll talk to her, you can go home. Get some rest while you can.”
“This is gettin’ out of control, isn’t it, Captain?”
“Not your problem, Bean. Just be in early tomorrow morning.”
As Lorraine was led along the corridor toward him, Rooney leaned against the wall. He gave a noncommittal nod and held the door wider for her to pass into his office. She sat in the chair opposite his and waited. Rooney walked slowly around to his chair, sank into it heavily, then rested his elbows on his desk. “Laura Bradley.”
She smiled. “Yeah. I don’t know why I said it, just came into my head. Maybe the little kid’s always there, I don’t know … I’m sorry I wasted your time.”
He stared at her charge sheets.
“I guess whoever you were looking for must have used my address—old ploy. You tried the apartments either side? There’s a lot of oddballs live around Orange Grove, some right on Marengo, a few real choice ones right in our building, in fact, and then there’s the liquor store on the corner—”
Rooney interrupted, “I know the area. How long have you been sober?”
“A year,” she lied.
Rooney sighed. He hadn’t revealed to Bean why he hadn’t been around when they’d brought in Lorraine. He’d been with Chief Michael Berillo and he’d been hauled over the carpet. “I’m being really pushed on this one. Chief implied I’d be off it if I didn’t get a result soon.”
“What’s the case?” Lorraine asked knowing perfectly well what it was.
“Seven hookers cracked over the skull with a claw hammer. One of ’em’s only seventeen, rest are real dogs.” Rooney smirked. “Maybe some of ’em are your friends. You want to take a look?”
“Cunt.”
“Okay, relax. What are you doing now?”
“Work in an art gallery, go see my kids—Mike still pays me alimony, pretty boring but it keeps me. Can I go?”
“No. I need someone to talk to. What do you think of the new station—well, be about five years old now. It wasn’t built when you left, was it?”
She lit a cigarette, and was surprised when he slumped forward, clasping his head in his hands. “I’m fucking coming up for retirement, and what happens? I get a case that’s … I keep going up one blind alley after another. Nothing makes sense.”
He suddenly looked up, and then got to his feet. “Come on, take a look, maybe you did know one of these whores.”
She glared at him, and he laughed. “Hey! You be nice to me. I could have you locked up. You know how many violations you got outstanding? Twenty-five, sweetheart, so move your butt.”
Lorraine followed Rooney into the incident room. The officers in there turned and stared. Rooney announced loudly that she was an ex-cop, and there followed a few strange glances and a whispered exchange between two women cops who knew that she’d been in the lineup. Lorraine gazed around the room and then said aside to Rooney, “Jesus, Rooney, these cops all look like kids to me.”
She lit a cigarette from the butt and heard someone say it was a no-smoking zone. She paid no attention and puffed her cigarette alight. She turned to one of the female officers and said quietly, “You want to arrest me?”
Rooney now glared at the watching officers. “None o’ you got work to do? Go on, piss off outta my hair, go on.”
They shuffled out, one by one turning back for a last look. Ex-cop, somebody had said. She sure as hell didn’t look like one—and why had she been brought in for the lineup? She wasn’t bad looking, but none liked the cold blue eyes that stared right through them.
Rooney took her over the photographs, pointing out each woman in turn, where they were found, the dates. She looked closely at Hastings. Pinned next to it was one of him in drag.
“How about that for a turnup? Drag artist in his spare time, I found that out,” Rooney said, as if he expected her to applaud. She remained with Rooney for two more hours. Back in his office, he talked on and on. She knew he was running everything by her, for no other reason than that he wanted to run it all by himself. She let him ramble on with barely an interruption and wondered if at the end of all this he was going to book her. Then came: “You ever think about that kid? The one you took out?”
She turned away. She didn’t think of him, and she suddenly felt guilty. But Rooney continued, “You were good, you know. I wish I had someone here with your dedication. If you hadn’t been a drunk, you’d be somewhere now. A lot go the same way—well, not quite as low as you. You hit the skids, didn’t you? Worked the streets?”
“Yes. Look, can I go?” She stood up.
“No, you can’t. Fucking sit down.”
She sat down, and then he blew he
r away. “I want you to do something for me.” She stared.
“Make you a deal.” He picked up the charge sheets between finger and thumb and dangled them. “See what you can come up with for me. Ask around the whorehouses, the—”
“You kidding me?”
He shook his head, his voice suddenly low and unpleasant. “No, I’m not kidding. The deal is I’ll clear these,” he indicated the long list of charges, “if you help me out. Somebody’s got to know these hookers, somebody’s got to know something, maybe where Murphy’s hiding out. We’re trying to trace Helen Murphy’s husband, but so far no joy—and I doubt if it’s him anyway. If you find anything, any link, you got a clean sheet.”
Lorraine laughed. “I got a job, Bill.”
He leaned closer to her, and she could smell his stale breath. “This is not a job, sweetheart, this is a deal. You get a clean slate for helping me out or I’ll bust you.”
“Then I’ll need a car—”
“Fuck off, Lorraine! Look at this. You’ve been charged on eight counts for driving without a license, without insurance, and under the influence. No way can I get that cleared. The other stuff, yes—the no-show for court appearances, prostitution.”
“What about expenses?”
He laughed, shaking his head. “You sure try it on.”
“I got to eat, pay rent. I walk out of my job, and—”
He sneered, “Do what you did before, Lorraine, sell your little ass—”
She leaned over the desk. “Screw you. Take those charges and shove them up your ass—it’s big enough to take the entire filing cabinet.”
He roared with laughter and slapped the desk with his hand. “Okay. Fifty bucks.”
“A day.”
“A week.”
“Fuck off. I know how much you pay informers, I also know you’ll have a nice little stash that you’ll divvy out between you and your pals at the end of each month, filling in fake names and places. I know, Billy. Fifty bucks a day. I can go on the streets, into the bars, the clubs. I’ll find someone with information. Like you said, I was good.”
Cold Shoulder Page 20