Fellows frowned. “I doubt it. He just kills when he feels the urge, no specific date code.” He sighed. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help, but if I sift through the files again, find something, can I call you?”
She nodded.
“Good, and will you call me if you find anything? It’s interesting to me or I wouldn’t have spent so much time on it already.”
The doorbell rang. He walked her to the cab. “It’s paid for, so don’t worry. And if you need me, call.”
She smiled her thanks and he remained watching her until the cab turned out of the driveway.
Back in the den, he picked up the dirty ashtray piled high with cigarette stubs—fifteen. He tipped it into the wastebasket, then straightened the leather cushions, and went upstairs to the bedroom.
Dilly was sleeping, her arms entwined around a pillow. She hardly stirred when he slipped into bed and turned off his bedside lamp. He rested his head on his arms and thought about Lorraine. There was an arrogance about her that attracted him in and a directness he admired. There was also, he detected, a deep, hidden pain which, in his professional opinion, was about to erupt. Maybe that was why he had felt so protective of her. Thing was, could he keep his promise?
12
The taxi Fellows had called was much more upmarket than the usual dented and rusted yellow ones. It was more like a mini-limousine and very comfortable. As she leaned back on the plush seat, she saw the portable telephone. She coughed, hesitated a moment before she asked if she could make a call, only now thinking that Rosie might be worried.
“Hi, it’s me.”
Without pausing for breath, Rosie launched in and gave her a real tongue-lashing—how worried she was, and that she was just about to call Jake and get a search party for her.
“I’m sorry, I got caught up. I’m on my way home now.”
Rosie started to tell Lorraine about returning to Janklow’s house and how the rental had broken down.
“What? You left the car outside the goddamned house?”
“No, not right outside, well, not too close … I think it was the battery. Anyway, they said they’d pick it up first thing in the morning and give us a replacement, so I left the keys under the front seat.”
Lorraine was furious. She asked Rosie if there was anything inside the car to connect her to it; just when she was trying to act professional, all she needed was Rooney to get something on her, even more so after Fellows had guessed just how connected she was to the case.
“Well, I’m sorry, but what was I supposed to do, push it back home? Maybe there are the rental papers, I dunno. Did you leave anythin’ in the glove compartment? I mean, I didn’t, I even took the camera and …”
Lorraine cut the call off, angry, and asked the driver to take her to Beverly Glen. If there was any extra fare she’d pay it in cash.
Rosie glared at the telephone. She hadn’t even had the time to tell Lorraine about the photographs, there wasn’t even a thank-you. Typical. It wasn’t her fault the battery had died on her.
By the time they parked a short distance outside Janklow’s house, Lorraine was even more annoyed with herself for not making Rosie aware of how important it was to do what she told her to do, and not go off on harebrained schemes by herself. She got out of the cab and checked the rental, removed the documents from inside the glove compartment. There were even her notes on all the suspects from the S & A garage, which she stuffed into her purse, even more angry with Rosie. Lorraine was just about to get back into the car when she noticed there were lights on in Janklow’s driveway. She told the driver to wait just a moment and then she crossed to the big double-barred gates. The dog was still loose, sleeping about ten feet inside. He woke and growled, his tawny eyes daring her to lay so much as a hand on the gate. Although the driveway was lit by small decorative lanterns, the house was in darkness, curtains drawn on the lower-floor windows, and there was no car out front. It seemed ominously quiet and yet there was nothing creepy about the property, quite the opposite. Lorraine stepped closer and her body set off the automatic security lights. The gardens, the lower story of the house, the gates, even the road she was standing in were suddenly bathed in brilliant light.
She started back to the taxi when she heard someone calling. She paused and looked back.
“Bruno must have set the security lights off again. Bruno!”
Brad Thorburn, wearing shorts and flip-flops, appeared at the front door. The dog ran to him, standing on its hind legs to lick his face. Brad ruffled its fur and scanned the garden for an intruder, but his voice was mocking when he clapped his hands and said to the dog, “See them off, go on, good boy.”
Lorraine whipped around as the cabdriver tooted his horn. “You want to stay here much longer, lady? I got another pickup radioed to me …”
She was very flustered—and not just because she was now standing in virtual daylight; she had recognized Thorburn and it had thrown her sideways. What the hell was he doing at Janklow’s house? She actually had her hand on the cab’s door handle when the gates opened. Thorburn looked across the road toward the cab and was about to close the gates, when he looked again. “Hey! Weren’t you at the university earlier?”
“Sorry,” Lorraine said innocently. “Are you talking to me?”
He nodded. “I was playing with Andrew Fellows.”
Lorraine smiled. “What a coincidence.” It was more of one than she could actually piece together and she knew she must be red with embarrassment at being caught there.
“You got a problem?” Thorburn asked.
Lorraine walked over to join him. “No, not really. I was supposed to drop in to pick up something for a friend of mine. I thought it was number three eight hundred but I must have been mistaken.”
“Do you need to make a call? You can use my phone.”
This was too much of an opportunity, to actually be invited into the house, but so much was crisscrossing her mind: what if the man who attacked her was in there and recognized her? Or had she and Rosie made one hell of a blunder?
“I won’t be a second,” she called to the driver, who gave a surly nod. She grinned at Thorburn. “My driver’s fed up since we’ve been all up and down the Glen. I didn’t like to start ringing doorbells, it being so late and with so much security around here.”
Thorburn pressed the gates closed and released the dog, which immediately launched itself at Lorraine, wagging its tail and slobbering. “He’s not quite gotten it together yet, he’s only a puppy. This way …”
Lorraine followed Brad up the pathway. The house could have been Scarlett O’Hara’s Tara. It had two massive white pillars, three stories high, and four marbled entrance steps up to a white marble porch. It was certainly some property. The hallway alone took her breath away. It was an antique mixture of Baroque furniture, massive chandeliers, and gilt mirrors, but it was not oppressive because the pieces were not crowded together. The hallway was of such a grand scale, it could easily have accommodated several cars parked side by side.
“Phone’s on the table just through that arch. I’m Brad Thorburn.”
“Lorraine Page.”
He walked off and Lorraine went toward the wide archway. The room was sunken, with deep white sofas and a single glass-topped coffee table with a basket of flowers the likes of which Lorraine had only seen in magazines. The paintings were all huge, and it struck Lorraine as she picked up the receiver that the white telephone was the smallest object in the room. She called Rosie.
“Hi, it’s me again. Look, can you double-check something for me.”
“What?” Rosie asked, half asleep.
“Check that last address, where the car broke down—you with me, Rosie?”
“What are you talking about? You mean Janklow’s?”
“Yes, you sure it belongs to who you just said and not someone else?”
“Yes, we both checked out the address. Why?” Lorraine could hear the sound of the flip-flops across the white marble hallw
ay.
“I won’t bother tonight, I’ve got a taxi waiting. Good night.” She replaced the receiver before Rosie could utter another word.
“Can I get you a drink?” He had put on a loose white caftan over his shorts.
“Ah, no, I’d better go, but thanks for the offer and the use of your phone.” She could feel herself blushing, so she dipped her head.
“Did you go over to Andrew’s?”
“Yes, we had a relaxed dinner, just Dilly and Andrew.”
He smiled. “I’ve offered her money to take that painting down. I know you’ve seen it because you won’t look at me.”
She hadn’t even thought of the painting, it was him she couldn’t look at. They walked toward the front door, which was still ajar. As they stepped onto the porch, her taxi drove off.
“Since your transport has departed, will you change your mind?”
“No, thanks all the same, but if you could call me another cab …”
“Don’t you drive?”
“Yes, I do, but I also used to drink. The two didn’t go together. Now I don’t drink or drive.”
He gestured for her to follow him. “Come and sit down. Let me fix you a soft drink, or tea or coffee, if you’d prefer?”
Brad took her into the kitchen. It was like a movie set—more appliances and high-tech equipment than she’d seen in any restaurant. He poured her a glass of ice water, then crossed to a wall phone as he asked her what she did for a living. She told him she worked part-time at an art gallery. He turned to look at her. “Anyone I’d know of?”
“I doubt it, it’s not very successful.” She knew she had to concentrate on using this situation and told herself to stop acting like a tongue-tied teenager. This was too good an opportunity to pass up. Maybe she was attracted to him, but she had to ignore it. It was unlikely he’d have any interest in her—Duly had said that all his women were young, perfect beauties. But she was sure, unless she was kidding herself, that—wasn’t he putting out signals? She noticed the bottle of wine open on the table, and a bottle of Scotch, had he been drinking? Was he maybe a little drunk? He did seem very relaxed and she could smell liquor on his breath; maybe he’d had a few too many. She gave him a hooded glance as he picked up the receiver, but he turned and caught her looking at him. He didn’t smile but met her eyes and then his attention was drawn to the phone.
“The cab will be here in about fifteen minutes.”
“Thanks.” She decided to start doing the job she was there for.
“You have a wonderful home, do you live here alone?”
“No, my brother’s here as well. You want me to show you around?” He downed a glass of wine and then smiled, gesturing with a half bow for the tour to begin. Politely, he led her through one vast ornate room after another. He was obviously uninterested, so they viewed each quickly and Lorraine hardly said a word. It was not until they went upstairs that his closeness made her feel uncomfortable. He touched her elbow as he showed off the master bedroom, with floor-to-ceiling white silk curtains that Barbara Stanwyck might have draped herself in. It lacked the freshness of the other rooms.
“This room’s different,” Lorraine said, and walked farther inside, her feet sinking into thick-piled, soft, rose-colored carpeting.
“My mother’s room. She likes it kept this way.”
She saw photographs in heavy silver frames, at least fifteen of them, clustered on the dressing table. The main one was of an astonishingly beautiful woman, pale blond hair, elegant, a classic beauty.
“My mother.”
“She’s stunning, very beautiful.”
“Yes, she is—or was. She’s now made herself into a plaster cast, hardly recognizable as the same person. I don’t think she has a single feature she hasn’t attempted to freeze in time. She’s refused to age gracefully. And that was my father. I think the only reason it’s here is because she looks so wonderful in the same photograph. He died a long time ago.”
Lorraine picked up a smaller picture frame. “That’s my brother, well, half-brother. I think I was four, he’d be about twelve, different fathers.”
They heard the sound of a car heading up the driveway. He replaced the picture and, crossing to the window, drew back the drape.
“Is that my cab?”
“No, they’ll call from outside. It’s just the staff returning.” He walked briskly to the door, impatient for her to follow, yet he remained the gentleman, holding the door open until she passed him, about to head down the stairs. He had changed, she could feel it, he was very edgy now.
“No, come into my office.” He gripped her elbow and they walked quickly along the landing and through another archway. “Go in and sit down, I’ll be right with you.”
He crossed to the banisters and looked down as the front door slammed. “Don’t put the alarms on, I’m waiting for a cab.”
“Are you going out?”
Lorraine was just about to go into the office. She paused. Although she had heard a man’s voice, she had also heard the click-click of high heels.
“I’ve got somebody here—they’re just going, so stay down there.”
The click-click faded and a door below closed. Brad beckoned her into his so-called office, which was mostly windows with a vast array of books lining what walls there were. A modern desk was covered with a word processor and stacks of manuscripts.
“What kind of books do you write?”
He closed the door. “You mean attempt to write! I haven’t done it yet.”
He frowned as footsteps could be heard on the polished wooden stairs, but they continued on up to the floor above them. Then he seemed to relax, pointing to a photograph of a vintage car. “I have a collection.”
“Do you keep them all here?” Lorraine asked.
“No, I have a garage. I bought it to house my own vehicles, then I hired a mechanic to keep them in condition, and every other day somebody with a comparable car would appear and ask if my mechanic could help them repair it or where they could get a part, so I opened up a garage, dealing only in vintage imported or American cars.”
Lorraine could feel herself sweating. It was the mention of the garage, the vintage cars, and she recalled what Fellows had said about Brad. They had, she thought, the right house after all.
He looked up as the footsteps passed over the ceiling from the room above. “Excuse me.”
He walked out and closed the door. As soon as it shut, Lorraine was at his desk, opening drawers, checking. She found stacks of notepaper with the S & A logo, envelopes, drawers full of magazines and more manuscripts. She looked over the bookcase—novels, theology, medicine, dictionaries, biography, autobiography—then opened a door into another room and saw the professionally equipped gym. She suddenly looked up as she heard low voices arguing. It was frustrating because she couldn’t hear a word they were saying. A door slammed and then there were running footsteps. Lorraine hurried to sit down as Brad returned.
“Maybe you should call me another cab.”
He walked to the bookcase and removed a book. The entire wall fell back to reveal a large bedroom.
Brad extended an arm. “There’s even a private staircase leading out and down to the garden. If the cab hasn’t arrived by the time we get there, I’ll run you home.”
Lorraine passed him to walk into the bedroom. The king-size bed had several mirrors above it yet it didn’t feel overtly sexual. The room was too orderly, everything pale oatmeal, even the polished wooden floors. The walls were covered with photographs, mostly of blond women.
“My harem, as Dilly calls them.” Lorraine moved to look more closely and he followed and stood directly behind her. “She says they were interchangeable. What do you think?”
She could feel the heat of him but she calmly looked from one girl to the next. “I think they’re lovely.”
He touched her shoulder, a light feather touch, and then slowly traced down her arm. He reached for her hand and drew it back slightly to feel his erection.
“I want to fuck you.” His voice was hardly audible.
She did not withdraw her hand but allowed him to press it against his erect cock. Her whole body seemed to catch fire, and then she laughed. “Dilly’s painting doesn’t exaggerate, does it?”
She moved her hand, without his assistance, slowly over his erection and he moaned. She closed her eyes, she didn’t want it to happen. He pressed closer and his right hand began slowly to unbutton her blouse, pushed beneath her bra to feel her nipples. They were hard and he knew she was aroused. He bent his head to kiss her neck. His tongue licked as he pulled her blouse open more, while her legs began to spread as if out of her control.
“No,” she whispered. “Please don’t do this to me. I don’t want this, I have to go.”
She wanted to scream, wanted him to go on. She could feel herself start to pant as he massaged her nipples. She knew that if he reached down, put his hand between her legs, she wouldn’t be able to resist—but she had to make it stop, walk away from him. She pushed his hands off but he turned her roughly to face him and kissed her lips. It was a sweet, gentle kiss and she craved more and pressed against him. She felt her arms lifting to hold him.
“How did you get this?” He traced the scar on her cheek. “It drives me crazy, you know that? It’s so sexy, the way you tilt your head. You have beautiful eyes. I want to make love to you, Lorraine.”
She was embarrassed about her body, her scars, and hearing his husky voice saying things she had never expected to hear from any man, let alone one as handsome as he was, made her want to weep.
“I have to go.”
“No, not yet.”
“Yes. Just get away from me.”
He stepped back as she buttoned her blouse, pulled down her skirt. She had to keep talking because if he laid so much as a finger on her again she’d be unable to say no. “I don’t know what you think I am but you’ve got a fucking nerve. Now just stay the hell away from me—go fuck one of your classy blond college kids but don’t come on to me because I’d make you pay, sweetheart. You picked the wrong lady.”
Cold Shoulder Page 26