Cold Shoulder

by Lynda La Plante

  Lorraine opened her file and smiled. “Well, let’s get this over with as fast as possible, shall we?”

  She asked if Norman Hastings had ever owned a vintage car, or used a garage in Santa Monica that specialized in imported vehicles. She went through the different makes of car to see if Mrs. Hastings reacted, but the woman shook her head and said that her husband could never have afforded anything so expensive. Lorraine asked if he had owned a car before they were married.

  “Yes, of course, but I’ve no idea what kind it was.” Lorraine said nothing, seemingly more interested in her file. “I’ve got a photograph of it, I think,” Mrs. Hastings added.

  Lorraine looked up and smiled encouragingly. “Can I see it?”

  Mrs. Hastings left the room and Lorraine took out the photographs she and Rosie had taken. Mrs. Hastings returned with a photograph album and began to flip through the pages until she found what she was looking for. “I think that’s it. I have no idea what make it was, but I’m sure it wasn’t one of the cars you mentioned.”

  Lorraine looked at the snapshot taken in 1979, the date neatly printed below the photograph. Norman Hastings, in shirtsleeves, stood beside the car. It was a low sports car, a British-made Morgan—and, by the look of it, quite an old model.

  “Do you have any idea where he bought it?”

  Mrs. Hastings shook her head again. She had never seen it.

  “Your husband was a few years older than you,” Lorraine observed, about to turn the album page, but Mrs. Hastings took it back.

  “Yes, fifteen, but we were happy.” She hesitated. “I suppose you know about Norman’s little problem. I told that man Rooney.”

  “I don’t think we need to discuss it. You were brave to tell Captain Rooney about it—it must have been very distressing.” Lorraine opened her purse and took out the small square box, opening it as she passed it to Mrs. Hastings. “Did your husband ever own a set of cuff links like these, Mrs. Hastings? They could be gold but with that distinct S and A logo in the center.”

  Mrs. Hastings looked down at them. “They’re silver, but the chain’s broken.”

  “Do you still have them?”

  She left the room again and Lorraine leaned back in the sofa. Next she wanted Mrs. Hastings to look at the photographs. It was going well but the woman was tricky, nervous and jumpy. Lorraine wanted her nice and calm. The cuff links were still in their little cardboard box and one was broken. Lorraine examined the links, then looked at the box. No date, just the same logo and the Santa Monica address.

  “What do you want to see these for?” Mrs. Hastings asked.

  Lorraine replaced the cuff links, shut the box. “We may have a possible link to the killer. We think he was wearing something similar. Thank you.”

  Mrs. Hastings was beginning to pluck at her dress in agitation. “Will it all come out? About Norman?”

  Lorraine put her box into her purse. “I doubt it. I always think personal details that have no connection to the case should not be released to the press, especially if the family have requested them not to be.”

  Mrs. Hastings clasped Lorraine’s wrist. “Oh, thank you. I’ve been so worried—the children—then there’s Norman’s parents and his friends at work.”

  “He was an engineer, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes, yes, he was, for refrigerators and domestic appliances.”

  “Did he work on his car engines?”

  “He could repair anything from a toaster to a car. The neighbors were always asking him to fix things and he was such a kind man, he’d never say no.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “Some people around here complain, you know, about anything and everything. They complained about Norman working on other people’s cars, said they cluttered up the driveway. Unless it was their car, of course.”

  Lorraine used the opening and showed the photograph of Janklow.

  “Did he ever help this man out?”

  “I can’t tell, there’s not all his face there, but I don’t think so.”

  Lorraine now showed the photo of the white Mercedes driven by Janklow in blond wig and makeup. Mrs. Hastings glanced at it. “I don’t know her.”

  “Have you ever seen the car?”

  Mrs. Hastings took the photograph and stared at it. “I don’t know, a lot of people came to see him. As I said, he was always helping people out.”

  “It’s a vintage Mercedes sports car, a real beauty. It would also have a hard top. Maybe you saw it with that on?”

  Mrs. Hastings frowned. “I don’t know. There’s something familiar about it, it’s difficult to say. What color is the hard-top roof?”

  Lorraine took a chance, figuring if the body was white maybe the roof was, too.

  “Well, no, I remember a similar car out in the driveway once, but it had a black top, sort of dipped.”

  Lorraine began to put away the photographs, still relaxed. “Did you see who was driving it? Who it belonged to?”

  “No, they were in the garage out in the yard. Norman used to keep odd spare parts out there—and that was another reason why he had so many people coming around. He’d charge them—just expenses, it was his hobby but I hated it. It made his hands all dirty, and left oil on everything, and then with the complaints …”

  Lorraine stood up and smiled. “Thank you very much. You’ve been very helpful, and I really appreciate it. Would you mind if I come back if I get a better photograph of the man in the Mercedes?”

  “No, I don’t mind. In fact, I haven’t minded talking to you at all.”

  Rooney was just pulling up when he saw Lorraine walk out. She waved to Mrs. Hastings and he saw her glance toward his car. He opened the passenger door as Mrs. Hastings shut her front door and Lorraine got in beside him. “I’d stay clear of her—she’s nervous, more worried about her husband’s ’little problem,’ as she calls it, getting out to the press than she is about the murder.”

  Rooney sniffed. “You got anything for me?”

  “I might have a suspect, but until I’m sure I’d rather do some more digging around—maybe in a few days.”

  “I need anything you’ve got now. I don’t have a few days.”

  She pursed her lips. “Give me until the end of the day. I also need anything you’ve got on the latest victim.”

  “I told you all I’ve got. Until they’ve finished the tests, that’s it. She was a man and her last meal was banana bread.” She had her hand on the door ready to leave when he said, “You and Lubrinski, were you an item?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “I’m just trying to figure you out.”

  “Little late for that, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, I know. I was just mulling things over, and I started to think about him, he was a great guy.”

  She nodded but made no reply. He reached down for his bourbon and unscrewed the cap. He drank from the bottle and she turned to look at him. “It’s the bourbon that reminds you of him. Because he always had a bottle under his seat. Why are you drinking, anyway?”

  He gritted his teeth as the bourbon hit his stomach. He took another swig. “I need it. Did you drink with him?”

  “You know I did.”

  “On duty?”

  “Sometimes, but mostly we waited until we were off.”

  “Did he get you started on the booze?”

  She laughed. “I didn’t need Lubrinski to start me drinking, Bill, I managed it all by myself.”

  “Why?”

  She suddenly became touchy. “How about I was just screwed-up, tense, and scared I’d foul up. And there’s nobody else to blame but myself.”

  “Your husband? The kids, was that it?”

  “For chrissakes, back off. Why do you want to start on this?”

  He took another swig and screwed on the cap. “Because I’d like to know, and maybe I feel guilty. Maybe this is a conversation I should have had with you years ago.”

  She got out of the car and leaned in. “You’re too late, Bill,
there’s nothing you can do now. What happened happened. It’s over.”

  “I’m sorry.” He said it gruffly, not looking at her, and she straightened up, about to slam the car door, when she bent down to look at him again.

  “About Lubrinski, Bill, he was the best friend I ever had. I trusted him with my life but he was a crazy fool, he took risks, got into a lot of things that I tried to stop, but he wouldn’t listen to me, he never listened to anyone and, in answer to your question, we were not an item, we were just partners.”

  Then she shut the door and walked off just as Rosie drove up on the opposite side of the road. Rooney pulled away in a cloud of exhaust fumes.

  “How’d it go?” Rosie asked cheerfully.

  Lorraine told her to drive to the S & A garage in Santa Monica. Then she closed her eyes and leaned back. She could see Lubrinski’s face as clear as if it were yesterday. They had gotten drunk together on so many evenings, they’d talked about everything under the sun, always carefully skirting around themselves. But eventually it had happened. She’d been drinking heavily and he’d insisted she sober up at his place before Mike saw her. He was always joking about Mike, snide one-liners about her house-proud husband, but she wouldn’t let him run Mike down. She snapped back that he should try and clean up his own act, no wonder his wife had kicked him out of their house. They had squabbled like teenagers and eventually called a truce, agreeing that neither of them would discuss their partners.

  “Does this make you a single woman now?”

  She had tried to slap him but he ducked so she hit the window of the patrol car. Her knuckles hurt and she sucked her fist. He reached over and caught her hand, drawing it to his lips.

  That night they were totally smashed, even though he seemed never to show it. Not until she watched him attempting to brew the coffee did she know he was as drunk as she was. “You’re plastered, Lubrinski, talk about the blind leading the blind. Here, lemme do it.”

  He lay back on his unmade bed in his new one-room bachelor apartment with dirty clothes strewn all around. Lorraine offered to help him clean it up. He said he liked it this way, he knew where everything was, but after they’d finished the coffee he couldn’t find the patrol car keys. He started throwing things around, swearing. Then he suddenly stopped, smiled at her, and laughed his wonderful, deep bellow. “I’m lying, they’re in my pocket.” He pulled them out and dangled them. “I just wanted to keep you here a while longer, but now that I’m sober I don’t have the guts.”

  “For what?” She was still laughing at him.

  “To hold you. You ever think how much I want to hold you, Lorraine Page?”

  She stopped laughing, got up off the bed, walked over to him, and gently slipped her arms around him. He held her close, he didn’t kiss her, he didn’t fondle her, he did exactly what he had said he wanted to do: he held her in his arms. She rested her head against his chest, could feel his heart beat, could feel him tremble. She had smiled up at him and then released herself. “I got to get back to the kids.”

  “You love him, don’t you?” he asked.

  She was confused. She didn’t really know. The fights and bitter arguments had been wearing her out. Mike hated Lubrinski, constantly implied that he was more than just a working partner. He also hated the way she had started drinking so much. He blamed that on Lubrinski as well. Mike blamed everything on anything and anyone but himself.

  “Yes, I love Mike. Now I got to go home. We both got enough problems without starting up any new ones.”

  She had never seen Lubrinski ill at ease but he was that night, pulling at his thick black curly hair. “It’s kind of different for me, Lorraine.” He shook his head, looking at her. “You don’t know, do you? You got no idea. Jesus Christ, Lorraine, I love you. Some days I don’t know what to do with myself I love you so much, and sometimes I get scared for you and I know that’s not a good thing but I can’t stop it, can’t stop loving you, wanting you. And sitting so close to you, day in day out, is driving me crazy. I’m gonna ask for a transfer. It’s nothing to do with you being a good or bad partner, it’s just that I want you and … well, now you know.”

  Two nights later he was shot on a stakeout. When she tore off her tights to wrap them around his thigh as he was bleeding to death, Lubrinski had joked that at long last he was getting her pants down—he knew he would in time. If he’d known she’d do it when he was shot, he’d have stood up months before …

  She held him in the ambulance. His breathing became labored, his eyes unfocused. She kept telling him to hold on, to keep talking. The last thing he said was that he loved her and the last thing he heard before he died was Lorraine saying that he was a stupid, dumb bastard because she loved him, too, and if he didn’t hold on and pull through she’d strangle him with her tights. She saw the light go from his eyes in disbelief. She’d seen so much death, been so close to it, but this was like losing her own soul, as if he was taking it with him.

  Lorraine went back to her apartment, needing Mike more than ever, but he wasn’t there. She drank herself into a stupor and collapsed on the bed. Mike came back about two hours later. As soon as he saw her he shouted that Lubrinski had gotten her drunk again and she had said quietly that this time Lubrinski had nothing to do with it.

  “I don’t believe you. I’m gonna see him, report him.”

  “Try the City Morgue, Mike, but I doubt if he’ll talk back to you, he’s dead.”

  Mike was stunned, had tried to hold her, but she couldn’t stand him near her, couldn’t bear anyone to touch her. All she wanted was to drink herself into oblivion. Poor Mike had tried to understand, to persuade her to take leave when it was offered, but she refused; she couldn’t stand not to be busy, not to be working. She began to believe that Lubrinski had taken a part of her with him when he died. Nothing she did made any sense, neither did anything Mike said. She was irritable with the girls, she was bad-tempered and uncooperative at work, but somehow she carried on until she finally lost control and killed an innocent boy.

  “We’re almost there,” said Rosie.

  Lorraine opened her eyes. She wanted a drink. That was all she could think about. She didn’t care about anything else. “I want a drink.”

  Rosie stopped outside a grocery store and hurried inside. She returned with a six-pack of Coke. “Here, you wanted a drink!” Lorraine opened a can and gulped it down. Rosie opened one for herself and then proffered a piece of homemade banana bread.

  Lorraine sat bolt upright. What had Rooney said? The latest victim, all they had on her or him was that his last meal was banana bread. She felt her body break out in a cold sweat. Was it Didi or Nula that was always making banana bread? Could it possibly be one of them? Shit—they were the right age. He had said it was a transsexual—but it couldn’t be, it was impossible.

  “I got to make a call, Rosie.”

  Rosie looked at her. “Oh, yeah, like you just got to go in there and make a phone call. You think I’m dumb. I know what you’ll be making, a bottle of vodka. No way.”

  Lorraine had her hand on the car door. “Fuck you, if you feel I can’t be trusted then come in with me.”

  Lorraine had Rosie right at her elbow as she placed the call to Nula and Didi’s apartment. Nula answered, her voice gravelly drowsy. “It’s Lorraine, who’s this?”

  “It’s Nula, sweetheart, how you doin’?”

  “I’m great, Nula. Is Didi there?”

  “Nope, she hasn’t come in, been out all night, the dirty cow. She’ll be back soon though ’cause she’s got a girl comin’ to have her hair cut. You want me to get her to call you?”

  “Do you know where she is?” Lorraine asked, trying to keep her voice laid back.

  Just then the doorbell rang at Nula’s end. “That’s Didi coming home now,” she said; if Lorraine wanted to hang on and wait she’d bring her to the phone.

  “No, I got to go, I’ll call later.”

  Rosie waited, head on one side. “What was that all about?”


  Lorraine shrugged. “I thought maybe something had happened to Didi, but she’d just gotten home.”

  They left the grocery store and headed for the S & A garage. This time Lorraine was going to go in. She needed to speak to the man Mrs. Hastings had recognized. She also knew that Steven Janklow might be there and if he was, she was going to have to come up with a good reason for her presence.

  Nula grabbed her purse and dark shades. It hadn’t been Didi at the door. The two officers didn’t say why they wanted her to accompany them to the station, but she knew it had something to do with Didi because they had asked for photographs of her. If she had just been arrested for prostitution, Nula knew they wouldn’t want photographs. All they had asked was if she knew David Burrows. Nobody ever called Didi David, only the cops. Half an hour later Nula identified Didi’s body. She was in such a state of shock she was unable to speak coherently. All she could do was whisper Didi’s name over and over. The face didn’t resemble that of her beloved friend. Only the red nails and the big topaz ring made Nula sure it was Didi. Two uniformed officers drove her back home in a patrol car. They helped her inside the apartment, and then asked when she had last seen Didi.

  The FBI checked into the complex list of dates and pickups that Brendan Murphy could remember. They contacted the trucking agencies he worked for and released him. He had not lied: Brendan Murphy was not in Los Angeles when his wife, Helen, had been killed, and neither had he been near any of the other locations where victims had been found. Deprived of a suspect, they began to study the case history. Having been brought in to trace Murphy, they were now assigned to the “Hammer” murder investigation.

  14

  Lorraine sat with Rosie in the parking lot adjacent to S & A Vintage Cars. It was a Mexican tile import company, to the trade only, and there were just two vehicles parked in front of their showroom. “Right, here I go. You wait here and if I’m not out—”

  “I’ll shoot myself.” Rosie laughed.

  Lorraine got out of the car, gave her jacket a quick tug to straighten the back, and walked briskly toward the main reception area. No one was around and the vast stretch of the polished mahogany counter held leaflets sprayed out like fans. Dull soft music, songs from the twenties, was in the air. A number of Oscar-like statues, racing cups, and awards stood in glass cabinets, and everywhere there were pictures of vintage cars.