Rooney drained his beer and beckoned the waiter to bring another.
Lorraine played around with the food on her plate, then pushed it away. “I think he’s a transvestite.”
Rooney ran his hands through his hair. “What?”
“I think Janklow’s a transvestite.”
“Think? I need more than you fucking thinking, I need evidence, I need facts. Jesus Christ, Lorraine, you know how crazy this all sounds?” He put his head in his hands. The more she told him, the worse it all sounded. “You think the guy that hit on you was Steven Janklow, right? You also think Steven Janklow is a transvestite. Is there anything else you might have just glossed over—like maybe he has two heads?”
“Back off me. All the dead women have a similar look, similar age.”
“What about Holly?”
“I think she’s the mistake. Because of the last one, Didi.”
Lorraine explained that she thought the killer was trying to pick up Nula or Didi on the night Holly was murdered. She told him how they had both seen a car, had both seen Holly run across the road to a John. Her pimp Curtis saw her—but maybe the John was trying to pick up Didi or Nula. Once he ended up with Holly he had to get rid of her. Maybe he panicked.
Rooney argued that it didn’t make sense. Why didn’t he just kick her out, if he’d gotten the wrong one? His head throbbed and he still couldn’t believe how she’d held out on him like this. Lorraine banged the table. “Wait a minute! The wrong one. What if they were all the wrong ones? What if he was looking specifically for Didi all along? They’re all the same age, all dyed or bleached blondes, but he can’t find the one he’s looking for, the main one. She had a blond wig on, right? Yes? Did you say she was found wearing a blond wig?”
Rooney blinked, Lorraine drummed her fingers. “Shit, shit, Bill. I might be right. You see, sometimes she didn’t wear a blond wig, she’s got every color under the sun …”
“Are you trying to tell me that this guy clubs seven women to death because he’s looking for one, and we forget Norman Hastings? Did he think he was one as well? I mean he wasn’t wearing a fucking blond wig, he was wearing a goddamned suit! This is dumb, Lorraine. You lost your touch, sweetheart. We’re looking at someone who’s bumped off these women over five years, and he’s doing it because of mistaken identity? Nuts!”
Lorraine twiddled with her fork. “Okay, let’s try something else. Let’s go through every victim, including Hastings. He was a drag artist, right? He parked his car at S and A years after he was doing any business with them, but he knew Janklow. Maybe he found out something?”
Rooney put his head in his hands, kept it there for a while, and then slowly looked through his thick fingers. It was coming down on all sides, his head ached, his whole body felt leaden. He slowly delved in his pocket for his wallet. “Maybe I’m wasting my time. I got to go take a leak.”
“But listen to me, there’s every type of tool and hammer at the S and A. Can’t someone check there? Match them? What if the hammers came from there?”
Rooney jabbed the air with his finger. “Stay away from that place, is that understood? From now on you don’t go anywhere near it. I’ll have the place looked over again—in fact, I’ll do it personally—but you stay well away.” He squinted at the bill and looked up at her. “I’ll check out what I think fit.”
“The Vice Squad, can you check that for me? See what Janklow was picked up for?”
“For you? Who in chrissakes do you think is runnin’ this show? I’ll take it from here. If you wanna press charges for assault—”
She leaned back. “You know I won’t do that, but if you get more evidence, then I can be used as a lever. We let him confront me, let him know I’m alive and can identify him, and then see what he does. Use me to catch him. I’m willing.”
Rooney hauled his bulk out of the booth. “Lemme think on it.”
She followed him as he headed for the rest room. “Bill, he used a hammer on me. It’s him.”
He whipped around. “I could have you for withholding evidence. I only paid you to get out on the streets to talk to the hookers, so back off. I’ll contact you when I need you.”
“I need a few dollars, I’m flat broke.”
“Not my problem,” he said as he pushed open the rest room door, and let it close behind him.
When he came out of the restaurant she was waiting by his car. She gave that strange, lopsided smile and he relaxed slightly. Although he was loath to admit it, she had pushed the investigation further—had even supplied him with a suspect.
“Lemme see what I come up with—but you do nothing until you hear from me, okay? Here’s a few bucks, go home, wait for me to call. If it’s Janklow, leave him to me.”
She took the money and watched him drive off. As she walked to the bus stop heading home, she was thinking over everything she had said to Rooney. She had been clutching at straws, but what if she was right? What if there was a connection between Didi and Janklow? She suddenly decided against going home. She could walk to Nula’s from Holly Street and it was a little cooler now. She could walk and think over everything at the same time. If she had been correct and Janklow was in actual fact trying to trace one particular whore or transvestite, maybe Nula could provide her with the clue.
15
Nula wasn’t at home, so Lorraine waited around for a while and then went home, picking up a bus on the corner of Holly Street. Rosie was waiting and wondered what they should do next; she hadn’t enjoyed herself so much for years. But Lorraine knew that without Rooney making contact, it could be dangerous to try to see Janklow again. It was after eight by now, but there was still no word from Rooney. She grabbed a light sweater, tying it around her neck in case it got cooler.
“Where are you going?” Rosie asked nervously.
“You stay put so I can call Rooney back if he makes contact.”
“Don’t you need me with you?”
“I’d prefer it if you stayed here in case he calls. I’ve got to keep him sweet, ’cos if I don’t the old bastard may well have me arrested.”
Rosie sat moodily in front of the TV. She didn’t even say goodbye as Lorraine let herself out. So much for partnership—all she’d been doing all day was sitting waiting for Lorraine in the apartment. When she heard the rental car starting up Rosie shot to the window as fast as her bulk allowed her. She pushed up the window and was about to yell after Lorraine but it was too late, she was already at the corner.
It had been so long since Lorraine had driven that her knees were shaking, but she talked to herself steadily, telling herself to calm down. She just hoped she wouldn’t get pulled over.
Lorraine headed back to Orange Grove and then passed Holly Street until she saw the massive old Moorish-styled building. The lights were on in Nula’s apartment. Lorraine sighed with relief, locked the car, and headed into the apartment block. She rang the bell and waited. Nula’s voice asked who it was but Lorraine rang again, afraid that if she said her name Nula wouldn’t let her in. She kept her hand on the bell, and eventually Nula peered out the window above the entryway.
“Fuck off.”
“Let me in, Nula, otherwise I’ll stay out here and ring your bell all night if I have to.”
Nula buzzed her into the main entry door below and Lorraine hurried up the old wide mosaic stone-floored staircase. She then rapped on Nula’s front door, which Nula eventually opened. Lorraine looked around. Suitcases had been dragged down from the wardrobes. Nula was on the move—she had her red wig on and a trouser suit, and full makeup.
“What happened?”
“I’m going away.”
“Why do you have to go?”
Nula hurled a cushion at her. “Stop asking me questions, just leave me alone.”
Lorraine took out the picture of Steven Janklow in drag. “Will you have another look at this, Nula?”
Nula picked up the cushion and hugged it to her chest. Lorraine dangled the photograph between finger and thumb.
“It won’t hurt you to have a look at it. Is it Steven Janklow?”
“If you fucking know who it is, why are you asking me?”
“Because I need to be sure.”
“I said I don’t know, didn’t I?”
Lorraine was deflated. She didn’t know what her next move should be. She flopped back on the sofa.
“You gonna leave now?”
Lorraine slipped the photograph back into the envelope and stood up, facing the big four-sectioned screen behind which the models changed for a session. It was plastered with photographs of males and females, males and males, part females. Nula looked at her, then her eyes darted to the screen. Lorraine started to walk toward the door, then stopped and glanced back to Nula, who hid her face in the cushion. She turned back toward the screen. At first she wasn’t sure that she was right, so she moved closer, then she bent down and peered. She straightened up. “You don’t know him? Then why is his photograph up on the screen?”
“Because it fit the hole.”
“Who took the photograph?”
“Why?”
“Because if you don’t know who it is, then whoever took the photograph might. Who took the picture, Nula?”
“Art.” Nula sighed, hurling the pillow aside. “Art, I guess he took it, I don’t know.”
Lorraine could feel the adrenaline pumping; it was all as crazy as Rooney had said. “What’s Art’s scene apart from the porno?”
“Use your head, clever bitch. Where do you think he gets all his dough from?”
“Why don’t you tell me?”
Nula headed toward the bedroom. Keeping her back to Lorraine, she leaned on one outstretched arm in the archway of the door.
“Blackmail. Some fucking detective you are. Art blackmails everybody, he’s a bleeder—you should know, you copped a few grand from one of his little leech jobs.”
She turned to face Lorraine, her deep voice husky with controlled anger. “I don’t know that blonde in that photo on the screen and I don’t know whoever it is in your precious picture. That’s not my screen, it’s Art’s. Now would you get out and leave me alone? And have some fucking decency, my best friend just got killed so why don’t you fuck off out of here, you bitch.”
“Where’s Art?”
Nula swore under her breath as she walked into her bedroom and said loudly, “I don’t know.”
Lorraine followed Nula into the bedroom. “Was he blackmailing Steven Janklow?”
Nula kicked at the open bedroom door and screamed, “I don’t know, leave me alone.” She began to pull clothes out of her wardrobe.
“He was blackmailing him, wasn’t he?”
Nula was hurling dresses onto the bed.
“The night Didi died—”
“Yes, what about the night Didi died?”
Lorraine kept her distance. Nula was becoming increasingly hysterical, dragging things off their hangers, dropping them, kicking them. She suddenly turned to Lorraine in a fury. “He used us. If we had a John, he’d be sniffing around. He never let us have any peace, but then we couldn’t have any because he’d give a few dollars here, a few dollars there, he let us have this apartment, okay? He said we never had to pay rent, okay? Well, if you believe that you’re dumb. Art used me, used Didi; he made us both pay. Now if you don’t get out of here and leave me alone I swear to God I’ll scream this place down and have you arrested.”
Lorraine didn’t budge. “Was Art blackmailing Norman Hastings?”
Nula picked up a vase and hurled it at Lorraine. She backed away, her hands up. “I’m going, okay, I’m going …”
Lorraine passed by the screen with all the laminated photographs. She was frantically glancing from one blonde to another in a vague hope that one or another of the dead women as well as Hastings would have been photographed. “When did Art make this screen?”
She knew Nula had come out of the bedroom and was behind her, but she kept looking over the screen. She heard Nula sigh, then blow her nose.
“Years ago. He brought it here with him when he left Santa Monica—he had a place there on the beach.” Nula was tearful now and she wiped her eyes. “I’m sorry I shouted, sorry, but … honestly, I don’t know who anyone is on that screen and I’m all upset, and …”
“Did he, Art, ever own a vintage car?”
Nula rolled her eyes and sniffed loudly. “What do you mean?”
“A custom-made car or an old sports car.”
“Nah, he had a Bentley once for about six months, then he went broke again and sold it.”
“The blonde in the photograph, the one I showed you on the screen, did you meet him?”
“No,” Nula sighed, distracted. She stepped into the bedroom a few paces, Lorraine followed but kept her distance; she didn’t want another vase hurled at her or smashed over her head.
“What about Didi? Did she meet him?”
Nula was holding a long chiffon dress. “This was her favorite. It never fit her but she wouldn’t throw it out.”
“Nula, please, did Didi know the blonde?”
“She may have, she used to do wigs, she was always good with hair. Art used her sometimes for photo sessions, so she may have. I don’t know who she knew, we weren’t joined at the hip, you know, we weren’t always together.…”
“Did Didi know Art before you?”
Nula was sniffing the chiffon dress, brushing her cheek with it. “Yes, I met him through her. She paid a lot for this, but she was always a little on the plump side, and she never wore it, not once.”
Lorraine watched Nula carefully place the chiffon dress into her open suitcase, then continue packing, ignoring Lorraine’s presence.
“Have you ever heard of Craig Lyall, a photographer?” Lorraine asked tentatively.
Nula clicked the suitcase shut. “Professional, is he?”
“Yeah, takes family shots, portraits. Lives around here, in that old fire station.”
Nula shrugged. “Name isn’t familiar, but then I’m never good with names.”
“What about Didi? Do you have her address book? Maybe she has his phone number.”
Nula took a small key and locked the case. “No, she never kept one, and now, if you’ll excuse me, I am going to take a bath. Unless you want to watch me soaping my tits I suggest you leave.”
“You need a lift? I’ve got a car.”
“I’ll get a cab.”
“Can I ask where you’re going?”
“You can, but I don’t see why I should tell you.”
“Just in case I need to get in touch with you.”
Nula carried her suitcases to the door, dumped them, and went back to pick up two more bags.
“Curtis knows how to contact me.”
Lorraine reached out to shake Nula’s hand but she turned away. “Goodbye, and thanks.”
Nula stood in the center of the room, arms folded. As soon as she heard the front door slam behind Lorraine, she clutched the sides of her head and started to scream. She had been holding on to her rage, waiting, waiting until she was sure the bitch was out of earshot. Then she screamed and screamed, and kicked out again at the sofa before she got herself back in control. Then she crossed to the telephone and started to dial.
Lorraine drove to Craig Lyall’s studio, literally within a few blocks of Nula’s and situated in the oldest part of Pasadena. She parked and headed toward the main entrance of the converted firehouse. She checked down the residents’ numbers and pressed Lyall’s bell. She waited, but getting no response she pressed again, and again, and was about to walk away when a fuzzy distorted voice screeched. “Yes? Yes, who is it?”
Lorraine licked her lips and moved close to the speaker. “Friend of Art Mathews’s.”
“Oh, shit, wait … just wait.”
Rosie heard the footsteps thudding up the steps and opened the door. Two uniformed police officers stood outside. Rosie wasn’t unduly worried, partly because she was expecting Rooney to call. She even asked if they were there because of
him because she knew Lorraine wanted to speak to him.
“Will you pass that on to Captain Rooney?”
They did not answer her questions but asked if there were any other ways into the apartment, then stomped back down the steps and surveyed the building from all sides. Rosie had begun to get uneasy. Now she was edgy, because they’d remained outside in their patrol car and didn’t look as if they had any intention of driving away.
Lorraine moved up the old stone staircase to the first floor. The big square building had been Pasadena’s main fire station, but had been sectioned off into apartments many years ago. They were mostly occupied by artists because of the size of the windows and height of the ceilings. Outside Lyall’s apartment and studio there was a small plaque with his name and beneath it PHOTOGRAPHER. She could also hear opera being played at full volume. She pressed the bell and waited. Lyall unbolted the door. Small and dapper, he was a good six inches shorter than Lorraine.
“What do you want? You’re not a cop? What do you want?”
“Like I said, I’m a friend of Art’s.”
Lorraine followed Lyall into the studio. Pine floored, it was dominated by a photographic equipment setup, with an area sectioned off as a living room. The stereo thudded out an aria from some opera. He picked up his remote control switch and turned it off.
“I was working in the darkroom. You were lucky, I only stepped out to change the disc. Can’t hear a thing, dear. So, let me finish up these negs, then I’ll be right with you. Make yourself at home.”
Lorraine put down her purse and remained standing, looking at all the framed photographs lining the walls. She then crossed the room to check out two bulky albums, filled with portraits of kids and families. She turned over the heavy pages, awful smiling brats in too-colorful dresses, all much the same, similar to the pictures she had seen in Mrs. Hastings’s home.
Lyall returned and offered her a drink. He seemed jumpy.
“Art’s told me a lot about you. I worked for him in his gallery, you know, the one on Holly Street. In fact, weren’t you one of the guests at the opening night party?” Lorraine perched on the edge of the sofa and opened her purse, keeping up a constant chatter, trying to relax Lyall, trying to make him trust her. She indicated her cigarettes. “Do you mind if I smoke?”
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