“Anything else you’ve just not mentioned to me?”
She nodded and began describing how she and Rosie had gone to the S & A garage, how she had narrowed the list of cuff links owners down and taken photographs of suspects. None resembled the man who had attacked her. She took the photographs out and passed them to Rooney. As he examined the one of the blond woman, she leaned close to him, saw his hands were shaking.
“I think this is Steven Janklow. I think he’s a transvestite, and that he had a photographic session with either Mathews or Lyall. It could have been as far back as eight to nine years ago, maybe when he was just daring to come out. I think Mathews subsequently discovered who he was and started blackmailing him, realizing he’d found the golden goose. I think Art and Didi may have worked as a team. She was used or hired to do wigs and makeup. She made up Norman Hastings, fixed his hair for the photo session. Maybe she even tipped off Art, Lyall said his clients always took the negatives. You interviewed Lyall, too, didn’t you?”
Rooney nodded. They hadn’t come up with anything as concrete as Lorraine had. He sighed like a man bereaved. She was good, always had been good, but this new evidence was like a time bomb.
“Lorraine, this is …” his voice sounded leaden. She put up her hand, gestured for him not to interrupt. Now she began pacing up and down. There was something about the way she moved, tensing, relaxing her hands, and she rubbed her body, almost sexually, her face becoming more and more alive. She was exciting to watch, as she became increasingly animated.
“I’ve got Hastings linked to Janklow—maybe they discussed the blackmail. Who knows what they discussed? Possible theory is, when Hastings went to the bank that morning, was he going to pay off Mathews? Pay off somebody? The strange thing is that all his bank statements have been checked and the major transactions are accounted for.” She suddenly stopped and clicked her fingers. “Unless Hastings was also tapping Janklow for money. It seems strange that he was allowed to park his car in the hangar. Nobody seems to know why he should have been when he no longer owned one of their cars. Did you know that at one time he owned a vintage car? Maybe that was where he could have found out that he and Janklow were the same kind of men. Whatever, we know they’re linked, and linked to Mathews through Didi. She’s very important. She may not have collected from Mathews’s blackmailing activities, but I’m beginning to think she may have been the go-between or, and this is a wild guess, maybe she was the person Janklow believed was blackmailing him. So that brings me to the last piece of guesswork.”
Lorraine took out the victims’ photographs and laid them along the sofa for Rooney to look at. “They have one thing in common apart from prostitution. Look at the makeup, the type of clothes they wore. Now, look at the morgue shots of Didi.… Put her beside each one. You didn’t believe me earlier, but what if Janklow was only after her, was only interested in tracking her down and killing her? He’s a Thorburn, right? His mother was a big Society hostess, his brother is holding all the purse strings. What if Janklow has been paying out blackmail money because he’s scared his family will find out and it might be made public? Just like Hastings hid his private life from everyone who knew him.”
Lorraine tapped Rooney’s shoulder in her excitement. He edged away, annoyed by her but more angry with himself. She had run rings around him and his department, and it infuriated him. But the only legitimate complaint against her that he could think of was that she had withheld vital evidence.
“Bill, you have got to break Art Mathews—get him to admit this blackmail. If you do, then you have a clean motive and you’ve got Janklow, or at least enough to bring him in for questioning.”
Rooney’s head was spinning, and as he tried to assimilate everything she had told him he felt dizzy. Tapping his shoulder again, she added, “And the guy has got to have some mark from where I bit him. Maybe the skin’s healed, even the bruising, but I held on for everything I was worth.”
Rooney was unnerved by her toughness. “You faced him yet?”
“I told you I hadn’t, I’m not stupid.”
“You are one hell of a witness, you know that, don’t you?” he said wearily, slowly rising from the sofa.
“Yeah.” She stepped back, suddenly wary of him. He was a big man and when he stood up straight instead of his usual slouch it was surprising how much it added to his size. She knew what he was going to say, knew it, but she faced him out, made him look at her directly.
“You’ll have to come in with me. I’m sorry, Lorraine, there’s no way out of it now.”
She turned away. He saw her deflate, wrap her arms around herself, and her voice was hardly audible, almost pleading.
“Come on, Bill, don’t make me have to go to court, not now, not when I’m getting myself back together. I go to court, they can start throwing old charges at me, make me admit to what I was and they’ll dish the dirt on me, even bring up the shooting. Don’t do it to me, Bill.”
He was frustrated because he knew what she said was true, but he also had no option. He sounded more angry than he felt.
“You were fucking attacked! That’s what you’d be in court for, nothing else.”
She leaned against the wall, and her eyes brimmed with tears.
“I know what he did but I won’t go to court. Don’t make them call me out, Bill.”
“Ah, come on, Lorraine, look at it from my side, you’ve withheld evidence, and you even had Norman Hastings’s goddamned wallet! You never even told me about the cuff links, so what do you expect me to do? You are the only witness. You gave me days of fucking waste of time. If you’d been upfront with me I’d have cracked this, I’d have been—”
She suddenly yelled back at him, “Patted on the back and given a commendation before you retired, that’s what you’re pissed off about right now! Instead of moving on what I’ve just been spewing out for the past hour, you’re going to needle me instead. You want me to face Steven Janklow, then I’ll do it right now, I’ll go over to his place in Beverly Glen with you, with anyone you want, but I won’t go to court. Bill, I’m not standing up as ex-cop, ex-alcoholic, ex-hooker so you can get a slap on the back. I won’t do it. I’ll pack up and walk out right now and you’ll never lay eyes on me again.”
He waved the warrant. “I can take you in, Lorraine.”
“Try it, just try it.” Hands on hips she glared at him. “Go get Art Mathews to talk, Bill, that’s what you should be doing. You know it, so stop bullshitting and get on with it. I won’t be taken in, and I warn you, if they drag me into court, then I won’t pour the next bottle down the drain.”
He pointed at her with his index finger. “You don’t leave this apartment, you hear me? If you want I can make sure. I can have a squad car out front in two minutes. I can have you watched day and night, around the clock, have guys on your doorstep.”
She sat down. “I won’t leave, Bill, I give you my word. Maybe just to the corner for groceries but I’ll stay put.”
His upright position abruptly relaxed and he resumed his habitual slouch. “I’ll call you, see what I can do, lie about you, I suppose. But don’t let me down, Lorraine, I couldn’t take it.”
She stepped forward and hugged him tightly. He smelled of cigarettes and booze and he grunted at her to get away from him. He walked out of the door without a word and slammed it behind him.
Lorraine slumped onto the sofa. She was hot, angry, frustrated, and a little scared. She should have kept her mouth shut about Hastings’s wallet. There was no need for her to have mentioned it—that had been a big mistake. She wondered if Rooney would have the balls to keep her identity secret and not make her go to court. The thought of having all her past made public, having her daughters and Mike read about her, turned her anger to humiliation. For the first time she faced her shame in the light of day. She was disgusted with herself. The tears she’d held back now spilled down her cheeks, but she made no sound. Had she really been stupid enough to think that she could start a new career? Who
would want to hire her if her past was splashed across every tabloid? She knew they’d love it, that she’d be hounded, and she knew they’d rake up why she’d been forced to quit the police. She saw him again, the yellow zigzag stripe down his jacket, his young face as he fell, his hair flopping.
Lorraine heard the bedroom door open and the heavy, plodding feet crossing the room. She waited, praying for Rosie to leave her in peace. She bit harder into her hand as she felt her friend’s weight subsiding on the edge of the sofa. Rosie stroked her hair. “I listened at the door just in case you needed me.”
Lorraine sighed. She never had any privacy. She almost forgot that this was Rosie’s place.
“You remember last night, what you said about going into the investigation business? For real?” Rosie asked quietly.
“No, I’d never get a license. I was just kidding myself.”
“You shouldn’t. I was real proud of the way you just talked to Rooney, the way you were piecing it together. You’re good, you know, good and clever.”
Lorraine gazed up at the big plump face. “Did you hear it all?”
“Yep, and that’s another thing you’re good at. He was right, you sure as hell can lie better than anyone I know.”
Lorraine laughed softly. “Yeah, I guess you just get used to it, it’s part of a cop’s life, you know. ‘No cause for alarm,’ when a whole building’s about to collapse.”
Rosie rubbed Lorraine’s back, like a mother would her child’s. “Maybe if you had to go to court it wouldn’t be such a bad thing. Maybe your kids should know, maybe they’d be proud that you’re fighting back, proving yourself—proving your worth.”
Lorraine grinned. “Rosie, you’re such an optimist.”
“Yeah, but I’m looking out for me, too. I think I could get used to this kind of work—being a private investigator’s more interesting than sealing envelopes, computers, even!”
Lorraine moved away from the soothing warmth of Rosie’s reassuring hand. “You don’t know it all, Rosie. It’s not just the drinking, the whoring, it’s not just that …” and she told her about the fourteen-year-old boy. Rosie didn’t say anything, but she felt even more warmth toward Lorraine, and especially when, after the telling of the story, she tilted her face slightly and gave her a sweet, sad smile. “Thanks for listening, Rosie. I’m going to take a shower now.”
The telephone rang and Rosie answered it. It was Rooney and she knew something was wrong right away.
“She’s just taking a shower, Captain Rooney, you want me to get her?”
Rooney coughed. “Rosie, I’ve got some bad news. Art Mathews committed suicide.”
Rosie gasped. “My God, but how … how did he do—”
Rooney interrupted, “I’m sorry, but you’d better warn Lorraine. There’s not a hope in hell of me keeping her out of this now, you understand?”
“How long does she have before they get here?”
“They’re already on their way.”
Rosie looked at the closed bedroom door, her heart sinking. “She’ll be ready.”
16
Jake listened without interrupting. When Rosie had called him before he’d even had breakfast, his first thought was it was she who needed him “urgently.” He was relieved to find her waiting for him at her front door stone-cold sober. As she let him into the apartment, she put her finger to her lips, indicating the bedroom. She didn’t want Lorraine to hear what she was saying, but she knew she had to make it fast. “They arrest her, Jake, and everything she’s accomplished so far will be over. She’ll go back on the booze—she as good as said it.”
It was hard for him to take in everything Rosie said. Just the pertinent facts were enough to make him break out in a sweat. Lorraine had been attacked by the so-called hammer killer; she was the witness the police were searching for; she was also investigating or assisting the police in their inquiries. It was hard to believe, and even more so when Rosie slipped in that Lorraine’s “partner” was also helping the investigation.
They couldn’t carry on the conversation as Lorraine walked in. She was surprised to see Jake.
“You come for breakfast?”
“Nope. I was wondering if you wanted to come to a meeting.”
“What? Are you nuts? It’s not even nine o’clock. Besides, I can’t. I’ve got to stay in the apartment.”
“I’m gonna get dressed,” Rosie said, eyeing Jake and jerking her head toward Lorraine, who watched her go out and then started to wash the cups.
She ran water into the sink. “So, what has she told you?”
Jake fiddled with a spoon on the counter.
“Is it about me admitting I wanted a drink?”
Jake shrugged. “You may not know it, Lorraine, but you just broke through, and you’ll make it even if it doesn’t look or feel like it right now. But I want you to come to a meeting with me this morning. According to Rosie you might need a morale boost.”
Lorraine put her head on one side. “She tell you I might be arrested?”
“Is it true?”
She put down the dishcloth. “It’s true, and I think I’m going to need a lot more than just a morale boost.”
“Then you’ll come to the early-morning meeting?”
Bean edged into Rooney’s office. He’d gotten his wife to send in a clean shirt, he had shaved, but his suit was still wrinkled and he looked less like his usual pristine self. He shut the door and gave a glum look to Rooney. “Ambulance’s just taken his body away.”
Rooney was even more crumpled, but unlike Bean he had not gotten his wife to send in a fresh shirt; he hadn’t even bothered calling her. “How the hell did he do it?”
“Broke his glasses and slit his wrists.”
“FBI must be shitting themselves.” Rooney snorted with a half-derisive laugh and sneer.
“Yep, all in there blaming each other and patting each other on the back at the same time.”
Rooney gaped. “What you mean?”
“Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? I mean, why kill yourself if you’re innocent? Now they’re thinking he must be the one.”
Rooney snorted again. “That’s bullshit. We know he couldn’t have done two of them because he was inside. They got the report of his criminal record, didn’t they?”
Bean said that they might have found some discrepancies in the dates. Whatever, they weren’t digging too deep since the chief was putting out a press release that the suspect in custody had admitted his guilt.
“Had he?” Rooney asked, astonished, because when he’d last seen Mathews he hadn’t—far from it.
“They’re saying so, but they still want to question his accomplice.”
“His what?”
“Lorraine Page. I was told you were bringing her in. They’ve been waiting for you.”
Rooney could feel the warrant in his pocket. He took it out and passed it to Bean, his heart pounding. He felt sick, needed time to plan what he was going to do with the information Lorraine had passed him. He had already decided not to mention the theft of Norman Hastings’s wallet, and would maybe tell her to leave out the cuff links. He was even toying with trying to keep the attack on her out of his statements; now it looked as if it was out of his hands. He asked himself why he’d go out on a limb for her like this, but all he came up with was that he liked her. If it got out that he’d used her, paid her, and that she’d been privy to the information, he’d not only be out in the cold but his hoped-for bonus would be history.
The squad car pulled up outside Rosie’s apartment just moments after they’d left for the AA meeting. Five minutes later, all vehicles were instructed to be on the lookout for the prostitute Lorraine Page, described as five feet nine, short blond hair, last seen wearing a cream skirted suit and silk shirt. She was to be arrested on sight.
Lorraine was still uncertain as to why she had let Jake and Rosie talk her into coming to the meeting. Maybe, if the truth was to be admitted, it was because she was at a loss and she was al
so scared.
The woman was neatly dressed in printed cotton, her hair well cut, parted in the center, and constantly falling forward to hide her face. She spoke quietly, nervously. “My name is Carol. Nine months ago I was living on the street, I felt there was no hope for me. I felt no shame, I felt nothing. I had lost my husband, my children, my home, and my job. I had turned to prostitution to feed my drinking. I was a prostitute and a thief. I owned only what I stood up in, I had nothing, and no respect for anyone, least of all myself.” Carol continued to talk and Lorraine held tightly to Rosie’s hand, understanding for the first time what she felt, what she had been through, and that she was not alone. Everyone at the meeting, she now began to realize, had felt shame and rejection, knew loss and humiliation.
When they stood and warmly applauded Carol, when they embraced her and congratulated her, Lorraine was one of the first to leave her seat. She was shy, at first just extending her hand, but then she put her arms around her. “I’ve been there, too. I know how you feel,” she said simply.
Carol hugged Lorraine back. “We’ve all been there, that’s why we’re here.”
“What was the hardest thing for you?” Lorraine asked.
“Facing myself, not being angry or ashamed. It wasn’t me but the drinking. I hid behind it, I know that now, and I’m determined to stay sober. I got a job yesterday. I was scared but I told them I’m an alcoholic and now that I know that’s what I am, I feel free. For the first time in years I’m not hiding.”
“You said you hid behind drinking. What did you mean?”
“I was afraid of failing. I’m a nurse and I had a patient, a child, who died. I gave the wrong medication and I was never able to face the guilt or come to terms with it. I have now. It will always be with me, but I can deal with it, I’m taking responsibility for myself and I want to stay sober. I have to stay sober or I’ll go down again.”
Jake was watching Lorraine. He winked at Rosie. “It was good we came. You were right, Rosie, it was important for her.”
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