Cold Shoulder

by Lynda La Plante

  Lorraine ducked and sidestepped Nula as an officer grabbed her. “Then talk, Nula. At least they can segregate you. Tell us the truth about Holly.”

  “Shut up, you schmuck.”

  Bickerstaff and the officers straightened the table and replaced all the documents that had fallen to the floor. They straightened Lorraine’s chair back into position and it looked as if they were packing up ready to quit for the day.

  “Tell the truth, Nula. It was an accident, wasn’t it? You never meant to kill Didi, did you? She was your best friend—I know that, I’ve seen you two together.” Lorraine saw the change sweep over Nula in her body language; suddenly she lost all the fight.

  “Yes, she was,” Nula said softly, and then averted her face. Her eyes filled with tears. “Best friend I ever had.”

  The room fell silent as if everyone knew it was coming. Nula looked up at the ceiling, her eyes brimming with tears, and Lorraine moved silently back to her own seat. Nula blew her nose on a tissue and then began plucking at it. “Oh, all right, there’s no point, is there? You’ll find out, I suppose. She fell and hit her head on the side of the glass coffee table. Craig started to panic because we couldn’t find her pulse. We thought she was dead and what with—”

  “The blackmail? You were worried about that, were you?” Lorraine asked softly.

  “It was all getting out of hand. We suspected Janklow was doing these killings because he was a real crazy fucker. He always paid up like it was a joke, like he got off on it. He never argued or nothing but paid up once a month regular as clockwork. But Art began to get greedy, kept pushing him for more, and what was so sick … we were blackmailing him because of all his drag pictures but he still wanted more of them. We all kinda knew he was going to crack someday. Maybe that was why Art kept asking him for more money, more jewelry, like he knew he was gonna break.”

  “But why did you think it was him murdering these women?”

  Nula was tired; she supported herself on her elbow, her wig askew. “Art put it all together, don’t ask me how. He always was an intuitive shit, but instead of backing off he asked for more. We were against it but he wouldn’t listen to us. I mean, we were doing okay, we had dough and then he opened that gallery. There was no need to be so greedy, we even had the other business, the photo sessions. We’d all never had it so good …”

  “How did you collect the money?”

  “We’d just go to his garage, one or other of us, pretend we were looking for cars. Art used to drive an old Bentley. He’d bought it from S and A, so he was able to go in and out of Janklow’s place. We wouldn’t go in dragged up, anything like that. We were pretty cool, changed into straight gear.” She laughed, a humorless, deep sound.

  “You know, sweetheart, without my dresses I can be so butch. I bind my beautiful tits and hey presto, it’s me again!”

  Nula pulled off her wig as if to prove it. It was horrible, the outline of the glue, her thinning short-cropped hair.

  “How did Hastings fit into it?” Lorraine asked, ignoring Nula’s theatricality.

  Nula sighed. “Well, Art and Didi saw him at the garage. Didi recognized Hastings because she’d been doing his wigs and makeup at Craig’s studio. Well, this panicked Art for a while, then he discovered that Craig’s at it, like he’s picked up our tricks and he’s doing Norman Hastings himself. Craig’s such an oaf, he couldn’t even pick a guy with dough. Art was furious—it could’ve all come out—and what got him worried was that Janklow and Hastings knew each other, and could put two and two together, cause trouble.”

  “But Janklow must have known who you were?” Lorraine said.

  Nula shrugged. “Maybe, but if he did he never contacted the cops. Like I said, he seemed to get off on it, like it was punishment. Anyway, we thought we should just back off. Besides, Art had plenty more, not as much dough as Janklow, but he did all right …”

  “So, did Hastings talk to Janklow about the blackmail?”

  Nula sighed. “I don’t know, but when he was found dead, we freaked. Then fucking Janklow appeared and said he needed Art to cover for him, like say he was someplace when he wasn’t. He’d done something.”

  Lorraine asked if Nula remembered the date. She thought for a moment and then said it was the sixteenth or probably the seventeenth of May. It was the date Lorraine had been attacked. She flicked a glance to Bickerstaff, who’d written the date and made a deep circle around it on his notepad.

  “Go on, Nula, can you go on?”

  Nula nodded, cried for a few moments, and then sniffed, wiping her cheek with her hand. “This wig was Didi’s favorite, it’s real hair, you know? Anyway, Janklow said he’d pay well for Art to cover for him. He couldn’t get cash so he handed over a box of jewelry, said it was all he had left.”

  “Did you sell it?”

  Nula blew her nose. “In the past, when we’d gotten a few things, we’d used Curtis to fence it for us. We didn’t say where we got it and he wasn’t going to ask.” Nula sighed. Everyone hung on her every word. “Curtis gave away one of the pieces we were selling off—a ring—like it was an engagement ring, you know? He gave it to Holly and she used to wear it, showed it to everyone. It was the big topaz, with diamonds around it. It’s unbelievable really, small fucking world, because Holly gets picked up by a john who takes her back to his place and asks where did she get the ring ’cause his mother had one like it but—”

  “Who was it?”

  “Janklow’s brother. Anyway, Holly puts two and two together and comes up with sixteen. She asks us about the stuff we fenced to Curtis and then tells us about this john, Brad Thorburn. We tell Art and he’s going fucking ape-shit because he knows it’s goddamn Janklow’s brother, and that Curtis, if he smells a good racket, would want in on it, and Curtis would cause trouble. It was just a fucking mess. I mean, of all the johns to screw Holly it hadda be Janklow’s fuckin’ brother, I mean …”

  Lorraine lit two cigarettes and passed one to Nula. She inhaled deeply for a while and then bowed her head. “We had to do something about the ring—we could all have been implicated, know what I mean? She showed it off to everyone—not that Curtis would have ever married her. He’s got a wife and kids anyway.” She sucked at the cigarette. “We knew we had to get rid of Holly. We figured she hadn’t said anything to Curtis. He never came on to us, but we were all worried—me, Didi, and Art. Art was working the night we decided to do it at the gallery. It was him that said for us to handle it between us, remember that night, Lorraine?”

  Everyone in the room looked at Lorraine. She turned to Bickerstaff.

  “The art gallery, I worked there.”

  Bickerstaff nodded, again making a note and drawing circles around and around it. Nula looked at Lorraine, trying to recall the night.

  “Well, you left, right? What, about ten-thirty or so? We worked on sort of thinking about how we would do it. Art made a few crass suggestions. I think it was him who came up with the idea, I dunno, but me and Didi went back to the apartment and Didi got into men’s gear. We nabbed a car and parked it not far away from the apartment. Didi left, then I left. I went to my corner and waited for Holly to arrive.”

  She sobbed and was given a clean tissue. Everyone waited, hanging on her every word. She suddenly put the wig back on, smoothing it into place, then lit another cigarette. “Holly, well, she was always jumping into johns’ cars. We knew if she saw a decent car she’d find her way to it. Didi pulled up across the road and sort of waved toward Holly and, sure enough, she shot across the road so fast I had a tough time following her. Course, soon as she got into the car she knew something was up, but by that time I’d gone over, opened the back door, and gotten in; then Didi drove off. We wanted just to get the fucking ring off her, warn her, but she was like a wildcat. We didn’t even drive far—we couldn’t, she was screaming and shouting so much. I think Didi hit her first, then me, but we never meant … We didn’t mean to hurt her. She was suddenly just like a rag doll, it was awful, so we stuffed
her into the trunk. Didi was supposed to dump it, leave her in it, and get back to work, meet up with me. I went back on the streets, to sort of give us an alibi, you know, saying Didi had gotten a john and I was to talk to Curtis.”

  “So where did Art come into all this?”

  Nula stubbed out the cigarette. “That stupid bitch Didi, she didn’t turn up. We’d agreed to meet in the Bar Q, but she never showed because she went back to the gallery. She was hysterical because, as she was driving around, Holly must have come to. She started banging on the trunk, screaming again, and Didi just drove around and around, faster and faster. She was scared someone on the street’d hear the silly cow screaming and kicking in the trunk.” Nula rested her head in her hands. “Art was mad as hell that she’d gone to the gallery with Holly in the car, plus Didi’s face was scratched and bruised and she was screechin’ and shoutin’. Holly was a tough kid; she put up a fight. If she hadn’t we’d never have hurt her.”

  “So what happened at the gallery?”

  Nula licked her lips. “I’m not sure, but Art said he’d check on Holly, and he went out. Then he came back in and got a hammer. Didi knew what he was gonna do and tried to stop him and it fell on her foot. Anyway, Art did it and came back and told Didi to dump the car. He gave her the ring—he’d taken it off Holly.” Nula stared vacantly ahead, sitting low in the chair, her shoulders slumped.

  “So Didi got back in the car, knowing Holly was dead in the trunk. Then what?” Lorraine waited a beat. “Nula?”

  “All the stupid cow had to do was dump it and piss off, but she gets into a terrible state. Her foot swelled up, and she drove the car home because she said she couldn’t have walked and she was scared of anyone seeing her. I had to dump it. I gave it a good cleaning in case there were any prints. It wasn’t so bad because there was no blood or anything. In fact, it wasn’t until I got out and was walking past it that I saw this piece of cloth sticking out and then I freaked. I just ran like hell back home.”

  Lorraine sounded friendly and understanding. “It must have been really hard for you.”

  “It was, but then it was un-fucking-believable. Didi started wearing the ring. And she wouldn’t part with it, it was like some kind of obsession, as if she wanted to be caught. She was always crying and she couldn’t sleep. Nothing I said made any difference. She wouldn’t listen to me and that’s why we had this huge fight. I was trying to get it off her but she went hysterical, saying it was hers after all she’d had to do for it, she wasn’t going to let anyone else have it.”

  “So you had to get the ring away from Didi, is that right?”

  “Course I did, but she wouldn’t give it up and so we had this argument. She pushed me, then I pushed her and she fell. I thought she was dead, but when … It was like Holly happening all over again.”

  Nula started to cry, her shoulders shaking, and Lorraine reached across the table for her hand. “It’s okay, everything’s going to be okay. After she fell what happened?”

  Nula’s lipstick was smeared, her mascara was running down her face. “I called Art and he came over. He said we should make it look like this serial killer had murdered her, like we’d done with Holly. But he said since he’d fixed it with Holly, I should do Didi, that he was having nothing to do with it and then he left …”

  “And?” Lorraine asked.

  Nula’s face twisted as she tried to stop crying. “Oh, Jesus, she was still where she’d fallen. And I got some newspaper and put it under her head. I hit her with the hammer and it must have been just like Holly because she moaned. She was still alive, just like Holly. I could hear her voice, telling me about Holly, and I just kept on hitting and hitting her until she was quiet.” Nula accepted another cigarette, inhaled deeply, and then sipped some water. Her hand was shaking, the water dribbling from her mouth as she gulped two or three mouthfuls. “After I’d done it, I didn’t know what to do next. I couldn’t lift her by myself, so I called Craig. I got a black plastic garbage bag, tied it around her face so he wouldn’t see what I’d done. All he did was help me get her to the car.” She fell silent. No one spoke. She smoked the cigarette down to the filter, then looked at it, began to roll it back and forth between her fingers.

  Lorraine took the stub from her and tossed it into the ashtray. She stood up, her back straight. For a moment she stood with her hands on her hips, breathing deeply. All the men looked at her, a little puzzled, then she smiled at Bickerstaff.

  “Where are you going?” Nula asked.

  “They can charge you now.”

  Nula watched fearfully as Lorraine walked briskly to the door. She didn’t even look back; she just walked out.

  It was after midnight. Ed Bickerstaff was jubilant. Lyall’s and Nula’s statements were signed and they had been taken to their cells. He passed a small white envelope to Lorraine. “Five thousand dollars in used notes. You did good. I didn’t think she’d crack.”

  “I won’t be needed at the trial, will I?”

  “Not unless she changes her plea, but I don’t think she will.”

  “What about Brad Thorburn?”

  “I figure the only thing he was guilty of was screwing a prostitute, but we’ll need him for questioning. He’s on his way back from France.”

  Bickerstaff guided her to the door, then paused. “If I ever need you again …”

  Lorraine smiled. “I’ll send you my card. I can set up an office now.”

  “Just one more thing, if you don’t mind me asking. You seemed pretty friendly in there with Nula.”

  “Just doing my job. She’s scum—she almost killed me.”

  “You don’t want to press charges, though, do you?”

  She gave him a wry look and one of her rare laughs. “No, I sure as hell don’t.”

  Rosie was sitting on the sofa watching TV when Lorraine got home. Lorraine looked at her and grinned. “You’re a good friend, Rosie.”

  “Bed’s all made up. Tonight I’m on the sofa.”

  Lorraine winked. “Thanks.”

  Just as she walked into the bedroom, the phone rang. “If that’s for me, I’m not back yet.” She turned on the shower and couldn’t hear what Rosie was calling through the door. She had to turn it back off.

  “That was Brad Thorburn. He said he’d call again tomorrow morning.”

  Lorraine stripped off the clothes she’d been wearing for the last twenty hours and stepped beneath the cool water, tilting her face up to the jet spray. She was unnerved by his call; she hadn’t expected to hear from him again.

  “Is he back in L.A.?” she shouted.

  Rosie appeared in the doorway again. “On his way, be here in the morning. He said he was at the airport in Paris. Did you want to speak to him?”

  Lorraine wrapped the towel around herself and frowned. Brad had picked up Holly, taken her back to that house, had probably screwed her in the same bed he’d fucked her in, little seventeen-year-old Holly. Brad Thorburn would probably always pick up the wrong kind. As much as she wanted to see him, she thought he was probably calling to find out if she knew why the police wanted to talk to him.

  “If he calls again, I’m out. He’s no good … well, not for me.”

  “Okay, whatever you say. You want a cup of tea?”

  “Sounds good.”

  Lorraine lay down on the bed. Tomorrow she would open up the agency, get cards made, get a word processor. By the time Rosie came in with the tea she was fast asleep. Rosie didn’t wake her but gently draped the bedspread over her. Lorraine didn’t stir. The last item on her to-do list had been blurred by sleep, only half considered, but it was the first thing she thought of in the morning. Rosie looked up sleepily from the couch when Lorraine walked in.

  “What did you say?”

  “Let’s go to a meeting this morning.”

  Brad Thorburn stared around the empty house with all its furnishings covered in dust sheets. He walked out, slamming the front door. He drove to the police station and was introduced to Ed Bickerstaff
. The interview was formal and he gave a detailed statement of the night he had picked up a young blond hooker. He couldn’t recall her name; he admitted she was just one of so many. Bickerstaff questioned him as to what time of night, how long she had stayed, and then asked if on the night in question he had noticed anything unusual about her. Brad shrugged, he couldn’t remember clearly.

  “How about an item of jewelry?”

  Brad thought, and then it dawned on him. “She was wearing a large ring. I only remember because it was similar to one my mother used to wear, but she took it off and slipped it into her purse and I never gave it much thought.”

  “Was this it?” Bickerstaff held out the ring taken from Didi’s finger.

  Brad stared at it. “Yes, well, it was similar.”

  “Could this be your mother’s ring?”

  “Possibly. It’s similar, but whether it’s hers or not I couldn’t say. She had a large collection of jewels—she was a collector. Some of them were worth thousands, others cheap replicas. She was always terrified of being mugged. I’m sorry not to be of more help.”

  Bickerstaff didn’t bother to explain how important the ring had been in so many people’s lives—and deaths.

  Brad left and returned to his car. He drove to the Melville and Thompson real estate agents on Rodeo Drive, signed over the documents for the contents of the house to be sold along with the property, said the property as from that afternoon would be vacated and he wanted his personal possessions put into storage. The sale notices already hung outside. Brad collected the items he wanted to take with him and put little red stickers on the rest so the storage men would know which articles were to be removed.

  He walked from room to room in the shrouded house. There was little he needed or wanted, it was mostly his personal belongings from his own quarters. He did, however, stick red dots on all the silver-framed family photographs. He found it difficult to look at the faces of his brother and mother but went about his work as fast as possible. Steven’s room was more difficult than he had anticipated, with his precious collections of shells and snuffboxes, and the banks of photographs of their mother. He closed the door, refusing to allow himself to think about Steven. Not until he was in his own room did he relax, as he checked his book and record collections, his sports equipment. There was so little with which he had any emotional ties—everything could easily be replaced. All he knew was that he would never come back to this house and its memories.