‘Weekly?’
‘Yep, although sometimes I’d get to their place and she didn’t feel like playing, but I was always paid.’ Nathan turned as a petite blonde woman with a frilled white tennis skirt waved across to him from a court. ‘I gotta go, but if you need to speak to me again, any time. Do you play?’
Lorraine looked at the blonde attempting to knock a ball over the net. ‘About as good a game as maybe she has!’ He laughed, she quite liked him. ‘Thanks for your time, I appreciate you seeing me.’
She hadn’t got much from Nathan, again nothing that had not already been recorded by the police files. She watched him in action with his ‘student’ and realized on closer inspection she was well into her late forties. Poor woman, she thought, she must have the same infatuation with Jeff as his students, staring at his rippling muscles as he began to drag his ball basket to the centre of the court opposite the blonde.
‘Let’s just warm up with a few easy ones, shall we, Mrs Fairky? See how you’ve progressed.’
Lorraine made her way back to the car park and she heard Mrs Fairley squeal a lot of ‘Oooppps’ and ‘Oh, I’m so sorry . . .’ as the balls she attempted to swipe expertly dribbled into the tennis net.
Lorraine felt totally drained by the time she drove out of the university complex, and she was also irritated. Maybe it was the students’ youth, their nonchalance, but no one had given her any real insight into the missing girl. Just as nobody seemed to have a bad word to say about her except that she got a bit itchy when she missed a fucking volley.
Lorraine called Rosie at the office from her car phone. ‘Any developments?’
‘No, not as yet,’ Rosie replied.
‘Rooney gone to see that psychic?’ asked Lorraine.
‘I think so, but he sort of thought it was a waste of time.’
‘Yeah, okay, I’m on my way to the Caleys’. I haven’t come up with anything positive yet so I’ll interview them and then call in when I’m through.’
‘Oh, I think Rooney wanted to be in on your meeting with the Caleys, didn’t he?’
‘Rosie, I am running this case, not Bill Rooney.’
No sooner had Rosie replaced the phone than Rooney barged into the office.
Rosie smiled. ‘Lorraine just called in, she’s on her way to the Caleys’.’
‘Shit, I wanted in on that meet.’
‘I know, I told her, and she said she was running the case, so . . .’
Rooney tossed his hat at the stand and missed, then took off his jacket, showing his sweat-stained shirt. ‘Well, I got a contact. Old buddy of mine used to be on the Force ’bout ten years ago, now works with the top investigation agency hired by the Caleys, Agnews. To be honest I didn’t think he’d still be working, got a good pension when he was invalided out. Poor bastard got a leg full of lead . . . I’ve arranged to see him tonight.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Nick Bartello.’ Rooney frowned.
‘Italian, is he?’
‘At one time. She won’t like him. Dunno if they met, they were attached to different departments, he was drugs, she was with me on homicide.’
‘Why won’t she like him?’
‘He’s a dead ringer for her old partner Lubrinski, same kind of guy. Nick and he were partners, short-lived ’cos Lubrinski moved over to my team.’
‘Who’s he?’
Rooney frowned. ‘She never mention him to you?’
‘No.’ Rosie crossed to the coffee percolator and began to brew up a pot.
‘They were partners at the old station.’
‘So why won’t she like him? If he’s a pal of yours maybe he can give us some inside information.’
‘Maybe. So she’s never mentioned Lubrinski to you?’
Rosie returned to her cluttered desk. ‘No . . .’
‘He’s dead.’
‘Well, maybe that’s why.’ She sat down.
‘He was one hell of a guy, Lubrinski, great cop. In fact, I gotta tell you, Rosie, during my time I saw a lot go down, not all died, some just folded, you know, mentally, but Lubrinski, when I was told he’d bought it, he was the only officer for whom I cried. Not because he was one hell of an officer, he was that, but he was also a main guy, could drink any man under the table. Loner, crazy son of a bitch. When I partnered him with Lorraine I reckoned on fireworks . . .’
‘And?’ Rosie asked only half-listening. But because Rooney remained silent she looked up. He was staring into space.
‘They were one fucking good team, best I ever had. He was injured in crossfire, took three bullets. He bled to death in the ambulance. She’d made a sort of tourniquet to try and stem the blood, used her pantihose . . . but it didn’t work. He was dead on arrival at the hospital, and she wouldn’t let go of his hand. Orderly told me they’d had to force her to let go, that she kept on saying he was gonna be okay.’
Rosie raised her eyebrows. ‘Well, she’s never mentioned any of this to me. What happened after?’
Rooney sighed, shifting his bulk. ‘She requested to be returned to duty immediately. About six weeks later she killed that kid . . .’
Rosie knew about the boy Lorraine had shot by mistake, a young kid caught up in a drugs bust. ‘Maybe this Bartello isn’t such a good idea. Maybe she won’t want to be reminded of the past.’
‘It was a long time ago,’ Rooney said, trying to change the subject. ‘And the guy’s good.’ Then the phone rang, so Rosie’s attention was diverted. As she answered she didn’t hear Rooney say softly, ‘I think she was in love with Lubrinski.’
Rosie held one hand over the phone, waving the other to Rooney. ‘It’s Nick Bartello.’
‘Hey, Nick, how you doing? You got my message then? So can we meet, have a few drinks? Sure, where are you?’ Rooney jotted a note down on Lorraine’s notepad. ‘Okay, I’ll be there, gimme half an hour . . .’ He slowly replaced the receiver. ‘Okay, I’m out of here. If she calls in, tell her I’ve gone to Joe’s Diner, lemme suss the guy out.’ He picked up his jacket. ‘Rosie, maybe you don’t say anything about Lubrinski. Like you said, it was a long time ago and I don’t want her to think we’ve been gossiping, okay?’
Rosie nodded, distracted yet again by the telephone. By the time she had answered, Rooney had departed. The call was from Robert Caley, asking to speak to Lorraine to say his wife was indisposed and he would be at home rather than the office as arranged. His manner was abrupt, cold. A man, Rosie determined, very used to handing out orders.
Rosie called Lorraine on her mobile and passed on the message. She got a blast of foul language as Lorraine had actually been on her way to Caley’s plush office complex, the Water Garden, in Santa Monica. She did not mention Nick Bartello or Lubrinski as Lorraine cut off her call as abruptly as Robert Caley had, but she wondered about what Rooney had said about Lubrinski. The dawning realization of just how little she knew of Lorraine’s past life made her feel uneasy, perhaps because it also meant, if she were truthful, that she didn’t really know ex-Lieutenant Lorraine Page, the woman she shared her home with.
The same austere butler ushered Lorraine into the Caleys’ lounge and asked her to wait. She did not sit down, choosing instead to study the other photographs of Anna Louise in their ornate frames. One particular picture caught her eye: Anna Louise was standing between Nathan, her tennis coach, and her father, Robert Caley’s arm around her shoulders, as if he was showing her off to the camera, a look of paternal pride on his face.
Ten minutes ticked by. Lorraine now studied the large oil paintings of Elizabeth Caley’s film roles. She really was an astonishingly beautiful woman. She crossed over to one that Rooney had pointed out, which depicted one of Elizabeth’s earliest starring roles in which she looked no more than twenty years old. She was wearing heavy golden hooped earrings and a pale blue silk turban like the headcloths black women sometimes wore, arranged in an odd way Lorraine had never seen before, with the material knotted into points to give the impression of a crown over the
young woman’s head. Her shoulders were bare, the skin of her whole body tinted a tawny brown, and she was covered only by the brief draperies of a brightly coloured scarf. A small plaque was set into the embossed gold frame, inscribed with the words ‘Marie Laveau, Queen of New Orleans’. Looking from paintings of Elizabeth Caley to the photographs of Anna Louise and her father, Lorraine could see little family resemblance.
Twenty minutes passed and Lorraine checked her watch, then the ormolu mantel clock. It was almost 5 p.m. She was about to walk out of the room when the butler returned, and, remaining at the open door, gestured for Lorraine to follow him, giving no apology for the fact that she had been kept waiting.
Lorraine followed the silent, black-uniformed figure past the wide sweeping staircase and into a corridor, turning left into a wonderfully light, glass sun room. The vast conservatory was, she thought, some kind of extension to the main house. Tropical plants were in such profusion that it resembled a florist’s, with the heady perfume of magnolia and jasmine lingering in the air and condensation misting the lower glass panes. They continued through the jungle, out into a courtyard shaded with plants growing from white painted tubs. Crazy-paved paths and a gazebo with white trailing curtains dominated the end of the courtyard, and primrose-yellow cushions adorned the white garden furniture. A table with chilled orange juice, an ice bucket with two bottles of Chablis and an array of glasses stood in the centre of the gazebo.
‘Mr Caley will join you shortly.’ The butler wafted his hand for Lorraine to sit, and hovered over the table. ‘May I offer you wine, juice, or . . .’
‘Still water,’ Lorraine said curtly, irritated that Caley was still keeping her waiting. She sat on a white wicker chair, shifting the yellow cushion to one side, glad of the shade given by the trailing muslin curtains. The butler poured her some still water into an ice-filled glass, and with a pair of silver tongs expertly picked up a ready-cut slice of lemon to rest on the edge of her glass.
‘Thank you.’ She accepted the glass, watching as he uncorked the wine, first feeling the bottle with his hand, then wrapping a napkin around the neck, before placing it in the ice bucket.
‘Excuse me, Mrs Page.’ He actually backed up two steps before he turned and walked back into the house. Lorraine looked at her watch; she had been there well over an hour, and with only two weeks on the case, it was an hour lost. She sipped the iced water, and seeing a large glass ashtray leaned forward to draw it closer. She hesitated for a moment, then lit up a cigarette. She looked around the yard, and turning in her chair, she could just see the edge of the tennis courts. She got up and walked to the narrow pathway. To her right she could see the entire double tennis courts, to her left was a vast swimming pool with rows of sunbeds laid out next to each other, each with pale lemon towels, with small tables between, like a hotel patio. Beyond the pool was a large pagoda-style building which she assumed held the changing rooms and showers. Water fountains at either side flanked a path which led into a Japanese garden or what she supposed was one because of the bonsai shrubs and trees. There was no one visible, not one gardener, swimmer or tennis player. Apart from the chirping of the birds, it was all strangely silent: so silent it was unnerving. Again she checked her watch and physically jumped when Caley appeared as if from nowhere.
‘I’m sorry for keeping you waiting. Did your secretary explain that my wife is indisposed, which is the reason I am here and not at my office?’
He did not seem to require a reply to his apology. He was standing by the table, pouring himself a glass of wine. There was a moment of hesitation and she saw him flick a glance at her glass of iced water. He did not offer her wine but filled his glass and sat on one of the yellow-cushioned wicker chairs. Half-turning, he picked up the cushion and tossed it on to the chair nearest him. He was dressed casually in light brown slacks and loafers. His arms were bare, his pale blue silk shirt-sleeves rolled back casually. Robert Caley lifted his glass to her and sipped the wine, but she could not see the expression in his eyes behind his gold-rimmed shades. Everything about Robert Caley had that LA gloss, that mark of high fashion, from the thin gold wrist-watch on his left wrist to the single fine loose gold band on his right. He wore no wedding ring.
‘You have a very beautiful garden.’
‘Mm, too manicured for my taste, and this flimsy thing reminds me of something off a movie set, but it has a purpose.’
Lorraine sat down and drew her glass closer, feeling very self-conscious.
‘My wife never sits in the sun, she is too pale-skinned.’ He obviously did; he was one of those men Lorraine presumed had a year-round suntan. Caley was also a very confident man and apparently in no hurry to ask why she wished to see him.
Lorraine stubbed out her cigarette and felt his eyes giving her a swift appraisal from behind the shades. She coughed lightly and crossed her legs, reaching down by the side of the chair to retrieve her purse.
‘Do you play tennis, Mrs Page?’
‘No, I don’t.’
He smiled, and sipped his wine. ‘I didn’t think you did, but you work out, correct?’
She hated the fact she was blushing, and busied herself with opening her purse to take out a note-book. ‘Yes, but as you checked up on me I am sure you must be aware I was not, until recently, in what one could describe as being in the best of health.’
He lifted his glass to her. ‘Well, you certainly look well today. Is your hair naturally blonde?’
‘Yes, but I have streaks.’ She suddenly laughed, finding their conversation ridiculous. No man had ever asked her whether or not she was naturally blonde.
‘My daughter’s hair is as blonde, ash-blonde, but then you must know, you have photographs.’
‘Yes, I have, thank you. And thank you for sending the retainer fee so promptly.’
‘Ah, that will be Phyllis’s doing.’ Caley reached for the bottle again and refilled his glass. ‘Would you like more water?’
Lorraine shook her head. ‘I don’t think I can deal with your butler, he reminds me of a character from one of those British television series on PBS.’
Caley laughed, a lovely deep warm laugh, and he crossed one leg over the other, leaning back in his chair. ‘Close to the truth, actually. He used to be an actor, a lot of Brits come out here for the pilot season hoping for work. When they don’t get it, I suppose they take what work they can, but Peters has been with us for many years. I think he’s refined his role rather well. The other servants are from home, or Elizabeth’s old home in New Orleans – Berenice is our housekeeper, and we have two maids, Sylvana and Maria, plus Mario the chauffeur. I think we also have about four gardeners who maintain the grounds and the pool.’
Lorraine made a note of the servants. ‘Can I ask you some questions?’
‘Of course, that is the reason you are here, go ahead.’
‘I gathered from talking to her friends that your daughter was very well liked. In fact, it’s a rare occurrence when—’
‘She is very well liked,’ he corrected, as if resenting the use of the past tense.
‘I met her coach, Jeff Nathan.’
He nodded. ‘Yes, he’s a good coach and Anna Louise is an excellent player. I’d hoped she would think about turning professional, she is a natural athlete.’
‘Are you?’
He leaned forward. ‘Sorry?’
‘Are you a natural athlete?’
‘Good God, no, but you’re not here to talk about me. Did anyone you have spoken to come up with anything new?’
‘No, they did not, so it will obviously be necessary for myself and my team to go to New Orleans when I’ve completed my interviews here.’
He nodded, sipping his wine.
‘I know you have gone over and over this, Mr Caley, but would you tell me in your own words exactly what occurred the day your daughter went missing?’
He drained his glass and stood up. ‘We had breakfast. My wife was checking her packing so she did not join us, it was just Anna and
myself. She was in good spirits, looking forward to the trip. We usually go for the last weeks of Carnival, have done for many years. The date of Mardi Gras itself is worked out backwards from Easter, so it can fall on any Tuesday from early February onwards, from February third through to March ninth.’
Lorraine smiled and consulted her notes. ‘Thank you. So last year you left on February fifteenth?’
‘Yes. At about nine-thirty I spoke to my wife and said she and Anna should be ready to leave at noon. I had some business to take care of at the office and when I returned a little before twelve, the cases were already in the limousine. I showered and changed and we left for the airport just after twelve-thirty.’ His voice was expressionless, having repeated this many times before. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and walked to the side of the gazebo, leaning against one of the pillars. ‘I have a private jet. I did not fly it myself as I had some papers to sort through on the flight, so we used my pilot, Edward Hardy. Anna sat with her mother, looking through the magazines on the central table, and asked Elizabeth if she could arrange for Phyllis to collect one of the evening gowns she liked on the fashion pages. Elizabeth called Phyllis and arranged it there and then, shortly before we landed. My car was waiting at the tarmac and we went directly to the hotel. Anna Louise was as excited as she always was. She was planning to see a friend.’
Lorraine flicked through her notes. ‘Friend would be Tilda Brown, yes?’
He nodded so Lorraine continued, ‘And you all went straight to the hotel?’
‘Yes, we always have two adjoining suites booked for the entire Mardi Gras month.’
‘That is the Hotel Cavagnal?’
‘Yes, Rue Chartres. It’s an old hotel in the heart of the French Quarter, the balconies overlook the courtyard on one side and the streets on the other.’
‘Why do you choose to stay at a hotel when you have houses in the city?’
‘Well, during Carnival it’s good to be central to all the action.’
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