Cold Heart

by Lynda La Plante

  Decker was about twenty-eight, tanned, blond and good-looking, had worked mostly for television executives, had even tried acting himself, and his account of his unsuccessful thespian attempts made her laugh. He had a top shorthand speed, understood computers, and had a deep, laid-back voice that harked back to his theatrical endeavours. He was fit, with a tight, muscular body, and was wearing an expensive fawn linen suit, pale blue shirt and suede shoes with no socks. He had a Cartier wristwatch but, thankfully, no other jewellery. He carried his CV and other details of his varied career – knowledge of weapons and shooting skills – in a soft leather briefcase, with his karate certificates and gun licence. With her history, Lorraine would have found it difficult to acquire a licence, but it wasn’t the fact that she would have a gun-toting secretary that impressed her – she just liked him.

  Decker was relaxed but not too relaxed, respectful but not obsequious, and when she asked why he had applied for the job he shrugged, admitting without any embarrassment that it sounded better than working tables at a bar and that money was short. His last employer had refused to give him references which had made it difficult to get a decent job since. Lorraine was confused: she had references from his last employer in front of her on her pristine desk. Rob nodded towards the paper, and said he had typed it himself. When she asked why he had no references from his last employer, he told her that he had refused to go down on him and, equally candidly, that he was homosexual. Then he had laughed and added that she probably knew that already, and probably he had not got this job either.

  ‘Yes, you have.’ Lorraine surprised even herself. She hadn’t given it as much thought as she should have.

  Decker’s handshake was strong and he assured her that he would not let her down.

  ‘I hope not, Rob. This is very important to me – I want the agency to succeed more than you will ever know. Maybe when you get to know me better you’ll find out why, but in the meantime, when can you start?’

  ‘Why not right now? We need some plants in here, and I have a contact in a nursery – I get the best, half-price.’

  Lorraine arranged salary and office keys, discussed hours, and then, almost as an afterthought, asked if he liked dogs. He told her another anecdote, about when he had worked in a poodle parlour, and she said that Tiger was not exactly a poodle and needed firm handling. Just before Decker left he seemed suddenly vulnerable, and Lorraine liked him for that too. She knew Rob Decker would become a good friend.

  The following morning, Lorraine looked over her office. As promised, Decker had bought two ficus trees in copper buckets, a mass of pink and white impatiens in a glazed terracotta planter, and a deep square plain glass vase, which he had filled with Casablanca lilies and placed on the little table in Reception. The whole place seemed to have come alive. He had left on her desk a note of the cost of each plant and a receipt, plus watering instructions. He had also bought coffee, tea, cookies and skimmed milk, and a new percolator, which he insisted was his own, so that not only was there a sweet fragrance from the blooms but a wonderful smell of fresh coffee.

  There were no calls and no work on offer, so at lunchtime Decker and Lorraine went off to buy some exhibition posters and prints from the Metropolitan Museum of Art shop, as the office walls were bare. He also talked Lorraine into stopping off to pick up an elegant up lighter to put in Reception, a swing-arm graphite lamp, a violet glass ashtray for her desk, and – having divined her sweet tooth as though by magic – a jar of jelly beans. By three o’clock their new purchases were on display. The advertising had, as yet, failed to generate any work, but she was not disheartened, she knew things would take time, and during the afternoon they had been able to get to know each other better.

  Lorraine never divulged everything about her background, but Decker knew she had been a cop, and knew she had had a drink problem. In fact, he was such a good listener she felt that she had told him more than she really should have, but he was equally forthcoming about his life and his partner, with whom he had lived for eight years – Adam Elliot, late forties, a writer for films, TV or washing-powder commercials, still hoping to crack the big time before he turned fifty.

  They left the office at six. Not one phone call had come in: it was Thursday, 26 October. Decker had asked Lorraine if she would like to have dinner over the weekend at his place, but despite the offer of masala chicken and chocolate pie, she had declined. She felt that perhaps she should keep a little distance between them.

  Friday was just as silent, telephone-wise and job-wise, and they had talked even more, had lunch together again and discussed how they should rethink the adverts. Decker suggested they use Adam to reword them in a way that might grab a potential client. Again Lorraine refused his offer of lunch or dinner over the weekend. The initial buzz of her getting her new life together began to dry up. She didn’t feel so confident any more and even her new face began to annoy her: she was so used to flicking her hair forward over her scar, but there was nothing to hide any more. She began to wonder if it had all been make-believe and that the old Lorraine still lurked ready to pull the new one down.

  She wished she had accepted Decker’s invitation, as she was alone the entire weekend, going over her accounts, totting up her bank balance. She was still in good shape financially as well as physically, but she had spent a lot of money on pampering herself and seeing it in black and white made her a little scared at her foolishness. Maybe she should have taken her time, but it was too late now – the money was gone. She had just over two hundred thousand dollars in her account, a lot, but at the same time she knew that, realistically, she could not keep the office and Decker running without some finances coming in: the outgoings would drain her savings. Still, any new venture needed time. But despite her forced optimism, something was eating away at her. She awoke one night with a faint voice in her head, telling her over and over she didn’t deserve this new life. As if on cue, the phone rang. It was three o’clock in the morning.

  ‘Hello,’ Lorraine said suspiciously.

  ‘Hi, blossom, how’s things?’

  ‘Rosie?’

  ‘Yeah, guess where we are? No, I’ll tell you, Vienna! My God, Lorraine, it’s unbelievable!’

  Lorraine lay back on the pillow as Rosie listed, at full volume, the restaurants and sightseeing tours. It was so nice to hear her voice, even if it was ear-splitting. She sounded so close, as if she was in the next room. ‘Eh! How’s life? You found a guy?’

  ‘Nope, not yet, but I’m looking.’

  ‘Well, you make sure you don’t get one that snores!’

  Lorraine smiled as Rosie continued to fill her in on the trials of sleeping with Rooney, never once pausing for breath. ‘Hey, you there? Or I did I just bore you off the phone?’

  ‘No, Rosie, I’m still here, making notes in case I meet my Mr Right.’ She could feel Rosie’s smile. She gave her the new address and phone numbers, and she could hear Rosie repeat them to big, bulbous-nosed Bill Rooney. Then she put Rooney on the phone and he complained about the cost of the call and then said, so softly, in a voice she would never have expected from the old, hardened cop, ‘You know, Lorraine, I’ve got a lot to thank you for. Not just for making us a load of money, but if it wasn’t for you, I’d never have met the woman who’s made me happier than I ever thought possible.’

  There was a long pause and Lorraine could hear his heavy breathing at the other end of the line.

  ‘I love her so much,’ he mumbled, and then repeated it, sounding almost in tears.

  Rosie grabbed the phone, laughing. ‘He’s drunk – but he tells me that every day. Nice, huh? Hey, I better go. We’ll send you postcards, bring you presents and . . . Oh, yeah, can’t wait to see your new place.’

  Lorraine said goodbye. It didn’t matter that Rosie had shown little or no interest in what was happening in her life because right now it didn’t feel too wonderful and she couldn’t see anyone in her future saying they loved her. Lorraine was lonely – deeply lonely.


  The following morning she went to her local AA meeting, the only social life she had. She still couldn’t rid herself of the feeling of isolation: it didn’t make her want to drink, but it made her think, and face the fact that she had no friends. She started thinking about her ex-husband and his family. She had not seen her two daughters for a long, long time, and though they knew where she was, they had made no contact. She often thought about going to see them, but always talked herself out of it. She didn’t want to disrupt their lives any more than she knew she had already.

  She was glad when Tiger’s trainer, Alan Pereira, called to say that the dog training was now complete, he would bring Tiger home. Lorraine perked up, even put on some make-up, then laughed at herself. Some weekend date, the return of Tiger.

  Tiger was returned, subdued, wearing a collar in rainbow colours, his coat freshly washed, and his teeth cleaned. She had not realized how big he was, or how thick and beautiful his coat. She’d also forgotten his piercing large blue eyes.

  ‘You got one stubborn son-of-a-bitch here,’ Alan said, and Tiger’s blue eyes were doleful as he first sat, then went through sit, stand, stay and heel. Lorraine was even more impressed when, on the command ‘Bed,’ Tiger slunk to a flower-printed foam basket and lay down.

  He remained quiet, head on paws, as she cooked her supper, came like a lamb and sat when she slipped on his lead to take him for his evening walk. He performed his necessary functions, returned, ate his meal and even returned to his bed. It was about twelve o’clock when Lorraine was woken up by something tugging at her sheets. She sat bolt upright to be met with Tiger’s face, and to see his two massive front paws on her bed. ‘Bed. Go to bed now.’ He slunk to the door, tail between his legs, nosed it wider open and disappeared.

  In the morning she woke to find the dog’s prone body stretched out beside her, with just six inches between them, comatose and snoring gently. Lorraine nudged him and, still with eyes firmly shut, he gave a low growl, his jaw opening a fraction to reveal his cleaned white fangs. She thought of Rooney snoring, and smiled, but then said with great authority, ‘Bed, go to your bed. Now.’ The tail thumped, just a fraction. ‘I mean it, you’re pushing your luck. Step out of line, pal, and it’s the big kennel in the sky, you understand me? You’re only on remand, Tiger.’

  He was motionless, eyes closed, just a flicker of his tail. ‘Okay, you can stay . . . just for a few minutes, you hear me?’ She lay there, feeling the huge weight of him beside her, then squinted at the bedside clock. It was six o’clock. ‘You know what time it is?’ she said, turning on her side. She went back to sleep and at some point between the hours of six and seven thirty, that six inches closed. When she next opened her eyes, he was sleeping nose to nose with her, one paw gently resting across her chest.

  ‘I don’t believe this . . .’ But she couldn’t resist rubbing his ears. Cleverly, he never opened his eyes, just gave a long, satisfied sigh.

  Before they went out for a morning jog, Lorraine discovered that Tiger had chewed two of her new shot-silk cushions and destroyed his floral bed. On returning, he was not interested in dog food, but devoured her cereal, nuts and fruit with natural yogurt. He followed her into the bedroom, nosed open the shower door, and padded after her while she dressed. He remained at her heels throughout the day, sat close to her on the sofa watching TV, and no amount of loud yells made him return to the living room when she got into bed. He wasn’t a fool, and instead of climbing onto the other side of the king-size bed, he lay down beside it. But he was right next to her in the morning, his breath hot on her neck.

  ‘Hey, this has got to stop, pal,’ she said, but then blew it by hugging him close, and he knew he had got her. She just could not resist his love, because that was what she felt from the giant animal – love, pure, unadulterated love – and by Monday morning they had, although she hated to admit it, already got into a routine. All his training, with the exception of allowing her to slip on his collar, had gone out of the window. Tiger had moved in on Lorraine as no man would have dared to, and he loved her with a passion. He sat in the passenger seat of the Cherokee, his nose out of the window and his ears blown back by the wind.

  Decker was overwhelmed by Tiger, who growled at him, teeth bared, until Lorraine shouted at him, ‘Shut up! This is friend, this is Decker.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, Mrs Page! He’s enormous. What on earth kind of breed is he?’

  ‘Mixed, wolfhound and—’

  ‘Donkey?’

  Tiger was not too sure about Decker or the office. He made a slow tour of each room and cocked his leg on one of the ficus trees.

  ‘You sure as hell aren’t a poodle,’ Decker said warily, but when the telephone rang his attention was distracted. He snatched it up – this was the first call that had come in.

  ‘Page Investigations,’ he said coolly, as a pair of ice blue eyes stared him out across the desk top. ‘May I have your name? Mrs Page is on the other line right now.’ Decker jotted down ‘Cindy Nathan’, glaring back at Tiger.

  ‘Who is it?’ Lorraine whispered, from her office doorway.

  ‘A Cindy Nathan, just wait a second.’ Lorraine watched as Decker flicked the phone onto speaker and held it for one beat, two beats as he grinned and gave her the thumbs-up sign.

  ‘Cindy Nathan, that is N-A-T . . .’ said a low voice, spelling out the surname.

  ‘I have that, Ms Nathan,’ said Decker, ‘and may I ask what your enquiry is about?’

  ‘It’s not an enquiry, I want Lorraine Page – is she there or not?’

  Tiger gave a lethal growl, but as Lorraine pointed at him, he shut up.

  ‘I’m sorry, Ms Nathan, but, as I said, Mrs Page is on the other line. If you could just tell me what your enquiry is. I am Rob Decker, Mrs Page’s secretary.’

  ‘Really? Well, Rob, as soon as she gets off the other line, get her to call me. It’s urgent.’ She dictated a number, and hung up.

  Decker swore, scribbling down the numbers.

  Lorraine threw up her hands. ‘Jesus Christ, did you get the number? If that was our first case you just lost it.’

  He leaned back in his chair. ‘You don’t know who Cindy Nathan is?’

  Lorraine was furious. ‘No, I don’t. There’s a lot of people I don’t know, Decker. I had a long time when I didn’t recall my own name. So who is she?’

  ‘She’s Harry Nathan’s wife.’

  ‘Really, and who the fuck is he?’ she snapped.

  ‘The head of Maximedia, the movie studio, though they do a lot of other stuff too. He used to be married to Sonja Sorenson.’

  Lorraine leaned on his desk. ‘I never heard of her either.’

  Decker rolled his eyes to the ceiling. ‘Lorraine! She’s big in the art world – she owned a gallery on Beverly Drive but moved back to New York after they divorced. Harry Nathan used to do spoofy, goofball comedies – Killer Bimbos Ate My Neckties kind of thing, though lately it’s been more like Ate My Shorts, if you get what I mean.’ He gave her a meaningful look. ‘Not exactly family entertainment, shall we say? So, you want to call her? Or would you like me to connect you, ma’am?’ He jotted the number on a yellow sticker holding it up on the tip of his forefinger. Lorraine snatched the note and banged her office door closed – only to have to open it again as Tiger threw himself at it barking.

  ‘Get out,’ she yelled. Then she sat down at her desk. ‘She said she wanted me to call her?’ she called to Decker.

  The intercom light flashed. ‘Yes, Mrs Page, and she seemed a trifle hyper. Shall I get Mrs Nathan on the line for you, Mrs Page?’

  ‘Yes!’

  Cindy Nathan was in her silk Hermès sarong, barefoot, clutching the mobile phone and staring into the deep end of the swimming pool. Henry ‘Harry’ Nathan was floating face down in it with a thin trickle of blood still colouring the bright blue water. She heard the police sirens, saw the Hispanic servants hovering by the industrial glass-brick doors with which Harry had replaced the former french windows and
leaded diamond panes.

  Her phone rang.

  ‘Cindy Nathan,’ she answered flatly.

  ‘This is Lorraine Page. You called me and . . . hello? Mrs Nathan?’

  Cindy’s voice was barely audible. ‘Yes.’

  ‘This is Lorraine Page, of Page Investigations.’

  ‘Are you a detective?’

  ‘Yes, I run an investigation company.’

  ‘I want to hire you, because I’m just about to be arrested for my husband’s murder.’

  ‘I’m sorry, could you repeat that?’

  ‘I didn’t kill him. I didn’t kill him.’ Cindy stared at the body. ‘I need you, please come immediately.’ She reeled off an address, then hung up.

  Lorraine stared at the phone, then shouted to Decker, ‘She’s hung up, did you get that?’

  ‘Yep, I got it. Maybe she read the advert – probably in Variety.’

  Lorraine replaced the receiver and walked into Reception. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I ran an advert for you in the Hollywood Reporter, plus one in Screen International, Variety—’

  ‘What?’

  Decker rummaged around his desk and laid out a fax. ‘I told you Elliot was good. He suggested the wording.’

  ‘Elliot?’

  ‘My partner, Adam, but I always call him Elliot, he always calls me Decker. I said we needed him to beef up our adverts, and . . .’

  Lorraine’s face had tightened. ‘What?’

  ‘They only ran yesterday, I told you. I said he was good.’

  ‘Lemme see,’ she said tightly.

  ‘Sure, you paid for them.’ Decker passed over the fax.

  Lorraine read it in disbelief. It was not really an advert, more a treatment for a TV show: ‘The best, the one agency that caters for the people that need discretion . . .’ highlighted ‘. . . money no object . . .’ highlighted again ‘. . . clients too famous to name, PRIVATE INVESTIGATION means what we say – PRIVATE. If it’s blackmail, stalkers, drug abuse, underage sex, call us – no case too small, too dangerous, too notorious. We issue a confidentiality contract as standard.’