Cold Heart

by Lynda La Plante

  Her jaw dropped as she read the list of high-profile cases with which Page Investigations was supposed to have been involved. ‘My God, this is disgusting.’

  ‘Good, though.’

  ‘But it’s a pack of lies. You can’t say we worked for these people when we didn’t. I’ve never read anything so ridiculous.’

  ‘Maybe, but you’ll never get anyone to query it – most, as you will see, are dead. We can say we acted for River Phoenix, but who’s to know we didn’t because he can’t . . .’

  Lorraine re-read the list of dead movie stars, studio producers, executives, bankers, politicians – even Jackie Onassis’ name appeared. ‘This is a gross distortion of facts,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, I know, but we got a result. Cindy Nathan.’

  Lorraine leaned on his desk. ‘You should have run this by me first. This is illegal, unethical, and we could be sued. These people may be dead, but they’ll have relatives, and lawyers. Pull the adverts this morning, Decker.’

  Will do, Mrs Page.’

  She turned at her door, serious. ‘You never do this kind of thing again. You have to have my approval for any advert, in fact, for anything going out of this office. Is that clear? I’ll call in when I know more – and give Tiger a walk if I’m not back this afternoon.’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Page.’

  She closed her office door as Tiger threw himself at it.

  Lorraine got into the Cherokee and drove rapidly through Century City to take the short cut behind the Beverly Hilton and into Beverly Hills: she smiled, as she always did, as the signs of wealth and ostentation began to increase as steadily as the gradient of Whittier Drive. As the properties grew larger, hedges and trees grew thicker to keep out prying eyes, but behind them could be glimpsed a pick-and-mix assortment of architectural styles. The more traditional bungalows and hacienda-type dwellings rubbed shoulders with mock everything else – Dutch colonial and Cape Cod-style, art-deco, Tudor follies, steel and glass boxes that had been futuristic thirty years ago.

  Lorraine knew she must be getting closer to the Nathan property. She was now on the borders of Beverly Hills and Bel Air, and after a quick glance at Decker’s directions, she drew up at the enormous bare metal gates, with Gestapo-style searchlights mounted on the posts. A man was waiting for her. ‘Are you Lorraine Page?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  He was thin, balding and nervous. ‘I am Cindy Nathan’s lawyer. She has insisted I speak with you, but I want you to know that I have already contacted my own investigation advisers and all this is now in the hands of the police. They have taken Mrs Nathan in for questioning but I’m sure she’ll be released without charge as soon as the facts have been established. Right now, the position is . . . very confusing.’

  Lorraine nodded. ‘I’m afraid it is. You see, I don’t know exactly what has happened.’

  ‘She shot her husband. Harry Nathan is dead. The police are at the poolside now, there’s forensic and paramedics and . . . I can’t allow you to come inside. I have to go to Mrs Nathan.’

  Lorraine smiled. ‘Maybe I should come with you, as Mrs Nathan was adamant that I speak with her.’

  ‘That is impossible. You will not be allowed to see her. As I said, this is police business now.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, there’s nothing you can do here. I will, of course, pay you whatever retainer was agreed, but as I said, the police are taking care of this now. So if you would let me have your fees to date.’

  Lorraine hesitated. ‘Do you have a card?’

  ‘I’m sorry, yes, of course.’ He passed it over. ‘The police are not allowing anyone access to the premises.’

  Lorraine looked at his card: Joel H. Feinstein, attorney at law. ‘Fine, I’ll send you my invoice – but just as a matter of interest, is Mrs Nathan being held at the Beverly Hills PD or elsewhere?’

  Lorraine drove east on Santa Monica Boulevard, and turned left on Rexford into the bizarre new complex of heavy romanesque arches and colonnades that now housed the Beverly Hills police department. She knew it was unlikely that she would be allowed to see Cindy, even if she announced herself as a private investigator engaged by Mrs Nathan. She was thinking about what moves she could make when an officer she knew, who had done some private work for her on a previous case, walked up to the car parked directly in front of her: James Sharkey, still as fat as ever, still hauling his pants up over his pot belly.

  ‘Hi, how ya doing?’ She locked her car and headed towards him. For a moment he didn’t recognize her, then gave her a brief nod while digging in his pockets for his car keys. When she asked about Cindy Nathan, he started to unlock his filthy, dented Pontiac. ‘I need ten minutes with her,’ Lorraine said quietly.

  Sharkey laughed and shook his head. He was about to open the car door when Lorraine moved closer. ‘You on the case?’ she asked.

  She knew he was, just by his attitude and the way he looked furtively around the parked cars. He jangled his keys.

  ‘Meal break. Lady is pretty shook up – not talking straight and asking for raspberry milk-shakes . . . with chocolate topping.’ Sharkey wasn’t putting himself on the line, but she could take the lady her milk-shake, maybe palm the female officer, Joan, who was sitting her. Sharkey pocketed five hundred dollars and Lorraine went for the milk-shake. He had promised he’d have a word with Joan. He lied, he always had been a cheap, lying bastard, as Lorraine discovered when she had to pay another two hundred to persuade Verna to take a toilet break.

  Cindy was not held in a cell but in an interview room in the basement of the station. Lorraine walked in and put down the hideous-looking drink.

  Cindy was very young, so small that Lorraine towered above her, with a heart-shaped face as perfect as her superwaif figure. Even though she wore no make-up and her blonde hair was twisted into a knot and secured with what appeared to be a barbecue skewer, all of Lorraine’s plastic surgery, health clinics and exercise paled beside this woman, who was so astonishingly beautiful. Added to her perfect features was a sweetness and vulnerability, whose impact was immediate. Perhaps the reason she had called in response to the advert run by Decker was that she was as innocent as she looked.

  ‘I’m Lorraine Page,’ Lorraine said calmly.

  Cindy’s brow puckered. ‘I’m sorry, who?’

  ‘I’m a private investigator. You called my office, we spoke earlier.’

  ‘I didn’t do it! I didn’t kill him, and Mr Feinstein won’t believe it.’

  Lorraine sat down and took out a notebook. ‘Do you want me to investigate the circumstances of your husband’s death, Mrs Nathan?’

  ‘I guess so. I mean, can they keep me here? I’ve told them everything I know. Is this for me?’ She prodded at the froth on the milk-shake with her index finger, then licked it.

  ‘I don’t know what has been agreed, Mrs Nathan. Just tell me about what happened. Did you make a statement?’

  ‘I can’t remember. I called the police and I called Mr Feinstein and told him I found Harry in the pool. I was sleeping and . . . then I heard the gunshot. I guess that was what I heard. It wasn’t all that loud, though, just a sort of dull bang.’

  Lorraine was making notes but keeping half an eye on the open door. ‘Then what did you do?’

  ‘I got up and went onto the patio. I could see the pool, I saw Harry and I called out to him. He looked like he was swimming, floating but . . . well, he didn’t answer, so then I went back into the house, and through the sun room, and . . .’ She chewed her lip. ‘When I got closer, I could see the blood, an’ he wasn’t swimming at all, and he had no trunks on, face down.’

  ‘Did you touch him – I mean, go into the pool?’

  ‘Oh, no. I ran back into the house, I was hysterical, an’ then I called the cops.’

  ‘Then you called my office?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘After the police you called my office.’

  ‘No, no, I never called you. I thought maybe someone had c
alled you for me, understand? I mean, why would I call you?’

  It was odd, Lorraine thought. Cindy Nathan was behaving very strangely for someone whose husband had just been murdered, especially when she was a prime suspect and about to be charged. She seemed more distracted than upset, twice unfastening her hair and retwisting it round the wooden spike, asking why there wasn’t a straw for the shake.

  ‘So you did not ask me to meet with you?’

  ‘No, I just said so. What’s going on?’

  Lorraine tapped her notebook. ‘Well, I don’t know either, but if you want me to look into your case, if you feel you need me—’

  ‘Do you think I should have someone? I mean, are you a lawyer?’

  ‘No, Mrs Nathan, I’m a private investigator, as I said.’ Lorraine handed the girl her card, but she hardly looked at it.

  ‘I don’t know what I should do – maybe wait for Mr Feinstein. He’ll tell me what I should do. Right now I’m all confused.’

  ‘It must be terrible for you,’ Lorraine said quietly.

  Cindy lifted her delicate shoulders. ‘Mr Feinstein’ll sort it out, I guess.’

  ‘I hope so, and please feel free to call me if you do want me to investigate the death of your husband.’

  Joan returned, crooked her finger at Lorraine then jerked her thumb, indicating for her to leave, sharpish.

  Cindy didn’t even look at Joan. ‘Right now I’m more worried about what’s going to happen to me, because I didn’t do it. I never shot Harry, but a lot of his friends won’t believe it.’

  ‘Why?’

  Cindy Nathan gave that little shrug of her shoulders again. “Cos I was always threatening him. I never got around to doing anything, though.’

  ‘Well, somebody did. You’re sure it was your husband in the swimming pool?’

  Joan became slightly aggressive. ‘Come on, don’t get me in trouble. Out now.’

  Cindy Nathan’s wide, cornflower-blue eyes stared at the wall. ‘Yes, yes, it was him, face down. It was Harry, all right.’ And two big tears rolled down her cheeks.

  Lorraine went out of the building, down the curving walkway that looked more like the approach to a smart office complex than a police department. As she bleeped open the Cherokee with her alarm key, she saw Cindy Nathan’s lawyer standing by a black Rolls-Royce, parked on Rexford, arguing with two uniformed police officers. So heated was their exchange that they paid Lorraine no attention as she drove past.

  The following morning, Decker was already brewing coffee and collecting the leaves the ficus trees seemed to shed every night when Tiger bounded in, almost knocking him off his feet.

  ‘I’ve got all the newspapers. Mrs Nathan was released without charge last night. She’s front page in most of the tabloids.’

  Lorraine glanced over them. ‘Well, until I hear back from her, there’s not a lot I can do. She was very . . .’ She frowned. She’d been thinking about her meeting with Cindy Nathan since the early hours. ‘She wasn’t exactly flaky, just, I don’t know, not reacting the way she should have. I mean, she didn’t seem to understand . . .’

  ‘The trouble she’s in?’ Decker enquired, carrying Lorraine’s coffee into her office.

  ‘Yeah, I suppose so. Maybe she was in shock. They give any more details about her?’

  ‘They certainly do. It was her automatic, by the way, slug taken from Nathan’s head.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She also inherits the house and about half of Maximedia, as his widow,’ Decker said.

  Well, she won’t if they can make a murder rap stick to her.’

  ‘Mmm, well, according to the LA Times, it looks like that’s a sort of foregone conclusion.’ He rummaged through the paper to find the rest of the leading article from page one. ‘Apparently Cindy Nathan threatened to shoot her husband last month at Morton’s restaurant. They had a big slanging match in front of a packed dining room, and they had to drag her out.’

  Lorraine sipped her coffee. She was now leafing through all the various papers, in which Decker had marked the relevant stories in green felt-tipped pen. ‘She said she never called us,’ she remarked, lighting a cigarette.

  ‘Well, that’s ridiculous. Of course she did. And we’ve got it taped.’

  ‘You taped the call?’

  ‘All calls. I protect you at all times, ma’am.’ He slipped his headphones on.

  ‘Play it for me, would you?’ Lorraine continued reading, glancing at the pictures of Cindy Nathan being assisted into the lawyer’s Rolls with her hands covering her face. The press had worked fast: they also had numerous glamour shots of her – she had been in a TV soap for a few weeks, but most of the photographs were sexy poses in swimsuits and lingerie. ‘Shit, she’s only twenty years old,’ Lorraine said, not that Cindy had looked older – it just surprised her that she was so young. At the bleep-bleep of the answerphone she looked up.

  Decker was searching for Cindy’s call. He eased off his headphones. ‘I fucked up, I can’t find that call.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, Decker, this is important. We need that recording. Cindy Nathan said she never made the call to the office. If Cindy didn’t make that call, somebody did, someone who knew Harry Nathan was dead – maybe because they had shot him, understand, sweetheart? That call is very important.’

  Decker was flushing bright red. ‘You spoke to Cindy on the phone and met her. Did you think it was the same voice? I mean, do you think she made the call?’

  Lorraine lifted her hands in the air. ‘I dunno . . . and I’m not wasting time thinking about it. Like I just said, let’s move on. I’m down seven hundred dollars on this fiasco.’

  Decker was dispatched to get any back issues of articles on Cindy Nathan, and Lorraine read every newspaper. Harry Nathan had been married three times and there were photographs of Kendall Nathan, his second wife, a thin, dark woman who looked to be in her late thirties, and Sonja Sorenson, the sculptress, a tall, formidably elegant woman with prematurely white hair. Lorraine clipped out the pictures and the accompanying coverage, then tossed the rest into the trash can.

  The phone rang and made her jump but she waited a moment before she picked it up. ‘Page Investigations,’ she said brightly.

  It was Decker, speaking from the car phone. ‘Hi, it’s me. Turn the TV on. It just came over the radio. Cindy Nathan’s been arrested for the murder of her husband.’

  Lorraine hurried into Reception and switched on the TV. There was Cindy Nathan, almost hidden by a battery of cameras, being hurried into the police department. Feinstein, her lawyer, his arms wide, was trying to protect his client. She looked tiny and frightened, in a simple white linen button-through dress and carrying her jacket.

  Lorraine sat on the edge of the sofa with Tiger at her feet. Then she shot up, tripping over Tiger as she snatched up a tape and rammed it into the video machine. At that moment Decker returned. ‘Quick! Video this, will you?’ She passed him the remote control. They recorded the coverage of Cindy Nathan’s arrest every time it was screened – a lot was repetitive but they learned that she came from Milwaukee and had left at fifteen after winning a beauty competition. A few modelling jobs followed, and then her short stint in the soap drama Paradise Motel in which she played a chambermaid, not very well.

  Harry Nathan was more handsome than Lorraine had expected, a tall, lean, muscular man with dark hair, worn quite long, and a dazzling, though somehow charmless smile. The still photographs of him were glamorous, mostly taken at society functions, premières, Oscar nights, with celebrities on his arm. His associates from the studio said in interviews that Nathan would be greatly missed by all who had ever had the pleasure of working with him, and his secretary, in floods of tears, was so distraught she could hardly speak.

  Lorraine continued to watch the news coverage at home. It said nothing new. There was no mention of where she was being held pending arraignment.

  Nathan was a self-made millionaire and renowned art collector, who had moved from making commercial
s to directing zany comedy movies, which had been a big hit back in the eighties. He had then turned his attention to producing rather than directing, and had moved gradually towards cheap, adult-oriented movies on the verge of porn.

  Lorraine was about to call it a night when, channel-surfing, she caught an exclusive interview with Harry Nathan’s second wife, Kendall. It struck her that there had been neither comment nor reaction from the woman who had been married longest to Harry Nathan, Ms Sorenson.

  Kendall Nathan whispered that she was deeply shocked by events, and also felt compassion for Cindy. She had been married to Harry Nathan for four years and knew better than anyone that he had been difficult to live with, but their divorce had been amicable, and she had continued to enjoy a deep friendship with her ex-husband. They had also remained business partners.

  Then she gave a tremulous smile, her voice breaking. ‘Harry was always an honourable man whose many friends will be devastated, as I am, by his tragic and untimely death.’

  Most people would have focused on Kendall’s performance as a grieving woman, but Lorraine was trying to ascertain whether it could have been Kendall who had called her agency.

  The morning newspapers were full of the update on the shooting, and as there were no other job prospects Lorraine and Decker cut out all the articles and pinned them together with the previous day’s.

  At twelve they had a call from a Mrs Walgraf asking for an appointment with regard to her divorce.

  At two o’clock another appointment was booked and, to Lorraine’s astonishment, a third call came in at four. The next two days were busy.

  After being held at the Cybil Brand Institute for Women in the female facility of the Los Angeles County jail, Cindy Nathan was duly arraigned on charges of murder, pleaded not guilty, and was released on bail, security set at three million dollars. No one saw her leave the courthouse, as she was taken out through a small back entrance because of the number of press waiting outside. Her lawyer read a statement on her behalf: she was innocent and begged to be left alone to mourn the loss of the husband she adored. She would give no further press statements or interviews in the lead-up to the trial as she was pregnant. Feinstein assured the press that he was confident that all charges against his client would be dismissed, and that Mrs Nathan needed rest and care. Her pregnancy was in the early stages and the stress of her arrest had made her ill. She was now fearful, Feinstein ended, that she might lose the child for which she and her husband had prayed.