‘I’m afraid so. I’ve tried to kick him out, but he creeps back in during the night. He’s pretty good - I mean he doesn’t take up too much space, he knows which bit’s his.’
She fetched cups, and cream from the fridge.
Jake washed his hands at the sink, and she was surprised to see him pick up the empty takeaway containers and put them in the trash, then collect the empty cans and all the cartons that were still half full.
‘He had a feast in the night,’ she said, nodding at Tiger. A few noodles were scattered on the carpet, and she picked them up before she tidied the coffee table and carried the dirty ashtray to the bin.
‘You should give that up,’ Jake said, as he ran water into the sink.
‘Yeah, I know.’ She liked standing close to him, liked him being in her tiny kitchen - liked everything about him. She slipped her arm around his waist. ‘You want some toast?’
They sat at either end of the sofa, Lorraine with her legs curled under her, eating thick slices of toast with blueberry jam and drinking a mug of coffee. ‘What time do you have to go to the station?’ she asked.
‘Nine, which means . . .’ He looked at the clock. ‘I’ll have to leave in an hour or so, unless you want me to go now.’
‘No.’ She leaned towards him, and he reached out with one finger and traced her lips. Their eyes met, and she put down her mug and crawled along the sofa until she was able to rest against him. ‘You feel good,’ she said softly. She eased around to sit between his legs, and he passed her her coffee. As she reached up to take the cup, the sleeve of her robe fell back, revealing the scars on her arm again.
‘You were in the wars at one time,’ he said gently, kissing her.
‘Yeah, I was.’ She felt her stomach tighten, and his hand massaged the nape of her neck. ‘You should know, you read my sheet.’ She began to slide away from him, murmuring she wanted more coffee, but she lit a cigarette, and was angry to see her hand shaking. ‘Suppose you want to know how much I charge, these days.’ It came out tougher than she had meant it to sound.
‘Don’t be so defensive,’ he said lightly, then laughed. ‘Besides, the takeaway cleaned me out of cash.’
‘Yeah, well, I was pretty cheap – price of a drink.’
‘Stop it,’ he said firmly, watching her fall apart in front of him, her hands shaking as she sucked at her cigarette, her whole body tense with anger.
‘You started it,’ she snapped, and he raised his arms.
‘All I said was—’
She stood in front of him, shoving her arm under his nose, showing him the old scars and cigarette burns. ‘You missed these.’
He reached out and gripped her wrists tightly. ‘No, I didn’t. Like I said, I read your sheet, I know all about your self-mutilation, kind of goes with drugs, booze and . . .’
Lorraine tried to twist free of him, but he got to his feet, refusing to let go of her, then suddenly pinched her cheek, staring into her face. ‘Your mug-shot’s not up to date – where’s the scar on your cheek, Mrs Page?’
Now she wrestled free of him and glared. ‘I told you – plastic surgery. Gimme time and I’ll get round to all the others. Now, why don’t you get out of here and leave me alone?’
‘Why don’t you simmer down?’
She walked towards the bedroom. ‘I’ve got things to do. You know the way out.’
He moved fast enough to reach the bedroom door before her, and dragged her inside, pushing her down on the bed.
‘What’s this? Gonna try some rough stuff on me now, are you? That on my report sheet, is it?’
He slapped her face, and she took it, laughing at him. He stepped back. ‘I’m sorry . . . sorry.’
‘Don’t be, I’m used to it, I can take it. Come on, you want it again, take it.’
She opened the towel, lying naked in front of him, and he bent forward. For a moment she thought he was going to punch her, but instead he pulled the sheet from under her, so that she rolled sideways, then wrapped her inside it. Her arms were trapped and he held her so that she couldn’t move. ‘Don’t do this, Lorraine . . .’
‘Give me one good reason.’ She pushed her face close to his, and then the look of hurt in his eyes made her anger evaporate. She couldn’t keep up the act, and she rested against him again, a low sob shaking her body.
‘Sssh,’ he said softly, rocking her in his arms.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean what I said. I’m sorry, it’s just . . . It’s just . . .’ She couldn’t continue.
‘Just what?’ he asked, after a long pause.
‘Just that I am scared.’
‘Not of me?’
She shook her head, then bit her lip and nodded. ‘Yeah. I am scared of you, or of what you make me feel.’
‘What’s that?’
She sighed. ‘Oh, please, don’t do this.’
‘Okay. What if I tell you that I am . . . I’m only interested in this woman I’ve got in my arms right now. I don’t give a fuck about her past, what she did or didn’t do. I’m not dumb enough to think it won’t come up, or that we won’t have to talk about it, but for no other reason than I want to know you, all of you, the good, the bad . . .’
‘And the ugly,’ Lorraine said, her eyes filled with tears.
‘Sure, yeah, all of it. Anything to do with you I want to know about.’
She didn’t know what to say to him, she just felt like weeping.
‘You’re supposed to say that you want to know everything there is to know about me,’ he said, feeling her begin to relax in his arms.
They made love again, then showered together. Afterwards Lorraine made fresh coffee while Jake scrambled some eggs, and they ate breakfast again side by side on the sofa.
Will you get the autopsy report on Cindy Nathan today?’ she asked, trying to sound nonchalant.
Jake slipped on his jacket. ‘Yes, well, it was supposed to come in today.’ He crossed to her and leaned on the alcove. ‘I think we might have a little talk to Mrs Kendall Nathan this morning too.’
Lorraine nodded. ‘Yeah,’ she said, pretending a keen interest. ‘I’d check her out.’ She looked at the clock. ‘I should get dressed.’ There was an awkward pause, while Jake hesitated a moment, then walked to the door. She didn’t want him to go, but if he had no intention of seeing her again, she didn’t want him to stay either. ‘I’ll see you,’ she said, hurrying towards her bedroom.
‘Okay. ‘Bye, Tiger, look after her for me.’ He opened the door, and was half-way through it when he turned round. ‘I’ll be off at about four – you want to take in a movie? ‘
She felt like a kid, knew she was blushing. ‘Yep, I’d like that.’
‘Okay, I’ll call you at your office. Are you going in today?’
‘Yes. I’ve got a few odds and ends to sort out.’
‘You’re not still working on the Nathan case?’
‘Well, not really – there isn’t a case to work on.’
He grinned. ‘You’ll be touting for work.’
‘Yes.’
‘Okay, see you later.’ He went out, and she stayed in the bedroom doorway, listening to his footsteps going down the stairs. She crossed to the window and looked out, wanting to see him walking to his car, wanting just to watch him as he unlocked it. He turned, as if he knew she was there, and smiled up at her, stood for a few moments, just looking, before he got in and drove away.
‘Right, Tiger, soon as I’m dressed we go walkies,’ she said, and couldn’t keep the smile off her face.
Lorraine was singing as she walked into the office. Decker was sitting at his desk as she breezed past him with a loud ‘Good morning.’
‘It’s better than you think,’ he said, picking up his notebook.
‘You can say that again, it’s a . . .’ She was about to say something silly, but instead burst out laughing.
‘My, my, you got out of bed the right side.’
‘I did, I most certainly did.’ She sat in her chair and swung
from side to side as he put a memo in front of her. ‘Mr Feinstein . . . urgent, three messages on the answerphone. I called him back, but he insisted that he could only speak directly to you, and would you call him as soon as you got in.’
‘Maybe they’ve got the autopsy results,’ she said, dialling Feinstein’s number.
‘I doubt it. Two of the calls came in last night, and one at eight this morning.’
Decker went into his section to get coffee for Lorraine, and some bagels with cream cheese, which he had also bought. As he came back with them, Lorraine was tapping her desk with a pen. ‘He won’t discuss it on the phone, wants me to go round to his office. When I asked if it had anything to do with Cindy Nathan’s death, he said it was an entirely different matter.’
‘You want breakfast before you go?’
‘No, thanks, I had scrambled eggs.’ She was already collecting her purse and running a comb through her hair.
‘You’re looking very . . . relaxed,’ Decker said, cocking his head appraisingly to one side.
‘I am, and I might take off early this afternoon. Can you book me a hairdressing appointment and a manicure?’
‘Got a date?’ he asked jokingly.
‘Yes, as a matter of fact, I have.’
‘Ohhh.’ Decker scuttled after her. ‘So I was right!’ Lorraine bit her lip and giggled, more feminine, girlish even, than he had ever seen her.
Lorraine was half out of the door. ‘You just might be,’ she tossed over her shoulder, and then she was gone.
Decker chucked her bagel to Tiger, who caught it and wolfed it down in two gulps. ‘She got laid last night, didn’t she?’ he asked the dog, whose jaws chomped in reply. ‘Well, well, well . . . I thought he was a pretty hot number myself.’
Clearly today was not one of Feinstein’s good days. He was dishevelled, his tie askew, and he was sweating as he paced up and down the sea of carpet. ‘I’ve had another art expert in, just to make sure, and he confirmed it. They are fakes, every single fucking one of them.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Lorraine said lamely, glancing behind him at a large painting on the wall. A letter-opener, made from the top ten inches of a narwhal tusk, protruded from the middle of it, stabbed through the canvas.
‘Not as sorry as I am. Have you any idea how much money I’ve lost? My life savings were in those fucking paintings.’ His voice cracked, and he almost broke down. Then a fit of rage seized him as with a sudden sweep of his arm he dashed pens, blotter, designer candy-dispenser and executive toys off his heroically proportioned desk. ‘That shit Harry Nathan, that two-faced bastard! When I think of everything I did for that son-of-a-bitch, I’m telling you, if he was to walk in right now I’d shoot him – I’d kill the bastard.’
‘What does Harry Nathan have to do with all this?’ Lorraine asked, as Feinstein seized the letter opener from the canvas and slashed at it, using all his strength in an effort to rip the thing apart.
‘I bought all my art through the Nathan gallery. These are fakes, right? So somebody, somewhere, has my paintings, and Harry Nathan has my money stashed somewhere, because I’ve been through every fucking bank account he had and the cheque I gave him never showed up in any of them!’
Feinstein began to hurl pages of bank statements across to her. So much for client confidentiality – as soon as he was personally affected, all he cared about was himself. ‘You trace those paintings, you trace his fucking secret accounts – I’m talking about millions, millions.’
Lorraine watched as Feinstein threw more files across the room, and waited until at last he sat down in his throne-like swivel chair. ‘I will need to ask you some particulars, Mr Feinstein, and we will also have to discuss my fees.’
‘I’ll pay you whatever you want – just get me my paintings. My wife will divorce me? He sank his head in his hands.
‘I’ll need to take some notes,’ she said, opening her briefcase and taking out her pad.
Feinstein flicked a switch on his intercom, which had been flashing on and off since Lorraine had arrived. ‘No calls, Pamela – period.’ He flicked the switch off again, and patted his pockets for his cigar case. He found it, chose one, and ripped off the wrapper. ‘Fucking start with Harry Nathan.’ He snapped on a lighter.
‘That might be a little difficult,’ Lorraine said, smiling.
‘You think this is funny, Mrs Page? I’m down two and half million and it’s fucking destroying me.’ He huffed and puffed at his cigar, then bit off the end and spat it across the room. ‘Find out anything you can on Nathan’s bank accounts. I can tell you some aliases I know Harry used -1 want them checked out.’
‘So Harry Nathan actually sold you the paintings?’ Lorraine enquired innocently.
Feinstein looked at her, then at the ceiling. ‘Who the fuck did you think sold me them? Sure, Kendall Nathan handled it, arranged delivery and stuff. Check her out – she wouldn’t take a leak without his permission. The two of them pulled this off together and I want the slimy bitch fucking charged. I bought them through the gallery, right? I had them authenticated there, and Kendall – or somebody who worked for her – hung them for me here. So start with her.’
‘Did Kendall benefit significantly under Harry Nathan’s will?’ Lorraine asked, knowing it wasn’t strictly relevant to the art fraud but unable to resist the temptation to take advantage of Feinstein’s temporarily uncontrolled state to try to find out what he had refused to tell her before.
‘Well, she got the other half of the gallery,’ Feinstein answered. ‘Little pay-off for services rendered, by the looks of things.’
‘But what about the art collection at the house?’ Lorraine went on. ‘Does that come to Kendall now that Cindy’s dead?’
Feinstein was off on another tack. ‘The police asked me for a specimen of her handwriting. I could have given them ten fucking specimens of suicide notes if they had wanted them, but they didn’t ask. Cindy was always threatenin’ to kill herself. She used to write letters to practically anyone she knew about how fucking miserable she was with Harry. What the fuck she thought I was going to do about it is beyond me.’
Lorraine felt another pang of grief for the tormented girl, calling out for help to everyone around her, only to meet with indifference and rejection. But it was interesting that she had apparently written letters mentioning suicide to quite a number of people. Lorraine couldn’t see Feinstein killing her himself, but the idea of him perhaps selling a letter that might help in getting rid of Cindy didn’t seem beyond the bounds of credibility. Or if Cindy had written to Harry’s lawyer for advice on her emotional problems with him, it was not impossible that she had written to one or both of his ex-wives . . .
‘Does Cindy’s death benefit Kendall?’ she asked again, casually.
‘No way. That’s not the way it works.’ Feinstein had got more of a grip on himself now, had become the lawyer again. ‘Anything Cindy owned when she died will form part of her own estate.’
‘Will that go to her parents? They’re out in Milwaukee somewhere, aren’t they?’
‘They may well be, but as far as Cindy was concerned they could stay and rot there. I have the last will and testament of Mrs Cindy Nancy Robyn Nathan right here in the office, and her family are not mentioned at all.’
Feinstein leaned back in his chair, sensing Lorraine’s acute interest in what he was saying. He permitted himself a leisurely pause and a further pull on his cigar. ‘She left everything to the House of Nirvana Spiritual Center, some fucking bunch of freaks.’ God, Lorraine thought, that was unexpected. ‘Fortunately,’ Feinstein said, with a self-satisfied smile, ‘the tax-saving clause prevents them getting more than her pantyhose. They won’t get a cent of Harry’s estate.’
‘What do you mean?’ Lorraine said. ‘Cindy didn’t tell me anything about the Nathans’ tax affairs.’
‘It’s a pretty standard thing on a large estate that will attract a lot of taxes, particularly when the beneficiaries are all relatively young and in good sh
ape. All of Harry Nathan’s beneficiaries had to survive him by sixty days before the various gifts to them took effect. Otherwise, in the situation we have here, for example, we would be paying tax once on the estate when it passed to Cindy, then again virtually immediately when it passed to her heirs.’
The intercom buzzed again, and Feinstein screamed into it, ‘Pamela, I said no calls – I MEAN NO CALLS.’
‘Since Cindy didn’t live for sixty days, it doesn’t go to her heirs,’ Lorraine said. ‘So who gets it?’
‘The residuary legatee,’ Feinstein said.
‘Who is?’ Lorraine said, wanting to slap him. Lawyers: what a fucking pompous self-important bunch of creeps, she thought. Feinstein got up, turned aside to relight the thick cigar, then turned back to her as he drew on it, surrounding himself in a swirl of blue smoke.
‘Sonja Nathan.’
‘Sonja?’ Lorraine said. ‘She’ll do a bit better now than the couple of keepsakes Cindy said she was going to get.’
‘That would indeed have been pretty much the position if Cindy hadn’t died,’ Feinstein went on, in professorial mode. ‘Nathan’s big assets were the house, his holding in Maximedia, his art collection and his half of the art gallery. There were no substantial cash assets at all – or, at least, not in any accounts I knew about.’ His eyes narrowed with rage at this reminder of Harry Nathan’s perfidy. ‘The will disposed of all of those to Cindy and Kendall, and Sonja would have got anything else not specifically mentioned. He had a substantial film library, for example, at his office, which would have gone to her.’
Lorraine’s mind was racing: she had largely discounted the possibility of Sonja Nathan’s involvement in her husband’s death, but this certainly gave her a motive. True, she had had to kill two people to collect under Harry’s will, but if she had been prepared to kill once, why not twice? She had certainly been expert in covering her tracks – maybe used a professional hitman – as Lorraine had found nothing to connect Sonja with either of the two deaths. However, none of that was Feinstein’s business, and she tried to disguise what she was thinking by changing the subject to more mundane matters.
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