Jake’s condominium was in a quiet street near Pico, within ten minutes’ drive of the police department, a late seventies Cape-Cod-style construction with a lot of shingled-wood facings, gables and white-painted wood on the exterior. It was simple, neat and orderly inside. A small kitchen led off the dining room, which in turn led off an equally compact lounge. There was one bedroom with bathroom en suite, and the entire apartment was carpeted in a drab grey, with featureless furnishing and bland landscape prints on the walls.
‘It’s rented,’ he said apologetically.
‘I should hope so. It’s – well, a bit characterless,’ Lorraine said.
‘Yeah, I guess it is, but I never intended staying here. At least not permanently.’
Tiger sniffed around the room, and lay down on a white rug in front of a fireplace containing a gas fire burning round fake logs.
Burton went into the kitchen: he’d already bought the groceries, which were still in their bags on the kitchen table. ‘You watch TV, or whatever, and I’ll cook.’ Jake began to unpack the food and set out the things he would need, and Lorraine noticed a number of small deli items – exotic mushrooms, purple basil and an hors d’oeuvre of ready-cooked stone crab, which Jake had clearly picked up to impress her.
‘You want me to set the table or anything?’ Lorraine asked.
‘Nope, I’ll do it. It’s just crab, steak and salad,’ he said, opening one cupboard after the next as he searched for plates and bowls.
Lorraine opened her briefcase and called the office on her mobile to replay her messages, but there were none. She called her apartment next, but there were no messages there either. She looked at her watch. After eight o’clock. She took out her notebook and looked for Decker’s home number, only to find she hadn’t brought it with her. ‘It’s odd he hasn’t checked in,’ Lorraine said, crossing to the kitchen. Oil was burning in a pan, and a bluish pall of smoke spiralled to the air-conditioner. ‘Oil’s a bit hot,’ she remarked, and Jake whipped round to take the pan off. He had assembled the salad and was now rubbing garlic over the steaks.
‘He usually calls in, or leaves a message for me at home.’ Lorraine picked up a carrot and munched it.
‘Who you talking about?’ Jake asked.
‘Decker – he’s been out all day, checking art galleries.’ Lorraine reached for another carrot, as the steaks sizzled and spat in the pan. ‘I don’t have his home number with me, or I’d call.’
‘Is he in the directory?’ He pointed with a fork to a side table. Lorraine walked over to it. Then she frowned – she couldn’t remember Decker’s boyfriend’s name, so she looked up Decker. She knew the phone wouldn’t be in his name and shut the book. ‘I’ll do it later when I get home.’
Jake carried out glasses, wine and a corkscrew, and set them down on the table with a clatter. He opened the wine, filled a glass and drank, then dived back into the kitchen. A few moments later he reappeared. ‘I got some of that alcohol-free lager for you. It’s on the side table.’
He leaped back into the kitchen, and she could hear him cursing. Then there was a hissing sound as he immersed the burning pan in water.
‘Do you want me to make a dressing?’ Lorraine asked, carrying the bottle of lager into the kitchen.
‘No, I’m almost ready. I made it earlier.’ He was pouring a sachet of raspberry vinegar dressing over the salad.
‘I need a bottle opener,’ she said, crossing to one of the drawers. Burton passed her, carrying the platter of crab, the steaks on their plates and balancing the bowl of salad on his arm.
‘Okay, it’s ready.’
Lorraine brought the bottle-opener to the table and sat in the place Burton indicated. Tiger lifted his head, sniffed and inched over to sit beside her, knowing he might be in line for a titbit.
Decker was dead on arrival at the emergency room of Midway Hospital. Adam Elliot, his boyfriend, was contacted at nine thirty-five, and drove straight to the hospital, unable to take in that Decker was dead.
By the time he was led to the chapel area to identify the body, he was in a state of such distress that he had to be assisted into an ante-room. Decker, who rarely exceeded the speed limit, Decker who always nagged him about wearing his safety belt and warned him never to take risks, who said that life wasn’t worth an extra twenty miles an hour, had been killed outright travelling at eighty-five miles an hour in a built-up area of downtown Los Angeles. It didn’t make sense. Nothing made sense. The loss of his beloved partner was more than he could comprehend.
Lorraine sat watching a movie, her feet resting on Jake’s knees and Tiger at their feet. Jake had consumed his bottle of wine, and Tiger the charred steaks, though at least the crab and the salad had been delicious.
‘I got another job today,’ Lorraine said. ‘It’s sort of connected to the Nathan case.’
‘How come?’ He stroked her legs.
‘Well, apparently Nathan sold original paintings, then switched them when they were hung.’ She explained the complex scam she believed Nathan had pulled, and that his attorney, her new client, had been one of its victims.
‘How much were they worth?’ Jake asked, draining his glass.
‘That depends. I’m still trying to get to the bottom of it all, but Feinstein’s down maybe two million.’
‘And do you think this fake stuff had something to do with Nathan’s murder?’
‘I don’t know. To be honest, all I do know is that somebody, somewhere, has a cache of art work worth a mint – or else the mint. Maybe that was the motive for killing him, but with Cindy and Kendall both dead, it’ll be hard to find out. Another odd thing is that there was a survivorship clause in the will, some tax-saving scam, Feinstein says, which meant that both Cindy and Kendall had to survive Nathan by sixty days before the gifts to them took effect. Since neither of them made it, everything, or whatever is left of Nathan’s estate minus the art, goes to his first wife, Sonja Nathan. The house will be the main asset, as any cash Nathan got from the fraud he had stashed in secret accounts.’
‘How will you go about tracing hidden bank accounts?’ Jake asked, and Lorraine grinned and pushed him. ‘No, I’m serious,’ he said. ‘How do you do that? If different names have been used, how do you trace them to Nathan?’
‘Well, you start with his papers,’ Lorraine said, tilting her head to one side. ‘Nobody ever has anything that well hidden – there’s always some kind of documentation somewhere. Then you look into travel, abroad or otherwise, and start checking – you know, do you know this man, et cetera. It’s a long, slow process.’
‘So it’ll be a nice cash cow for you?’ he said.
She nodded. ‘It’ll also mean a lot of painstaking enquiries.’ Lorraine’s face clouded as she thought about Decker. ‘Maybe I should call home, see if he’s left a message.’
Burton poured the dregs of the wine bottle into his glass and studied it for a moment. ‘Have you ever thought about . . .’ He stopped, and sipped the wine.
Lorraine had the phone in her hand. ‘Thought about what?’
‘Well, I know you have two daughters.’
She replaced the phone. ‘Yes, Julia and Sally.’
He leaned against the back of the sofa, looking at her. ‘You want any more kids?’
‘What?’
He turned away. ‘I’d like a family. I just wondered if you . . .’
‘With you?’
‘No, with Burt Lancaster. Who the hell do you think?’
She crossed to him and slipped her arms around his shoulders. ‘You’re serious about us getting married?’
‘Okay, I have to admit that when I said it, I kinda had heart failure. I’d not even thought about it and it must have sounded crazy. But I’ve had time to think and maybe why I did say it was because I was feeling like a kid on acid! That was the way you made me feel. Now I’m calmer, I’ve had time to think and I wouldn’t change that moment for the world. I know it’s what I want, so, if you want me to ask you again, I will.
You want me to ask you again?’ He took her hand and drew her down to sit beside him, and she nestled into his arms, curling her legs onto the sofa.
‘It’s all moving so fast. Don’t get me wrong – I like it this way, but . . .’ She closed her eyes, and he rested his chin against her head. ‘First we have to find a nice place, move in, get settled, but . . .’
‘You okay?’ Jake whispered.
Lorraine couldn’t stop the tears from streaming down her face.
‘I’m sorry if what I said upset you but we do need to talk about our future.’
She couldn’t speak. The tears kept on coming, and every time she tried to say something she felt as if her throat was being squeezed.
‘Maybe I’ve moved things on too fast. It’s just that, now I’ve found you, I don’t want to waste any time. But you can tell me to put the breaks on. All you’ve got to do is tell me, but we have to talk, Lorraine.’
She broke away, wiping her cheek with the back of her hand, and her words came out in spluttering gasps as her chest heaved. ‘I want to talk to you too, I want—’ She started to sob, and he made no effort to stop her, as if he knew she had to let her feelings out before she could calm down. She gasped for breath, determined to get it out, to tell him that she wanted his child more than anything else in the world. The thought of carrying Jake’s baby made her heart swell. She would be a part of him, have a future with him and be protected by him. Knowing for sure that he really loved her, that what had seemed too good to be true was not fantasy but reality, made the terrible darkness she lived with roll away. She felt as if a burden had been lifted from her soul, and that she was forgiven, cleansed. ‘I want your child . . . I never want to lose you, I love you.’
They embraced, broke away from each other, laughed, kissed and kissed again. For the first time in years, she was truly happy, and it was a blissful state, a feeling she had believed she would never be allowed to know or enjoy. Leaning back against him, curled beside him, she whispered, ‘I am so happy . . .’
Lorraine left at seven, having stayed the night with Burton, and as she walked Tiger in the early morning, the smile never left her lips. She went home, fed the dog, showered and changed for the office. Just as she was leaving she noticed the light on her answerphone blinking. She pressed the button, but could hardly make out what the caller was saying. He was sobbing. She knew, though, that something terrible had happened. As the message continued, and it became clear what it was, she had to sit down.
Lorraine drove to Decker’s home in Ashcroft Avenue as though on automatic pilot. The neat bungalow was in a row of equally well-kept small houses, and was painted a smart navy blue with the windows, doors and eaves picked out in white. Lorraine parked on San Vincente, fed the meter, and walked, in a mechanical, non-aware state, up the hand-laid brick steps to the house. The door opened. ‘Come in.’ Adam Elliot was wearing a terrycloth robe, and his face was ashen, his eyes red from weeping. Lorraine said nothing as he led her down the hallway, every inch of wall space filled with paintings, prints, photographs and pieces of tribal and primitive art, which, she guessed, had been picked up on travels abroad. She could feel the woven coir matting beneath her shoes, and noticed that it was strangely dark. All the blinds and shutters in the house were drawn.
The kitchen was a blaze of colour, or would have been in normal light, as tangerine paint had been added in a vibrant drag effect over yellow walls. Well-tended ferns of all sizes and shapes and a little lemon tree were displayed in polished copper planters, which Lorraine recognized with a pang as the same as the one Decker had bought for the office. She sat at a table and Elliot poured her coffee. Her hand shook as she lifted the china cup to her lips. He sat opposite, lighting a cigarette, then looked at the stub. ‘I gave up two years ago but I’ve smoked two packs since last night.’
The coffee tasted bitter, but stirred Lorraine into life.
‘How did it happen?’
There was a long pause, then Elliot explained what had happened. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said quietly.
There was another terrible pause. Elliot made no effort to check the tears that ran down the dark stubble on his face. ‘I loved him so much.’ The words were barely audible. ‘I just don’t see how I can go on without him.’
Lorraine stayed for almost an hour with Decker’s lover, saying little, but listening to him and looking at the photo albums he showed her of how they had met and their life together. She remained calm, saying what she hoped were the right things, but Adam wasn’t really listening – he just needed to talk. He said the same things over and over again. Eventually he gave her three plastic carrier bags of things he had taken from the car, including Decker’s notebook and the catalogues of paintings.
She sat in her car, still in a state of shock, then drove to her office. Everything seemed unnaturally clear and bright – the doorman, the bell-boy, the décor in the lobby, the elevator. It was as if she was seeing everything for the first time, as if she had never been there before. She placed the plastic bags Adam had given her on Decker’s desk and walked into her own office, shut the door and hung up her jacket.
It was deathly quiet, and there was no smell of fresh coffee. Lorraine bowed her head.
‘Oh, Deck, I’m going to miss you so much.’
The coroner determined that death had been accidental, a conclusion consistent with the medical evidence. The speedometer of Decker’s car had remained stuck at the speed he had been doing – eighty-five miles per hour. The body was cremated at Forest Lawn, and the ashes placed in a niche after a short ceremony attended by many of Decker’s relatives and friends. Lorraine stood at the back of the crowd, not knowing anyone, and she, too, wept.
On the way home she bought herself a bunch of exuberant red gladioli to remember Decker, and sat with Tiger, finding him a comfort. She knew the dog would miss Decker too – the walks, and the special dinners concocted from leftovers that Decker had brought to the office. It never even occurred to Lorraine that Decker’s death might have been connected to her or to the line of enquiry he was working on when he died.
In the early afternoon, Jake called to ask about the funeral, and to check that Lorraine was all right. They arranged to meet after eight as he had a lot of work to catch up on. She took Tiger for a walk, but it was still only four thirty when she returned. She tidied the sitting room and arranged her flowers but time seemed to stand still. She turned on the TV but was restless and couldn’t concentrate. She began to think over the Feinstein case. She started a list of relevant facts – the art fraud, the secret bank accounts, then wrote ‘Sonja Nathan’, and underlined the name.
Sonja Nathan was now the main beneficiary under Harry Nathan’s will: should Lorraine still make the trip to see her?
Without her notes and files, Lorraine tried to recall all the intricacies of the case. No one else had been charged with Nathan’s murder and the police investigation was closed. What if someone had engineered everything so things would end up that way? Could Raymond Vallance have been that clever? How could he have planned to get access to the large sums of money Feinstein was sure Nathan had to have stashed somewhere? She wrote down his name on the list. Before she could make any real progress on suspects, though, she had to trace Nathan’s missing haul. Then she could work backwards.
The entryphone buzzer made her heart pound, but Tiger barked furiously, then wagged his tail. It was Jake, and just seeing him put the investigation into the background.
‘Hi, I’m sorry. I’m later than I said. There’s been a double homicide over at Burbank.’ He looked tired, and Lorraine took his jacket from him, told him to sit on the sofa and put his feet up. ‘This bastard broke into an apartment, held the woman hostage, demanded details of the safe and their cash cards, then beat the hell out of her when she said she couldn’t remember. Then her husband came home with their daughter, and he shot them both at point blank range.’ He scratched his head, and gave a helpless gesture. ‘Kid was only fifteen years old. I mean,
how the hell do you live with that, seeing it? And there was nothing in the safe, just papers – her husband never kept any valuables at the house.’ He sighed and leaned back on the cushions. ‘Sorry to lay it on you, but . . . it hasn’t been a good day.’
‘That’s okay. You want me to get some wine? I can run down to the liquor store. Or maybe some whisky. What do you feel like?’
He reached out for her, and drew her close. ‘I feel like lying next to my woman.’
She kissed him, and told him to take a shower, then get into bed. He looked at her, and traced her face with his hand. ‘I’d like that . . .’
By the time she joined him in the bedroom he was fast asleep. He was naked, vulnerable, hadn’t even pulled the duvet over himself, and she loved him. The fact that he had come to her, in a way needing her, touched her deeply.
‘I love you,’ she whispered.
Lorraine couldn’t stop thinking about Decker. She had lain awake beside Jake for a while, then slipped from the bed to return to her notes, only getting to bed after midnight. Tiger was already flat out nose to nose with Jake, and he grunted when she got into bed. Jake stirred and lifted his arm for her to snuggle close, and then went back to sleep.
She had begun to work out the next stage of the Feinstein inquiry. She would need someone to take care of Tiger for a night, as she had decided that the next day she would fly to New York, get the Jitney bus to East Hampton, and stay overnight, as Decker had suggested, at the Maidstone Arms. She would then arrange to talk to Sonja Nathan, and could be back in LA the following afternoon. There was something else she wanted to talk about with Jake, and she was going to do it first thing in the morning before she left. She was going to tell him that when this Feinstein case was finished, so was Page Investigations. Not that he had asked her to contemplate giving up her business – it was something she wanted. It might look like a fast U-turn on her part – one moment striving to make the agency work, the next letting go of it – but she knew she was getting her priorities right. More than anything else, she wanted to marry Jake, and to have his child. She felt that a new phase of her life had begun.
Cold Heart Page 24