Cold Heart

by Lynda La Plante

  Rooney hesitated, then looked at the big framed photograph of Tommy Lee Judd. ‘Just making enquiries, Mrs Lee Judd, an’ if you tell me Eric’s a reformed character, then . . .’

  She dragged herself up to stand in front of him, shoving her face forward. ‘Like I said to you, Eric stood over that grave, an’ I won’t hear no bad things about him – he’s a good son.’

  Well, I sincerely hope so, and more than that I hope he’s not runnin’ with the gangs again, because if he is I’ll be right on his neck an’ fast. I think your boy is looking for trouble, big trouble, so you warn him to stay in line. Warn him to back off – and quit making nuisance phone calls.’

  Rooney got up. He had wanted to unnerve the woman, even though he wasn’t sure that it had been Eric Lee Judd calling Lorraine. It was just that old second sense, plus the fact that Eric might have seen her visit the gallery.

  ‘I’ll see myself out. Just tell that boy of yours I was round, okay?’

  She wouldn’t let him go by himself, but shuffled after him, down the dark, dingy hallway. She wasn’t going to let him wander around her house like those snooping cops were inclined to do – she wanted this fat man out, and the door bolted behind him.

  Rooney heard the bolts being slammed across the front door, then the chain, and he knew she was watching him through the broken stained-glass window. He went straight to his car, and drove out of her drive.

  He parked about a hundred yards away down the street and made sure all his doors were locked. He wondered how long it would be before Mrs Lee Judd contacted her son and told him about the visit – his old cop’s nose knew she’d be trying, because one look around that cramped, dilapidated house had revealed a new TV set and video, fridge-freezer and washing-machine. They stuck out like a sore thumb beside the rest of the furniture, and were obvious signs of ready cash, signs of a kid handing over fistfuls of dollars to his mama.

  Rooney sighed, and lit a cigarette: Lorraine had got off lightly from the Lee Judd episode. She was never called to court, as by the time of Eric Lee Judd’s trial she was long out of the force, hell-bent on drinking herself to death. There had been a major cover-up – he knew that better than anyone, as he’d been responsible for most of it – but the boy was not the innocent his mother had tried to make out. They had found traces of cocaine on his hands and inside his jacket pockets, that black jacket with the yellow stripe down the back that little Tommy had coveted because it had belonged to his brother Eric. They had also taken statements from two other kids they’d picked up, who had said that Tommy was running for his big brother, who was dealing to some of the clubs, mostly cocaine and ecstasy. Six months after the trial, Eric Lee Judd had been arrested in another bust, and this time he had served three years.

  Rooney smoked the cigarette down to the butt, and lit up another. Maybe he was putting two and two together and making five, but the whole thing was just too much of a coincidence. Maybe Eric had sworn to go straight on his kid brother’s grave, but he might also have sworn some kind of revenge.

  As soon as Rooney had gone, Mrs Lee Judd heaved her bulk up the worn stairs, one step at a time. She had a bed made up for herself downstairs, and hardly ever went up to the bedrooms – when any of the family stayed her daughters cleaned up there, and Eric changed his own sheets. She was frightened, not wanting to believe what Rooney had hinted at, just like she didn’t want to believe that Eric had been up to no good since he lost his job at the gallery. She’d confronted him with it when he brought home the new TV set for her birthday, and he’d flown into a rage, saying that he’d spent all his hard-earned savings to make her happy, but he could never make up to her for Tommy. She always put Tommy first, just like she’d done when they were kids, and now he was dead he still got more love and attention than she ever gave to her surviving son. She had wept, and then he had put his arms around her, crying too, saying that all he ever wanted was to make up to her for what happened to Tommy.

  She was crying now, as she heaved herself up stair after stair, because deep down in her weary heart, she knew that Tommy would have done anything for Eric. Little Tommy always followed Eric around like he was some kind of hero, had started to strut about the streets in his bomber jacket, and she had been worried he was getting into trouble, with his big brother leading him by the hand.

  The bedroom was untidy, dirty, with old beer cans and bottles lying everywhere, and ashtrays piled high with cigarette butts. The wardrobe door was open, revealing rows of suits and shoes, and she rifled through the dresser drawers. They were full of shirts and T-shirts, some stuffed back dirty, likewise a drawer full of underwear. On the top of the dresser was a picture of Tommy, held in his brother’s arms when he was no more than four or five, and she picked it up, kissed it, said a silent prayer for forgiveness for searching her son’s room like a thief. As she put the photograph back on the dresser, she saw a smaller top drawer, open just a fraction, and slid it open. Inside was a tangle of jewellery – watches, bracelets, rings and heavy gold pendants with thick twisted-gold chains. There were also rolls of dollars, secured with rubber bands. She eased the top drawer closed then searched the others, finding two guns, knives and more rolls of banknotes. Her bosom heaved as she drew a deep breath, standing in the untidy room with her swollen feet planted wide apart to maintain her balance. Then, helping herself along the wall, she moved out and down the stairs, one by one.

  Her breath rattled in her chest as she returned to the living room, picked up the phone and dialled a telephone number written on a pad beside the phone – Kelly, Eric’s current girlfriend, whose number he had left in case of emergencies. There had been a lot of numbers over the years, always thoughtfully tucked by the phone. ‘Kelly, honey, this is Eric’s mama – he with you?’

  She could hear loud music thudding in the background, heard Kelly shouting for Eric, who came quickly to the phone, his voice full of concern. ‘Mama? You sick?’

  ‘Yes, boy, I am. You come right home now.’ She put the phone down before he could say any more, then eased her bulk into the sagging armchair. She picked up her walking stick from the side of the chair, raised it high, and brought it down on the new TV set, smashing it repeatedly against the casing, then thrusting it with all her might into the screen. The glass cracked, and still she kept on thrashing, as if she was thrashing Eric, the way she had when they told her about Tommy. She had beaten the hell out of him then, and now she attacked the fruit of his crimes with the same violence.

  The pain shot down her left arm like a red-hot iron passing through her veins, piercing her again and again. The stick dropped from her hand as her body jerked in spasms of excruciating agony, and the last thing her frightened eyes saw was the picture of her dead son, Tommy Lee Judd, shot six times by a woman detective she’d heard was a drunk.

  Rooney lit a third cigarette, inhaling deeply. He’d been outside in the car a good fifteen minutes. He could be wrong, he knew, she’d said the other kids were all in good jobs, and maybe they’d bought all the fancy new domestic appliances. He leaned forward to turn on the ignition, deciding he’d call it quits for the night, and check it out in the morning.

  Not five minutes after Rooney had driven off a new black-on-black Cherokee jeep with black-tinted windows screeched to a halt in Mrs Lee Judd’s drive. Eric, high on crack cocaine, ran from it and tried his keys, knocking when he found the bolts still fastened inside. He raced round to the back door, and kicked the screen door aside to see his mama lying face down, close to the fireplace, with her right hand outstretched. Just a few inches from her fingers was the framed picture of Tommy, the glass smashed to smithereens. In the last moments of her life she had tried to hold him – a last-born child is often the favourite, and Tommy had been hers.

  Eric stood rooted to the spot, his head feeling as though it was on fire. He knew she was dead, that her big heart had burst in her chest, as blood oozed from her nose and mouth, and he didn’t need to feel for a pulse. Slowly he stepped over her, and bent to retr
ieve the broken picture. He removed the jagged pieces of glass, and set it back on the shelf, his hand shaking. He felt it was some kind of omen, a message from the grave, and one that he would obey. The bitch cop would pay for what she had done. He’d make her pay.

  Rooney let himself in, and was attacked by Tiger, though the dog was clearly more motivated by affection than any desire to guard the household. Rosie had already gone to bed, and Rooney undressed, cleaned his teeth, and got into bed beside her. She turned over and propped her head on her elbow.

  ‘You know, you were making the floor shake. You men are all alike, creeping round the bed, then sitting on it to take off your shoes.’

  ‘I was trying not to wake you,’ he grumbled.

  ‘Well, you didn’t succeed – first bang on the front door did it. You were gone a long time.’ She stared at him, but his eyes were closed. ‘Want to talk about it?’ she asked.

  He lifted one big arm up to let her snuggle in beside him, then drew her closer. ‘I may be wrong, and I hope to God I am, but I think Lorraine may have a problem. You know the kid she shot? In a drug raid?’

  ‘Yeah, I know about him.’

  Rooney sighed. ‘Well, he’s got a brother, and this brother worked for the Nathan gallery, sort of handy-man-cum-driver-cum-delivery. Kid’s been out of work since the gallery went up in smoke – and I just feel uneasy about it. Could be him making the phone calls. I kind of gave his mother a bit of a warning to back off just in case I’m right, that he’s gonna try and take some kind of revenge on Lorraine.’

  ‘You really think so?’

  ‘Yep. There were another twenty-odd calls on her answerphone and one had what sounded like gunfire, six shots. She pumped the same amount into Tommy Lee Judd.’

  ‘What you going to do?’

  He sighed again. ‘I’ll talk to Burton, maybe see if he can sort it out, or run a check on the guy.’

  Rosie lay on her back, staring at the ceiling. ‘How did you find all this out?’

  Rooney yawned. ‘From the catalogues and stuff in that fag Decker’s bag. His notes gave the Lee Judd address so I called round, talked to his mother.’

  Suddenly Rooney sat up, and tossed the bedclothes aside. ‘That accident, the crash that guy was in – it was on the intersection just a mile up La Brea from the Lee Judds’ place.’ He stomped out of the room, and Rosie grabbed a robe and followed him. He was banging around the kitchen looking for tea bags. Rosie reached up and took them out of a tin.

  ‘It’s another fucking coincidence, isn’t it? He puts in his notebook that he’s going to see Eric Lee Judd, the guy’s mother said nobody ever came, but she could be lying, so what if Decker had come up with something, and . . .’

  ‘But there was no other vehicle involved, apart from the garbage truck he drove into. It was an accident – he jumped the lights,’ Rosie said, getting the teapot and setting a tray with cups, milk and a tin of cookies. She carried the tray into the bedroom, and poured tea for them both, but Rooney seemed disinclined to discuss Lorraine any more. ‘Nothing we can do tonight,’ he said. ‘Maybe just keep this to ourselves – no need to get her all worried. Let me see if I can sort it out.’

  Rosie sipped her tea, agreeing with him. She knew he was worried, as she was herself, but as he had said, there was nothing they could do that evening. By the time she put the tray on one side, turned off the bedside lamp, and settled back on the pillow, she thought Bill was asleep. But his hand reached out for hers and held it tightly. ‘Nothing’s going to happen to Lorraine, trust me.’

  Lorraine went to the hotel gym for a workout, then returned to her room to dress and pack before going downstairs for breakfast and to settle her bill. At eight twenty, she took her luggage and asked the doorman to call her a cab. By ten to nine, she was drawing up outside Abigail Nathan’s house in Norwood Park, an area northwest of the city centre. She was surprised that the house didn’t match her expectations. It was in a nice white-collar area but it was small, an unattractive, square building. The lawns in the street had no fences and the properties abutted directly onto one another, divided only by garage drives and dinky, crazy-paved paths to the front doors. Mrs Nathan’s drive was covered in leaves and rubbish, which looked as if it had been there for some time.

  Lorraine stepped onto the veranda, which also needed sweeping. The lamp on the porch was broken, but antique. Lorraine rang the doorbell and waited. She could hear soft music playing. She rang again and a woman’s voice called out that she was coming.

  Mrs Nathan was wearing a satin floral print robe, which reached to her bare, mottled calves, and a pair of very old and worn pointed Moroccan leather slippers. She looked older than she had seemed at the funeral, but perhaps the deterioration in her appearance was due to grief. She put out a tiny hand, with thin fingers and arthritic knuckles. ‘Hello. You must be Mrs Page.’

  ‘Yes, thank you for seeing me, Mrs Nathan.’

  Mrs Nathan ushered her straight into the drawing room, as there was no hallway. ‘Sit down.’ She indicated a satin-covered Victorian sofa, with curving sides and ugly, heavy legs. ‘I won’t be a moment.’ She disappeared into the kitchen.

  Lorraine looked around the room: there was a huge chandelier of fine Italian glass, and the place was crammed with antiques, ornaments and trinkets. A collection of hundreds of tiny glass animals and Victorian children’s toys stood in several glass-fronted cabinets. Dust was thick on all the ornaments and furniture, and newspapers, empty envelopes and circulars were littered around the room – a complete contrast to her elder son’s obsessive neatness. Lorraine wondered if the house had always been so neglected, or if Mrs Nathan had simply let everything go after her son had died.

  She returned with a carved wooden tray, two chipped china cups and mismatched saucers. As there was no space on any of the tables, she set the tray down on a footstool, and asked how Lorraine took her coffee. ‘Black, please, no sugar,’ Lorraine answered. ‘Have you lived here long?’

  ‘Forty years,’ the old lady answered. ‘I meant to move when my husband died, but I brought my boys up here and you can’t put memories like that in a packing crate.’

  She carried her own cup to the big armchair, kicking aside the newspapers that covered the floor around it, and settled herself, like a small, rotund Buddha, her feet resting on an embroidered footstool in front of her. ‘Also, of course, I can’t bear the thought of having to pack up all these treasures – I’m a collector, as you see. I don’t collect anything that isn’t of intrinsic value, of course, I’ve never seen the point.’

  ‘You have some lovely things,’ Lorraine said.

  ‘It’s a sort of pastime for me, since I’ve travelled so much, all round the world so many times,’ Abigail Nathan continued, seeming to want to make sure that Lorraine realized that she had been a rich woman and accustomed to deference. ‘My boys came with me when they were young, and that’s where they got their education. Artistic talent can’t flourish, I’ve always thought, without the soil of culture,’ she concluded grandiosely. ‘I knew from the time the boys were babies that they would create.’

  Lorraine made an effort to keep her face impassive as Mrs Nathan talked as though her elder son’s vulgar movies and her younger son’s daubs ranked as great art. ‘You mentioned that you were working for poor Harry’s laywer – did you ever meet my son?’ Abigail Nathan went on.

  ‘No, but I met Nick – in fact, I bought one of his canvases,’ Lorraine said, hoping that she would be pleased.

  ‘You’ll be able to sell it for ten times what you paid in a couple of years,’ Mrs Nathan said with complete confidence. ‘I have high hopes that Nicky’s work will be recognized. Ever since he was a small boy, painting has been his life.’

  ‘Do you mind if I ask you some questions?’ Lorraine said.

  ‘Please do. I’m obviously interested – my son must have left a considerable amount of money. I haven’t been told how the estate is to be divided, and when I telephoned Mr Feinstein, he said tha
t woman’ – clearly, as Raymond Vallance had said, there had been no love lost between Abigail and Sonja – ‘has the house at least. I feel certain that there must be some mistake. Harry would not have forgotten his brother, of course. They simply adored each other. The boys always got along so well.’

  Lorraine eased the cup and cracked saucer onto a table crowded with knick-knacks. ‘It is indeed a considerable sum of money, Mrs Nathan, and there seems to be no trace of it in any of your son’s known accounts. That means that it’s likely he had banking facilities elsewhere – perhaps here in Chicago, I thought, or perhaps in other names?’

  ‘I don’t know anything about that. My son never discussed either money or business with me,’ Abigail Nathan said, as though mentioning subjects unfit for ladies’ ears.

  ‘Did he visit here frequently?’ Lorraine asked.

  ‘He came when he could,’ the old lady said. ‘He had a busy life in Los Angeles, though he wrote me regularly and, of course, I used to visit with him, when he was married to Kendall.’

  Lorraine seized the opportunity to embark on another line of questioning. ‘Mrs Nathan, the primary assets missing from your son’s estate are some valuable modern paintings. It seems that there may have been certain . . . irregular dealings on the art market.’ She knew better than to accuse Harry Nathan directly of fraud to his mother. ‘Which Kendall may initially have instigated.’

  ‘Well, I find that simply impossible to believe,’ Mrs Nathan responded, with a haughty sniff. ‘I count myself a pretty fair judge of character, and Kendall was the only decent woman my son was ever involved with.’

  ‘Can you think of anyone else involved in the art market whom Harry might have been working with?’

  ‘I certainly can,’ Abigail Nathan said with emphasis, then hesitated as though trying to bring herself to utter an indecent word. ‘That wretched woman who wrecked my son’s life. Sonja, whatever she calls herself now. I can tell you that if there was any kind of irregularity going on, that woman was behind it. She is a person without moral sense or scruple of any kind.’