Cold Heart

by Lynda La Plante

  She picked up one photograph after another – herself with the girls, Mike with them, the family all linking arms on a forest trail when they had been on a camper trip. Lorraine had never been any part of the girls’ lives, and now she had appeared again. Sissy was fearful of what it would do to them, and to Mike especially. She knew Sally and Julia would have to be told and, if Lorraine was as ill as Mike had implied, they should at least have the opportunity to get to know her before it was too late. Sissy had no idea that it was already too late: that Lorraine was dying.

  ‘I found these,’ Rosie said, producing two gift-wrapped packages, one marked ‘Julia’, the other marked ‘Sally’.

  ‘She must have bought them for her daughters. Maybe she was planning what Jake suggested, getting in contact with them again.’ Rooney sniffed, and turned away. ‘Maybe we should call him, give him an update.’

  ‘Yes, we should,’ Rosie said sadly, then forced a smile. ‘She’s going to pull through this, Bill, I know it. Do you feel it too?’

  He didn’t say anything – he couldn’t, because deep down he didn’t believe what Rosie had said.

  ‘We’ll take that goddamned dog with us then, shall we?’ he said.

  Rosie’s face puckered, and she went into the bedroom. Tiger lay stretched full-length on his mistress’s bed, with her nightgown, dragged from beneath her pillow, in his mouth. He didn’t know what was going on, but when Rosie tried to get him off the bed he flatly refused to move, and when she tried to take the nightgown out of his mouth he gave a low growl.

  Rooney and Rosie left Lorraine’s apartment, dragging Tiger by his lead. Neither had been able to prise open his jaws to remove the nightdress, and it trailed on the floor, clamped in his teeth. They packed the car with everything they thought Lorraine might need, and then drove off. Rosie turned to look back at the apartment.

  ‘Don’t look back, darlin’, it’s unlucky,’ he said quietly, and suddenly Rosie had a terrible premonition that Lorraine would never come home. She started to cry, and he patted her knee, near to tears himself, but the sight of Tiger’s grizzled head on the back seat, still with Lorraine’s nightdress between his jaws, touched him more than anything else. It was as if some sixth sense had told the dog, too, that Lorraine wasn’t coming back.

  Feinstein was told what had happened later that morning – Burton had called him after he had checked Lorraine’s answerphone and collected her mail. He’d even watered her plants before he’d locked up and returned to the station.

  By now they had questioned Eric Lee Judd, who maintained that he had been with four friends the entire evening, and was adamant that he didn’t even know Lorraine Page or where she lived. The four friends were contacted and each verified Eric Lee Judd’s alibi. Without further evidence, he would be released.

  No prints were found on the baseball bat, none on the crushed Coke cans. Whoever had attacked her was a professional, Burton knew, and had been careful to avoid leaving any trace detectable by the forensic lab. The bloodstains on Lorraine’s clothes were found to contain no other blood group but her own. However, the bloody footprints taken from the carpet, and from the vinyl flooring by the stairs at the entrance to the apartment, were size nine, and showed the clear outline of a sneaker sole. Eric Lee Judd allowed the police to take samples of all his footwear. Nothing matched.

  By twelve fifteen that morning there was no evidence against him and Eric Lee Judd was released from the police station. He was cocky and self-assured, warning officers that if they continued to harass him he’d take legal action.

  Detective Jim Sharkey had been the main interrogator, and he had stared with loathing at the boy, then shaken his finger. ‘You tread very carefully, Mr Lee Judd, because I am going to be right here.’ He tapped the young man’s shoulder. ‘You put a foot out of line and . . .’

  Eric Lee Judd glared back. ‘What’ll you do, mister? Get some drunk cop to fire six rounds into my back: That what you’ll do, huh? Then cover it up, so they get away with it? Fuck you.’

  ‘One foot out of line and I’ll fuck you, son – just remember that. Now get out of my sight.’

  Eric Lee Judd whistled as he strolled down the corridor. He stopped in his tracks when Lieutenant Burton stepped out of his office and their eyes met.

  Lee Judd had no notion of who the tall, fair-haired man was – all he knew was that his eyes were like lasers, and those eyes watched his every move as he passed and bored into his back as he continued along the corridor. He turned back, a little afraid now but unable to resist another look, then kicked open the double swing doors leading into the last corridor before he made it to the street. He began to run then, run like his kid brother had all those years before. But that was settled now: the bitch had paid the price, and he had got clean away with it.

  ‘How is she?’ Sharkey asked Burton, who was still standing as if frozen.

  ‘No news yet. No news.’ He lowered his head, then gave Sharkey a small, bleak smile. ‘Thanks for asking.’

  Burton turned on his heel and returned to his office, closing the door quietly, leaving Sharkey alone outside. Sharkey went to the incident room: work would continue as usual – nothing ever stopped at the police department, not even when the life of someone many of the officers knew hung in the balance.

  Burton’s door opened again, and he snapped out Sharkey’s name. The officer whipped round. ‘In my office, Detective Sharkey, in fifteen minutes. I want you to go over some files I’ve taken from Lorraine Page’s office. It’s the Nathan case.’

  Burton’s door slammed shut with an ominous bang, and Sharkey sighed and muttered as he continued up the corridor, wondering what that damned woman might have found that he hadn’t, and sure that he was going to be bawled out. Old Rooney had always maintained she was one of the best. He didn’t notice that he was already thinking of Lorraine in the past tense – as if she was already dead.

  CHAPTER 20

  MIKE PAGE met Jake Burton in the hospital reception area: neither knew enough about the other to be embarrassed, nor were they there to find out about their respective places in Lorraine’s life and affections. They shook hands and went to the small hospital coffee shop, stood in line to order their coffee, and didn’t speak until they sat down at a small corner table.

  Mike pulled at his collar with nerves. ‘I haven’t been allowed to see her yet. The head honcho was in the unit, said maybe in half an hour.’ He sipped his coffee and coughed. ‘They told me there had been no improvement – did they say that to you?’

  Jake nodded. He had seen Mike arrive and had introduced himself: Mike had been a little confused to begin with, presuming he was there in his police capacity, but then Jake had quietly told him that he and Lorraine had planned to be married.

  ‘Do we know what happened to her?’ Mike asked.

  ‘All we know is, she was attacked on entering her apartment. We had a suspect in custody, but we released him – no evidence.’

  ‘Does anyone know why it happened? I mean, I know she must have met some unsavoury types, but was she investigating something or . . . Was she still not drinking?’

  Jake stirred his coffee. ‘She was on a case, but as yet I haven’t found any connection to her death. We’re still checking it out. She was not drinking.’

  ‘So this suspect – was he found there?’

  ‘No.’

  Jake was still deeply shocked and unsure how much he should tell Mike. He was unsure about everything but his own despair.

  ‘Who was the suspect?’ Mike enquired.

  ‘He had a possible connection to an incident that happened a long time ago.’

  ‘Like what?’

  Jake looked away. ‘He was the elder brother of the boy Lorraine shot.’

  ‘Oh, Jesus, God . . .’ Mike bowed his head. There was a lengthy pause during which neither man could say anything, each immersed in his own thoughts, until Mike looked at his watch. ‘Time to go to the unit.’

  Jake pushed back his chair. T
hen, as he stood up, he asked if Mike minded him saying something personal. ‘Sure, say anything you want,’ Mike said apprehensively.

  ‘Bring her daughters to see her. Just before this happened she and I talked. I know she wanted to be reunited with them and . . .’

  ‘I don’t know if it’s such a good idea. They haven’t had any communication with her for a long time, and it would be unsettling for them.’

  ‘She’s their mother,’ Jake said quietly, and Mike flushed.

  ‘I’ll think about it – I’d like to see her first. Been nice meeting you, and I’m very sorry. Maybe she’ll pull through. She always was a fighter, and she’s taken a lot of punishment in her life.’

  Jake walked past him, teeth gritted. ‘Nice meeting you.’

  Mike was ill-prepared for Lorraine’s appearance. He focused on her hands, resting on top of the linen. They were white, with an almost bluish tinge.

  He sat in a chair beside her and just said he was there, then slowly inched his hand over the sheet to touch hers. There was no response, so he withdrew it, and stayed for another few minutes without saying anything, just remembering. ‘I’ll bring the girls to see you,’ he whispered. Again, there was no reaction, and he left the unit quietly. He asked to speak to whoever could give him most information about Lorraine’s condition. What he heard was not good: there had been no improvement since Lorraine had been brought in; she remained in a deep coma, unable to breathe unaided; her pulse rate remained low; they were concerned about her kidneys and had a dialysis machine standing by.

  Jake Burton came twice and also sat with Lorraine, talking and talking to her, willing her to react, but there was no response. He returned to the station, where Jim Sharkey and two other detectives were scrutinizing her files and notes, first with regard to the murder inquiry, then poring over the art scam, of which they had not previously been notified. When Burton returned they discussed it with him and he suggested that perhaps they should interview Feinstein. If their first suspicions regarding Eric Lee Judd had proved unfounded, perhaps Lorraine’s attacker could be connected to the art fraud.

  Feinstein was irate. He did not wish to bring charges as he was dealing with a client’s private affairs, and if he did not wish to press any formal charges then the police had no right to do so. He also knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that none of the other police who had been stung by Nathan would want their names associated with a police inquiry.

  Sharkey tried to change Feinstein’s mind: what if the murder of Harry Nathan was connected to the art fraud: Maybe he was content to let whoever was behind the scam walk away scot-free, but perhaps someone else had cared enough about it to shoot Nathan? Feinstein almost wet himself, but refused to pursue any further enquiries in relation to the fraud. Sharkey asked if the money could be traced. But Feinstein refused to be drawn. How could he know what a dead man did or did not do? Yet again he insisted that he did not wish to pursue the fraud.

  Sharkey stared at him with distaste, then rose slowly to his feet, buttoning his jacket. ‘Thanks for your time,’ he said curtly.

  ‘So that’s it, is it?’ Feinstein hovered at the side of his desk.

  ‘Might be for you, Mr Feinstein, sir, but we will still be investigating the art seam’s possible connection to the murder of Harry Nathan.’

  ‘But I refuse to press charges,’ Feinstein said, his voice rising an octave.

  ‘That is your prerogative, sir, but whether you like it or not it’s a police matter and it will therefore be treated as an ongoing investigation.’

  ‘But everybody connected is fucking dead!’ Feinstein screeched.

  Sharkey was at the door, his back to the room. ‘Yeah, I’d say that was a pretty good reason not to try to sweep it all under the carpet. Maybe you won’t have to give evidence. There again, you just might not be able to get out of it. Have a nice day.’

  Feinstein slumped into his leather swivel chair, took a deep breath and turned slowly towards the large empty space on the wall that had once been occupied by one of Harry Nathan’s fakes. The faint dust line indicated the painting’s proportions and the spotlight fitted to show it off was still trained on the blank wall. He didn’t scream the words as he usually did, but almost spat them with venomous hatred: ‘God damn you, Harry Nathan, you bastard!’

  Burton rocked in his chair, drumming his fingers, his mouth down-turned. Feinstein’s refusal to co-operate infuriated him.

  ‘Any news?’ Sharkey asked. Burton shook his head. ‘Holding her own, is she?’ he persisted, then saw that Burton could hardly answer.

  ‘Not quite . . . but we’re hoping. Okay, thanks for the extra work, I appreciate it.’

  Sharkey and the two other detectives walked out to the nearest bar.

  ‘That Feinstein is a prick,’ one detective said, as Sharkey carried the beer to their table.

  ‘Yeah – what kind of guy can be stung outa that much dough an’ not want to do something about it?’

  ‘Not just him. How many others got stung? Mind-blowing. I mean, if some shit diddled me outa a hundred bucks, I’d have to go after him. Wouldn’t you, Jim?’

  ‘Yep, but that’s the difference between you and me and the likes of Feinstein and his rich clients. They got more fucking money than they know what to fucking do with, and he’ll more’n likely make it up off their bills. So if they don’t miss it, fuck ’em. They’ll hopefully be made to look like real assholes by the press. I’d like to see them get a hell of a lot more, but you know how long these fuckin’ fraud cases take to unravel. Not like somebody got away with murder . . .’ He didn’t finish the sentence, but took a deep gulp of his beer.

  ‘You know some son-of-a-bitch just might,’ said one, a thin film of beer froth on his upper lip.

  Sharkey turned his head. ‘What?’

  Well, they got nobody for Lorraine Page’s beatin’ and word is she’s not gonna make it.’

  Sharkey drained his beer in one, and banged down the glass.

  One of the men had known her from the old days, when she had partnered Lubrinski, and he grinned. ‘But she ain’t dead yet, an’ that lady’s one hell of a fighter. Did I ever tell you about that story, with this guy, he’s dead now . . . Yeah, Jack Lubrinski. Well, they go to this bar right, downtown someplace . . .’

  They continued telling anecdotes about Lorraine and Lubrinski, and, as often happens, the good memories obliterated the bad. It was like some kind of wake. No one spoke of the shooting of Tommy Lee Judd, and Lorraine Page’s decline into alcoholism and drug addiction. They were remembering her as a good cop, the one that took the hassle and never made a complaint.

  Three days later, to the amazement of everyone, Lorraine was still hanging on to life. She remained in a coma, still on the critical list, and the specialists testing her brain were noncommittal.

  Reports of Lorraine’s condition were relayed to Rosie and Rooney, and they were heartened to hear that she was still battling for life, but they knew that even if she did pull out of the coma, there was a strong possibility of permanent brain damage, causing severe physical incapacity.

  ‘Is she paralysed?’ Rooney asked.

  ‘We’re unable to do tests to ascertain the degree of paralysis with coma patients,’ Hudson told him. ‘As the sedation wears off and time passes, all we can do is wait and see if motor function returns.’

  Day four, and still she clung on, the medical team reporting a slow improvement in her breathing.

  Mike Page visited every other day, while Burton, Rosie and Rooney came daily. On day six Mike brought his and Lorraine’s daughters. Rosie had been told they would be there and she brought the gifts Lorraine had bought for the girls in Santa Fe. They clung to their father as they were led into the unit.

  The girls sat in awed silence. The bandaged woman in front of them was a stranger, and they didn’t know what to say to her. When Mike encouraged Sally to touch her mother’s hand she wouldn’t, whispering that she was too frightened.

  The docto
rs and all the staff were kind and thoughtful, suggesting to the girls that although their mother could not respond, they should talk to her to let her hear their voices. The girls looked at each other. Hearing this woman called their mother felt wrong, and Julia began to cry, saying she wanted to go home.

  Two weeks passed slowly and the number of tubes attached to Lorraine’s body gradually diminished. More tests to determine brain damage had been done, but she remained in a coma. The healing process of the external damage had been rapid though: she no longer looked like a monster for the terrible bruising to her face was fading and the bandages were removed.

  The girls came regularly now, and the more they got used to seeing her, the more freely they chatted about ordinary, girlish things. They never called her Mom, but Sally often touched her hand, and Julia stroked her mother’s pale arm. Both girls wore the bracelets she had chosen for them.

  Rosie and Rooney divided their visiting time between them, and talked and talked, never giving up hope of a response. Jake came before and after work, spending hours sitting beside her, planning their wedding. He brought the ring he had bought for her, and asked her if he could put it on her wedding finger.

  Christmas was now a week away, and Lorraine was still in a coma, her eyes closed, as if she was sleeping. The ventilator tube had been moved from her mouth to pass through a tracheotomy incision in her neck, and there was hope, hope that none had believed possible. She remained in the intensive care unit, as she still needed to be monitored round the clock. She was dressed now in her own nightclothes, and Rosie combed her hair and cared for her. She read magazines and books to Lorraine, played music tapes, and when she was through, Rooney took over. He talked for hours, all about his old work, and found it quite therapeutic to chat to Lorraine, asking her if she recalled this or that case.

  Jake would take over from him, and sat holding her hand, willing her to acknowledge him. He brought fresh bouquets every other day, unable to bear the sight of flowers wilting, always insisting that fresh ones replaced them. Like Rooney, he talked about his work, discussing things with her as if she was replying. When it got to week eight, everyone was tired – and angry that Lorraine was still a prisoner in some alien world. She looked almost like herself – and yet she wasn’t there. Rosie had brought in a small artificial Christmas tree and had decorated it with baubles and ribbons. Small gifts for the nurses were arranged beneath it, all bearing tags: ‘Happy Christmas, with love from Lorraine.’