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 lawyer — 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 that 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.’