‘Yeah, I did — maybe I still do but it’s good to get a grounding in all aspects. Besides—’
‘Divorce pays better, doesn’t it?’
Mike’s expression was sharp. ‘Is that such a bad thing? Do you like this place?’
‘Yes, of course I do.’
‘Well, I’ll be making a lot more soon. Next we’ll have a house in Santa Monica, right on the beach.’
‘Oh, business is that good, is it?’
He laughed again. ‘It’ll take a few years but Donny seems to think I’ll go places. When I look around here, it’s hard to believe what we came from.’ He slipped his arms around her. ‘And I’ll never forget how I got it. If it wasn’t for you...’
She smiled, now brushing on a light blusher. Those days when he was studying day and night, when he worked at any odd job he could get, those days were a long, long time ago.
‘We’d have more time together as well.’
Lorraine put down the brush. ‘If I was at home with an apron on and a casserole in the oven?’
‘I doubt if you’d ever be that, sweetheart, but you know we should think about it and also, maybe, about a holiday. When will you know about your next vacation so I can work it out with Donny?’
She carefully outlined her lips, her pale blue eyes staring back at herself. ‘I’ll talk it over with Rooney.’
The doorbell rang and Mike charged out. It was the pizza delivery. She should get a move on. She heard him on the phone, confirming with Rita what time she was to come over. Mike the methodical! Upwardly mobile Mike was so different nowadays, she seemed to be losing him.
Lorraine stared at the blurred picture of Lubrinski. She touched his face with the tip of her forefinger. His face seemed to crease into a smile — but that was impossible, he’d never smile at her again. Lubrinski was dead; he had died in her arms. Sometimes she felt as if she was dead. Nothing seemed real any more; this apartment, all the new fangled equipment Mike filled it with, all the new furniture. Mike had organized the move down to the curtains. She’d liked their old place even if you did have to lug the strollers up and down three flights of stairs. She missed the neighbours. Sometimes Mike’s energy drained her and lately she was always tired. She never spoke to anyone in the building and didn’t even know who lived on her floor.
The doorbell rang again and she could hear Mike welcoming the guests. Still she sat, unable to muster enough energy to join them. She pulled out the bottle from the bottom drawer of the dressing table. Just a few nips, that’s all she needed.
Donny and Tina were chattering in the kitchen while Mike uncorked the wine. Tina Patterson looked as if she was heading out to a premiere rather than the local cinema. She kissed Lorraine on both cheeks and Donny gripped her tightly in a firm ‘trust me’ handshake. Mike ushered everyone into the dining area and proceeded to pour the wine. He was doing everything — seating his guests, bringing in big platters of pizza, apologizing for the informal dinner, explaining that Lorraine had only just got home from duty.
She sat sipping her wine. She couldn’t look at the pizza: its bright colours made her feel like vomiting. They discussed the Coleridge case. Donny constantly gripped Mike’s shoulder in another ‘trust me’ gesture that irritated Lorraine, just as she found Tina’s delicate hands with their red-painted nails annoying. They made clicking noises on the plate as she picked up a minuscule slice of pizza, popping it into her collagen-enhanced lips. ‘To look at you, Lorraine, you’d never know you were a cop, it’s just amazing.’
Lorraine forced a smile as Mike reached over and held her hand. ‘I’m so proud of my wife. You know, she’s been commended for bravery twice.’
He sprang up from the table, went to the side cabinet and returned with two framed photographs. Lorraine in uniform with President Reagan and in a group picture of the year’s most decorated officers. ‘Lorraine caught the killer of that little girl, you remember the one that was found in a drainpipe? The caretaker had done it, she was the one that caught him.’
Tina made the right noises, shaking her head and rolling her eyes — with admiration, Lorraine supposed. She drained her glass; she needed another drink. ‘I’ll put some coffee on,’ she said, leaving the table. She took out the vodka from the freezer and drank from the bottle. She had only just slipped it back when Tina appeared carrying the dirty dishes. ‘Men’s talk in there. Can I help?’
Lorraine laughed. She was feeling better, eased by the vodka and wine. Tina began to stack dishes in the dishwasher.
‘Do you get involved?’
‘Pardon?’
‘When you have to do these murder investigations, do you get involved?’
‘Yep.’ Lorraine was fixing the coffee percolator.
‘Does it affect you?’ Tina enquired, running her hand under the tap. ‘I always know when Donny’s on a tough case — he’s so moody. He works out at a gym to get rid of the anxiety, you know, but... that case of the little girl... That must have been terrible.’
Lorraine fetched a tray. ‘She was only six, her name was Laura Bradley. She’d been raped, tortured, and she had a face like a little angel. Yeah, it hurt me.’
Tina hunched her shoulders. Lorraine set the tray, placing each cup in its saucer with deliberate precision. ‘For a while afterwards, I got possessive about the girls, scared they’d be picked up. It never leaves you. You think it’ll go away but it never does.’
Tina had left the kitchen. Lorraine could hear her next door.
‘Okay, you guys, no more business, this is movie night. We’re just gonna enjoy ourselves.’
The movie programme had so many previews that Lorraine excused herself, saying she wanted to go to the ladies. She needed another drink. She reckoned if she just slipped out to the nearest bar and had a quick one, she’d be back before the film had started.
When she hadn’t returned half-way through the movie, Mike went to look for her. He called Rita to see if she had gone home; she hadn’t. Back in the cinema, he told the Pattersons that Lorraine sent her apologies but had felt ill, and rather than spoil their evening had gone home. It was after eleven when Mike got back. He checked Lorraine’s duty periods; as he’d known, she was on a two-day break but he called the station in case he’d got it wrong. He was put through to Bill Rooney.
After the call, Mike paced the apartment, sat in the kitchen, then in the living room flicking the TV from channel to channel, waiting. He checked the girls. He waited until he fell asleep on the sofa. He was woken by shrieking laughter. He got up and crossed to the window.
Lorraine was standing on the pavement outside, paying off a taxi. Two people were inside it. He watched her drop her purse and fall against the wall before she reeled into their building.
The front door was open as she walked from the elevator. She took a deep breath and, with a fixed smile, peered inside. Mike grasped her by the elbow and drew her into the kitchen. He kicked the door closed. ‘Where’ve you been?’
‘Oh, I hadda do something.’
‘What?’
‘Just interview somebody.’ She was trying to keep her voice from slurring; her eyes were unfocused. He pushed a cup of coffee towards her. ‘I’m tired.’
‘Drink it and sober up.’
She rested her head in her hands. Mike drew out a chair and sat opposite her. ‘I know, Lorraine.’
‘Know what?’
Mike told her he had spoken to Rooney. She sighed, looking away, and shrugged. He leaned over and gripped her hand. ‘I know about the shooting. Why didn’t you tell me?’
She tried to pull away her hand. He wouldn’t let go. ‘Why won’t you talk to me?’