He crossed to a wardrobe, opened one of the drawers and took out a wad of notes. Just as he was about to proffer them, the telephone rang. He tossed the money at her as he picked up the receiver. He listened and then let it drop. ‘It’s your cab. Why don’t you leave me your number? Maybe we’ll make it another night.’
She laughed as he opened the hidden door leading to the staircase into the garden. She didn’t wait for him to direct her but headed straight down. He didn’t follow, but stood, watching her.
‘I meant what I said, Lorraine.’
She paused and looked up at him. ‘I’m not a whore, Brad. I don’t want you or your money. Goodnight.’
He waited until the door below closed, then relocked it automatically, stood to see her stride down the pathway, and pause to give the dog a few words. Then he used the remote switch on the main gates, saw her hesitate as they swung open, but she didn’t look back. Maybe she didn’t know he could see her.
He lay down on his bed, looking up at himself in the mirror, confused and still smarting from her rejection. He was not used to it, nor was he used to meeting a woman who excited him so much. The phone rang. He sighed with irritation and snatched it up.
‘What do you want?’
‘Did you switch the security lock on the gates?’
‘Yes.’
Steven Janklow replaced the phone and walked into his bathroom, closing the door silently. Locked inside the house he felt safe and secure. He let his silk dressing gown fall away from his body, gazing at himself admiringly as he stepped into the perfumed water. As he slid slowly beneath the soft warm bubbles, he sighed with satisfaction.
Lorraine travelled home in style. The car was a stretch Mercedes, the driver wearing uniform. He did not say a word the entire journey. She was glad, she didn’t feel like talking. Rosie, however, was still up and ready to launch in as soon as Lorraine opened the front door.
‘You cut me off before I could tell you.’
‘Rosie, I’m real tired. Can’t this wait until morning?’
‘No. I got the photographs developed. I went back to the Janklow house.’
‘You did what? Lorraine snapped.
Lorraine chucked her purse down. ‘Listen to me, Rosie. This is not a game. You never — do you understand me? — never do anything unless you run it by me first. This is work for me.’
Rosie stuck out her lower lip like a child. ‘I was only trying to help and then the car broke down. I hadda walk miles and get it towed back. I walked from the Janklow house all the way down—’
Lorraine interrupted, ‘Jesus Christ, you broke down outside the house? I don’t believe it.’
‘Good thing I did because I saw the Mercedes and I got a good picture of the driver.’
Lorraine was hooked. ‘Janklow?’
‘Yeah, well, I think so. You tell me.’
Lorraine stared at the photographs, lingering longest on the blonde woman driver.
‘It that a man or a woman? You tell me.’ Rosie made an elaborate show of matching the two sets of photographs, the ones with Steven Janklow driving, and the ones with the blonde woman.
‘It would be hard to tell if it wasn’t for the mouth.’
It was a wide mouth, a mouth Lorraine was sure belonged to the man who had attacked her. But she was concerned about Rosie, that she was becoming too involved and might do something that would get her into trouble or, even worse, get her hurt. ‘We’ll see if we can get them enlarged. Now, if it’s okay with you, I’m going to bed.’
Lorraine slipped into her bed on the couch and drew the covers close up around her chin. She gripped the sheet tight, twisting it round her knuckles. She had wanted to be loved tonight, she had wanted to be held, kissed, but she had been so afraid because, after all this time, after so much loss, she didn’t think she had any feelings left. Lubrinski’s death had been the worst moment of her life. He was the only person who had given her the love she craved from her husband, who had loved her for what she was and asked nothing in return.
It began with a single, dry sob, wrenching upwards from the pit of her stomach. Afraid Rosie would hear, she bit the sheet, held it between her teeth as the second sob shook her body. She told herself to get control. ‘Fucking take control of yourself, Page. People depend on you to be a rock. You start howling and you’ll make us a laughing stock. There’s a mother out there needing to know if her little girl is alive or dead — you show any emotion and she won’t be able to take it. You want to weep, do it in your home, never on duty. You hearing me, Page?’
‘Mrs Bradley, I’m sorry but we’ve found Laura, and I’m sorry to tell you... Laura’s dead, Mrs Bradley.’
Rosie sat up. Something had woken her and she was afraid for a moment. Then she heard the strangled, awful sounds. She threw back the blanket and went in to Lorraine. She was rigid, the sheet clenched between her teeth, her knuckles white from the strain of gripping her fingers so tightly. The sound was like a wounded animal, a low mewing sound, as she tried to suppress the desire to scream. Rosie reached over and picked her up in her arms, holding her and rocking her. ‘Let it go, Lorraine, let it free. It’s only me, it’s only big fat Rosie. You have a cry, let’s hear you cry...’
The dam broke and the mewing sound erupted into gasping sobs as the tears flowed. Lorraine held onto Rosie as if she was drowning, as if she was terrified to let her go. She sobbed for almost two hours. She wept for everything she had lost, for her children, her husband, her dead mother, her brother, her father. She cried for the boy she had shot, she cried for Lubrinski and called out that she was sorry, sorry, and at long last she wept for herself, for what she had done to herself, for what she had forced herself to become.
At last the crying stopped. She was drained, so exhausted she couldn’t speak. Her body still shook, and she made soft, hiccuping sounds as Rosie gently dried her face and together they walked into the bedroom. Rosie helped her into the bed, rinsed a facecloth so she could pat her face cool, and then got in beside her. Lorraine rested her head against Rosie, whose big fat arms cradled her friend as she said softly over and over, ‘It’s all over now, everything’s going to be better now, honey. It’s gonna be easy now.’
The ring of the telephone by the bed made Rooney’s heart thud so loudly he thought he was having a heart attack. It was Bean. They had just got a report in. The body of a white woman, aged somewhere between thirty and forty, had been discovered in the trunk of a stolen vehicle. Judging by the look of the corpse, the killer had struck the victim from behind with a hammer, and she also had horrific facial injuries. Rooney flopped back, cradling the phone against his chest. His wife peered up at him, her face masked with nightcream.
‘Dear God, we’ve got another one. He’s done another.’
Chapter 13
Rooney and his lieutenant waited in the anteroom of the City Morgue. They could do little until they had further information from the pathologist. The stolen vehicle, a Lincoln Continental, had been towed to the yard and was being checked over by forensic experts. The owner of the vehicle had been traced, having reported his car stolen the previous day from outside his bungalow in Ashcroft Avenue, LA. Rooney was morose, knowing that the press would be on to the killing and had, more than likely, given it front-page coverage as he had declined to say anything to the photographers and reporters waiting outside the mortuary.
The Lincoln had been left in the third storey of a garage where it could have remained for days, along with all the other cars on long-term contracts. The only reason it had been investigated was that the alarm had been triggered off when another car accidentally touched the rear fender. According to the attendant, the ringing had been driving him nuts for almost an hour so he had gone to take a look. No long-term parking ticket was displayed on the window or on the dashboard, and he was about to return to his booth when he saw something dripping from beneath the trunk. At first he presumed it was oil but on closer inspection, realized it was blood and called the police.