‘Yes, I love Mike. Now I got to go home. We both got enough problems without starting up any new ones.’
She had never seen Lubrinski ill at ease but he was that night, pulling at his thick black curly hair. ‘It is kind of different for me, Lorraine.’ He shook his head, looking at her. ‘You don’t know, do you? You got no idea. Jesus Christ, Lorraine, I love you. Some days I don’t know what to do with myself I love you so much and sometimes I get scared for you, and I know that’s not a good thing but I can’t stop it, can’t stop loving you, wanting you. And sitting so close to you, day in day out, is driving me crazy. I’m gonna ask for a transfer. It’s nothing to do with you being a good or bad partner, it’s just that I want you and... well, now you know.’
Two nights later he was shot. When she tore off her tights to wrap around his thigh as he was bleeding to death, Lubrinski had joked that at long last he was getting her pants down — he knew he would in time. If he’d known she’d do it when he was shot, he’d have stood up months before...
She held him in the ambulance. His breathing became laboured, his eyes unfocused. She kept telling him to hold on, to keep talking. The last thing he said was that he loved her and the last thing he heard before he died was Lorraine saying that he was a stupid, dumb bastard because she loved him too, and if he didn’t hold on and pull through she’d strangle him with her tights. She saw the light go from his eyes in disbelief. She’d seen so much death, been so close to it, but this was like losing her own soul, as if he was taking it with him.
Lorraine went back to her apartment, needing Mike more than ever, but he wasn’t there. She drank herself into a stupor and collapsed on the bed. Mike came back about two hours later. As soon as he saw her he shouted that Lubrinski had got her drunk again and she had said quietly that this time Lubrinski had nothing to do with it.
‘I don’t believe you. I’m gonna see him, report him.’
‘Try the City Morgue, Mike, but I doubt if he’ll talk back to you, he’s dead.’
Mike was stunned, had tried to hold her, but she couldn’t stand him near her, couldn’t bear anyone to touch her. All she wanted was to drink herself into oblivion. Poor Mike had tried to understand, to persuade her to take leave when it was offered, but she refused; she couldn’t stand not to be busy, not to be working. She began to believe that Lubrinski had taken a part of her with him when he died. Nothing she did made any sense, neither did anything Mike said. She was irritable with the girls, she was bad-tempered and uncooperative at work, but somehow she carried on until she finally lost control and killed an innocent boy.
‘We’re almost there,’ said Rosie.
Lorraine opened her eyes. She wanted a drink. That was all she could think about. She didn’t care about anything else. ‘I want a drink.’
Rosie drew up outside a grocery store and hurried inside. She returned with a pack of Coke. ‘Here, you wanted a drink!’ Lorraine opened a can and gulped it down. Rosie opened one for herself and then proffered a piece of homemade banana bread.
Lorraine sat bolt upright. What had Rooney said? The latest victim, all they had on her or him was that his last meal was banana bread. She felt her body break out in a cold sweat. Was it Didi or Nula that was always making banana bread? Could it possibly be one of them? Didi was blonde, the right age. He had said it was a transsexual — but it couldn’t be, it was impossible.
‘I got to make a call, Rosie.’
Rosie looked at her. ‘Oh, yeah, like you just got to go in there and make a phone call. You think I’m dumb. I know what you’ll be making, a bottle of vodka. No way.’
Lorraine had her hand on the car door. ‘Shit, if you feel I can’t be trusted then come in with me.’
Lorraine had Rosie right at her elbow as she placed the call to Nula and Didi’s apartment. Nula answered, her voice drowsy. ‘It’s Lorraine, who am I speaking to?’
‘It’s Nula, sweetheart, how you doin’?’
‘I’m great, Nula. Is Didi there? I need to speak to her.’
‘Nope, she’s not come in, been out all night, the dirty cow. She’ll be back soonish because she’s got a girl comin’ to have her hair cut. You want me to get her to call you?’
‘Do you know where she is?’ Lorraine asked, trying to keep her voice laid back.
Just then the doorbell rang at Nula’s end. It was probably Didi just coming home, she said; if Lorraine wanted to hang on and wait she’d bring Didi to the phone.
‘No, I got to go, I’ll call later.’
Rosie waited, head on one side. ‘What was that all about?’
Lorraine shrugged. ‘I thought maybe something had happened to Didi but she’d just gotten home.’
They left the grocery store and drove off to the S and A garage. This time Lorraine was going to go in. She needed to speak to the man Mrs Hastings had recognized. She also knew that Steven Janklow might be there and if he was, she was going to have to come up with a good reason for her presence.
Nula fetched her coat. The two officers didn’t say why they wanted her to accompany them to the station, but she knew it was something to do with Didi because they had asked for photographs of her. If she had just been arrested for prostitution, Nula knew they wouldn’t want photographs. It was something else, something bad. All they had asked was if she knew David Burrows. Nobody ever called Didi David, only the cops. Half an hour later Nula identified Didi’s body. She was in such a state of shock she was unable to speak coherently. All she could do was whisper Didi’s name over and over. The face didn’t resemble that of her beloved friend. Only the red nails and the big topaz ring made Nula sure it was Didi. Two uniformed officers returned her home by patrol car. They helped her inside the apartment, before they asked when she had last seen Didi.
The FBI checked into the complex list of dates and pickups that Brendan Murphy could remember. They contacted the trucking agencies he worked for and released him. He had not lied: Brendan Murphy was not in Los Angeles when his wife Helen had been killed and neither had he been near any of the other locations where victims had been found. Deprived of a suspect, they began to study the case history. Having been brought in to trace Murphy, they were now assigned to the murder investigation.
Chapter 14
Lorraine sat with Rosie in the parking lot adjacent to S and A Vintage Cars. ‘Right, here I go. You wait here and if I’m not out—’
‘I’ll shoot myself.’ Rosie laughed.
Lorraine got out of the car, gave her jacket a quick tug to straighten the back and walked briskly towards the main reception area. No one was around and the vast stretch of the polished mahogany counter held leaflets sprayed out like fans. Dull soft music, songs from the twenties, was in the air. A number of Oscar-like statues, racing cups and awards stood in glass cabinets and everywhere there were pictures of vintage cars.
Five gleaming automobiles were lined up in front of the showroom windows: a Silver Cloud Rolls-Royce, a Rolls Corniche, a 1950s Bentley, a Bristol and a two-door Mercedes sports. The leather interiors were as immaculate as the gleaming chrome, wooden dashboards, large steering wheels, by today’s standards almost fragile-looking. Lorraine could see her distorted image reflected in the hub caps. She looked squat.
‘Hi, how can I help you?’
She turned to the equally polished salesman. His hair gleamed, as did his teeth, his deep tan, his eyes. He had the S and A logo on the pocket of his navy blazer and on his maroon tie. He smiled expectantly, one hand shifting his immaculate starched cuff closer to his wrist, he was all logo-ed out. She wondered why he hadn’t had S and A stamped on his forehead.