Cold Heart (18 page)

‘Not really. It’s just some days, or nights, there doesn’t seem much point. You know, I keep seeing that long tunnel and the future looks kind of dark, and . . .’ He swirled the coffee pot, waiting for her to go on. ‘Well, I sometimes wonder what the hell I’m going to do with my life - or the rest of it. I was fine when I was planning the office and the apartment, and I’ve got this place up and rolling. We may not be exactly snowed under with work, but I’ve got more money in the bank than I ever had . . .’ She sipped the coffee, and looked through the open door at Tiger stretched out comatose on the sofa. ‘And I got my boy out there. I mean, I’ve got a lot to be grateful for.’

‘But you’re not happy?’

She had to turn away from him because she wanted to cry. ‘I should be, I know that.’

Decker knew intuitively not to say anything. She was slowly, and for the first time, opening up to him, and he valued that, because he liked her, and seeing this vulnerable side of her made him like her even more.

‘I’m not complaining,’ she said, fishing in her pocket for a cigarette. Decker still said nothing as she found her lighter, lit up, and inhaled deeply. She repeated, so softly he could scarcely hear her, ‘I’m not complaining.’ Then she swallowed and tried a small smile. ‘Gonna give these up.’ She was looking at the filter tip, the smile hard to hold.

‘That’ll be good - well, better for your health, and mine,’ he said, passing her the ashtray.

‘Yeah, well, who cares about my health?’

‘I do,’ he said, easing off the desk.

‘Thank you. But apart from you, you think anyone will ever care about me? I’m so lonely, Deck, and sometimes I guess I’m frightened that this is all there’s ever going to be for me.’

‘Everyone needs to be loved,’ he said quietly.

She nodded, still looking away. ‘They sure do, and I had so much love, Deck, and I threw it all away. It’s just that, having known it, I want some more but sometimes I don’t think I have the right. You know what I mean?’

He put down the coffee pot, and moved round the desk. ‘Come here.’

She shifted, not wanting him close, but he lifted her from the chair to stand in front of him, then wrapped her in his arms. She resisted, straining away from him, but he held her tightly until she relaxed. He stroked her hair, soothing her, then patted her back as a mother would her child.

The phone rang - Jose calling from the Nathans’ house - and this time Lorraine took the call. She agreed to come and see him straight away. She kissed the top of Decker’s head as she left, and he could see that her mood was 100 per cent better than when she had arrived.

Lorraine drove up the gravel drive to see that curtains had been drawn behind the garden doors and the sliding timber screens on the upper floor were closed.

She had to wait a few moments before Juana came to the door, looking tired and drawn. ‘Thank you for coming.’

Lorraine stepped into the cool, darkened hallway as Jose walked towards her from the kitchen. He smiled sadly. ‘We just thought she was taking a shower. Juana even prepared her supper tray.’

They all walked into the kitchen and Lorraine and Jose pulled up tall metal stools to the glass counter. Lorraine said little while Jose told her how they had found Cindy.

‘So, she gave no indication that she was depressed?’

Juana shook her head. ‘No, she worked out in the gym for a while, then she came in here and said she wanted a light supper.’

‘Nothing happened that might have upset her? Any phone calls, any visitors?’

‘No, we would have heard, but the phone never rang and nobody came.’

‘Did you see the note?’

Jose nodded, and Juana broke down in tears when Lorraine asked what it had said. ‘Oh, just that she could not go on, that she did not want to live. I know this sounds very bad, but it was the first time I ever felt sorry for her, when I saw her . . . in the shower. She seemed so young, so small, so . . . defenceless. She looked as if she was praying.’

‘Could I see the room?’ Lorraine asked, and they agreed to take her upstairs. As they walked from the hall to the staircase, Lorraine registered the shattered ceramics, and the pictures that had been pulled down. One had even been slashed, while others hung at drunken angles on the walls.

The room was in shadow, the blinds pulled down, and everything had been left as Juana and Jose had found it: it didn’t even seem as if the police had been there. Lorraine noticed that another painting had been taken down from the wall and left on the floor, but remained silent.

She went into the bathroom where she noted the discarded towels and the necklace still lying on the floor, then turned back to the bedroom. Cindy’s shoes were still by the bed, and Lorraine crossed to the dressing table where cosmetic jars had been left open, and tissues stained with make-up remover were scattered about.

‘The note was left here?’ she asked.

‘Just there.’ Juana pointed.

Lorraine examined the dressing table more closely. ‘What was it written on? Just a scrap of paper, or was it like a letter?’

‘It was on her own notepaper.’

Lorraine looked round the room. ‘Where does she keep it?’

Juana opened one drawer then another, then scratched her head. ‘I think downstairs in the study. I don’t recall seeing anything in here.’

Lorraine asked if they had seen Cindy’s purse. Jose duly searched the room, and found it half under a chair, partly hidden by the ruched frill. He picked it up and handed it to Lorraine.

‘I’m surprised the police didn’t find this,’ she said softly, opening it. She tipped the contents out onto the bed. ‘Did the police take the paintings down? It looks like they made a lot of mess,’ she said casually.

‘No, no, they didn’t touch anything. Well, not that I could see,’ said Jose.

Lorraine glanced up and caught the look that passed between the two servants.

‘They didn’t do that,’ Jose said eventually.

‘Who did?’ Lorraine asked, and knew again that the Mexican couple were wondering whether to give or withhold some piece of information.

‘It was Kendall Nathan. Jose . . . We panicked, he called her.’

‘Kendall was here last night?’ Lorraine asked immediately.

‘Yes.’

‘She was at home when you called her? What time was that?’

‘I don’t know – late. I was going to take a bath before I went to bed. That’s how I noticed – the water was cold,’ Juana said.

‘It was after ten o’clock,’ Jose volunteered.

‘But when was the last time you saw Cindy alive?’ Lorraine asked.

‘About six, I think, when she came out of the gym. The shower was running when we took her tray up at eight thirty.’

But since she was found dead in the shower, that didn’t necessarily mean she had been alive at that time, Lorraine thought, then said aloud, ‘What did Kendall do when she got here?’

‘She was here for about an hour, and she was – she acted kind of crazy. We could hear her up here, breaking things, but we didn’t know what to do,’ Jose said.

What had all that been about? Lorraine wondered. Had Kendall been trying to mask her own guilt by staging a performance of grief and shock so memorable that the housekeepers would be sure to mention it to the police and, if necessary, testify to it? Had she already been at the Nathan house once that evening – or known that someone else had and that Cindy was dead before the Mexican couple told her?

‘Did you tell the police this?’

We told no one, only you. We didn’t know what to do,’ Jose said again.

‘What happened to the note?’ Lorraine asked, examining the contents of Cindy’s purse as she spoke. ‘Did the police take it?’

‘They must have,’ said Juana. ‘It was gone when they left.’

Lorraine was concentrating on the contents of Cindy’s purse. There were a couple of sales receipts, a compact, lipstick, a few loose tissues and a wallet. The wallet contained two thousand dollars in notes and some loose change, a driving licence, parking tickets, more clothing store receipts, and a bunch of receipts from a jewellery store, but for payments made by the shop. There was also a small silver pocket book with a pen. Lorraine opened it and flicked through lists of things to buy and appointments for massage, beauty and hairdressing, all written in childish, looped script, which Lorraine studied closely. She looked at the date on her watch: the hair-dressing appointment had been for that morning. Odd that Cindy had arranged to see people over the next few days if she had been thinking of committing suicide but, Lorraine thought, it was always possible that she had taken her own life as a result of an unexpected mood swing – the girl had admitted she had had psychiatric problems.

‘The suicide note – I don’t suppose you noticed what it was written with? Ink, ballpoint?’ Kendall Nathan’s Mont Blanc pen was in Lorraine’s mind.

‘In ink, I think,’ Juana said, looking to her husband for confirmation, but Jose shrugged. Lorraine replaced the items in the purse, noting that the pen attached to the pocket book was a tiny silver ballpoint, and put it back where they had found it.

Juana said tentatively, ‘There is something else we would like to talk with you about.’

Lorraine nodded pleasantly and followed Juana downstairs, but she was wondering whether she could persuade Burton’s office to let her see the note. In the kitchen, Jose and Juana asked her if she knew what would happen to them. They wanted her to talk to Mr Feinstein on their behalf, to see if she could get him to release the monies owed to them.

‘I’ll do what I can,’ she said, and Juana clasped her hand gratefully. When they reached the front door, Lorraine paused. ‘Cindy Nathan had two thousand dollars in her purse, plus she wrote cheques to me on her own account. Didn’t you ever think of asking her for money?’

‘She said that it was nothing to do with her, and she was already selling her jewellery. That’s what she told me,’ Jose answered.

‘Well, I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.’

Lorraine was itching to contact Burton. Once outside in the car, she dialled his number but hung up almost immediately it began to ring. She didn’t want to look as though she was chasing him like a teenager - yet she needed to see Cindy’s note, and she knew that he was the person through whom to gain access to it. Somehow it seemed less frightening just to go to his office, say she was passing. After all, it was true, she convinced herself. Driving back east on Santa Monica, she was only a stone’s throw away.

She walked coolly into Reception at the police department, produced her card and told the clerk that she was there to see Jake Burton. Annoyingly, the man insisted on calling upstairs, and suddenly the idea of just turning up didn’t seem like such a good one. But, to her relief, Burton must have agreed to see her, as the desk clerk gave her directions to go on up.

She made herself rap smartly on the door: there was no answer. She raised her fist to knock again and almost hit Burton in the collar-bone as he opened it suddenly.

‘Oh, hi,’ she said, her voice a good octave higher than it normally was, which made her sound, she thought, about nineteen.

‘Well, hello, Mrs Page,’ Burton said expressionlessly. ‘I wasn’t expecting to hear from you again quite so soon. Won’t you come in?’ He opened the door wide.

She was uncertain, as yet, if she was welcome and found herself talking too fast. ‘I was just up at the Nathan house, and I was just wondering whether I could have a quick look at the note Cindy left?’

‘If you just swung by my office, you mean?’

Lorraine found herself blushing furiously: it was as though he really did think she was inventing excuses to see him. ‘Well, since this would be unofficial, I can’t ask you to send it to me Federal Express,’ she said, making her voice as cool as she could.

‘You know I’m not in favour of this “unofficial” traffic in information between PIs and police,’ he said, his manner still betraying no warmth. ‘Plus, who’s paying you to do this? Your client’s got no more worries now, has she?’

‘She paid me a lot of money up front,’ Lorraine said stiffly. ‘Look, you remember what I said about Kendall Nathan? It turns out she was at the house last night. I just think it’s a hell of a coincidence, and I want to know if Cindy really wrote that note, that’s all.’

Well,’ he said, ‘I really don’t know whether I can justify spending the department’s time in gratifying the wishes of . . .’ he smiled for the first time and she realized he was teasing her ‘. . . curious bystanders. I have to account to the city for every cent.’

‘Don’t be so tight-assed! I pay my taxes,’ Lorraine said, suddenly sure she could get away with it, and laughing. ‘Besides, I gave you the tapes.’

‘So, we could do a little trade, you mean?’ He smiled again with a hint of mischief – or was she imagining a little flirtatiousness?

‘Well . . .’ she began.

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘One-time-only offer.’ He picked up the phone and asked someone to bring in the file on Cindy Nathan. As soon as the man had left he extracted from it a sealed plastic wallet containing half a sheet of pink writing paper. ‘If you’d come an hour later this would have gone to forensic,’ he said. ‘Don’t take it out of the plastic’

‘Gee,’ Lorraine said with mock-innocence, ‘you mean I can’t paddle my pretty little fingers all over it? I was a cop, you know.’

‘Sorry,’ he said, smiling again. ‘There’s a sample of Cindy’s handwriting behind it that we got from her attorney. Obviously we’ll get an expert opinion but they look pretty similar to me.’

So they did: the childishly unformed letters and the unclosed As and Os were almost identical. But it was only a couple of lines long – Kendall was plenty smart enough to imitate that much of someone else’s handwriting, Lorraine reckoned, and the words were written in ink. It was interesting that the note was addressed to no one, but said, ‘by the time you read this, I will be dead’, as though Cindy had had a particular reader in mind. Lorraine also noticed that, though the handwriting sprawled all over the page, the gap between the two lines Cindy had written was larger than the gap between the first one and the top of the page.

‘I think this has been cut from a longer letter,’ she said. ‘Look at the top.’ Burton leaned closer, and Lorraine was conscious that he cast an almost imperceptible appraising glance over her, taking advantage of her concentration on the paper to do so. When minutely examined, it was clear that the top edge of the paper was not completely straight. ‘It’s been cut with a pair of scissors,’ she said. ‘You can see the blades were long enough to cut the whole thing in one go.’