Cold Heart (45 page)

The big woman pursed her lips, then took a folded cloth from her pocket and dabbed her face and neck. She was sweating profusely. ‘That is all behind him, mister. He swore on his brother’s grave he would get out of that bad crowd he was mixin’ with. It wasn’t easy, believe me. You get into one o’ those gangs round here and they don’t let you out.’

‘No drugs any more?’ Rooney asked quietly.

‘No, sir. Like I said, he swore on his brother’s grave, day he came out of the pen. He went straight to the graveside and he got down on his knees, in front of me and his brothers and sisters, and he said he would stay clean. That was more’n seven years ago.’

‘You sure now, Mrs Lee Judd? I mean he’s unemployed right now, and, like you said, he comes and goes, so how can you be sure?’

She banged the side of her chair. ‘One brother, one son dead is enough. He wouldn’t do that to me.’

‘Does he blame himself for Tommy?’

She dabbed her neck, then looked at him directly. ‘There was one person to blame. We knew it, and you cops knew it too, but she never come to justice. She never come to court, she got away with murder, an’
no, no
, my boy don’t blame himself. It was that bitch cop.’

‘You recall her name?’ Rooney asked.

‘No, sir, I do not.’

‘Does Eric know who she was?’

‘I can’t answer for what Eric knows.’

‘So he blames her too, does he?’

She clenched the arms of her chair. ‘You tellin’ me he ain’t got the right to blame her? She fired into that boy, kept on shooting. He was nothin’ to do with what was going on, he was just an innocent boy, and she shot him down like a dog.’

‘But he was there, wasn’t he? Looked like he was being used by Eric as a runner.’

‘Eric says it was a lie to get that woman off.’

‘But there were traces of cocaine found.’

‘No, sir, don’t you tell me lies. They’d have had that poor child shooting up to serve their purposes, but he was innocent, and Eric swore on the Bible he was not using him. An’ if you come here today to try an’ rake up dirt for some reason, then you get out of my house, you hearin’ me?’

Rooney stood up. Mrs Lee Judd was panting with anger, and he patted her shoulder. ‘Now, don’t you go gettin’ all upset.’

‘Why you come here? What do you want?’

Rooney hesitated, then looked at the big framed photograph of Tommy Lee Judd. ‘Just making enquiries, Mrs Lee Judd, an’ if you tell me Eric’s a reformed character, then . . .’

She dragged herself up to stand in front of him, shoving her face forward. ‘Like I said to you, Eric stood over that grave, an’ I won’t hear no bad things about him – he’s a good son.’

Well, I sincerely hope so, and more than that I hope he’s not runnin’ with the gangs again, because if he is I’ll be right on his neck an’ fast. I think your boy is looking for trouble, big trouble, so you warn him to stay in line. Warn him to back off – and quit making nuisance phone calls.’

Rooney got up. He had wanted to unnerve the woman, even though he wasn’t sure that it had been Eric Lee Judd calling Lorraine. It was just that old second sense, plus the fact that Eric might have seen her visit the gallery.

‘I’ll see myself out. Just tell that boy of yours I was round, okay?’

She wouldn’t let him go by himself, but shuffled after him, down the dark, dingy hallway. She wasn’t going to let him wander around her house like those snooping cops were inclined to do – she wanted this fat man out, and the door bolted behind him.

Rooney heard the bolts being slammed across the front door, then the chain, and he knew she was watching him through the broken stained-glass window. He went straight to his car, and drove out of her drive.

He parked about a hundred yards away down the street and made sure all his doors were locked. He wondered how long it would be before Mrs Lee Judd contacted her son and told him about the visit – his old cop’s nose knew she’d be trying, because one look around that cramped, dilapidated house had revealed a new TV set and video, fridge-freezer and washing-machine. They stuck out like a sore thumb beside the rest of the furniture, and were obvious signs of ready cash, signs of a kid handing over fistfuls of dollars to his mama.

Rooney sighed, and lit a cigarette: Lorraine had got off lightly from the Lee Judd episode. She was never called to court, as by the time of Eric Lee Judd’s trial she was long out of the force, hell-bent on drinking herself to death. There had been a major cover-up – he knew that better than anyone, as he’d been responsible for most of it – but the boy was not the innocent his mother had tried to make out. They had found traces of cocaine on his hands and inside his jacket pockets, that black jacket with the yellow stripe down the back that little Tommy had coveted because it had belonged to his brother Eric. They had also taken statements from two other kids they’d picked up, who had said that Tommy was running for his big brother, who was dealing to some of the clubs, mostly cocaine and ecstasy. Six months after the trial, Eric Lee Judd had been arrested in another bust, and this time he had served three years.

Rooney smoked the cigarette down to the butt, and lit up another. Maybe he was putting two and two together and making five, but the whole thing was just too much of a coincidence. Maybe Eric had sworn to go straight on his kid brother’s grave, but he might also have sworn some kind of revenge.

As soon as Rooney had gone, Mrs Lee Judd heaved her bulk up the worn stairs, one step at a time. She had a bed made up for herself downstairs, and hardly ever went up to the bedrooms – when any of the family stayed her daughters cleaned up there, and Eric changed his own sheets. She was frightened, not wanting to believe what Rooney had hinted at, just like she didn’t want to believe that Eric had been up to no good since he lost his job at the gallery. She’d confronted him with it when he brought home the new TV set for her birthday, and he’d flown into a rage, saying that he’d spent all his hard-earned savings to make her happy, but he could never make up to her for Tommy. She always put Tommy first, just like she’d done when they were kids, and now he was dead he still got more love and attention than she ever gave to her surviving son. She had wept, and then he had put his arms around her, crying too, saying that all he ever wanted was to make up to her for what happened to Tommy.

She was crying now, as she heaved herself up stair after stair, because deep down in her weary heart, she knew that Tommy would have done anything for Eric. Little Tommy always followed Eric around like he was some kind of hero, had started to strut about the streets in his bomber jacket, and she had been worried he was getting into trouble, with his big brother leading him by the hand.

The bedroom was untidy, dirty, with old beer cans and bottles lying everywhere, and ashtrays piled high with cigarette butts. The wardrobe door was open, revealing rows of suits and shoes, and she rifled through the dresser drawers. They were full of shirts and T-shirts, some stuffed back dirty, likewise a drawer full of underwear. On the top of the dresser was a picture of Tommy, held in his brother’s arms when he was no more than four or five, and she picked it up, kissed it, said a silent prayer for forgiveness for searching her son’s room like a thief. As she put the photograph back on the dresser, she saw a smaller top drawer, open just a fraction, and slid it open. Inside was a tangle of jewellery – watches, bracelets, rings and heavy gold pendants with thick twisted-gold chains. There were also rolls of dollars, secured with rubber bands. She eased the top drawer closed then searched the others, finding two guns, knives and more rolls of banknotes. Her bosom heaved as she drew a deep breath, standing in the untidy room with her swollen feet planted wide apart to maintain her balance. Then, helping herself along the wall, she moved out and down the stairs, one by one.

Her breath rattled in her chest as she returned to the living room, picked up the phone and dialled a telephone number written on a pad beside the phone – Kelly, Eric’s current girlfriend, whose number he had left in case of emergencies. There had been a lot of numbers over the years, always thoughtfully tucked by the phone. ‘Kelly, honey, this is Eric’s mama – he with you?’

She could hear loud music thudding in the background, heard Kelly shouting for Eric, who came quickly to the phone, his voice full of concern. ‘Mama? You sick?’

‘Yes, boy, I am. You come right home now.’ She put the phone down before he could say any more, then eased her bulk into the sagging armchair. She picked up her walking stick from the side of the chair, raised it high, and brought it down on the new TV set, smashing it repeatedly against the casing, then thrusting it with all her might into the screen. The glass cracked, and still she kept on thrashing, as if she was thrashing Eric, the way she had when they told her about Tommy. She had beaten the hell out of him then, and now she attacked the fruit of his crimes with the same violence.

The pain shot down her left arm like a red-hot iron passing through her veins, piercing her again and again. The stick dropped from her hand as her body jerked in spasms of excruciating agony, and the last thing her frightened eyes saw was the picture of her dead son, Tommy Lee Judd, shot six times by a woman detective she’d heard was a drunk.

Rooney lit a third cigarette, inhaling deeply. He’d been outside in the car a good fifteen minutes. He could be wrong, he knew, she’d said the other kids were all in good jobs, and maybe they’d bought all the fancy new domestic appliances. He leaned forward to turn on the ignition, deciding he’d call it quits for the night, and check it out in the morning.

Not five minutes after Rooney had driven off a new black-on-black Cherokee jeep with black-tinted windows screeched to a halt in Mrs Lee Judd’s drive. Eric, high on crack cocaine, ran from it and tried his keys, knocking when he found the bolts still fastened inside. He raced round to the back door, and kicked the screen door aside to see his mama lying face down, close to the fireplace, with her right hand outstretched. Just a few inches from her fingers was the framed picture of Tommy, the glass smashed to smithereens. In the last moments of her life she had tried to hold him – a last-born child is often the favourite, and Tommy had been hers.

Eric stood rooted to the spot, his head feeling as though it was on fire. He knew she was dead, that her big heart had burst in her chest, as blood oozed from her nose and mouth, and he didn’t need to feel for a pulse. Slowly he stepped over her, and bent to retrieve the broken picture. He removed the jagged pieces of glass, and set it back on the shelf, his hand shaking. He felt it was some kind of omen, a message from the grave, and one that he would obey. The bitch cop would pay for what she had done. He’d make her pay.

Rooney let himself in, and was attacked by Tiger, though the dog was clearly more motivated by affection than any desire to guard the household. Rosie had already gone to bed, and Rooney undressed, cleaned his teeth, and got into bed beside her. She turned over and propped her head on her elbow.

‘You know, you were making the floor shake. You men are all alike, creeping round the bed, then sitting on it to take off your shoes.’

‘I was trying not to wake you,’ he grumbled.

‘Well, you didn’t succeed – first bang on the front door did it. You were gone a long time.’ She stared at him, but his eyes were closed. ‘Want to talk about it?’ she asked.

He lifted one big arm up to let her snuggle in beside him, then drew her closer. ‘I may be wrong, and I hope to God I am, but I think Lorraine may have a problem. You know the kid she shot? In a drug raid?’

‘Yeah, I know about him.’

Rooney sighed. ‘Well, he’s got a brother, and this brother worked for the Nathan gallery, sort of handy-man-cum-driver-cum-delivery. Kid’s been out of work since the gallery went up in smoke – and I just feel uneasy about it. Could be him making the phone calls. I kind of gave his mother a bit of a warning to back off just in case I’m right, that he’s gonna try and take some kind of revenge on Lorraine.’

‘You really think so?’

‘Yep. There were another twenty-odd calls on her answerphone and one had what sounded like gunfire, six shots. She pumped the same amount into Tommy Lee Judd.’

‘What you going to do?’

He sighed again. ‘I’ll talk to Burton, maybe see if he can sort it out, or run a check on the guy.’

Rosie lay on her back, staring at the ceiling. ‘How did you find all this out?’

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.