Cold Shoulder (30 page)

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.’

R
OONEY 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.

Rooney sighed. ‘He give a description of the driver?’

Bean shook his head. ‘He said he wasn’t on duty until late and the car was already parked. We’ve got a number for the daytime attendant but we’ve not spoken to him yet.’

Rooney checked his watch. ‘Get on to that right now.’

‘I’m on my way.’

Rooney waited another two hours before the doors opened and the masked and gowned attendant gestured for him to follow. Draped in green sheeting, the body dominated the white-tiled room, whose strip-lighting gave a surreal white brightness to all the rows of instruments and enamel sinks.

‘Morning, Bill,’ said Nick Arnold, the pathologist, as he washed his hands at a large sink. ‘You’re pretty impatient for this one, aren’t you? I hear you’ve been hovering outside — you should have come in.’

Rooney hated being anywhere near an autopsy. He’d never gotten used to the way corpses were sliced open, never been able to stand hearing the hiss of stinking gases or looking at the blood pumping out; the open, sightless eyes of the victim as their body was systematically inspected.

Arnold knew Rooney of old and understood he wouldn’t want to take a close look. He appeared distinctly greenish already. ‘Come and have a coffee,’ he said pleasantly. ‘It’ll be a while before we get the photographs and tests completed.’ He yawned. ‘Got called out of bed for this one.’

‘So did I,’ muttered Rooney as he slumped into a low chair, its cushioned seat puffing loudly as his bulk made contact. ‘So what you got for me?’

‘Death occurred late evening — can’t be more specific. Until I get my reports back, I can’t pinpoint the exact time but it was evening and the last meal was banana bread.’

That’s a big help,’ Rooney slurped his coffee.

‘Victim’s age was late thirties, may even be forty, but fit — good muscle tone.’

‘Was she blonde?’ Rooney asked.

‘Yep, but who said “she” was female?’

‘What?’

Arnold grinned. ‘He was almost a she and at first glance I’d have said definitely female, heavy breasts, but he was also well endowed in the nether regions. Transsexual, Bill, one who’d been on a lot of hormone replacement treatment, Adam’s apple has also been removed at some time.’ He stood up and pointed to drawings. ‘Hammer blow here to the base of the skull, which would have almost certainly rendered her unconscious. Her face was beaten to a pulp, nose, cheekbones and frontal lobe shattered, very heavy blows, one eye forced back into this region and the other socket split open by the force of the hammer. Not a pretty sight now but I would say she or he had at one time been quite attractive. Hair is bleached blonde, well cut. We’ve also got nothing from under her fingernails so the first blow was unexpected. She put up no resistance.’

Rooney went into the forensic laboratories to see the victim’s clothes. They were reasonably expensive, some with well-known labels, but only the shoes would be helpful. They were large-sized, high-heeled stilettos and made in a specialist shoe store that catered for transsexuals and transvestites. As Rooney jotted down the information, he was sure he could get an identification of the victim quickly.

Bean joined up with him back at base. He had talked to the parking attendant, who had no recollection of the driver of the vehicle. He was sure the car had been parked there for more than twenty-four hours. The car’s owner had been away for a week and only knew the car was missing when he returned home. Neither of the attendants could be certain of when the Lincoln had been left.

Rooney instructed officers to check out the garage. Perhaps the killer had stolen the car, left it there, then returned in another vehicle with his victim. Forensic reports from inside the Lincoln yielded no bloodstains, no fingerprints in the interior or the glove compartment, and the driving wheel had been wiped clean. They did, however, find long strands of blonde hair which were sent to be tested and matched to the victim’s. All this took considerable time — time Rooney did not have. At nine thirty Chief Michael Berillo summoned him.

Rooney listened to him glumly. He was still to lead the officers in the inquiry but only until the FBI officers had familiarized themselves with the evidence. Then they would take over and, as Rooney’s chief had said, ‘You can start mowing the lawn, Bill.’ He’d sounded gloating, even if unintentionally. Mowing the lawn was not something that Rooney pictured himself doing even if he’d retired of his own free will. Now this enforced ‘release from duty’ sat uneasily on his wide, sloping shoulders. ‘You mustn’t feel you’ve been ousted due to any unprofessional conduct or lack of ability. It’s just that—’

Rooney leaned on the Chief’s desk. ‘You gotta have a scapegoat, someone to blame for not making an arrest. Sure, I understand. I just didn’t expect to go out this way. I’ve given the best years of my life to the force but it don’t matter. Somebody’s got to pay for not finding this crazy bastard, so why not make me the sucker?’

‘I’m sorry you feel that way, Bill.’

‘At least I should have a chance to talk to this guy they brought in with them.’

The Chief coughed. ‘They’re with him now but I’m sure they’ll let you talk to him later.’

Rooney knew they’d all been aware of the possibility he’d be replaced but his men seemed taken aback that it was happening so quickly. For all his bad-tempered ways, he was well liked. Bean, too, felt a trifle embarrassed. If Rooney was being moved, it meant that everyone on the case would be scrutinized. He repeated Rooney’s request that until the FBI formally took over, they must all work double time.

No one attached to the case had yet had access to Brendan Murphy or had seen him brought in. Bean patted Rooney’s shoulder. ‘Be just our luck if they walk in with a suspect and pin the whole string on him. They’ll get all the glory and we’ll be made to look fools.’

‘We want to know who he or she is so that’s our first priority.’ Rooney jerked his head at the pictures of the last victim, already being pinned up, and plodded out of the incident room. He had decided to have one more crack at Mrs Hastings. The link between her husband, victim and cross-dresser, and the latest victim, was too much of a coincidence.

‘Captain, should I take what we’ve got over to Andrew Fellows?’ Bean called after Rooney. ‘See if he can help us out at all?’

‘Sure. I’ll be interested to hear what Big Ears has to say.’

While Bean went off in search of Fellows, the rest of the team split up to make inquiries with known transsexuals, shoe and clothing stores that might recall the victim. Rooney assigned two men to run checks on the employees at the S and A vintage car garage in Santa Monica but told them to keep it low key.

Rooney stepped into the lift and went down to the basement. He proceeded along the brightly lit corridor towards the holding cells. He had to pass through innumerable security doors and left his weapon in the locker outside the last before he took the key. Then he joined the duty sergeant at his computerized board, which indicated every occupied cell and every corridor, a maze of small red and green lights.

‘Where they got the suspect?’

The sergeant indicated cell fourteen.

‘Any way I can hear what’s going on?’

The sergeant gave him a sidelong look and flicked a switch, ‘FBI been with him for hours.’

Rooney crossed to the bank of screens and gazed at the one showing the occupant of cell fourteen. Brendan Murphy was sitting on the bunk bed, his hands held loosely in front of him. He was wearing a denim jacket and a stained T-shirt. His shoes had been removed. His beer gut, even larger than Rooney’s, hung over his baggy old jeans. Rooney could not see who was in the cell with him but he heard the soft voice asking him to start from the beginning again and to take his time. Murphy seemed to stare directly into the camera and then ran his thick stubby hand over his square jaw.

‘Jesus Christ, I’m gettin’ confused, I’m hungry, I want some cigarettes. I dunno how many more times I can tell you I’d not seen my wife for almost ten months. I’ve not met the other woman more’n once or twice and that was fucking years ago. You got the wrong man.’

Rooney dragged on his cigarette. Murphy did not resemble the only description they had of the killer — nothing could be more different. He was thickset, overweight, at least six two and, by the look of him, had never worn a jacket in his life. Murphy listed plaintively where he had been on the night of the murder and then stood up, angrily swinging his fist. ‘I wasn’t even in Los Angeles, for chrissakes. I told you all this in Detroit. You’re gonna make me lose my job.’

Rooney had seen enough. He did not believe for a minute that Murphy was their man so let the FBI question him. The longer they were out of his hair the better.

He drove to Mrs Hastings, pausing on the way to buy some bourbon and a packet of mints. He took three heavy slugs from the bottle as he drove on, then unwrapped a peppermint to disguise the smell.

Rosie was woken by Lorraine presenting her with a cup of tea. She was dressed for a workout. ‘I’ll be back for breakfast,’ she said brightly.

She pushed herself at the gym and Hector monitored her weights. She also did a full step aerobic class. Then she had an ice cold shower and felt fit and sharp. She even ran from the bus back to the apartment — long, slow, steady strides, not pushing herself or working up a sweat.

Rosie had laid out all her vitamins, the protein drink, cereal, fruit and yogurt. Lorraine ate hungrily. It was still not nine o’clock but even after all her exertion she didn’t feel tired. She was feeling like the old Lorraine Page used to feel before she hit the bottle.

‘I met this guy called Brad Thorburn last night,’ she said to Rosie. ‘He knew the lecturer I went to see at the college, Andrew Fellows. They were playing squash and…’ Lorraine stared into space, seeing him again, his handsome face, his athletic body. ‘He lives at that house in Beverly Glen. He owns it. And that vintage car garage.’

Rosie pulled out a chair and sat down as Lorraine sifted through her photographs. She looked closely at the Mercedes, then at the man they presumed was Steven Janklow. All they had in focus was his chin and a bit of his right nostril. She drew the clearer photograph of the blonde woman beside it. ‘I think you’re right — this is the same person.’

Lorraine flipped through the files, checking for Norman Hastings’s section. ‘I want to go and talk to Hastings’s wife. While I’m doing that, I want you to hire another car and pick me up there in a couple of hours. But first see if you can get a section of this picture of the woman blown up so we get to see more of his or her face.’ Lorraine counted out some cash. It was running low again.

‘Any chance you can touch that friend of yours to pay us a bit more?’

‘I’ll try but I doubt it.’ Lorraine handed out sixty dollars, plus Mrs Hastings’s address.

‘You going to tell him about those photos?’ Rosie asked.

‘Not yet. We need more, I don’t want to foul this up.’ Rosie picked up the newspaper from the steps outside and tossed it to Lorraine. ‘See you later.’

As the screen door slammed after Rosie, Lorraine opened the paper. She couldn’t miss the blazing headlines: ‘HAMMER KILLER STRIKES AGAIN’. She laid the paper out flat on the table: no name for the victim, just that she was white, aged between late thirties and forties and found in the trunk of a stolen vehicle. The murder had taken place early evening, the licence plate number was given and the location where it had been found, along with a request to the public for any information that would assist the police inquiry. A suspect was being held.

Lorraine called Rooney but was told that he was not at the station. She checked her watch. It was too late to change her plans.