Cold Shoulder (35 page)

Lorraine took her time to outline the reasons before she told him that she was sure Janklow was the man who had attacked her. It didn’t sink in for a while. Then he looked up.

‘You wanna say that again?’

‘I said, I think he was the man who attacked me, the man that I bit a chunk out of his neck.’

He leaned back, partly in disbelief, then got out his cigarettes and stuck one in his mouth. He stared fixedly around the restaurant, feeling as if the floor was opening up, and inhaled deeply. ‘You stupid bitch.’

‘I’m sorry, I was scared to come forward. I picked him up—’

‘Sweet Jesus.’ Rooney shook his head.

‘He attacked me with a claw hammer. I’m sure it was Steven Janklow.’

‘You seen him face to face? Or, more to the point, has he seen you?’

‘No, I’ve held off facing him, I don’t want to tip him off.’

Lorraine’s order was placed in front of her. Rooney waited until the waiter had moved off before he leaned towards her. ‘Say it
is
him — say he’s the guy that attacked you. You can identify him…’

She had picked up her fork but put it down again. ‘I identify him, he denies it, he walks. It’s just the word of an ex-hooker, ex-drunkard against a fine, upstanding citizen, right? All he’s got to say is he wasn’t anywhere near the street I was picked up in and I got to admit I was picking him up for a few bucks. It wasn’t his car, it was Hastings’s car and Hastings’s body was in the trunk. Now who’s gonna believe who?’

Rooney drained his beer and beckoned the waiter to bring another.

Lorraine messed around with the food on her plate, then pushed it away. ‘I think he’s a transvestite.’

Rooney ran his hands through his hair. ‘
What?’

‘I think Janklow’s a transvestite.’

‘
Think?
I need more than you fucking thinking, I need evidence, I
need facts.
Jesus Christ, Lorraine, you know how crazy this all sounds?’ He put his head in his hands. The more she told him, the worse it all sounded. ‘You think the guy that hit on you was Steven Janklow, right? You also think Steven Janklow is a transvestite. Is there anything else you might have just glossed over — that maybe he has two heads?’

‘Back off me. All the dead women have a similar look, similar age.’

‘What about Holly?’

‘I think she’s the mistake. Because of the last one, Didi.’

Lorraine explained that she thought the killer was trying to pick up Nula or Didi on the night Holly was murdered. She told him how they had both seen a car, had both seen Holly run across the road to a punter. Her pimp Curtis saw her — but maybe the john was trying to pick up Didi or Nula. Once he’d got Holly he had to get rid of her. Maybe he panicked.

Rooney argued that it didn’t make sense. Why didn’t he just kick her out, if he’d got the wrong one? His head throbbed and he still couldn’t believe how she’d held out on him like this.

Lorraine banged the table. ‘Wait a minute! The wrong one. What if they were all the wrong ones? What if he was looking specifically for Didi all along? They’re all the same age, all dyed or bleached blondes, but he can’t find the one he’s looking for, the main one.’

‘Are you trying to tell me that this guy clubs seven women to death because he’s looking for one, and we forget Norman Hastings? Did he think he was one as well? This is dumb, Lorraine. You lost your touch, sweetheart. We’re looking at someone who’s bumped off these women over five years, and he’s doing it because of mistaken identity? Nuts!’

Lorraine twiddled her fork. ‘Okay, let’s try something else. Let’s go through every victim, including Hastings. He was a drag artist, right? He used to park his car at S and A years after he was doing any business with them but he knew Janklow. Maybe he found out something?’

Rooney delved in his pocket for his wallet. ‘Maybe I’m wasting my time. I got to go take a leak.’

‘But listen to me, there’s every type of tool and hammer at the S and A. Can’t someone check there? Match them? What if the hammers came from there?’

Rooney jabbed the air with his finger. ‘Stay away from that place, is that understood? From now on you don’t go anywhere near it. I’ll have the place looked over again — in fact, I’ll do it personally — but you stay well away.’ He squinted at the bill and looked up at her. ‘I’ll check out what I think fit.’

‘The Vice Squad, can you check that for me? See what Janklow was picked up for?’

‘For
you?
Who in chrissakes do you think is runnin’ this show? I’ll take it from here. If you wanna press charges for assault—’

She leaned back. ‘You know I won’t do that but if you get more evidence, then I can be used as a lever. We let him confront me, let him know I’m alive and can identify him, and then see what he does. Use me to catch him. I’m willing.’

Rooney hauled his bulk out of the booth. ‘Lemme think on it.’

She followed him as he headed for the restroom. ‘Bill, he used a hammer on me. It’s him.’

He whipped round. ‘I could have you for withholding evidence. I only paid you to get out on the streets to talk to the hookers, so back off. I’ll contact you when I need you.’

‘I need a few dollars, I’m flat broke.’

‘Not my problem,’ he said as he pushed open the restroom door, and let it swing closed.

When he came out of the restaurant she was waiting by his patrol car. She gave that strange, lopsided smile and he relaxed slightly. Although he was loath to admit it, she had pushed the investigation further — had even supplied him with a suspect.

‘Lemme see what I come up with — but you do nothing until you hear from me, okay? Here’s a few bucks, go home, wait for me to call. If it’s Janklow, leave him to me.’

She took the money and watched him drive off. She checked the time — just after two thirty. As she walked to the bus stop she was thinking over everything she had said to Rooney. She had been clutching at straws, but what if she was right? What if there was a connection between Didi and Janklow? She hailed a taxi and, instead of returning home, told the driver to take her to Nula’s place.

N
ULA DIDN’T answer the door. Lorraine waited for almost an hour and then went home. There she hung about in case Rooney called but when it got to after six, she decided he’d got cold feet. ‘I guess he mulled it all over and decided against it.’

Rosie wondered what they should do next. Without Rooney she was worried it could be dangerous to try to see Janklow again. Lorraine grabbed her purse.

‘Where are you going?’ Rosie asked nervously.

‘You stay put so I can call Rooney back if he makes contact.’

‘Don’t you need me with you?’

‘I’d prefer it if you stayed put in case he calls. I’ve got to keep him sweet, ’cos if I don’t the old bastard is quite likely to get me arrested.’

Rosie sat moodily in front of the TV. She didn’t even say goodbye as Lorraine let herself out. So much for partnership — all she’d been doing was sitting waiting for Lorraine in the apartment. When she heard the rental car starting up Rosie shot to the window as fast as her bulk allowed her. She pushed up the window and was about to yell after Lorraine but it was too late, she was already at the corner.

It had been so long since Lorraine had driven that her knees were shaking but she talked herself down, hoping she wouldn’t get pulled over.

The lights were on in Nula’s apartment. Lorraine sighed with relief, locked the car and headed into the apartment block. She rang the bell and waited. Nula’s voice asked who it was but Lorraine rang again, afraid if she said her name that Nula wouldn’t let her in. She kept her hand on the bell, and eventually Nula peered out, the chain still on.

‘Fuck off.’

‘Let me in, Nula, I’ll stay here all night if needs be.’

Nula eventually opened up the door. Lorraine looked around. Suitcases had been dragged down from the wardrobes. Nula was on the move.

‘What happened?’

‘I’m going away.’

‘Why do you have to go?’

Nula hurled a cushion at her. ‘Stop asking me questions, just leave me alone.’

Lorraine took out the picture of Steven Janklow in drag. ‘Will you have another look at this, Nula?’

Nula picked up the cushion and hugged it to her chest. Lorraine dangled the photograph between finger and thumb. ‘It won’t hurt you to have a look at it. Is it Steven Janklow?’

‘If you fucking know who it is, why are you asking me?’

‘Because I need to be sure.’

‘I don’t know, do I?’

Lorraine was deflated. She didn’t know what her next move should be. She flopped back on the sofa.

‘You gonna leave now?’

Lorraine slipped the photograph back into the envelope and stood up, facing the big four-sectioned screen behind which the models changed for a session. It was plastered with photographs of males and females, males and males, part females. Nula looked at her, then to the screen. Lorraine started to move out then stopped and glanced back to Nula, who hid her face in the cushion. She stared at the screen. At first she wasn’t sure that she was right so she moved closer, then she bent down and peered. She straightened up and waved the file. ‘You don’t know him? Then why is his photograph up on the screen?’

‘Because it fitted the hole.’

‘Who took the photograph?’

‘Why?’

‘Because if you don’t know who it is, then whoever took the photograph might. Who took the picture, Nula?’

‘Art.’

Lorraine could feel the adrenalin pumping; it was all as crazy as Rooney had said. ‘What’s Art’s scene apart from the porno?’

‘Use your head, clever bitch. Where do you think he gets all his dough from?’

‘Why don’t you tell me?’

Nula stood up and leaned against the doorframe to the bedroom. ‘Blackmail. Some fucking detective you are. Art blackmails everybody, he’s a bleeder — you should know, you copped a few grand from one of his little leech jobs. I don’t know that blonde in that photo on the screen and I don’t know whoever it is in your precious folder. That’s not my screen, it’s Art’s. Now would you get out and leave me alone?’

‘Where’s Art?’

‘I don’t know.’

Lorraine followed Nula into the bedroom. ‘Was he blackmailing Steven Janklow?’

Nula kicked out at the wardrobe and screamed, ‘I
don’t know, leave me alone?
She began to pull clothes out of her wardrobe.

‘He was blackmailing him, wasn’t he?’

Nula was hurling dresses onto the bed.

‘The night Didi died—’

‘
Yes, what about the night Didi died?’

Lorraine kept her distance. Nula was becoming increasingly hysterical, dragging things off their hangers, dropping them, kicking them. She suddenly turned to Lorraine in a fury. ‘He used us. If we had a john, he was sniffing around. He never let us have any peace, but then we couldn’t have any because he’d give a few dollars here, a few dollars there, he let us have this apartment, okay? He said we never had to pay rent, okay? Well, if you believe that you’re dumb. Art used me, used Didi, he made us both pay. Now if you don’t get out and leave me alone I swear before God I’ll scream this place down and have you arrested.’

Lorraine didn’t budge. ‘Was Art blackmailing Norman Hastings?’

Lorraine looked over the screen at the laminated photographs. She was frantically glancing from one blonde to another in a vague hope that one or other of the dead women as well as Hastings would have been photographed. ‘When did Art make this screen?’

‘Years ago. He brought it here with him when he left Santa Monica — he had a place there on the beach.’ Nula stood, hands on hips, smirking. She had decided to try another tactic to get rid of Lorraine.

‘Did he ever own a vintage car?’

Nula rolled her eyes. ‘What do you mean?’

‘A custom-made car or an old sports car.’

‘Nah, he had a Bentley once for about six months, then he went broke again and sold it.’

‘The blonde in the photograph, the one I showed you on the screen, did you meet him?’

Nula sighed. ‘No.’

‘What about Didi?’

Nula was holding a long chiffon dress. ‘This was her favourite. It never fitted her but she wouldn’t throw it out.’

‘Nula, please, did Didi know the blonde?’

‘She may have, she used to do wigs, she was always good with hair. Art used her sometimes for photo sessions, so she may have, I don’t know who she knew.’

‘Did Didi know Art before you?’

‘Yes, I met him through her.’

Lorraine’s mind was racing, trying to put two and two together but she wasn’t sure what she was trying to come up with. There was no point in staying any longer. Her priority now was to contact the photographer who had taken pictures of Norman Hastings. She asked Nula if she could use her phone.

Rosie was still watching TV when Lorraine called. No, there had been no contact from Rooney. Lorraine asked her to check in the files for the name and address of Hastings’s photographer. She hung on, waiting impatiently, until eventually Rosie found his name: Craig Lyall. She gave the address and phone number. Lorraine said she would call in again. If Rooney made contact, Rosie was to tell him that she would be back in about an hour: it was imperative she speak with him.

‘Have you ever heard of Craig Lyall, a photographer?’ she asked Nula.

Nula clicked the suitcase shut. ‘Professional, is he?’

‘Yeah, takes family shots, portraits.’

Nula shrugged. ‘Name isn’t familiar but then I’m never good with names.’

‘What about Didi? Do you have her address book? Maybe she has his number.’

Nula took a small key and locked the case. ‘No, she never kept one, and now, if you’ll excuse me, I am going to take a bath. Unless you want to watch me soaping my tits I suggest you leave.’

‘You need a lift? I’ve got a car.’

‘I’ll get a cab.’

‘Can I ask where you’re going?’

‘You can, but I don’t see why I should tell you.’

‘Just in case I need to get in touch with you.’

Nula carried her cases to the door, dumped them and went back to pick up two more bags.