‘What happened to your scar?’
Lorraine jerked back her head as Burton reached out to touch her cheek with one finger. ‘I had it fixed.’
‘You mind if I say something to you, not as an officer, but as a friend?’
She took two steps back, avoiding his eyes.
‘You haven’t reported the break-in at your office, that someone tampered with the brake cable on your car. You had a tough climb out of the gutter, Mrs Page. Perhaps someone from your past, nothing to do with Cindy Nathan, is carrying a grudge. I’d take a little more care.’
‘Thanks for the advice.’
‘Take it, Mrs Page, and if you need to speak to me at any time, please call.’ He took out his wallet, adroitly produced his card and a pen, and wrote down another number for her. ‘That’s my extension and my home number.’ He put his wallet and pen back in his jacket, and held out the card.
Lorraine took it without looking at him, and walked back into the apartment as he let himself out and closed the door behind him. She watched from the window as he went towards his car; she knew she should have told him her suspicions of a possible art fraud, which Cindy had outlined, but he had thrown her by admitting he had seen her report sheet. She continued to watch as he drove off down the street.
He had made her feel jaded somehow — his cleanness and freshness, and his neat handwriting on the card in her hand. Plus Cindy Nathan had tested positive for drugs. That put a whole new light on their meetings, and Lorraine was angry that she had not noticed, or even suspected it from the girl’s odd chatter, her chronic inability to concentrate, and failure to connect with what was happening around her. Suddenly, Lorraine doubted her judgement completely, and began to think that Cindy Nathan was probably guilty, after all. The depression deepened until she sat down, her head in her hands, feeling wretched, inadequate, unable to stop the tears.
Something else, too, had crept up on her unawares — though she hated to admit it even to herself. She had been attracted to Mr Neat and Clean, and the real pain was knowing that no one or, at least, no decent man would take a second look at her, and that anyone who knew about her past would give her a very wide berth. She was almost thirty-nine years old, and she felt older. The plastic surgery only covered the cracks; it was what was inside that counted. And Lorraine was alone, with only Tiger for company, and it was the idea of a future on her own that made her weep even more despairingly.
Tiger raised his head as she sobbed, then padded across and climbed onto the sofa beside her. She put one arm around his shoulders to draw his head close.
It was almost ten o’clock when Juana turned on the bath taps and discovered there was no hot water. She called to her husband, who was still downstairs, asking if he had turned off the water. He didn’t hear her, so she made her way along the landing, then froze as she heard the sound of water running. She was outside Cindy Nathan’s bedroom — and there was no way that the girl could still be taking a shower.
‘Get up here, Jose. Hurry, HURRY!’
Juana and Jose went together into Cindy’s bedroom. Sure enough, the shower was still running, and sounded louder than normal. Suddenly both were afraid.
‘Go into the bathroom,’ Juana whispered.
Jose turned the handle, calling to Cindy as he pushed open the door, one inch, then two — then let it swing wide open.
‘Mrs Nathan?’ he said.
The water was still running and the shower screens were so steamed up that Jose could not make out whether Cindy was inside or not. He edged further into the bathroom, calling Cindy’s name, seeing towels and a delicate necklace lying on the tiles. He eased back the sliding doors, which had been drawn around the bath, and gasped. Cindy was naked, kneeling in a position of prayer, a cord wound round her throat and attached by its other end to the shower jet. Her head had slumped forward, and her wet hair covered her face.
‘Oh, my God,’ he whispered.
‘What is it?’ asked Juana.
Jose didn’t want his wife to see what he had seen, so he turned quickly and pushed her out of the bedroom.
Cindy Nathan was dead. Her eyes were open and her dead gaze stared down at the bottom of the bath, as water continued to spray over her kneeling body and swirl into the drain.
Kendall Nathan sat on her orange sofa in front of the TV set with a tray on her lap. She’d made her usual salad and had just poured herself a glass of white Californian Chardonnay. When the phone rang she was irritated. She had worked late at the gallery and was so tired she was in two minds as to whether to pick it up, but the ringing persisted. When she answered, she couldn’t make out what the caller was saying, and had to ask repeatedly who it was.
Jose sounded terrified, his voice breaking as he half sobbed how he had found Cindy.
Kendall almost dropped the phone, and had to breathe deeply to steady herself before speaking. ‘Calm down. Tell me again — is she dead?’
‘Yes, in the shower. What do we do? What do we do?’
Kendall closed her eyes, her mouth bone dry, but her mind racing. ‘Have you called anyone else?’
‘No, no, we don’t know what to do,’ Jose said. He had tried to call Lorraine at the office but her answer-phone was on, and he didn’t have her home number. He had also thought about contacting Sonja, but by this time Juana was hysterical, pointing out that Sonja couldn’t do anything from East Hampton. They were afraid to call the police, afraid of any blame being attached to them. Kendall had been their last panic-stricken decision — she would know at least what they should do. They could explain to her that they could not be held responsible.
Kendall calmed them, forcing herself to take deep breaths so that her voice was controlled. ‘I’ll come right over. Just stay calm and I’ll be there as soon as I can. Don’t do anything until I get there, do you understand? Don’t make any more calls,’ Kendall repeated, not wanting to find Feinstein in occupation by the time she got to the house. ‘Wait for me to get there.’ This time, she was determined to get into the house before anyone else did — and get at least one of her paintings out.
She replaced the receiver with shaking hands, and took a few moments to compose herself before she grabbed her coat, car keys and purse and ran from the house. It took her no more than fifteen minutes to get to the Nathans’, where she screeched up to the garage compound and slammed on the brakes.
Jose was standing, pale-faced, at the front door.
‘Where is she?’ Kendall snapped.
‘Bedroom. I found her in the shower,’ he said, as Kendall ran past him towards the staircase.
A tearful Juana was sitting on a stair and looked up, wiping her eyes on a sodden tissue. ‘There’s a note.’ She sniffed.
Kendall looked down at the woman, then continued up the stairs and along the landing towards the master suite, Jose behind her.
‘No — she’s in her own room,’ he said, and Kendall bit her lip before continuing more slowly along the landing. Cindy’s bedroom door was slightly ajar. She took a deep breath and walked in. Jose was about to follow her, but she turned round. ‘Leave me for a minute, please.’ Jose stepped back and the bedroom door closed.
Juana appeared, still clutching the tissue. ‘Did you show her the note?’
‘I left it on the dressing table.’
Kendall picked up the single sheet of scented pink notepaper, across which Cindy’s childish writing sprawled: ‘I can’t live like this. It’s all over. By the time you read this I will be dead — Cindy.’