‘Yes!’
Cindy Nathan was in her silk Hermès sarong, barefoot, clutching the mobile phone and staring into the deep end of the swimming pool. Henry ‘Harry’ Nathan was floating face down in it with a thin trickle of blood still colouring the bright blue water. She heard the police sirens, saw the Hispanic servants hovering by the industrial glass-brick doors with which Harry had replaced the former french windows and leaded diamond panes.
Her phone rang.
‘Cindy Nathan,’ she answered flatly.
‘This is Lorraine Page. You called me and... hello? Mrs Nathan?’
Cindy’s voice was barely audible. ‘Yes.’
‘This is Lorraine Page, of Page Investigations.’
‘Are you a detective?’
‘Yes, I run an investigation company.’
‘I want to hire you, because I’m just about to be arrested for my husband’s murder.’
‘I’m sorry, could you repeat that?’
‘I didn’t kill him. I didn’t kill him.’ Cindy stared at the body. ‘I need you, please come immediately.’ She reeled off an address, then hung up.
Lorraine stared at the phone, then shouted to Decker, ‘She’s hung up, did you get that?’
‘Yep, I got it. Maybe she read the advert — probably in Variety.’
Lorraine replaced the receiver and walked into Reception. ‘What did you say?’
‘I ran an advert for you in the Hollywood Reporter, plus one in Screen International, Variety—’
‘What?’
Decker rummaged around his desk and laid out a fax. ‘I told you Elliot was good. He suggested the wording.’
‘Elliot?’
‘My partner, Adam, but I always call him Elliot, he always calls me Decker. I said we needed him to beef up our adverts, and...’
Lorraine’s face had tightened. ‘What?’
‘They only ran yesterday, I told you. I said he was good.’
‘Lemme see,’ she said tightly.
‘Sure, you paid for them.’ Decker passed over the fax.
Lorraine read it in disbelief. It was not really an advert, more a treatment for a TV show: ‘The best, the one agency that caters for the people that need discretion...’ highlighted ‘... money no object...’ highlighted again ‘...clients too famous to name, PRIVATE INVESTIGATION means what we say — PRIVATE. If it’s blackmail, stalkers, drug abuse, underage sex, call us — no case too small, too dangerous, too notorious. We issue a confidentiality contract as standard.’
Her jaw dropped as she read the list of high-profile cases with which Page Investigations was supposed to have been involved. ‘My God, this is disgusting.’
‘Good, though.’
‘But it’s a pack of lies. You can’t say we worked for these people when we didn’t. I’ve never read anything so ridiculous.’
‘Maybe, but you’ll never get anyone to query it — most, as you will see, are dead. We can say we acted for River Phoenix, but who’s to know we didn’t because he can’t...’
Lorraine re-read the list of dead movie stars, studio producers, executives, bankers, politicians — even Jackie Onassis’ name appeared. ‘This is a gross distortion of facts,’ she said.
‘Yes, I know, but we got a result. Cindy Nathan.’
Lorraine leaned on his desk. ‘You should have run this by me first. This is illegal, unethical, and we could be sued. These people may be dead, but they’ll have relatives, and lawyers. Pull the adverts this morning, Decker.’
Will do, Mrs Page.’
She turned at her door, serious. ‘You never do this kind of thing again. You have to have my approval for any advert, in fact, for anything going out of this office. Is that clear? I’ll call in when I know more — and give Tiger a walk if I’m not back this afternoon.’
‘Yes, Mrs Page.’
She closed her office door as Tiger threw himself at it.
Lorraine got into the Cherokee and drove rapidly through Century City to take the short cut behind the Beverly Hilton and into Beverly Hills: she smiled, as she always did, as the signs of wealth and ostentation began to increase as steadily as the gradient of Whittier Drive. As the properties grew larger, hedges and trees grew thicker to keep out prying eyes, but behind them could be glimpsed a pick-and-mix assortment of architectural styles. The more traditional bungalows and hacienda-type dwellings rubbed shoulders with mock everything else — Dutch colonial and Cape Cod-style, art-deco, Tudor follies, steel and glass boxes that had been futuristic thirty years ago.
Lorraine knew she must be getting closer to the Nathan property. She was now on the borders of Beverly Hills and Bel Air, and after a quick glance at Decker’s directions, she drew up at the enormous bare metal gates, with Gestapo-style searchlights mounted on the posts. A man was waiting for her. ‘Are you Lorraine Page?’ he asked.
‘Yes, I am.’
He was thin, balding and nervous. ‘I am Cindy Nathan’s lawyer. She has insisted I speak with you, but I want you to know that I have already contacted my own investigation advisers and all this is now in the hands of the police. They have taken Mrs Nathan in for questioning but I’m sure she’ll be released without charge as soon as the facts have been established. Right now, the position is... very confusing.’
Lorraine nodded. ‘I’m afraid it is. You see, I don’t know exactly what has happened.’
‘She shot her husband. Harry Nathan is dead. The police are at the poolside now, there’s forensic and paramedics and... I can’t allow you to come inside. I have to go to Mrs Nathan.’
Lorraine smiled. ‘Maybe I should come with you, as Mrs Nathan was adamant that I speak with her.’
‘That is impossible. You will not be allowed to see her. As I said, this is police business now.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, there’s nothing you can do here. I will, of course, pay you whatever retainer was agreed, but as I said, the police are taking care of this now. So if you would let me have your fees to date.’
Lorraine hesitated. ‘Do you have a card?’
‘I’m sorry, yes, of course.’ He passed it over. ‘The police are not allowing anyone access to the premises.’
Lorraine looked at his card: Joel H. Feinstein, attorney at law. ‘Fine, I’ll send you my invoice — but just as a matter of interest, is Mrs Nathan being held at the Beverly Hills PD or elsewhere?’
Lorraine drove east on Santa Monica Boulevard, and turned left on Rexford into the bizarre new complex of heavy romanesque arches and colonnades that now housed the Beverly Hills police department. She knew it was unlikely that she would be allowed to see Cindy, even if she announced herself as a private investigator engaged by Mrs Nathan. She was thinking about what moves she could make when an officer she knew, who had done some private work for her on a previous case, walked up to the car parked directly in front of her: James Sharkey, still as fat as ever, still hauling his pants up over his pot belly.
‘Hi, how ya doing?’ She locked her car and headed towards him. For a moment he didn’t recognize her, then gave her a brief nod while digging in his pockets for his car keys. When she asked about Cindy Nathan, he started to unlock his filthy, dented Pontiac. ‘I need ten minutes with her,’ Lorraine said quietly.
Sharkey laughed and shook his head. He was about to open the car door when Lorraine moved closer. ‘You on the case?’ she asked.
She knew he was, just by his attitude and the way he looked furtively around the parked cars. He jangled his keys.
‘Meal break. Lady is pretty shook up — not talking straight and asking for raspberry milk-shakes... with chocolate topping.’ Sharkey wasn’t putting himself on the line, but she could take the lady her milk-shake, maybe palm the female officer, Joan, who was sitting her. Sharkey pocketed five hundred dollars and Lorraine went for the milk-shake. He had promised he’d have a word with Joan. He lied, he always had been a cheap, lying bastard, as Lorraine discovered when she had to pay another two hundred to persuade Verna to take a toilet break.