Jake looked sideways at her, then reached over and took her hand. ‘You’re miles away,’ he said.
She squeezed his hand. ‘Yes — I was just thinking about a couple of friends of mine I want you to meet. They’re on their honeymoon.’
He released her hand, and suddenly she wished she hadn’t said honeymoon, because the word made her think about the proposal he’d made to her. He’d made no further mention of it, and she didn’t want him to think she was trying to drop hints or remind him of it, so she started talking about Rosie and Rooney instead. She wasn’t aware of where they were going, just chatted about how she had first met Rosie and that Bill Rooney had once been her boss when she was a cop. Jake listened, but seemed to be paying more attention to the road as he drove out towards Pacific Palisades. Tiger stuck his head out of the window, his ears blowing upright, then rested his head on Jake’s shoulder. The atmosphere was relaxed and easy, and Lorraine began to unwind from the day. She stopped thinking about Harry Nathan, Kendall, Cindy, and the repellent Feinstein, and by the time they were walking beside the ocean, and Jake took her hand in his, all she could think about was the man she was with, and how good it felt to be with him again.
‘So, you’re back from wherever you’ve been,’ he said softly.
‘Sorry, sometimes it takes me a while to relax.’ She moved closer to him, and he put his arm around her shoulder.
‘I understand — I was a bit wound up myself.’
‘Had a bad day?’ she asked.
‘Hell no — I was nervous about seeing you, worried you might have changed your mind.’ They stopped and faced each other. ‘I meant what I said last night, Lorraine. It may have been jumping the gun a bit — we hardly know each other, and I’m not... I mean, I don’t want to hold you to anything said in the heat of the moment, but if you want to just let things run as they are, then that’s okay by me.’
The pain in her stomach almost made Lorraine gasp. ‘Do you mean you want to... er... you know, let things run?’ She could hardly speak with nervousness.
He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her, then looked into her upturned face. ‘Thing is, I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck. It was tough working today because I kept on wanting to call you, just to hear your voice. I can’t hide my feelings, maybe because I’ve never felt this way before, so if I’m behaving like a kid, then you’ll just have to wait for me to calm down. I want to go to bed with you right now, I want to wake up beside you, and not just one night here or there, I want you.’
She felt a small twinge of guilt because he hadn’t been on her mind all day — in many of her thoughts, maybe, but not all of them. But being with him now, she forgot everything else. The words came out as naturally as breathing, three words she never thought she would say to anyone again. ‘I love you.’
He closed his eyes and whispered, ‘Oh, thank God.’
Chapter 12
Decker had checked out the Museum of Contemporary Art and driven from one gallery to another, sitting in the back rooms discussing auctions and buyers. He’d asked everyone about Kendall Nathan’s gallery, and had prowled Rodeo, Beverly, Melrose Place and sections of La Cienega looking for other exclusive galleries that relied on private clients. He had palmed money to porters at auction houses and, dressed in his best gear, exploiting his good looks and acting experience to the full, he had posed as a buyer or a dealer.
He took one real dealer to lunch at the Ivy, and by four o’clock he was exhausted, but he felt he now knew conclusively that none of Harry Nathan’s pieces had been on the market during the past two years. He had records of sales past, or forthcoming; catalogues from European auctions and a thick stack of literature from the English art houses, Sotheby’s and Christie’s, from both their London and New York centres of business.
He decided now to talk to the kid who had worked for Kendall. He was a little wary as he followed Washington Boulevard into east Los Angeles, more than aware that he was crossing the divide into gangland territory. Signs of poverty became visible in the form of discount marts and Spanish-language churches, bars appeared on every building’s doors and windows, and gang signatures, often half obliterated by rivals then resprayed, were noticeable among the graffiti on walls and metal shop shutters.
He made sure the doors to his car were locked as he drove, and that he knew exactly where he was going, not wanting to look lost or vulnerable as he turned south on La Brea to hit Adams Boulevard. Decker slowed down as he turned into a smaller side-street of mainly single-storey bungalows, little more than flat-roofed boxes in dingy white or ochre shades, with here or there a pantiled porch, canopy or new garage as the residents attempted to improve their homes or give them some individual character. Most of the tiny front yards were clean and neat, and only a few had old furniture and other junk piled around the back door or resting against the walls. Bars and chain-link fences were, however, everywhere and Decker reckoned astutely that the parents who lived there were probably solid enough citizens but were losing their authority over the kids, grown and half-grown, who were running with gangs.
Decker found he had overshot his target, and stopped and reversed. Number 5467 was a small two-storey frame house, one of the less run-down properties, with roses and elephant’s ear fern on each side of the door and the drive clear enough for him to park in. He locked his car and looked around before heading towards the porch, carrying his portable phone.
The front door had thick safety glass, made opaque with strips of masking tape on the inside. Decker knocked and waited, then rapped a little harder. He knew someone was at home because he could hear the sound of a blaring television.
‘Who is it?’ a distant voice called.
Decker knocked again, then called out that he was from the art gallery. He listened while the volume of the television was lowered. ‘I’m coming,’ said a hoarse female voice.
It was a few minutes more before the woman inched the door open on the chain.
‘Good afternoon, I’m here about Kendall Nathan’s gallery, and I wondered if I could speak to... your son, would it be? Eric? Mr Lee Judd?’
‘He’s my son,’ came the asthmatic reply.
‘Is he home?’ Decker enquired.
‘No, he ain’t here.’
‘I just want to ask him a few questions. I’m from the insurance company, and as Mr Lee Judd was employed by Mrs Nathan...’
‘She got burned real bad,’ Mrs Lee Judd said, but made no effort to open the door. ‘My boy’s real cut up about it. He got no job now. That’s what he’s doing, looking for work.’
‘Could I just speak to you?’
‘You are speakin’ to me. I ain’t opening this door for nobody, I don’t know nothin’.’
Decker gave up in frustration and headed back towards his car. He was about to unlock it when he looked back at the house. The curtains moved on one of the downstairs windows. The figure behind them was that of a young man. Decker hurried back towards the door and pounded on it. ‘Mr Lee Judd, I know you’re in there, I just saw you at the window. Please, I’m not the police, this is just an insurance enquiry. Can you just open the door for a few minutes? Hello?’