Jake Burton came twice and also sat with Lorraine, talking and talking to her, willing her to react, but there was no response. He returned to the station, where Jim Sharkey and two other detectives were scrutinizing her files and notes, first with regard to the murder inquiry, then poring over the art scam, of which they had not previously been notified. When Burton returned they discussed it with him and he suggested that perhaps they should interview Feinstein. If their first suspicions regarding Eric Lee Judd had proved unfounded, perhaps Lorraine’s attacker could be connected to the art fraud.
Feinstein was irate. He did not wish to bring charges as he was dealing with a client’s private affairs, and if he did not wish to press any formal charges then the police had no right to do so. He also knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that none of the other police who had been stung by Nathan would want their names associated with a police inquiry.
Sharkey tried to change Feinstein’s mind: what if the murder of Harry Nathan was connected to the art fraud: Maybe he was content to let whoever was behind the scam walk away scot-free, but perhaps someone else had cared enough about it to shoot Nathan? Feinstein almost wet himself, but refused to pursue any further enquiries in relation to the fraud. Sharkey asked if the money could be traced. But Feinstein refused to be drawn. How could he know what a dead man did or did not do? Yet again he insisted that he did not wish to pursue the fraud.
Sharkey stared at him with distaste, then rose slowly to his feet, buttoning his jacket. ‘Thanks for your time,’ he said curtly.
‘So that’s it, is it?’ Feinstein hovered at the side of his desk.
‘Might be for you, Mr Feinstein, sir, but we will still be investigating the art seam’s possible connection to the murder of Harry Nathan.’
‘But I refuse to press charges,’ Feinstein said, his voice rising an octave.
‘That is your prerogative, sir, but whether you like it or not it’s a police matter and it will therefore be treated as an ongoing investigation.’
‘But everybody connected is fucking dead!’ Feinstein screeched.
Sharkey was at the door, his back to the room. ‘Yeah, I’d say that was a pretty good reason not to try to sweep it all under the carpet. Maybe you won’t have to give evidence. There again, you just might not be able to get out of it. Have a nice day.’
Feinstein slumped into his leather swivel chair, took a deep breath and turned slowly towards the large empty space on the wall that had once been occupied by one of Harry Nathan’s fakes. The faint dust line indicated the painting’s proportions and the spotlight fitted to show it off was still trained on the blank wall. He didn’t scream the words as he usually did, but almost spat them with venomous hatred: ‘God damn you, Harry Nathan, you bastard!’
Burton rocked in his chair, drumming his fingers, his mouth down-turned. Feinstein’s refusal to co-operate infuriated him.
‘Any news?’ Sharkey asked. Burton shook his head. ‘Holding her own, is she?’ he persisted, then saw that Burton could hardly answer.
‘Not quite... but we’re hoping. Okay, thanks for the extra work, I appreciate it.’
Sharkey and the two other detectives walked out to the nearest bar.
‘That Feinstein is a prick,’ one detective said, as Sharkey carried the beer to their table.
‘Yeah — what kind of guy can be stung outa that much dough an’ not want to do something about it?’
‘Not just him. How many others got stung? Mind-blowing. I mean, if some shit diddled me outa a hundred bucks, I’d have to go after him. Wouldn’t you, Jim?’
‘Yep, but that’s the difference between you and me and the likes of Feinstein and his rich clients. They got more fucking money than they know what to fucking do with, and he’ll more’n likely make it up off their bills. So if they don’t miss it, fuck ’em. They’ll hopefully be made to look like real assholes by the press. I’d like to see them get a hell of a lot more, but you know how long these fuckin’ fraud cases take to unravel. Not like somebody got away with murder...’ He didn’t finish the sentence, but took a deep gulp of his beer.
‘You know some son-of-a-bitch just might,’ said one, a thin film of beer froth on his upper lip.
Sharkey turned his head. ‘What?’
Well, they got nobody for Lorraine Page’s beatin’ and word is she’s not gonna make it.’
Sharkey drained his beer in one, and banged down the glass.
One of the men had known her from the old days, when she had partnered Lubrinski, and he grinned. ‘But she ain’t dead yet, an’ that lady’s one hell of a fighter. Did I ever tell you about that story, with this guy, he’s dead now... Yeah, Jack Lubrinski. Well, they go to this bar right, downtown someplace...’
They continued telling anecdotes about Lorraine and Lubrinski, and, as often happens, the good memories obliterated the bad. It was like some kind of wake. No one spoke of the shooting of Tommy Lee Judd, and Lorraine Page’s decline into alcoholism and drug addiction. They were remembering her as a good cop, the one that took the hassle and never made a complaint.
Three days later, to the amazement of everyone, Lorraine was still hanging on to life. She remained in a coma, still on the critical list, and the specialists testing her brain were noncommittal.
Reports of Lorraine’s condition were relayed to Rosie and Rooney, and they were heartened to hear that she was still battling for life, but they knew that even if she did pull out of the coma, there was a strong possibility of permanent brain damage, causing severe physical incapacity.
‘Is she paralysed?’ Rooney asked.
‘We’re unable to do tests to ascertain the degree of paralysis with coma patients,’ Hudson told him. ‘As the sedation wears off and time passes, all we can do is wait and see if motor function returns.’
Day four, and still she clung on, the medical team reporting a slow improvement in her breathing.
Mike Page visited every other day, while Burton, Rosie and Rooney came daily. On day six Mike brought his and Lorraine’s daughters. Rosie had been told they would be there and she brought the gifts Lorraine had bought for the girls in Santa Fe. They clung to their father as they were led into the unit.
The girls sat in awed silence. The bandaged woman in front of them was a stranger, and they didn’t know what to say to her. When Mike encouraged Sally to touch her mother’s hand she wouldn’t, whispering that she was too frightened.
The doctors and all the staff were kind and thoughtful, suggesting to the girls that although their mother could not respond, they should talk to her to let her hear their voices. The girls looked at each other. Hearing this woman called their mother felt wrong, and Julia began to cry, saying she wanted to go home.
Two weeks passed slowly and the number of tubes attached to Lorraine’s body gradually diminished. More tests to determine brain damage had been done, but she remained in a coma. The healing process of the external damage had been rapid though: she no longer looked like a monster for the terrible bruising to her face was fading and the bandages were removed.
The girls came regularly now, and the more they got used to seeing her, the more freely they chatted about ordinary, girlish things. They never called her Mom, but Sally often touched her hand, and Julia stroked her mother’s pale arm. Both girls wore the bracelets she had chosen for them.
Rosie and Rooney divided their visiting time between them, and talked and talked, never giving up hope of a response. Jake came before and after work, spending hours sitting beside her, planning their wedding. He brought the ring he had bought for her, and asked her if he could put it on her wedding finger.
Christmas was now a week away, and Lorraine was still in a coma, her eyes closed, as if she was sleeping. The ventilator tube had been moved from her mouth to pass through a tracheotomy incision in her neck, and there was hope, hope that none had believed possible. She remained in the intensive care unit, as she still needed to be monitored round the clock. She was dressed now in her own nightclothes, and Rosie combed her hair and cared for her. She read magazines and books to Lorraine, played music tapes, and when she was through, Rooney took over. He talked for hours, all about his old work, and found it quite therapeutic to chat to Lorraine, asking her if she recalled this or that case.