‘I said I’d go over to see the new paintings being hung.’
Rosie pursed her lips. ‘Hector helping out, too, is he?’
Lorraine sighed. ‘Hector’s gay, Rosie, okay?’
‘Maybe he swings both ways — some of them do, you know...’
‘Rosie, don’t start. Go mail your letters, I’ll make some supper.’
Rosie banged out and Lorraine went into the kitchen. She cleaned up, then sat down by the telephone. She knew it was after office hours, but she just felt like making another of her calls. Mike Page’s answering machine was on. This time she heard his voice, which gave an emergency number where he could be reached. Lorraine jotted it down and waited a moment before she dialled.
‘Hello.’
The high-pitched voice was obviously a child’s.
Lorraine hung up. She lit a cigarette and smoked it before dialling again. This time Mike answered. She had to swallow hard before she could speak.
‘Mike, it’s Lorraine.’
There was a pause before he spoke.
‘Well, long time. How are you?’
‘I’d like to see you... and the girls.’
Another long pause, and then Mike coughed.
‘Yeah, I understand that, and it’s fine by me. When do you want to come?’
Lorraine’s hands were shaking. She couldn’t answer. Mike asked if she was still there. ‘Maybe this weekend?’ he said.
‘You mean tomorrow?’ Lorraine could hardly get her breath.
‘Or Sunday.’ He suggested twelve thirty. They could have lunch, maybe walk on the beach together.
There was another pause. Then Lorraine said, ‘Twelve thirty Sunday, then,’ and hung up before he could say anything else. She stared at his address. Her mouth was dry. She mentally repeated every word they had said to each other. They had not spoken for so long.
She sat cupping a mug of coffee in her hands. She had finally done it. Slowly she calmed herself down. She’d be able to cope, she’d coped so far, and she was looking good. More important, she was sober.
Bill Rooney sat opposite his chief, Michael Berillo, leaning forwards, which made his squat backside spread even more. ‘Nothin’. We’ve not got a single witness—’
‘But there was a witness, Bill.’
Rooney nodded. ‘Yeah, but that was Helen Murphy. We reckoned he must have tracked her down again after the attack, right? And made sure the second time.’
‘But before she died, this phone call...’
Rooney nodded. ‘That’s what we’ve been going on — all we’ve had — and it was a pretty good description.’
What about the bite?’
‘By now it’ll have healed, or scabbed over, I dunno.’
Chief Michael Berillo was a big, glowering man. No matter what hour of the day or night, he always had a dark, five o’clock shadow. As he leaned back in his chair, his expansive chest almost burst the buttons on his sweat-stained shirt. ‘Any of this Helen Murphy’s associates give you anything?’
‘Nope. She was a real old dog, though, hard to believe anyone’d pick her up, let alone screw her, and most of the people we talked to don’t have a lot to say about her. Nothin’ complimentary — she was trouble with a major T. She’s also moved around. We can’t trace her husband — he’s a trucker, nobody seems to know where he is — and she’s got three kids in care.’
‘Irish?’
‘What?’
The Chief yawned. ‘I said, was she Irish? With a name like Murphy...’
‘No, that’s her husband and he’s from Detroit. We talked to a woman she roomed with, a real dive, and she said nobody had seen the husband for at least six or seven months. But we got him circulated so as soon as he’s traced we’ll question him.’
The two men remained silent, each wrapped in his own thoughts.
‘Six.’
Rooney nodded. ‘Yeah. Six — seven if we attach Norman Hastings. We’ve interviewed everyone he worked with, everyone he knew. He’s got — or had — a real nice wife and two kids, nobody seems to have anything against him. He was a well-liked, ordinary guy, played poker with a few pals, went to ball games, good steady worker, and—’
The Chief banged his elbows on the desk. ‘No connection to any of these women. Did he pick up hookers?’
Rooney shook his head. ‘If he did, his wife didn’t know it, and none of his friends did either. Unless they were lying.’
The Chief thumbed through the massive dossier which represented the hours and hours of interviews and statements, the lists of officers assigned to the investigation. ‘Okay, we’ll open it up further. Let’s see if any other states have anything on record. Reason is, to keep this on the boil I’m going to need more. We got a hell of a lot of men with their thumbs up their asses and we’ll have to open it up to the press.’
‘Shit! You do that and we’ll have our job cut out for us — you know what a circus starts when there’s a whiff of a serial killer on the loose.’
‘You’ve had it all to yourself, Bill, and you’ve drawn a blank. We got a fucking maniac out there and I can’t hold this back any longer. We’ll get in a psychological profiler.’
Rooney snorted, and the Chief rapped the desk. ‘Get all the help you can, Bill, and get it fast. If you and your team don’t get a result soon, I can’t let you sit on this — and you know it. Bring in that Helen Murphy’s husband. So far he looks like the only possible suspect and you need one.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘You dumb? I’ll have to bring in more than a fucking profiler. Don’t you understand? I’m under pressure. That last kid might have been a hooker, but she was only seventeen years old. And Norman Hastings was, as you’ve laid out thick and clear, an upright citizen. You think his family don’t want a result? It’s not just old tarts. One dead bitch like the one you dug up from your pal Sparks can be put on ice. Hastings can’t. A pretty blue-eyed angel called Holly can’t. You with me?’
Rooney felt the carpet being tugged from under his feet. If they wanted a profiler then he’d get one. If they wanted Clint Eastwood they could have him too. Anything, so long as they didn’t give him the side-step just before he was due to retire. ‘I hear you loud and clear, Chief.’
‘Good — and, Bill, any other bright ideas you get, run them by me first. You started the ball rolling, now it’s out of control.’
Rooney got out fast.
Unfortunately, Bean was in his office sitting in his chair. It was a bad omen and Rooney yelled at him to shove his butt off. ‘Get onto one of those profilers — and by tonight. And don’t say one word. Then I want every man on this fiasco in the main incident room in one hour. We want Helen Murphy’s fuckin’ husband found and brought in.’
Bean coughed. ‘There’s another one.’
‘What?’ Rooney’s face flushed a deep puce.
‘I said there’s another one come in, from a Brian Johns, Santa Monica, details on your desk.’
Rooney reached over and picked up the fax sheet. Prostitute murdered 1992, found inside the trunk of a Cadillac, face and skull beaten. Mona Skinner, aged forty. Possible murder weapon: a blunt instrument, some kind of hammer.
Bean shut the door as Rooney thudded into his chair. It creaked ominously, the springs taking the strain of his eighteen stone. Mona Skinner was an ugly, square-faced woman with long, frizzy, bleached-blonde hair and her mouth was turned down in a thin scowl. Her mean, aggressive eyes stared back at Rooney with a ‘fuck you’ expression. She had been charged with soliciting more than nine times over a period of fifteen years. She had also served four years for assault and battery, and receiving stolen property.
Rooney leaned back and swivelled around. He was angry with himself for opening the can: the worms were certainly wriggling out and all over him. He ran a check to see if there were any links between Mona Skinner and the others. He struck lucky: Mona Skinner and Helen Murphy had both served time together at the same women’s prison, had once lived in the same motel. Rooney stepped up the order to find Helen Murphy’s husband who now became his main suspect for real.