‘Good. So, how did you get that crack on the back of your head?’
Lorraine yawned. ‘Well, you know the grocery store? At the end of the road? The crossroads just at the side of it? I walked across there, up along the road, and you know the traffic lights at the end of that block?’
‘Yes,’ Rosie and Jake said together.
‘That’s where I tripped and fell.’
Their faces made Lorraine giggle and suddenly they broke into laughter too. They were all laughing when they heard the footsteps coming up the wooden staircase. Rosie looked out of the window.
‘It’s the cops.’
Jake caught Lorraine’s expression. She was drained of any colour.
Chapter 8
Lorraine didn’t panic. She calmly picked up her cigarette pack and headed for the bedroom.
‘Jake, if they ask for a Laura Bradley, she’s not here. She stayed a while and then left.’
‘They coming for you?’ Rosie asked.
‘Yeah, but I swear I’ve done nothing wrong. I just got a lot of outstanding violations, and—’
Jake took her by the elbow, pushing her even further into the safety of the bedroom. ‘Why Laura Bradley?’
‘Because they came here, that friend of mine must have told them where they could find me. Please, Jake, get them off my back and I swear I won’t kill myself!’
‘It’s a deal,’ Jake said as he closed the door.
Rosie hardly said a word, just gave her name. Jake did the rest, smooth-talking, open and friendly. Sorry he couldn’t help them, but Laura Bradley had left. The young uniformed cop smiled, tipped his hat: with his shades and suntan he could have come straight out of a movie. He returned to his partner, waiting below in the car, and Rosie watched them draw away.
The cop car cruised one block up and parked. The cab driver had said a short dark-haired guy and a fat woman had helped the injured woman, so they radioed in for further instructions.
In some ways Lorraine knew they’d be back — even wished she hadn’t played games and had come forward, rather than involving Jake and Rosie. They heard the cops returning, and Lorraine gave a long sigh. ‘Okay. Remember that night I cracked my head? Just tell them we were all at an AA meeting, agreed? That’s what you say and you stick to it.’
‘Why do we have to lie?’ Rosie gasped, the footsteps almost at the screen door.
‘So I don’t get arrested for non-appearance in court. I got traffic violations. I also blackmailed Art Mathews, and you, Rosie, spent the dough — you need any more reasons?’
There was a rap on the door and Lorraine opened it. She’d got her jacket and purse and cigarettes, and made a joke of it. ‘Okay, guys, I’m Laura Bradley.’
Rosie and Jake were driven off in one squad car, while Lorraine travelled solo with two officers in another. She was taken straight in to see Josh Bean, and admitted straight away that she had lied, that she was Lorraine Page. He seemed to accept her excuse that she didn’t want to get involved, because — as she presumed he already knew — she was an ex-cop. As they spoke, from the corner of her eye, she could see her details rolling off the fax machine. But she was relieved that Captain Rooney was not around. Just being inside the station had brought her out in a cold sweat.
Bean elaborated as to why they had asked her to accompany the officers. He told her they were investigating a murder and asked where she was on the night of the seventeenth of last month.
Lorraine said she was at an AA meeting and gave the address. Bean was quiet, almost too friendly and apologetic for any inconvenience they had caused. ‘You see we’re searching for a witness, a woman we believe is a very valuable witness.’
Even as he spoke she could see him scrutinizing her, and it was obvious he doubted that she could be the same woman as described — she had all her own teeth, for a start. Lorraine remained in control, smiled and joked. ‘Well, we sure get a lot of riff-raff in the street. Only the other night there was some drunken woman out there, screaming the place down.’
Rosie and Jake kept to the AA meeting story. Rosie told how she had met Lorraine in hospital, how long she had been staying. When they were asked if they had assisted a woman from a taxi on the night of the seventeenth, a woman with injuries to her head and face, both repeated that they were not at home that evening. But they kept glancing nervously at each other.
‘You ever see a blue Sedan parked in your street, like this one?’
They were shown a photograph of Hastings’s car.
‘No, not that I can recall.’ Rosie peered at the picture. ‘This has been on the TV, hasn’t it?’
‘Do you know or did you know a Mr Norman Hastings?’ Rosie shook her head.
‘He was the guy that was murdered, right?’ Jake asked.
‘I didn’t know him,’ Rosie said, ‘but I seen all the papers. What’s this got to do with us?’
Rosie and Jake were released, but were told that they should inform the police of any change of address in case they were required for further questioning. Jake asked if Lorraine was also free to go, and was told that she was still being questioned.
‘We’ll wait.’
They huddled together to review the officers’ questions. They were confused. It seemed a lot more serious than traffic violations but they were in too deep and the spacious waiting room made both feel small and conspicuous. It was to be a long wait.
Four hours after Lorraine had entered the station she was led into a line-up. She had remained calm, accepting a tepid coffee and an extra packet of cigarettes. When she heard that her friends were waiting for her, she asked for someone to tell them they could go home unless they were required for the line-up. They were not: to arrange for a line-up with twelve fat women, and twelve short, squat men in one afternoon was too much to hope for. So Rosie and Jake left the station. They had no idea why Lorraine was still being detained. But Jake had been around too many cops, in too many stations not to know that this was something a lot heavier than traffic violations.
Lorraine knew the procedure backwards, and made it clear she was more than willing to co-operate. She waited patiently, knowing what a runaround would be going on behind the scenes. Captain Rooney had still not made an appearance and for that she was grateful.
The line-up corridor annex was like all the others she had dealt with years before, but larger and with better equipment. The more she looked around the Pasadena station the more impressed she was with the massive building. She wondered how Rooney fitted in, his squalid old office, his grimy-walled, smoke-stained room far removed from the white, neon-lit, airy offices with the red ‘no smoking’ signs on every door.
She chose place number seven, for no particular reason except to avoid being dead centre or at either end, which were not good positions. The other eleven women carried in their cards and lined up on the small, narrow platform. Some were prisoners, and others Lorraine could not imagine where they had been dragged in from. Probably a couple of hookers, housewives or canteen workers, who were always willing to make a few bucks.
When Mr and Mrs Summers arrived, Bean told them to take their time, to look at each subject closely, without making contact. If they recognized the woman they should walk out and give the number. If they wished her to speak they must ask the officer at their side to repeat whatever they wanted the prisoner to say.
Mr Summers walked slowly down the line first, staring at each woman in turn. Then he left the room. Next came his wife. She, too, took her time, but she was confused as she and her husband were sure they had already identified the woman. They also felt slightly guilty. Had they made a mistake earlier? Both had been so certain that the deceased Helen Murphy was the woman they had seen in the parking lot.