Rosie reached for the phone as Lorraine crashed to the floor.
Ed Bickerstaff hung up. He wondered if he could trust the information. He would have been happier if it had been Lorraine herself who had called — she have never made any mention of a partner. He decided there was nothing to lose so he put in the call to send agents to Las Vegas to arrest Craig Lyall and his companion. He then arranged for a search warrant to look over Lyall’s studio. As he was leaving his office, he received the phone call he had been half expecting: Steven Janklow’s plea would stand as guilty on seven counts of murder, but his mental state had been scrutinized and eight doctors and four psychiatrists had declared him criminally insane and medically unfit to stand trial. He would be held in a secure mental institution for life, with no hope of release. Mrs Thorburn had still not made any contact with him. Brad Thorburn continued to monitor his brother’s welfare via the family lawyers but no more than that.
The subsequent arrest of Lyall and Nula would be welcome as a show of the FBI’s thoroughness but Bickerstaff was wondering if he had made a mistake. He called Rooney to double-check on Lorraine but he was away, and although he’d already ordered that Nula and Lyall be brought in he still had to run it by the Chief. Bickerstaff embroidered the facts a little, pointing out that Lyall’s arrest might further clarify Janklow’s guilt. It might also confirm that Art Mathews had instigated the murders of Angela Hollow and David Burrows. It sounded so good to him that he felt more confident.
Who’s the informant, Ed? And how come you haven’t discussed this with anyone else from my department?’
Bickerstaff flushed. ‘It’s Lorraine Page.’
The Chief gave a fish-eyed stare.
‘Lorraine Page? You’d better hope to Christ that it pans out as well as the Janklow tapes she did.’ He hesitated. ‘Has she got something else on Janklow?’
‘I’ll get back to you as soon as I hear anything.’
The Chief glared. ‘So you’ll be staying on?’
Bickerstaff seemed fazed. ‘Of course. This is tied in with the original investigation.’
‘You sure it’s not tied in with you trying to whitewash your fuck-up with Art Mathews?’
Bickerstaff stood square-jawed in front of the desk. He’d have liked to punch a hole right through it but he retained his composure. ‘I’m just trying to do my job. Nothing has been whitewashed and I’m not making any excuses for the Art Mathews fuck-up but I would like to check any new evidence that may come to light.’
‘How much did Page hit you for?’
Bickerstaff smiled but it was without humour. ‘She doesn’t get a cent.’ He closed the door behind him silently. He had not added that Lorraine’s payout depended on her providing Bickerstaff with evidence that proved Mathews’s part in the hammer murders. If she could, it would help cover the FBI’s public humiliation at having erroneously named Mathews as the sole killer. If she did bring in the goods, five thousand dollars was not much to pay for the FBI coming out smelling like roses.
As Bickerstaff was about to enter his office, he was handed a fax informing him that Lyall and Nula had been arrested in Las Vegas. Lyall insisted they were there to get married and they had said they had nothing to do with Steven Janklow. Bickerstaff requested they be brought in for questioning in connection with a ‘homicide investigation’ and a possible ‘accessory to murder’ charge.
He grew impatient as he received no reply to his calls to Lorraine’s apartment. Nula and Lyall were on their way to Pasadena from Las Vegas and he hadn’t the slightest idea what he was going to question them about. What had they overlooked in previous interviews? Or was it possible that Lorraine Page had, yet again, withheld vital evidence? If she had she was now in dangerous waters and Bickerstaff would make sure she drowned.
Rosie and Lorraine hardly spoke throughout the long drive home. It took all Lorraine’s will-power not to beg Rosie to buy a bottle. The need to drink was stronger than her headache and sickness. She felt despairing and, worse, inadequate. It was the end of the agency, the partnership — she was back at square one again and it hurt. But nothing was stronger than the urge to drink. She had not beaten it. She felt it had beaten her.
The phone was ringing as they opened the front door. It was Bickerstaff. Rosie asked him to call back, and hung up before he could remonstrate. She then called Jake who said he’d be right over. When he arrived Rosie had cooked some spaghetti and laid the table. Jake put his arm round her shoulder. ‘How you doing?’
‘Fucked! I had a future and a job yesterday but today, well, I dunno. You got to talk to her — this guy Bickerstaff keeps calling.’
Jake nodded and went into the bedroom. Lorraine was awake, sitting on the edge of the bed. She had on a bathrobe and looked pale, sickly. She gave that look of hers, tilting her head, that slight squint. ‘It’s no good, Jake, I’m not going to make it. I blew it so badly. I got over-confident, arrogant. You know, I thought I was so damned clever, and if it wasn’t for Rosie I’d probably be dead.’
He squeezed her hand. ‘It’ll always be a part of your life. You can never have one drink. Even if you think you’re strong enough to deal with it you won’t be because it’s an illness, Lorraine.’
Lorraine was crying. ‘All I want is a drink, Jake.’
He stood up. ‘Lemme tell you something. I want one, Rosie wants one, we all want one, you’re no different. We all feel like you do so get your ass off that bed and come in and eat.’
He walked out and she got up slowly. When she joined them at the table, he drew out a chair.
‘Thanks for helping me out this afternoon, Rosie.’
‘Think nothing of it, partner, but next time you tell me to wait outside, I want to know how many minutes, who you’re going to see and why.’
Lorraine doubted if there would be another time. The phone rang. Rosie answered and handed it to Lorraine. ‘You better talk to him, it’s Bickerstaff.’
‘Hi, Ed. We just got back. It was a long drive... Yeah, yeah, no problem. I’ll be there... sure, thanks.’ She hung up. ‘They want me at the station. They’re sending a squad car. I can’t think straight — I can’t even see straight. They’re going to take one look at me and they’re gonna know. I’m still plastered.’
Jake took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves.
‘Let’s get that shower running.’
Lorraine looked at them dead-eyed. ‘Oh, God, not again...’
Chapter 20
Nula had been separated from Lyall on the way to Pasadena but the flight to Las Vegas had been long enough for them to get their story straight. Lorraine had not arrived at the station when their lawyer angrily confronted Bickerstaff, insinuating that he was wrongfully holding them on the word of a known drunkard, a woman who had arrived at his clients’ apartment in San Francisco attempting to blackmail them. He doubted if Bickerstaff would be able to make any sense of what Mrs Page had levelled against his clients as she had been so drunk when they had last seen her that they had left her in the apartment. Time was against Bickerstaff because without strong evidence implicating them he could not hold Lyall and Nula longer than twenty-four hours. He was in a hot-seat of his own making and could ask for no help from the local police. This had been an FBI arrest and Bickerstaff was on his own.
Jake and Rosie were still plying Lorraine with water and coffee. She had no hangover now but her confidence had gone. She was afraid to confront Bickerstaff, and Rosie knew it.
The doorbell rang, and Lorraine jumped. Bickerstaff stood on the step, his shirt sticking to him, his tie loosened.