Линда Ла Плант - Cold Heart

‘I’m Lorraine Page,’ Lorraine said calmly.

Cindy’s brow puckered. ‘I’m sorry, who?’

‘I’m a private investigator. You called my office, we spoke earlier.’

‘I didn’t do it! I didn’t kill him, and Mr Feinstein won’t believe it.’

Lorraine sat down and took out a notebook. ‘Do you want me to investigate the circumstances of your husband’s death, Mrs Nathan?’

‘I guess so. I mean, can they keep me here? I’ve told them everything I know. Is this for me?’ She prodded at the froth on the milk-shake with her index finger, then licked it.

‘I don’t know what has been agreed, Mrs Nathan. Just tell me about what happened. Did you make a statement?’

‘I can’t remember. I called the police and I called Mr Feinstein and told him I found Harry in the pool. I was sleeping and... then I heard the gunshot. I guess that was what I heard. It wasn’t all that loud, though, just a sort of dull bang.’

Lorraine was making notes but keeping half an eye on the open door. ‘Then what did you do?’

‘I got up and went onto the patio. I could see the pool, I saw Harry and I called out to him. He looked like he was swimming, floating but... well, he didn’t answer, so then I went back into the house, and through the sun room, and...’ She chewed her lip. ‘When I got closer, I could see the blood, an’ he wasn’t swimming at all, and he had no trunks on, face down.’

‘Did you touch him — I mean, go into the pool?’

‘Oh, no. I ran back into the house, I was hysterical, an’ then I called the cops.’

‘Then you called my office?’

‘What?’

‘After the police you called my office.’

‘No, no, I never called you. I thought maybe someone had called you for me, understand? I mean, why would I call you?’

It was odd, Lorraine thought. Cindy Nathan was behaving very strangely for someone whose husband had just been murdered, especially when she was a prime suspect and about to be charged. She seemed more distracted than upset, twice unfastening her hair and retwisting it round the wooden spike, asking why there wasn’t a straw for the shake.

‘So you did not ask me to meet with you?’

‘No, I just said so. What’s going on?’

Lorraine tapped her notebook. ‘Well, I don’t know either, but if you want me to look into your case, if you feel you need me—’

‘Do you think I should have someone? I mean, are you a lawyer?’

‘No, Mrs Nathan, I’m a private investigator, as I said.’ Lorraine handed the girl her card, but she hardly looked at it.

‘I don’t know what I should do — maybe wait for Mr Feinstein. He’ll tell me what I should do. Right now I’m all confused.’

‘It must be terrible for you,’ Lorraine said quietly.

Cindy lifted her delicate shoulders. ‘Mr Feinstein’ll sort it out, I guess.’

‘I hope so, and please feel free to call me if you do want me to investigate the death of your husband.’

Joan returned, crooked her finger at Lorraine then jerked her thumb, indicating for her to leave, sharpish.

Cindy didn’t even look at Joan. ‘Right now I’m more worried about what’s going to happen to me, because I didn’t do it. I never shot Harry, but a lot of his friends won’t believe it.’

‘Why?’

Cindy Nathan gave that little shrug of her shoulders again. ‘‘Cos I was always threatening him. I never got around to doing anything, though.’

‘Well, somebody did. You’re sure it was your husband in the swimming pool?’

Joan became slightly aggressive. ‘Come on, don’t get me in trouble. Out now.’

Cindy Nathan’s wide, cornflower-blue eyes stared at the wall. ‘Yes, yes, it was him, face down. It was Harry, all right.’ And two big tears rolled down her cheeks.

Lorraine went out of the building, down the curving walkway that looked more like the approach to a smart office complex than a police department. As she bleeped open the Cherokee with her alarm key, she saw Cindy Nathan’s lawyer standing by a black Rolls-Royce, parked on Rexford, arguing with two uniformed police officers. So heated was their exchange that they paid Lorraine no attention as she drove past.

The following morning, Decker was already brewing coffee and collecting the leaves the ficus trees seemed to shed every night when Tiger bounded in, almost knocking him off his feet.

‘I’ve got all the newspapers. Mrs Nathan was released without charge last night. She’s front page in most of the tabloids.’

Lorraine glanced over them. ‘Well, until I hear back from her, there’s not a lot I can do. She was very...’ She frowned. She’d been thinking about her meeting with Cindy Nathan since the early hours. ‘She wasn’t exactly flaky, just, I don’t know, not reacting the way she should have. I mean, she didn’t seem to understand...’

‘The trouble she’s in?’ Decker enquired, carrying Lorraine’s coffee into her office.

‘Yeah, I suppose so. Maybe she was in shock. They give any more details about her?’

‘They certainly do. It was her automatic, by the way, slug taken from Nathan’s head.’

‘What?’

‘She also inherits the house and about half of Maximedia, as his widow,’ Decker said.

Well, she won’t if they can make a murder rap stick to her.’

‘Mmm, well, according to the LA Times , it looks like that’s a sort of foregone conclusion.’ He rummaged through the paper to find the rest of the leading article from page one. ‘Apparently Cindy Nathan threatened to shoot her husband last month at Morton’s restaurant. They had a big slanging match in front of a packed dining room, and they had to drag her out.’

Lorraine sipped her coffee. She was now leafing through all the various papers, in which Decker had marked the relevant stories in green felt-tipped pen. ‘She said she never called us,’ she remarked, lighting a cigarette.

‘Well, that’s ridiculous. Of course she did. And we’ve got it taped.’

‘ You taped the call ?’

‘All calls. I protect you at all times, ma’am.’ He slipped his headphones on.

‘Play it for me, would you?’ Lorraine continued reading, glancing at the pictures of Cindy Nathan being assisted into the lawyer’s Rolls with her hands covering her face. The press had worked fast: they also had numerous glamour shots of her — she had been in a TV soap for a few weeks, but most of the photographs were sexy poses in swimsuits and lingerie. ‘Shit, she’s only twenty years old,’ Lorraine said, not that Cindy had looked older — it just surprised her that she was so young. At the bleep-bleep of the answerphone she looked up.

Decker was searching for Cindy’s call. He eased off his headphones. ‘I fucked up, I can’t find that call.’

‘Jesus Christ, Decker, this is important. We need that recording. Cindy Nathan said she never made the call to the office. If Cindy didn’t make that call, somebody did, someone who knew Harry Nathan was dead — maybe because they had shot him, understand, sweetheart? That call is very important .’

Decker was flushing bright red. ‘You spoke to Cindy on the phone and met her. Did you think it was the same voice? I mean, do you think she made the call?’

Lorraine lifted her hands in the air. ‘I dunno... and I’m not wasting time thinking about it. Like I just said, let’s move on. I’m down seven hundred dollars on this fiasco.’

Decker was dispatched to get any back issues of articles on Cindy Nathan, and Lorraine read every newspaper. Harry Nathan had been married three times and there were photographs of Kendall Nathan, his second wife, a thin, dark woman who looked to be in her late thirties, and Sonja Sorenson, the sculptress, a tall, formidably elegant woman with prematurely white hair. Lorraine clipped out the pictures and the accompanying coverage, then tossed the rest into the trash can.