Lord Arthur Savile's Crime and Other Stories - Couverture souple

August 12, 1997
        
Lorraine Page of Page Investigations had not yet moved into a new office, though she had already used part of her cut of the million-dollar bonus from her last case to move from the tiny apartment in Los Angeles she had shared with her former partner, Rosie, who had now married Bill Rooney, the ex-police captain who also worked with them. The couple had recently departed for an extended honeymoon in Europe.

The lost feeling hadn't happened for a few days. She had been so caught up in making plans for the wedding, choosing what they would both wear, and the laughter when they forced Rooney to splurge on an expensive suit that had made the rotund man look quite handsome. Everything had been fun, particularly now that they had money to spend.

It was not until Rosie and Rooney had departed that it really hit home: Lorraine missed them. Waving good-bye at the airport had almost brought the tears that didn"t come until a few days later. She had been sitting in Rosie's old apartment, now hers, looking at the wedding photographs, and she had no one to share them with, no one to laugh and point out how funny it had been when Rooney spilled champagne on his precious new suit. There was no one who would understand the three of them standing with solemn faces and their glasses raised. Rosie's and Lorraine's had, of course, contained ginger ale, but they had raised their glasses for a private toast to their absent friend, Nick Bartello, who had died on their last case.

The photographs, like the small apartment, held such memories, some sweet, some so very sad, but they had made Lorraine decide to buy another place. It had not been an easy decision but she couldn't stand the ghosts--it made the loneliness even worse.

Lorraine's new apartment was on the upper floor of a two-story condominium built on an old beach-house lot right on the oceanfront in Venice Beach, one of four or five blocks where the little houses were so closely packed together that there was no room for front or back yards. Walking around the kooky old bohemian neighborhood, she found she had already fallen for its lively energy and charm, and she loved being near the beach. Lorraine didn't think of herself as "kooky" or "bohemian"; in fact, in her neat suit and blouse she looked slightly out of place, but the neighborhood reminded her of when she had been married. It had been tough, trying to juggle her job as a rookie cop and bring up two young kids while her husband studied at home and worked nights in the local liquor store. Money had always been tight, but friends were plentiful, and there had been so much love. Lorraine had money now and she wanted, needed, more friends like Rosie and Rooney. Deep down she ached for all the love she had lost.

While viewing the new apartment, she had caught a glimpse of herself in a full-length mirror. Staring at her image, from the well-cut blond hair down to her slim ankles in low-heeled shoes, the ache had suddenly surfaced, making her gasp. It didn't matter how long ago she and Mike had been divorced, how long it had been since she had seen her daughters, the pain was still raw. In the past she had obliterated it by getting drunk, but she was stronger now. She could still feel the dreaded dryness in her mouth and feel herself shaking, but she forced herself to follow the real-estate agent around the rest of the apartment.

"I'll take it," she announced. "Just one thing, though. Do the other
residents allow dogs?" She lit a cigarette. Tiger, the wolfhound/malamute crossbred canine who had belonged to poor dead Nick Bartello, was now Lorraine's responsibility, and she needed to be near an open space where she could walk him--clearly, the beach would be perfect.
"I don't think that would be a problem. I presume--"

"Tiger," Lorraine interjected, using her right hand to indicate with a patting motion that Tiger was about the size of a toy poodle.
"I presume he's housebroken. The landlords do have a proviso with regard to animals."
"Oh, yes, he's the perfect gentleman indoors, professionally trained, exceptionally obedient." Crossing her fingers behind her back, she hoped that this would soon be true. She didn't want to risk losing the apartment: it felt right, it felt safe.
"I think I could be happy here," she said softly, and flushed with embarrassment: it sounded stupid. But the agent smiled warmly, eager to do the deal but rather surprised that this elegant if rather nervous woman hadn't even asked to see the kitchen. Lorraine insisted they drive to the real-estate office to finalize the sale. She required no mortgage, and arranged a certified check for the full amount.

"I'd like measurements of all the rooms so I can order furniture, curtains . . ." She waved her hand and, as she did, the agent noticed there was no wedding ring--in fact, she wore no jewelry at all. As Lorraine stood up and bent forward to pick up her purse, her silky blond hair slid forward, revealing a jagged scar that ran from the corner of her eye, a scar that makeup couldn't hide.

Driving back to Rosie's, she recalled her assurances about Tiger. It had proved impossible, so far, to housebreak or instill any kind of normal dog behavior into him. Rooney and Rosie had both tried, but he had become a liability during the prewedding arrangements. He would either attack anyone who came into the house or disappear for days on end, and no matter how long they all cajoled him and fed him biscuits, he point-blank refused to wear a collar. Eventually, Lorraine had booked him into a kennel for extensive schooling with a former police-dog handler. If this failed it was unanimously decided that he would be joining his old master Nick Bartello--nobody had been able to train that son of a bitch either.

When she got back to the apartment, Lorraine phoned the kennel. Tiger was progressing but they suggested an extra two weeks' training. They did not elaborate and Lorraine was quite pleased--she needed time to furnish the new apartment. She decided not to take anything from Rosie's place but to start from scratch and buy everything new. At the same time she had resolved to do something about her scar, the scar that reminded her of who she had been, of what she had been. She no longer needed to force herself to look at the ugliness it represented. She wanted to put her past behind her, once and for all.

Lorraine felt as if she were high--she could hardly sleep. The shopping trips to the Beverly Center to buy furnishings and things were like stepping back in time. She selected everything she thought she would need, from a bed, dining table, and large white sofa to wineglasses, lamps, dishes, and silverware, and arranged for it all to be delivered to the apartment. She wanted everything to be ready for her release from the clinic and she didn't want to lift anything, carry anything, or move so much as a book.

The surgery was extensive. She had decided to have a full face-lift, to be done at the same time as the operations on her scar, which was deep and required skin grafts. She decided to remain at the clinic, pampering herself with beauty treatments, until the wounds had healed. She was still paying for Tiger's "rehabilitation" and the kennel was beginning to worry that he would become a permanent fixture, but Lorraine assured them that she fully intended to take him back.

When the surgeon, who had not allowed her to look at herself, finally held up a mirror to her face, she wanted to celebrate, to kiss and hug everyone close by.
"You're a very beautiful lady, Lorraine," the surgeon said softly, as she cocked her head from side to side, drinking in her smooth, scarless cheek, her perfect eyes, the taut skin beneath her chin. He leaned in close. "Mind you, I can't take all the credit. You have a wonderful bone structure. I just did a little suction beneath your cheekbones, ironed out the laugh lines," he continued, pointing out what his magic knife had done, taking pride in his work. He asked the nurses their opinion, but Lorraine didn't hear: she felt as if she were looking into her soul and it made her gasp.
"Happy?" the surgeon asked, lifting his funny bushy eyebrows.
"I used to look like this," she whispered, wishing Rosie could be there to see the new Lorraine.

While in the clinic, Lorraine had worked out and eaten well and, on her release, she felt better than ever before. She gave her entire wardrobe to charity and hit the designer shops with a vengeance. She had never spent so much, so fast. She had always had good taste but now she went for quality, and for the first time in her life she never looked at the price tag. Next she bought a brand-new Cherokee and a secondhand Mercedes, the car she had always dreamed of owning. It was in perfect condition, with only twenty thousand on the clock, immaculate leather upholstery, a CD player, and a telephone. As she flicked open the makeup mirror it lit up and she sat smiling at herself, her new beautiful self, as the salesman hovered.
"Yep, this'll do nicely."

By mid-September, she had found a comfortable office in a small three-story complex on West Pico Boulevard. Los Angeles had rapidly changing fashions in office buildings--as it had in pizza toppings and nail extensions--and although the building had been erected only five years earlier, the gleaming mirrored exterior was already considered behind the times. But as far as Lorraine was concerned this was an advantage, as it brought the rental more within the range she felt justified in paying. There was an elegant lobby and a pleasant Filipino doorman, good security, and--the biggest advantage--right across the street was Rancho Park with acres of grass for Tiger to run in. She thought about him, but kept putting off calling the kennel to say she would pick him up.

The air-conditioned office, tastefully decorated and filled with plain ash furniture, also boasted a bathroom and kitchen, plus a reception area furnished with sofas and a coffee table. page investigations was printed in letters of gold leaf on the main entrance door by the electronic, security-coded intercom. The letterhead, cards, and office equipment were chosen with meticulous care. Only the old computer from her last office was retained.

Ready to begin work, Lorraine deliberated over the wording for newspaper and magazine advertisements before committing to six-month runs. She then contacted three secretarial agencies, and asked that applicants should send their r?sum?s before she interviewed them.

By October, appointments had been scheduled with the three applicants she felt were most suited to the job. Still running high on her own adrenaline, she didn't see them all: midway through the first interview she decided to offer the job to Rob Decker, even though she had really wanted a woman.

Decker was about twenty-eight, tanned, blond, and good-looking, had worked mostly for television executives, had even tried acting himself, and his account of his unsuccessful thespian attempts made her laugh. He had a top shorthand speed, understood computers, and had a deep, laid-back voice that harked back to his theatrical endeavors. He was fit, with a tight, muscular body, and was wearing an expensive tan linen suit, pale blue shirt, and suede shoes with no socks. He had a Cartier wristwatch but, thankfully, no other jewelry. He carried his r?sum? and other details of his varied career--knowledge of weapons and shooting skills--in a soft leather briefcase, with his karate certificates and gun license. With her history, Lorraine would have found it difficult to acquire a license, but it wasn't the fact that she would have a gun-toting secretary that impressed her--she just liked him.

Decker was relaxed but not too relaxed, respectful but not obsequious, and when she asked why he had applied for the job he shrugged, admitting without any embarrassment that it sounded better than working tables at a bar and that money was short. His last employer had refused to give him references, which had made it difficult to get a decent job. Lorraine was confused: she had references from his last employer in front of her on her pristine desk. Rob nodded toward the paper, and said he had typed it himself. When she asked why he had no reference from his last employer, he told her that he had refused to go down on him and, equally candidly, that he was gay. Then he had laughed and added that she probably knew that already, and probably he wouldn't get this job either.

"Yes, you have." Lorraine surprised even herself. She hadn't given it as much thought as she should have.
Decker's handshake was strong and he assured her that he would not let her down.
"I hope not, Rob. This is very important to me--I want the agency to succeed more than you will ever know. Maybe when you get to know me better you'll find out why, but in the meantime, when can you start?"
"Why not right now? We need some plants in here, and I have a contact in a nursery--I get the best, half price."
Lorraine went over salary and office keys, discussed hours, and then, almost as an afterthought, asked if he liked dogs. He told her another anecdote, about when he had worked in a poodle parlor, and she said that Tiger was not exactly a poodle and needed firm handling. Just before Decker left he seemed suddenly vulnerable, and Lorraine liked him for that too. She knew Rob Decker would become a good friend.

The following morning, Lorraine looked over her office. As promised, Decker had bought two ficus trees in copper buckets, a mass of pink and white impatiens in a glazed terra-cotta planter, and a deep square plain glass vase, which he had filled with Casablanca lilies and placed on the little table in reception. The whole place seemed to have come alive. He had left on her desk a note of the cost of each plant and a receipt, plus watering instructions. He had also bought coffee, tea, cookies and skimmed milk, and a new percolator, which he insisted was his own, so that not only was there a sweet fragrance from the blooms but a wonderful smell of fresh coffee.

There were no calls and no work offers, so at lunchtime Decker and Lorraine went off to buy some exhibition posters and prints from the Metropolitan Museum of Art shop, as the office walls were bare. He also talked Lorraine into stopping off to pick up an elegant halogen floor lamp to put in reception, a swing-arm graphite lamp, a violet glass ashtray for her desk, and--having divined her sweet tooth as though by magic--a jar of jelly beans. By three o'clock their new purchases were on display. The advertising had, as yet, failed to generate any work, but she was not disheartened; she knew things would take time, and during the afternoon they had been able to get to know each other better.

Lorraine never divulged everything about her background, but Decker knew she had been a cop, and knew she had had a drinking problem. In fact, he was such a good listener she felt that she had told him more than she really should have, but he was equally forthcoming about his life and his partner, with whom he had lived for eight years--Adam Elliot, late forties, a writer for films, TV, or laundry-detergent commercials, still hoping to crack the big time b...

Praise for Lynda La Plante's previous crime thrillers

Cold Shoulder

"The scenes keep moving as if their wheels were greased, and there is terrific energy in the simple, driving, cinematic plot."
--The New York Times Book Review

"This gripping crime story . . . strong-arms its readers--all the way to its double-whammy climax."                                                                
--People

"Rarely has a British novelist penetrated the cultural undertow of American crime and law enforcement as shrewdly and incisively as Lynda La Plante in Cold Shoulder. Raises enough issues of power, gender, sex, and corruption to keep the pages turning almost by themselves."        
--San Francisco Chronicle

Cold Blood

"Great fun . . . The intricate plot slaloms from Los Angeles sex clubs to New Orleans voodoo priestesses without letting the reader up for air."                                          
--Los Angeles Times

"So compelling that La Plante risks having her TV credentials eclipsed by her distinction as a crime novelist."                                                    --People

"Complex plotting and a merciless eye toward human nature."
--Chicago Tribune

"La Plante is so knowledgeable about good detective work that we're nailed to our seats."                                                      
--San Francisco Chronicle