Cold Shoulder Read online

  Copyright © 1994, 1996 by Lynda La Plante

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Random House, Inc., New York.

  This work was originally published in different form in Great Britain by Macmillan London, a division of Macmillan General Books, in 1994.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  La Plante, Lynda.

  Cold shoulder/Lynda La Plante,

  p. cm.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-81976-5

  1. Policewomen—California—Los Angeles—Fiction. I. Title.

  PR6062.A65C65 1996

  823′.914—dc20 95-23720

  v3.1

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Other Books by This Author

  About the Author

  Los Angeles, California, April 12, 1989

  It was dark, the alley lit only by neon flashes from the main street; not a single bulb above the many exit doors leading into it remained intact. The boy was running. He wore a black bomber jacket, a bright yellow stripe zigzagging down its back; shiny black elastic knee-length pants; and sneakers, flapping their tongues and trailing their laces.

  “Police officer … freeze.”

  The boy continued to run.

  “Police officer … freeze.”

  Halfway along the alley, the boy sidestepped a trash can like a dancer. The flash of a pink neon light gave an eerie outline to his young body, and the bright zigzag stripe appeared like a streak of lightning.

  “Police officer. Freeze!”

  The boy turned, in his right hand the stiff, flat metal of a 9mm pistol, and Lieutenant Page unloaded six rounds from the long-barreled .38. Bam-bam-bam-bam-bam-bam. The boy keeled over to his right, in a half spin, his head jerked back, his arms spread, his midriff folded, and he fell face forward. His long dark floppy hair spread over his gun arm, his body shuddering and jerking before he was still.

  Lieutenant Page approached him, automatically reloading the .38. The hoarse voice of Sergeant William Rooney barked out to back off, to put the gun in the holster. Pushing past, his wide ass hid the body as he squatted down on his haunches.

  “Get back in the patrol car, Lieutenant.”

  Page did as requested, snapping the shoulder holster closed. The car doors were open. A crowd of people, hearing the gunshots, had started to press forward. Two uniformed officers barred the entrance to the alley.

  Sergeant Rooney was sweating as he carefully wrapped the weapon before easing it away from the boy’s bloody fingers. He stared at the young dead face, and then walked slowly to the patrol car. Leaning inside, he displayed the weapon, cushioned in his snot-stained handkerchief. “This the weapon, Lieutenant?”

  The 9mm pistol was a square, flat silver Sony Walkman. Inside was an old Guns N’ Roses tape. Axl Rose had been blasting out, “Knockin’ on heaven’s dooowarrr …”

  Page turned away. Rooney’s fat face was too close, sniffing like an animal, because he knew, and he could smell it. “Get back to base—and fucking sober up.”

  The locker room was empty, stinking of feet and stale sweat; the vodka was stashed under a tote bag. Just feeling the coldness of the bottle gave Lieutenant Page’s jangling nerves instant relief. Page leaned on the sink, not even attempting to hide the bottle, drinking it like a man in a desert until it was empty. Suddenly the sink was slippery and the floor uneven, moving, shifting, and the long bench against the nearest wall was a good, safe, secure place to hide beneath.

  Fifteen minutes later, Sergeant Rooney kicked open the door. “Lieutenant? You in here?” His fat feet plodded down toward the washbasins. “Captain wants you in his office. Now!”

  She was hunched against the wall beneath the bench, her skirt drawn up, one shoe on, one off, knee poking through ripped tights. Her head rested on one arm, the fine blond hair hiding her face. The other arm was spread wide across the floor. Rooney tapped her upturned hand with the toe of his black crepe-soled shoes. “Lieutenant!”

  He bent down slowly, and yanked her hair roughly away from her face. She was unconscious, her lips slightly parted, her breathing deep and labored. A beautiful face, the fine blond eyelashes like a child’s, the wide prominent cheekbones, and perfect straight nose almost enhanced by her flushed pink cheeks. Out cold, Lieutenant Lorraine Page was still a class act. Rooney stood up, then with his foot pushed her arm closer to her body. She moaned and curled up tighter. He wandered over to the washbasin, picked up the empty bottle, then returned to Captain Mallory’s office.

  “You find her?”

  “Yep! She’s out cold on the floor, bottle must have been in her locker.”

  Rooney stood it on the captain’s desk and just shrugged his shoulders. “She’s a lush, been coming down for a while. I thought she was in control, I’ve talked to her.… She always had an excuse—you know, marital problems, et cetera, et cetera …”

  Captain Mallory stared out of the window, then sighed. “Get her out of here, will you? Get her badge, her gun, and tell her to stay out of my sight.”

  Lorraine didn’t even empty her locker: it was done for her, everything stuffed into the regulation tote bag. The key was taken, along with her weapon and badge; hardly able to focus, she scrawled her name on the official sign-out document. She was helped from the station, still too drunk to comprehend what was happening. Rooney had gripped her by the elbow, pushing her roughly through the corridors. The zipper on her skirt was half undone, her slip showing, and if Rooney hadn’t held her tightly she would have fallen more than twice. He even banged her head, as if she were a prisoner, warning her to dip low to get into the rear of the car. She had laughed, and he had slammed the patrol car door so hard the vehicle rocked.

  “You think it’s funny? I hope you can sleep at night, Lieutenant. Sleep as deeply as that kid you took out. Now get her the hell out of here.…”

  As the car drove out of the station parking lot, it was early morning, but Lorraine had no idea of the time or how long she had been drunk, she didn’t even see the mother of the dead boy, weeping hysterically, being brought in. All she had been told was her son had been shot while escaping from a drug bust.

  Two weeks later, Lieutenant Lorraine Page was officially out of the precinct. No disciplinary action was taken. She lost her pension, her career, but her forced resignation was quietly glossed over and it never reached the press. Tommy Lee Judd’s family never knew the name of the officer who shot their fourteen-year-old son six times. At the inquest it was stated that the boy had ignored three police warnings to stop. He had been charged with crack dealing two years previously, but the statements from his probation officer that he had been clean for the past six months were glossed over. His death was recorded, and the record filed away. No one mentioned that he had had no weapon, and had been mistaken for another suspect—or that the officer who opened fire had subsequently been released from all duties and was no longer attached to the force.

  In fact, Lieutenant Page might never have existed, and, as word got around, no one who had worked alongside her spoke to her again. She was g
iven the cold shoulder. She had betrayed their badge, her rank and position: she had been drunk on duty, and a fourteen-year-old boy had died. They closed ranks—not to protect Lorraine, but to protect themselves.

  Twelve years’ service, two commendations, and a service record that any officer, male or female, would have been proud of, were over. No one cared to find out what would become of ex-Lieutenant Lorraine Page.

  After the shooting, when she had been unceremoniously dumped outside her apartment’s entrance, she had stumbled inside and collapsed onto her bed. The building was incongruously in a very prosperous area, considering Lorraine’s job. Situated in old Pasadena and overlooking the Arroyo, an array of Jags, Mercedes, and Range Rovers was parked in the white-marked parking zones of the condo’s private parking lot; not a Ford or a Honda was in sight. Anyone who entered the private terraced housing estate was checked by their own security. Mike, Lorraine’s husband, knew she was on night duty and was not expected to return until mid or late morning, so he had already dressed and fed their two daughters, and driven them to school. He did not witness the return of his wife or see the state she was in. While Lorraine slept through the rest of the morning, their baby-sitter, Rita, picked up the girls and brought them home, where she checked the details of Lorraine’s duty times. According to the schedule, Lorraine was due for two days’ leave and should have returned home by now. Rita would have stayed to make the girls their lunch, but little Julia, age six, was calling “Mommy, Mommy,” as four-year-old Sally began collecting her toys to play with her mother.

  “Is your mommy home?” Rita asked, surprised Lorraine had not called out or acknowledged her before then. She often slept during the day when she was on night duty, but she usually left a note to say she was home. The girls had opened her bedroom door and discovered her.

  “Yes, in bed,” piped Julia.

  Rita tapped on the open door and peeked into her room. Lorraine was lying facedown, her head beneath a pillow. “Mrs. Page? Is it okay if I go on home now?”

  Lorraine eased away the pillow. “Yeah, yeah, thanks, Rita.”

  Julia climbed up on the bed. She had already delved into her toy box, bringing out puzzles and something that made a pinging sound that cut like a knife through Lorraine’s blistering headache.

  “Mommy, can we go to see the puppets?”

  “Mommy, I want pee-pee.” Sally pulled at the duvet.

  “Mommy, can we go to see the puppets?” Julia repeated, as Lorraine slowly sat up.

  “Mommy, I want pee-pee now.”

  Lorraine had to hold on to the edge of the bedside table to stand upright. She took her younger daughter into the bathroom and helped her up onto the toilet. “I not got my panties down,” the little girl howled.

  After a good belt of vodka she found in the freezer, she was less jumpy and strung out. Once she’d settled the girls in front of the TV, Lorraine had another few nips of vodka with three aspirin so she could bathe and clean herself up. By the time Mike returned from his office, the kitchen was in order, their bed remade, and Lorraine, with her face made up, looked presentable. Wearing a long cotton wrap, she was checking the fridge for what she could cook for dinner when she heard the front door slam and Mike’s usual, “Hi, honey, I’m home.” He dumped his briefcase and, smiling, came to stand behind her, slipping his arms around her and cupping her breasts in his hands.

  “We got time for a quick one before they come?”

  Lorraine eased away from him. “Who?”

  He returned to the table and picked up his briefcase. “Donny and Tina Patterson. I said we’d eat here and then go to the movie. Rita said she could baby-sit.”

  She closed her eyes.

  “You haven’t forgotten, have you? I wrote it down, it’s on the board.”

  “Fine, okay. Did you buy some groceries?”

  Mike pursed his lips. “You said you’d pick up dinner on the way home from work this morning.”

  “I’m sorry, I forgot. I’ll go get something now.”

  “Don’t bother,” he snapped, and went into the bedroom. She followed.

  “It’s no bother, for chrissakes, it’ll take me two minutes. I’ll get dressed and—”

  He began to loosen his tie. “Send out for something. There’s a list of takeouts by the phone. Just call one of them.…”

  “Anything you don’t make a list of, Mike?”

  He glared. “Yeah, and you know what that is. I haven’t slept with you for a month—you want me to start putting that down? Like, when it suits you?”

  She walked out, not wanting to get into an argument as the two little girls hurtled into the bedroom to fling themselves at Mike. He swung them around, tickled them on the king-sized bed to their delight. Then he picked them both up and carried them to the bathroom, bathed them, combed their hair, and put them into their pajamas. They were tucked into bed, each with her own special doll, when he returned to the kitchen. Lorraine was sitting with a mug of black coffee.

  “You want to say good night to them?”

  “Sure.” She got up and bumped into the edge of the table, and gave a little smile. As soon as she was gone, he checked the freezer. One look at the bottle was enough.

  “Did you call for some takeout?”

  Lorraine was cuddling Sally. He repeated the question and she sighed. “Yes, some pizzas are coming any minute.”

  “Pizzas?” he said flatly. Donny Patterson was his superior in the law firm, so Mike had wanted something special, but he went to set the dinner table. He could hear Lorraine reading to the girls, who were giggling loudly—she was good at funny voices. He took out the best cut glasses and the best mats and even gave the cutlery a quick polish. Then he went into the kitchen and began to make a salad. He was neat and methodical as usual, carefully slicing each tomato, washing the lettuce and the celery.

  “You going to get dressed?” he called out, one eye on the clock. When he walked into the bedroom, Lorraine was lying on their bed, eyes closed. He opened the wardrobe and began to choose a shirt, a pair of slacks. He took great pride in his clothes, which were expensive, stylish, proof of his newfound success. He was hoping to be made a partner in the firm, and knew it was in the cards.

  “What you working on?” she asked, stretching her arms above her head and yawning.

  “It’s the Coleridge case. It looks like he’ll divorce his wife without too much aggravation, and it’s more than likely he’ll get custody of the children.”

  “Really?” she said, without any interest, as she watched him holding up a shirt against himself.

  “Do you like this shirt?”

  “Yes.”

  “What are you going to put on?”

  She swung her legs over the side of the bed. She didn’t feel like seeing anyone, let alone going to a movie or having dinner with two self-important, wannabe-wealthy middle-class snobs. “Oh, maybe the Chanel or the Armani. I dunno, Mike, and I’ve got a headache.”

  “You want an aspirin?”

  “Nope—maybe I’ll take a shower.”

  He held her close. “The Pattersons are important to me, sweetheart, okay?”

  She kissed him and rested her head against his shoulder. “I’ll be a good girl, promise.”

  He touched her cheek. It never ceased to amaze him that she could arouse such passion in him. He loved the way she looked, her tall slender body. “You okay? Did you have a bad night?”

  She pressed her face into his neck. Did she have a bad night? The painful blurred memory physically hurt, and she moaned softly, a half sob which he took to be confirmation that she wanted him. He began to slide her robe off her perfect shoulders, kissing the side of her neck.

  “I better change.” She stepped away from him.

  “What’s the matter, Lorraine?”

  She sighed, shaking her head. “Nothing, Mike. I guess I’m just tired.”

  He heard the shower running and slowly got dressed. As he reached for his cuff links, he saw the photograph of Lo
rraine and her former partner, a dark, tousle-haired, moody-looking guy. Lorraine always referred to him by his last name, Lubrinski. Since his death, she had been different, unapproachable. Mike had tried unsuccessfully to get her to talk about it, but she seemed reluctant even to hear Lubrinski’s name. Mike had not said a word when the silver-framed photograph appeared after the man had been shot. He had tried to persuade Lorraine to take a few weeks’ leave, but she refused. Instead, he knew, she had asked for more overtime and specifically night duty.

  Lubrinski’s laconic half smile seemed to mock him, yet he was sure there had been nothing between them. She had admired him, Mike knew that. He had seemed shy, hardly speaking on the few occasions Mike had met him.

  Lorraine came out of the shower, wrapped in a towel with another around her wet hair. “You want some aspirin, sweetheart?”

  “Yes, I do, thanks.”

  She sat down on her dressing table stool, opening one of the drawers to take out her hair dryer. It felt leaden in her hands. All she wanted was to lie down and sleep. Mike handed her a glass of water and two aspirins. He kissed the top of her head; her hair fell in a soft pageboy that flattered her heart-shaped face.

  “I’ll maybe get a partnership soon,” he said, as he sat on the edge of the bed. “It’ll mean a lot more money and you not having to work.”

  She slowly rubbed foundation cream over her cheeks, a small dollop on her nose. “When will you know?”

  “Well, this Coleridge case is good for me. He’s an influential guy—he’s even said he’d recommend me to his friends.”

  “All getting divorces, are they?” He laughed as she dipped the thick brush into the face powder and dabbed it over her face. “I thought you wanted to specialize in criminal law, Mike.”

  “Yeah, I did—maybe I still do, but it’s good to get a grounding in all aspects. Besides—”

  “Divorce pays better, doesn’t it?”

  Mike’s expression was sharp. “Is that such a bad thing? Don’t you like this place?”

  “Yes, of course I do.”

  “Well, I’ll be making a lot more soon. Next we’ll have a house in Santa Monica, right on the beach.”