'Hell no I was nervous about seeing you, worried you might have changed your mind.' They stopped and faced each other. 'I meant what I said last night, Lorraine. It may have been jumping the gun a bit we hardly know each other, and I'm not . . . I mean, I don't want to hold you to anything said in the heat of the moment, but if you want to just let things run as they are, then that's okay by me.'

The pain in her stomach almost made Lorraine gasp. 'Do you mean you want to . . . er . . . you know, let things run?' She could hardly speak with nervousness.

He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her, then looked into her upturned face. 'Thing is, I feel like I've been hit by a truck. It was tough working today because I kept on wanting to call you, just to hear your voice. I can't hide my feelings, maybe because I've never felt this way before, so if I'm behaving like a kid, then you'll just have to wait for me to calm down. I want to go to bed with you right now, I want to wake up beside you, and not just one night here or there, I want you?

She felt a small twinge of guilt because he hadn't been on her mind all day in many of her thoughts, maybe, but not all of them. But being with him now, she forgot everything else. The words came out as naturally as breathing, three words she never thought she would say to anyone again. 'I love you.'

He closed his eyes and whispered, 'Oh, thank God.'

CHAPTER 12.

DECKER HAD checked out the Museum of Contemporary Art and driven from one gallery to another, sitting in the back rooms discussing auctions and buyers. He'd asked everyone about Kendall Nathan's gallery, and had prowled Rodeo, Beverly, Melrose Place and sections of La Cienega looking for other exclusive galleries that relied on private clients. He had palmed money to porters at auction houses and, dressed in his best gear, exploiting his good looks and acting experience to the full, he had posed as a buyer or a dealer.

He took one real dealer to lunch at the Ivy, and by four o'clock he was exhausted, but he felt he now knew conclusively that none of Harry Nathan's pieces had been on the market during the past two years. He had records of sales past, or forthcoming; catalogues from European auctions and a thick stack of literature from the English art houses, Sotheby's and Christie's, from both their London and New York centres of business.

He decided now to talk to the kid who had worked for Kendall. He was a little wary as he followed Washington Boulevard into east Los Angeles, more than aware that he was crossing the divide into gangland territory. Signs of poverty became visible in the form of discount marts and Spanish-language churches, bars appeared on every building's doors and windows, and gang signatures, often half obliterated by rivals then resprayed, were noticeable among the graffiti on walls and metal shop shutters.

He made sure the doors to his car were locked as he drove, and that he knew exactly where he was going, not wanting to look lost or vulnerable as he turned south on La Brea to hit Adams Boulevard. Decker slowed down as he turned into a smaller side-street of mainly single-storey bungalows, little more than flat-roofed boxes in dingy white or ochre shades, with here or there a pantiled porch, canopy or new garage as the residents attempted to improve their homes or give them some individual character. Most of the tiny front yards were clean and neat, and only a few had old furniture and other junk piled around the back door or resting against the walls. Bars and chain-link fences were, however, everywhere and Decker reckoned astutely that the parents who lived there were probably solid enough citizens but were losing their authority over the kids, grown and half-grown, who were running with gangs.

Decker found he had overshot his target, and stopped and reversed. Number 5467 was a small two-storey frame house, one of the less run-down properties, with roses and elephant's ear fern on each side of the door and the drive clear enough for him to park in. He locked his car and looked around before heading towards the porch, carrying his portable phone.

The front door had thick safety glass, made opaque with strips of masking tape on the inside. Decker knocked and waited, then rapped a little harder. He knew someone was at home because he could hear the sound of a blaring television.

'Who is it?' a distant voice called.

Decker knocked again, then called out that he was from the art gallery. He listened while the volume of the television was lowered. 'I'm coming,' said a hoarse female voice.

It was a few minutes more before the woman inched the door open on the chain.

'Good afternoon, I'm here about Kendall Nathan's gallery, and I wondered if I could speak to . . . your son, would it be? Eric? Mr Lee Judd?'

'He's my son,' came the asthmatic reply.

'Is he home?' Decker enquired.

'No, he ain't here.'

'I just want to ask him a few questions. I'm from the insurance company, and as Mr Lee Judd was employed by Mrs Nathan . . .'

'She got burned real bad,' Mrs Lee Judd said, but made no effort to open the door. 'My boy's real cut up about it. He got no job now. That's what he's doing, looking for work.'

'Could I just speak to you?'

'You arc speakin' to me. I ain't opening this door for nobody, I don't know nothin'.'

Decker gave up in frustration and headed back towards his car. He was about to unlock it when he looked back at the house. The curtains moved on one of the downstairs windows. The figure behind them was that of a young man. Decker hurried back towards the door and pounded on it. 'Mr Lee Judd, I know you're in there, I just saw you at the window. Please, I'm not the police, this is just an insurance enquiry. Can you just open the door for a few minutes? Hello?'

There was no sound at all now, not even the television. Decker waited, then whipped round as he heard the sounds of running feet in the next-door yard. The young man had run out the back of the house, leaped over the fence and headed into the street.

Decker started to run after him, then returned to his car. The man had set off at high speed along the sidewalk, but he kept him in sight. Decker backed out into the road and followed him: his bright red windcheater and sneakers made him easy to spot, and although he was moving fast, he didn't duck into any of the driveways but headed for Adams Boulevard.

Decker still had Lee Judd in his sights as he stopped at traffic-lights. He saw the boy cross the main drag and turn into an alley about twenty yards up ahead on the left, between a dance rehearsal studio, exhibiting all the thinly cheerful signs of an attempt at urban renewal, and a boarded-up building, which still bore the ominous smoke stains of the riots. As soon as the lights changed, he pulled over and indicated left, turned into the alley and slowed down. It ran along the back of the other stores that fronted the boulevard a liquor store, an exotic-looking hair-and-beauty salon and a Mexican music outlet. Piles of garbage overflowed from huge battered plastic bins, and a number of abandoned-looking vehicles and a couple of narrow passages led to any number of places for the youth to hide. Decker slowed to walking pace, but he knew he had lost him.

The alley ran straight through to a side street off Adams, so Decker had to drive on through. He was swinging out of the alley, preparing to head back the way he had come, when out of the corner of his eye he saw Lee Judd again. He was walking now, shoulders hunched and head bent low, keeping close to the facade of rundown shops. Decker had to drive on: the traffic was so heavy that there was no way he could stop quickly.

He was just dialling the office to see if Lorraine was there when he noticed a green pick-up truck career out of a side street, and slot into the traffic close behind him as he turned onto La Brea. He accelerated, but the pickup came even closer, almost hitting his bumper. He accelerated again, tossing the phone onto the passenger seat. He was about to put his foot down when the pickup rammed him so hard that his car spun through a hundred and eighty degrees, almost into the path of an oncoming vehicle. The driver screamed and blasted the horn as Decker righted the car and now hit the gas pedal hard. His heart was thumping. These guys behind were trying to run him off the road, and his mind raced as he tried to remember when the next set of traffic lights came up. He checked that his door was locked, and overtook a car in front, but the truck did the same, its cabin so high above its customized, extended wheel-base that Decker couldn't get a clear look at the driver. All he knew for certain was that this was for real, and he started to sweat with fear, wondering whether he should take a side turning. He decided against it, hoping he would have more opportunity to outrun the truck when they had passed under the Santa Monica freeway. He hoped and prayed that there were no signals ahead, because he would be forced to jump the lights or stop.

The truck edged out to his right, and Decker was sweating freely. His hands clutched the wheel and his back arched with fear, then terror, as the truck swiped his car from the side. He screeched over to the kerb but managed to turn out of the tail spin. Now, his accelerator pressed flat to the floor, he screamed forward, burning rubber, the needle of the speedometer moving higher and higher. He was nudging eighty, with the truck still close on his tail. Suddenly up ahead were the traffic lights on Washington, at yellow turning to red. There was no way Decker could pull up in time. He gritted his teeth, accelerated harder, and crossed the traffic lights at eighty-five miles per hour.

The garbage truck had only just moved out from the left-turn lane at the intersection as Decker's car shot the lights. It was impossible to avoid collision. Decker's car left the ground and somersaulted in the air before landing on its crushed bonnet in the centre of the junction. The pick-up truck did a U-turn, and disappeared as the garbage collectors ran to Decker's crushed, smouldering car. Blood smothered the windscreen, but they could see Decker's lifeless body still strapped into his safety belt, hanging upside down as glossy art brochures tumbled around it.

Jake's condominium was in a quiet street near Pico, within ten minutes' drive of the police department, a late seventies Cape-Cod-style construction with a lot of shingled-wood facings, gables and white-painted wood on the exterior. It was simple, neat and orderly inside. A small kitchen led off the dining room, which in turn led off an equally compact lounge. There was one bedroom with bathroom en suite, and the entire apartment was carpeted in a drab grey, with featureless furnishing and bland landscape prints on the walls.

'It's rented,' he said apologetically.

'I should hope so. It's well, a bit characterless,' Lorraine said.

'Yeah, I guess it is, but I never intended staying here. At least not permanently.'

Tiger sniffed around the room, and lay down on a white rug in front of a fireplace containing a gas fire burning round fake logs.

Burton went into the kitchen: he'd already bought the groceries, which were still in their bags on the kitchen table. 'You watch TV, or whatever, and I'll cook.' Jake began to unpack the food and set out the things he would need, and Lorraine noticed a number of small deli items exotic mushrooms, purple basil and an hors d'oeuvre of ready-cooked stone crab, which Jake had clearly picked up to impress her.

'You want me to set the table or anything?' Lorraine asked.

'Nope, I'll do it. It's just crab, steak and salad,' he said, opening one cupboard after the next as he searched for plates and bowls.

Lorraine opened her briefcase and called the office on her mobile to replay her messages, but there were none. She called her apartment next, but there were no messages there either. She looked at her watch. After eight o'clock. She took out her notebook and looked for Decker's home number, only to find she hadn't brought it with her. 'It's odd he hasn't checked in,' Lorraine said, crossing to the kitchen. Oil was burning in a pan, and a bluish pall of smoke spiralled to the air-conditioner. 'Oil's a bit hot,' she remarked, and Jake whipped round to take the pan off. He had assembled the salad and was now rubbing garlic over the steaks.

'He usually calls in, or leaves a message for me at home.' Lorraine picked up a carrot and munched it.

'Who you talking about?' Jake asked.

'Decker he's been out all day, checking art galleries.' Lorraine reached for another carrot, as the steaks sizzled and spat in the pan. 'I don't have his home number with me, or I'd call.'

'Is he in the directory?' He pointed with a fork to a side table. Lorraine walked over to it. Then she frowned she couldn't remember Decker's boyfriend's name, so she looked up Decker. She knew the phone wouldn't be in his name and shut the book. 'I'll do it later when I get home.'

Jake carried out glasses, wine and a corkscrew, and set them down on the table with a clatter. He opened the wine, filled a glass and drank, then dived back into the kitchen. A few moments later he reappeared. 'I got some of that alcohol-free lager for you. It's on the side table.'

He leaped back into the kitchen, and she could hear him cursing. Then there was a hissing sound as he immersed the burning pan in water.

'Do you want me to make a dressing?' Lorraine asked, carrying the bottle of lager into the kitchen.

'No, I'm almost ready. I made it earlier.' He was pouring a sachet of raspberry vinegar dressing over the salad.

'I need a bottle opener,' she said, crossing to one of the drawers. Burton passed her, carrying the platter of crab, the steaks on their plates and balancing the bowl of salad on his arm.

'Okay, it's ready.'

Lorraine brought the bottle-opener to the table and sat in the place Burton indicated. Tiger lifted his head, sniffed and inched over to sit beside her, knowing he might be in line for a titbit.

Decker was dead on arrival at the emergency room of Midway Hospital. Adam Elliot, his boyfriend, was contacted at nine thirty-five, and drove straight to the hospital, unable to take in that Decker was dead.

By the time he was led to the chapel area to identify the body, he was in a state of such distress that he had to be assisted into an ante-room. Decker, who rarely exceeded the speed limit, Decker who always nagged him about wearing his safety belt and warned him never to take risks, who said that life wasn't worth an extra twenty miles an hour, had been killed outright travelling at eighty-five miles an hour in a built-up area of downtown Los Angeles. It didn't make sense. Nothing made sense. The loss of his beloved partner was more than he could comprehend.

Lorraine sat watching a movie, her feet resting on Jake's knees and Tiger at their feet. Jake had consumed his bottle of wine, and Tiger the charred steaks, though at least the crab and the salad had been delicious.

'I got another job today,' Lorraine said. 'It's sort of connected to the Nathan case.'

'How come?' He stroked her legs.

'Well, apparently Nathan sold original paintings, then switched them when they were hung.' She explained the complex scam she believed Nathan had pulled, and that his attorney, her new client, had been one of its victims.

'How much were they worth?' Jake asked, draining his glass.

'That depends. I'm still trying to get to the bottom of it all, but Feinstein's down maybe two million.'

'And do you think this fake stuff had something to do with Nathan's murder?'

'I don't know. To be honest, all I do know is that somebody, somewhere, has a cache of art work worth a mint or else the mint. Maybe that was the motive for killing him, but with Cindy and Kendall both dead, it'll be hard to find out. Another odd thing is that there was a survivorship clause in the will, some tax-saving scam, Feinstein says, which meant that both Cindy and Kendall had to survive Nathan by sixty days before the gifts to them took effect. Since neither of them made it, everything, or whatever is left of Nathan's estate minus the art, goes to his first wife, Sonja Nathan. The house will be the main asset, as any cash Nathan got from the fraud he had stashed in secret accounts.'

'How will you go about tracing hidden bank accounts?' Jake asked, and Lorraine grinned and pushed him. 'No, I'm serious,' he said. 'How do you do that? If different names have been used, how do you trace them to Nathan?'

'Well, you start with his papers,' Lorraine said, tilting her head to one side. 'Nobody ever has anything that well hidden there's always some kind of documentation somewhere. Then you look into travel, abroad or otherwise, and start checking you know, do you know this man, et cetera. It's a long, slow process.'

'So it'll be a nice cash cow for you?' he said.

She nodded. 'It'll also mean a lot of painstaking enquiries.' Lorraine's face clouded as she thought about Decker. 'Maybe I should call home, see if he's left a message.'

Burton poured the dregs of the wine bottle into his glass and studied it for a moment. 'Have you ever thought about . . .' He stopped, and sipped the wine.

Lorraine had the phone in her hand. 'Thought about what?'

'Well, I know you have two daughters.'

She replaced the phone. 'Yes, Julia and Sally.'

He leaned against the back of the sofa, looking at her. 'You want any more kids?'

'What?'

He turned away. 'I'd like a family. I just wondered if you . . .'

'With you?'

'No, with Burt Lancaster. Who the hell do you think?'

She crossed to him and slipped her arms around his shoulders. 'You're serious about us getting married?'

'Okay, I have to admit that when I said it, I kinda had heart failure. I'd not even thought about it and it must have sounded crazy. But I've had time to think and maybe why I did say it was because I was feeling like a kid on acid! That was the way you made me feel. Now I'm calmer, I've had time to think and I wouldn't change that moment for the world. I know it's what I want, so, if you want me to ask you again, I will. You want me to ask you again?' He took her hand and drew her down to sit beside him, and she nestled into his arms, curling her legs onto the sofa.

'It's all moving so fast. Don't get me wrong I like it this way, but . . .' She closed her eyes, and he rested his chin against her head. 'First we have to find a nice place, move in, get settled, but . . .'

'You okay?' Jake whispered.

Lorraine couldn't stop the tears from streaming down her face.

'I'm sorry if what I said upset you but we do need to talk about our future.'

She couldn't speak. The tears kept on coming, and every time she tried to say something she felt as if her throat was being squeezed.

'Maybe I've moved things on too fast. It's just that, now I've found you, I don't want to waste any time. But you can tell me to put the breaks on. All you've got to do is tell me, but we have to talk, Lorraine.'

She broke away, wiping her cheek with the back of her hand, and her words came out in spluttering gasps as her chest heaved. 'I want to talk to you too, I want-' She started to sob, and he made no effort to stop her, as if he knew she had to let her feelings out before she could calm down. She gasped for breath, determined to get it out, to tell him that she wanted his child more than anything else in the world. The thought of carrying Jake's baby made her heart swell. She would be a part of him, have a future with him and be protected by him. Knowing for sure that he really loved her, that what had seemed too good to be true was not fantasy but reality, made the terrible darkness she lived with roll away. She felt as if a burden had been lifted from her soul, and that she was forgiven, cleansed. 'I want your child . . . I never want to lose you, I love you.'

They embraced, broke away from each other, laughed, kissed and kissed again. For the first time in years, she was truly happy, and it was a blissful state, a feeling she had believed she would never be allowed to know or enjoy. Leaning back against him, curled beside him, she whispered, 'I am so happy . . .'

Lorraine left at seven, having stayed the night with Burton, and as she walked Tiger in the early morning, the smile never left her lips. She went home, fed the dog, showered and changed for the office. Just as she was leaving she noticed the light on her answerphone blinking. She pressed the button, but could hardly make out what the caller was saying. He was sobbing. She knew, though, that something terrible had happened. As the message continued, and it became clear what it was, she had to sit down.

Lorraine drove to Decker's home in Ashcroft Avenue as though on automatic pilot. The neat bungalow was in a row of equally well-kept small houses, and was painted a smart navy blue with the windows, doors and eaves picked out in white. Lorraine parked on San Vincente, fed the meter, and walked, in a mechanical, non-aware state, up the hand-laid brick steps to the house. The door opened. 'Come in.' Adam Elliot was wearing a terrycloth robe, and his face was ashen, his eyes red from weeping. Lorraine said nothing as he led her down the hallway, every inch of wall space filled with paintings, prints, photographs and pieces of tribal and primitive art, which, she guessed, had been picked up on travels abroad. She could feel the woven coir matting beneath her shoes, and noticed that it was strangely dark. All the blinds and shutters in the house were drawn.

The kitchen was a blaze of colour, or would have been in normal light, as tangerine paint had been added in a vibrant drag effect over yellow walls. Well-tended ferns of all sizes and shapes and a little lemon tree were displayed in polished copper planters, which Lorraine recognized with a pang as the same as the one Decker had bought for the office. She sat at a table and Elliot poured her coffee. Her hand shook as she lifted the china cup to her lips. He sat opposite, lighting a cigarette, then looked at the stub. 'I gave up two years ago but I've smoked two packs since last night.'

The coffee tasted bitter, but stirred Lorraine into life.

'How did it happen?'

There was a long pause, then Elliot explained what had happened. 'I'm so sorry,' she said quietly.

There was another terrible pause. Elliot made no effort to check the tears that ran down the dark stubble on his face. 'I loved him so much.' The words were barely audible. 'I just don't see how I can go on without him.'

Lorraine stayed for almost an hour with Decker's lover, saying little, but listening to him and looking at the photo albums he showed her of how they had met and their life together. She remained calm, saying what she hoped were the right things, but Adam wasn't really listening he just needed to talk. He said the same things over and over again. Eventually he gave her three plastic carrier bags of things he had taken from the car, including Decker's notebook and the catalogues of paintings.

She sat in her car, still in a state of shock, then drove to her office. Everything seemed unnaturally clear and bright the doorman, the bell-boy, the decor in the lobby, the elevator. It was as if she was seeing everything for the first time, as if she had never been there before. She placed the plastic bags Adam had given her on Decker's desk and walked into her own office, shut the door and hung up her jacket.

It was deathly quiet, and there was no smell of fresh coffee. Lorraine bowed her head.

'Oh, Deck, I'm going to miss you so much.'

The coroner determined that death had been accidental, a conclusion consistent with the medical evidence. The speedometer of Decker's car had remained stuck at the speed he had been doing eighty-five miles per hour. The body was cremated at Forest Lawn, and the ashes placed in a niche after a short ceremony attended by many of Decker's relatives and friends. Lorraine stood at the back of the crowd, not knowing anyone, and she, too, wept.