A collective moan went up, and Lorraine swore she had been cutting it fine anyway, and now she doubted that she would catch the plane. The frustrating thing was that all she could do was sit and wait. She had been unable to concentrate on the book she'd bought, about art fraud through the centuries, so she opened her notebook. There were a few leads she could take further, but she was really no closer to finding either the missing money or the paintings than when she had first arrived.

She turned to a clean page. What if Nathan had poured the money from the sale of the paintings back into his films? If that was the case, then there must be some record, but the investigation was cold. What if Nathan's brother had worked the fakes scam? He was family, would have got a slice of the money, and might even know where Harry had stashed it. She had to see him.

The bus jolted, advanced a few hundred yards, Lorraine stared out of the window. One of the vehicles going in the opposite direction was a cream Rolls-Royce, which brought Raymond Vallance to her mind.

What had made him kill himself? She turned to a fresh page in her notebook. Harry Nathan dead, shot. Cindy Nathan dead, probably murdered by Vallance. Kendall Nathan dead, accidental fire? Raymond Vallance dead, suicide. Lorraine tapped her teeth with the pen. Was it all a bit coincidental? Could Sonja have threatened him with the videotapes? What if there was no coincidence, but intent? She grimaced.

The bus moved forward another hundred yards before it stopped again, but Lorraine wasn't counting the minutes until her flight to LA. She had made up her mind that Santa Fe was her next destination.

CHAPTER 17.

BY THE time Lorraine arrived in New York it was almost eleven thirty p.m. and her flight to Los Angeles had long gone. She booked into the Park Meridian hotel and started to make some calls. She had to arrange travel to Santa Fe, first thing in the morning, and she knew she had to call Jake. As she dialled his number, part of her longed to hear his voice, but the other part, knowing what she was about to say, hoped that his answerphone would pick up.

Jake answered the phone almost immediately it rang.

'Lorraine!' he said, pure pleasure in his voice. 'Where are you? Do you want me to come pick you up?'

'Actually,' she began weakly, 'I'm still in New York.'

'New York?' he repeated, unable to mask his disappointment. 'What are you doing there?'

Well,' she said, 'I got stuck in traffic and I missed the flight.'

'What a drag,' he said sympathetically. 'Can you get a flight in the morning?'

'Oh, sure,' Lorraine said. 'It's just that I have to make a detour, just for a day, to interview someone.'

'Where to?' he asked.

'Santa Fe. Nathan's brother is an artist out there I think he might have been the one forging the paintings. I'm pretty sure it was him and that'll wrap up the case I mean, I can't just dump Feinstein, I said I'd try to trace his art . . .'

'Lorraine,' Jake said gently, 'you don't have to make excuses to me about doing your job.'

'I know, it's just that I don't want you to think I don't care about you. I'd give anything to be coming straight home.'

'I know you would,' he said. 'Don't worry about it. When will I see you?'

'Tomorrow or at worst the day after.'

'That's okay,' he said, with a laugh. 'I waited for you for forty-five years so I figure I can manage another forty-eight hours.'

'This is going to be the last time I go away like this,' she said. 'I'm winding up the agency after this case just as soon as I can get Feinstein off my back.'

'You don't have to do that, sweetheart,' Jake said, clearly taken aback. 'Why don't we talk about it when you get back?'

'I don't need to talk about it,' Lorraine said. 'It's my decision and I've thought about it. Bill Rooney was right you get dirty in this business, dealing with sick people, damaged people, crooks all day. I've had enough.'

'Well,' Jake said, 'let's see if you feel the same way when you come home. It sounds as though the case still has its teeth in you for now.'

'Yeah, I know,' she said wryly. 'Don't worry, I can cut loose.'

'Sure you can,' he said, with a laugh. 'Hurry home.'

God, she thought, what had she done to deserve a guy like that? And why had she put off calling him for so long? She had assumed he would be irritated and resentful that she had been delayed, but it was clear that his only concern was to make life easier for her. There weren't many like him out there.

Next she called Rosie, who had now met Jake when he had brought Tiger around. 'You're a lucky lady he loves you, and he was open about it, came right out with it. He said he was gonna marry you, and me and Bill never even mentioned it, I swear.'

Lorraine felt warm inside. 'He said that to you?'

'Yeah, and to Bill like he wanted our approval. He and Bill got on like a house on fire, and you know what a prick Bill can be. Well, they acted like old buddies, and the best thing is, Jake started asking about Mike and your girls. He said he felt you should get to know them. I think he kinda wants a family . . . are you there? Hello?'

'Yes, Rosie, I'm here.'

'He also said he was missing you and you didn't call often enough.'

'Well,' Lorraine said, 'I just called him, so that's taken care of.'

'About time!' Rosie said. 'This one you don't let off the hook.'

Lorraine felt so good she laughed.

Then Rosie told Lorraine that all she wanted was for her to find the same happiness she had found, and she reckoned that, of all the people she knew, Lorraine deserved it the most. 'See, I love you, and so does Bill.'

Lorraine lay back on the bed. 'I love you, too, and I'll see you both very soon.'

'How soon is that?' Rosie asked. 'Something tells me it's slightly later than planned.'

Well,' Lorraine said sheepishly how well her friend knew her! 'I got a bit of a lead on this case, so I'm going to Santa Fe just one interview, then I'll be on my way home.'

'Lorraine!' Rosie said, exasperation in her voice. 'There's some things more important than this case and that interview, you know. You gotta take care of the rest of your life.'

'Jake'll take care of me for the rest of my life,' Lorraine said, knowing that that was what her friend wanted to hear. 'Just after this one interview, okay? I'm still working for Feinstein and I can't just drop the case.'

'Okay,' Rosie said resignedly. 'We'll take care of Tiger, and I'll stop by your place and water the plants. It's hot as hell here.'

'Can you check my fridge too? And there's a crate of dog food under the sink.'

'Okay, he sure does eat. So when will you be back?'

'Tomorrow evening, next day at worst.'

'I'll be waiting.'

'Great, see you then and, Rosie, give that Bill Rooney a big hug from me.'

'I will. 'Bye now.' Rosie hung up.

Lorraine rolled off the bed, her spirits high. She took a shower, washed her hair and got into bed. It was just after two, and she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

It was only six when she woke up, but she couldn't go back to sleep. As there was still an hour before the breakfast she'd ordered would arrive, she got up and sat at the writing desk in her room. Just as she had on the bus from the Hamptons, she went over the case her last case, she said to herself, and as it was the last, she would not rest until she'd cracked it.

Something still unexplained which irked Lorraine was the phone call, apparently from Cindy, that she had received the day Nathan died. Lorraine would have bet her bottom dollar that it was either Kendall or Sonja, and if so, one of them had known about the murder virtually at the time it was committed. Or had Cindy called one of them to ask for help, and then that person had called Lorraine? Kendall would not have given Cindy the time of day, but Sonja had seemed to feel some measure of concern for her that had struck Lorraine as odd because she did not consider Sonja either caring or altruistic.

She was still sitting hunched over her notebook when her breakfast arrived. Half an hour later, Reception called to say her car was waiting to take her to the airport.

Sonja lay back in the luxurious, king-sized bed, her breakfast tray beside her. She had arranged a hair-dressing appointment, manicure and massage in the hotel, leaving plenty of time to prepare for the flight, and was looking forward to being back in Europe again. She always looked on the Old World, where she had grown up, as home. Harry was dead, Raymond was dead, and she had vowed that the years of pain and obsession would be buried with them. She would choose the right man now where she had chosen the wrong one before, would choose a real life now over a living death. There was just one final statement she had to make.

Arthur, smart in a navy suit with broad pinstripes, walked in from the dining area with an armful of newspapers. 'Vallance got good coverage they're using photographs of him from back in the fifties. There's the New York Times, LA Times, Variety . . .' He had not questioned Sonja any further about Vallance's death, fearful of disturbing the fragile equilibrium of her mood.

Sonja read the articles, then turned to the arts page in the LA Times. She glanced over at Arthur. 'You read this?' Arthur sat on the edge of the bed and Sonja went on, 'It's about the fiasco in Spain at the Prado they fired some art historian who wrongly hailed some painting found in the archives as an undiscovered Goya. It was already registered as a Mariano Salvador Maella.'

Arthur picked up a piece of toast and bit into the crust. 'He was one of Goya's contemporaries, lesser known, but how the hell they could confuse his work with Goya's is beyond me.'

Sonja continued to read, then looked over at him again. 'They only had a preliminary sketch listed as Maella and registered in their records.'

'Typical,' he said, shrugging. 'But these national art galleries have so many political strings attached and are run by assholes.'

'It says that they should have bought Goya's Marianito?

'Better still, they should have snapped up Condesa de Chinchon it's recognized as his best work. That's in private hands, though.'

'Is it?' Sonja peered at the paper. 'They say they don't have the funds to do renovations so that they can show one of the finest art collections in the world. It's bursting at the seams with nine out of ten of its treasures buried in vaults for lack of space . . .' She smiled at him. 'Would you like to be let loose in there?' He wandered to the window without replying. 'Could you do a Goya?' she asked, turning to the fashion page.

'No. I can't do anyone that good every brushstroke is a signature. The stuff Harry had wasn't in the same class.'

She lowered the paper. 'Are you all right? Not nervous about the deal, are you?' He kept his back to her, so she crossed to him. 'What's the matter?'

'Nothing.'

He tried to move away, but she caught his arm. 'Tell me what it is.'

'It's nothing, sweetheart. Now, if you're going to get your hair done, I should-'

'I don't need to. I can stay with you.'

'Don't be stupid. Not that you need any primping I love you any way you look.'

She reached up and touched his cheek. 'Thank you, but it gives me confidence to look good. You know how I hate standing up on platforms, let alone giving speeches. Though this will be the last one.'

'Sonja, don't talk that way. You'll work again if you want to. Just give it time.'

'I've given all the time I intend to give to my work in this lifetime,' Sonja said, a trace of bitterness in her voice. 'That's over now. Harry killed something deep inside me, and it just won't come alive again.'

She was about to say more, but Arthur swore, almost frightening her. The tension he had been suppressing since he walked into the room now rushed to the surface in a torrent of words. 'He's dead, Sonja, for God's sake the man is dead. You make everything I am, everything we are, second best, second rate. Whenever you bring up that son-of-a-bitch and you do, at every opportunity-'

'I certainly don't,' Sonja said, needled. 'I don't know what more I could have done to put him out of my life. It was just that PI asking questions about him stirred up the memories again.'

'Really? Well, I'm sick of hearing his name, and I've been patient, but I don't know how much longer I can go on living with just the leftovers. I don't want to hear about him any more. Whatever he did, whatever happened between you, is in the past, and if you want to keep it in the present, then I'm past, Sonja, because I can't take it. I never wanted to get involved in this paintings scam, I did it for you. I-'

'It's going to make you very rich,' Sonja snapped.

Arthur moved quickly across the room and grabbed her. 'You don't hear me, Sonja. Believe me, I know how much we'll be worth. We've had to wait for it long enough, but without you, and I mean all of you, it won't mean anything. All I want is some kind of assurance that he's not going to dominate your life from his fucking grave. I don't understand how you can keep on and on about him, keep loving such a cheap bastard.'

'You think I still love him?'

'It's obvious. You can't stop talking about the man! You go on and on about him to anyone who'll listen, even to a woman digging around for stuff that could put us in jail. If that's not love, then . . .' He raised his hands in a helpless gesture.

Sonja put her arms around him. 'I don't love him, you big fool.'

He had to prise her away from him, wanting to look into her green-grey eyes see if she was lying. They were steady, and she didn't flinch from his gaze.

'I hated him, and I have hated with such intensity I have hardly been alive. He betrayed and destroyed everything I valued, he made everything I was meaningless. He threw all I had done for him back in my face, mangled all the love and care I gave him. It was as if he held me in his bare hands and kept wringing me like a rag, until-'

Arthur interrupted, his voice soft, 'I've heard this before, Sonja. I'm not listening to you, but you should listen to me. I don't want his leftovers, I need more and if you can't be free of him, then, for my own sanity, I have to be free of you.'

The phone rang and Arthur snatched it up, exchanged a couple of curt words with the caller, then said Sonja would be right down. 'The hair salon you're late.'

He made as if to leave, but she held out her arms to him in entreaty. This time he did not, as he always did, cradle her to him and say it was all right.

'I'll be ready in a couple of hours,' she said, letting her arms fall back by her sides. 'I'll never mention his name again.'

He wanted to smack her, shake her, throw her across the bed. He said, 'Not enough that's not enough. I don't give a shit if you talk about him, that's not what I've been trying to get across to you and you know it. Whether it's love or hate is immaterial. I'm just sick and tired of him being between us. When he was alive it was bad enough, but now he's dead . . . I sometimes wish to Christ I'd pulled the trigger.'

She gave a strange, sad smile. 'No, you didn't, but I did.'

He felt as if he'd been punched. He swallowed hard. 'Go and have your hair done.'

'I love you,' she said softly.

Arthur halted in his tracks. 'Say that again.'

She was smiling again now, but a different smile of fun and pleasure. 'I love you.' She laughed.

'No, what you said before that. After I said I wished I'd pulled the trigger. Repeat what you said.'

'I said I wished I did.'

'No, you didn't. You said, "I did."'

'Artistic licence I needed an exit line.'