Double Image (13 page)

“No, that doesn’t sound right,” Coltrane said.

“How come?”

“The garage has room for only one car — typical of the thirties. But the vault seems bigger, almost the size of a
double
garage.”

“So the renovation was more like an addition,” Jennifer said.

“I could be wrong. I felt a little queasy in there.”

“Well, I felt the same, and I’ve never been claustrophobic. The vault can’t be
that
much bigger than the garage if we both felt hemmed in.” Jennifer checked a detail on the blueprints. “The garage is fifteen feet square. Since we don’t have the blueprint for the renovation, I guess there’s only one way to tell how much room was added. Pace it off. Have you got the key?” Jennifer unlocked the door and pushed it open.

As cool air cascaded out, the darkness made Coltrane shiver. “Ah, if you don’t mind, I’ll wait out here.”

“Since when have you been claustrophobic?”

“Only when I’m in that vault.”

Reaching to the left, Jennifer flicked the light switch on the inside wall. An oppressive overhead glare made Coltrane squint, seeming to reflect off the concrete floor, revealing the stark gray metal library shelves.

“One, two . . .” Jennifer entered, pacing the vault.

“Definitely bigger,” she said when she came back. “The garage is fifteen feet wide, but this is twenty-five.”

“Closer to thirty,” Coltrane said.

“What do you mean?”

He gestured toward a corridor next to the vault. “I paced it from the outside.”

“Thirty? Are you sure? We must have paced it differently.”

“Probably we did. But since my feet are longer than yours,
I’m
the one who should have the lower number. You should have needed
more
paces and have had the higher number.”

“We’re doing something wrong. Let’s try it again. This time,
you
go in.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“I’ve never seen you so timid.”

She’s right, Coltrane thought. What’s the matter with me? I have to get over this. Ignoring pressure in his chest, he braced himself. The glare became harsher, the temperature cooler, the air thicker as he forced himself to enter the vault. “One, two . . .”

He restrained himself from walking fast. It’s only a windowless room, he told himself. He breathed easier when he returned to Jennifer in the welcoming light. “I got more or less what you did: twenty-five feet.”

“Then we’re still doing something wrong.” Jennifer frowned. “I paced off the corridor and got what
you
did: thirty feet. How can a room be—” She spun in alarm. “
Somebody’s in the house
.”

AS THE FRONT DOOR CLICKED SHUT, Coltrane rushed toward the stairs. Above him, the landing creaked. A figure appeared, hands raised.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” the man said.

Coltrane faltered, his heart no longer hammering as he took in the red jacket that Duncan Reynolds wore.

“It’s just that we weren’t expecting visitors,” Coltrane said.

Duncan put a key in his jacket. “I was in the neighborhood, so I thought I’d drop by and see how you were settling in. I’d have phoned, but . . .”

“There
isn’t
a phone.”

“Exactly. I don’t want to intrude. If this is a wrong time.”

“Not at all,” Coltrane said. “I want you to meet my friend Jennifer Lane. Jennifer, this is Randolph Packard’s assistant, Duncan Reynolds.”

They shook hands.

Still calming herself, Jennifer smiled. “It must have been fascinating working for a genius.”

“
Fascinating
’s one word. So is
hair-raising
. I finally decided to call it an adventure.”

“Can I get you some coffee?” Coltrane led him up to the living room.

Duncan surveyed the sleeping bags next to the small artificial Christmas tree. “
This
looks like an adventure. About the coffee — no thanks. But something stronger would do nicely.”

“I’m afraid we didn’t buy . . .”

Duncan’s face drooped.

“But we did pick up some wine,” Jennifer said.

Duncan brightened. “Forgive the pun, but any port in a storm.”

“White or red?”

“Whatever you have more of.”

Jennifer headed to the left, toward the kitchen.

“We found a set of blueprints in the garage,” Coltrane said.

“Yes, I put them there,” Duncan said. “I discovered them when I was going through Randolph’s things at the Newport Beach house. I decided to bring them here before they got mislaid.”

“You didn’t happen to come across the blueprints for the renovation, did you?”

Duncan shook his head no. “I’ve still got a lot of things to sort through. Why?”

“Just curious. There’s a discrepancy that puzzles us.”

“Come into the kitchen,” Jennifer called.

“Excellent,” Duncan said. “We can talk while you pour.”

They crossed through the dining room, its chromium bead–draped walls reflecting light, and entered the sun-bathed kitchen. It had a butcher-block island in the middle, where Jennifer uncorked the wine. “Paper cups will have to do.”

“It’s the only way to go when you’re roughing it.”

“And I hope you like cabernet sauvignon.”

“I have what might be called an indiscriminate palate. It all tastes good to me.” Duncan sipped and nodded. “Perfect. You mentioned a discrepancy?”

“We were trying to figure out how much space had been added when the vault was installed,” Coltrane said. “We kept getting conflicting numbers. Do you have any idea when the vault was put in?”

Duncan took another sip. “All I know is, it was here when I came to work for Randolph in 1973.”

“Was he living here then?”

“No. If he ever lived in this house, I never heard him say so. But he certainly adored it. With the exception of the vault, he went to elaborate lengths to keep the property, including the landscaping, exactly the same as it had appeared when he took his photograph of it in 1933. Too bad the furniture was gone by the time you saw the interior.”

“Why?” Jennifer asked.

“It was the same furniture that was in the house when he photographed it.”

“You can’t be serious.” Coltrane leaned forward. “You mean imitations, right? The original furniture would have fallen apart by now.”

“Not
this
furniture.” Duncan wiped a purple drop from the edge of his mustache. “The furniture was designed by Warren McArthur, a noted modernist of the thirties. His work is characterized by shiny metal and glass. The supports were tubular. Everything glinted. Of course, the cushions eventually had to be replaced, but Randolph was careful to replicate the textured red fabric. Here and there, he also had some Mies van der Rohe chrome tables. You can understand why the furniture was removed. Those tables and sofas have considerable value. Christie’s is going to auction them.”

“I want you to bring them back,” Coltrane said.

Duncan almost spilled his wine. “Bring them back?”

“I want to buy them.”

“But you’re talking about an enormous price.”

“I want the house to be exactly as it was.”

Jennifer looked astounded.

“And I think it would be great if you could get me more information about the house’s history,” Coltrane said. “You told me Packard used this for an office, a darkroom, and an archive. But who lived here before he owned it? His biographers say it was designed for a film producer named Winston Case. Is that who Packard bought it from, or did somebody else own it in the meantime? What about
after
he bought it? Did someone else live here then?”

“But it was all so long ago. Why should it matter?”

Coltrane didn’t have an answer.

THE LAST RAYS OF SUNSET AGAIN OUTLINED SIX BASKETBALL players on a court at Muscle Beach in Venice: the same court where Coltrane had met Greg the previous day. Almost exactly twenty-four hours ago, Coltrane thought. Seated with Jennifer on the same level of the same concrete bleacher at the sideline, an eerie sense of doubling overtook him.

“Greg ought to be here anytime now,” Coltrane said.

An ocean breeze made Jennifer shiver. “I’m surprised he didn’t ask you to meet him at the police station.”

“He lives only a few blocks away. I guess he figured it would be more convenient to meet down here.”

The sun dipped into the ocean, its crimson now so faint that the players stopped. Coltrane overheard their conversation: gibes at one another, plans to get a beer, promises to meet next week. Déjà vu made him squirm.

The players headed along the walkway. The sun eased below the horizon. Skateboarders became fewer as the temperature cooled. Streetlights struggled to dispel the darkness.

“He’s fifteen minutes late,” Coltrane said.

“Maybe he got held up by a phone call.”

“Greg has a thing about being on time. I’ve never known him to keep me waiting.”

Another fifteen minutes passed.

“It must be an awfully long phone call,” Jennifer said. “So what do you think we should do?”

“I guess we don’t have any choice except to stay here until—”

“Is that him?”

Coltrane looked toward where Jennifer pointed. A heavyset man wearing sneakers, jeans, and a leather windbreaker stepped from behind a shadowy wall next to the court and approached them.

“No.” Uneasy, Coltrane stood.

“Does he look like Ilkovic?”

“I can’t tell in the dark at this distance. He doesn’t have a mustache. But Ilkovic might have shaved his.”

They stepped from the bleachers.

“He keeps coming in this direction,” Jennifer said.

“Then why don’t we walk in
that
direction.”

They started past palm trees, heading up the beach.

The man followed.

“Shit,” Coltrane said.

They started to run.

“Wait!” the man called.

They ran faster.

“Mr. Coltrane, stop! Lieutenant Bass sent me!”

They faltered.

As the man hurried to catch up, Coltrane turned, straining to see in the shadows, wondering if he was making a mistake. His misgivings lessened when a streetlight revealed the badge the man pulled out.

“I work with Lieutenant Bass in the Threat Management Unit,” the man said. Tall, he had a solid-looking body, his chest, shoulders, and upper arms developed like a weight lifter’s. His brown hair was trimmed to almost military shortness. His matching brown eyes had a no-nonsense steadiness. “Sergeant Nolan.”

Coltrane shook hands with him — not surprisingly, Nolan’s grip had force — then introduced Jennifer.

“Greg couldn’t get here?” Coltrane asked.

“It’s complicated. He didn’t think it would be safe.”

Jennifer visibly tensed.

“I’ve been watching you to see if
anybody else
is watching you,” Nolan said.

“And?” Apprehensive, Coltrane glanced around. It was hard to tell in the darkness, but the beach seemed deserted.

For the first time, Nolan’s gaze lost its steadiness. “Why don’t we get out of the open? We need a place to talk.”

THE RESTAURANT HAD A CHEERY CHRISTMAS ATMOSPHERE — a tinsel-covered tree in a corner, strings of winking lights on the walls, tiny wreaths around candles on the tables, all of which were lost on Coltrane as he and Jennifer sat across from Nolan. Again, Coltrane endured an intense overlapping of time, as though he still sat across from Greg the previous evening.

“Okay, the good news first,” Nolan said. “Lieutenant Bass contacted the FBI, who in turn got in touch with the UN war-crimes tribunal. Interpol got involved. They’re trying to find how Ilkovic left Europe. The FBI’s doing the same on
this
end — to learn how he entered the country. They’re checking the passenger manifests on all flights that came into this country from Europe during a one-week time frame: from when you left Bosnia to when you started getting the messages on your answering machine. The UN tribunal has asked various European nations to compare the names on those airline manifests to lists of sanctioned passport holders. The FBI’s doing the same with passports issued by the United States. If we can determine the alias Ilkovic is using, that’ll take us a long way toward tracking him down.”

“Assuming he keeps the name he traveled under,” Coltrane said.

“Assuming.” Nolan looked uncomfortable. “Meanwhile, an LAPD bomb squad went through your town house. Behind your furnace, they found enough plastic explosive to level half the block.”

“That’s the
good
news?” Jennifer murmured.

“After the bomb was disabled, a team of LAPD electronic-surveillance specialists went through your home. Ilkovic had microphones in every room. I hope you didn’t discuss any secrets there.”

Coltrane felt as if a chunk of glass was wedged in his throat.

“They also found microphones in your friend’s place next door,” Nolan said, “and at
your
place, Ms. Lane.”

“Jesus,” she said.

“I don’t know what you mean by good news,” Coltrane said. “I haven’t heard any so far.”

“It’s
very
good. Where did Ilkovic get the plastic explosive? The microphones — where did
they
come from? Every alphabet-soup agency you can think of is following those leads. A lot of muscle is being flexed to give you help.”

“Then if everything’s so positive, why do you look like you need root canal?”

Nolan glanced down at his hands, then fixed his gaze on Coltrane, reluctantly continuing. “The reason Lieutenant Bass didn’t meet you as planned is that you were followed when you went to talk to him yesterday.”

“What?”

“After you and he concluded your conversation and separated, the person who followed you — we have to assume it was Ilkovic — shifted his attention to Lieutenant Bass.”

“Are you telling me something happened to Greg?”

“No. Lieutenant Bass—”

“Stop calling him that. Please. He’s my friend. Call him—”

“Greg hasn’t been harmed. Nor has his family.”

Coltrane breathed out.

“But last night, his home was broken into.”

“
What
?”