by Peter Hartog
“Anything else besides a bedroom upstairs?” Deacon called out.
“Two rooms,” Natalie responded. “One is…was…Vanessa’s bed and bathroom, and the other was her office. Everything’s been tidied up, though. I never knew Van had a cleaning service.”
Deacon’s heavy boots clomped dully as he made his way to the upper floor. Besim and Leyla admired the paintings in the living room, affording us some privacy.
“Miss Bonner, I’m so sorry about your loss,” I began.
Tears welled in her eyes. I handed her my handkerchief.
“Thank you,” Natalie replied in a small voice, dabbing at her eyes. “Van was my best friend.” She trailed off, staring at the living room, her face stricken.
I wanted to reach over, take her hand in mine, and tell her everything would be all right. Instead, I studied her reactions, body language, and cues that might tip me off as to whether there was more to Natalie Bonner than first met the eye.
But there wasn’t any. True loss was hard to fake, and the young woman seated before me was as desolate as they came.
“I know this is very hard for you, but I need to ask you some questions,” I said, and let her know she was being recorded. “When was the last time you saw Vanessa?”
“Last Friday night, here,” Natalie answered immediately. “I brought takeout from Saigon Dragon, and we drank some wine. I’m in-between relationships and needed girl-time.”
I let my eyes wander to the kitchen counter behind Natalie. Three bottles of wine were lined up next to the refrigerator.
“Had you spoken with her since then?” I smiled, hoping the expression would ease some of Natalie’s discomfort.
“No, Detective. I spent the night on the couch, then left early the next morning. I tried calling her a few times, but she never answered.”
The young woman began to sob.
I gave her a few moments to collect herself. Besim and Leyla walked slowly around the living room. The Vellan appeared to be distracted, head cocked to one side, as if listening. A familiar tingling formed at the base of my neck, but I turned my attention back to Natalie.
“Do you know anyone who might want to hurt Vanessa?” I asked gently. “An old boyfriend, maybe, or co-worker? Someone she met online?”
Natalie wiped her nose with the handkerchief.
“No, Detective,” Natalie sighed, offering me a wistful smile. “She lived alone so she could focus on her art. I had been pushing her to get out more, though. Kept telling her she needed to meet new people instead of being cooped up in here breathing all that paint.”
“What about her family?”
My eyes shifted to Besim and Leyla, who had moved the couch and were staring up at a small ventilation cover. The tingling rose to my scalp, and the hair on my head stood on end.
Natalie shook her head and said, “Van’s aunt was her only family, but she never visited. I think they both preferred it that way. Van’s always been a loner, to be honest.”
The floorboards above creaked as Deacon moved about. I heard a door open and close.
“Did the two of you go out much?” I asked.
“Sometimes,” she replied, clasping her hands on the table. “We’d go to some dance clubs, catch a live show at one of the coffeehouses, that sort of thing.”
“You ever hear of Armin’s Coffee House?”
The young woman nodded. “We’ve been there many times.”
“Were you at Armin’s Sunday?” I asked.
“No,” she said. “I haven’t been back there in over a week.”
“Did Vanessa have any other friends, besides you?” I asked. “Anyone she might go out to Armin’s with, if you weren’t available?”
“I was her only friend, Detective Holliday.” Natalie regarded me with despondent brown eyes. “Van was shy, an introvert. She hated big crowds. I was all she had. We were like sisters. If there was anyone else in her life like that, I’d know.”
I wanted to question her further, but the tingling bored into my skull, and it was all I could do not to scream bloody murder. As I sat there, the feeling expanded into my mind. My vision blurred for a few seconds before clearing. My breathing shortened, and I became increasingly aware of the brightness in the room.
Besim called to Deacon. His heavy footfalls thundered down the stairs. She held out something in her palm for Deacon and Leyla, although I couldn’t see what it was.
In that moment, the Insight burst unbidden through my vision. There was something at play here, but I needed space and time, and couldn’t focus on it with Natalie present.
She noted my discomfort. “Are you all right?”
“I-I’m fine,” I lied with a crooked smile, and stood up unsteadily. “Miss Bonner, I know the past few days have been very hard on you, and I won’t trouble you anymore today. If you can think of anything at all relating to Vanessa and her murder, please don’t hesitate to contact me.”
I gave her my card and was relieved to see my hand wasn’t shaking. Natalie and I returned to the living room where she picked up her bag and umbrella, then bid us all a good day. Besim and Leyla smiled, while Deacon glowered at the walls with impatience.
Once the door closed, I sat heavily in the loveseat, my head held in my hands.
Leyla rushed to my side, but I waved her away.
“That Insight about ready now, Holliday?” Deacon asked quietly.
I looked up with gleaming, silvery light searing my vision to stare at the tiny object held in Besim’s hand.
“Yeah.”
Chapter 15
I don’t know where the Insight came from, but somehow, for some reason, I can work magic. To everyone else, my eyes appeared abnormally bright, with the pupils engorged and dilated. It’s a look akin to goldjoy, but silver instead of gold.
“This is where the fun begins,” I said, then frowned.
The device in Besim’s hand wasn’t the driving force here. Instead, I felt drawn upstairs, and staggered away as if drunk.
“Doc,” Leyla called out to me. “Where are you going?”
I waved at her absently but didn’t respond. Deacon had left the lights on upstairs, otherwise I would’ve crashed into everything. The Insight granted me true sight, not night vision.
Well, not yet.
A thin, mauve-colored carpet covered the floor, but was springy despite its worn look. I walked down the hallway, past Vanessa’s office, and into her bedroom. A twin bed with a folded, handmade afghan blanket settled in between a faux-wood nightstand and narrow dresser opposite the door. A few odds-and-ends were scattered atop the nightstand and dresser, including a plain jewelry box and various keepsakes. There were no holo-frames or other mementos. To the right was the bathroom. Inside was a vanity with a mirror, toilet, and stand-up shower.
The bedroom doubled as her studio. Four seascape paintings hung along the walls in simple frames. The scent of lemon permeated the air, but underneath there were hints of fixative and other chemicals used in art supplies. An empty easel stood on top of a stained drop cloth in the corner by the lone window, with several canvases leaning against the wall, which was abutted by a narrow work table. It held a variety of plastic containers and bins, as well as different sizes and styles of brushes, a paint-spattered mixing tray, and dozens of small, labeled bottles. Attached to the top of the easel was a covered extension lamp. The window had a small lever at its base used to crank it open and shut. The glass was clear, but the rain and mist outside prevented me from seeing much, other than splashes of outdoor lights from neighbors’ homes.
I heard the others downstairs discussing the tiny device, but I ignored them. I couldn’t afford the distraction.
Bending down, I thumbed through the canvases. All of them were unfinished sketches of seascapes without a lick of paint on them. My preternatural sense detected the slight difference in size and weight between the last canvas and the others, something I would have easily missed otherwise.
I placed the canvas on the eas
el. It depicted a broad expanse of beach interspersed with scrub grasses, seagulls and a rolling tide. However, as my eyes swept the drawing, I made out subtle hints of another image hiding behind the first. I withdrew my pocketknife and made a narrow cut about the length of my index finger. Stowing the knife, I leaned in for a closer look, then stepped back. I pressed my fingers into the cut, tearing it wide to reveal another painting hidden underneath.
Unlike the seascapes, this one held the self-portrait of Vanessa seated in a chair opposite her reflection in a long dressing mirror. About half of the rendering bore light paint, with the remainder as penciled-in sketch work. Each woman wore different clothing and hairstyle. The level of detail involved was striking.
Vanessa’s reflection was the unfinished rendering, a stark contrast to the completed, colored version opposite. And yet, the plain reflection held so much more depth and emotion. Although they were both seated, I felt the tension radiating from the unpainted version. The reflection’s eyes were wide and her face full of expression, while the other Vanessa remained placid, an empty husk. It was as if the reflection wanted to leap through the mirror but was bound to her chair with invisible rope.
Even without the Insight, the artist’s message was clear.
Fear.
But fear of what? Fear of whom?
As I drew closer to the painting, I noticed other, subtler details. Her unique style became apparent to me: the angle of her strokes, her effort and precision and the exact amount of paint she’d used.
Then the Insight took me further down the rabbit hole.
I stumbled backward in time. The window stood open. Soft daylight spilled into the room. I smelled fresh paint. A cool breeze wafted around, carrying with it the loamy aroma of autumn. Faint music played from down the hall, some catchy acoustic number sung with a woman’s warbled voice.
Vanessa stood before her easel, red hair tied in a ponytail. A slight tremor shook her hand holding the pencil as she contemplated the blank canvas. Her white shirt and denim overalls were covered in dried color, and she was barefoot.
I lost track of how long she stood poised before the empty canvas with a determined look on her face, as if willing images to spring to life. A deep breath, and then she went to work, with quick, deft movements. The story of this unfinished painting unfolded, and I sensed her conflict, the turmoil in her life and the fear underlining everything.
I blinked.
My world shifted.
I stared at the unfinished painting, and I understood.
There was something else at play here, some hidden message unearthed by the Insight. I picked out discrepancies between the images of the two women, the curve of a lip here, the tilt of the head there, a stray lock of hair on the shoulder. This wasn’t some self-portrait. These were deliberate details highlighting distinct differences between two women.
I wasn’t looking at Vanessa’s reflection. I was looking at someone else entirely.
Vanessa had a twin.
The Insight rushed from me like water from a broken dam. My legs turned to jelly, and I slumped to the floor. My eyes closed, but I couldn’t shake the images of what I’d just seen.
As aftereffects went, this wasn’t so bad.
I heard the others coming up the stairs but didn’t bother getting to my feet. The floor wasn’t going anywhere, and I was content to let the rest of the world get on with itself.
“Doc!” Leyla burst into the room with Deacon and Besim close behind. She knelt by my side. “You’re burning up!”
My body was bathed in sweat. I felt the heat in my cheeks and ears, but Leyla’s cold hand on my forehead evened me out.
Besim contemplated the unfinished painting on the easel, her arms folded, and a finger pressed to her lips. Deacon removed the paintings from the walls, stacking them on the bed.
“Found ya!” he crowed triumphantly.
I opened my eyes and winced.
“Fucking empty,” Deacon complained. “Goddamn cleaners were thorough.”
“Yeah, but not perfect,” Leyla enthused. “Thanks to Besim!”
The consultant offered a small smile but didn’t respond. She traced her fingers over the painting without touching its surface.
“Our girl was being watched,” Deacon explained, standing beside a small hole in the wall about half the size of my open palm. “You can bet your ass there were more of them little fuckers here. Got three holes downstairs. And the device Saranda found is some serious high-grade shit.”
He moved into the bathroom.
I rubbed at my temples. The world was no longer spinning. I rose unsteadily to my feet. Leyla shot me a concerned look. I returned it with a weak smile.
“I’m fine, kiddo.”
She searched my face, then nodded.
“I’m going to check out Vanessa’s workstation,” she said, casting me one final look before leaving the room.
I moved to the hole in the wall. It was shallow and empty. I considered retrieving the scanner to look for fingerprints but decided against it. Judging by what we’d already seen at Tony’s apartment, it was unlikely we’d find anything.
I walked back to the easel.
“May I see the device?” I asked Besim.
Besim reached into a coat pocket to hand me a clean white handkerchief. Within its folds was a small piece of inert technology with a tiny lens and casing. It bore no identifying marks or serial numbers.
“You heard this?” I asked.
“I heard the lens turn in its casing as it focused,” she answered.
“Well it doesn’t seem to be working now,” I remarked while studying the little device. “Battery die?”
Besim glanced down. “It was disabled remotely. The moment the ventilation cover was removed, the device ceased functioning.”
“Whoever’s on the other side of that thing can’t be happy we found their toy,” I stated, depositing it in an evidence bag.
“Jesus Christ,” Deacon swore, then stepped back into the bedroom. “There must’ve been a camera in her shower head. I found a hidden compartment there too. What’d you find?”
“It’s a message,” I replied, then paused for dramatic effect. “Vanessa has a twin.”
I wasn’t disappointed. Besim’s eyebrows nearly jumped off her forehead.
“The Insight showed you that?” Deacon asked.
I pointed out the differences between the two drawings.
“Hot damn,” Deacon whistled. “Can you run her image and ID her?”
“Already on it. Just give me a second,” I said, then contacted EVI. “Hello, sweetie. How are you feeling?”
“Good evening, Detection Hollowsway,” came her garbled reply. “My function…ality…remains impartial. Repairs are…spastic.”
“You poor thing,” I grimaced, glancing at the painting. “Listen, scan the image I’m looking at. I want you to run it through the GPD to find out who this is.”
“Of course, Detection Hallowedway,” she said in between several pops and crackles. “However, funk…shun…ality is limited. It will take several days.”
“I know, sweetie,” I said ruefully. “Do what you can.”
“Doc, would you come in here?” Leyla called from the office. “You’re going to want to see this.”
I put the evidence bag inside my blazer pocket as both Deacon and I vacated the bedroom. Besim remained at her post, brow furrowed in concentration at the unfinished painting.
Vanessa’s office consisted of a virtual workstation, more seascapes hanging on the walls, a daybed and not much else. An open window in the wall behind the workstation filled the office with cold air. Now that my internal thermometer had corrected itself, I went over and shut the window. Several holo-windows hovered before us, colored displays from Vanessa’s workstation.
“It was just getting nice in here,” Leyla grumbled, flicking her hand at several holo-windows, skimming them out of the air and replacing them with others.
One held the logo for Hu
ghes Advertising, while others showed Vanessa’s art homepage, favorite social media sites, and a variety of messages on colored stationery.
“What’d you find?” Deacon asked from the doorway.
Leyla waved her hand several more times, sending a kaleidoscope of images spiraling before me.
“That’s just it,” she said. “Everything appears normal.”
“I don’t understand.” I gave Leyla a blank look.
She rolled her eyes in dramatic fashion. “Must I explain everything?”
“Please, oh guru of tech!” I pressed the flats of my hands together. “Please enlighten us poor, unwashed fools of the greatness that is you!”
“Jerk.” Leyla punched me in the shoulder, hard, then turned to Deacon. “I went through all of her directories, registries, folders, caches, hidden caches, pretty much everything this workstation and her online history contained. Her security was about as complicated as Doc’s love life.”
“But I don’t have a love life.”
“Exactly,” Leyla continued without batting an eye. “By the way, her passwords are all ‘Oliver.’ The point is, Vanessa’s station looks ordinary, so ordinary that I’d say it was set up to fool the casual observer. Lucky for you, I’m now on the case. I think those cleaner guys came in here and wiped everything out. They probably used a cheap variation of a Vortex Hack to break her stuff apart, take the pieces they wanted, and rearranged the rest, without the lemony-fresh scent.”
“Can you figure out what they took?” Deacon asked.
Leyla shook her head.
“Nope, all that data is lost. The hack strips the information from all of Vanessa’s network data sources and rewrites the code. What’s left is all surface stuff, and not worth looking at.”
She lowered her hands, shutting down the workstation.
“Deacon, you said the device is high-grade,” I said, eyes narrowing. “Are you talking military-grade?”
“Yeah,” he nodded. “By my count, there was one in every room, probably one in that workstation and one at each exit.”
“What do we do now?” Leyla’s eyes were bright with excitement. “Should we call for backup?”