Double Image

by David Morrell

  14

  J ENNIFER RUSHED INTO THE AIRPORT . While she bought tickets for America West’s 11:45 shuttle to Las Vegas, Coltrane left his car in the parking garage. Out of breath, they met at the gate as the straggle of late-night passengers was boarding. Placing himself at the end of the line, Coltrane checked to make sure that no one followed them into the aircraft. Only after the jet pulled away from the terminal did he breathe easier.

  “I need a drink,” Jennifer said.

  “Me, too. But I’m afraid I’ll have to settle for coffee. We need to be awake for quite awhile.”

  The jet arrived in Vegas at 12:44. They hurried to the America West counter and bought tickets on the next flight back to Los Angeles. By the time they reached the gate, the 1:45 shuttle was already boarding.

  “Lord, I hope this fools him,” Jennifer said.

  “I don’t see why it won’t work,” Coltrane said. “If Ilkovic did manage to follow us to the airport, we know he didn’t get on the plane with us. He has no way of figuring out we caught the next flight back to L.A. As far as he’s concerned, we’re in Vegas, and that’s where he has to search for us.”

  “But what about when we get to L.A.?” Jennifer’s usually bright eyes dimmed with exhaustion. “Where will we hide? A hotel?”

  “That’s the logical choice.”

  But Coltrane had another idea, although he didn’t tell her. Their plane reached LAX at 2:41. A van took them to the Avis lot, where a weary clerk gave Coltrane documents to sign.

  “A midsize car. Nothing flashy,” Coltrane said.

  “A Saturn all right?”

  “Perfect.” With so many Saturns on the road, nobody would notice another one.

  The dashboard clock showed 3:31 as they drove out of the lot. The streetlights hurt Coltrane’s eyes. Using La Cienega Boulevard, he headed into the heart of the temporarily quiet city.

  Jennifer yawned. “What hotel are we going to use?”

  “Greg doesn’t want us to go anyplace that’s fancy, where we’ll attract attention when we check in without luggage. I know a couple of quiet places in West Hollywood.”

  Jennifer yawned again. “As long as it’s got a decent bed.”

  “We’ll be a little while getting there. Why don’t you close your eyes and go to sleep?”

  Without traffic, Coltrane made good time, reaching his destination at 3:54. He got out of the car, unlocked the front door, and pressed buttons on an entryway monitor that disarmed the security system. To the left, he stepped into the single-stall garage and pressed a button that activated the door opener. As the overhead motor rumbled and the door rose, he returned to the car, pausing when he saw that Jennifer had wakened.

  Groggy, she rubbed her eyes. “Are we there? Is this the hotel?”

  “Yes, but it’s not exactly a hotel.”

  Jennifer concentrated to focus her vision, gaping through the windshield when she realized what she was seeing. The glare of the headlights revealed a house that resembled a castle, its coral-colored stucco lovely even when harshly lit, the edges of its parapets trimmed with green copper strips that glinted in the shape of pre-Columbian arrowheads.

  “Here?” she asked in disbelief.

  “Yes,” Coltrane said. “Packard’s house.”

  FIVE

  1

  B UT THIS IS CRAZY .” Jennifer’s voice echoed in the empty house. “We don’t have a right to be here. The neighbors will think we broke in. They’ll call the police.”

  “This late, I doubt anybody noticed, but just in case, we won’t turn on the lights,” Coltrane said. “Tomorrow morning, I’ll go around to the neighbors and explain that I’m buying the place, that the estate let me move in a little early.”

  He paused on the entryway’s landing, peering toward the darkness of the bottom floor. The vault was down there, and he had no intention of going in that direction. Upstairs, a night-light guided the way to the living room. Despite shadows, the white walls and hardwood floor looked clean and pure, myriad windows along the back wall enhancing a glow from streetlights and stars.

  “But suppose the neighbors don’t believe you,” Jennifer said. “Suppose the estate gave them a number to call if anything seemed wrong.”

  “The estate won’t have a problem.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Before I phoned you tonight, I called Packard’s assistant. While the Realtor’s getting the paperwork ready, it’s okay for us to stay here. That’s how I got the code for the security system. And we don’t have to worry about Ilkovic. He doesn’t know about this place.”

  “But he followed you to all the houses you photographed.”

  “Not this one,” Coltrane said. “When I saw the photographs he took of me, something seemed missing. Later, I realized what it was. There wasn’t any photograph of me at this house. He didn’t follow me that day.”

  “You can’t be sure. His camera might not have been working.”

  “That still doesn’t make a difference. Even if he did follow me, as far as he knows, this is just one more house in Packard’s series. He has no way to tell I’m planning to buy it. Granted, I went back there yesterday with you and Daniel, but we definitely know Ilkovic didn’t follow us then—because while we were gone, he was in my bedroom, setting up his surprise. He can’t know I’m interested. He doesn’t have the slightest reason to suspect I’d hide here tonight.”

  Clouds must have obscured the stars, because the room became darker.

  “You feel that certain,” Jennifer said.

  “Otherwise, I wouldn’t have come.”

  “You just can’t keep away from this house.”

  “Hey, it’s better than staying in a hotel.”

  “Is it? What kind of hold does Packard have on you?”

  2

  E VEN WITH SUNLIGHT STREAMING THROUGH THE WINDOWS , they managed to sleep until almost eleven.

  Jennifer stood awkwardly and rubbed her back. “Ouch.”

  Coltrane knew what she meant—from sleeping on the hardwood floor, his neck felt as if he’d been karate-chopped.

  “You really know how to show a girl a good time,” Jennifer said. Rummaging through a bag of toiletries that Coltrane had bought at a convenience store on the way from the airport, she pulled out toothpaste, a toothbrush, and a bottle of shampoo. “Salvation.”

  “Don’t forget the doughnuts I bought.”

  “If I weren’t so hungry, I would. Really, this would be paradise if only we had clean underwear.”

  Her sarcasm made him chuckle.

  “Some towels wouldn’t hurt,” she added.

  “Let’s make a supply run down to Hollywood Boulevard. First things first, though. I’d better speak to the neighbors.”

  “In that case, you’re going to need this.” Jennifer handed him shaving cream and a razor.

  By early afternoon, they returned with a fresh change of clothes, a coffeemaker, a few dishes and pans, and enough food to last them a couple of days. They scanned the street but didn’t see anyone who aroused their suspicion. They felt encouraged when they found that the alarm system was still engaged. But they didn’t relax until they had searched the house—except for the vault, which Coltrane had locked after showing it to Jennifer and Daniel the previous day, and which, Coltrane assured himself, remained that way.

  Only then did they carry in their purchases. Coltrane had never been much for Christmas decorations, but saying that he might as well make the house a home, he had bought a two-foot-tall artificial Christmas tree that had ornaments attached to it. He placed it in the middle of the living room and spread out two sleeping bags.

  “All the comforts,” he said.

  They showered and put on jeans and pullovers they had bought. Then they made coffee and munched on bagels topped with smoked salmon, sliced tomato, cream cheese, and capers.

  “I’m beginning to feel like a human being.” Jennifer stretched.

  “Don’t move.”

  “What’s w
rong?”

  “That pose is too good to . . .” Coltrane had kept his Nikon and his photographs when he abandoned his Blazer at the airport. He snapped her picture. “Beautiful.”

  “I hate to say this.”

  “Then you’d better not.”

  “No, you’ll want to hear it. This house is beginning to appeal to me. The space and—”

  “The light.”

  Jennifer nodded. “I imagine it with Art Deco furnishings.”

  “That would have been the style when this place was built.”

  “I wonder what it looked like when . . . Were you serious about wanting to rip out the vault and restore the house to its original design?”

  “Top of my list.”

  “Then maybe . . .”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “I’ll be right back,” Jennifer said.

  “Where are you going?”

  “The garage. When we carried the groceries in, I noticed something.”

  Coltrane raised his eyebrows with interest when she came back with a long cardboard tube.

  “This was on a shelf,” Jennifer said. “Whoever moved everything out of here was meticulous—no junk left behind, nothing. Except for this.”

  “You’re thinking it might not be junk?”

  “When my parents bought an old Victorian five years ago over on Carroll Avenue”—Jennifer referred to an area near Echo Park that was famous for its Victorians—“they found a tube like this in the garage.”

  Coltrane didn’t understand what she was getting at.

  “The tube contained the house’s original blueprints,” Jennifer explained.

  “You’re not suggesting . . .”

  “It’s a logical place to leave them for a new owner.” She opened the tube and upended it, gently pulling out its contents.

  Coltrane stared at a set of tightly rolled sheets of thick blue-tinted paper. They were faded and smelled musty with age. Helping her spread them out on a clean section of the counter, he marveled that the detail of the diagrams and notations was still visible.

  “By God.” He ran his finger down the top sheet, stopping at a matted-off section on the lower right side that indicated the name of the architect and the year the house had been built. “Lloyd Wright—1931.”

  3

  A S MUCH AS I CAN TELL ”—Jennifer studied the entrance to the vault, then shifted her gaze to the blueprints—“there was a bedroom here.”

  “That’s what Packard’s assistant said.”

  “Its dimensions were the same as the garage above it.”

  “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.”

  4

  A S 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?”