Double Image

by David Morrell

  “Mitch?”

  The voice came from beyond the vault.

  Coltrane flinched.

  “Mitch, it’s Duncan Reynolds.”

  In a rush, Coltrane crossed toward the open door.

  “Mitch?”

  He heard Duncan coming down the steps, and he left the vault, closing the door a moment before Duncan could have peered in. That was when Coltrane realized he had no intention of telling Duncan about the photographs.

  7

  I SAW YOUR CAR OUTSIDE .” Duncan put away his key. “I’m surprised I caught up to you. I brought this for you, but I expected I’d have to leave it here, rather than be able to give it to you in person.”

  Wondering about the box he was handed, Coltrane tried not to look uneasy about his departure from the vault. He didn’t want Duncan to suspect that he was hiding something. “A telephone with a built-in answering machine?”

  “The service is still hooked up. Now I won’t have so hard a time getting in touch with you about the details of buying this house.”

  “Well, I’ve been a little busy,” Coltrane said.

  “So I found out when I turned on the television this morning. You certainly did a good job of hiding your nerves when I met you here on Sunday. Are you hurt?”

  “Cuts and bruises.”

  “The television news made it seem like a nightmare, and you seemed like a hero.”

  “More like a damned fool. I almost got myself killed. I don’t want to think about it.”

  “Yes, the strain shows on your face. I’m sorry for intruding. I’ve got the purchase agreements for the house and the furniture. We can talk about them another time.” Duncan opened his briefcase, handing him documents. “You asked me to find out more about the history of the place.”

  “Yes?” Coltrane leaned forward.

  “I did a title search and learned that in addition to the movie producer who first owned the property—”

  “Winston Case.” Coltrane remembered the name from a biography about Packard that included background about some of the houses he had photographed.

  “That’s right. He owned the property from 1931 until 1933, the year Randolph photographed it. Then, from ’33 until ’35, it was owned by a woman named Rebecca Chance.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know anything about her. She’s a name on a document. She was the only other owner. In the fall of ’35, Randolph took possession of the house, buying it through a corporation owned by a corporation owned by a corporation that Randolph inherited from his parents. That sort of secrecy was customary with him. He used the same method to purchase an estate in Mexico, for example, and was equally concerned about maintaining his privacy there. As far as this house is concerned, to my knowledge he never actually lived here.”

  “And no one else ever occupied it?”

  “That’s correct, which explains its superb condition. Since no one was here to wear it down, it didn’t require much repair. With the exception of the installation of the vault and the darkroom, the house remains the same as when it was built in the thirties.”

  “Exactly. That’s why I’m buying it.”

  8

  I N PHOTOGRAPHY , when unfocused rays of light reflect off an object and strike a negative, they create overlapping blurs known as “circles of confusion.” That was how Coltrane felt, trapped in circles of confusion. What are you doing? he asked himself. As he drove through frustratingly dense traffic toward the police administration building in downtown L.A., his mind—no matter how weary—wouldn’t let him have any peace. Do you think that if you put yourself in a time frame that goes back far enough, you’ll be able to feel as if nobody you love has died?

  He thought of the most important object in his life—the photograph of his mother pushing him in the swing at the trailer park. It was impossible to count the hours that he had spent, both as a child and an adult, staring at that photograph, projecting himself into it, imagining that he was there. Always, the effort had been frustrating, because the woman and the boy in that picture remained frozen in time, whereas he continued to get older. He wasn’t a participant. He was an observer. He and that boy were no longer the same. And yet the woman was always his mother.

  Do you think that if you live in Packard’s house the way it was in the thirties, you’ll trick yourself into feeling remote from the present, less traumatized by what Ilkovic did to your grandparents and Daniel and Greg? Your problems won’t go away. They’ll be the same in the past as the present. But the past will raise different problems, intruding on the present.

  9

  H AVE YOU ANY IDEA HOW I CAN FIND INFORMATION ABOUT A woman who lived in Los Angeles in the thirties?” Coltrane asked.

  Nolan wasn’t prepared for a change in topic.

  “She owned the house I’m buying,” Coltrane explained. “I’m trying to find out some history about the property.”

  “Haven’t you been listening to me?” Nolan asked. “You’re barely going to scrape through this and stay out of prison. If I were you, I’d keep my mind on what to tell the grand jury.”

  “If I keep thinking about Ilkovic, I’ll go crazy.”

  “Well, you’re not going to get much of a break from talking about him. The state police want you to drive back up there. They want another heart-to-heart. At six-thirty.” Nolan glanced at his watch. “Which gives you ninety minutes.”

  “They’re working late.”

  “You’re a popular guy.”

  Coltrane rubbed his raw eyes and stood.

  “The library has city directories,” Nolan said.

  “What?”

  “For the thirties. She owned the house how long?”

  “From ’33 until ’35.”

  “Follow her through the directories. Where did she move after she left the house you’re buying? See if she’s in the ’36 listing. Same thing with the phone book. Eventually she’ll disappear from the listings—either because she moved to another city or she died. If she died, there’ll most likely be an obituary in the L.A. Times. Of course, it’ll take awhile for you to check all the copies of the newspaper for the year when she no longer appears in the listings, but if it’s important to you . . .”

  “The house has a colorful past. I’d like to know more about it,” Coltrane said.

  “With all the problems you have—”

  “It’s better than thinking about the last few days.”

  “Can’t argue there. What you need is a private investigator.” Nolan pulled a business card from a drawer. “Try this guy. He’ll need whatever you’ve got on her, including a photograph.”

  “I don’t have one,” Coltrane lied.

  10

  R ETURNING TO P ACKARD ’ S HOUSE NEAR MIDNIGHT , he was so exhausted he could barely keep his eyes open. A glance in his rearview mirror showed him that his second lengthy conversation with the state police had etched deep fatigue lines into his face, as had his insistence that if they had more questions, they were going to have to wait: He was leaving the next day to go to Connecticut for his grandparents’ funeral.

  He put the car in the garage, locked the house’s front door behind him, and finally took halting, weary steps into the living room. There, he accomplished the monumental task of removing the gray slacks and navy blazer that he had worn to Daniel’s funeral so long ago this morning. Tired to the point of dizziness, he sank onto his sleeping bag.

  But his mind wouldn’t let him rest. Half-formed nightmares made him twitch. The mangled hands of Ilkovic’s headless corpse seemed to reach up to choke him. Jerking awake, he strained to see the luminous dial on his watch and exhaled in despair when he discovered that the time was only twenty-five after three. Just keep lying here, he told himself. Close your eyes. You’ll soon be asleep again. But his ravaged nervous system refused to obey. Before he left for New Haven, he had to make plane reservations and contact his lawyer about the documents that Duncan had given him. He had to arrange for his accountant to send e
scrow checks. He had to—

  He got up and proceeded through darkness into the dining room and then the kitchen. After turning on a light beneath one of the counters, he found the documents where he had set them next to the stove. He read them and felt that they were straightforward. Had it not been that he wanted to be certain of gaining unquestioned title to the property, he would have signed them right away, without bothering to wait for his lawyer’s opinion. Negotiation wasn’t an issue. At all costs, he intended to gain possession of this house.

  Next to the refrigerator, a blinking red light caught his attention: the combination telephone/answering machine Duncan had given him. Coltrane hoped that it was Jennifer who had called. He regretted the way their conversation had ended at the funeral. He wanted to settle their differences. But then he realized that Jennifer couldn’t possibly know the phone number here. It wasn’t listed. He himself hadn’t known until Duncan gave it to him at the end of today’s conversation.

  Coltrane pressed the play button. For a moment, he had the irrational fear that Verdi’s Requiem would start playing, that Ilkovic’s guttural voice would again threaten him, that last night hadn’t happened, that his waking nightmare hadn’t really ended. But what he heard instead was almost as troubling.

  No message at all. Just silence. Then a click.

  Only a wrong number, he told himself.

  Sure.

  He poured water into a glass, but instead of drinking it, he found himself leaving the kitchen. That was how he perceived his action. He didn’t choose to leave so much as he discovered that he was doing so. The moment he started, however, he knew where he was going.

  It took him no time at all to unlock the vault, pull out the section of shelves, and enter the hidden chamber. After Duncan’s visit, he had been careful to put the photographs back and close the wall, lest Duncan—perhaps wondering about what Coltrane had been doing in the vault—might come back to satisfy his curiosity. Again, Coltrane removed the box and took out photograph after photograph, arranging them on shelves, admiring the woman.

  When he finally put them away and left the vault, he was surprised to find that the sun had been up for several hours.

  11

  N EW H AVEN WAS A FOOT OF SNOW , a bitingly cold wind, and a funeral to which almost no one came because most of Coltrane’s grandparents’ friends had died before them. After listening to the minister’s final prayers, he put his gloved hands on each of the coffins and whispered, “Good-bye.”

  Back at his grandparents’ house, he began the long, heart-sinking process of disposing of the accumulation of a lifetime. The telephone rang as he sorted through a shoe box full of receipts.

  “How are you feeling?” Jennifer asked.

  “About what you’d expect.” Snow lancing against the living room window made Coltrane look in that direction.

  “I thought I’d call to try to cheer you up.”

  “I’m glad you did.” Coltrane thought he heard Jennifer exhale in what might have been nervous relief.

  “A lot of memories to deal with, I bet,” Jennifer said.

  Coltrane slumped into his grandfather’s rocking chair. “I lived here until I was eighteen, until I moved out to Los Angeles to go to college. Last night, I slept upstairs in my old bedroom. The furniture’s still the same. In fact, it’s even in the same position. The only spot I haven’t . . . I keep wanting to go down to where I used to hide in the basement when I was a kid—where I used to think about my mother. But I can’t bring myself to look at where”—he could hardly say it—“Ilkovic killed them.”

  “Are you going to sell the house?”

  “No. I ran into some seniors who were friends of my grandparents. One old couple had their rent raised, and they can’t afford to live in their apartment anymore. I’m going to let them stay here for free. They said they didn’t want charity, so I told them they’d be doing me a favor—that I needed somebody to take care of the place.”

  “Nice.”

  “Well”—Coltrane looked at the big Christmas tree in the corner of the living room—“it’s that time of year.”

  “Will you be back for the holiday?”

  “I don’t think I can manage by then.”

  “Oh.” Jennifer’s voice dropped. “I was hoping . . . I’m still having trouble about . . . I don’t want to have anything hanging between us. I’m sorry about what I said after Daniel’s funeral.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with wanting some time to yourself.”

  “But I could have picked a better time to say it. I’m still confused, but . . .”

  “You’re not the only one.”

  “Maybe I’m ready to talk about it now.”

  “We’ll do that when I get back,” Coltrane said.

  “Yes. Not on the phone.”

  “Not on the phone. Have a good holiday.”

  “Same to you. At least as good as you can. Mitch, I haven’t forgotten about the special edition of the magazine. The photographs are still at Packard’s house. When you come back . . .”

  “I’ll make sure you get them.”

  The snow lanced harder against the front window as Coltrane hung up. He walked to the window and watched dusk thicken. Cars struggled through deepening drifts.

  His photographs—they had completely slipped from his mind. It was a measure of how severely things had changed. A week ago, he had been elated about the new direction that his life was taking. He had felt reborn. And now he could barely recall the sense of renewal that had made him excited. Out of habit, he had brought a camera with him, but it remained in one of his suitcases, along with shirts that he hadn’t unpacked.

  Going into the front hallway, smelling must, he started up the oak staircase. The banister felt wobbly. Or maybe I am, he thought. In his bedroom, he opened his suitcase, took out his camera, set it aside, and removed a large manila envelope that he had reinforced with stiff cardboard to make sure that it didn’t bend.

  The envelope contained a dozen photographs from the chamber in Packard’s vault. He spread them out on the bed and stared down at them, directing his gaze from left to right. Dizzily returning to the first, he began again.

  And again. The haunting woman looked back at him.

  12

  S HE WAS AN ACTRESS .”

  It was four days after Christmas. Coltrane was back in Los Angeles, sitting in the uncluttered office of the private investigator he had hired before going to New Haven.

  The man’s name was Roberto Rodriguez. Short and slender, with silver sideburns, wearing spectacles and a conservative suit, he looked more like an attorney than a private detective.

  “This is a photocopy of the police file. You can keep it.”

  “Police file?” Coltrane worked to steady his right hand as he opened the file. A faint blotched image on a Xerox of a photograph peered up at him, making him tingle. As imprecise as it was, the image left no doubt. That lush dark hair. Those expressive lips and almond-shaped eyes. He was looking at the woman in Packard’s photographs.

  He turned the page and frowned at typescript that was hard to read, faded by age and what incomplete portions of characters suggested was an overused typewriter ribbon. “Missing persons department?”

  “The complaint was filed by her agent back in 1934,” Rodriguez said. “She had a five-year contract with Universal. Nothing major. She certainly wasn’t a star, although judging from the photo I used to make that Xerox, she could have been. When she didn’t show up for the start of a picture, the studio grumbled to her agent, and the agent realized that he hadn’t heard from her in over three months. Which tells you how close they were.”

  “And?”

  “There isn’t an ‘and.’ She was never found.”

  Coltrane felt a sinking sensation. “But how could Randolph Packard have purchased the house from her if she was never located?”

  “Who knows? Maybe after a year she was assumed dead and her parents got permission to put it on the market. Somewhe
re in that file there’s a summary of a telephone interview with them. The detective in charge of the investigation wanted to know if she had ever shown up where they lived in Texas. They claimed they hadn’t seen her in four years. Which tells you how close the family was.”

  Coltrane turned more pages, shaking his head, baffled.

  “The detective notes that the family didn’t have a phone. The interview took place at the local police station,” Rodriguez said. “Add the abundance of ain’ts and double negatives, and you get the impression of a down-on-his-luck, undereducated farmer. But his last name isn’t Chance. It’s Chavez. The daughter’s first name isn’t Rebecca. It’s Juanita.”

  “She changed her name to disguise her Hispanic origins?”

  “I love old movies. I love to read about them,” Rodriguez said. “Back in the twenties and thirties, you get male stars with ethnic names. Rudolph Valentino and Ramon Novarro come to mind. The studios played up their sultry appearance. But I can’t think of more than a few female stars—I’m talking major—who didn’t have a white-bread appearance and name. That doesn’t mean they were white-bread. Several of them had ethnic backgrounds, but they hid it. Had to. Rita Hayworth’s a good example. She didn’t become famous until the forties, but her career started in the thirties. She was Hispanic. Her real name was Margarita Cansino. She had dark hair and a widow’s peak that made her look very Spanish at a time when there was a growing prejudice against Mexicans. So she dyed her hair auburn and plucked out her widow’s peak to make her hairline look symmetrical. She added some voice lessons to get rid of her accent, changed her name, and managed to assimilate herself. It looks to me like Rebecca Chance did the same.”

  13

  H ERE .” The reference librarian, a petite young woman in braids, escorted Coltrane into a Spartan room that had several microfilm machines. “When you’re finished, please bring the film back to my desk.”