Double Image

by David Morrell

  “You don’t suppose Randolph took the photographs?”

  “That’s what I wondered,” Coltrane said. “But I didn’t have to look at each photograph for more than a second to decide that the images were so uncomposed and poorly lit that they couldn’t possibly be his work. I strained my eyes a little trying to read the fine print on the microfilm. The photo credit went to someone whose name I didn’t recognize.”

  Duncan calmed himself. “For a moment, I thought you might have discovered some Randolph Packard photographs that no one knew about.”

  “Wouldn’t that have been something if I had.”

  “Coming through.” The overweight supervisor led the way for his two young assistants, who were carrying more black metal tubes. “I don’t know what this is, but I’m guessing it’s a bed frame.”

  “King-size or regular?”

  “When we get all these pieces assembled, I’m betting it’s a king.”

  “Master bedroom. Top floor.”

  “You heard the man,” the foreman said to his helpers.

  The troop disappeared, trudging upward.

  Duncan watched in a daze.

  “Duncan?”

  “Uh, what?” Duncan turned, blinking.

  “The other day, you mentioned that Randolph owned an estate in Mexico.”

  Duncan’s face didn’t change expression, but something in his eyes did, becoming wary.

  “You said that Randolph used various shell corporations when he was buying property, so that no one would know the true buyer. You said Randolph bought this house that way—and a place in Mexico.”

  “Now that I think about it, I suppose I did mention something about that.”

  “I was wondering where the estate was.”

  Duncan’s gaze remained guarded. “What makes you ask?”

  “Just curious. Randolph had such a unique way of viewing things, I thought the hacienda might be as dramatic as this house. It might be worth going down to Mexico to have a look.”

  Duncan answered too quickly: “I wouldn’t know.”

  From upstairs, Coltrane heard the faint clang of metal tubes being bolted together.

  “Careful,” he heard the foreman say.

  “You wouldn’t know if I’d find it interesting to visit the estate?” Coltrane asked.

  “I wouldn’t know where it is. I was never there.” Duncan looked up the stairs toward the metallic sounds. “Randolph never told me. Some place in Baja California, I think he might have mentioned.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “Sorry I can’t be more helpful.”

  “It probably doesn’t matter. For all I know, it isn’t as unique as this house, or it hasn’t been preserved the way this place has. Did Randolph still own it when he died?”

  Duncan looked away. “Years ago, he mentioned something about selling a property in Mexico.”

  “Well,” Coltrane said, “it was just a thought.”

  “Careful,” the foreman repeated.

  3

  I ’ D LIKE TO SPEAK TO M R . B LAINE ,” Coltrane said into the telephone.

  “May I tell him who’s calling?” the receptionist replied.

  Coltrane gave his name. “I’ve been having some discussions with him about the estate of a deceased client of his. Randolph Packard.”

  The receptionist’s voice came to attention. “Randolph Packard?”

  “I’m buying a house he owned, and I need some further information. I know it’s New Year’s Eve afternoon.” Coltrane tried to sound self-deprecating. He chuckled. “Or whatever today is called.”

  The receptionist sounded amused. “Yes, I’ve been having the same problem.”

  “Anyway, Mr. Blaine probably has a ton of work he still needs to finish, but I was hoping he could spare a few minutes for me.”

  In death as in life, Packard’s name got results. Twenty seconds later, an unctuous baritone was on the line. “Mr. Coltrane, I trust that your arrangements are proceeding satisfactorily.”

  “Totally. In fact, I’m so pleased that I was wondering if another property Mr. Packard owned might be available for sale.”

  “If you’re referring to the house in Newport Beach, it was given to his assistant. You’d have to speak with him about that.”

  “No, I was thinking of a property in Mexico.”

  “Mexico?”

  “I believe it’s in Baja California.”

  The baritone sounded confused. “No, I’m not familiar with it.”

  Coltrane glanced down in disappointment, his suspicions having proven groundless. “I guess it must have been sold years ago.”

  “The only property I’m familiar with that Randolph Packard owned in Mexico isn’t in Baja.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s on the western main coast of Mexico, much farther south than Baja. Below Acapulco, in fact. Near a town called . . . I can’t remember it in Spanish, but in English it’s very distinctive. The spine of the cat.”

  “What?”

  “That’s the name of the town.”

  “Espalda del Gato?” Coltrane asked.

  “I’m impressed. Your Spanish is very good.”

  “I spent a lot of time in Spanish-speaking countries. If there’s a way for me to see the place, if it’s still in Mr. Packard’s name, maybe I’d be interested in buying it also,” Coltrane said.

  “I can’t help you with that. It’s out of my hands. The hacienda was a bequest in Mr. Packard’s will. The title was transferred a week ago.”

  Coltrane couldn’t hide his frustration. “To whom? Can you tell me?”

  “Against my advice, Mr. Packard didn’t transfer all of his assets to a trust. The hacienda in Mexico was one of the items that he neglected to include. If he had included it, the bequest could have been handled privately, without involving a California court. But because the hacienda was included in a will, it has to go through probate. It’ll be a matter of public record. I could put you through the inconvenience of going to the court house. I don’t see why that’s necessary, however. Mr. Packard gave the Mexican property to someone named Natasha Adler.”

  “Natasha Adler?”

  “I have no association with the woman. I can’t tell you a thing about her.”

  “Do you have her address and phone number?”

  “That information was not included in the will. I had to hire a private investigator to find her. I’m afraid I’d be violating her privacy if I told you where she lived.”

  Damn it, Coltrane thought.

  “Now if there’s nothing else I can help you with,” Blaine said.

  “Maybe one thing.”

  The baritone had a hint of impatience in his voice. “Yes?”

  “Would you mind telling me the name of the investigator you used?”

  4

  C HEERS .”

  “Cheers.”

  Coltrane and Jennifer clicked glasses of Absolut and tonic.

  Jennifer sipped from hers and wrinkled her nose. “It’s like with champagne—the bubbles are ticklish.”

  “Maybe you need more vodka and less tonic,” Coltrane said.

  “Then the rest of me would be ticklish.” Jennifer wore a black Armani dress, the hem of which came up just above the knee. Its top ended where her breasts began. Pearl earrings and a matching necklace couldn’t compete with her smile.

  Taking another sip, she surveyed the living room. “I expected the furniture to look striking, but not this much. It’s really—I don’t know what word to use—fantastic. I feel as if I’m in that wing of the Museum of Modern Art, the one where they have furniture that’s considered art.”

  “Does that mean you feel the house has changed enough for you to give it another chance? You don’t still associate it with Ilkovic?”

  “It feels different now.”

  “Good.”

  “As if I’m in the 1930s.”

  “That’s the illusion I want to create. I want this to be a haven from the present.�
��

  “It seems to me that the present’s still here, though.” Before Coltrane could ask what she meant, she added, “Is it safe to sit on this stuff?”

  “Of course.” Coltrane laughed.

  Tentatively, Jennifer lowered herself onto the red velvet cushion of a black tube–enclosed chair. “So far so good. It didn’t collapse.”

  “The man in charge of the crew who delivered it assured me that this stuff was made to last.”

  “It certainly has. After all these years, it’s as shiny as new.” Jennifer took a long sip of vodka and tonic. “You’re certain Duncan lied to you about the place in Mexico?”

  “It wasn’t so much what he said. He told me he had a vague memory that it had been sold some time ago, that maybe it was in Baja. No big deal. But there was a nervous look behind his eyes.”

  “Maybe he just needed a drink. Not everything’s a mystery.”

  “I phoned the private investigator Packard’s attorney uses. I got lucky and caught him in. For five hundred dollars, he looked in his files and told me that Natasha Adler, the woman who inherited the estate, lives up in Malibu. Her number’s unlisted, but he gave me that, too.”

  Jennifer raised her glass to her lips. The drink did nothing to relax her increasingly troubled expression. “I don’t see what you hope to accomplish.”

  “I’d like to know why Packard gave it to her.”

  “Maybe she was a friend or a business acquaintance.”

  “Fine. But if she knows the estate, maybe she can tell me something about it.”

  “Such as?”

  “Whether parts of Jamaica Wind were filmed there and whether she’s ever heard of Rebecca Chance.”

  Jennifer shook her head.

  “Aren’t you curious?” Coltrane asked.

  “Professionally, sure. Those photographs are a major discovery. It’s important to learn when they were taken, who the subject was, what sort of relationship Packard had with her. That information doesn’t make the photographs any more brilliant than they already are, but as a magazine publisher, I can tell you human interest adds incalculable monetary value. That raises the question of when you’re going to tell Packard’s estate about them. Without being specific, I did some checking with an attorney. As I understand it, you have a claim to own the photographs, but the right to reproduce them belongs to Packard’s trustees. You’re going to have to come to an arrangement with them.”

  “When I’m ready.” Coltrane bit his lower lip. “You said ‘professionally.’”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You told me that professionally you were interested in the photographs. You emphasized the word, implying, I suppose, that you weren’t interested personally.”

  “Not the way you are. The way you talk about Rebecca Chance, it’s like she’s a living, breathing person. Last night, you asked me if I was jealous of her. Maybe I am a little. It’s almost as if . . .”

  “What?”

  “You’re falling in love with her.”

  Coltrane didn’t comment.

  Jennifer finished her drink.

  “Time for a refill?”

  “You bet. It’s New Year’s Eve, after all.”

  “And if we’re not going to starve, I’d better start the marinara sauce.” Coltrane walked with her through the dining room and into the kitchen.

  A smaller version of the glass-topped, steel-rimmed dining table was against a wall.

  “I guess I shouldn’t be too hard on Duncan about possibly lying to me. I wasn’t exactly honest with him, either.”

  “Oh?”

  Coltrane refilled Jennifer’s glass, adding a lime wedge and ice cubes. “I told him I knew how the furniture was supposed to be arranged because I had seen the layout in an old architectural magazine. Not true.”

  “Then if you didn’t find out from a magazine . . .”

  “The photographs we found in the vault. By now, I’ve had a chance to go through all of them. It turns out that several of the pictures of Rebecca Chance were taken in this house, and as you might expect from anything Packard did, those photographs are as clear and crisp as can be. I had no trouble using them as a guide to arrange the tables and chairs and things.”

  Jennifer studied him.

  “I also found some interesting photos of a different sort,” Coltrane said.

  Jennifer studied him harder.

  “Nudes.”

  The moment Coltrane said it, he wished that he hadn’t.

  “Nudes,” Jennifer said flatly.

  “You know, the type of thing Stieglitz took of Georgia O’Keeffe.”

  “Yes, I know exactly the type you mean. Show them to me.”

  5

  C ROSSING THE VAULT , Jennifer said, “No shivers anymore?”

  Coltrane furrowed his brow in puzzlement.

  “This vault used to give you the creeps,” Jennifer said. “It made you claustrophobic.”

  “Oh, that. Well, I guess I’ve been coming down here enough that I got used to it.”

  “Yes, you definitely did get used to it. It’s cool enough in here to give me the shivers.” Jennifer rubbed her bare arms.

  “Here.” Coltrane took off his sport coat and draped it around her shoulders.

  “Thanks.”

  “Better?” His hands lingered on her shoulders.

  “Much.”

  Jennifer turned to him, spreading her palms against his shirt. His nipples reacted. A gentle kiss lengthened, becoming forceful.

  They held each other.

  “So where are these nude photographs?” Jennifer asked.

  “You haven’t changed your mind?”

  “Maybe I’ve got a kinky streak.”

  Taking his arms from around her, Coltrane released the catches that held the wall in place.

  When he pulled the section free, Jennifer stared at Rebecca Chance’s life-size features. The harsh light from the vault dispelled the darkness of the chamber. The photograph’s eyes reflected the illumination.

  “She’s much more beautiful here than in the movie I saw,” Jennifer said.

  Coltrane had left the box containing the nude photographs on top of the others. He carried it out to one of the shelves and took off the lid.

  Stepping forward, Jennifer stared down at the image of Rebecca Chance in the dining room upstairs, the strings of chromium beads draped over her naked body.

  Slowly, she turned to the next photograph, and the next. The room was so still that the only sounds Coltrane heard were the subtle scrape of the photographs and Jennifer’s tense breathing. She kept turning the pictures.

  At last, she was finished.

  “Well?”

  “Her nipples,” Jennifer said.

  Coltrane had no idea what reaction to have expected from her, but this certainly was not one that he could have predicted.

  “The nipples and the aureoles around them,” Jennifer said.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Mine are different from hers.”

  Coltrane found himself blushing. “I wasn’t trying to imply that . . .”

  “That hers are more attractive than mine? They are. Rebecca Chance was an astonishingly beautiful woman. She was blessed by nature. But that’s not what I’m getting at. My nipples are small, the width of the tip of my little finger. Rebecca Chance’s are as wide as the tip of my index finger. The aureoles around my breasts aren’t pronounced the way Rebecca Chance’s are.”

  “And?”

  “I could get my nipples and aureoles to start looking like hers, however.”

  “You’re talking about surgery?”

  “If I got pregnant.”

  Coltrane’s heartbeat lurched. “You think she was pregnant?”

  “I suspect it was her first time. I don’t see any stretch marks to indicate that she previously had had a baby. I’d say she was about three months along, still able to keep her stomach flat. But she couldn’t keep her breasts from getting fuller and the nipples larger as t
he photographs progressed. The glow on her face and the luster on her skin make me think that some powerful hormones had started to kick in.”

  “Pregnant,” Coltrane said with wonder, then looked with new eyes at the photographs.

  “So the obvious questions are: Who was the father? Was he Packard? And, assuming that the child was born, whatever happened to it?”

  6

  C OLTRANE ARCHED HIS BACK AND TILTED HIS HEAD UPWARD , a surge of pleasure seizing his body. Moving slowly, he tried not to disrupt the delicate balance between immediate need and exquisite postponement. Jennifer kissed him, thrusting against him: “Don’t hold back.” Moving faster, he felt her urgent rhythm match his own. Climaxing, he felt as if the present stretched on forever. Too soon, time became separate moments, and he eased out of Jennifer, settling next to her. Neither moved. Streetlights glinted through the bedroom’s open blinds. A breeze made tree branches sway, casting wavering shadows across the darkened room.

  She turned onto her side, facing him. “It’s been a long time.”

  “Too long.”

  “We’ll have to catch up.”

  “The spirit is willing, but the flesh might be weak.”

  “I’ll see what I can do to put some strength back into it.”

  “Some food might help, too. If I don’t start making that marinara sauce pretty soon . . .”

  “No.” Jennifer touched his cheek. “Lie there awhile longer.”

  “It’s a great way to end what in other respects was an awfully bad year,” Coltrane said.

  “In one respect, it wasn’t such a bad year. You took some wonderful photographs. You found a new direction for your work.”

  Coltrane shrugged.

  “Your work still doesn’t seem important to you?”

  “Not compared to everything that happened.”

  They lapsed into silence.

  Jennifer was the first to speak. “When you were making love to me, did it occur to you that Rebecca Chance and Randolph Packard might have made love in this bed?”

  “. . . No.”

  “It did to me. I imagined that she and I had changed places. Did the nude photographs of her excite you?”