“A little.”
“Did they make you more eager to have sex?”
“I suppose.”
Jennifer lowered her hand from his face and drew it along his body, fondling him.
“Like this excites you?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
When Jennifer kissed him, he tasted the salt of a tear on her cheek.
“Because I can’t compete with her, Mitch. I’m not a goddess. I’m only a woman.”
7
A LTHOUGH THE MORNING WAS BRIGHT AND THE SKY CLEAR , a cold breeze, at least by Southern California standards, made Coltrane retreat from the patio outside his bedroom. “Brrr,” he said, cinching his robe tighter, turning toward Jennifer, who still lay in his bed. “I was hoping we could have coffee out there, but I’m afraid it would have to be iced coffee.”
“It’s nicer in here anyhow,” Jennifer said. She raised the covers, giving him a glimpse of her breasts, her inward-curved tummy, and her light-colored pubic hair, gesturing for him to crawl under and join her.
“That’s the best offer I’ve had all day.”
“And the day’s young yet,” Jennifer said.
“You’re going to wear me out.”
“As long as I didn’t wear this guy out.”
She pointed toward the erection that he showed when he slipped off his robe.
“Since when did you like talking dirty?” He eased under the covers, feeling her warmth.
“You call that talking dirty?”
“At the very least, I’d call it suggestive.”
“And what do you call this?”
“I’m a little distracted at the moment. Maybe the word will come to me if you do it again.”
“Something better come.”
“And the day’s young yet,” Jennifer had said. But she was wrong about implying that there would be more opportunities in the day for them to make love, for after they collapsed into each other’s arms, after they nestled against each other, got up to take turns showering, and finally dressed, Jennifer told him that she was expected at her parents’ house around one o’clock. “You remember from last year,” Jennifer said, “it’s a tradition. I always go over and help Dad watch his marathon of New Year’s Day football games. You want to come with me? He and Mom will be glad to see you, and there’ll be more than enough food. You seemed to enjoy yourself last time.”
“I did. It was fun. But I’m afraid I’m going to have to beg off.”
“Oh?” Jennifer’s voice was frail with disappointment.
“Yes. I promised Greg’s widow that I’d come over and spend some time with her and the kids.”
“Oh.” The inflection was now one of understanding. “I didn’t know you’d spoken with her.”
“I guess it slipped my mind.”
“I’ve never met her, but please tell her I’m very sorry about her husband.”
“I will.”
“That coffee you mentioned would sure taste good right now.”
The kitchen was a mess from the marinara and meatball dinner that Coltrane had made, the dishes having been left in the sink while they finished a bottle of champagne and watched a TV celebrity narrate the countdown in Times Square. Coltrane had only a dim memory of the two of them stumbling up to his bedroom.
“Ouch,” Jennifer said, surveying the damage. “I’m going to need that coffee to brace myself to help with this.”
“Forget it,” Coltrane said. “Come on. We’ll go out for breakfast.”
When they got back at twelve-thirty, they lingered in front of the house.
“If your visit with Greg’s widow ends early, come over to my parents,” Jennifer said.
“I will,” Coltrane said. “Wish them a happy New Year for me.”
Jennifer looked uncertain about something. “Would you do me a favor?”
“What?”
“Get a camera and take my picture?”
“Take your picture?”
“It’s a new year,” Jennifer said. “A new beginning. It would make me happy to see you taking photographs again.”
“If it would make you happy, it would make me happy.”
A minute later, he was back with his Nikon, positioning Jennifer against the ivy-looking greenish blue copper trim on the corner of the house.
“The background makes you look even more blond,” Coltrane said. “In fact, you look radiant.”
As her eyes brightened the way he had hoped they would in response to his compliment, Coltrane snapped the picture.
NINE
1
G REG ’ S WIDOW TURNED OUT TO HAVE A HOUSE FULL OF company: her parents, her sister, friends from where she worked at an insurance company, friends from the police department, not to mention neighbors. Paying their respects, they came and went. Although Greg’s widow looked as if she hadn’t been getting much sleep, she was making an effort to cook a turkey for the holiday, but it was clear that there wouldn’t be enough to feed everyone, and Coltrane stayed only an hour, leaving well before dinner.
Hollow, he decided not to return to Packard’s house but instead to take Jennifer up on her offer and go over to her parents’ historic Victorian near Echo Park. The quickest way to get there from Venice was to take the Santa Monica Freeway east until it merged with the Golden State Freeway, eventually reaching the east end of Sunset Boulevard, which wasn’t far from Echo Park. He was surprised, then, when he went in the opposite direction, taking the Santa Monica Freeway west to the Pacific Coast Highway. He finally admitted to himself that his destination was Malibu.
2
W HEN C OLTRANE HAD FIRST ARRIVED IN L OS A NGELES seventeen years earlier, feeling a compulsion to learn as much as he could about the area, he had been intrigued to learn that Malibu—for him, the name had mythic overtones—was actually many different places: the Commune, where upper-echelon show-business personalities lived within a guarded, gated community; the beachfront, where narrow two-story town houses abutted one another for what seemed miles, a narrow road in front, the ocean in back; a long string of gas stations, motels, and quick-food restaurants along the PCH; and, farther north, where the ocean and the highway diverged, a rustic community of expensive homes on large wooded lots reached by mazelike meandering roads that for the most part did not have an ocean view. Coltrane could smell the salt breeze. He had the sensation of being near water. Apart from that, he could have been in an exclusive section of the San Fernando Valley.
It was along one of these meandering roads that Coltrane now drove. Pausing occasionally to check a map that he had bought at a service station on the Pacific Coast Highway before turning off it, he continued west, or as much as he could in that general direction, sometimes having to retreat because of errors he made due to unmarked streets, other times reaching a dead end where the map made it seem that the road he was on connected with another. In frustration, he finally stopped where a wall of scrub brush blocked his way. A path led through it. As much as he could tell, the road he wanted lay beyond it.
Glancing at his watch, seeing that the time was already almost three o’clock and that he was close to wasting the day, he calculated that it might take him another twenty minutes to backtrack and get over to the road he wanted. That was assuming the road would be marked and he wouldn’t have more difficulty finding it. Why bother when his destination was practically before him? Jennifer’s request that he take her photograph had produced the effect she intended. Responding to old habits, he had brought his camera with him. Now he slung it around his neck. After getting out of his car and locking it, he buttoned his sport coat against the increasing chill of the day and pushed his way through the crackling branches of the scrub brush.
He heard the pounding of surf before he saw the ocean below him. He was on a steep ridge that looked down on the road he wanted, a line of impressive homes hugging the coast, no one in sight. In contrast with Malibu’s famous beaches, the shoreline here was almost entirely gray rock. Intrig
ued by the whitecaps hitting those rocks, as well as by the red tile roofs on some of the homes, Coltrane raised his camera, chose a fast shutter speed to freeze the waves, and took several photographs.
Then he made his way carefully down a zigzag path on the bluff, some of which had been eroded by the recent heavy rains. He grasped an exposed tree root to help lower himself, clawed at clumps of grass, dug his heels firmly into the soft soil, and finally reached the bottom, where concrete barriers had been put up to protect against mud slides.
The surf pounded louder, and yet he was terribly conscious of the noise of his breathing. It’s just from the exertion of coming down the slope, he told himself. Sure. When he reached a mission-style home, he saw that the number on the mailbox was 38, but he was looking for 24, so he proceeded farther along, too preoccupied to pay attention to the cree-cree-cree of seagulls floating overhead.
Yesterday, after he had obtained Natasha Adler’s address and telephone number from the private investigator that Packard’s attorney used, he had called that number and been frustrated when a computerized voice had told him that the number was no longer in service. Had the investigator given him the wrong information, or had Natasha Adler moved? Maybe she’s living in the estate in Mexico now, Coltrane thought.
Continuing along the road, he passed another mission-style home, then a Spanish colonial. But his gaze was directed toward a house farther along, which his count of the remaining mailboxes told him was the address he wanted. It was substantial, sprawling, modernistic, an assemblage of two-story all-white blocks silhouetted against the stark blue sky, tinted by the lowering sun.
Struck by the geometry of the image, he again raised his camera. The contrast of light and shadow might be hard to capture, he knew, so he adjusted his exposure to favor the middle shadows of the image and took the photograph. As a precaution, he made two further exposures, the first favoring darker elements of the image, the second favoring lighter ones. The technique, known as “bracketing,” would give him a choice of contrasts.
Having pressed the shutter button a final time, he lowered the camera and felt as if he had been away for a moment. It was a feeling that he hadn’t experienced since the day he had come upon Packard’s house and taken the last photographs in his update on Packard’s series. He began to realize how truly numbed he had been by the intervening horrors. A new year, a new start, he thought, recalling Jennifer’s encouragement before they had separated earlier in the day.
Then what am I doing here?
3
L IKE MOST M ALIBU SHORELINE HOMES , the house was close to the road. On the right, a tall metal fence enclosed a small garden. On the left, a red Porsche was parked in the short driveway, the closed doors of a two-car garage beyond it. Otherwise, no vehicles were in sight. At least someone’s home, Coltrane thought. He verified that the number on the mailbox was what he wanted: 24.
And now what? he asked himself. Are you going to knock on the door in the middle of the afternoon on New Year’s Day? That’ll certainly make an impression.
He peered through the metal fence toward the front windows, looking for movement in the house, some indication that a family gathering was in progress. The windows were blank eyes. The rooms were still. Maybe I wouldn’t be interrupting anything, he thought. Maybe knocking on the door wouldn’t be as inappropriate as I first thought. If I come back and knock on the door tomorrow or the day after, I’ll still be intruding.
Barely aware of the ornate shrubs in the garden, he approached the front door. Instead of knocking, he pushed the doorbell and heard it ring hollowly inside. After waiting a moment, he pushed it again, the echoing doorbell making the place seem deserted. He rang it a third time, holding it a little longer. Someone has to be home, he thought. Otherwise, why would the Porsche be in the driveway? Whoever lives here wouldn’t have gone on a trip and left an expensive sports car in the open. He switched from ringing the bell to knocking on the door, but still no one answered.
Maybe a couple are making love in there, he thought. Maybe if I keep ringing this bell and they finally do open the door, they’ll be very explicit about how much I’ve annoyed them. I’m here to get some questions answered, not to antagonize the person I need to answer those questions.
Self-conscious, he hesitated, his finger an inch away from the doorbell. Yeah, tomorrow’s better. Except maybe no one will answer the door then, either. If only the phone was in service.
Retreating to the road, Coltrane scanned the front windows to see if anyone was peering out at him, and finally he decided to give up. I should have gone with Jennifer, he thought. But as he prepared to walk back the way he had come, he suddenly realized that there was a perfectly reasonable explanation for the presence of the car and the failure of anyone to come to the door when he rang the bell.
Whoever’s here is outside walking along the ocean.
He moved toward the left side of the house, intending to use the space between this house and the next to give him access to the shore. A wall blocked his way. On the right side, a similar wall stopped him. His excitement changing to frustration, he noticed that all the other homes had barriers, preventing outsiders from intruding on the beach.
When he walked past the remaining properties, he discovered a fence that went down to the waterline. The cree-cree-cree of the gulls became more pronounced. The crash of waves intensified as he stepped around the end of the fence, his shoes getting wet. It’s one thing to ring a doorbell and disturb someone on New Year’s Day, but it’s quite another if I come across someone taking a walk, he thought. It would be natural for us to say hello. It wouldn’t seem as intrusive for me to explain who I am and to ask a few questions.
Approaching the rear of the house, he saw a white deck perched over shelves of uneven gray rock that led down to the ocean. Stretching in both directions, the shelves of rock glistened as the spray from waves drifted over them.
But no one walked along those rocks. The shore was deserted.
Coltrane shook his head. Forced to admit that, for today at least, he truly had wasted his time, he began to turn to go back to the road, then stopped as movement among the rocks attracted his attention. Narrowing his eyes against the glare of the lowering sun (how could the sun be so bright and the air so shiveringly cool?), he thought he was hallucinating, for the movement wasn’t just among the rocks—it was the rocks. One of them was rising from the others.
His skin prickled. He shivered harder, but no longer from the cold. The gray hump of rock rose higher, emerging from the shelf. What am I seeing? Coltrane asked himself, compelled to step forward. At once, something equally startling happened, for as the hump of rock rose high enough to detach itself from the shelf, Coltrane saw that the rock had an oval of white within the gray—a face. Gray arms detached themselves, one of them reaching up toward what had become a head and neck. A gray hand pulled at the gray on the head and, to Coltrane’s amazement, peeled it off as if it were skin, revealing lush dark hair that clung wetly to the head of an amazingly beautiful woman. What he had been seeing, Coltrane realized, was a woman in a wet suit emerging from the ocean. The gray rubber of the suit was the same color as the shelves of rock. Rising from the waves, she had seemed to be born from them.
Immediately, he raised his camera, opened the aperture so that the waves would be indistinct behind her, and pressed the button as the woman emerged from the ocean. Her pose was so familiar that he felt he had to be hallucinating. He took another photograph, then another, each time stepping closer. Noticing him, the woman paused, one leg in front of the other, the knee slightly bent, about to transfer her weight from her back leg to her front. She wasn’t wearing a scuba tank or a mask. She hadn’t been diving, only swimming, using the insulation of the wet suit to keep her warm in the cold water. Her hands were covered with gray rubber gloves, one of which she had used to peel off the cowl of her suit. With the other gloved hand, she now brushed back her wet hair, and Coltrane had seen that pose before also. He pressed t
he shutter button again, catching her in midmotion. If it hadn’t been for the wet suit, Coltrane would have been shaken by the most powerful déjà vu he had ever experienced. Even with the wet suit, the parallels were so striking that Coltrane didn’t know if he could keep his hands steady as he continued taking photographs. The suit clung to the woman like skin. Its wet slickness enhanced the sinuous movement of her legs, the fluid motion of her body, the sensuous contours of her hips, her waist, her breasts, her . . .
He lowered the camera, his dazed mind demanding to know how it was possible that he could be looking at Rebecca Chance.
4
A S HE TOOK ANOTHER STEP , a look of fear crossed the woman’s face. She stumbled backward, lost her balance, and slipped to her knees in the waves.
“No!” he told her. “You don’t need to be afraid! I’m not here to hurt you!”
He raised his hands, causing her to raise her own gloved hands as if to protect herself.
“Please!” he said. “I didn’t mean to startle you! All I want is to ask you some questions! I’m not going to hurt you!”
The slap of waves against the rocks wasn’t loud enough to mute the sudden noises behind him: doors banging open, shouting, shoes scrabbling over rocks. Pivoting to look behind him, Coltrane was astonished to see a half dozen men racing toward him, two from the house, two from hiding places under the deck, one from shrubs on each side of the house.
“Stop right there!” one of them yelled, his face twisted with anger. “Don’t move!”
As fast as he could, Coltrane turned and ran.
“You son of a bitch! Stay where you are, or I’ll—”
Coltrane didn’t hear the rest, the noise of the waves and his frenzied breathing blocking it out. His shoes slipped on the wet rocks, but he managed not to fall as he strained to increase speed, all the while hearing barked curses behind him. Without warning, ahead of him a man lunged from the side of another house, shoving out a hand, yelling at Coltrane to stop. Just when it seemed that he and the man would collide, Coltrane changed direction, veering around him, charging away from the shore, but two of the men racing behind him had anticipated that move and were running parallel to him, ready to grab him.
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