Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
SMOKE IN MIRRORS
A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2002 by Jayne Ann Krentz
This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.
For information address:
The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is
http://www.penguinputnam.com
ISBN: 978-1-1012-1459-6
A JOVE BOOK®
Jove Books first published by The Jove Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
JOVE and the “J” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.
Electronic edition: June, 2003
ALSO BY JAYNE ANN KRENTZ
Summer in Eclipse Bay
Dawn in Eclipse Bay
Lost & Found
Eclipse Bay
Soft Focus
Eye of the Beholder
Flash
Sharp Edges
Deep Waters
Absolutely, Positively
Trust Me
Grand Passion
Hidden Talents
Wildest Hearts
Family Man
Perfect Partners
Sweet Fortune
Silver Linings
The Golden Chance
BY JAYNE ANN KRENTZ WRITING AS JAYNE CASTLE
After Dark
Amaryllis
Zinnia
Orchid
For Alberta Castle, mom and role model, with love
Prologue
ONE YEAR EARLIER
The hallucinations were worsening rapidly.
She halted at the top of the staircase and tried to steady herself. The hall of dark mirrors stretched away into infinity, a treacherous fun house filled with night and shifting shadows. She had to forge a path through this disorienting landscape before she lost her grip on the last remnants of her sanity.
The planes and angles of the shadowed corridor were melting and flowing into bizarre shapes that reminded her of Möbius strips. Endless loops with no beginning and no end. She did not know how much longer she could hold together the disintegrating fragments of her awareness. She longed for sleep but she could not give in to the nearly overwhelming urge. Not yet. There was something she had to do first.
The electricity had flickered out of existence a moment ago. Weak starlight seeped in through the narrow windows at either end of the endless corridor. She gazed down the length of the writhing passage and saw a sharp sliver of silver. She knew it marked the entrance to the library. Fourth door on the left.
A desperate urgency swept through her. If she could get to that shard of light she could leave her message.
“Bethany?” The killer’s voice came from shadows at the foot of the stairs. “Where are you? Let me help you. You must be very sleepy by now.”
A bolt of icy panic gave her the energy required to overcome the drug’s effects for a moment. She tightened her grip on the strap of her purse, staggered a few steps down the hall and came to a stop again. She fought to remember what it was that she had to do. It had been so clear there at the bottom of the stairs. But now it kept slipping away.
She stared into the nearest of the dozens of black mirrors that lined the walls. In the gloom she could just barely make out the heavily gilded and scrolled frame of the eighteenth-century looking glass. She searched the bottomless pool behind the glass for wisps of her memory.
There was something she had to do before she went to sleep.
“I can help you, Bethany.”
She thought she saw a shifting of the shadows in the old looking glass. An image gelled there for an instant. She struggled to make sense of it. The library. She had to get to the library. Yes. That was it. She had to go there before the killer found her.
A number swirled up out of the depths of her disappearing memory.
Four.
The entrance to the library was the fourth door on the left.
She clung gratefully to the number. It steadied her as nothing else could have done. She was at home in the universe of mathematics; comfortable and serenely content in a way she had never been in the world where human emotions made things complicated and illogical.
Four doors down on the left.
Getting there meant running the gauntlet of mirrors. The enormity of the challenge almost paralyzed her.
“There’s no need to hide from me, Bethany. I only want to help you.”
She had to do this. Deke would need answers. He would not be able to rest until he got them. And Thomas would help him because Deke was his brother and the Walker brothers stuck together. She had never fully understood the depths of that kind of bond, but her logical mind accepted the strength of the link that existed between Deke and Thomas. It was as real as any mathematical relationship.
Summoning every ounce of will she possessed, she made her way toward the shard of light that marked the library door.
The hallucinations intensified. Strange creatures pulsed behind the reflective surfaces of the antique looking glasses that surrounded her. They beckoned her to join them.
Not yet.
She set her teeth and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other.
She dared not look directly into any of the old, dark mirrors for fear that she would be sucked into the world on the other side. It was not that she was afraid to go there, it was just that she knew she had to stay in this universe for a few more minutes. She owed that much to Deke and Thomas.
“Bethany? You’re ill, Bethany. Let me help you.”
The killer was in the hallway behind her.
“Not much longer now, Bethany. The hallucinations must be terrible. But soon you’ll sleep and then it will all be over.”
She focused intently on the triangle of moonlight. The glowing lines drew her and calmed her. The mathematical purity of the moonlit angles was a strong, if temporary, antidote to the hallucinations.
She reached the fourth door, went through it and paused in the middle of an aisle of books, trying to think. There was a small office in here somewhere. And inside the office there was a book. She had been looking at it just this afternoon. It was a very important book because it contained a picture of her killer. She had to mark the picture for Deke and Thomas.
The shelves of books around her curved
and warped themselves into a maze. Gathering her waning strength, she staggered through the twisting corridors to the office.
The little book was lying on the desk, just as she remembered. She got it open and stared helplessly at the first page. The picture was here somewhere. She had to find it quickly. The killer was halfway down the hall.
She turned pages, taking refuge once more in the comfort of numbers.
Seventy-nine.
Eighty.
Eighty-one. There it was. A picture of the killer.
There was a pen next to the book. After three attempts she finally managed to pick it up. She was beyond being able to write a name but she had enough eye-hand coordination left to draw a shaky circle around the picture on page eighty-one.
She paused when she finished, concentrating hard.
There was something else she wanted to do just to make sure Deke and Thomas understood.
The envelope, please.
She smiled with satisfaction as the memory blazed clearly in the fog of her thoughts.
The envelope was in the purse draped over her shoulder. She got it out. Managed to slip it inside the book.
Now what?
Hide the book and the envelope. She could not risk having the killer discover them.
“I know where you are, Bethany. Did you think you could hide in the library?”
She looked around, searching for a place in which to conceal the book and the envelope.
The large, old-fashioned wooden card catalog stood against one wall, the rows of little drawers neatly organized in lovely straight lines.
Perfect.
“Mirror, mirror on the wall,” the killer chanted from the door of the library. “Who is the smartest one of all? Not you, Bethany. Not Sebastian Eubanks, either. I’m the smartest one of all, Bethany.”
She ignored the taunting and wedged the book with the envelope inside into the hiding place. Deke and Thomas would find it sooner or later.
It was done. A sense of peace flowed through her. She had completed the task. She could sleep now. She turned around, clutching the desk for support.
The killer came to stand silhouetted in the office doorway.
“I’m the smartest one of all, Bethany.”
Bethany Walker did not respond. She closed her eyes and slipped into a peaceful world on the other side of the looking glass, where the laws of mathematics reigned supreme and everything made sense.
Chapter One
THE PRESENT . . .
A shifting of the light reflected in the mirror above the dresser was the only warning she had that she was not alone in the dead woman’s apartment. Her hands went cold. The fine hair on the nape of her neck stirred as if she had been zapped with an electrical charge.
Leonora straightened swiftly from the drawer she had been searching and spun around, a soft, pale pink cashmere sweater in her hands.
Two junkyard dogs stood in the doorway of the bedroom.
One of them was human.
His broad shoulders filled a lot of the available space and cut off the view of the hall behind him. There was about him the deceptively relaxed, totally centered grace of the natural-born predator. Not an impulsive young hunter overeager to take down the first of the prey that bolts from cover, rather a jaded pro who prefers to pick and choose his targets. He had the face of a man who had done a lot of things in life the hard way and he also had the cold gray eyes to match.
The ghost-gray beast at his heels had a lot in common with his companion. Not real big, but very solid. One of his ears was permanently bent, the result of a fight, no doubt. It was difficult to imagine this creature springing playfully in pursuit of a Frisbee. Probably tear the thing to shreds and eat the plastic raw.
Both of the intruders looked dangerous but her intuition told her to keep her eyes on the man. She could not see his hands. They were thrust casually into the deep pockets of a charcoal-colored windbreaker. He wore the lightweight jacket open over a button-down denim shirt and a pair of khaki trousers. His feet were shod in leather work boots. The boots looked large.
Both man and beast were damp from the rain that misted this stretch of the southern California coast today. Each gave the impression that going for her throat would be no big deal. All in a morning’s work.
“Were you a friend of hers or did you just happen to hear that she was dead and decide to drop in to see if there was anything worth stealing?” the human junkyard dog asked.
His voice suited him. A low, dark, very soft growl.
She got a grip on her hyperactive imagination. “Who are you?”
“I asked you first. Which is it, friend or casual opportunist? Either way, I figure you’re a thief so maybe the answer is moot.”
“How dare you?” Outrage incinerated some of the alarm that had quickened her pulse. “I am not a thief. I’m a librarian.” Damn, that sounded dumb. Well, no one could say that she couldn’t hold her own when it came to snappy repartee, she thought.
“No kidding.” His mouth curved into a mockery of a smile. “Looking for overdue books? You should have known better than to give Meredith Spooner a library card. Doubt if she ever returned anything she stole in her entire life.”
“Your sense of humor leaves a lot to be desired.”
“I’m not auditioning for a late-night comedy show.”
One had to be forceful in situations such as this, Leonora thought. Take the initiative. Take charge. Gain the upper hand with a show of confidence and authority. It wasn’t as though she had not had some experience with difficult people. In the course of her career as an academic librarian she was occasionally obliged to deal with a variety of obnoxious patrons, from egotistical, demanding faculty members to boorish frat boys.
She went deliberately toward the door, praying that the stranger and his dog would step back in that automatic way most creatures did when you made it clear that you wanted to move past them.
“As a matter of fact I have every right to be here, which is probably a good deal more than you can say.” She gave man and dog a steely smile. “I suggest we discuss this with the apartment manager.”
“The manager’s busy. Something about a plumbing emergency down on the third floor. I have a feeling we’d both rather deal with this privately, anyway. Got a name?”
It became glaringly apparent that neither he nor the dog was going to get out of her way. She was forced to halt in the middle of the room.
“Of course I’ve got a name,” she said crisply. “But I don’t see any reason why I should give it to you.”
“Let me take a wild guess. Leonora Hutton?”
She froze. “How did you know?”
He shrugged. The easy movement drew her attention once again to the impressive width of his shoulders. The fact that they fascinated her was worrisome. Normally she was not the least bit attracted to male muscle. She preferred the intellectual type.
“Meredith didn’t have a long list of friends,” he said. “Mostly she just had marks, from what I can tell.”
“Marks.”
“Marks. Targets. Victims. Dupes. Whatever you call the people she used, conned or fleeced in the course of her scams. But unlike most of the people in her email address book, you and she went back a ways from what I can tell.” He paused a beat. “Assuming you’re Leonora Hutton, that is.”
She set her teeth together. “Yes, all right, I’m Leonora Hutton. Now, who are you?”
“Walker. Thomas Walker.” He glanced down at the dog. “This is Wrench.”
Wrench tilted his broad head and grinned in response to the sound of his name.
She looked at Wrench’s impressive array of teeth. “Does he bite?”
“Nah.” Thomas was apparently amused by the question. “Wrench is a real sweetheart. Very nonconfrontational. Probably a miniature poodle in his former life.”
She did not believe that for one moment. If Wrench had had a former life he had no doubt lived it as a giant medieval hunting mastiff. But she de
cided not to make an issue of it.
“We’ve been waiting for you to show up, Miss Hutton,” Thomas said.
She was aghast. “Waiting for me?”
“Three days now. Spent most of the time in that coffee shop across the street.” He angled his jaw toward the window and the partial view of a block of small shops. “You were the one who claimed the body and made the burial arrangements last week. Figured you’d come to clean out her apartment sooner or later.”
“You seem to know a great deal about me.”
He smiled. It was the kind of smile that made her want to take a couple of steps back, turn and run for her life. But that would be the worst thing she could do, she told herself. She knew enough about animal behavior to know that predators only got more excited by fleeing prey.
“Not nearly as much as I’d like to know about you, Miss Hutton.”
There was nowhere to run, anyway. He had her cornered in this small, barren room. She stood her ground.
“How did you get hold of Meredith’s email address book?” she asked.
“That was easy,” Thomas said. “I came here and helped myself to her laptop just as soon as I heard the news about the crash.”
The casual admission left her speechless for a few seconds.
“You stole her computer?” she finally managed to ask.
“Let’s just say I borrowed it.” He gave her another one of his chilling, humorless smiles. “In the same spirit that she borrowed one-point-five million bucks from the Bethany Walker Endowment Fund.”
Oh, damn. This was bad. This was very, very bad. Embezzlement had been one of Meredith’s favorite sports but her preferred victims had been other cons and scam artists who had not been in a position to complain too loudly. And to the best of Leonora’s knowledge, she had never gone after a score of this magnitude. Trust Meredith to go out with a bang, not a whimper.
And trust her to leave me with the mess to clean up.
“Are you a cop?” she asked warily.
“No.”
“Private investigator?”
He shook his head. “No.”
Smoke in Mirrors Page 1
