Mirror Image (Capitol Chronicles Book 4)

by Shirley Hailstock

  "I was a social worker."

  "You thought that was fun?" She heard the incredulousness in his voice.

  "Every day wasn't a barrel of laughs, but there were times ..." She stopped, refusing to relay her experiences.

  "You'd like to go back to it?"

  She shook her head. "It doesn't pay well enough, and even if it did I couldn't return."

  "Burnout?"

  "Something like that," she admitted. She'd seen too much working as a counselor and she couldn't fix any of it. Yes, she'd gotten girls off the streets and returned them to homes where their parents were grateful to find them and the girls were glad to return. She'd also found parents who hated their children and refused to have them come back. She'd found children lost in foster care, and abused children. Those were the hardest to work with and they had been the turning point for her. She'd become too involved and she could no longer function.

  When the ad for impersonators had been left on her desk, it was an escape. A way to salvage her pride by leaving instead of waiting until her performance became inferior.

  Duncan broke into her thoughts. "Aurora, I'm asking you to do a few tapings. By then Marsha will probably be ready to return. Despite her ranting, she loves this show. She wants to protect what she's built. I don't think she'll make good on her threat. If she returns soon enough we'll never even have to air the shows you make."

  "And if she finds out I've replaced her, she'll be angry enough to do the job herself."

  "I won't deny that I haven't thought of that. In fact, I'm counting on it." He paused. Time passed slowly. "Will you help me?"

  Damn. Why did he have to use that voice? That soft, sexy one that undid her? The voice that spoke of a low-playing saxophone in the early morning hours when the heat is high and the previous day is about to give way to the new one. She had to refuse. She should never have let him talk her into coming here. The money she needed to keep her mother safe had forced her hand. But to go before the cameras? To take Marsha Chambers’ place and possibly get killed in the process?

  Yet he sat there, perched on the stool in his lawyer outfit. His tie hung loosely from the open collar, blue shirt, and his sleeves were rolled halfway up his strong, dark arms. Visions of waves lapping on a moonlit beach and shared kisses with wine-sweet lips filled her mind.

  "Aurora—"

  "Duncan—"

  They spoke at the same time.

  "You go first," he said.

  "It's the first kidnapping attempt." She forced her mind and body to let go of the images and concentrate on the present. “You convinced me that it was the work of a kind fan, but I'm not so sure anymore.'' She stopped to glance at her hands before going on. "Now, with this food poisoning, I know there's more involved than an enthusiastic fan wanting a nice evening with Marsha Chambers’ screen persona."

  "You're right," he agreed. "Believe me, I'm not trying to put you in any danger. The studio will do whatever we can, and Coop is looking into the kidnapping attempt and Marsha's food poisoning. You'll be safe here."

  She doubted it. As long as he stood in her path it was her heart more than her physical being that was anything but safe. She'd wanted to be safe. When she left Social Services she'd wanted to find a place where she wouldn't be called in the middle of the night, where people weren't crying out, needing her to leave her bed, dress quickly, and get to some place where one of her clients—her children—were in trouble. Of course she wasn't supposed to go alone, but she couldn't wait. Minutes counted, seconds counted, when they called her screaming into the phone.

  That last time—when she'd gotten between a pimp with a knife and the twelve-year-old he'd forced into prostitution—she was sure her life would end that night. A swift move her brother had taught her and ten years of ballet lessons helped her manage to kick the knife out of his hand before she kneed him in the groin. Hauling the twelve-year-old behind her, she'd run like hellfire was speeding at her heels.

  If she did what Duncan asked her she'd be setting herself up for every kook who lusted after Marsha Chambers. She'd had plenty of that already, and she wasn't ready for wholesale adoration.

  "I don't think I want to be a part of Marsha's world."

  "You're already a part of it," he pointed out.

  "It's limited. I can work here in the editing room and not come into contact with any part of the underworld of television."

  Duncan hesitated. She saw his gaze drop from her face to the pearls. "Why do you wear those?"

  "What?" she asked, her hand coming up to touch the smooth round surfaces.

  "The pearls?" He stood up, making her want to step back. She didn't. "You want to be involved in this. Every day you come in here wearing that string. Why?"

  She opened her mouth to speak, but he continued.

  "The pearls were delivered to your house. I don't know how he knew where you lived. Maybe he followed us from the studio that day. From a distance it is difficult to separate you and Marsha. If he's fixated on Marsha, he's got you in his sights, and you're waving a red flag in front of this bull. We both know they're worth a fortune. Eventually, the sender is going to want to collect. And you're already setting yourself up for him, as surely as if you were wearing a sign."

  Aurora wondered about what he'd said. It wasn't often she was on the end of a character study, especially one she didn't like. Could it be true? Did she really want to be part of the action? Had she worn the gems for a reason other than facing Marsha Chambers? The talented hostess had ignored both her and the pearls. Why had she persisted in wearing them?

  "We'll get you as much security as you need, Aurora. In the studio, we'll make sure no one gets to you who isn't a bonafide employee."

  "He'll come looking for me," she whispered.

  "We'll keep you—"

  "What about my mother?" Aurora thought, not realizing she'd spoken aloud. "If anything happens to me, she'll—"

  "She'll be fine, Aurora. The studio will also get her a guard, or we'll move her to another location."

  "No," she said, a little too fast. “She doesn't understand change. It would make her disoriented and afraid."

  "All right," Duncan agreed. "First we move you out of that house. Then we're going to get you some protection. I'll talk to Coop immediately."

  "Can I think about this? I'll give you my answer in the morning."

  Duncan nodded. "I don't think you'll have anything to worry about, but I want you to be sure." He reached out and squeezed her arm. Automatically, Aurora's hand came up and covered his. Realizing her action she wanted to drop it, but it would appear as if she didn't want his touch. The problem was that she wanted it more than she had a right to.

  ***

  The weather turned decidedly colder. Winter was going to arrive fast and it would be a bad one. Coop could tell by the blowing wind and smell of snow. Coming from Chicago he had an internal barometer which told him when it was going to snow. Sometimes he could even predict how much would fall. He often found himself having solitary conversations with the TV weatherman over winter forecasts. The same couldn't be said for summer or warm weather—maybe because he was too busy to take in the weather, then. Crime rose with the temperature.

  The temperature was dropping, along with his ability to pull anything together on this case. He had nothing. Days had passed. The regular driver of the food truck had been found—tied up and with a huge bump on the back of his head, but otherwise fine. He could provide nothing in the way of clues. He hadn't seen who hit him. He'd been hit from behind. The man could offer no reason why the thief had known so much about him and about the people on the Marsha Chambers set.

  Coop went over and over the meager details he had to work with. Finally he turned toward the windows. His reflection looked back through the darkness. It got dark earlier these days. Sighing, he decided to end the day. Maybe he'd drop by on his way home and check in with Duncan.

  As soon as the outside air hit him he knew something was wrong. The perception came
with being a career cop. It was an instinct, like his sense of smell. He knew something was wrong, but didn't know where. Turning the radio up so he could monitor the calls, he left the parking lot and turned toward the center of town.

  ***

  The bulb must have blown, Aurora thought as she pulled into the dark garage and closed the door. She had a light on a timer. It was a habit she'd developed while her mother was still living there. Often Cass would get up in the night and wander around the house, not knowing where she was. Once she'd fallen and twisted her ankle. Aurora had put a night-light in her room and a lamp in the living room that stayed on. After her mother went to the care facility she'd removed the night-light but left the living room lamp on the timer switch. Occasionally, the bulb outlived its usefulness and she came home to a dark house.

  She didn't like the house dark. It was lonely there. She'd grown up with four sisters and a brother. The house was always full of noise, and lights were always on in practically every room. Now that she was alone, the one light seemed to scare the loneliness away.

  Inside the door she flipped on the kitchen light. Immediately, she knew someone had been there. Her heart stopped, and then leapt into her throat, beating hummingbird-fast. She listened. Was he still there? Her senses heightened, making her hearing sharper, her sense of smell more acute. She felt the silence pressing against her as if she were wrapped in a rug. Should she continue or call the police?

  Irrationally, she wanted Duncan. She wanted to call him, ask him to come over and hold her, make her feel safe. Pushing her mind back to the house she laid her purse on the counter, keeping her keys in her hand. Tentatively she approached each room, turning on all the lights as she went. At the last room she sighed with relief and fell against the wall for support. She was alone, but someone had definitely been in the house. He'd taken nothing that she could determine. He'd touched things, moved them around. Her perfume bottles, the sachet packets in her drawers, her clothes in the closet, had all been pushed aside as if he wanted to see behind them.

  Catching her reflection in the mirror she saw the pearls and her hand went to them. Duncan's words came back to her. Eventually, the sender is going to want to collect. What did he want? And why her? Why didn't he find the real Marsha? If he got her by mistake, would he believe she wasn't the real talk show hostess? What kind of profile could this man have? She didn't have enough information to draw any conclusions, and Marsha hadn't been any help. Everyone who knew about it insisted her previous kidnapping had been by fans. Aurora didn't think so, and she didn't know if this was the same man or if he was after Marsha again.

  Feeling uneasy she went back to the kitchen to put on some water for tea. The doorbell rang as she reached the door jamb. Her feet faltered and she tripped, nearly losing her balance.

  Was it him? she wondered. Would he come back? Ring the doorbell? Looking around for a weapon, she grabbed the fireplace poker. Thinking how like someone in a television drama she must look, she inched her way toward the glass doors. Never had she thought of the double doors as being anything but beautiful. Tonight she thought they offered little protection from a possible murderer.

  The bell rang a second time and someone called her name. Duncan! She dropped the poker and rushed to the door. She saw him as she flung the door open. Later she would tell herself she was just propelled into his arms, that it was the ordeal, the fear she'd felt knowing someone had been in the house, but right now she needed the solid warmth of him to steady her, control her raging emotions, and soothe her terror.

  Only after he pushed her back into the room and closed the door did she notice Coop standing in the background.

  "What happened?" Coop asked, his eyes glancing at the dropped poker.

  "Someone's been here."

  "Are you hurt?" Duncan asked. She looked at him. Concern and fear were warring for dominance in his eyes, which she'd always considered deep and clear. Tonight they were hard and brilliant as polished glass.

  "I'm fine. He was gone when I got here."

  "Thank God." Duncan let out a breath but didn't let go of her. As they faced Coop, Duncan's arm fell from around her shoulders down her arm to link their fingers. Her nerve endings tingled, making her feel protected.

  "Is anything missing?" Coop brought her back to the crystalline world of reality.

  "Not that I can tell. It's more like the person wanted to get familiar with my taste. The clothes have been moved, sorted through, perfume bottles lifted and examined, then replaced."

  "I don't like this," Duncan said.

  Coop reserved his opinion. Aurora could tell he didn't like it, either. Whoever was now stalking her had more knowledge of her than any of them had of him. Even the combined comprehension of a trained lawman, a social science doctoral candidate, and a seasoned observer of human nature couldn't put the pieces of the invisible Humpty Dumpty character together enough to profile the individual.

  "I'd like to take a look around."

  Aurora nodded and Coop left them. The silence was awkward after he left.

  "I apologize for running into you."

  He stopped her. "Shhh. I'm just glad you're all right.”

  Aurora smiled tentatively, but she was still a bit overwhelmed by the experience. "I was just about to make some tea."

  Duncan followed her into the kitchen, where she filled a kettle and set it on the range. He heard the soft whoosh of connecting gas when the burner lit. She was scared. He could feel it in the tremors which had come through her hand and passed to him. Thank God Coop had suggested they come by here tonight. She would have been alone. He knew she wouldn't call him. She would have weathered the situation alone. Just as she supported her mother alone, lived alone, worked alone, and didn't want to need anyone for anything.

  She needed someone tonight. She needed to be held and stroked, told that someone else would bear the burden for the next twenty-four hours, that she could sleep without the world resting on her shoulders.

  Coop joined them in the kitchen as Aurora set cups in front of them. "I didn't find anything."

  "What were you looking for?"

  "A method of entry, broken window, jimmied lock. Everything here seems to be in order. What about the alarm system?"

  "It was .. . off." Her voice held wonder. She hadn't thought of it. It was so automatic for her to reach for the alarm that she'd turned it off, even though the red indicator light had not been on and the signal noise had not sounded. "I'm sorry." She glanced at Coop. "I didn't remember it until now."

  "Anything else?"

  "The lights were off." She pointed toward the dark lamp in the other room. "That one is on a timer. It was off. I assumed the bulb had burned out."

  Coop went through to the lamp with his lazy gait and switched it on. Connecting the current to the device— a procedure learned by children around the age of seven—produced light in a lamp. Tonight was no different. Illumination spilled from the shaded beacon, causing Aurora to react slightly. Only Duncan could see it, since his eyes were focused on her.

  The kettle whistle blew. Aurora turned the flame off and poured the boiling water in the ceramic tea pot.

  “Any idea why someone would come here and go through your things, but take nothing?” Coop asked.

  Aurora shook her head. “Maybe they think Marsha lives here.”

  “If that was so,” he said. “Wouldn’t they want some kind of souvenir? They go to all the trouble of breaking into her house, looking around, touching things, but leave with nothing.”

  Aurora poured tea in cups and passed them around.

  Coop drank his tea in one long gulp. Then he asked more questions for which Aurora didn't have the answers.

  "This is a big house," Coop finally said.

  "It's my family home."

  "From the pictures in the living room, I see you have sisters."

  "Four," she told him. "And a brother."

  "Where are they?"

  "Spread across the U.S. I'm the only one w
ho's still in New Jersey, except for my mother."

  Coop didn't ask about her mother. Duncan had already told him about his visit to the nursing home where she suffered from Alzheimer's Disease.

  "I'll have patrols increased in this area so we're on the lookout for anything unusual," Coop said. "May I use the phone?"

  Aurora indicated the wall phone near the kitchen counter where they sat drinking the tea. He was a Princeton cop and she lived in Rocky Hill. The police cooperated with each other, so he could do what he said.

  "In the meantime, the reason Duncan and I came tonight was for the necklace."

  Protectively, her hand went to her neck.

  "It's the only lead we have. We're going to try to find out where gems as perfect and expensive as those came from, and who bought them."

  Aurora reached up and undid the clasp of the necklace. Coop picked up the phone.

  "We'd also like the box it came in. It might help."

  Sliding off the stool Aurora said, "I'll get it."

  She left them alone in the kitchen.

  "What did you really find?" Duncan asked the moment she was out of earshot.

  "That's just it," he said. "I didn't find anything. The windows were all locked and the security wires were intact I could find no door which had been forced. She confirmed that the alarm system had been disabled, but if she was as used to it as she says maybe she never really set it before going out. Overall, I found nothing. I can't even tell if anything has been moved or touched."

  Duncan felt helpless. He wanted there to be something tangible, something they could face. He hated the invisible, the dark side of life. He'd always believed that when he went into the fantasy business, it couldn't touch him. Even when the movies detailed life, they weren't filmed that way. They were done in small segments, in disjointed scenes, and often out of sequence. Only when the whole product was aired was it seen in continuous and sequential motion. His knowledge made him view it as entertainment. Tonight was not entertainment.