Double Image (50 page)

“I NEED A ROOM.”

The motel clerk straightened. “My God, what happened to you?”

Coltrane could barely hear him. “I had a skiing accident.”

“Man, you look like you ran into a tree.”

“Another skier.”

“Does he look as messed up as you?”

“He never got a scratch.”

THE ROOM WAS SPARTAN BUT CLEAN — a small bed, a nineteen-inch television, a plastic ice bucket. Coltrane barely noticed. All he cared about was locking the door behind him, going over to the window, opening the draperies, and satisfying himself that traffic was vividly close. The motel was on Big Bear’s outskirts, close to the road that Walt would have to use to drive into town. With the glare of headlights, Coltrane knew that he had little chance of recognizing Walt’s Mountaineer if it went past tonight, but tomorrow would be another matter.

He picked up the phone and called Big Bear information, his ears still ringing so badly that he had trouble hearing the operator. “Do you have a listing for Natasha Adler? . . . How about Walt Halliday?”

He used a pencil and notepad on the bedside table to write down the number.

The phone on the other end rang five times. Maybe they’re out, he thought.

“Hello?” Tash’s throaty voice made Coltrane feel pressure in his chest.

“Just help me understand! Tell me why—”

Click.

Coltrane frantically pressed the numbers again.

The phone was picked up halfway through the first ring.

“You’re going to be very sorry about this,” Walt said.

The connection was broken.

Coltrane pressed the numbers again, but this time, all he heard was the pulsing beep of a busy signal. He called every ten minutes and continued to hear it.

THE DAY WAS CLEAR AND BRIGHT. In his chair, Coltrane stared out the window, traffic close enough for him to read license plates. Wrappers from sandwiches that he had picked up the night before littered the floor around him. Using the television as radio, he heard the CNN anchors tell him about a famine in Africa, an explosion at a school in Northern Ireland, a mass murder in Germany, an oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico, and mysterious deformities in frogs all over the world. Yeah, things are tough, he thought, never taking his gaze from the window.

The Mountaineer passed Coltrane’s window just after four in the afternoon, Walt’s big-boned no-nonsense face behind the steering wheel, Tash next to him. Coltrane sprang to his feet and grabbed his ski jacket. His car was directly outside the door of his motel room. Thirty seconds later, staying far enough back to hide in traffic, he again had the Mountaineer in sight.

It parked at the post office, but both Tash and Walt went into the building, so Coltrane lost that chance to speak to Tash alone. They came out and drove to a hardware store, both entering. Another lost chance. They drove to the parking lot of a duplex movie theater, bought tickets, and went in. After giving them time to get settled, he bought a ticket for Meg Ryan’s newest film, but when he sat in the back, he didn’t see any profiles that resembled Tash’s and Walt’s, so he went out, pretended to use the bathroom, ducked into Tom Cruise’s latest, and saw them almost at once.

They were on the aisle, about halfway down on his right. At this hour on a weekday, there were plenty of seats available. Choosing one in the middle at the back, Coltrane watched them watch the movie. They ate popcorn and sipped from straws in paper cups. They leaned toward each other and whispered. Totally focused on their silhouettes, Coltrane had no idea what was happening on the screen.

But despite his concentration on Tash, she almost caught him by surprise when she stood and came up the aisle. He slid down just in time to avoid being noticed. A light haloed her as she opened the door and went out to the lobby. Immediately, Coltrane exited through the door on the other aisle, but not in time to intercept her as she walked down a corridor next to the door she had used and entered a door at the end marked WOMEN.

Coltrane stalled by buying popcorn. He stalled longer by going into the corridor and lingering over a water fountain next to the men’s room. He pretended to show interest in posters for coming attractions. He turned as the door to the women’s room opened and Tash came out.

She froze.

“Just give me an explanation,” Coltrane said.

She stepped back, trying to escape into the women’s room, but Coltrane grabbed her arm. “What changed? Why did you—”

“Let go of me.”

“
How can everything suddenly be so different
?”

“You’re hurting my arm.”

“Just tell me why—”

“You heard the lady,” a gravelly voice said. “You’re hurting her arm. Let go of it.”

Coltrane swung toward the right, where a broad, burly man in a San Bernardino County sheriff’s uniform stood in the open door to the men’s room. The man’s face had the grain of weathered barn board. His hand was on his nightstick.

“I . . .”

“One more time — take your hand off her arm.”

Coltrane did. Movement in the lobby attracted his attention, a door opening, Walt coming out. Walt stopped and crossed his arms, not at all surprised by the scene that faced him.

“This was a setup?” Coltrane pivoted toward Tash, raising his voice. “Christ, all you had to do was explain to me and—”

“Mr. Coltrane,” the sheriff said. The use of the name eliminated any doubt that the sheriff was here by coincidence. “California’s antistalking law—”

“
Antistalking law
? What are you talking about? I’ve got a right to speak to this woman. I’ve got a right to know why—”

“—stipulates that for a crime to be committed a victim must be willfully, maliciously, and repeatedly harassed. After your intrusion on Ms. Adler last night, your numerous unwelcome phone calls, and the behavior I just witnessed, I’d say that you’re perilously close to inviting me to arrest you.”

The theater’s ticket taker and its popcorn seller peered nervously around a corner.

“But Ms. Adler is reluctant to take the matter to that level. She tells me she wants to avoid trouble. She won’t make a formal complaint. I think she’s wrong. I think she’s already
got
trouble. I think you’re the trouble she
had
when she was living in Malibu. I think the only way to
get rid of
that trouble is for me to put you under arrest. If the state of California leans on you, believe me, you’ll wish to God you’d never leaned on this woman.”

“But . . .” Coltrane felt light-headed with confusion. “I’m not a stalker.”

Aren’t you? a part of him thought. How else would you describe what you’ve been doing? You’ve become your father.

He felt sick.

“So this is the deal I’m going to offer you,” the sheriff said. “Get out of Big Bear and never come back. If I see you here again, I’ll arrest you for the assault I just witnessed. At a minimum. Because next time, I’m willing to bet, Ms. Adler won’t be so generous about not pressing charges. Leave town.
Now
.”

Coltrane looked at Tash. “Okay, damn it, if you don’t want me to have anything to do with you, I’m out of here. Forget about why you made me think there was something special between us. Forget about how you lied.”

“Mr. Coltrane.”

“Just tell me one thing. What happened to the photographs? How did the negatives disappear from my house?”

“
What
photographs? Negatives?” Tash shook her head. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Of Duncan Reynolds.”

“Who?”

“Jesus,” Coltrane said, “you are some piece of work. I don’t know what game you’re playing, but I’m not going to be a part of it anymore.”

“Mr. Coltrane.” The sheriff’s tone was filled with warning.

“Don’t worry, I’m leaving. I finally got my mind straight. Go to hell, Tash. You’re not worth it.”

“Wrong,” Walt said as Coltrane passed him. “She’s the best thing that ever happened to me.”

THE NEGATIVES OF DUNCAN REYNOLDS. How had they disappeared from the vault
? The question kept nagging at Coltrane all the while he drove angrily down from the mountains. Darkness obscured the peaks, but he wouldn’t have paid attention to them even if he
had
been able to see them. There was too much on his mind. When he had discovered that the negatives were missing, he hadn’t thought clearly about the implications. He had taken for granted that someone had broken into his house and stolen them, and that their disappearance was related to
Tash’s
disappearance. If he could find out what happened to Tash, he would find out what happened to the negatives, he had reasoned. Both were tied together, because Tash was the only person besides himself who knew that he had taken photographs of Duncan Reynolds spying on her. The logical conclusion, then, was that Tash had been responsible for their theft, but that explanation hadn’t made sense. Why would Tash want to steal evidence that would help imprison the man who was stalking her?

Stalking. The memory of what he had been accused of sent a shock wave through his mind. The sheriff had even gone so far as to imply that Coltrane was the person who had stalked Tash in Malibu. Dear God, what have I gotten myself involved in? He felt he was being sucked into a spinning vortex, totally without balance and direction.

The dismaying sensation was reinforced by a sharp curve in the mountain road that his headlights didn’t reveal in time for him to reduce his speed. He almost veered out of control and narrowly avoided careening into the trees at the side of the road. His palms sweating, he fought with the steering wheel, steadied the car past the curve, and sped onward through the night.

Tash. Because it had seemed improbable for her to steal evidence that would help her, Coltrane had automatically rejected the idea. With no other explanation, however, the mystery had been thought-jamming, another on Coltrane’s list of many baffling questions that he needed to ask her. But not anymore. Now that Tash had denied any knowledge of the negatives
and
Duncan Reynolds, Coltrane’s thoughts were no longer blocked. Without his bias in favor of Tash, he saw the problem in the direct way that it should have struck him at the start. His house had
not
been broken into; there had not been any sign of forced entry. So how could Tash have gotten past the locks and the intrusion detector? She couldn’t have. But
someone else
could have — the one person who stood to benefit by the theft of the negatives: Duncan Reynolds.

Coltrane hadn’t had time to change the locks — Duncan still had a key. Although Coltrane
had
changed the numerical code on the intrusion detector, most number pads could be programmed with
several
codes, and Duncan must have known about an existing one that Coltrane did
not
know. Motive and means. It was the only way to explain so clean a theft. The reason Coltrane hadn’t suspected Duncan was that Duncan hadn’t been aware of the incriminating photographs Coltrane had taken of him. Duncan wouldn’t have had a reason to invade Coltrane’s house and steal negatives that he didn’t even know existed.

Unless Tash had warned him.

Why?

Coltrane shot around another curve and saw the glow of Riverside below him. But instead of taking Highway 10 northwest toward the Hollywood Hills and home, he headed west, toward Newport Beach.

THE RED-AND-BLUE FLASHING EMERGENCY LIGHTS STARTLED HIM as he rounded the corner. Outside the estate that Duncan had inherited from Packard, police cars blocked part of the exclusive street. An ambulance was in the open-gated driveway. An unmarked car with a flashing dome light pulled in behind it. Radios squawked. Policemen came and went along the driveway. Feeling as cold as when he had hiked through the snow to reach Walt’s cabin at Big Bear, Coltrane parked far enough back that his car wouldn’t be in the way, then got out in a daze, slowly approaching the commotion. Neighbors had left their houses and formed troubled groups on the sidewalk.

“What happened?” Coltrane asked numbly, reaching the nearest group.

The well-dressed neighbors eyed his battered lips with suspicion.

“Do you live around here?” a policeman asked.

“No.” The flashing lights were oppressive as Coltrane watched an attendant open the back doors of the ambulance in Duncan’s driveway.

“Then please get back in your car, sir, and—”

“I came to visit the man who lives in that house.” Coltrane’s voice sounded faint to him, far away.

“Duncan Reynolds?”

“Yes.” Coltrane felt colder. “I haven’t talked to him in awhile. I was in the area. I thought I’d see if he was home.”

“When was the last time you spoke with him?”

“A couple of weeks. What happened here?”

“Was he depressed about anything? Money problems? Problems in a relationship? Problems with—”

“No money problems. His employer died in November. The will was generous.”

“Did the death hit him hard?”

“What are you getting at?”

The policeman hesitated. “A gardener noticed a smell. He hadn’t seen your friend in several days. All the doors were locked. He peered through a back window and saw a trouser leg projecting from behind a chair.”

“Dear Lord.” Coltrane’s mouth was so dry that he had trouble forming the words.

“When we forced the door open — I’m sorry to have to tell you this — we found your friend’s body.”

“What caused—”

“I’m not the medical examiner, but the way it looks now, he shot himself.”

COLTRANE’S THOUGHTS WERE SO DISJOINTED THAT DRIVING down the hill toward his house, he was slow to notice the car parked in front: a BMW. A minute earlier, he would have sworn that his emotions couldn’t possibly have gotten more complicated. He would have been wrong. After pressing the garage-door opener, he steered into the driveway, stopped in the garage, and got out. On the street, the BMW’s door opened and closed. High heels clicked on concrete, coming toward him.