4

AS THE FRONT DOOR CLICKED SHUT, Coltrane rushed toward the stairs. Above him, the landing creaked. A figure appeared, hands raised.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” the man said.

Coltrane faltered, his heart no longer hammering as he took in the red jacket that Duncan Reynolds wore.

“It’s just that we weren’t expecting visitors,” Coltrane said.

Duncan put a key in his jacket. “I was in the neighborhood, so I thought I’d drop by and see how you were settling in. I’d have phoned, but…”

“There isn’t a phone.”

“Exactly. I don’t want to intrude. If this is a wrong time.”

“Not at all,” Coltrane said. “I want you to meet my friend Jennifer Lane. Jennifer, this is Randolph Packard’s assistant, Duncan Reynolds.”

They shook hands.

Still calming herself, Jennifer smiled. “It must have been fascinating working for a genius.”

“Fascinating’s one word. So is hair-raising. I finally decided to call it an adventure.”

“Can I get you some coffee?” Coltrane led him up to the living room.

Duncan surveyed the sleeping bags next to the small artificial Christmas tree. “This looks like an adventure. About the coffee – no thanks. But something stronger would do nicely.”

“I’m afraid we didn’t buy…”

Duncan’s face drooped.

“But we did pick up some wine,” Jennifer said.

Duncan brightened. “Forgive the pun, but any port in a storm.”

“White or red?”

“Whatever you have more of.”

Jennifer headed to the left, toward the kitchen.

“We found a set of blueprints in the garage,” Coltrane said.

“Yes, I put them there,” Duncan said. “I discovered them when I was going through Randolph’s things at the Newport Beach house. I decided to bring them here before they got mislaid.”

“You didn’t happen to come across the blueprints for the renovation, did you?”

Duncan shook his head no. “I’ve still got a lot of things to sort through. Why?”

“Just curious. There’s a discrepancy that puzzles us.”

“Come into the kitchen,” Jennifer called.

“Excellent,” Duncan said. “We can talk while you pour.”

They crossed through the dining room, its chromium bead-draped walls reflecting light, and entered the sun-bathed kitchen. It had a butcher-block island in the middle, where Jennifer uncorked the wine. “Paper cups will have to do.”

“It’s the only way to go when you’re roughing it.”

“And I hope you like cabernet sauvignon.”

“I have what might be called an indiscriminate palate. It all tastes good to me.” Duncan sipped and nodded. “Perfect. You mentioned a discrepancy?”

“We were trying to figure out how much space had been added when the vault was installed,” Coltrane said. “We kept getting conflicting numbers. Do you have any idea when the vault was put in?”

Duncan took another sip. “All I know is, it was here when I came to work for Randolph in 1973.”

“Was he living here then?”

“No. If he ever lived in this house, I never heard him say so. But he certainly adored it. With the exception of the vault, he went to elaborate lengths to keep the property, including the landscaping, exactly the same as it had appeared when he took his photograph of it in 1933. Too bad the furniture was gone by the time you saw the interior.”

“Why?” Jennifer asked.

“It was the same furniture that was in the house when he photographed it.”

“You can’t be serious.” Coltrane leaned forward. “You mean imitations, right? The original furniture would have fallen apart by now.”

“Not this furniture.” Duncan wiped a purple drop from the edge of his mustache. “The furniture was designed by Warren McArthur, a noted modernist of the thirties. His work is characterized by shiny metal and glass. The supports were tubular. Everything glinted. Of course, the cushions eventually had to be replaced, but Randolph was careful to replicate the textured red fabric. Here and there, he also had some Mies van der Rohe chrome tables. You can understand why the furniture was removed. Those tables and sofas have considerable value. Christie’s is going to auction them.”

“I want you to bring them back,” Coltrane said.

Duncan almost spilled his wine. “Bring them back?”

“I want to buy them.”

“But you’re talking about an enormous price.”

“I want the house to be exactly as it was.”

Jennifer looked astounded.

“And I think it would be great if you could get me more information about the house’s history,” Coltrane said. “You told me Packard used this for an office, a darkroom, and an archive. But who lived here before he owned it? His biographers say it was designed for a film producer named Winston Case. Is that who Packard bought it from, or did somebody else own it in the meantime? What about after he bought it? Did someone else live here then?”

“But it was all so long ago. Why should it matter?”

Coltrane didn’t have an answer.

5

THE LAST RAYS OF SUNSET AGAIN OUTLINED SIX BASKETBALL players on a court at Muscle Beach in Venice: the same court where Coltrane had met Greg the previous day. Almost exactly twenty-four hours ago, Coltrane thought. Seated with Jennifer on the same level of the same concrete bleacher at the sideline, an eerie sense of doubling overtook him.

“Greg ought to be here anytime now,” Coltrane said.

An ocean breeze made Jennifer shiver. “I’m surprised he didn’t ask you to meet him at the police station.”

“He lives only a few blocks away. I guess he figured it would be more convenient to meet down here.”

The sun dipped into the ocean, its crimson now so faint that the players stopped. Coltrane overheard their conversation: gibes at one another, plans to get a beer, promises to meet next week. Déjà vu made him squirm.

The players headed along the walkway. The sun eased below the horizon. Skateboarders became fewer as the temperature cooled. Streetlights struggled to dispel the darkness.

“He’s fifteen minutes late,” Coltrane said.

“Maybe he got held up by a phone call.”

“Greg has a thing about being on time. I’ve never known him to keep me waiting.”

Another fifteen minutes passed.

“It must be an awfully long phone call,” Jennifer said. “So what do you think we should do?”

“I guess we don’t have any choice except to stay here until-”

“Is that him?”

Coltrane looked toward where Jennifer pointed. A heavyset man wearing sneakers, jeans, and a leather windbreaker stepped from behind a shadowy wall next to the court and approached them.

“No.” Uneasy, Coltrane stood.

“Does he look like Ilkovic?”

“I can’t tell in the dark at this distance. He doesn’t have a mustache. But Ilkovic might have shaved his.”

They stepped from the bleachers.

“He keeps coming in this direction,” Jennifer said.

“Then why don’t we walk in that direction.”

They started past palm trees, heading up the beach.

The man followed.

“Shit,” Coltrane said.

They started to run.

“Wait!” the man called.

They ran faster.

“Mr. Coltrane, stop! Lieutenant Bass sent me!”

They faltered.

As the man hurried to catch up, Coltrane turned, straining to see in the shadows, wondering if he was making a mistake. His misgivings lessened when a streetlight revealed the badge the man pulled out.

“I work with Lieutenant Bass in the Threat Management Unit,” the man said. Tall, he had a solid-looking body, his chest, shoulders, and upper arms developed like a weight lifter’s. His brown hair was trimmed to almost military shortness. His matching brown eyes had a no-nonsense steadiness. “Sergeant Nolan.”

Coltrane shook hands with him – not surprisingly, Nolan’s grip had force – then introduced Jennifer.

“Greg couldn’t get here?” Coltrane asked.