David Morrell - Double Image

The troop disappeared, trudging upward.

Duncan watched in a daze.

“Duncan?”

“Uh, what?” Duncan turned, blinking.

“The other day, you mentioned that Randolph owned an estate in Mexico.”

Duncan’s face didn’t change expression, but something in his eyes did, becoming wary.

“You said that Randolph used various shell corporations when he was buying property, so that no one would know the true buyer. You said Randolph bought this house that way – and a place in Mexico.”

“Now that I think about it, I suppose I did mention something about that.”

“I was wondering where the estate was.”

Duncan’s gaze remained guarded. “What makes you ask?”

“Just curious. Randolph had such a unique way of viewing things, I thought the hacienda might be as dramatic as this house. It might be worth going down to Mexico to have a look.”

Duncan answered too quickly: “I wouldn’t know.”

From upstairs, Coltrane heard the faint clang of metal tubes being bolted together.

“Careful,” he heard the foreman say.

“You wouldn’t know if I’d find it interesting to visit the estate?” Coltrane asked.

“I wouldn’t know where it is. I was never there.” Duncan looked up the stairs toward the metallic sounds. “Randolph never told me. Some place in Baja California, I think he might have mentioned.”

“That’s too bad.”

“Sorry I can’t be more helpful.”

“It probably doesn’t matter. For all I know, it isn’t as unique as this house, or it hasn’t been preserved the way this place has. Did Randolph still own it when he died?”

Duncan looked away. “Years ago, he mentioned something about selling a property in Mexico.”

“Well,” Coltrane said, “it was just a thought.”

“Careful,” the foreman repeated.

“I’D LIKE TO SPEAK TO MR. BLAINE,” Coltrane said into the telephone.

“May I tell him who’s calling?” the receptionist replied.

Coltrane gave his name. “I’ve been having some discussions with him about the estate of a deceased client of his. Randolph Packard.”

The receptionist’s voice came to attention. “Randolph Packard?”

“I’m buying a house he owned, and I need some further information. I know it’s New Year’s Eve afternoon.” Coltrane tried to sound self-deprecating. He chuckled. “Or whatever today is called.”

The receptionist sounded amused. “Yes, I’ve been having the same problem.”

“Anyway, Mr. Blaine probably has a ton of work he still needs to finish, but I was hoping he could spare a few minutes for me.”

In death as in life, Packard’s name got results. Twenty seconds later, an unctuous baritone was on the line. “Mr. Coltrane, I trust that your arrangements are proceeding satisfactorily.”

“Totally. In fact, I’m so pleased that I was wondering if another property Mr. Packard owned might be available for sale.”

“If you’re referring to the house in Newport Beach, it was given to his assistant. You’d have to speak with him about that.”

“No, I was thinking of a property in Mexico.”

“Mexico?”

“I believe it’s in Baja California.”

The baritone sounded confused. “No, I’m not familiar with it.”

Coltrane glanced down in disappointment, his suspicions having proven groundless. “I guess it must have been sold years ago.”

“The only property I’m familiar with that Randolph Packard owned in Mexico isn’t in Baja.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s on the western main coast of Mexico, much farther south than Baja. Below Acapulco, in fact. Near a town called… I can’t remember it in Spanish, but in English it’s very distinctive. The spine of the cat.”

“What?”

“That’s the name of the town.”

“Espalda del Gato?” Coltrane asked.

“I’m impressed. Your Spanish is very good.”

“I spent a lot of time in Spanish-speaking countries. If there’s a way for me to see the place, if it’s still in Mr. Packard’s name, maybe I’d be interested in buying it also,” Coltrane said.

“I can’t help you with that. It’s out of my hands. The hacienda was a bequest in Mr. Packard’s will. The title was transferred a week ago.”

Coltrane couldn’t hide his frustration. “To whom? Can you tell me?”

“Against my advice, Mr. Packard didn’t transfer all of his assets to a trust. The hacienda in Mexico was one of the items that he neglected to include. If he had included it, the bequest could have been handled privately, without involving a California court. But because the hacienda was included in a will, it has to go through probate. It’ll be a matter of public record. I could put you through the inconvenience of going to the court house. I don’t see why that’s necessary, however. Mr. Packard gave the Mexican property to someone named Natasha Adler.”

“Natasha Adler?”

“I have no association with the woman. I can’t tell you a thing about her.”

“Do you have her address and phone number?”

“ That information was not included in the will. I had to hire a private investigator to find her. I’m afraid I’d be violating her privacy if I told you where she lived.”

Damn it, Coltrane thought.

“Now if there’s nothing else I can help you with,” Blaine said.

“Maybe one thing.”

The baritone had a hint of impatience in his voice. “Yes?”

“Would you mind telling me the name of the investigator you used?”

“CHEERS.”

“Cheers.”

Coltrane and Jennifer clicked glasses of Absolut and tonic.

Jennifer sipped from hers and wrinkled her nose. “It’s like with champagne – the bubbles are ticklish.”

“Maybe you need more vodka and less tonic,” Coltrane said.

“Then the rest of me would be ticklish.” Jennifer wore a black Armani dress, the hem of which came up just above the knee. Its top ended where her breasts began. Pearl earrings and a matching necklace couldn’t compete with her smile.

Taking another sip, she surveyed the living room. “I expected the furniture to look striking, but not this much. It’s really – I don’t know what word to use – fantastic. I feel as if I’m in that wing of the Museum of Modern Art, the one where they have furniture that’s considered art.”

“Does that mean you feel the house has changed enough for you to give it another chance? You don’t still associate it with Ilkovic?”

“It feels different now.”

“Good.”

“As if I’m in the 1930s.”

“That’s the illusion I want to create. I want this to be a haven from the present.”

“It seems to me that the present’s still here, though.” Before Coltrane could ask what she meant, she added, “Is it safe to sit on this stuff?”

“Of course.” Coltrane laughed.

Tentatively, Jennifer lowered herself onto the red velvet cushion of a black tube-enclosed chair. “So far so good. It didn’t collapse.”

“The man in charge of the crew who delivered it assured me that this stuff was made to last.”

“It certainly has. After all these years, it’s as shiny as new.” Jennifer took a long sip of vodka and tonic. “You’re certain Duncan lied to you about the place in Mexico?”

“It wasn’t so much what he said. He told me he had a vague memory that it had been sold some time ago, that maybe it was in Baja. No big deal. But there was a nervous look behind his eyes.”

“Maybe he just needed a drink. Not everything’s a mystery.”

“I phoned the private investigator Packard’s attorney uses. I got lucky and caught him in. For five hundred dollars, he looked in his files and told me that Natasha Adler, the woman who inherited the estate, lives up in Malibu. Her number’s unlisted, but he gave me that, too.”