Mirror Image (12 page)

There was a shadow behind his head. A shape. The glitter of metal. A sickle-like blade.

There was pain.

And pleasure.

He watched blood—his blood—arc from his throat and spatter across the demon's female body. And as his life faded, he watched her rub his blood into her body, licking the drops from her fingertips. Dying muscles relaxed and his head turned and he saw his own blood spray into a wooden goblet, where it gathered like altar wine.

*   *   *

B
LOOD-SPATTERED AND SATED,
the woman climbed off the cleric's body, picked up her cloak and draped it casually around her shoulders. Timing was essential: the virgin had to be slain when their blood was hottest, but before orgasm. Once their passion had taken them they were useless. She watched as Kelley approached the mirror, holding the cup in both hands like an offering. With careful, deliberate movements, he spilt some of the liquid onto the dirty glass, allowing it to run down the surface, scouring through the dirt.

For an instant the mirror cleared, and images flickered within.

The red-haired, red-bearded man spattered more of the blood onto the glass, careful not to touch the mirror himself.

The images were clearer now; there were faces, dimly glimpsed buildings, shadows.

Standing back, he threw the remainder of the contents of the goblet at the glass, splashing it at about head height. The steaming gore dripped in long sticky strands down the glass, wiping away the encrusted slime.

The images were clearer now; sharper, brighter. There was a face, a woman's face … eyes wide, mouth open … and then it faded.

Edward Kelley swore and then he turned back to the woman. “Again; we will have to do it again!”

*   *   *

J
ONATHAN FRAZER CAME
awake as the moonlight slid off the glass. He was freezing and his heart was pounding painfully in his breast. The dream had been so vivid, so real. He had been lying on that table, while the dark haired woman sat astride him, breasts swaying over his face.

He sat forward, head throbbing … and then realized that his pants were wet. He was horrified and disgusted to discover that he'd ejaculated in his sleep.

 

20

T
HE MEMORIES
were returning and with the memories came strength and knowledge. It knew now that it was not without power.

To lure, with images and shadow shapes.

To court, with desires and promises.

This was its power.

This was its strength.

This was its skill.

And now the trap had been baited, the prey sighted.

Now there was the time of waiting … but it had waited for so long—forever and ever, unchanged and unchanging—it could wait a little longer.

 

21

D
ETECTIVES HAAREN
and Pérez pulled up in an unmarked car and parked outside Frazer Interiors in Beverly Hills.

“Impressive,” Margaret said.

“Expensive,” Pérez added. He looked up and down the street. “Many of these shops are by appointment only.”

On either side of the glass-etched front door were large, tall glass windows. The windows displayed a different room, each one dressed with extraordinarily beautiful antiques.

Haaren and Pérez climbed out of the car and stood for a while in the bright November morning sunshine, looking into the windows.

“No price tags,” Margaret said.

“If you can afford to shop in this neighborhood, you don't care about price tags.” José grinned. “Though, even if I could afford them, I'm not sure if there's any I'd want.”

“Not sure any of them would fit in my apartment.”

The door was locked and José rang the brass doorbell. “Why don't you move?”

Margaret Haaren had lived in the same tiny apartment in West Hollywood for the past twenty years.

“There's just never enough time to look for an apartment and move,” she admitted. “But soon,” she added, unconvincingly.

José was reaching for the bell again when a figure materialized from the back of the store. A slim dark curly-haired young man cracked open the door and smiled professionally. “Good morning, can I help you?”

“Yes, we are here to see Mr. Frazer.”

Margaret Haaren was wearing her usual dark suit over a white shirt, but she still felt shabby standing before the assistant's two-piece charcoal gray Italian silk suit, slate-blue shirt with a heavy raw silk tie. She tried her usual trick of estimating the value of his clothing, jewelry, tie, and shoes, and then began to wonder how a sales assistant—albeit in a place like this—could afford to wear upwards of twenty-five hundred dollars of clothes, shoes, and jewelry to work. She somehow doubted that he'd be paid that well. Maybe he earned a lot in commissions.

The assistant's smile never moved. “Do you have an appointment?” He tapped a small brass sign to the right of the front door. “By Appointment Only.”

José shifted slightly, revealing his badge clipped to his belt.

The assistant's fixed smile cracked.

The big woman smiled coldly. “Tell him it is Detective Haaren. He will see me.”

The assistant's smiled faded to a bare curve of his lips. “Of course, please come in, I'll let Mr. Frazer know you are here.” He stepped aside and allowed the two detectives to step inside, then he locked the door, turned and disappeared in the back of the store.

“I thought it would be smaller,” Margaret said, looking around.

The discrete frontage disguised the fact that the antiques store was surprisingly large, with tall ceilings and highly polished concrete floors. The huge space was laid out to show different room arrangements. The walls were covered with modern art, the lighting angled in such a way to pick up the radiant colors of the paintings and prints, while the shelves were accented with glass objets d'art or books.

José Pérez wandered into a bedroom setting. It was dominated by a large black steel framed four poster bed with crisp white linens, accent pillows and a colored throw. Two curved mirrored nightstands with turquoise blue base lamps and black shades stood on either side of the bed. He picked up one of the pewter picture frames on the nightstand and turned it over to check the price.

“One hundred and fifty dollars, I think I'll take two!”

Margaret took it from his hands and set it down. “Bed, Bath, and Beyond have them for ten dollars each,” she whispered.

The assistant appeared behind them, coughing gently.

“Mr. Frazer will see you now.”

They followed the assistant to the back of the store. The back wall was covered in floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. The young man touched a concealed switch and an entire section of shelving swung out to reveal an office. Jonathan Frazer appeared, hand outstretched. “Detective Haaren…”

“You remember my colleague, Detective Pérez?”

“Of course.” Frazer shook hands. “Good to see you both again.”

“I hope this is not an inconvenient time, Mr. Frazer?”

“No, no, not at all, and please … it's Jonathan. Can I offer you some water?”

The detectives nodded.

He looked over her shoulder at the assistant. “Water please, Robert, and I'm not to be disturbed.”

“Of course.” The young man closed the door, which shut with a smoothly oiled click.

“Interesting door you have,” Detective Haaren remarked.

“With space being at a premium—especially the way we use the space—we just couldn't afford the luxury of having a blank piece of wood there. It's taken from an old movie set. Please have a seat.” He moved around behind a large glass L-shaped desk and sat in a high-backed leather chair. Behind him, the wall was filled with signed pictures of his celebrity clients. “Do you have any news for me?” he asked suddenly.

Margaret Haaren was watching the man closely as he spoke. The bruising on his forehead was still evident, although he had removed the bandage that had swathed his entire head and now used a small square patch to hide the worst of it. He was pale though, and his skin had an unhealthy cast, his soft brown eyes deep sunk and ringed as if he'd spent a sleepless night.

“Not a lot I'm afraid. Our investigations are continuing. We're trying to trace the scarred man you spoke to. We'd like you to come down to the precinct as soon as possible and we'll have you look through some mug shots. If that doesn't work, we can have a police artist draw up a sketch.”

“Yes … yes, I'll do that. When?”

“Soon. Today, if possible.”

There was a tap on the door, and the assistant entered carrying a tray with three bottles of water, tall glasses, and a pitcher of ice.

“Thank you, Robert.”

“Will that be all?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Margaret Haaren turned one of the water bottles. They had gold etched Frazer Interiors labels wrapped around them. “Nice touch, Mr. Frazer.”

“Thank you, I like to make my customers feel special.”

Margaret waited until the door had closed and she heard the young man's footsteps moving away from the door—and she realized that she hadn't heard him approach the door, which probably meant that he'd crept up and been listening outside.

“We would also like your employment records for Tony Farren and Diane Williams…”

“Of course.”

“Also, we would like some details about the mirror you bought in London; maybe we could trace the scarred man that way. Have you any idea why he might have wanted the mirror?”

Jonathan Frazer shook his head, looking distracted, and after twenty-two years on the police force, Margaret Haaren knew when someone was upset and attempting to conceal it. There was something about the mirror.

“Tell me about the mirror, Mr. Frazer.”

He shrugged. “There's not a lot to tell. I bought it at auction in London. I go there at least once a year to look for unusual pieces that I can sell here at the store. My clients love the idea that some of the pieces have a history behind them or come from exotic countries. With Thanksgiving and then Christmas just around the corner, it's a good time for antiques and objets d'art. I'll make about forty percent of my sales between now and Christmas Eve.”

“What about your wife, she doesn't travel with you?” Pérez interrupted.

“No, she prefers the luxury type of vacations, surfing, skiing, that type of thing. She hates business trips. No fun.”

“So, back to the mirror you bought.” Haaren nudged him back on track.

“It was my last business day. I wandered around just seeing the sights and then went to my final stop, the auction house in South London. There was an auction in progress, trash mostly, but the mirror was there. And no one bid on it, I think because it was so big. But I recognized its age and I bought it for five hundred pounds—came to around around thirty-five hundred dollars if you count the shipping.”

“And it's worth a lot more?” she asked.

“I thought it was worth a few thousand, but Tony Farren—who knew a lot more about these things than I did—estimated it around twenty thousand dollars.”

Margaret Haaren looked up in surprise. “Twenty thousand dollars! So it was quite a find then?”

“It certainly was. A sort of once-in-a-lifetime find.”

“Then what happened?”

Detective Pérez lifted a discrete black leather notebook from his pocket and began to make notes.

Jonathan shook his head. “The mirror was shipped back here … and that's when the trouble started.” He looked up suddenly. “Was Tony's death an accident?”

“There is no evidence to suggest otherwise,” José said, “but we shall be re-investigating the circumstances in the light of Miss Williams's tragic death.”

Margaret leaned forward, the sudden movement focusing attention on her. “Mr. Frazer—and I must ask you now to be honest with me—do you owe anyone any money, do you have any gambling debts, or have you done anything which might leave you open to blackmail?”

The shock on his face was genuine enough, and she knew the answer even before he said, outraged, “No! Absolutely not. I don't gamble and I don't … leave myself open to blackmail. This is a reputable business and I have an A-list clientele.”

“I'm sure, Mr. Frazer, but you will appreciate that we have to look at every angle.”

Frazer sipped his water in angry silence. He was obviously insulted that they should even think …

“Tell me about your assistant, Mr. Frazer,” Detective Haaren continued as if nothing had happened.

“Who … Robert?” he asked, surprised.

“The young man who let us in.”

“He is Robert Beaumont; French mother, American father, and a friend of my daughter's. His references were excellent and while he doesn't know a lot about design, he's a superb salesman.”

“Is he wealthy?”

Frazer shook his head. “No.”

“So how did he end up working for you?” Jose Pérez asked, puzzled.

“My daughter Manny met him when she was in Paris studying fashion. She was new to the city and he showed her around and they became close friends. She treats him like a big brother. When he returned to Los Angeles, he needed a job. Manny knew I was looking for someone for the store. I interviewed him and found him perfect.”

“Do you pay your assistants especially well, Mr. Frazer?”

“Detective Haaren … I really don't see what this has to do with…”

“Just answer the question, Mr. Frazer.”

“He is paid two thousand dollars a month, plus two and a half percent commission of any sales he makes or initiates during the month.”

“That's not a particularly enormous salary.”

“Is that payment under the table?” Detective Pérez asked, eyebrows raised.