Mirror Image (14 page)

There was something about a mirror …

Wait a second! That woman and Frazer had been talking about a mirror he had bought at auction. Added to what he had been able to pick up over the past few days, he realized that this must be the same mirror the mysterious scarred man had offered to buy before Diane Williams's death. Frazer had warned him that if a large, particularly ugly man with a shock of white hair entered the store, then he was to phone the police immediately.

Frazer had told the detectives that the mirror was valued at more than twenty thousand dollars. Twenty thousand was a big payout; far better than the few hundred he could get from small bits and pieces of artifacts.

Beaumont tapped the envelope against his lip. This letter contained the evidence which proved he had bought the piece and therefore owned it. And suppose
he
wanted to sell the mirror—maybe to the scarred man if he could make the connection—then this piece of paper would prove the legitimacy of the sale. Sliding the envelope into his inside pocket, he returned the letters to the file drawer and closed it. He glanced at his watch. Just one-thirty. Frazer would be back soon, and Robert had no intention of being around when he arrived. His thin lips twisted in a smile as he surveyed the office for the last time. Frazer would be forced to stay in the store for the rest of the afternoon, or close early, and Robert didn't think he'd do that. Maybe now would be the perfect time to visit the guesthouse. If everything went according to plan he'd be well away before Frazer arrived home.

*   *   *

J
ONATHAN FRAZER STROLLED
down the street arguing with himself. He was a soft-hearted fool. He knew that. He'd always been soft, and curiously, he didn't consider it a character fault. The alternative was to be someone like Celia—hard, unyielding, caring only for oneself—and he was definitely sure he didn't want to end up like that.

So Robert Beaumont had taken him in; well it wouldn't be the first time he'd made a fool of himself, nor would it be the last. He'd paid the young man reasonably well, and in return, his Mediterranean looks and charm had wooed some customers, especially the female ones. And if Robert'd stolen from him, well … what was done was done and could not be undone. He would dismiss him now—immediately, even though that was going to mess up the store for the next few days. Maybe Manny would stand in until he found a replacement: she should, seeing Robert had been her recommendation.

Jonathan turned into Rodeo Drive and straightened up as he walked towards the shop. As he pressed the bell, he decided on the spur of the moment that he was not going to give Beaumont a reference. He pressed the bell again.

Nothing moved within the shop.

Jonathan pushed the bell for the third time. Leaning against the door, he shaded his eyes with his hands and peered inside. There was no movement within. He looked at his watch: it was just gone a quarter to two. Where was Robert? His heart began to pound. Was something wrong? Had there been a robbery; was he tied up in the back of the store someplace … or … or …

He took a deep breath and attempted to calm himself. Maybe the young man had just popped out for something—he'd done it before, even though he'd been warned never to leave the premises unattended during working hours.

Pushing the bell again, he rapped sharply on the glass with a quarter.

“Is there a problem, Mr. Frazer?”

Jonathan whirled, startled. “Detective Haaren!”

“Is there a problem?” she repeated, her face hard and expressionless. She hated to be taken for a fool and so far as she could see, this man had done nothing but.

“I don't know…” He turned to look back into the store, hoping to see Beaumont appear. “I've just come back from lunch and I've discovered that the store is locked.” He rattled the handle for emphasis.

She continued to stare at him, saying nothing.

“Well, Beaumont should be there.” He lowered his voice. “I was wondering if there'd been a robbery, or something.”

Margaret Haaren looked back over his shoulder, and Detective Pérez immediately stepped out of the unmarked car.

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Mr. Frazer's store appears to be locked, and he's concerned there may have been a robbery. Anything on the radio?”

“Nothing.”

“Do you have a key, Mr. Frazer?”

He handed it over without a word.

Detective Pérez turned the key in the lock and stepped inside, followed by Haaren and Frazer. Pérez walked swiftly around the store, his gun drawn, moving surprisingly quietly for so large a man. He returned moments later, placing the gun back in its holster, shaking his head. “There's no one here. But I did find this on the desk in his office.” He handed Frazer the single sheet of paper with his name scrawled across the top. Jonathan read it aloud, and then glanced at Haaren. “This man thinks I'm a fucking idiot,” he said angrily.

“It's not a nice feeling is it, Mr. Frazer?”

The tone of her voice caught his attention. “Is there something the matter, Detective Haaren?” he demanded, transferring his anger onto her.

“I think it's you who has been taking me for a fool, Mr. Frazer. You told me you purchased the mirror—the cause of all your recent problems—at auction in London. That does not appear to be the case. Neither the auction house nor the shipping company have any record of ever having dealt with you.”

“That's nonsense, absolute crap!” he snapped.

“You will, of course, have all receipts and invoices from both sources then?” she demanded.

“Of course! And I must say I find your attitude and your suggestions offensive.”

“Just show me the proof, Mr. Frazer, and I will apologize,” Margaret Haaren said, suddenly turning away.

“I'll get them now,” he snapped.

“Is there another way out?” Margaret asked quietly, as Frazer disappeared behind the swinging bookshelves.

“Not that I could see. Anyway, where's he going to go?”

They wandered around the main showroom, not talking. The detective had warned Pérez about the security monitors and they were both aware that Frazer could see them, although they weren't sure if he had an audio pick-up. Five minutes later, Margaret Haaren looked at her small-faced wristwatch and glanced at Detective Pérez. “How long does it take to find an invoice?”

They had both started towards the office, when the section of shelving swung back and Jonathan Frazer, wide-eyed and white-faced, stepped out.

“Let me guess, Mr. Frazer.” Detective Haaren smiled. “You can't find them at the moment. They've been misfiled, misplaced.”

“No, no.” He shook his head violently. “They were in the front section of the filing cabinet. But they're gone,” he said wonderingly. “They must have been stolen!”

“How very convenient,” Detective Pérez said. He glanced at Haaren. “We often have people stealing invoices from filing cabinets, there's a big market in stolen invoices.” He took Frazer by the elbow and steered him towards the door. “I think it's time for a trip down to the precinct for a somewhat more serious conversation.”

“Do I need to call my lawyer?”

“Well,” Margaret Haaren said, “what do you think?”

 

26

I
T HAD
been easy, pathetically easy.

Robert Beaumont parked on a side street and walked past the Frazer house twice just to make sure that neither Jonathan nor Celia Frazer's cars were in the drive. Finally, he boldly walked right up to the front door and rang the bell long and insistently. Then, with his hands folded together in front of him, he turned his back on the door and looked out over the expanse of manicured garden. Like everything else about Jonathan Frazer, it was unspectacular, conservative.

Robert Beaumont had no appreciation of gardens, but he appreciated land and property prices and Frazer's property was certainly in the big leagues. The man was obviously doing very well for himself. And he did it by paying his assistants a lousy five hundred a week. If Beaumont needed an excuse for extracting a few things—which he didn't—he had it now. Frazer wouldn't even miss them, fuck him. And he deserved everything coming to him.

The door clicked open behind him and he turned, smiling automatically, until he discovered that it was Emmanuelle, and the smile turned genuine.

“Bonjour, mademoiselle,” he murmured, bowing elegantly. When they had first met in Paris, she had mocked his too-elegant old world manners.

“Robert,” Manny said, blinking sleepily. She had been out until the early hours of the morning, and she'd drunk far too much and smoked a little more than she should. She'd been dead to the world until the persistent jangling of the bell had awoken her. Idly wondering where the housekeeper was, she pulled on a long candy-striped T-shirt that came down past her knees and padded down the stairs. She peered out through the fish-eye spy hole, but the caller had his back to her. She glanced at the clock—two in the afternoon—and debated ignoring the caller. Of course … it might be the police. She looked out through the spy hole again and noted the caller's short haircut and neat suit. Probably a Jehovah's Witness she decided, as she turned the lock and swung back the door. She discovered then that the suit was far too smart and far too expensive for a Witness. It took her a second to recognize the smiling young man. “Robert,” she said, digging the heel of her hand into her eyes, and smothering a yawn. “What are you doing here?”

He smiled ruefully and ran his fingers back through his slick coal-black hair. “Business I'm afraid.” He showed Manny the key ring he had taken from Robert's desk drawer. “You father asked me to come out and collect a few things from the guesthouse.”

“Sure. Come on in.”

She stood back and allowed him to walk past her into the hallway. He caught a hint of her perfume—now heavy and musky with sleep—and the sour, sharper odor of stale alcohol.

“You were partying I take it,” he murmured, glancing surreptitiously around the hall.

“I did have a late night, or an early morning,” she admitted, and then added philosophically, “and now I'm paying for it, I'm afraid. And I'll pay for it tonight when Dad gets home.”

“He doesn't know what you got up to in Paris then?” His dark eyes caught and held hers.

A touch of color appeared on her cheeks and then she threw back her head and laughed aloud. “No, thank God, and don't you even think of telling him. It's our secret remember?”

“Mademoiselle!” he said in mock outrage. He pressed his hand to the flat of his chest over his heart. “It is—as the saying goes—more than my job's worth.”

“Have you got time for a coffee?” she asked, moving past him.

“Not really, but maybe I'll have a small one.” He watched her move down the hall, the realization that she was completely naked beneath the T-shirt exciting him. He had seen her naked many times when they had been lovers, but that had been a long time ago, and he wondered if he had time … Shaking his head from side to side, grinning at the very idea, he followed her down the hallway into the kitchen.

“How are you enjoying working for my dad?” she asked, as she pulled open cupboard doors looking for coffee.
Where was the housekeeper?
“I can't find a thing in this place,” she admitted. “I'm sure the housekeeper rearranges things every week to make herself indispensable.”

Robert went to stand by the back door looking out over the back garden, across the paved patio and down through the trees to where the edge of the guesthouse was just visible. “Your father is … well, he's fine really. I don't see him often enough to form any opinion. The store isn't really his main business as you know, and despite the economy, we're ticking over nicely I think. There aren't many walk-in customers. Most of the business is down to our list of special clients.”

“You always had the trick of not answering my questions.” Manny glanced over her shoulder and grinned. “Come on, be honest: what's he like to work for?” She suddenly pulled out the coffee. “Success!”

“He's a bit of a—how do you say?”

“Robert, your English is better than mine, so don't give me any of that French ‘how do you say' shit.”

Beaumont laughed. “It was your sense of humor that first attracted me to you, you know that, don't you? Anyway, your father is too picky. He is old-fashioned, slow, unimaginative, and uninventive. How he has survived in this business so long eludes me.” He was watching Manny's reflection in the window and saw the smile fade from her lips, and realized that he had gone too far. “And yet,” he added brightly, “just remember, I am working for him, so if there is a last laugh going around, he has it.” He suddenly changed the conversation. “Is that the guesthouse down there?”

Manny glanced over at him and nodded. “That's it. Mom hates it, she wanted it as her personal gym,” she added. “She hates the very idea that Dad turned it into a workroom and storage area. She had a landscape architect come in and gave them specific instructions to hide it. They planted the trees and bushes. Eventually they'll screen even the small corner of the guesthouse you can see.”

Robert glanced at his watch. “I'll tell you what. While you're preparing the coffee, I'll go on down and see if I can find the few things you father asked me to get for him.”

“Sure. I'll give you a call when it's ready.”

Robert opened the back door and stepped out onto the patio. There was a rich scent of flowers and herbs in the still air. Fall in Los Angeles: eighty degrees in the sun and flowers were still in bloom.

First the guesthouse, and then a quick cup of coffee. The thought of it appealed to his sense of irony. It was another way of thumbing his nose at Frazer. Then he'd drive straight to his mother's, pick up some clothes and head to the Burbank airport, grab a last minute ticket to somewhere, anywhere—Colorado, Arizona—just somewhere, out of state. All nice and neat and effective. It was a pity that he didn't have a little more time: he would have enjoyed taking Manny Frazer to bed again, to make love to her. No, not that. They had never made love. It had always been a far baser emotion. It was lust, pure and simple and they had fucked. Wouldn't that be the ultimate insult: take Frazer's goods, drink his coffee, and fuck his daughter on the same day? It was a nice idea; however, discretion being the better part of stupidity, perhaps not now …