Mirror Image (7 page)

This was a petty life, a female life, not a virgin, but responsive. It savored the life, a foretaste of the feast to come.

Blood dripping.

The tang of it in the dust of the Otherworld.

Color and with the color came life and memories, sensations and emotions.

The blood was the life.

 

13

O
NE DEATH
was messy, but two—and obviously connected—meant piles of paperwork. And she hadn't joined the police force to be a secretary.

Detective Margaret Haaren leaned forward, peering between the front seats, looking at the impressive facade of the Frazer house. In real estate terms she wondered what she was looking at: three and a half million, maybe four? Without knowing a thing about the Frazers, she guessed there'd be two cars, one child, probably with an exotic name, and a dog, the small fluffy kind. She knew the type.

“Hmm, not dissimilar to my place,” José Pérez murmured, as they drove through the large ornate wrought iron gates and up the long graveled driveway.

“I thought you lived in a box on Skid Row, José,” Margaret Haaren murmured.

“It's a very expensive box.”

Both detectives laughed, and Haaren caught the startled look from the rookie in the passenger seat. Her smile faded: she hated babysitting rookies. Although Carole Morrow had done her obligatory four years as a patrol officer when she graduated the Police Academy, this was her first murder investigation. And it didn't help that she was clearly in awe of Detective Margaret Haaren, whose reputation was fearsome and terrifying.

“OK, so what do we have, Detective Pérez?” Margaret asked, sitting back into the seat, picking up the report again.

José Pérez had spent twenty-five years on the force starting as a patrol officer, then working in some of the LAPD's toughest precincts before joining homicide. While much had changed over the years: the types of crime, the frequency, the violence, the sort of people committing them, there were still some things—like motive—which remained satisfyingly the same.

“I think we've got a case of money problems.”

Margaret Haaren sat forward, listening intently. She had known José Pérez since she had joined the force a lifetime ago, and when she moved to homicide, eight years previously, she had requested him as her partner. She respected his advice and intuition.

“Talk to me,” she said quietly. She tapped Carole on the shoulder. “Listen. You'll learn something.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“And don't call me ma'am.”

“First we have the accidental death of one Anthony Farren, employee of Jonathan Frazer. Mr. Frazer then reports a break-in to the same property, and we have the savage killing of one of our K-9 dogs. Next, Mr. Frazer reports the appearance of a scarred man, followed, almost immediately by the death of another of the employees, Diane Williams.” He smiled ruefully, looking into the mirror, catching the eyes of the woman in the back seat. “Assuming that Mr. Frazer is not lying to us. And I do not think he is,” he added, “then someone is leaning on our man.”

Haaren nodded. “Makes sense.”

Detective Pérez caught the look of puzzlement on the rookie's face, and explained patiently. “Mister Frazer is obviously very wealthy. Now let's say someone wanted to make him pay a little insurance, a little protection, and he refused, then what better way of gaining his attention than by knocking off two of his employees, terrorizing him in this way.”

“But two people are dead,” Carole Morrow said, horrified. In her disgust, she forgot her fear of the detective and half turned in the seat to look at her. “No one would kill for that reason—just to threaten someone. Would they?” she asked plaintively.

“You're assuming that other people place the same value on life that you do, like most normal people do,” Margaret Haaren said gently. “I think you'll find that's not always the case. I've seen people killed for the price of a packet of cigarettes.”

“Yes … yes … err … thank you, ma'am. Detective Haaren.”

There were two police cars neatly parked in the graveled driveway, and a BMW rather more sloppily parked closer to the door. As they pulled up, the front door opened and a short stout man, who looked like a doctor even if he hadn't been carrying a bag, walked out onto the step. He was talking to a slender blond woman sporting a deep golden tan that looked too good to have come from a tanning salon. The doctor reached over and patted the woman's hand reassuringly, then walked down the steps to the BMW.

Haaren leaned forward and tapped officer Morrow on the shoulder. “Stop him. Find out what's wrong. He's probably sedated someone, if so find out how long it'll be before I can ask questions.”

“Yes, ma'am.

Detective Pérez stood on the brakes, scattering stones, but effectively blocking in the BMW, allowing the young woman time to hop out of the car and hurry across to the doctor. Margaret Haaren popped the back door and strode up the steps to where the woman remained standing in the open doorway. Their dislike was instinctive and almost palpable.

“Detective Margaret Haaren, LAPD Homicide.” She flashed her gold shield. She heard gravel crunching behind her and without turning around, she said, “My partner, Detective José Pérez. And that's Officer Morrow.” She looked at the younger woman, waiting for her to introduce herself.

“Celia Frazer,” the woman said eventually. “We have some police officers here already,” she added impatiently.

“I know and I am here to take charge.” She walked past Celia Frazer into the tall, wide hallway. “May I come in?”

Margaret Haaren had turned forty-eight last birthday, and looked older. A tall broad woman, with a square mannish face, emphasized by hair cut straight across over her eyes, curling around by her cheeks. There were strands of gray in her brown hair which she didn't bother disguising, but her strength and determination showed most clearly in her startlingly bright green eyes. She was dressed in a black two-piece suit that seemed almost a size too small for her large framed body. A white shirt with frilled collar softened the suit's rather severe line. Her nickname in the force was Mata Hari, for no real reason that anyone could remember. The last officer who had used it in her hearing had ended up with a desk job for the best part of a year. There was some talk that she might even be in the running to become the first female Chief of Police.

“You will not be able to speak to my husband for some time I'm afraid,” the woman said curtly, obviously resenting the intrusion. “He was quite distressed by the death of Diane and the doctor had to sedate him.”

“When can we speak to him?” the detective asked, glancing up the broad curved stairway.

“Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” Haaren repeated slowly. “Tomorrow's too late. He might have seen something which might be of immediate use.”

“He saw nothing,” Celia Frazer said quickly.

“So you were with him when he discovered the body?”

“Well no, but…”

“We'll take your statement shortly, Mrs. Frazer.” Haaren turned to Carole Morrow who had stepped into the hallway, and raised her eyebrows in a silent question.

“A mild sedative, valium in liquid form to relax him, the doctor said. You should be able to talk to him for the next thirty minutes before it kicks in and makes him drowsy.”

“Thank you. Is your husband up here, Mrs. Frazer?” Margaret Haaren started up the stairs.

“Yes, but I don't think he'd want to be disturbed. In any case shouldn't you have a search warrant?” Celia demanded.

“Mrs. Frazer, we are here to ask your husband a few questions, that's all, we do not need a search warrant.” Margaret Haaren smiled sweetly. “And I'm sure he won't mind.”

“Shouldn't he have a lawyer present?”

“Any time he wishes.”

“I'll call one.”

“Do that. And I'll talk to your husband.”

*   *   *

M
ARGARET HAAREN FOUND
Jonathan Frazer lying on an enormous bed in a room that her entire apartment could have been squeezed into. He was fully dressed, except for his shoes, and appeared to be dozing.

She tapped on the open door. “Mr. Frazer, Jonathan Frazer?”

He opened his eyes, blinking sleepily at her. “Hello?” he murmured.

“Detective Margaret Haaren, LAPD Homicide.” She stepped into the room and showed her badge again. She quickly crossed the room to the bed. “I'd like to ask you a few questions, Mr. Frazer, if you don't mind. I know you're tired, and you've had a terrible shock, but I want to speak to you now while the memories are still fresh.”

“Of course … of course…” He started to sit up and swing his legs out of bed.

“No, no, please stay where you are.” She wanted Frazer in the bed; it gave her a certain psychological advantage, and the fact that he'd been sedated meant that his defenses would be down. She pulled over a high-backed plain wooden chair and sat down on it. “Now Mr. Frazer … may I call you Jonathan?”

“Yes, of course.”

“In your own words, Jonathan, try and remember everything that happened, no matter how trivial.”

*   *   *

“E
ITHER HE'S NOT
telling us everything or he knows nothing,” Margaret Haaren said to Jose Pérez thirty minutes later, as they approached the guesthouse.

The detective nodded. “From what I can gather from the gardener and the housekeeper, the wife's a cool enough bitch. They all like him, he's a gentle sort apparently, but she's one of these rich Beverly Hills wives, likes to think she's above the rest.”

Haaren stopped at a bend in the path and turned to look back at the house. She could make out the kitchen door and part of the bedroom, so that part of Frazer's story was borne out. “Anything else?”

“There's a daughter, Emmanuelle, Manny for short. She's been staying with friends. She just got back from some fashionable school in Paris. Last year it was Rome and undoubtedly next year it'll be New York.”

“Little jealousy, José?”

He grimaced. “Hardly. At least my wife and I have a good, solid marriage.”

Two LAPD officers were standing outside the door to the guesthouse chatting to Officer Morrow. They straightened as Haaren and Pérez approached.

“Anything to report?” Pérez asked.

“Nothing. No one's been around since forensics finished and the coroner took away the body.”

“Anything else?”

The second officer, younger, round-faced, red-cheeked, looked from Haaren to Pérez. “We did hear noises at one point though…” He continued despite his partner's disgusted face. “But when we investigated, we found nothing.”

“What sort of noises?” Haaren asked.

“Sort of moaning, groaning sounds.” He looked desperately at his partner for support, but found none.

“Can you be more specific?”

The color in the young man's cheeks intensified.

“Cries of pain, of agony, panting…? Be more specific.”

“Sort of … of pleasure.”

“Pleasure?”

His eyes flickered from Morrow to the older detective. “We thought … we thought there was someone inside … engaging in some sort of sexual activity.”

“But there wasn't?” Margaret asked seriously.

“No.”

“OK, then keep your eyes open.” Ducking under the yellow crime scene tape she stepped into the relative darkness of the guesthouse, blinking to allow her eyes to adjust to the dimness, desperately resisting the urge to burst out laughing. She could tell by Pérez's expression that he was controlling the same impulse.

“Where do we get them from, José?”

“I really don't know, and that's no mistake. It's the twenty-first century: surely people should be able to talk about sex and drugs and rock and roll openly.”

“
Sexual activity
,” Haaren repeated wonderingly. It had been a long time since she'd heard that phrase. Her smile turned rueful; it had been a long time since she indulged in any sexual activity herself.

Their noses led them to the spot where the young girl had died, the peculiar once-smelt, never forgotten, odor of blood and excrement pervading the dry atmosphere.

“OK, José let's talk it through,” Margaret said quietly. She stood back and folded her arms across her broad chest, her left arm raised, chin cupped in the palm of her hand, fingers rubbing back and forth against her cheek.

“Well, as I see it, the big guy with the scars appears and frightens the shit out of both Frazer and the girl, Diane Williams. He was talking about a mirror…” He nodded to the slab of glass. “This mirror, which he said he wanted to buy. When he was told that it wasn't for sale, he became vaguely threatening. Frazer says he's going to call the cops, the girl picks up a hammer, the scarred man leaves, and the pair relax, thinking they've frightened him off.”

“A little something like that wouldn't frighten someone like that,” she murmured, and he nodded in agreement.

“Frazer goes up to the house to phone our guys because he's convinced that it was the intruder from last night.”

“So why did he have to go to the house? There was no phone here? He didn't have a cell phone on him?”

“No, it seems that the phone on the wall behind you wasn't working. I checked it out myself: the wire's been cut. And Frazer's cell phone was back in the house, charging. Story checks out. Phone was plugged in on the kitchen counter, with a fifteen percent charge showing.”

“Frazer told me he waited until Diane had locked herself in before he left here,” Haaren said.

“Frazer phones us from the main house when he hears the deceased, Diane Williams, scream.”

“So the call came from the main land line?”