City Of Mirrors: A Diana Poole Thriller Part 29

Leaving my purse and gun, I got out of my car. Running past the Mercedes, I saw Gerald in the driver's seat, ignoring me. At Celia's front door, I hesitated a moment, then tried the k.n.o.b. It was unlocked. Opening it, I stepped in and walked down the hallway. Glancing into the living room, I continued to the kitchen. Peeling an apple, Parson sat at the table. He did not bother to look up. Dressed in polo s.h.i.+rt and slacks, Luis stood behind him. Lithe and lethal looking, his teak-colored skin glowed as warm as the table. Bruno leaned against the Sub Zero, managing to make it look small in comparison. I could almost smell the stink of his sweat when he'd pressed his body against mine in the elevator "Luis found this in the refrigerator for me. He's always trying to get me to eat more. I think apples are better left out in the fresh air. Please sit down, Ms. Poole." Parson wore a gray cashmere windbreaker with the collar turned up and gray slacks. His skeletal face looked as if the flesh had been scooped out from under his cheekbones with a spoon. His lips drawn down toward his goatee, he cut the apple in half.

I remained standing. "Is that Ben's car in the drive? Where's Heath?"

"Right to the point."

"You're a sick b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

Luis moved swiftly to my side, a knife appearing in his hand.

I stopped breathing for a moment. "Where are Heath and Ben?"

"You're a b.a.l.l.sy woman. Just like your mother." Parson set down the two halves of the apple and pushed himself up from the table. "She told me to go f.u.c.k myself. But I'm afraid you won't be able to do that. Come along." He moved to the door that connected to the garage and opened it for me. Luis pocketed his knife.

Inside, a single ray of dusty light shone through a small window. A chair lay on its side in a faded oil stain, flip-flops resting nearby, and a shadow moved over them. I looked up. I staggered backwards. From the garage's crossbeam Ben hung by a rope, the noose tight around his neck, his face swollen, his eyes looked down at us.

I lunged for him, screaming, "No, no, no!" As I tried to lift his legs up, to take the weight off the noose, Luis and Bruno pulled me back.

"He's been dead almost an hour." Parson watched from the door.

"You did this." Tears ran down my face as I struggled to free myself from the two men.

"Let her go," Parson ordered. "No. I found Ben hanging just as you see him."

"I don't understand. I spoke to him here and then he left."

"He must've returned."

I leaned against the wall for support. I thought of Ben standing in the kitchen fixated on the door. Was he thinking of suicide when I had surprised him?

"When I arrived," Parson said, "Heath was trying to get him down. Ben may have been alive then. It's hard to say. Of course, Luis and Bruno had to stop Heath."

"Where is he?"

Parson nodded and Luis moved to a pile of tarps in the corner and flipped one up. I followed him. Heath lay on his back, bound and gagged. Blood ran down his unshaven face from the top of his head. He still wore the s.h.i.+rt I had ripped the b.u.t.tons off of last night.

Luis slapped Heath twice. Heath groaned and opened his eyes. Seeing me, he immediately began to struggle to free himself. I put my hand on his bare chest and he stopped moving. Feeling the warmth of his skin, his heart beating wildly, I leaned close and whispered "I'll be all right. Remember, you promised not to underestimate me."

Heath closed his eyes, then opened them. Bruno moved in and struck him in the head with the b.u.t.t of his gun. I grabbed for Bruno, but Luis pulled me away and shoved me back into the kitchen.

"Now, shall we talk?" Parson was already easing his long body back into the kitchen chair. Meticulously, he sliced the inner core from each apple half.

Shaking, I wiped my tears with the sleeve of my sweater. "You want me to tell you where Celia is."

"Personally, I don't think you know where she is. But I think you'll find her. You know her better than any of us. Even Zaitlin." He shook his head sadly.

"I'm not sure of that anymore."

"Yes, you must feel deeply betrayed by her. I know that feeling. Did you know my wife killed herself?"

"No." I glanced at Bruno, who was busy wiping Heath's blood from the b.u.t.t of his gun with his handkerchief.

"We kept it out of the news. Suicide is a betrayal, too. First my daughter dies, now my wife. This has been the blackest period of my life."

"I wonder if Hitler felt as victimized as you do."

Luis was trying to decide if that was a slur against his boss.

"What am I supposed to do when I find Celia?" I asked.

"Get the memory card from the camera that Ben and my daughter used to film their ... clients. We will do the rest." He neatly sliced each apple half into two more equal parts, creating quarters.

"You mean kill her. How do you know she has the camera?"

"We've searched Ben's condo. He didn't have it. We searched the Zaitlins' house. They don't have it. It's not here. We know the police don't have it."

"How do you know that?"

"Let's just say I have contacts. I think when Celia killed my daughter, she took it. Or maybe she took it when she shot Zackary Logan. You look perplexed."

"Why would she murder either one?"

"A mother's love, however late it may be. She was trying to protect her son." He stabbed his knife into one of the apple quarters, raised the piece to his mouth, and bit.

"You know?"

"Of course." He chewed.

"Protect him from what?"

"From my daughter. I'm speaking from Celia's point of view. I see it the other way round, of course. Logan was probably an act of necessity. Under duress, Zaitlin told me he had just found out that Ben was his son and Celia his real mother. He pleaded with me not to hurt Ben. He even asked me to kill him instead. So I gave him a gun to use on himself."

"You are an evil b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

"Is that the same as being a sick b.a.s.t.a.r.d?" He grinned. "Keep your cell phone on, Ms. Poole. I will be in contact with you. Any more questions?"

"No."

"Odd. I thought you might ask me when I was going to let Heath go."

"You have no intention of letting him go."

His jaw tensed. "Don't try to be more clever than me."

"I wouldn't think of it." I was just hoping to be as clever. "I know why you were blackmailing my husband. You should be very proud of your daughter. She was just like you. A psychopath."

He rose up out of his chair, slamming his hands down on the table. The apple pieces danced. I turned my back on him and left. They let me walk out of the house. They had to. Parson wanted Celia more than he wanted me. Until he was finished with her, that is.

I stopped and watched Gerald position his rump against the side of the limo and adjust his sungla.s.ses, getting ready to take in some beach air and sun. I had no idea how I was going to find Celia, or how I could save Heath, or even myself. But I did know I had one small area of power left.

I approached Gerald. "Don't forget about the bargain I made with you and Bruno in the penthouse."

Straightening up, he wiped off his sungla.s.ses. "I didn't make any deal."

"Sure you did. I don't tell Parson I got into his penthouse because the two of you screwed up and made it easy for his wife to jump, and you and Bruno will get to live."

"We can take you out any time."

"I've thought of that. So if I should die prematurely, I've made sure that what I know about that night will go viral."

"Viral?" He was confused.

Christ. "I've made sure every TV station and newspaper in town will have my story."

He blinked his penny-shaped eyes at me. "You're full of c.r.a.p."

"Oh, and the same goes if Heath dies."

"He wasn't part of the deal."

"So we do have one. Excellent, Gerald." I patted his arm.

Heading toward my car, I hoped he bought my story. If nothing else, I knew he didn't feel quite so secure anymore.

I drove a few blocks, then pulled over to the side of the highway. No longer able to control my anger, my fear, or my grief, I called Celia and screamed at her voicemail. "I know Ben is your son. I know what he and Jenny Parson were doing. I know ..." I stopped and took a deep breath. I couldn't tell her that I knew Ben was dead, hanging from a beam in her garage. Not in a voicemail. I continued in a calmer voice. "I need to talk to you. I'm in danger. I need your help. You probably need mine. If our friends.h.i.+p means anything to you, call me."

I threw the phone onto the pa.s.senger seat and leaned my head back, closing my eyes against the images of Ben's distended features and Heath struggling to free himself when he saw me. I felt the sun hit my face through the winds.h.i.+eld, the heater hot on my legs, and I listened to the endless line of growling cars racing by. I was completely alone, and I had no idea how I was going to find Celia.

There is an acting term called the star pause. It's when the actress is left alone on stage, waiting for the next character to enter. In those few moments, she must find something real to do, something the audience can believe and not think she's just waiting for her next cue. My mother told me all great actors relished this moment. "So don't blow it, darling, by pacing, smoking, or running your hands through your hair. Any idiot can do that. Find something that reveals your character."

I ran my hands through my hair. Then I grabbed the steering wheel, stepped on the gas, and drove off. Drive, it's what L.A. people do. I didn't know where I was going until I found myself on Sunset Boulevard. It was then that I realized I was headed back to Bella Casa.

CHAPTER FORTY.

Bella Casa was a house you could hide in. Years ago I had done the same thing when I wanted to get high so I could obliterate my feelings. Or to keep out of reach of Brad, Beau, or Bob, who wouldn't take no for an answer after I had said yes the first time. Celia knew the house as well as I did.

Peering in the rearview mirror, I checked to see whether Parson's men were following. There was no limo, and all the other cars behind me looked the same-unfamiliar. I turned left and went through the Bel Air arches and started up Stone Canyon Road.

The gates to Bella Casa were open. Pieces of yellow crime-scene tape still clung to them. Maybe the cops had forgotten to close them. Driving in, I didn't see a car parked in the driveway. I got out of the Jag and tried the front door. Locked. I walked around to the side of the house and tried the pool door. It opened. Somebody had been here, or still was. Wondering if Celia was a physical threat to me, I adjusted the strap of my bag on my shoulder and felt the weight of the Glock.

Moving quickly around the pool, I entered the gallery, then veered into the foyer. I stopped, waiting for any sound that might tell me another person was in the house. Not hearing anything, I crept up the tile stairs and down the long hallway past what was once my mother's bedroom. At the end of the hall I carefully opened a door that let out a loud creaking noise reminiscent of the bad sound effects in a slasher movie. I froze, listening. But I seemed to be the only one making noise.

I entered my old bedroom, which was big and square with a small, pretty crystal chandelier hanging daintily from the ceiling. In the night when I couldn't sleep, I used to observe how it scattered its prismatic stars above my bed, making me feel there was a better world, a better way of life. Somewhere.

Crossing to the closet door, I rested my hand on the wrought-iron k.n.o.b, then turned it. I walked in and stood facing the back cedar-paneled wall and whispered "Celia?" No answer. I pushed twice on it, and the panel popped open, revealing a long narrow room with one window that held a view of the top of a s.h.a.ggy eucalyptus tree.

My mother had explained that this was a room where people used to store trunks when they traveled by s.h.i.+p or train. "Think of Marlene Dietrich or Greta Garbo perched on top of a pile of Louis Vuitton suitcases. I should have been a star then instead of in the eighties when people's hair is bigger than their talent." I knew immediately it would be my safe room.

There was no sign that Celia had been hiding here. On one wall was a built-in cabinet. I opened it, reached into the deep wide shelf, and felt around with my hand. I found a wrinkled newspaper. I looked at the date on the front page of the Los Angeles Times. It was yesterday's date. The day I had told Celia to leave her house. What were the odds of that?

Had she wrapped the camera in the papers and hidden it here until she could come back for it? But why hide it at all? Why not take it with her? Because Parson would want the memory card. If he found her with it he'd kill her and take it. But if he found her without it, she might be able to buy some time. So had she left it here and then come back to get it. The one thing I was certain about was she wouldn't have left the security gates open.

I rubbed my forehead. I was thinking too hard. Concentrate on one thing, Diana. The gates are open. There is no car in the driveway.

I ran down the stairs, out the back door, and across the area where Zackary Logan had been found dead to the old rickety garage. I lifted up the wooden door. Inside the dank s.p.a.ce was a bright red BMW convertible, just like the one P. J. Binder owned. The beige leather seats smelled of a too-sweet perfume. With the severity of his wound, Binder had to still be in the hospital. So Pearl was here.

Before I went back to find her, I decided to check and see if I had been followed. Skirting the drive, I hurried down to the wall that fronted the house and edged to the entrance, peering around the gate. About two blocks away was a parked blue van. I stepped back quickly. Christ. It could be a delivery van, but I doubted it.

I ran back into the house and strode through the first floor, yelling. "Pearl! I know you're in here. Pearl!"

In the foyer I heard a tapping sound, and then Pearl's m.u.f.fled voice, "I'm locked in. Get me out of here."

She was inside a four-foot-high cubbyhole built into the side of the stairwell. The door latched only on the outside. It was where we had kept logs for the fireplace. I lifted the lever.

Pearl scampered out on all fours, then leaped to her feet, madly brus.h.i.+ng at her bleached-white hair and slapping at her body. "There're spiders in there! I couldn't open the door. I thought I was going to die!" She waved her cement-gray nails for emphasis, then frantically brushed at her low-cut pink T-s.h.i.+rt.

"What are you doing here, Pearl?"

"What? I was looking for something."

"A camera?"

"An earring." She slapped dust from the knees of her jeans.

"Really? After all this time you expect to find an earring? Where's your purse?"

"In my car."

"How do you think I knew you were in the house? I just saw your car in the garage. There was no purse in it." I pointed to where she'd been hiding. "Get it."

"You'll lock me in there."

"I'm not going to do that. Get it!"

Trying to keep an eye on me, she bent over and pulled out her purse by the shoulder strap. As she stood up, she swung her bag at me. I ducked, but not far enough. She hit the side of my head.

Stunned, I grabbed the straps. Letting go, she ran. Clutching both of our purses, I chased her through the living room into the dining room and down the gallery. She darted into the swimming-pool room. I caught up to her as she careered around the pool's corner where the deck angled down to the water. Losing her balance, she slipped and fell to her hands and knees. Before she was completely up on her feet again, I reached her and shoved her into the water.

She thrashed around. "I can't swim!"

"You're in the shallow end. Stand up." I rummaged in her purse, pulled out the camera, and opened it. There was no memory card. "Where is it?"