Double Image

  “Twenty-five versus thirty.”

  At last, he realized what she was talking about. “When we paced the inside and the outside of the vault?”

  “There’s a door around the side. To a utility area.”

  Hoping to distract her, Coltrane said, “Show me.”

  9

  F LANKED BY WELL - TENDED BUSHES , a door was situated in the middle of the narrow side of the house. To the left of the door, a window provided an inside view of the corridor next to the vault. Coltrane understood. Inside, when he had paced down to this window, he had thought that the vault occupied the entire length of the corridor, when in fact a small area with an outside entrance took up part of the space. He opened the door, seeing the shadowy outlines of a water heater and a furnace/air-conditioning unit. “You’re right. Mystery solved.” His voice was flat. “Come on back inside. It’s cold out here.”

  10

  A T 10:00 A . M ., using a pay phone outside a convenience store in Studio City, Coltrane called the Threat Management Unit. Jennifer stood next to him in the phone booth, her head against his so she could overhear the other end of the conversation. Now that she had showered and forced herself to eat a little, her blue eyes had regained some of their brightness. But not much, Coltrane thought. Not enough.

  “Lieutenant Bass or Sergeant Nolan, please,” Coltrane said.

  He heard office noises in the background—phones ringing, people talking—then a click and silence as the call was transferred. Outside the phone booth, the rumble of traffic made him press the phone harder against his ear.

  “This is Lieutenant Bass,” a sonorous no-nonsense voice said.

  Recognizing it, Coltrane almost smiled, pleased to be in touch with someone he trusted. “Greg, it’s Mitch.”

  Greg’s voice quickened, its bureaucratic flatness gone. “Thank God. I was hoping this would be you. Are you all right?”

  “Shaky.”

  “No shit. Listen, I can’t tell you how sorry I am about your friend.”

  Coltrane paused, a renewed shock of grief jolting through him. “Ilkovic is going to be even sorrier.”

  “That’s the way I want to hear you talk.”

  “What about your family? Are they okay?”

  “They weren’t hurt, but are they okay? Hell no. They’re scared to death. I’ve moved them out of the house. I sent them to—”

  “Stop,” Coltrane said.

  “What?”

  “Not over the phone.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I don’t trust it. This guy’s too good with microphones.”

  “You’re not seriously suggesting Ilkovic could figure out a way to get into the Threat Management office and—”

  “There aren’t many people in your office on Sunday. He might have pretended to be a janitor. Are you willing to bet your family’s life that he didn’t?”

  Greg didn’t answer.

  “When he was in your home Saturday night, he had time to bug that phone, too,” Coltrane said. “Did you use it to make arrangements about where to send your wife and kids?”

  For a moment, all Coltrane heard were the background noises in the office.

  “Jesus,” Greg said. “Don’t hang up.”

  Click. On hold, Coltrane listened to dead silence that stretched on and on and—

  Abruptly Greg was back on the line. “I’ve got a team going out there to search for microphones.”

  “Your family. If Ilkovic did bug that phone, you have to warn them,” Coltrane said.

  “But not on this phone. The son of a . . . How can I get back to you? If he can hear us, you can’t tell me the number to call.”

  “Greg, do you remember when we first met? I helped a woman identify a stalker.”

  “Yes, you hid outside her house and photographed him pouring gasoline on her lawn in the middle of the night.”

  “Do you remember where she lived?”

  “I can look it up.”

  “There’s a Pizza Hut two blocks east of her house,” Coltrane said. “Go to its pay phone.”

  “Give me an hour.”

  Coltrane hung up and left the phone booth.

  Jennifer frowned at him.

  “Something the matter?”

  “Where did you learn about hidden microphones?” she asked.

  “A couple of times, when I was on assignment, the CIA and I crossed paths.” Coltrane started with her down the exhaust-hazed street.

  “The CIA?” The reference made Jennifer’s eyes widen.

  “In Beirut, there was one operative in particular. He showed an awful lot of interest in the photographs I was taking. So I worked out a deal with him. I promised I’d make him a better photographer than the Agency had trained him to be, and in return, he had to teach me some of what he knew.”

  “Hold it. This isn’t the way back to the car. Where are we going?”

  “Into this sporting-goods store.”

  “But what do you need in—”

  “A twelve-gauge pump shotgun.”

  11

  C OLTRANE CARRIED THE SHOTGUN , concealed by a leather sleeve, back to where they had parked the Saturn around the corner from the convenience store. In five days, after the federally mandated waiting period, he planned to come back and pick up a Beretta 9-mm semiautomatic pistol that he had also purchased. For now, the shotgun would have to do. He locked it and a box of buckshot in the trunk, then headed toward the next block.

  “Now where are we going?” Jennifer asked.

  “Down the street. That Pizza Hut.”

  “Are you telling me that’s the same . . .”

  “Yep. Greg’s going to show up there in about thirty-five minutes. I need to get the number of its pay phone.”

  The phone turned out to be on the wall to the left, just inside the front door. A large window provided a view of the restaurant’s parking area, a crowded intersection, and a Burger King diagonally across the intersection.

  “Perfect.”

  Five minutes later, when they entered the Burger King, its air thick with the smell of charcoal-cooked meat, Coltrane discovered that the arrangement was even more perfect than he had imagined. Standing at the pay phone, which was near a window next to the front door, he could see across the intersection to the pay phone in the Pizza Hut.

  “The next best thing to meeting in person,” Coltrane said. “Now comes the hard part—the waiting.”

  “All those times you went away on assignment, you lived like this?”

  “Not always. It depends on where I was sent.”

  “I’m beginning to think I don’t know you.”

  “When the time comes, watch the street. If Ilkovic follows Greg, there’s a chance we can spot him.”

  “And?”

  “Then maybe we can follow him.” Coltrane glanced toward the menu on the wall behind the counter. “We’re going to need food in front of us so we don’t appear to be loitering.”

  They each ordered a burger, fries, and coffee. Carrying their tray of food, Coltrane avoided a booth by the window and instead chose a table one row in—less chance that they’d be seen from the street. He positioned Jennifer so that her back was to the window. That way, facing her, he could appear to be talking to her but would actually be looking past her, concentrating on the Pizza Hut. Eating slowly, which wasn’t difficult, given the state of their appetites, they tried to distract themselves with small talk. It didn’t work.

  Twenty minutes dwindled to fifteen, then to ten. With five minutes to go, Coltrane inwardly flinched when a kid with a ring in his nose dumped a tray of crushed wrappers and an empty paper cup into a trash receptacle, then picked up the phone. No!

  Five minutes became zero.

  Coltrane placed himself next to the kid.

  “Hey, do you mind. I’m having an important conversation,” the kid said.

  “Here’s five bucks to have it somewhere else.”

  “Later,” the kid said into the phone. He
hung up, grabbed the money, shook his head as if he thought Coltrane was a fool, and walked out.

  Immediately, Coltrane picked up the phone, shoved coins into it, and pressed the numbers that he had written on a notepad.

  On the other end, the phone barely had a chance to ring. “Mitch?”

  Partially concealed, Coltrane peered across the street toward Greg at the pay phone in the Pizza Hut. “While you’re there, why don’t you order a medium pepperoni and mushroom for me?”

  “Yeah, it’s definitely you. That bastard did bug my home. And you were right: My office phone and my desk were bugged, too. If I get my hands on him—”

  “You mean when, don’t you?”

  Greg didn’t respond for a moment. “Interpol thinks he used a forged passport under the name of Haris Hasanovic to fly out of Bosnia. His route was from Tuzla to Hamburg to London. After that, MI-Six got into the act. They think he changed his name to Radko Hodzic, but there’s no record of anyone with that name applying for a Bosnian passport. The rest of the Slovak countries came up blank, as well. So did Germany. The FBI established that Radko Hodzic arrived in Los Angeles two days after you did. He would have needed IDs for Radko Hodzic to rent a car or a hotel room. The FBI’s checking that.”

  “Or else he switched back to being Haris Haranovic.”

  “We thought of that, too. We’re checking it.”

  “Or he had a third set of documents, and he’s somebody else now.”

  “Mitch, we’re trying our best.”

  “But where’s he getting the electronic-surveillance equipment? Damn it, what kind of explosive did he put behind my furnace? Where would he have gotten—”

  “I told you we’re working as fast as we can.”

  A jarring crash made Coltrane whirl. When he saw that it had been caused by a tray of food that a nervous-looking woman with two pouting children had dropped, he still had trouble controlling his breathing. “Greg, tell me how to have a nice day.”

  “We’ll keep trying to find out where he got the microphones and the explosives. We’re also trying to find out where he got those photographs of you developed. That many eight-by-ten enlargements aren’t common. We’re hoping somebody will remember the order.”

  “I’m getting that cold, sinking feeling again,” Coltrane said.

  “We’re also pursuing another angle. A profiler from the FBI says somebody as twisted as Ilkovic often feels compelled to go back to where he terrorized his victims. It’s a compulsion to reexperience the thrill of what he did to them. That would explain why he went back to the mass grave in Bosnia, where you took his picture.”

  Coltrane stared harder at Greg across the smog-hazed, traffic-cluttered street. “So what does that mean? He’s going to go back to where he tortured Daniel? We don’t know where that happened.”

  “But we know where Daniel’s going to be buried.”

  The statement made Coltrane feel as if a fist had been driven into his stomach. He tasted coffee, french fries, and chunks of hamburger, and he fought the urge to throw up. Daniel’s funeral. He had been so fixated on what had been done to his friend that he hadn’t considered what would happen next.

  “Daniel’s ex-wife went out of her mind when she found out he’d been murdered,” Greg said. “For being divorced, she sure seems close to him.”

  “They were talking about getting back together.”

  Greg didn’t say anything for a moment. “Well, she’s making all the funeral arrangements. The visiting hours are tomorrow evening. A closed casket.”

  Coltrane wanted to weep.

  “Then Wednesday afternoon at one, there’ll be the funeral, and the burial around two-thirty. The FBI profiler thinks Ilkovic won’t be able to resist coming around to relive his triumph. All those grieving people. It’ll give Ilkovic a thrill to see how much power his actions have.”

  “There’s another reason Ilkovic won’t be able to resist going to Daniel’s funeral,” Coltrane said.

  “I was wondering if you’d figure it out.”

  “A sociopath like him will automatically assume I can’t control my emotions enough to stay away. He’ll want to be somewhere at the funeral because he’ll count on me to be there. It’s his best chance to follow me.” Coltrane mustered the strength to make a decision he absolutely did not want to make. “So let’s give him what he wants.”

  “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

  “Nobody I’m close to is safe. Who will he go after next? My grandparents?” Coltrane suddenly realized that he had to warn them. “I’m sick of letting him control me. It’s time I controlled him. Where’s the funeral?”

  “It’s too risky for you to—”

  “Fine. Don’t tell me. I’ll look it up in the newspaper.”

  “St. John’s Church in Burbank. Daniel’s ex-wife lives over there. The burial’s at Everlasting Gardens.”

  “God, I hate the names of cemeteries. . . . Two days from now,” Coltrane said. “Does that give you and the FBI enough time to button down those areas without making it obvious to Ilkovic?”

  “It’s a lot of space to cover. Especially going from the church to the cemetery.”

  “Then let’s forget about the church. I’ll show up only at the cemetery. It’ll be more believable to Ilkovic. By avoiding the church, I’ll look as if I’m trying to be cautious.”

  “And then what? We can’t cover every building that surrounds the cemetery. Suppose he decides to blow your head off at three hundred yards with a sniper’s rifle?”

  “No,” Coltrane said. “That’s one thing I’m sure he won’t do. He loves to do his work up close and personal.”

  “You still haven’t answered my question. Then what?”

  “I let him follow me.”

  12

  C OLTRANE HUNG UP , returned to Jennifer at the table, and helped her study the intersection.

  “Nobody attracts my attention,” she said.

  “I don’t see anybody, either.”

  In the distance, Greg remained at the Pizza Hut window, the phone pressed to his ear.

  “He’s making another call,” Jennifer said.

  “Pretending to. I finally told Greg I was where I could see him. He did a good job of hiding his surprise and not staring in this direction. He suggested he pretend to stay on the line a little longer, to give us a longer chance of spotting Ilkovic if he’s around here.”

  “Good idea.”

  “But it doesn’t seem to be helping. If Ilkovic is in the area, he’s blending well,” Coltrane said.

  “For all we know, he shaved his mustache, got his hair cut, dyed it light brown, bought a decent suit, and looks like a businessman.”

  “Or he went in the opposite direction, made himself scruffy, and looks like he’s homeless,” Coltrane said. “In that case, for a lot of people, he would be invisible.”

  “Greg’s hanging up.”

  Ten seconds later, Greg came out of the Pizza Hut and headed around to the parking lot at the side of the restaurant.

  “I still don’t see anybody who looks suspicious,” Jennifer said.

  “Let’s see if anybody follows Greg when he drives away.”

  “In this traffic? Everybody will seem to be following him,” Jennifer said. “Even if we do see a car go after him, we won’t be able to get to our car in time to do anything about it.”

  “We can try to get the plate number.”

  Coltrane watched Greg take out his key and unlock his car.

  Which disintegrated.

  13

  T HE FIREBALL SPEWED ACROSS THE PARKING LOT AT THE SAME time the shock wave shattered windows in every direction. The force of it threw Coltrane and Jennifer backward out of their chairs, slamming them onto the floor, glass spewing over them. For a dazed instant, his ears ringing but not enough to shut out the wail of children, Coltrane felt jolted back to when he had been photographing a violence-torn village in Northern Ireland and an IRA bomb had blown a school bus apart. Str
aining to clear his mind, he sensed Jennifer squirming next to him and reached for her.

  “Are you all right? Are you hurt?”

  “Don’t know.” Chunks of glass had cut Jennifer’s hands and forehead.

  “Greg,” Coltrane moaned. He struggled to his feet, then helped Jennifer up. “Greg,” he said with greater force, turning toward the glassless windows. The intersection was in chaos. Cars had slammed into one another. Horns blared. Drivers peered around in a daze. Pedestrians lay motionless on the sidewalk. Beyond, in the restaurant’s parking lot, the explosion that had devastated Greg’s car had blown apart other cars, igniting their fuel tanks, sending numerous fireballs roaring into the sky. Black greasy smoke topped the area like a curse.

  “Greg,” Coltrane said a third time, the word coming out as a sob. He struggled around a table, lurching, trying to go through a gaping window. Have to get to the parking lot. Have to help Greg.

  Someone grabbed Coltrane’s shoulders, dragging him backward. “What are you doing?” Jennifer blurted. “You can’t show yourself!”

  “My friend needs . . .”

  Wavering, Coltrane saw the astounded expression in Jennifer’s eyes and realized that he must sound insane. Save Greg? How in God’s name was he going to do that when his friend was in a million pieces? “Oh Jesus.”

  “Somebody help me!” a woman screamed.

  Coltrane spun toward the far-left corner of the Burger King, seeing the panic of a gray-haired woman who knelt beside a young girl with a six-inch shard of glass embedded in her right arm. Blood spurted.

  “Help me!”

  He couldn’t count how many times, in how many languages, he had heard that wail. In northern Israel after a Shiite Muslim rocket barrage. In Chechnya, after a Russian artillery assault on a rebel village. How many times had he taken photographs of victims as doctors and nurses raced across blood-covered streets?

  “HELP ME!”

  And how many times had he hurried toward the victims, hoping that one of the doctors would understand his desperate English and tell him what to do?