Mirror Image (13 page)

“Absolutely not, he is paid by check, it's all very legal,” he said coolly.

“I notice he dresses very well,” Margaret said.

“Very well.”

“Would he wear the same suit to work every day?”

“No, quite the contrary. It's something of a running joke that he has a larger closet than I have.”

“And is he living in an apartment, a house?”

“I believe he lives with his mother in Pasadena. I know his parents are divorced.”

“We'll need his address.”

“I have it here…” Jonathan pulled open the file and pulled out a single sheet of paper, then added photocopies of letters to it. “These are his references,” he said. “May I ask why you're interested in Robert? Surely you don't think he has anything to do with the current situation?”

“Is he honest, this Robert Beaumont?” Detective Haaren pressed on, ignoring the questions. “Have you ever had any suspicions about him?”

Jonathan Frazer stared at her for a few moments and then he smiled. “I underestimated you, Detective.”

She smiled innocently, but said nothing.

“Well, yes … yes. I have suspected him of … of irregularities. We had an occasion recently where there was a shortfall in the cash, but he explained it away by saying he had sold certain items at a discount but had then inadvertently entered the full amount into the register.”

“But you did not believe him?”

“Not entirely.”

“Has he the authority to discount items?”

“There would be leeway on just about everything, yes. In order to make the sale, he would have the authority to reduce it slightly, but to do it in such a way that the customer thinks it is being done as a personal favor to him or her. I would rather sell the item at a reduced price than lose the sale altogether.”

“Any other times you suspected him?”

“On occasion small items have gone missing … picture frames, small objets d'art.” He shrugged. “Well, there are only the two of us in the store.” He waved at the small security monitors discretely recessed into the shelving. The images flickered from picture to picture at ten second intervals. “Anyone coming into the store shows up on the monitors.”

“But you're not always here.”

“No.”

“So we have a young man who by his own admission has no money, earning very little, plus commission, living with his mother, who obviously has very expensive taste in clothes. It probably has no bearing on the present case, but I'll look into it just the same.”

“What do you think I should do?”

“Probably find another assistant, Mr. Frazer.”

 

22

R
OBERT BEAUMONT
scuttled away from the door as soon as he heard the conversation come to a close. His heart was pounding and his fine silk shirt was stuck to his skin. He had heard most of the conversation: the important parts anyway. He had heard that bitch do the number on him with Frazer. How could she have caught onto him so quickly?

Because he'd been stupid. It had happened before for exactly the same reasons.

Robert Beaumont was a small time con artist and thief with big ideas of his own worth. He had made a career out of working the better class shops first in Paris, and then later in Deauville, Marseille, and Lyon, before moving onto the Riviera, where his good looks and charm found him employment in some of the best establishments. He preferred boutiques, either men's or women's, where the pickings were easy, light, portable, and resalable. Chic interior design stores were a new thing for him: again some of the goods were portable, pocketable, but more important expensive, and it wasn't difficult to find someone to take them off your hands.

Since moving back to Los Angeles with his mother, this job had proved a real dream. Frazer was rarely in the store; he was a simple trusting sort, good-natured, good-humored; in other words, a fool. Beaumont almost felt guilty taking the few bits and pieces from him, but some people deserved it, some people almost asked for it. And Frazer was one of them.

Most of what he stole went to support his great passion: clothes. He had grown up on the backstreets of Paris, wearing rags and hand-me-downs, cast-offs from his brothers and sisters. He had stolen his first item of clothing—a shirt—off a clothes line when he was seven years old. With the realization that these things were out there for the taking, he had embarked on a life of petty crime, hampered only by his greed and his stupidity. He stole from his employers too often, and he couldn't resist wearing his fine clothes, flaunting a wealth he should not have. He had been caught that way too often before.

But he had never been lucky enough to have any warning before. Maybe he was getting smarter in his old age.

He folded his arms across his thin chest—and then immediately allowed them to drop to his sides, unwilling to crease his suit. He looked around the store, wondering what little “going away” present he might give himself. The problem was everything here on display was labeled, and itemized.

There were voices behind him and he moved quickly through the store, hurrying away, so that when Frazer and the detectives came back into the store, he was busily re-arranging some accessories.

He glared at Margaret Haaren. Bitch! His dark eyes flickered over her. Badly-dressed bitch.

And all because that Farren bastard and his stuck up assistant had had a stupid accident at the guesthouse they used as a storage … fuck 'em, they deserved to die, he never liked either of them …

It took long moments for the idea to trickle through to his subconscious, and he stopped, frowning. He had never been in the Frazer guesthouse, but from what he had heard, it was crammed with furniture, artifacts and trinkets which were all unmarked, unlisted, and destined for the store at some point. They were there for the taking, with little or no record of them ever existing in the first place. Tony knew everything, but had kept it all in his head. Why, Frazer wouldn't even know they were gone.

Keys. He'd need keys. He glanced at the fake Rolex on his wrist: close to twelve-thirty. Frazer would be on his way to lunch soon; the weak fool would probably need to fortify himself before he came back to “let him go.”

He checked his pocket: he still had the key to Frazer's office he'd stolen weeks before. There was sure to be a key to the guesthouse in there.

 

23

E
DMUND TALBOTT
spent the day in the Beverly Hills Public Library reading rooms. It was not far from the Beverly Hills Police Department and was very probably the last place the police would think of looking for him.

Now that the mirror had become active again, he needed to renew his knowledge of its history. In the past he had researched the history of the mirror in the British Library which, outside of the Vatican, possessed one of the finest collections of books on occult and related subjects in the world. And while the Beverly Hills library had none of the books he needed, it did have a fast internet connection.

In the past, the Talbott family had been the keepers of the mirror, although how it had come into their hands in the first place had been lost in the mists of antiquity. Fear: fear of the unknown, of the devil, of evil, had nearly always prevented even the most foolhardy from prying too closely into the mysteries of the glass. But now, in this secular age, when these fears had been dulled and almost forgotten, now the danger had assumed terrifying proportions. He had to destroy it. The time for simply guarding the mirror had passed, it was time now to destroy it.

Talbott had attempted to disguise himself, stooping to shield his height, while wearing a loose-fitting voluminous coat to conceal his size. There was nothing he could do about his scarred face. The doctors had given him the option of plastic surgery, but he had rejected it. He wore his scars proudly and as a constant reminder that his wife and child had been taken from him. It was a reminder, too, that he must never look in a mirror again.

The library was almost empty, sunlight slanting in through the tall windows, the atmosphere still and slightly too cold from the air conditioning.

He sat down at a long wooden table and pulled the slip of paper from his pocket. Jonathan Frazer. Anthony Farren. Diane Williams. Was there some connection between the three, something in their past? And yet they were from widely differing social classes, age groups, and backgrounds. What could they possibly have in common? Nothing immediately came to mind, but possibly there was some connection in previous generations? The mirror seemed linked to certain families, certain lines and clans. But what sparked it from its quiescent state? His father had told him that it was nothing more than moonlight on the surface of the glass, but was there something more?

Was the key to its ultimate destruction somewhere in these meager clues? He would find it: he had to before it killed and killed and killed again.

Every death fed it, made it stronger. Deadlier.

 

24

M
ARGARET HAAREN
was convinced that the police should police and desk clerks at least should be competent to keep up with the work. She had once attempted to work out how many hours she spent filling in forms, making reports, and generally doing desk clerk things, and had eventually given it up in disgust and despair. Then the ratio was running at two to one: twice the amount of desk work to police work. Outside her office, she knew, there were at least three able-bodied police officers sitting at desks tapping at keyboards when they could have been gainfully employed elsewhere.

There was a knock on the door and José stepped in, scores of printer paper bundled loosely in his big hands. “I thought you'd want this immediately,” he said, by way of an apology.

“I thought we went paperless?” she grumbled.

“We did. This is the paperless version.”

Margaret Haaren shoved the monthly report forms to one side, making space in the center of the desk for the ream of paper.

“It's the report from the Metropolitan Police in London about the auctioneers who sold Frazer the mirror.”

“And?” Margaret asked impatiently, aware that Pérez was leading up to something. “Are you going to tell me that they don't exist?”

“Oh, they exist all right; that's not the problem. They hold an auction every week, sometimes twice a week if they have a lot to clear. Apparently everything they have for sale is cataloged on computer, which explains this mess of paper.” He rested his hand flat on the stacked pile. “The auction house checked their records for the past eight weeks … and while they've sold a couple of mirrors in that time, they certainly have not sold anything like the one we described to them.”

Margaret Haaren sat up straight.

“Furthermore, they checked their accounts and they have no record of ever having dealt with Jonathan Frazer or indeed Frazer Interiors.” He glanced up and smiled. “It gets better.”

“Tell me.”

“I then checked with the shipping company—just in case there was an oversight. Again, they checked their computer records and they never made a delivery from London to Los Angeles for a Jonathan Frazer.”

“Why did he lie?” Margaret Haaren wondered.

“And such a stupid lie.”

“Surely he knew we'd check with London; why did he give me names and addresses?”

“Maybe he didn't think we'd check.” Pérez grinned. “He's smart this Jonathan Frazer, you know that, far smarter than us cops,” he added sarcastically.

“I didn't think he was that type,” she admitted. She thought that Frazer had some respect for the police; far too often people of his class thought that their money and connections made them some sort of superior being. Maybe she'd been wrong.

“Did he ever show you any documentation from the auctioneers or the shipping company?” José asked.

“No.” She smiled, showing her teeth in a fixed grin. “I think we should go and pay Mr. Frazer another visit.”

“When?”

“Right now.”

 

25

F
UCK HIM,
Robert Beaumont decided.

Fuck him. That was his considered opinion. He decided he wasn't going to hang around until after lunch so that Frazer could build up a head of steam to fire him. He was going to be long gone by the time he got back.

Sitting at Frazer's computer, fingers moving slowly over the iMac keyboard, he carefully composed a letter, then printed it out on Frazer's laser printer. He liked the idea of using Frazer's computer, printer, ink, and paper to write his resignation letter.

Monsieur.

I got a call from my mother. She has been rushed to hospital, something to do with a possible heart attack.

I need to go to the hospital now and be with her.

I don't know how long or how serious it is but I hope you understand. Please allow me a few days leave.

Respectfully,

Robert Beaumont.

Frazer was such an idiot that he'd believe him, too. He was tempted to take what cash there was, but that would give the lie to his story. What he needed to do was to give himself a couple of days' grace before Frazer decided to contact the police. It wasn't something he could do with someone cleverer, but Frazer was such an idiot. Well, fuck him!

Carefully locking the front door so that he couldn't be disturbed, Beaumont made his way back to the office. He could still smell the woman's perfume on the heavy dry air, something inexpensive, whorish too, he had no doubt. There was nothing feminine about her, everything about her was cheap, from her mannish suit to her common haircut. He knew the type; he had met them before, worked for them. Women pretending to be men. She thought she was so clever, detecting his little secret. Well, he'd show her.

Sitting in Frazer's chair, he opened the file drawers. There was a set of keys in the first drawer sitting on top of a pile of mail. Beaumont looked at them in dull surprise: he couldn't be so lucky, could he? Well, perhaps he deserved a little luck. Pocketing the keys, he picked up the mail and looked through it. Most of it was circulars, subscriptions for magazines, but the last envelope was from an auction house in London, a computerized invoice for
Lot 69: A large antique wooden-framed mirror, approximately seven feet tall by four feet wide.
Pinned to the back of it was another computerized receipt from a shipping company for transporting the mirror from London to the house in Los Angeles.