Mirror Image (31 page)

And then his orgasm took him.

Talbott's back arched, and his head went back, his eyes squeezed shut in blissful pleasure as he thrust himself inside her.

And Manny Frazer punched him with all her might in the throat!

Edmund Talbott convulsed off the young woman, his eyes wide in shock, both hands clutched to his throat. She saw his Adam's apple working, his chest heaving, and then his eyes began to bulge, his face purpling as he fought for breath. He staggered to his feet, turned … and found he was facing the mirror.

And, in that moment, knew he was a dead man.

The mirror exploded.

In those last few moments of life, Talbott realized what had happened. After all the preparations, all his precautions, he had been trapped by his own stupidity. He discovered now that he'd been made to come here,
here
where the mirror was so strong, where the power of the image was absolute. It had played with him, showing him the image of his long dead wife—he wondered what poor Manny had seen—and then taking his lust and inflaming it. And it had been a long time since he'd slept with a woman. It had fed off the sexual emotions the two of them had generated: what a triumph that was for the glass. And then it had turned the emotion of lust to fear for the woman, making what he was doing no more than rape. It undoubtedly took extra pleasure in that: sex by force was probably a delicacy to it. The link between him and the mirror was lost only in the few seconds after orgasm had wracked his body and he suddenly discovered what he was doing to Manny. A feeling of horror and revulsion swept through him.

And then he'd felt the pain.

It lanced through his throat, impacting the trachea, blocking the air passages and his deflated lungs began to scream for air almost immediately. Coolly, almost calmly, he realized it was a death blow.

He staggered away from the girl, turned …

And saw himself in the hall mirror. But now every glass, every reflective surface was controlled by the image.

The mirror exploded.

He watched the freestanding mirror at the base of the stairs dissolve, long slivers of glass erupt outwards, lancing their way towards them, moving almost in slow motion through the air, glittering, sparkling, lethal.

Edmund Talbott's last conscious thought was to throw himself forward atop Manny, wrapping his arms around her, shielding her as the glass tore into his body, shredding the flesh on his head, shoulders, back, and buttocks, cutting down to the bone in many cases, laying open a whole section of his spine, spears of glass penetrating his kidneys, ripping into his lungs.

It had taken ten years, but the image had finished what it set out to do in the glass elevator in London. With his last breath, Edmund Talbott wondered what would happen now to Jonathan and Manny and everyone else who came in contact with the image.

He was surprised to find that he still cared.

 

69

“P
ERSONALLY GENTLEMEN,
I don't give a fuck what your excuses are. You let him walk right past you and then rape the girl in her own fucking hallway! I'm bringing you both up on charges.” Margaret Haaren stalked away from the two officers standing at the gate. Neither of them attempted to offer any excuses: they had none. The first they'd known about the attack was when a screaming, naked and bloodied female had hammered on the windshield of their car, jolting them both awake. Her bloodied handprints were still smeared across the glass.

Haaren strode up the graveled driveway, almost shivering with rage. So you did your best, no, you did more than your best because you were a woman in a man's world but the best wasn't good enough. You had to give a hundred percent plus ten. And when the Chief of Detectives had asked for a report in person, you told him you had the situation under control and that you had two of your best men—best men,
Jesus
—watching the house and that there was no way the scarred man was going to get within a hundred yards of the place. And this was only yesterday; this was the chief telling you—warning you—that they needed a result, and fast. The bodies were beginning to mount up and far too many of them were police officers.

And what happened?

The fucking animal waltzes in past the two
best
men on the gate, gets in through the front door and brutally rapes the daughter in the hallway. The only good thing to come out of all of this was that she'd actually killed the guy. Punched him in the throat and then pushed a mirror on him, ripping him to shreds in the process. He was probably alive when that happened, too, his throat completely closed, unable to scream. Well, it couldn't have happened to a nicer guy.

Forensics had finished by the time she arrived and the coroner had removed the body but the hallway still looked like a slaughterhouse. There was blood and glass everywhere, splashed high on the walls, the back of the doors, some of it even speckling the ceiling. It stank, too. The sharp copper tang of blood was everywhere, but the bitter stench of urine and the sweeter, cloying odor of excrement was heavy on the air.

Detective Stuart Miller came up and stood beside her, saying nothing, allowing her to absorb the atmosphere of the place.

“How's the girl?” she asked eventually.

“She's upstairs with the family doctor. She's refusing to go to the hospital. She's hysterical,” he added slowly, “and I've seen enough hysterical women in my time to know when it's being put on a bit for our benefit. This is the real deal.”

“How is the father taking it?”

“Oh, he's the cool one all right. If I didn't know any better, I'd think he was smoking some weed. I'm not saying he was uninterested in what had happened to his daughter, but it's as if it didn't really affect him one way or the other. He didn't impress me. I only know how I'd react if it was my daughter…”

“I don't think our Mr. Frazer is a very nice man,” Margaret Haaren agreed. “What about the mother? Where is she?”

“On another vacation in Lake Tahoe; skiing I presume. Neither of them want her informed.”

“Just one big happy family, eh?”

Stuart Miller nodded. “How do you want to play this?”

“By the book; I'm picking up flack from upstairs. The suits are looking for a result—well, they got that with the death of the scarred man, but I've a feeling it's not going to be enough. A live body would have been nice.”

“What about Mr. Frazer?” Miller suggested quietly. “Nice and live. And definitely dirty.”

“Nothing would give me greater pleasure,” she said feelingly.

As she began the procedure of working through the exact sequence of events, she tried to establish why she disliked Jonathan Frazer with such intensity. Rarely had she become so emotionally involved—if that was the right word—with one of her suspects. It wasn't a new feeling, but it was usually reserved for rapists or child molesters. What had Frazer done to deserve her ire?

He'd lied to her. He'd looked at her and decided he was cleverer than she was; he'd decided that he could run a scam on her and she wouldn't pick it up. And he was involved directly or indirectly in the death of several police officers, one of whom had been a very good friend. Here was a man who had seemed more upset about the death of one of his employees than the brutal rape of his daughter in her own hallway.

And neither husband nor daughter wanted Celia Frazer informed. “What the fuck is going on in this house?” she murmured.

“I'm sorry, ma'am?” Miller said.

“Did I say that aloud?”

“Afraid so. But I agree with you,” he added quickly. “This … this death doesn't add up. There's something wrong, but I'm not seeing it.”

“Give me a few minutes.” Haaren stopped in the doorway and examined the sketch one of the attending officers had prepared of the scene, and then flipped the page to read through his initial notes on the man's injuries.

The scarred man—no identification present on the body—had been in a state of partial undress, coat and shirt lying on the floor—still there—his pants down around his ankles, still wearing one shoe; the other was lying on its side in a pool of thickening blood.

His back had been shredded, glass everywhere, long slivers actually penetrating deep into his flesh.

According to Emmanuelle Frazer she had pushed the mirror over on top of him.

Margaret Haaren looked up.

And what had she done then? Lifted it up and wheeled it back to its position at the base of the stairs where it was now? But there were no wheels.

Skirting the blood on the floor, Haaren stopped in front of the mirror, looking closely at it. The glass was broken outwards, which was consistent with it having been dropped onto the ground. Crouching down she examined the base. The mirror was obviously an antique. The heavy gilded frame ended in four legs, each one shaped like a carved animal claw clutching a ball. Licking her finger, she ran it across the floor directly in front of one of the legs: a faint ring of grime appeared on her finger, with a corresponding white mark on the floor. Surely if the mirror had been moved the legs would have left some marks on the marble tiles. She stood and looked closely at the mirror, and then, clutching it in both hands, she attempted to lift it. It shifted slightly, but didn't move. She knew adrenaline lent strength, possibly giving a terrified woman the strength to push the mirror over on top of her assailant. But to move it back again? The fact the mirror hadn't been moved added more credence to the theory she was developing.

Margaret Haaren walked halfway up the curving staircase, stopped and looked down, visualizing another scene, creating another set of circumstances to fit the facts.

When Stuart Miller, still standing in the hallway, saw her smile, he immediately started up the stairs. “Yes, ma'am?”

“Where is Mr. Frazer?”

“Having a little lie down, ma'am. He looked beat,” he added.

“As if he'd been up all night?”

“Something like that.”

“Is he still there?”

“There is an officer on the landing, outside Miss Frazer's door—for her benefit of course,” he added with a smile.

“Of course.” Her lips pulled back from her teeth in a humorless grin. “Let's go, I'd like to talk to Miss Frazer first, see what she has to say for herself. There is something very, very wrong about all this.”

 

70

O
FFICER CAROLE
Morrow came to her feet as the door opened and Haaren and Miller entered the room.

“How is she?” the detective asked, looking at the girl lying on the bed, eyes closed. In the pale dawn light the flesh on her face looked gray, speckled with scores of tiny nicks from flying glass.

Manny Frazer's large blue eyes snapped open. “She's as well as can be expected having been beaten and raped while your men slept outside. Much fucking good they did me!”

Margaret Haaren immediately sat down, putting herself on a level with the woman. “I know what happened,” she said gently, reaching out her hand. “The officers will be dealt with. I'm not making any excuses for them.”

Manny Frazer subsided back onto the pillows, turning her head away.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?” Margaret Haaren asked gently.

“I've already told her what happened,” Manny snapped, jabbing a finger at Officer Morrow, “and then I told the doctor what happened, and then I told another officer what happened. How many times do I have to tell what happened?”

“Tell me,” Margaret Haaren said sympathetically, “I want you to tell me.”

Manny sighed audibly, and then she took a deep breath. “There was a knock on the door late last night, early this morning. I thought it was Mom coming home. I shouted through the door, asking who it was, and the voice said, ‘Taxi; just dropping a fare.' So, I was convinced then it was my mother. I thought I heard footsteps moving away on the gravel, so I opened the door. It was this guy, big ugly scarred guy. He pushed me into the hall, threw me to the ground, ripped my clothes and raped me. There was a struggle; I punched him in the throat and then I pushed the mirror down on top of him. I then ran out and got your men. They were both sleeping,” she added.

Margaret Haaren nodded. “That's essentially the same story you told my officers. But now I'd like you to tell me the truth.”

Manny sat up in the bed, the covers falling down, revealing the scrapes and grazes on her breasts. “What do you mean ‘the truth'? I told you the fucking truth.”

“Tell me again how you dragged and pushed the mirror over onto the man,” the detective said quietly, her cold green eyes locked onto the younger woman's face.

Manny looked away. “I … I punched him in the throat. He was holding his neck and gasping for breath and … and I sort of slid out from beneath him and grabbed the nearest thing, and that was the mirror, and pushed it down on top of him. The glass broke … and then I lifted the mirror off just to see if he was still alive.”

Margaret Haaren noticed that there was a slight sheen of sweat on her top lip and Manny wouldn't meet her eyes.

“The umbrella stand behind the door was nearer than the mirror,” the detective said very softly. “There are a couple of heavy walking sticks in it. Good solid weapons.”

“What?”

“The mirror is about eight feet from where the man attacked you. It would take two of my officers all their strength to lift the mirror … but then the mirror hasn't been moved, has it?”

Manny Frazer looked from Margaret Haaren to Stuart Miller, and then back at the detective. “What are you saying?” she demanded.

“I'm saying that you're not telling the truth.” Haaren smiled humorlessly. “And suddenly, what could be justifiable homicide begins to turn into murder. Do you know what I'm saying?” she murmured.

“Look … look, I've told you what happened. Now I'm not saying another word unless my father is here. Or my lawyer.”