As Jennifer approached, she ran a hand through her short, sleep-tousled hair.
“And maybe it’s not such a little mystery after all,” Coltrane said, then explained how he had found the chamber.
Fascinated, he watched her peer inside.
“My God,” she whispered. From the side, Coltrane could see that her eyelids came fully open. “She’s the most beautiful…”
“Yes.”
“Who? Why?”
“And a hundred other questions. The only thing I know for sure is, Packard took that photograph. The style is unmistakable.”
Jennifer appeared not to have heard. She raised a hand toward the photograph, held it an inch away from the woman’s face, then lowered it. “This is fabulous. I don’t understand why he hid it.”
“Not just it,” Coltrane said. “Look over here.” To the right, metal shelves rose to the ceiling. “Look at all the boxes.”
Each was about two inches deep. Grabbing one, Coltrane carried it from the shadows toward the lights in the vault. In a rush, he set the box on a shelf and opened the lid, inhaling audibly when he found the woman’s sultry face peering up at him in another pose.
“How many?” Coltrane flipped through the rest of the eight-by-ten-inch photographs in the box. “There must be at least a hundred. Every one of them shows her.”
Jennifer brought out another box. “This one holds sixteen-by-twenties.” She set it on a shelf next to him, tugged the lid open, and lifted a hand to her chest, overwhelmed. “Mitch, get over here. You’ve got to see this.”
Coltrane quickly joined her. The top image, twice as large as the ones he had flipped through in the first box, gave him his first full-body view of the woman. She was on a deserted beach, stepping out of the ocean, so that the water came just below her knees, one leg ahead of the other, her movement languid even though it was fixed in time. Her bathing suit was dazzlingly white against her tan skin, a one-piece costume that was modest by contemporary standards, its bottom line level with the top of her thighs, its upper line almost to her collarbone, inch-wide straps hitched over her shoulders. But for all its modesty, the suit had an arousing effect, clinging to her supple body, the smooth, wet material emphasizing the curves of her hips, waist, and breasts. Those curves seemed an extension of the undulation of the waves from which she emerged. Water glistened on her silken face, arms, and legs. She didn’t wear a bathing cap. Her midnight-colored hair, drenched by the ocean, was pulled back close to her scalp, the contrast with the lush appearance of her hair in the other photographs reinforcing the classical beauty of her high cheeks. But what most attracted Coltrane’s attention, what mesmerized him in this photograph, as in the others, was the woman’s soul-invading gaze.
Jennifer sorted through the other photographs in the box, showing Coltrane additional images of the woman on the beach. The scene changed; the woman was on the rim of a cliff with the ocean below her. Sunlight was full on her face, but the other details of the photograph suggested an oncoming storm. The waves in the background were tempestuous. Wind gusted at her hair, sweeping it back. It also gusted at the white cotton dress she wore, blowing it against her body, molding the soft, pliant fabric to her legs, stomach, and breasts. The scene changed yet again; the woman was in a luxuriant garden, oblivious to the flowers around her, gazing pensively toward something on the right while a fountain bubbled behind her.
In wonder, Coltrane glanced back into the chamber, toward the numerous boxes. “There must be-” his calculations filled him with an emotion that was almost like fear – “thousands of photographs.”
“And every one so far is a masterpiece,” Jennifer said. “Prints of this quality don’t just get churned out. They take meticulous care. Sometimes a day for each one.”
Coltrane knew that she wasn’t exaggerating. Packard had been legendary for insisting that photographers who didn’t develop their own prints were contemptible. He had been known to spend a day on one print alone, and if the result had even the slightest blemish, some faint imperfection that only he would have realized was there, he tore the print to shreds and started over.
“Everybody thought his output dwindled,” Coltrane said. “But if anything, it increased unimaginably.”
“All of the same amazingly beautiful woman.”
“Packard certainly didn’t lack ego,” Coltrane said. “He went out of his way to let everybody know how great he was. When he had a photograph that satisfied even his standards, he bragged about it. These are among the best images he ever produced. Instead of showering them upon the world, why the hell did he build a secret room and hide them?”
“Did Packard ever use this model in any of the photographs he made public?” Jennifer asked.
“No. I have no idea who on earth she is.”
“Was,” Jennifer corrected. “Take another look at that bathing suit. That style hasn’t been in fashion since… My guess is the forties. More probably the thirties. How old does she seem to you?”
“About twenty-five.”
“Let’s split the difference between decades and say the photograph was taken in 1940. Do the math. She’d be in her eighties now. Assuming she’s still alive, which the odds are against. Even if she is still alive, she won’t be the woman in that photograph. That woman exists only in these prints.”
“Immortality,” Coltrane said. The irony wasn’t lost on him. “I’m not sure I’ll be alive beyond Wednesday, and here I am wondering about a woman in photographs taken a lifetime ago.” He steadied his gaze on the woman’s. “Whoever you are, thank you. For a little while, I forgot about Ilkovic.”
SIX
1
I HAVE TO PUT MYSELF IN ILKOVIC’S PLACE, Coltrane thought. If I’m going to get through this alive, I have to imagine what I’d do in his situation.
In the dark, lying next to Jennifer, he couldn’t get his mind to shut off. He strained to fix his imagination on the woman’s haunting face, but it melted into a fleshless skull, which swiftly became Ilkovic’s big-boned features. Terror overcame him. He kept worrying about his grandparents. He kept wondering how he was going to survive on Wednesday.
Maybe Nolan’s right. Maybe it’s foolish to offer myself as bait.
At once a part of him said, But the cemetery’s one of the few places where Ilkovic is likely to show up. He won’t be able to resist the pleasure of watching Daniel’s mourners. He’ll be hoping to see one mourner in particular: me. The police and the FBI will have a chance to catch him.
But what if they fail?
I have to think like Ilkovic. Is he just going to show up on Wednesday and wander around?
Of course not. He’ll assume the police are there. He’ll change his appearance or hide or watch from a distance.
And what’s the safest way for him to figure out where to hide?
The answer felt like an electrical jolt. In a rush, Coltrane sat up. My God, he’ll want to get to the cemetery a day ahead of time so he can scope it out and make sure he protects himself.
A day ahead of time meant…
Today.
2
“THREAT MANAGEMENT UNIT,” a crisp voice said.
“Give me Sergeant Nolan. It’s urgent.”
“Who’s calling?”
Coltrane quickly gave his name. He and Jennifer were at a pay phone on Hollywood Boulevard.
“Well, well. Just the man I want to talk to.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“This is FBI Special Agent James McCoy.” The voice became crisper. “I want you and your friend to report here at once.”
“Why? What’s the-”
“We’re taking you into protective custody.”