City of Mirrors (20 page)

I
t was ten o'clock the next morning when I awoke. Stretching, I heard Mother's voice. I sat up. She was on TV, seducing Jack Nicholson on a sofa. Jack was wry, my mother was serious, her blond hair cascading around her bare shoulders and soft cleavage.

“Enough,” I said.

She didn't hear me. She was busy earning her one and only Oscar. I turned off the TV.

Dressed in jeans, a black sweater, and suede driving shoes, I went into the kitchen and put the coffee on. While it perked I checked my cell to see if Celia had called. She hadn't. I left a message asking her to call me, that it was important. Then I found the number of St. John's Hospital and asked to speak to Ryan. He had a collapsed lung and an ego to match. It was his depleted confidence that worried me the most. Men such as Ryan are like birthday balloons, fun, but they popped easily. Promising I would see him soon, I hung up.

Now slathering marmalade on toast and sipping coffee, I wondered why I was so adamant that Celia was innocent. It was more than she was my friend and that I didn't want to be deceived by her. Then I realized it was hearing her scream over the phone and the terror I'd felt. And the next morning seeing her bruised face. I'd forgotten to tell Heath about that. My body grew alert at the thought of him.

Smiling, I forced myself to concentrate on Celia. The only thing I didn't understand was how she knew she was in danger from Parson. If only she'd answer her phone. Why didn't she? Had Parson's men found her? I stood up. Was she hurt or in trouble?

I went into my bedroom, found her house key, put it in my pocket, and left.

The fog had come in and settled like a wet gray rag over the coast. Running down the beach, I tried to outpace the ebb and flow of the tide, hoping I would find something, anything, in her house that could tell me where she'd gone.

As I ran up onto Celia's deck, I saw that the drapes were drawn across her French doors. I tried the handle. It was locked. Using her key I unlocked it, pushed aside the curtains, and stepped in.

It took me a moment to make sense of the chaos. All her possessions had been thrown onto the floor, smashed. Drawers hung open, contents scattered. Lamps lay on their sides and sofa cushions were ripped open. Goose down had settled over the room like a blanket. Fear shot through me as I realized I might not be alone in the house.

I picked up the oldest prop in the world, a fireplace poker, and moved toward her bedroom, peering in. The linens had been ripped off the bed, nightstands tipped over, and paintings torn from the walls.

Tightening my grip on the poker, I edged sideways to the open closet door and paused, waiting for any sound or movement that might emanate from it. Not hearing any, I crept in.

Celia's closet was the size of a small boutique. Her clothes had been pulled off the hanger rods and thrown onto the floor, creating a tangled pile of clashing bold colors. The red-framed full-length mirror was shattered. Had Parson's men done all this damage? But why break the mirror? I couldn't believe his thugs cared much about their reflections. I stared at my mirrored face, fractured by the cracked glass, and wondered who did care. Who hated their own image so much that they had to ruin it?

I went into the kitchen and abruptly stopped. Ben Zaitlin, his profile to me, was standing there staring intently at the door that led to the garage as if he were in a trance.

“Ben?”

He jerked his shoulders, startled back to reality. “Diana. I was looking for Celia. She's not here.” His black hair was uncombed and he was unshaven. Dark circles shadowed his creaseless eyes.

“Did you do this?” I gestured with the poker toward the living-room entrance. Then I put it down on the table but still within reach.

“What?” He blinked his long lashes and rubbed his face as if trying to wake himself up.

“The destruction of Celia's …”

“Perfect life?” He shrugged. “Yes. I was pissed off, I guess.”

“How did you get in?”

“Stole Robert's key.” He slumped against the sink counter, hands stuffed in his cargo pants pockets, head hanging. He wore a black polo shirt, and flip-flops on his strong wide feet. “I've been up all night. No sleep. The police want to see me in about an hour.” He lifted his wrist to look at his watch and saw he wasn't wearing one. “Guess I left it at home.” He raised his eyes to meet mine. “Do you know where Celia went?”

“No. But she had to leave.”

“She didn't tell me.”

“Why would she?”

“Because she's my alibi. That's why I came here, to make sure she would back me up.”

“And because she wasn't here, you trashed her house?”

“I told you I was pissed off,” he snapped, like a truculent teenager.

“Why do the police want to talk with you?”

“They saw me on The Den security tape talking to Jenny Parson the night she was murdered.”

“I thought you didn't know Jenny.”

“You could never know her. But we shared the same … disgust. We hated the same people. But in different ways.”

My stomach tightened. “What people?

He fell silent staring at the Sub-Zero refrigerator. Pushing his hair from his forehead he finally said, “The people we were blackmailing.”

“Ben.” I sat down at the table, smelling the soft aroma of its polished old wood.

“Jenny felt this rush of power. I just felt a kinda revenge. But then I was sick of all their old naked bodies. Sick of their needs. Sick of her, sick of me.” He tossed his head back defiantly. “Aren't you going to ask me how Ben Zaitlin, who has whatever he wants, could do such a thing? Aren't you going to say
I'm disappointed in you, Ben
?”

“No.”

His expression softened, and he looked even younger than his twenty-one years. “No, you wouldn't, would you? You're the sanest person in this fucking town.”

“Not saying much, is it?”

For a moment I thought he was going cry, but he quickly turned toward the sink, flipped the faucet on, and threw water on his face. He tore off a section of paper towel from its wrought-iron holder and dried himself. Wadding it up, he threw it into the sink.

He swung around to face me. “Those people we blackmailed were just like my parents, only concerned about what they needed at the moment. Jenny said that we were
feeding the beasts
. Some of them were even at my birthday party.” He smirked like a frat boy talking about a prank. “They sucked up to me because I'm Robert's son. They'd asked me what projects he had lined up, as if I could do something for them. And they didn't know I was the one taping them, making them pay. I stayed in the shadows just like a cinematographer on a set.”

“Not quite.”

“Shit. It wasn't even good porn. It was pathetic. Zackary Logan was the only one true to himself. He knew who he was. A pimp. Even Jenny in her own sick way was trying to please her father or be like him. I never knew who I was … except that I had always been used. And I hate it!” His cheeks flushed and he looked at the garage door again.

I kept my voice calm. “You said you came here to see whether Celia would back up your alibi. Why wouldn't she?”

“She's a liar.”

“You weren't with her the night Jenny was murdered? You didn't hit her?”

“Yes, I was with her.” His eyes settled on mine. “And what else would the son of a rapist do but attack a woman? It's so believable, isn't it, Diana?” He pushed himself away from the counter. “I have to talk to the police.” He strode past me and down the hallway to the front door, his flip-flops slapping at his feet.

I sprang up and hurried after him. Grabbing his arm, I turned him toward me. “I'll call Robert. He'll get you a lawyer.”

“You do that, Diana. Call the biggest loser there is besides me.” He opened the door, pulled away from my grip, and beat it down the flagstone pathway.

Running after him, I yelled his name.

His Jeep Cherokee was parked on the side of the highway. He jumped into it. Revving the engine, he swung it out into traffic and made a screeching U-turn, causing oncoming cars in both directions to brake and skid. Horns blared. I watched him speed north, away from the West L.A. police station, away from his parents, away from Celia's house, away from Hollywood.

When I couldn't see Ben anymore, I went back into the kitchen and stared at the door that had so fixated him. My hand trembling, I slowly opened it. The garage was empty, no white Lexus. I let out my breath. What did I think I would find? Celia's corpse? Closing the door, I stepped back and felt something crunch under my foot.

I bent down and picked up a crumpled photograph. Had Ben dropped it?

Sitting down at the table, I pressed it flat with my fingers. The very young faces of Celia and Gwyn looked back at me through the creased folds. Gwyn was holding a newborn. Ben. She had the righteous, enlightened look of those who see another reality. Celia had her straight-ahead-feet-on-the-ground expression. This had to have been taken when Gwyn was in Switzerland, after having given birth, and still recovering from her breakdown. For a woman who didn't keep photographs, why was Celia keeping this one?

Studying it, I tried to think back twenty years. I would have been maybe twenty, Celia and Gwyn were twenty-one, Ben's age now. How long had Celia been trekking in Europe, staying at hostels and visiting Gwyn? Five or six months?

I rubbed my forehead. Gwyn had been raped while she was hearing voices and hiding in bushes. Crazy and pregnant, her parents had swept her off to Switzerland. Three or four months later Celia decided to take a trip, to get her head together, to figure out what she wanted to do with her life if she couldn't make it as an actress. And also she wanted to visit Gwyn. Three or four months after Gwyn had left the country. A pregnant woman would begin to show around that time.

Feeling the oppression of the perfect domestic kitchen Celia had created for herself—a woman who didn't cook, who didn't want a family—I peered at the two young women again and sighed. Was I weaving a fictional story that had nothing to do with the reality of this picture? It could just be what it looks like—Celia, the friend, sharing a moment with Gwyn and her baby. Or was it a picture of Celia standing next to
her
infant son, who was now cuddled in Gwyn's arms? And that was the true picture. The one Ben had found, then crumpled in his hand and dropped on the floor. Christ.

I reached for Celia's landline and called Robert and Gwyn's home but got the machine. I tried Robert's office number and got voicemail. But no answer didn't mean they weren't home.

I slipped the picture into my pocket and left.

I
drove up the long driveway to Gwyn and Robert's elegant “farm” house. The coastal fog never seemed to reach up here. It gathered below their hilltop like a smoky moat.

A team of gardeners were trimming and feeding the country garden. Getting out of my car, I smelled freshly mown grass wafting through the air. Bees hovered over the lavender plants. Some homes are too perfect, too beautiful. I felt the photograph in my pocket. There is no way their center can hold. I rang the bell.

Gwyn quickly opened the door. “Diana,” she said surprised. “I thought you might be Heath.” Strands of hair hung messily around her ragged face. Uncharacteristic for her. Behind her the Zaitlins' pasty-faced houseman, Olin, craned his neck at me.

“I've been trying to get ahold of him,” she rambled on, chameleon-like eyes flicking.

“I need to talk you, Gwyn,” I said.

“I can't. Maybe later.”

A primal moan erupted from the area of Zaitlin's office and echoed off the limestone walls in the high-ceilinged foyer.

“Is that Robert?” I asked.

“He's been drinking,” she said.

Robert was many things, but not a heavy drinker. I started to walk in but she blocked my way. The houseman's eyes widened. Another sobbing groan rebounded around the foyer.

“Go away, Diana.” Gwyn was shaking with emotion now. “You started all this. Why did you have to find Jenny's body?”

I shoved her aside and ran past the houseman and into the office.

Behind his desk, Zaitlin weaved and swayed. A pistol lay on his desk beside an empty vodka bottle and a pile of scripts. A crystal-cut glass had been knocked on its side.

“Robert,” I said his name softly.

He stopped pacing and swung his body toward me, mouth sagging, lips wet with saliva. Sweat covered his shaved head. He swiped at the desk; now the gun dangled from his fingers.

“I was … smartest guy in town.”

“You still are.”

“Ju..sh another asshole. Right, Gwyn?” he said to his wife who now stood inside the office door next to Olin.

I took a step closer to Zaitlin. “Give me the gun.”

“Can't. Parson told me to kill myself.”

“Some men were here earlier. They searched the house for a camera,” Olin said. “Before they left, this man called Parson gave him the pistol.”

“You know what?” Zaitlin staggered.

“What?” I asked.

“I'm … an asshole
and
a coward.” His eyes turned toward Gwyn. “Get out of here!”

She fled. Olin held his ground.

“Why would Parson want you dead?”

“Ben.” His head lolled.

I edged closer. “Then you know what he was involved in?”

“Never loved him. But … if I knew … if I knew… .” Knees buckling, he swayed backward.

I lunged and grabbed the gun from his hand. He collapsed into his desk chair. I knelt next to him. His eyes were closed, mouth open. A perfect expression for a producer, I couldn't help but think. Thankfully, I could hear him breathing.

“Is he all right?” Olin ventured.

Standing, I shoved the gun into his hand. “Make sure he doesn't get near this and that he doesn't choke on his own vomit. Where's Mrs. Zaitlin?”

“Living room.”

Looking lost, Gwyn stood in the middle of a room designed for entertaining important people. From their gilt-framed oil paintings lining the walls, the women of another century peered out from behind parasols, up from their baths, or over the top of their books at Gwyn and me.

“Why are you trying to get hold of Heath?” I asked her. “So he can fix what Ben and Jenny have done?”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“I'm talking about them blackmailing your friends, your business acquaintances. The people you need to keep up your important position.”

She slapped me. I felt every bone in her hand. I slapped her back with equal fury. Eyes watering, breathing hard, we glared at each as our cheeks turned red. Neither of us apologized. The women from another era were not amused.

I took the photo from my pocket and handed it to her. “I think Ben dropped this after he trashed Celia's house this morning.”

“He was at her place?” She traced Ben's tiny face and body with her finger. “He was so small. Where is he now?”

“The last I saw of him, he was driving north on PCH.”

She grabbed her cell from a table and punched in a number. “Heath, Diana said he was driving north on Pacific Coast Highway. What time?” she asked me.

“Let me speak to him.”

“It's his voicemail.” She handed me the phone

“Heath, it's Diana.” As I relayed what Ben had told me earlier, Gwyn slumped on the sofa, staring at the photograph again.

“What have you and Celia done?” I tossed the phone onto the sofa next to her. “Celia wasn't one to keep photographs, Gwyn. I never saw any. She didn't want a family life. Why did she keep that one?”

“I guess because that's when we were friends and we cared about each other. That was before she took my husband away from me.”

“You weren't the one who was pregnant, were you? It was Celia.”

She stiffened. “Are you saying I imagined my rape? Even crazy women know when they've been violated, Diana.”

“Parson was here. Robert was trying to kill himself, and Ben is driving God-knows-where. Yes, it would be terrible to lie about being raped. It would be equally terrible to lie to Robert and to Ben.”

With restless, jerky movements she got to her feet and went out onto the veranda. I joined her. We stood where Ben and I had talked on his birthday night. But instead of a party tent and a cake, there were gardeners sweeping the gravel paths with palm fronds.

“They sweep when Robert's working at home.” She watched them. “That way he doesn't have to be bothered by the noise of the blowers.” She wrapped her arms around herself so tightly she could've been wearing a straitjacket. She faced me and continued. “I got crazy. Celia got pregnant. I wanted a baby, Diana. I wanted a mooring, to keep me from blowing away. Do you know what that feeling is like?”

“Yes.”

“No, you don't. You're always so together. Except for the night you found Jenny's body and wouldn't let go of your mother's ashes. But that was the exception. Even when we were young and sailing down Sunset in your mother's car, you were the one in control. Even then, I knew I was cracking into little pieces. And no matter how hard I tried to hold onto … something … I couldn't.”

I remembered her jealous expression reflected in the rearview mirror as we picked out the houses we were going to live in when we grew up. Now I understood what she had envied. My self-confidence, which of course I didn't have. I was a good actress even then. I just didn't know it.

“When did you find out Celia was pregnant?” I asked.

She relaxed her arms. Turning back to the garden view, she rested her hands on the stone balustrade. “Not until she visited me at the sanitarium in Switzerland. She wanted to have an abortion. I talked her out of it. It wasn't difficult. No matter how much she rebelled against her Catholic upbringing … she was still Catholic. As the baby grew inside her, I grew saner. After Ben was born I paid a doctor to make the birth certificate out in my name.” She paused, looking at me. “I loved Celia for what she did. She gave me a reason to try to be normal.”

“Who was the father?”

“I thought you figured that out. Robert. They had a brief affair. He wanted to marry her. Not because she was pregnant, she never told him. But Celia being Celia, she didn't want marriage. So she left him and went traveling around Europe ending up in Switzerland. Looking for help from crazy me.”

“And you knew Robert was Ben's father when you married him?”

“When I returned to L.A., Robert and I began to date. He was on the rebound from Celia. When he asked me to marry him, it was out of hurt and anger over her.”

“Why did you accept?” I persisted.

“I was a wealthy woman who had had a mental breakdown, who supposedly got pregnant by an act of rape. I was well aware that for whoever married me, it would be for my money. Robert was more than I could have hoped for.”

“And you never told him he was Ben's father?”

“No. Celia didn't want him to know.”

“And you?”

“I didn't want him to look at Ben and see Celia. Ben was mine this way. What I didn't expect was Celia and Robert becoming involved again.”

“Because she could be closer to Ben?”

“That's what I thought at first. But all she wanted was Robert on her own terms. No child. No marriage.”

“How did Ben find out he was Robert and Celia's son?”

“I don't know. He came to the house last night and said to me,
you're not my mother
. Robert was there. I had to tell him the truth. Robert felt betrayed by Celia, by me. How could he not? All the years he'd kept his distance from Ben. The woman he really loved had never told him. And the woman he didn't love had kept him obligated.”

“And his reaction to Ben?”

“Robert attempted to put his arms around him but Ben wouldn't let him. He said things like ‘
Now
you care?' ‘
Now
you want to be my father?' Then he ran out and got into his car and drove away so fast I thought he wouldn't make the sharp turns of the driveway. I thought he would kill himself.”

“So you let Ben grow up thinking he was the son of a man who had taken advantage of a mentally ill woman.”

“It had to be believable, Diana. Nobody doubted it.”

“And it made you more of a saintly victim, a woman who had kept her baby against the worst possible odds.”

“I was raped. I just didn't get pregnant.”

“Did Celia tell Ben she was his mother?”

“I don't know who told him.”

“Did Parson know that Ben wasn't your son?”

“No. But he knew what Ben had been doing. Robert pleaded with him not to hurt Ben. Now that he knew he was his real father, Robert asked Parson to kill him instead. But he didn't. He handed him the gun and said ‘Do it yourself.'” She pushed her hair back with both hands, her lips twitching.

“You need to call the police.”

“Heath will take care of it.”

“But he's not calling you back. Where is he?”

“I don't know.”

Why wasn't Heath returning her calls? I spoke as calmly as I could: “You have to call the police. Of course Parson doesn't want Robert, he wants Ben. He's in danger.”

Her back stiffened. “If you call the police, I will deny everything I've told you.”

“But why? Oh, God … did you kill Jenny?”

“Don't be ridiculous. I just found out last night what they were doing, when Ben told us. He wanted us to know every sordid detail.”

“You don't care that he could be in danger, do you?” I walked back into the living room and picked up the cell phone from the sofa.

She was right behind me, snatching it from my hand.

“Don't you dare call the police. Don't you destroy my life, Diana.”

“It's already destroyed. It was destroyed in Switzerland. It was destroyed when you married Robert and didn't tell him Ben was
his
son.”

“We are still a powerful couple in this town.” She looked like a desperate actress who clings to every word in her script because she was afraid to ad-lib, only to discover her script has been thrown out.

“Christ, Gwyn. I liked you better when you were nuts.”

I turned on my heels and walked out of the room, out of the house, past the gardeners, and got into my car. I rooted through my purse and found Detective Dusty Spangler's card and called her. I got her voicemail. Was nobody answering their phones? I left a message saying it was urgent and disconnected.

I drove down the long driveway to Sunset Boulevard. Glancing at my gas gauge, I saw I was driving on empty. What a perfect metaphor. I pounded the steering wheel with my fist.