Double Image by David Morrell

Coltrane asked.
    It was eleven Sunday morning. He sat with Jennifer on the narrow balcony of her condominium overlooking the harbor in Marina del Rey. The clouds continued to be gray. The breeze was cool; even wearing a sweater, Coltrane felt slightly shivery. But he couldn’t shake the sensation of being hungover and told himself that all he needed was fresh air to perk him up.
    Jennifer shook her head. “We agreed you were going to find out how you managed on your own.”
    “So you didn’t?”
    Jennifer looked amused. “There was a time when I called you a little too often, remember?”
    “I was just wondering. Last night while I was asleep, somebody phoned but didn’t leave a message. When I checked the machine this morning, its light was flashing. I had plenty of messages from earlier in the day — more reporters and TV talk shows wanting an interview about those Bosnia photographs. But then at the end, all I got was fifteen seconds of some kind of classical music and then click.”
    “Wasn’t me,” Jennifer said.
    Coltrane rubbed his forehead and fortified himself with a sip of steaming French-roast coffee. “A reporter wouldn’t have been shy about leaving a message.”
    “You wonder if it was Packard?”
    “The thought occurred to me.” Despite Coltrane’s sunglasses, the light seemed awfully intense. He squinted toward a sailboat, its motor chugging, as it made its way along the crowded harbor toward the exit from the marina.
    “Maybe it’s my Virgo personality,” Jennifer said.
    “What do you mean?”
    “This is definitely a done deal, right? You and Packard are going to collaborate for the magazine?”
    “Packard promised he’d FedEx you the prints and the signed permission forms tomorrow,” Coltrane said.
    “But if it
was
Packard who phoned you last night, do you suppose he was planning to tell you he’d changed his mind? Maybe you should phone him today and confirm the arrangement.”
    “And make him worry I’m going to be a nuisance?”
    Jennifer chewed her lower lip. “Yeah, sometimes I don’t know when to leave well enough alone.”
     
17
     
    CLIMBING THE STAIRS FROM HIS GARAGE, entering his kitchen, Coltrane heard a voice call his name. About to continue up to his darkroom on the second floor, he tensed, immediately changed direction, and stared into the living room.
    The front door was open, light streaming in from the patio. A red-haired man was setting a large cardboard box next to another one. Like Coltrane, he was in his mid-thirties. His thinning hair emphasized the fullness of his face. His pale skin contrasted with his freckles.
    “Just in time,” the man said. “I signed for these boxes and brought them in for you.”
    “Daniel.” Coltrane grinned. “I’ve been wanting to call you, but I know you’re working nights in the emergency ward. I didn’t want to wake you during the day.”
    “I appreciate the thought. This week’s been rough.”
    “I guess I didn’t make it any better when I hammered on your door Wednesday morning.”
    “It’s a good thing you did. Your stitches needed a little maintenance. How are they?”
    “Fine.”
    “Seeing’s believing. Up with the sweater and the shirt.”
    Coltrane sighed and did what he was told.
    “Not bad.” Daniel bent, peering closely. “The antibiotic I prescribed must be working. You had the start of an infection, but the redness around the edges has almost disappeared now. How’s your fever?”
    “Gone.”
    “You’ve got a hell of a constitution, my friend. I doubt I’d have lived through what
you
did.”
    Coltrane shrugged.
    “Make sure you finish the antibiotics. Keep drinking plenty of fluids. In a couple of days, I’ll take out the stitches.”
    “Daniel” — Coltrane put a wealth of meaning into the next word — “thanks.”
    “It’s nothing.”
    “No, it’s very definitely something. You’re always there when it counts.”
    “What did you expect me to do — tell you to go away, that