Fly down to Texas, then into Mexico. Fly low, turn off the transponder, get down below the radar. Southbound, no one cared. A vacationing Americano with an inoperative transponder, flying his own airplane into Mexico.
Olé.
12:30 P.M., PDT
“MR. BERNHARDT?” THE MAN’S voice on the phone was ragged, close to breaking.
“Yes, sir.”
“This is Paul Cutler, Mr. Bernhardt.”
The father of the dead girl—the girl who had killed herself while Bernhardt stood guard in the street below her window.
“Ah …” It was an inarticulate response, a mere monosyllable that bore an impossible burden: sympathy, remorse—
—and, yes, guilt.
“I—Carley Hanks—she told me, of course, about Diane. Carley phoned me right—right after it happened, last night. And then they—they took me to the—the—” Helplessly, Cutler broke off.
The morgue, Bernhardt knew, would have been the next words.
How long had it been since the police had knocked on Bernhardt’s door, told him that Jennie had been killed when her head struck a curb during a random mugging?
A final cough. Then, painfully self-controlled: “I identified her, after the police came to tell me. And then I—of course—I called Diane’s mother, in New York.” Another pause, this one longer, more painful.
“If there’s anything I can do …”
“Well, of course, that’s why I’m calling. I mean, just a little while ago—an hour, maybe—Carley called again. And she—she said that she hired you, because she was so very worried about Diane.”
“Yes, sir, that’s true.”
“Carley says she thought Diane trusted you—that Diane told you things. She—Carley—she thought that, whatever was bothering her, Diane talked to you about it.”
“Yes, sir, she did.”
“I see …” Two words that said it all: father and daughter, always at arm’s length.
“I wonder, Mr. Bernhardt …” The words were hesitant. “I wonder whether you’d mind coming over here, to my home? Can you do that?”
“Yes, of course.”
“In an hour or two, would that be convenient?”
“An hour or two …” Speculatively, Bernhardt broke off, to consider. It was no time to mention consulting fees, hourly rates, not with Diane’s body in the morgue, awaiting the coroner’s scalpel. But when would there be a better time? Now, or when—
“I’m a lawyer, Mr. Bernhardt.”
“Yes, sir. Diane told me.”
“And we hire private investigators. All the time. So I know about fees—about your time. It’s the same with me. All I’ve got to sell is my expertise, and my time.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you. I—ah—I charge fifty dollars an hour.”
“That’ll be fine. Can we say two o’clock?”
“Two o’clock.”
2:30 P.M., PDT
“MY GOD.” STUNNED, INCREDULOUS, Paul Cutler shook his head. “It’s—it’s unbelievable. Preston Daniels—all that money, all that power.”
“It happens,” Bernhardt said. “These people make mistakes, too. Usually, though, there’s a cover-up.”
“Yes …” Apparently dazed, Cutler nodded, then rose to his feet, paced the small, book-lined study to the far wall, where he stood for a moment motionless, staring out through French doors on a meticulously maintained garden. Finally: “That bastard. She’d be alive now, except for Daniels.”
But the real damage was done years ago, Bernhardt responded in his thoughts. A girl doesn’t OD because someone scares her. She ODs because she’s too unhappy to go on living.
“Will the San Francisco police do anything?” As Cutler asked the question he turned from the window and sat behind a small leather-topped writing desk. His movements were wooden. His face was naked, a mask of stark, hollow-eyed grief.
“They’ll make inquiries back on Cape Cod, but that’s about it.”
“No crime was committed here, after all.” Staring down at the desk, Cutler spoke slowly, tonelessly. Bernhardt decided not to respond, and the silence lengthened until Cutler spoke again:
“Today’s Saturday. The funeral’s going to be here. In San Francisco, that is. Millicent—Diane’s mother—will be here. I don’t know whether Daniels will come. Considering the circumstances, I doubt that he will.” Cutler let a long, thoughtful moment pass. Then: “I think it’d be useful for you to be here, for the funeral. Then, the next day, I want you to leave for Cape Cod.” Cutler opened the center drawer of his desk and took out a checkbook. He put it on the leather top of the desk and pulled the drawer open farther, searching inside. Now he shook his head with sudden vexation.
“Damn. No pen.”
“Here …” Bernhardt unclipped a pen from an inside pocket. “Use mine.”
5:30 P.M., EDT
YES, IT WAS ELEMENTAL: WAVES, an eternity of waves, crashing down on the seaside sand. Receding, gathering strength, rolling in again. Once there had been rocks on this beach. Now there was sand.
How many millions of years did it take, to pound boulders into pebbles, and pebbles into sand? At Palm Beach, the sand was white and fine; on the Riviera, the sand was dark and coarse: pebbles still being ground down.
Once more, the breakers came in, crashed down, ebbed, gathered force, came in again. When she’d been born, these waves were coming in.
And when Diane had been born, too.
Eighteen years ago. Only eighteen. Divide eighteen years into eons, and the time sliver was smaller than a grain of sand.
When she was in college, geology had been one of the few subjects that had held her interest. Geology and archaeology and anthropology, studies of the past. When she was a sophomore, she’d dreamed of going on archaeological digs. Wearing shorts and a halter and heavy high-topped hiking shoes and a khaki expedition hat, she saw herself on a sunbaked desert working with camel’s-hair brushes to unearth fragments of bone, or pottery, or a fossilized dinosaur skeleton. Always there was a man: a European graduate student, wonderfully handsome, incredibly serious.
She’d been nineteen years old when she’d finished her sophomore year.
The next year, playing tennis on one of the campus courts, she’d seen Paul. He’d been playing on the next court with Don Kanter.
They’d been married almost exactly a year later. And, a year after that, Diane had been born.
It had been a mistake. One single mistake.
It had been a beach party, in Monterey. They’d been going to drive back to San Francisco, after the party. But they’d both drunk too much to drive, so they’d stayed with friends, slept on mattresses on the living room floor. And, God, they’d wanted each other that night. No diaphragm, try it once, take the gamble.
And Diane had been born.
They’d still been in love, then. God, they’d been in love.
The following year they’d decided that Paul should go to Stanford Law. His father had offered to pay, an offer too good to decline. Of course, Paul’s father would only pay for essentials, no luxuries. Was that understood?
The problem, Paul had said later, was definitional. The word “luxury,” for instance. How did they define luxury?
“How about drapes?” she’d once demanded. “Are they luxuries?” Paul’s father, himself a lawyer, had come right back at her. “Drapes, no. Johnnie Walker, yes.” And he’d pointed to the bottle of Johnnie Walker on a shelf.
Just then, she remembered, in the bedroom, Diane had started to cry. Situation saved. Temporarily saved.
For eighteen years, temporarily saved. Until now. Until last night, when Diane had finally saved herself from more pain than she could bear.
Last night …
It had been a bad night for both of them, last night. She’d been so upset because Freddy King hadn’t invited her for dinner that she’d had to get out of town.
While, last night, her daughter had chosen to die.
She’d walked so far along t
he water’s edge that she’d reached the saltwater bog that limited the beach to the north. A half mile away, the beach house seemed very small, matchbox size. When she’d left the house, Preston had come out on the lower deck, to watch her. He’d had a glass of wine in his hand. His picture-perfect profile, his white ducks and striped crew shirt, the glass held so gracefully in his hand, the million-dollar house, the soft-focused background—all of it had been perfection, a Town and Country picture spread.
As she’d walked down to the beach, away from him, she could feel him looking at her. When she’d reached the water’s edge she’d turned to look back at him. Gravely, he’d raised his glass to her. He’d meant the gesture to express his regret, his compassion.
So that as she turned her back on him and walked away, he would understand that she blamed him as much as she blamed herself.
11:45 P.M., EDT
DAMAGE, DANIELS KNEW, HAD been done. It was measurable. The poets spoke of heartache, heartbreak. Scientists would speak of the central nervous system, of a mental state so traumatic that the blood rushed to the solar plexus, starving the brain for blood.
But it was a contradiction. Because, for almost twelve hours, ever since Cutler had called, he’d felt hollow at his center, the site of the solar plexus.
The essential fluidity of his gestures, he knew, the movements of his body, the cadence of his speech, even word control, smile control—all had been compromised, as if some essential synapses in the brain were malfunctioning. In computerese, it was as if the central memory chip were failing. Not failed, but failing. But there the analogy ended. Because the brain could repair itself; a microchip couldn’t.
A drug overdose, Cutler had said.
And the images had begun: Kane, forcing himself into her apartment. Kane, subduing her. Choking her until she fainted. Kane, jabbing the needle into her arm, her thigh.
Kane, somewhere between San Francisco and Cape Cod.
Kane’s face as he held out his hand for another envelope stuffed with cash.
Kane, smiling. Kane, gloating.
And the other faces. Millicent, staring at him with stone-cold eyes.
Constable Joe Farnsworth’s eyes, probing.
Kane—Millicent—Farnsworth. Together, they held him hostage.
SUNDAY,
August 5th
9:30 A.M., EDT
“WHERE’RE YOU GOING?” MILLICENT asked.
“I’m going out for a drive,” Daniels answered, searching his pockets for keys. “I’ll be back in about an hour. Is there anything you want in the village?”
Ignoring the question, she asked, “When are we leaving? I want to be in New York by five o’clock, at the latest.” It was a command, not a request: Millicent, dictating terms.
“I think the airplane’s in New York. If it is, I’ll arrange for a charter.” Then, finessing: “I’ll drive out to the airport and talk to them, check on Bruce, make arrangements. I—” He attempted a smile. “I’ve got to get out, get some air.”
She made no reply.
9:45 A.M., EDT
“SHE’S DEAD?” KANE’S VOICE was almost a falsetto. His eyes were incredulous, his mouth hung slightly open. “Dead?”
Behind the wheel of the Cherokee, Daniels turned left to Route 28 and the airport. How long had it been since he’d done the driving with one of his employees a passenger? Democracy. The common touch. What could be more disarming?
He glanced again at Kane’s face, then looked back at the traffic ahead. Saying: “I don’t understand. Why’re you surprised?”
“Because she wasn’t dead when I split. She was alive.”
On the steering wheel, his grip locked; the Jeep slewed, then straightened. But his voice, strangely, was steady as he heard himself say, “Alive?”
“I tried to do it. I was within ten feet of her. But there was a woman. And she knew me. She called me by name.”
“Then …” The images shifted, splintered, re-formed. A drug overdose, Cutler had said. The images shifted again: Diane, naked on a stainless-steel table, with the top of her head removed, sawed off. Of all the day’s images, that one had persisted: an electrical saw, taking off the shaven top of the skull to get at the brain.
“Then you didn’t kill her.”
“Hell, no. It could’ve been a policewoman, guarding her. I got out of there. All I had was a lead pipe. The woman could’ve had a gun. So I split. I got a hotel room, then I flew out of San Francisco yesterday. I decided not to phone you until I got to the Cape—a local call that couldn’t be traced. By the time I got to Westboro last night it was ten o’clock. I didn’t get here until one o’clock this morning, by the time I got the airplane serviced.”
“So the airplane’s here.”
“That’s what I just said,” Kane answered brusquely. Then, demanding: “What happened, anyhow?”
“All I know is that her roommate called Paul Cutler about three o’clock yesterday morning, California time. She said Diane had OD’d, and her body was on its way to the morgue.”
“Jesus …” Shaking his head, bemused, Kane stared straight ahead. Then, shrugging, smiling, he raised his hands, palms up. “So we’re home free.”
Daniels flipped the turn indicator, slowed for the airport turnoff, just ahead. “Except that you were recognized.”
Kane’s smile faded.
“Did the policewoman see the pipe? Were you that close?”
“I think—yeah—she probably saw the pipe.”
“And she knew who you were.”
“She called me by name. Like I said.”
“So she knew you were coming …”
“Yeah …” Heavily, Kane nodded.
Daniels turned the Cherokee into a parking place, switched off the engine. He sat motionless for a moment, staring straight ahead. The images were re-forming again: the policewoman, reporting to her superior office. The officer, deciding to check on Kane. Joe Farnsworth, receiving an inquiry from the San Francisco police department. Farnsworth’s desktop: the inquiry placed beside the report on Jeff Weston’s murder.
Farnsworth’s pudgy fingers, searching his files for the folder marked “Carolyn Estes.”
As the images revolved, he spoke mechanically, as if he were reciting by rote: “The funeral’s on Tuesday, in San Francisco. Millicent’s going. And I’m going too. We’ll fly commercial, tomorrow. I want you to fly us to New York this afternoon.”
“And then what? What’ll I do then?”
“You’ll wait for me in New York. We’ll leave San Francisco Wednesday morning. I’ll be at the office until Friday afternoon. Then I’ll come back here. I’ll stay for the weekend. Millicent, too, I hope.”
“Do you think that’s smart, being where Farnsworth can get at you? I was thinking about disappearing for a couple of months.”
Slowly, deliberately, Daniels shook his head. “That’s exactly what we don’t want to do. Everything’s got to look normal. Completely normal. We’re going to act like nothing unusual has happened.”
“But what about Farnsworth?”
“If he’s going to ask questions, I want him asking them here, not in New York. That’s the last thing I want.”
“Okay, that’s you. I can understand how you’ve got to keep up appearances. But what about me? I think I should go to Mexico for a couple of months. At least.”
“Six months from now, you can go.”
“I don’t know …” Eyes narrowed, mouth hardening, Kane shook his head. “I’ll have to think about it. You can’t split, can’t disappear. But I can. And if I do split, this is the time to do it. As far as Farnsworth’s concerned, it’ll be a vacation.”
“You’ve got a job here. You’re on the payroll.”
“Yeah—well—I can find you a pilot. I can find you fifty pilots. And as far as the payroll goes—well—I figure I’ll be on the payroll permanently, whether I fly or not. Isn’t that right?” As he said it, Kane turned a long, cold stare on the other man.
With th
eir eyes locked, Daniels spoke softly, with boardroom precision: “You’re talking about an income for life. Is that it?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying. The way I see it, you and me are joined at the hip. One goes down, so does the other.” A short, truculent pause. Then: “Am I right?”
“You’re exactly right. Which is why I want you to act like an innocent man. And an innocent man wouldn’t leave town.”
“If I decide to change jobs, I’ll leave. And pilots change jobs all the time. It’s built in.”
“In six months,” Daniels said, “we’ll talk about it. Not now.” As he said it, he withdrew a checkbook and pen from the pocket of his jacket. As he began writing, the final image materialized: Carolyn’s body, decomposing. In six months, dust to dust, almost nothing would be left.
Except for the bones.
4 P.M., EDT
AS FARNSWORTH PARKED THE patrol car in front of the storefront police station his radio came to life: “Chief, are you coming inside?” It was Nancy Shelby, the department’s full-time secretary, receptionist, and dispatcher.
“I am.”
“Because there’s a call from San Francisco. It’s someone named Alan Bernhardt. He says he’s a private detective.”
“What’s on his mind?”
“He’s asking about Jeff Weston.”
“Be right in.” He returned the microphone to its bracket, flipped the communications master switch, took the keys from the ignition and began levering the mound of his stomach from under the steering wheel.
4:05 P.M., EDT
“THE REASON I’M CALLING,” the voice on the phone said, “is that Diane Cutler died late Friday night.”
Farnsworth scowled at the speakerphone.
“Who’s Diane Cutler? I thought you were calling about Jeff Weston.”
“Diane Cutler is—was—Preston Daniels’s stepdaughter. Her mother is—was—Millicent Daniels.”
Except for the Bones Page 19
