“Kane followed Diane to San Francisco. He talked to her, made some kind of an oblique offer that could’ve been the first move in a blackmail try. At least, that’s how Diane interpreted it. Then, the night she died, Kane tried to attack her. That’s why she OD’d, that was the trigger.”
“Will I find that in the San Francisco police computer? Is there a police report describing the attack on Diane?”
“No, there isn’t. But I had an—an associate, guarding Diane, staking out her apartment. And she saw Kane trying to—”
“Wait a minute.” Farnsworth frowned. “This associate of yours. Was that a woman?”
Obviously irritated by the question, Bernhardt nodded. “Right. A woman.” His stare was defiant, belligerent.
“A woman. Hmm.” Farnsworth lowered his feet to the floor, returned his swivel chair to its upright position. “Okay. Go ahead.”
“Before I do,” Bernhardt said, “I’d like to ask you how Jeff Weston was killed.”
“Why’re you asking?”
“Because,” Bernhardt said, “Kane had a club in his hand when he went after Diane. Diane saw the club, and so did my associate.”
“Your lady associate.”
“Listen—” It was a tight, grim-faced challenge, a warning of worse to come. “Forget about whether it was a man or a woman. We’ve got three people dead, for God’s sake. What difference does it make whether I hire men or women? The fact is—the truth is—that if my associate hadn’t yelled when she did, Diane Cutler would probably have been killed. Just like Jeff Weston was killed.”
Farnsworth decided to smile: a resigned, world-weary smile. “You say ‘probably.’ And that’s the problem with this. It all comes down to whether we believe what a drugged-out girl told you. Isn’t that about it?” He let the smile fade as he consulted his watch.
Bernhardt sat motionless for a moment, his face registering a slowly gathering contempt. Finally: “I suppose it’s useless for me to ask whether you have any information suggesting that, in fact, a girl’s body was buried the night of July fifteenth in the landfill site about five miles northeast of Carter’s Landing.”
As Farnsworth listened to the precisely worded statement, an uneasy suspicion intruded. Was it possible that Bernhardt was wearing a wire? Was it possible—even likely—that Bernhardt was a shill, a stalking horse, perhaps for the state attorney?
At the thought, Farnsworth began levering himself to a standing position, looking down on the man from San Francisco.
“You’re right, Bernhardt. It’s absolutely useless.”
11:20 A.M., EDT
IT WAS ON ROUTE 28 near the outskirts of Carter’s Landing that Bernhardt found it: a coffee shop that catered to the townspeople, not the affluent outlanders. The sign spelling out “Kenny’s” was red neon, not white-scrolled imitation Colonial. The exterior of Kenny’s was stucco, not artificially weathered gray shingles. The plate-glass windows were large and set in aluminum, not multipaned and wood-framed. The booths were red Naugahyde, the counter was red Formica. The lighting, of course, would be fluorescent. And, yes, there were pickups in the parking lot, not Mercedes.
The patrons at the counter fitted the down-home stereotype. The conversation was easygoing; the topics were baseball, TV, and an accident last night involving a big rig and four drunken teenagers. All the teenagers were dead. The truck driver was in traction.
A few of the patrons looked briefly at Bernhardt, then looked indifferently away. Bernhardt sat at the far end of the counter, ordered coffee, and swiveled on his stool to face the row of customers, all of them in profile. The waitress wore a green uniform streaked with food stains. When she returned with the coffee, Bernhardt was ready with his laminated plastic identification plaque. Smiling at the waitress and pitching his voice loud enough to be heard by whoever cared to listen, he said, “Excuse me, but I wonder whether you could help me.”
Having already turned away from him, she reluctantly turned back. She was an angular, middle-aged woman with a long, unsmiling face and dark, unfriendly eyes. She wore harlequin glasses decorated with rhinestones.
“My name is Alan Bernhardt, and I’m a private investigator.” He held the plaque so that everyone seated at the counter could see it. As, yes, several pairs of eyes surreptitiously shifted toward the plaque, then to him. So far, so good. Curiosity, he’d discovered, could be the investigator’s best friend.
“I’m looking for the Preston Daniels place.”
Frowning, she studied the plaque for a moment, then reflectively scratched her neck just below the ear as she studied him. She shrugged. “Can’t help you, mister. Sorry.”
“You know who I’m talking about. Preston Daniels. The real estate tycoon.”
“I’ve heard of him. But I’ve never seen him. And I don’t know where his place is. Sorry.” She turned her back again, walked to the serving window, spun a metal drum with checks clipped to it.
“Thanks anyhow.” As he placed the plaque prominently on the counter and then sipped his coffee, he flicked a glance down the row of faces. Two of them, at least, had turned obliquely toward him, then turned away. Signifying, doubtlessly, that they knew the location of the Daniels beach house. He let his gaze wander to the restaurant’s plate-glass windows and the tourist traffic clogging Route 28. He’d been a child the first time he’d come to the Cape. He and his mother had been living in a Manhattan loft, where she gave modern dance lessons and conducted meetings. Always, there were the meetings, the fate of the Jewish intellectual. Meetings to protest civil rights violations. Meetings to protest the Vietnam war. Meetings in support of women’s rights. Meetings to plan meetings.
Every summer, his grandparents had sent him to summer camp in the Berkshires, always for the month of July. The routine never varied. All those kids, most of them Jews from New York, meeting at Grand Central Station, clustering around a Camp Chippewa sign. The train ride to the Berkshires had taken most of the day. When they reached their destinations most of the campers were hoarse—and most of the counselors were frazzled.
At the end of July, his mother and his grandparents always picked him up in his grandfather’s car, always a big Buick. The four of them would take two or three days to return to New York, stopping overnight at vacation spots along the way. Once, he remembered, they’d stayed in Hyannis, at a small hotel that faced the ocean. Early in the morning, he and his mother had walked along the water’s edge, where they’d found three starfish.
He hadn’t known how much his mother and grandparents meant to him until they’d died. His mother had died only months after her cancer was discovered. Less than a year later, his grandparents had died when his grandfather suffered a heart attack. He’d been driving their Buick, and the car had gone across the center divider of a New Jersey expressway.
And then Jennie had died. Jennie, who’d just agreed that, yes, they must have children—two children, no more, no less. She’d been mugged only a block from their apartment in the Village. Her head had hit a curb, and she’d never regained consciousness.
The coffee cup was empty. He took out his wallet, found a dollar bill, and slipped it under the saucer. He picked up his identification plaque and slid it into the pocket of his short-sleeved sports shirt, carefully buttoning the pocket. Down the counter, two men were also dropping money on the counter. Both men were young and muscular. Both wore T-shirts; both wore the mandatory baseball caps, one cap emblazoned with a Caterpillar logo, the other with the Corvette legend. Had either of the men registered interest in Bernhardt’s dialogue with the waitress? Bernhardt wasn’t sure.
The two men left the coffee shop and walked toward—yes—a battered pickup truck. Bernhardt’s rented Escort was parked three slots beyond the truck, perfectly positioned. The windows of the pickup were rolled down; therefore the doors weren’t locked. Bernhardt lengthened his stride, bringing him abreast of the pickup just as one of the men opened the passenger’s door. Catching the stranger’s eye, Bernhardt smiled, nodded, expe
ctantly broke stride. Returning the nod but not the smile, the man hesitated. Then, straightening, he turned to face Bernhardt.
“The Daniels place …” the man said. “Is that what you’re looking for?”
“I sure am.” In the three words, Bernhardt tried to convey a fraternal affability, a feel for the flavor of the local patois.
The stranger pointed a workman’s hand at Route 28 and began a long, amiable series of directions. Having already gotten instructions from Chief Farnsworth’s dispatcher, Bernhardt nodded, pretended to commit everything to memory. During the recitation, the pickup’s driver got out of the truck and looked at Bernhardt across the truck’s bed, which was filled with tools. Pushing back his baseball cap, the driver smiled: a wide, boyish, freckle-faced grin.
“You said you were a private eye, back there.” He jerked his chin toward the restaurant. “What’re you investigating, anyhow?”
Bernhardt looked at the driver, looked at the passenger. Their faces were remarkably similar: all-American faces, Jack Armstrong faces. Get out of high school, get a job, marry the girl next door. Drive-in movies, beer in the refrigerator, kids in the back bedroom.
How much should he tell them? How much did he want Joe Farnsworth to know—or not know?
While Bernhardt was considering the question, the passenger spoke to his friend: “I bet old Daniels got caught with his hand up the wrong skirt, sure as hell.”
Bernhardt decided to guffaw, a good old boy’s laugh. He nodded cheerfully, then shook his head, as if to marvel at the passenger’s perception. “Hey, how’d you know?”
The driver snorted, a flatulent sound that summed up the state of guerrilla warfare between townsfolk and resort dwellers. “Everyone around here knows about Daniels. I bet, since last year at this time, he’s had a half-dozen different women out to that beach house, weekends. And they’re all blondes. Every single one of them.” Marveling, he shook his head. “You got that much money, you get your nooky packaged any way you want, I guess.”
“His wife, of course,” the passenger said, “she’s a brunette. And beautiful, too. Better looking than most of Daniels’s bimbos.”
The driver nodded judiciously. “That’s true.”
Projecting elaborate caution, Bernhardt looked over his shoulder, stepped closer, spoke softly, confidentially: “I’m not going to say anything that’ll get me into trouble with my client. But the truth is, I’m trying to put a name to one of those bimbos. The last one. Or, anyhow, the one that was here on the weekend of July fourteenth.”
The two men looked at each other, considered, then looked back at Bernhardt. “That’s—when—a month ago?”
“Almost.”
“Well, I can’t help you with a name, friend,” the driver answered. “All I can tell you, she was blonde and beautiful, just like the rest of them. But there weren’t any names. Just faces.”
“And bodies, too.” The passenger smirked lasciviously. “Don’t forget the bodies, Clinton.”
“They come in Friday or Saturday, usually,” Clinton said, “and they leave Sunday, mostly.”
“How do they come? By car?”
Clinton shook his head. “Mostly they come in his airplane. Up from New York, or so I heard.”
“Does Daniels usually come with them?”
“Usually. He doesn’t always leave with them, though.” For affirmation, Clinton looked at his friend, who nodded.
“That reminds me,” Bernhardt said. “I’m trying to locate Bruce Kane.”
“He’s Daniels’s pilot. Right?”
Bernhardt nodded.
“That’s easy. Find Daniels’s airplane, you find Kane.”
“He’s a real asshole,” the passenger offered. “And mean, too. Give him a couple of drinks, and watch out.” As he spoke, he looked at his wristwatch. “Jesus, Clinton, we gotta go.” He smiled affably at Bernhardt. “Get Clinton talking about women, gossiping, too, let’s face it, and you shoot the whole day.” He swung the passenger’s door wide, and turned away.
“Listen,” Bernhardt said, “I want to thank you guys. A lot.”
“No problem, friend.” Clinton got in behind the truck’s steering wheel. “Anything I can do to stick it to that stuffed shirt Preston Daniels, I’m your man.”
“Appreciate it.” Bernhardt stepped back, smiled, waved the pickup out of the parking lot.
4:30 P.M., EDT
“WHAT I’M WONDERING,” BERNHARDT said, “is whether there’s any way I can get the name of a passenger that arrived here the weekend of July fourteenth on Preston Daniels’s airplane. She’s supposed to be a very good-looking blonde, and she and Daniels probably came in together. They probably came from New York. Or, anyhow, the New York area.”
The airport manager leaned forward, picked up Bernhardt’s identification plaque from the top of his desk, studied the plaque, then looked across the desk at Bernhardt.
“San Francisco …” In appreciation, the manager nodded. “Great place. They say New York is where it all happens. But San Francisco—they know how to live out there.”
“I agree. I grew up in New York. I loved the city. Still do. But it’s a lot easier life in San Francisco. Not much cheaper. But easier.”
“So you’re checking up on Preston Daniels, eh?” The manager—Holloway, Bernhardt remembered—leaned back in his chair, clasped his hands behind his neck, and regarded Bernhardt with interest. Holloway was a small, muscular man with a round, hard belly, vivid blue eyes and a quick, mischievous smile. His thick brown hair was crew-cut. He wore a wrinkled summer suit and a garish silk tie. His steel-rimmed glasses sparkled when they caught the light.
“I’m checking up on the woman, really. I need a name. And an address, too, if I could get it. But mostly the name.”
“It sounds like Preston Daniels is headed for a divorce court,” Holloway said cheerfully.
Bernhardt decided on a sly, coconspirator’s smile. “No comment.”
“This lady—had she come here for maybe two or three weekends previously, with Daniels? Is she the one?”
Bernhardt nodded. “She’s the one.”
“But she hasn’t been up to the Cape for two, three weeks since. Is that right?”
“That sounds right, Mr. Holloway.”
“Yeah—well—we’re talking about the same lady, probably. A great-looking blonde, like you said. She’s not the first, you know. ‘Daniels’s blondes’ we call them. They’re part of the show hereabouts.”
“The Preston Daniels sex sideshow, you mean.”
Holloway’s ruddy face broke into another broad smile. “You got it.”
“So how would you say I should get a line on her?”
“Best thing would be to ask Bruce Kane, I’d say. He’s Daniels’s pilot. At least once, I remember, Kane and the blonde flew in together, just the two of them. So I’d think he’d know her name. That time, I remember, the weather was bad. Real bad. Time they got here, she was probably reciting her rosary to Kane.”
“I understand Daniels and his wife are coming to the Cape, maybe today or tomorrow. Would you know about that?”
“I have no idea.”
“Do they have to file a flight plan, or anything?”
“They probably do, in New York, or wherever their flight originates. But the first we know, we’re getting a handoff from approach control. So—” On the desk, Holloway’s phone warbled. He picked up the phone, said something cryptic, then covered the mouthpiece as he spoke to Bernhardt: “I’ve got to take this. Find Kane, like I say. There’s a big house out on Sycamore Street, where Daniels’s staff lives. When he’s here, Kane lives in that house. You can get his phone number from the girl at the reception desk. Tell her I said it was okay.”
Bernhardt quickly rose, extended his hand. “I will. Thanks, Mr. Holloway. Thanks very much.”
FRIDAY,
August 10th
6 P.M., EDT
“BETTER BUCKLE UP.” DANIELS reached across the narrow aisle, handed her one
of her seat-belt straps. Without looking at him, Millicent found the other strap, snapped the buckle.
“Did you make dinner reservations?”
She swiveled her chair to face the rear and locked the chair, the approved landing sequence. “No. I don’t want to eat out. I phoned Bessie. She’s left everything out. Squab.” Her voice was expressionless; her violet eyes had gone cold and dead. Stranger’s eyes.
An enemy’s eyes?
Would the weekend reveal the truth, friend or enemy?
“Ah—squab. Good.”
“Everyone buckled up?” It was Kane’s voice on the intercom’s loudspeaker.
Daniels spoke into his microphone. “All set.”
“We’ll be on the ground in about five minutes.”
“Is your car at the airport?”
“That’s affirmative.” Always, when they were in the air, Kane’s language was laced with the flyer’s patois.
“Okay. We’ll take the Cherokee.” He paused, glanced briefly at Millicent’s frozen profile, then said, “Stay close to the phone. Stay in touch.”
“Roger. Gotta get off.”
“Yes …” Still with his eyes on his wife, speculating, Daniels replaced the microphone in its rack.
6:20 P.M., EDT
“WHAT I NEED TO have done,” Kane said, “is have a mechanic check the shimmy damper on the nose wheel. And I need to have him do it tomorrow. You know where to get me. Let me know.”
“I’ll do my best,” Holloway said. “But I’ve only got two mechanics this weekend.”
“Well, call me tomorrow, before noon. I’m not doing another landing with that shimmy. If you guys can’t fix it, I’ll have to take a shot at it. So I’ll want to know, one way or the other, before noon.”
“Right.” Holloway waited until the other man got to the door of the office. Then, partial payback for Kane’s scowling bad manners, the airport manager said, “By the way, there’s a guy named Bernhardt looking for you.” He glanced at Bernhardt’s card, still on his desktop. “Alan Bernhardt. He’s a private detective, from San Francisco.”
Except for the Bones Page 21
