“You’re lying.” Bernhardt spoke in a low, exhausted voice.
Once more, Daniels frowned. “What?” It was an expertly delivered monosyllable, projecting a regal surprise. “What did you say?”
“I said you’re lying.” Bernhardt drew a long, deep, weary breath. “You killed her, Daniels. And you sent Kane to kill Diane, to shut her up.”
“You’ve got everything twisted, Bernhardt.” Projecting both pity and perplexity, Daniels shook his head. “You’ve had a bad scare, and you aren’t thinking straight. You say you’re out to get me for Carolyn’s murder. And, in fact, Millicent told me the same thing, tonight. Now—” Pantomiming long-suffering patience, he spread his hands and smiled. “Now if that’s all true, then why wouldn’t I have let Kane kill you just now?”
“Because people know why I’m here. Your wife, and Farnsworth, and people in San Francisco. Besides, with Kane dead, you thought you’d be safe. God—” Projecting a bone-weary exhaustion, a disarming tactic, he shook his head, at the same time gathering himself. “God, I aged ten years, just before you shot him.” As he spoke, Bernhardt used his left hand to grip the frame of the door, ready to pull himself to his feet—while, one movement masking the other, a momentary distraction, he drew Kane’s revolver from his jacket pocket, aimed at Daniels’s chest.
“Step back, Daniels. Two paces. No more.”
“Bernhardt, you—”
“Do it now, Daniels. Or I’ll shoot you.” Using both hands, the approved grip, he raised the revolver to eye level, drew back the hammer to full-cock, carefully sighted. “I won’t kill you. That could get me in a lot of trouble. But I’ll sure as hell put one in your shoulder. Then, when you’re down, I’ll come in close, shoot out your kneecaps. Both of them. So you’ll never walk again.”
“You’re bluffing.”
“You sent Kane to kill me, you son of a bitch. He was counting to three.” Bernhardt settled himself, gripped the revolver more firmly.
“One.”
“Listen, Bernhardt, let’s talk about—”
“Two.”
“Shit.” Daniels stepped back. One pace. Another pace.
“Okay. Now the gun. Take it out, lay it on the ground. Carefully. Very carefully. Use two fingers. Then, when you’re—”
“Okay, Bernhardt—” The voice came out of the darkness behind the car. “Let’s both of you lay your pieces on the ground. First you, Bernhardt. Then you, Daniels.”
“Me?” Daniels asked.
“Oh, yes,” Farnsworth answered. “Oh, yes, Mr. Daniels. You, too. Especially you.”
2:20 A.M., EDT
MILLICENT’S EYES WIDENED INCREDULOUSLY. “Preston is in jail? Locked up? Preston?”
“He killed Kane,” Bernhardt answered. “He killed him in cold blood. I saw him do it. And so did Farnsworth.”
They were standing in the entryway of the Daniels beach house, with the outside door closed behind them. The entryway was lighted by overhead mini-floodlights set in the ceiling. Standing in the cone of one of the floodlights, wearing a high-collared robe that swept the floor, her hair loose, hands clasped at her waist, face pale without makeup, Millicent could have been acting the part of a queen in a Shakespearean tragedy. Instead of speaking, Bernhardt stood silently, watching her as she stared past him. What were her thoughts? Would she stand by her husband, the source of enormous wealth? The trial would center on Daniels’s dead mistress. How much was Millicent’s pride worth to her? What was the market price?
Daniels’s ego was a known quantity.
What about Millicent’s ego?
Now, almost dreamily, she turned away. “Come in,” she said. “Sit down.”
“Thank you.” He followed her into a large, dramatically furnished living room that faced out on the ocean. The room was furnished around a huge slate-topped coffee table. They sat facing each other across the table. After a long moment, finally meeting his gaze, she said, “What happens now?” Her voice was dulled; her eyes shifted uncertainly.
“I can’t tell you exactly what’ll happen,” he answered. “He’ll get in touch with his lawyers, I’m sure of that. In a few hours, they’ll start coming down on Massachusetts’ law enforcement like a pack of lions. And his flacks, I’m sure, will come down on the media. Hard.”
Numbly, she nodded. She was staring down at her hands, tightly clasped in her lap. The muscles of her throat were cruelly corded. This, Bernhardt reflected, was not Millicent Daniels’s most flattering pose. Finally she began shaking her head.
“That’s the part I hate,” she said. “The reporters and photographers. The tabloids. It’s so—so tacky.”
Tacky? Was that where it ended, for Millicent Daniels? With her child dead, was tacky the ultimate judgment?
“If I were you, Mrs. Daniels, I’d hire a lawyer. I’d hire a good lawyer, and I’d follow his advice.”
“Yes …” Irresolutely, she nodded. “Yes, I’m sure you’re right.”
“I wouldn’t use any of your husband’s lawyers if I were you. You should get your own. Someone who’s only concerned with your best interests.”
“Yes …”
“I’d do that as soon as possible. I’m almost sure Daniels will be out on bail by this afternoon.”
Startled, she raised her head; her eyes came into sharp focus. “But—but this is murder. Is there bail, for murder?”
“I’m not a lawyer. But I believe the court’s free to grant bail whenever it wants. One consideration is whether the suspect is a flight risk. And, obviously, Daniels isn’t going to disappear. Besides, he’ll obviously try to make Kane the villain of the piece, so he’ll be posing as the perfect citizen. He’s going to say that Kane killed Carolyn. Then Kane killed Jeff Weston, he’ll say, to shut Weston up. He’ll also say that Kane tried to kill Diane and me, for the same reason. And, of course, he’ll say that he killed Kane to save my life. Which, in a sense, is true. Thank God.”
“Will they find the girl’s body, do you think?”
He shrugged. “It’s not a certainty. As I understand it, that landfill’s been bulldozed flat at least once since the murder. If she didn’t show up then, maybe she’ll never show up. Even Daniels probably couldn’t pick out the spot where she’s buried.”
“He’ll go free. If the body isn’t found, he’ll go free.” Her voice was a low, uninflected monotone, the voice of utter resignation, of utter defeat. She began to slowly shake her head. “He’ll be a hero. By the time his lawyers and his flacks get finished, all anyone will remember is that he saved your life. He’ll use you, just like he uses everyone else.”
“I don’t intend to let that happen.”
Her smile was grim. “You might not have a choice. Most people don’t, when they go against Preston.”
“Does that include you?”
She raised her eyes, studied his face—and made no reply.
THURSDAY,
August 16th
6:30 P.M., PDT
AS BERNHARDT’S KEY TURNED in the lock Crusher began to bark clamorously, that unfailing ritual of greeting. With the lock free but the front door still closed, Bernhardt shifted the bag of groceries to the crook of his left arm and used his right hand to push the door open, bracing himself for the inevitable collision as, still barking, furiously wagging his tail, the Airedale jumped on him—once, twice, three times.
“Get the ball, Crusher. Find the ball.”
Instantly, the dog turned away and began frantically sniffing as he searched in all the usual places for one of his tennis balls. Quickly closing the door, Bernhardt retreated down the long hallway to the kitchen. He deposited the sack of groceries and the briefcase on the kitchen table just as Crusher came prancing down the hallway with a tennis ball in his mouth. Bernhardt unlocked the rear door behind the kitchen, pried the ball out of the dog’s mouth, and threw the ball out into the rear garden, where Crusher caught it on the first bounce. Bernhardt closed the door and walked back down the hallway to his office, once the flat’
s front bedroom. The message machine’s counter showed four calls, about average for the hour and a half he’d been out of touch. He sat at the desk, selected a pen, turned to a fresh page in his notepad, and pressed the recall button.
“You were right,” Paula’s voice acknowledged, “surveillance is dull. But I’m tuned in on this guy, and I’m going to catch him dirty, isn’t that the phrase? Anyhow, I’ll give it until his wife comes home, which is usually about six-fifteen. So I should see you about seven. I’ll get some fish. Salmon, if it isn’t too expensive. ’Bye.”
The second message was from the credit bureau, and the third was a blind call from a harassed-sounding woman who said she’d call back tomorrow—maybe.
The fourth caller was a man: “Yeah—Bernhardt. This is Chief Farnsworth calling, from Carter’s Landing. I just thought I should tell you that a couple of hours ago we found a woman’s body out at that landfill. It’s Carolyn Estes, probably. There’s no identification, but who else could it be? We’ve had about twenty-five guys working with probes for three days, a real workout, I don’t mind telling you. Working those probes, you know, it’s tricky. You got to know what a body feels like. But, anyhow, when they finally turned her up, there was less than a foot covering her. I have an idea the state attorney’s going to be in touch with you about the preliminary hearing. Meanwhile, I’m going to be on TV tomorrow, nationwide. How about that?”
—Collin Wilcox
San Francisco, 1991
Turn the page to continue reading from the Alan Bernhardt Novels
1985
TUESDAY, JULY 9th
3:15 P.M., EDT
BACARDO LEANED FORWARD, TAPPED the driver on the shoulder. “Switch on the radio, Eddie. Remember, no rock and roll.” Bacardo waited until the music came up, then turned to the man beside him. Both men wore dark suits, white shirts, ties, and black loafers. Bacardo’s loafers were brass-buckled; Caproni’s were tasseled.
“You’ve never done this before, right?” Even though music now filled the Lincoln’s interior, Bacardo spoke quietly, discreetly.
Caproni shook his head. “Never.”
“The way it goes,” Bacardo said, “we leave the car in the parking lot. Eddie’s done this before, he knows how it goes. When we’re parked, Eddie gives you the car keys. You take the keys, open the trunk, take out the suitcase. Then—this is important—you keep the keys in your pocket. If Eddie has to move the car, which he won’t, he’s got a duplicate set of keys. Got it?”
Caproni nodded. His dark eyes were fixed on Bacardo’s face. Waiting avidly for the rest of it:
“At the gate, you give up the suitcase. There’ll be two guards—flunkies—and a lieutenant. Harrison, that’s the lieutenant’s name. A guy about fifty, about two-twenty-five, reddish hair, bald, with a pot that’s just starting. If there’s any question, give me a look. Harrison’s the one that gets the suitcase. He also gets the keys. The way it works, we take everything out of our pockets, for the scanner. Harrison knows the keys he wants. He picks up the keys off the conveyor belt.”
“So Harrison gets the suitcase and the keys, both.”
Bacardo nodded. “Right. And then he disappears. That’s the last we see of him. While we’re inside, Harrison unlocks the suitcase and empties it out, checks off everything. It’ll take him maybe fifteen, twenty minutes, no more. Meanwhile, we do our business, me and the don. While we’re doing business, Harrison takes the suitcase out to the car, puts it in the trunk, gives Eddie the keys. And that’s that.” Bacardo smiled, spread his large, knob-knuckled hands. He was tall, gaunt, loosely made. Like his hands, his face was large and rough-cut. It was a peasant’s face: heavy brow ridges, an outsize jaw, an amorphous mouth. The body, too, was peasant-bred, defying the efforts of even the most skillful tailor. Bacardo’s complexion was mahogany brown, his ancient Sicilian heritage. His unruly hair was dark and coarse and thick. His eyebrows, too, were spiky-thick, and his jowls were dark with underlying stubble. His black eyes revealed nothing. Like all mafiosi, Bacardo was clean-shaven.
“After we’re through the scanner,” Bacardo said, “a guard’ll take us to the administration building in a golf cart. The don’ll be waiting for me in the warden’s office. You’ll be in a conference room right down the hallway. You’ll probably talk to Gerald Farley. He’s captain of the guard, maybe the number-four man in the prison. Maybe he’ll have someone with him, maybe not. Maybe you’ll be patted down for a wire, maybe not. This is your first time, so they probably will pat you down. Anyhow, you’ve got to figure that Farley’ll be wearing a wire. Right?”
On cue, Caproni nodded. “Right.”
“Mostly,” Bacardo said, “what Farley’ll give you is just a lot of shit to make him feel important. He’s a windbag, but he’s no dummy, so you’ve got to watch yourself. One thing you’ve got to remember, and that’s not to talk about the suitcase.”
Caproni nodded again. “Got it.”
“What you’ll get from Farley, the only thing you have to pay attention to, is how it’s going with our guys. Usually there’s no complaints. Our guys, the capos, they’re all in one cellblock. Which, naturally, everyone calls ‘Mafia Row.’ There’s eleven guys there now, including the don. In the rest of the prison, there’s maybe twenty-five soldiers and button men. They’re also our responsibility. If one of them fucks up, we take care of it. Us, not the guards. That’s the deal. The guards don’t fuck with us, we don’t give them any problems. Our guys do their time, behave, get out, go back to work. You know all this.”
Caproni nodded. The Lincoln was slowing, stopping for a red light. Even though there was no traffic in either direction, the driver came to a full stop, turned, then smoothly accelerated to a conservative forty-five. Looking at the sign on the light pole, Caproni saw FREDRICKSVILLE, 5 MILES. And, yes, in the distance the beige buildings of the prison were dimly materializing, built along the top of a bluff that was the landscape’s only distinguishing feature; the rest was marshlands. Caproni glanced at the digital clock on the dashboard; the time was 3:25 P.M. The radio was playing something from the forties: a love song with mournful lyrics. Was it Sinatra?
“The way it works,” Bacardo said, “just so you’ll know, the don only talks to the warden or the captain of the guards. Nobody else—no guards, no inmates. And nobody talks to the don directly. Anything that’s important enough for the don to make a decision, it goes to Augie first. He’s the don’s cellmate.”
Caproni nodded, then decided to say, “Can I ask you something?”
Bacardo shrugged. “Ask.”
“The don’s been in for—what—five years?”
“Right.”
“Out of—what—a fifteen-year sentence?”
“Right.”
“So how come? I mean—” Perplexed, Caproni shook his head, spread his hands. “I mean, Christ, that was a frame-up, the don’s trial. It was like Luciano and Genovese all over again. I went to the don’s trial a few times. And those two guys the DA dug up, they could hardly remember their lines. The don, it looked like ten to one he’d walk on appeal.”
Grimly, Bacardo looked straight ahead as he said, “In the first place, it wasn’t the DA. It was the state’s attorney. And the feds, if they want you bad enough, they’ll get you. Christ, you talk about Luciano and Genovese. Those two, between them, who knows how many guys they had whacked. So the feds got Luciano for pimping, for God’s sake—fixing Frederico up with a seventeen-year-old girl so stupid she didn’t know enough to keep her mouth shut. And Genovese, Christ, convicted on a nickel-and-dime drug deal—street-corner stuff.”
“And now Don Carlo.”
Still staring straight ahead, Bacardo made no reply. The subject was closed.
4:05 P.M., EDT
THE WALL BEHIND THE warden’s desk was covered with pictures, most of them photographs in narrow black frames. Advancing a step, Bacardo looked closely at a snapshot of a cabin cruiser with—yes—Warden Donovan at the helm, one hand resting on the traditional o
aken ship’s wheel. Wearing, yes, a yachtsman’s cap, Donovan was smiling, squinting into the sun. Two men and three women shared the cockpit with him. The men were bare-chested, rolls of middle-aged fat overhanging their belts. The three women matched the men: overweight, cheerful-looking, settled. Donovan and one of the men clutched cans of beer, raised in a salute. From the design of the cockpit and the lines of the woodwork, the boat appeared to be a Ranger.
How many suitcases full of money and dope had it taken to buy the Ranger? Donovan, they said, was only a few years from retirement. How much had he—?
From behind him Bacardo heard the click of a latch, the metal-on-metal sound of a door swinging on its hinges. He smiled as he turned to face Carlo Venezzio. The smile was genuine; more than anyone’s, Venezzio’s life was part of his own.
As always, Venezzio wore neatly pressed, dark-colored slacks, burnished loafers, and a white silk shirt, open at the neck. The feel of silk on his skin, Venezzio had once said, was half as good as sex.
As he pushed the door closed, he greeted Bacardo, gestured to the long leather sofa where they always sat, one at either end. A man of medium weight and height, sixty-five years old, Venezzio lowered himself slowly to the couch, bracing himself with both hands, one hand on the back of the sofa, one hand on the cushion. Watching the other man, Bacardo was aware of differences: a pallor of the face, an uncertainty of gesture, a tightening of the mouth, an underlying grimace about the eyes.
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