“No. You got a camera?”
Tate nodded.
“Okay, get a picture, then. Here—” Bernhardt handed over two photographs. “That’s Price, and that’s John.”
Tate snorted. “Not very good camera work, Alan.”
“Telephoto.”
“Hmmm.” Tate slipped the pictures in his pocket.
“Here’s my car phone number.” Bernhardt wrote on a business card. “It’s new.”
“Car phones.” Tate snorted again.
“Are you acquainted with the word ‘iconoclast’?” As he asked the question, Bernhardt rose, dropped money on the table.
“As a matter of fact,” Tate answered, his voice heavy with sarcasm, “it so happens that I am.”
“Well,” Bernhardt said, “that’s you. An iconoclast.”
“And proud of it.”
10:35 A.M.
HE WAS WEARING DARK glasses and a cloth hat, like the tourists wore. But the light sweater, designer khakis, and running shoes were strictly San Francisco casual, compatible to the city’s cold, chronic summer fog, just now beginning to lift.
Was he in disguise?
If he was disguised—thought he was disguised—it was an ineffectual attempt. Like his voice on the phone last night, ineffectual. Craven, and ineffectual.
Like Dennis in bed.
Even though she knew he’d seen her, he pretended differently as he strode so casually into the espresso house, still wearing his dark glasses. Finally, pretending to spot her, surprise, two acquaintances meeting by chance, he came over to the table and sat beside her.
She smiled. It was, she knew, a well-executed smile, precisely calculated to express an amusement that could turn to derision.
And later, perhaps, contempt. Perhaps, now, it was time for the contempt to show through.
“Who’re you supposed to be?”
Not replying, he placed the hat on an empty chair. Then, in the approved manner, he hooked the sunglasses in the V of his sweater.
She’d chosen a table against the café’s back wall, with empty tables on either side. It would be impossible for anyone to overhear them.
She sipped her espresso. Then, after a precautionary glance at the nearest patron, two tables away, she asked, “What’d John say?”
“He heard us. He might’ve seen us, too, coming down the stairs. I think he did see us, but won’t admit it. But, definitely, he heard us.”
“Are you sure? Absolutely positive?”
“Absolutely.”
“Shit.”
The waitress came, took their orders, smiled, left. They sat in silence now, staring hard into each other’s eyes. Then she said, “That’s not the worst of it. That’s bad enough, but it’s not the worst of it.”
“Jesus—” He ran unsteady fingers over his lips. Fixed on hers, his eyes were widening. Plainly, Dennis was losing it. Whatever he had, he was losing it. Now, behind his hand, he muttered, “Bernhardt. You’re talking about Bernhardt. He knows about us.”
“He must’ve followed you from the winery. Didn’t you check, to see if he was following you?”
“I—yes.” Distractedly, he suddenly looked away, toward the street. Bernhardt could be out there now, watching them through the plate glass window. “Of course I checked. But how the hell do you know whether someone’s following you?”
“There’re things you can do, if you’re followed.”
“How do you know he didn’t follow you, last night? He could’ve—”
The waitress was serving their coffee and croissants, making a small ceremony of arranging the dishes and silverware. When the waitress had left them, Theo spoke quietly, holding his eyes with hers. “We don’t want to get rattled. That’s what Bernhardt’s trying to do, probably—get us rattled.”
“It’s not Bernhardt. He’s just a hired hand. It’s Janice. I suspected it, the first time Bernhardt came around.”
“I still think you and John should get out of the country. If this thing—if the sheriff comes around again, if he questions John—” Ominously, she let it go unfinished. Then: “How old is John?”
“He’s seven.”
“I wonder how much weight they’d give his testimony,” she mused.
“He was there, in the house. He was the only one, besides …” Helplessly, he shook his head.
“But if—if it ever came to a trial, I wonder whether they’d allow his testimony.”
“Jesus—” As if her intent was hostile, he raised a quick, defensive hand. “Jesus, don’t say that.” His eyes had gone hollow, haunted by visions from within. “A trial … Do you have any idea what that’d mean? The money—the inheritance—it’d all be tied up, until the trial was over. And then, sure as hell, the will would be contested.”
“Maybe you should hire a lawyer.”
“I’ve already got a lawyer. You know that.”
“Well, tell him what—” She frowned, broke off.
Infinitely weary now, he smiled: a grotesque counterfeit of wry amusement. “Tell him what happened? Is that what you were going to say?”
“What I meant was, you should be taking the initiative. They’re harassing you. Now they’re harassing me. Maybe, if we don’t take the initiative, it’ll look suspicious.”
“Suspicious?” As if he dreaded the sound of the word, his voice was hardly more than a whisper.
“Think about it. If you had nothing to hide, and a private detective questioned you, started following you around, what would you do? You’d complain. You’d—” She broke off, momentarily awed. “You’d go to the police, probably.”
“The police …” The word hung between them, a palpable presence.
The police …
The law …
On June sixteenth, in seconds, they’d crossed over the line. Forever. They were on one side, the two of them, and whoever they could hire. On the other side, legions were arrayed. Watching. Waiting. John, and Fowler, and Bernhardt, and Janice, and countless others. Watching. Waiting.
“… If we hire a lawyer,” he was saying, “that’s practically an admission of guilt.”
Vehemently, she shook her head. “No. You’re wrong. You’re—Christ—you’re begging the question, don’t you see that? You’re thinking like a guilty man.”
A long, defeated beat passed. Slowly, his head dejectedly fell, as if the muscles of his neck had suddenly gone slack. “I am a guilty man,” he muttered. “And you’re guilty, too.”
“Goddammit, that’s not true, Dennis.” Her eyes were hot; her voice throbbed with suppressed anger. “She came at us. She struck the first blow, don’t you understand? She started it.”
With great effort he raised his head, looked at her squarely. “But you picked up the tongs. She was backing off. She was leaving. And you went wild.” As he spoke, the scene came alive: the darkened room, lit only by pale moonlight. The two women, one of them naked, in front of the massive stone fireplace. Connie, her first screams of fury now broken sobs of outrage, turning away. The fireplace tongs, flashing in the half-light …
The sad, soft sigh, as Connie sank to her knees, remained motionless for a moment, then toppled over. Dying. Theo, coked up, panting like an animal, a wild, manic stranger, standing over her victim.
Even in that first moment, he’d thought of the money: the millions that would go to him. If the truth came out, if the police discovered how she died, he would never inherit.
Once more, his eyes had lost focus. His head had fallen again, an impossible weight.
Why had Connie done it, thrown herself on them in a blind fury? Never had Connie reacted violently. Always before, if anything, she’d been too passive, too accepting. She’d never …
“What’re we going to do, Dennis?” Theo was saying. “Christ, we can’t just—just sit and wait, hope for the best. We’ve got to do something. Don’t you understand that?”
“What would you suggest?” Once more, he raised his eyes to meet hers.
“You’ve got
to do something about John. He’s the only problem. He’s the only one who can hurt us. Don’t you see that? If you don’t want to take him to Europe, then send him someplace. Anywhere that Janice won’t be able to find him.”
“I’ve heard of private investigators tracking people all over the world. If I send him away, that’ll make Janice all the more determined to find him. She’d never rest until she found him. I know Janice. She’s already stirred up trouble, and she won’t stop. She’s got plenty of money, and she’s got the determination. She wouldn’t rest until she found him. She’d hire a dozen private detectives.”
“Then what’d you suggest? What’re we going to do?”
He sat for a moment in silence: a dull, dead silence. Then, speaking in a flat, uninflected voice that could have been a stranger’s, he said, “It’s been more than two months. It takes six months to probate a will in California. All I have to do is keep Janice and John apart for three and a half more months.”
“And what happens then?”
Still speaking without inflection, eyes unfocused, he said, “I cash the check, and put the money in a Swiss bank account. I call Janice, and tell her she can have John. That’s all she really cares about—John. And then—” He was smiling. The smile, too was unfocused: a vague, wan twist of the mouth, quickly gone. “And then we’re gone.”
“We.” Theo leaned forward, trying to reach him, trying to make hard contact with his vague, evasive eyes. She spoke very precisely: “I’m glad you said ‘we,’ Dennis. Because this is a partnership. Beginning on June sixteenth, this is a partnership.” She let a beat pass. Then: “I wouldn’t want you to forget that. Ever.”
5:40 P.M.
BERNHARDT WAITED FOR HIS answering machine to come on, and instructed the machine to play back his messages. The last message was from C. B. Tate: “I’ve got some stuff on your lady, Alan. Call me. I’m on the boat.” Bernhardt instructed the machine to erase the messages, then touch-toned the number.
“That was quick,” Tate said. “I just called you.”
“I know. What’ve you got?”
“What I got, maybe, was lucky. Do you want the deep briefing, or the condensed version?”
“Deep briefing, please. All I know about the lady is that she’s blonde and built.”
“There’s that,” C.B. agreed. “Even when she’s sitting down, her motor’s running, one of those.”
“Did you talk to her?”
“Naw. I didn’t think you wanted that, get her all stirred up. Was I right?”
“To be honest,” Bernhardt said, “I’m not sure what I want. I just want to get something happening.”
“Yeah, well, there’s nothing happening, exactly. I was going for—you know—background.”
“Background’s fine.” Expectantly, Bernhardt opened his notebook to a fresh page.
“Well, first, I checked out where she lives, naturally. It’s one of those very upscale Nob Hill view apartment buildings, like I figured when we talked. New building, five, ten years old. Six stories, great views, only two or three apartments per floor. Very expensive. She’s lived there for about a year. Lives alone. No husband, but lots of action. Guys, all the time, in and out. An assortment of guys. Old guys, young guys. Stuffy guys, swingers. All kinds. And, yes, your guy was one of them, beginning maybe six months ago, maybe less. But when he showed up in his Porsche, model 911, British racing green, most of the other guys fell off. All except one, a guy who wears tight T-shirts with the cigarettes rolled in the sleeve, one of those. So she’s got Price for the bucks, looks like, and she’s got this other guy for the kicks.”
“Jesus, C.B. You were up here in Saint Stephen at eleven, this morning. It’s about six now. You drove down to San Francisco. That’s, what, two hours, for the drive. What’d you do, tie the lady across her bed and inject her with truth serum?”
“Better’n that. I got lucky. I don’t have to tell you, this goddam surveillance, this PI business, you don’t get lucky, you can spend days—weeks—and get shit. That’s one reason I like bounty hunting, like I told you. Temperamentally, I’m not suited to surveillance. And, matter of fact, when you consider that people who hire PIs got to be rich, and when you consider that most folks are white, and when you figure that the people they’re mad at are also usually white, then you got to figure that I’m the wrong color for the PI business. Bounty hunting, though, that’s different. You connect with a bail bondsman’s got a good stable of drug dealers, most of which are black, and you’re in business. Then you—”
“Listen, I appreciate the civics lesson, but speaking of money, this is a car phone we’re talking on. Kapish?”
“Yeah, well, there really isn’t much else to report. You got questions?”
“Sure, I’ve got questions. Can she make you?”
“I doubt it.”
“What’s your source, for all this information?”
“I told you, I lucked out, pure and simple. I found this guy—black, naturally—about thirty, I guess, name of Howard Brown. Interesting guy. He came out of the projects, same as me. Did a little time, too, same as me. So we have something in common, Howard and me. We speak the same language. Howard’s a handsome devil, lots of muscles, looks like he’s really hung. You know, one of those bronze gods that women can’t keep their hands off. But Howard, he marches to a different drummer, it turns out. Instead of being a professional stud, or a muscle man or whatever, it turns out he’s crazy about plants.”
“Plants?”
“You know—ficus, fiddleleaf fig. It also turns out Howard’s got a pretty good business. He rents plants to places like offices and apartment buildings. He rents them, and he maintains them. So Howard, he’s all set, got a nice wife, nice family, lives out in the Sunset, with the rest of the middle class. But, of course, there’s always temptation. It figures, a build like Howard’s, going in and out of people’s apartments and houses and offices all the time.”
“So you’re saying Theo Stark made a move on Howard.”
“That’s my supposition. I don’t know whether she succeeded, that’s not my business, I figure. But whatever happens between him and Theo, Howard is definitely acquainted with her habits and her tastes. Both of which, I gather, are pretty lusty.”
“I imagine she’s been married,” Bernhardt said.
“Twice, according to Howard. Once for love, once for money. Not now, though. Definitely, not now.”
Thinking about it, Bernhardt let a beat pass. Then: “You do good work, C.B.”
“Thanks. Incidentally, being that Howard and I came out of the projects, where nothing comes free, I laid fifty dollars on him. I presume your fat-cat client won’t object.”
“No problem.”
“And I also figured that, since I accomplished all this in a phenomenal four hours billable, I’m entitled to a bonus—plus mileage, naturally.”
“I agree. How about eight hours, billable?”
“Perfect. So what now?”
“Do you think you could put a couple of bugs in her apartment, and a homer on her car?”
“Breaking and entering. For that, we charge a premium. Right?”
Bernhardt sighed. “Understood.”
“And the bugs. I only use the best.”
“Like what?”
“Meyers three thousand series.”
“Good. Give it a shot. Maybe Howard can stand lookout while you do the installation. Give him a hundred.”
“I already asked him. You understand, old buddy, that I’ll need a hundred fifty from you, up front, plus the invoice price of the bugs. I’ll wait on the hourly pay, like we said. But if I front this, I want it right back.”
“The next time I see you.”
“Fine. So what’re you saying, I should bug her place and then watch her for a couple of days? Is that it?”
“Let’s start with that. Keep in touch, though. Every two, three hours.”
“Indeed.”
“Good luck.”
�
�Thanks. You, too.”
Bernhardt broke the connection, cradled the car phone, locked the Corolla’s doors and strode across the Starlight Motel’s parking lot to his room. Over the weekend the motel had been crowded, but now the parking lot was only half-full, and only a few swimmers were using the pool. All day long, with the temperature in the mid-nineties, he’d been anticipating the moment when he could dive into the welcoming water.
But first he would call Paula. All day long, another day spent on the perimeter of the winery, sometimes on foot, looking over the fence, sometimes slouched in his car, he’d thought of Paula, the constant companion of his psychic self. Always, at some level of his consciousness, he was thinking of Paula.
He opened the door to his room, stepped out of line with the window, took off his clothes, and slipped into swimming trunks.
Paula …
It had only been six months since they’d met. It had been the first casting call for The Buried Child, a play he’d persuaded the board of the Howell Theater to undertake. From the first informal, catch-as-catch-can read-through it had been obvious that Paula had acting experience.
And, yes, from the very first, there’d been something about her. Something that resonated from other places, other times … and from other dreams, too long forgotten.
All through the read-through, he’d been aware of her. At first, inevitably, there’d been the male’s automatic sexual inventory. She’d worn scuffed running shoes, faded jeans, and a long, loose sweater, the mandatory dress for tryouts in little theater. Her dark hair had been pulled into a casual ponytail, another convention. The sweater and jeans had suggested an exuberant swell of the breasts, a supple waist, an exciting curve of buttocks and thighs. Yet, if the body was provocative, her manner was reserved. The eyes told the story: dark, somber eyes set in a small, serious face. It was a vulnerable face, he’d decided, a wistful face, the face of a woman who yearned for something she hadn’t found.
After the read-through they’d gone out for sandwiches and beer. Directors, he’d learned, enjoyed a license to ask questions. Paula’s answers had come readily. She was an only child. Both her parents taught sociology at UCLA. Her father was a gentle man, she’d said, separating the two words to make the point. He’d come from the East, an Ivy Leaguer. Her mother had worked her way through the California college system, a fiercely self-directed woman. Paula had grown up in Los Angeles, had gone to private schools, gone to Pomona College. And, yes, sometime in her junior year, she’d gotten hooked on acting. It was in her sophomore year, she’d told him later, that she lost her virginity during spring break.
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