After she’d graduated, she began making the rounds of the casting offices, Hollywood’s tribal ritual. A year later, she met a writer named Paul Fagan. She’d been twenty-two; he’d been forty, twice married, with children. Her parents had begged her not to marry Fagan, but she’d been in love. For almost a year, she’d been in love. For the next nine years, hating it, she’d stayed with the marriage. After the divorce was final, she’d come to San Francisco, yet another refugee, another searcher of the soul.
Then it had been his turn. From the first, the very first, he’d been aware of how natural it felt to tell his story. He’d—
Beside him, the telephone rang. Startled, he picked up the receiver.
“Alan …”
“God, I was just thinking about you. Just this very second.”
“And?”
“And I was reflecting on how it’s been days, since I’ve seen you.” He pitched his voice to a rich, low note: himself imitating his sensuous self. “And then I was contemplating this queen-size bed I’ve got, here.”
“And?” Playfully, she mocked his erotic contralto.
“And I was thinking, what if Paula came up for a couple of days? She could swim and read books and tour the tasting rooms while I plied my snooper’s trade.”
“I guess you haven’t talked to Janice today.” In her voice he could hear a trace of different humor, Paula’s private joke. But what private joke?
“Why?”
“Well, Janice and I had lunch today—yet another lunch. Of course, we talked about John and Dennis—the whole thing. She said she was thinking about going up there, staying there for a few days. I thought I might go with her.”
“Did she tell you what happened yesterday, when she talked to Dennis?”
“Yes.”
“And she still wants to come up here?”
“Don’t you think it would be a good idea?”
“I don’t know,” he answered, speaking slowly. Business, he perceived, was about to conflict with pleasure. “I haven’t thought about it. Does she want to come? Badly?”
“Janice’ll do whatever it takes to get this whole thing resolved. Anything.” She spoke decisively, emphatically.
“And you’ll come, too?”
“I’ll come, too.” Once more, the lilt was back in her voice—and the eroticism, too, a mischievous play on “come.” “I’m all packed. And so is Janice.”
It was only six o’clock. If they left by seven, they’d be there by nine. An hour or two spent with Janice, at a nearby restaurant and bar, and they’d be in bed together, by eleven. Less than a month ago, they’d driven up to Mendocino for the weekend. Motels, Paula had said, made sex seem deliriously forbidden.
“Janice might be used to more elaborate accommodations than the Starlight Motel. This is all going on her tab. I didn’t want an expensive place.” As he spoke, he saw a white police cruiser entering the motel’s parking lot. Behind the wheel he recognized the overweight profile of Sheriff Fowler. The car came to a stop in front of the motel office. While Fowler levered himself and his equipment belt out of the car and spoke briefly to the motel manager, another man got out on the passenger side. The second man wore seersucker trousers that doubtless went with a seersucker summer suit, a wrinkled white shirt, a regimental tie, and a Panama hat.
“Don’t worry about Janice. She’s not the idle rich. Not temperamentally.”
“What I’m trying to decide is whether she’ll help me or hinder me.” Now the sheriff and the other man were walking across the parking lot, directly toward him. “Listen, I think the sheriff’s going to call on me. Why don’t you come, for sure? And if Janice wants to come, that’s all right. There’s a vacancy here, according to the motel sign.” Quickly, he gave her directions as, yes, Fowler began knocking on the door.
“Just a minute,” he called out. He hung up the phone, slipped into the clothes he’d just taken off and dropped on the floor: khakis and a sweat-dampened sports shirt over his swimming trunks. He finger-combed his hair and opened the door.
“Mr. Bernhardt—” Fowler said it heavily, as if the words described something distasteful.
“Sheriff—” Instead of offering his hand, Bernhardt decided to nod, awaiting developments.
Fowler gestured to the man beside him. “This is Clifford Benson. He’s our DA.”
Benson was a tall, lean, middle-aged man. His face was long and deeply creased into an expression of chronic skepticism. His dark eyes were watchful. The mouth fitted the face, thin and noncommittal. Unsmiling, Benson extended a long-fingered hand. His grip was firm, his voice was dry, his words were measured:
“You’re a private investigator, I understand.”
In the cadence and the timbre of Benson’s speech Bernhardt could hear the remnants of an Eastern accent, somewhat less juicy than New York, but richer than Boston. Could it be an ivy league education, diluted by life in the provinces?
“Alan Bernhardt. Glad to meet you.” Bernhardt stepped back from the door. “Won’t you come in? There’re only two chairs, but—”
Benson turned, pointed to patio furniture arranged beneath one of the two giant oak trees the developers had spared when they’d constructed the Starlight Motel’s swimming pool. “Let’s go over there, get some breeze.”
“Fine. I’ll be right with you.” As the sheriff and DA walked toward the pool, Bernhardt slipped on socks and shoes, scooped up his wallet and keys, and walked briskly across the parking lot. The three men sat around one of the round metal tables. Benson took off his Panama hat, revealing thinning brown hair combed straight back, defying baldness. Placing the Panama beside Fowler’s uniform cap on the table, Benson shifted in his chair to face Bernhardt squarely.
“I’ll come directly to the point, Mr. Bernhardt.” Maintaining steady, measured eye contact, Benson allowed a single beat to pass. Then, without inflection, he said, “It’s my understanding that, for the better part of a week, you’ve had Dennis Price under surveillance. Is that correct?”
Eyeing Benson, then looking deliberately away, his eyes focused on the nearby swimming pool, Bernhardt finally decided to nod. “That’s correct.”
“Have you actually talked to Mr. Price?”
Bernhardt decided to nod again. “Yessir, that’s also correct.” The inflection of the “yessir,” he felt, set the right tone: respectful, but firm.
As if he had carefully considered Bernhardt’s response, Benson inclined his head, a judicial nod of acknowledgment. Then he said, “Before we came over here, Mr. Bernhardt, I took the time to run you at Sacramento. You’ve been licensed for almost five years.”
“Right.”
“You’re associated with Herbert Dancer, Limited. Correct?”
He hesitated. “That’s not really correct. I was always free-lance. I worked for several agencies.”
“But mostly for Dancer.”
Grudgingly, Bernhardt nodded. “Yes. But then, about six months ago, I decided to open my own agency.”
“Ah.” As if he might approve, Benson nodded. “And how’s business?”
“It’s spotty, frankly. But it’s okay,”
“Do you have an office?”
“No. I have an answering machine.”
“And a computer? Data base?”
“Of course.”
“So how long do you plan to keep hanging around Brookside Winery?” It was a genial question, deftly asked: a trial lawyer’s quick, deceptively smooth thrust.
Appreciatively, Bernhardt covertly smiled as he said: “The honest answer is that I’ll probably hang around as long as my client is willing to pay for my time.”
“Or until Price lodges a complaint,” Fowler said, his voice thick with both phlegm and intimidation. His fat, round face registered casual contempt.
Bernhardt studied the sheriff for a moment before he said quietly, “I’d be surprised if he’d lodge a complaint, Sheriff. I’d be very surprised.”
“Yeah? Well—”
Smo
othly, Benson interrupted the sheriff to ask, “Why do you say that, Bernhardt?”
Once more, Bernhardt took time to consider his reply. Then, pointedly addressing Benson, he said, “Because if my client’s right, then Dennis Price has guilty knowledge of his wife’s death. If that’s the case, then I doubt that he’d be complaining about me to you. He’d just draw attention to himself.”
“It’d be a waste of time, doubtless, for me to ask you for the identity of your client,” Benson said drily.
“Not at all. Her name is Janice Hale. Constance Price was her sister—her closest living relative. Janice, Dennis Price, and John Price share equally in Constance’s estate.” He gestured to Fowler. “I showed Sheriff Fowler Miss Hale’s letter of authorization.”
Reluctantly, Fowler nodded. Yes, he’d seen the letter. Benson’s face registered mild surprise—and mild disapproval. They were, after all, on the same team, he and the sheriff.
“Do you have any estimate of the value of the estate?” Benson asked.
“I’d say between twenty-five and fifty million.”
“So …” Reflectively, Benson nodded. Then: “This ‘guilty knowledge’ you mention …” Benson’s long, saturnine face was impassive, his voice as dispassionate as a judge’s. “What’re we talking about, here?”
Bernhardt drew a long, measured breath, raised himself slightly in the hard metal lawn chair, and said, “There were at least four people in the Price house that night—the victim, her husband, her son, and the murderer. Then there was Al Martelli and a lady friend, at his place. There was a struggle, and a death by clubbing, both of which have got to be messy—and loud. Yet no one heard anything, or saw anything. John was asleep, apparently, on the ground floor. Price was in a guest bedroom on the second floor, just down the hall from the murder scene, also asleep, we’re told.” Bernhardt shrugged, lifted his hands, palms up. “I just think there’s more to it than that. I think someone must’ve heard something, or seen something.”
“Have you talked to Price?” Benson asked.
“Yes, I have.”
“And John?”
“Yes.”
“Who else?”
“Al Martelli, too. And—” Instead of saying “Theo Stark,” he turned to Fowler, gesturing with an open hand. “And the sheriff, naturally.”
Fowler’s response was a muttered obscenity.
As if he were deciding a difficult point of law, another judicial evocation, Benson reflectively pressed a forefinger to pursed lips as, involuntarily, his eyes followed two teenage girls, both wearing string bikinis, bound for the pool. Then, once more the low-keyed inquisitor, Benson said, “Your answers have been pretty straightforward, Mr. Bernhardt. Even if I were inclined to try and chase you off, which, as of now, I’m not considering, I probably wouldn’t have grounds. However—” The skinny forefinger was lifted between them now, signifying a solemn warning: “However, the important point to remember, Bernhardt, is that we’re on the same side, here. We help each other, we don’t hinder each other. Is that clear?”
“Very clear.” Bernhardt was pleased with his calm, steady response. So far, so good.
“That’s the first point—” Benson rose, took his Panama hat from the table. “The second point, equally important, is that we don’t needlessly stir up the natives. By which I mean, the rich natives.” Looking down from his full, slightly stoop-shouldered height, Benson spoke softly. “Is that also clear?”
Bernhardt permitted himself a small, knowing smile. “Oh, yes. That’s clear. That’s crystal clear.”
11:50 P.M.
HOLDING HER IN HIS arms, Bernhardt felt her body twitch, then begin to relax completely. She was falling asleep. Soon, she would begin to snore: a soft, companionable, ladylike snore, their little secret.
After several months together, the pattern of the secrets they shared was still evolving. The evolution had been backward: the big things first, little things later. The first time they’d been together, after that first read-through at the Howell, over sandwiches and beer, neither one of them even sure of the other’s full name, they’d talked of the things that mattered most: the death of his wife nine years ago, the dissolution of her ten-year marriage two years ago. They’d shared their aspirations, their ambitions. He’d told her about his marriage to Jennie, about their funky apartment in the Village, near his mother’s loft. He’d told her about his career, about his fast start: Victims, the third play he’d written, produced off Broadway. Good parts in experimental theater, small parts in three Broadway plays. And, yes, two TV commercial gigs, for the money.
Paula, too, had gotten off to a fast start. A Hollywood start, not a New York start. There was a difference. In Hollywood, a pretty girl who knew how to move, and had learned the rudiments of acting, could usually find work: walk-ons at first, then parts with a few words.
But soon—too soon, much too soon—she met a successful, incredibly manipulative screenwriter, the practicing sadist, the man her parents begged her not to marry.
The first part of his life had ended when Jennie’s head had struck a curbstone in the Village. He’d been thirty-five when the two policemen had knocked on his door. Now he was forty-four. His wind was short and he needed bifocals and he’d already lost two molars.
The first part of Paula’s life had ended when she’d walked out of the divorce court with her parents, one on either side. She’d been thirty-two. Instead of helping her in “the business,” her husband had kept her from acting. Having already fathered two children, one by each of his previous wives, her husband had forbade her to have children. Later—after they’d become lovers, after Paula had come to trust him—one night after they’d made love, with her face buried in the hollow of his shoulder, she’d told him that her husband had forced her to have an abortion. Yes, her gynecologist told her she could have children. But she was thirty-four now. The clock was ticking.
A week after that first read-through, he’d invited her out to dinner. Instead, she’d invited him to her apartment: a small, expensive apartment in a remodeled Pacific Heights mansion. Later, she’d told him she wanted him to see how she lived, what kind of art she liked, what kind of music, what kind of wine. That night, they’d kissed: a grave, measured kiss, followed by a long, searching, lover’s look.
The next time he’d come to dinner, he’d stayed.
Gently, he took his arm from beneath her neck, stroked her hair, kissed her lightly on the forehead, then turned to lie on his back, staring up at the ceiling. When he was a boy, lying like this, he used to imagine he could feel the earth turning as it circled through space, carrying him far beyond himself. It was the unknown beckoning from the void, the eternal mystery. When he was young, the mystery promised everything. Then Jennie had died, and the promise had faded.
But now—just now, these last months with Paula—the promise was returning, along with the mystery.
TUESDAY
August 29
8:30 A.M.
AS THE WAITRESS TURNED away, Bernhardt spoke to Janice: “So how’d you sleep?”
She shrugged, then smiled at Paula: two old friends exchanging girl talk. “I don’t imagine I slept as well as you two. But I managed.”
“As I told Paula,” Bernhardt said, “I didn’t want to hit the expense account for an expensive motel. Little realizing”—he smiled—“that the boss would be arriving.”
“So what’d you think?” Janice asked.
Bernhardt shrugged. “The truth is, it’s pretty much a matter of instinct—feelings. You feel that Price is afraid John’ll tell you something that’ll incriminate him. But feelings aren’t proof. Unless something happens—breaks loose—there’s no way we’re going to get Fowler or Benson to go after Price. It simply won’t happen.”
“What about this woman, Theo Stark?”
Bernhardt shrugged again. “There’s no doubt Dennis and Theo had something going, before Constance died. But that won’t light a fire under Fowler either.”
&nbs
p; “It could be a motive for murder, though,” Paula offered.
Bernhardt looked at her. Seated beside him, she wore a lightweight cotton blouse and shorts. If they’d been alone in the restaurant booth, he would have put his hand on her thigh. If they’d been in their room, he would have drawn her close, caressed her, pulled her down on the bed. It had been that kind of a night. “Motel madness,” Paula’s mischievous phrase, pronounced broadly, with a lascivious leer.
He smiled, teasing her: “You mean a motive as in the lovers’ scheme to rid the man of the wife who’ll never let him go? That kind of a motive?”
“No,” she answered promptly, firing back. “No, I mean a motive as in money. Millions. They get each other, plus a fortune. All they have to do is kill her—or have her killed.”
“C.B.’s watching her,” he answered. “Let’s see what he says.”
“Is he really a bounty hunter?” Janice asked.
“Among other things. I guess—” Bernhardt paused, searched for the thought. “I guess C.B.’s really a Samurai. That’s the way he operates—out on the edge where there aren’t many rules. I hope you get to meet him. He’s a fascinating guy. The longer I know him, the more I like him.”
“Do you trust him?” Janice asked.
“Completely.”
Satisfied, she nodded. “That’s all that matters.” Then: “This woman. Theo. She has a luxury apartment in the city, and another apartment in San Rafael?”
Silent Witness Page 14
