Silent Witness (13 page)

As he came into bed, she pulled up the sheet, then decided to ask, “So what’d you think? Are you going to call your travel agent?”

“It’s not that simple. I can’t just buy tickets, and get on an airplane, and go to Europe.” In his voice, she heard a peevish note, a petty whine. She drew slightly away from him, to see his face. Yes, his mouth was pursed, pouting.

“Christ,” he protested, “there’s the house in the city, and the housekeeper. And the winery—a buyer, maybe, for the winery. There’s the bank, too. I’ve had to borrow money on the inheritance, to pay the bills. Everything’s frozen, you know. Everything.”

“There’s your lawyer. Could he—?”

Sharply, he shook his head. “I’ve already
told
you, he’d be all right to handle the probate, get the money. But I can’t let him deal with the creditors. It just wouldn’t work.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m living on money borrowed against assets in probate. That’s tricky. That’s very tricky. Especially when I’ve used the money to buy you a car, and furniture.”

“I told you, they could deal with you through me. As far as they’re concerned, I could be your business manager. Your lawyer could handle some things, I could handle other things.”

“Jesus, Theo, that’s the last thing we want, for people to connect the two of us.” He spoke irritably. “Don’t you
see
that? Now, everything’s cool. But the last thing we want is—”

“An hour ago, you didn’t think everything was so cool.”

“With the sheriff—Fowler—everything’s cool. That’s what I mean. The other—Janice, and John, and Bernhardt—that’s something else.”

“That could be everything else.”

“Not necessarily. It’s still Fowler’s jurisdiction. I know that much about the law. Whatever happens, anything legal, it’s got to go through Benedict County law enforcement. So Janice and Bernhardt have to go through Fowler.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Staring up at the ceiling, he lapsed into silence. As the silence lengthened, she saw the fear return to his face. Reacting, once more frightened by his own thoughts, he shook his head. It was a sharp, involuntary movement. Then, heavily, he said, “I’ve got to talk to him, to John. Now. Tonight, I’ve got to talk to him, when he goes to bed. I’ve got to
know.”

“We’ve
got to know.”

He nodded. “Yes, ‘we.’”

She watched him for a moment. Then, speaking very distinctly, she said, “You aren’t forgetting that it’s ‘we,’ are you, Dennis?” Still watching his face, she saw the words register: tiny muscle spasms around the eyes and mouth, a tightening at the throat. She let a beat pass before she said, “I wouldn’t want you to do that. Ever.”

As she said it, she saw the spasms quicken. Yes, the threat had registered. If she didn’t get hers, the message read, then he’d never get his. Ever.

“A
BLONDE LADY WHO
drives a fancy sports car,” Al Martelli had said.

Satisfied with himself, Bernhardt smiled. The sports car—a white Toyota Supra—was in the carport, parked beside Price’s dark green Porsche 911. And the lady herself—blonde and, yes, beautiful—had just stood in front of a picture window, looking off in the direction of Mount Tamalpais. Only a few minutes ago, bare chested, Dennis Price had stood in the same window, looking at the same view.

Whether or not Price was a gigolo, or a villain, or even a murderer, he was certainly a philanderer. Finally, after more than a week’s surveillance, after accomplishing nothing beyond a few minutes’ conversation with Al Martelli and John Price, Bernhardt had a wedge: Price, and a good-looking blonde, one of them bare chested, sharing a picture window in San Rafael, an hour’s drive from the winery.

A sports car, an airplane, a boutique winery, a Pacific Heights townhouse—an heiress for a wife and a blonde girlfriend, Price had it all.

Plus a son. A towheaded boy. A quiet, sensitive boy. A sad boy, without a mother. With a father who probably wished he wasn’t a father.

Bernhardt yawned, stretched, checked the time. Six-forty. How long would Price stay? Another hour? All night? Would they go out for dinner? Eat in? Snack? Drink? Fuck? All of the above? At what stage in the love cycle were they? If they’d just met—even, possibly, after Connie’s death, thus negating the philandering rap—they’d probably make love again and again. If they’d known each other for a year, the fires might be burning low. A quickie, and Price could be back in the Porsche and driving to the winery, where he would resume his vigil, keeping John incommunicado. He would—

On the stairs leading down from the building’s two upper apartments, a pair of legs materialized. Faded blue jeans. And now the torso: a striped rugby shirt. Price. Alone. Leaving. Almost certainly leaving. Surreptitiously, Bernhardt lowered himself in the front seat of his Corolla. Yes, Price was striding to his upscale Porsche, bending down to open the door. His movements were ragged, his mannerisms mismatched, as if he were trying to project a decisiveness he didn’t feel, an actor at odds with his lines. On the stage of life, Price was a type: a pleasing face, with nothing behind the mask.

The plan, then, might be working, the script playing out as written. They’d stirred Price up, put him in motion, probably found his mistress.

Leaving Bernhardt with a choice: follow Price, or talk to the blonde.

M
ARIA STOOD BESIDE HIS
bed, looking down at him. “Your daddy’s gonna be here pretty soon, John. You wanna read a book, till he come?”

“Okay—” Without enthusiasm, John nodded.

Irresolutely, Maria frowned. Should she try to tell him a story? It wasn’t her job, to put him to bed, get him ready, see that he washed himself, brushed his teeth, peed, like she did tonight. It wasn’t her job to tell him stories, try to read books to him. Sometimes he knew the words better than her, made her feel bad, like a fool. Jennifer, from down the road, always did all that. Jennifer stayed with John, nights when Price was away. Baby-sitter, Jennifer was, got good money. Better money than she got, figure it by the hour. But she had her place over the garage, free. Good place, one big room. Plenty of space for her sister. But Price, that bastard, say no. Then he ask her to babysit. All day long, she cook, do the washing, clean, work hard. But after dinner, that was her time. Watch TV. Go into town, if Ricardo or the other ones come by for her, grape pickers with cars, trucks. They drive her, she buy them beers. She let them touch her, fool around, sometimes, what the hell, get their rocks off.

Especially tonight, with her sister come to town, staying with the Ochoas for a week, maybe more, she wanted to be in town. Drinking beer, laughing, talking about Mexico, the old days. But Jennifer, she went swimming in the river, cut her leg bad, have stitches. Fever, too. Kids.

“Okay,” she said, “you read. Okay? I’m gonna go downstairs, watch TV. Okay?”

“Yes—okay.” He sat up in bed, reached for a book, the top book on the pile beside the bed.

“Okay,” she said. “Your daddy come home soon. He already phoned, say he’ll be here, say good night to you. Okay?”

“Okay.” John nodded, watched her turn away, and leave. His third-floor room was small, with gabled eaves. Maria was so big she almost filled the doorway. He heard her going down the hall, heard her steps on the stairs. Maria walked so heavily he could almost tell where she was anywhere in the house. Sometimes she reminded him of a cow.

The book was about dinosaurs, one of his very favorite books. They’d bought the book in San Francisco, he and his mother. They’d gone downtown, and had lunch at a real restaurant, with waiters and white tablecloths. Then they’d gone shopping, first at a store that sold dresses, then at the bookstore. At the bookstore he’d seen Amy MacFarland, from his class. Amy was always very quiet, very shy. Even on the playground, at recess, Amy almost never yelled.

It was only two weeks, his father had said, until they went back to the city, and he started school. Second grade. In the second grade, they wrote longhand, and did arithmetic, and even worked on computers.

Who would take him to school, now?

Would his father take him? Every single day, like his mother?

Would they know, at school, that his mother had died? Would they ask him about her? Would Miss Case, the art teacher, talk to him about his mother?

They’d gone to Disneyland right after school was out, he and his mother. It was a celebration, she’d said. They’d go to Disneyland, and see his Aunt Janice in Santa Barbara. Then they’d come home.

His mother had been going to drive from Santa Barbara to the house in San Francisco. Then they’d go up to the winery later, in a day or two, she’d said. But she’d promised to buy him a mountain bike, to ride during the summer at the winery, a real twelve-speed bike like Al had. So he’d wanted to go to the winery rather than to San Francisco. That way, they could buy the bike in San Rafael the first day they got back from Santa Barbara, not the second day, or even the third, still in San Francisco, waiting.

He’d heard his father and Sheriff Fowler talking about it, about how it had happened that they’d come to the winery rather than to San Francisco from Santa Barbara. Had his father expected them to come to the winery? No, his father had answered, he hadn’t. Had there been anyone else in the house, that night? No, his father had answered. There were just the three of them.

The three of them, and someone else.

Someone who—

From outside, below his window, he heard the sound of his father’s Porsche, that special burbling sound that only the Porsche made. Maria had been right, then. His father was home.

He reached up over the bed, and turned off the light.

Whenever he thought of that night, he didn’t want to see his father. And if the light was off, his father might not come into the room. Especially if he pretended to be asleep, eyes closed, breathing deep.

How long did it take, to go to heaven?

How long did it take to come back from heaven?

He’d asked his mother about it, once. She had smiled, and patted his hand, and then looked off, the way she did when she was trying to say something so it wouldn’t hurt his feelings, or explain something he might not understand. Finally she’d said, “It’s instantaneous.”

Instantaneous …

He’d remembered the word, and sometimes said it to himself. He knew what it meant, because it meant the same as instantly.

So in a second, only a second, someone—his mother—could travel from her bedroom, where his father now slept, all the way up to heaven. It no time, really. That’s what his mother had really said: no time.

And then she could have traveled back—in no time. Instantaneously. She could have come back, and she could have seen everything. And heard everything that his father said to the sheriff, and the sheriff said to his father. She could have heard him talking to the sheriff, too. Invisible, able to float through the air, probably able to see through walls, his mother would have—

From downstairs, he could hear the sounds of voices. His father’s voice, and Maria’s voice. Soon Maria would go to her room over the garage. And then his father might come up the stairs.

Eyes still closed, he settled himself, cleared his throat. Sleeping. Soon, sleeping. But pretending, now. Worried, and pretending.

Just as, that night, he’d had to pretend.

At first, he
had
been asleep. Until he woke up on the couch downstairs, the last thing he remembered was the sway of the station wagon and the headlights of passing cars on the freeway. But then he was lying on the couch, downstairs. He’d been lying on his right side, his face turned to the back of the sofa. So that, in the dim light, in the half-darkness, really, no one could see whether or not he was asleep, even if he’d opened his eyes. So when—

From the stairway, he heard the sound of footsteps. His father, coming up the stairs. Coming slowly, tiredly. Sadly, maybe.

As the sound of footsteps came closer, he seemed to hear the voices he’d heard that night: his father’s voice, and the other voice. Footsteps, coming closer down the stairs. They’d been—

“John?” It was his father’s voice, now. Just his father’s voice. The other voice had—

“John.”
His father’s hand was on his shoulder, gently shaking him. “John, wake up.”

He opened his eyes, blinked, dug his knuckles into his eyes. Had he been sleeping, after all? Dreaming? Was he still on the couch, in the living room? Or was he—

The light over his bed came on, shining harshly in his eyes. He blinked again, turned away.

“Awww—”

“John, come on. Wake up. Sit up, John.” His father was tugging at his armpits. “Come on, wake up. It’s only a quarter to nine.”

Yawning, he sat up in the bed, leaned forward while his father pulled up the pillow against the headboard, then leaned back. It was like he was sick. Like he was in bed with a bad cold, and his father was taking care of him. Now his father was smiling, sitting on the foot of his bed. Just like he was sick.

“Did you and Al go fishing?”

He nodded.

“Catch anything?”

“Al caught one. Not me.” He yawned again.

“Well, maybe tomorrow we’ll go fishing. We could try the Petaluma River. How about it?”

“Sure.” He shrugged. Then he thought he should say it again: “Sure.”

His father nodded, then allowed the smile to fade. So it was serious, then. Whatever it was, it was serious. He could see it in his father’s eyes, hear it in his voice:

“I—ah—wanted to talk to you, John. I—ah—I’ve got to do it, there isn’t any choice. It’s—ah—it’s about when your—ah—when your mother died. It’s—ah—” His father broke off, frowned, settled himself more firmly, still sitting at the foot of the bed, left leg drawn up, so they faced each other, right leg over the side of the bed, foot touching the floor. “It’s about how much you—what you remember, about that—that night. I want you to tell me everything that you remember. Do you understand?”

As he heard his father say it, the images returned: strange cars arriving in the dead of night. Cars with flashing lights. Police cars. Strange men in the house. Heavy footsteps, hushed voices. Men going up the stairs. Men carrying guns, men carrying boxes, and cameras. Whenever the strangers looked at him, their eyes went soft, as if they were embarrassed. Footsteps overhead, in the big bedroom. After he’d talked to the sheriff, his father had taken him to Al’s house. They’d whispered together, his father and Al. Then his father had walked back to the big house. Gone. So it had been Al—Al had been the one to tell him what happened. There’d been a burglar, Al had said. A murderer. There’d been a lady with Al, a stranger, wearing Al’s bathrobe. She’d made hot chocolate while—