Silent Witness (15 page)

After a last look around the typical Marin County residential premises, everything in order, everything quiet, everything secure, he drew a deep breath, took his ID folder from his pocket and pressed the door buzzer. He would play it as it lay, taking his cue from her, the good-looking blonde in the blue T-shirt. He would—

Almost instantly, the door opened. Plainly, she was startled. She’d taken off the blue T-shirt, changed into a white blouse worn loose over jeans. A large saddle-leather handbag was slung over her shoulder. Inside, the hallway light was on, but the living room light had been switched off. She was leaving.

Five minutes earlier, leaving, she might have caught him at her car. To benign providence, thanks were due.

“Oh—” She frowned, took a quick backward step. The frown was deepening, darkening. In seconds, the questions would begin. These seconds were his; the next seconds would surely be hers.

“I was looking for Mr. Price. Dennis Price.”

“You were looking for—?” Complex emotions were working at her face, some of them puzzled, some hostile.

“You’re looking for
who?”

He’d done it wrong, fucked up. He should have waited until tomorrow, run her plates on the data base, gotten her name, gotten some background. Instead, half-cocked, he was about to lose the initiative. Without a name, going in, nothing went right. It was the first rule.

Only the ID move remained, buying time.

He flipped open the leather folder, extended the license. Yes, her eyes were widening. Reprieve. “My name is Alan Bernhardt. I’m a private investigator. I’ve been retained on behalf of the estate of Constance Price. I missed Mr. Price at the winery, this afternoon. So I thought I’d try here.” As if he expected Price to materialize in the darkened living room, he looked behind her.

“You—
what?”

This woman, he realized, was tough. And aggressive. And smart, probably. Her eyes were sharp-focused, her stance assertive. Most women, alone, surprised by a stranger on a dark porch, would shrink back. Not this one.

“May I have your name, please?” It was his best imitation of a brisk, census-taker’s pose, nothing if not official.

“It’s Stark. Theo Stark. But I don’t see—”

“How long have you known Mr. Price, Miss Stark?”

“Why’re you asking?” It was a sharp, shrewd, hostile question. She had her balance—but he had a name.

“I already told you, it’s a legal matter, having to do with Constance Price’s estate. It’s in probate.” He pointed to the empty card slot beside the door. “I was looking for your name. Have you just moved in?”

“About a month ago. This is just a—” She hesitated. “It’s a summer place.”

“Ah—” As if she’d answered a question that had perplexed him, he nodded. Then, gambling: “You live in the city, then. San Francisco.”

“I—” She eyed him for a long, speculative moment. Then: “Yes, I live on Nob Hill, as a matter of fact.”

“Ah.” He nodded again. High-priced real estate for a high-styled lady. Certainly, this was the woman Al Martelli had described, Dennis Price’s playmate. Bernhardt took out his notebook. “May I have your address?” The census taker again, innocuously smiling. Expectantly waiting.

She drew a deep, determined breath, took a fresh grip on the shoulder strap of her handbag, lifted her chin. The handbag was actually a small leather shoulder satchel, the kind policewomen used, to carry their guns. “I don’t give out my address or phone number unless I know the reason, Mister—what was the name, again?”

“Bernhardt. Alan Bernhardt.” The smile was still in place. Precariously, still in place.

“Mr. Bernhardt.” The words were sharp-edged. Her eyes were hard. In this interrogation, the free rides were over.

“Names don’t mean much without things like addresses, phone numbers, license numbers.” As he said it, he saw her eyes shift almost imperceptibly downward. She was thinking of her car, in the carport below, and its license plate.

“You still haven’t told me why you’re here—what you want.”

“I thought I explained that. I’m trying to locate Mr. Price. It’s got to do with—”

“I know what it’s got to do with. What I don’t know is why you’re here, looking for him.”

“Miss Stark …” Pretending regret, he spread his hands. “I’m sorry, but I can’t—” He broke off. On this merry-go-round, there was no brass ring. Indicating, therefore, another personality shift. First, a guileless smile: the small boy, caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Then the aw-shucks admission: “Okay, I followed him here. I just missed him at the winery, so I thought I’d follow him, wait until he stopped somewhere. This was the first stop.”

“He left a couple of hours ago.”

“I know.”

“Did you talk to him when he left?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Why not?”

“I—I decided I wanted to talk to you.”

“About what?”

Aware that she had the initiative, he let a beat pass. Somehow, he had to knock her off balance. He let the smile fade, let his eyes flatten, let his voice drop.

“I’m checking Dennis Price out, Miss Stark. I’ve been hired to do it, and that’s what I’m doing. We have information—there’s been an allegation—that he’s—that there’s a woman in his life. And I’m checking on it.” Once more, he spread his hands. “It’s what private investigators do, Miss Stark. I’m sure you know that.”

“Yeah, well—” She took a step forward, then another, forcing him back. Now she stood in the doorway; he stood directly beneath the porch light’s pale cone. She was the aggressor now, the dominant one. “Well, I’ll tell you something, Mr. Bernhardt. If you’re looking for smut, you aren’t going to find it here. You want to find out about Dennis and me, you ask Dennis. Okay?”

Her face was in shadow, but he could sense her anger, her rage. Could she see his response—a cool, sardonic smile?

“Yes,” he answered softly. “Yes, okay. I’ll ask Dennis. I’ll definitely ask Dennis.” He stepped back, casually waved, left her where she stood.

The contest, he decided as he descended the stairs, was a draw. But, to mix a metaphor, there were drops of blood on the trail. Several drops of blood.

T
HEO STOPPED THE SUPRA
on the gas station’s broad concrete parking apron, snatched the keys from the ignition, slung her purse over her shoulder, and strode to the brightly lit phone booth. She jammed the big purse into the space between the booth’s glass wall and the telephone, leaned against the purse to keep it from falling, and punched out the eleven-digit number, drumming on the booth’s glass wall with meticulously polished fingernails as she listened to the phone ringing. How many telephones—extensions—did he have? Before that night in June, she’d only been in his house twice. Both times, they’d had a lot to drink. Both times, they’d gone directly up the broad oaken stairs to the huge master bedroom.

Both times, and one more time.

Friday night, June sixteenth.

Eight rings. Nine. Where could he—

“Hello?” His voice. Finally.

“Can you talk?”

“No. But I’ve been trying to get you. Where
are
you?”

“At a phone booth on the highway. The Paradise Drive turnoff.”

“We’ve got to talk.” His voice was low and tight.

“You talked to him, then. Asked him.”

“Yes, I asked him.”

“And?”

“We’ve got to talk,” he repeated. His inflection, the ragged cadence of his speech, both told the story: yes, he’d finally talked to John. And, yes, John had been awake, that night.

“Why don’t you go back to San Rafael?” he was asking. “I’ll come there tomorrow morning, as early as possible.”

“No, not San Rafael.”

A pause. Then, plainly dreading the answer, he asked, “Is something wrong?”

“After you left, I had a visitor.”

“Ah—” It was an exhausted exhalation: the spent fighter, taking the final blow. Now fear shadowed his voice as he asked, “Where’re you going now? Home?”

Incredibly, until that moment, she hadn’t thought about it. Was Alan Bernhardt out there somewhere in the dark, watching her? If he
was
out there, and he followed her home …

Would it matter? He knew her name, knew her car, doubtless had her license number. Could private detectives get addresses from license plate numbers?

Would it matter, really matter? The damage, certainly, had been done. She and Dennis were connected, probably placed together that night in June. From the fear in his voice, probably placed together, by John.

Could she ask him, ask that one vital question? Had they tapped his phone?

Could she wait until she saw him, to learn the answer? How many hours would it be? How long did a day in purgatory last?

Murder. The charge would be murder.

“Are
you going home?”

If she were being followed, under suspicion, it might be best to go home, might be best to do the expected.

She would go home. The hell with them.

If they wanted to follow, whoever they were, whoever hired Alan Bernhardt, they would eventually find their way to her apartment. So it was better to lead the way. Pretending innocence, complete innocence, it was better to lead the way.

“Yes, I’m going home.”

“I’ll drive into the city, tomorrow. Let’s meet—where?”

“There’s a place on Columbus, an espresso place, at the corner of Vallejo.”

“Where we’ve gone before? That place?”

“Yes.”

“All right. I should be there by ten-thirty.”

“Yes …” A few feet from the phone booth, a fat, red-faced man wearing a planter’s straw hat caught her eye. She nodded, smiled, raised one finger. Pleased by the smile, he nodded, made an obvious effort to suck in his ponderous gut. God, they were all the same. They never quit.

“I have to ask you …” It was a cowed, craven lead-in. She could imagine him, sitting hunched over the phone, involuntarily holding it close. His improbably handsome face, a genetic gift from his bit-playing father, would be in ruins. “The reason you called—does it have anything to do with Alan Bernhardt?”

“Yes, it does.”

“Ah—” It was another soft, wounded exhalation.

A
PPRECIATIVELY, BERNHARDT WATCHED C.
B. Tate swing the Tempo deftly into a parking slot, lock the car, and stride toward the Starlight Motel’s small office. Built like a fullback, as perceptive as a fortune-teller, and shrewd as a racetrack tout, Tate was a man who saw himself clearly—and liked what he saw.

Bernhardt left the office, met Tate halfway, and steered the big black man to the motel’s coffee shop. Settled across from each other in a Formica-and-Naugahyde booth, Tate was the first to speak:

“So how you liking it, on your own?”

“Anything’s better than working for Dancer.”

“You getting enough business?”

Bernhardt shrugged. “Everyone wants more business. But it’s coming along.”

“How long’s it been, since you flipped Dancer off?”

“About six months.”

They ordered coffee; Tate ordered a sweet roll.

“What about acting? Directing? Writing plays?”

“Directing’s a problem,” Bernhardt admitted. “It’s a commitment that goes on for a month or more. Three, sometimes four nights a week.”

“You directed when you were a part-timer for Dancer, though.”

“Then, I could pick my assignments. Now, I’ve got to take everything that comes along.”

“So your art’s suffering. Is that what you’re saying?”

Bernhardt looked into the other man’s eyes. Yes, it was a concerned comment, a serious question from a friend. Requiring that he answer in kind:

“Yes, I guess that’s what I’m saying. For now, anyhow.”

“Too bad. You got talent.”

“So do you.”

“Yeah, but you can write the words, not just act them out. Writing the words, the scenes, that’s a big deal.”

“So’s earning enough money to buy a set of tires when the time comes. Besides, I can still write. And act, too.”

“Didn’t you tell me once that you got an inheritance?”

He nodded. “Fifty thousand dollars, a long time ago. I blew half of it backing a play that couldn’t miss, the promoters said. After that, I decided I wouldn’t touch the principal. Ever.” As he sugared his coffee, experiencing the habitual discomfort he felt whenever the questions came too close, Bernhardt let a silence fall before he asked, “What about you, C.B.? How’s business?”

“I been doing some bounty hunting, lately. I like that. Trouble with being a PI, a one-man show, it’s feast or famine. You get a plum, steady work for a month, say, that’s fine. Forty, maybe fifty dollars an hour, you’re in good shape. But you gotta pass up other work, chances are. Bounty hunting’s not like that. It’s one job after the other, bring one jumper in, get a warrant for another one, everything neat and tidy. And no shit from the boss, either. It’s just you and the jumper, one on one.” Tate bit into his sweet roll, appreciatively swallowed, drank most of his coffee, signaled the waitress for a refill. Bernhardt had forgotten Tate’s lusty appetite.

“Another problem with the PI business,” Tate said, “it’s all electronics, these days. And that’s a drag. It’s like auto mechanics, you know? I mean, you never get a chance to get your hands greasy, anymore. Everything’s computers. You’re a PI, you don’t have microprocessors, modems, a fax machine, listening devices, all that shit, you’re out of it.”

“An answering machine is a hell of a lot cheaper than a secretary, though. And a data base is cheaper than an airline ticket, or legging it down to the courthouse, and spending all day trying to find a name and address.”

“Answering machines, they’re all right. And bugs, they’re okay. I understand, about bugs. The rest of it, though—those goddam little green words on a black screen—” Tate shook his head. “No, thanks.”

“Speaking of data bases—” He took an envelope from his pocket, withdrew a sheet of paper, slid the paper across the table. “There’s your mark.”

Tate read as he finished the sweet roll and signaled for a third cup of coffee. Approvingly, he nodded. “Nice address. Nob Hill, the upscale part, looks like to me. Nice car. Nice lady?”