Silent Witness (17 page)

“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.

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—”

Smoothly, 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.”