Silent Witness (7 page)

This, Bernhardt realized, was his opening, his time for decision. How much information could profitably be passed on to Martelli? How much must be kept back? Could he trust Martelli? Up or down, decision time; could he trust Martelli?

The answer, he decided, the bird-in-the-hand decision, must be yes.

“The reason I’m concerned with John—the reason I want to talk to him—is that Janice Hale believes Mr. Price is keeping John away from her. And, among other things, John is her only living relative. She loves him. She thinks she can help him.”

Martelli’s expressive brown eyes sharpened slightly as they exchanged a long, silent look. Was it suspicion that Bernhardt saw in the other man’s eyes? Caution? Calculation?

“How does that tie in with what you said originally?” Martelli asked bluntly. “You said you were investigating the murder for financial reasons. What’s that got to do with John?”

Holding the other man’s gaze, Bernhardt decided to push all his chips into the pot. “What I said originally,” he said, “was mostly a con. That’s what this business is basically all about. It’s like politics. There’s no way—no way at all—that you can tell the whole truth, if you’re a private detective. At least, not at first.”

“Hmmm …” As if he’d suddenly experienced a jolt of energy that must be dissipated, Martelli rose abruptly to his feet, strode a half-dozen paces across the parking area, then returned to the picnic table. He drew a deep breath, leaned across the table, and let his voice drop. “So what
is
the truth?” As he said it, his eyes moved instinctively in the direction of the Price house.

This time, Bernhardt was ready. Also leaning forward, also dropping his voice, he said, “Janice Hale says that from the time of the murder until right now, Mr. Price hasn’t allowed her to speak with John alone, even on the phone. Price’s excuse, she says, is that he doesn’t want John reliving the night of the murder.”

“But she thinks there’s more to it than that.” Martelli’s eyes lost focus as his thoughts sharpened.

Gambling that his man was now fully engaged, Bernhardt flattened his voice to a matter-of-fact pitch as he said, “Do you think John actually saw the murder?” Carefully watching the other man’s face for a reaction, Bernhardt let a beat pass. Then: “As I understand it, the supposition is that Mrs. Price arrived here from Santa Barbara sometime after eleven on the night of Friday, June sixteenth. Maybe it was midnight. She unloaded the car, put the bags in the living room. She got John from the car. Maybe he was asleep, and she carried him into the living room. Or maybe she woke him up first and he walked into the living room, and then he fell asleep while she was getting the bags out of the car. Anyhow, she went upstairs to get her husband, ask him to carry John upstairs. At least, that’s the way Mr. Price thinks it happened. He was sleeping in the spare bedroom, which he apparently did when his wife was away. But she apparently went into the master bedroom. Maybe she heard suspicious noises, and went to investigate. Anyhow, she was attacked and killed in the master bedroom. Shortly after it happened, her husband discovered the body. Then he discovered that John was asleep in the living room, downstairs. He got his shotgun, and had a look around. Then he called Sheriff Fowler—and you. At some point, he woke John up. You arrived, and the sheriff arrived about ten minutes later.” Bernhardt let a long moment of silence pass as he watched Martelli think about it. Then he asked, “Is that the way you think it happened?” He let a beat pass before he said softly, “Is that what you think
really
happened?”

Slowly, heavily, Martelli shook his head. “I have no idea what really happened.” Martelli, too, let a short, significant beat pass as he fully met Bernhardt’s eyes. Then: “All I know is what I was told. As for what John saw, or didn’t see, I have no idea about that, either. Like I said earlier, the whole time I was in the house, there, waiting for the police to come, John didn’t say a word. He just sat and stared.”

“You’ve talked to him since the murder.”

“I’ve talked to him almost every day. We do things together. Like I said, he’s a great kid. We get along.”

“But you’ve never talked about the night his mother died?” Asking the question, Bernhardt let a hint of skepticism show.

Martelli met the muted challenge squarely, defiantly: “No. Never. He didn’t offer, and I didn’t ask.”

“You say he’s a cheerful kid. But is he ever sad? Moody?”

Martelli shrugged. “I wouldn’t say so. No more than any other kid who’s lost his mother. That’s about the worst thing that could happen, ’specially the
way
it happened. He—” Martelli broke off, looked beyond Bernhardt toward the house. He spoke cautiously, moving his head in the direction he was looking. “Here he is.” Martelli rose from the picnic table, beckoned for the boy riding his bike to join them. Also rising, Bernhardt faced the boy as he braked to a stop. Still astride the scaled-down mountain bike with one foot braced wide, John Price looked expectantly at Martelli. The boy wore sneakers and cutoff jeans, no shirt. He was deeply tanned, slim, and graceful. Squinting against the sun, freckled nose wrinkled as he looked up at Martelli, his blue eyes clear and innocent and true, the boy epitomized the clarity of youth that every man must leave behind.

“This is Alan Bernhardt, John.” Making the introduction, Martelli spoke laconically, as if introducing two men. “He’s a private eye.”

“A—” The boy frowned, puzzled. Then, as recognition dawned, he swallowed. “A detective?”

“That’s right,” Bernhardt answered, smiling. “I was hired by your Aunt Janice. I’m working for her for a while.”

“Do you have a gun?” John dropped his eyes to Bernhardt’s waist, searching for the bulge of a holster.

“I do have a gun. But—” The smile widened. “But I didn’t think I’d need it, today.”

“How many people have you shot?”

“I’ve never shot anyone, John.” But as he said it, an instant’s flash of memory seared his consciousness: the figure of the black man, his body flaming, running through the night until he finally collapsed, screaming as he died.

“Oh.” The disappointed monosyllable was eloquent.

“But I haven’t really been at this business very long,” Bernhardt added. “It takes time, you know, to find some guy bad enough to shoot. Years, sometimes.”

“Oh.” Diffidently, the boy nodded.

He’d made it worse, then. Not better. Now John was shifting his feet, ready to ride away. “I’ll tell you what, though,” Bernhardt said, “next time I come, I’ll bring my gun. Okay?”

The boy visibly brightened. “Can I hold it?”

“We’ll see, John.”

Just as visibly, the anticipation dimmed. At age seven, John Price had plainly heard “We’ll see” before. He put a scuffed sneaker on a pedal, cast a meaningful glance at Martelli, and pushed off. As the boy pedaled away on a narrow dirt road that led to a cluster of trees bordering the vineyards to the west, the figure of a man appeared on the crest of the rise that separated the winery buildings from the main house. Dressed in running shoes, fashion-faded blue jeans, and a regimental khaki shirt, his blond hair stirring in the light breeze, the man stood motionless, looking down at them. He was medium height and weight, athletically built. He carried himself with the calm arrogance of the privileged class. As the newcomer began walking toward them, the details of his deeply tanned face resolved into their separate parts: clear gray eyes, bleached-blond eyebrows, a mouth that was slightly too tight, and a nose that was slightly too long. It was a lean, aristocratic face, overbred, overindulged. Now in his early forties, the pattern of the man’s facial lines and creases were pleasing to the eye. In later years, Bernhardt suspected, the effect would be less pleasing.

“If you’re looking for Dennis Price,” Martelli said, sotto voce, “there he is. Handsome devil, isn’t he?”

A quick glance at Martelli’s sardonic expression clearly revealed that Martelli’s opinion of Dennis Price closely matched Janice Hale’s.

“Lots of luck,” Martelli murmured. “If I can help, let me know. I’m in the phone book.”

With his eyes innocuously fixed on Price, Bernhardt whispered, “Thanks. I’m counting on it.” Then, hastily, he took a business card from his pocket, surreptitiously slipped it to Martelli.

“Gotcha.” Martelli palmed the card, waited until Price had joined them, performed the brief introductions, mentioned a matter at the winery that required his attention, and precipitously walked down the pathway toward the vintage winery building constructed of old stone.

Leaving Bernhardt once more forced to improvise: “I—ah—was going to knock on your door, Mr. Price.” His smile, he hoped, was disarming.

“What’s it all about?” Pointedly, Price did not return the smile.

“I—ah—I’ve been retained to clarify some of the facts surrounding the death of your wife, Mr. Price. Specifically, I—”

“Retained by who?” It was a truculent question. Price’s clear gray eyes were hostile, his stance had turned aggressive.

“Sorry—” Diffidently, Bernhardt shook his head. “I’m not at liberty to say. All I need, though, is—”

“I’ve already talked to the sheriff, and the DA. They’ve got everything they asked for. And it took us a goddamn week to clean up that goddamn black fingerprint powder. So I’d suggest, whatever you’re trying to
clarify”
—the word was bitingly emphasized—“that you start with the sheriff. Fowler. There’s no reason for you to—”

“I’ve already talked to Sheriff Fowler.” He allowed his diffident smile to fade. “He’s given me some valuable information.” Covertly watching the other man, he paused. No reaction was visible on Price’s lean, improbably aristocratic face. “But I really feel that I need more.” Another pause. Then, quietly: “And so does my client.”

“Well—” Price began to turn away. “I’m afraid, Mr. Bernhardt, that you’ll have to—”

“Actually, it’s not so much your testimony I need. It’s John’s. You see, since—”

Glowering, Price angrily turned to face him fully. “John?”

“Yes. You see, since you and John were the only two witnesses to the—”

“John wasn’t a witness. Neither was I, not to the murder. I found her. But John was downstairs, the whole time. And he—”

“What I meant to say,” he said, “is that the two of you were both in the house, when it happened. I gather she was killed in the master bedroom, on the second floor. Is that right?”

Plainly enraged, Price advanced a furious half-step. With an effort, Bernhardt stood his ground. Price’s eyes, he saw, were blazing, a good reason to be careful. But, even though Price’s mouth was angrily clamped shut, the muscles of one cheek were beginning to twitch. And now—yes—Price was beginning to rapidly blink. Did the twitching and the blinking reveal a fear that bluster couldn’t conceal?

There was only one way to find out: “The reason I ask,” Bernhardt said, “is that, since the murder was committed on the second floor, it’s obvious that the murderer had to’ve gone down to the first floor to escape. And since John was down there, asleep on the couch, as I understand it, then I thought that—”

“I’m going to the house,” Price said, his voice shaking, “and I’m going to call the sheriff. I’m going to tell him that I ordered you off the property, but you refused to go. And then I’m going to get my shotgun. And then—” With a trembling forefinger, he pointed to Bernhardt’s Toyota. “And then I’m going to start shooting out your tires. Then I’ll start on the windows. Do you understand, you son of a bitch?”

Hearing a telltale unsteadiness in his own voice, Bernhardt tried to speak calmly, keep the muscles of his face from twitching, keep his eyes steady as he said, “It seems to me, Mr. Price, that you’re off the deep end, concerning John. All I want to do is—”

With outrage tearing at the ruins of his overprivileged face, Price’s voice rose beyond his control: “We’re talking about doctor’s orders, asshole. Do you understand?” Price’s stiffened forefinger dug into Bernhardt’s shoulder. “John’s been to a psychiatrist. Dr. Wolfe in San Francisco. And the orders are no talking to anyone about how his mother died.
No one.
Especially not two-for-a-dollar private detectives.”

With his whole body braced against another finger jab, Bernhardt felt his jaw tighten, his fists clench, the rush of adrenaline. But, the next instant, Price turned away and began stalking toward the house. Bernhardt relaxed his fists, drew a deep breath, and turned toward his car. The time was almost five o’clock. At seven-thirty, Paula was expecting him for dinner at her place: salmon steaks, a gift from a satisfied client.

U
SING BOTH HANDS, BOWING
his back and digging his feet into the soft earth, John tugged at the huge wooden door, sagging on its rusty hinges, each hinge as long as his arm. The door was more than twice as tall as he was, and wide enough to take a wagon load of hay, Al had once told him. A horse-drawn wagon, Al had said, in old-fashioned times. Scraping in the dirt, the door came slowly open, just enough for him to squeeze through.

Inside the barn now he stood still, looking and listening. If he kept quiet enough, if he paid close attention, and just listened, he’d learned that he could always hear something inside the barn. Small sounds, sometimes mysterious sounds. Animals, scurrying. Things tapping, things rustling. Invisible things. Outside, the sun was sinking in the sky, almost gone behind the ridge that bordered the vineyard to the west. Inside the barn, the narrow lines of light that shone through the cracks in the barn’s old boards were turning golden. Bits of dust and tiny winged insects were suspended in the narrow shafts. Hundreds—thousands—of tiny specks, some of them alive, some not. Some of them just floated, some of them flew, circling in the sunlight.

Everywhere, on the ground and in the air, there were insects. Millions of insects. Flying insects, crawling insects. Some of them buzzed, some stung. Some of them even lit up in the dark: lightning bugs, almost the first miracle he’d experienced.

There was no floor in the old barn, only dirt. The dirt wasn’t really dirt, more like the sand and shavings and whatever made the ground of playgrounds, deep and soft, if someone fell into it: dirt that didn’t get you dirty, dirt that felt good.