Silent Witness (9 page)

“So Janice devoted her life to her young orphaned sister, and never married. Is that how it went?”

Another sigh. “That’s how it went.”

“And Connie turned into a beauty.”

“Connie turned into a beauty. An unhappy, neurotic beauty who was always—
always
—picking the wrong guy.”

“Including Dennis Price.”

“Definitely, including Dennis Price.” A moment of pensive silence passed. Then: “Connie was rich and she was beautiful. So she always thought men either wanted to get in her pants, or else her checkbook.” Paula moved closer, as if he could offer her solace from her own thoughts. Then, softly, she said, “Connie was a victim type, I guess you’d say. She had no sense of her own self-worth. None.”

“The dilemma of the beautiful woman …” A playful pause, for timing. “Present company excepted, of course.”

“Of course.” She chuckled—but stubbornly returned to her subject: “You’re right, though. Connie never had a chance. And Janice only had half a chance, really. Their only living relative was an aunt, and she went to live with Connie and Janice after their parents were drowned. But the aunt was always a semi-invalid. So it was up to Janice to raise Connie. And now—” She sighed. “And now Janice is thirty-six.”

“The numbers game.”

“We all play it, though. And for a woman—a thirty-six-year-old woman—the biological clock is ticking, too.”

“Mmmm …” It was a purposely disinterested response, signifying that, for him, for now, the subject of the Hale family’s soap opera problems was closed. The longer they talked, the less likely they were to make love. He moved his hand from her stomach to the curve of her thigh, then to the first swell of her buttocks. Yes, her breathing was deeper, responding. And, yes, he felt her hand on his thigh, an interested overture.

But, still, there was more. Perversely, more: “Janice is a good artist, you know. A very good artist. She even shows in New York galleries. Fifty-seventh Street, the big time.”

“Hmmm …” Then, curious in spite of the rising sexual heat they were generating, Bernhardt asked, “What does she paint? What kinds of things?”

“Landscapes, mostly. They’re sort of semiabstract. I’ve got one, in my living room. That landscape over the couch.”

“Ah!” The monosyllable registered recognition, and approval. Vividly, he could recall the painting. It was so compelling that he’d thought it was a print of a major artist’s work. Clearly, the lady could paint. Talented Janice Hale. Rich, intelligent Janice Hale.

Sad Janice Hale.

“So what’ll you do?” Paula was asking. “What happens now?”

“I’m not really sure,” he admitted. “Keep the pressure on Price, keep bugging him, probably. See which way he jumps—if he jumps at all.” A pause. Then, burlesquing a bad imitation of a French soldier leaving for the front in earlier, more romantic times, he said, “It may involve long hours away from you, Mademoiselle—days, weeks, even. And there will be danger, too. So perhaps this may be our last night together.” As he spoke, he took her head in his hands, kissing her fervently—until she sputtered, laughing.

“God, is this what it’ll be like, involved with an actor?”

“Actors have feelings, Mademoiselle. You must never forget that.”

“Well, then—” Suddenly, with surprising strength, she grasped his shoulder, turned him, pinned him with the full weight of her body and kissed him deeply, passionately. “Well, then, Gaston, let’s do it. Take me. I’m yours.”

“Aha!”

A
BOUT TO BANG DOWN
the telephone, Price heard a click.

“Yes?” A cool, calculated monosyllable, one of Theo’s little affectations.

“Where the—” He looked at the staircase, looked down the hallway, furiously lowered his voice. “Where’ve you been?”

“When?” Another cool, round monosyllable. The jet-setter, very with-it.

“Never mind. I want to see you.”

“Well, I’ve got to—”

“I want to see you now. I want to see you in an hour and a half. At the—” Trying to think, he broke off. Someplace public, but not too public. Somewhere—

“You sound—” She, too, broke off. Momentarily her with-it persona, that cool, calm mask, had slipped. That, at least, was reassuring.

Reassuring?

He wasn’t thinking clearly. Reassuring! Christ!

“You sound agitated.” Cool, once more. Constantly, compulsively cool, first things first. Christ!

“That’s right, I’m agitated. You’re exactly right.” But he couldn’t say any more. Maria could be anywhere. And John, too, listening. When he was a kid, he’d listened to his parents constantly. Especially when they were on the phone, tethered by the cord, fair game.

“Ah—” Was this monosyllable meant to soothe him, steady him? Was that the game they were playing now?

“At the Sausalito yacht harbor,” he said. “Near that dolphin. That bronze dolphin.”

“Yes. All right. So—what—twelve-thirty?”

“Yes. Twelve-thirty. I’m leaving now.” He broke the connection.

A
BOUT TO LOCK THE
driver’s door and turn away, Price glanced at the parking meter, expired. Even before he explored his pockets he knew he hadn’t brought change.

A ten-dollar parking ticket was almost certain; the Sausalito police waged perpetual war against sightseers, clogging the streets on weekends.

Ten dollars … nothing, compared to the millions on the table, his for the taking—or the losing.

As he walked across the wide, tourist-littered lawn toward the statue of the dolphin, he looked for her car: the white Toyota Supra. A power car for a power lady. Theo Stark. Twenty-eight. Twice divorced. Theo’s career was men; she made no secret of it. And it was that take-it-or-leave-it candor that held him. As long as he could afford her, she’d stay with him. But when the beat fell off, when the lights began to dim, she would move on. Her body was all she had, she’d once said. Someday, the flesh would begin to sag. When that time came, Theo wanted a fast car in the garage and money in the bank.

She was leaning against the hood of her car, parked on the road that bordered the yacht harbor’s lawn. Even at rest, the line of her body was dramatic: shoulders back, breasts lifted, hips and thighs outthrust, buttocks resting against the hood of the white Supra. Her features were classic Californian: a golden girl’s profile, crisp of feature, healthy of hue. Her hair, too, was golden and fell loose around her shoulders. Her jawline was wide and decisive, her mouth generously sculpted, her blue eyes bold. She was dressed in the mandatory stone-washed jeans, narrow at the waist and tight at the crotch. The Indian madras shirt was worn loose, yet hinted at the perfection of her breasts and torso. Because the morning fog still lingered over Sausalito, she’d thrown a white cable-knit sweater loose across her shoulders. With her chin lifted, eyes squinting slightly, she was gazing out across the yacht harbor, watching the endless lines of masts moving with the waves, eternally crisscrossing.

Had she seen him coming, and chosen to strike this aloof, arrogant pose? It was a possibility, he knew. Even making love, Theo could be aloof. Whatever the power was, Theo had it. She had it, and she knew it.

He knew it, too. And she knew he knew it.

As he drew closer to her he loosened his stride, squared his shoulders, lifted his chin. He must soothe the roiling surface of his thoughts. If he didn’t—if he faltered—she would fix him with a single look of casual contempt.

When he could almost touch her, she turned. He came close, kissed her lightly. It could have been a cousin’s kiss. San Francisco, Sausalito, Marin County—so many of the faces were the same, one face fitted all. The beautiful people. Watching. Remembering. Remarking.

He gestured to her car. The car was only a month old. Price tag: twenty thousand, everything in. He’d run it through the books at the winery as machinery repair.

“Let’s get in the car.”

She let a beat pass while she looked at him, a quizzical look, perhaps a worried look.

If not worried now, then soon. Very soon.

She got in the car on the driver’s side, gesturing him to the other door, which was unlocked. She seldom bothered to lock.

He slid into the car’s bucket seat and closed the door. The seats were leather, a seven-hundred-dollar option.

She turned to face him. “So what is it?” Still cool. Still calm.

“There’s a private investigator, asking questions. His name is Bernhardt.”

“When?”

“Yesterday. I tried to call you, yesterday. And last night, too.”

Friday night. A night they’d often spent together, if Connie was in the city, and he was ostensibly at the winery.

She chose not to reply, not to reveal where she’d been last night.

“Do you know who hired him?” she asked.

“No. But I think it’s Janice. Who else?”

“Where was this, that you talked to him?”

“At the winery.”

“Did he talk to John?”

“Yes. Th-that’s what’s got me worried.”

In the silence that followed, staring at each other, he saw the muscles of her face and throat tighten. Theo had gotten the message.

“Did
you
talk to John?”

“Yes. But—” Helplessly, he shrugged. “But it didn’t do any good.”

“It’s been two months,” she said. “By now, I’d think you’d have some idea what he saw—and didn’t see. Even if he didn’t tell you in so many words, I’d think you’d know. Just by the way he treats you. Just by the way he acts.”

“But I
don’t
know. That’s the thing. I simply don’t know.”

“If he didn’t say anything right at first—when it first happened, and the sheriff questioned him—then the chances are he isn’t going to say anything now.”

“I was there, though, when Fowler questioned him. If someone else were to talk to him—Janice, for instance, just the two of them—” Once more, he shook his head. “I don’t know …”

“If he thinks you were—involved—he could be trying to protect you. He’s already lost his mother. He wouldn’t want to send his father to jail.” She spoke quietly, in a neutral voice. Her eyes were expressionless.

“Christ—” With his right hand, he struck the padded dash. “Christ, don’t talk like that.” He let a long, tight moment of silence pass as he stared out through the windshield at the bucolic summer scene: sailboats bobbing on the calm waters of San Francisco Bay, triangular white sails on sparkling blue. Many years ago, Connie and her parents had gone out on a boat like these. And only Connie had come back. Ten years old—and rich.

And now it would be his—millions.

Hardly aware that he was talking, he heard himself say, “That’s what was so terrible about the funeral—about staying with Janice, overnight. She kept trying to get John alone. It was—” He blinked, cleared his throat, shook his head. Suddenly he was aware of the constriction at his throat. It was a band of fear. His eyes, he knew, were moving erratically.

“So now she’s hired a private detective.”

“I’m not sure she has. That’s just an assumption.”

“Who else would do it?”

“Well, that’s the point. Outside of an aunt, who’s got Alzheimer’s, Janice is the only family Connie had.”

Now Theo, too, let her eyes wander out across the bay. He watched her touch her upper lip with the fingers of her left hand, as if to smooth a nonexistent mustache. Sometimes they played backgammon, and she touched her upper lip like this. Theo was thinking. Calculating. Carefully calculating. Finally she spoke: “So what now?”

“I—I don’t know. Keep them apart, John and this Bernhardt, that’s all I can think of.”

“I wonder—” Thoughtfully, she frowned. “How old is John?”

“He’s seven.”

“I’m just speculating—” As if to offer reassurance, she turned to face him. “In court, for instance. Would they take the word of a seven-year-old? Would the judge even let him testify?”

“I don’t know. I do know, though, that the judge would talk to him in chambers. I’m sure of that.”

She nodded, reflectively bit her lip, returned her gaze to the boats. Then: “What about sending him away to school?”

“Sending him
away?”
Hotly incredulous, he let his voice rise. “Christ, what would happen if this Bernhardt found out where he was? And what about Janice? I couldn’t keep it a secret from her where John was. And then all she’d have to do is spend a little time with him—a weekend, and—” He let it go unfinished.

“Don’t get upset.”

“I’m not upset. I’m just
telling
you, that’s not the answer.”

“Well, what
is
the answer?”

He was aware that his head was loosely, ineffectually bobbing from side to side. Why had he come? What if Alan Bernhardt had followed him?

Beside him, she was impatiently stirring, waiting for an answer. Theo didn’t like to be ignored. Ever.

“There’s no answer,” he answered finally. Then, after a long silence, he said, “I’ve just got to assume that John didn’t see anything. That’s all I can do.”

T
HEO LIFTED THE TV
wand, pushed the buttons, ran through the channels. Nothing. On television, on Saturday night, nothing. She pressed the power button, watched the image of a long-dead matinee idol fade from the screen.

Saturday night …

There was an old song from the forties, about Saturday night, the loneliest night of the week. If you weren’t with someone on Saturday night, the ache of loneliness was the worst of all.

But she wasn’t alone, not technically.

Technically, she was waiting for Bruce.

It could be another forties song, another funky title. Something about a beautiful, desirable woman, a woman who could have her choice of a half-dozen men, but who chose to sit in the cramped living room of a cramped apartment, staring at the screen of a dead TV.

A half-dozen men?

Should she count?

The tally began with Dennis and Bruce, the two men she was sleeping with. One exciting, one limp. At the thought, she smiled. Yes, it had happened once, to Dennis. Twice, really. Limp.

Two men, one for pleasure, one for profit.