“And then, by accident, almost, I discovered Powers. As you know, he regularly deals in tens of millions—DuBois’s millions. If I do say so—” In fond memory of his own manipulating, Graham smiled gently. “If I do say so, I played him brilliantly.”
“You’re looking to buy the stuff with DuBois’s own money.” As he said it, Tate smiled appreciatively. “Smooth. Very smooth.”
Graham’s smile widened. “Thank you. What’s your name again?”
“Tate. C.B. Tate.”
In acknowledgment, Graham nodded genially.
“Where’s Powers now?” Bernhardt asked.
“He should be a block from here, hiding out. He’s driving a rental Pontiac. White. Helen and I are supposed to pick him up when we leave.”
Bernhardt studied Graham for a long moment before he said, “You and Helen get inside your camper. Roll up the windows.” He waited for them to obey, then gestured Tate and Paula to a far corner of the garage. With their eyes on Graham and Helen Grant, they spoke in low voices.
“This is my fault,” Bernhardt said. “We should’ve done this in some remote place. Not a goddam residential neighborhood.”
“I don’t agree,” Paula said. “Some remote place, there’d be shooting by now.”
“If there’s only Graham and Helen Grant,” Tate said, “then we could go for it, winner take all. We got them outnumbered.”
“But whoever’s outside has got us outgunned,” Bernhardt said.
“Yeah, well—”
“What about Graham?” Bernhardt asked. “His story—does it add up?” He looked at each of them in turn.
“I think it does,” Paula said. “As much as I heard.”
“Likewise,” Tate said. “Plus, he’s got a sense of humor. Bad guys, they don’t smile much.”
“The woman outside,” Bernhardt mused. “She must be calling the shots, pulling James’s strings. Somehow she turned James.”
“God.” Incredulously Paula shook her head. “This is unbelievable. Here we are, theorizing, while some guy out there has an Uzi.”
“And millions—tens of millions—in here,” Tate said.
“What about the police?” Paula asked. “I could go through to the back of the house, hop a couple of fences, use a neighbor’s phone.”
“The police could save our lives,” Bernhardt answered. “But they could also send us to prison. Besides, James and the woman could have the back covered. We’re assuming there’s just the two of them plus Powers. But that could be wrong.”
“On the other hand,” Tate offered, “maybe they’d like to see us escape out the back. That’d leave them to take the van and the camper out the front.”
A speculative silence fell. Then Tate said, “That guy—James. We take him and his Uzi out, all we got to worry about is the woman.” He gestured to the interior door. “Why don’t I go back into the living room, see if I can get a shot at him?”
Thinking it over, their eyes locked together, frowning, Bernhardt and Paula exchanged a long, complicated look. In her eyes, Bernhardt saw no trace of fear, only sharp-focused intensity. Finally he shook his head. “We start shooting, it’s a goddam war. This is suburbia, not South Central. There’d be police here in two minutes. The goddam SWAT team.” He spoke reflectively, almost pensively. Then his gaze shifted speculatively; his eyes began to wander away. Watching him, Paula drew a deep breath. She knew this look.
“What we need,” Bernhardt said softly, “is a diversion.”
“A diversion?” Paula asked.
“Right.” He holstered the .357 at his belt, zipped up his jacket to cover it, and turned toward the interior door. “A diversion.”
T
HEY STOOD TOGETHER IN
the open doorway, both of them looking out at the vista of Middle America, a cross-hatched pattern of backyards defined by endless fences, most of them head high. In a tract that had probably been planned less than twenty years ago, there were few trees, none of them mature. Some of the backyards featured small swimming pools; others, large wading pools. In the relative quiet of a weekday morning, the sounds, too, were Middle American: dogs barking, children crying, children laughing, stereos playing too loudly. On a warm April day, many of the surrounding houses had their rear windows open. In this setting, there was no place for a gunman to hide.
The backyard at 4174 Twenty-sixth Street was brown and bare, neglected. A patio was attached to the house, shaded by green corrugated plastic roofing. There was a cheap three-legged barbecue, a round white plastic table, and four white plastic chairs.
“Shall I let the dogs out?” Paula asked.
“No,” Bernhardt answered. “They might start barking when they see me hopping the fence.”
Her answering nod was tentative, tremulous. Paula was frightened for him—for them. Requiring that he kiss her soundly, broaden the smile reassuringly before he went to the patio, took a chair, and walked the length of the yard. As he walked, he verified that his revolver was secure in its holster, verified that his address book was safely buttoned in the pocket of his jacket. Then, with his back to Paula, who had gone inside and was watching him through a rear window of the house, he put the chair against the high redwood fence, tested it, then gingerly stepped up on the chair. The neighboring backyard was grassy, and was crowded with children’s playthings, even a full-size jungle gym. With his hands spread on top of the fence, he remained motionless, watching the house for some sign of life. To discipline himself, enforce patience, he began slowly counting.
At forty-seven he saw movement behind one of the rear windows. A moment later the back door swung inward. A young girl was standing in the doorway, facing him. Without moving he smiled at her. Like a small, skittish animal, she began advancing toward him. When she’d covered half the distance, something moved in the house behind her. It was the door, again swinging inward. Waddling slightly as he walked, an outsize Weimaraner was in the yard, trotting toward the girl. Moments later, both the girl and the dog stood together, looking up at Bernhardt.
“What—ah—” Bernhardt cleared his throat. “What’s your dog’s name?”
“It’s Bentley,” the little girl said. “That’s a car, really.”
At the sound of his name, the dog blinked, then reflectively gazed at Bernhardt as he licked his chops.
“And what’s your name?”
“It’s Susan. I’m eight and a half.”
“Ah.” Bernhardt nodded genially. “Susan. My name is Alan. Alan Bernhardt. I’m your new neighbor.” Then, on speculation, he added, “We have dogs, too. My, ah, wife and I. Two dogs.”
She nodded gravely. Then: “Are they boy dogs? Or girl dogs?”
“One of each. They’re named Duke and Duchess.”
“Is Duchess a girl dog?”
“That’s right.” Broadly encouraging, he nodded again. “A girl dog. Yes.”
“Well, Bentley might like Duchess. But he’d start a fight with Duke. He always does with boy dogs.”
“Listen, Susan—is your mother home?”
“She’s ironing a tablecloth. She and my dad are having a party tonight.”
“Well, could you ask your mother to come out for just a minute? See, we just had a phone put in—just yesterday. But it quit working, and there’s a call I have to make. So I—”
Once more the door opened, this time to reveal a small, chubby woman wearing an incongruous ruffled gingham apron over stretch blue jeans. Her head was covered with pink plastic curlers.
“Hi.” Putting everything into it, affability personified, Bernhardt smiled at the woman, who coolly nodded in return. But, minutes later, with the Weimaraner’s muzzle never more than a few inches from Bernhardt’s legs, they were walking toward the house. Once inside, the woman pointed into the kitchen. “Use that phone,” she said. “See, on the wall beside the refrigerator.”
“Ah.” Once more Bernhardt summoned his most ingratiating smile. “Yes. Thanks.” He put his address book on a counter, found the P’s, and touch-toned the number he wanted. When a woman answered, he identified himself and stated his business. The woman sounded young and bored and distant. “Cool,” in contemporary jargon.
“I’ll see if I can locate Mr. Penziner,” she said. “I think he—”
“Tell Mr. Penziner this is very, very important. Tell him he’s got to talk to me. Now. Right now.”
“Well, I’ll see whether he’s available.”
Bernhardt lowered his voice, brought the phone very close. “If you don’t put him on,” he grated, “you’ll regret it. I promise you.”
“Mr. Bernhardt, did you say?” The question dripped with malice. She was, Bernhardt suspected, an aspiring actress. Penziner always hired actresses for his front office. Young, willing actresses.
“
Alan
Bernhardt. And Bernie and I—”
“Just a moment, please.” The line clicked, abruptly cutting him off. Waiting, Bernhardt looked over his shoulder. The little girl and the big dog stood in the doorway, staring steadily at him. Bernhardt smiled at the girl, then shifted his gaze to the kitchen window. He was high enough to see into the backyard at 4174 Twenty-sixth Street. There was no movement, no sign of life. Paula was watching him, he knew, but she was able to conceal herself. She—
“
Alan
.” It was Penziner’s voice, warm and hearty. During Bernhardt’s marginal two years in Hollywood, both of them struggling, they’d been good friends. For several months, they’d dated sisters. Penziner had married his; Bernhardt had decided to move to San Francisco. “Jesus, I’ve been meaning to call you for months. I heard you—”
“Listen, Bernie, I’ve got a problem. A big problem.”
“Oh?” The inflection of the single word was complex—concerned, but cautious. Plainly Penziner was wondering whether Bernhardt’s problem was financial.
“What I need,” Bernhardt said, “is a unit. Four, five people, plus equipment. But I need it now. Right now. They’ve got to roll in fifteen minutes, no more.”
“Oh?” This response was also cautious. There remained an essential element, still not addressed.
“It’ll be thirty minutes on-site, no more. I’ll pay five thousand on the spot, win or lose. If it’s a win, tomorrow I’ll pay another five thousand.”
“Ah …” This time, the response was warm. And, yes, relieved.
A
NDREA HEARD A HIGH-PITCHED
voice behind her, certainly a child’s. She was standing close beside the BMW, exposing only her head above the car’s roof as she watched the house. Now, with the Woodsman pressed to her torso, concealed, she turned in the direction of the voice. Two young boys were riding their bicycles in the center of the street, coming toward her. She glanced at James, who stood, like her, close to his car. The driver’s window of his Accord was open; James was holding the Uzi inside the car, resting on the driver’s seat. The transparent earpiece of his surveillance radio was almost invisible. Knowing that she would track the newcomers, he looked steadily toward the house.
As they drew closer, the two boys, no more than twelve, fell silent. Both of them were coasting now, eyeing her with open curiosity. One of them said something to the other, and they laughed together, then looked at her again, broadly lascivious. Unable to face them without exposing the Woodsman she held between her body and the car, she decided to ignore them. When they’d disappeared around the nearest corner, Andrea spoke into the surveillance radio: “This is no good.”
“The police,” James answered. “They could be a problem.”
Eyeing the house and garage, she made no reply. The house was detached, with at least twenty feet of grass separating it from its neighbors on either side. High redwood fences bisected the lot lines. The house at 4174 had no service door offering outside access to the garage. Therefore, if the big double door was down, it was necessary to enter the garage from inside the house.
“Harry and the other one,” James was saying. “The enforcer. If someone finds them, calls the police …”
“I pushed both of them down across the seats. They can’t be seen from the street. I made sure.”
He made no reply, but she could sense his uneasiness. Because they were so close, had always been so close, he’d agreed to take this risk. For her. Only for her, this once-in-a-lifetime risk. But now he—
“
Cariña
,” James was saying. “What is this coming?”
She turned. Rounding the corner, a bright orange sedan was coming toward them. A large panel truck was following the sedan. The truck, too, was bright orange. A rack atop the truck mounted searchlights, booms, loudspeaker cones, ladders, and large metal equipment boxes. Everything was painted the same bright orange. As the van drew abreast of them, stopping, she saw the gilt lettering on its side:
COVERAGE, INC.
From the living room, Paula called out, “They’re here, Alan.”
With Tate at his side, Bernhardt turned to Graham and Helen Grant, sitting in their camper. In Graham’s face Bernhardt saw a kind of detached, well-bred curiosity: a spectator’s interest in what would happen next. In the woman’s face he saw sullen resentment compounded by fear.
“You two stay in the camper.” Bernhardt spoke softly, urgently. “I’m going to raise the door.” He gestured with the wand. “I’m going to go outside. Now. Right now. I’m going to go right to the camera crew. I’m going to tell them we’ve got to clear the entrance to the garage. That puts it up to James and the woman—move the BMW and the Accord to let us out, or start shooting. If they start shooting, everything’s up for grabs. But if they decide to move their cars, because of all the attention they’re getting, then that’s our chance. You go first—back the camper out, and go wherever you’re going. You’ve got your paintings, and we’ve got the money. So now you’re on your own. Understood?”
Graham nodded. “Perfectly. Would you mind giving me my Beretta?”
Bernhardt looked at Tate, who shrugged. Bernhardt considered, took the pistol from his belt, dropped the clip. He gave the empty pistol to Graham, gave the clip to Helen Grant. She looked down at the clip in her hand, then closed her fingers over it. Her expression was unreadable. Watching her, Graham smiled appreciatively, thrust the empty revolver in his belt.
“Start the engine,” Bernhardt ordered. “Now. Right now. Get ready.” But then, irresistibly, he had to ask “Where’re you going from here?”
“We’re going to the airport,” Graham said.