Silent Witness (18 page)

“Have you talked to Price?” Benson asked.

“Yes, I have.”

“And John?”

“Yes.”

“Who else?”

“Al Martelli, too. And—” Instead of saying “Theo Stark,” he turned to Fowler, gesturing with an open hand. “And the sheriff, naturally.”

Fowler’s response was a muttered obscenity.

As if he were deciding a difficult point of law, another judicial evocation, Benson reflectively pressed a forefinger to pursed lips as, involuntarily, his eyes followed two teenage girls, both wearing string bikinis, bound for the pool. Then, once more the low-keyed inquisitor, Benson said, “Your answers have been pretty straightforward, Mr. Bernhardt. Even if I were inclined to try and chase you off, which, as of now, I’m not considering, I probably wouldn’t have grounds. However—” The skinny forefinger was lifted between them now, signifying a solemn warning: “However, the important point to remember, Bernhardt, is that we’re on the same side, here. We help each other, we don’t hinder each other. Is that clear?”

“Very clear.” Bernhardt was pleased with his calm, steady response. So far, so good.

“That’s the first point—” Benson rose, took his Panama hat from the table. “The second point, equally important, is that we don’t needlessly stir up the natives. By which I mean, the rich natives.” Looking down from his full, slightly stoop-shouldered height, Benson spoke softly. “Is that also clear?”

Bernhardt permitted himself a small, knowing smile. “Oh, yes. That’s clear. That’s crystal clear.”

H
OLDING HER IN HIS
arms, Bernhardt felt her body twitch, then begin to relax completely. She was falling asleep. Soon, she would begin to snore: a soft, companionable, ladylike snore, their little secret.

After several months together, the pattern of the secrets they shared was still evolving. The evolution had been backward: the big things first, little things later. The first time they’d been together, after that first read-through at the Howell, over sandwiches and beer, neither one of them even sure of the other’s full name, they’d talked of the things that mattered most: the death of his wife nine years ago, the dissolution of her ten-year marriage two years ago. They’d shared their aspirations, their ambitions. He’d told her about his marriage to Jennie, about their funky apartment in the Village, near his mother’s loft. He’d told her about his career, about his fast start:
Victims,
the third play he’d written, produced off Broadway. Good parts in experimental theater, small parts in three Broadway plays. And, yes, two TV commercial gigs, for the money.

Paula, too, had gotten off to a fast start. A Hollywood start, not a New York start. There was a difference. In Hollywood, a pretty girl who knew how to move, and had learned the rudiments of acting, could usually find work: walk-ons at first, then parts with a few words.

But soon—too soon, much too soon—she met a successful, incredibly manipulative screenwriter, the practicing sadist, the man her parents begged her not to marry.

The first part of his life had ended when Jennie’s head had struck a curbstone in the Village. He’d been thirty-five when the two policemen had knocked on his door. Now he was forty-four. His wind was short and he needed bifocals and he’d already lost two molars.

The first part of Paula’s life had ended when she’d walked out of the divorce court with her parents, one on either side. She’d been thirty-two. Instead of helping her in “the business,” her husband had kept her from acting. Having already fathered two children, one by each of his previous wives, her husband had forbade her to have children. Later—after they’d become lovers, after Paula had come to trust him—one night after they’d made love, with her face buried in the hollow of his shoulder, she’d told him that her husband had forced her to have an abortion. Yes, her gynecologist told her she could have children. But she was thirty-four now. The clock was ticking.

A week after that first read-through, he’d invited her out to dinner. Instead, she’d invited him to her apartment: a small, expensive apartment in a remodeled Pacific Heights mansion. Later, she’d told him she wanted him to see how she lived, what kind of art she liked, what kind of music, what kind of wine. That night, they’d kissed: a grave, measured kiss, followed by a long, searching, lover’s look.

The next time he’d come to dinner, he’d stayed.

Gently, he took his arm from beneath her neck, stroked her hair, kissed her lightly on the forehead, then turned to lie on his back, staring up at the ceiling. When he was a boy, lying like this, he used to imagine he could feel the earth turning as it circled through space, carrying him far beyond himself. It was the unknown beckoning from the void, the eternal mystery. When he was young, the mystery promised everything. Then Jennie had died, and the promise had faded.

But now—just now, these last months with Paula—the promise was returning, along with the mystery.

A
S THE WAITRESS TURNED
away, Bernhardt spoke to Janice: “So how’d you sleep?”

She shrugged, then smiled at Paula: two old friends exchanging girl talk. “I don’t imagine I slept as well as you two. But I managed.”

“As I told Paula,” Bernhardt said, “I didn’t want to hit the expense account for an expensive motel. Little realizing”—he smiled—“that the boss would be arriving.”

“So what’d you think?” Janice asked.

Bernhardt shrugged. “The truth is, it’s pretty much a matter of instinct—feelings. You feel that Price is afraid John’ll tell you something that’ll incriminate him. But feelings aren’t proof. Unless something happens—breaks loose—there’s no way we’re going to get Fowler or Benson to go after Price. It simply won’t happen.”

“What about this woman, Theo Stark?”

Bernhardt shrugged again. “There’s no doubt Dennis and Theo had something going, before Constance died. But that won’t light a fire under Fowler either.”

“It could be a motive for murder, though,” Paula offered.

Bernhardt looked at her. Seated beside him, she wore a lightweight cotton blouse and shorts. If they’d been alone in the restaurant booth, he would have put his hand on her thigh. If they’d been in their room, he would have drawn her close, caressed her, pulled her down on the bed. It had been that kind of a night. “Motel madness,” Paula’s mischievous phrase, pronounced broadly, with a lascivious leer.

He smiled, teasing her: “You mean a motive as in the lovers’ scheme to rid the man of the wife who’ll never let him go? That kind of a motive?”

“No,” she answered promptly, firing back. “No, I mean a motive as in money. Millions. They get each other, plus a fortune. All they have to do is kill her—or have her killed.”

“C.B.’s watching her,” he answered. “Let’s see what he says.”

“Is he really a bounty hunter?” Janice asked.

“Among other things. I guess—” Bernhardt paused, searched for the thought. “I guess C.B.’s really a Samurai. That’s the way he operates—out on the edge where there aren’t many rules. I hope you get to meet him. He’s a fascinating guy. The longer I know him, the more I like him.”

“Do you trust him?” Janice asked.

“Completely.”

Satisfied, she nodded. “That’s all that matters.” Then: “This woman. Theo. She has a luxury apartment in the city, and another apartment in San Rafael?”

Bernhardt nodded. “Right.”

“Is the place in San Rafael a love nest?”

The archaic phrase amused Bernhardt, but his reply was straight-faced: “It could be. C.B. found out she moved in about a month ago.”

“Meaning, maybe, that they didn’t want people to know they were meeting, after Connie was killed.” As she spoke, Janice’s eyes kindled. Paula was nodding encouragement. Affirming: “If they had her killed, they wouldn’t want to be seen together. That makes sense.”

They made room for the waitress to serve their juice and coffee, then Janice asked, “Well, what’s the plan?”

Bernhardt smiled ruefully. “The truth is, I don’t really have a plan, at least nothing dramatic. But we’ve got Price agitated, I don’t think there’s any question about that. And he hasn’t gone to the authorities, which could be significant. So for now, I’d say we should continue doing what we’re doing, keeping the pressure on.”

“Alan—” Across the table, Janice leaned toward him. In the single word, in the sudden intensity of her eyes, in the timbre of her voice, Bernhardt sensed the sum-totaled focus of an entire life, of all hope. “You talk about my intuitions, my suspicions. I’ll admit, they aren’t evidence. But I’ll tell you—” For emphasis, she let a beat pass. “I’ll tell you, when I saw Dennis on Sunday—when I heard him talk, watched him, I saw fear in his eyes. Mortal fear. He’s absolutely terrified that I’ll talk to John.”

“It seems to me,” Paula said, “that what you should be trying to figure out is how to get John alone for a few hours with Janice, uninterrupted. Just the two of them, relaxed. A trip for an ice-cream cone, a long ride in the car.”

“Easier said than done,” Bernhardt answered ruefully.

“But Paula’s right, Alan.” Avidly, Janice nodded. “If we can get him away—if I had time enough to get his confidence, one on one, I think he’d open up. I’m
sure
he’d open up.”

The waitress brought their breakfast, refilled their coffee cups, smiled, retired.

“I don’t think Price is going to let him leave the winery, though,” Bernhardt answered. “I’ve been watching for a week and it hasn’t happened yet. John spends all his time on the property. That’s the rule. Martelli told me so.”

“Dennis leaves, though. He left yesterday.”

“Sure. But he leaves someone with John. Al Martelli, or the cook, or a baby-sitter. If John leaves the property, he’s always with his father, or Al Martelli. They …” As the first hint of a solution began to emerge, unformed, Bernhardt’s voice trailed off, his eyes lost focus. Then, tentatively, he said, “That winery—the whole layout—is forty acres. There’s the house, within a few hundred feet of the road. Then there’re the winery buildings, in a hollow behind the house. Al Martelli’s house is there, too. The rest of it’s vineyard, except for an old, abandoned barn. There’s a small stream that runs along the western corner of the property, close to the barn. I’ve walked around the whole property, I’ve got a pretty good picture of it, in my head …” Once more, his voice thoughtfully died; his eyes wandered away. Then, coming back, he said, “The whole property’s fenced. There’re only two entrances, one off the county road, the main entrance, and a gate on the western perimeter, not far from the barn. That gate’s always locked—chained. The whole property is fenced. The fence that runs along the county road is split rail, for the rustic appearance. It’s reinforced, though, and there’s barbed wire concealed in it. The rest of the fence is wire. It’s six feet with barbed wire on top. Now—” He ate some of his omelette, bit off a corner of toast, sipped coffee. “Now, as long as Dennis is in his house, able to see whoever comes in through the main entrance, and as long as he knows John’s on the property, riding his mountain bike with Martelli, or playing close by, Dennis wouldn’t think he had to keep an eye on John. Even if John and Al were fishing in the creek, or exploring that old barn, for instance, out of sight from the house, he’d still feel secure.”

“So what you’re saying is that—” As if she were a small girl, Janice touched her upper lip with the tip of a small pink tongue. Her eyes shone with barely suppressed excitement. “What you’re saying is that we should—”

Bernhardt nodded. “All it would take is a pair of bolt cutters. Which, as it happens, I have in the trunk of my car. It’s part of the PI’s standard bag of tricks.”

“Wow!” Paula’s eyes were shining, too. “We’re getting down to basics, here.”

“We’d need an edge, though,” Bernhardt warned. “Some insurance.”

“Insurance?” Paula was amused. “You mean like liability? That kind of insurance?”

“I mean insurance like Al Martelli. Or, anyhow, someone to deliver John to the right place at the right time. We might need a lookout, too.” With his eyes on Janice Hale, he let a beat pass. Then, quietly: “So what’d you think, Janice?” he asked quietly. “Feel like doing a little fieldwork?”

Slowly, decisively, she nodded. Saying simply, “Yes, I do.” Her eyes were rock-steady, her mouth was thin and firm.

“What about me?” Paula asked. “I could be the lookout.” Her voice was pitched a full note above its normal timbre, another evocation of the past: the little girl who wouldn’t be left behind.

T
HE COLD MORNING FOG
was still thick, blurring the endless rows of masts that defined the yacht harbor. Even the Golden Gate Bridge, less than a mile to the south, had disappeared behind a solid mass of white.

Midway along the wharf Theo saw a figure crouched over a pile of multicolored sail bags. The figure was generically familiar: like Bruce, the stranger was someone who made his living maintaining other people’s boats. As her footsteps came closer the figure half-straightened, looking at her over his shoulder.

“I’m looking for Bruce Carter. Someone said he was on this jetty.”

The young man turned half-away, pointed. “He’s on the next jetty. Working on that gaff-rigged sloop, there.”

“Which one’s that?” Theo smiled. It was the first time she’d smiled today. Would it be the last time? “I’m a landlubber.”

His answering smile twisted meaningfully: the randy male’s automatic response. “It’s the white one trimmed in maroon. Almost at the end, there, on the right side. God, this fog’s so thick, you can hardly see her.”

“Thanks.” She stepped around him and his sail bags and walked down the wharf to the next jetty, turned toward the maroon-trimmed sailboat. There was no gangplank; the rail of the boat was almost three feet from the wharfside, and two feet higher. On the teak deck, one of the hatch covers was off.

“Hey! Bruce!”

As she waited, overhead, she heard the sound of an airplane engine. Automatically, Theo tracked the sound: a light plane, flying above the overcast. By now, if she’d kept working at it, she could have had her student’s license. A few more hours of dual—no more than ten hours—and it could be her, up there.