Silent Witness (19 page)

In Dennis’s airplane, the Skylane, they could fly as far as San Diego without refueling. Escape, then, was always possible. If something went wrong, anything went wrong, the Skylane was their passport to freedom. The airplane was based at Buck Field, an airport with no control tower. Therefore no controllers; therefore no tape recordings. Therefore, with the transponder turned off, they could disappear in the sky, an anonymous, untraceable blip on the radar screens. They could land at a small uncontrolled airport in the desert below Palm Springs. Refueled, they could fly undetected into Mexico—while the feds struggled to trace every single blip flying in the opposite direction. They could—

In the open hatchway, Bruce’s head appeared. He smiled his slow, musky smile.

“Hi—” Wiping his hands on an oil-stained rag, he slowly climbed up on deck. “Want to come aboard?” The smile widened meaningfully, his eyes turned lazily indolent. “The bunks are narrow, but they’re comfortable.”

“Give me a hand.”

“I’ll do better than that.” He lifted a boarding ladder, lowered it down to the dock, and extended his hand. As she stepped onto the deck, he drew her roughly close, one of his muscle-man moves. Quickly, she twisted away from him, at the same time involuntarily looking back over her shoulder.

“What’s wrong?”

“Let’s go downstairs.” She moved toward the open hatch.

Now the smile was patronizing. “That’s ‘below deck,’ sweetie.”

Not replying, she climbed down to the luxuriously appointed cabin.

“Want some coffee?” He gestured to a coffeepot steaming on a small two-burner stove.

“Fine.” Theo stepped over to an open porthole. Her view of the dock was limited by the brass-bound circle of the porthole. Was Bernhardt out there somewhere, watching? Had he followed her from San Rafael into San Francisco, then here to Sausalito? Was there another detective, besides Bernhardt? More than one other?

“Sugar, no cream. Right?”

“Right.” After a last searching look through the porthole she turned away, sat on a soft leather sofa. It was almost impossible, she knew, to discover whether someone was watching. Since Sunday night, when she’d opened her door to see the strange figure on the dimly lit landing, she’d felt the constant scrutiny of hostile eyes. Even in her apartment in the city, with the door double-locked, she’d felt pursued, spied on.

He handed her a steaming mug, then sat across from her. “You look jumpy. Something wrong?”

She smiled: a wry, rueful twisting of the mouth. “Yeah, something’s wrong. Something’s definitely wrong.”

“Well—” He rolled his shoulders, flexed his muscles, smugly smiled. “Well, tell Bruce.”

Theo sat silently for a moment, simply looking at him. How had it happened that they’d ever gotten together? Except for back-street bars and second-run movies they never went anywhere, never did anything, never really talked about anything but what they would do in bed—and what they’d done.

But Bruce was tough. More than once she’d seen him fight—and win. Watching, she’d felt a deep, elemental excitement: the primitive woman, physically aroused. Sex was never better than after he’d had a fight—and won. Some men watched sports on TV, some played golf. Bruce fought.

“What’s wrong,” she said, “is that there’s a private detective who’s following me.”

She’d known what to expect from him: that slow, indolent, knowing smile. “An irate wife, eh? Yet another irate wife. Theo—” Mockingly, he shook his head. “This is the second time, baby, just since we’ve been seeing each other. I’d think you’d be used to it, by now.”

“It’s not an irate wife. And it’s not funny, either.”

“Sorry.” But the mockery of a smile remained. Of course, he wasn’t sorry. He was amused.

“I didn’t come here to play word games,” she said. “And I can’t stay long. If you want to listen, fine. Otherwise—” She let it go truculently unfinished.

“So go ahead—” He spread his hands. “Tell me. Tell Bruce.”

Driving across the Golden Gate Bridge she’d decided how she would put it to him: “Constance Price,” she said. “That San Francisco socialite, who was murdered two months ago, in Saint Stephen. Remember?”

She had the pleasure of seeing the supercilious, shit-eating smile slip, then fade. “Yeah—” Tentatively, he nodded. As, yes, his pale-blue eyes began to search her face.
Was this a trick?
he was transparently wondering. A put-on?

“Yeah, I remember,” he said cautiously.

“Well—” She broke off, drew a deep breath, and stepped over the edge: “Well, I’ve been going out with her husband. Dennis Price. It’s been about four months, now, maybe a little longer.”

“Yeah—” With the smile fading, curiosity was narrowing his eyes, tugging at his scarred, fighter’s face. Curiosity, and caution, too.

“And—” Another pause, this one for courage. “And he and I were alone in the house, when she showed up.”

“Was this that guy with the winery? Is that the one?”

She nodded. “That’s the one.”

He frowned. “It was a prowler. A burglar. That one?”

“That’s the one. Except that it wasn’t a prowler. It was Dennis. She—his wife—she caught us together. She went wild. Really wild. They fought like—like animals. He picked up a pair of fireplace tongs, and hit her.”

His Adam’s apple bobbed. Once. Twice. “He killed her? Him?”

She nodded.

“And you were there? In the same room?”

“Yes.”

“Jesus, Theo. You’d better get a lawyer.”

“A lawyer …” She spoke as if he’d suggested some strange ritual, some alien rite.

“Sure, a lawyer. Christ, this isn’t something you want to fuck around with. You’re smart. You should know that.”

“Right now,” she said, “it’s this private detective that’s worrying me.”

“What’s he doing?”

“He’s putting pressure on Dennis. A lot of pressure. And Dennis isn’t built for pressure. To say the least.”

“All the more reason you should get a lawyer. Protect yourself.”

“What I’m afraid of,” she said, “is that, if the detective suspects what happened—really happened—and if he ever went to the police, and the police started questioning Dennis, then Dennis would fold up. First he’d fold up. And then he’d lie.”

“Lie?”

“He’d tell the police I did it. I know that’s what he’d do. I can see it coming.”

“Except that the police think it’s a prowler.”

“I’m saying
if
the detective goes to the police. I’m trying to look ahead. Anticipate.”

“How come you waited until now to tell me this? How come you didn’t say something when it happened?”

“Because I promised I wouldn’t say anything. That shouldn’t be hard to figure out.”

He sat silently for a moment, thoughtfully staring at her. Then: “So what now? Why’re you telling me now? What’d you want me to do?” He rolled his shoulders again, flexed his muscles again. “This Price—he sounds like someone I’d enjoy teaching some manners, give him something to think about.”

As she listened to his barroom-brawler’s blandishments, she held his eyes for a long, searching moment. Could she count on him? Trust him? How far? At what cost?

“It’s not Price that worries me,” she answered. “I can handle him.”

“Oh?”

She nodded, repeating: “I can handle Price. It’s Bernhardt.”

“Bernhardt?”

“The private eye—” She looked toward the dockside porthole, gestured. “He could be out there right now, on my trail, watching. He’s already—” About to describe Bernhardt’s appearance at the San Rafael apartment, she broke off. Then, recovering: “He’s already been at my apartment, already given me a hard time.”

“You want me to talk to him, tell him to lay off? Beat on him a little?”

There it was again: his elemental lust for combat.

“Could you?”

“Sure—” He shrugged. “You find him for me, I’ll bounce him around, straighten him out.” He stepped forward, put out his hands, to touch her. The message: for services to be rendered, payment was due in advance. She put up her hands, palms outward. “Honey, I can’t. I—I just don’t—” Eloquently, she moved her head toward the porthole. The meaning: with alien eyes watching, she couldn’t.

Following her gaze, his eyes came alive with the prospect more compelling than sex: the promise of violence. “Is he really out there, do you think? Now?”

“I don’t know …” She made it sound wan: little girl lost.

But now she saw his eyes shift, drawn from the view through the porthole to the sailboat itself, to the floor beneath their feet. “I can’t do anything about it now, though. Not now. This engine, I’ve got to get it running. The owner wants to leave for San Diego, day after tomorrow. But you find him, this Bernhardt—give me a name and an address—and I’ll have a little talk with him.”

“I’ll give you a call. Thanks, honey.”

“No problem.”

She rose to her feet. “I’d better go. Listen—that gun I loaned you. Have you still got it?”

He frowned. “Theo …”

“I think I’d better take it.”

“Now? Today?”

“Now. Right now. Where is it?”

“It’s at my place. But—”

“Please.”

A
T THE FIFTH RING
, Bernhardt heard the click of an answering machine. The message was short and laconic: “This is Al Martelli. Sorry I missed you. Leave your name and number and the time you—” The machine clicked again. “Hello?”

Should he use Martelli’s first name? They’d talked three times, amiably, once at the winery, twice in Saint Stephen, briefly. Which way should he gamble: too familiar, or too formal?

“Al—this is Alan Bernhardt.”

He waited while the other man matched the name to the face.

“Yeah—how are you?” There was caution in the greeting, a distancing. But there was encouragement, too, a tentative warmth. Contradictions.

“Listen, I—this matter we’ve talked about—I wonder whether I could meet you somewhere, today? In town, maybe. It’s important.”

“Important?”

“Yes. I want to try and bring this thing to a head. And you could help.”

“Is it about John? That?”

“Yes, it’s about John—and Dennis, too.” He hesitated, then decided to say, “Janice Hale—Constance Price’s sister—is here, in Saint Stephen. And we need your help.”

“My help …” Martelli let the two words linger in doubtful silence.

“Please. Let me buy you a drink this evening. Any time you say. Any place.”

A silence fell—and lengthened. This, Bernhardt knew, could be the pivot point, the fulcrum. And if he read Martelli right, there was nothing to do but wait. Martelli was a man who couldn’t be prodded.

Finally: “Okay. Do you know the Briar Patch? It’s just south of Saint Stephen, on Route Twenty-nine.”

“I’ll find it.”

“Five-thirty?”

“Five-thirty. Thanks.”

Seated in his car, parked on a gravel road that commanded a view of the fenced western border of the Brookside vineyard, Bernhardt thoughtfully returned the cellular phone to its cradle. Should he include Janice in the meeting with Martelli? Or would it be better to—

Suddenly the phone’s shrill buzzer came alive.

“Yes?”

“Alan—” Unmistakably, it was C.B.’s voice, a rich, deep, neo-Afro base.

“Yes—how’s it going?”

“She left her luxury Nob Hill apartment this morning about nine-thirty, drove to Sausalito. She met a guy on the docks, there, at the yacht harbor. I’d say the guy was a workman. Middle thirties, lots of muscles. I got some pictures of them. They went inside the cabin of a big sloop, there. Belongs to some hot-shot clothing manufacturer. Or, at least, it did. She and this guy she met were in there for about forty minutes. Then she drove this guy to a nothing stucco building up the hill in Sausalito, six studio apartments, no view, like that. You know—housing for the peasants on the American Riviera. He went in, she stayed in the car. He came out with a paper sack of something. She drove him back to the yacht harbor, and then she drove up the highway to San Rafael. She’s got an apartment, there. You know about that one, I guess.”

“That’s where I picked her up. Are you there now?”

“Right.”

“No sign of Price?”

“None.”

Thoughtfully, Bernhardt looked at his watch. “How are you for time, C.B.?”

“Couple a days from now—Friday, at the latest—I got something I got to do. It’s an insurance job, big-ticket liability claim. It involves one of the black brothers, so I’ve got a lock. Other than that, I’m yours. Incidentally, speaking of skin color, this is pretty lily-white, as you know, up here in marvelous Marin. So I’m—you know—pretty visible. I just thought I’d mention it.”

“I know …” Considering the possibilities, the combinations, he let a beat pass. Then: “Why don’t you stay on her until about six, tonight. Then find yourself a motel room in San Rafael. Check with me, when you’re settled.”

“You don’t want me to talk to her, put a little pressure on her?”

“Not now. I’ve got an appointment with Al Martelli, at five-thirty. Let’s not get her stirred up until I’ve talked to him. I want to talk to the client, too.”

“Gotcha.”

A
S SHE SLOWED THE
Supra, Theo saw them: two phone booths on the wide concrete apron of the Exxon station. She flipped on the turn signal, moved into the inside lane, checked the traffic, made a gentle left turn. Since it had happened—since June sixteenth—her driving had become more conservative, more cautious. There’d been other changes, too. Many other changes.

Visible changes?

Visible to whom? Under what circumstances?

Meaningless thoughts. Self-destructive and meaningless.

Gangsters, she knew, always used pay phones. It was more than an Eliot Ness convention; in the electronics age, it was a necessity. She’d once heard of a “spike mike”: drill a small hole in an outside wall, insert the microphone, hear everything that’s said inside the room—inside the house. Olives in martinis, tie clips, earrings, they all could conceal tiny microphones powered by microscopic batteries.

And if Bernhardt could bug the apartment in San Rafael, then he could bug the house at the winery.

But they had to talk, had to communicate—to plan, to decide. Every day that passed—every hour—brought danger closer.