Silent Witness (29 page)

“It means that she’s got a bullet lodged in her spine.”

Speaking with great care, great precision, Bernhardt asked, “Whose bullet? Mine? Or Price’s?”

With equal precision, Benson shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“How many bullets were in her?”

“I don’t know that, either.”

“Will she die?”

“The doctors don’t think so. But it’s too early to be sure. They still have to operate. They’re taking her to San Francisco, right now.”

“If I hadn’t shot, she’d have killed John.”

“Or so you thought.”

“Price thought so, too.”

“Or maybe he wanted to shut her up.”

Bernhardt decided not to reply. They’d already been over this, in the barn. He’d told the story once to Fowler, then to Benson. They’d questioned Janice separately. Certainly, she’d confirmed his story. As Theo had whirled toward him, revolver raised, he’d fired. Did he need a lawyer? Should he refuse to continue talking, without a lawyer? They’d already put Dennis in a state police car and taken him away. Was there another car waiting? Would he spend the night in a holding cell, not with Paula?

In the darkness of the verandah, in the balmy California night, silence lengthened. This, Bernhardt knew, was the inquisitor’s favorite tactic: watching and waiting, observing the hapless suspect as he squirmed under the full weight of the law, cataloging the tics and the false starts, letting the suspect incriminate himself as he tried to wriggle free.

But, another sports cliché, two could play that game. Silence could favor the victim, too. Sometimes.

Finally, wearily, Benson lifted an angular hand, then let it fall. It was an ecclesiastical gesture, a played-out sign of papal absolution.

“Don’t worry, Bernhardt. You’re okay. Miss Hale’s and John’s stories match yours, absolutely. Price’s story matches, too.”

Audibly, Bernhardt exhaled, allowed himself to relax in his chair. Suddenly the night was friendlier, the future brighter.

“Yeah,” Benson said, “it’s all working out, at least so far. What’ll happen when Price’s lawyer arrives, that could be something else. Minimum, he’ll tell Price to shut up. But for now Price is talking—a lot. His girlfriend, he says, did it all—everything. She killed Constance while Price was trying to separate the two women. She shot Martelli when Martelli tried to stop them from going after John. And she tried to kill John, to keep him from incriminating her. According to Price, he just intended to scare you and Janice Hale off the property, with his rifle. But Theo had other ideas. There’s no doubt, he says, that Theo would’ve killed John.”

“When can Theo talk?”

“The doctor guesses it’ll be another twenty-four hours, at least. And then nothing more than a word or two. However, as soon as she can respond, even if it’s only nodding or shaking her head, I’ll be interrogating her. I pointed that fact out to Price, which could be why he started to talk. Maybe he wants to get his licks in first.” Tiredly, Benson smiled. “I’d like to think so, anyhow. It’ll make things easier.” He broke off, closed his eyes, pressed long, thin fingers to his temples. Then: “Of course, if Theo’s lawyer has even minimum law-school smarts he’s going to turn it all around. He’ll say Price struck the blow that killed his wife. He’ll say Martelli was threatening them with a rifle, and Theo shot first, before Martelli could. As for what happened in the barn, the lawyer’ll obviously say that the light was bad, and Theo thought John was either you or Janice Hale—trespassers. Or, better yet, kidnappers. She’ll say she was acting in concert with Dennis, trying to rid him of two interlopers who, they believed, had come to kidnap John, take him off the property through the hole you cut in the fence. She’ll say she saw your gun, of course, so she fired in self-defense. And, finally, she’ll accuse you of attempted murder.”

Ruefully, Bernhardt grimaced. “Thanks a lot.” Then: “What about Martelli?”

“Martelli is very, very lucky. The bullet didn’t hit any organs, or even break any bones. But it did nick a small vein. He probably would’ve bled to death if Maria hadn’t pressed a towel to the wound. Even at that, when the medics arrived, he was in deep shock and had lost a lot of blood. He’ll be fine, though. The bullet went right through.”

“Thank God,” Bernhardt said. “You’d probably still be looking for Constance Price’s murderer if it hadn’t been for Martelli. You know that, don’t you?”

“Martelli and you, Bernhardt. You’re entitled to some credit.”

“I’m glad to hear you say it.” Bernhardt let a long, thoughtful moment pass as he stared out into darkness beyond the verandah. Then: “Does Theo know Dennis shot at her?”

Benson shrugged. “I’m not sure. If she does know, she didn’t get it from me.”

Thoughtfully shaking his head, Bernhardt wryly recited, “The pangs of dispriz’d love, the law’s delay …”

Wearily, Benson smiled. “Shakespeare.”

Surprised, Bernhardt nodded. “That’s right, Shakespeare.”

Benson’s smile twisted, touched now with nostalgia—and inscrutable regret. “Yale drama,” he said softly.

“Oh, God—” Bernhardt shook his head. “Not another actor.”

“Worse. An aspiring actor, once. But I come from a long line of New York lawyers.”

“So what’re you doing in the wilds of Benedict County?”

“I’m not entirely sure. I escaped New York, but not the toils of the law.”

“Well, I escaped from New York, too.”

“Are you glad you did?”

“Until just recently, I wasn’t really sure. Now, though, it’s fine.”

“Are we talking about the lady registered at the Starlight Motel?”

“You don’t miss much, do you?”

“In my job, nosiness comes with the territory. Your job, too.”

Bernhardt nodded. Then: “What about John? What happens to John?”

“Ah—” Benson’s answering nod was somber. “John—that’s the question, now.”

“And?”

“It comes back to the toils of the law, I’m afraid.”

Aware that he was holding his breath, Bernhardt made no reply. The DA, he knew, was about to render his decision: one mortal man, slightly balding, about to pronounce the words that could mean the world and all its laughter to a small boy named John.

All its laughter—all its pain. Everything.

In the short silence, three men left the house, went down the front steps and got into a highway patrol station wagon. Each man carried a valise: it was the lab crew, leaving the scene. Aside from the cars belonging to Fowler and Benson, all the official cars had gone.

Finally Benson spoke. His voice was crisp: “John’s testimony is enough for us to take Theo Stark and Dennis Price into custody. Which, obviously, we’ve done. Technically—legally—we could lock you up, too, pending a preliminary hearing. However—” Benson waved a casual hand. “However, that’s a judgment call. I’d say designating you as a material witness, along with Janice Hale and the boy, would suffice.” He looked at Bernhardt, let a cat-and-mouse beat pass. Then testing: “Wouldn’t you say so?”

Straight-faced, Bernhardt nodded. “Yes, I’d say so.”

“Good.” It was the final word, the final protocol. Case closed.

His case, closed.

Should he thank the peripatetic DA? Was that what this little game was really all about?

As if to respond to the query, Benson said, “That leaves John.”

Bernhardt nodded. “Yes, that leaves John.”

Glancing at the open front door, Benson leaned closer, lowered his voice. “If we go by the book, here, considering that Price is in custody, then the law is clear.”

For “the book,” Bernhardt knew, he was meant to substitute “Fowler.”

“That’s to say,” Benson continued, “by the book, we’ve got to take John over to San Rafael, and put him in the Youth Guidance Center.”

“The Youth—” A surge of outrage momentarily choked off the rest. Then, incredulously: “The Youth
Guidance
Center?”

Benson raised a cautionary hand. “Wait. Just—”

“The kid makes a murder case for you—incriminates his own father in the death of his mother—and you want to send him to the Youth
Guidance
Center?
Christ!”

“Goddammit!” Lowering his voice, Benson looked again at the open door. “I said
cool
it.”

“But you’re—”

“I’m talking about the book. That’s by way of reference. A kid finds himself in a spot like John’s in, he goes to the Youth Guidance Center. Then a judge decides what happens next. But that’s not what I want.”

“What about—” Bernhardt spoke softly now. “What about Fowler? What’s he want?”

“Fowler doesn’t have much feeling for kids. I guess they’re too independent-minded for his taste. So—” Delicately, the other man hesitated. “So it’s up to me, to do the right thing.”

“Ah—” Bernhardt nodded, leaned back in his chair.

“So here’s the plan—” Benson glanced at his watch, then made hard eye contact with Bernhardt. As he spoke, briskly and concisely, he ticked off the points on his fingers. “First, John will stay here for the night, in custody of his aunt. He’s probably asleep right this minute, in fact. Now, while John’s sleeping, Janice and you pack a bag for John. Pack several bags. You know—toys, mementos, things kids like. Then, very early tomorrow morning—six at the absolute latest—Janice and John get in her car and they drive down to Santa Barbara. Where, with luck, they’ll live happily ever after—in another jurisdiction.”

“You’re going to arrange it, are you? This happy ending—you’re going to make it happen. Legally, make it happen.”

“I’m the District Attorney of Benedict County, Bernhardt. DA’s have a lot of power.”

“Mind giving me a few details?”

Equably, Benson shrugged. “Plea bargaining. I’m sure you’ve heard of plea bargaining.”

Bernhardt smiled.

“It’s obvious,” Benson said, “that Dennis Price is an asshole. He doesn’t give a shit about John. Never has. Dennis is out for the money—the Hale money. It’s equally obvious that he probably wasn’t the one who killed his wife. He just doesn’t have the stones. Theo Stark, the new breed of woman, is the guilty party. She sniffed a little coke, picked up the fireplace tongs, and went wild. However, because of a combination of weakness and greed—and maybe hot pants, at least initially—Price conspired to conceal evidence of the crime. Which is, as you know, a crime of equal magnitude. So—” Benson spread his hands. “So we do a deal, the great American plea bargain, like I said. Which is to say, if Dennis agrees to turn Theo Stark for us, and if he agrees to let Janice take custody of John, then we’ll go easy on Dennis.” As he spoke, Benson smiled, rose to his feet, signifying dismissal, and extended his hand. “See?”

Also rising, also smiling, Bernhardt took the other man’s hand. “You’re okay, Benson.” For emphasis, he nodded, repeating, “You’re okay.”

H
E TOOK OFF HIS
glasses, put them on the bureau, slipped into bed. Beneath the sheet, Paula was naked, lying on her back. Against the faint light filtering through the drapes, he could see her face in profile. She was softly, serenely snoring.

He moved close, touched the flesh of her stomach, just below her breasts. She stirred, murmured something, turned toward him. His hand was at the small of her back now. Against his chest, he felt her breasts. He kissed her once, lightly.

“Is it all right?” she asked, sleep slurring her words. “Is everything all right?”

“It’s all right,” Bernhardt whispered. “Everything’s all right.”

“Hmmm …”

Turn the page to continue reading from the Alan Bernhardt Novels

A
S HE WATCHED HER
come slowly down the staircase, a provocative upward view that enhanced the flare of faded blue jeans molding flanks and pelvis, Daniels felt himself tightening, involuntarily responding to the way she looked, the way she moved. She was thirty years old. Had she always moved like this, so sensually, so self-sufficiently, so disdainfully? Some women pandered to the male ego, titillated the male libido. Not Carolyn. She challenged men with a thinly veiled contempt for the weakness that made them want her.

Them that had, got.

And Carolyn had.

Meaning that her first impulse would be to throw the envelope in his face. Her reaction, her initial response, was predictable.

But it was her secondary response that would be definitive: the thrust that would follow the feint.

At floor level now, she put her canvas tote bag on the floor and unslung her leather shoulder bag. He’d bought the bag for her in Geneva, less than a month ago. He’d known she would love it. He’d been right.

“The fog’s coming in,” she said. “Will that be a problem for Bruce?”

“No. I called him when you were in the shower. He said it’s clear at Westboro. Taking off in fog is all right. It’s the landings that can be a problem.”

“I wish you were coming.”

“I can’t. I’ve got to be here tomorrow. And you’ve got to be in New York.” He shrugged.

As she strode toward him, her eyes searched his face. She’d sensed a difference, sensed that something had changed. “Shall we go to the airport, then? Is Bruce there now?”