Bernhardt's Edge (11 page)

But, tragedy before comedy, business before pleasure, he checked his address book, punched out the police department's switchboard.

“I'd like Homicide, please. Lieutenant Peter Friedman. This is Alan Bernhardt.”

A long, tedious silence followed. Then: “Sorry, Mr. Bernhardt. Lieutenant Friedman is out in the field. Can anyone else help you?”

“How about Lieutenant Hastings?”

“Just a minute.”

Moments later, Hastings came on the line. His voice was the male counterpart to Pamela's voice: also pleasant, also melodious. At the instant's thought, a wayward image intruded: Pamela and Frank—yes, they shared certain similarities, the two of them. Both were quiet, thoughtful—handsome, too. Would they be drawn to each other, if they ever met?

“Alan?”

“Frank—yes. Listen, I'm sorry to bother you. I know Pete's out, so you're probably busy. But I think I might've gotten myself into something, and I wonder whether you could help me out. All it'd take is a phone call to Santa Rosa.”

“Dancer strikes again, eh?”

Reluctantly, Bernhardt nodded, folding his long, lean body into a chair. “It could be. Yeah.”

“What's the problem?”

“I was hired to find a woman named Betty Giles, who's running from some problem down in Los Angeles. She was traveling with a man named Nick Ames, her boyfriend. Thanks to Pete, I found them in Santa Rosa. They were staying at a motel up there. The Starlight Motel. I located them Wednesday afternoon, and called Dancer. The next day—yesterday—I was pulled off the case. And last night, Nick Ames was killed. Shot.”

“Do you think you were hired to set him up?”

“I don't know. But if I had some idea of the particulars, how he was killed, and why, I'd feel a hell of a lot better.”

“Do you know who's handling the investigation?”

“No. That's it—I don't know a damn thing. Nothing, except that he was shot.” As he spoke, he glanced at the Santa Rosa newspaper, open beside the telephone. “It happened on South Street. The two thousand block of South Street.”

“Where are you now?”

“I'm at home—” He gave Hastings the number.

“I'll see what I can do. Will you be there for another hour?”

“I'll stay here till you call.”

“Right. Talk to you soon.”

Before he could thank the other man, Bernhardt heard the line go dead. He broke the connection, and was about to dial Pamela's number when the phone came alive in his hand, warbling shrilly.

“Hello?”

“Is this Mr. Bernhardt? Alan Bernhardt?” It was a woman's voice, tentative, indistinct, unsure.

“Yes.”

“This is Nora Farley. Betty's mother. Betty Giles.”

To mask a surge of sudden excitement, he let a beat pass. “Yes, Mrs. Farley—” Another beat, for pacing. Then: “Have you heard from Betty?”

“Yeah. I—she called a couple of hours ago. And I'm worried, Mr. Bernhardt. I'm worried sick.” Her voice was low, clogged with emotion. “Nick Ames was killed. Murdered, last night. Did you know that?”

“Yes, I did. I've got a call in to the police right now, trying to find out what happened.”

“They were up in Santa Rosa. And I remember that you asked me about Santa Rosa, so I had to call, to ask you. He was shot, up there.”

“What did Betty say, Mrs. Farley? Tell me what she said, her exact words. Can you remember?” Trying to calm her, he spoke slowly, deliberately, at the same time glancing at his watch. He'd give her ten minutes, then he'd hang up, clear the line for Hastings' call. “
Think
.”

“Well, she—she's kind of numb, I guess you'd say. In shock, I suppose. Still in shock. She said that they'd tried to kill him before. That's why they left L.A., she said—because someone tried to kill him. He was scared, she said, because he thought they'd try it again, try to kill him, if they stayed in L.A. So that's why they left, see, left L.A. It was just like I thought. It wasn't a vacation at all, that they took. It was—”

“
Who
tried it again? Did Betty say
who
?”

“No,” she muttered. “I asked her, but she wouldn't say.”

“Did she say what Nick had done, why they wanted to kill him?”

“No, not that, either. I asked her, but she wouldn't say. She didn't agree with it, though, what he did. She told me that. She begged him to give it up, not do it, whatever it was.”

“Is she worried for herself, Mrs. Farley—worried that she could be in danger?”

“I asked her that. But she didn't even answer. I asked her twice. And it—” She broke off, drew a deep, unsteady breath. “And it worried me, that she didn't answer.”

“Why?”

“Because she didn't seem to care what happened to her. It—it scared me, the way she said it.”

“Did she say what she intends to do now? Is she coming here, coming to San Francisco?”

“No—” Her voice was hardly audible. “No, she didn't say, wouldn't tell me where she's going. And that scared me, too.”

“Why?”

“Because Betty said she was going to make them pay. For killing him.”

“Did she elaborate on that, say what she meant?” As he spoke, he glanced at his watch. They'd been talking for almost fifteen minutes.

“No. I asked her what she meant, but she wouldn't say, except that they'd pay. But that's why she won't tell me where she's going next—because she'll be in danger, if she tries to make them pay. I know it. I just
know
it.”

“Is that what she said—exactly what she said, that she'd make them pay?”

“No. But that's what she meant. I know that's what she meant.” Her voice trailed off into an emotion-choked silence.

Bernhardt let the silence lengthen, then spoke gently: “I've got to go now, Mrs. Farley. I don't want to miss the call from the police. But I'll keep in touch with you. And if you hear from her again, call me. Try here first, then call the office—Herbert Dancer, Limited. Have you still got the card I gave you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, hang on to it. And try not to worry, Mrs. Farley. If they wanted to harm her, they've already done it.”

“Do you think so?” He could hear hope in her voice—a hesitant, tremulous hope. It was his responsibility to somehow keep that hope alive.

“I'm sure of it. Absolutely sure. I'll get back to you in a few hours. Okay?”

“You're the only one I called, Mr. Bernhardt. You—you seemed kind, seemed like you cared. And—and there's no one else, that I can call. I—” Suddenly she began to sob.

Conscious of the sheer weight of responsibility he could incur, he nevertheless knew he must say it, must make her believe that, yes, he cared: “I'm glad you feel like that, Mrs. Farley. You're right, to feel like that. Exactly right.”

“It's just that—” Loudly, wetly, she snuffled. “It's just that I'm alone, you know. All alone.”

“I know,” he answered. “I know how you feel. Because I'm alone, too.”

Bernhardt was pouring boiling water over the instant coffee in his favorite mug when the phone warbled. He took a moment to stir the coffee, then carried the cup into the living room, put it beside the phone.

“Hello?”

“This is Frank, Alan. You've been on the phone.”

“I'm sorry. It was about this same case, in Santa Rosa. I couldn't shut it off.” As he spoke, he reached for a pad and pencil. “Any luck?”

“That's for you to decide, I guess. I talked to Sergeant Ochoa, in Santa Rosa. He says that Ames was staying at the Starlight Motel, with Betty Giles. You know that.”

“Yes.”

“Ames went out last night to a bar—a neighborhood bar, the Boots and Saddle. He stayed there for a couple of hours, drinking. There weren't any problems. No fights, no words exchanged, nothing. He just sat on his stool, apparently, not saying much. Then, about eleven, he paid the bill, went outside, got in his car—Betty Giles' car, actually. All the interrogation reports aren't in yet, but apparently there was a car parked across the street from Ames' car, maybe on stakeout. That part isn't clear, how long the other car was there. But, anyhow, Ochoa has a witness who says that, as soon as Ames left the bar, the driver of the other car got out, and walked across the street, and started shooting. The witness says he shot twice through the driver's window, then opened the door and shot several more times. And that pretty much squares with the facts. There were two holes in the window glass—and six holes, altogether, in the body. All of them in the neck or head.”

“Good shooting.”

“There's more.”

“Oh?” Bernhardt sat up straighter.

“The witness says the guy used a silencer. He swears to God.”

“Is he a qualified witness?”

“Who knows? He says he heard a kind of sharp splatting.”

“Did he actually see the gun?”

“No. But there's something else, that supports what he said.”

“What's that?”

“The weapon was a .22. And the bullets were probably hollow points. Tell you anything?”

“A hit man's weapon. Is that what you're saying?”

“That's what I'm saying,” Hastings answered. “Exactly. At close range, a high-speed hollow point .22 does more damage than a jacketed .38. And there's no ballistics. Then there's the silencer. Ruger and High Standard and Colt—they all make .22 automatics with a barrel that isn't enclosed by a slide, which means they're perfect for a silencer. File off the front sight, and you're in business. Of course,” he added, “this is all theory.”

“It sounds like pretty good theory, though.”

“I think so.”

“Anything else?”

“As a matter of fact,” Hastings said, “there is. First, the witness says he thinks the killer was a black man. He's not sure. It was dark, and a streetlight was out, apparently. But that was his impression.”

Instantly, the street scene outside the Starlight Motel returned: the black man in the maroon Oldsmobile, following Betty Giles and Nick Ames, in their white Toyota. Something about the black man's presence, his haughty aloofness, had remained firmly fixed in Bernhardt's memory.

A black hit man…

Hired by whom? For what reason?

“What else?”

“The woman,” Hastings said, “Betty Giles. They took her downtown, to identify the body. Then they took her back to the motel, and told her to stay put. But she didn't. She packed her bag, and paid her bill, and took a cab.”

“A cab to where?”

“They're still checking. It hasn't been more than a couple of hours since she split.”

“She left her car behind,” Bernhardt said thoughtfully.

“She didn't have any choice. It was impounded, for forensics. If she wanted to get out of town in a hurry, she had to leave the car.”

“Maybe she'll be back to claim it.”

“Maybe. But she also disobeyed Ochoa's order not to leave town, as I said. So, technically, she's a fugitive, if he swears out a complaint.”

“She panicked.”

“Obviously.”

“Is there more?”

“That's it,” Hastings answered. “Except for one thing.”

“What's that?”

“Ochoa wants you to call him, give him what you've got. I said you would. Right?”

Responding to the unmistakable note of command in the other man's voice, Bernhardt concentrated on maximum projection as he answered, “Right.” He broke the connection, drew a long, deep breath, then sat silently for a moment, staring with unfocused eyes at his small rectangular view of the landlord's garden, visible through the living-room window. He'd always resisted organized activities, including the current fad for meditation. But an actor's stock in trade, after all, was his command of moods. So before he called Pamela, he wanted to draw back from the darkness or murder. He wanted to remember the particular quality of Pamela's voice, wanted to recall, again, their moment at Mike's, sitting across from each other, smiling, their eyes searching.

He let the memory linger, drew another deep breath, touch-toned her number.

“Hello?”

“It's Alan Bernhardt, Pamela. Guess what?”

“What?”

“They fumigated the rehearsal room, and then didn't let it air out, apparently. And there's no other space available.”

“
Fumigated
? Why?”

“Do you really want to know?”

She chuckled. “I guess not. So is the read-through off?”

“I'm afraid so. There's a Friday night performance, obviously, in the theater itself.”

“What about someone's house?”

“I don't think Dave Falk would want to do that. He's very big on theater mystique, even if it's just a rehearsal room.”

“The smell of the greasepaint coming under the door?”

He smiled. “Something like that. But listen—if the read-through is off, what about the two of us getting together? Would you like to have dinner?”

A short silence followed. What was she thinking—feeling—deciding? Did she realize that, if she put him off, he wouldn't ask again? Some men, denied, redoubled their macho efforts, eventually prevailed.

But some men—the vulnerable ones—would turn aside, retreat within, get back behind those inner defenses, so carefully erected over the years. Some men…

“…don't you come over here? she was saying. “I've got a casserole in the freezer.”

“A casserole? Great. What time?”

“How about seven?”

“Seven is perfect.”

As he cradled the phone, he realized that he was smiling: a wide, spontaneous smile, a smile from other times, other places—other dreams.

W
HEN SHE SAW BERNHARDT
, Marge Ferguson smiled, opened her center drawer, withdrew an envelope, handed it to Bernhardt.