Bernhardt's Edge (3 page)

“You're a ringer,” he said, returning the smile.

“A ringer?”

“You've acted before.”

“Maybe I shouldn't admit it.”

“Why not?”

“Because when I tell you how long, you'll think I should be better.”

“That's the wrong attitude. I should've given my positive-thinking spiel.” He widened his smile, stepped closer, looked into her eyes. “Anything's possible, you know, as long as you don't give up. And it's true. I've seen it work. Acting—working—marriage. It all comes down to determination.”

Still hugging her script and purse to the swell of her breasts, she shook her head, then dropped her eyes. Her voice was pensive as she said, “You think so?”

The three words, spoken so softly, revealed a certain sadness, a hidden vulnerability. Unintentionally, he'd touched a nerve—a very raw nerve.

“Do you feel like coffee, a sandwich? There's a place around the corner. Mike's. They stay open until midnight. And they've got great pastrami sandwiches, the best outside of New York.”

Quickly, her head came up, the smile returned. “On rye, of course. Dark rye.”

“Of course.”

As he chewed a mouthful of pastrami, he studied her face: a small, oval face with a good, straight nose, dark, lively eyes, expressively arched eyebrows, a mobile mouth, generously shaped. Her hair was deep auburn, shoulder length, simply gathered at the nape of her neck. The modeling of the face was delicate, but the play of her expression was animated, inventive, fleetingly mischievous, sometimes bold. The pensive vulnerability he'd seen as she responded to his “positive thinking” quip hadn't returned, even momentarily.

“What's the name of your play?” Watching him over the rim of her glass, she sipped her apple juice. “The one the Circle produced?”

“It's called
Victims
.”

“Is it three acts?”

He nodded.

“I'd like to read it.”

“When I know you better, maybe.”

“Why do I have to know you better to read it?”

“Because it's part of the past. My past, anyhow. I can do better, now.”

“You're working on another play?”

He looked away. “Always.”

She bit into her own sandwich, watched him as she chewed. Finally: “You're shy. You didn't seem shy, earlier. But you are, really.”

“Most actors are shy. Or at least self-protective.”

“Is there a difference?”

“Probably not.” He drank an inch of beer from one of the mugs that Mike allowed his favorite customers to use. “What about you? Where'd you do your acting?”

“Los Angeles. I grew up there, went to Pomona College. That's where I got hooked on acting, in college.” She hesitated, blinked, bit her lip. Her earlier vulnerability had returned, darkening her eyes, saddening her smile. “My husband is—was—a screenwriter. He got me some bit parts in movies.”

He let a moment of silence pass, then said, “When you say ‘was,' does that mean—” He let it go unfinished.

Which was it? Dead? Or divorced?

With obvious effort, she raised her eyes to meet his. “It means we're divorced. I got married right out of school. And he'd already been married, twice. We kept at it for ten years. Eleven years, really. But—” She shook her head, drew a deep breath, bit once more into her sandwich, almost gone. Her appetite, Bernhardt noted with satisfaction, was good. Finally she said, “That was two years ago, that we got divorced. I decided I wanted a change, wanted to get out of town, at least for a while. So I came here, to San Francisco.”

“Do your parents still live in Los Angeles?”

She nodded. “They teach at U.C.L.A. They're both sociology professors.”

“Impressive.”

Her smile returned, along with the playful lilt in her dark, quick eyes. “What about you? I'm sure—I'll bet—that you're an easterner. Am I right?”

He chuckled. “Right. New York. But you could've guessed, couldn't you? From what I said earlier, to the cast.”

“So what's your story, Alan Bernhardt? You know why I'm in San Francisco, hiding out. What about you?”

With his eyes on the circles of wetness that his beer mug left on the tabletop, making designs of the circles, he let the silence lengthen so long that it would have been an embarrassment not to have told her.

“I was married pretty much right out of college, too—a couple of years out, anyhow. She was an actress. We were married until—it's been eight years, now. Eight and a half, really. And she—” He swallowed, realized that he was helplessly blinking. He felt the familiar ache, the palpable suffocation of terror and dread as he remembered answering the door, remembered seeing the badge, seeing the man standing there, in the dimly lit hallway.

He'd known what had happened. Instantly, he'd known.

“She was mugged. They—they knocked her down, and she hit her head on the curb. She—” He swallowed again. “She never regained consciousness. Her name was Jennifer. Jenny.”

“Oh, God. I—I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—I always seem to—”

“You didn't know. It's been eight years. That's time enough.”

“Are your folks in New York?”

Still with his eyes lowered, speaking very deliberately, he said, “I don't have any folks, not really. None except in-laws. My father was killed in the war. He was a bombardier. And my mother died sixteen years ago, of cancer.”

“Jesus, Alan—” She reached across the table, to touch his hand. “I'm not—I'm not trying to—”

“It's okay—” He raised his eyes, smiled, saw her answering smile, slightly misted. “Really, it's okay.” He rotated his hand, to clasp hers. “I like you. So it's okay.”

Between them the moment held. Until, gently, she withdrew her hand. Saying: “I like you, too.”

They sat for a time in their separate silences. Then, venturing a tentative smile, she said, “I almost hate to ask any more questions. But all evening I've been wondering—” She paused, waited for him to smile, to nod encouragement.

“It's the buzzer,” she said. “Your pager. What are you, a part-time brain surgeon?”

He laughed: a full, explosive laugh, filled with pure pleasure.

“I'm a free-lance investigator—a private detective. And a pretty good one, if I do say so.”

“You're kidding.”

He shook his head. “I'm not kidding. Actors make good private investigators. There's a lot of role-playing—pretending you're someone you aren't, making people believe it.” Watching her, he realized that she was deciding whether she believed him. “I'm serious. You should try it, sometime.”

“I'm not very tough, I'm afraid.”

“Neither am I,” Bernhardt answered. “I'm a lover, not a fighter.”

Gravely returning his smile, she nodded. “Yes, I can see that.”

“Good.” He nodded, too.

D
ANCER SLID THE MANILA
folder across the desk. “That should be all you need. Remember, don't contact anyone at Powers, Associates, where she worked. That's important. And I don't think you should talk to her, make contact with her. Just call me, when you find her. I'll contact my principal.”

Picking up the folder, Bernhardt smiled. ‘Your principal.' How many times have I heard that? They never have names, these principals.”

Dancer, too, was smiling: a small, supercilious smile, mocking the man across the desk. With their business concluded, he could afford a few minutes of relaxation, baiting Bernhardt.

“It's called the edge. I sign your checks. That entitles me to an edge.”

Leaning back in his chair, crossing his long legs, Bernhardt accepted the gambit. Deciding on a condescending tone, he said, “Your edge is expediency, Herbert. Sometimes called borderline dishonesty. Face it.” As he spoke, he put a wry twist on his smile.

“It's a dishonest world, Alan. It's also a very messy world. You're—what—forty-two? And you still haven't figured out how the world really works. Have you ever considered what would happen if everyone suddenly started telling the truth? You've got a fertile imagination. Take a couple of minutes, sometime. Think about it.”

“Sure, it's a messy world. But you make it messier. You steal children for a living, Herbert. You're smart enough to rationalize it. But you can't change it.”

A pale gleam of pleasure shone in his gray eyes as Dancer smiled. “I steal children for a
good
living. The distinction is important.”

“To you. Not to me.”

“People get divorced. It's a way of life. They can usually agree on the money, and the houses, and the cars. But the children—they can't afford to agree on the children, on custody. The mother can't afford to admit that, really, she doesn't want the kids, because they'll cramp her style. And the husband feels guilty, for not wanting them.”

“So either way, you show a profit.”

“Either way.” Complacently, Dancer smiled.

“I don't think I've ever known anyone as cynical as you are. I really don't.”

“That's not the question. The question is, am I right? And the answer is, you know damn well I'm right. Look around you. A woman doesn't have an orgasm, she calls her psychiatrist, the first time it happens. The second time, she calls her lawyer. And the lawyers call us.”

“Not ‘us.' You.”

Dancer shrugged. “The only real difference between us is that I make more money than you do.”

“Wrong. The difference between us is that you're bleeding internally.” Pocketing the check, Bernhardt rose, picked up the folder. “This Betty Giles—she's not dangerous, is she?”

“I don't think so. She stole some papers, and her employer wants them back. He wants to talk to her, too.”

“Why do I get the feeling there's more to it than that?”

“Because that's the feeling you always get.”

“And I'm usually right.”

“Yes,” Dancer admitted, “you usually are. For whatever good it does you.”

“We're back to the edge, then.”

“We always come back to the edge. It's your fate, Alan.”

Aware that he was probably behind on points, Bernhardt decided against an exit line. Instead he rose, collected himself, delivered a theatrical snort. He left the office, went to an unoccupied desk in the adjoining office. He consulted a pocket address book, touch-toned a number, waited, frowned, broke the connection, tried another number. Finally: “Yes—is Lieutenant Friedman around, do you know? It's Alan Bernhardt calling.” As he waited, sitting on one corner of the desk, he flipped open the file folder, looked at the colored picture of Betty Giles. Her face, he decided, looked a little like Pamela's—the same oval shape, the dark hair, dark eyes, generously shaped mouth, the same—

“Yes, all right. Yes, I'll wait. Thanks.”

Pamela…

Over the remains of their pastrami sandwiches, they'd talked till after midnight. He'd walked her to her car, a Honda Civic, parked two blocks away. She'd opened the driver's door, tossed her shoulder bag and script inside, then turned to face him. They'd smiled at each other, said something meaningless to each other. The moment of truth was upon them—upon them and beyond them. As she'd extended her hand, for a handshake, he'd put his hands on her shoulders, as if he'd meant to give her a comradely clap, or perhaps award her a medal in the French fashion.

Would it ever change, for him? That sophomoric awkwardness, that eternal comic relief, would it ever—?

“Hello—Al?” It was Peter Friedman's familiar, good-natured rumble, gritty but cordial.

“Where were you? On the pot?”

“I was trying to figure out what buttons to push on our new six-million-dollar Japanese fingerprint computer. It's not easy, believe me. What can I do for you?”

“If I give you a name and an address, can you give me a rundown on a car?”

“If you buy me a ten-dollar lunch I probably can. That's the standard arrangement, you know.”

“It's a deal. Can you run it this morning—and have lunch today?”

“No problem. What's the name?”

“It's Betty Giles. G-I-L-E-S. Or maybe Elizabeth.” He looked at the fact sheet, read off the address in Los Angeles. Friedman read it back, and they agreed on The Castle Grand, at twelve-thirty.

A
S HE ALWAYS DID
when he saw Friedman, Bernhardt smiled, quietly amused. Whatever the occasion, Friedman always managed to look vaguely incongruous, dressed for the wrong place, at the wrong time. Yet, obviously, Friedman couldn't possibly care less. At two hundred forty pounds, graying, with a smooth, swarthy Buddha's face, Friedman projected an air of amiable indifference to his surroundings. His dark eyes were heavily lidded—seeing everything, revealing nothing. During the five years they'd known each other, Bernhardt had never seen Friedman surprised, or flustered, or at a loss for words.

Now, lolling at his ease, belly up, Friedman airily waved, beckoning for Bernhardt to join him at the tastefully set French country table. As always, the homicide detective was dressed in a wrinkled, rumpled three-piece suit, a haphazardly knotted tie, and a shirt with its collar mashed by Friedman's sizable double chins. And, yes, Friedman's vest was smudged with cigar ash. As always.

When Bernhardt sat across the table, Friedman handed over a slip of paper.

“Is this Betty Giles a skip?” Friedman asked. “Is that it?”

“That's it.”

“Then you may be in luck.” He pointed to the paper. “There was a moving violation issued against her car in Santa Rosa, two days ago. That's the citation number, and the license number, and description of the car.”

Gratefully, Bernhardt pocketed the paper. “This could help. A lot. Thanks, Pete.”