Bernhardt's Edge (4 page)

“No problem.”

“Are you ready to order? Or do you want a drink first?”

“Let's order.”

After they'd made their selections, Friedman leaned back in his chair, eyeing Bernhardt quizzically. Bernhardt knew that mannerism, knew what was coming next. He was about to be interrogated.

“So what's doing?” Friedman asked. “How's life?”

Bernhardt shrugged. “It goes on. What can I say?”

“Have you got a girlfriend yet?”

Slowly, Bernhardt smiled. “You're a real busybody, you know that? You're incorrigible.”

Friedman considered. “How about ‘persistent'?”

“How about ‘persistently incorrigible'?”

“You haven't answered the question. Anything?”

Bernhardt shrugged. “I know a few women, naturally. There's one, especially—we get together once in a while, get our rocks off. We're friends, too, which always makes it nice. But we're never going to get married.”

“A nice Jewish boy like you—you were programmed for marriage, don't you understand that? Preprogrammed.”

Sipping a chilled glass of white wine, Bernhardt looked at the other man. Should he tell Friedman about Pamela Brett?

No. God, no. Not yet.

And he didn't have to tell Friedman about Jenny, about their marriage, and how she died. They'd gotten past that years ago, he and Friedman. And they'd never talked about it since.

So, instead, he shifted his ground: “I'm not really so sure I
was
programmed for marriage. Maybe I was programmed for exactly what I'm doing. My father died in the war, as you know. And my mother never even considered getting remarried, as far as I know. She did modern dance, and marched for peace, and civil rights, and Israel. That's all she really cared about, I think. Dancing, and marching.”

“You think.”

Bernhardt shrugged again, thanked the waiter as he served them.

“What about Dancer?” Friedman asked. “What's he up to—the low life?”

“Same as always—making money. He's got the knack, you know. I finally figured it out. He decided, early in the game, that he wanted rich clients. Powerful clients. And he's smart enough, and smooth enough—” Bernhardt swallowed filet of sole, gestured with his fork. “He's smart enough to cater to them, these power structure types. It doesn't take any longer to send out a bill for ten thousand than it does for a thousand, you know. It's the same postage.”

“Dancer has the morals of a puff adder,” Friedman pronounced.

“No argument.”

“Why d'you stay with him? What are you, his conscience? Is that it? Is that why he keeps you around?”

“I stay with him,” Bernhardt answered patiently, “because I want to direct plays—and write plays, too. Which means I have to have outside income. Dancer pays me twice what anyone else in town'll pay.”

“No one else in town does what he does—divorces, custody work. And child stealing, for God's sake.”

“That's not fair. A lot of agencies do divorce work, and you know it. And, anyhow, I don't do those things. We've already been through this, Pete. I don't
do
that work. So why's it get to you, about me and Dancer? Every time I see you, it's the same old song.”

“Maybe it's because we're both Jews, who knows? Or maybe it's because I spent a couple of years down in Hollywood, making the rounds with my eight-by-ten glossies in my hand. Did I ever tell you about that—when I was young and slim, hitting the talent agencies?”

“Several times.” Bernhardt paused, considered, then decided to ask, “Do you ever wish you'd kept at it, in Hollywood? Any regrets?”

Friedman dropped his eyes to his plate, concentrating on the task of twisting linguini neatly around his fork. Finally, in a lower, softer voice, he said, “If you don't have regrets, my dad told me once, you haven't been trying very hard. And my dad was—” As Friedman's gaze shifted to the door he broke off, nodding. A friend was coming toward them. Turning, Bernhardt saw Frank Hastings, Friedman's co-lieutenant in Homicide. Waiting for a beleaguered busboy to awkwardly shoulder a trayful of dirty dishes, Hastings was nodding to Bernhardt, quietly smiling. Hastings was Friedman's exact opposite: laconic not verbose, trim not tubby, methodical not intuitive. Bernhardt had known Hastings before he'd known Friedman. Years ago, after her divorce, Ann Haywood had volunteered to paint sets at the Howell. When she began seeing Hastings, she'd introduced them. Half joking, Bernhardt had once told Hastings that he looked like a casting director's stereotype of the photogenic police lieutenant: a big, muscular man who'd once played professional football, six feet tall, with good, regular features, understanding eyes, and a knack for choosing the right clothes and wearing them well. Characteristically, Hastings had turned aside the compliment. But Ann had been delighted.

“Hello, Al.” Hastings gestured to their food. “More payola, eh?”

Also gesturing, Bernhardt said, “You're welcome to join us. Two lieutenants in the pocket's better than one.”

“I've eaten,” Hastings answered. “Besides, we've got work to do.” He turned to Friedman. “There're four people dead out in the Sunset, on Forty-fifth Avenue. Murder and suicide, it looks like—the whole family. When you're finished here, why don't you go back to the office and catch for me? I'm going out to have a look, with Canelli and Marsten.” He smiled: dark eyes subtly alive, generously shaped mouth slightly quirked as he dropped his eyes to Friedman's bulging belly. “Maybe you should pass up dessert. It couldn't hurt.”

“It couldn't help, either.” Friedman wound more linguini around his fork. “But I'll give it some thought. Do the troops know where I am?”

“Yes.”

“Okay—” Friedman swallowed the linguini, waved his fork. “I hope all the victims voided before they expired.” He looked at Bernhardt. “Sorry—an old homicide joke.”

“I'll be in touch.” Hastings nodded to Bernhardt. “See you soon, Al. Come over for dinner sometime, why don't you? Ann would like to see you.”

“Fine. Give me a call.” Bernhardt nodded in return, watched Hastings turn, walk away. Hastings moved like an athlete: smoothly, economically, confidently. Bernhardt could imagine Hastings in high school: a star football player, quietly sure of himself, aware of the girls giggling as they passed him in the hallways, secretly adoring.

Friedman finished the linguini, nodded when the waiter offered more coffee. “So what's next?” Friedman asked. “Will Dancer spring for a trip to Santa Rosa?”

“Of course he'll spring. How else can he pad his bills? First, though, I'm going to talk to Nora Farley—Betty Giles' mother. Then I'll go up to Santa Rosa, stay for a couple of days.” He signaled for the check. “I'll let you know what happens.”

“Santa Rosa is a sizable place. You'll have to get lucky, to find her.”

“Maybe her mother will have something for me. Anyhow, I can make the rounds of the hotels and motels.”

“Good luck. Incidentally, you can also come over to my house, for dinner. My wife cooks as good as Ann. Better, maybe. Kosher.”

“It's a deal. Thanks.”

Nodding, Friedman finished his coffee and stood up, at the same time checking his pager. “Ready?”

“Ready.”

T
HE ADDRESS FOR NORA
Farley was a small bungalow in the Ingleside District, a marginal neighborhood in slow, grim decline. The street was potholed, the sidewalks were cracked, and most of the streetlights were broken. A vacant lot was littered with refuse. To his right, Bernhardt saw a derelict car, completely stripped, resting on its brake drums. The Ingleside was an “R-3” district, where fast-buck real estate speculators had taken advantage of a lapse in zoning laws to throw up the small, cheaply built “low rise” stucco apartment buildings that were crowding out the few remaining single family dwellings.

Nora Farley was obviously doing her best to hold her own against the decay that surrounded her. The bungalow's small front yard was neatly planted; the frilled curtains at the windows were freshly starched and carefully hung. But the bungalow's stucco walls were cracking, and badly needed paint. The gutters were rusting, and a vent pipe leaned at a precarious angle. Nora Farley apparently had the will, but lacked the money.

Bernhardt pushed open a sagging gate, stepped up to stand on the “welcome” doormat, and pressed the bell button. He was wearing a sports jacket and tie; his hair was carefully combed. When the door opened, he was ready with a reassuring smile and an extended business card.

“Mrs. Farley? Nora Farley?”

She was a short, dumpy woman with a pale, lumpy face, washed-out eyes, and dark brown hair, imperfectly dyed and haphazardly arranged. She wore belly-bulged blue jeans and an incongruous “49ers” sweatshirt that outlined large, pendulous breasts. She was squinting into the afternoon sun, eyes puckered, mouth askew, as a child might squint up at an adult. Except for harshly penciled eyebrows, she wore no makeup. As she searched his face, she nodded. Yes, she was Nora Farley.

“I'm Alan Bernhardt, Mrs. Farley. I've come about Betty.”

Sudden apprehension clouded her eyes, twisted her mouth. Stepping away from him, she raised anxious hands, as if to defend herself.

“Wh—what is it? What's happened to her? Is it—was there an accident?”

“Nothing's happened to her, Mrs. Farley. As far as I know, she's fine. I'm a private investigator. My firm has been retained by Betty's employer to try and find her.” He paused, watching her face, waiting for her reaction. He'd given no thought to his opening questions. Long ago, he'd learned to improvise, relying on moment-to-moment impressions for his cues. And, yes, he could see fear in her small, dull eyes. He'd reassured her, told her that Betty was all right. But, still, she was worried. Deeply worried.

It was a good starting point. Nora Farley was a simple person, essentially a defensive person. Properly manipulated, her vulnerability should prove a plus.

But first it was necessary to gain her confidence, convince her that they were on the same side. He must therefore smile, make warm, reassuring eye contact. He was an actor again, turning on an actor's charm.

“Have you got a few minutes, Mrs. Farley? Can we talk?”

“Well—” She hesitated, glanced uncertainly over her shoulder, finally stepped back. “Well, okay. The place is kind of a mess, but—” She turned, walked into a small living room. The room was furnished in department store early American. Everything was ruffled: curtains, lamp shades, chair skirts. A huge TV in an early American cabinet dominated the room. Soap opera characters moved on the screen, soundlessly. The plastic recliner in front of the TV still bore the outline of Nora Farley's buttocks. A calico cat crouched on the back of the recliner, watching Bernhardt with yellow eyes. Another cat crouched on the back of a maple rocker. Ignoring the calico cat, Nora Farley sat in the recliner, used a remote control wand to switch off the TV, and gestured Bernhardt to a maple loveseat. As he sat down, Bernhardt sneezed. For as long as he could remember, he'd been allergic to cat fur.

“Where's Betty, anyhow?” she asked. “Do you know?”

“I don't. That's why I'm here. I'm hoping you can help me.”

The brown-penciled eyebrows drew together; the small mouth puckered, as if she were puzzled.

“You say you're with Powers, Associates?”

“I'm not
with
them, not on the staff. They've hired us, my firm.” He gestured with the card, placed it on the coffee table. “I'm with Herbert Dancer, Limited. We've been retained to find her. By Powers, Associates, you see. They're—” He hesitated, deciding on the next phrase: “They're concerned about her, at Powers, Associates. She left without telling them, giving notice. So, naturally, they're worried. You are, too, probably.”

“You bet I am. I'm worried sick.”

“We're on the same side, then. Good.” Smiling again, another actor's turn, he produced a spiral-bound pocket notebook and a ballpoint pen. “You, Powers, Associates, my people—we all want the same thing.”

“Except that I don't know where she
is
.” It was a plaintive, resigned protest, addressed more to the deity than to Bernhardt.

“When's the last time you heard from her, Mrs. Farley?”

“About—let's see—about a week ago, I guess. Maybe ten days. I forget, exactly.”

“Ten days—” According to the handwritten note he'd gotten from Dancer, Betty Giles had disappeared four or five weeks ago, in Los Angeles. “Did you actually see her? Or did she phone?”

“She phoned.”

“As I understand it, she moved out of her apartment in Los Angeles about a month ago. Is that right?”

She nodded. “About then. And that's what worries me, see. I mean, it's not
like
Betty to do something like that—just pick up and move, leave town, like a—a thief in the night, or something. She wouldn't
do
that.” It was another complaint, directed toward heaven.

“How many times have you talked to her since she moved out of her apartment?”

“Well, she called just the night before she left L.A., the way I get it. And she talked real strange, when she called.
Real
strange. She was nervous. I could tell she was nervous, just the way she talked, and everything. She was trying not to let on, but I could tell.”

“What'd she say, exactly, when she called? Do you remember?”

“Well, that's the point, see. I mean, she kept interrupting herself, and every once in a while she covered up the phone, and said something to—” She grimaced. “She was talking to that—that Nick. I know she was. He's the cause of all this, sure as hell. I know he's at the bottom of it, whatever's happened.”