Daniels decided to nod—once.
Kane sat silently for a moment, eyeing him. Kane was dressed in Bermuda shorts and an expensive casual cotton beachcomber shirt—dressed as a tourist, not as an employee.
“I understand,” Kane said, “that Diane and the Weston kid had something going. At least that’s the gossip around town. They’ve been seen together. At motels …”
“What Diane does—who she fucks—that’s between her and her mother. I just try to stay out of the line of fire.”
“My point, though, is that the three of them are connected. Diane, and the Weston kid, and Carolyn. There’s a connection.” A moment of meaningful silence. Then: “I’d like to know what’s going on. If those three are connected—if Diane’s disappearance has something to do with Carolyn disappearing, and then you telling me to work Weston over, then I want to know about it. I mean—” He gestured: a short, pugnacious sweep of his tanned, muscular arm. “I mean, so far it’s looking like my ass is the only one hanging out, if Farnsworth starts asking questions. He might not be any genius, but he’s no dummy, either.”
Rather than reply, Daniels took a blank check from his wallet and wrote it to Kane for ten thousand dollars. “Here.” He handed over the check. “That’s for you. Any expenses—airfares, hotels—charge it to the airplane account. I want you to fly us back to New York tomorrow about noon. Then I want you to fly commercial to San Francisco. When you find her, call me.” As he rose, he saw Kane looking at the check.
“Ten thousand.” Kane spoke reflectively, insolently. “That’s pocket money, for you.”
Daniels made no reply.
Kane waved the check between them, a gesture of mild contempt. “Considering the heat I could be taking, even though it was an accident, about that kid, this really isn’t much money.”
“Have you forgotten about the twenty-five thousand, less than two weeks ago?”
“Oh, no—” Kane shook his head: a slow, meaningful signal of trouble to come. “Oh, no, I haven’t forgotten that. But that was before Farnsworth started asking questions. Wasn’t it?” His smile, too, signaled trouble.
B
ERNHARDT TOUCH-TONED THE NUMBER
Carley Hanks had given him. On the third ring, a woman answered.
“Yes. Carley?”
“No. Carley’s not here. Can I take a message?” She spoke abruptly. Diane Cutler’s voice. Almost certainly, Diane’s voice.
“No, that’s all right. It’s a personal call. I’ll get her later, when she comes home from work. Thanks.”
“Who shall I say called?”
“Tell her Tony called.”
“Tony …”
“Thanks.” He broke the connection, went to the back door, let Crusher inside, bolted the door. The Airedale had found a bedraggled tennis ball, one of dozens that had somehow disappeared in the small rear garden since Crusher had come to live with him. Bernhardt wrestled the ball away, loped to the front of the house, faked the dog out, tossed the tennis ball down the full length of the hallway. Paws slipping, churning on the waxed floor, Crusher got under way, hurtled down the hallway, caught the ball on the rebound off the kitchen door, skidded to a stop before he crashed into the door. Prancing, Crusher returned for another turn—and another. Finally, laying out two dog biscuits to ease the pain of parting, Bernhardt slipped into a corduroy jacket, took his attaché case, and left. Munching the dog biscuit, the Airedale nevertheless managed to look betrayed as Bernhardt closed the front door on him.
O
N THE OTHER SIDE
of the door, through the small optical peephole, Bernhardt saw reflected movement.
“Yes?”
He hadn’t decided on an opening, a strategy. Improvisation, he’d learned, was his fate. Or was it his talent?
“Diane?”
“Yes …” Cautiously.
“My name is Alan Bernhardt. Carley asked me to come by, talk to you for a few minutes.”
“Talk about what?” Suspiciously.
“I wanted to talk to you before I talk to your father. It’ll just take a few minutes.”
“I don’t understand what you’re talking about. What d’you
want?”
Petulantly now.
“I’m a private investigator.” He held up the plastic laminated ID.
“So?” It was a quick, glib question.
“If you’ll just let me in, Miss Cutler, I’d appreciate it. We can’t settle anything with the door closed.”
A moment’s silence. Then: “What’s Carley’s last name?” Cleverly. Cautiously. Alertly.
“Hanks.”
“You know my last name. Do you know my father’s first name?”
“It’s Paul. Paul Cutler. He’s a lawyer with offices in the Embarcadero Center. And I’m not answering any more questions until you let me in.”
Finally: “What the hell. I’m not doing anything else.” A lock grated, a chain rattled, the door came open.
She was short and heavily built. Her hair was dark and tangled, closely crowding a thick-featured oval face. Her complexion was bad, her mouth was shapeless, her nose was too small and too flat, and her dark eyes were lusterless and opaque, muddied by chronic confusion. Barefooted, she wore jeans and a bright-orange sweatshirt. Beneath the sweatshirt, her breasts were full; beneath the jeans, her thighs were round and thick. Her stance was defensive, her expression sullen; the tilt of her head was dogged, defiant. Diane Cutler was one of the lost ones, caught in the hopeless tangle of teenage angst, a little girl with big problems.
“So?” In the narrow hallway, standing with her bare feet spread, she folded her arms, her chin up another defiant fraction. “What’s it all about?”
“Can we—” He looked over her shoulder, nodded toward the spacious, high-ceilinged living room that overlooked Noe Street. “Can we go inside, sit down?” He smiled, spread his hands. “I don’t plan to hassle you. At least—” He tried to improve on the smile. “At least not if you wouldn’t mind getting me a glass of water.”
She studied him for a final moment before she shrugged, gracelessly stepped back, jerked her head in the direction of the living room. “Sit down. Would you like some coffee? It’s already on.”
“That’d be great. Black.” As he strode into the living room he took the automatic inventory: an expensive sound system, an upscale TV, the traditional student’s brick-and-plank bookshelves crowded with dog-eared paperbacks, threadbare hand-me-down furniture that had once been expensive; assorted posters, most of them friendly to the earth. The room itself was vintage Victorian: high coved ceilings, walls paneled beneath a plate rail, a big bay window with a curved window seat. Most of the furniture was clustered around a turn-of-the-century oak dining table that had been cut down to coffee-table height. The coffee table was stacked with magazines, newspapers, books, dirty cups and glasses. At the entrance to the living room, a large coat rack displayed a collection of hats: a safari hat, a pith helmet, a Sam Spade fedora, several baseball caps with unlikely logos, a cowboy hat, and a badly dented top hat.
As Bernhardt sat down on the couch, Diane Cutler entered the room from the hallway, a steaming mug of coffee in either hand. She placed one of the mugs in front of Bernhardt, then sat in a director’s chair, facing Bernhardt across the table. As Bernhardt sipped the coffee, he noticed a lipstick stain on the rim of his mug. He shifted the mug to his left hand, sipped again.
“You said Carley asked you to come by. Does that mean she hired you?”
“She asked me to come. I don’t discuss who pays me.”
“It was my mother, wasn’t it? She knew I’d come to San Francisco. She hired you.”
“It wasn’t your mother. But that’s all I’ll say.”
“Then why should I talk to you, if you won’t talk to me?”
“Because,” he answered, “Carley thought it might make you feel better, take some of the pressure off.”
She smiled. It was a sardonic, show-me smile. “Take the pressure off. Just like that, eh?”
“No, not just like that. I think she figured that sometimes it helps to talk to a disinterested party.”
“Talk about what?”
“Carley didn’t say. Except—” For emphasis, he let a beat pass. “Except that she said it might have something to do with the law. That’s why she thought of me, you see. I know her mother. We’re friends. So Carley thought that—”
“What d’you mean, ‘the law’?”
“I don’t know what I mean. Frankly.”
“Great. The blind leading the blind.” She drained her mug, banged it down on the cluttered coffee table.
“If you’re in any trouble—anything I can help you with—why don’t you tell me? What’s the harm? Even if you’re on the wrong side of the law—even if you’re running—maybe I can help you. Or, at least, advise you. Maybe I can—”
“I’m not in any trouble with the law. None. A couple of parking tickets, and that’s it.”
“Fine. You don’t have a cop problem. So what is it?”
“What I’ve got,” she said defiantly, “are family problems. Just like everyone else.
Everyone
else.”
“Carley thinks you’re scared. She thinks you’re running from something—or someone. And so do I.” As he said it, Bernhardt saw her face change, saw her eyes wander speculatively away. When her gaze returned, he could see the calculation.
“Suppose I
was
having a problem with the law,” she said. “What could you do about it?”
“Obviously, that’d depend on the problem.”
“You said you were going to talk to my dad. What’d you mean by that?”
“I meant that if I couldn’t talk to you, then I’d try to talk to him, see if I can find out what’s bothering you.”
“Suppose I had a problem in Massachusetts. And suppose I ran away. Let’s say—” Plainly to let the words catch up with whatever angle she’d decided to play, she broke off. Then: “Let’s say I was drunk, spaced out, whatever. Let’s say it was a hit-and-run. But I was so spaced out, I wasn’t even sure what really happened. All I knew was that I had to split, get away, before it all came out, whatever happened. I panicked. I had to run.” Once more, she broke off. As if she’d been animated by her own story, true or false, her eyes had quickened.
“You want me to find out what happened on a certain day on a certain road in Massachusetts. Is that what you’re saying?”
Her mouth twisted into a small, sardonic smile. “It was just a story. Remember?” But now she was watching him carefully.
Deciding to go deadpan, the stereotype of the bored P.I. who’d heard it all before, he spoke quietly: “Who was it, Diane? Who’re we talking about?”
She hesitated. Then, perhaps because she’d decided to trust him, she said, “Could you find out what happened? Can private detectives get that kind of information?”
“It depends on what happened, and why. Private detectives can ask questions. And there’re data bases—a lot more data bases than most people think. But don’t forget, private detectives take an oath to uphold the law. Some of us take that oath seriously. Of course, there’s a gray area, otherwise known as client privilege. Different private investigators interpret that privilege differently. Some don’t want to know the whole truth about their clients. Sometimes it’s easier that way. But I don’t work like that. If I’ve got a client who’s broken the law, I want to know about it. I want him to tell me what happened, and why. I’m not going to blow the whistle on him. The way I see it, that’d be a breach of confidence. But if the law asks me, directly, whether a certain client committed a certain crime, I’m not going to lie. So—” Having finished with the standard spiel, he leaned back, drank some of the coffee, which was going cold. “So you should keep all that in mind, if you’re considering retaining me. People who ask cops questions usually get asked questions in return.”
“I’ve already told you. It’s just a story. I wasn’t talking about me.”
“Good. I’m glad to hear it.” He decided to drain the mug, put it on the table, make the motions of departure. Either she’d tell him more, or she wouldn’t. Whichever way it went, he’d already put Carley Hanks’s check in the mail for deposit. He rose, took a card from his pocket, put it on the coffee table. The girl rose with him, but made no move toward the door. Her expression was unreadable, frozen by something sad and secret.
“I haven’t been a private detective for very long,” he said. “At least, not running my own operation. I’ve still got a lot to learn. One thing I’ve discovered, though, is that it’s hard to work for one person who’s trying to help someone else. Maybe that’s because the whole process breaks down if the person who’s being helped doesn’t want to be helped. It’s a little like—” He hesitated. “It’s a little like alcoholism. Unless someone wants to be helped—admits he has a problem—he can’t be helped. So—” He moved toward the short hallway, and the door. “So I won’t be seeing you again, Diane. Not unless you want to see me.” He thanked her for the coffee, turned his back on her, walked to the door. He was reaching for the doorknob when he heard her say:
“Mr. Bernhardt. Wait.”
“P
OOR KID.” DEEPLY SYMPATHETIC
, Paula shook her head. “Poor little rich girl. God, it sounds like she’s really hurting.” She gestured to the salad bowl. “More?”
Bernhardt shook his head, raised his wineglass, sipped. He’d bought the bottle at his friendly corner grocery store, ostensibly a medium-priced French Bordeaux, drastically reduced. It had been a mistake. For less money, he could have gotten a good local product—complete with preservatives.
“It also sounds like she trusts you, Alan. It sounds like she needs you.”
“That’s the real pathos,” he said. “Apparently there isn’t a soul on earth she trusts enough to confide in. She can’t get along with her mother, and I get the feeling her father has to choose between her and his new family. Except for Carley Hanks, she doesn’t have a single friend, I don’t think.”
“She trusts you, confided in you, though.”
He put the wineglass down, shook his head. “Not completely. All she’s told me is that she wants to find out how a guy named Jeff Weston died. If he was murdered, she wants to know whether there’s a suspect. But that’s it. She won’t tell me why she wants to know.”
“So what happens now?”
“I have three choices. I can make some phone calls to Cape Cod, and hope the local authorities feel like giving out the information to a mere private investigator, which is very, very unlikely. Or I can go to Cape Cod and take a few days to poke around—which is expensive. Or else I can call in some markers at SFPD. Except that I don’t have a surplus of markers. I’m just about running even.”