“I can tell.”
“So what can I do for you?”
“Well, I—I just had lunch with my dad. I just got home from having lunch. And he said that, Monday night, someone called him asking about me—someone who gave him a false name.”
“When you say ‘asking about you,’ what d’you mean? Did he sound like a bill collector, someone official?”
“He said he was a friend of mine, that his name was John Williams, I think that was it. And my dad said he sounded like he knew all about my plans, where I’d be, what I’m doing. But the thing is, I didn’t tell anyone I was coming here. Nobody.”
“And you’re worried about it.”
“Someone killed Jeff. And now someone’s tracking me.”
She heard him draw a deep breath. “You’re assuming that Jeff’s death is connected to the disappearance of your stepfather’s girlfriend. And if that’s true, maybe it’s logical that this guy—John Williams—is tracking you for some dark purpose. But there’s another scenario. It could be that the two events are unrelated. It could be—”
“What I’d like is some protection.”
Once more, she heard him draw a deep, reluctant breath. “And I’d like to offer you some protection, if only to ease your mind. But I’ve got to be honest with you, Diane. And the truth is, I run a one-man operation. There’s me and an answering machine and that’s it. And—”
“But, Christ, I’m trying to tell you that—”
“Wait. Let me finish.” It was a crisp, stern command. “If I provided protection for you—a bodyguard—I’d have to hire someone by the hour. I’d have to pay someone—a free-lancer—twenty-five or thirty dollars an hour. Then I’d have to add ten dollars to that, for overhead.”
“So we’re back to money, you and me.”
“I
need
money.”
“I thought Carley gave you some money.”
“She gave me a two-hundred-dollar retainer, and said she’d go to five hundred, total. If I hire someone to guard you, one shift at forty dollars an hour, that’s the end of the five hundred.”
“What about Kane? Have you tried to find him?”
“I’ve tried the airports, looking for your stepfather’s airplane. No luck.”
“Kane might’ve been the one who called my father.”
“Anything’s possible. But, offhand, I can’t think why he’d use a fake name. After all, you know he’s here. He knocked on your door.”
“He’s a shifty bastard. I’ve already told you that.”
“I know. And I’d like to talk to him. It just hasn’t worked out.”
“Yeah …” As she said it, she looked at her watch. How long had they been talking? Fifteen minutes? Billable? Lawyers, she knew, charged two hundred dollars just to talk on the phone, give advice.
How much did her father charge?
How much would her father pay, for someone to protect her?
Why couldn’t she tell her father what happened? Why couldn’t she—?
“Diane?”
“Yes?” She tried to put it all in a single word: all the questions, all the anger.
“I’ve just had a thought.”
“A thought?”
“I’ve got a friend—a good friend—who wants to learn the business. This might be a good place for her to start.”
“‘Her’?”
“You might not realize it, but more than a third of the private detectives are women. And they make damn good investigators, too. In lots of situations, women can get more information than men can get.”
“So what’ll she do if someone goes for me? Scream? Christ, I can do that.”
“You’re going to laugh at this, but I’m going to tell you what she’d do. She’d blow her whistle. You’d be amazed what the bad guys do, when they hear a police whistle.”
“Jesus.”
“Then there’re car phones.”
“Hmmm.”
“Shall I talk to her?”
“I’m going out tonight. Carley and her boyfriend and I are going to the movies.”
“Will you be home for the next couple of hours?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Stay put. My—ah—assistant will call you, make the arrangements.”
“A woman …”
“Believe me, she’ll deliver. And I’ll be backstopping her.”
“You will?”
“Guaranteed.”
“What’s her name?”
“It’s Paula. Paula Brett.”
“What is she, some kind of lady jock? Is that it?”
“No,” Bernhardt answered, “that’s definitely not it.”
“T
HE PROBLEM WITH HOUSTON,”
Daniels said, speaking into the speakerphone, “is the oil situation. I just don’t think we should commit to—” On his console, the blue light blinked: Jackie, with a call on his private line. “Just a second, Herb. There’s my other line. Hold on.” He pressed the button. “Yes?”
“It’s your wife, Mr. Daniels.”
“Tell her she can hold for two minutes, or I’ll call her back in five.”
“One moment.” Jackie left the line, then quickly came back. “She’ll hold.”
“Talk to her about clothes, Jackie.”
“Hmmm.”
He went back to the first call. “Sorry, Herb. My wife.”
“No problem.”
“I’ve got her on hold, talking to Jackie. So this is the nub: If Ernie’s realistic about this, if he realizes that he made a mistake, and he’s willing to take sixty, sixty-five cents on the dollar to get out clean, take the loss, write it off, then I think we’d be interested. But I want Ernie to feel right about this. I don’t want him to feel like he’s being fucked. He’s only thirty-five, and he’s smart. There’ll be other deals.”
“I agree.”
“I don’t think you should do this on the phone. I think you should go down to Houston Monday. Even tomorrow, if you can work it out with Ernie. Play a little golf, have a couple of drinks. The point being, I want Ernie’s goodwill. The deal itself, even at fifty, fifty-five cents, I think we can take that or leave it. But Ernie’s someone we can work with, down the line.”
“I absolutely agree.”
“Okay. Keep me posted.”
“Right.”
“How
is
your golf game, by the way?”
“It seems to vary with my waistline, a direct relationship.”
Daniels decided on an appreciative chuckle. “Okay. Gotta go.” He switched to his private line. Yes, Millicent and Jackie were talking about clothes.
“Okay, Jackie. Back to work.”
“Yes, sir.” A humorous, relaxed response.
“Preston.” Millicent’s voice was low, stricken.
Stricken?
Instantly the images came back, the images that only the moment-to-moment pressures of work had erased: Diane, dead on some San Francisco street. Diane, no longer a mortal threat. Replaced now by the police, the reporters. Replaced by the eyes, watching.
Were other calls waiting, on other lines down the chain of command? Would there be headlines in tomorrow’s tabloids?
“What is it?” he asked. “You sound worried.”
“It’s Justin. He had a heart attack this morning.”
Justin Faye, their host for tomorrow’s dinner party. The invitation was a bright star in Millicent’s firmament, a prize. And for him, too. Senators and CEOs and, yes, a cabinet member, they were all on the guest list. Society columnists would be holding the presses for this one, the crown jewel of the summer social season.
Poor Millicent, with the Aubergé gown in the closet, and the hairdresser reserved.
“So the party’s off.”
“Of course,” she answered peevishly. Then, letting it all hang out, yet another grievance, she said, “Did you know that Freddy’s having people in tonight after the performance?”
Freddy King, the choreographer, unsurprisingly gay, currently anointed New York’s favorite media darling. Hold the presses again.
His response must be low-keyed, pitch-perfect: “No, I didn’t know.” Then: “Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. After all I’ve done for him, that son of a bitch.”
“Maybe he’s just having a few people. Maybe it’s all guys. I don’t think you should—”
“He’s having Inez and Jimmy.” It was the ultimate indictment. Assuming, as one must, that Freddy knew of the Millicent-Inez rivalry.
“Hmmm.” He allowed her to hear a deep, sympathetic sigh. Then: “Listen, it’s after four, and I’ve got to—”
“I want to go to the Cape. Tomorrow. Early tomorrow. Or tonight, even.” It was a command, not a request.
He felt his stomach contract, felt his whole body take the shock, felt substance fall away, leaving only the emptiness.
Yet, certainly, she suspected nothing. She simply had to get out of town. Regroup. Plan vengeance. Have two martinis before dinner, not just one.
If he objected, said he couldn’t make it, she would certainly go by herself, fair game for Constable Joe Farnsworth.
So he must go with her. He must tell Millicent to tell Jackie to arrange it: a charter flight, up to the Cape tomorrow, return Sunday night. Either a charter flight, or get someone else to fly the King Air.
While, in San Francisco, Kane was otherwise occupied.
S
HE PRESSED THE BUTTON
beside “Hanks,” leaned closer to the grille of the small speaker while she positioned herself to grasp the doorknob if the electric door opener buzzed. “Hello?”
“I’m Paula Brett. I’m working with Alan Bernhardt. Is this Diane?”
“No, this is Carley. But Diane’s expecting you. I’ll buzz you in—”
—As, yes, the door’s buzzer sounded. Paula pushed open the vintage oak door and climbed one flight of stairs to the second floor. The building was turn-of-the-century Edwardian: high, coved ceilings, elaborate woodwork and trim, wide hallways. The rooms, certainly, were spacious and airy, with generous windows. There were two apartments to each floor, front and back. Carley Hanks’s apartment, Alan had told her, was the second floor front. On her knock, the door immediately swung open.
“Diane Cutler?”
The young woman nodded. She was short and thickly built. Her shoulder-length hair was dark and full and tangled; her jeans and blouse weren’t suited to her figure. Because her hair was too full, her face seemed too small. Her eyes were dark and hard-focused, smudged by teenage disaffection. Her lipstick was too vivid, a touch of defiance gone wrong. The skin of her face was coarse.
“I’m Paula Brett.”
Nodding, Diane Cutler was stepping back, gesturing without enthusiasm to the interior hallway. Paula closed the hallway door, followed the young woman into a large, sunny living room. They sat facing each other across a big, low coffee table.
“Alan’s filled me in.” Paula ventured a smile. “We’ve spent a lot of time talking about you.”
No response.
“He wanted me to tell you that I’ve got a walkie-talkie, plus the whistle.” She patted her shoulder bag, tried another smile. “I’ve also got a cellular phone in the car. So you’ll be getting Alan, too, as backup.”
“Good.” No inflection. No warmth. No answering smile. Poor Diane Cutler, with her eyes gone muddy, with her closed, embittered face and her stocky, awkwardly articulated body. Poor little rich girl.
“Is there—” Paula hesitated. Bernhardt had warned her: this wouldn’t be easy. Nothing, she suspected, would be easy with Diane Cutler. “Is there anything you’d like to ask? I mean, we’ll want to make plans, for tonight.”
“I already told Alan. I’m going out with my roommate and her boyfriend. We’re going to have something to eat, and then go to the movies.”
“Is her boyfriend coming by here?”
Diane Cutler nodded, glanced at her watch. “He’s coming in about twenty minutes.”
“Where’s your roommate?”
“She’s in the bathroom.”
Considering, Paula nodded, let her eyes wander to the front window that overlooked the street below. Like most San Francisco residences, the majority built on lots only twenty-five feet wide, Carley Hanks’s apartment building was attached to its neighbor on either side, with garages beneath. Assuming that the rear entry was secure, one person parked in front of the building could cover the whole surveillance area. Just as, she suspected, Alan had already concluded.
“So the three of you are leaving here about six-thirty or seven. Right?”
Diane nodded.
“Will you go in one car?”
“I guess so.”
“The three of you will eat, and then go to the movies.”
“Right.”
“Then what?”
“Then I guess maybe we’ll have a drink someplace. Or we might just go home.”
“All three of you’ll come here?”
“Either that, or maybe they’ll drop me off, and the two of them’ll go to Dale’s place for the night. That’s up to them.”
“If that’s the way it goes,” Paula said, “then the only time you need me would be when they drop you off—the time between when they drop you off and the time you’re back here, safe.” She gestured to the room, the apartment.
Diane shrugged.
“Will Carley’s boyfriend be coming here in his car?”
“I suppose so.” She considered, then nodded. “Sure. He wouldn’t take a bus.”
“It’d be easier if you all went from here in one car,” Paula said. “That way, you wouldn’t have to worry, not if you’re with your friends. Then, when you get back here, I’ll be parked outside.”
Expressionlessly, the other woman looked at her for a long, silent moment. Then, in a flat, resentful voice, she said, “I don’t see what good it’ll do, if you’re parked with your—” A short, contemptuous pause. “With your whistle.”
For this objection, she was ready, rehearsed: “If someone’s out to harm you, Diane, they don’t want a witness. Especially a witness who’s making noise.”
The other woman looked away.
“Very few private investigators carry guns, Diane. A lot of them are licensed—Alan, for instance. But he almost never carries a gun. Because guns can create problems—a lot of problems, sometimes.”
“They can also come in very goddamn handy, I’d think.”
“A gun’s no good unless you’re willing to pull the trigger. And if I saw someone making a move on you, I’m not going to shoot him. I’d be in jail if I pulled the trigger first. And if
he
pulled the trigger first, you’d be the victim. So I’m going to yell. And, yes, blow the whistle. And he’s going to split.”
“Okay.” Sullenly, the other woman shrugged, looked pointedly at her watch. Saying in the same flat, hostile voice: “Whatever.”
“L
ET’S TAKE THE BMW,”
Carley said as she locked the apartment door and tested the latch. “Okay, Diane?”