Once more, the breakers came in, crashed down, ebbed, gathered force, came in again. When she’d been born, these waves were coming in.
And when Diane had been born, too.
Eighteen years ago. Only eighteen. Divide eighteen years into eons, and the time sliver was smaller than a grain of sand.
When she was in college, geology had been one of the few subjects that had held her interest. Geology and archaeology and anthropology, studies of the past. When she was a sophomore, she’d dreamed of going on archaeological digs. Wearing shorts and a halter and heavy high-topped hiking shoes and a khaki expedition hat, she saw herself on a sunbaked desert working with camel’s-hair brushes to unearth fragments of bone, or pottery, or a fossilized dinosaur skeleton. Always there was a man: a European graduate student, wonderfully handsome, incredibly serious.
She’d been nineteen years old when she’d finished her sophomore year.
The next year, playing tennis on one of the campus courts, she’d seen Paul. He’d been playing on the next court with Don Kanter.
They’d been married almost exactly a year later. And, a year after that, Diane had been born.
It had been a mistake. One single mistake.
It had been a beach party, in Monterey. They’d been going to drive back to San Francisco, after the party. But they’d both drunk too much to drive, so they’d stayed with friends, slept on mattresses on the living room floor. And, God, they’d wanted each other that night. No diaphragm, try it once, take the gamble.
And Diane had been born.
They’d still been in love, then. God, they’d been in love.
The following year they’d decided that Paul should go to Stanford Law. His father had offered to pay, an offer too good to decline. Of course, Paul’s father would only pay for essentials, no luxuries. Was that understood?
The problem, Paul had said later, was definitional. The word “luxury,” for instance. How did they define luxury?
“How about drapes?” she’d once demanded. “Are they luxuries?” Paul’s father, himself a lawyer, had come right back at her. “Drapes, no. Johnnie Walker, yes.” And he’d pointed to the bottle of Johnnie Walker on a shelf.
Just then, she remembered, in the bedroom, Diane had started to cry. Situation saved. Temporarily saved.
For eighteen years, temporarily saved. Until now. Until last night, when Diane had finally saved herself from more pain than she could bear.
Last night …
It had been a bad night for both of them, last night. She’d been so upset because Freddy King hadn’t invited her for dinner that she’d had to get out of town.
While, last night, her daughter had chosen to die.
She’d walked so far along the water’s edge that she’d reached the saltwater bog that limited the beach to the north. A half mile away, the beach house seemed very small, matchbox size. When she’d left the house, Preston had come out on the lower deck, to watch her. He’d had a glass of wine in his hand. His picture-perfect profile, his white ducks and striped crew shirt, the glass held so gracefully in his hand, the million-dollar house, the soft-focused background—all of it had been perfection, a
Town and Country
picture spread.
As she’d walked down to the beach, away from him, she could feel him looking at her. When she’d reached the water’s edge she’d turned to look back at him. Gravely, he’d raised his glass to her. He’d meant the gesture to express his regret, his compassion.
So that as she turned her back on him and walked away, he would understand that she blamed him as much as she blamed herself.
D
AMAGE, DANIELS KNEW, HAD
been done. It was measurable. The poets spoke of heartache, heartbreak. Scientists would speak of the central nervous system, of a mental state so traumatic that the blood rushed to the solar plexus, starving the brain for blood.
But it was a contradiction. Because, for almost twelve hours, ever since Cutler had called, he’d felt hollow at his center, the site of the solar plexus.
The essential fluidity of his gestures, he knew, the movements of his body, the cadence of his speech, even word control, smile control—all had been compromised, as if some essential synapses in the brain were malfunctioning. In computerese, it was as if the central memory chip were failing. Not failed, but failing. But there the analogy ended. Because the brain could repair itself; a microchip couldn’t.
A drug overdose, Cutler had said.
And the images had begun: Kane, forcing himself into her apartment. Kane, subduing her. Choking her until she fainted. Kane, jabbing the needle into her arm, her thigh.
Kane, somewhere between San Francisco and Cape Cod.
Kane’s face as he held out his hand for another envelope stuffed with cash.
Kane, smiling. Kane, gloating.
And the other faces. Millicent, staring at him with stone-cold eyes.
Constable Joe Farnsworth’s eyes, probing.
Kane—Millicent—Farnsworth. Together, they held him hostage.
“W
HERE’RE YOU GOING?” MILLICENT
asked.
“I’m going out for a drive,” Daniels answered, searching his pockets for keys. “I’ll be back in about an hour. Is there anything you want in the village?”
Ignoring the question, she asked, “When are we leaving? I want to be in New York by five o’clock, at the latest.” It was a command, not a request: Millicent, dictating terms.
“I think the airplane’s in New York. If it is, I’ll arrange for a charter.” Then, finessing: “I’ll drive out to the airport and talk to them, check on Bruce, make arrangements. I—” He attempted a smile. “I’ve got to get out, get some air.”
She made no reply.
“S
HE’S DEAD?” KANE’S VOICE
was almost a falsetto. His eyes were incredulous, his mouth hung slightly open.
“Dead?”
Behind the wheel of the Cherokee, Daniels turned left to Route 28 and the airport. How long had it been since he’d done the driving with one of his employees a passenger? Democracy. The common touch. What could be more disarming?
He glanced again at Kane’s face, then looked back at the traffic ahead. Saying: “I don’t understand. Why’re you surprised?”
“Because she wasn’t dead when I split. She was alive.”
On the steering wheel, his grip locked; the Jeep slewed, then straightened. But his voice, strangely, was steady as he heard himself say, “Alive?”
“I tried to do it. I was within ten feet of her. But there was a woman. And she knew me. She called me by name.”
“Then …” The images shifted, splintered, re-formed.
A drug overdose,
Cutler had said. The images shifted again: Diane, naked on a stainless-steel table, with the top of her head removed, sawed off. Of all the day’s images, that one had persisted: an electrical saw, taking off the shaven top of the skull to get at the brain.
“Then you didn’t kill her.”
“Hell, no. It could’ve been a policewoman, guarding her. I got out of there. All I had was a lead pipe. The woman could’ve had a gun. So I split. I got a hotel room, then I flew out of San Francisco yesterday. I decided not to phone you until I got to the Cape—a local call that couldn’t be traced. By the time I got to Westboro last night it was ten o’clock. I didn’t get here until one o’clock this morning, by the time I got the airplane serviced.”
“So the airplane’s here.”
“That’s what I just said,” Kane answered brusquely. Then, demanding: “What happened, anyhow?”
“All I know is that her roommate called Paul Cutler about three o’clock yesterday morning, California time. She said Diane had OD’d, and her body was on its way to the morgue.”
“Jesus …” Shaking his head, bemused, Kane stared straight ahead. Then, shrugging, smiling, he raised his hands, palms up. “So we’re home free.”
Daniels flipped the turn indicator, slowed for the airport turnoff, just ahead. “Except that you were recognized.”
Kane’s smile faded.
“Did the policewoman see the pipe? Were you that close?”
“I think—yeah—she probably saw the pipe.”
“And she knew who you were.”
“She called me by name. Like I said.”
“So she knew you were coming …”
“Yeah …” Heavily, Kane nodded.
Daniels turned the Cherokee into a parking place, switched off the engine. He sat motionless for a moment, staring straight ahead. The images were re-forming again: the policewoman, reporting to her superior office. The officer, deciding to check on Kane. Joe Farnsworth, receiving an inquiry from the San Francisco police department. Farnsworth’s desktop: the inquiry placed beside the report on Jeff Weston’s murder.
Farnsworth’s pudgy fingers, searching his files for the folder marked “Carolyn Estes.”
As the images revolved, he spoke mechanically, as if he were reciting by rote: “The funeral’s on Tuesday, in San Francisco. Millicent’s going. And I’m going too. We’ll fly commercial, tomorrow. I want you to fly us to New York this afternoon.”
“And then what? What’ll I do then?”
“You’ll wait for me in New York. We’ll leave San Francisco Wednesday morning. I’ll be at the office until Friday afternoon. Then I’ll come back here. I’ll stay for the weekend. Millicent, too, I hope.”
“Do you think that’s smart, being where Farnsworth can get at you? I was thinking about disappearing for a couple of months.”
Slowly, deliberately, Daniels shook his head. “That’s exactly what we don’t want to do. Everything’s got to look normal. Completely normal. We’re going to act like nothing unusual has happened.”
“But what about Farnsworth?”
“If he’s going to ask questions, I want him asking them here, not in New York. That’s the last thing I want.”
“Okay, that’s you. I can understand how you’ve got to keep up appearances. But what about me? I think I should go to Mexico for a couple of months. At least.”
“Six months from now, you can go.”
“I don’t know …” Eyes narrowed, mouth hardening, Kane shook his head. “I’ll have to think about it. You can’t split, can’t disappear. But I can. And if I do split, this is the time to do it. As far as Farnsworth’s concerned, it’ll be a vacation.”
“You’ve got a job here. You’re on the payroll.”
“Yeah—well—I can find you a pilot. I can find you fifty pilots. And as far as the payroll goes—well—I figure I’ll be on the payroll permanently, whether I fly or not. Isn’t that right?” As he said it, Kane turned a long, cold stare on the other man.
With their eyes locked, Daniels spoke softly, with boardroom precision: “You’re talking about an income for life. Is that it?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying. The way I see it, you and me are joined at the hip. One goes down, so does the other.” A short, truculent pause. Then: “Am I right?”
“You’re exactly right. Which is why I want you to act like an innocent man. And an innocent man wouldn’t leave town.”
“If I decide to change jobs, I’ll leave. And pilots change jobs all the time. It’s built in.”
“In six months,” Daniels said, “we’ll talk about it. Not now.” As he said it, he withdrew a checkbook and pen from the pocket of his jacket. As he began writing, the final image materialized: Carolyn’s body, decomposing. In six months, dust to dust, almost nothing would be left.
Except for the bones.
A
S FARNSWORTH PARKED THE
patrol car in front of the storefront police station his radio came to life: “Chief, are you coming inside?” It was Nancy Shelby, the department’s full-time secretary, receptionist, and dispatcher.
“I am.”
“Because there’s a call from San Francisco. It’s someone named Alan Bernhardt. He says he’s a private detective.”
“What’s on his mind?”
“He’s asking about Jeff Weston.”
“Be right in.” He returned the microphone to its bracket, flipped the communications master switch, took the keys from the ignition and began levering the mound of his stomach from under the steering wheel.
“T
HE REASON I’M CALLING
,” the voice on the phone said, “is that Diane Cutler died late Friday night.”
Farnsworth scowled at the speakerphone.
“Who’s Diane Cutler? I thought you were calling about Jeff Weston.”
“Diane Cutler is—was—Preston Daniels’s stepdaughter. Her mother is—was—Millicent Daniels.”
“Daniels. Sure …” Unconsciously, Farnsworth sat up straighter in his oversize swivel chair and addressed the speaker phone squarely. “She died, you say? His stepdaughter?”
“She died in San Francisco. That’s where I am. Her father is a lawyer here. And the police think—they’re sure, really—that it was a drug overdose.”
“A kind of stocky girl, lots of dark hair, not very good looking, bad complexion, big tits. Is that the one?”
“That’s the one.”
“Used to go out with the Weston kid, once in a while—” Farnsworth nodded at the speaker. “Yeah, I got her now.” Then: “A drug overdose, eh?”
“Yessir.”
“So what’re you saying? That she OD’d because of the Weston kid, because he was killed? Is that what you’re saying?”
“I think the two deaths are connected. I also think Preston Daniels could be involved.”
“And where’re you getting your information, Mr. Bernhardt?”
“I talked with Diane Cutler. Twice. I—ah—don’t think this is something we should get into on the phone. I’m going to be out there in a few days. And I—”
“Then why’re we having this conversation? Why’d you call?”
“I called,” Bernhardt said, measuring the words, “because I wondered whether you’re investigating Jeff Weston’s death as a homicide. Because if you are, then I have good reason to suspect that the same person who killed Jeff Weston made an attempt on Diane Cutler’s life last Friday night. Which could be why she OD’d.”
“That sounds like quite a stretch.”
“Maybe.”
Now Farnsworth was frowning at the speakerphone, deciding on a response. “Bernhardt,” the caller had said. A Jew. A smooth-talking Jewish private detective from San Francisco. A snooper. He’d dealt with them before: con artists with telephoto lenses. Hacks, bought and paid for by big-city divorce lawyers, mostly.