“Wait.
Wait.”
Farnsworth raised both hands, exasperated. “Let’s go back to the goddamn landfill. What happened next, at the landfill?”
“Apparently there’s only one way in, and Diane didn’t want to get trapped inside. Anyhow, they—”
“Or maybe they were still spaced out.”
Impatiently, Bernhardt nodded. “That, too.”
“Okay. Go ahead. What happened next?”
“They went to a motel, Sunday night.”
“A local motel?”
“Yes.”
“About what time?”
“That would’ve been about one o’clock in the morning, I’d guess. Maybe one-thirty.”
“Monday morning.”
Bernhardt nodded. “Right. Monday. Later that day, Diane drove back to New York. Whereupon she apparently had a fight with her parents—her mother and Daniels. That was about five o’clock Monday evening. So she got back in her car, and drove up here.”
“To Carter’s Landing?”
Bernhardt nodded. “Right. She got here at about eleven o’clock Monday night. And that’s when she discovered that Jeff Weston had been killed. She was sure—absolutely sure—that Daniels had Weston killed to prevent him from talking about the murder of the girl. Maybe he’d tried to blackmail Daniels. It’d make sense.”
“Did she have any idea who killed Weston?”
“No, not then. Later, though, she thought it could’ve been Bruce Kane. Daniels’s pilot.” Plainly watching for a reaction, Bernhardt was eyeing him closely. As if to carefully consider the private detective’s statement, Farnsworth nodded judiciously, then frowned as he allowed his gaze to wander away. “Did she have any proof?” he asked. “Or was she just guessing?”
“Kane followed Diane to San Francisco. He talked to her, made some kind of an oblique offer that could’ve been the first move in a blackmail try. At least, that’s how Diane interpreted it. Then, the night she died, Kane tried to attack her. That’s why she OD’d, that was the trigger.”
“Will I find that in the San Francisco police computer? Is there a police report describing the attack on Diane?”
“No, there isn’t. But I had an—an associate, guarding Diane, staking out her apartment. And she saw Kane trying to—”
“Wait a minute.” Farnsworth frowned. “This associate of yours. Was that a woman?”
Obviously irritated by the question, Bernhardt nodded. “Right. A woman.” His stare was defiant, belligerent.
“A woman. Hmm.” Farnsworth lowered his feet to the floor, returned his swivel chair to its upright position. “Okay. Go ahead.”
“Before I do,” Bernhardt said, “I’d like to ask you how Jeff Weston was killed.”
“Why’re you asking?”
“Because,” Bernhardt said, “Kane had a club in his hand when he went after Diane. Diane saw the club, and so did my associate.”
“Your lady associate.”
“Listen—” It was a tight, grim-faced challenge, a warning of worse to come. “Forget about whether it was a man or a woman. We’ve got three people dead, for God’s sake. What difference does it make whether I hire men or women? The fact is—the
truth
is—that if my associate hadn’t yelled when she did, Diane Cutler would probably have been killed. Just like Jeff Weston was killed.”
Farnsworth decided to smile: a resigned, world-weary smile. “You say ‘probably.’ And that’s the problem with this. It all comes down to whether we believe what a drugged-out girl told you. Isn’t that about it?” He let the smile fade as he consulted his watch.
Bernhardt sat motionless for a moment, his face registering a slowly gathering contempt. Finally: “I suppose it’s useless for me to ask whether you have any information suggesting that, in fact, a girl’s body was buried the night of July fifteenth in the landfill site about five miles northeast of Carter’s Landing.”
As Farnsworth listened to the precisely worded statement, an uneasy suspicion intruded. Was it possible that Bernhardt was wearing a wire? Was it possible—even likely—that Bernhardt was a shill, a stalking horse, perhaps for the state attorney?
At the thought, Farnsworth began levering himself to a standing position, looking down on the man from San Francisco.
“You’re right, Bernhardt. It’s absolutely useless.”
I
T WAS ON ROUTE
28 near the outskirts of Carter’s Landing that Bernhardt found it: a coffee shop that catered to the townspeople, not the affluent outlanders. The sign spelling out “Kenny’s” was red neon, not white-scrolled imitation Colonial. The exterior of Kenny’s was stucco, not artificially weathered gray shingles. The plate-glass windows were large and set in aluminum, not multipaned and wood-framed. The booths were red Naugahyde, the counter was red Formica. The lighting, of course, would be fluorescent. And, yes, there were pickups in the parking lot, not Mercedes.
The patrons at the counter fitted the down-home stereotype. The conversation was easygoing; the topics were baseball, TV, and an accident last night involving a big rig and four drunken teenagers. All the teenagers were dead. The truck driver was in traction.
A few of the patrons looked briefly at Bernhardt, then looked indifferently away. Bernhardt sat at the far end of the counter, ordered coffee, and swiveled on his stool to face the row of customers, all of them in profile. The waitress wore a green uniform streaked with food stains. When she returned with the coffee, Bernhardt was ready with his laminated plastic identification plaque. Smiling at the waitress and pitching his voice loud enough to be heard by whoever cared to listen, he said, “Excuse me, but I wonder whether you could help me.”
Having already turned away from him, she reluctantly turned back. She was an angular, middle-aged woman with a long, unsmiling face and dark, unfriendly eyes. She wore harlequin glasses decorated with rhinestones.
“My name is Alan Bernhardt, and I’m a private investigator.” He held the plaque so that everyone seated at the counter could see it. As, yes, several pairs of eyes surreptitiously shifted toward the plaque, then to him. So far, so good. Curiosity, he’d discovered, could be the investigator’s best friend.
“I’m looking for the Preston Daniels place.”
Frowning, she studied the plaque for a moment, then reflectively scratched her neck just below the ear as she studied him. She shrugged. “Can’t help you, mister. Sorry.”
“You know who I’m talking about. Preston Daniels. The real estate tycoon.”
“I’ve heard of him. But I’ve never seen him. And I don’t know where his place is. Sorry.” She turned her back again, walked to the serving window, spun a metal drum with checks clipped to it.
“Thanks anyhow.” As he placed the plaque prominently on the counter and then sipped his coffee, he flicked a glance down the row of faces. Two of them, at least, had turned obliquely toward him, then turned away. Signifying, doubtlessly, that they knew the location of the Daniels beach house. He let his gaze wander to the restaurant’s plate-glass windows and the tourist traffic clogging Route 28. He’d been a child the first time he’d come to the Cape. He and his mother had been living in a Manhattan loft, where she gave modern dance lessons and conducted meetings. Always, there were the meetings, the fate of the Jewish intellectual. Meetings to protest civil rights violations. Meetings to protest the Vietnam war. Meetings in support of women’s rights. Meetings to plan meetings.
Every summer, his grandparents had sent him to summer camp in the Berkshires, always for the month of July. The routine never varied. All those kids, most of them Jews from New York, meeting at Grand Central Station, clustering around a Camp Chippewa sign. The train ride to the Berkshires had taken most of the day. When they reached their destinations most of the campers were hoarse—and most of the counselors were frazzled.
At the end of July, his mother and his grandparents always picked him up in his grandfather’s car, always a big Buick. The four of them would take two or three days to return to New York, stopping overnight at vacation spots along the way. Once, he remembered, they’d stayed in Hyannis, at a small hotel that faced the ocean. Early in the morning, he and his mother had walked along the water’s edge, where they’d found three starfish.
He hadn’t known how much his mother and grandparents meant to him until they’d died. His mother had died only months after her cancer was discovered. Less than a year later, his grandparents had died when his grandfather suffered a heart attack. He’d been driving their Buick, and the car had gone across the center divider of a New Jersey expressway.
And then Jennie had died. Jennie, who’d just agreed that, yes, they must have children—two children, no more, no less. She’d been mugged only a block from their apartment in the Village. Her head had hit a curb, and she’d never regained consciousness.
The coffee cup was empty. He took out his wallet, found a dollar bill, and slipped it under the saucer. He picked up his identification plaque and slid it into the pocket of his short-sleeved sports shirt, carefully buttoning the pocket. Down the counter, two men were also dropping money on the counter. Both men were young and muscular. Both wore T-shirts; both wore the mandatory baseball caps, one cap emblazoned with a Caterpillar logo, the other with the Corvette legend. Had either of the men registered interest in Bernhardt’s dialogue with the waitress? Bernhardt wasn’t sure.
The two men left the coffee shop and walked toward—yes—a battered pickup truck. Bernhardt’s rented Escort was parked three slots beyond the truck, perfectly positioned. The windows of the pickup were rolled down; therefore the doors weren’t locked. Bernhardt lengthened his stride, bringing him abreast of the pickup just as one of the men opened the passenger’s door. Catching the stranger’s eye, Bernhardt smiled, nodded, expectantly broke stride. Returning the nod but not the smile, the man hesitated. Then, straightening, he turned to face Bernhardt.
“The Daniels place …” the man said. “Is that what you’re looking for?”
“I sure am.” In the three words, Bernhardt tried to convey a fraternal affability, a feel for the flavor of the local patois.
The stranger pointed a workman’s hand at Route 28 and began a long, amiable series of directions. Having already gotten instructions from Chief Farnsworth’s dispatcher, Bernhardt nodded, pretended to commit everything to memory. During the recitation, the pickup’s driver got out of the truck and looked at Bernhardt across the truck’s bed, which was filled with tools. Pushing back his baseball cap, the driver smiled: a wide, boyish, freckle-faced grin.
“You said you were a private eye, back there.” He jerked his chin toward the restaurant. “What’re you investigating, anyhow?”
Bernhardt looked at the driver, looked at the passenger. Their faces were remarkably similar: all-American faces, Jack Armstrong faces. Get out of high school, get a job, marry the girl next door. Drive-in movies, beer in the refrigerator, kids in the back bedroom.
How much should he tell them? How much did he want Joe Farnsworth to know—or not know?
While Bernhardt was considering the question, the passenger spoke to his friend: “I bet old Daniels got caught with his hand up the wrong skirt, sure as hell.”
Bernhardt decided to guffaw, a good old boy’s laugh. He nodded cheerfully, then shook his head, as if to marvel at the passenger’s perception. “Hey, how’d you know?”
The driver snorted, a flatulent sound that summed up the state of guerrilla warfare between townsfolk and resort dwellers. “Everyone around here knows about Daniels. I bet, since last year at this time, he’s had a half-dozen different women out to that beach house, weekends. And they’re all blondes. Every single one of them.” Marveling, he shook his head. “You got that much money, you get your nooky packaged any way you want, I guess.”
“His wife, of course,” the passenger said, “she’s a brunette. And beautiful, too. Better looking than most of Daniels’s bimbos.”
The driver nodded judiciously. “That’s true.”
Projecting elaborate caution, Bernhardt looked over his shoulder, stepped closer, spoke softly, confidentially: “I’m not going to say anything that’ll get me into trouble with my client. But the truth is, I’m trying to put a name to one of those bimbos. The last one. Or, anyhow, the one that was here on the weekend of July fourteenth.”
The two men looked at each other, considered, then looked back at Bernhardt. “That’s—when—a month ago?”
“Almost.”
“Well, I can’t help you with a name, friend,” the driver answered. “All I can tell you, she was blonde and beautiful, just like the rest of them. But there weren’t any names. Just faces.”
“And bodies, too.” The passenger smirked lasciviously. “Don’t forget the bodies, Clinton.”
“They come in Friday or Saturday, usually,” Clinton said, “and they leave Sunday, mostly.”
“How do they come? By car?”
Clinton shook his head. “Mostly they come in his airplane. Up from New York, or so I heard.”
“Does Daniels usually come with them?”
“Usually. He doesn’t always leave with them, though.” For affirmation, Clinton looked at his friend, who nodded.
“That reminds me,” Bernhardt said. “I’m trying to locate Bruce Kane.”
“He’s Daniels’s pilot. Right?”
Bernhardt nodded.
“That’s easy. Find Daniels’s airplane, you find Kane.”
“He’s a real asshole,” the passenger offered. “And mean, too. Give him a couple of drinks, and watch out.” As he spoke, he looked at his wristwatch. “Jesus, Clinton, we gotta go.” He smiled affably at Bernhardt. “Get Clinton talking about women, gossiping, too, let’s face it, and you shoot the whole day.” He swung the passenger’s door wide, and turned away.
“Listen,” Bernhardt said, “I want to thank you guys. A lot.”
“No problem, friend.” Clinton got in behind the truck’s steering wheel. “Anything I can do to stick it to that stuffed shirt Preston Daniels, I’m your man.”
“Appreciate it.” Bernhardt stepped back, smiled, waved the pickup out of the parking lot.
“W
HAT I’M WONDERING,” BERNHARDT
said, “is whether there’s any way I can get the name of a passenger that arrived here the weekend of July fourteenth on Preston Daniels’s airplane. She’s supposed to be a very good-looking blonde, and she and Daniels probably came in together. They probably came from New York. Or, anyhow, the New York area.”