Full Circle
An Alan Bernhardt Mystery
Collin Wilcox
This book is dedicated
to Scott, my very
first grandchild.
PROLOGUE
A
S FRAZER PUSHED BACK
his cuff and checked the time, he realized, too late, that he should have included a new watch in the deal: a Patek Philippe, or a Rolex at least. He’d thought of everything else, even the white silk underwear, with his initials embroidered on the boxer shorts. Once, at a gallery party in Paris, he’d heard someone say that there were only two kinds of people: those who responded to the feel of silk against the flesh, and those who didn’t.
What would they think, if they knew his underwear was pure silk? His mum and his dad, with their work-callused hands and their dull, defeated eyes, what would they think?
The time was exactly six-thirty. In mid-March, Manhattan was already dark, and there was a hint of snow in the air. Just ahead, at the corner of Park, he saw the small red neon sign:
JERRY’S
. How long had it been since he’d last walked this way? Nine months? A year?
Feeling the lice on his skin, watching the erratic progress of the cockroaches across the shit-stained concrete floor, hearing the scurry of rats, smelling it all, had he ever believed he would return here, now, feeling silk against his flesh? As he continued his progress, comfortably conscious of the smartly dressed pedestrians with whom he shared the broad, crowded sidewalk, he drew a deep, appreciative breath as, unconsciously, he fingered the fine melton of the overcoat that had been specially tailored for him.
Behind the glass counter at Jerry’s, two young women, both strange to him, were waiting on customers. He turned to the glass-doored display cabinet set flush with the wall. Yes, he saw exactly what he was looking for: a dozen small red roses. Behind the counter, one of the clerks turned to him. She was a tall, slim woman with cold gray eyes and long, silky blond hair.
“Yes?” She was polite but unsmiling, remote and haughty, fire and ice. She wore a skintight beige body stocking covered in front by a navy-blue apron with “Jerry’s” stitched in white. Her breasts were small, perfectly formed. She wore no makeup. Except for one slim gold ring on the little finger of her left hand, she wore no jewelry. Making love, he imagined, she would at first resist. Then, subdued, finally penetrated, she would turn fierce, wild, and abandoned, taking it all for herself, sharing nothing, giving no quarter and asking none.
“Can I help you?”
He pointed. “A dozen of the small red roses, please.”
She turned away, went to the refrigerated showcase, opened the door, bent down. Yes, the shape of her buttocks was perfection. Tomorrow, with more time, he would come back. She would remember him, he was certain of that. His clothes, the way he talked, the way he handled himself—she would remember.
In prison, at night, stroking himself, beginning, she would have been the perfect apparition, his fantasy for the night.
Working deftly, she wrapped the roses, made change for the fifty, thanked him for the five-dollar bill he left on the counter. His answering smile, he could feel, was just right, interested but not fawning, begging for nothing, offering only a little more. Yes, she would remember him.
At the corner of Park and Eighty-fourth, the traffic light turned red. A knot of pedestrians stood clustered around him, waiting for the light to turn green. He raised the roses, protecting them from jostling. With the green light, he was crossing Park, walking east on Eighty-fourth. Once more, he checked the time: six forty-five. In less than five minutes, he would arrive at her building. She would be displeased. Even to arrive at seven o’clock, precisely on time, might irritate her—just as arriving more than ten minutes late would also be unacceptable.
All of it, he knew, was payback, required penance. A woman scorned, someone had once said, was a woman without mercy. And the more desirable the woman, the stiffer the penalty. Jilt an ugly woman, and she might come back for more. But if a beautiful woman came back, without coaxing, it was probably for revenge, not love. He’d just as soon do his penance and get it over with.
At the next corner, another red light, there were fewer people waiting. As he joined the small cluster at curbside, he became aware of a car beside him, a big Lincoln town car. In the light from streetlamps and passing headlights he could see the driver—a small brown man, perhaps a Filipino, wearing a dark suit, white shirt, and a small black clip-on bow tie. He was staring straight ahead.
The traffic light turned green. Holding the roses clear of a teenager on a skateboard, Frazer began crossing Lexington. Just ahead, the Lincoln was progressing slowly, now stopping at the curb on the far side of Lexington. He was aware that the easy, confident rhythm of his steps had gone out of sync; he was walking more slowly, letting the other pedestrians go ahead. But the “Walk” sign was off now; the “Wait” sign was on. Meaning that he should walk faster—just as, ahead, the smoked rear window of the Lincoln was coming down. Inside, in the uncertain light from the street, he could dimly see a man. The man was bareheaded, and wore a bulky leather jacket. Was it a familiar figure? At this distance, in this light, he told himself, it wasn’t possible to know. With the Lincoln on his left, he began angling away to the right. The curb was just ahead; the traffic light had turned red, releasing the traffic streaming down Lexington.
Was discretion the better part of valor? Should he—?
“
Ned.
” The voice came from the back seat of the Lincoln. Instinctively he turned toward the car—and saw the gun barrel. The gun was a large-caliber revolver with a long barrel. The orange flame erupting from the muzzle was prodigious.
He dropped to his knees. As he fell to his left, striking the curb with his shoulder, he was able to hold the roses clear, protecting them as he rolled on his back.
Forty minutes later, taking the required four pictures from each of four different angles, amused by the corpse clutching the bouquet of roses to his chest as he stared with empty eyes into the dark sky, the police photographer smiled. Saying: “Jesus, rest in peace, huh?”
“T
HERE IT IS—
twenty-one forty-six.” Haigh braked the Buick to a stop on the steep slope of Vermont Street and pointed to a turn-of-the-century building. The two-flat building was in good repair, newly painted to accent its neo-Victorian gingerbread. “It’s the bottom flat. His office is in the front room.”
Archer glanced at the building, surveyed his surroundings, shook his head. “Jesus, these hills. San Francisco’s got to be paradise for brake shops.”
Haigh released the brake and let the Buick climb the hill in low gear. Because of the grade, parking was permitted only on one side of the street, at right angles to the curb. Haigh checked the mirrors, swung the car into a parking slot. He surveyed the angles. Yes, he could see whoever entered Bernhardt’s building, which was attached on either side, with no alley behind. He killed the engine, set the brake, checked the time: nine-thirty on a foggy April morning. He was running exactly on schedule, always a source of satisfaction. In his financially secure, conservatively dressed, meticulously groomed early forties, with promotion to agent-in-charge clearly in sight, Haigh had made punctuality one of his trademarks.
Seated on the passenger’s side, Archer spoke expectantly: “Are we going to talk to him?”
“I haven’t decided.” Haigh spoke crisply, decisively. When dealing with subordinates, especially new additions to the staff, his first priority was always to establish who made the decisions. “Primarily, I want to get a feeling for his operation, his lifestyle.” Haigh surveyed the cars parked at the curb. Some were upscale imports, others conventional domestics; most were of recent vintage, though a few were aging gracelessly. Located on the north slope of Potrero Hill, Vermont was typical of the district, originally a working-class neighborhood that had lately become gentrified. Thus the trendy color scheme of Alan Bernhardt’s building.
“Nice view,” Archer offered cheerfully as he looked out across rooftops to the downtown cityscape of San Francisco.
Haigh pointedly made no response. Then, after a moment of disciplinary silence, part of Archer’s indoctrination, Haigh continued speaking in the same clipped voice of command.
“When we get back to the office, I’ll have Records cut you a file on Bernhardt. Most of it’s hearsay, but there’s enough to get us started. He’s a private investigator, duly registered and licensed. He’s only been licensed as an individual operator for a few months—six months, no more. He originally worked as a part-time investigator for Herbert Dancer. Apart from that, Bernhardt is an actor. Also a director, mostly at the Howell Theater, which is a very highly regarded little theater. Nobody makes a living in little theater, though. They all moonlight, unless they’re independently wealthy. So Bernhardt decided to work part-time for Herbert Dancer, who runs the biggest, most profitable, most unprincipled private investigative operation in Northern California. Which is why, I’m told, Bernhardt left him. They had a major blowup, after which Bernhardt went off on his own.”
“Did you get all this from Dancer?”
Haigh shook his head. “Bernhardt has two good friends in the SFPD. Frank Hastings and Peter Friedman. They’re both lieutenants, and they run Homicide jointly. It’s a strange setup, but it apparently works. Friedman got lucky in the stock market, and Hastings likes to work outside. Friedman hates office politics, and Hastings hates red tape. So neither of them is interested in a captaincy.”
“How big is the squad?”
“About a dozen detectives, plus Hastings and Friedman.”
“So I gather you got most of your information on Bernhardt from Hastings and Friedman.”
Once more Haigh decided not to reply. Superiors asked the questions. Underlings responded. When so directed.