Except for the Bones (22 page)

Paula Brett, lady private eye. A soft-talking socialite, a dabbler.

Alan Bernhardt, the actor turned detective. Jokes, both of them. Carley’s little joke. Could protection be bought for a few hundred dollars? Security at bargain-basement prices, amateur night?

If she’d known the restaurant would be so crowded, and the movie so dull, she would have let Carley and Dale go alone. Politely, they’d asked her to go along. Carley, the do-gooder, Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm. Shirley Temple, with her hair in ringlets. Dale, the fraternity man, Mr. Clean. Show him a line of coke, and he would be out the door, gone.

And Carley, too—gone.

Jokes.

A few more buildings and she would be home. When she was in the apartment, Paula had said, she must—

On the other side of the street, in a car parked across two driveways, an interior light came on. The driver’s door was swinging open; a man was getting out of the car: a familiar figure, under the streetlight.

Kane.

W
ITHOUT REALIZING THAT SHE’D
done it, Paula had opened the driver’s door, stepped out into the street.

Just as, ahead, the door of the stranger’s car was swinging open. The driver was stepping out of the car, carefully closing his door. He was a man of medium build. Dark hair, close-cropped. Muscular build, muscular stance, muscular movements.

Kane’s description.

Kane, moving across the street toward Diane.

Paula was moving toward the invisible line that connected Diane and the man, the three of them a triangle.

Kane. Surely it was Kane.

Kane, walking unnaturally. Concealing something along his right side.

A gun?

Paula felt herself faltering.
The whistle.
She’d left the whistle in the car, on the key ring.

Diane, momentarily frozen, helplessly turning to face the man.

Paula, advancing, closing one side of the triangle. A dozen more steps, and it would be a straight line, with her in the middle.

Kane, his eyes fixed on Diane, advancing. As, behind her, Paula heard the sound of a car, turning the corner into Noe. Headlight beams, sweeping the three of them.

Should she—?

Suddenly Diane made a high, desperate sound, then broke to her right, toward Carley’s building—diagonally toward Paula. Running wildly now. Instantly, Kane lunged forward. His right hand came up. It was a weapon—a club.

“Kane,”
Paula screamed.
“Don’t. Drop it, you bastard.”

As if he’d been struck, Kane broke stride, turned toward her. The car’s horn blared; headlights glared. Diane had almost reached Carley’s building; Paula, shouting abuses, obscenities, was running toward the girl, to protect her. Horn still blaring, the car was past the three of them. A man’s voice, shouting. Another foul-mouthed driver, gone now. Almost to Diane, Paula turned to face Kane. His back was to her. He was running. He reached his car, pulled the door open, slid in behind the steering wheel. Defeated. Miraculously, defeated. Running.

P
ROPPED ON ONE ELBOW
, in bed, Bernhardt blinked, pressed the phone closer to his ear, listened intently. Then: “It was Kane? And he—what—ran away? Is that it?”

“That’s it,” Paula answered.

“On foot? Is that what you mean?”

“He ran to his car, and drove away. Fast. Well, medium fast.”

“Did you get the license number?”

“No, Alan, I didn’t.” She spoke contritely. “I—Diane was so upset—I went to her, to help her. And there was a car coming. It—it all happened so quickly. I’m sorry. I’m terribly sorry.”

“This car. Do you know what kind of car it was? American? Foreign?”

“American, definitely. An Oldsmobile, or maybe a Buick. Anyhow, General Motors. I think.”

“And Diane’s all right?”

“She’s upset. Scared silly, in fact. Me, too.”

Bernhardt blinked again. “You ran him off, eh?”

“I told you that, Alan. Jesus.” Her voice was ragged.

“My God, you’re tougher than you look.”

“It was mostly reflexes, I’m afraid.” Her voice was still ragged.

“And you’re sure the door to the apartment is secure.”

“It’s bolted, if that’s what you mean.”

“And you’re inside with Diane. You’re calling from her phone. Is that it?”

“Yes.”

“All right. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Where’re the keys to your car?”

“On the mantel.”

“Okay. Sit tight.” About to put the phone aside, he heard her say, “Your car’s across the street from Carley’s. It isn’t locked, and the keys are in the ignition. The keys, and the whistle, too.”

W
ITH DIANE SITTING HUNCHED
on the sofa, Bernhardt gestured for Paula to join him as he went to the bay window and looked down into the street below.

“He was parked in that double driveway across the street.” Speaking in a low voice, Paula pointed. “Diane’s car is around the corner, on Clipper.” She pointed again. “She was almost directly across from him, when he opened the door and went for her.”

“And you’re sure that’s what was happening. You’re sure he had a weapon.”

“He ran away. Instantly. If he weren’t guilty, he wouldn’t’ve run.”

He smiled, touched her hand. “It’s like I said on the phone, you’re tougher than you look.” In admiration, he incredulously shook his head. “You ran the bastard off.”

“Still, I’m glad you’re here.” She returned the smile and touched the revolver holstered on his belt, concealed by a poplin jacket. “You and your friend.”

He nodded, yawned, glanced over his shoulder at the girl. Still sitting on the couch, she was staring into the half-filled tumbler of whiskey she held in both hands before her, as if it were an offering. Then, gravely, she began drinking.

“That’s her fourth,” Paula whispered. “Double shots. At least.”

Bernhardt nodded, walked across the room to the girl, took a chair facing her. “You’d better go easy on that, Diane. You’re probably in delayed shock.”

She made no reply, gave no sign that she’d heard.

To encourage a response, rouse her, he said, “You’ve called Carley. And she and her boyfriend are on their way. Right?”

She nodded.

“When they get here, Paula and I will keep watch outside, in front. It’d take a tank to get into the rear of this building, and the building’s attached on both sides. So you’ll be safe.”

“Safe …” Bitterly, she nodded. “Sure. Safe for now.”

Bernhardt made no response. Sitting beside him now, Paula moved as if to say something. Surreptitiously, Bernhardt shook his head. The tactic was rewarded when Diane began speaking without prodding:

“I guess that maybe you believe me now. Daniels killed his girlfriend and then hired Kane to kill Jeff, to keep the secret. And now Kane’s come to kill me.” She spoke in a dull, dead monotone. Then she finished the glass of whiskey.

“It’s not that I didn’t believe you, Diane. But proving it, that’s something else.”

“I’m not interested in proving anything. I’m interested in staying alive.”

“You’re alive. And by now Kane’s fifty miles from here. Believe it.”

“Are you going to the police?” she asked. “Tell them what happened?”

“I’m going to talk to them tomorrow. I know a couple of lieutenants. I’ll talk to one of them. We do favors for each other. Are you prepared to say that it was Kane?”

“Definitely.”

“And you’re both sure”—he included Paula as he spoke—“you’re sure he was going to attack you?”

Silently, both women nodded.

“How close did he get to you?” Once more, he included both of them in the question.

“About ten feet,” Paula answered. “Maybe fifteen feet. Why?”

“There’s probably a legal difference between threatening an attack and actually making an attack.”

Contemptuously, Diane snorted. “Legal difference. Shit. How about—”

At the hallway door there was a click, metal-to-metal. Instantly Bernhardt was on his feet, instinctively flicking open the poplin jacket. With his hand on the butt of the revolver holstered at his belt, Bernhardt was in the short entry hallway as the door rattled against the security bolt.

“Diane?” A woman’s voice.

“That’s Carley,” Diane called.

Bernhardt drew the jacket together and opened the door.

W
ITH HIS ARM AROUND
Paula, with her head resting on his shoulder, Bernhardt said, “You should go home. I’ve had some sleep. You haven’t. And you’ve had a shock.”

“How long’ve her lights been out?”

“A half hour. Maybe more.”

“I’ll give it another half hour.”

“Why?” he asked. “I’m just curious.”

“I guess I want to make sure she’s sleeping. It’ll help her, if she sleeps.”

“Okay …”

“I’m so goddamn mad at myself for not getting his license number.”

“Jesus, forget about it, Paula. You probably saved her life tonight.” He smiled down at her. “And without the police whistle, too.”

“It would’ve been interesting to see what the whistle would’ve done.”

“Next time.”

“So when do I get to carry a gun, like the boss?”

“No comment.”

A car turned into Noe from Twenty-sixth Street. Paula raised her head, looked. It was a small car, not the one Kane had used. Letting her head sink on his shoulder, a wonderfully secure sensation, she said, “Do you really think Kane’s fifty miles away?”

“I do.”

“Then what’re we doing here?”

“We’re cuddling.”

“Hmmm.

A companionable silence passed before Bernhardt asked, “Do you think Kane knows Diane recognized him?”

“I have no idea.”

“But what d’you think?”

“Alan—” Exasperated, she sharply shook her head. “I don’t
know.”

“Okay …” Soothingly, he caressed her cheek, kissed the top of her head. “Relax.”

Another silence. Then, conciliatory, she asked, “What happens tomorrow, in the light of day?”

“First,” Bernhardt said, “I want to talk to my buddies at the police department. Then I want to talk to Diane’s father. Paul Cutler. If this thing—”

Across the street, lights suddenly blazed in Carley Hanks’s apartment. A figure stood at the big bay window. It was a woman’s figure. A terrified woman. Carley Hanks, desperate, shouting something unintelligible.

“Jesus
—” Bernhardt threw his weight against the Honda’s driver-side door, swung it sharply open. At the other door, Paula was doing the same.

“No.”
Bernhardt turned toward her, leveling a top-sergeant’s forefinger. “You stay here. On the phone.”

“But—”

“Do it, Paula.”
Momentarily he locked eyes with her. Then he turned, sprinted across the street.

“D
ID YOU CALL NINE-ONE-ONE?”
Bernhardt asked. It was an automatic question, a required question.

A useless question. Too late.

A lifetime too late.

She lay on the floor in front of the couch. Her open eyes were sightless; her mouth was agape. Already, her skin at the neck was cool to the touch. And, yes, the room reeked with the smell of her body’s wastes. As if it were a scene conceived by a director of B movies, her leather tote bag, open, spilling bottles of pills, lay on the couch beside her. One of the bottles was open; some of the pills from it had spilled out on the carpet beside Diane’s claw-crooked hand. Her fingernails, Bernhardt noticed, were bitten to the quick.

Poor little rich girl.

“Dale called, nine-one-one,” Carley Hanks’s voice was hardly more than a whisper.

“What happened?” As he asked the question, he focused his gaze on Carley: the living, not the dead. Across the room, pale and ill, Carley’s boyfriend—Dale—sat slumped on a straight-backed chair. His eyes were glazed. He looked like a badly beaten fighter, between rounds.

“As soon as you guys left,” Carley answered, “she got that goddamn tote bag from the closet, and started popping pills. Three, four pills, maybe more.” Numbed, she shook her head. “Then she started on the whiskey. A lot of whiskey.”

A lot of whiskey, before the couple arrived. And a lot of whiskey afterward. And pills. Quaaludes, probably. Or worse. Pills and alcohol, the killer combination.

“How’d you know—” Bernhardt broke off. But she understood the question:

“I don’t know what woke me up. Maybe nothing. I had a dream, I think that was it. And then—” Helplessly, her eyes returned to her dead friend, lying at her feet. At that moment, outside, the sound of a siren began.

T
HE AMBULANCE STEWARD LOOKED
at Bernhardt’s license, looked at Bernhardt’s face. Then he shrugged. “The pills were Xanax. At least, that’s the bottle that was open. Mix a few of those with five or six ounces of whiskey, and everything stops working.” As he spoke, two police patrol cars turned into the block, one from either direction.

“Excuse me,” the steward said. “I’ve got to talk to these guys, then I’ll take her downtown. Any questions, ask at the coroner’s office.”

“Yes,” Bernhardt answered. “Yes, I know.”

“M
Y GOD …” LIEUTENANT FRANK
Hastings rose from his desk, turned away from Bernhardt, went to his office window. In his middle forties, Hastings was a big, muscular man. Born in San Francisco, Hastings had gone to Stanford on a football scholarship, then gone to Detroit to play second-string fullback for the Lions. He’d married an heiress whose father was part owner of the Lions. For a time their life was gilded with privilege and publicity. But an illegal block ended his playing days and Hastings took a make-work PR job at his father-in-law’s factory. The job and the marriage had both been mistakes, and after three years a divorce was the only way out. The father-in-law used his checkbook and his clout to run Hastings out of Detroit. Drinking too much, lost without his two children, Hastings had come back to San Francisco and begun putting his life back together, a long, painful struggle. Hastings was a calm, deliberate man who thought before he acted and backed up what he said. His opposite number was Lieutenant Peter Friedman; together the two men cocommanded Homicide. Each man had been offered full command, and a captaincy. Both had declined. Hastings had seen enough interdepartmental politics working for his father-in-law. Friedman, who had a gift for playing the stock market, decided the extra money wasn’t worth the grief.