Except for the Bones (32 page)

Fifteen minutes for the third man to track the sounds of earth being shoveled into the grave.

Crouching low enough to keep his head below the line of the dune, Farnsworth went to the Taurus, took the flashlight from its clip beneath the dash, took the Walther PPK from beneath the front seat. The Walther was a cold gun, untraceable. He held the gun up to catch the pale light and slid back the slide enough to confirm that, yes, there was a cartridge in the chamber. Making it necessary only to cock the gun’s hammer and fire. Seven shots, semiautomatic fire. Plenty.

W
ITH THE .357 TUCKED
in his belt, with his hands held wide from his body, palms forward, Daniels walked slowly toward Bernhardt.

“Is he dead?”

Bernhardt looked down at Kane. The hands and feet were still twitching, but the spasms were weaker now. “He’s dying, I think.” As he spoke, Bernhardt thrust the revolver he’d taken from Kane into the pocket of his jacket, then turned to face Daniels.

“Christ, you saved my life.”

“Yes …”

“Why?”

Daniels was ready with a puzzled frown. “Why?”

“I’m trying to get you for murder. Kane was doing your work for you.”

Daniels smiled. Like the frown, the smile was calculated, part of the moment-to-moment improvisation that began when Millicent confronted him, told him that Bernhardt had gotten to her, told her everything. As he’d listened to her, watched her closely, felt the impact of her raw, ungoverned hatred, he’d realized that, just as Bernhardt had accused him of Carolyn’s death, so Millicent would accuse him of Bernhardt’s death.

Yet Millicent’s hostility, driven by grief and guilt, could be managed. Time, and patience—and money, the three would wear Millicent down.

But Kane, grown greedy, the blackmailer, would always be dangerous.

How had he missed it, failed to realize the danger Kane represented? Farnsworth, the pro, that was a straight business deal, both of them with something significant to lose—and gain.

Therefore, kill Kane—one more death—and he was safe. Finally safe.

Except for the bones, finally safe.

“I’ve got to sit down,” Bernhardt said, moving to the Escort. The passenger door was standing open; the interior light illuminated the scene. Kane’s body was still now, no longer twitching. In delayed shock, trembling, Bernhardt sat on the passenger seat, his feet resting on the ground. He watched Daniels come to stand between him and Kane’s body.

Daniels spoke in a quiet, measured voice: “It was Kane, you know. You understand that, don’t you?” Waiting for a response, some sign that the words had registered, he watched Bernhardt’s eyes. Yes, the eyes were quickening. Signifying that the time had come. With one body lying beside him and another body buried somewhere close by, the time had come.

“It must’ve happened when Kane drove Carolyn to the airport, that Sunday night. He could never keep his eyes off her. He was obsessed by her. I always knew he was, and I should never have allowed them to be together. But she had to get back to New York that night, and I couldn’t leave the beach house, because of a call I had to take. I think Kane pulled off on a side road not far from the airport. He—” Daniels shook his head. “He must’ve gone crazy, probably because of cocaine. And she resisted, I’m sure of that. And that’s all it took. She resisted, and he lost control. I think he blacked out. But when he came around, he knew just what to do. Maybe, subconsciously, he’d planned the whole thing. I wouldn’t doubt it. In any case, he came here, and buried her. He didn’t know that Diane and her boyfriend witnessed the whole thing. So then he had to—”

“You’re lying.” Bernhardt spoke in a low, exhausted voice.

Once more, Daniels frowned. “What?” It was an expertly delivered monosyllable, projecting a regal surprise. “What did you say?”

“I said you’re lying.” Bernhardt drew a long, deep, weary breath. “You killed her, Daniels. And you sent Kane to kill Diane, to shut her up.”

“You’ve got everything twisted, Bernhardt.” Projecting both pity and perplexity, Daniels shook his head. “You’ve had a bad scare, and you aren’t thinking straight. You say you’re out to get me for Carolyn’s murder. And, in fact, Millicent told me the same thing, tonight. Now—” Pantomiming long-suffering patience, he spread his hands and smiled. “Now if that’s all true, then why wouldn’t I have let Kane kill you just now?”

“Because people know why I’m here. Your wife, and Farnsworth, and people in San Francisco. Besides, with Kane dead, you thought you’d be safe. God—” Projecting a bone-weary exhaustion, a disarming tactic, he shook his head, at the same time gathering himself. “God, I aged ten years, just before you shot him.” As he spoke, Bernhardt used his left hand to grip the frame of the door, ready to pull himself to his feet—while, one movement masking the other, a momentary distraction, he drew Kane’s revolver from his jacket pocket, aimed at Daniels’s chest.

“Step back, Daniels. Two paces. No more.”

“Bernhardt, you—”

“Do it now, Daniels. Or I’ll shoot you.” Using both hands, the approved grip, he raised the revolver to eye level, drew back the hammer to full-cock, carefully sighted. “I won’t kill you. That could get me in a lot of trouble. But I’ll sure as hell put one in your shoulder. Then, when you’re down, I’ll come in close, shoot out your kneecaps. Both of them. So you’ll never walk again.”

“You’re bluffing.”

“You sent Kane to kill me, you son of a bitch. He was counting to three.” Bernhardt settled himself, gripped the revolver more firmly.

“One.”

“Listen, Bernhardt, let’s talk about—”

“Two.”

“Shit.”
Daniels stepped back. One pace. Another pace.

“Okay. Now the gun. Take it out, lay it on the ground. Carefully. Very carefully. Use two fingers. Then, when you’re—”

“Okay, Bernhardt—” The voice came out of the darkness behind the car. “Let’s both of you lay your pieces on the ground. First you, Bernhardt. Then you, Daniels.”

“Me?” Daniels asked.

“Oh, yes,” Farnsworth answered. “Oh, yes, Mr. Daniels. You, too. Especially you.”

M
ILLICENT’S EYES WIDENED INCREDULOUSLY
. “Preston is in jail? Locked up?
Preston?”

“He killed Kane,” Bernhardt answered. “He killed him in cold blood. I saw him do it. And so did Farnsworth.”

They were standing in the entryway of the Daniels beach house, with the outside door closed behind them. The entryway was lighted by overhead mini-floodlights set in the ceiling. Standing in the cone of one of the floodlights, wearing a high-collared robe that swept the floor, her hair loose, hands clasped at her waist, face pale without makeup, Millicent could have been acting the part of a queen in a Shakespearean tragedy. Instead of speaking, Bernhardt stood silently, watching her as she stared past him. What were her thoughts? Would she stand by her husband, the source of enormous wealth? The trial would center on Daniels’s dead mistress. How much was Millicent’s pride worth to her? What was the market price?

Daniels’s ego was a known quantity.

What about Millicent’s ego?

Now, almost dreamily, she turned away. “Come in,” she said. “Sit down.”

“Thank you.” He followed her into a large, dramatically furnished living room that faced out on the ocean. The room was furnished around a huge slate-topped coffee table. They sat facing each other across the table. After a long moment, finally meeting his gaze, she said, “What happens now?” Her voice was dulled; her eyes shifted uncertainly.

“I can’t tell you exactly what’ll happen,” he answered. “He’ll get in touch with his lawyers, I’m sure of that. In a few hours, they’ll start coming down on Massachusetts’ law enforcement like a pack of lions. And his flacks, I’m sure, will come down on the media. Hard.”

Numbly, she nodded. She was staring down at her hands, tightly clasped in her lap. The muscles of her throat were cruelly corded. This, Bernhardt reflected, was not Millicent Daniels’s most flattering pose. Finally she began shaking her head.

“That’s the part I hate,” she said. “The reporters and photographers. The tabloids. It’s so—so tacky.”

Tacky? Was that where it ended, for Millicent Daniels? With her child dead, was tacky the ultimate judgment?

“If I were you, Mrs. Daniels, I’d hire a lawyer. I’d hire a good lawyer, and I’d follow his advice.”

“Yes …” Irresolutely, she nodded. “Yes, I’m sure you’re right.”

“I wouldn’t use any of your husband’s lawyers if I were you. You should get your own. Someone who’s only concerned with your best interests.”

“Yes …”

“I’d do that as soon as possible. I’m almost sure Daniels will be out on bail by this afternoon.”

Startled, she raised her head; her eyes came into sharp focus. “But—but this is murder. Is there bail, for murder?”

“I’m not a lawyer. But I believe the court’s free to grant bail whenever it wants. One consideration is whether the suspect is a flight risk. And, obviously, Daniels isn’t going to disappear. Besides, he’ll obviously try to make Kane the villain of the piece, so he’ll be posing as the perfect citizen. He’s going to say that Kane killed Carolyn. Then Kane killed Jeff Weston, he’ll say, to shut Weston up. He’ll also say that Kane tried to kill Diane and me, for the same reason. And, of course, he’ll say that he killed Kane to save my life. Which, in a sense, is true. Thank God.”

“Will they find the girl’s body, do you think?”

He shrugged. “It’s not a certainty. As I understand it, that landfill’s been bulldozed flat at least once since the murder. If she didn’t show up then, maybe she’ll never show up. Even Daniels probably couldn’t pick out the spot where she’s buried.”

“He’ll go free. If the body isn’t found, he’ll go free.” Her voice was a low, uninflected monotone, the voice of utter resignation, of utter defeat. She began to slowly shake her head. “He’ll be a hero. By the time his lawyers and his flacks get finished, all anyone will remember is that he saved your life. He’ll use you, just like he uses everyone else.”

“I don’t intend to let that happen.”

Her smile was grim. “You might not have a choice. Most people don’t, when they go against Preston.”

“Does that include you?”

She raised her eyes, studied his face—and made no reply.

A
S BERNHARDT’S KEY TURNED
in the lock Crusher began to bark clamorously, that unfailing ritual of greeting. With the lock free but the front door still closed, Bernhardt shifted the bag of groceries to the crook of his left arm and used his right hand to push the door open, bracing himself for the inevitable collision as, still barking, furiously wagging his tail, the Airedale jumped on him—once, twice, three times.

“Get the ball, Crusher. Find the ball.”

Instantly, the dog turned away and began frantically sniffing as he searched in all the usual places for one of his tennis balls. Quickly closing the door, Bernhardt retreated down the long hallway to the kitchen. He deposited the sack of groceries and the briefcase on the kitchen table just as Crusher came prancing down the hallway with a tennis ball in his mouth. Bernhardt unlocked the rear door behind the kitchen, pried the ball out of the dog’s mouth, and threw the ball out into the rear garden, where Crusher caught it on the first bounce. Bernhardt closed the door and walked back down the hallway to his office, once the flat’s front bedroom. The message machine’s counter showed four calls, about average for the hour and a half he’d been out of touch. He sat at the desk, selected a pen, turned to a fresh page in his notepad, and pressed the recall button.

“You were right,” Paula’s voice acknowledged, “surveillance is dull. But I’m tuned in on this guy, and I’m going to catch him dirty, isn’t that the phrase? Anyhow, I’ll give it until his wife comes home, which is usually about six-fifteen. So I should see you about seven. I’ll get some fish. Salmon, if it isn’t too expensive. ’Bye.”

The second message was from the credit bureau, and the third was a blind call from a harassed-sounding woman who said she’d call back tomorrow—maybe.

The fourth caller was a man: “Yeah—Bernhardt. This is Chief Farnsworth calling, from Carter’s Landing. I just thought I should tell you that a couple of hours ago we found a woman’s body out at that landfill. It’s Carolyn Estes, probably. There’s no identification, but who else could it be? We’ve had about twenty-five guys working with probes for three days, a real workout, I don’t mind telling you. Working those probes, you know, it’s tricky. You got to know what a body feels like. But, anyhow, when they finally turned her up, there was less than a foot covering her. I have an idea the state attorney’s going to be in touch with you about the preliminary hearing. Meanwhile, I’m going to be on TV tomorrow, nationwide. How about that?”

—Collin Wilcox

San Francisco, 1991

Turn the page to continue reading from the Alan Bernhardt Novels

B
ACARDO LEANED FORWARD, TAPPED
the driver on the shoulder. “Switch on the radio, Eddie. Remember, no rock and roll.” Bacardo waited until the music came up, then turned to the man beside him. Both men wore dark suits, white shirts, ties, and black loafers. Bacardo’s loafers were brass-buckled; Caproni’s were tasseled.