Find Her a Grave (18 page)

“If you and C.B. got greedy, what’d prevent you guys from taking the jewels away from Louise?”

“Nothing. But she’s got to trust someone. And she knows it. She also knows that time is of the essence.”

“What about—”

“Let me finish this. I’m making it up as I go along, but so far it sounds pretty good.”

In spite of herself, Paula chuckled. “The creative mind at work.”

“Let’s say,” Bernhardt went on, “that something goes wrong. You talked about the law. Okay, let’s say we get picked up by some deputy sheriff on suspicion. What’s going to happen?”

“I hate to think.”

“What’s going to happen is that I tell him the absolute truth. I say that Louise hired me to help her dig up an unspecified item at an unspecified location somewhere in the San Joaquin delta. Period.”

“That’s the law. What about the Mafia? If Bacardo is scared enough to run, then—”

“I don’t think Bacardo’s scared. He’s just being cautious. He wants to check out this Profaci guy.”

“Who’s probably a hoodlum, after the jewels.”

“I don’t think that’s what worried Bacardo. He’s got politics on his mind. Job tenure.”

“Mafia politics.”

Bernhardt considered, then decided to say, “Don’t knock Mafia politics. They play rough—but they play by the rules.”

“Mafia rules.”

“Naturally.”

They lay silently for a moment. Finally Paula said, “If you’re going to ride with Louise, then I should ride with C.B.”

Bernhardt snorted. “I knew you were going to say that. I
knew
it.”

She made no reply.

“If there’s any danger, it’ll come from the Mafia. We’re agreed on that. And if that should happen, then guns are the only way out. And Louise, unarmed, becomes a liability. The same thing would apply to you. You’d be a liability, just like Louise. If C.B. and I were alone, and something went wrong, we’d fire a shot over their bow and run—probably for the police. But if we have to hang back to protect the womenfolk—” Aware of the risk, he let the image dangle.

A mistake.

“The womenfolk, eh?” Her voice was grim. “I assume that, as always, you chose your words with care.”

“A little joke. Frontier humor.”

“I know how to shoot. You taught me, if you’ll recall.”

Now they lay neither together nor apart. Finally Bernhardt ventured, “If you really want to help, there
is
something you could do.”

“Oh? What’s that? Load the flintlocks?”

“If it plays out according to the script, then we’ll have to leave Angela behind. Louise’s orders, no compromise.”

“And you need a baby-sitter.”

“This is no kid. She’s twenty, at least. And beautiful. One of those blond California beauties.”

“Long-legged, I suppose. Great boobs. A world-class ass. Right?”

Bernhardt decided to make no reply, a tactical withdrawal in the face of unpredictable hostile action.

A
S HE ATE THE
last of his croissant, Bernhardt said, “Why don’t you take Crusher to the beach for an hour or two?”

“Crusher gets in fights at the beach,” Paula said. “You know that.” It was a cool response. Between them, the question of the treasure was still unresolved. It had been unresolved when they’d gone to sleep last night, a mistake that still hung heavily between them in the cold light of morning.

“Crusher gets in fights everywhere. That’s what Airedales do.”

She considered the answer, then decided to say, “If you had it to do all over again, would you still adopt him?”

“I never
did
adopt him. I was only supposed to keep him over a weekend, while his master arranged bail. So then the guy jumps bail. The last I heard he was in Majorca, having a ball.”

“Let’s say you knew how it would happen. Would you still take Crusher?”

“No comment.”

In a voice that was carefully pitched to the neutral, Paula said, “Are you going to call C.B.?”

“Yes,” he answered, meeting her gaze squarely. “And Louise, too.” He let a beat pass. Then: “Dammit, Paula, I’ve—”

From the front of the flat Bernhardt’s office telephone warbled. After the fourth ring the answering machine’s message began, followed by a woman’s voice. As the message went on, Bernhardt saw amused resignation register in Paula’s face as she poured herself a second cup of coffee.

“There she is,” Paula said. “One of your ladies in distress, I’ll bet.”

“Is that small, resigned smile meant to suggest that we can resolve this thing, resume our previous relationship?”

“The Mafia’s man in San Francisco …” Now reluctant amusement touched the corners of her mouth as warmth began to glow in her eyes. In the office, the caller’s message was ending, followed by a tone, then silence.

“You know you’re going to call her back.”

“But not until I’ve finished my coffee.” As he spoke, he raised the cup, drank the last of his coffee.

“Make the call,” Paula said. “I’ll put the dishes in the sink.”

“You’re a good sport.” Smiling, he rose, went around the table, kissed her meaningfully beneath her ear. She smiled in return, briefly stroked the inside of his thigh.

“Hmmm …” It was a sensual murmur, soft and interested. Should he lift her to her feet, kiss her in earnest, suggest a Sunday morning change of plans, a detour to the bedroom? Was that her meaning?

“Make the call,” she repeated.

“Hmmm …”

“Then we’ll see.”

He smiled, kissed her again as, sensing the change of mood, Crusher had come to stand close beside them. Whenever they made love, it was always easier to close the bedroom door on Crusher.

He kissed her neck again, straightened, smiled, and walked down the flat’s long hallway to his office, the room that was originally a front bedroom. As predicted, the voice on the tape was Angela Rabb’s. Would he please call her? As soon as possible?

He copied down the number, made the call. “Angela?”

“Yes—Alan?”

“Yes.”

“I hope it’s not too early on Sunday morning. But Tony Bacardo called about a half hour ago. He said he had to go back to New York. But he said you—”

“Let’s not talk about it on the phone, Angela. Can you come over?”

“Of course. Mom, too?”

He hesitated, then said, “Why don’t you come by yourself? I think your mother should stay near her phone.”

“I’ll be right over.”

B
ERNHARDT’S FLAT WAS ON
a hill so steep that only perpendicular parking was allowed on one side of the street. Driving slowly up the hill in low gear, vainly looking for a parking place, Angela passed Bernhardt’s building and continued up to the next block, which was almost level, with parallel parking allowed on both sides of the street. Here she had a choice of parking places. As she braked to a stop in front of one of the spaces she saw a light blue sedan climbing the hill behind her. The driver was a young Chinese man. He, too, was slowing, obviously also looking for a place to park. As he passed her he looked straight ahead, ignoring her. Now he was stopping, maneuvering his car back and forth, into a parking place, just as she was.

At almost nine-thirty on a Sunday morning, in this quiet residential neighborhood on the northern slope of Potrero Hill, nothing stirred except for her and the Chinese man.

When she’d left her mother’s house, she’d seen a blue car following at a distance. Watching the car in her mirror, she’d seen it turn off, disappear. The car had never come close enough for her to see the driver, and it had been impossible for her to identify the car’s make.

Parked now, with the front wheels curbed, she switched off the engine, put the shift lever in park, set the brake. Three cars ahead, the blue sedan was still maneuvering into a tight parking place. Irresolutely, she looked back over her shoulder, down the steep slope of the next block. Alan Bernhardt’s flat was midway down that block, across the street. There were two choices: get out of the car and walk directly down the hill to Bernhardt’s building, or else wait for the Chinese man to make a move, commit himself. Through the windows of the two parked cars that separated them, she could make out the shape of the man’s head. Now with the car finally parked, he sat motionless behind the steering wheel, looking straight ahead.

From behind her came the sound of an engine laboring up the hill. It was an old station wagon with a wind surfer and a mast strapped to its roof rack. As the station wagon slowly pulled even, Angela saw three teenagers inside, two boys and a girl. The station wagon was stopping less than twenty feet beyond the blue sedan. Quickly Angela got out of her Tercel, locked the door, and walked diagonally across the street, then down the hill a half block to Bernhardt’s building. As she pressed the bell button she looked back the way she’d come, but the crest of the hill concealed both the blue sedan and the station wagon. In the Sunday morning quiet, she heard youthful laughter, doubtless the teenage wind surfers. From inside Bernhardt’s flat she heard a dog barking: Crusher, Bernhardt’s unruly Airedale.

As she touched the button a second time the door opened. With a firm grip on the dog’s collar, Bernhardt smiled a greeting, stepped back to make room for her in the interior hallway. He wore jeans, running shoes, and a Monterey Jazz Festival sweatshirt.

“It’s okay,” Angela said. “I don’t mind if he jumps up. I like Crusher. Really.”

“All right …” Bernhardt released the dog, who immediately jumped up at her so high that his forepaws struck her shoulders. The Airedale was wriggling all over, a paroxysm of delight. As Bernhardt closed the front door he said, “Crusher loves people, as you already discovered yesterday. He hates dogs—male dogs, anyhow. But he loves people.”

“He’s great.” As Bernhardt forced him down, Angela began scratching the dog behind both ears. Wagging his tail vigorously, Crusher raised his head to her, adoration in his eyes.

“He likes that,” Bernhardt said. “You’ve got the touch. Have you had dogs?”

“Only one, when I was a little girl. I loved him.”

Bernhardt took hold of the dog’s collar as he gestured Angela into his office, the first door off the hallway. Then, sternly blocking the dog’s entrance to the office, Bernhardt pointed down the hallway as, on cue, a woman’s voice called out to the dog from the rear of the ground-floor flat. Hearing the voice, Angela nodded to herself. Yes, there was a woman in Bernhardt’s life. Among the regulars at the Howell Theater, no one had been sure. They’d known only that, years ago, Bernhardt’s young wife had died a violent death in New York.

As they sat down facing each other across Bernhardt’s desk, he said, “I was going to call you this morning.”

She nodded. “I knew you would. But Mom—” Disconsolately, Angela shook her head. “She’s not sleeping. This thing—” Once more, she shook her head. “It’s getting to her, Alan. I—God—I’d’ve called you two hours ago, if I’d listened to Mom. That’s when Tony Bacardo called. About seven-thirty.”

“Did he tell you he was going back to New York?”

She nodded. “He called from the airport.”

“What else did he say?”

“He talked to Mom, not me. And she—she’s so upset, it was hard to pin her down. But apparently Bacardo wants to know who Profaci really is—who he is, and who sent him. And for that, Tony’s got to go back to New York.”

“Is it still true that only your mother and Bacardo know where the jewels are?”

For a long moment she looked him full in the face. Plainly, she was deciding whether she must trust him fully. Finally she spoke in a low, cautious voice: “I know now. She told me yesterday. It was—” She searched for the words. “It was all she had to leave me, that’s what she said. You know, like a will.”

Bernhardt rose from behind the desk and went to the window. His slice of the cityscape was still covered with morning fog; today would be a late burn-off. On the street outside an old station wagon with a wind surfer on top was coming down the hill. Across the street, a barefoot neighbor wearing pajamas and a bathrobe was furtively retrieving his Sunday paper from the ivy that bordered his front stoop.

Like a will …

From the hallway he heard the clicking of Crusher’s toenails; the dog was returning. From the kitchen he heard the clink of dishes being washed. Should he have invited Paula to sit in? On her first surveillance assignment, she’d chased off a murderer, saved a woman’s life. Was she feeling like a scullery maid, not a member of the firm?

Bernhardt turned away from the window as Crusher came into the office, went to Angela, presented himself. “Excuse me a minute. I want you to meet my—ah—partner.” Bernhardt walked down the long hallway to the kitchen where, yes, Paula was bent stubbornly over the sink, ignoring him. Her face was cloudy.

“I want you to meet Angela, see what you think.”

She looked at him with mild suspicion.

“Come on.” He tugged at her. “Quit sulking.”

“What makes you think—?”

“Come
on.”
Bernhardt found a towel, pulled her away from the sink, waited while she dried her hands. They went together to his office, where he made the introductions.

“Paula knows the whole thing,” Bernhardt said. “She—” He hesitated, then decided to say, “She has some reservations.” He turned to Paula for confirmation. She said nothing, revealed nothing.

“It’s the Mafia involvement,” Bernhardt explained. “It worries me, too. I don’t really know much about them, but I sure don’t want to tangle with them. And neither does Tony Bacardo.”

“He told Mom that we should talk to you. He said you’d know what to do.” When Bernhardt made no response, Angela turned to Paula, one woman to another. “If this doesn’t work out for my mother, I don’t know what’ll happen to her. She’s only forty, but—” As if her thoughts caused pain, Angela winced, shook her head. Then: “She’s had a hard life. When she was about ten years old, her mother started to drink. My mother couldn’t wait to leave home. She was only nineteen when she got married. And it—it didn’t work. My father—well …” She shook her head sadly. “He—he died. Later, I mean, after they got divorced, he died. It was drugs. His father was one of those Hollywood hustlers—a producer, supposedly. And—” She broke off, sat for a moment with eyes downcast. Then, recovering: “And my stepfather—Jack Castle—died, too. But he was older. He was an actor, and he was good to my mother. But then he died. And he had a lot of debts when he died. So Mom struck out again, I guess you’d say. And then she came to San Francisco just a few years ago, with Walter Draper. I was sixteen when we moved up here. And it—it was terrible, living with him. When he drank, he—he—” In obvious anguish at the memory, she broke off.