Find Her a Grave (19 page)

“I know about that, Angela,” Bernhardt offered gently.

“Yeah …” Eyes downcast, she nodded disconsolately. “Yeah, I remember how ashamed I was, telling you about it. Afterwards, I mean, I felt ashamed. I didn’t even really know you when I told you about it.”

“Sometimes that’s best,” Paula said. “Sometimes it’s easier to tell a stranger.”

As she spoke, Bernhardt searched Paula’s face. Had he told her that Walter Draper had abused Angela? He couldn’t remember.

For a moment Angela, too, was searching Paula’s face. Then, speaking softly, as if all hope was gone, Angela said, “The reason I’m telling you all this, I want you to know how it is with my mother. It—it’s hard, you know, when your father’s a gangster. It’s very hard.”

“And without those jewels …” This time, Bernhardt’s quick scrutiny of Paula’s face was covert.

They sat in silence for a long moment. Then, turning to Bernhardt, Angela said, “Mom says that it’s all right with Tony if you get the jewels. She says that he trusts you. And we trust you, too. That—that’s why I called you this morning. I mean, I thought that maybe the two of us—you and I—could get the jewels, talk Mom into letting me go. Ten minutes digging, that’s all it would take.”

“Angela …” Somberly, Bernhardt shook his head. It’s not the digging. You
know
it’s not the digging. It’s the Mafia.”

“But my mom—what about her? This is her last shot, Alan.” She spoke doggedly, with rigidly controlled passion. Angela Rabb, Bernhardt decided, had guts.

Bernhardt looked first at Angela, then at Paula. In Angela’s eyes, he saw a low fire, steadily burning. In Paula’s eyes, he saw—what?

What did they see in his eyes, one of them hardly out of her teens, one of them his lover, his friend—and, yes, his associate.

“Did Bacardo tell you that he’d given me money?” Bernhardt asked, looking at Angela.

Her first reaction was a puzzled frown. Then she said, “Mom talked to him, not me. But she didn’t say anything like that.”

“Well, he did. He gave me five thousand dollars.” He realized that he was speaking defiantly, as if to challenge her—her, or Paula.

“Five thousand …” Angela stared at him incredulously. Then, seeking confirmation, Angela turned to Paula, who nodded. The two women exchanged a long, searching look before Bernhardt spoke again, another challenge: “And it’s not enough, Angela. It’s not nearly enough.”

“Yesterday,” she said, “you and I talked about a contingency fee. I asked Mom about it last night. She wasn’t sure. But now—this morning—she wants to do it. That’s what she told me to tell you—that a contingency fee is okay.”

“If we did it that way,” Bernhardt said, “it’d be ten percent.” As he said it, he looked at Paula. Her answering gaze revealed nothing.

“Ten percent is fine.” Angela’s prompt reply suggested that she had been prepared to go higher.

Bernhardt rose from behind his desk again, went to the window, looked out. Across the street a high-styled, long-legged blond woman was waiting patiently while her golden retriever was meticulously sniffing a sidewalk tree. Bernhardt had spoken to the woman several times, once, memorably, when Crusher had picked a fight with the golden. The woman, he’d later learned, was a producer on the Channel Six News.

“Alan …” It was Paula’s voice. He turned, saw her also standing. Crusher, too, was on his feet, looking expectantly from him to Paula. Just as Angela was looking at them.

“Excuse us a minute,” Paula said, speaking to Angela. Then Paula turned, walked down the hallway to the dining room, where they could shut the door. Crusher chose to remain in the hallway, awaiting developments.

“What’re you going to do?” Paula asked, sotto voce.

“I think I’ll do it.”

“Good.” She nodded decisively. “That poor woman. You’ve got her life in your hands. Literally.”

Bernhardt shook his head incredulously as he stared at her. “Was I imagining it last night, or were you saying that I should stay away from this?”

“That was before I realized what the stakes were.”

“The
stakes?
Jesus, the stakes are—”

“Shhh.”
She put her forefinger to her lips.

“You’re becoming very unpredictable, you know that?”

“How about ‘flexible’?” She smiled at him, then gestured with her head toward the door. “We should get back. The poor kid, she’s obviously hanging by a thread.”

“Yeah, well,
I’m
hanging by a thread, too.”

Now her smile suggested the eternal female: inscrutable, subtly superior, and, yes, sometimes smug.

“My plan,” Bernhardt said, “is to tell Angela that I’ll take the job. Then I plan to tell her that, at the first hint of trouble, I’m out. Gone. Long gone.”

“That’s my plan, too.”

S
EATED IN HIS TINY
office behind the restaurant, Brian Chin tapped the computer’s keys, watched the symbols materialize on the screen: ALB for Alan Bernhardt, the third person on Fabrese’s list. Another sequence, for the Delta data base: ALB, age 44, born NYC. Profession: theatrical director, actor—and private investigator. Time in secondary profession: three years with Dancer Associates. Currently an independent, less than six months’ tenure. Followed by Bernhardt’s address and phone numbers.

And, finally, Chin’s own private project: JIF for Jimmy Fabrese, 321 West 87th Street, NYC. Profession: supervisor with Acme Dry Cleaners, a suspected front organization for organized crime. In a supplementary organized-crime data base Fabrese was rated a soldier in the Venezzio family, nothing more, no connection with Benito Cella. Sipping tea from a porcelain cup, Chin tapped F7, saved the document, left the computer switched on, ready.

But ready for what?

Were there enough pieces to work with, add the essential element of intelligence, make a preliminary pass at a pattern, therefore a plan? He decided to let his head fall back against the soft leather of his executive chair, decided to let his eyes close—decided to work with the pieces of the puzzle currently at hand, a preliminary alignment, a tentative juxtaposition.

Begin, then, at the beginning: begin with Fabrese, who’d somehow stumbled onto a valuable secret.

Begin with Fabrese, end with Fabrese, the small-time hood who was probably in over his head.

Switch, then, to the real players: Louise Rabb, the principal. Also Angela, probably Louise Rabb’s daughter, probable last name also Rabb. Then focus on Alan Bernhardt, the wild card.

Chin was pleased at the precision with which his people had performed. And pleased, additionally, with the performance of his electronics. Fabrese had left the restaurant at ten-thirty last night. By eleven forty-five, two men and two cars had taken up positions at Thirty-ninth Avenue, where they’d reconnoitered thoroughly, communicating with Chin by cellular phone. “Mother” had been the code name for Louise Rabb, “Chick” for Angela.

Most of the houses on Thirty-ninth Avenue were row houses, each one attached to houses on either side. But the Rabb house was only attached on the south side, with a service way on the north. The living room was in front of the house, on the same side as the serviceway. Therefore, after getting Chin’s approval, one member of the team had easily been able to drill a quarter-inch hole of sufficient length to accommodate a spike mike.

With almost every word being recorded, the two women had talked in the living room for almost two hours before they’d finally gone to bed. Charles Ng, the leader of the team, had brought the tapes to Chin, at his home on Russian Hill. The time had been three
A.M.
, but Ng, on his own authority, had decided to awaken Chin. It had been the correct decision. By five-fifteen, Chin had pieced together the whole story, assuming he was correct in deciding that “Profaci” was really Fabrese. The only puzzle had been the identity of “Alan,” but that question had been resolved when Angela, followed alternately by two cars, had driven to the Vermont Street address this morning, thus establishing Alan Bernhardt’s identity.

Chin opened his eyes, leaned forward, began making random designs and word combinations on a legal pad, always a helpful exercise whenever psychic overload threatened.

Across the top of the sheet of paper, in Chinese characters, he doodled a million dollars in jewels, somewhere in the delta south of Sacramento.

Buried treasure, the stuff of legend: pirates on the Spanish Main. Genghis Khan, his elephants laden with chests of plunder, the riches of the eastern world.

The legend—and the reality: a third-rate hood, two frightened women, and one part-time private eye, apparently an actor. Plums, ripe for the picking.

But first, planning was required, the life-or-death difference. So, while Ng presided at Thirty-ninth Avenue and Gregory Barrows, a Caucasian, was calling the shots at Vermont Street, Chin took stock:

As of now, noon on Sunday, a bright, clear April morning, the situation was static, in equilibrium. Bacardo was still in the air, flying to New York. After more than two hours spent with Bernhardt, Angela had just returned to her mother’s house. During her absence, there had been no sound from inside the house at Thirty-ninth Avenue, despite the fact that Louise Rabb was still inside. Conclusion: except for her daughter, there was no one who could help Louise Rabb.

Back on stakeout after six hours’ sleep, Ng had just reported that, once again, the two women were in the living room, in urgent conversation. In Ng’s opinion, Louise Rabb was close to the breaking point. Angela, returning from Alan Bernhardt with good news, was trying to reassure her mother. She’d been home for less than ten minutes, during which time Chin had listened while the conversation from inside the house was being recorded. Clearly, Angela had come to an agreement with Alan Bernhardt. If everything went as they hoped, they would be “ready” tonight. Meaning that—

On the desk, the phone warbled. The console revealed that Barrows was calling from the Bernhardt stakeout.

“Go ahead,” Chin said.

“Al is leaving. There’s a woman and a dog with him. His wife, I’d say.”

“Al” meaning Alan Bernhardt.

“Are you set up with Wayne?”

“I think so. Al has to go down the hill. Wayne’s down there.”

“Does Al park his car on the street?”

“Yes. There’s no garage.”

“Then be sure and install a homing device.”

“I already have,” Barrows answered.

“Good.” Chin broke the connection. Locked on the homer, Barrows and Wayne Gee would follow Bernhardt, a rolling tail.

Chin waited for a dial tone, consulted an electronic memo screen, called Ng’s number.

“Anything?”

“The other one,” Ng said, groping. “The man.”

“That’s Al.”

“Right. Looks like he’s going to get someone for backup. That’s what the women are talking about.”

“He’s moving now.”

“This Al,” Ng said, “he’s the main man, it sounds like. What he says, they do.”

“Hold on.” Chin put Ng on hold, contacted Barrows. “I’d like to send someone with a spike mike to make an installation at Al’s while he’s gone. How does it look?”

“Iffy, I’d say,” came the prompt response. “He lives in a lower flat, and the building’s attached on both sides. The front’s right on the sidewalk, maybe a five-foot garden with a few rosebushes. At night—late—maybe it’d work. Not now, though. It’s a residential neighborhood. You know, kids playing, lots of action. Especially on Sunday. Everyone’s out front, washing their cars.”

“How about the back? An alley?”

“I don’t think there’s an alley. I’m almost sure, in fact.”

In silence, Chin made his calculations. The conclusion: A fake cable system installation might work—but not on Sunday.

“Okay, we’ll hold off on the mike. Where’s Al going?”

“Hard to say. Upper Market, as of right now.”

“Okay. I’ll be here for at least an hour. Keep in touch.” Chin switched back to Ng, gave instructions that he should be informed minute to minute if anything changed at Thirty-ninth Avenue. Then Chin poured himself a fresh cup of tea, sighed, gently massaged his eyes as, once again, he leaned back in the chair. The time for decisions had come.

First, as to Jimmy Fabrese: percentagewise, what was the probability that Fabrese had, in fact, come to San Francisco on a secret mission for Benito Cella? Chin considered, decided on ten percent.

Next, what exactly was Louise Rabb’s connection with the Mafia—and therefore the treasure? Based on the taped conversations, it seemed that when Louise’s father had died, he’d left his daughter a fortune buried somewhere in the delta. Therefore, to calculate risk, it was essential to know the identity of the father. But the data bases on Louise Rabb led nowhere. Born Louise Frazer, mother Janice Frazer, father unknown. Married Jeffrey Rabb, one child, Angela. Divorced after five years, husband now deceased. No credit rating, no police record, no civil action during those five years. Married Jack Castle, no children, husband deceased. C-minus credit rating during the marriage, middle-five-figure income, no police record. Residence, North Hollywood. Moved to San Francisco four years ago, shared residence with Walter Draper. Credit unrated. Changed name from Louise Castle to Louise Rabb. Renting current residence, one year. Estimated net worth, mid-four-figures, no more. Chin had requested a check on Janice Frazer, but the computer’s first pass had revealed nothing usable. Tomorrow, with more mainframes up, additional information would doubtless develop, hopefully including the name of Louise Frazer/Rabb/Castle/Rabb’s father, the grand prize.