Find Her a Grave (26 page)

“Right.”

“Okay, here we go.” Bernhardt put the car in gear, moved out. As they passed the body on their left, Louise was staring straight ahead. Her face was pale and drawn.

“Are you sure about him?” Bernhardt asked. “Profaci—you’re sure it’s him?”

“I’m positive.”

“He worked for your father, is that what he told you?”

She nodded. “And Cella, too. Benito Cella.”

Bernhardt glanced into the mirror. Yes, Tate was just pulling out, leaving the grove of trees behind.

The grove and the graveyard, disappearing in the mirror, leaving only Tate’s parking lights, pinpoints in the darkness.

“I have the feeling that this can’t be true,” Louise said. As she spoke she looked at him intently, as if for reassurance.

“The treasure—is that what you mean?”

“Yes. The treasure.”

“Well,” Bernhardt said, “there’s something rattling around in there.” As he spoke, he glanced down at the canister lying on the floor at the woman’s feet.

A fortune in jewels …

Yet, with the prize actually in hand, something to touch, something to hold, the probability that the treasure actually existed seemed more remote, not less. It was, after all, only three pieces of white plastic pipe that someone had once filled with something, then sealed up with plastic glue, the same glue children used, making plastic models.

“How do we get it open?” she asked.

“We have to use a saw. I’ve got one at home.” He glanced at his watch. The time was almost twelve-thirty. Should he call Paula, tell her the news? The call would wake her, perhaps startle her, frighten Angela. And when Paula asked him for details, and he couldn’t tell her about the dead man, not on the air, she would worry.

Therefore, he must not make the call.

Half past midnight …

They’d gotten to the graveyard a little before midnight. In a half hour, they’d dug up the treasure—and seen a man die.

Meaning that, somewhere in the night, a killer was waiting.

B
ERNHARDT FLIPPED THE TURN
indicator, checked the mirrors, made the turn onto Vermont Street—the last turn. Four more blocks and he’d be home. At two o’clock, Potrero Hill was deep in sleep. As he downshifted to first gear for the last steep climb, he took the radio from Louise, a ritual that had become a reflex.

“Get close to me,” Bernhardt said, speaking to Tate. “It could be that they’re waiting at the house.” As he said it he looked apologetically at Louise. All during the night he’d tried to avoid alarming her as he spoke to Tate on the radio. But if Louise was frightened, she gave no sign.

“When we park,” Bernhardt said to her, “I’ll put everything in the canvas bag, including the canister. We’ll leave the shovel in the car. You’ll carry the bag. I’ll go first. Then you. Then C.B., in the rear. Have you got that?” As he spoke, they entered the final block, going uphill. His building was on the left, midway in the block. Because of the steep slope, parking was perpendicular to the curb, on one side of the street. There was one parking space left, only three doors from Bernhardt’s building. He maneuvered the Honda into the slot, took the radio from Louise.

“You’ll have to park in the next block, C.B., on top. It’s level, so there’s parking on both sides of the street. We’ll wait for you in the car.”

“Right.” Behind them, Tate’s Ford passed, climbing the hill.

Bernhardt checked the Honda’s doors; yes, all four were locked. He switched off the walkie-talkie, unfastened the short antenna, put them into the canvas bag along with the flashlights. “Okay.” He held out his hands for the white plastic canister. Louise lifted it from the floor. There was a momentary hesitation, an instinctive, elemental reluctance to surrender the canister, with whatever wealth it contained. Then she handed it over. He leaned over the seat, put it in the bag. He zipped up the bag, hefted it. Yes, Louise could handle it, no problem.

“Is this when—” She broke off. Then, almost timidly: “Is this the dangerous time?”

“I don’t know, Louise. I just don’t know. All I want to do is get the three of us inside the house with the jewels. We get inside, we lock the doors and draw the drapes, we make sure Crusher’s on the job, and we wait until the banks open. Then we celebrate.” He hesitated, then added, “That’s assuming, of course, that we haven’t done all this to bring home a tube filled with pebbles.” As he spoke, he saw movement in the street above them: a figure coming toward them in the darkness. Tate? Bernhardt realized that his hand was on the butt of the .357. The figure was coming down the middle of the street, Wild West style. It was—

Yes, it was Tate. Bernhardt exhaled softly, gestured toward the passenger door. He spoke quietly. “Okay … get out. I’ll hand the bag to you.” He lifted the bag into the Honda’s front seat, gave it to the woman, then got out of the car, went around to Louise’s side as Tate joined them. Tate carried the sawed-off close to his right leg, muzzle down. His head was in constant motion, scanning the area. All of the homes in the block were either single-family dwellings or two-flat buildings, almost all of them attached to their neighbors, almost all of them built with their front facades less than ten feet from the sidewalk—just enough space for a small front garden. Most of the front gardens were protected by ornamental fences or chest-high hedges. Between the Honda and Bernhardt’s front door, therefore, they would be constantly within range of a concealed gunman. One full automatic burst from the M-16 and it would all be over, winner take all.

Bernhardt spoke softly to Tate: “I’ll go first. Then Louise. Then you.”

Impassively, Tate nodded. Back in the city, his own turf, Tate was once more the black samurai, the calm, cold, deadly street warrior, ready for a fight.

“Okay,” Bernhardt breathed, “here we go.” He began walking on the sidewalk, up the hill to his building. As he walked, he drew the .357.

They passed the first building. It was a two-flat building, like Bernhardt’s. There were two more houses to pass on this side of the street, both single-family dwellings. The two homes had low hedges in front, perfect for a gunman to hide behind. But if it happened that way, at this range, one blast from the sawed-off could cut a man in two.

They were passing the second home, the last one. Then, feeling his knees go weak with relief, Bernhardt was turning onto his own short flagstone walkway. He held the .357 in his right hand; in his left he held his keys ready. Had Paula bolted the door? If she had, a probability, he would have to ring the bell to wake her. He would have to—

He was on the small front stoop when he smelled it: a strong, acrid chemical odor.

And, at that same moment, he became aware of an unfamiliar silence from inside the flat.

There was no barking—no anxious whining as Crusher recognized his step, welcomed him home.

There was only silence.

A silence, and the odor.

Carrying the canvas satchel, Louise was standing close to him, sensing that something had suddenly gone wrong. But Tate shouldered her abruptly aside, demanding in a low, urgent whisper: “What?”

“It’s—there’s something—”

And then he saw it: one of the three bay windows in his office, broken out. The drapes were drawn, the room was dark—and the window almost entirely shattered.

“Here.” Tate pushed Louise against the house beside the door, out of harm’s way. Then, to Bernhardt: “You going to try the door?”

Bernhardt nodded, his eyes fixed on the doorknob. Saying, “You guard my back.”

“Right.” With the shotgun ready, Tate turned to face the street. Bernhardt cocked the .357, two fateful clicks, incredibly loud in the silence. With his left hand he returned the keys to the pocket of his jacket. Then, very slowly, as if the prospect of touching the knob were repugnant, Bernhardt extended his left hand until he was touching the knob—slowly rotating it—hearing the click of the latch—

—and feeling the door move.

Unlocked.

The door swung inward at Bernhardt’s touch.

“It’s open,” he whispered. As he said it, he saw the wood splintered above the latch.

Still standing with her back against the wall, just as Tate had left her, clutching the canvas bag close, Louise began to cry. Bernhardt waited for Tate to acknowledge what he’d said, one short nod of his black bullet head. Then Bernhardt stepped to the other side of the door—

—and slowly pushed it open, exposing only his hand and forearm.

The interior of the flat was dark and still: a lung-searing cave, a terrible blackness, a void without sound or life or hope.

Tate muttered a heartfelt obscenity, then said, “That’s gas, man. Tear gas, something like that.
Shit!”

“You stay here,” Bernhardt said. “I’m going in.”

“You won’t get very—” Tate broke off, coughed.
“Shit.
You’d better—” A car was coming: headlights, from up the hill. It was a panel truck, a newspaper van on its early rounds, dropping off bundles of
The Sentinel
at two o’clock in the morning.

The Sentinel …

Tomorrow at this time, how would the front page read?
Potrero Hill Massacre?

Bernhardt’s gaze shifted from the disappearing truck to the open door of his flat—and finally to the wide-eyed woman who stood motionless, clutching the canvas bag close to her body.

A fortune in jewels …

If they called the police, questions would be asked, evidence would be impounded.

Should he call Hastings or Friedman, the homicide lieutenants who were his only real friends on the force?

Call them and tell them what? Tell them the truth? How far did friendship stretch? A million dollars’ worth? Would—

“Jesus, Alan, let’s not just
stand
here.”

Suddenly angry, eyes stinging, voice choking, Bernhardt confronted the other man. “Shut up, why don’t you? Why don’t you just shut up?”

And instantly, hearing himself say it, he heard the echoes from so long ago: himself a child on the playground, aggrieved, fists bunched, about to lash out.

Tate’s response was a grunt, meant to soothe. “You want me to go in, see how far I get?”

“No. Wait.” Bernhardt holstered his revolver, took off his jacket, stripped off his shirt, stepped over a low hedge to a water tap. He soaked the shirt, stepped back over the hedge, held the shirt to his face. Would it help? In the movies, yes, it helped. But here? Now?

He nodded to Louise, then to Tate, a mute apology for his angry words. Then, with the .357 in his hand, he stepped across the threshold.

The first room on his left was his office. The door was standing open. In the pale light from a streetlamp he saw what he hoped to see: nothing disturbed—

—no bodies lying on the floor.

The next two rooms on the left were bedrooms. The first was the guest room, where Angela would have slept. The bed had been slept in, but the room was empty.

The next bedroom was his—his, and Paula’s.

He realized that fear was dragging at his steps as he came close to the door. Yes, the door was open, wide open. His eyes were streaming; his throat was on fire. But he could breathe without choking. The draft created by the open front door was helping.

Another step and, yes, he could make out shapes in his bedroom: tangled blankets on the bed—

—and the shape of something on the floor between the bed and the closet. It was a shape smaller than a body, a human body.

Gritting his teeth, he switched on the light.

It was Crusher.

The Airedale lay on his side, as if he were sleeping—peacefully sleeping, eyes closed.

Sleeping?

Or unconscious, but still alive?

Bernhardt knelt beside the dog. Yes, he could feel faint respiration, a rising and falling of the brown and black fur beneath his hand. Bernhardt stepped to the window that opened on an airshaft, threw up the sash. For now, these next minutes, it was all he could do for the dog. Quickly he stepped to the night-stand, where Paula would have kept the .38 revolver he’d given her. But as his fingers touched the knob of the drawer, he saw it: the gun, lying on the floor between the nightstand and the bed. He thrust his own gun into its holster, picked up the .38, checked the cylinder: five cartridges, all unfired. Plus one empty cylinder, for safety.

He thrust the .38 in his belt, knelt again to put his hand on Crusher. Yes, the dog was still breathing. Bernhardt straightened, decided to switch off the bedroom light before he ventured into the hallway. The dining room and kitchen were at the rear of the flat. As he stepped into the dining room his foot struck something on the floor. He stooped, picked up a small metal canister. It was, certainly, a tear gas canister. As, yes, he saw it: one of the dining room windows, broken out. He put the canister down, went into the hallway. The door that led to the rear garden was partially opened. Even in the uncertain light he saw the wood splintered around the lock. It had been a coordinated attack, then: two canisters of gas, one in front, one in back. Then, front and back, they’d broken in the doors. Men in gas masks, carrying guns. A raid, executed with swat-team precision. They’d taken Paula and Angela—and left the dog for dead.

He pulled the broken back door open wide. He could feel the fresh breeze in his face. Crusher would be grateful. If Crusher lived, he would be grateful.

Moving quickly now, he was striding down the hallway to the front door.

Just as, in his office, the phone warbled. Once. Twice. Should he answer? No; instinct warned against answering. He was at the door of his office. Three rings. He waited for the fourth ring, followed by his brief spiel on the answering machine.

Then came the voice, talking to the machine. It was an educated voice, an affected, studied voice, carefully modulated: “I know you’re in there, Mr. Bernhardt. If you’ll just answer, we can get on with things.”

They were out there, then. Somewhere in the night, close by. Watching. Whoever had Paula, they were watching. The answering machine was silent now, but the tape was still running. He had only moments to make his decision: pick up the phone, or else—

—or else what?