Find Her a Grave (36 page)

“Very briefly,” Haigh said, “I’ll summarize the Giles case for you.”

“Ah.” Archer nodded again, focused his full attention on the other man. “Good. Thank you.”

Haigh acknowledged the tribute with a nod, then said, “About four months ago, the anonymous Los Angeles financier flew up to San Francisco in his corporate jet, and contacted Dancer. The job seemed pretty straightforward. One of the financier’s employees had stolen some company secrets, which were unspecified. Betty Giles was the employee’s name. She lived in Los Angeles with a boyfriend, whose name was Nick Ames. Dancer’s instructions were to find Betty Giles, whose mother lives in San Francisco. Then Dancer was to notify the client. Betty Giles wasn’t to be contacted. She was just to be located, then put under surveillance.”

“The client didn’t want the secrets identified.”

Haigh chose to ignore the opinion, saying instead, “Dancer gave the job to Bernhardt, who tracked Giles to Santa Rosa. Bernhardt staked out Betty Giles and Nick Ames in a cheap motel room, then called Dancer, who called his client in Los Angeles. The client wanted the couple kept under surveillance for a couple of days. Whereupon, surprise, Nick Ames was killed. It happened in Santa Rosa. Bernhardt thought he’d been set up. He thought Dancer had hired him to finger Nick Ames for the killer, who could’ve been a pro. So Bernhardt, who looks like a mild-mannered Abe Lincoln but has a pretty hot temper, decides to go looking for Betty Giles on his own time.”

“Why?” Archer asked.

“Because,” Haigh answered, “Bernhardt figured Giles was in danger. Which, in fact, she was. Bernhardt didn’t want another murder on his conscience.”

“And is that what happened? Was she murdered?”

Choosing to ignore the question, another turn of the disciplinary screw, Haigh continued. “Bernhardt tracked her to a place called Borrego Springs, which is a small resort town in the desert about sixty-five miles southwest of Palm Springs. So then, another surprise, a black hit man, a professional named Willis Dodge, showed up in Borrego Springs. He tried to kill Betty Giles. She was in a motel cabin when the attempt was made, and Bernhardt was with her. When the shooting stopped, Willis Dodge was dead.”

“So Bernhardt is a tough guy.” Once again, speculatively, Archer looked down the hill at the pair of Victorian flats.

“Tough or lucky, take your pick.” Haigh shrugged. “I will say, though, that Dodge was very good at what he did. And smart, too. He was never convicted of anything, never did time, except in county jail.”

“Was Bernhardt held?”

“No. It was pretty clear that he acted in self-defense.”

“So we don’t have any leverage with Bernhardt.”

“Not really. The weapon he used was a sawed-off shotgun, and the state police investigator on the scene was all set to have him locked up for possession of an illegal weapon. But then someone found a ruler, and it turned out that the barrel was precisely sixteen inches long. Which, as you may know, is exactly the legal limit for sawed-offs.”

“Possessing a sawed-off is a federal offense, though. We could’ve kept him for twenty-four hours, and sweated him.”

Deciding on a don’t-give-me-a-lecture-on-the-law expression, Haigh stared the younger man down. Then, with elaborate patience: “We aren’t about to get involved in a pissing contest with the state police. Is that clear?”

In a dark, brooding silence, Archer shifted his gaze to the San Francisco skyline, diffused by the morning fog. After five frustrating years in Fresno, he’d campaigned long and hard for the opening in the San Francisco office. He’d been warned about Haigh, but had chosen to ignore the warnings. Had he made a mistake? Would private industry be his next career move—his only way out? In the Bureau, from a Class A posting like San Francisco, there were only two possibilities: up or out, Washington or the private sector.

“In fact,” Haigh was saying, “Bernhardt and Betty Giles aren’t the primary targets of this investigation. They’re little fish, really.”

Archer nodded. “I figured.”

“They’re our responsibility—this office’s responsibility. But, as of now, the Los Angeles office is calling the plays.” Plainly Haigh was experiencing pangs of bureaucratic discomfort, contemplating the prospect of himself in a secondary role. Therefore, he was compelled to add, “That could change, though, once we talk to Bernhardt and Giles. They’re little fish, admittedly. But little fish wriggling on a hook can catch the big fish.”

“Where’s Betty Giles?”

“That’s the problem,” Haigh admitted. “We can’t find her. She’s in Europe, we’re almost sure of that. But we don’t know where.”

“What’s her mother say?”

“All she knows is that Betty Giles is in Europe. She doesn’t have an address. I’ve talked to her twice, and I’m pretty sure she’s telling the truth. But a couple of times the mother let it slip that Bernhardt knows how to locate Betty Giles.”

“What’s the reason for that?”

“I don’t know. But I definitely plan to find out.”

“Y
ES, SIR?” THE RECEPTIONIST’S
smile was polite but remote. Except for a telephone console and a crystal bud vase that contained one yellow rose, her desk was clear. Both the desk and the receptionist were discreetly high-style.

“I’d like to see Mr. Haigh, please. My name is Bernhardt. Alan Bernhardt.”

“Yes …” The receptionist nodded. The smile faded; the nod suggested discreet disapproval. “Yes—four o’clock.” She gestured to one of two elegantly fashioned couches. “If you’ll just have a seat, I’ll tell Mr. Haigh you’re here.” She waited until Bernhardt had seated himself, then spoke briefly into the phone. As she spoke she avoided direct eye contact with Bernhardt.

Bernhardt crossed his legs and checked the time: three fifty-five. It had been noon when Haigh phoned, two o’clock before Bernhardt had retrieved the cryptic message on the answering machine. “This is Preston Haigh,” the voice had said. “Call me as soon as possible, please.” Followed by a local phone number. To Bernhardt’s theater-trained ear, Haigh’s voice had projected smooth, smug authority. The guess had been accurate: “Federal Bureau of Investigation” had been the first words he’d heard when he’d returned the call. The four o’clock appointment had come as a command, not a request.

Across the waiting room, on the room’s other couch, a woman in her thirties sat beside a girl in her teens. Neither the woman nor the child spoke or acknowledged the presence of the other. Both sat rigidly, hands clenched. Their faces were expressionless, frozen by something more profound than simple fear.

As if he’d been caught eavesdropping, and therefore felt guilty, Bernhardt looked away from the woman and the child, turned his gaze on the oil paintings that were the reception room’s only decoration. The paintings were uniformly framed, and were original oils, certainly painted by the same artist. All four were semiabstract landscapes. The windowless room’s softly diffused lighting was indirect, a glow that emanated from a continuous ceiling cove. The walls were covered with mauve grasscloth. The matching end tables beside the matching sofas were as bare as the receptionist’s desk. The FBI apparently didn’t believe in providing reading material. In Russia, Bernhardt had once read, the KGB provided tea for its waiting victims.

At the thought, Bernhardt smiled. Hot tea from a brass samovar and hard wooden benches at the KGB; the glow of indirect lighting, soft modern sofas, and thick carpeting at the FBI.

He’d been here only once before. Running an errand for Dancer, he’d dropped off papers relevant to an insurance fraud case that had netted Dancer almost a half-million dollars. Bernhardt had talked briefly to two agents, both of whom wore three-piece suits and spoke deadpan Harvardese.

Meaning, therefore, that today Bernhardt had chosen to wear corduroy slacks, scuffed running shoes, a rough tweed jacket, a tattersall checked shirt, and no tie. Years ago, in New York, he’d bought the jacket at a salvage shop for twenty dollars. As soon as he slipped it on, he knew it would be his all-time favorite article of clothing.

Bernhardt yawned, slid down on the sofa until he was sitting on his spine. His legs were outstretched, crossed at the ankles. Like the clothing he’d chosen to wear, his posture expressed his opinion of the FBI, past and present. In his private pantheon of American fascists, J. Edgar Hoover was the archvillain.

Bernhardt yawned again, blinked, felt his eyes grow heavy. He was a tall, lean man, slightly stooped when he stood. Like his body, his face was long and lean, deeply etched. It was a Semitic face: nose long and narrow, slightly hooked; complexion dark; forehead high and broad. His gray-flecked hair was dark and thick, carelessly combed and long enough to curl over the open collar. His chin was prominent, his mouth generously shaped. Beneath dark, thick eyebrows, the brown eyes were both calm and acute. It was the face of a tough-minded aesthete, reflective in repose, uncompromising when challenged. Only the designer glasses, aviator-styled, hinted at the vanity of the intellectual.

At three minutes after four o’clock a buzzer sounded. The receptionist lifted the phone, listened, then nodded to Bernhardt and gestured him to an inner door. As he approached the door it automatically swung slowly open, then swung slowly closed behind him. In the inner hallway, smiling slightly, a conservatively dressed man in his late thirties stepped forward, offered his hand.

“Graham Archer,” he said, introducing himself.

“Alan Bernhardt.”

“Thanks for coming.” Archer led the way down the carpeted, paneled hallway to the end, then pushed open a door to an impressively appointed, discreetly decorated conference room. An older man in his well-tailored middle forties sat at the head of a long surfboard-shaped conference table.

“This is Special Agent Haigh, Mr. Bernhardt.”

Without rising, Haigh acknowledged the introduction with a remote nod, at the same time gesturing Bernhardt to a seat on his right. Arrayed before Haigh on the rosewood and walnut table were a leather-bound notebook, open; a file folder, closed; two ballpoint pens, and a microphone. The two pens, the notebook, and the file folder, Bernhardt noticed, were all geometrically aligned. Haigh’s mannerisms, too, were geometric.

Bernhardt sat in a leather armchair equipped with casters; Archer took a facing chair on Haigh’s left. The FBI’s offices were on the ninth floor of the Federal Building; a floor-to-ceiling window offered a close-up view of the downtown skyline, with the Bay Bridge beyond.

Haigh cleared his throat, made an imperceptible adjustment in the alignment of the file folder. Then he gestured to the microphone.

“Do you mind if we record this, Mr. Bernhardt?”

The presence of the microphone displayed so prominently had given Bernhardt the time he needed to decide on a response:

“First, if you’ll just tell me what this is all about…”

Haigh shifted his gaze to the microphone, let a long, thoughtful moment linger between then. Then he spoke deliberately: “We can forget about the microphone.”

Bernhardt decided to make no response, give no hint of his reaction. Was Haigh trying to intimidate him? Or was he feeling his way: probing, evaluating, improvising? Just as, yes, Bernhardt was also improvising.

Now, projecting an executive’s air of dispensing with the preliminaries, Haigh raised his head to stare directly into Bernhardt’s eyes, saying softly, “I’m going to give you a name, Mr. Bernhardt. When I’ve given you the name, I think you’ll know why I’ve asked you to come down here.”

Bernhardt nodded, then decided to shift his attention to Archer, seated directly across the table. Archer’s expression was unreadable, but, at the corners, his mouth stirred with some faint suggestion of fellowship. Or was this the FBI’s pallid version of the good cop? Or, more probably, was Archer suppressing a smirk at the thought of what was about to follow?

“The name,” Haigh was saying, “is Raymond DuBois.” He pronounced the words with exquisite precision, timed to perfection.

Raymond DuBois …

Instantly the searing images flared in Bernhardt’s consciousness: he and Betty Giles in the darkened cabin, no phone, no protection. No hope. Never had time moved so slowly, yet also raced inexorably ahead, bringing with it the certainty of death. He could still feel the sawed-off in his hands, slick with sweat. He could still feel the hammering of his heart, and the weakness of his legs, and the incredible dryness of his mouth and throat.

“I take it,” Haigh was saying, “that you know the name.”

Bernhardt cleared his throat, delivered the only line that came to him: “DuBois. Sure. One of the—” His throat closed momentarily. Then: “One of the world’s richest men.”

As if he were encouraging a slow student, Haigh nodded as he said, “What else do you know about Raymond DuBois, Mr. Bernhardt?”

Bernhardt shrugged, raised one hand, let it fall, a disclaimer. The gesture had come easily. He was getting into the part; the lines were there as the game came clear: both of them were probing, trying to discover what the other man knew—and didn’t know.

“I know what everyone else knows, I suppose. DuBois is old. He’s a recluse. In failing health, I think.”

“And that’s all you know?”

Projecting a casual indifference, Bernhardt nodded, but said nothing. It was a gambit. If another microphone were hidden under the table, Haigh would want him to say something, not simply nod.

Gambit declined.

“Have you ever had any direct contact with Raymond DuBois?” Haigh asked.

The question required a frown that projected puzzled innocence. “I’m afraid I don’t understand the purpose of the question.”

Now Archer spoke, the junior partner, taking his turn, sharply shifting ground. “How about Betty Giles?” Like Haigh, he spoke easily, conversationally. But his eyes were watchful. “Are you acquainted with Betty Giles?”

Once more the images flashed: in the darkened cabin, Betty, crouching between the bed and the wall as Bernhardt heard the sound of the bathroom screen being cut. With the sawed-off raised, he’d advanced until he stood in the open bathroom door. When the gun fired, as if by its own volition, flame filled the high window over the bathtub.