Bernhardt's Edge, page 12
part #1 of Alan Bernhardt Series
“So the money’s been compounding for years,” she said thoughtfully. “Fifty thousand dollars.”
Gravely, he nodded. “That comes to a hundred thousand, now.”
“So now you’ve quit your job…”
He nodded. “You’ve got it. I hadn’t gone farther than the elevators before I’d decided to go in for myself—start freelancing, doing investigations. I’ve had lots of chances in the past. A lot of people—friends, acquaintances—have asked me to work for them. But, like a fool, I always passed them along to Dancer. He charges fifty dollars an hour, and pays me thirty. So I’m going to charge thirty-five, maybe forty. I’ve already ordered the calling cards and stationery from one of those quickie overnight printers. I’ll get a permit from the state, no sweat. And I’ll be in business.”
“You won’t be getting forty dollars an hour to find Betty Giles, though.”
“That’s unfinished business.”
She raised her glass. Over the rim, her eyes came alive. Her voice was richer now, lower, more intimate. “Here’s to business, unfinished or otherwise.”
He smiled, sipped the wine, then raised his glass to hers. “Here’s to friendship. Ours.”
He’d expected her to drop her eyes: the maiden, demurring.
Instead, meaningfully, she let her eyes linger with his.
MONDAY September 17th
1
BERNHARDT SWITCHED OFF THE engine and sat behind the wheel for a moment, looking across the street at Betty Giles’ apartment building. The building was almost exactly what he’d expected: probably about ten years old, plainly planned for profit. The construction was stucco, three stories high. The color scheme was beige and pink. La Canada Arms, in raised letters, was featured prominently above the lobby’s aluminum-framed glass doors. Three palm trees were planted in a small grassy area in front of the building. White-painted rocks described a circle around each tree, and redwood chips filled the circle. Three spotlights sprouted from the redwood chips, one spotlight for each tree. The grass was improbably green, immaculately trimmed. A small vacancy sign was propped on the low brushed aluminum sill of the lobby’s plate-glass window.
He locked the car, walked across the street, and studied the apartment listings. There were twelve apartments in the building. Opposite number nine, “B. Giles” was listed. Opposite number one, he saw “E. Krantz, Mgr.” After a moment’s thought, he pressed the button for number nine. He waited, tried again, then pressed number one. Standing in the midday heat of hazy, smog-sulphered September sunshine, he took a clean handkerchief from his pocket and blotted his damp forehead. The handkerchief came away wet and grimy, one infinitesimal tracery left by millions of automobiles confined in an airless basin of land that should have been left a desert.
“Yes?” It was a woman’s voice, loud and brassy, coming from a small speaker set into the wall beside the building directory.
“My name is Alan Bernhardt,” he said, speaking into the perforated disc. “I’m a private investigator, and I’m inquiring about Betty Giles. I’ll just take a few minutes. Ten, at the most.”
“A private investigator?” She spoke on a sharply rising cadence, as if she were registering a complaint.
“It won’t take long. I promise.”
“Just a minute.”
The glass door allowed him to see into the ground-floor hallway, where the first door was opening. E. Krantz was a small, thin woman. She was middle-aged—and desperately resisting. Her hair was dyed a dark, muddy brown. Her purple toreador pants were skintight. Her face was aggressively overdrawn: too much bright red lipstick, too much iridescent purple eye shadow, too much eyebrow pencil. Over the toreador pants she wore a large, loose-fitting, off-the-shoulder sweatshirt that fell to her mid-thigh, according to the latest teenage fashion whim. As she came closer to the outside door, the penciled eyebrows drew together in a suspicious frown as she looked Bernhardt over twice, head-to-toe. Finally, grudgingly, she half opened the door. Bernhardt was ready with an outdated plastic identification plaque and a business card. She examined the plaque, squinting suspiciously as she compared Bernhardt’s face with the picture. Next she examined the business card, newly printed.
“You can keep the card,” Bernhardt said.
“About two months ago,” she answered, “some guy came around saying he was a private detective. It turned out he was a bill collector.”
“Some private investigators collect bills,” Bernhardt answered. “I don’t.” He smiled.
Still studying him, transparently suspicious, she stood with her thin body aggressively blocking the entrance. Plainly, E. Krantz was a person who would welcome a confrontation. But when Bernhardt continued to simply smile, offering no resistance, she finally asked, “Is Betty in some kind of trouble? Is that it?”
“No,” he answered, “that’s not it. But she’s traveling, and apparently can’t be reached. Her employer’s got some questions—things they need to know, about her job. They want to talk to her, but they don’t know where to look.”
Accusingly, she raised his card. “This says you live in San Francisco. So what’re you doing in Los Angeles?”
“The last contact we had from her was in San Francisco. Her mother lives there.”
“Hmmm—” As E. Krantz pondered, a man and a woman, laughing together, excused themselves as they left the building, walking between them. The diversion seemed to help E. Krantz come to a decision. Grudgingly she stepped back into the foyer, gesturing for Bernhardt to enter. The all-glass entryway was decorated with a life-size pink plaster Venus and a white-and-gilt Grecian-style bench. E. Krantz sat on one end of the bench, abruptly gesturing Bernhardt to a seat on the other end.
“I haven’t got much time,” she said. “The pool man’s coming in about a half hour. And an upholsterer, too.” She shook her head. “It’s always something with a job like this. There isn’t an hour, I swear to God, that there isn’t something to do. Yesterday one of the tenants asked me to walk her dog. Honest to God.”
Projecting a broad, bogus sympathy, Bernhardt dolefully shook his head. “People take advantage, there’s no question. Aren’t there dog walkers? Have you looked in the Yellow Pages?”
“In Van Nuys?” Scornfully, she snorted. “You must be kidding. Beverly Hills, maybe. Malibu. But not Van Nuys.”
“There’s nothing wrong with Van Nuys,” Bernhardt protested, keeping the smile resolutely in place. “It’s nice, here. Very quiet.”
She snorted again, shrugged, laid his business card on the bench between them, absently plucked at the folds of her sweatshirt. “Personally,” she said, “I’ve about had it, with L.A., I mean, everywhere you go, you’ve got to drive. And I’ve got asthma, too. When there’s smog, I can’t breathe. Like now. Today. There’s a first-stage smog alert, today. Or hadn’t you noticed?”
Elaborately sympathetic, Bernhardt fervently nodded. “I noticed, all right.” Then, tentatively: “About Betty Giles…Do you remember how long she’s lived here?”
“Two years and three months,” she answered promptly.
“Was—is she a pretty good tenant, would you say?”
Grudgingly she nodded. “Yeah, she was—is. Like, when she went away, she left a note saying that she expected to be gone about a month. And she left a postdated check, for the next month’s rent. Most people wouldn’t do that. At least, not these tenants here.” Resentfully, she glanced over her shoulder. “Los Angeles—” Petulantly, she shook her head. “You can have it.”
“Do you have the note that Betty left?”
“No. I’ve got their check, not the note. It didn’t say much, just that they were going away, and asking me to—you know—pick up newspapers from in front of her door, take packages, things like that. See—” Exasperated, she gestured. On the third finger of her left hand, a large diamond ring sparkled. Or was it a zircon? “See, that’s what I mean, about being a servant. I can’t tell you how much time I spend, just picking up after people.”
“You say ‘they’ were going away. She and Nick Ames, you mean.”
“Right.” Scornfully, she accented the single word. “Nick Ames.” Contemptuously, she grimaced.
“You don’t like him, I gather.”
“Well,” she answered, pursing her mouth, “I can’t say he ever gave me any problems. It wasn’t that. In fact, to be fair, he was better than most, around here. He and Betty, they’re the best tenants I’ve got, except for the MacLeans, and maybe the Finks. But he was always hanging around. You know what I mean?”
“He didn’t work. Is that what you mean?”
“Right,” she answered heavily. “That’s it exactly. He’s one of those men that just don’t like to work, I guess. He said he used to drive stock cars, until he crashed. And maybe he did, I don’t know.” She considered, then added thoughtfully, “He’s a good-looking devil, though. I’ll give him that.”
“Betty works, though,” he prompted.
“Oh, yeah. Sure.” Quickly she nodded. “She has irregular hours, sort of. But she must have a good job. A real good job, judging by her furniture, and everything.”
“What’s her work? Do you know?”
E. Krantz shook her head. “No. I never found out. She’s pretty closed mouth. Nice, but closed mouth. You know?”
Bernhardt nodded. “Yes, I know.” He let a beat pass, hoping that she would elaborate. When she offered nothing more, but instead looked pointedly at her wristwatch, he asked, “When did they leave, exactly? Do you remember?”
“It was, lessee—” Frowning, she touched the tip of a pink tongue to the bright red of her upper lip. “It was eight days ago. Or maybe nine, depending on how you count.”
“You didn’t actually see them leave, then.”
“No.”
“Did anyone else see them, do you know?”
She shook her head, then shrugged. “Not as far as I know, no one saw them.” She looked again at her watch. “That poolman’s due any minute.” She rose to her feet.
Rising with her, he said, “Can I ask you just one more question, Ms. Krantz?”
“What’s that?” Once more, suspicion puckered her eyes, pulled at her mouth.
“You say they left in the night. So I was wondering, did you get the impression that they left in a hurry?”
“As a matter of fact,” she answered, “I did. The kitchen was clean, and they took the garbage out, and everything. But the place wasn’t picked up—and the bed wasn’t made. Which wasn’t like Betty, at all. She’s always been—” She broke off, looked quickly at Bernhardt. As if he hadn’t noticed her landlady’s lapse, he blandly continued to smile encouragement as she caught herself, explaining: “Sometimes, you know, apartment managers have to enter the tenant’s place. If there’s—you know—running water, anything like that. It’s the law.” As she said it, her voice hardened defensively.
“Oh, sure,” he answered, turning toward the outside door. “You’re right, it’s the law. Absolutely.”
“Absolutely,” she repeated vehemently.
2
LIKE THE OFFICE, THE receptionist was impeccably high styled: every gesture, every glance, every nuance, was carefully calculated for its urbane effect. Standing in front of the receptionist’s desk, Bernhardt was aware that, for this particular mission, he’d miscalculated both the character he’d intended to play and the costume he’d chosen for the role. He’d imagined that a smooth, knowing, with-it character, casually dressed, would maximize his chances for success in the sunny southland. He’d obviously been wrong. Without doubt, all the males at Powers, Associates wore ties—and all the females wore heels.
Holding his newly minted business card with manicured fingers, the receptionist was frowning slightly as she looked at Bernhardt.
“What is it, exactly, that you want?” she asked. “And why do you want it?”
He wasn’t comfortable with the story he’d concocted, but neither had he been able to improve on it:
“There’s an illness in her family. When her mother tried to reach Betty, to tell her, she discovered that Betty had left town for a month. Betty’s apartment manager couldn’t help me. So this is the next logical place for me to try.”
Without producing a single crease in the receptionist’s flawlessly made-up face, the frown remained in place. “I haven’t seen Betty Giles for weeks,” she said. “Maybe months.”
“But—” As if he may have wandered into the wrong office, Bernhardt looked quickly around. “But she works here.”
Condescendingly, she shook her head. “Not really. Not steady. I’ve been here six months. And I’ve only seen her two or three times.”
“Two or three—?” Incredulously, he looked at her. “Are we talking about the same Betty Giles? About thirty, thirty-five? Small, dark brown hair? Pretty? Good figure? Smart?”
“We are indeed,” she said. “That’s definitely Betty.”
“So you do know her.”
“I know her, yes. She does business with Mr. Powers, occasionally. But that’s it. She comes and goes. I always thought she was a consultant.”
“Then I’d like to see Mr. Powers.” As he said it, Bernhardt instinctively switched to a brusque, decisive persona, giving orders, not asking for favors.
“I’m sorry—” Smoothly, she shook her head. “That’s impossible, without an appointment.”
“Listen, Miss”—he looked down at the etched-glass nameplate on her desk—“Miss Fairchild. Betty Giles’ mother is desperate to find her. Otherwise she wouldn’t’ve gone to the expense of sending me down here from San Francisco, which is where she lives. She’s not a wealthy woman. Now—” He let a slow, solemn beat pass. “Now, I don’t know the particulars. I don’t know who’s sick, who’s dying. But I think that, if you’d talked to Betty’s mother”—he let another beat pass, let his voice dolefully drop, let his face forlornly sag—“you’d want to help. Because this one day is the whole shot. Everything.”
Vexation deepened Miss Fairchild’s frown. “I don’t understand what you’re saying.”
“I’m saying,” Bernhardt intoned, “that Betty’s mother can only afford to hire me for one day. That’s it. Period. The end.”
Miss Fairchild’s mannequin-perfect face registered no emotion as she studied him. In the lengthening contest of silence, Bernhardt concentrated on keeping his expression balanced: not too confrontational, not too maudlin. It was, after all, just a job—at least to the character he was currently playing.
Finally he saw her come coolly to a decision: “I suspect, Mr. Bernhardt, that you’re not giving me the whole story. But if you’re lying, you’re very good at it.” Suddenly she smiled: a slow, knowing smile, a speculative, woman-to-man smile. “And I’ve always admired chutzpah.” She let the smile linger, let her eyes linger a little longer with his before she lifted her phone and touched a button on her console.
“Julie, this is Kay. Have you got a few minutes? There’s a gentleman here who’s trying to locate Betty Giles. I thought you might be able to help him.” She listened, nodded. “Fine. I’ll tell him.” She broke the connection and replaced the receiver just as a buzzer sounded.
“She’ll be right out,” the receptionist said, speaking quickly, mindful of the buzzer’s summons. “Her name is Julie Ralston, and she’s just going on her break. You can buy her a cup of coffee. If you’re around at five o’clock—” Perceptibly, her smile warmed. “You can buy me a drink.” As she watched his reaction, she lifted the phone. Her “Yes?” was richly spoken, perfect for its corporate purpose.
“We have to talk fast,” Julie Ralston said, diligently spreading butter on her hot croissant. “I’ve only got twenty minutes, portal-to-portal.” She smiled at Bernhardt. It was a wide, cheerful smile, utterly guileless. Just as Julie Ralston, Bernhardt had decided, was probably utterly guileless, perfect for the girl-next-door part: the brash, bouncy second female lead in a fifties “B” picture, the sunny, freckle-faced post-tomboy who never quite got the guy.
“You’re a friend of Betty’s,” Bernhardt said. “Is that right?”
Promptly, she nodded. “Right. We used to see each other every week or two. Lately, since she’s been with Nick, we haven’t seen each other so much. But we always talk on the phone, a couple of times a week”
“What’s her job, at Powers, Associates? Do you know?”
“No,” she answered, “I surely don’t. We’ve told each other everything, Betty and I. Or, anyhow, most everything. But Betty never talks about her job.” She bit into the croissant, sipped some of her steaming coffee, and smiled: another cheerful, candid smile. Her voice, Bernhardt realized, was softened by the suggestion of a southern accent.
“Did you two meet at Powers, Associates?”
She nodded. “That’s right, we did. And Betty does stop by the office, here, every once in a while—every two or three weeks, I’d say. But it’s usually just hello and goodbye, at least where I’m concerned. She goes right in to see Mr. Powers. They talk for a half hour, maybe, and then she leaves. And that’s it.” She shrugged, drank more coffee, smiled again. Then, as the smile faded, she said, “Why’re you asking? Is something wrong? Is there trouble?”
He’d expected the question and had already decided how he’d answer.
“Yes,” he said, “there’s trouble. A lot of trouble, maybe. That’s why I’m trying to locate her, to warn her that she could be in danger. That’s not what I told the receptionist. But that’s what I’m telling you.” He spoke quietly, evenly, looking at her squarely. Here, with Julie Ralston—now, with time running out—there was no leverage left but the truth. And there was no role left to him but the real one: Bernhardt, playing himself.
