Bernhardt's Edge, page 26
part #1 of Alan Bernhardt Series
The TV’s digital clock read 12:45 A.M. He’d left a call for six-thirty. He would dress, get in his car, make the rounds of the town’s motels, all four of them. In the darkness, he could have driven within a block of the black Camaro, and never seen it. But tomorrow, in daylight, he would find him, find Fisher, pay the killer off. Then he’d pack his bag and return to Los Angeles, all danger passed, all problems resolved.
He yawned, settled himself, sipped the Cutty Sark, then set the glass aside. Surprisingly, perhaps, considering the situation, he could feel his eyes growing heavy…
Something had startled him, brought him suddenly awake, eyes wide, heart thudding. His attention was groggily focused on the TV screen: John Wayne, chin-to-chin with another man, both of them angry, voices raised, fists clenched.
But the sound came from the door: a knocking, three quick, firm knuckle-raps.
“Yes?” As he spoke he rose, went to the TV, switched it off, looked at the digital clock: 1:30 A.M.
“Mr. Carter?” It was a man’s voice, medium loud.
Still groggy, he began to shake his head. Then memory returned, a rush of random images: the envelope filled with money, exchanging hands at the airport—the narrow, winding road, coming down out of the mountains, straightening on the desert floor—the motel clerk’s transparent suspicion as he answered questions about the black man.
Mr. Carter was really himself. Justin Powers. Both were the same. Here, now, both were the same.
“Mr. Carter?” More insistently, now.
As he turned uncertainly toward the door, he was aware that he wore only shorts, because of the desert heat.
“Yes. Who is it?”
“It’s Deputy Foster, Mr. Carter. Could I talk to you for a few minutes? Ask you some questions?”
“But it—it’s late.”
“I know that, sir. But there’s been an accident. We need some help, sir.”
He was standing close to the door now, close enough to touch the knob. But he couldn’t do it, couldn’t open the door. Not now. Not wearing shorts, and nothing else.
“Just a minute.” He took his slacks from a chair, slipped into them, put on the sports shirt he’d worn earlier, finger-combed his hair. He’d forgotten to pack slippers, and as he stepped to the door he was conscious of his bare feet.
Standing close to the door, he squared his shoulders, lifted his chin, drew a deep, uncertain breath.
James Carter. He must remember it, remember the name. His name. His identity, now. And ludicrously, also the name of a president. How had it happened that, for anonymity, he’d chosen Jimmy Carter’s name? How could he have been so incredibly stupid?
He slipped off the night chain, twisted the doorknob, stepped back as he swung the door open.
Deputy Foster was a young, muscular, fresh-faced man who spoke in a high, clear, self-important voice: “This won’t take but a minute, sir—” As he said it, the deputy sheriff moved purposefully forward into the room; leaving Powers to close the door behind him: an inferior, waiting on his betters.
Standing in the center of the room between the bed and the bureau, the deputy turned to face him squarely. For a moment Foster said nothing, standing with his legs slightly spread, both thumbs hooked into his tooled leather equipment belt. His wide-brimmed beige felt hat, Powers noticed, was impeccably creased and sat precisely square on Foster’s large head. The flesh of Foster’s face and neck glowed with good health.
“Do you have any identification, Mr. Carter?”
Identification…
Yes, of course he had identification: a wallet stuffed with money and credit cards…
…everything in the name of Justin Powers, of Beverly Hills, California.
“Well—well, yes, certainly. Of course, I’ve got identification.”
“I wonder—could I just take a look at your driver’s license, please?” As he spoke, Foster glanced pointedly at the bureau top, at the wallet and the keys and the small change and the pocket knife, a random scattering, somehow so intimately revealing.
“Well, I—” His gaze, too, was fixed on the wallet. Helplessly fixed. Hopelessly fixed. “I suppose so. But why?”
“Your car—is that your car, outside? The Mercedes? License CVC 916 J. Is that yours?”
“Well, yes. Certainly. It’s—”
His car. Registered to Justin Powers. Not to James Carter. But to Justin Powers. Beverly Hills, California.
If he were there, in Beverly Hills, he would call his lawyer, demand to see his lawyer. He’d make this banal, boyish policeman miserable, make him crawl.
But not here. Not in this motel room, rented in the name of James Carter.
Not with his identification made out to Justin Powers, lying on the bureau. Not with the car’s license, also registered to Justin Powers.
“Yes,” he heard himself answering, “yes, that’s my car. But—” Betraying him, his throat closed.
But was it really a betrayal? Or was it his body, his mind, involuntarily protecting him? Because he mustn’t do this—couldn’t do this—couldn’t put Justin Powers here, in this tiny town, with Betty Giles and her killer.
But he couldn’t lie, either. Because the police computer could catch him. In seconds, the computer could catch him, expose him, prove that the Mercedes was his.
But, God, he had to say something. He couldn’t simply stand here, feeling his eyes betraying him.
In his own ears, his voice sounded weak: a low, hoarse croak: “But my real name is Powers. Justin Powers. I’m—ah—traveling incognito. Because of—”
Because of what?
Business?
A woman?
Money or sex, which was it? Which would protect him, impress this spit-and-polish policeman most?
“Because of business—” He waved his right hand in a quick, ragged gesture. “We’re working on a deal—a real estate deal. My firm is Powers, Associates. In Los Angeles. That’s my head office, in Los Angeles. And we’re putting together a deal, a big real estate deal. You can check. You can—” Once more, he gestured raggedly, this time toward the wallet. “I’ve got business cards. Everything, all kinds of identification.”
“Ah—” Now the deputy was nodding. Was it a sign of encouragement? Or cat-and-mouse complacency? “Ah—that checks, then. Jerry Tricomi—the manager, here—he says that you’re in Borrego Springs on business, that you’re self-employed.”
He nodded. “Yes. Th—that’s right.”
“And you’re in real estate.” As he spoke, Foster smiled—a false, fatuous smile, transparently calculating.
“Well, actually, it’s really investments, that I’m in. Venture capital.”
The truth. The precious truth—until now, that moment, he’d never known how wonderful it was, to tell the truth.
“Jerry says you came here looking for someone who works for you.” A pause. And as the silence lengthened, Deputy Foster’s smile was fading. Gone. Cat-and-mouse gone.
How fleeting it had been, the unimagined luxury of simply telling the truth.
“Is that true, Mr. Car—Mr. Powers?”
He was nodding. Cautiously, watchfully nodding. In business, in the boardroom, he’d learned to watch their eyes, read their eyes. And in Deputy Foster’s boyish, China blue eyes, he saw the kind of smugness that could clearly mean trouble.
But he couldn’t retract the nod. The single quick, ill-considered, self-incriminating bob of the head was forever gone, eternally beyond recall.
“A black man, Jerry said. About thirty, driving a black Camaro. Is that the man?”
“I—I don’t know what kind of a car he’s driving.”
Another silence lengthened as Deputy Foster’s innocent blue eyes remained fixed on him. Then, softly: “His name was Fisher. Is that right, sir? William Fisher?”
Was?
Was?
“Y—yes—” He felt a surge of sudden relief. Because he could be spared. He could be—
“Is that right—the right name?”
“Y—yes. That’s—” Once more, his throat closed. But words were without meaning now. Everything, he knew, was revealed in their faces—his face, and Deputy Foster’s face. “That’s him. William Fisher. Yes.”
As soon as he said it, he saw the other man’s demeanor change. As if he were no longer capable of concealing his pleasure, Deputy Foster let a long, self-satisfied beat pass while he restored himself, regained his previous petty, officious poise. Then, incongruously, he looked down at Powers’ bare feet. When he finally spoke, his manner was elaborately formal—chillingly formal: “If you wouldn’t mind, sir, I wish you’d get some shoes on, comb your hair, whatever, and then come with me. There’s—ah—something you can help me with.”
An accident, Foster had said earlier. Then he’d used the past tense, referring to Fisher. Perhaps, after all, there was hope. Perhaps, now, a bit of role-playing was called for, to remind this fresh-faced bumpkin deputy of his real status, of their relative importance.
“I think,” Powers said, “that you’d better tell me what this is all about, Deputy Foster.”
Instantly, the China blue eyes narrowed, the parade-ground stance stiffened.
Could it have been a mistake, challenging this underling? If Foster felt forced to call in his superiors, the strategy could backfire—badly. So, softening his manner, trying for a more colloquial tone, Powers asked quietly, “What’s happened, anyhow?”
“There was an accident, sir,” came the prompt response. “A bad accident. And William Fisher is dead.”
“How—” He cleared his throat, licked his lips. “How’d it happen?”
“There was a—” Cautiously, Foster paused. Then: “There was a fire, sir.”
A fire…
“Well, if he’s dead, then I don’t understand what you need from me. I mean—” He spread his hands. “I mean, what’s the urgency? What’s the point of my—” Unsure how to finish it, he frowned, spread his hands, tried not to reveal the numbness of relief that struck him squarely in his center, as sudden as a blow.
“Identification, I guess,” Foster replied. And now, plainly feigning an indifference he didn’t feel, he spread his big-knuckled hands and smiled. “I don’t know, to be completely honest with you. All I know is, the sheriff sent me here, to ask you to come on over, help us out.”
“Well, then—” With a false smile in place, Powers decided to elaborately, amiably shrug as he stepped to the bureau, pocketed his wallet, his keys, his change, his knife. “Well, then, I guess I’d better comply.” Quickly, he slipped on the boat shoes he’d decided to wear, ran a comb through his hair, and gestured for the deputy to precede him through the door, out into the desert night, cooler now, a welcome balm. The sheriff’s car was parked in the driveway, blocking the Mercedes.
“Why don’t you go ahead,” he said, speaking casually. “I’ll follow you.”
“No, sir—” Diffidently, Foster swung open the patrol car’s passenger door. “No, sir. I think it’d be better if you came with me.” Boyishly cheerful now, he smiled. Genially explaining: “Bosses’ orders.”
FRIDAY
September 21st
1
BERNHARDT GLANCED THROUGH THE archway and into Pamela’s tiny kitchen, where a clock hung on the wall over the Cuisinart. He’d been talking for almost an hour, telling her everything, every detail. He’d once seen Ruth Gordon interviewed on PBS, a celebration of her eightieth birthday. She’d been asked for her thoughts on marriage. In her gravelly voice, she’d said that the real meaning of marriage was that you “had someone to tell it to.” Driving from his apartment to Pam’s, he’d remembered the line. Because, during the drive up from Los Angeles, the closer he got to San Francisco, the more clearly he realized that, yes, he wanted to tell it to Pamela, the whole story. And when he’d called her, heard the instant lilt of pleasurable recognition in her voice, when she’d invited him to dinner that same night, pasta and salad, he could bring the wine, he’d experienced a quick, breathless excitement that had left him, literally, laughing out loud, a teenager again.
“My God—” Sitting across the table, eyes wide, she incredulously shook her head. “It’s amazing, an amazing story. It’s like a—a movie, a damn good movie. Where’s Powers now? In jail?”
“I doubt it. But I doubt that he’s sleeping very well.”
“Did you and the woman—Betty Giles—confront him at the scene, with the”—mischievously, she smiled—“with the barbecued corpse, and everything, right there?”
He nodded. “That’s right. At least, she told the sheriff what she suspected, that Powers hired Fisher, or whatever his name is. And the fact that several people, including the motel manager, will testify that Powers said he was looking for a black man who worked for him, that pretty much ties up the package.”
“And what about Daniel DuBois? Did she implicate him?”
Bernhardt shook his head, at the same time refilling her glass, then refilling his own. “No, she didn’t. Maybe she will, down the line. But she didn’t do it then, not in the first hour or two.”
“She wrote out the statement, though, and gave her mother a key to the safe deposit box.”
He nodded. “Yesterday.” For a moment they sat silently, their eyes meeting, sharing the moment. Bernhardt shook his head. “It’s amazing, when you think about it. A second, two seconds, and your whole life changes. Forever.” As he spoke, their eyes still held. If he’d been writing the scene in a play—or, more like it, in a B movie—the protagonist might continue to hold her eyes as he said, “The way my whole life changed when I met you.”
Did she feel it, feel this sudden, special closeness? If she were writing the scene, what lines would she give herself?
Finally, softly, she said, “And Powers arriving on the scene like that, it’s amazing. I wonder why he did it, put himself in jeopardy like that?”
“I don’t know. Once he saw the body, he just quit talking. All he’d say was that he wanted to call his lawyer.”
“Did he spend the night in jail?”
Bernhardt nodded. “Yes. And maybe the next night, too. They took him to San Diego.”
Another companionable silence settled between them as they sipped their wine and looked into each other’s eyes. As the moment lengthened, he saw her expression change. As if she’d experienced sudden pain, her eyes darkened, her mouth tightened. “It must’ve been horrible for you. I mean, seeing him burning, running until he dropped, it must’ve made you—” Helplessly, she broke off.
“It made me sick to my stomach,” he answered quietly. “Very, very sick to my stomach. But then, later, it was okay. I mean, if I’d actually shot him, killed him, I probably would’ve felt worse, a lot worse. Because they say there’s a moment, one split second, before you pull the trigger to kill someone at close range, that you hesitate. Because you know—you realize, suddenly—what it means, killing someone, killing that particular person. But this was different, you see. Because all I saw was something inside the window frame—a half-gallon bottle with the wick burning, a Molotov cocktail. He was going to burn us out, then kill us, with his machine pistol, that’s pretty obvious, now. But I didn’t know any of that, obviously, when I shot. It was a reflex. The simplest, most elemental reflex. I saw something move, and I fired. And that was it. I hit the bottle and it broke, and the next second, the next split second, he was a human torch.”
“You must be a good shot.”
“Not really. I had a shotgun—a sawed-off shotgun. From six or seven feet, it has pattern of about a foot, maybe more. So I could hardly have missed. But, still—” He dropped his eyes, drained his glass of wine. “Still, I’ll have nightmares for a while. And Betty will, too.” As he spoke, he was remembering the sheriff—Alvin Gates, a fat, fortyish, slow-talking man with small, shrewd eyes. While Bernhardt had told his story, Gates had stared thoughtfully at the sawed-off, lying on the bed. Neither man had mentioned the gun, an unspoken bargain between them, noblesse oblige. And now the sawed-off was impounded, in Gates’ charge. With luck, Bernhardt would never see it again.
Another short silence passed before, decisively, she rose to her feet, picked up their empty plates. “Time for dessert,” she announced, taking the plates into the kitchen, where she put them in the sink, and turned on the tap. Bernhardt picked up two serving dishes, and followed her. As he put the serving dishes on the counter beside the sink, she remained motionless, staring down into the sink. He stood silently for a moment, looking at her profile, half turned away. Then, hardly aware that he’d intended to do it, he lifted his hand to touch the curve of her neck, just below the ear. He felt her start at the touch, then felt her raise her shoulder, incline her head toward his touch, move almost imperceptibly closer. Now, still turned away, she put her hand on the tap, shut off the frothing stream of steaming water. For a moment they remained motionless, deciding. Then he moved his hands to her shoulders, gently turned her to face him. Neither moving closer nor moving away from him, she gravely raised her eyes to his.
“I’m sorry for your nightmares,” she said. “Truly sorry.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m also sorry for that crack about the barbecued corpse. Sometimes I—I say those things. I see pictures in my mind, and the words come out.”
“I know. It’s okay.” He spoke softly, intimately. Then, still with his hands on her shoulders, he drew her slowly toward him until, yes, her breasts were touching his chest. At the touch, he felt her body quicken—as his body, too, was quickening, tightening.
“I thought about you when I was gone,” he said. “I thought about you a lot.”
“I know you did. I thought about you, too, Alan. A lot.”
“I’d like us to—” He broke off as she lowered her head to rest her forehead on his chest. “I’d like us to be lovers,” he whispered.
