Bernhardt's Edge (19 page)

“Tell me what she said, Miss Ralston. I think she's in trouble, and needs help. I've already told you that.”

“Will you help her?”

“If I can, I will. First, though, I've got to find her.”

“What'll you do, when you find her? I mean—” Once more, she hesitated. “I mean, will the—the police be involved?”

“I'm not sure. But if they do get involved, it won't be because I call them. That's all I can tell you.”

For a moment she didn't reply. Then, in a low, awed voice, she said, “Nick Ames—she said he was killed. Murdered. Up north, she said. In Santa Rosa.”

“Yes.”

“You knew that, then. When we talked today, you knew he'd been killed.”

“Yes.”

“You—you didn't tell me.”

“No,” he answered, “I didn't tell you. If you think about it, that's how it should be.” He let a beat pass, then said, “If you'd hired me, you wouldn't want me telling everything I knew. Would you?”

“No, I guess I wouldn't.”

He let another beat pass while she considered. Then, quietly, he said, “Tell me what she said, Miss Ralston.”

“Well, it—it wasn't what she said, so much as the way she said it. I mean, it was like she was just about at the end of her rope, you know? Like she didn't care what happened to her. At least that's the impression I got.”

“Are you saying that she sounded suicidal?”

“Well, I—” She broke off, thought about it. “I don't think I'd go that far. But, see, Betty is thirty-three, you know. She's never been married, never had any children. So she—you know—she has the feeling that life was passing her by. So now, with Nick dead—well—it pretty much wiped her out, I guess.”

“Did she tell you how he died?”

“She said it was robbery. He was shot during a robbery, she said.”

“Did she say anything else, about his murder? Anything at all?”

“No,” she answered slowly, “not that I can remember.”

“Did she seem worried? For herself, her own safety?”

“It didn't seem like she was. At least, she didn't say she was worried. But—” She hesitated: a short, tentative pause. “But I asked her—you know—whether she was making arrangements. Funeral arrangements. And she said that, no, she couldn't make the arrangements because she couldn't stay in Santa Rosa—that she'd be in danger, if she stayed. So that's when I thought about what you said today, about there being trouble. And that's when I decided to call you.”

“Do you have any idea where she is now?”

“Well, not really. But she said something about how she felt just as empty as the desert, something like that. I forget exactly how she put it. But then I got to thinking, and I remembered that she's been going to a place called Borrego Springs, in the desert. She loves it there. And so when she said something about the desert…” Her voice trailed off into a speculative silence.

“Where's Borrego Springs? Do you know?”

“I've never been there, but I know where it is—about fifty, sixty miles south of Palm Springs, maybe a hundred fifty miles from here, from Los Angeles.”

“If you were me, and you wanted to find her, would you go to Borrego Springs?”

“Yes,” she answered slowly. “Yes, I think I would. Definitely.”

“A
BEER, PLEASE.” BERNHARDT
put a five-dollar bill on the bar. “Do you have Heineken's?”

“Sure do,” the bartender answered cheerfully. He was a small, quick-moving, middle-aged man with a face like a ferret and a thick head of brown hair that was almost certainly fake. Except for two men and a woman talking quietly at a nearby table, the barroom was deserted. The time was 3
P.M.
The temperature in the street outside was almost exactly a hundred degrees.

Bernhardt waited for the bartender to make change, then asked, “How many places in town are there to stay?”

“Three,” the bartender answered promptly. “There's the Casa Portola, just a hundred yards from here. It's bigger than it looks, goes back from the street quite a ways. Then there's Granger's about a mile west. They're pretty posh—” As he spoke, he looked Bernhardt over, obviously having concluded that Granger's might be beyond his means. “Then there's the Ram's Head, about a mile south of town. That's a nice place, clean, good management, kind of rustic. It's got separate cabins.”

“How about restaurants?”

“You mean fancy restaurants? Or just plain eating restaurants? Because, see, there's a real fancy restaurant north of town.
Real
fancy.” Once more, dubiously, he looked Bernhardt over. “You gotta wear a tie even during the summer, give you some idea.”

“How about the plain ones?”

“Two,” he answered promptly. “There's ours—” He pointed to a door with
The Circle
spelled out in red neon script. “Then there's The Crosswinds, out east of town, at the airport. We're just open for dinners, though, both of us. If you're looking for something to eat now, you'll have to settle for pizza, across the street, between the liquor store and the grocery store.” As he spoke, one of the two men sitting at a nearby table got up, came to the bar, and held up three fingers. While he set out three bottles of beer and made change, the bartender continued: “After October fifteenth, though, it's a different story. There's a real good restaurant called Hopkins, in the mall. The mall's across the street and down to the right—that fancy place, where the bank is, and those other shops.” Mischievously, he grinned. “We're primed to say ‘shops,' you see. Not ‘stores.' Or, if we really want to play the chamber of commerce game, we say ‘boutiques.' But Hopkins won't be open until October fifteenth, like I said.”

“The reason I'm here,” Bernhardt said, “I'm looking for a friend. Her name is Betty Giles. We missed connections in Los Angeles, and Borrego Springs was her next stop. She's in her middle thirties, dark hair, small, good-looking.” He swallowed some of the beer, smiled. “Ring a bell? I don't think she's been here more than a couple of days.”

“Doesn't ring my bell,” the bartender said cheerfully. “If I was you, I'd just make the rounds of the motels. Wouldn't take too long.”

“Thanks.” Bernhardt finished the beer, laid fifty cents aside, pocketed the difference. “I'm traveling on a budget. If I miss her, what motel should I stay at?”

“I'd stay at the Ram's Head,” the bartender answered promptly. As he spoke, the mischievous grin returned. “I'd stay at the Ram's Head, and I'd eat at The Circle—” He gestured again to the door leading to the restaurant. “And I'd drink here. Right here.”

“That sounds like good advice.” Bernhardt nodded, slid off the barstool, and walked to the door.

The Ram's Head Motel office had windows on two sides, and Bernhardt was signing the register when he saw her. She was wearing a one-piece black bathing suit, and was walking across the lawn toward the swimming pool. She was barefooted, and had a white towel draped around her shoulders. Plainly, beneath the towel, her breasts were full and firm. Her buttocks and hips were solid, her legs and thighs generous. It was an exciting body—a peasant's body, once or twice refined. She walked to a chaise, where she'd left a paperback book face down on the concrete apron of the pool. The pattern of her movements was contradictory, somehow both self-effacing and self-sufficient. As Bernhardt watched her, he remembered his first conversation with Julie Ralston, and his suggestion that Betty Giles might suffer from a negative self-image. The intellectual's throwaway line might have been more accurate than he'd suspected, because most women with a body like Betty Giles' would calculate that they had a decisive edge in the mating game, and would display their assets accordingly. They would arch their backs to display their breasts—not let their shoulders slump, as Betty Giles was doing. Most women would move their hips and buttocks more provocatively, more invitingly. If body language was the name of the game, Betty Giles had chosen to sit on the sidelines.

“I'll give you cabin eight,” the manager was saying, handing him a key. “It's close to the pool.”

“Good. Thanks.” He took the key, pocketed his wallet.

“If you want to stay longer than just the one night,” the manager said, “there's no problem. No problem at all.”

“Thanks,” he answered. “I'll remember that.”

O
N THE THIRD RING
, he rolled to his left side, regretfully withdrawing from her.

“Ohhhh…” It was a soft, sated protest. “Oh, no. You can't—”

“Shhh. Wait.” He laid a forefinger on the parted curve of her pouting mouth. “Lemmee hear the machine.”

As, from the living room, he heard his own voice, recorded, followed by the caller's voice: “Yes, this is Mr. Carter, calling from California. I wish you'd give me a call as soon as—”

Quickly, he snatched the phone from the bedside table. “This is Fisher. Hold on a minute, please. Just a minute.” And to the woman: “When I pick it up in the living room, I want you to hang this up. Then I want you to get your ass in the bathroom, and close the door.”

“But—”

“Save it. This is business. Someone listened in on me, once, and I never forgot it. And neither did she, I'll guarantee you that. She didn't forget, and neither did anyone who ever looked at her, after that. You follow?” As he spoke, he gripped her naked shoulder, felt her spasm of pain, heard her gasp. Then, quickly, he got out of bed and walked into the darkened living room. He winced as his bare buttocks touched the cold leather of the couch, then picked up the phone. With his palm over the mouthpiece, he called, “Okay, hang it up. Then do like I told you.” Into the telephone he said, “Just one more minute, Mr. Carter. Just hold on.” He waited until he saw her briefly in the hallway: a slim white body moving languidly in the darkness. When he heard the click of the bathroom door closing, he spoke again into the phone: “Yes, sir. Sorry for the delay. What can I do for you?” As he spoke, he could visualize the other man's face, with its pursed, prissy mouth and its narrow, pinched nose. He could visualize the eyes, too: coward's eyes, always moving. And it was the eyes that told the story. Always. Venezzio had told him that, told him to watch the eyes. Always.

“Are you alone?” the other man was asking.

“I'm alone enough to talk. You can talk, too. Nobody can hear you. Don't worry.”

“Yes. Well, I—I've got another assignment for you.”

Leaning gingerly back against the couch, he smiled. Satisfied customers, that's what business was all about. You did good work, you got called again, pennies from heaven.

Be sure your umbrella,

Is upside down
…

“Well, sir, I'm happy to hear it. What's the rundown?”

“It's—ah—” The voice caught, faltered, finally continued: “It's the woman. You know what I mean, don't you—know the one I mean?”

“You mean—” He hesitated. How should he say it, to be safe? “You mean the woman that was with him, out there—the guy we did business about, last week? That woman?”

“Yes. That woman.”

To himself, pleased, he nodded. A woman had to be easier than a man. And he knew her already, knew her by sight.

Satisfied customers…

Be sure your umbrella,

Is upside down
…

“Is she at that same place?”

“No, she's not. She's down in Southern California, just about a hundred miles southeast of Los Angeles, maybe a hundred fifty. So I was thinking, we could meet at the airport, like we've done before. Not the San Francisco airport. The Los Angeles airport. LAX. Wouldn't that be simpler than going into all this on the phone?”

As he listened to the other man asking the timid question, as he heard the tremor of fear in the voice, he smiled. Because this moment, this feeling, was what it was all about. The money was wonderful. Every day, every single day, he charted his stocks, calculated the value of his CDs. But this was what it was all about, this small, secret rush of satisfaction, listening to them squirm. And the terror in their eyes, too, face-to-face, win or lose, live or die—that was something only he could experience: Willis Dodge, the best in the business.

“Yes, Mr. Carter, LAX, that'd be better. It'll be the same price—the same deal. Right?”

“Y—yes.”

“Half up front, half afterward.”

“Yes.”

“Good. It's about a hundred fifty miles from Los Angeles, you say?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. I'll get the first plane out of here in the morning, bright and early. Why don't you call me back in a half hour? I'll have a time for you, when I'll be arriving.

“Yes. Good. Thank you.”

“Thank
you
, Mr. Carter.” He let the mockery come into his voice now, let him hear the playful contempt. “Thank you very much, Mr. Carter.”

“H
ERE—” POWERS TOOK A
map of California from his inside pocket, unfolded it, refolded it once, twice, finally flattened it across his knees. He pointed. “There it is. Borrego Springs. She's staying at a motel called the Ram's Head.”

Dodge took the map, frowned as he studied it. “Is it a small town?”

“I think so,” Powers answered. As he spoke, he shifted uneasily in the chair. They were sitting in one of Los Angeles International's concourses, two among thousands, a flux of humanity. If someone recognized him, saw him talking to this well-dressed black man, they would remember. “It's in the desert, I think.” He frowned. “I should've gotten an atlas.”

“I'll get one. Well—” He glanced at his watch, then looked expectantly at the other man. “I'd better split. What about meeting here, right here, same time, three days from now? That way, we won't have to talk on the phone. If there's any problem, any delay, I'll have you paged here, at the airport, and we'll talk then. Three days from now. Okay?”