Except for the Bones (17 page)

He nodded. “Two weeks, maybe a little more. Just about—” A final pause before he must commit himself, push it all the way. Everything: “Just about the time Jeff Weston was killed.”

As if he’d gone for her, threatened her, she drew away, her back pressed hard against the couch. Her eyes widened; her voice was a ragged whisper. “What d’ you know about Jeff?”

“I know that he died. And I know that he and you were—friends.”

“Friends—” It was a brief, bitter echo.

“I know that you left home, left New York, the same day Weston died. And I know you’ve been running ever since.” As the words fell, he saw fear come into her eyes, saw her hands tighten on the sleeping bag that surrounded her, a runaway teenager’s nest.

“Wh—what else do you know?”

“I know about Daniels’s girlfriend. I know when she disappeared.”

“His—” Clutching the sleeping bag, her fingers suddenly tightened, the giveaway. “His girlfriend?”

“She disappeared the night before you took off. And now the police are looking for her.”

“Oh, Jesus.” Suddenly she sprang to her feet, went to the far corner of the room, faced away from him: a child standing in the corner, arms rigidly at her sides, fists clenched, head low, braced against punishment. “The police. Sweet Jesus.”

Also on his feet, he moved to stand behind her. He spoke softly: “I know all about her, Diane. I know her name, and I know where she lived. And you know what happened to her that Sunday night. Don’t you?”

Suddenly she began to sob: deep, wracking sobs. Without hope, she began to shake her head. Repeating: “Sweet Jesus.”

“I want you to think about it,” he said. “I want you to think about what you know, and what I know.”

H
OW LONG HAD IT
been since he’d left her? An hour? Less than an hour? Yes, almost certainly less than an hour. Yet, already, she’d caused Kane’s visit to pass into the shadows, a memory, no substance, therefore no menace. No menace, therefore no fear. No fear, no terror. One small round capsule on an empty stomach, and she’d caused Kane to cross over, dissolve, shrink into the shades beyond.

But memory remained. She’d left the warm, secure cocoon of her sleeping bag to find him at the door. Instantly, she’d sensed danger. Yet she’d let him in. It was, she knew, Daniels, his power. Svengali. Extend his arms, fingers spread, eyes wild, compelling, Daniels’s will be done.
Thy will be done,
the minister’s scam. Dress up, drop a dollar in the collection plate, and
Daniels’s will be done.

Yet she’d let him in. Kane, with those flat, watchful eyes. Snake’s eyes, portrait of Kane. Pilots were heroes—pilots were killers. A burst of machine-gun fire, black smoke trailing the enemy airplane across the sky, curving down, score one more dead.

One more dead—and Jeff dead, too.

If Kane hadn’t done it, then Kane could have done it. Crash and burn, the hot-rodder’s creed.

She’d been with Jeff, that Sunday night on the dunes. Kane had known it, known they’d been together. And Jeff had died.

And Kane had tracked her down, rung her doorbell, waited politely for her to dress.

I want you to think about it.
The con man now, not the hit man.

Hit man?

It had been her first thought when she’d seen him on her doorstep. Yet she’d let him in.

I want you to think about it.

Translation: Together, they could ruin Daniels. Forever.

Dressed in a dark skirt and blouse, funeral clothes, she would watch the judge pronounce sentence. She would watch, and she would smile. Daniels, guilty of murder. Preston Daniels, in convict’s denims, locked in a cell.

But suddenly she saw it again: Jeff, and all the blood. Jeff, no longer human, as meaningless as a bundle of clothing discarded beside the road.

Jeff, so curiously flattened on the bottom. When she’d stood there beside his body a wayward fragment of memory had flickered: a big blow-up water toy, a sea horse she’d once had that had lost most of its air.

Before Daniels let her testify against him, before he allowed her to send him to prison, he would have her killed. First Jeff. Then her.

She was sitting on the couch. Because the morning fog hadn’t yet cleared, San Francisco’s arctic summertime, she’d pulled the sleeping bag around her, as much for protection as for warmth. In front of the couch, on the floor, lay the leather tote bag. When she went to sleep at night, everything went into the tote bag: wallet, keys, contacts, whatever paperback she was reading, money, address book—and the pills, and the grass. Her stash. Herself. Whatever she had, whatever she was, it was all there, in the tote bag.

So that now, without moving from the couch, she had a choice: she could find Alan Bernhardt’s card, probably in her wallet. Or she could call her father, tell him she had to see him. She could tell him what happened—what could happen.

But why did it seem so shameful, to tell her father? Why did it feel so wrong?

Just as wrong as it would feel to tell her mother. Just as wrong. Just as lost.

One choice—two choices—

Leaving the third choice, the last choice: the tote bag again, and the pills. Rest in peace.

“W
AIT,” BERNHARDT SAID INTO
the phone. “Hold it, Charlie, until I get the goddamn file. Or, better yet, let me call you back. How long’ll you—” The telephone warbled: call forwarding. “Listen, Charlie, there goes my other line. I’ll get back to you before noon. Okay?”

With Charlie Foster’s grudging approval, Bernhardt broke the first connection, took the second call. Reacting to Bernhardt’s irritation, Crusher, lying beside the desk, raised his head, flopped his tail twice, sighed, yawned, let his head fall back between his paws.

“This is—ah—this is Diane Cutler, Mr. Bernhardt.”

“Diane.”
Squaring himself before the telephone, Bernhardt concentrated, focused on the voice in his ear. It was a softer, more tentative voice than he associated with Diane Cutler. “How’s it going?”

“Well—ah—I thought I’d like to talk to you. Someone—something. I mean—” She broke off, began again: “Something’s happened that I—I’d like to talk to you about. I mean, it—it’s like you said, maybe if I talk to you about it—a stranger—I can make more sense out of it, out of what’s happening.”

“We can sure give it a shot. When would you like to talk?”

“Could—would—I mean, this afternoon. Have you got time, this afternoon?”

“Can you come over here? Have you got wheels?”

“Sure.”

“It’s on Potrero Hill. Do you—?”

“Sure. I grew up here.”

“Right. I’d forgotten. How about two-thirty? Is that all right?”

“It’s fine, Mr. Bernhardt. Just fine. Thanks.”

“How about ‘Alan’?”

“Yes—Alan. Thanks.”

“See you at two-thirty.”

F
ROM NEW YORK, HE
could hear the intermittent buzzing: Preston Daniels’s private line, ringing. At the third ring, Jackie Miller came on the line. She recited the number, nothing more.

Should he identify himself? Would she recognize his voice? If she did recognize his voice, and he didn’t identify himself, would she be suspicious?

“Jackie—is Mr. Daniels available?”

“Bruce?”

“Yes.”

“He’s in a meeting. I don’t think—”

“Just tell him I’m calling. Let him decide. Okay?”

“Just a moment.” It was her Ivy League accent. Vassar, of course.

A long silence. Then Daniels came on the line: “Yes. What is it?” A short, terse question.

“I—ah—think I should come back to New York. Now.”

“Are you finished there?”

Unaccountably, he laughed, a momentary eruption. It was nervousness, he knew. Tension. Momentary loss of control. And control was essential now. Who would take control? Daniels, with his billions?

Or him, with what he knew, what he’d found out?

“I don’t know whether I’m finished or not. But we should talk.” In the background, he could hear voices. Yes, Daniels was in a meeting. In a meeting, yet taking this call. Leverage. Winner take all.

“I’m leaving for Atlanta at noon tomorrow,” Daniels said. “You fly to Atlanta. Stay at the Hilton. I’ll contact you there.”

“The Atlanta Hilton. Right.”

Abruptly, the line went dead.

“C
UP OF COFFEE? SEVEN-UP?”
Bernhardt smiled, an attempt to put her at ease. “A glass of white wine?”

“No, thanks.”

“Are you sure? Because I’m going to have some coffee.” He gestured to an automatic coffee maker that shared bookshelf space with rows of well-thumbed books, most of them paperbacks.

“Okay. Black.”

“I’ll just be a minute.”

“Fine.” She watched him as he rose, went to the machine, poured the coffee. He was a tall, lean, loose-limbed man, slightly stooped. He was dressed casually: rumpled corduroy sports jacket, tattersall shirt open at the neck, slacks that needed pressing, loafers that needed shining. His face went with the clothes: a dark, Semitic face, reassuringly creased. The nose was slightly hooked, the mouth was wide and expressive: a mouth meant to smile. His eyes were soft and dark. His thick salt-and-pepper hair curled just over his collar, and needed trimming. Only the glasses evoked the actor, the intellectual: expensive-looking gold-framed aviator’s glasses. The glasses suggested that Bernhardt understood the game; the clothes suggested that he chose not to play.

Carrying the two steaming mugs of coffee, Bernhardt carefully handed one mug to her, then sat facing her across the small, cluttered office.

“I haven’t done anything about finding out about Jeff Weston’s death,” he said. “I may as well tell you that, right out.”

She sipped her own coffee, which tasted Colombian: good, strong Colombian, another touch of class. Covertly, she eyed Bernhardt, imaging the body beneath the clothing. What would it be like, making love to a man like this? Pillow talk—what would the pillow talk be like, after the sex? What would make a man like this laugh?

She put the mug on the table beside her chair. “I didn’t think you’d done anything.”

“Oh?” He looked at her. Partly, she decided, it was a shrink’s look: eyes not quite friendly, mouth not quite smiling. Setting the limits. Asking the questions. Always, asking the questions: sly, deft little questions: “Why’s that?”

“Because,” she said, “I didn’t think you figured I was being straight with you. Or at least telling you everything, the whole story.”

The small smile widened appreciatively. “That’s very perceptive, Diane. I’m impressed.”

She nodded acknowledgment, but made no reply. Instead, lowering her eyes, she drank from the mug. But could she use the caffeine jolt? An hour ago, to steady herself, get control, she’d taken a pill. So if she drank too much coffee, it could—

“Why don’t we start,” Bernhardt was saying, “by me telling you everything I know about you—everything I know, and everything I surmise. How’s that?” As he spoke, he took a sheet of paper from a file folder that lay on his desk. Scanning the paper, he tilted his head up. Bernhardt wore bifocals.

She shrugged. “Fine.”

“I know,” he began, “that you grew up in San Francisco. Millicent and Paul Cutler were—are—your parents. They divorced when you were about fourteen. Your mother married Preston Daniels, real estate tycoon. You moved to New York when you were just starting high school. Which has got to be the worst time to move, especially so far away, and especially since your father remarried, I gather, just about that time. Right?”

She knew she must respond, knew she must nod. Soon, she knew, the probing would begin. First the probing, then the pain.

Always, the pain.

“So now,” he was saying, “we come to the present.” He tossed the sheet of paper on the desk, an actor’s flourish, and spread his hands to include the two of them, sitting here in the office that once had been a bedroom, eyeing each other, deciding about each other.

“So—” Once more the professional smile, his eyes crinkling behind the trendy glasses. “So what’s happened, since yesterday?”

“What’s happened,” she answered, “is that a man named Bruce Kane came to see me this morning. He’s my stepfather’s pilot, his personal pilot.”

“And he scared you.”

Cautiously, she scanned his face. “Why do you say that?”

“Because you were already scared of something yesterday. But you weren’t willing to talk to me about it. Now, though, you’ve come to tell me what’s bothering you.” Expressively, he spread his hands. “So I figure that Kane has something to do with your change of heart. Maybe a lot to do. Maybe everything.”

“I—I’m not sure. I’m just not sure.”

“Tell me about it, Diane.” He spoke quietly, seriously—as friends speak. “Start at the beginning. Tell me the whole story. It’s the only way.”

Slowly, resigned, she nodded. Then she began.

W
HEN SHE’D FINISHED TELLING
the story, Bernhardt sat silently for a moment, his expression thoughtful. Finally: “That’s some story, Diane. If it happened the way you think it happened—if Daniels killed his girlfriend, and buried her, and then had Jeff Weston killed to shut him up—” Incredulously, Bernhardt shook his head. “That’s a big deal. That’s a
very
big deal.”

She made no response.

“On the other hand,” Bernhardt said, “there’s also the possibility that Daniels’s girlfriend OD’d, and he panicked. It’d make sense. A scandal like that—girl found dead in tycoon’s love nest—it could ruin him.”

“What about Jeff, though? What if he tried blackmail, and got murdered?”

“What if he got in a fight, and lost? Or he could’ve gotten mugged for the money he’d collected.”

“Yes, but—”

“It could’ve all been coincidence. Pure coincidence.”

“But it could also—”

“How long was it between the time Daniels’s girlfriend disappeared and the time Weston was killed?”

“A day. Almost to the hour.”

“Yeah. Well—” Dubiously, he shook his head. “See, that’s where, frankly, I think it could all fall apart. I mean, you don’t hire a murderer in twenty-four hours, not unless you happen to have one on the payroll. And even if you
do
have one on the payroll, it still takes time to plan a murder.”