Except for the Bones (29 page)

“But it happened, Mrs. Daniels. If you believe Diane, then you’ve got to believe it happened.”

“She didn’t actually see him burying the body, though.”

“Are you familiar with the landfill? It’s a few miles to the northeast of Carter’s Landing. They’re going to build an overpass out there.”

She shook her head.

“It’s about five acres, maybe less. And it’s entirely fenced. There’s only one gate. Which, as it turns out, is never locked. Diane was too cautious to get trapped inside.”

“And you say Preston hired Kane to kill the boy Diane was with that night.”

“I think so. There’s no real proof of that, though. Chief Farnsworth might have proof. But I don’t.”

“Does Chief Farnsworth know about the dead girl?”

“I’ve told him everything I know. He hasn’t told me everything he knows, though. I’m sure of that.”

“Does he know the girl’s name?”

“I think he does. But he hasn’t told me.”

“Does he know where she’s buried?”

“I told him Diane said the body is in the landfill. But, as I said, it covers a lot of ground. And there aren’t any landmarks. Or, at least, very few.”

She sat silently for a moment, searching Bernhardt’s face for something she couldn’t define. Then: “You think Preston sent Kane to San Francisco to kill Diane.”

“Yes, I do. I had someone there, on guard. She saw it happen—saw Kane, with a weapon.”

“And then Diane OD’d. Because of the shock.”

Deeply regretful, Bernhardt nodded. “Within an hour or two. Carley Hanks was in the apartment when it happened.”

“Carley …” As she said it, she was suddenly overwhelmed by the images: Carley, age seven or eight, the noisy, bright-eyed, lively one, always underfoot. Carley, a teenager, she and Diane in Diane’s room on the third floor, door locked, whispering, giggling. Who lived in that wonderfully gabled room now, with its sweeping view of San Francisco Bay? Another teenager—a girl who could laugh one moment and cry the next?

At the thought, she suddenly felt the center of herself give way, felt the tears begin. Four years ago, before the divorce, Diane was a giddy, unpredictable teenager. Now she was dead. She’d hurt so badly that finally she’d killed herself.

“Oh, Jesus …” The table was so small that she’d put her purse on the floor beside her chair, something she hated to do. Should the wife of Preston Daniels have to put her purse on the floor? Eyes streaming, she found her purse, put it in her lap, found a Kleenex, wiped at her eyes, blew her nose.

The wife of Preston Daniels …

That’s how it had all begun. First there was the fragment of the thought that Daniels might marry her. Then came the fantasy. And with the fantasy, she’d felt herself begin to change. She’d been riding in his limo—one of his limos—when it had happened. She’d been alone, just she and the driver. She’d never ridden in a limo before she met Preston Daniels. She’d never bought anything she’d wanted, without regard to price.

Anything she’d wanted …

Anything
was derived from
thing.
And things were inanimate, without life. Just things.

Like Diane, now. A thing, without life.

She tried to speak, failed, tried again, her eyes cast down in a rush of remorse. “Jesus, I—I’m sorry. I—I was just—” She broke off, turned her head away from the other patrons of The Compass Rose, away from anyone who could see her. The wife of Preston Daniels, crying in public. Running her mascara. It was unacceptable.

Making it; suddenly, all the more important that she finish the sentence: “I was just remembering how it was when they were just kids. Carley and Diane, I mean.”

“I hate to put you through all this, Mrs. Daniels. But I—well—the truth is I guess I feel guilty. If there’s something that I could’ve said to Diane, something I could’ve done, it might not’ve happened the way it did.”

She laughed: a harsh, bitter sound, the sound of illusions shattering. The sound of her life coming apart.
“You
feel guilty. Jesus.” As she said it, an image flashed across her consciousness: Preston Daniels, judged guilty of murder. Daniels, on trial. Headlines on the front page …

And headlines on the financial page:
Daniels Empire Topples.

Everything, gone.

Once again her mouth twisted into a bitter smile. “Living with Preston is a little like living with a very powerful engine that’s always running at full throttle. He never really relaxes. When he plays tennis, it’s to release energy, so he’ll be able to function more efficiently in the boardroom. Making love—” Eloquently, she shrugged. “It’s the same thing.”

Bernhardt decided not to respond.

“More than anyone I’ve ever known,” she said, “he controls his brain, not the opposite. But still, it’s hard to imagine him killing someone, and burying the body, and not letting it bother him.”

“It’s got to bother him.”

She shrugged. “Subconsciously, probably.”

“What about Kane? Do you see him as a murderer?”

“Kane …” Her eyes hardened. “I very seldom talk to him. But I’ve never liked him.”

“Can you imagine him killing someone?”

She nodded. “Definitely. Preston, no, not really. But Kane, yes.”

“Do you think it’s credible that Daniels would hire Kane to kill the Weston boy, and then kill Diane? Do you think it could’ve happened that way?”

She considered the question carefully, then said, “When you first told me this, I didn’t think any of it was credible. I couldn’t imagine Preston with a shovel in his hand, digging. I simply couldn’t. But then I ask myself who Preston could hire to dig the grave. Who does he trust that much? And the answer, of course, is that he doesn’t have anyone. Absolutely no one. He doesn’t have a single close friend. He has a brother, but they quarreled over a business deal, years ago. They haven’t spoken since.”

“So he’s left with Kane.”

“Who, I’m sure, did it for the money.”

Across the table, Bernhardt looked at his watch, then took a business card from an inside pocket and wrote on the back. “That’s where I’m staying, Mrs. Daniels. The Gulls, on Route Twenty-eight. Do you want me to keep in touch with you, tell you how it goes?”

“You’d better let me call you, Mr. Bernhardt.”

He nodded. “That’s probably best.”

“I think so.”

“I’d better go. I’m still trying to locate Kane.”

“Preston got a call just before he left the house tonight. He left in a hurry. I had the feeling it was Kane who called.”

Again, he nodded. “Thanks. I’ll remember that.” He put some money on the table, and they rose in unison. “I’ll see you to your car.”

“Thank you.” She nodded, began walking toward the door, pausing long enough for Bernhardt to open it. Outside, the fog was rolling in from the ocean, making halos around each of the parking lot’s lights. As they walked, she spoke softly: “You’re a nice man, Mr. Bernhardt. Are you married?”

“I was married. My wife got killed, in New York. It was a mugging.”

“Oh, God …”

He made no reply.

“Did you have children?”

“No. We were just going to, when Jennie died.”

She gestured to her car, a Mercedes. Silently she went to the driver’s door, inserted the key. As she swung the door open she said, “The last time I saw Diane, it was in New York. We had a terrible fight.” Without looking at him, she got in the car and started the engine.

“I’m sorry. I’m very sorry.”

She nodded. “Yes, I know you are.”

B
ERNHARDT SAW THE CAR
parked at the curb: a blue Buick Skylark, Kane’s car. The car was parked in front of the two-story frame house on Sycamore Street used by members of Daniels’s staff. Since yesterday, Bernhardt had called three times at the Sycamore Street house. Twice the house had been deserted. Once a weary, resigned, middle-aged woman had told him that he’d just missed Kane, who had probably gone to the airport.

Paula had described Kane as “a man in his middle forties who looked like a middleweight.” Amused, he’d asked her how many middleweights she’d ever seen in action. They’d been in bed, and her reply had been a forefinger dug into his short ribs.

A vicious man, a man who’d murdered once, and tried to murder again. How would the conversation go?
“Hello. My name is Alan Bernhardt. I’m looking for evidence that’ll send you to prison, maybe the death house.”

Or,
“Hello. I’m Alan Bernhardt. If you’ll just be kind enough to confess, therefore incriminate your boss, I’ll use my influence to get you off with a slap on the wrist.”

He leaned across the seat, unlocked the glove compartment, withdrew the .357 Ruger in its soft leather holster, shut the glove compartment. The revolver was stainless steel, Ruger’s top-of-the-line Magnum. Herbert Dancer, his former employer and all-around amoral son of a bitch, had given him the automatic as a token of his esteem. Translation: of all Dancer’s investigators, Bernhardt had been the only one who’d consistently questioned Dancer’s motives. Most megalomaniacs, he’d discovered, need one honest man close to them. And Dancer had chosen him.

He swung out the Ruger’s cylinder, checked the load, carefully returned the cylinder with the hammer and the one chamber left empty. He holstered the gun, slipped the holster inside his trousers on the left side, clipped the flat steel spring over his belt. It had taken him more than an hour at Airport Security in San Francisco, filling out forms and submitting to a long, petty interrogation, before they’d taken the gun, emptied it, packaged it, tagged it, and consigned it to the cockpit crew for the trip to Boston.

He drew a long, deep breath, swung open the Escort’s door, and began walking across Sycamore Street.

S
EATED BEHIND THE STEERING
wheel of his own car, a green Taurus sedan, Farnsworth smiled as he saw Bernhardt lock his rental car and begin angling across Sycamore toward the house where he’d find Kane. Did Bernhardt realize how easily he’d fallen into the trap? It was as if Farnsworth were the director and Bernhardt, Kane, and even Daniels were the actors. A gesture from the director, and they went where they’d been told to go, did what they’d been told to do.

Until, when the last scene was played and the floodlights were shut down, he would pick up his prize, and smile, and walk away—and disappear.

W
HEN SHE’D BEGUN, HE’D
immediately gone to the door of the study and closed it. When she’d finished—finally exhausted by her own emotions—he asked quietly, “Is there anyone else in the house? Any servants?”

“As soon as I got back,” Millicent answered, “I sent them home.” Adding bitterly: “I know how you hate for anyone to witness our periodic little scenes.”

“Okay. Now, can I say something? Will you listen to me, while I say something?” Daniels spoke quietly, trying to calm her with his voice, trying to steady her with his eyes. Arms folded, at bay, still breathing deeply, raggedly, she stood with her back to the wall of books that were the backdrop for his desk. Selected by a renowned bibliophile, the books were old and valuable and beautifully bound. His father’s study had been lined with books like these—most of them read.

Surprised by the wayward thought, the instant’s image of his father’s study flashing across his consciousness, he frowned. All day—all week, all month—random images had materialized, fragments of the past, many of them centered on his father, that stern, silent man, that disapproving stranger who stood so tall and imposing, arms folded, his eyes slightly narrowed: the eternal judge, looking down, passing sentence.

But the images were a distraction, therefore dangerous. Requiring that he now refocus his thoughts as he ventured a single step closer to her. Saying: “I’m terribly sorry about Diane, Millicent. And I won’t pretend that I don’t feel guilty. I never gave her a chance. Never. I—I always saw her as the price I had to pay, to get you. And I—”

“Don’t, Preston.” As if to push him away, defend herself against him, she raised her hands. “Don’t patronize me. Don’t insult me. I—I’ll call Chief Farnsworth, I swear I will, before I’ll let you patronize me.”

“Millicent, you should recognize that—”

“I blame myself, Preston. I don’t blame you. You laid it all out for me. You wanted me, and you’d take Diane, too, if that’s what it took to make the deal. But you asked me to leave Diane in San Francisco. I refused, of course. I thought—I actually thought—that I was a loving mother. I believed—really deluded myself into believing—that Diane would be better off in New York, with me. After all, how many teenagers were driven to school by chauffeurs? How many—” Suddenly her voice caught. Eyes closed, blindly, she shook her head.

“Millicent—” He advanced another step.

“Don’t touch me. I’m warning you, Preston. Don’t touch me.” She was gasping for breath. Her eyes were blazing, filled with hatred. But, God, she was beautiful. Never had she aroused him more than at this moment. If he could touch her, he could calm her. As if he were approaching a dangerous animal, he extended his hand, to make contact.

“Preston
—” It was a shriek: Millicent, suddenly gone wild. Involuntarily, he stepped back.

“I’ll call Chief Farnsworth.”

Once more, she’d said it. Signifying fixation, determination. Bernhardt had talked to Millicent, and Millicent would talk to Farnsworth. Sooner or later, Millicent would talk to Farnsworth. He could see it in her eyes, hear it in her voice.

“Millicent, you—you’ve got to listen to me. You’ve got to listen to reason.” As he spoke, he watched her carefully. The next moments—the next words—would decide everything. With a few words, a sentence, she could bring it all down, destroy everything. The female, aroused. The mother, avenging the death of her young. This was the power that drove her, that had lit the manic fire in her eyes. An irresistible force. Implacable.

Yet, ultimately, controllable. His specialty. His particular gift.

But time was required. He must have time to calm her, time to regain control, to bring her back from the edge.

Time and money, the two constants, the eternal verities. For himself, for Millicent, nothing more mattered. If he could bring her back, he could—