Full Circle (32 page)

Impatiently Bernhardt sighed. “In the first place, that would make Consolidated criminals. Secondly, there’s no such thing as a perfect plan.” As he spoke, he consulted his watch. In less than an hour, Graham would expect his call.

“After the exchange is made,” DuBois said, “and Graham has taken the paintings, you’ll return here, with the money.”

“Yes, sir.” Bernhardt smiled. “I imagine James will see to that.”

The ghost of a smile touched DuBois’s pallid mouth. “Yes, I imagine he will.”

“The money’ll be in my van. James will open the gates for us. We’ll drive inside your compound, drive into the main garage, which James will open for us. Paula and I will go inside, and count the money. I’ll leave Tate outside, on guard. I’ll take my ten percent, which I assume’ll be two million dollars. And that’s the end. Once we’re outside your compound, on Benedict Canyon Road, our business is concluded.” As he said it, he searched Dubois’s face for a reaction. There was nothing.

Finally DuBois said, “After our business is concluded, as you say, what are your plans?”

“My plans are to get back to San Francisco as quickly as possible.” He hesitated, then ventured, “What about you, sir? What’re your plans?”

Once more the pale mouth stirred with the suggestion of a smile. “I plan to put the proceeds of the sale into Treasury notes. You might consider T-Notes yourself. Wait for the rates to go down about four points, and sell them on the open market. At today’s rates, you should do very well. But you must act quickly.”

“I, ah, wasn’t thinking so much financially. I was just thinking—” Searching for the phrase, he paused, began again: “I was thinking about you—about what you’ll have to, ah, replace the paintings. For, ah, psychic satisfaction.” Then he frowned. He’d said it badly, phrased it awkwardly.

DuBois let a moment pass before he said, “If all goes as we hope today, I plan to let matters settle, perhaps for two months. Then, Mr. Bernhardt, you’ll hear from me.”

“I—I will?” Bernhardt was aware of the foreboding the other man’s words produced.

The narrow head with its waxen flesh and prominent bones bobbed once, in wan assent. “I’ll be retaining you to find Betty Giles. I’ll want you to go to Europe, and deliver a personal message from me.”

“
What?
”

“With the illicit paintings gone, there’s no reason Betty and I can’t continue operating as we did before, buying and selling paintings by contemporary artists. I’m especially interested in Jean Mooney and Casper Grenville. I’ve been watching them, and I think Betty and I could develop them, providing they’ll agree to limit their production in exchange for a performance contract. That’s the key, you see—limiting production to drive up the price.”

Bemused, Bernhardt could only shake his head.

“There.” Helen pointed. “Is that him?”

Following her gesture, Graham saw a big brown and white camper drawing to a stop southbound on Sepulveda, then maneuvering to park behind a yellow pickup. Behind the camper’s steering wheel, improbably wearing a Dodgers cap and dark wraparound sunglasses, Powers was backing and filling, struggling to get the outsize camper closer to the curb.

“That’s him.” Parked across the street on Sepulveda, south of Vine, Graham watched while Powers finally succeeded in parking the camper. He checked the time: almost ten o’clock.

“This Powers drives like a klutz,” Helen said.

Graham turned to briefly study her face. Then, elliptically, he said, “Powers is worth many millions. I’m sure he can park his Porsche, or his Jag, with great aplomb.”

In turn she studied him before she said, “Ever since last night, when this thing started to take hold, you’ve been talking down to me. You know that? ‘Great aplomb.’ What’s that mean?”

“It means that—”

“I
know
what it means. The point is, Johnny, you’ve changed. Just since last night, you’ve changed.”

Once more he studied her face before he spoke softly, wryly: “I can’t remember the last time someone called me Johnny.”

“Oh. Well. Excuse me.”

He drew a deep, long-suffering breath. “There’s a lot at stake here, Helen. We’re anxious, uptight. So let’s—”

“Speaking about what’s at stake, where’s that armored van? You said—”

“There’s no armored van. That was my little joke.”

“Oh, yeah?” She frowned. “No kidding?”

“No kidding. Armored cars attract attention.” He swung open the driver’s door. “You stay here. Keep your eyes open.” He buttoned his golf jacket across the bulge of the Beretta thrust into his belt and got out of the white Pontiac. He walked to the corner, and waited for the traffic light to change. Hands thrust into custom-cut cavalry twill slacks, he crossed Sepulveda, crossed Vine, and walked casually toward the camper. As he drew even with the cab, he glanced at Powers, who sat rigidly behind the steering wheel, staring straight ahead. His Adam’s apple, Graham noticed, was moving spasmodically. Still walking slowly, Graham transferred his gaze from Powers’s face to the interior of the camper. In the dull light filtered through tinted side windows, Graham saw a large army-style duffel bag on the floor. Yesterday he’d been informed by the public relations department of the U.S. Mint that twenty million dollars in thousand-dollar bills would weigh about forty-nine pounds.

“So far, so good.” Andrea switched off the scanner and settled down behind the steering wheel. Across Vine, she saw Graham strolling north on Sepulveda. She glanced at her watch; the time was ten
A.M.

“He’s waiting for someone,” Harry said.

Andrea made no reply.

“That woman in Graham’s car,” Harry said. “What about her? How’s she fit in?”

“I think Graham’s waiting for someone to come with the money. And—” She broke off, her eyes suddenly sharp-focused on a pair of outdoor phone booths set into the front wall of a large sporting goods store. With apparent indifference, Graham had passed the booths. But now, still casually, he was turning, strolling back the way he’d come.

“Those phone booths,” she said. “That’s what it’s about. He’s waiting for a call.”

“Have you got a pencil and paper?” Bernhardt asked, speaking into the pay phone.

“Of course,” Graham answered.

“The money, it’s all ready?”

“All ready.”

“We’re in three cars,” Bernhardt said. “There’s a big brown Dodge van, with no windows. There’s a black Taurus, with a woman driving. And a blue Accord, with a man driving. Four people, total. Plus two dogs, in the Taurus.”

“Two dogs?”

“Correct.” Savoring the moment, Bernhardt smiled to himself.

“And the paintings are all in the van.”

“Yes.”

“Where’s the meeting place?”

“First,” Bernhardt said, “give me a rundown on your people.”

“There’re three of us. A woman, myself, and a man. We’ll be in two vehicles. One’s a big white and brown camper. The windows are tinted in back, so it’s impossible to see inside, except through the front windows. The money’s there, in a big duffel bag. I’ll be driving the camper, and the woman will be with me. The third person is a man. He’ll be following us, driving a white Pontiac.”

“What’s your location?”

“We’re on the north edge of Culver City.”

Bernhardt took a long moment to visualize the geography before he said, “It should take you about twenty minutes. The address is Forty-one Seventy-four Twenty-sixth Street. That’s near Santa Monica. It’s a bungalow, beige and charcoal, with pink trim. There’re two small palm trees in the front yard that seem to be dying.”

Graham chuckled. “There’re two small palm trees dying in front of every bungalow in Los Angeles. The smog, no doubt.”

“The two people who’re with you,” Bernhardt said. “Are they pros?”

“Of course. Cold-blooded killers, both of them. I’ll see you in twenty minutes.” The line clicked, went dead.

Parked on Sepulveda, Andrea held the walkie-talkie in two hands, a fond caress. Yes, the tempo was quickening. At the prospect of imminent action, winner take all, her eyes came alive, her breathing had quickened. “The ducks are on the pond,” her grandfather would have said. Yes, the players were beginning to move, take their places on stage. The script would read,
Fortyish man wearing an incongruous Dodgers cap and shades, obviously a disguise, gets out of the camper. Graham and the dark-haired woman are getting out of the
w
hite Pontiac, a rental car. Quick, urgent exchange of keys, hurried instructions. Then, moving smoothly, confidentially, Graham swings up into the van, behind the wheel. The other man, probably an enforcer, gets into the Pontiac; the woman, after a revealing moment of hesitation, steps up into the camper.

In the camper, certainly, the money was hidden. Twenty million dollars.

Andrea started her car, keyed the walkie-talkie. “Harry.”

“Right here. Is this it?”

Ignoring the question, she said, “If they split up, I’ll take the camper, you take the guy in the Pontiac, and we’ll keep in touch by radio. The one in the Pontiac, he’s the enforcer. We’ll take him out first. He’s the one we have to worry about.”

“All right. But—”

“Just do it, Harry. This is payday. So let’s just do it the way it should be done.” She released the “transmit” button, put the car in gear, checked traffic, pulled out into Sepulveda. Already the camper and the Pontiac were a block ahead. The homing device was transmitting perfectly.

Sitting in the front seat of the Accord, across Twenty-sixth Street from the beige bungalow with its two stunted palm trees, the two men watched as a large silver-colored camper approached from the south.

“Wrong color,” Bernhardt said.

“Unless they told you wrong,” James replied.

“Yes, there’s that.”

But, moments later, the camper passed them and continued sedately up the street. The driver was an elderly, gray-haired man.

“What I want,” Bernhardt said, “is for you to stay outside the whole time. Whatever happens in the garage with the money, Tate and Paula and I can handle it. The three of us and the dogs. I’m confident of that. It’s outside the garage, then going back to Dubois’s with the money, that worries me. Do you understand?”

“Of course I understand. I am, after all, a professional.”

“Is the walkie-talkie I gave you working?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Channel two. Right?”

Impassively James nodded. Repeating dutifully: “Channel two.”

“They’ll be coming in two cars, a white and brown camper and a white Pontiac. We’ll let the camper inside the garage. There’ll be a man and a woman inside. I know Graham, and I’ll signal if he’s okay.”

James nodded.

“The man in the white Pontiac is the muscle. He’ll be guarding Graham’s back, just like you’re guarding my back. So he’s your responsibility. He’s wearing a Dodgers baseball cap and dark wraparound sunglasses, according to Graham.”

“You’ve not seen this man in the Dodgers cap.”

“No. But he’s the muscle, Graham says.”

“Then I will watch the one in the baseball cap. You can watch Mr. Graham. Is that satisfactory?”

“Perfectly.”

“So.” Tate leaned against the sidewall of the garage and eyed the two dogs standing beside Paula, one on either side. “Here we are—you, me, a hundred million or so in bootleg art, plus Rin Tin Tin and his mate.”

“I think,” Paula said, “that Rin Tin Tin was a female.”

“Whatever.” Tate pushed away from the wall, went to the van, which stood with its four doors open, and took the sawed-off shotgun from the floor on the passenger’s side. He went to the workbench that had been built against the back wall, and placed the sawed-off on the workbench. “How about your jacket?” he asked. “Can I use it?”

“Sure.” Paula took off the bright orange windbreaker and handed it to her companion.

Careful to leave the trigger guard exposed, Tate draped the jacket over the shotgun. Then, glancing at his watch, he said, “What’s keeping them?” As he spoke, he drew a nine-millimeter Browning from his belt, verified that there was a round in the chamber, verified that the safety was set, thrust the pistol back into his belt. “This waiting. I’m no good at waiting.”

Paula patted the dogs on the head. “Twenty minutes from Sepulveda and Vine, that’s my guess.”

With his gaze fixed on the closed garage door, standing with fists clenched at his sides, thick brown forearms muscle-corded, Tate made no reply.

In the rearview mirror Andrea saw the white Pontiac slowing sharply, moving to the right lane. The Pontiac was close enough for her to see the driver, still wearing the shades and baseball cap. Ahead, the camper with Graham and the woman in the cab was also slowing, but not moving to the right lane. Driving with one hand, she quickly picked up the walkie-talkie that connected her to Harry. “Have you got the guy in the Pontiac?”

“Got him. He’s parking.”

“I think we’re close. I think he’ll walk to the meet. You follow him. He’s yours. If you go on foot, take the walkie-talkie with you.”

“I can’t hide it, though. Not really. It’s too damn big.”

“Try, Harry. Try. This is the part you like best. So try.”

“‘Try Harry,’” he mimicked caustically. Then he switched his walkie-talkie to “standby.”

Ahead, the camper’s stop lights came on. Andrea used a key to open the BMW’s glove compartment. She took out a palm-size surveillance radio. With her eyes on the camper, she quickly inserted a clear plastic earpiece, switched on the radio, tuned it to “transmit.” She placed the radio on the seat beside the walkie-talkie. Now the camper had stopped, signaling for a left turn into the driveway of one of the tract houses that lined the quiet residential street. Ahead, she saw Bernhardt getting into a parked Taurus. James, too, was in motion, getting into a blue Accord. As soon as Bernhardt’s car moved, unblocking the garage door of the beige bungalow with the two dying palms, Andrea switched on the surveillance radio, held the tiny microphone close to her mouth: “Is the camper going inside the garage?”

“Yes.”

“Are you going inside?”

“No.”

“All right. If you can, keep listening to the radio.”

“Yes.”

Now the Accord, too, was moving, unblocking the driveway. Bernhardt was out of the Taurus. He produced an electronic wand, aimed it at the garage door. Immediately the door rose, rolling up in segments. Graham, driving the camper, looked cautiously in all directions. As the segmented door rolled up overhead, the camper moved forward, following directions from Bernhardt. In the gloom of the garage she saw a dark panel van. While the camper was still moving slowly, cautiously forward, Bernhardt stepped quickly into the garage as the door began to come down, just clearing the rear of the camper.