Full Circle (34 page)

“I’m not sure we should—”

“Al-
an
.” If Tate were an enemy, the single word would resonate with menace.

Bernhardt shrugged, then nodded reluctant agreement. “All right. But hide that sawed-off. There’re neighbors, you know, middle-class America.” He gave Tate the keys to the Taurus, then turned to Paula. “Hold the dogs.”

She took a fresh grip on the dogs’ collars. Bernhardt turned to Graham. “You’re carrying a gun.”

“I’m not
carrying
it; I just put it in the camper, on the floor in front. It’s an automatic.”

Bernhardt nodded, then said, “I want you to get into your camper. Now. When I raise the garage door, you’re to back out and then take off. You’ll drive, the woman sits beside you. Satisfactory?”

Graham’s small smile was strained, plainly forced. His voice was tight: “Perfectly satisfactory.” Then, after a brief, quizzical moment he said, “Next time you’re in New York, give me a call.”

Bernhardt’s answering smile, too, was forced. Then: “Ready?” He looked at each of them in turn. Almost in unison, they all nodded. He keyed the radio, saying, “James?”

“Yes, sir?”

“We’re all set, and the camper’s coming out. Tell me when you’re clear of the driveway, and I’ll raise the door.”

“Yes, sir.” And, only moments later: “I’m clear.”

“Okay, then. Here we go.” Bernhardt aimed the electronic wand. As the big double door began to roll up, one segment at a time, the camper’s engine came to life.

With the sawed-off held inconspicuously at his side, waiting for the garage door to rise high enough, Tate was standing in a half-crouched position just inside the door. The bottom of the door reached his waist level, then shoulder level. The Taurus was parked at the curb, across the right side of the driveway. Also parked at the curb, James’s Accord was clear of the driveway on the left side. Sitting behind the wheel, James was nodding. So far, so good.

Quickly Tate covered the distance to the Taurus. Keys in hand, he rounded the rear of the car, pulled the driver’s door open. He tossed the sawed-off on the passenger’s seat and thrust the ignition key home. The engine began to grind, slow to catch. He floorboarded the accelerator; the engine began to fire, but raggedly. He’d flooded it. He pumped the accelerator. Now, finally, the engine was catching, beginning to run smoothly. As he tugged at the gear selector, he caught a flash of movement over his left shoulder. It was a white BMW, coming slowly, with a young woman at the wheel.

Suddenly the BMW’s brakes squealed; the car was bouncing to a stop, double-parked beside him, blocking him. Instantly Tate jammed the gear selector into “park.” He grabbed for the sawed-off as he threw himself flat across the seat, groped for the door handle on the passenger’s side. He heard car doors slam, heard a woman’s voice. The door handle—he’d found the handle. He tripped it, threw himself against the passenger’s door, tumbled out on the sidewalk, rolled to a crouch, came up with the sawed-off, released the safety. With the Taurus between him and the other two cars, Tate looked back at Bernhardt, who was crouched for combat in the open doorway of the garage. Bernhardt’s .357 Magnum was trained on the camper, with Graham and the woman inside.

The camper was blocked by the BMW, unable to escape. Tate raised his head above the roofline of the Taurus, looked again at James and the woman. She was out of the BMW on the far side, with the car protecting her. James was out of the Accord on the street side. Crouched down beside the Accord’s engine compartment, the big man held a machine pistol. The large, squared-off pistol, probably an Uzi, was aimed squarely at Tate.

“
Shit!
” Tate dropped to his knees, back pressed against the Taurus’s door, as he turned again to face Bernhardt, who had jerked open the camper’s door. With his left hand, swearing loudly, Bernhardt was dragging Graham out of the camper; in his right hand Bernhardt held his .357 jammed against Graham’s chest. Graham was holding his hands up at shoulder height, palms out, surrendering; simultaneously he was speaking softly, urgently begging Bernhardt to back off, calm down. At Bernhardt’s waist, thrust into his belt, Tate saw Graham’s Beretta. Tate stole a quick look at James and the woman in the BMW. The woman, too, had a gun—an outsize automatic that she handled expertly. With their weapons trained on Tate, their positions hadn’t changed. They were waiting for him to make a move, commit himself.

Tate turned back to face the interior of the garage. Sotto voce, urgently gesturing, he ordered Paula to get the door opener from Bernhardt, lower the garage door. Paula nodded, sharply commanded the dogs to stay, and took the wand from Bernhardt, who was now holding Graham and the woman against the camper, their arms raised. The woman was protesting, sniffling loudly. Her makeup was running, a touch of the bizarre. Graham, his composure regained, was frowning as he looked thoughtfully at Bernhardt. Clearly Graham was planning his next move, calculating the odds.

With the wand in hand, Paula looked urgently at Tate. When should she lower the door? Tate looked one last time at James and the woman behind the BMW. With their weapons trained on him, they had not changed positions. Tate nodded to Paula. Immediately the garage door mechanism began to grind. Crouched low, clutching the sawed-off, he eyed the angles, eyed the rate the door was coming down, calculated the remaining seconds.

When the door was half closed, he sprang forward, threw himself full length on the driveway, rolled, came up into a crouch inside the garage as the door thudded closed behind him. At the same instant, splinters flew from the door; two bullets from the woman’s gun ricocheted, whining close by.

On his feet now, Tate moved immediately to the plain panel door that connected the garage to the house. He tried the door: it was locked. “The key—” He turned to Paula and Bernhardt. “Gimme the
key
.” Trailed by the dogs, Paula strode to her jacket, still on the workbench. In the pocket she found the keys to the house and garage. She tossed them to Tate. Both dogs came sharply to attention, following with their yellow eyes the keys as they tumbled through the air. Tate caught the keys, went to the service door, opened it. As he expected, the door could only be locked from the interior of the house. Anyone coming through the house had only to turn the knob to enter the garage.

He turned to Paula. “Where’s your gun?”

“In the van—in my bag.”

“Get it and hold it on those two.” He gestured to Graham and the woman, then beckoned for Bernhardt. Moving quickly, smoothly, Paula went to the van, took her revolver from her shoulder bag, checked it, then took Bernhardt’s place, her gun trained on Graham.

“Hey,” the dark-haired woman jeered. “Look at her. She’s a regular lady cowboy.”

Paula’s only response was a contemptuously curled lip. Instantly sensing the animosity between the two women, both dogs growled ominously as they eyed Helen Grant. She eyed them in return, saying angrily, “Oh, shut up.”

Immediately both dogs subsided.

Bernhardt and Tate moved to a far corner of the garage, spoke in urgent, apprehensive whispers.

“What the hell’s
happening?
” Bernhardt hissed.

“You’re asking me? All I know, your buddy James has got an Uzi, and it was aimed right at me.”

“That woman—she’s the one came to my hotel.”

“Yeah, well, looks like she and James made a deal. Least, their guns’re pointing the same direction. At me.”

“Jesus …”

“You think they’re in it with Graham?” Tate asked. “That the feeling you get from Graham?”

“Hell, with Graham, who can tell?”

“That woman—what’s her name?”

“Andrea, she said. Andrea Lange.”

“Well, she’s got a gun with a silencer, and she knows how to use it. Reason I say that, there’s a couple of holes in the garage door, right where I was.”

“James …” Baffled, Bernhardt shook his head. “Jesus, I thought he was rock solid.”

“Looks like to me they’re fixing to hijack the whole shipment. Everything. And with that Uzi, they can do it.” Urgently Tate gestured to the interior service door. “I’m going to take a look inside the house, see if I can spot any more of them out there. Also check the doors and windows. Last thing we want is James behind us, with that goddam Uzi.”

Bernhardt’s gaze was fixed on Graham. Was this Graham’s try for the brass ring, a once-in-a-lifetime gamble? In Graham’s face, nothing was revealed.

“What d’you think about calling the police?”

“Shit, man, the neighbors, they saved us the trouble, probably. A big brown-skinned guy with a Uzi taking cover behind his car, like in the movies. A foxy-looking lady with a silencer and a fancy car—wouldn’t you call the police?”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“Well, first place, we got no phone, if you remember. And then, shit, we’re handling stolen property here. This thing, those paintings, all that money, first thing they’ll do is put us in the slammer.
Then
they’ll sort it all out. Meaning that DuBois’s lawyers would dump it all on us, sure as hell.”

Bernhardt gestured to the interior door. “Check out the house. I think you can see the driveway from the living room. See if they’re still there. We—Christ—we’re blind in this goddam garage.”

“Right.”

“Right.”

Tate unlocked the door, pushed it open, entered the house, closed the door.

Bernhardt remained motionless for a moment, frozen in thought. Then he called out, “Graham. Get over here.” He raised the .357, trained it on Graham as the insurance man came striding toward him. Graham’s expression was watchful, revealing nothing.

“What’s happening, John? You’ve got thirty seconds.”

“Oh? And then? Are you going to shoot me, Alan?” He shook his head. “I don’t think so.” The smile twisted ironically. Graham had recovered his composure.

“You bought James off.”

“James? Is that his name?”

Bernhardt made no reply. Instead, ominously, he moved the barrel of the .357 closer to Graham’s chin.

“Listen, Alan, you’d better come up with something, and fast. Odds are, somebody’s called the police.”

“Does that worry you, someone calling the police?”

“Definitely, it worries me. Then there’s Powers, out there somewhere. He’s wearing a red Dodgers cap and shades, and he’s pissing his pants, he’s so scared. He worries me, too. He’s—”

“Powers?” Bernhardt blinked, involuntarily lowered the revolver. “
Justin
Powers?”

Graham sighed deeply, regretfully. “Powers and I are partners, you might say. Newly minted.”

Bernhardt stared incredulously. Then, furious, he grabbed the other man, felt the fabric of Graham’s shirt tear between his fingers. “You’re lying.”

“No, Alan, I’m not lying. Time is too short to lie.” Then: “This is a Brooks Brothers shirt. So if you would kindly—”

“I know Powers. He doesn’t have the balls for this.”

Graham shrugged. “I agree. But he’s running scared. Very, very scared. At the moment he’s running my way. Of course, he thinks I’m running his way.”

“That woman out there—is she with you?”

“No.”

Bernhardt searched Graham’s face, tested the steadiness of the other man’s gaze. At that moment the interior door clicked, swung open. Tate entered the garage, closed the door. With his eyes on Graham, Bernhardt spoke to Tate: “Could you see them from the living room?”

Also eyeing Graham, Tate nodded impassively. The message: his information wasn’t for Graham’s ears.

“Oh, shit.” Suddenly overwhelmed by an unreasoning anger that transcended caution, Bernhardt shook his head sharply. “Graham’s all right. At least, I
think
he’s all right.”

“Hmmm.” Reflectively Tate stroked the blued-steel breech of the shotgun as he stared suspiciously at Graham.

“Come
on,
C.B.
Talk.
”

With deep reluctance, Tate shrugged. “Looks like it’s a standoff. What they’re doing, they’re both inside their cars, and the cars block the driveway. They’re hunkered down, keeping a real low profile. Looks like they’re waiting for us to come out.”

“So if the police come,” Graham mused, “then what?”

“They’re either going to shoot it out,” Tate said, “or they’ll run.”

“If the police come,” Bernhardt said, “we’re all screwed.”

“Some more than others,” Graham said. “You’ll have to answer for weapons possession plus possession of stolen property.”

“This whole thing started with you,” Bernhardt shot back. “You did the planning, the manipulating.”

“Ah, but that’s my job, you see. Recovering items that we’ve reinsured. So if the police—”

“The longer you guys talk,” Tate said, “the worse it could be getting.”

Bernhardt’s gaze shifted to the two women, visible through the side windows on the far side of the camper. With Paula’s revolver between them, they were eyeing each other with profound hostility. The dogs, though, were lying down, no longer on alert. The male dog was yawning, lowering his head to rest between his paws.

“Your lady friend,” Bernhardt said. “What’s her name?”

“It’s Helen. Helen Grant. Except that—” Graham cautiously dropped his voice, stole a look at the women, still on the far side of the camper. “Except that I’m ah, rethinking my, ah, relationship with Helen. In New York, in bed, she’s great. These last few days, though—” He shook his head ruefully.

“What’s her part in all this?”

“Down the line, she’s supposed to be a courier—and bed partner, of course. But, as I said—” Enigmatically he spread his hands.

“I think,” Bernhardt said, “that I’m going to give you about one minute to tell me exactly where you stand in all this, what game you’re playing. If I like what I hear, then you can play on our team. Otherwise—” He nodded in the direction of the garage door. “Otherwise, as they say, we’re going to throw you outside the wagons.”

“In that case,” Graham came back, “I’d simply join their team.”

“That,” Tate said, “might be a big mistake.”

“One minute,” Bernhardt said. “Maybe two, if I like what I hear.”

Graham shrugged. Then, in his easy, urbane voice, he said, “The truth is that shortly after we first talked, in San Francisco, I decided to go into business for myself. At first, it started as a fantasy. How would it work? How could I pull it off on my own, with no backing? I suppose it became an obsession, figuring all the angles. I had everything I needed—the connections, and the expertise. What I didn’t have was the money. There was no way I was going to dip into the company till, even if it would’ve been possible.