Except for the Bones

by Collin Wilcox

  “All right. I’ll leave as soon as I can.”

  “Good.” He broke the connection.

  7:30 P.M., EDT

  BERNHARDT FOUND THE TELEPHONE number Cutler had given him, touch-toned the number on the motel phone. “Daniels residence.”

  “Yes—my name is Alan Bernhardt. I’d like to speak to Mrs. Daniels. Millicent Daniels.”

  “Can I tell her what it’s about?” Accented with a regional twang, the woman’s voice sounded weary, washed-out.

  “You can tell her that it concerns her daughter. Tell her I’ve just come from San Francisco.”

  “Just a minute, please.” In the background, Bernhardt heard low voices. Finally another voice came on the line: a cool, precisely calibrated voice. Millicent Daniels, without doubt.

  “Mr. Bernstein?” It was a clipped, aloof question.

  “Bernhardt. Alan Bernhardt.”

  “Sorry.” The apology, too, was aloof.

  “I hate to bother you, Mrs. Daniels. But I was wondering whether I could talk to you this evening. It’s about your daughter.”

  “My daughter?” It was a closed, cautious question.

  “I’m based in San Francisco, Mrs. Daniels. When Diane came to town a few weeks ago, Carley Hanks hired me to help Diane. Then—later—Mr. Cutler hired me.”

  “I—I don’t understand.” The calmly calculated cadence of her voice had roughened, lost its assurance. “You say Paul hired you. Why?”

  “Mrs. Daniels, is there any way we could talk about this face to face? I talked to Diane several times. I was one of the last people to see her before she died. She told me some pretty devastating things. I want to talk to you, tell you what Diane told me. But these aren’t things we should talk about over the phone. Believe me.”

  A silence. Then: “There’s a place called The Compass Rose, in Carter’s Landing. It’s a restaurant, but there’s a small bar in the rear. I’ll meet you there at eight-thirty.”

  “Good. Thank you. Eight-thirty.”

  “How’ll I know you?” she asked.

  “I’ll know you. I saw you at the funeral.”

  “You were at the funeral?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Daniels. I was at the funeral.”

  8:30 P.M., EDT

  “DIANE TOLD BERNHARDT WHERE you buried the body,” Kane was saying. “And Bernhardt told Farnsworth. And now Farnsworth wants a million dollars, or he’ll start digging.”

  They were sitting in the Cherokee, parked facing Nantucket Sound. The night sky was overcast; the surf line was fading into the mist, and would soon disappear. Seated behind the steering wheel, eyes fixed on the water, Daniels was conscious of an irrational calm. Was it possible that even death—even murder—came down to the balance sheet, his stock in trade? Emotion was unpredictable, the wild card. But greed was a constant. Greed was quantifiable, therefore negotiable. Money couldn’t buy love. But people had their price.

  His voice, therefore, was steady as he said, “I’ve got to pay him. There’s no other way. For either of us.”

  “If you pay Farnsworth that much,” Kane said, “then you’ve got to do the same for me.”

  Amused, Daniels smiled, looked at the other man quizzically. “You figured that out, did you?”

  “Three people dead. How much is that worth?”

  “It’s like everything else, Bruce. It’s what the market can bear. But then there’s a certain market risk factor. You want a million dollars plus what I’ve already given you. That makes you a source of capital drain. You and Farnsworth, you’ll cost me more than two million dollars, cash. Meaning that, if I paid someone—a real pro, not an amateur—to eliminate one or both of you, why, I’d save a lot of money. Let’s say I paid someone a hundred thousand dollars to kill you, no questions asked. I’d be saving myself a bundle. And the same thing applies to Joe Farnsworth, obviously.”

  “If you think you can—”

  “Another thing—” Daniels raised his hand, for silence. “Farnsworth knows something that, in fact, is worth a lot of money to me.”

  “The location of the body, you mean.”

  As if he were pleased, Daniels nodded deeply. “Exactly. That information, plus his badge, is a combination that could cause me real trouble. But in comparison, you really don’t have much, Bruce. All you’ve got is that when I told you Jeff Weston was bothering me, and you undertook to rough him up a little, teach him some manners, you hit him too hard, and killed him. You might say I paid you to do it, but there’s no proof. Then, when I sent you to San Francisco to talk some sense into Diane, get her to come back home, why, you tried to attack her, for unexplained reasons.” He smiled. “Does that sound like a million dollars to you?”

  Kane came back instantly: “You’re forgetting about Bernhardt, aren’t you? He’s been looking for me all over town. He’s trying to find out Carolyn’s identity. Suppose I give it to him? Then suppose I tell him you hired me to rough up Weston—and hired me to kill your own stepdaughter? Imagine what Millicent would say, come to that.”

  Now Daniels’s smile was contemptuously tolerant. “You’d be incriminating yourself, not me. I’d just deny everything.”

  “Farnsworth says we’ve got to kill Bernhardt. Now. Tonight, before he goes to the state attorney and tells him where the body’s buried. What’s that worth to you, to have Bernhardt killed?” As he spoke, Kane produced a blue-steel revolver. “He even gave me the gun. It’s untraceable.”

  “If you kill Bernhardt, I’ll pay you a half-million. That’s in addition to what I’ve already given you.”

  Contemptuously, Kane shook his head. “You’re a cheap bastard, aren’t you? What’re you worth? How many billions?”

  “Most rich men are tight with money, you’ll find. That’s how they got to be rich.”

  “If I don’t kill Bernhardt, and he goes to Boston over Farnsworth’s head, you’re fucked. I might go to jail for aggravated assault, or manslaughter—a fight that went wrong. But you killed Carolyn, and you buried the body. That’s as good as admitting you killed her. So when Bernhardt starts talking you’re fucked.”

  Daniels spoke abstractly, speculatively: “It’s an interesting situation. The chief of police is soliciting you to kill a man. Meaning that you’ll be acting with complete safety, complete impunity. In Carter’s Landing, Farnsworth is the law. The whole process starts with him.”

  “It’s still risky. If something goes wrong, you can bet Farnsworth’ll turn on us. I’ve seen people like him before. They don’t play unless they’ve got all the cards.”

  “I deal with people like Farnsworth every day.” As he spoke, Daniels studied the other man’s face, searching for something. Finally he returned his gaze to the ocean, and the line of surf beneath the lowering mists. “All right, it’s a deal. A million. Same terms as Farnsworth gets. You can tell Farnsworth. A half-million for each of you by next Friday.”

  Kane’s scarred mouth twisted into a smile. “Cash?”

  “Naturally.”

  8:50 P.M., EDT

  SEATED ACROSS A SMALL oak table, her glass of white wine untasted, Millicent Daniels shook her head incredulously. “I can’t believe it. I—I just can’t. I know he’s had women on the side, but—” She broke off, stared down at the table. Then: “He lives like a king, you know. There’s always someone in attendance, some flunky, someone to take orders. And the telephone. It’s like he’s the center of some gigantic electronic web that’s spread out over the whole world. Push a button, and someone somewhere comes to attention. Push another button, and he’s made a million dollars. Limos—airplanes—they’re all there, waiting. So—” She shook her head again. “So the idea of him digging a hole in the ground and rolling a girl’s body into it—I just can’t conceive of it.”

  “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 mil
es 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.”

  9:40 P.M., EDT

  BERNHARDT 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 looke
d 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.

  9:45 P.M., EDT

  SEATED 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.