Silent Witness

by Collin Wilcox

  Bernhardt nodded. “Right.”

  “Is the place in San Rafael a love nest?”

  The archaic phrase amused Bernhardt, but his reply was straight-faced: “It could be. C.B. found out she moved in about a month ago.”

  “Meaning, maybe, that they didn’t want people to know they were meeting, after Connie was killed.” As she spoke, Janice’s eyes kindled. Paula was nodding encouragement. Affirming: “If they had her killed, they wouldn’t want to be seen together. That makes sense.”

  They made room for the waitress to serve their juice and coffee, then Janice asked, “Well, what’s the plan?”

  Bernhardt smiled ruefully. “The truth is, I don’t really have a plan, at least nothing dramatic. But we’ve got Price agitated, I don’t think there’s any question about that. And he hasn’t gone to the authorities, which could be significant. So for now, I’d say we should continue doing what we’re doing, keeping the pressure on.”

  “Alan—” Across the table, Janice leaned toward him. In the single word, in the sudden intensity of her eyes, in the timbre of her voice, Bernhardt sensed the sum-totaled focus of an entire life, of all hope. “You talk about my intuitions, my suspicions. I’ll admit, they aren’t evidence. But I’ll tell you—” For emphasis, she let a beat pass. “I’ll tell you, when I saw Dennis on Sunday—when I heard him talk, watched him, I saw fear in his eyes. Mortal fear. He’s absolutely terrified that I’ll talk to John.”

  “It seems to me,” Paula said, “that what you should be trying to figure out is how to get John alone for a few hours with Janice, uninterrupted. Just the two of them, relaxed. A trip for an ice-cream cone, a long ride in the car.”

  “Easier said than done,” Bernhardt answered ruefully.

  “But Paula’s right, Alan.” Avidly, Janice nodded. “If we can get him away—if I had time enough to get his confidence, one on one, I think he’d open up. I’m sure he’d open up.”

  The waitress brought their breakfast, refilled their coffee cups, smiled, retired.

  “I don’t think Price is going to let him leave the winery, though,” Bernhardt answered. “I’ve been watching for a week and it hasn’t happened yet. John spends all his time on the property. That’s the rule. Martelli told me so.”

  “Dennis leaves, though. He left yesterday.”

  “Sure. But he leaves someone with John. Al Martelli, or the cook, or a baby-sitter. If John leaves the property, he’s always with his father, or Al Martelli. They …” As the first hint of a solution began to emerge, unformed, Bernhardt’s voice trailed off, his eyes lost focus. Then, tentatively, he said, “That winery—the whole layout—is forty acres. There’s the house, within a few hundred feet of the road. Then there’re the winery buildings, in a hollow behind the house. Al Martelli’s house is there, too. The rest of it’s vineyard, except for an old, abandoned barn. There’s a small stream that runs along the western corner of the property, close to the barn. I’ve walked around the whole property, I’ve got a pretty good picture of it, in my head …” Once more, his voice thoughtfully died; his eyes wandered away. Then, coming back, he said, “The whole property’s fenced. There’re only two entrances, one off the county road, the main entrance, and a gate on the western perimeter, not far from the barn. That gate’s always locked—chained. The whole property is fenced. The fence that runs along the county road is split rail, for the rustic appearance. It’s reinforced, though, and there’s barbed wire concealed in it. The rest of the fence is wire. It’s six feet with barbed wire on top. Now—” He ate some of his omelette, bit off a corner of toast, sipped coffee. “Now, as long as Dennis is in his house, able to see whoever comes in through the main entrance, and as long as he knows John’s on the property, riding his mountain bike with Martelli, or playing close by, Dennis wouldn’t think he had to keep an eye on John. Even if John and Al were fishing in the creek, or exploring that old barn, for instance, out of sight from the house, he’d still feel secure.”

  “So what you’re saying is that—” As if she were a small girl, Janice touched her upper lip with the tip of a small pink tongue. Her eyes shone with barely suppressed excitement. “What you’re saying is that we should—”

  Bernhardt nodded. “All it would take is a pair of bolt cutters. Which, as it happens, I have in the trunk of my car. It’s part of the PI’s standard bag of tricks.”

  “Wow!” Paula’s eyes were shining, too. “We’re getting down to basics, here.”

  “We’d need an edge, though,” Bernhardt warned. “Some insurance.”

  “Insurance?” Paula was amused. “You mean like liability? That kind of insurance?”

  “I mean insurance like Al Martelli. Or, anyhow, someone to deliver John to the right place at the right time. We might need a lookout, too.” With his eyes on Janice Hale, he let a beat pass. Then, quietly: “So what’d you think, Janice?” he asked quietly. “Feel like doing a little fieldwork?”

  Slowly, decisively, she nodded. Saying simply, “Yes, I do.” Her eyes were rock-steady, her mouth was thin and firm.

  “What about me?” Paula asked. “I could be the lookout.” Her voice was pitched a full note above its normal timbre, another evocation of the past: the little girl who wouldn’t be left behind.

  10:15 A.M.

  THE COLD MORNING FOG was still thick, blurring the endless rows of masts that defined the yacht harbor. Even the Golden Gate Bridge, less than a mile to the south, had disappeared behind a solid mass of white.

  Midway along the wharf Theo saw a figure crouched over a pile of multicolored sail bags. The figure was generically familiar: like Bruce, the stranger was someone who made his living maintaining other people’s boats. As her footsteps came closer the figure half-straightened, looking at her over his shoulder.

  “I’m looking for Bruce Carter. Someone said he was on this jetty.”

  The young man turned half-away, pointed. “He’s on the next jetty. Working on that gaff-rigged sloop, there.”

  “Which one’s that?” Theo smiled. It was the first time she’d smiled today. Would it be the last time? “I’m a landlubber.”

  His answering smile twisted meaningfully: the randy male’s automatic response. “It’s the white one trimmed in maroon. Almost at the end, there, on the right side. God, this fog’s so thick, you can hardly see her.”

  “Thanks.” She stepped around him and his sail bags and walked down the wharf to the next jetty, turned toward the maroon-trimmed sailboat. There was no gangplank; the rail of the boat was almost three feet from the wharfside, and two feet higher. On the teak deck, one of the hatch covers was off.

  “Hey! Bruce!”

  As she waited, overhead, she heard the sound of an airplane engine. Automatically, Theo tracked the sound: a light plane, flying above the overcast. By now, if she’d kept working at it, she could have had her student’s license. A few more hours of dual—no more than ten hours—and it could be her, up there.

  In Dennis’s airplane, the Skylane, they could fly as far as San Diego without refueling. Escape, then, was always possible. If something went wrong, anything went wrong, the Skylane was their passport to freedom. The airplane was based at Buck Field, an airport with no control tower. Therefore no controllers; therefore no tape recordings. Therefore, with the transponder turned off, they could disappear in the sky, an anonymous, untraceable blip on the radar screens. They could land at a small uncontrolled airport in the desert below Palm Springs. Refueled, they could fly undetected into Mexico—while the feds struggled to trace every single blip flying in the opposite direction. They could—

  In the open hatchway, Bruce’s head appeared. He smiled his slow, musky smile.

  “Hi—” Wiping his hands on an oil-stained rag, he slowly climbed up on deck. “Want to come aboard?” The smile widened meaningfully, his eyes turned lazily indolent. “The bunks are narrow, but they’re comfortable.”

  “Give me a hand.”

  “I’ll do better than that.” He lifted a boarding
ladder, lowered it down to the dock, and extended his hand. As she stepped onto the deck, he drew her roughly close, one of his muscle-man moves. Quickly, she twisted away from him, at the same time involuntarily looking back over her shoulder.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Let’s go downstairs.” She moved toward the open hatch.

  Now the smile was patronizing. “That’s ‘below deck,’ sweetie.”

  Not replying, she climbed down to the luxuriously appointed cabin.

  “Want some coffee?” He gestured to a coffeepot steaming on a small two-burner stove.

  “Fine.” Theo stepped over to an open porthole. Her view of the dock was limited by the brass-bound circle of the porthole. Was Bernhardt out there somewhere, watching? Had he followed her from San Rafael into San Francisco, then here to Sausalito? Was there another detective, besides Bernhardt? More than one other?

  “Sugar, no cream. Right?”

  “Right.” After a last searching look through the porthole she turned away, sat on a soft leather sofa. It was almost impossible, she knew, to discover whether someone was watching. Since Sunday night, when she’d opened her door to see the strange figure on the dimly lit landing, she’d felt the constant scrutiny of hostile eyes. Even in her apartment in the city, with the door double-locked, she’d felt pursued, spied on.

  He handed her a steaming mug, then sat across from her. “You look jumpy. Something wrong?”

  She smiled: a wry, rueful twisting of the mouth. “Yeah, something’s wrong. Something’s definitely wrong.”

  “Well—” He rolled his shoulders, flexed his muscles, smugly smiled. “Well, tell Bruce.”

  Theo sat silently for a moment, simply looking at him. How had it happened that they’d ever gotten together? Except for back-street bars and second-run movies they never went anywhere, never did anything, never really talked about anything but what they would do in bed—and what they’d done.

  But Bruce was tough. More than once she’d seen him fight—and win. Watching, she’d felt a deep, elemental excitement: the primitive woman, physically aroused. Sex was never better than after he’d had a fight—and won. Some men watched sports on TV, some played golf. Bruce fought.

  “What’s wrong,” she said, “is that there’s a private detective who’s following me.”

  She’d known what to expect from him: that slow, indolent, knowing smile. “An irate wife, eh? Yet another irate wife. Theo—” Mockingly, he shook his head. “This is the second time, baby, just since we’ve been seeing each other. I’d think you’d be used to it, by now.”

  “It’s not an irate wife. And it’s not funny, either.”

  “Sorry.” But the mockery of a smile remained. Of course, he wasn’t sorry. He was amused.

  “I didn’t come here to play word games,” she said. “And I can’t stay long. If you want to listen, fine. Otherwise—” She let it go truculently unfinished.

  “So go ahead—” He spread his hands. “Tell me. Tell Bruce.”

  Driving across the Golden Gate Bridge she’d decided how she would put it to him: “Constance Price,” she said. “That San Francisco socialite, who was murdered two months ago, in Saint Stephen. Remember?”

  She had the pleasure of seeing the supercilious, shit-eating smile slip, then fade. “Yeah—” Tentatively, he nodded. As, yes, his pale-blue eyes began to search her face. Was this a trick? he was transparently wondering. A put-on?

  “Yeah, I remember,” he said cautiously.

  “Well—” She broke off, drew a deep breath, and stepped over the edge: “Well, I’ve been going out with her husband. Dennis Price. It’s been about four months, now, maybe a little longer.”

  “Yeah—” With the smile fading, curiosity was narrowing his eyes, tugging at his scarred, fighter’s face. Curiosity, and caution, too.

  “And—” Another pause, this one for courage. “And he and I were alone in the house, when she showed up.”

  “Was this that guy with the winery? Is that the one?”

  She nodded. “That’s the one.”

  He frowned. “It was a prowler. A burglar. That one?”

  “That’s the one. Except that it wasn’t a prowler. It was Dennis. She—his wife—she caught us together. She went wild. Really wild. They fought like—like animals. He picked up a pair of fireplace tongs, and hit her.”

  His Adam’s apple bobbed. Once. Twice. “He killed her? Him?”

  She nodded.

  “And you were there? In the same room?”

  “Yes.”

  “Jesus, Theo. You’d better get a lawyer.”

  “A lawyer …” She spoke as if he’d suggested some strange ritual, some alien rite.

  “Sure, a lawyer. Christ, this isn’t something you want to fuck around with. You’re smart. You should know that.”

  “Right now,” she said, “it’s this private detective that’s worrying me.”

  “What’s he doing?”

  “He’s putting pressure on Dennis. A lot of pressure. And Dennis isn’t built for pressure. To say the least.”

  “All the more reason you should get a lawyer. Protect yourself.”

  “What I’m afraid of,” she said, “is that, if the detective suspects what happened—really happened—and if he ever went to the police, and the police started questioning Dennis, then Dennis would fold up. First he’d fold up. And then he’d lie.”

  “Lie?”

  “He’d tell the police I did it. I know that’s what he’d do. I can see it coming.”

  “Except that the police think it’s a prowler.”

  “I’m saying if the detective goes to the police. I’m trying to look ahead. Anticipate.”

  “How come you waited until now to tell me this? How come you didn’t say something when it happened?”

  “Because I promised I wouldn’t say anything. That shouldn’t be hard to figure out.”

  He sat silently for a moment, thoughtfully staring at her. Then: “So what now? Why’re you telling me now? What’d you want me to do?” He rolled his shoulders again, flexed his muscles again. “This Price—he sounds like someone I’d enjoy teaching some manners, give him something to think about.”

  As she listened to his barroom-brawler’s blandishments, she held his eyes for a long, searching moment. Could she count on him? Trust him? How far? At what cost?

  “It’s not Price that worries me,” she answered. “I can handle him.”

  “Oh?”

  She nodded, repeating: “I can handle Price. It’s Bernhardt.”

  “Bernhardt?”

  “The private eye—” She looked toward the dockside porthole, gestured. “He could be out there right now, on my trail, watching. He’s already—” About to describe Bernhardt’s appearance at the San Rafael apartment, she broke off. Then, recovering: “He’s already been at my apartment, already given me a hard time.”

  “You want me to talk to him, tell him to lay off? Beat on him a little?”

  There it was again: his elemental lust for combat.

  “Could you?”

  “Sure—” He shrugged. “You find him for me, I’ll bounce him around, straighten him out.” He stepped forward, put out his hands, to touch her. The message: for services to be rendered, payment was due in advance. She put up her hands, palms outward. “Honey, I can’t. I—I just don’t—” Eloquently, she moved her head toward the porthole. The meaning: with alien eyes watching, she couldn’t.

  Following her gaze, his eyes came alive with the prospect more compelling than sex: the promise of violence. “Is he really out there, do you think? Now?”

  “I don’t know …” She made it sound wan: little girl lost.

  But now she saw his eyes shift, drawn from the view through the porthole to the sailboat itself, to the floor beneath their feet. “I can’t do anything about it now, though. Not now. This engine, I’ve got to get it running. The owner wants to leave for San Diego, day after tomorrow. But you find him, this Bernhardt—give me a
name and an address—and I’ll have a little talk with him.”

  “I’ll give you a call. Thanks, honey.”

  “No problem.”

  She rose to her feet. “I’d better go. Listen—that gun I loaned you. Have you still got it?”

  He frowned. “Theo …”

  “I think I’d better take it.”

  “Now? Today?”

  “Now. Right now. Where is it?”

  “It’s at my place. But—”

  “Please.”

  11:15 P.M.

  AT THE FIFTH RING, Bernhardt heard the click of an answering machine. The message was short and laconic: “This is Al Martelli. Sorry I missed you. Leave your name and number and the time you—” The machine clicked again. “Hello?”

  Should he use Martelli’s first name? They’d talked three times, amiably, once at the winery, twice in Saint Stephen, briefly. Which way should he gamble: too familiar, or too formal?

  “Al—this is Alan Bernhardt.”

  He waited while the other man matched the name to the face.

  “Yeah—how are you?” There was caution in the greeting, a distancing. But there was encouragement, too, a tentative warmth. Contradictions.

  “Listen, I—this matter we’ve talked about—I wonder whether I could meet you somewhere, today? In town, maybe. It’s important.”

  “Important?”

  “Yes. I want to try and bring this thing to a head. And you could help.”

  “Is it about John? That?”

  “Yes, it’s about John—and Dennis, too.” He hesitated, then decided to say, “Janice Hale—Constance Price’s sister—is here, in Saint Stephen. And we need your help.”

  “My help …” Martelli let the two words linger in doubtful silence.

  “Please. Let me buy you a drink this evening. Any time you say. Any place.”

  A silence fell—and lengthened. This, Bernhardt knew, could be the pivot point, the fulcrum. And if he read Martelli right, there was nothing to do but wait. Martelli was a man who couldn’t be prodded.

  Finally: “Okay. Do you know the Briar Patch? It’s just south of Saint Stephen, on Route Twenty-nine.”