Bernhardt's Edge (14 page)

“But—” Powers was shaking his head now, transparently denying that which his cowardness wouldn't allow him to face. “But we can't do it again. I—I can't. I simply can't.”

As if he hadn't heard, DuBois spoke reflectively, his eyes soft-focused: “People like Betty have their destiny—and people like us have our destinies. Betty is destined to be used by others. She's a victim type. That's the way her experiences have programmed the circuitry of her brain, if you accept my previous premise. But people like me—” He paused to consider. “People like me are the predators, the manipulators of lesser men. And you, Justin—” His eyes came into sharp focus, fixed on the other man. “You are a lesser man. People like you depend on people like me. It's bred in the bone. Or, if you like—repeating myself—in the circuits of the brain.”

A brief, desperate flicker of dissent showed in Powers' eyes. “If you're talking about business, then that's true. But this other, it's—” He broke off, visibly shaken, struggling to find strength enough to pronounce the word that, finally, must be spoken between them. When he finally summoned the strength, the word was only a whisper: “It's—it's murder.” For a moment Powers sat mute, his hollow eyes staring at nothing. Then, mutely, he shook his head. “I—I still can't believe I did it, actually did it, had it done.”

“You did it because you were paid to do it, Justin. You depend on me. We've already established that. And, conversely, you are an extension of me. I am the brain, you are the instrument—the arms, the legs, the voice. You are the visible me, one might say. And Nick Ames was a threat to me. Possibly a very serious threat. So it became necessary—vital—that he be eliminated. I made the decision. And you executed the decision. It's as simple as that. In olden times, I suppose I would have cleaved Nick Ames asunder with my broadsword. Or, to continue the analogy, you would have done it, to oblige me. But we live in a complex society. Things are managed differently now. However, the elementary fact remains that, occasionally, someone becomes so dangerous that he must be killed.”

“I know that. And I never questioned what you—”

DuBois raised his right hand a few inches above the arm of his wheelchair. The gesture was enough to silence the other man in mid-sentence. “This has happened before, Justin. In fact, it's happened several times, before your, ah, tenure.
Fortune,
after all, calls me the world's third richest man. My net worth is more than many nations of the world. And when one operates at that level—when one does what's necessary to parlay a few thousand dollars into billions—people sometimes die. It's regrettable, of course. Richard the Third, I'm told, often wept, surveying the dead after a battle. But that didn't mean there wouldn't be another battle, even though it might be fought for nothing more substantive than pique. The point being, of course, that it was royal pique. And the truth is, Justin, that for centuries, lesser men have always died to avenge royal pique.”

“But I don't—”

“Nick Ames, of course, was nothing more than an insect—a bug—waiting to be squashed. And to that extent, I regret the necessity for all this. He wasn't a fit adversary, wasn't worth the risk. But, through a fluke, he became a problem, as I've already said. He stumbled on a secret—on a carefully concealed vice, to be accurate.” DuBois shook his head: a pale, skin-covered skull, a death's head rotating on a sagging column of waxen cords. “And we must be prepared to pay for our vices, Justin. Major or minor, we must be prepared to pay. And that imperative, that immutable law, is the reason it was necessary to do what we did.” He paused, allowing himself a moment of compassion, even a sympathetic smile, as he stared at the other man. “This is hard for you, Justin. I realize that. You're not in complete possession of the facts, and that's always a difficult position. But suffice it to say, for now, that I made a mistake when I decided to surrender to a vice. Not a minor vice, but a major vice. And Nick Ames, through a fluke, caught me up. It's as simple as that. I gambled, and I lost. So now I must redress the balance.” He smiled again—benevolently, he hoped. “Does that make it easier for you, Justin?”

“I—ah—” Predictably, always predictably, the other man shook his head. “I—ah—”

“When we become older, Justin, we give ourselves the pleasure of surrendering to our vices. It's part of our reward. However, in the process, we can become vulnerable, even to insects like Nick Ames.”

Powers waited a moment, until he was sure DuBois had finished speaking. Then, tentatively: “You've never told me the reason—never told me why Ames had to be—” He broke off, swallowed, moistened his lips. “You didn't tell me what he did, what he tried to do.”

Gently, DuBois nodded. “That's correct. I didn't. And when you think about it, Justin, you'll realize that we should leave it like that. Don't you agree?”

Hesitantly, Powers nodded. “I agree to a point, of course. But I also think that—”

“It's for your own protection, Justin. When you think about it, you'll see that I'm right.” He paused, watching the other man's face as the words registered. “You're in an exposed position. So the less you know about motivation, the safer you'll be. Don't you agree?”

This time, the purpose of Powers' answering nod was plain: in defeat, he could only hope to hide the despair that registered so plainly on his face. So he sat inert, head cravenly lowered, eyes averted. Patiently, DuBois waited for the other man to finally lift his head. Then DuBois nodded in the direction of Powers' attaché case. “Since you're here, let's do a little business. There's a coup brewing, I understand, in Zimbabwe. I think we'll go long on palladium. Don't you agree?”

Powers frowned, pretending to consider the point. Finally, he nodded. Cordially, DuBois returned the nod.

S
IPPING CHARDONNAY, BERNHARDT LET
his eyes wander idly around Pamela Brett's apartment. The building was a restored turn-of-the-century San Francisco mansion that had been remodeled into apartments. Her living room was vintage Victorian, featuring a cupola with three curved glass windows that offered a sweeping view of downtown San Francisco, with the bay beyond. The high ceilings were coved; the woodwork was intricately carved. The floors were parquet. The fireplace was framed in marble, its mantel supported by plaster cupids. The kitchen was small but efficient, built in a room that might once have been a wardrobe closet. The bedroom had a view of the Golden Gate Bridge. Like the kitchen, the tiny bathroom had been fitted into a small space that had originally served another purpose.

Rent, Bernhardt estimated, at least fifteen hundred a month. Maybe more.

If the apartment was classic upscale San Francisco, the modern, squared-off furniture was typically Los Angeles: Coldwater Canyon, Bernhardt guessed, or Malibu. The chairs and tables were made of oiled teak or rubbed walnut; the covering of the sofa was expensively nubbed, probably handwoven, aggressively natural. The coffee table was fashioned of thick glass, magnificently supported by a weathered, twisted crotch of mountain juniper. On Rodeo Drive, Bernhardt calculated, the table would cost thousands. A small Danish teak dining table stood in an alcove. The table was set for two, with sparkling glassware and gleaming silver.

“Can I come in the kitchen and watch you cook?” he called. “Carry anything in?”

“Actually,” she called back, “it's almost ready. Why don't you open the wine?” She appeared in the doorway, bottle in one hand, corkscrew in the other. As he took the bottle, their eyes met—and held. Slowly, gravely, they exchanged a smile. It was a serious smile, both tentative and trusting, a smile that neither asked a question nor offered an answer. As Bernhardt worked with the bottle's lead seal and the corkscrew's stubborn levers, he considered the significance of the smile they'd just shared.

Reduced cues
…It was one of those half-remembered phrases left dangling in his consciousness, a leftover from some long-forgotten course in elementary psychology. Yet, over the years, the phrase had constantly recurred as he'd tried to pick his way through the thickets of human relationships, personal and professional. In the mating game, the suggestion of a smile could mean everything—or nothing. In the theater, his stock in trade was subtlety: raised eyebrows, deep sighs. Working the streets, sorting out the good guys and the bad guys, an uneasy glance could make a case—or break it. Reduced cues, then, were what his life was all about.

Bringing him here, now, to Pamela Brett's apartment, struggling to draw a reluctant cork as he remembered the smiles—his smile, and her smile.

What had she seen in his face, exchanging their smiles?

What had he seen in her face? Did she—

In the doorway again, smiling a hostess' smile, no longer a tentative lover's smile, wearing two oven mittens, she held a steaming casserole in both hands. Stepping back, giving her and the hot dish room, he watched her set the casserole on an ornamental tile. She returned to the kitchen, came back with a salad bowl. As she left the kitchen, she switched off the light behind her.

In the mating game, light management was important, too—another reduced cue. A darkened kitchen, softened light in the dining alcove, it could all mean something—or nothing.

As she sat across from him, he raised the bottle of wine. “Shall I pour?”

“Please.”

Forgetful of cork fragments, he filled her glass first, then his. She raised her glass. “To the play.”

“The play.”

They drank, smiled companionably, served themselves, began eating. The September evening was warm, and he'd taken off his jacket. With her fork in her hand, she pointed to his waist. “You're not wearing your pager.”

“I turned in my pager today.”

“Meaning?”

“I quit. It's a long story. And not very interesting.”

“Oh.” She nodded, dropped her eyes. He'd said it too abruptly, then, shut her out too harshly. He could see it in her eyes, the same vulnerability he'd seen Monday night. She'd picked up on the hostility he felt for Dancer, transferred it to herself—the actress' sensitivity, misdirected, turned inward.

Watching her, he sipped his wine. Then: “But if you're interested, I'll tell you.”

She smiled, lifted her shoulders. The smile said she was interested, the shrug said she didn't want to pry, didn't want to intrude.

“I've quit before,” he began. “We've always had our differences, the boss and I. But this time it's serious. This time he screwed me good.”

“Was it money?”

“It's not the money.” He let a beat pass. Then, because the alliterative line was too good to waste, he said, “It's murder.”

Yes, her eyes were widening—those dark, solemn eyes, the eyes he'd been thinking about, these last several days. And, yes, on cue, she was swallowing. “Murder?”

“He sent me to Santa Rosa, to find a woman. Her name is Betty Giles. But I think I was really hired to set up a man for murder. His name was Nick Ames, and he was traveling with her. I'm not sure that's what happened. There's no real proof. But Dancer—the boss—won't tell me what I need to know, to make sure I'm in the clear. So I quit. I should've done it before. Long before.”

“Murder…” She spoke incredulously, her food forgotten.

“Am I spoiling the dinner? I don't want to do that.”

“No, it's just—I mean—” At a loss, she shook her head. “I mean, murder is something you read about, hear about. It—somehow it doesn't seem real.”

“It happens, though. People are murdered every day. Usually it's pretty elemental stuff—a wife hits her husband with a cast-iron skillet during their standard Saturday night fight, or one dope pusher shoots another dope pusher, for business reasons. But other things happen, too—more complicated, exotic things.”

“This murder in Santa Rosa—what'll you do? Tell the police?”

“I've already told the police. Maybe they'll find the murderer, maybe they won't. But there's more to it than that.” Once again, he was self-consciously aware that he was building the suspense, playing the role of the grim, stoic private eye. Leaning across the table, she waited for him to go on.

“What I've got to do now is find her.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to find out what happened—what really happened. That's the only way I'll know for sure whether Dancer used me to set this guy up. I've got to see Betty Giles, talk to her. I've got to know.”

“It could be dangerous, though, couldn't it?”

“I'm not sure. I don't think so, though.” He smiled. “If I thought it was dangerous, I wouldn't do it. I don't believe in looking for trouble.”

“Do you—” She hesitated, then asked, “Do you carry a gun?” Her voice was hushed, as if the answer could frighten her.

“Pam—come on—” He gestured to her plate, then ate a large forkful of the casserole: seafood and artichokes in cream sauce, delicious. “Eat your dinner. Drink your wine.”

“You
do
carry a gun. Don't you?”

“Usually not, as a matter of fact. Someone carries a gun, he gets shot at. Now come on. Eat. Drink.”

Obediently, she sampled the salad and the casserole, then sipped the wine. But he could see determination in her face. She wasn't through with him, wasn't finished asking questions. He couldn't deflect her, not permanently. Since they'd been talking, he'd seen the two sides of Pamela Brett: the hesitant, sometimes vulnerable, often pensive side, and this quiet, willful, determined side.

“I have another question—” She looked at him, tentatively smiling: that small, shy smile, the one he'd remembered last night, just before he went to sleep. “It's a—” She hesitated, visibly embarrassed. “It's an impertinent question, this one.”