Bernhardt's Edge (5 page)

“Who's Nick?”

“His last name is Ames. He moved in with her about a year ago, I guess it was. I never knew he'd moved in for about three months, which shows you, right there, that she knew it was wrong, to be living with him. And then, maybe three, four months ago, they had a fight, I guess. Anyhow, he walked out on her, for about a week. And she called me, and it all came out, how he started by moving in for a weekend, and then he just never left.” Dolefully, she shook her head. “That's always been Betty's problem. Men. Even when she was in high school, she always went out with the—you know—the greasy-haired ones. It never failed.
Never.
” She drew a deep, agonized breath. “It happened to her just the way it happened to me, with men. They just—some men—they just walk right over you. The nicer you try to treat them, the worse they act, honest to God.”

“Have you ever seen Nick Ames, ever met him?”

“No. And the only time Betty ever talked about him was just that once. That's because she was ashamed of him.”

“What does he do? What kind of work?”

She shook her head, sucked sharply at her teeth, waved a peevish hand. “How should I know what he does?”

“When you talked to him the night before she left Los Angeles, what'd she say, exactly? Do you remember?”

“Sure, I remember. She said that her job folded, and that she was going to leave—get out of town, she said. But I could tell, just by the way she was talking, that she wasn't telling the truth. I don't mean she was lying, I don't mean that. Because Betty doesn't lie. It's just that she was keeping something back. I could feel it, that she was keeping something back.”

“What'd you think it was, that she wasn't telling you?”

“Well, it's nothing I could put my finger on, like I said. But mostly—” As if she were laboriously puzzling out the problem, she frowned, shook her head, pressed her lips together. “Mostly I guess it was what she said about her job. I mean, Betty had a
good
job. Like, that time she called me, when Nick walked out on her, and she was crying, and everything, she talked about it, how good her job was, and how much money she made. She was saying it like, you know, like she couldn't understand it, how she did so good in her work, and everything, but she always ended up with these losers, these men. I mean, my God, one of them even had a prison record, if you can believe that.”

“That wasn't Nick Ames, though.” Asking the question, Bernhardt thought of Friedman, and another favor for another lunch. Invariably, Dancer questioned the chits Bernhardt submitted for his “Friedman lunches.”

“No,” she answered, “that was years ago, that she was hanging around with that crook, whatever his name was. He stole from her, that guy. Stole from her purse, for God's sake.”

“What's Betty do? What kind of work?”

“Well, I've never been sure, not really. I mean, I know she worked for Powers, Associates, and I know she did research for them. But that's all she ever said, about her job.”

“What's her field?”

“Well, that's the funny thing, see. Because her field is art history. And I can't see what that'd have to do with investments, which is what Powers, Associates does, the way I understand it. But Betty's smart. She's always been real smart. I mean, let's face it, she never had any of the advantages. I mean, her father—Giles—he walked out on me when Betty was six months old, if you can believe that. And Farley, he walked out, too, when Betty was about five. So, God knows, I could never do much for Betty, at least not financially. But Betty worked at the dime store, all through high school. And she got into U.C. Berkeley on a scholarship. And she worked when she went to college, too. It took her five years, because she had to work. And then, a few years out of college, she got this real good job, with Standard Oil.”

“What kind of a job?”

“It was in their—I think they call it their—” She broke off, shook her head resignedly. “God, my memory, I swear. I can't—” She interrupted herself: “It was their Community Arts Program, something like that. Anyhow, they used—you know—paintings, and statues, and everything, in their offices, and when they put on exhibitions. And Betty and one other person—a man—they did it all. It was—” Unpredictably, she blinked, wiped at her eyes with awkward, stubby fingers, swallowed hard. “It was wonderful, what she did. Just wonderful. I—I was so proud of her. I mean, I just—you know—graduated from high school, and—” She broke off again, swallowed again, wiped at her eyes again. Then, speaking in a low, clogged voice, she said, “I always did everything I could for her, though. Always. I've always worked. I never made real good money. But we always managed, Betty and me. And I—I—” She shook her head, silently staring down at the floor. Almost whispering, she said, “I always loved her. She—she was all I had, you see—all I ever had.”

Surprised at the sudden emotion that momentarily blocked a response, Bernhardt cleared his throat—while one corner of his playwright's mind registered the scene, for future use.

He let a moment pass, while she recovered. Then, gently, he asked, “When did she go to Los Angeles, Mrs. Farley?”

Sighing raggedly, she raised her eyes. “It was about three years ago, that she went. She didn't really want to go. I mean, she didn't apply for the job, or anything. They heard about her, came up here, asked her if she'd like to apply for a job, in Los Angeles.”

“Did she say what the job involved?”

“Well, as far as I could see—the way she talked—it was going to be the same kind of work she was doing for Standard Oil. And I guess that's what she thought, too. But the thing is, she'd never say anything about what she was doing, down in L.A. She'd never talk about her work, when she used to come up for weekends. But then—” Sadly, she sighed. “But then, I never knew anything about art, or anything like that. I never—” She began picking at the plastic arm of her recliner, watching her fingers. “I never—you know—went to the exhibitions, or the openings, or anything. Betty would always invite me, like she really wanted me to go. But I—I knew better. I'd—sometimes I'd go by, when no one was around. But—” Biting a trembling lower lip, she let it go unfinished.

Looking away, Bernhardt sat in silence for a moment. Then, softly, he asked, “Does Betty know anyone in Santa Rosa, Mrs. Farley?”

“Santa Rosa?” Uncertainly, she looked at him, then slowly shook her head. “No, I don't think so. Why?”

“Just curious. When you talked to her last week, did she tell you where she was, what she intended to do?”

“All she said was that she and Nick were traveling, that they'd probably be traveling for another month or so.”

“Did she plan to go back to Los Angeles, after she'd finished traveling?”

She frowned. “I don't know. She never said. I guess I just always thought that—” She shrugged. “I don't know.”

“Mrs. Farley—” Bernhardt leaned forward, pointed to the card he'd left on the cluttered coffee table. “I've left my card. It's got both numbers, my home and my office. I wish you'd keep it, and call me when Betty calls again. Maybe, when the conversation is fresh in your mind, you can think of something that'll help us find her. Will you do that?”

“Okay—” Transparently doubtful, she spoke warily.

Rising to his feet, smiling as reassuringly as he could, Bernhardt said, “I'll be going now, Mrs. Farley. But I hope you'll call me. And if I find out anything, I'll call you. Okay?” As she rose heavily to her feet, Bernhardt began moving to the front door. With his hand on the knob he turned back, as if he'd just remembered a wayward thought.

“I meant to ask you,” he said, “was Betty in any trouble, when she was younger?”

“Trouble? What kind of trouble?”

“Oh, you know—” Still smiling—fatuously, he knew—he waved a casual hand. “The kind of trouble that kids can get into, in high school. Drugs, things like that. Did she—?”

“I've already
told
you—” Indignantly, she raised her chin, bowed her back, truculently planted her feet before him. “I've already
told
you, Betty is a good girl. A
good
girl.”

I
T WAS, BERNHARDT KNEW,
a predictable phenomenon of the trade: whatever the target, whether it was a middle-aged, overweight, red-haired woman, or a child with a missing front tooth, or a man with a limp carrying a black-leather attaché case—or a Toyota registered to Betty Giles—the world was suddenly filled with people or vehicles who seemed to fit the description.

And Nissan, and Mitsubishi, and, yes, even Chevrolet, all of them were manufacturing Toyota look-alikes.

He'd already spent six hours in Santa Rosa, driving from motel to motel, hotel to hotel, vainly looking for a 1985 Toyota, color unspecified, license plate PVH 264 J.

He'd give the surveillance until Friday noon, he'd decided. Then he'd call Dancer, tell him he was coming in. He'd scheduled the second act read-through of
The Buried Child
for Friday night. They were counting on that read-through. Pamela and the rest of them, they were counting on it. He could see it in their eyes, hear it in their voices. Vividly, he could remember how it had felt, the ache of memory, echoing and re-echoing out of his own past, evoking the years of tryouts and casting calls. You couldn't admit it, even to yourself, how desperately you wanted the part,
needed
the part, to keep the fragile dream intact. Because, whatever the price, it was always necessary to protect that dream, somehow keep it whole, even when the director smiled sadly, shook his head, said he was sorry.

So he'd give the surveillance until Friday noon, he'd decided—two full days. Then he would—

A white Japanese sedan—a Toyota?—was stopped ahead, in the lane to his left. The Toyota was signaling for a left turn. He slowed, glanced in the mirror, saw there was no chance of easing into the left-turn lane. But, despite the angry horn-bleating from behind, he could slow enough to see the license plate as he passed. A man was driving the Toyota…A man, not a woman. So it was unlikely that—

PVH 264 J—

Why—for God's sake why—did it always happen that his first thought was of Dancer: how pleased Dancer would be that he'd scored? He didn't need Dancer's approval, didn't
want
Dancer's debit-credit approval. But it always happened like this. Always.

Looking straight ahead, he passed the Toyota on the right, moved into the center lane while he watched the Toyota in the mirror. He saw the driver make his left turn, then disappear. Ahead, a pickup truck was stopped, signaling for a left turn at the next intersection. The oncoming traffic was light. But the driver of the pickup was hesitating, dawdling. Bernhardt touched his horn, saw the driver start, look sharply back over his shoulder. And, yes, there was the stiffened middle finger. About to angrily respond, Bernhardt caught himself, suffered through the other driver's insolent moment of motionlessness before he turned left. Following, Bernhardt turned left at the next intersection, then right. He was behind the Toyota, with two cars between them, all four proceeding at a sedate rate along a four-lane highway leading to the southern fringe of Santa Rosa. On the right, a large green sign announced an entrance to the Route 101 freeway, south to San Francisco, north to Red Bluff. But instead of moving right, into the freeway-bound lane, the driver of the Toyota was signaling for another left turn, which he made immediately, clear of oncoming traffic. The two cars between them continued straight ahead, so that Bernhardt's Ford and the Toyota were alone, traveling east on a two-lane feeder road.

If he were a policeman, a detective, Bernhardt would have called for backup by now. He could have fallen back, let another car take up the rolling surveillance. Or, better, he could have passed the Toyota, ostentatiously turned off in another direction while he listened to his radio, heard his fellow officers closing the electronic net.

Electronic networking—forensics—fingerprint technology—firepower—computer printouts—these were the basic tools of law enforcement, all of them beyond the P.I.'s reach. Leaving him doing now what he'd done so often before, vainly trying to make himself invisible while he kept a suspect vehicle in sight.

He let the Ford slow as, ahead, the Toyota turned into a briskly traveled four-lane highway, keeping to the right. Cautiously following, Bernhardt saw the Toyota suddenly turn again, this time driving beneath a large arched sign that proclaimed the Starlight Motel. Beneath the sign, red neon letters spelled out “vacancy.”

Smiling to himself, eyes front, Bernhardt drove past the motel entrance. He would circle the block, return, register at the Starlight Motel. Then he'd give Dancer the good news.

Sitting on the edge of the bed facing the room's single window, phone cradled to his ear, Bernhardt shook his head. “No, I haven't actually seen her, seen her face. And I didn't want to ask the clerk about them, for fear they'd hear about it. But it's almost six, so they'll probably be going out to dinner.” He broke off, listened, then nodded. “Right. They're directly across the court. Unit number twelve. I can see their door, so there's no way they can leave without my seeing them. And I've seen a woman inside, moving around.” He paused again, listened again. Then: “So what'd you think? Maybe you should send someone up. I mean, I can't stay awake all the time, and they could leave in the middle of the night.”

The line went silent as Dancer considered. Finally: “I'll get back to you in an hour or two,” Dancer said. “Do you have food?”

“No. But there's a grocery store right across the street. So I'm—” As he spoke, the door to number twelve swung open. A woman was coming out—a brunette, medium build. Unmistakably, Betty Giles.