Find Her a Grave (27 page)

Or else snap this slender thread that connected him with whoever had Paula?

The thought translated into instant action. Without fully realizing that he’d done it, he was at his desk, holding the phone to his ear, pressing the button that cut out the machine.

“Mr. Bernhardt?” It was a soft-spoken, polite inquiry.

He took the wet shirt away from his face, coughed, managed to say, “Who’s this?” Then he discovered that if he took the phone to the broken-out window, he could breathe well enough to speak normally. Allowing him to demand: “Who’s calling?”

“We have the women,” the voice was saying. “We are all together, in one room. I am looking at both of the women. When you and I are finished with our business, you can talk to Paula Brett. Would you like that?”

He realized that, irrationally, his instinct was to deny his tormentor the satisfaction of admitting that, yes, more than anything in the world, he wanted to talk to Paula, to know she was unharmed.

“What we want, of course, are the jewels. Were you successful at Fowler’s Landing? Did Louise direct you to the jewels?”

“Do you expect me to answer that, you son of a bitch?”

“Mr. Bernhardt …” It was a pained response. “We have much to talk about, you and me. Name-calling only wastes time.”

Bernhardt urgently beckoned Tate and Louise into the office as he spoke into the phone: “If you bring those women back now—right now—we won’t press charges. That’s all I’ve got to say.”

There was a silence. Standing close beside him, Louise lowered the canvas bag to the floor, as if to divest herself. Her eyes were wide as she began to slowly shake her head. Balefully, Tate began to swear, his voice a low, purposeful monotone. In the darkened room, Bernhardt gestured for Tate to pull back the drapes that covered the broken-out window, for more air circulation.

“I’m assuming,” the caller said, “that, in fact, you now have a million dollars in jewels. I, on the other hand, have the two women. Fabrese is no longer a problem. Therefore, this whole affair can be managed with no loose ends. We can—”

“You killed Fabrese.”

With the words, Tate broke off swearing as his black eyes searched Bernhardt’s face. Louise, crying, sank numbly into Bernhardt’s desk chair, the jewels forgotten.

“Of course,” the caller said, “I would never answer a question like that. However, I will say that things are simpler with Fabrese dead. Much simpler. Don’t you agree?”

“Are you part of the Mafia?”

“No.” It was an amused response. “No, Mr. Bernhardt. I’m not with the Mafia. That much I’ll tell you.”

“You killed Fabrese at Fowler’s Landing. Then you left. You didn’t go for the jewels. You left.”

“I prefer to operate in my own territory.”

“San Francisco …”

“Yes, San Francisco.” The speaker allowed a silence to pass. Then, in an aloof, supercilious voice he said, “You’re beginning to think, I can see that—put things together, make connections. Good. I prefer to deal with intelligent people. And you, obviously, are intelligent.”

“And you’re an Oriental—an educated Oriental. Chinese, I think. And you’ve obviously got an organization. That makes you a local Chinese gangster.”

“Ah …” The voice projected pleasure. “Ah, yes, that’s good. Very good. You have an educated ear, I can see.”

“I’m an actor. My business is voices.”

“An actor …” A moment’s silence. Then, plainly pleased, titillated: “San Francisco—there’s such a variety here. Don’t you agree?” It was a benevolent question.

Suddenly overwhelmed by the incredible irony of a fortune in jewels lying at his feet while he made small talk with Paula’s kidnapper, Bernhardt began to slowly, helplessly shake his head. Was it denial? Desperation? Was it fatigue compounded by fear and shock and the terrible helplessness of abject indecision?

Once more, the voice began: “You have a trained ear, Mr. Bernhardt. And I also have a trained ear. I can hear indecision in your voice, and weariness, too. You’ve had a very long night, and you’ve had a nasty shock, too. Therefore, I am going to hang up now. I’ll give you a few hours, so that you and Louise can make your decision. Then I’ll call you back, and we will make the arrangements. Perhaps you should try to get a few hours’ sleep. It’ll clear the mind.”

“My mind’s clear. And I—”

“There are two things to remember. First, don’t call the police, try to involve them. This goes without saying, especially since you would be in a very awkward position, trying to explain how you came into possession of a fortune that belongs to the Mafia. Don’t you agree?”

Bernhardt made no response. Remarkably, standing close to the broken-out window, with a breeze blowing through the flat from the back door, he was unaffected by the gas. He put his hand over the phone, spoke to Tate: “Crusher’s in the back bedroom, out cold. Carry him in here, where there’s more air. See if you can help him get on his feet.”

Tate blinked. “Crusher?”

Suddenly furious, another irrational cheap shot directed at Tate, he came back angrily: “Crusher, goddammit.”

Tate shrugged, laid the shotgun on the desk. After making sure that Bernhardt was aware of the sawed-off lying there, Tate left the room. He moved smoothly, alertly, as if he were integral to the whole: a jungle predator, gliding through the forest. Yes, this was Tate’s natural element: danger everywhere. Danger, and death.

On the phone, the voice was saying, “The other point is, don’t try putting the jewels in a safe-deposit box, as you plan. That, I would consider a hostile act. Paula and Angela would suffer accordingly.”

“You goddam—”

“I should make it clear before I hang up,” the voice was saying, “that, whatever happens, I don’t plan to kill the women. That would be counterproductive. However—”

“You son of a bitch, you’d—”

“However,” the caller interrupted smoothly, “I’ll certainly disfigure them. As you’ve guessed, I have an organization. Which is, in this case, fortunate. Because I myself would be incapable of, let us say, chopping off a finger or two, and perhaps cutting off a nose. But I can assure you that I have people who—”

Breathing hard, aware that he was trembling now, beginning to lose it, Bernhardt banged down the phone. Then, instantly, he realized that now he could not talk to Paula; he’d ruined his chances of talking to her. At the thought, he felt himself racked by a sudden sob.

They were still in darkness; the entire flat was dark. The front door was closed now, and bolted. But the back door was open for ventilation. Now, carrying Crusher, Tate appeared in the doorway of the office. The dog’s head lolled, his legs flopped uselessly below Tate’s arms. Tate held the dog tenderly, gently.

“There.” Bernhardt pointed to the floor close to the windows. “Put him there. And open the other two windows. Leave the drapes drawn, though.” As Tate obeyed, Bernhardt knelt beside Crusher. Was the dog still breathing? Yes: short, shallow breathing. Would there be brain damage, after being unconscious so long? Irrationally, Bernhardt wished he’d asked the caller how long ago they’d attacked. The vet would want to know.

“Put the desk lamp on,” he ordered. When Tate obeyed, Bernhardt rolled back the dog’s eyelid. It was a useless gesture; he had no idea how the pupil should look. He lifted the limp head an inch from the floor and let it fall as he watched for a reaction. Had there been a blink? He lifted the head again, let it thump down again.

Yes.
Certainly it was a blink, an involuntary response to pain. Frantically, Bernhardt began slapping the dog on the head, the body, the rump. With every blow, there was a blink. And now, a miracle, there was a small whine, a protest. The Airedale’s eyes fluttered, finally came open.

“Hey,”
Bernhardt chortled. “Hey, it’s okay. He’ll be okay.”

“Jesus.” In mock despair, Tate shook his head. Repeating: “Jesus. Dog lovers. You—”

Struggling for self-control, choking on her sobs, Louise demanded, “What’re we going to
do?
Who was it on the phone? What’d they say? What’d they want?”

Massaging the dog now, Bernhardt spoke over his shoulder: “They want the jewels. They’ve got Paula and Angela. And they want the jewels. Ransom, in other words.”

“Chinese?” Tate asked. “Did you say Chinese?”

Looking down at Crusher, who sighed once, contentedly, and then closed his eyes again, Bernhardt nodded. “Chinese gangsters. I’m almost sure.”

“So what’ll we do?” Tate asked mildly. “What’s the plan?”

“The plan,” Bernhardt said, shifting his gaze to the satchel. “The plan is to find out what’s in that canister.”

“M
Y GOD,” TATE BREATHED,
“there they are.” An awed moment of somber silence passed. Then he murmured, “It’s like getting religion, something like that. Only better.”

They stood staring down at Bernhardt’s desktop. The cut-open white plastic canister and the hacksaw Bernhardt had finally found in the basement lay together on one corner of the desk. Bernhardt’s papers and memos and mail had been stacked on another corner. Countless multicolored facets of hundreds of gems reflected light from the desk lamp, a foot-long swath scattered across the center of the desk. A dozen-odd gold coins were mixed with the jewels.

“My God,” Tate whispered again, his voice still hushed. “Look at that, would you?”

As if he were reacting to the tension that suddenly filled the room, Crusher lifted his head, blinked, tried to get to his feet. The forepaws were manageable, but the back legs were failing. With a sigh, the dog shook his head, let his front legs splay as he went back to sleep.

“My God,” Louise echoed. “My God, look at them.” Hesitantly, she stepped forward until, with timid fingertips, she touched the jewels, finally using a forefinger to describe a small furrow from one end of the swatch to the other. Then, as if to give the others their turn, she politely stepped back.

“You’d better put them away,” Tate said, “get them out of sight.”

The words jolted Bernhardt back to reality, back to the terrible tyranny of the truth: the vision of Paula, a kidnap victim, held hostage by a smooth-talking Chinese who, most certainly, was capable of ordering her disfigured and then dumped out on the street, dazed and bleeding, marked for life—ruined for life.

Carrying the .357, with the .38 still thrust in his belt, Bernhardt strode quickly down the long, narrow hallway to the kitchen. He tested the strength of the chair that propped the back door closed. Then he opened an overhead cupboard and took out a brown paper sack and, an afterthought, a clear plastic grocer’s bag. He would order Louise to put the jewels in the plastic bag, which they would slip into the brown paper bag. Then, together, they would decide on a place of concealment, a place Louise could keep constantly in sight.

“L
OUISE …” VEHEMENTLY, BERNHARDT SHOOK
his head.
“Forget
it. I’m not going to call the police, just pick up the phone and call. Not until I’ve had a chance to talk to a friend of mine—a lieutenant, in Homicide.”

“But—” She, too, was shaking her head, a blind denial of an impossible choice: a fortune that would keep her for life, in exchange for her only child, held hostage. “But we can’t just do nothing. We can’t—”

“We’ve got to assume,” Bernhardt said, measuring every word for maximum impact, “that Mafia money bought that treasure. God knows, that’s what the police’ll assume. And the first thing that’ll happen, believe me, is that the police’ll confiscate the jewels. Then, sure as hell, while they’re conducting their investigation, they’ll pull my license. Then they’ll—”

“If you won’t go to the police, then I will. I’ve got nothing to hide.
Nothing.”

“You might not have anything to hide,” Tate said, “but you’ve sure as hell got lots to lose.”

Louise turned to stare at the big black man who still stood guard at the windows of the office, shotgun ready. “I’ve got a lot to lose either way,” she said bitterly. “Either I lose my daughter or I lose a million dollars.”

Stoically, Tate refused to answer. Instead he looked away toward the street, slightly shrugging. For this kind of dilemma, these negotiations, Tate had no gift, no patience.

“If you want Angela back,” Bernhardt said, “if that’s all that matters, then you’ve got to give up the jewels. There’s no other way.”

Fixed on him, her eyes went blank, gave no indication that she’d heard.

“If that’s what you want,” he said, “then that’s what we’ll do.” He let a beat pass, for emphasis. “We’ll
do
it. They’re going to call back, I don’t know exactly when. But when they do call, I’ll tell them we’re ready to do business. It’s up to you.”

There was utter silence as both men watched the woman’s face, searching for a sign. When her face remained expressionless, a frozen mask of despair, Tate spoke softly: “How about you fudge a little, Louise?” As he spoke he looked pointedly at the paper bag filled with treasure. Louise was sitting on one of Bernhardt’s visitor’s chairs. The paper bag was on the floor beside her chair.

Frowning, puzzled, Louise focused on the black man. Looking down at her, Tate smiled. It was a cheerful coconspirator’s smile, Tate’s particular gift. “You skim off a handful, give these bad guys what’s left. You take a handful, give Alan a few diamonds, who’s to know?”

For a moment, their eyes fixed on Tate, Bernhardt and Louise speculated in silence. Then Bernhardt said, “There might be another way.” As he said it, he looked at his watch. The time was almost five o’clock.

“Another way?” Louise’s voice was timid as she searched Bernhardt’s face for some faint sign of hope.

Bernhardt spoke to Tate: “I’m sure this guy is Chinese. He practically admitted he was Chinese. And he spoke like an educated man. He’s obviously got an organization, and it’s odds-on he’s based in San Francisco.”

“Yeah …” Plainly, Tate was intrigued, his thoughts racing ahead. But then he frowned, shook his head. “Those Chinese guys, though, they play for keeps. They’re smart, too. And they’re tight. Very, very tight. Your skin is the wrong color, you don’t get within miles of those guys. Which is why I never take a warrant on them. They just go to Chinatown, and they disappear. And nobody—
nobody
—can find them, not unless you’re Chinese. Believe me.” Tate shook his head. “Believe me, I know what I’m talking about.”