Except for the Bones (15 page)

“What kind of markers are you talking about?”

“I know the two lieutenants who run Homicide, Pete Friedman and Frank Hastings. Every once in a while they need something done that’s not entirely legal. Entering places they can’t get warrants to enter, for instance, looking for evidence. So they provide cover, hopefully, and I do the dirty work for them. In exchange, they check things out for me. Things like how Jeff Weston died, who the cops think killed him.”

“So give them one of your markers. I’m sure your credit’s good.”

“Except that I don’t want to use up a perfectly good marker when I’m not playing with a full deck. Especially since the money doesn’t look all that good.”

“Did you talk about money to Diane?”

“She’s living off her VISA card. Which means Preston Daniels could pull the plug anytime.”

“Why don’t I talk to her? Maybe she’ll tell me things she wouldn’t tell you. Why don’t I have business cards printed up, and interview her? I can get cards printed overnight.”

“Paula. Listen. I thought we’d agreed on this. I’m not going to use you unless I pay you. Which brings us back to money. So far, the most I can make on this case is five hundred dollars. And in an investigation like this, five hundred is nothing. Christ, the round-trip airfare to Cape Cod would be twice that. At least.”

In silence, Paula finished her linguine, finished her wine, raised the empty glass for more. As Bernhardt poured, she spoke quietly, significantly:

“For a girl, eighteen can be a terrible time. Wonderful, sometimes, but terrible, too. Either the guys are trying to get in your pants, which is a problem, or they aren’t trying to get in your pants, which is a lot bigger problem. It’s a time when a girl like Diane needs someone like you to—”

“I understand all that. But I don’t run a consulting service. And even if I did, I’m not a philanthropist. I’m a businessman. And I—”

“She’ll have to get in touch with her father.” It was an authoritative statement. “He’s her only hope.”

“On that point,” he said, “I agree with you. Here—” He held up the bottle. “Let’s finish it.”

A
S SHE TOUCH-TONED THE
last digit she felt herself go hollow, a sensation both numbing and searing.

“Yes?”

For as long as she could remember, her father had answered the phone like this: just the one word, both a statement and a question.

“Daddy …”

She hadn’t meant to say it: that little girl’s greeting, so dependent sounding, so sappy.

“Diane.”
An explosion, a rush of emotion, of overflowing pleasure. “Jesus, where are you, Diane?”

“I’m here. In San Francisco.”

“Your mother’s been calling me every day. Sometimes twice, three times a day.”

“Great.” Flatly. Angrily.

“She’s worried about you, Diane.” It was a reproach. Already, instantly, he was criticizing her.

“Diane?”

“Yes.” Another flat, show-me syllable.

“Wh—where’re you staying?”

“I’m staying with friends.”

“Who? Carley?”

She made no response. Would he keep at it, force her to respond, therefore to either lie or defy him?

But why should she lie? Why was it necessary? Why couldn’t she talk about Carley? Why couldn’t she talk about the past?

“How long’ve you been in San Francisco, Diane?”

“A couple of days.”

A short, terse, calculating silence. Then: “I want to see you, Diane. When can you come over? Tonight?”

“No, not tonight.”

“Tomorrow, then. Come for dinner.”

“No, not dinner.”

Another silence. She could imagine him, his forehead furrowed, the fingers of his right hand touching his mouth, a mannerism that revealed tension, uncertainty.

“Listen, what about lunch tomorrow? Come by the office, and we’ll have lunch. How about it?”

“I—”

“Diane. Please. Lunch, tomorrow. Come to the office. Will you do that?”

She sighed. It was a staged sigh, loud enough for him to hear the resignation. “Okay.”

“And will you call your mother? Will you call her tomorrow?”

“I—”

“Or would you rather I called her?”

“Jesus, don’t keep at me about her, do you mind? She kicked me out, did she tell you that?”

“Diane, I—I can’t believe that. God knows, we’ve had our problems, your mother and I. But she loves you. She wouldn’t—I know she wouldn’t kick you out. She wouldn’t—”

“All right.
They
kicked me out, she and her rich, photogenic husband. How about if
they
kicked me out?”

“Oh, Jesus—” It was a ragged, shaky exclamation. Then: “We’ll talk about it tomorrow, Diane. Okay? We’ll—” Suddenly he interrupted himself: “Oh, Jesus, I’ve got to be in court tomorrow. I was thinking I could substitute Ralson. An associate. But he’s got a deposition, I’m almost sure.” Another silence. “Listen, call me at the office tomorrow. We’ll set something up for Wednesday, Thursday at the latest. Will you do that? Will you be sure and call me?”

“I’ll call you.”

“Do you need anything, Diane? Money? Anything?”

“I’ve got money.”

“I want to help you, Diane. You know that, don’t you? You believe that.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow.” Spoken in a stranger’s voice. A cold, controlled stranger’s voice. Perfect.

C
ONSULTING THE SLIP OF
paper Daniels had given him, Kane punched out Paul Cutler’s phone number. As he waited, he let his gaze wander appreciatively around the large, luxurious hotel room, billed to Daniels, Inc. Never, as a corporate pilot, could he have lived so lavishly. Never would—

“Yes?”

“Is—ah—is this Mr. Cutler?”

“That’s right. Who’s this?” It was an impatient question.

Trying for the shallow, tentative inflection of his younger self, Kane said, “My name is John Williams. I’m a friend of Diane’s, from New York. Could I speak to her, please?”

“John Williams?” It was a cautious question. “From New York, you say?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did Diane tell you she’d be here?”

“No, she didn’t. But she told me she was coming to San Francisco. She said it’d be okay to call, even though the number’s unlisted.” He tried for a youthful, earnest note: “I hope that’s okay, Mr. Cutler.”

“Of course. No problem, John. But she’s not here now. I’ll tell her you called, though. Where can she reach you?”

“Well, ah, I can’t be reached, not really. I’m—see—I’m staying with friends. Or, anyhow, I was staying with friends. I’m not even sure how long I’m staying in town. I’m headed down south, really, to Los Angeles. But I promised Diane I’d call her, if I got to San Francisco. So that’s what I’m doing.”

“Are you friends from college?”

“No, sir. From New York. My dad is in business with Mr. Daniels. Real estate.”

“How long has it been since you’ve seen Diane?”

“About two weeks, I guess it was. Something like that.”

“Did she—” Cutler broke off, then continued more slowly, as if he was exploring, experimenting: “Did she—had she planned to come to San Francisco? That’s to say, did she think about it for a while? Or was it a sudden decision?”

“Oh, it was sudden. Very sudden. She just called me, and said she was taking off. Driving her BMW. And then she was gone. Just like that.”

“Yes …” Cutler said it slowly, speculatively. Then, as if he’d made a decision, he spoke crisply, decisively: “As a matter of fact, I just got off the phone with Diane. She’s in San Francisco. The, ah, truth is, I’m not sure where she is, who she’s staying with. Friends, that’s all I know. She, ah—” A delicate pause. “She and my wife—my present wife—don’t get along all that well. So …” Cutler’s voice trailed off.

“I know, sir. Diane told me about it. She has the same problem with Mr. Daniels, I guess.”

A rueful laugh. Then: “You and Diane must be good friends.”

“Yes, sir, we are.”

Another moment of silence. Finally Cutler said, “The fact is, John, that I’m worried about Diane. She—she makes things hard for herself. Do you know what I mean?”

“Yes, sir, I do. And I think you put it just right. She
does
make things hard for herself. That’s just how she is.”

“You understand, then. You understand why I’m concerned.”

“Oh, yes, sir.”

“The reason I say it, John, is because I’d like you to do me a favor.”

“A favor?”

“Yes. If you do find her, I wonder whether you’d be good enough to call me. Would you do that?”

“Why—why yes, sir, I certainly will.”

“Let me give you my office number. It’s my private line, so you won’t find it listed.”

“Yes, sir.” Smiling broadly, he copied down the number and repeated it. Then: “Any idea where I could find her?”

“I’d try Carley Hanks, if I were you. They’re old, old friends. Try her first. I don’t have her number, but she’s probably in the book. If she isn’t, call me. I can put you in touch with her father.”

“Yes, sir. Thanks.”

“Thank
you,
John. I hope to hear from you.”

“Yes, sir. I hope I can find her.”

“Good. Well, good-bye, John. And thanks again.”

“Thank
you,
sir.” Still smiling broadly, he broke the connection, went to the small wet bar and poured bourbon from a crystal decanter. Adding water and taking ice from a silver ice bucket, he turned to face his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. He raised the glass in grave self-salute. Murmuring: “Thanks, Jeff Weston. Thanks very much.”

S
LUMPED LOW BEHIND THE
steering wheel, the approved stakeout posture, Kane switched on the car radio, found a station playing light rock. It was one of the Beatles tunes that had endlessly revolved in his consciousness during those long months in the hospital, the beat of the music and the throbbing of pain an amalgam of hopelessness, of bitterness, of rage.

He was twenty-one when he was shot down. It had only been his eighth artillery control mission over Vietcong territory, only his third solo mission. “Stay low,” Captain Lowery had warned. “Don’t climb out over enemy territory. That’s when they’ll get you, when you’re climbing out.” And Lowery had been right. Just exactly right. He’d missed a checkpoint, fucked up the coordinates, ended up thirty degrees off course, lost, too low for a radar fix. Asshole puckered, he’d fire-walled the throttles and the mixture and the propellers and climbed out while he called for a fix. He’d only gotten to five hundred feet AGL when he’d felt the Skymaster shudder, saw the holes in the forward engine’s cowling, felt the vibration begin. He’d shut down the forward engine, lowered the nose, turned toward the south, switched to the Mayday channel. Then he’d—

In the building across the street, the two-story Victorian building where Carley Hanks lived, he saw lights come on in one of the two big second-story bay windows that faced on the street. According to the names on the mailboxes, there were four tenants. Minutes before, a young blonde woman wearing jeans and a bulky-knit sweater, good body, easy, fluid movements, had entered the building. And, yes, the same young woman now appeared in the bay windows. She was looking down into the street. Was this Carley Hanks? The age was about right: late teens, early twenties. Assume, then, that this was Carley Hanks. Assume, then, that he was halfway home: find Carley Hanks, thought Cutler, and he would find Diane Cutler.

Find Diane Cutler, and he was a winner.

Find Diane Cutler, find out what happened on the Cape that Sunday night, and he unlocked the door to the treasure house. When he was a child, he’d dreamed that he could pick up gold and jewels on the sidewalk, endless riches. Even in Vietnam, feverish, the same dream had come back.

And now, more than twenty years later, the dream could come true.

“W
HEN YOU FIND DIANE
,” Daniels had said, “when you find out where she’s living, what she’s doing, then call me. Don’t contact Diane. Repeat: don’t contact her. Just call me, on the private line. Anytime.”

How many knew Preston Daniels’s private phone number? How many at the White House had the number? How many oil barons, how many real estate tycoons?

How many women?

Carolyn Estes, and how many others?

Carolyn Estes, missing.

Carolyn Estes, missing and presumed dead.

Kane switched off the car radio, yawned against the jet lag left over from yesterday, stretched, glanced at his wristwatch. Fifteen minutes more, and he would return to the hotel, have a drink at his own private wet bar. Tomorrow, he would buy some stone-washed jeans, running shoes, and a sweater, the uniform of the with-it San Franciscan, all of it charged to Daniels.

Carolyn Estes, presumed dead …

Using a calendar, he’d gone over it again, plotted the sequences: On Saturday, July fourteenth, as he’d done on two previous Saturdays, he’d flown Daniels and Carolyn from Westboro to Barnstable, arriving about six in the evening. He’d parked the airplane south of the terminal building, away from the arrival-departure action. While Daniels and Carolyn waited in the airplane, he’d gone to the parking lot, gotten the Cherokee, driven it onto the ramp, parked it beside the King Air. Keeping a low profile, Daniels and Carolyn had carried their own luggage down the air stairs to the Cherokee and driven away. He’d stayed at the airport for more than an hour, supervising the fueling and checking out the response circuit of the transponder. Then he’d driven his own car to the house on Sycamore Street that Daniels maintained in Carter’s Landing for the hired help. That night, July fourteenth, lying in bed, he’d imagined Daniels and Carolyn, making love in the beach house. They’d hardly get inside the door before they’d begin undressing each other. There would be champagne and caviar in the refrigerator, left by Bessie, the housekeeper. All night, Daniels and Carolyn would gorge themselves on champagne and sex, feasting on each other’s bodies. All night, and most of Sunday, too.
Saturday Night and Sunday Morning
—it was the title of an old movie.

But instead of flying them back to New York Sunday evening, he’d been ordered to fly alone to Westboro. He was to leave a hand-carried letter for Jackie Miller, the only person Daniels trusted fully. Then, that same night, he’d been ordered to return to the Cape. He’d been told to leave a telephone message for Daniels, confirming that he’d landed.