Full Circle (12 page)

Betty had worked in San Francisco as a curator for Chevron, and when DuBois approved of her, it was a simple matter to lure her to Los Angeles at a very generous salary, plus a percentage of trading profits. The arrangement worked perfectly, and a close bond developed between DuBois and Betty Giles. As DuBois’s health deteriorated, Betty had acted with more authority, once selling a painting for almost a half-million dollars. Never, in almost two years, had there been a hint of acrimony.

Not until DuBois’s stroke.

Conclusion: Something fundamental had changed with DuBois’s stroke.

Something so dire, so dangerous, that it had precipitated the murder of Nick Ames. Something that Betty knew.

Something that Nick Ames had discovered.

Something, certainly, that concerned DuBois’s art collection.

Something that—

“—twenty-first century,” Estes was pronouncing, “will be the yellow man’s century.”

Marge smiled, chiding Estes: “Don’t I remember the Yellow Peril from History Two-oh-three, Bart?”

Estes answered the smile, then drank deeply of the wine. In an expansive mood tonight, with good reviews in the trades on his new movie, Estes would doubtless drink too much.

As Powers sipped his own wine, his thoughts once more turned to DuBois and Betty Giles—and Alan Bernhardt.

If I ever had you alone in a parking garage,
Bernhardt had threatened.

Followed, today, by the private meeting at the Huntington.

Followed by silence.

Signifying, certainly, that the encircling action had begun. Betty Giles had told Bernhardt that DuBois had ordered the death of Nick Ames. Bernhardt, who had almost died at Borrego Springs, was determined to expose DuBois for the murder. DuBois had discovered that Bernhardt was on the trail. DuBois’s next move was obvious: summon Bernhardt, make a deal, betray Powers. Conceivably the bargain could have been outlined during DuBois’s first meeting with Bernhardt, months ago, and was now being implemented. Soon the police would call.

Powers placed his crab fork on his empty plate, and glanced at the menu, clipped in its silver holder. The next course was sautéed scallops Provençale, followed by duck a l’orange.

The condemned man would eat a hearty meal.

B
ERNHARDT OPENED THE LEATHER-BOUND
address book Paula had given him for his birthday and turned to the last page, where he’d written DuBois’s phone number. He placed the open notebook on the desk beside the phone, placed a ballpoint pen beside the notebook, drew up a chair. For this conversation, it was not appropriate to lie on the bed, shoes off, pillows propped against the elaborately quilted headboard.

Picasso, so the mythology went, had once found himself with no money in his pocket after he’d invited several friends for lunch at a Parisian restaurant. He’d called for a pencil and a paper napkin. In moments he drew a dove, then signed the sketch. “Here,” Picasso had said, handing the sketch to the waiter. “It’s worth thousands of francs.”

Just as the phone number written in Bernhardt’s notebook had currency: Graham’s ten thousand dollars, perhaps more.

Clearing his throat, he touch-toned the number. The connection was made on the second ring. A man’s voice said only, “This is eight-two-four-oh-seven-six-nine.”

“Yes. This is Alan Bernhardt. I, ah, have an appointment to call Mr. DuBois before ten tonight.”

“Just a moment, please.” The line clicked, went dead. Seconds passed, perhaps a full minute. Then came DuBois’s unmistakable husk-dry rattle: “Yes, Mr. Bernhardt. Have you come to a decision?”

“I have an idea. A way out, maybe—a solution.”

“Is it something that can be implemented quickly? My sources tell me that time could be of the essence.”

“I think it could be done in a few days. I’d need assurances, though. And you and I haven’t discussed terms.”

There was a silence. Then the voice said, “Tomorrow I would like you to come here. I’ll send a car for you. James—my security man—will be in front of your hotel at nine o’clock. He’ll be driving a gray car, a Lincoln.”

“James—he’s the one who helped you today. With the, ah, pills.”

“That’s correct. Is nine o’clock tomorrow satisfactory?”

“Yes, that’s satisfactory.” As he said it, the sense of unease he experienced was almost palpable. It was as if, in some mysterious way, he’d surrendered his free will. There was, he knew, a word for what he was experiencing: “temptation.”

A
T TWO MINUTES TO
nine, Bernhardt rose, crossed the hotel lobby, went out through the automatic glass doors. A uniformed doorman smiled as he asked, “Is your car in the garage, sir?”

“No.” Bernhardt gestured to the gray Lincoln just drawing to a stop at the curb. “I think that’s for me.” As, yes, the driver got out and went to the rear door, holding it open. He was the big, broad-shouldered man who had remained with the cars yesterday at the Huntington, the one who gave the other two guards their orders. He moved smoothly and confidently, with a grace and economy that hinted at great physical strength balanced by an equable nature. His knuckles, Bernhardt saw, were scarred white. His name, Bernhardt remembered, was James.

Yesterday James had worn a somber blue suit and striped tie. Today he wore a blue blazer, gray flannel trousers, a soft white shirt, no tie. His broad, blandly oval face and obsidian black eyes were expressionless. His black hair and olive-brown skin suggested Latin descent. Or, a more imaginative guess, Samoan.

As Bernhardt covered the few yards to the car he considered his options; never had he been driven alone in the back seat of a limo. Was this the time for a new experience, a delayed ego sop, a unique page in his life story? Or were there philosophical considerations that transcended mere ego gratification?

With only a few feet separating him from the driver, Bernhardt shook his head. “I’ll ride in front, thanks.” He opened the right front door and slipped into the glove-leather seat. Impassively James closed the rear door, rounded the car, slid under the steering wheel. Bernhardt extended his hand, introduced himself. Predictably, James’s grip conveyed a sensation of restrained power. He nodded politely, but did not offer his name in return. Moments later the big car moved smoothly away from the curb and joined the light Saturday morning traffic.

“Where does Mr. DuBois live?”

“He lives above Benedict Canyon, in the Hollywood Hills.”

“Do you live with him? On the premises?”

“I live near him. I have a bungalow.” James spoke softly. His voice was flat, yet somehow melodic. They were traveling east on Santa Monica, about to intersect Wilshire. Beyond Wilshire, the improbable affluence of Beverly Hills began. During his two years of frustration, living in Los Angeles, Bernhardt had come to avoid driving through Beverly Hills. Others, he knew, enjoyed basking in the reflected glow of great wealth. His reaction was a complex mix of derision and, he suspected, envy.

“Does Mr. DuBois live in a compound? Several buildings?”

“Yes, sir.” The two words were spoken with admirable equilibrium, a perfect evocation of servant-speak.

“Mr. DuBois and I are discussing a business transaction. Did he tell you that?”

No response. On a Saturday morning, traffic was light and fast. James drove smoothly, effortlessly. He never exceeded the speed limit. He kept his eyes on the road.

“The reason I mentioned our, ah, arrangements is that it would save time if you could give me a rundown. You know—a description of Mr. DuBois, how he lives, what he does in a typical day. What you do. Things like that.”

For the first time James took his eyes from the road, looked appraisingly at Bernhardt. Then, returning his eyes to the road, he said, “I know that you must be a very important person, Mr. Bernhardt. I tell you that because it has been a long time—six months, at least—since Mr. DuBois has left his home to meet someone, as he met you yesterday. But the truth is that I do not talk about Mr. DuBois. I never have.”

Bernhardt let a silence pass, then said, “Your name is James, that much I know. Mr. DuBois places great trust in you, which I can understand.”

Once more James looked at Bernhardt. Then, gravely, he nodded. “Thank you. I appreciate that.” They were turning north on Canyon Drive, beginning to travel steadily uphill. The road ahead, Bernhardt knew, would become narrower, more winding.

“How long have you worked for Mr. DuBois?”

“Almost three years.”

“How many staff are there besides you?”

“That’s hard to say. Only the cook and the nurse and Miss Campbell and Roger live on the premises—besides me. But then people come during the day. Gardeners and cleaning people. And Raul, too. He drives, takes care of the cars.”

“Who’s Miss Campbell? Who’s Roger?”

“Miss Campbell is the secretary. She runs things, really—pays us all, takes care of Mr. DuBois’s appointments, decides who Mr. DuBois might want to see.”

“And Roger? What’s he do?”

“He takes care of Mr. DuBois, gets him dressed, gets him bathed, things like that. He and Miss Gross, the nurse, they work together.”

“So Roger is Mr. DuBois’s valet.”

A faint suggestion of a smile touched James’s mouth at the corners. “Mr. DuBois doesn’t like that word.”

“‘Valet,’ you mean?”

“Yes, sir. Valet. Mr. DuBois, you see, he’s proud that he started from nothing, running errands in New York City for stockbrokers.”

“Ah.” Bernhardt nodded approval—and surprise. “Does Miss Campbell screen Mr. DuBois’s phone calls?”

“Yes.”

“Does Mr. DuBois have many visitors?”

“Not many. Mr. Powers comes sometimes. And Mr. Robbins, too. But that’s about all.”

“Who’s Mr. Robbins?”

“He’s Mr. DuBois’s lawyer. He comes every few days.”

“What about other visitors? Friends?”

James hesitated, then discreetly shook his head. The message: one of the world’s richest, most powerful men had no friends.

“Betty Giles,” Bernhardt said. “She was a friend.”

James nodded gravely. “Yes. She was a friend. But then—” He broke off. Climbing more sharply now, they were winding through forested hills. Here, Bernhardt knew, back among the trees, estates were measured in acres; homes were valued in the millions. Occasionally there was a private gate, usually flanked by stone pillars.

“But then Betty left,” Bernhardt said. “Is that what you were going to say?”

“Yes.”

“Did she live on the grounds?”

“No, sir. She had her own place in Santa Monica.”

Testing the other man, Bernhardt asked, “What did Betty Giles do for Mr. DuBois? What kind of work?”

“She took care of his art—the paintings. They were always talking about the paintings, buying and selling. You know—” James was searching for a phrase. “Like stamp collectors.”

“Did Betty report to work every day?”

“Mostly, yes. Sometimes, though, she traveled, buying paintings, or selling.”

“Mr. DuBois’s collection of art must be very valuable.”

“Yes.”

“You’re in charge of security for Mr. DuBois. Do you also guard the house—the paintings?”

“Yes, certainly.”

“You and the other two guards I saw yesterday—is one of you on duty all the time? Is that how it works?”

“It depends. There’s an alarm system.”

“A very elaborate system, I imagine.”

“Oh, yes.” James almost smiled. “It takes a lot to keep up with that system. Once a week, people from the alarm company are here.”

“I can imagine.” Bernhardt decided to chuckle, an effort at camaraderie. Then, shifting ground: “Why did Betty leave, do you think? Was there an argument? Disagreements about the art?”

James turned to look briefly at Bernhardt. How much, he was plainly wondering, should a trusted employee reveal? Finally: “No, sir, they never argued.”

“Why do you think she left, then? Money?”

“Please, sir, I’d rather not—” James broke off. Almost immediately, the car slowed. With one broad, knuckle-scarred hand James unclipped an electronic wand from the dashboard as he nodded ahead. “Here we are.” He guided the Lincoln into a short driveway that ended in a massive wood and iron gate. James aimed the wand; moments later the double gates swung ponderously inward. Beyond the gate, the driveway was graveled. The extensive grounds were so heavily wooded that no buildings were visible until they’d driven through a long, gentle half-circle. Then, among the trees, Bernhardt saw a group of low one-story outbuildings. They were “Malibu modern,” natural wood and extensive glass combined with rock masonry, each one built to integrate with its surroundings, an evocation of Frank Lloyd Wright. Just ahead, Bernhardt saw a second gate, which swung open in response to another wave of the wand. Another bend, and the main house came into view. Like the other buildings, the DuBois residence was built to unify the earth and the trees with the panoramic view that was just visible through the trees beyond the house. To himself, Bernhardt nodded approval. With unlimited means, DuBois hadn’t built another San Simeon. Instead, he’d chosen a partnership with the earth and the sky.

The graveled driveway looped around in front of the house. Once more James activated the wand.

“They’ll let you in.” As he spoke, James automatically moved to open his door, intending to go around and open Bernhardt’s door.

“No. Please.” Bernhardt tripped the latch, swung his own door open.

Impassively James nodded—and perhaps smiled.

The entry was stone walls framed by massive timbers and floored in slabs of slate. The front door was a three-dimensional sculpture fashioned of dark, weathered iron. The abstract shapes had been roughly cut with a torch and twisted into a vast interlocking whole that was unified by irregular welding seams of bright, flowing brass.

As Bernhardt was about to press the bell button set into the rock beside the timbered door frame, the door swung slowly open. A woman stood in the doorway. She was small and middle-aged, neatly dressed in a simple sharkskin skirt, plaid blouse, and cardigan sweater. “Sensible” was the catchall word for her hair, her glasses, and her makeup. Her manner was direct, her voice brisk.