Full Circle (19 page)

“If this thing comes down like you hope,” Graham said, “best-case scenario, how would it go?”

Bernhardt considered carefully, then decided to say, “Best-case scenario would be that, sometime tomorrow—Sunday—I rent a modest bungalow in some place like Glendale, a house with a two-car garage and a garage door opener that works. Then I rent a van. Meanwhile, with DuBois, I catalog the paintings, and take some Polaroids. Then I get the paintings ready to travel. Tomorrow night, I and my two associates stay in the rented house, with the van and another car in the garage. That’s Sunday. Monday, bright and early—five, six o’clock, because of the time difference—you’re working out things with your people in New York. They agree to the twenty-five million, provided the deal looks good to you. If that comes off, you also rent a van. You should also hire an assistant, I think, considering that you’ll be carrying a fortune in used bills, and then carrying the paintings.

“Then, next day—Tuesday—I’ll arrive at the DuBois mansion, which is in the Hollywood Hills. My crew takes the paintings from the concealed gallery in DuBois’s house into his garage, which will be vacated. We’ll load up the van, which shouldn’t take more than an hour. I and one man—the toughest man I’ve ever known—will drive the van. DuBois’s chief of security, a Central American peasant named James, will follow us. We’ll drive the van to the rented house, and into the garage. You’ll be on the scene, and you’ll follow us into the garage. We make the swap. You leave, and so do we. You go wherever you’re going, and I’ll go back to the mansion—with James following us. I’ll deliver the money, and take my cut. Then I leave. End of story.”

Graham studied Bernhardt for a long, speculative moment before he said, “Would you like some advice?”

“Sure.”

“Be careful, that’s my advice. Be very goddamn careful. I’ve been around this track a few times, and there’s something that’s not quite right here. It feels like you’re being set up.”

“Set up?”

Graham nodded. “Set up. I mean, here’s Raymond DuBois, with all the resources in the world. And here’s you, someone he doesn’t even know. And he’s relying on you—only you—to save his ass.” Graham shook his head. “It doesn’t add up. Something’s missing. Something important.”

“He’s lonely,” Bernhardt said. “He’s a lonely old man.”

“Mmmm.”

“T
HERE.” SHE POINTED. “THAT’S
it. That white Pontiac beside the red Japanese car.” She braked the BMW and pulled to the curb just beyond the Prado’s passenger loading zone. She switched off the engine, switched off the headlights, switched on the parking lights.

Beside her, Harry was reaching over the seat for the small nylon sports satchel. With the satchel on his lap, unzipped, he handed the scanner to Andrea, then inserted a new ni-cad battery in the tiny homing device. He pressed the test button, got a green light. “All set. Hit the horn once if you get the signal.”

Andrea nodded, watched him get out of the car and walk into the hotel’s parking lot. When he reached John Graham’s rental Pontiac, he walked to the far side of the car to put the bulk of the car between them. Andrea switched on the scanner. Yes, the digital bearing read 240 degrees, about right, and all five proximity lights glowed red, indicating a target at close range. She touched the horn, and waited for him to stoop quickly and attach the magnetized homer to the inside of the Pontiac’s right front fender. Then, walking easily, his own uniquely compact, arrogant stride, Harry returned to the BMW. Handing him the scanner, Andrea said, “Just find out where he’s staying. If it’s a hotel, see if you can get his room number. But don’t take any chances.”

“What about you?”

“I’m going to stay here at the Prado, at least for an hour or two.”

Harry’s sidelong smile was lascivious. “What’s the plan, Andrea? Lay the tall guy with the glasses, see what happens? Is that the plan?”

She held his eye for a contemptuous moment, then said, “I wish you’d find a whore, Harry. Maybe then you’ll keep your mind on business.”

“I’m thirty-five, and I only had one whore my whole life. Anyone with my looks, my strokes, who needs a whore?”

“Was that a girl whore? Or a boy whore?”

“I imagine,” he said, “that you’re joking. Otherwise …” He let it go ominously unfinished.

The contempt in her face gave way to aloof amusement, a challenge. Because he was so vain, and so dangerous, it amused her to taunt him, effortlessly dominate him.

“What about you, Andrea? Which way do you swing?”

She decided to counterfeit a smile. Saying softly, “Another remark like that, Harry, and I’ll terminate your employment.”

“Big fucking deal. A few thousand, once in a while. What’s that? A few thousand, and pie in the sky. Killing a dog—what’s the going price for killing a dog, Andrea? Dogs have teeth, you know. Human beings, they’ve just got fists.”

Nearby, a white-coated parking attendant suddenly materialized, trotting fast into the main parking lot. Like Harry, the attendant was blond and beautiful, a California beach bum earning money for a new surfboard. The attendant passed the Pontiac, stopped at a gleaming red Mercedes 560SL. Sticker price sixty thousand, at least. As she considered how to deal with Harry’s current temper tantrum, Andrea watched the parking attendant maneuver the Mercedes out of its parking place, then come toward them. He drove with flair, a youthful elan. When the Mercedes passed, she turned again to the man sitting beside her. “I’m assuming, Harry, that this is just another one of your bouts of bad temper. As opposed to a calculated move to get out of this job.” She watched him as he opened his mouth—then balefully closed it. Then he silently shook his head, scowling. It was a typical response. Hit Harry with a few big words, something he couldn’t muscle out of, and he went tongue-tied. Muscle-bound and tongue-tied. It was a completely predictable response, therefore a measurable asset. Whatever she wanted from Harry, she knew precisely which button to press.

“Is that it, Harry? Do you want out?” Still studying his face, still making up her mind, she spoke calmly now, mildly.

“I don’t want out,” he retorted. “I want
in.
Here I am, I could’ve been bitten by that goddam dog, and I don’t even know why.”

“It’s for your own protection, Harry. Remember New York? Remember Ned Frazer lying there?”

“Is that what happens to the guys you fuck, Andrea? What is it—that bug that eats its male afterwards?”

“That’s a praying mantis, Harry. It’s impressive, your knowledge of insects.”

“I’m glad you’re impressed. I’m very glad.”

“If I were you, Harry, I’d forget about who’s fucking who. Just forget about it. Forget about sex, and think about money.”

“Oh? What money is that, exactly?”

She made no reply.

“Who’s the old guy in the wheelchair? Who’s the tall guy with the glasses? Who’s the one with the bugged Pontiac?”

Listening to him, watching him, she realized that something had to give, to change. Harry was constantly pressing harder, the thorn that bit deeper every day.

She’s discovered Harry more than a year ago. She’d been with Dominick Patroni, discussing the percentages a fence had offered for the Trombly necklace. They were having drinks at the Royalton. Across the small, elegant bar room, an improbably handsome man—Harry, it turned out—nodded respectfully to Dominick, then smiled meaningfully at her. “You ever want to have someone taken out,” Dominick had said, “that’s the guy you want.” One drink later, their business concluded, preparing to leave, Dominick had offered her a ride; his driver would take her wherever she wanted to go. When she’d declined the offer, Dominick had looked from her to Harry, then back to her. “Go slow with that guy,” he had warned. “He’s first class at what he does, no nerves at all. But he enjoys it too much. You get what I mean?”

When she’d acknowledged the well-meant advice, Dominick had nodded, smiled politely, and left her with a courtly tip of his hat, a mafioso of the old school. She’d waited five minutes, making sure Dominick wouldn’t return. Then she’d smiled at Harry, just that one smile, her first invitation—and her last. Harry’s fantasies had taken it from there—fantasies about sex, fantasies about money, the combination that never failed. This time, though, working that particular combination, it was necessary to fine-tune Harry’s fantasies. Harry lived on illusions, yet another face-saving macho-man gimmick.

Because even tough guys needed their illusions, pabulum for hungry egos.

Tough guys and psychopaths.

She turned deliberately now to face him.

“The one in the wheelchair is Raymond DuBois.” She waited for a reaction, but saw nothing in his face. “DuBois is one of the world’s richest men.”

“Ah…” Pleased, he nodded broadly. Then, as the name vaguely registered, he nodded again. “Ah—yeah.”

“The one with the glasses is a private eye from San Francisco. His last name is Bernhardt. He’s staying here at the Prado. And him—” She nodded to the Pontiac. “His name is John Graham. He’s an insurance adjuster who works both sides of the street. He’s a go-between, fronts for a syndicate, mostly fencing big-ticket things—jewels and art.” Projecting puzzlement, a test, she frowned. “I’m surprised you haven’t heard of him.”

“I mostly stick to New York.”

“Graham does, too. That’s the point.”

“He and Ned Frazer—were they doing business together?”

“Probably.”

“You and Ned, though—” He let it go meaningfully unfinished.

“That’s none of your business, Harry. That was private.”

“You expect me to believe that? Ten thousand dollars—you forgot that, Andrea? Ten thousand you paid me for that one. And you’re telling me it was nothing.”

“I can afford it. That’s all you have to know.”

“Ah, yeah.” His smile twisted, a bad imitation of a crafty interrogator. “The word is that you’re loaded. The word is that your grandfather got out of Germany after the war with a suitcase full of diamonds. He was a big-shot Nazi, that’s the word.”

Her smile mocked him; her gray eyes danced derisively. “You’re a student of history, Harry. I had no idea.”

“Whatever affects me, that’s what I’m interested in. Which is why I want to know what this is all about. Now. I want to know right now, or I’m gone. I’m not kidding, Andrea. I’ll tell you right out. Part of the reason I went for this, it was because of you, that body of yours. But now I’m—”

“Did you forget the five thousand I gave you up front, Harry? Did that slip your mind?”

“I been in L.A. for almost a week. I’m not impressed. Maybe that’s because I hate palm trees. And I’m definitely sick of Benedict Canyon. When I was eighteen, I had poison oak so bad I was in the hospital. I’ve got very sensitive skin, the doctor said. So I’ve had it with Benedict Canyon. Finished. And I’m sick of flying blind. I get the feeling it’s getting tight, this thing we’re doing. So if I’m not in, then I’m gone. Now. Right now. Your people might live like kings down in South America someplace, that’s what I hear. But I’m living on your goddam handouts. And I’m sick of it.”

She studied his angry, determined profile, assessed the aggressive set of his muscle-bunched shoulders. This bout of temperament, she decided, was genuine. In his mind, Harry was already on the airplane to New York.

Speaking precisely, she said, “Raymond DuBois, the old man in the wheelchair, has got a houseful of paintings and art objects. Some of the stuff was stolen, and the FBI got the tip. DuBois has to get rid of the paintings, and he’s hired Bernhardt to do the job.”

“What about the other one?” He pointed to the Pontiac. “Graham.”

“I already told you—he’s the front man for some big money in New York. He’s going to take the stuff off DuBois’s hands.”

“For how much?”

“A million dollars. At least. Maybe two million.”

“Mmmm.” He was, she could see, looking at the Pontiac with renewed interest. Harry was tempted.

“The plan is to wait for them to do their business, then take the money.”

“Oh.” He nodded derisively. “Just like that. ‘Give me the money,’ we say. ‘Thank you very much.’”

She made no reply.

“How do you know all this? How good’s your information?”

“My information is first class.”

“You’ve got a bug planted on the deck at DuBois’s. Right?”

She smiled mock-sweetly. “You wouldn’t want me to tell you all my secrets, Harry, would you?”

With their eyes locked, fully engaged, she saw him mocking her in return, an unexpected subtlety, Harry’s little surprise.

“All I need to know,” he said softly, “is when I get my cut.”

“You get yours when I get mine. Your end is twenty-five percent or ten thousand dollars, whichever is larger. Just what I promised.”

“A million, you say …” He nodded approvingly. He was almost smiling.

“At least.”

“Have you got someone on the inside of this thing?”

In complete control of her reactions, she studied him for a long, silent moment. Then she said, “Why’d you say that?”

“Because I don’t think you planted that bug yourself. I figure you got somebody inside. I figure—”

In the gathering twilight, another parking attendant materialized, moving at a fast trot. They watched him angle toward the Pontiac and open the driver’s door.

“I’ll see you at the apartment,” she said. “You follow Graham.” She watched him walk to his Lincoln, parked nearby.

A
S HE COMPLETED THE
male urination ritual and flushed the toilet and was zipping up his fly, Bernhardt heard the warble of his phone. As he walked into the suite’s sitting room, he glanced reflexively at his watch: seven-thirty. In San Francisco, C. B. Tate would be in his Ford, driving from Sausalito across the Golden Gate Bridge to San Francisco. Another hour and they could be at the airport attending to the intricate business of checking a piece of specially designed luggage that contained four registered handguns.

He lifted the phone. “Yes?”

“Mr. Bernhardt.” It was a statement, not a question. A woman’s voice, assured, authoritative.

“Yes. Who’s this?”

“It’s Andrea Lange, Mr. Bernhardt.”