Find Her a Grave Page 12

  “I did have a choice. Right up to the second I told him, I had a choice. But I was wrong to do it. I should’ve waited. I should’ve talked to you first. That’s what I should’ve done.”

  Angela went to her mother, sat at the glass-topped table, gently took her mother’s hands in hers, waited for her mother to lift her head, meet her gaze. She spoke softly, gently: “You’re talking to me now, Mom.”

  Louise began to shake her head, an empty gesture of utter defeat. “God, I’ve made such a mess of things. I—everything I’ve done, it’s turned out wrong.”

  “That’s not true. When you and Jack were married, those were good years. He was fun.”

  Smiling almost timidly, Louise ruefully shook her head, resigned. “Good years—it’s true. Jack drank too much and he was the most insecure man in the world, and he spent two dollars for every one he took in. But you’re right. He was fun.” Now, half smiling, she squeezed her daughter’s hand. “Actors. You know about actors.”

  Angela’s answering smile shared her mother’s mood of reflection. “Yeah, I know.” Then, embarrassed, Angela took back her hands, sat up straighter.

  Now, they both knew, was the time for her mother to speak.

  In a leaden monotone, reciting, Louise said, “It’s buried behind the headstone of my mother’s grave.”

  For a long moment Angela made no response, as if she hadn’t heard. Then, gravely, she nodded. “Thanks, Mom.” She nodded again, cleared her throat, blinked. Repeating softly, “Thanks.”

  Louise shrugged, bit her lip. “I should’ve told you last night. I should’ve told you before I told him.”

  “You told me now.” Suddenly Angela went to the cupboard, took down two glasses. “Want a drink of water?”

  Louise shook her head. Then, suddenly, she spoke in a high plaintive voice, a child’s anguished plea: “What’re we going to do, Angela?”

  Angela filled a glass, drank, set the empty glass on the counter. “It comes down to Tony Bacardo. Did he come here to help you? Or did he come here to take the treasure for himself?”

  Louise nodded. “I know.”

  “You trusted Tony. You trusted him enough to give him the words. And he—”

  “My father trusted him. I just—just did what my father told me to do.”

  “What about Profaci? Do you trust him?”

  “No,” Louise answered. Then, as if she were puzzled, she repeated, “No, I don’t trust him. There’s something about him that—that’s creepy. Maybe it’s—I don’t know—maybe it’s that he looks like a killer. It’s something in his eyes. He looked at me, it was like he was thinking about how easy it’d be to kill me. That’s the way it felt. It felt like—”

  “You realize,” Angela interrupted, “that if Tony Bacardo shows up, then that cancels out everything Profaci said.”

  Louise frowned. “I don’t see what you mean.”

  “If Bacardo’s after the jewels, then he bought a shovel and went up to Fowler’s Landing and dug up the jewels. By now, he’s on his way back to New York. He’s—”

  On the wall beside the refrigerator, the telephone warbled. At the first ring, Angela took it from its cradle. “Hello?” She listened briefly. Then: “Yes. Just a second, please.” She covered the mouthpiece as she gestured with the phone to her mother. “It’s him. Bacardo.”

  7:50 P.M., PDT

  “THIS PROFACI,” BACARDO SAID. “Describe him.”

  “He’s thirty-five, forty years old,” Louise answered. “Not real big. Not small, exactly, but not big, either.”

  “About—what—a hundred sixty, something like that?”

  Hesitantly, Louise nodded. “I guess so, yes. He had dark hair, and his face was sort of all pushed together. An ugly face, really. Small, and ugly. And he was nervous. Very jumpy.”

  “How was he dressed?”

  “He was dressed very nice. A three-piece suit. Brown, I think. He looked flashy.”

  “What time did he come here today?”

  “About six o’clock.”

  Bacardo looked at her speculatively as he calculated: six o’clock … about a half hour after he’d returned to the Hilton from Fowler’s Landing. In silence, Bacardo considered the two women, one a blooming beauty, the other thickening, fading. One was strong and willful, the other hoped only to survive. Sitting on the same spindly antique love seat he’d occupied the night before, Bacardo let his eyes wander away. In New York, for a job like this, he could choose from fifty men, give one of them a call: “Get a car, bring a flashlight and shovel, pick me up. Bring a piece.” They’d drive to the cemetery, do the job in an hour, give or take. If there was ever a leak, one shot would take care of it. If there was a problem with the law, a call to the precinct captain would square it.

  But in California—San Francisco—Fowler’s Landing—there was no one to call.

  He’d come to San Francisco yesterday. He’d called The Chop House, left a message that he was staying at the Hilton, downtown.

  Meaning that, playing the percentages, Cella would have him followed this weekend. Meaning that, when he returned to New York and saw Cella he’d say that, yes, he’d seen Louise Rabb, Don Carlo’s daughter. She wasn’t allowed at the funeral; what else could he do but give her Don Carlo’s last words? And, yes, he’d visited Janice Frazer’s grave, paying the don’s last respects, his dying wish.

  Meaning that there’d be no need to lie.

  Until he went for the jewels, there’d be no need to lie.

  Until he went for the jewels, nobody died.

  If he went for the jewels.

  “Profaci,” Angela was saying. “You know him?”

  Bacardo’s large mouth twisted briefly, a grim smile. “No,” he answered, “I don’t know any Profaci. At least not the Profaci that came here tonight.”

  “But—” Anxiously, Louise leaned forward, searched his face. “But he said he worked for my father. He said you and he were important to my father.”

  Suddenly aware of the weariness he felt, jet lag plus the long drive to Fowler’s Landing and back, he slowly shook his head. “There’s no Profaci, Louise. He gave you a fake name.”

  “But—”

  “He probably works for someone out here, that’s my guess. Or maybe someone in New York. Anyhow, somebody wants me to know that they’re watching me. Which I already figured.”

  “When we—when you get the jewels,” Louise said, “will they follow you then?”

  “That depends on a lot of things. Very complicated things. It depends on how much they know—and how much they suspect. So far, all I’ve done is talk to you, and then visit your mother’s grave. Even if they suspect your father left something for you, there’s no reason for them to connect that with your mother’s grave.”

  “Not until you go back to the graveyard,” Angela said.

  “If I go back, I’ll go at night.”

  “‘If’ …” Angela was looking at him steadily. Waiting for his reply.

  Instead of answering the unspoken question he turned to Louise. “You told Angela about it—gave her the words?”

  “I—” Nervously, Louise nodded. “I—I wanted to. I felt like I had to tell her. It’s—I guess it’s like a will, or something. I mean, what else’ve I got to leave her?”

  “Yeah …” Reluctantly, he nodded. “Yeah, I can see that.”

  The three of them shared a bleak silence before Angela spoke to Bacardo: “You said ‘if’ a minute ago. What’d you mean?”

  “I mean,” he answered, “that I’ve got to think about this. We’ve got to know what it means, that this guy showed up here this evening just about the time I got back in town.”

  “Does it mean that he followed you to Fowler’s Landing?”

  “It’s not whether he followed me. I expected someone would probably follow me. It’s why he followed me.”

  “‘Why’?”

  “Is he a free-lancer? Or is he connected? That’s what I’ve got to know.”

  �
�Connected?”

  “With the organization.” Plainly distracted, Bacardo looked away as he spoke. Then, feeling his way: “This private detective—what’s his name?”

  “Alan Bernhardt.”

  “What’s his story?”

  “He’s very talented,” Angela said. “And very nice. He’s an actor, really—and a director, in little theater. He’s had a play produced, in New York. But there’s no money in little theater. So he moonlights.”

  Once more Bacardo’s mouth twisted into a wry smile. “I’m not interested in how talented he is, or how nice he is. I’m interested in how smart he is. And how tough.”

  “He’s smart,” Angela answered promptly. “Very smart.”

  “How about tough?”

  Angela considered, then decided to retort, “I don’t know about tough. But I trust him.” She looked at her mother. “We trust him.”

  “And there’s no one else,” Bacardo said. “No one else you trust.” As he spoke, he glanced at his watch: eight o’clock on a Saturday night. In Manhattan, at The Chop House, his people were drinking together, laughing, laying bets on the next day’s games, looking over each other’s girlfriends, making good-natured comments, the old story. Suddenly he realized that, like the two women, he was alone, no one to trust, a stranger in a strange city. And strange cities could be dangerous cities.

  “Can you call this Bernhardt, set up an appointment for me?”

  “Now?” Angela asked. “Tonight?”

  “Now.”

  8:10 P.M., PDT

  IN THE FAR CORNER of the room, Crusher lay with his head between his paws. The Airedale’s soft brown eyes were fixed reproachfully on Bernhardt.

  “I can’t stand it. I’ve got to feed Crusher.”

  Across the table, Paula smiled. “When he realizes we’re giving him leftovers, he’ll understand why you waited.”

  “Except that there aren’t any leftovers.” Bernhardt looked at the dish that had contained the fettucini with crab and capers in white cream sauce.

  “Put his dog food in the fettucini bowl. He’ll appreciate the gesture.”

  “Good idea.” Bernhardt rose, took up the dish, gestured for Paula to remain seated. “I’ll get the ice cream.”

  “Just one scoop for me.”

  “Likewise.”

  “There’re cookies in the cupboard.”

  “Right.” With Crusher prancing anxiously at his side, attention riveted on the fettucini bowl, Bernhardt walked into the kitchen, scooped dry dog food into the dish, added water. Sternly, he commanded the dog to sit until he’d put the dish on the floor. Then, released, Crusher bounded for the dish, began to eat. As Bernhardt turned to the refrigerator, Paula came into the kitchen with their dirty dishes. Bernhardt watched her stack the dishes in the sink and run water into them. She wore a bulky-knit, loose-fitting sweater, blue jeans, and shearling slippers. Her dark shoulder-length hair was caught in a casual ponytail, Bernhardt’s favorite hairstyle. Because her jeans were soft and tight and provocative, she called them her Saturday-night jeans.

  They’d known each other for less than a year, and the relationship was just beginning to settle. Saturday nights, Paula stayed over. Unless they were invited out to dinner, they preferred not to battle for a parking place, or a place in a ticket line, or a table at a restaurant. Instead, after they’d cooked something special and eaten it appreciatively, always with a fifth of red wine, they went into the living room with brandy snifters and watched a movie on Bernhardt’s VCR. They sat side by side on the couch, cuddling as they sipped the brandy and commented on the movie and occasionally petted Crusher, lying at their feet.

  As Paula turned away from the sink, Bernhardt stepped close, put his hands on the Saturday-night jeans, and drew her close. Their first kiss was companionable. Then, interested, she came closer. Kissing him again, more interested now, she held her hands away from him, smiling as she said, “Wet hands.”

  “Hmmm …” Slowly, he moved his own hands down her flanks, then drew her closer, began to move with her, at first subtly, then more urgently—

  —as, from down the flat’s long hallway, from his office that fronted on the street, his business phone rang.

  Muttering an exasperated obscenity, he involuntarily moved away from her. Explaining ruefully, “I might have to get that. There’s one call I promised to take. I haven’t had a chance to tell you about it.”

  As, yes, from down the hallway he heard a woman’s voice on his answering machine.

  “That’s her, I think. Sorry.” He kissed Paula’s forehead, walked toward his office. Yes, Angela Rabb was leaving her number and asking him to call. Standing in the rear hallway, Crusher looked indecisively from the receding figure of Bernhardt to the figure of Paula, who was occupied putting cookies on a plate. Predictably opting for the possibility of food, Crusher entered the kitchen and began begging for cookies. In the study, Bernhardt punched out the number on the tape.

  “Angela?”

  “Ah—Mr. Bernhardt.”

  “Alan.”

  “Alan. Yes.”

  “What’s happening?”

  “Tony Bacardo wants to see you.”

  “Why?”

  “I—I’m not sure. But—”

  “When?”

  “As soon as you can make it, Alan.” Her voice was low, hushed by the timidity of hope. “Tonight, if you could do it.”

  “Tonight …” He let the reluctance come through. “I could do it tomorrow, probably. Sunday. But tonight …” He let it go dubiously unfinished.

  “I know. I hate to ask you. But he—he’s been up to the delta, and now he’s back. And he—well—I think he might just—just go back to New York. I think that unless he can talk to you—unless you and he can agree, work together—then I think he’s going to go. That’s what I think.”

  “Is that what your mother thinks, too?”

  “Yes, it is. She thinks the same thing.”

  “Jesus …” Irritably Bernhardt gritted his teeth, shook his head. Why did it happen, not once but several times, that he’d fallen for the oldest cliché of all: the damsel in distress, pleading for help? He looked at his watch as, behind him, he sensed a rustle of movement—accompanied by the click of Crusher’s toenails. Eyeing him quizzically, Paula was standing in the doorway, Crusher at her side. Never had the Saturday-night jeans seemed so provocative.

  “All right.” Bernhardt drew a deep breath—and gave Paula an apologetic look. “All right. I’ll talk to him. But I warn you, Angela, I’ll tell him exactly what I told you.”

  “I—I know. But I can’t walk away from this, Alan. It could be my mother’s whole life. It could mean—”

  “How does it work, with Bacardo and me?” Somehow, interrupting her so abruptly, he felt more decisive, more in control.

  “He’s at the Hilton, downtown. Room twelve thirty-six. He wants you to call him first. From the lobby. Not from outside. From the lobby.”

  “Twelve thirty-six,” he repeated, writing it down.

  “Will you call us after you talk? Please?”

  “Of course.” He hesitated, then decided to say, “Lock the doors and draw the drapes. You understand.”

  “Yes, I understand.”

  9:40 P.M., PDT

  “IF THE JEWELS WERE so accessible,” Bernhardt said, “I don’t understand why you didn’t shake whoever was following you and get them today.”

  “If I shook him,” Bacardo answered, “it’d look like I had something to hide. That’s the last thing I want. As far as our people’re concerned, I’m in San Francisco to pay my respects to Louise after her father died. Because she couldn’t go to the funeral, you see.”

  “But won’t your people wonder what you were doing up in the delta?”

  “Louise’s mother is buried up there. So it makes sense that I’d visit her grave, pay the don’s respects.” Bacardo let a moment pass as he watched Bernhardt’s reaction. Then: “Besides, the stuff’s buried. So there’s some diggi
ng. It’s better done at night.”

  “Is there a lot of digging?”

  Bacardo shook his head. I don’t think so. Not a lot. But some.”

  “Couldn’t you have waited until dark, then, and—?”

  Bacardo sharply shook his head, moved restlessly in his chair. When Bernhardt had knocked, Bacardo answered the door with a cocked Colt .45 automatic in his hand. With Bernhardt inside, Bacardo had bolted the door, eased off the pistol’s hammer, placed the .45 on a side table beside his chair. Now Bacardo was staring at the gun, frowning as he said, “It won’t work to do it in daylight. And at night there’s no way I’d do it without a lookout—a wheelman, who can shoot.” Even though Bacardo’s body language betrayed tension, his voice was matter-of-fact: the professional, discussing job-related problems.

  “Is that why I’m here? To apply for a wheelman’s job?”

  Bacardo’s gaze shifted from the .45 to Bernhardt’s face. Plainly, the big, awkwardly moving man with the deeply lined face was looking for something in Bernhardt. Something essential. Finally he shook his head. “No,” he said quietly. “No, that’s not why you’re here.”

  Bernhardt decided to make no response, decided instead to wait—and watch.

  “Louise told you about the guy who knocked on the door. Profaci, he said his name was. He told her he was a capo in Don Carlo’s family—the Venezzio family. Right?”

  Bernhardt nodded. “Right.”

  “But I don’t know any Profaci, at least nobody who looks like the guy Louise described.”

  “He told Louise to be careful of you,” Bernhardt said. “He said you’d cheat her.”

  Ominously—watchfully—Bacardo made no reply.

  “I told her, though,” Bernhardt continued, “that if you came back to her from the delta, then that proved you weren’t out to cheat her.”

  “I had those jewels in my house for two weeks before Mara—before they were brought out here. If I’d wanted to take them, that was the time.”

  After a moment’s thought, Bernhardt decided to probe. “Venezzio was alive then. Now he’s dead. That’s got to make a difference.”