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  Beside him, she was impatiently stirring, waiting for an answer. Theo didn’t like to be ignored. Ever.

  “There’s no answer,” he answered finally. Then, after a long silence, he said, “I’ve just got to assume that John didn’t see anything. That’s all I can do.”

  10:30 P.M.

  THEO LIFTED THE TV wand, pushed the buttons, ran through the channels. Nothing. On television, on Saturday night, nothing. She pressed the power button, watched the image of a long-dead matinee idol fade from the screen.

  Saturday night …

  There was an old song from the forties, about Saturday night, the loneliest night of the week. If you weren’t with someone on Saturday night, the ache of loneliness was the worst of all.

  But she wasn’t alone, not technically.

  Technically, she was waiting for Bruce.

  It could be another forties song, another funky title. Something about a beautiful, desirable woman, a woman who could have her choice of a half-dozen men, but who chose to sit in the cramped living room of a cramped apartment, staring at the screen of a dead TV.

  A half-dozen men?

  Should she count?

  The tally began with Dennis and Bruce, the two men she was sleeping with. One exciting, one limp. At the thought, she smiled. Yes, it had happened once, to Dennis. Twice, really. Limp.

  Two men, one for pleasure, one for profit.

  Following in the field, a handicapper’s word, by Stephen, who was rich, and Jay, who was old, and also rich, followed by Chris, the options trader with the wonderfully lithe body and the Ferrari, followed—or preceded, more like it—by Jeff, who was only twenty-two. Jeff had been her fantasy come true. One incredible night. In the past tense.

  Twenty-two … God, she’d never forget that night. He was in Harvard now, studying law. Someday, though, Jeff would be back.

  She rose, went to the kitchen, poured a glass of wine. Cheap jug wine, the kind she’d outgrown years ago.

  But rich or poor, every woman needed a man like Bruce. Someone who made the night light up. Someone who—

  At the door, she heard the lock rattle. Carrying the wine, she walked into the living room to stand facing the door as it swung open. The August night was warm and airless. Barefooted, she wore jeans and a loose-fitting T-shirt, one of Bruce’s that she’d taken from his bureau. It turned him on, she knew, to see her wearing something of his, to feel her flesh beneath his own clothing, oversize on her. When he kissed her she would move in close, send him the message. It had been that kind of a day—and that kind of a night, waiting for him in his small, littered apartment, feeling herself quickening whenever she thought of him.

  A coincidence, they were dressed alike. Except that his white T-shirt was tight, displaying the muscles they both loved to touch. His T-shirt was smudged and stained. Bruce worked around the Sausalito yacht harbor, doing free-lance maintenance work for boat owners. He was to sailing what ski instructors were to skiing. Junkies, all of them. He pushed the door closed behind him, and shot the bolt. Slowly, purposefully, he moved toward her: the Saturday night stud, advancing. The muscles of his arms and torso and thighs were tensed, bulging beneath his clothes. Within arm’s length, he began pulling up his T-shirt, exposing a flat, tanned stomach. She would take it from here.

  12:30 A.M.

  SATED, FINALLY SATED, THEY lay on their backs, covered by a sheet. Bruce was finishing a cigarette, the glow illuminating his face. He’d never tried to quit; he smoked like he displayed his muscles, truculently self-indulgent. And he drank like he smoked. Coors. Two six-packs of Coors, every day. And when he drank, he could get ugly. He was a man attracted to violence. When he drank beyond a certain point, Bruce began looking for a fight, usually at the Top’sl, a small neighborhood bar a block up the hill from Bridgeway, Sausalito’s main thoroughfare.

  Bruce was attracted to violence, and women were attracted to Bruce. There was, she knew, a connection, cause and effect. There was also the body and the face. A linebacker’s body, and a face to match. The elemental man. Shallow, narcissistic, moody. But, God, so beautifully built.

  In some ways—perverse ways, she suspected—their relationship was the perfect solution. He had other women, she had other men, no questions asked. Occasionally, money changed hands. From Dennis to her, then to Bruce, who accepted it without comment—just as he received the constant admiration of women, no questions asked.

  Coincidentally, both Dennis and Bruce were drawn to Sausalito—for different reasons. Dennis craved the company of the beautiful people, at play in a beautiful place. Bruce craved the water and the boats—and lived on the checks he got from the beautiful people. What would have happened, that morning, if they should have met, the three of them? Would Dennis have—?

  “You’re quiet, tonight.” As he spoke, Bruce rose on one elbow and dropped the butt of his cigarette into the bowl half filled with water that he kept beside the bed. It was a seaman’s habit, he’d once explained.

  She considered, then decided to say, “I had a hard day.”

  “A hard day?” A small, smug smirk touched the corners of his mouth, and his eyes. “Doing what? Clipping coupons?”

  “No, not clipping coupons.”

  “What, then? Having your nails done?”

  She made no response. In the silence, Dennis’s face materialized in her thoughts, small spasms of fear distorting his features, like the beginning of palsy, their little secret.

  So far, their little secret.

  “I’m going to take a shower.” In the half-light of the bedroom he stripped back the sheet, rose, stretched, posed for a moment, back arched, pectorals bulging. Then he smiled down at her, a lazy, go-to-hell smile, the self-satisfied singles-bar stud. “You didn’t even give me a chance to shower, before you started humping.”

  “Sweat turns me on.” Her smile, too, was lazily self-satisfied. This pleasure, she deserved. After seeing Dennis today—after listening to him, watching him, then writhing in the cage of her own thoughts, trapped—she’d begun to think of Bruce, of raw, wild sex. Bruce’s kind of sex.

  “You want to take a shower too?”

  “No. The stall’s too small. My place, yes. Your place, no.”

  “Hmmm—” He ran an exploratory finger up her stomach, to her breast. Would he begin again? At the thought, she allowed the smile to languidly widen. If it got worse—if Dennis came apart, and she became his full-time keeper—this night might have to last. It might have to last a long time.

  But instead of turning up the heat, Bruce withdrew his hand. Still standing, he looked down on her as the light from the window played across her body. Then he asked, “How long have we known each other, Theo?”

  “Oh, God—” She flung out an arm. “Bruce. This isn’t the time. Believe me, this isn’t the time.”

  “Why d’you say that?” He was frowning now. Perplexed, perhaps, and therefore frowning. Yes, it was starting. Bruce—Dennis—all the others, past and present. The faces changed, but not the questions. And it always started with this same slightly perplexed frown. Her fate.

  “No. Seriously. What’s it been?” he asked. “Three months, maybe?”

  Resigned now, she nodded. “Just about three months. Right.”

  “And we don’t really know anything about each other. Not really.”

  “That’s because we’ve both got hot pants, Bruce. Like tonight. Two, three minutes, and we’re in bed.” She smiled. “I’d’ve thought you’d’ve figured that out by now.”

  “Okay, hot pants is fine. I’m not complaining.”

  “Good.” Slowly, she pulled the sheet up over herself. Why was it, whenever pillow talk turned serious, she always covered herself? Had she ever thought about it?

  “But I’m not even sure how many times you’ve been married, for instance. I don’t even know how old you are, how about that?” His smile was earnest, genuinely bemused. Was Bruce really very smart? It was a question that, so far, had never come up.

  She si
ghed. Reciting: “I’m twenty-eight years old. I’ve been married twice. You know that, for God’s sake. And you’ve been married once. I know that.” Suddenly exasperated, she let her eyes sharpen, her voice flatten: “What’re you getting at, Bruce? What’s on your mind?”

  Ignoring the question, he put an edge on his own voice as he said, “Oh, yeah. You married once for love and once for money. Wasn’t that how it went?”

  “I married once when I was nineteen and once when I was twenty-four. I learned a lot, in those five years. And I’m still learning.”

  “But now you’re worried. And it’s got something to do with this rich dude who buys you things like cars. Am I right?”

  She turned sharply away from him. “I thought you were going to take a shower.”

  “If this guy’s giving you trouble, Theo, all you’ve got to do is give me the word. You understand that, don’t you? You understand what I’m telling you, don’t you?”

  Suddenly it seemed funny. Grotesquely funny. Here he was: Bruce Carter, muscle man. Cheerfully volunteering to come to her rescue, no questions asked. All for love.

  Love?

  That, too, was funny. A joke. A three-way joke. A sick joke.

  She realized that she was smiling now: a small, resigned smile. She turned back to him. “You’d punch him out for me. Is that what you’re saying? You’d punch him out, and solve my problems. Right?”

  “Definitely, that’s what I’m saying.” In his voice, she could hear the elemental lust for violence. Nothing then, had changed. Same old Bruce. Good old Bruce. She felt the smile twisting sardonically as she said, “Well, I’ll certainly keep that in mind.” She reached forward, rested her hand on his thigh, counterfeiting a friendly thank-you pat. Then, watching him respond, she moved her hand up the inside of his thigh, stroking him. God, he was so easy.

  SATURDAY

  August 26

  11 A.M.

  “THE TRUTH IS,” BERNHARDT admitted, “that I haven’t found out a damn thing. Nothing. I could’ve knocked off after the first day, for all I’ve accomplished in a week or more. Fowler—the sheriff—won’t talk to me, and Price won’t allow me on the goddam property, much less let me talk to John. After the first interview, I’ve seen Al Martelli twice. Both times I was parked on the county road, a hundred yards from the entrance to the winery. When Martelli came out, in his pickup, I followed him into town, and talked to him, bought him a cup of coffee. He’s a very nice guy. And he’s obviously very fond of John. But—” Bernhardt shook his head, flung his arm out in a frustrated arc. “But that’s it. Period. The end.”

  At the mention of the boy, Janice Hale’s interest visibly quickened. “They see a lot of each other, John and Martelli. Is that your impression?”

  Bernhardt nodded. “Definitely. John follows Martelli around—you know, the admiring puppy dog. I had some sense of that, when I saw the two of them together, that first time.”

  “Has Martelli ever talked to John about the night Connie died?”

  Bernhardt shook his head. “I asked Martelli about that, at least twice. He says he and John never talk about it. And I believe him.”

  “Have you asked Martelli to talk with John? That could be the key to everything. If John trusts Martelli, maybe he’ll open up.”

  Bernhardt let a beat pass as he looked away from the woman seated across the small marble coffee table. They were in her hotel suite, where they’d first talked, ten days ago. Room service had brought coffee and sweet rolls. Bernhardt bit into a roll, sipped coffee, then looked her directly in the eye as he said, “You’re assuming there’s something to open up about, Janice. I have to tell you, it might be wishful thinking. I’d like you to think about that. Really.” He paused again, holding eye contact. “I realize how tough it is, to be cut off from John. I—” He swallowed. “Except for a grandfather, my father’s father, I’m alone. And there’s really no contact between us, just like there isn’t any between you and your aunt. Florence. So—” Eloquently, he raised a hand. It was a gesture that suggested the ancient resignation of all the Jews, over all the centuries. “So I know what you’re feeling. If I were in your position, I’d be doing everything I could do, to make contact with John. That, I applaud. But this other thing—investigating Connie’s death, blaming Dennis—it could be actually working against you, if you want to reestablish your relationship with John.” He searched her face. “See what I mean?”

  She sighed, smiled wistfully, leaned across the table, and patted his hand. “You’re a nice man, Alan. You care. I’d never say it with Paula in the room, for strategic reasons, but I hope the two of you get married. I really do.” She patted his hand again, briskly this time, before she leaned back in her chair. With the businesslike gesture, Bernhardt saw the now-familiar transition begin as Janice’s wistfulness faded, replaced by a quiet, ladylike determination that was actually an iron resolve. And the resolve was reinforced by the Hale family fortune.

  “But I know John,” she said. “And I know Dennis. And I’m sure—absolutely sure—something’s wrong. I know it.”

  “Well, I—”

  “What’s Martelli say about Dennis—about his relationship with Connie?”

  “He doesn’t say much about their relationship. But it’s pretty obvious that he doesn’t like Price. It’s also obvious that he liked your sister. It’s as if—” He hesitated, choosing the words. “It’s as if he felt sorry for Connie.”

  Decisively, Janice nodded. “If that’s the way he saw her, then he knew her, liked her. Not everyone picked that up, about Connie. She was so beautiful, so rich, everyone assumed she couldn’t have any problems. And she played the part, too. She internalized her problems. Connie punished herself, not other people.”

  “That’s characteristic of someone with a guilt complex.”

  She nodded agreement, then asked, “What else did Martelli say? What’s he say about Dennis?”

  Bernhardt considered, then decided to say, “At one point, the third time we talked, Martelli said he thinks Dennis has a girlfriend. A blonde girlfriend who drives a white sports car.”

  Janice snorted. “That’s nothing new. I think he always had girlfriends, all the time they were married.”

  “Did Connie know?”

  “She chose not to know.” Regretfully, Janice shook her head, remembering. “It was another way to punish herself, I guess—suffer through Dennis’s extramarital affairs.” She drank her coffee, refilled her cup, then asked, “So what now?”

  “Well—” Bernhardt spread his hands again. “I can keep on doing what I’m doing. A couple of times I’ve seen John riding his mountain bike on the driveway that connects the house and the winery to the county road. He’s not supposed to go on the road—and he doesn’t. A couple of times, though, he’s gone to the road. Once I got out of my car, and tried to talk to him. But, surprise, Dennis showed up.”

  Her eyes sharpened. “And?” She moved forward in her chair.

  “And he gave me a lot of lip, and threatened to call the sheriff and swear out a complaint for harassing him. He even said he’d get me arrested for attempted kidnapping.”

  “When was that?”

  “Two days ago. Thursday.”

  “But he didn’t call the sheriff.”

  “I didn’t really think he would,” Bernhardt answered laconically.

  “It’s significant, though. Don’t you see? If his conscience was clear, he’d’ve called the sheriff.”

  “Janice …” He shook his head. “That’s not really—”

  “I think I should get involved. We’ve got to increase the pressure. He’s nervous. I know he’s nervous. He’s afraid. If we increase the pressure, he’ll start making mistakes. I’m sure of it.”

  Bernhardt smiled. “If we increase the pressure, and he calls Sheriff Fowler, who doesn’t appear to like me very much, I could end up in jail.” He let the smile widen, gently ironic. “Would that convince you Price is innocent?”

  “What’d convince
me,” she said, speaking in a calm, measured voice, “is if the police find Connie’s killer. And from what you tell me about this Sheriff Fowler, I don’t think that’s about to happen.”

  Bernhardt grimaced. “On that point, we’re in agreement.”

  In silence, they both drank their coffee and nibbled on their sweet rolls. Then Janice Hale returned her cup to its saucer with a decisive click of fine china.

  “Tomorrow,” she announced, “I’m going to drive up there. I’m going to demand to see John. I’m going to shake Dennis up, rattle his goddam cage. If I’m right, and he’s frightened, he’ll start making mistakes.”

  Bernhardt smiled, shrugged, once more spread his hands. “Maybe you’re right, Janice. Maybe you’re right.”

  SUNDAY

  August 27

  3 P.M.

  AHEAD, JANICE SAW THE entrance to the winery. In the mirror, Bernhardt’s car had disappeared. Aware of a sudden uncertainty, she slowed the car, signaled for a right turn. Ready or not, the game was about to begin.

  The drive from San Francisco in Sunday sight-seeing traffic had taken more than two hours. She’d gone first; Bernhardt had followed. A careful man, Bernhardt had suggested that if they became separated on the freeway, they should meet in Saint Stephen, at the small, picturesque town square that she remembered from a previous visit. Bernhardt had given her the game plan. He would park a half mile from the winery entrance, on the county road. While she confronted Price, Bernhardt would do his best to find a gap in the wire fence surrounding both the house and the vineyards. Pine trees and scrub oak bordered the road. Concealed among the trees, Bernhardt would find a vantage point that would allow him to see the house. She’d asked him what he intended to discover, watching. As rueful as an awkward, amiable teenager, he’d smiled. He had no idea what he might discover. “You get him stirred up,” Bernhardt said, “and I’ll see which way he jumps. Hopefully.” Hearing him say it, seeing the small, self-effacing smile, she could imagine him directing theater. His method would be diffident: a quiet, aw-shucks approach. Then, slowly, the cast would come to realize that Bernhardt was a determined man. Quiet, but determined. Men like Bernhardt didn’t give up.