IT WAS A STANDARD commercially built Marin County apartment building: two stories, four units. The building had been planned for profit, built of glass and redwood and plywood to just satisfy the building codes, nothing more. Walking softly, Bernhardt ascended the outside steps to her apartment door. There was an illuminated slot for a name card, but the slot was empty. A few minutes before, cautiously using a shielded penlight, he’d checked out her car, an expensive looking Toyota Supra, in the building’s carport. He’d hoped to find a door open, hoped to find something in the car with a name—just as he’d hoped to find a name card in the slot. No luck.
After a last look around the typical Marin County residential premises, everything in order, everything quiet, everything secure, he drew a deep breath, took his ID folder from his pocket and pressed the door buzzer. He would play it as it lay, taking his cue from her, the good-looking blonde in the blue T-shirt. He would—
Almost instantly, the door opened. Plainly, she was startled. She’d taken off the blue T-shirt, changed into a white blouse worn loose over jeans. A large saddle-leather handbag was slung over her shoulder. Inside, the hallway light was on, but the living room light had been switched off. She was leaving.
Five minutes earlier, leaving, she might have caught him at her car. To benign providence, thanks were due.
“Oh—” She frowned, took a quick backward step. The frown was deepening, darkening. In seconds, the questions would begin. These seconds were his; the next seconds would surely be hers.
“I was looking for Mr. Price. Dennis Price.”
“You were looking for—?” Complex emotions were working at her face, some of them puzzled, some hostile.
“You’re looking for who?”
He’d done it wrong, fucked up. He should have waited until tomorrow, run her plates on the data base, gotten her name, gotten some background. Instead, half-cocked, he was about to lose the initiative. Without a name, going in, nothing went right. It was the first rule.
Only the ID move remained, buying time.
He flipped open the leather folder, extended the license. Yes, her eyes were widening. Reprieve. “My name is Alan Bernhardt. I’m a private investigator. I’ve been retained on behalf of the estate of Constance Price. I missed Mr. Price at the winery, this afternoon. So I thought I’d try here.” As if he expected Price to materialize in the darkened living room, he looked behind her.
“You—what?”
This woman, he realized, was tough. And aggressive. And smart, probably. Her eyes were sharp-focused, her stance assertive. Most women, alone, surprised by a stranger on a dark porch, would shrink back. Not this one.
“May I have your name, please?” It was his best imitation of a brisk, census-taker’s pose, nothing if not official.
“It’s Stark. Theo Stark. But I don’t see—”
“How long have you known Mr. Price, Miss Stark?”
“Why’re you asking?” It was a sharp, shrewd, hostile question. She had her balance—but he had a name.
“I already told you, it’s a legal matter, having to do with Constance Price’s estate. It’s in probate.” He pointed to the empty card slot beside the door. “I was looking for your name. Have you just moved in?”
“About a month ago. This is just a—” She hesitated. “It’s a summer place.”
“Ah—” As if she’d answered a question that had perplexed him, he nodded. Then, gambling: “You live in the city, then. San Francisco.”
“I—” She eyed him for a long, speculative moment. Then: “Yes, I live on Nob Hill, as a matter of fact.”
“Ah.” He nodded again. High-priced real estate for a high-styled lady. Certainly, this was the woman Al Martelli had described, Dennis Price’s playmate. Bernhardt took out his notebook. “May I have your address?” The census taker again, innocuously smiling. Expectantly waiting.
She drew a deep, determined breath, took a fresh grip on the shoulder strap of her handbag, lifted her chin. The handbag was actually a small leather shoulder satchel, the kind policewomen used, to carry their guns. “I don’t give out my address or phone number unless I know the reason, Mister—what was the name, again?”
“Bernhardt. Alan Bernhardt.” The smile was still in place. Precariously, still in place.
“Mr. Bernhardt.” The words were sharp-edged. Her eyes were hard. In this interrogation, the free rides were over.
“Names don’t mean much without things like addresses, phone numbers, license numbers.” As he said it, he saw her eyes shift almost imperceptibly downward. She was thinking of her car, in the carport below, and its license plate.
“You still haven’t told me why you’re here—what you want.”
“I thought I explained that. I’m trying to locate Mr. Price. It’s got to do with—”
“I know what it’s got to do with. What I don’t know is why you’re here, looking for him.”
“Miss Stark …” Pretending regret, he spread his hands. “I’m sorry, but I can’t—” He broke off. On this merry-go-round, there was no brass ring. Indicating, therefore, another personality shift. First, a guileless smile: the small boy, caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Then the aw-shucks admission: “Okay, I followed him here. I just missed him at the winery, so I thought I’d follow him, wait until he stopped somewhere. This was the first stop.”
“He left a couple of hours ago.”
“I know.”
“Did you talk to him when he left?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Why not?”
“I—I decided I wanted to talk to you.”
“About what?”
Aware that she had the initiative, he let a beat pass. Somehow, he had to knock her off balance. He let the smile fade, let his eyes flatten, let his voice drop.
“I’m checking Dennis Price out, Miss Stark. I’ve been hired to do it, and that’s what I’m doing. We have information—there’s been an allegation—that he’s—that there’s a woman in his life. And I’m checking on it.” Once more, he spread his hands. “It’s what private investigators do, Miss Stark. I’m sure you know that.”
“Yeah, well—” She took a step forward, then another, forcing him back. Now she stood in the doorway; he stood directly beneath the porch light’s pale cone. She was the aggressor now, the dominant one. “Well, I’ll tell you something, Mr. Bernhardt. If you’re looking for smut, you aren’t going to find it here. You want to find out about Dennis and me, you ask Dennis. Okay?”
Her face was in shadow, but he could sense her anger, her rage. Could she see his response—a cool, sardonic smile?
“Yes,” he answered softly. “Yes, okay. I’ll ask Dennis. I’ll definitely ask Dennis.” He stepped back, casually waved, left her where she stood.
The contest, he decided as he descended the stairs, was a draw. But, to mix a metaphor, there were drops of blood on the trail. Several drops of blood.