AT THE FIFTH RING, Bernhardt heard the click of an answering machine. The message was short and laconic: “This is Al Martelli. Sorry I missed you. Leave your name and number and the time you—” The machine clicked again. “Hello?”
Should he use Martelli’s first name? They’d talked three times, amiably, once at the winery, twice in Saint Stephen, briefly. Which way should he gamble: too familiar, or too formal?
“Al—this is Alan Bernhardt.”
He waited while the other man matched the name to the face.
“Yeah—how are you?” There was caution in the greeting, a distancing. But there was encouragement, too, a tentative warmth. Contradictions.
“Listen, I—this matter we’ve talked about—I wonder whether I could meet you somewhere, today? In town, maybe. It’s important.”
“Important?”
“Yes. I want to try and bring this thing to a head. And you could help.”
“Is it about John? That?”
“Yes, it’s about John—and Dennis, too.” He hesitated, then decided to say, “Janice Hale—Constance Price’s sister—is here, in Saint Stephen. And we need your help.”
“My help …” Martelli let the two words linger in doubtful silence.
“Please. Let me buy you a drink this evening. Any time you say. Any place.”
A silence fell—and lengthened. This, Bernhardt knew, could be the pivot point, the fulcrum. And if he read Martelli right, there was nothing to do but wait. Martelli was a man who couldn’t be prodded.
Finally: “Okay. Do you know the Briar Patch? It’s just south of Saint Stephen, on Route Twenty-nine.”
“I’ll find it.”
“Five-thirty?”
“Five-thirty. Thanks.”
Seated in his car, parked on a gravel road that commanded a view of the fenced western border of the Brookside vineyard, Bernhardt thoughtfully returned the cellular phone to its cradle. Should he include Janice in the meeting with Martelli? Or would it be better to—
Suddenly the phone’s shrill buzzer came alive.
“Yes?”
“Alan—” Unmistakably, it was C.B.’s voice, a rich, deep, neo-Afro base.
“Yes—how’s it going?”
“She left her luxury Nob Hill apartment this morning about nine-thirty, drove to Sausalito. She met a guy on the docks, there, at the yacht harbor. I’d say the guy was a workman. Middle thirties, lots of muscles. I got some pictures of them. They went inside the cabin of a big sloop, there. Belongs to some hot-shot clothing manufacturer. Or, at least, it did. She and this guy she met were in there for about forty minutes. Then she drove this guy to a nothing stucco building up the hill in Sausalito, six studio apartments, no view, like that. You know—housing for the peasants on the American Riviera. He went in, she stayed in the car. He came out with a paper sack of something. She drove him back to the yacht harbor, and then she drove up the highway to San Rafael. She’s got an apartment, there. You know about that one, I guess.”
“That’s where I picked her up. Are you there now?”
“Right.”
“No sign of Price?”
“None.”
Thoughtfully, Bernhardt looked at his watch. “How are you for time, C.B.?”
“Couple a days from now—Friday, at the latest—I got something I got to do. It’s an insurance job, big-ticket liability claim. It involves one of the black brothers, so I’ve got a lock. Other than that, I’m yours. Incidentally, speaking of skin color, this is pretty lily-white, as you know, up here in marvelous Marin. So I’m—you know—pretty visible. I just thought I’d mention it.”
“I know …” Considering the possibilities, the combinations, he let a beat pass. Then: “Why don’t you stay on her until about six, tonight. Then find yourself a motel room in San Rafael. Check with me, when you’re settled.”
“You don’t want me to talk to her, put a little pressure on her?”
“Not now. I’ve got an appointment with Al Martelli, at five-thirty. Let’s not get her stirred up until I’ve talked to him. I want to talk to the client, too.”
“Gotcha.”