AS HE ATE THE last of his croissant, Bernhardt said, “Why don’t you take Crusher to the beach for an hour or two?”
“Crusher gets in fights at the beach,” Paula said. “You know that.” It was a cool response. Between them, the question of the treasure was still unresolved. It had been unresolved when they’d gone to sleep last night, a mistake that still hung heavily between them in the cold light of morning.
“Crusher gets in fights everywhere. That’s what Airedales do.”
She considered the answer, then decided to say, “If you had it to do all over again, would you still adopt him?”
“I never did adopt him. I was only supposed to keep him over a weekend, while his master arranged bail. So then the guy jumps bail. The last I heard he was in Majorca, having a ball.”
“Let’s say you knew how it would happen. Would you still take Crusher?”
“No comment.”
In a voice that was carefully pitched to the neutral, Paula said, “Are you going to call C.B.?”
“Yes,” he answered, meeting her gaze squarely. “And Louise, too.” He let a beat pass. Then: “Dammit, Paula, I’ve—”
From the front of the flat Bernhardt’s office telephone warbled. After the fourth ring the answering machine’s message began, followed by a woman’s voice. As the message went on, Bernhardt saw amused resignation register in Paula’s face as she poured herself a second cup of coffee.
“There she is,” Paula said. “One of your ladies in distress, I’ll bet.”
“Is that small, resigned smile meant to suggest that we can resolve this thing, resume our previous relationship?”
“The Mafia’s man in San Francisco …” Now reluctant amusement touched the corners of her mouth as warmth began to glow in her eyes. In the office, the caller’s message was ending, followed by a tone, then silence.
“You know you’re going to call her back.”
“But not until I’ve finished my coffee.” As he spoke, he raised the cup, drank the last of his coffee.
“Make the call,” Paula said. “I’ll put the dishes in the sink.”
“You’re a good sport.” Smiling, he rose, went around the table, kissed her meaningfully beneath her ear. She smiled in return, briefly stroked the inside of his thigh.
“Hmmm …” It was a sensual murmur, soft and interested. Should he lift her to her feet, kiss her in earnest, suggest a Sunday morning change of plans, a detour to the bedroom? Was that her meaning?
“Make the call,” she repeated.
“Hmmm …”
“Then we’ll see.”
He smiled, kissed her again as, sensing the change of mood, Crusher had come to stand close beside them. Whenever they made love, it was always easier to close the bedroom door on Crusher.
He kissed her neck again, straightened, smiled, and walked down the flat’s long hallway to his office, the room that was originally a front bedroom. As predicted, the voice on the tape was Angela Rabb’s. Would he please call her? As soon as possible?
He copied down the number, made the call. “Angela?”
“Yes—Alan?”
“Yes.”
“I hope it’s not too early on Sunday morning. But Tony Bacardo called about a half hour ago. He said he had to go back to New York. But he said you—”
“Let’s not talk about it on the phone, Angela. Can you come over?”
“Of course. Mom, too?”
He hesitated, then said, “Why don’t you come by yourself? I think your mother should stay near her phone.”
“I’ll be right over.”