BERNHARDT FLIPPED THE TURN indicator, checked the mirrors, made the turn onto Vermont Street—the last turn. Four more blocks and he’d be home. At two o’clock, Potrero Hill was deep in sleep. As he downshifted to first gear for the last steep climb, he took the radio from Louise, a ritual that had become a reflex.
“Get close to me,” Bernhardt said, speaking to Tate. “It could be that they’re waiting at the house.” As he said it he looked apologetically at Louise. All during the night he’d tried to avoid alarming her as he spoke to Tate on the radio. But if Louise was frightened, she gave no sign.
“When we park,” Bernhardt said to her, “I’ll put everything in the canvas bag, including the canister. We’ll leave the shovel in the car. You’ll carry the bag. I’ll go first. Then you. Then C.B., in the rear. Have you got that?” As he spoke, they entered the final block, going uphill. His building was on the left, midway in the block. Because of the steep slope, parking was perpendicular to the curb, on one side of the street. There was one parking space left, only three doors from Bernhardt’s building. He maneuvered the Honda into the slot, took the radio from Louise.
“You’ll have to park in the next block, C.B., on top. It’s level, so there’s parking on both sides of the street. We’ll wait for you in the car.”
“Right.” Behind them, Tate’s Ford passed, climbing the hill.
Bernhardt checked the Honda’s doors; yes, all four were locked. He switched off the walkie-talkie, unfastened the short antenna, put them into the canvas bag along with the flashlights. “Okay.” He held out his hands for the white plastic canister. Louise lifted it from the floor. There was a momentary hesitation, an instinctive, elemental reluctance to surrender the canister, with whatever wealth it contained. Then she handed it over. He leaned over the seat, put it in the bag. He zipped up the bag, hefted it. Yes, Louise could handle it, no problem.
“Is this when—” She broke off. Then, almost timidly: “Is this the dangerous time?”
“I don’t know, Louise. I just don’t know. All I want to do is get the three of us inside the house with the jewels. We get inside, we lock the doors and draw the drapes, we make sure Crusher’s on the job, and we wait until the banks open. Then we celebrate.” He hesitated, then added, “That’s assuming, of course, that we haven’t done all this to bring home a tube filled with pebbles.” As he spoke, he saw movement in the street above them: a figure coming toward them in the darkness. Tate? Bernhardt realized that his hand was on the butt of the .357. The figure was coming down the middle of the street, Wild West style. It was—
Yes, it was Tate. Bernhardt exhaled softly, gestured toward the passenger door. He spoke quietly. “Okay … get out. I’ll hand the bag to you.” He lifted the bag into the Honda’s front seat, gave it to the woman, then got out of the car, went around to Louise’s side as Tate joined them. Tate carried the sawed-off close to his right leg, muzzle down. His head was in constant motion, scanning the area. All of the homes in the block were either single-family dwellings or two-flat buildings, almost all of them attached to their neighbors, almost all of them built with their front facades less than ten feet from the sidewalk—just enough space for a small front garden. Most of the front gardens were protected by ornamental fences or chest-high hedges. Between the Honda and Bernhardt’s front door, therefore, they would be constantly within range of a concealed gunman. One full automatic burst from the M-16 and it would all be over, winner take all.
Bernhardt spoke softly to Tate: “I’ll go first. Then Louise. Then you.”
Impassively, Tate nodded. Back in the city, his own turf, Tate was once more the black samurai, the calm, cold, deadly street warrior, ready for a fight.
“Okay,” Bernhardt breathed, “here we go.” He began walking on the sidewalk, up the hill to his building. As he walked, he drew the .357.
They passed the first building. It was a two-flat building, like Bernhardt’s. There were two more houses to pass on this side of the street, both single-family dwellings. The two homes had low hedges in front, perfect for a gunman to hide behind. But if it happened that way, at this range, one blast from the sawed-off could cut a man in two.
They were passing the second home, the last one. Then, feeling his knees go weak with relief, Bernhardt was turning onto his own short flagstone walkway. He held the .357 in his right hand; in his left he held his keys ready. Had Paula bolted the door? If she had, a probability, he would have to ring the bell to wake her. He would have to—
He was on the small front stoop when he smelled it: a strong, acrid chemical odor.
And, at that same moment, he became aware of an unfamiliar silence from inside the flat.
There was no barking—no anxious whining as Crusher recognized his step, welcomed him home.
There was only silence.
A silence, and the odor.
Carrying the canvas satchel, Louise was standing close to him, sensing that something had suddenly gone wrong. But Tate shouldered her abruptly aside, demanding in a low, urgent whisper: “What?”
“It’s—there’s something—”
And then he saw it: one of the three bay windows in his office, broken out. The drapes were drawn, the room was dark—and the window almost entirely shattered.
“Here.” Tate pushed Louise against the house beside the door, out of harm’s way. Then, to Bernhardt: “You going to try the door?”
Bernhardt nodded, his eyes fixed on the doorknob. Saying, “You guard my back.”
“Right.” With the shotgun ready, Tate turned to face the street. Bernhardt cocked the .357, two fateful clicks, incredibly loud in the silence. With his left hand he returned the keys to the pocket of his jacket. Then, very slowly, as if the prospect of touching the knob were repugnant, Bernhardt extended his left hand until he was touching the knob—slowly rotating it—hearing the click of the latch—
—and feeling the door move.
Unlocked.
The door swung inward at Bernhardt’s touch.
“It’s open,” he whispered. As he said it, he saw the wood splintered above the latch.
Still standing with her back against the wall, just as Tate had left her, clutching the canvas bag close, Louise began to cry. Bernhardt waited for Tate to acknowledge what he’d said, one short nod of his black bullet head. Then Bernhardt stepped to the other side of the door—
—and slowly pushed it open, exposing only his hand and forearm.
The interior of the flat was dark and still: a lung-searing cave, a terrible blackness, a void without sound or life or hope.
Tate muttered a heartfelt obscenity, then said, “That’s gas, man. Tear gas, something like that. Shit!”
“You stay here,” Bernhardt said. “I’m going in.”
“You won’t get very—” Tate broke off, coughed. “Shit. You’d better—” A car was coming: headlights, from up the hill. It was a panel truck, a newspaper van on its early rounds, dropping off bundles of The Sentinel at two o’clock in the morning.
The Sentinel …
Tomorrow at this time, how would the front page read? Potrero Hill Massacre?
Bernhardt’s gaze shifted from the disappearing truck to the open door of his flat—and finally to the wide-eyed woman who stood motionless, clutching the canvas bag close to her body.
A fortune in jewels …
If they called the police, questions would be asked, evidence would be impounded.
Should he call Hastings or Friedman, the homicide lieutenants who were his only real friends on the force?
Call them and tell them what? Tell them the truth? How far did friendship stretch? A million dollars’ worth? Would—
“Jesus, Alan, let’s not just stand here.”
Suddenly angry, eyes stinging, voice choking, Bernhardt confronted the other man. “Shut up, why don’t you? Why don’t you just shut up?”
And instantly, hearing himself say it, he heard the echoes from so long ago: himself a child on the playground, aggrieved, fists bunched, about to lash out.
Tate’s response was a grunt, meant to soothe. “You want me to go in, see how far I get?”
“No. Wait.” Bernhardt holstered his revolver, took off his jacket, stripped off his shirt, stepped over a low hedge to a water tap. He soaked the shirt, stepped back over the hedge, held the shirt to his face. Would it help? In the movies, yes, it helped. But here? Now?
He nodded to Louise, then to Tate, a mute apology for his angry words. Then, with the .357 in his hand, he stepped across the threshold.
The first room on his left was his office. The door was standing open. In the pale light from a streetlamp he saw what he hoped to see: nothing disturbed—
—no bodies lying on the floor.
The next two rooms on the left were bedrooms. The first was the guest room, where Angela would have slept. The bed had been slept in, but the room was empty.
The next bedroom was his—his, and Paula’s.
He realized that fear was dragging at his steps as he came close to the door. Yes, the door was open, wide open. His eyes were streaming; his throat was on fire. But he could breathe without choking. The draft created by the open front door was helping.
Another step and, yes, he could make out shapes in his bedroom: tangled blankets on the bed—
—and the shape of something on the floor between the bed and the closet. It was a shape smaller than a body, a human body.
Gritting his teeth, he switched on the light.
It was Crusher.
The Airedale lay on his side, as if he were sleeping—peacefully sleeping, eyes closed.
Sleeping?
Or unconscious, but still alive?
Bernhardt knelt beside the dog. Yes, he could feel faint respiration, a rising and falling of the brown and black fur beneath his hand. Bernhardt stepped to the window that opened on an airshaft, threw up the sash. For now, these next minutes, it was all he could do for the dog. Quickly he stepped to the night-stand, where Paula would have kept the .38 revolver he’d given her. But as his fingers touched the knob of the drawer, he saw it: the gun, lying on the floor between the nightstand and the bed. He thrust his own gun into its holster, picked up the .38, checked the cylinder: five cartridges, all unfired. Plus one empty cylinder, for safety.
He thrust the .38 in his belt, knelt again to put his hand on Crusher. Yes, the dog was still breathing. Bernhardt straightened, decided to switch off the bedroom light before he ventured into the hallway. The dining room and kitchen were at the rear of the flat. As he stepped into the dining room his foot struck something on the floor. He stooped, picked up a small metal canister. It was, certainly, a tear gas canister. As, yes, he saw it: one of the dining room windows, broken out. He put the canister down, went into the hallway. The door that led to the rear garden was partially opened. Even in the uncertain light he saw the wood splintered around the lock. It had been a coordinated attack, then: two canisters of gas, one in front, one in back. Then, front and back, they’d broken in the doors. Men in gas masks, carrying guns. A raid, executed with swat-team precision. They’d taken Paula and Angela—and left the dog for dead.
He pulled the broken back door open wide. He could feel the fresh breeze in his face. Crusher would be grateful. If Crusher lived, he would be grateful.
Moving quickly now, he was striding down the hallway to the front door.
Just as, in his office, the phone warbled. Once. Twice. Should he answer? No; instinct warned against answering. He was at the door of his office. Three rings. He waited for the fourth ring, followed by his brief spiel on the answering machine.
Then came the voice, talking to the machine. It was an educated voice, an affected, studied voice, carefully modulated: “I know you’re in there, Mr. Bernhardt. If you’ll just answer, we can get on with things.”
They were out there, then. Somewhere in the night, close by. Watching. Whoever had Paula, they were watching. The answering machine was silent now, but the tape was still running. He had only moments to make his decision: pick up the phone, or else—
—or else what?
Or else snap this slender thread that connected him with whoever had Paula?
The thought translated into instant action. Without fully realizing that he’d done it, he was at his desk, holding the phone to his ear, pressing the button that cut out the machine.
“Mr. Bernhardt?” It was a soft-spoken, polite inquiry.
He took the wet shirt away from his face, coughed, managed to say, “Who’s this?” Then he discovered that if he took the phone to the broken-out window, he could breathe well enough to speak normally. Allowing him to demand: “Who’s calling?”
“We have the women,” the voice was saying. “We are all together, in one room. I am looking at both of the women. When you and I are finished with our business, you can talk to Paula Brett. Would you like that?”
He realized that, irrationally, his instinct was to deny his tormentor the satisfaction of admitting that, yes, more than anything in the world, he wanted to talk to Paula, to know she was unharmed.
“What we want, of course, are the jewels. Were you successful at Fowler’s Landing? Did Louise direct you to the jewels?”
“Do you expect me to answer that, you son of a bitch?”
“Mr. Bernhardt …” It was a pained response. “We have much to talk about, you and me. Name-calling only wastes time.”
Bernhardt urgently beckoned Tate and Louise into the office as he spoke into the phone: “If you bring those women back now—right now—we won’t press charges. That’s all I’ve got to say.”
There was a silence. Standing close beside him, Louise lowered the canvas bag to the floor, as if to divest herself. Her eyes were wide as she began to slowly shake her head. Balefully, Tate began to swear, his voice a low, purposeful monotone. In the darkened room, Bernhardt gestured for Tate to pull back the drapes that covered the broken-out window, for more air circulation.
“I’m assuming,” the caller said, “that, in fact, you now have a million dollars in jewels. I, on the other hand, have the two women. Fabrese is no longer a problem. Therefore, this whole affair can be managed with no loose ends. We can—”
“You killed Fabrese.”
With the words, Tate broke off swearing as his black eyes searched Bernhardt’s face. Louise, crying, sank numbly into Bernhardt’s desk chair, the jewels forgotten.
“Of course,” the caller said, “I would never answer a question like that. However, I will say that things are simpler with Fabrese dead. Much simpler. Don’t you agree?”
“Are you part of the Mafia?”
“No.” It was an amused response. “No, Mr. Bernhardt. I’m not with the Mafia. That much I’ll tell you.”
“You killed Fabrese at Fowler’s Landing. Then you left. You didn’t go for the jewels. You left.”
“I prefer to operate in my own territory.”
“San Francisco …”
“Yes, San Francisco.” The speaker allowed a silence to pass. Then, in an aloof, supercilious voice he said, “You’re beginning to think, I can see that—put things together, make connections. Good. I prefer to deal with intelligent people. And you, obviously, are intelligent.”
“And you’re an Oriental—an educated Oriental. Chinese, I think. And you’ve obviously got an organization. That makes you a local Chinese gangster.”
“Ah …” The voice projected pleasure. “Ah, yes, that’s good. Very good. You have an educated ear, I can see.”
“I’m an actor. My business is voices.”
“An actor …” A moment’s silence. Then, plainly pleased, titillated: “San Francisco—there’s such a variety here. Don’t you agree?” It was a benevolent question.
Suddenly overwhelmed by the incredible irony of a fortune in jewels lying at his feet while he made small talk with Paula’s kidnapper, Bernhardt began to slowly, helplessly shake his head. Was it denial? Desperation? Was it fatigue compounded by fear and shock and the terrible helplessness of abject indecision?
Once more, the voice began: “You have a trained ear, Mr. Bernhardt. And I also have a trained ear. I can hear indecision in your voice, and weariness, too. You’ve had a very long night, and you’ve had a nasty shock, too. Therefore, I am going to hang up now. I’ll give you a few hours, so that you and Louise can make your decision. Then I’ll call you back, and we will make the arrangements. Perhaps you should try to get a few hours’ sleep. It’ll clear the mind.”
“My mind’s clear. And I—”
“There are two things to remember. First, don’t call the police, try to involve them. This goes without saying, especially since you would be in a very awkward position, trying to explain how you came into possession of a fortune that belongs to the Mafia. Don’t you agree?”
Bernhardt made no response. Remarkably, standing close to the broken-out window, with a breeze blowing through the flat from the back door, he was unaffected by the gas. He put his hand over the phone, spoke to Tate: “Crusher’s in the back bedroom, out cold. Carry him in here, where there’s more air. See if you can help him get on his feet.”
Tate blinked. “Crusher?”
Suddenly furious, another irrational cheap shot directed at Tate, he came back angrily: “Crusher, goddammit.”
Tate shrugged, laid the shotgun on the desk. After making sure that Bernhardt was aware of the sawed-off lying there, Tate left the room. He moved smoothly, alertly, as if he were integral to the whole: a jungle predator, gliding through the forest. Yes, this was Tate’s natural element: danger everywhere. Danger, and death.
On the phone, the voice was saying, “The other point is, don’t try putting the jewels in a safe-deposit box, as you plan. That, I would consider a hostile act. Paula and Angela would suffer accordingly.”
“You goddam—”
“I should make it clear before I hang up,” the voice was saying, “that, whatever happens, I don’t plan to kill the women. That would be counterproductive. However—”
“You son of a bitch, you’d—”
“However,” the caller interrupted smoothly, “I’ll certainly disfigure them. As you’ve guessed, I have an organization. Which is, in this case, fortunate. Because I myself would be incapable of, let us say, chopping off a finger or two, and perhaps cutting off a nose. But I can assure you that I have people who—”
Breathing hard, aware that he was trembling now, beginning to lose it, Bernhardt banged down the phone. Then, instantly, he realized that now he could not talk to Paula; he’d ruined his chances of talking to her. At the thought, he felt himself racked by a sudden sob.
They were still in darkness; the entire flat was dark. The front door was closed now, and bolted. But the back door was open for ventilation. Now, carrying Crusher, Tate appeared in the doorway of the office. The dog’s head lolled, his legs flopped uselessly below Tate’s arms. Tate held the dog tenderly, gently.
“There.” Bernhardt pointed to the floor close to the windows. “Put him there. And open the other two windows. Leave the drapes drawn, though.” As Tate obeyed, Bernhardt knelt beside Crusher. Was the dog still breathing? Yes: short, shallow breathing. Would there be brain damage, after being unconscious so long? Irrationally, Bernhardt wished he’d asked the caller how long ago they’d attacked. The vet would want to know.
“Put the desk lamp on,” he ordered. When Tate obeyed, Bernhardt rolled back the dog’s eyelid. It was a useless gesture; he had no idea how the pupil should look. He lifted the limp head an inch from the floor and let it fall as he watched for a reaction. Had there been a blink? He lifted the head again, let it thump down again.
Yes. Certainly it was a blink, an involuntary response to pain. Frantically, Bernhardt began slapping the dog on the head, the body, the rump. With every blow, there was a blink. And now, a miracle, there was a small whine, a protest. The Airedale’s eyes fluttered, finally came open.
“Hey,” Bernhardt chortled. “Hey, it’s okay. He’ll be okay.”
“Jesus.” In mock despair, Tate shook his head. Repeating: “Jesus. Dog lovers. You—”
Struggling for self-control, choking on her sobs, Louise demanded, “What’re we going to do? Who was it on the phone? What’d they say? What’d they want?”
Massaging the dog now, Bernhardt spoke over his shoulder: “They want the jewels. They’ve got Paula and Angela. And they want the jewels. Ransom, in other words.”
“Chinese?” Tate asked. “Did you say Chinese?”
Looking down at Crusher, who sighed once, contentedly, and then closed his eyes again, Bernhardt nodded. “Chinese gangsters. I’m almost sure.”
“So what’ll we do?” Tate asked mildly. “What’s the plan?”
“The plan,” Bernhardt said, shifting his gaze to the satchel. “The plan is to find out what’s in that canister.”