AS HE ALWAYS DID when he saw Friedman, Bernhardt smiled, quietly amused. Whatever the occasion, Friedman always managed to look vaguely incongruous, dressed for the wrong place, at the wrong time. Yet, obviously, Friedman couldn’t possibly care less. At two hundred forty pounds, graying, with a smooth, swarthy Buddha’s face, Friedman projected an air of amiable indifference to his surroundings. His dark eyes were heavily lidded—seeing everything, revealing nothing. During the five years they’d known each other, Bernhardt had never seen Friedman surprised, or flustered, or at a loss for words.
Now, lolling at his ease, belly up, Friedman airily waved, beckoning for Bernhardt to join him at the tastefully set French country table. As always, the homicide detective was dressed in a wrinkled, rumpled three-piece suit, a haphazardly knotted tie, and a shirt with its collar mashed by Friedman’s sizable double chins. And, yes, Friedman’s vest was smudged with cigar ash. As always.
When Bernhardt sat across the table, Friedman handed over a slip of paper.
“Is this Betty Giles a skip?” Friedman asked. “Is that it?”
“That’s it.”
“Then you may be in luck.” He pointed to the paper. “There was a moving violation issued against her car in Santa Rosa, two days ago. That’s the citation number, and the license number, and description of the car.”
Gratefully, Bernhardt pocketed the paper. “This could help. A lot. Thanks, Pete.”
“No problem.”
“Are you ready to order? Or do you want a drink first?”
“Let’s order.”
After they’d made their selections, Friedman leaned back in his chair, eyeing Bernhardt quizzically. Bernhardt knew that mannerism, knew what was coming next. He was about to be interrogated.
“So what’s doing?” Friedman asked. “How’s life?”
Bernhardt shrugged. “It goes on. What can I say?”
“Have you got a girlfriend yet?”
Slowly, Bernhardt smiled. “You’re a real busybody, you know that? You’re incorrigible.”
Friedman considered. “How about ‘persistent’?”
“How about ‘persistently incorrigible’?”
“You haven’t answered the question. Anything?”
Bernhardt shrugged. “I know a few women, naturally. There’s one, especially—we get together once in a while, get our rocks off. We’re friends, too, which always makes it nice. But we’re never going to get married.”
“A nice Jewish boy like you—you were programmed for marriage, don’t you understand that? Preprogrammed.”
Sipping a chilled glass of white wine, Bernhardt looked at the other man. Should he tell Friedman about Pamela Brett?
No. God, no. Not yet.
And he didn’t have to tell Friedman about Jenny, about their marriage, and how she died. They’d gotten past that years ago, he and Friedman. And they’d never talked about it since.
So, instead, he shifted his ground: “I’m not really so sure I was programmed for marriage. Maybe I was programmed for exactly what I’m doing. My father died in the war, as you know. And my mother never even considered getting remarried, as far as I know. She did modern dance, and marched for peace, and civil rights, and Israel. That’s all she really cared about, I think. Dancing, and marching.”
“You think.”
Bernhardt shrugged again, thanked the waiter as he served them.
“What about Dancer?” Friedman asked. “What’s he up to—the low life?”
“Same as always—making money. He’s got the knack, you know. I finally figured it out. He decided, early in the game, that he wanted rich clients. Powerful clients. And he’s smart enough, and smooth enough—” Bernhardt swallowed filet of sole, gestured with his fork. “He’s smart enough to cater to them, these power structure types. It doesn’t take any longer to send out a bill for ten thousand than it does for a thousand, you know. It’s the same postage.”
“Dancer has the morals of a puff adder,” Friedman pronounced.
“No argument.”
“Why d’you stay with him? What are you, his conscience? Is that it? Is that why he keeps you around?”
“I stay with him,” Bernhardt answered patiently, “because I want to direct plays—and write plays, too. Which means I have to have outside income. Dancer pays me twice what anyone else in town’ll pay.”
“No one else in town does what he does—divorces, custody work. And child stealing, for God’s sake.”
“That’s not fair. A lot of agencies do divorce work, and you know it. And, anyhow, I don’t do those things. We’ve already been through this, Pete. I don’t do that work. So why’s it get to you, about me and Dancer? Every time I see you, it’s the same old song.”
“Maybe it’s because we’re both Jews, who knows? Or maybe it’s because I spent a couple of years down in Hollywood, making the rounds with my eight-by-ten glossies in my hand. Did I ever tell you about that—when I was young and slim, hitting the talent agencies?”
“Several times.” Bernhardt paused, considered, then decided to ask, “Do you ever wish you’d kept at it, in Hollywood? Any regrets?”
Friedman dropped his eyes to his plate, concentrating on the task of twisting linguini neatly around his fork. Finally, in a lower, softer voice, he said, “If you don’t have regrets, my dad told me once, you haven’t been trying very hard. And my dad was—” As Friedman’s gaze shifted to the door he broke off, nodding. A friend was coming toward them. Turning, Bernhardt saw Frank Hastings, Friedman’s co-lieutenant in Homicide. Waiting for a beleaguered busboy to awkwardly shoulder a trayful of dirty dishes, Hastings was nodding to Bernhardt, quietly smiling. Hastings was Friedman’s exact opposite: laconic not verbose, trim not tubby, methodical not intuitive. Bernhardt had known Hastings before he’d known Friedman. Years ago, after her divorce, Ann Haywood had volunteered to paint sets at the Howell. When she began seeing Hastings, she’d introduced them. Half joking, Bernhardt had once told Hastings that he looked like a casting director’s stereotype of the photogenic police lieutenant: a big, muscular man who’d once played professional football, six feet tall, with good, regular features, understanding eyes, and a knack for choosing the right clothes and wearing them well. Characteristically, Hastings had turned aside the compliment. But Ann had been delighted.
“Hello, Al.” Hastings gestured to their food. “More payola, eh?”
Also gesturing, Bernhardt said, “You’re welcome to join us. Two lieutenants in the pocket’s better than one.”
“I’ve eaten,” Hastings answered. “Besides, we’ve got work to do.” He turned to Friedman. “There’re four people dead out in the Sunset, on Forty-fifth Avenue. Murder and suicide, it looks like—the whole family. When you’re finished here, why don’t you go back to the office and catch for me? I’m going out to have a look, with Canelli and Marsten.” He smiled: dark eyes subtly alive, generously shaped mouth slightly quirked as he dropped his eyes to Friedman’s bulging belly. “Maybe you should pass up dessert. It couldn’t hurt.”
“It couldn’t help, either.” Friedman wound more linguini around his fork. “But I’ll give it some thought. Do the troops know where I am?”
“Yes.”
“Okay—” Friedman swallowed the linguini, waved his fork. “I hope all the victims voided before they expired.” He looked at Bernhardt. “Sorry—an old homicide joke.”
“I’ll be in touch.” Hastings nodded to Bernhardt. “See you soon, Al. Come over for dinner sometime, why don’t you? Ann would like to see you.”
“Fine. Give me a call.” Bernhardt nodded in return, watched Hastings turn, walk away. Hastings moved like an athlete: smoothly, economically, confidently. Bernhardt could imagine Hastings in high school: a star football player, quietly sure of himself, aware of the girls giggling as they passed him in the hallways, secretly adoring.
Friedman finished the linguini, nodded when the waiter offered more coffee. “So what’s next?” Friedman asked. “Will Dancer spring for a trip to Santa Rosa?”
“Of course he’ll spring. How else can he pad his bills? First, though, I’m going to talk to Nora Farley—Betty Giles’ mother. Then I’ll go up to Santa Rosa, stay for a couple of days.” He signaled for the check. “I’ll let you know what happens.”
“Santa Rosa is a sizable place. You’ll have to get lucky, to find her.”
“Maybe her mother will have something for me. Anyhow, I can make the rounds of the hotels and motels.”
“Good luck. Incidentally, you can also come over to my house, for dinner. My wife cooks as good as Ann. Better, maybe. Kosher.”
“It’s a deal. Thanks.”
Nodding, Friedman finished his coffee and stood up, at the same time checking his pager. “Ready?”
“Ready.”