THE ADDRESS FOR NORA Farley was a small bungalow in the Ingleside District, a marginal neighborhood in slow, grim decline. The street was potholed, the sidewalks were cracked, and most of the streetlights were broken. A vacant lot was littered with refuse. To his right, Bernhardt saw a derelict car, completely stripped, resting on its brake drums. The Ingleside was an “R-3” district, where fast-buck real estate speculators had taken advantage of a lapse in zoning laws to throw up the small, cheaply built “low rise” stucco apartment buildings that were crowding out the few remaining single family dwellings.
Nora Farley was obviously doing her best to hold her own against the decay that surrounded her. The bungalow’s small front yard was neatly planted; the frilled curtains at the windows were freshly starched and carefully hung. But the bungalow’s stucco walls were cracking, and badly needed paint. The gutters were rusting, and a vent pipe leaned at a precarious angle. Nora Farley apparently had the will, but lacked the money.
Bernhardt pushed open a sagging gate, stepped up to stand on the “welcome” doormat, and pressed the bell button. He was wearing a sports jacket and tie; his hair was carefully combed. When the door opened, he was ready with a reassuring smile and an extended business card.
“Mrs. Farley? Nora Farley?”
She was a short, dumpy woman with a pale, lumpy face, washed-out eyes, and dark brown hair, imperfectly dyed and haphazardly arranged. She wore belly-bulged blue jeans and an incongruous “49ers” sweatshirt that outlined large, pendulous breasts. She was squinting into the afternoon sun, eyes puckered, mouth askew, as a child might squint up at an adult. Except for harshly penciled eyebrows, she wore no makeup. As she searched his face, she nodded. Yes, she was Nora Farley.
“I’m Alan Bernhardt, Mrs. Farley. I’ve come about Betty.”
Sudden apprehension clouded her eyes, twisted her mouth. Stepping away from him, she raised anxious hands, as if to defend herself.
“Wh—what is it? What’s happened to her? Is it—was there an accident?”
“Nothing’s happened to her, Mrs. Farley. As far as I know, she’s fine. I’m a private investigator. My firm has been retained by Betty’s employer to try and find her.” He paused, watching her face, waiting for her reaction. He’d given no thought to his opening questions. Long ago, he’d learned to improvise, relying on moment-to-moment impressions for his cues. And, yes, he could see fear in her small, dull eyes. He’d reassured her, told her that Betty was all right. But, still, she was worried. Deeply worried.
It was a good starting point. Nora Farley was a simple person, essentially a defensive person. Properly manipulated, her vulnerability should prove a plus.
But first it was necessary to gain her confidence, convince her that they were on the same side. He must therefore smile, make warm, reassuring eye contact. He was an actor again, turning on an actor’s charm.
“Have you got a few minutes, Mrs. Farley? Can we talk?”
“Well—” She hesitated, glanced uncertainly over her shoulder, finally stepped back. “Well, okay. The place is kind of a mess, but—” She turned, walked into a small living room. The room was furnished in department store early American. Everything was ruffled: curtains, lamp shades, chair skirts. A huge TV in an early American cabinet dominated the room. Soap opera characters moved on the screen, soundlessly. The plastic recliner in front of the TV still bore the outline of Nora Farley’s buttocks. A calico cat crouched on the back of the recliner, watching Bernhardt with yellow eyes. Another cat crouched on the back of a maple rocker. Ignoring the calico cat, Nora Farley sat in the recliner, used a remote control wand to switch off the TV, and gestured Bernhardt to a maple loveseat. As he sat down, Bernhardt sneezed. For as long as he could remember, he’d been allergic to cat fur.
“Where’s Betty, anyhow?” she asked. “Do you know?”
“I don’t. That’s why I’m here. I’m hoping you can help me.”
The brown-penciled eyebrows drew together; the small mouth puckered, as if she were puzzled.
“You say you’re with Powers, Associates?”
“I’m not with them, not on the staff. They’ve hired us, my firm.” He gestured with the card, placed it on the coffee table. “I’m with Herbert Dancer, Limited. We’ve been retained to find her. By Powers, Associates, you see. They’re—” He hesitated, deciding on the next phrase: “They’re concerned about her, at Powers, Associates. She left without telling them, giving notice. So, naturally, they’re worried. You are, too, probably.”
“You bet I am. I’m worried sick.”
“We’re on the same side, then. Good.” Smiling again, another actor’s turn, he produced a spiral-bound pocket notebook and a ballpoint pen. “You, Powers, Associates, my people—we all want the same thing.”
“Except that I don’t know where she is.” It was a plaintive, resigned protest, addressed more to the deity than to Bernhardt.
“When’s the last time you heard from her, Mrs. Farley?”
“About—let’s see—about a week ago, I guess. Maybe ten days. I forget, exactly.”
“Ten days—” According to the handwritten note he’d gotten from Dancer, Betty Giles had disappeared four or five weeks ago, in Los Angeles. “Did you actually see her? Or did she phone?”
“She phoned.”
“As I understand it, she moved out of her apartment in Los Angeles about a month ago. Is that right?”
She nodded. “About then. And that’s what worries me, see. I mean, it’s not like Betty to do something like that—just pick up and move, leave town, like a—a thief in the night, or something. She wouldn’t do that.” It was another complaint, directed toward heaven.
“How many times have you talked to her since she moved out of her apartment?”
“Well, she called just the night before she left L.A., the way I get it. And she talked real strange, when she called. Real strange. She was nervous. I could tell she was nervous, just the way she talked, and everything. She was trying not to let on, but I could tell.”
“What’d she say, exactly, when she called? Do you remember?”
“Well, that’s the point, see. I mean, she kept interrupting herself, and every once in a while she covered up the phone, and said something to—” She grimaced. “She was talking to that—that Nick. I know she was. He’s the cause of all this, sure as hell. I know he’s at the bottom of it, whatever’s happened.”
“Who’s Nick?”
“His last name is Ames. He moved in with her about a year ago, I guess it was. I never knew he’d moved in for about three months, which shows you, right there, that she knew it was wrong, to be living with him. And then, maybe three, four months ago, they had a fight, I guess. Anyhow, he walked out on her, for about a week. And she called me, and it all came out, how he started by moving in for a weekend, and then he just never left.” Dolefully, she shook her head. “That’s always been Betty’s problem. Men. Even when she was in high school, she always went out with the—you know—the greasy-haired ones. It never failed. Never.” She drew a deep, agonized breath. “It happened to her just the way it happened to me, with men. They just—some men—they just walk right over you. The nicer you try to treat them, the worse they act, honest to God.”
“Have you ever seen Nick Ames, ever met him?”
“No. And the only time Betty ever talked about him was just that once. That’s because she was ashamed of him.”
“What does he do? What kind of work?”
She shook her head, sucked sharply at her teeth, waved a peevish hand. “How should I know what he does?”
“When you talked to him the night before she left Los Angeles, what’d she say, exactly? Do you remember?”
“Sure, I remember. She said that her job folded, and that she was going to leave—get out of town, she said. But I could tell, just by the way she was talking, that she wasn’t telling the truth. I don’t mean she was lying, I don’t mean that. Because Betty doesn’t lie. It’s just that she was keeping something back. I could feel it, that she was keeping something back.”
“What’d you think it was, that she wasn’t telling you?”
“Well, it’s nothing I could put my finger on, like I said. But mostly—” As if she were laboriously puzzling out the problem, she frowned, shook her head, pressed her lips together. “Mostly I guess it was what she said about her job. I mean, Betty had a good job. Like, that time she called me, when Nick walked out on her, and she was crying, and everything, she talked about it, how good her job was, and how much money she made. She was saying it like, you know, like she couldn’t understand it, how she did so good in her work, and everything, but she always ended up with these losers, these men. I mean, my God, one of them even had a prison record, if you can believe that.”
“That wasn’t Nick Ames, though.” Asking the question, Bernhardt thought of Friedman, and another favor for another lunch. Invariably, Dancer questioned the chits Bernhardt submitted for his “Friedman lunches.”
“No,” she answered, “that was years ago, that she was hanging around with that crook, whatever his name was. He stole from her, that guy. Stole from her purse, for God’s sake.”
“What’s Betty do? What kind of work?”
“Well, I’ve never been sure, not really. I mean, I know she worked for Powers, Associates, and I know she did research for them. But that’s all she ever said, about her job.”
“What’s her field?”
“Well, that’s the funny thing, see. Because her field is art history. And I can’t see what that’d have to do with investments, which is what Powers, Associates does, the way I understand it. But Betty’s smart. She’s always been real smart. I mean, let’s face it, she never had any of the advantages. I mean, her father—Giles—he walked out on me when Betty was six months old, if you can believe that. And Farley, he walked out, too, when Betty was about five. So, God knows, I could never do much for Betty, at least not financially. But Betty worked at the dime store, all through high school. And she got into U.C. Berkeley on a scholarship. And she worked when she went to college, too. It took her five years, because she had to work. And then, a few years out of college, she got this real good job, with Standard Oil.”
“What kind of a job?”
“It was in their—I think they call it their—” She broke off, shook her head resignedly. “God, my memory, I swear. I can’t—” She interrupted herself: “It was their Community Arts Program, something like that. Anyhow, they used—you know—paintings, and statues, and everything, in their offices, and when they put on exhibitions. And Betty and one other person—a man—they did it all. It was—” Unpredictably, she blinked, wiped at her eyes with awkward, stubby fingers, swallowed hard. “It was wonderful, what she did. Just wonderful. I—I was so proud of her. I mean, I just—you know—graduated from high school, and—” She broke off again, swallowed again, wiped at her eyes again. Then, speaking in a low, clogged voice, she said, “I always did everything I could for her, though. Always. I’ve always worked. I never made real good money. But we always managed, Betty and me. And I—I—” She shook her head, silently staring down at the floor. Almost whispering, she said, “I always loved her. She—she was all I had, you see—all I ever had.”
Surprised at the sudden emotion that momentarily blocked a response, Bernhardt cleared his throat—while one corner of his playwright’s mind registered the scene, for future use.
He let a moment pass, while she recovered. Then, gently, he asked, “When did she go to Los Angeles, Mrs. Farley?”
Sighing raggedly, she raised her eyes. “It was about three years ago, that she went. She didn’t really want to go. I mean, she didn’t apply for the job, or anything. They heard about her, came up here, asked her if she’d like to apply for a job, in Los Angeles.”
“Did she say what the job involved?”
“Well, as far as I could see—the way she talked—it was going to be the same kind of work she was doing for Standard Oil. And I guess that’s what she thought, too. But the thing is, she’d never say anything about what she was doing, down in L.A. She’d never talk about her work, when she used to come up for weekends. But then—” Sadly, she sighed. “But then, I never knew anything about art, or anything like that. I never—” She began picking at the plastic arm of her recliner, watching her fingers. “I never—you know—went to the exhibitions, or the openings, or anything. Betty would always invite me, like she really wanted me to go. But I—I knew better. I’d—sometimes I’d go by, when no one was around. But—” Biting a trembling lower lip, she let it go unfinished.
Looking away, Bernhardt sat in silence for a moment. Then, softly, he asked, “Does Betty know anyone in Santa Rosa, Mrs. Farley?”
“Santa Rosa?” Uncertainly, she looked at him, then slowly shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. Why?”
“Just curious. When you talked to her last week, did she tell you where she was, what she intended to do?”
“All she said was that she and Nick were traveling, that they’d probably be traveling for another month or so.”
“Did she plan to go back to Los Angeles, after she’d finished traveling?”
She frowned. “I don’t know. She never said. I guess I just always thought that—” She shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Mrs. Farley—” Bernhardt leaned forward, pointed to the card he’d left on the cluttered coffee table. “I’ve left my card. It’s got both numbers, my home and my office. I wish you’d keep it, and call me when Betty calls again. Maybe, when the conversation is fresh in your mind, you can think of something that’ll help us find her. Will you do that?”
“Okay—” Transparently doubtful, she spoke warily.
Rising to his feet, smiling as reassuringly as he could, Bernhardt said, “I’ll be going now, Mrs. Farley. But I hope you’ll call me. And if I find out anything, I’ll call you. Okay?” As she rose heavily to her feet, Bernhardt began moving to the front door. With his hand on the knob he turned back, as if he’d just remembered a wayward thought.
“I meant to ask you,” he said, “was Betty in any trouble, when she was younger?”
“Trouble? What kind of trouble?”
“Oh, you know—” Still smiling—fatuously, he knew—he waved a casual hand. “The kind of trouble that kids can get into, in high school. Drugs, things like that. Did she—?”
“I’ve already told you—” Indignantly, she raised her chin, bowed her back, truculently planted her feet before him. “I’ve already told you, Betty is a good girl. A good girl.”