SHE TURNED HER SHOULDER bag upside down on the couch, emptied it, sorted through the contents. If the card wasn’t in her wallet, then it must be—yes: ALAN BERNHARDT, INVESTIGATIONS. She took the card to the phone, punched out the number. Her fingers were unsteady. Her mouth was dry. When she heard Bernhardt’s voice on the answering machine she felt herself go hollow. It was, she knew, associative, a word she’d just learned. With Bernhardt’s voice, she associated the terror remembered: Bodies wrapped in blankets. Jeff, lying beside the road, staring sightlessly at the sky.
Should she hang up, steady herself, try again? She should have taken a pill before she called. She should have—
The beep. She was on.
“Mr. Bernhardt. Alan. This is Diane Cutler. It’s about three o’clock Friday afternoon. And I wanted to tell you that—”
“Diane.” Yes, it was his voice. And, in the background, a dog barking. Loudly. “Wait just a second, Diane. I just walked in, and this Airedale’s going crazy. Can you hold on?”
“Yes …”
“Just a second, then. The plan is to get a dog biscuit, throw it out in the garden, and hope for the best.”
And, moments later, he was back on the line. “Sorry. Airedales are great dogs. But they’re—ah—taxing.”
“I can tell.”
“So what can I do for you?”
“Well, I—I just had lunch with my dad. I just got home from having lunch. And he said that, Monday night, someone called him asking about me—someone who gave him a false name.”
“When you say ‘asking about you,’ what d’you mean? Did he sound like a bill collector, someone official?”
“He said he was a friend of mine, that his name was John Williams, I think that was it. And my dad said he sounded like he knew all about my plans, where I’d be, what I’m doing. But the thing is, I didn’t tell anyone I was coming here. Nobody.”
“And you’re worried about it.”
“Someone killed Jeff. And now someone’s tracking me.”
She heard him draw a deep breath. “You’re assuming that Jeff’s death is connected to the disappearance of your stepfather’s girlfriend. And if that’s true, maybe it’s logical that this guy—John Williams—is tracking you for some dark purpose. But there’s another scenario. It could be that the two events are unrelated. It could be—”
“What I’d like is some protection.”
Once more, she heard him draw a deep, reluctant breath. “And I’d like to offer you some protection, if only to ease your mind. But I’ve got to be honest with you, Diane. And the truth is, I run a one-man operation. There’s me and an answering machine and that’s it. And—”
“But, Christ, I’m trying to tell you that—”
“Wait. Let me finish.” It was a crisp, stern command. “If I provided protection for you—a bodyguard—I’d have to hire someone by the hour. I’d have to pay someone—a free-lancer—twenty-five or thirty dollars an hour. Then I’d have to add ten dollars to that, for overhead.”
“So we’re back to money, you and me.”
“I need money.”
“I thought Carley gave you some money.”
“She gave me a two-hundred-dollar retainer, and said she’d go to five hundred, total. If I hire someone to guard you, one shift at forty dollars an hour, that’s the end of the five hundred.”
“What about Kane? Have you tried to find him?”
“I’ve tried the airports, looking for your stepfather’s airplane. No luck.”
“Kane might’ve been the one who called my father.”
“Anything’s possible. But, offhand, I can’t think why he’d use a fake name. After all, you know he’s here. He knocked on your door.”
“He’s a shifty bastard. I’ve already told you that.”
“I know. And I’d like to talk to him. It just hasn’t worked out.”
“Yeah …” As she said it, she looked at her watch. How long had they been talking? Fifteen minutes? Billable? Lawyers, she knew, charged two hundred dollars just to talk on the phone, give advice.
How much did her father charge?
How much would her father pay, for someone to protect her?
Why couldn’t she tell her father what happened? Why couldn’t she—?
“Diane?”
“Yes?” She tried to put it all in a single word: all the questions, all the anger.
“I’ve just had a thought.”
“A thought?”
“I’ve got a friend—a good friend—who wants to learn the business. This might be a good place for her to start.”
“‘Her’?”
“You might not realize it, but more than a third of the private detectives are women. And they make damn good investigators, too. In lots of situations, women can get more information than men can get.”
“So what’ll she do if someone goes for me? Scream? Christ, I can do that.”
“You’re going to laugh at this, but I’m going to tell you what she’d do. She’d blow her whistle. You’d be amazed what the bad guys do, when they hear a police whistle.”
“Jesus.”
“Then there’re car phones.”
“Hmmm.”
“Shall I talk to her?”
“I’m going out tonight. Carley and her boyfriend and I are going to the movies.”
“Will you be home for the next couple of hours?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Stay put. My—ah—assistant will call you, make the arrangements.”
“A woman …”
“Believe me, she’ll deliver. And I’ll be backstopping her.”
“You will?”
“Guaranteed.”
“What’s her name?”
“It’s Paula. Paula Brett.”
“What is she, some kind of lady jock? Is that it?”
“No,” Bernhardt answered, “that’s definitely not it.”