Bernhardt's Edge Read Online Free PDF

that work. So why’s it get to you, about me and Dancer? Every time I see you, it’s the same old song.”
    â€œMaybe 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?”
    â€œSeveral 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.
    â€œHello, 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.”
    â€œI’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.”
    â€œIt 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?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œOkay—” 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.”
    â€œI’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.”
    â€œFine. 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?”
    â€œOf 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