Bernhardt's Edge Read Online Free PDF Page B

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.”
    â€œSanta Rosa is a sizable place. You’ll have to get lucky, to find her.”
    â€œMaybe her mother will have something for me. Anyhow, I can make the rounds of the hotels and motels.”
    â€œGood luck. Incidentally, you can also come over to my house, for dinner. My wife cooks as good as Ann. Better, maybe. Kosher.”
    â€œIt’s a deal. Thanks.”
    Nodding, Friedman finished his coffee and stood up, at the same time checking his pager. “Ready?”
    â€œReady.”

3
    T HE 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.
    â€œMrs. 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.
    â€œI’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.
    â€œWh—what is it? What’s happened to her? Is it—was there an accident?”
    â€œNothing’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.
    â€œHave you got a few minutes, Mrs. Farley? Can we talk?”
    â€œWell—” She hesitated, glanced uncertainly over her shoulder, finally stepped back. “Well, okay. The place is kind of a mess,