Silent Witness Read Online Free PDF Page A

knew. Since Connie had died, almost exactly two months ago, she couldn’t remember smiling, not really smiling, with genuine pleasure. Perfunctorily, yes. Dutifully, yes. Sadly, certainly. But, until now, she hadn’t really smiled. For this small boon, she realized that she could thank Alan Bernhardt. He was one of those quiet, perceptive men who could help the healing process. He listened. He considered. He thought before he spoke. She remembered Paula’s account of his life: everyone close to him dead, beginning with the father who was killed before Alan was born. And ending with his wife, a victim of random street violence.
    She watched him as he bent over his yellow pad, earnestly frowning as he wrote. He was a tall, lean man, slightly stooped. His complexion was dark, unmistakably Semitic. The nose was long and slightly hooked, the forehead and cheeks were furrowed, prematurely aged. It was a thoughtful face, a reassuring face—a face deeply etched by both pain and compassion. There was sadness in the face, but no bitterness—anguish, but no anger. His dark eyes were expressive, his mouth firm. His dark hair was thick and only casually combed. The glasses went with the face—serious, horn-rimmed glasses; but they were high styled, suggesting that, yes, appearances counted, yet another hint of the man behind the face—and the actor behind the man.
    Would they marry, Paula and Bernhardt? Should they marry? When she saw them together, perhaps she would know.
    “What’s the name of the winery again?” Bernhardt was asking.
    “Brookside.”
    “Is it a boutique winery?”
    She nodded. “Exactly. It’s the trendy thing, you know, to have a winery. A wonderful spot for weekend parties.”
    “Was your sister trendy?”
    She hesitated, then decided to say, “Connie wasn’t really sure what she was, I don’t think. ‘Trendy’ doesn’t fit, though, not really. But—” She dropped her voice. “But Dennis is trendy. Definitely trendy.”
    Bernhardt nodded, reflected for a moment, then said, “Does Dennis know you’re hiring a private investigator?”
    “No.”
    “When’s the last time you talked to him?”
    “A little less than a week ago. I call once a week, to talk to John. Dennis always answers the phone—and listens in.”
    “Paula told me a little about your family history. John is your only blood relative.”
    “Yes. Except for an aunt, who has Alzheimer’s.”
    “And you and your sister were very close.”
    “Our parents died when Connie was only ten. I was sixteen. Our aunt came to live with us, my father’s sister. But I really raised Connie. Florence—our aunt—” She shook her head, shrugged.
    Bernhardt’s nod was sympathetic, but his next question was professionally matter-of-fact: “You haven’t seen John since the funeral. Dennis won’t let you spend any time alone with him. Is that right?”
    “Yes.”
    “I can understand how that would be painful for you. But—” Bernhardt hesitated, choosing the phrase. “But I’m not sure it’s necessarily suspicious. If he says he’s protecting John from pain, maybe you should give him the benefit of the doubt.”
    She decided to smile. This time it was a humorless smile, the hallmark of her life since her sister’s death. “You don’t have a very strong profit motive, do you?”
    He guffawed, then shrugged. It was a reprise of a sheepish, small boy’s shrug. “Touché.”
    They sat silently for a moment, each regarding the other with growing trust. Finally Bernhardt said, “Give me a rundown on Connie and Dennis. Start as far back as you can. I’ve discovered that helps—the histories, the bios. I know a little of Connie’s story, from Paula—and your story, too. Your father was rich. You grew up in Santa Barbara, in Montecito. I know your parents died when Connie was only ten.” He broke off, gestured that the story was hers to finish.
    As she nodded acknowledgment of her cue, Bernhardt saw a shadow of sadness