Bernhardt's Edge Read Online Free Page B

bleeding internally.” Pocketing the check, Bernhardt rose, picked up the folder. “This Betty Giles—she’s not dangerous, is she?”
    â€œI don’t think so. She stole some papers, and her employer wants them back. He wants to talk to her, too.”
    â€œWhy do I get the feeling there’s more to it than that?”
    â€œBecause that’s the feeling you always get.”
    â€œAnd I’m usually right.”
    â€œYes,” Dancer admitted, “you usually are. For whatever good it does you.”
    â€œWe’re back to the edge, then.”
    â€œWe always come back to the edge. It’s your fate, Alan.”
    Aware that he was probably behind on points, Bernhardt decided against an exit line. Instead he rose, collected himself, delivered a theatrical snort. He left the office, went to an unoccupied desk in the adjoining office. He consulted a pocket address book, touch-toned a number, waited, frowned, broke the connection, tried another number. Finally: “Yes—is Lieutenant Friedman around, do you know? It’s Alan Bernhardt calling.” As he waited, sitting on one corner of the desk, he flipped open the file folder, looked at the colored picture of Betty Giles. Her face, he decided, looked a little like Pamela’s—the same oval shape, the dark hair, dark eyes, generously shaped mouth, the same—
    â€œYes, all right. Yes, I’ll wait. Thanks.”
    Pamela…
    Over the remains of their pastrami sandwiches, they’d talked till after midnight. He’d walked her to her car, a Honda Civic, parked two blocks away. She’d opened the driver’s door, tossed her shoulder bag and script inside, then turned to face him. They’d smiled at each other, said something meaningless to each other. The moment of truth was upon them—upon them and beyond them. As she’d extended her hand, for a handshake, he’d put his hands on her shoulders, as if he’d meant to give her a comradely clap, or perhaps award her a medal in the French fashion.
    Would it ever change, for him? That sophomoric awkwardness, that eternal comic relief, would it ever—?
    â€œHello—Al?” It was Peter Friedman’s familiar, good-natured rumble, gritty but cordial.
    â€œWhere were you? On the pot?”
    â€œI was trying to figure out what buttons to push on our new six-million-dollar Japanese fingerprint computer. It’s not easy, believe me. What can I do for you?”
    â€œIf I give you a name and an address, can you give me a rundown on a car?”
    â€œIf you buy me a ten-dollar lunch I probably can. That’s the standard arrangement, you know.”
    â€œIt’s a deal. Can you run it this morning—and have lunch today?”
    â€œNo problem. What’s the name?”
    â€œIt’s Betty Giles. G-I-L-E-S. Or maybe Elizabeth.” He looked at the fact sheet, read off the address in Los Angeles. Friedman read it back, and they agreed on The Castle Grand, at twelve-thirty.

2
    A S HE ALWAYS DID when he saw Friedman, Bernhardt smiled, quietly amused. Whatever the occasion, Friedman always managed to look vaguely incongruous, dressed for the wrong place, at the wrong time. Yet, obviously, Friedman couldn’t possibly care less. At two hundred forty pounds, graying, with a smooth, swarthy Buddha’s face, Friedman projected an air of amiable indifference to his surroundings. His dark eyes were heavily lidded—seeing everything, revealing nothing. During the five years they’d known each other, Bernhardt had never seen Friedman surprised, or flustered, or at a loss for words.
    Now, lolling at his ease, belly up, Friedman airily waved, beckoning for Bernhardt to join him at the tastefully set French country table. As always, the homicide detective was dressed in a wrinkled, rumpled three-piece suit, a haphazardly knotted tie, and a shirt with its collar mashed by Friedman’s sizable double