Full Circle Read Online Free

question. Do you know Betty Giles?”
    “The answer,” Bernhardt said, “is yes, I know Betty Giles. But I’m not going to elaborate until I know where this is going.”
    “When we want you to know where it’s going,” Haigh said, “we’ll tell you.”
    “Am I being treated as a suspect? Are we on the same side, or what?”
    “Do you know Betty Giles’s present whereabouts?” Haigh asked.
    Bernhardt sat up straighter in the leather armchair, folded his arms, met Haigh’s gaze squarely—and said nothing.
    “Listen, Bernhardt …” Haigh’s voice dropped ominously. His fingers were spread wide on the rosewood conference table, as if he were restraining himself from gouging the wood with his fingernails. The fingernails, Bernhardt noticed, might be manicured.
    “You’re a very small cog in this investigation,” Haigh said. “The only reason you’re here is that we’re looking for Betty Giles. So if you feel like cooperating—telling us where to find her—” Haigh’s bureaucratic mask contrived an ingratiating smile as he gestured down the long conference table to the door. “Then you’re free to go—with the Bureau’s thanks.”
    “The problem is,” Bernhardt replied, “that I’ve promised not to reveal her current whereabouts.”
    Haigh’s response came quickly, smoothly. “Who’d you promise? Betty Giles? Or Raymond DuBois?”
    Bernhardt made no reply.
    “ Why’d you promise?” Archer asked. “Was it personal? Or professional?”
    “The problem with this discussion,” Bernhardt said, “is that it isn’t a discussion.”
    “Oh.” Haigh’s voice was heavy with sarcasm. Repeating: “Oh. You don’t feel we’re being candid. Is that it?”
    Eyes level, mouth firm, Bernhardt made no response. For a long, hostile moment the two men eyed each other. Then Haigh spoke softly, in a cold, precise voice: “If you’ve got any smarts at all, you’ve figured out that this”—he tapped the microphone—“could be just a blind. You probably figured there might be a microphone under the desk that’s picking up everything we say. There could even be a hidden camera.”
    Bernhardt decided to affect a world-weary smile, followed by a world-weary nod.
    “Well,” Haigh said, “to demonstrate that there’s no concealed microphone, I’m going to favor you with a rundown of what I’m thinking about you and your future.” His pale, prissy face registered a wintry pleasure, a latent sadism. “Would you appreciate that?”
    “Oh, yes.” In the words, Bernhardt tried to distill the essence of irony.
    “First of all,” Haigh said, “you’re a gnat. You’re of no significance whatever. The Bureau chews up people like you every day. Every hour, maybe—that’s how powerful we are. Are you with me so far?”
    “Oh, yes. I’m with you.” And, in silent counterpoint, his secret self was kicking in: I’m with you, you pampered, pompous asshole, you puffed-up, slicked-down jerk.
    “We know all about Betty Giles,” Haigh said. “We know she and her boyfriend were blackmailing Raymond Dubois. After the boyfriend was killed in Santa Rosa, probably after you fingered him, we know that Betty Giles tried to hide out down in Borrego Springs, in the desert. You followed her. Then, surprise, a professional hit man showed up. He decided to toss a Molotov cocktail in Betty’s window. He’d burn her out, then kill her—that was obviously the plan. Instead, though, his Molotov cocktail exploded as it went through the window, and the hit man—his name was Willis Dodge—got turned into an instant human torch. Are you with me so far?”
    “I’m with you.” Bernhardt was satisfied with his own response. His eyes, he could feel, were clear and alert, revealing no fear.
    “When the sheriff arrived on the scene, he found you and Betty Giles. He also found a sawed-off shotgun that had been fired. You admitted that the shotgun was yours. You told the sheriff that you fired in self-defense when you