Bernhardt's Edge by Collin Wilcox Read Free Book Online Page A

highway leading to the southern fringe of Santa Rosa. On the right, a large green sign announced an entrance to the Route 101 freeway, south to San Francisco, north to Red Bluff. But instead of moving right, into the freeway-bound lane, the driver of the Toyota was signaling for another left turn, which he made immediately, clear of oncoming traffic. The two cars between them continued straight ahead, so that Bernhardt’s Ford and the Toyota were alone, traveling east on a two-lane feeder road.
    If he were a policeman, a detective, Bernhardt would have called for backup by now. He could have fallen back, let another car take up the rolling surveillance. Or, better, he could have passed the Toyota, ostentatiously turned off in another direction while he listened to his radio, heard his fellow officers closing the electronic net.
    Electronic networking—forensics—fingerprint technology—firepower—computer printouts—these were the basic tools of law enforcement, all of them beyond the P.I.’s reach. Leaving him doing now what he’d done so often before, vainly trying to make himself invisible while he kept a suspect vehicle in sight.
    He let the Ford slow as, ahead, the Toyota turned into a briskly traveled four-lane highway, keeping to the right. Cautiously following, Bernhardt saw the Toyota suddenly turn again, this time driving beneath a large arched sign that proclaimed the Starlight Motel. Beneath the sign, red neon letters spelled out “vacancy.”
    Smiling to himself, eyes front, Bernhardt drove past the motel entrance. He would circle the block, return, register at the Starlight Motel. Then he’d give Dancer the good news.
    Sitting on the edge of the bed facing the room’s single window, phone cradled to his ear, Bernhardt shook his head. “No, I haven’t actually seen her, seen her face. And I didn’t want to ask the clerk about them, for fear they’d hear about it. But it’s almost six, so they’ll probably be going out to dinner.” He broke off, listened, then nodded. “Right. They’re directly across the court. Unit number twelve. I can see their door, so there’s no way they can leave without my seeing them. And I’ve seen a woman inside, moving around.” He paused again, listened again. Then: “So what’d you think? Maybe you should send someone up. I mean, I can’t stay awake all the time, and they could leave in the middle of the night.”
    The line went silent as Dancer considered. Finally: “I’ll get back to you in an hour or two,” Dancer said. “Do you have food?”
    â€œNo. But there’s a grocery store right across the street. So I’m—” As he spoke, the door to number twelve swung open. A woman was coming out—a brunette, medium build. Unmistakably, Betty Giles.
    â€œWhat is it?” Dancer was asking.
    â€œIt’s her,” Bernhardt answered, instinctively drawing back from the window as he watched the man lock the door to number twelve and follow Betty Giles along a brick walk toward the motel’s coffee shop. “It’s her,” he repeated. “And they’re going to the coffee shop, not even leaving in the car. So everything’s cool.” As he said it, he was aware of the small, secret rush he’d always felt, on first sighting. It was a primitive pleasure, he realized: an elemental huntsman’s thrill, catching his first clear glimpse of an elusive prey.
    â€œGood,” Dancer was saying. “ Good .”

2
    N AKED EXCEPT FOR A pair of mulberry-colored bikini briefs, Willis Dodge lifted his chin, sucked in his stomach, arched his back, clasped his hands together, and tensed his torso, the muscleman’s trick, posing for beefcake. Critically eyeing the head-to-toe effect in the bathroom’s mirrored wall, his attention centered on the waist. Yes, there was a thickening, especially on each side, just