Full Circle by Collin Wilcox Read Free Book Online Page A

whining.
    “I believe that Raymond DuBois is retaining you.”
    “Well, sir, you’re mistaken.” But as he said it he could feel himself losing focus. The lines were slipping away; he’d lost his place in the script. He’d never been good at lying; it was an occupational handicap.
    Haigh sighed. “I don’t believe you, Bernhardt. I think you’re lying to me.” As if he were pained by the necessity of making the accusation, Haigh spoke gently, regretfully.
    Bernhardt shrugged, said nothing.
    “Yesterday when you were asked whether you’d ever talked directly to Raymond DuBois, you refused to answer the question. Is that still your position?”
    “I said that until I knew the reasons for—”
    “Cut the shit, Bernhardt.” It was a harsh bully-boy’s retort. “Just answer the fucking question. Now .”
    The sudden shock of the obscenity produced a flare of anger. “You told me yesterday that if I told you where to find Betty, I could walk out the door and go about my business. And now you’re squeezing me. That’s bullshit. We had a deal.”
    “When I say we’ve got a deal, then that’s when we’ve got a deal. Not before. Have you got that, Bernhardt?”
    “If you want to take me into custody and make a charge”—Bernhardt pushed back the leather armchair on its easy-roll casters, rose to his feet—“then you’d better make it. Otherwise, I’ve got an appointment. Sorry.” He contrived a small, insulting smile and walked to the door.
    “Don’t do it, Bernhardt. I’m warning you. Don’t open that door.”
    “Sorry,” he repeated as he turned the knob.

SIX
    “M R. BERNHARDT.” IT WAS a statement, not a question.
    About to twist the key and open the Honda Civic’s door, Bernhardt straightened, turned to face a smiling, affably nodding, middle-aged man standing on the sidewalk a few feet from the car.
    “Open-faced” and “convincing” were the adjectives that came to mind. “Gregarious” fitted, too, and a quick appraisal of the stranger’s tweed sports jacket, flannel trousers, button-down shirt, and soft wool tie suggested “Ivy League.”
    “John Graham,” the newcomer said, extending his hand. Predictably his grip was firm, but not competitive. “If you’ve got a few minutes, I’d like to talk to you.” As he spoke, he took a business card from an inside pocket of the expensively cut houndstooth jacket.
JOHN GRAHAM
    Special Accounts
    The Consolidated Insurance Group
    New York, London, Berne, Tokyo, Frankfurt
    “If you’ve got a few minutes,” Graham said, “I’d like to discuss something with you. A business proposition.”
    Bernhardt reflexively ran a thumb over the card. Predictably, it was engraved. “I’ve only got a few minutes now. But—” He smiled. “I’m always interested in a business proposition.”
    Graham consulted a thin gold watch as he said, “I’m staying at the Fairmont. What about four o’clock, in my room?”
    “How about four-thirty?”
    “Four-thirty is fine.”
    “Can you give me a general idea of what we’ll be talking about?”
    “We’ll be talking about art, Mr. Bernhardt. Art and insurance. And losses. And settlements. Very large settlements.” Graham’s manner had become more somber, perhaps out of respect for the magnitude of the sums he meant to discuss.
    John Graham’s two-room suite was expensively decorated in imitation Italian Renaissance. The antiqued white and gold tables were claw-footed, cupids adorned the living room’s cornices, the crystal chandeliers sparkled, the velvet upholstery was luxuriously soft to the touch. The view swept across downtown San Francisco and out over the bay to Berkeley. The daily rate, Bernhardt estimated, would be at least five hundred dollars.
    As Graham waved him to an armchair he smiled cordially. “Is it too early for a drink, do you think?”
    “Whatever you say.” Bernhardt returned the smile.
    “I figure you for a white-wine man,” Graham said. “Am I