Silent Witness by Collin Wilcox Read Free Book Online Page B

murderer.
    And John? At age seven, the only son of star-crossed parents, how did John fit into the puzzle? Had John been a witness to his mother’s murder?
    As if the thought had materialized into substance, he saw a small boy on a bike. Riding fast downhill, coasting, feet off the pedals, head gleefully flung back, abandoned to the thrill of speed, the boy came whizzing down the narrow macadam access road that led from the surrounding vineyards to the winery buildings. The road dipped at the winery buildings, then rose to join the graveled road that led to the Price family home, over the low crest of the hill. As he began to lose speed on the upgrade, the boy lowered his feet to the pedals, lowered his head, and began pumping. The boy was about seven, a classic Tom Sawyer boy: towheaded, freckle faced, blue eyes, pug nose, slim of limb and torso. Without doubt, this was John Price.
    Bernhardt swung open his driver’s door and stepped out into the warm August sunshine. The boy was abreast of him now, pedaling harder, losing speed to the rising road. Should he call out to the boy, pretend to ask directions, hopefully to strike up a conversation? No, it would be a bad beginning. If the boy braked he would lose momentum, lose his contest with gravity. To a bike rider, stored downhill momentum was precious.
    The boy was standing up on the pedals now, working hard. As, yes, he made the crest of the rise. Watching the towhead disappear, Bernhardt heard closeby voices. Turning, he saw three men approaching the candy-striped boss pickup. The man in the center was taller than his two companions, and plainly exercised a kind of freewheeling authority. Dressed in tight blue jeans and a tight red T-shirt, the tall man had the muscles of a weight lifter and the dark, snapping eyes of a lead tenor: Carmen’s Don Juan, incarnate. His thick black hair was curly, another operatic cliché. And, yes, the phrase that best described the tall man’s features was ruggedly handsome. His manner, the restless energy in his voice, and his pattern of movement all suggested the final cliché: animal magnetism.
    As the three men came closer, the sound of the tall man’s voice separated into words: “I think you’d better figure it both ways, Cal. Give me a flat quote, then give me an estimate on the materials, if we decide to do it time and materials.”
    “Right.” One of the men nodded briskly. He carried a clipboard with an air of authority.
    “You understand,” the tall man said, “that you’ve got to work the numbers out tonight, and bring them by tomorrow morning. And you’ve got to be ready to start Monday, first thing. We’ve got to have that press working by this time next week. There’s no other way. None.”
    “Jesus, Al—” The shorter man shook his head. “Five days—” Sighing, he swung open the driver’s door of the pickup as his companion got into the truck on the other side. “I can try for Friday. But I can’t guarantee it, not a hundred percent. I mean, things can happen, you know, on a job like this.”
    As the car’s engine blanked out the rest of it, Bernhardt considered. “Al,” one of the men had said, suggesting that this handsome man with his stuntman’s muscles and his rich, restless voice could be the foreman, Al Martelli, the man who had been present at the murder scene when Sheriff Fowler arrived.
    As he thoughtfully listened to the three men say their country-style good-byes, Bernhardt decided on his tactical persona: the brisk, bluff, savvy, completely self-assured detective who, nevertheless, knew enough to mind his manners. When the pickup began to back away, he stepped forward: three long, firm strides, setting the tone. His voice, too, was firm as he extended his outstretched hand, confidence incarnate.
    “Mr. Martelli?”
    Half-turned away, the tall man turned back to face him. “That’s right …” Martelli’s face was noncommittal as he grasped Bernhardt’s outstretched hand.