Joshua hung up and stared at the telephone.
Finally he sipped his whiskey.
A double for Bruno Frye? A dead ringer?
Suddenly, he remembered the light he had thought he'd seen in Bruno's house at three o'clock Monday morning. He'd spotted it on his way back to bed from the bathroom, but when he'd put on his glasses, there had been no light. He'd figured that his eyes had played a trick on him. But perhaps the light had been real. Perhaps the man who had looted those Pacific United accounts had been in Bruno's house, looking for something.
Joshua had been to the house yesterday, had taken a brisk five-minute tour to be certain everything was as it should be, and he had not noticed anything awry.
Why had Bruno kept secret bank accounts in San Francisco?
Was there a dead ringer, a double?
Who? And why?
Damn!
Evidently, overseeing the complete and final settlement of the Frye estate was not going to be as short and easy a job as he had thought.
***
At six o'clock Tuesday evening, as Tony swung the Jeep into the street that ran past his apartment building, Hilary felt more awake than she had all day. She had entered that peculiar second-wind state of grainy-eyed alertness that came after being awake for a day and a half. Suddenly, the body and the mind seemed to decide to made the best of this forced consciousness; and, by some chemical trick, the flesh and the spirit were renewed. She stopped yawning. Her vision, which had been blurry at the edges, grew clear again. The grinding weariness receded. But she knew it would be only a short-lived reprieval from exhaustion. In an hour or two, this surprising high would end in an abrupt and inevitable crash, not unlike the sudden descent from an amphetamine energy peak, and then she would be too drained even to stay on her feet.
She and Tony had successfully dealt with all of their business that needed tending to--the insurance adjuster, the house cleaning service,the police reports, and all the rest. The only thing that hadn't gone smoothly was the stop at the Wyant Stevens Gallery in Beverly Hills. Neither Wyant nor his assistant, Betty, was there, and the plump young woman in charge was reluctant to take possession of Tony's paintings. She didn't want the responsibility, but Hilary finally convinced her that she would not be sued if one of the canvases was marked or torn accidentally. Hilary had written a note to Wyant, explaining the artist's background, and then she and Tony had gone to the offices of Topelis & Associates to ask Wally to make excuses to Warner Brothers. Now the slate was clean. Tomorrow, after Frank Howard's funeral, they would catch the 11:55 PSA flight that would take them to San Francisco in time to board a connecting commuter air shuttle to Napa.
And then a rented car to St. Helena.
And then they would be on Bruno Frye's home ground.
And then--what?
Tony parked the Jeep and switched off the engine.
Hilary said, 'I forgot to ask if you managed to find a hotel room.'
'Wally's secretary made reservations for me while you and Wally were huddling in his office.'
'At the airport.'
'Yes.'
'Not twin beds, I hope.'
'One kingsize.'
'Good,' she said, 'I want you to hold me while I drift off to sleep.'
He leaned over and kissed her.
They took twenty minutes to pack a pair of suitcases for him and to carry their four bags down to the Jeep. During that time, Hilary was on edge, fully expecting Frye to leap out of a shadow or step around a corner, grinning.
He didn't.
They drove to the airport by a roundabout route that was full of twists and turns. Hilary watched the cars behind them.
They were not followed.
They reached the hotel at 7:30. With a touch of old-fashioned chivalry that amused Hilary, Tony signed them in as husband and wife.
Their room was on the eighth floor. It was a restful place, done in shades of green and blue.
When the bellhop left, they stood by the bed, just holding each other for a minute, silently sharing their weariness and what strength they had left,
Neither of them felt capable of going out to dinner. Tony ordered from room service, and the operator said service would take about half an hour.
Hilary and Tony showered together. They soaped and rinsed each other with pleasure, but the pleasure wasn't really sexual. They were too tired for passion. The shared bath was merely relaxing, tender, sweet.
They ate club sandwiches and french fries.
They drank half a bottle of Gamay rose by Robert Mondavi.
They talked only a little while.
They draped a bath towel over a lamp and left the lamp on for a nightlight because, for only the second time
