Full Circle Read Free

legal limit for sawed-offs.”
    “Possessing a sawed-off is a federal offense, though. We could’ve kept him for twenty-four hours, and sweated him.”
    Deciding on a don’t-give-me-a-lecture-on-the-law expression, Haigh stared the younger man down. Then, with elaborate patience: “We aren’t about to get involved in a pissing contest with the state police. Is that clear?”
    In a dark, brooding silence, Archer shifted his gaze to the San Francisco skyline, diffused by the morning fog. After five frustrating years in Fresno, he’d campaigned long and hard for the opening in the San Francisco office. He’d been warned about Haigh, but had chosen to ignore the warnings. Had he made a mistake? Would private industry be his next career move—his only way out? In the Bureau, from a Class A posting like San Francisco, there were only two possibilities: up or out, Washington or the private sector.
    “In fact,” Haigh was saying, “Bernhardt and Betty Giles aren’t the primary targets of this investigation. They’re little fish, really.”
    Archer nodded. “I figured.”
    “They’re our responsibility—this office’s responsibility. But, as of now, the Los Angeles office is calling the plays.” Plainly Haigh was experiencing pangs of bureaucratic discomfort, contemplating the prospect of himself in a secondary role. Therefore, he was compelled to add, “That could change, though, once we talk to Bernhardt and Giles. They’re little fish, admittedly. But little fish wriggling on a hook can catch the big fish.”
    “Where’s Betty Giles?”
    “That’s the problem,” Haigh admitted. “We can’t find her. She’s in Europe, we’re almost sure of that. But we don’t know where.”
    “What’s her mother say?”
    “All she knows is that Betty Giles is in Europe. She doesn’t have an address. I’ve talked to her twice, and I’m pretty sure she’s telling the truth. But a couple of times the mother let it slip that Bernhardt knows how to locate Betty Giles.”
    “What’s the reason for that?”
    “I don’t know. But I definitely plan to find out.”

TWO
    “Y ES, SIR?” THE RECEPTIONIST’S smile was polite but remote. Except for a telephone console and a crystal bud vase that contained one yellow rose, her desk was clear. Both the desk and the receptionist were discreetly high-style.
    “I’d like to see Mr. Haigh, please. My name is Bernhardt. Alan Bernhardt.”
    “Yes …” The receptionist nodded. The smile faded; the nod suggested discreet disapproval. “Yes—four o’clock.” She gestured to one of two elegantly fashioned couches. “If you’ll just have a seat, I’ll tell Mr. Haigh you’re here.” She waited until Bernhardt had seated himself, then spoke briefly into the phone. As she spoke she avoided direct eye contact with Bernhardt.
    Bernhardt crossed his legs and checked the time: three fifty-five. It had been noon when Haigh phoned, two o’clock before Bernhardt had retrieved the cryptic message on the answering machine. “This is Preston Haigh,” the voice had said. “Call me as soon as possible, please.” Followed by a local phone number. To Bernhardt’s theater-trained ear, Haigh’s voice had projected smooth, smug authority. The guess had been accurate: “Federal Bureau of Investigation” had been the first words he’d heard when he’d returned the call. The four o’clock appointment had come as a command, not a request.
    Across the waiting room, on the room’s other couch, a woman in her thirties sat beside a girl in her teens. Neither the woman nor the child spoke or acknowledged the presence of the other. Both sat rigidly, hands clenched. Their faces were expressionless, frozen by something more profound than simple fear.
    As if he’d been caught eavesdropping, and therefore felt guilty, Bernhardt looked away from the woman and the child, turned his gaze on the oil paintings that were the reception room’s only decoration. The paintings were uniformly