his hand. She walked directly to the door to her room, then turned to wait for him to open it with a key. They were close now, close enough that he could feel her breath on his face.
“Thank you,” she whispered, and slipped through the threshold.
He closed the door behind her and found himself alone in the hallway.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
Bernal arrived first.
Fog had come in off the river and penetrated Frings’s trench coat, leaving him shivering in his damp clothes. Frings would not have found Bernal but for the orange glow of his cigarette intensifying with each inhalation. It was incredibly stupid for Bernal to arrive first, but Frings resisted the urge to confront him. He was probably already sufficiently on edge.
“You’re early,” Frings whispered.
“You’re not the only one who is nervous about being watched.”
Frings couldn’t see Bernal’s face. “Are you sure you weren’t followed?”
“Are you sure?”
It was a fair enough point, so Frings got on with it. “Your guy Samuelson. He’s a convicted killer but was never incarcerated. How am I doing so far?”
“Go on.”
“There are others, too. Other murderers who were convicted but never sent to prison. They were shipped out to the country.”
Fog had a way of dulling and diffusing sound. When a sudden noise, like a scraping and then a thud, came, Frings could not pinpoint its exact nature or direction.
“I don’t like it down here,” Bernal whispered. “Let’s go up on the bridge.”
A little-used trestle bridge ran directly above them, spanning the river. At one time it had been a railway bridge, but it had converted to an auto and pedestrian bridge when the railroad was rerouted. Frings followed Bernal by sound as he scrambled up the rise to the pitted gravel-and-dirt road and then to the bridge. For some reason, Bernal walked fifty yards or so onto the bridge before stopping and leaning with his arms on the railing. The river rushed beneath them, shrouded in fog.
“So you found out about Samuelson.”
“I don’t understand it. Why didn’t they send those sons of bitches to prison? Why ship them out to the sticks?”
Bernal had a new cigarette in his lips and he struck a match, illuminating his face. The brief peek at Bernal’s psyche showed a man close to his limits.
Bernal fished into the pocket of his trench coat and handed Frings several sheets of paper, folded together in quarters.
“What’s this?”
“Two things. The first is Samuelson’s address. Talk to him. He’ll have answers for you. The second is financial records. They’re not the originals. I copied them by hand. I didn’t get everything, but you have the parts that are important. Talk to Samuelson. Look at the records. That should give you the story.”
Headlights shown through the fog as a car approached. Frings and Bernal stood in silence as it crept by them on the bridge.
“You know that car?” Bernal asked.
Frings shook his head, then, realizing that Bernal might not have been able to see his response, said, “No.”
Frings heard Bernal inhale hard on his cigarette and hold it for a beat before exhaling in a rush. “I’m taking a big risk doing this. A big risk.”
“You’re doing it so you won’t sink with the ship. You’re hedging your bets.”
“Easy to say from where you stand, Mr. Francis Frings. Where I stand, there are no good choices. Where I stand, I’m likely to get hurt no matter what choice I make.”
The time when Bernal had had real choices was long gone. He’d made them and enjoyed the benefits for a time. The bill was now due, though, and Frings had no sympathy for the man before him, invisible in the darkness but for his cigarette. He did, though, have an interest in keeping Bernal from a complete mental collapse. “I can help you with one thing. The man who took the photos of you.”
“Yes?”
“I talked to him. I convinced him that he would be better off if he sat on them.”
“How did you do that?” Bernal’s tone was flat. He was under too much pressure to feel much relief from this news.
“He sent them to me. I got in touch and told him you were helping me out and that his pictures would ruin the whole bit.”
“I suppose I should thank you.”
“No,” Frings said. “I did it for selfish reasons. Thought you might want to know, though.”
They shook hands.
Frings thought of something. “Who’s Casper Prosnicki?”
Frings thought he heard Bernal gasp.
“You know him?” Frings pushed.
“Samuelson will explain. He will . . .” Bernal’s voice trailed off.
Frings waited,