Free Except for the Bones by Collin Wilcox

was parked between two rows of trees that bordered a narrow lane leading to a scattering of weekend cottages.
    The van’s door was standing open, as if Jeff had carelessly abandoned it.

FRIDAY,
July 27th

3:30 P.M., PDT
    A S BERNHARDT TWISTED THE key in his front-door lock he heard the telephone inside the flat begin to warble. On the other side of the door, Crusher, Bernhardt’s newly acquired Airedale, sixty pounds of pure kinetic energy, began a steady barking. It was the first phase of Crusher’s frenetic welcome-home celebration. The barking wouldn’t cease until Bernhardt went inside, gave Crusher a hug.
    The lock released: the door swung open. As Bernhardt put his attaché case inside the door and knelt to hug the ecstatically wriggling Airedale, he heard a woman’s voice on the answering machine. As Bernhardt straightened, Crusher’s next phase began: wild, random leaping on his master, a bad habit that Bernhardt blamed on Crusher’s previous owner.
    Using arms and legs to fend off the dog, Bernhardt went through the flat’s long, turn-of-the-century hallway to the rear door. Now the dog began leaping against the back door, demanding to be let outside. As Bernhardt opened the door and Crusher bolted through, Bernhardt heard the beep signifying that the caller had left her message and disconnected. He walked back to the front door, locked it, picked up his attaché case, and stepped into the front bedroom that he’d converted into an office. Pencil and notepad ready, he switched on the answering machine.
    The first four messages were routine. Two were from Terry Tricomi, the computer whiz who needed more information on a circus acrobat who’d jumped bail after a wife-beating indictment. The third call was from a wrong number who apparently hadn’t listened to Bernhardt’s recorded message.
    The fourth message was the last one, recorded while Crusher was celebrating Bernhardt’s safe return. It was a woman’s voice—a young, unformed, unsure-sounding woman’s voice. But nevertheless a determined voice:
    “Mr. Bernhardt, my name is Carley Hanks. Caroline Hanks, that’s my full name. You don’t know me, but you know my mother, Emily Hanks. You directed her in two plays, and I’ve heard about you ever since I was about fifteen years old. I even met you once, at a party at our house. They’re divorced now, my folks. My mother is remarried, and lives in Santa Barbara. My father lives in Los Angeles now. I’m eighteen, and I’ve been here in San Francisco almost a year. I’m studying design at the Dexter Academy, but I’m working now, for the summer.” There was a pause. From the small garden in the rear of the flat, Bernhardt heard Crusher barking, demanding to be let inside. Reflexively, Bernhardt glanced at his watch. Yes, it was Crusher’s dinner time.
    “The reason I’m calling,” Carley Hanks was saying, “is—well—it’s about a friend of mine. Her name is Diane Cutler, and I think she’s in trouble. My mother says that you’re a very good private detective. And she also says that you’re very sensitive about people, very—” She broke off, searching for the word. “Very caring. So I was wondering whether I could talk to you about Diane. I live in Noe Valley, and I see by the phone book that you’re on Potrero Hill. So I could be at your place in fifteen minutes. So—” She hesitated. “So I’ll hope to hear from you.” She slowly recited her phone number, and hung up. Bernhardt copied down the number, double-checked his appointment calendar, then dialed the number.
    “Hello?”
    “This is Alan Bernhardt, Miss Hanks. I just got your message. It was playing when I came in the door.”
    “Oh, yes, I—I just called.”
    “Would you like to come over now? Four-thirty, say? Is that all right?”
    “Oh, that’s—yes—that’s fine. Just fine. Thank you.”
    “You’re welcome. I’ll see you at four-thirty.”

4:35 P.M., PDT
    B ERNHARDT WAS AT THE sink shredding