Unbound

by Stuart Woods

  “Just the desk lamp,” he said, sliding into Dax’s chair. “Not a bad office. I admired it when I was here.”

  “Dax hires good people, then renegotiates when the bill comes. People rarely work for him twice.” She got the briefcase from the credenza behind the desk and set it down before him.

  Carlos looked at the locks. “I don’t suppose you know the combination?”

  She looked at the numbers. “You’re in luck—he didn’t lock it.”

  Carlos opened the case and found a steno pad on top of some papers. He went quickly through them—contracts, correspondence, the budget for a film—he went back to the steno pad.

  “He takes notes on that,” she said, “whatever he needs to remember.”

  Carlos leafed backward through the pages, assuming they were chronological. He found phone numbers, doodles, an address or two. Further back in time he came across an address and phone number that interested him. The number was an L.A. cell, but the address was a high-end trailer park on Pacific Coast Highway, on the way to Malibu. There was no name, just one initial: R. He wrote it down. There was a key ring in the case, too. He held it up for Chita. “Do you know what these keys are for?”

  “Nope. They look like house keys.”

  “I wish I had some wax to take impressions.”

  “I wish I could help you.”

  He took a sheet of Dax’s stationery from a drawer, placed each of the three keys on it and traced their outline. “This’ll have to do,” he said. “I don’t suppose you have the combination to his safe? There must be one here somewhere.”

  She walked over to a wall and pulled on a picture, which, hinged, covered a wall safe with a digital key pad. “What will you give me for the combination?”

  “My heart and soul,” he said, “but you already have those.”

  She smiled, tapped in a code, and the door beeped and swung open.

  Carlos got up and removed a penlight from his pocket and shone it into the safe. “Much cash,” he said, “several thousand dollars.”

  “He hates ATMs,” Chita replied. “I get him five grand at a time from the bank, and he uses the money as needed.”

  “Gun,” Carlos said, holding it up with a finger through the trigger guard. “Walther PPK, stainless steel, loaded.”

  “He has a permit for it, city and state.”

  “I’ll bet it’s not the only one he has,” Carlos remarked. He flipped through the remainder of the safe’s contents. “Nothing remarkable. Okay, get me out of here before we’re arrested.”

  She put the steno pad and the keys back into the briefcase, closed it, and put it back inside the credenza.

  “Aren’t you going to send it to him?” Carlos asked.

  “I’ll do it from here tomorrow morning,” she said. “It’s what he would expect, so I’ll use an office waybill.”

  They locked up and walked back to his car. “You’ve never been to my place,” he said.

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “I think now would be a good time.”

  She smiled. “So do I.”

  44

  AT THE END of a very long day, the two homicide detectives, Jensen and Reeves, who were investigating the murders at Dax Baxter’s house, got into their car in the garage in the basement of the building. As they did a man dressed in black stepped from behind a concrete column, held out a black pistol equipped with a silencer, and shot Reeves in the head through the window. Then he pointed the gun at Jensen, in the passenger seat, fired twice, then put one more into Reeves.

  Jensen slumped in his seat, but he was still alive, even though he was not thinking very clearly. He fumbled for the radio’s microphone, clipped to the dash, then keyed it. “Mayday, mayday,” he said into it. “Two officers down in police garage.” Then he passed out.

  • • •

  CARLOS RIVERA WAS just turning into the parking lot at his building when his police radio came alive. He stopped and listened.

  “How do you understand that gobbledygook?” Chita asked.

  Carlos translated: two officers down in a police garage; help on the way.

  “In a police garage?” Chita asked. “That’s bold. Do you need to go there?”

  “Outside my jurisdiction,” Carlos said. “I’m where I need to be.” He parked and took her to his apartment.

  • • •

  STONE WAS HAVING a brandy in bed with Ana when his cell phone rang. He looked at it, then picked it up. “It better be good at this hour, Cupie.”

  “I’ll be brief,” Cupie replied. “News has reached me on one of my grapevines that the two detectives investigating the homicides at Dax Baxter’s house were shot in the garage at their building. One of them is dead, the other is critical. Happened half an hour ago.”

  “Any suspects?”

  “None so far, but you’ve gotta think that it might be whoever killed the two guys at Dax Baxter’s house.”

  “Thanks, Cupie.” Stone hung up, walked into the bathroom, closed the door, and called Billy Barnett.

  “Hello?”

  “You know who this is?”

  “I do.”

  “Where are you?”

  “At home.”

  “How long have you been there?”

  “Since about seven. We had dinner here.”

  “Two cops investigating the Dax homicides have been shot in their car, in a police building, one is dead.”

  Silence, then: “Weird,” Teddy said.

  “Some think that whoever killed the two at Dax’s house may have shot the two cops. Maybe he thought they had some evidence implicating him.”

  “That would not be my first guess,” Teddy said.

  “Do you have a first guess?”

  “No. Just not who they think it is.”

  “Right.” Stone hung up. So Billy didn’t do it, unless he was lying, and he had never known the man to lie. He went back to bed. “Sorry about that,” he said.

  “Anything important?”

  “I don’t know, maybe.”

  • • •

  CARLOS PUT THE cop shootings out of his mind and concentrated on Chita. It took about ten minutes, then they both came, Chita first. She rolled on top of him. “Don’t go to sleep,” she said.

  “I’m not sleepy,” Carlos replied.

  “Sex renders men unconscious,” she said.

  “Not me, not now.”

  “I’m happy to hear it.”

  They rested for a few minutes then did it again.

  • • •

  TEDDY AND SALLY finished the dishes and put them away.

  “You’re very quiet,” she said.

  “Something strange happened.”

  “What?”

  “The two detectives investigating the events at Baxter’s house have been shot in their car.”

  “When did it happen?”

  “This evening, I think.”

  She thought about that. “We’ve been here all evening.”

  “How’d you like a little trip to Santa Fe for the weekend?” Teddy asked.

  “Weekend? It’s a two-day drive.”

  “I can borrow Peter’s Mustang.”

  “You want to go on horseback?”

  Teddy laughed. “Sorry, a Mustang is a small Cessna Jet. The flight’s not much more than an hour.”

  “Sure. I’d like to pick up a few things at home, anyway.”

  “Good.”

  “Billy, you’re not going to go after Dax, are you?”

  “I doubt it. I would like to talk to him, though.”

  “I’ve got the phone number at his house there. You could call him from here,” Sally said.

  “It’s going to be a nice weekend,” Teddy replied. “Let’s go to Santa Fe.”

  “Whatev
er you say,” she said.

  Teddy laughed. “I love the sound of that. You can say that to me anytime.”

  • • •

  STONE AND ANA lay in bed, sweating, after another round of enthusiastic sex. “I’ve been thinking,” he said.

  “About sex?”

  “I’m all thought out about that, for the evening, anyway. I was thinking maybe I’ll fly you to Santa Fe and spend a couple of days, then we’ll go on to New York for a while.”

  “Haven’t we had this conversation before?”

  “That wasn’t a conversation, that was a decision, based on our earlier conversation.”

  “Ah, yes,” she said, “I remember it well. I think that, in two or three days, I can reestablish myself with my colleagues and clients as alive and working in Santa Fe. And it’s been a long time since I was in New York.”

  “It will be my pleasure to reacquaint you with the city,” Stone said, kissing her. “Now let’s get some sleep so that I’ll be in shape to fly tomorrow.”

  45

  CARLOS RIVERA WALKED into the station feeling refreshed and renewed, and confident that he and Chita Romero might have a future. As he passed the Violent Crimes squad, Lieutenant Goodwin waved him over.

  “Morning, Carlos.”

  “Morning, Lieutenant.”

  “Did you hear about the two detectives from LAPD Homicide?”

  “Yes, sir, I heard it on the radio last night, but I didn’t get any details.”

  “They had just gotten into their car in the garage when somebody put two slugs into each of them.”

  Carlos winced.

  “Reeves is dead, but Jensen survived.”

  “How’s he doing?”

  “Awake and talking. He was awful lucky that the slugs were .22s and not something heavier. They think he’s going to make it.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Carlos said.

  “They’re trying to connect it with the perp in the double at Dax Baxter’s place the other night.”

  “I don’t get that. Did Jensen get a look at the shooter?”

  Goodwin shook his head. “Just a black blur, that’s all.”

  “Why would the perp in the Baxter case want to kill the detectives investigating it? Did they have enough evidence to hang it on somebody?”

  “Not a thing,” Goodwin said. “Tell me, Carlos, how are you enjoying Vehicle Theft these days?”

  “Less and less every day,” Carlos replied.

  “How’d you like a crack at Homicide?”

  “I’d like that very much,” Carlos said, grinning.

  Goodwin looked around his squad. “I don’t have anybody to partner with you right now—we’ve barely got our noses above water. You want to work alone?”

  “How about my current partner, Joe Rossi?” Carlos asked. “He’s a very smart cop.”

  “Yeah, he’s been around long enough. Maybe a gray head on the squad wouldn’t be a bad idea. Let me talk to the captain, and I’ll get back to you.”

  “Yes, sir,” Carlos said. “You can tell the captain that car thefts are trending downward, and we’re underworked.” He continued to his desk. Rossi was working a crossword puzzle. “Hey, Joe.”

  “Yeah?”

  “How’d you like a move to Homicide?”

  “At my age? Fat chance.”

  “I just had a chat with Lieutenant Goodwin.” He looked up and saw Goodwin walking toward the captain’s office. “It’s not as crazy as it sounds.”

  “Well, I’m spending most of my time around here doing crosswords,” Rossi said. “It would make a nice change.”

  Rivera’s phone rang. “Sergeant Rivera. . . . Yes, sir.” He hung up. “We’re wanted in the captain’s office.”

  “Both of us?”

  “Both of us. Get your jacket on.” They walked across the floor and knocked on Captain Fitzhugh’s door.

  “Come in.”

  Carlos opened the door; the two senior officers were seated at the captain’s conference table.

  “Take a seat, Carlos, Joe,” the captain said.

  They took a seat.

  “We’ve got us a situation here,” the captain said. “Homicide is underwater, and you’ve got time on your hands. Goodwin, here, has asked for you two. How would that suit you?”

  “Very well indeed, Captain,” Carlos said, and Joe was nodding rapidly.

  “All right, we’ll get your desks moved over there today.”

  “Something else,” Goodwin said. “LAPD is short-handed in Homicide, what with Reeves and Jensen being out. They’ve asked us for some help, and since all my people have active cases right now, and you’re the new guys, I’m going to send you over there and let you do what you can for them. They need another team, so you’re on loan. Get over there and ask for Sergeant Ortega, Jensen’s number two, and he’ll put you to work. By the time you get back, we’ll have your desks moved.”

  “Yes, sir.” The two cops got up, saluted, and headed out.

  • • •

  AT THE LAPD they found Ortega, looking harassed. “You’re Rivera and Rossi?” he asked.

  “Carlos and Joe,” Rivera said.

  “You’ll have to share a desk, until I can get Reeves’s stuff out of there.” He handed them a folder. “Here’s the case file on the double homicide. Have you heard anything about it?”

  “I happened to be at the morgue and the ME showed me the corpses. Very messy.”

  “You could say that,” Orgeta replied. “We’re looking for a connection between that and the shootings of Reeves and Jensen.” He handed them another folder. “Concentrate on that.”

  “Right, Sarge.” The two detectives found chairs and pulled them up to the desk. They went carefully through the two case files. A couple of hours later, Ortega wandered over. “You get through the files?”

  “Yes, Sarge,” Rivera said. “As far as we can tell, the only connection between the two cases is that Reeves and Jensen were working the double homicide. There’s no connecting evidence to their shooting.”

  “Well, now you know as much about these two cases as anybody else around here,” Ortega said. “I can’t spare anybody else, so tomorrow morning, I want you to fly to Santa Fe and interview Dax Baxter about the homicides at his property, and see if he’ll spit up a connection between the two cases.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “There’s no direct flight to Santa Fe, so in order to avoid overnight expenses, I’ve ordered a King Air from the LAPD flight department. You’re to be at Burbank Airport at eight AM tomorrow. They’ll take you there, you do the interview, and return in the afternoon. We’ve made an appointment with Baxter for you.” He handed them a slip of paper. “Here’s the address. Cab it there and back to the airport.”

  “Got it, Sarge,” Rivera said. Ortega left them.

  “I’ve never been to Santa Fe,” Rossi said.

  “I spent a weekend there a couple of years ago.”

  “What’s it like?”

  “Nice, you’ll like it. It’s a pity we can’t make an overnight of it.”

  “That’s my luck weighing you down,” Rossi said.

  “You want to know what I think about connecting these two cases?” Rivera said.

  “Okay.”

  “I think they’ve got fuck-all to do with each other. Once we get Baxter out of the way, I think we’re going to find that this cop shooting is connected to another case entirely, maybe some old case.”

  “I can’t argue with you on that,” Rossi said.

  46

  STONE AND ANA arrived at Santa Monica Airport and, almost immediately, ran into Billy Barnett in the lobby at Atlantic Aviation.

  Stone and Teddy shook hands. “Headed somewhere?” Stone asked.

  “We’re going to Santa Fe for the weekend. Sally wants to g
et a few things from her house, so I borrowed your old Mustang from Peter.”

  “Maybe we’ll see you there,” Stone said. “Call me, if you’ve got any dead time.”

  “Will do,” Teddy said. Sally joined him, and they walked out onto the ramp where the Mustang awaited.

  Stone and Ana took off a few minutes later. As they landed in Santa Fe, Stone saw the Mustang being towed off the ramp. As he taxied in, a black car pulled onto the ramp to meet them. Half an hour later they were at Ana’s house, and she was calling clients and employees.

  • • •

  CARLOS RIVERA AND JOE ROSSI used the GPS on their rental car to locate Dax Baxter’s address. As they pulled into the drive, two large men came out of the house, and each opened a door for the detectives.

  “Who are you?” one of them asked.

  “We’re Detectives Rivera and Rossi, BH—rather, LAPD. We have an appointment with Mr. Baxter.”

  The two men led them into the house, installed them on a sofa in the large living room, then went and stood by the door across the room.

  Dax Baxter came in and shook their hands. They showed their badges. “What can I do for you, gentlemen?” he asked. “We’ll have some coffee in a minute.”

  “We’re here in connection with the double homicide at your house, Mr. Baxter,” Carlos said. “We—”

  “Hold on a minute,” Baxter said, raising a warning hand. “What did you say happened at my house?”

  “A double homicide,” Rivera said.

  “When?”

  “The night before last.”

  “I was home that evening, and no such thing happened.”

  “I beg your pardon, Mr. Baxter, not at your home on Mulholland Drive. I’m referring to a property you own in the Hollywood Hills.”

  “I do own a house there, but it’s been empty since I moved out four years ago. A cleaning service keeps it neat, but it’s all locked up.”

  “And you’ve been told nothing about what happened there?”

  “No, your office called mine and made this appointment, but nobody mentioned homicide. What happened?”

  Carlos opened his briefcase and showed him photographs of the two men. “The one on the left is a Russian, called Dimitri Kasov, the other is named Richard Krauss. Do you know them?”