by Stuart Woods
“What is his address?”
Dax gave it to him from memory. “He works at Centurion Studios.”
“The movies? Like you?”
“Yes, but at a different studio. How did you find me?”
“You are an amateur. I can find you anywhere. You might remember that.”
“I want to hire you,” Dax said. “I will give you one hundred thousand dollars to kill Billy Barnett and his girlfriend, Sally Ryder, who lives with him. I don’t care how you do it, as long as it can’t be traced to me.”
“Your interests seem to coincide with mine,” Sergei said. “Give me fifty thousand now.”
“I have twenty-five thousand in the house, but I can see that you get more.”
“Give it to me.”
Dax got slowly out of bed, went into his dressing room and opened the safe. He stuffed the money into a laundry bag and handed it to the man. “How can I get in touch with you?”
The man handed him a cell phone. “Press one to dial me, and leave a message. I will call back on this phone.”
“Good,” Dax said. “When can you do it?”
“First, you will give me the other twenty-five thousand, then I will kill both of them, and you will pay me the other fifty thousand, yes?”
“Yes,” Dax said. “I’ll arrange to have the other twenty-five thousand delivered anywhere you say in L.A.”
“I will tell you where.”
“One other thing,” Dax said.
“Yes?”
“Before you kill them, tell them you’re from me. And kill the girl first, while he watches.”
“Go back to bed,” the man said, then he left the room.
Dax got back into bed and waited for the pill to work.
• • •
TEDDY WATCHED AS the man appeared from around the corner of the house, then made his way back to his car. He turned around and drove back toward Santa Fe, this time with his headlights on, the dash lights revealing his face.
Now Teddy knew why he looked familiar. He bore a strong resemblance to Kasov—a familial resemblance, perhaps. There seemed to be only one reason why the man would seek out Dax’s Santa Fe house, then visit him in the middle of the night. He had a very strong intuition that Dax Baxter was now dead.
He started the car and drove back to Sally’s house.
49
TEDDY AWOKE TO the smell of bacon and coffee, and shortly, Sally came into the bedroom with a tray. They propped themselves up in bed and watched the morning news show.
“I woke up sometime after midnight and you were gone,” Sally said.
“I took a stroll.”
She looked at him askance. “Really?”
Teddy smiled and kissed her on the forehead. “Nothing to worry about.”
“Frankly, I thought you’d gone to Dax Baxter’s house and killed him.”
Teddy just laughed. He switched to the local news, but Baxter’s name was not mentioned.
“I’m going to walk over to La Fonda and get us a New York Times,” she said. “Can I bring you anything?”
“Maybe the Santa Fe paper, as well.”
“Okay.”
She left and he tried the Albuquerque stations: still no mention of Baxter. The man had four guards in or around the house; surely one of them would have discovered his body by this time.
Sally came back after a few minutes with the papers, and he read the Santa Fe New Mexican first. No mention, but they had probably gone to press after dinner sometime, so they wouldn’t have the story until tomorrow.
“I saw Hal Palmer at the hotel,” she said. “You remember, the writer on Dax’s Western?”
“Sure, I remember him.”
“He’s here to work with Dax on the screenplay for his new film—expects to be here for at least a couple of weeks.”
“Better him than me,” Teddy said.
While Sally cleaned up the breakfast dishes, Teddy turned on the radio and tried a couple of stations. Nothing. Something was wrong, here: the guards would have discovered Baxter’s body and called the police, and somebody at the police department would have leaked the news. Then he had a chilling thought. Dax was not dead.
If the man had gone there to kill him, he must have blamed Dax for Kasov’s death. But Dax must have talked him out of it—probably bought him off. It’s what Dax would have done. What’s more, he would have told the man that Billy Barnett was Kasov’s killer. Moreover, he would have tried to hire the man to kill him.
Teddy realized he had made a big mistake the night before. He didn’t kill Baxter because he believed him already dead, and he had missed an opportunity to follow the killer and deal with him, as well.
Sally came back into the bedroom. “Sweetheart,” he said, “did you mention to Hal Palmer that I’m in Santa Fe, too?”
“I believe your name came up. Hal said to say hi to you.”
Hi, indeed, Teddy thought. As soon as Hal Palmer was in Dax’s company he might very well mention that he and Sally were in town, and that would put the fear of God into Dax. Shortly, he would have even more security in place.
• • •
STONE ANSWERED HIS cell phone over breakfast at Ana’s. “Hello?”
“Hi, Stone, it’s Billy.”
“Good morning, Billy.”
“I want to ask a favor of you.”
“Of course.”
“Can you arrange for Sally and me to stay at the Arrington for a few days? I want to have my house painted, and I don’t want to be there for that.”
“I can do better than that, Billy. You and Sally can use my house on the grounds. There’s a staff there, and they’ll take good care of you.”
“That’s very kind of you,” Teddy said.
Stone gave him directions to the house. “I’ll let the staff know and arrange for security passes for the grounds. When will you arrive?”
“Tonight.”
“They’ll be expecting you.”
Teddy thanked him again and hung up. He got dressed and found Sally. “We have to fly back this afternoon, but I’ve arranged a little vacation for us in L.A. We won’t be going back to the house for a few days.”
“Where will we be staying?”
“That will be a surprise,” Teddy said.
• • •
CARLOS RIVERA PICKED up Joe Rossi at his house.
“Where are we headed?” Joe asked.
“In the direction of Malibu,” Carlos replied. “Do you know a clever locksmith?”
“Sure, in Santa Monica.”
“Is he good enough to make some keys from tracings?”
“I don’t see why not,” Joe said.
They drove to the shop in Santa Monica and found the locksmith. “I want a couple of keys made,” Carlos explained to the man, “but I don’t have the originals. I made a tracing of them, though.” He showed him the drawings he had made.
“Sure, I can do that,” he said. “It’ll take me an hour or so, because it’s all handwork, it’s not like duplicating an existing key.”
They left the tracings with him and found a place for breakfast nearby. “Okay,” Joe said when they had ordered. “You want to tell me what this is about?”
“I wish I could, but I don’t know.”
“Make sense, Carlos.”
“Okay, I had an opportunity to get into Dax Baxter’s briefcase, and I found some keys there, and I traced them.”
“What are they keys to?”
“Beats me. I guess we’ll have to try every lock in L.A.”
“Okay, why are we headed toward Malibu?”
“Dimitri Kasov lived in that trailer park on your right, past Sunset.”
“Up on the hill?”
“Right. I’d like for us to take a look at it. We won’t n
eed a warrant, it’s an extension of the crime scene, and the owner is dead.”
“And what do you hope to find?”
“I don’t know.”
“Jesus, for a cop, you don’t know anything, do you?”
“Don’t you like surprises, Joe?”
“Only on my birthday.”
• • •
THEY PICKED UP the keys and drove out to the Pacific Coast Highway. The trailer park was not a run-of-the-mill place: people had landscaped their plots, and many of the cars parked there were expensive—BMWs and Mercedeses. Carlos checked his notes for the address, and they pulled into a little yard, where half a dozen cars were parked.
“Jeez,” Joe said, “the yellow one is a ’71 Pontiac GTO. That would be worth some money at auction.”
“You can mention that to Kasov’s heirs, if such exist.”
They got out of the car and approached the entrance to the trailer, which was a big Airstream.
“I saw something move inside,” Joe said. “Maybe Kasov does have heirs.”
There was a doorbell, and they rang it.
50
JOE WAS GETTING IMPATIENT. “Why don’t you just kick it in?” he asked.
“You said you saw somebody in there. What if it’s a burglar? What if he’s armed?”
“Suddenly, you’re a pessimist,” Joe said. “Why don’t you try the keys?”
“What keys?” Carlos knocked loudly. “Police! Open up!”
“The ones you just had made. They came from Dax’s briefcase—maybe he owns the trailer.”
Carlos looked at the two keys and held up one. “This is a Yale key, and that’s a Yale lock.”
“Then they were made for each other,” Joe said. “Try it.”
Carlos inserted the key and tried to turn it. Nothing.
“Jiggle it at little, he said it might be rough.”
Carlos jiggled it and pulled out the key just a hair. The lock turned.
Joe pulled his weapon. “Me, first,” he said, opening the door. As he did, the glass in the door exploded and Joe fell inside, blood coming from his neck.
Carlos drew his weapon and dropped to one knee, then peered around the door. There was a pfft noise, and something struck the doorjamb above his head. He held his pistol out and sprayed the interior of the trailer, then he heard a door slam at the other end. He checked Joe’s pulse. He was moving and had clamped a hand to his neck. He stepped over Joe and ran toward the other end of the trailer, where he found a rear door flapping in the breeze. He stuck his head out and saw no one. He went back to Joe. “Are you alive?”
“It seems so,” Joe replied, sitting up, his hand still holding his neck. Carlos moved his hand and found a neat wound, oozing blood. He put his handkerchief there. “Hold this in place, and keep pressure on it.” He got out his cell phone.
“Don’t call nine-one-one,” Joe said. “I don’t want an ambulance and all that. Just drive me to the nearest emergency room.”
“You’re sure?”
“It was a .22. I’m sure I’m not mortally wounded.”
“Okay.” Carlos got him outside, then closed the door and locked it with his key, then he kicked it open. “Let’s go,” he said.
Carlos helped Joe to the car, left the trailer park, and drove back toward Sunset.
“UCLA,” Joe said. “There’s a hospital there.”
“Right.” They were at the ER entrance in minutes. “Don’t you move, Joe, I’m going to get some help.” He went inside and stepped up to the desk.
“Fill out this form,” the woman behind it said.
“I’m a police officer,” he said, showing his badge. “I’ve got a cop outside in the car with a gunshot wound.”
She picked up a phone and pressed a button. “Code one at the ER entrance,” she said, then hung up. An orderly came through the swinging doors. “Where is he?”
“Just outside, in the car,” Carlos said.
Joe walked in, holding the handkerchief to his neck. “Where do you want me?” he asked.
• • •
THEY MADE CARLOS wait outside the treatment room for nearly half an hour before an impossibly young girl in scrubs came out. “Detective Rivera?”
“That’s me.”
“I’m Dr. Reiner.” She held up a plastic zipper bag containing what appeared to be a .22 caliber short slug. “I thought you might want this for a souvenir.”
Carlos put it in his pocket. “Where’s my partner?”
“Right here,” Joe said, walking through the door with a bandage on his neck.
“He didn’t need to go to surgery. The bullet was just under his skin. Good thing it wasn’t a .38 or a 9mm. He’s got a couple of stitches, and he’s had an injection of an antibiotic and a prescription for a pain pill. Take him home and force him to rest.” She walked away.
“So?” Joe said. “Let’s get out of here.” Back in the car he said, “It was a .22 with a silencer. Let’s get it to ballistics.”
“That’s what our two predecessors were shot with. Check on the silencer. I heard the second shot.” He made a U-turn and headed for LAPD headquarters.
An hour later they stood in a lab and looked at a large computer screen that had photos of two bullets. “The top one came out of your partner,” the technician said. “The bottom one came out of Reeves.”
“Send your report to the captain,” Carlos said, then turned to Joe. “Do you want me to take you home and put you to bed?”
“I’ll outlast you,” Joe said.
“Let’s go back to that trailer. I want to see it without the reception committee.”
“Smart move, kicking it open. I doubt if you could explain where the key came from.”
Back in the car, Carlos said, “You’re a tough old bird.”
“High school football,” Joe replied.
“What are you talking about?”
“I had a coach who was a nut on every team member being fit. He particularly worried about spinal injuries, so we had to do this exercise every day where you lay on your back and dug in your heels, arching your back until all that was touching the ground was your heels and the top of your head. Then he yelled at you to keep pushing, until your neck bent back and your nose touched the ground.”
“That’s impossible,” Carlos said.
“It was on the first day, and the second, but on the third day I made my nose touch the ground. We did that every day for the rest of the season, and we all developed necks like bulls. That’s why my shirt size is eighteen and a half inches today. I have to order my shirts off the Internet. I thought all that muscle might come in handy in a car wreck or something, but I never thought it would stop a bullet.”
• • •
THEY ARRIVED BACK at the trailer, and this time Carlos went in first, his weapon drawn. He cleared the place. “Neat as a pin,” he said.
Joe sat down on the sofa. “You check the desk. I’m gonna rest, like the kid doctor said.”
Carlos began rifling the drawers and held up a checkbook. He leafed through the index. “Balance of a hundred and thirteen grand,” he said.
“Somebody’s been paying him big for something,” Joe replied. “What’s his name?”
“Dimitri Kasov.”
“The Russian?”
“One and the same.”
“Anything else in there?”
“A printout of an investment account,” Carlos said, holding up the document. “He’s got nearly a million dollars in stocks.”
“I would have thought a hit man would deal in cash and bank it offshore,” Joe said, “not leave a paper trail a mile wide.”
“Maybe he banked offshore, too,” Carlos replied. “Maybe this is just the cherry on the sundae, what the IRS sees.”
Joe got up from the sofa, walked to the desk,
and picked up a framed photo of a woman and two young boys, maybe six and seven. “There’s our shooter,” he said, pointing to the younger boy. “The older one looks like the Dimitri I saw on the autopsy table.”
Carlos looked at the younger boy. “So what’s your name, kid?”
Joe pulled the back off the picture frame, took out the photograph, and turned it over. “Stamped Miller Studios,” he read. “Then in ink, ‘Olga Kasov, Dimitri and Sergei.’”
“You ever heard of a Sergei Kasov?”
“Nah,” Joe said, “but I never heard of a Dimitri Kasov until recently.”
“We should go see the captain,” Carlos said.
51
CARLOS AND JOE sat in Captain Regan’s office; Lieutenant Grover, who commanded the LAPD Homicide squad, sat in, too.
“You got the ballistics report?” Carlos asked.
“I did. Now we need to put a name to the bullet.”
“I think we’ve got that,” Carlos said, handing him the photograph from Kasov’s trailer. “Look at the back.”
The captain did, then showed it to Grover.
“The guy in the trailer has to be the younger one, Sergei,” Carlos said.
“He’s our cop killer,” Grover said.
“Pull out all the stops on this Sergei,” Regan said. “Do we have a motive for the cop shootings?”
“We’ve got the connection,” Carlos said. “Dimitri and Sergei are brothers. As for the motive . . .”
“It’s bizarre that this Sergei would shoot the cops who were investigating his brother’s death.”
“It certainly is,” Carlos agreed. “Maybe he wants to find the killer himself, before the cops can.”
“That’s thin,” Grover said, “but I think it works.”
“Do we have a sheet on Sergei?” the captain asked.
“No, sir,” Carlos replied. “We tried the FBI database, too. There’s nothing on him. Never served in the military, either.”
“He’s gotta live somewhere,” the captain said. “Check the utility databases—everybody has an electric bill.”
“Already done, sir. You want an opinion, I think the guy lives in motels and rooming houses and pays cash. He doesn’t have any credit cards, either, unless they’re in another name. He doesn’t own a car registered in the United States. There’s no record of a cell phone, either, but he’d need one to do business. How else could his customers get in touch?”
