by Stuart Woods
“Not me,” the director said.
“Me, either,” Wells chimed in. “Is the guy who runs the armory here?”
“Yeah, just a minute.”
They waited until the armory manager came outside. “You heard?”
“Yes,” the director said, “and we’re sorry, but we need half a dozen Winchesters and six-guns. I ordered this stuff last week.”
Another detective came outside and introduced himself as the officer in charge of the investigation. The manager explained the situation.
“Well,” the detective said, “Edwards didn’t use a Winchester or a six-gun, so I guess you can give them to these people.”
“We’ll have them back this afternoon,” Wells said. They loaded the guns and blank ammunition into the golf cart and returned to the set.
Wells waved Cato over. “Seems Grif Edwards has shot himself over at the armory.”
“Jesus!” Cato said. “Why would he do that?”
“Who knows?” Wells said. “Let’s get back to work.”
ED EAGLE AND Susannah Wilde took off from Santa Fe and headed for Los Angeles. They were halfway there before Eagle put it all together in his mind. “I’ve got it,” he said.
“Got what?”
“Wells had nothing to do with the attempt on your life; that was Barbara, as we’ve always thought. But she used the same hit man that Wells used.”
“How would Barbara and Wells be using the same hit man?”
“The connection is the movie business. Barbara’s pal, Jimmy Long, is a producer, too, and he works out of Centurion. I’d be willing to bet that Jack Cato worked in at least one of his pictures.”
“That makes sense as a connection, I guess. What are you going to do about all this?”
“First, I’m going to talk to two P.I.s who work for me sometime, then I’m going to talk to Don Wells, then I’m going to talk to the chief of police.”
THEY WERE MET at Santa Monica Airport by Cupie Dalton and Vittorio. Eagle made the introductions, then he talked with the two men while Susannah went inside to freshen up.
“How are you progressing?” Eagle asked.
“We can get it done,” Cupie said, “but first, we’ve got to solve a problem.”
“What problem?”
“The LAPD has got surveillance on Barbara; we can’t get to her as long as that’s the case.”
“Well, shit,” Eagle said. “That’s my fault; I asked Joe Sams to have her watched.”
“Can’t you ask him to call off his men?” Cupie asked.
Vittorio spoke up. “That’s not very smart,” he said. “If you do that, and then we do our job, Sams will make the connection.”
“You’re right, Vittorio,” Eagle said. “Let me think about how to do this. You two just keep an eye on her and let me know if she starts looking like she’s leaving L.A.”
“Whatever you say, Ed,” Cupie said. The two men got into their car and drove away.
Eagle went inside the FBO, found an empty conference room and called Don Wells.
“Hello, Ed,” Wells said.
“Don, there have been developments.”
“Tell me.”
“The Santa Fe police have been able to place your two stuntmen, Cato and Edwards, in Santa Fe at the time your wife and son were killed.”
“I don’t think those guys would do something like that.”
“Well, the police do, so you’d better expect to hear from them.”
“Ed, there’s nothing connecting me to those two, except work and a few poker games.”
“Don, here’s how the police think: They’re looking for motive, means and opportunity. As far as you’re concerned the motive is your wife’s money, the means is those two stuntmen and the opportunity is their presence in Santa Fe at the time of the murders. Do you see where this is heading?”
“Ed, I’ve got nothing to fear in this, unless somebody’s planning to frame me.”
“Good, I’m glad you feel that way. Just be sure that you don’t leave town or give them any other reason to believe that you’re involved.”
“Oh, there’s something you should know, Ed: One of the stuntmen, Grif Edwards, committed suicide at the studio armory last night.”
“Swell,” Eagle said. “Don’t look at this as good for you; it sounds like Cato killed him to keep him from talking.”
“I didn’t think of that,” Wells said.
“There’s something else, Don: Do you know who Susannah Wilde is?”
“The actress? Sure.”
“She also lives with me, most of the time. It looks as though Cato tried to kill her, too.”
“Christ, Cato is a busy guy, isn’t he?”
“In the circumstances, Don, what with my connection to Susannah, I think you should get yourself another lawyer.”
“You think I had something to do with an attempt on Ms. Wilde’s life?”
“No, Don, but I’d feel uncomfortable continuing. Please get yourself another lawyer. I’ll recommend somebody, if you like.”
“That won’t be necessary, Ed; I know lawyers in L.A.”
“Well, then I wish you well, Don. Goodbye.” Eagle hung up.
Susannah came looking for him and found him in the conference room. “Ready to go?”
“Yes,” Eagle said, “and I’ve just washed my hands of Don Wells.”
49
JACK CATO HAD just wrapped his last scene when two detectives arrived on the set, took him to one side and sat him down. One of them read him his rights.
“What’s this about?” Cato asked.
“It’s about the death of Grif Edwards.”
“I heard he committed suicide.”
“You want a lawyer, Mr. Cato?”
“Nope, I don’t think I need one.”
“You knew Grif Edwards pretty well, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I did.”
“When did you last see him?”
“Last weekend, when we went down to Tijuana for the bullfights.”
“Anybody with you?”
“Yeah, Tina López and Soledad Rivera. They both work in the wardrobe department.”
“Did you notice anything unusual about Edwards’s behavior?”
“Yeah, he was very depressed, but he wouldn’t talk about it. He just drank a lot of tequila and didn’t say much.”
“Did you see Edwards at all yesterday or in the evening?”
“No, I left work a little after six and went home.”
One of the detectives consulted a clipboard. “He’s on the front-gate list; drove out at six-oh-nine P.M.”
“What do you think Edwards was doing in the armory last night?”
“Well, from what I’ve heard, that’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?”
“Did Edwards own any firearms?”
“Not that I know of.”
“How would Edwards have gotten a key to the armory?”
“I have no idea. I didn’t know he had one; those keys would be pretty tightly controlled, I expect.”
“So you think he broke into the armory to get a weapon to shoot himself with?”
“Makes sense to me.” The detective’s cell phone rang, and he answered it. After a brief conversation, he hung up. “Edwards left a note at his house,” he said to his partner.
“A suicide note?” Cato asked.
“That’s what it sounds like. Typed it on his own typewriter.”
“All right, Mr. Cato, we’re done; you can go.”
Cato got into his golf cart and stopped by the personnel office to leave his resignation, then made his way back to the stable. His money was stowed in a steel box welded under the frame of his truck, and everything was packed. It was nearly five o’clock. Just one more thing to do.
He dialed a number on his prepaid cell phone.
“Yes?”
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Keeler.”
“Who is this?”
“You know who this is; I ran a couple of errands for you,
remember?”
“The second one didn’t work out; you were ineffective.”
“What are you talking about? It was a head shot.”
“I just heard she’s alive and well, and you owe me fifty thousand dollars.”
Cato laughed. “Well, I’m gonna give you some good news and some bad news, lady. First, the good news: I’m calling from out of the country, so I won’t be around to implicate you.”
“That is good news. Now what about my fifty thousand?”
“That’s the bad news. I shot the lady in the head, as you requested. She lived; that’s your problem. More bad news: You’re going to pay me twenty-five thousand dollars every year, starting in about a week. I’ll call you and give you an address to send it to. If I don’t get it, every year and on time, my next call will be to the D.A.’s in Palo Alto and Santa Fe. And if you send somebody after me, he won’t find me. I’m a careful man.”
“You’re scum, Cato.”
“That’s what you get when you hire somebody to do your dirty work for you, lady. I’ll say goodbye . . . for now. Get the money together.” He hung up.
He took one more look around the stable, went through his office one last time to see if he’d forgotten anything, then he got into his truck and headed for the front gate.
ED EAGLE WAS having lunch with his friend, Joe Sams, the police chief. He had explained about the connection of Jack Cato and Grif Edwards to the two shootings in Santa Fe.
“I don’t know if you’ve heard, Ed, but Cato’s buddy, Grif Edwards, committed suicide last night.”
“I hadn’t heard, but I’ll give you odds Cato killed him.”
“Well, we don’t have any evidence of that. Why don’t you give all this to the Santa Fe cops? It’s their jurisdiction and they’ve already got warrants.”
“They already know about it, and I expect they’re on their way to L.A. to pick up Cato. They probably don’t know about Edwards’s suicide yet. If I were you, I’d want to hang on to Cato until you have enough evidence against him in the Edwards killing. And one more thing: My ex-wife very probably hired Cato to kill her husband’s lawyer, Joe Wilen, in Palo Alto.”
“We have constant surveillance on Mrs. Keeler,” Sams said.
“If you pick up Cato, he’ll implicate her in Wilen’s killing.”
“The Santa Fe police are picking him up, Ed.”
“And what are you going to do if he bolts?”
“They can track him down and bring him back.”
“They can’t bring him back from Mexico.”
“Ed, you’re getting too exercised about this.”
“Joe, if you don’t get exercised about it you’re going to be left holding the bag that Cato slipped out of. And he’s the only one who can give you Don Wells for hiring him to kill Wells’s wife and son.”
“Again, New Mexico jurisdiction.”
“But wouldn’t you rather break the case than let them do it?”
“Well, it would look good in the papers, I guess. But I’m not going to pick up a phone and order the arrest of Jack Cato right now. If Santa Fe wants him, let them come and get him.”
“Then why don’t you pull your surveillance off my ex-wife and give her a little room to operate. Maybe she’ll make a mistake.”
“That’s just the opposite of what you asked me to do a couple of weeks ago. What’s changed?”
“Hell, Joe, it’s okay with me if your people tail her, if you want to keep applying those resources, but she’s not going to make a move while you’re watching her.”
“Oh, all right, I’ll pull my people off.”
“As you wish, Joe. Like I said, it doesn’t matter to me.”
HALF AN HOUR LATER, Eagle was on the phone with Cupie Dalton. "Okay, Sams is going to pull his people back.”
"Good news, Ed.”
“I suggest that, from a distance, you watch the cops who are watching her. When they go away, then you can make your move.”
“And make it we will,” Cupie said. “You sure you want to play it this way, Ed? You can still change your mind and let the law do the work for you.”
“The law is never going to get her, Cupie. I’m sure this is the way to go.”
“Then Vittorio and I are on it,” Cupie said, and hung up.
50
ALEX REESE ARRIVED at Centurion Studios and asked to see the head of security. As he waited, a black pickup truck pulled up next to him in the outbound lane, but from his tiny economy rental car he could not see the face of the driver high above him.
The guard handed Reese a pass for his dashboard and waved him in. Reese went directly to the security office and was shown immediately into Jeff Bender’s office. The two men shook hands.
“What can I do for you, Alex?” Bender asked.
“I’m here with a warrant to arrest Jack Cato for the murder of Don Wells’s wife and stepson,” Reese said. “I thought, as a courtesy, I should see you first.”
Bender grabbed his jacket. “Let’s go,” he said. He led Reese to his golf cart, and the two men took off through the big lot at top speed, which was about 16 mph. Shortly, they arrived at the stable.
The two men got out of the cart, and Reese unholstered his Glock. They walked into the stable and found it quiet. Bender opened the door to the little office and looked around. “This looks emptier than usual.” The phone on the desk rang, and Bender picked it up. “Hello?”
“Mr. Cato?”
“Who’s calling?”
“This is studio personnel,” the woman said.
“This is Jeff Bender, studio security. Cato isn’t here; can I help?”
“No, I just wanted to get a forwarding address. Mr. Cato handed in his resignation about an hour ago, and he didn’t leave one.”
“I suggest you write to his old address and see if it gets forwarded,” Bender said. “And I’d like to know about it when you find out.”
“Yes, sir.”
Bender hung up. “Jack Cato resigned from his job an hour ago,” he said.
“Oh, shit.”
Bender dialed a number. “Front gate? This is Jeff Bender. Has Jack Cato left the lot?” He listened for a moment. “What was he driving? Do you have his plate number on file? Thanks.”
He handed Cato’s license number to Reese. “Cato left the lot less than fifteen minutes ago, driving a black Chevrolet Silverado pickup.”
“Shit again. I’d better call the LAPD and ask for an APB on him.”
“They’re not going to give you an APB on an out-of-state warrant,” Bender said. “Protocol is to call your chief and have him call Chief Sams.”
“May I use the phone?” Reese said.
“Sure.”
Reese called his HQ, asked for his chief and was told he had just entered a meeting and wasn’t expected out for some time. Reese left his cell phone number and asked to be called back on an urgent basis. He hung up and turned to Bender. “Cato seems to have a fondness for Tijuana. How long would it take him to drive down there?”
“Man, it’s rush hour, and it’s rush hour in every city from here to the border, including San Diego. Who knows? If Cato is on the freeway, he’s parked, like everybody else. If he’s smart he’ll use the surface streets for a couple of hours, then, when traffic starts to thin out, get on the freeway again. When your chief calls back, ask him to call the Border Patrol and get Cato stopped when he tries to leave the U.S. Also, ask him to get that warrant on the wire right away, so that if Cato gets stopped by the highway patrol for a traffic violation they’ll detain him.”
“What do you hear from the LAPD on the Grif Edwards suicide?”
“They were here for several hours today, talking to everybody.”
“Do they suspect Cato?”
Bender shook his head. “Edwards left a note at his house, so right now they’re treating it purely as a suicide. They wouldn’t have put out an APB on Cato, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
Reese’s cell phone vibrated, and
he answered it.
“Detective Reese, this is Captain Ferraro; I saw your message for the chief, but he just left the building with some people. Can I help?”
Reese told him what he needed. “I think the LAPD APB is the most important thing. If we could nail him before he leaves the city, life would be simpler. The California Highway Patrol should hear about it, too.” He recited the description of Cato’s truck.
“I don’t have the authority to do that on my own, but I’ll grab the chief at the first opportunity and press your case.”
“Thanks, Captain. You can reach me on my cell.” Reese hung up. “Damn! If I’d just made the earlier plane!”
“Don’t blame yourself, Alex. This’ll work out; it’ll just take some time. It’s a big system, and it’ll nail Cato.”
“Not if he makes it to Mexico,” Reese said.
BARBARA EAGLE KEELER was watching Judge Judy on TV when Jimmy Long came home.
“Your cop car is gone,” he said.
“Really?”
“First time in days I haven’t seen it parked out there.”
Barbara stood up. “Jimmy, Jack Cato is headed for Mexico, which means that somebody’s after him. I’m going to disappear for a while, until I’m sure he’s not talking to the cops. I don’t know how he found out my name, but he knows it, and I can’t take the chance of staying here any longer.”
“Okay. How can I help?”
“Just keep an eye on the papers and an ear on the TV news. If you hear anything about Cato, call me on my cell phone.”
“Where are you going to now?”
“You don’t want to know that, Jimmy.”
“Maybe not. What do you want me to tell the police, if they call?”
“Tell them I went back to San Francisco.” Barbara went upstairs and started packing. When she was done, she came back downstairs. “I forgot,” she said, “I don’t own a car.”
“You want me to drive you to a car rental place?”
“Tell you what, drive me to a Mercedes dealership.”
“Okay, babe.”
CUPIE DALTON SAT up straight. “Here we go,” he said to Vittorio. “First, the cops leave, now there goes Barbara.”
“That will be Long driving, I guess,” Vittorio said.
“I don’t think she has a car,” Cupie replied. “Two to one, they’re on the way to the airport.”
