by Stuart Woods
“Probably. Where do you think she’s going?”
“Back to San Francisco is my guess.”
“We don’t want that, do we?”
“Nope.”
“But we can’t do it while she’s with Long.”
"Nope. We need to find her in some nice, quiet place, even if it’s in San Francisco.”
51
BARBARA WALKED INTO the Mercedes dealership and was immediately greeted by a salesman.
“Good evening,” he said. “May I show you something?”
“I’d like to see a list of every new car in stock that’s ready to drive away,” she said.
The salesman went to his desk, offered her a chair and took an inventory from a drawer. He removed a page from the list and handed it to her. “That’s everything on the lot,” he said. “A couple need prepping before they go out.”
Barbara ran down the list and stopped at a silver E55. “Let’s take a look at this one,” she said.
“It’s right over there,” the man said, pointing across the showroom. “You know about the E55? It’s the fastest Mercedes.”
“I know about it,” she replied.
“We’re about to have a model change,” the salesman said, “so I can offer you a good deal on it.”
Barbara sat in the car. “Is it prepped?”
“Ready to drive away.”
She got out of the car and checked the equipment list.
“Just about every option,” the salesman said. “Do you have a trade-in?”
“Nope, just cash.”
He looked at the list price on the car and quoted her a price.
She counteroffered and they settled on a price. “Check or credit card?” she asked.
“Which credit card?”
She handed him her black Amex card and her driver’s license.
He compared her to the photo on the license. “Is the address on the license current?”
“It is.”
“Let me speak to our finance guy.” He noted her checking account number and walked into a private office with her credit card. Five minutes later, he was back.
“We’ll be happy to take a check,” he said. He added in the sales tax and gave her the amount.
Barbara sat at his desk and wrote the check.
The printer on the man’s desk began to spit paper. “The bill of sale is printing out right now.” He handed it to her. “Thank you very much for your business.”
A man in Mercedes coveralls appeared and drove the car out of the showroom and onto the lot. Twenty minutes after arriving, Barbara gave Jimmy a good-bye kiss.
“Take care of yourself, baby.”
“I’ll be in touch,” she said, then she got into her new car and moved out into traffic.
"THAT WAS FAST,” Vittorio said.
Cupie put the car into gear. “It sure was. If I’d tried to buy a Mercedes, they’d have tied me up for an hour, running credit checks and probably taking a blood sample.”
“It helps if you’re Mrs. Walter Keeler and beautiful.”
They followed as Barbara got onto the freeway, headed south.
“I guess she ain’t going to San Francisco,” Cupie said.
BY SEVEN O’CLOCK, Jack Cato was sick of driving in the heavy traffic. He exited the freeway and found a steakhouse, and as he got out of his truck, he found something else, too. Parked two spaces away, shielded from the view of the restaurant by shrubbery, was a black Silverado pickup, identical to his, except that it didn’t have the toolbox bolted into the bed.
Cato had a quick look around, then found a screwdriver in his glove box and removed the license plate from the other Silverado. Moving fast, he exchanged it with the plate on the other Silverado, then he went inside, got a table and ordered a New York strip. An hour later, he was headed south again in lighter traffic, in a vehicle nobody was looking for.
IT WAS NEARLY midnight when Alex Reese got the call.
“This is Captain Ferraro. Sorry to take so long, but the chief went out to dinner with some people, and his cell phone was turned off. You got your L.A. and statewide APB’s.”
“Thanks, Captain.”
“And both departments have your cell phone number for when they find him.”
Reese thanked him again, then went to bed. He slept better knowing that every L.A. cop and CHP officer was looking for Jack Cato.
Barbara reached La Jolla, a San Diego suburb, before midnight and drove directly to La Reserve, a spa where she had spent time before. Half an hour later she was having a late supper in her suite, watching an old movie on television.
"I KNOW THIS PLACE,” Vittorio said. “She’s been here before, and I know a woman who works here as a masseuse.”
“Good,” Cupie said. “We might as well find a motel; she’s not going anywhere for a few days, and we have arrangements to make.”
JACK CATO FOUND a motel in San Diego and used his Texas ID and credit card. He would cross the border in the morning, during rush hour. As soon as he got to his room he turned on the television, and not five minutes had passed before he saw his own face. “Shit!” he yelled. Fortunately, the picture they were showing was one from the western, with the handlebar moustache.
Cato was nearly asleep when his cell phone rang, and he picked it up. “Yeah?”
“It’s me,” Don Wells said. “Are you in Mexico yet?”
“Almost . . . tomorrow morning.”
“Have you got backup ID?”
“Yes.”
“I have another, very lucrative job for you in Mexico.”
“How much?”
“One hundred K.”
“Who?”
“Two people, traveling together.”
“Where?”
“Tomorrow morning, cross the border and take the noon flight from Tijuana to Acapulco. Book it tonight. You’ll be met by a man in a red straw hat carrying a sign saying ‘Mr. Theodore.’”
“I’ll need a piece.”
“The man will provide that and anything else you need, including twenty-five K, U.S.”
“How long will this take?”
“Up to you; shouldn’t be more than a day. You’ll follow two people; do it; then take their money and valuables. Call me on this cell phone when it’s done.”
“When do I get the rest of the money?”
“I own a little beach house; the man will take you there. I’ll arrive with your money after the job is done.”
“All right. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Cato hung up, elated. He would add another hundred grand to his nest egg.
52
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Cupie called a man he knew in L.A., a con man and sometime actor named Ron Gillette, who was fiftyish, handsome, beautifully dressed and too charming for his own good.
“Hey, Cupie, how’s it going?”
“Extremely well, Ronnie. Could you use a few days’ work at two grand a day and expenses?”
“What does it involve?”
“Being yourself, seducing a woman, a day or two in the sun.”
“Does anybody get hurt?”
“Of course not,” Cupie lied.
“When and where?”
“Be in San Diego by five o’clock today.” Cupie gave him the address of his motel. “I’ll have a room for you.”
“Clothes?”
“Blue blazer, white trousers, business suit, dinner jacket and your passport. You’ll be using your own name.”
“Done.”
“I want you to make a stop in Marina del Ray and have your picture taken. Wear your blazer.” Cupie gave him a name and a number. “Bring some postcard-size prints with you.”
“Okay.”
“One more thing: Do you know any beautiful women in San Diego?”
“Will La Jolla do?”
“Sure. Make a dinner date for tomorrow night, and pick her up at seven thirty.”
“In that case, I won’t need the hotel room.”
“Good. See you at five.” Cup
ie hung up.
Vittorio was on his own phone, speaking Spanish, making arrangements. He hung up. “We’re good to go,” he said. “I’ll make one more call when it’s time.”
Cupie nodded and called Ed Eagle.
“Hello, Cupie. Is everything happening?”
“Yep. Expenses are going to run to fifteen, twenty grand, plus our daily fees.”
“It’s worth it. Where are you?”
“Do you really want to know, Ed? Don’t you like surprises?”
Eagle sighed. “All right, Cupie, I’ll trust you.”
“Always the best thing. Why don’t you go back to Santa Fe, Ed? It’s better to be as far away as possible from the scene. I’ll call you in a couple of days.”
“Maybe you’re right,” Eagle said.
Cupie hung up and made some more arrangements.
ALEX REESE HUNG around his hotel room, waiting for a call, but none came. He called Santa Fe and got Captain Ferraro on the phone.
“It’s Alex Reese, Captain. Have they picked up Jack Cato?”
“I haven’t heard a word, Alex,” the captain replied.
“I don’t understand it; they should have had him by this time.”
“Got a pencil? I’ll give you a contact number at the California Highway Patrol.”
Reese wrote down the name and number, then hung up and re-dialed. “Colonel Tom Pace,” he said to the operator.
“This is Tom Pace.”
“Colonel, I’m Detective Alex Reese, Santa Fe P.D. Captain Ferraro gave me your number.”
“Oh, yes. No joy on that APB, I’m afraid.”
“I think he must be out of L.A. by this time. My best guess is, he’ll cross the border at Tijuana.”
“We had a word with the border patrol; they’ve got his photo and his license number. He won’t get across.”
“Will you call me when you hear something?”
“Of course. I believe I have your cell number.”
Reese thanked him and hung up. He went out, looking for breakfast.
JACK CATO STARTED the day early at a barbershop, with a much shorter haircut and a shave. By nine thirty, he was approaching the Mexico border, and he had his ID ready when the agent approached. “Good morning,” he said with a smile. “Beautiful day.”
“Yes, it is,” the man said, studying his ID. “How long are you staying in Mexico?”
“I’m house hunting down there,” he said. “My stuff is in the back. You want to see it?”
“Not today,” the man said, returning his ID to him. “Move on, please.”
That had been easier than he had anticipated, Cato thought, but now he looked ahead to the Mexican side of the border and saw something he didn’t like: A police officer had a mirror on a pole, and he was examining the underside of vehicles as they approached the border. He had not anticipated this. He had a lockbox welded under his truck with his money in it, and he tried to remember if he had driven through any mud since he last had the truck washed. He hoped to God he had; he needed the camouflage.
A policeman waved him forward to a barrier and asked him for his ID and vehicle registration. Cato complied, and as he did, he heard a scrape from under the truck. The man was there with his mirror.
“What is the purpose of your visit to Mexico?” the policeman asked him.
“Pleasure.”
“What is in the back of the truck?”
“My personal belongings. I’m planning to look for a holiday casa to buy.”
“Please step out of the truck and come with me,” the cop said. He led the way to the rear of the truck. “Please remove the cover.”
Cato unhooked the tarp over his goods and rolled it back.
“Open this box,” the cop said, pointing.
Cato opened it to reveal some of his clothes. He was instructed to open two other boxes, while another cop put a Labrador retriever into the back of the truck, who went happily to work with his nose. The other boxes contained pots and pans and some lamps.
“You can secure the cover again,” the cop said. The dog jumped down and went on to the next vehicle with his handler. The policeman handed him back his ID. “Thank you, Mr. Timmons. You may enter Mexico.”
Cato got into the truck and drove across the border. He parked his truck in a garage near the crossing, grabbed an overnight bag and took a cab to the airport. An hour later he was boarding his flight to Acapulco. It departed on time.
Vittorio was having a very nice lunch on the beach at La Jolla with Birgit, his friend, the masseuse, at La Reserve. She was a good six feet tall, blonde, and beautiful in a sweet way.
“So, Vittorio, you’ve come to visit me at last.”
“Yes, and I’ve been looking forward to it.”
“How long can you stay?”
“A day or two. I’ll do the best I can.”
“Is your visit connected with your work this time?”
“Yes. In fact, it’s connected with the same work I was doing last time.”
Birgit laughed. “Yes, she checked in last night. I should have known you would not be far behind.”
“Do you know what name she’s using?”
“Keeler,” she said. “I gave her a massage this morning, and the staff has been talking about her. Apparently, her rich husband recently died.”
“Yes, that’s true. Do you know what her plans for the day are?”
“I believe she’s staying close to her cottage. She made a dinner reservation in the dining room while I was there. Eight thirty this evening.”
“That’s good to know,” Vittorio said, then he set about seducing Birgit, an action she received with alacrity.
53
BARBARA DAWDLED OVER her lunch, thinking. She still had something to clean up before she could be at peace. Jack Cato was no longer of any use to her, so she needed fresh talent, someone closer to the scene. She got out her untraceable cell phone and made a call to Santa Fe, to a woman she had been intimate with when she had lived there.
“Hello?”
“Hello, little one.”
“Barb . . .”
“Shhhhh, let’s not use names on the phone.”
“What’s up, baby?”
“Tell me about you, first.”
“Oh, business is slow, and there’s not much love in my life at the moment.” Betty Shipp was a small, beautiful woman who liked sex of all sorts but preferred women.
“Not in mine, either.”
“Let’s get together, then.”
“I’m afraid I’m a long way from you right now, but maybe later. If business is slow, maybe you could use a nice chunk of money.”
Betty laughed. “Sure, who do I have to kill?”
Barbara said nothing.
“Oooooh, I was on the mark, huh?”
“You were.”
“Let me guess: the tall guy.”
“And his girlfriend. It’ll be easy; they live together.”
“When?”
“A Sunday morning would be perfect.”
“How?”
“Two each to the head would be nice. Something small will do, maybe a .22.”
“I never did two people before. Come to think of it, I’ve done only one just the one time, and God, the bastard deserved it. You’re the only one who knows.”
“I know; I was your alibi, remember? Here’s how you’ll do it.” Barbara explained in detail. “Got it?”
“Sounds simple enough. You mentioned money?”
“I’ll wire you twenty-five thousand today, another twenty-five when I read about it in the papers.”
“I’ll give you my account number.”
“No. Just go to the Western Union office on Cerrillos Road, you know it. Give me a couple of hours to get it there.”
“You got a deal. I never liked him anyway.”
“You’ll like her even less, baby.”
“When will I see you?”
“We’ll need to wait a few weeks for things to cool down, then I’l
l bring you to a place you’ll love. Bye-bye, sweetie.”
“Bye.”
Barbara hung up and went to her suitcase for the cash.
JACK CATO WALKED through the Acapulco airport, his eyes darting everywhere.
Ahead and to his right a man in a red straw cowboy hat held up a sign. Jack caught his eye as he passed and nodded, then continued outside. He stood on the curb and watched the man cross the road to the parking lot, then he followed.
The man in the red hat walked to a van, opened the rear doors and got in, leaving the doors open. Jack looked around, then got in, too.
“Good day, señor,” the man said.
“Good day.”
“I got some things for you.” He unfolded a map. “You know Acapulco?”
“Pretty good.”
The man pointed with a stubby finger. “Here is the airport. You leave, turn right, take the coast road. A few miles, you pass a bar, El Toro Loco, then you take your first right turn and follow the road to the beach and turn left. It’s the boss’s house, número 1040. You can remember that?”
“Easy.” He remembered that he was going to have to do something about filing his tax return, unless he wanted another government agency searching for him.
“You park your car here,” the man said, pointing.
“Car?”
The man rapped on the side of the van. “Parked just here.” He handed over the keys. “Every afternoon, five o’clock, about, the two women go to El Toro Loco for a margarita, then they go to town for shopping, on this road, here. It’s a quiet road; you can hit them going or coming, take your pick. Must look like a robbery, yes?”
“Yes, I know.”
The man handed him a very small semiautomatic pistol. “Is .380, plenty big?”
“Yes.”
“Comes with this,” the man said. He handed over a Ziploc bag containing two magazines, a silencer and a pair of latex gloves, and, using a handkerchief, he dropped the gun into the bag.
“Gun and bullets don’t have no prints on them. You use gloves when you handle and when you drive car, got it?”
“Got it.”
“When you are finished, you drive into Acapulco and park car somewhere, walk away, leave nothing. Get a hotel. You call the man. He will arrange to meet you with the money; he will tell you where. Then you go back to Tijuana. Go now. Any questions?”
