by Stuart Woods
“And the name of the company you chartered from?”
“Elite Aircraft, at Burbank Airport, in Los Angeles.”
The man took all this down. “May I use a telephone in another room?”
“Of course. There’s one in the kitchen.”
The man left, and his partner resumed the questioning. “When you arrived at the airport, did you speak to anyone?”
“No, my car was waiting, and I went inside the FBO to use the men’s room while the pilots loaded my luggage into it.”
“Was there not a toilet on the airplane, señor?”
Wells smiled. “Yes, but our approach was very bumpy, not conducive to aiming well.”
The other detective came back and nodded to the capitán, who spoke up again. “Señor Wells, can you describe the two young women?”
“They are both in their late twenties or early thirties. Tina is about five feet seven inches tall and a hundred and thirty pounds; Soledad is smaller, about five-four and a hundred and thirty pounds. They are both Hispanic and speak Spanish but were born in Los Angeles, I believe.”
The capitán held out his hand, and one of the detectives put the manila envelope in it. He opened the envelope and handed Wells two photographs. “Are these the two women?”
Wells looked at the photos and let his eyes widen. “What happened to them?”
“Are they your two friends?”
“Yes, they are. What happened?”
“They were apparently driving from this house into Acapulco yesterday afternoon. They were found in their car, upside down in an arroyo, both dead.”
“That’s very upsetting,” Wells said, frowning, “an awful accident.”
“It was not an accident, Señor Wells,” the capitán said. “Their car was apparently run off the road and into the ditch; both women were shot once each, with a small-caliber handgun.”
“Good God! Why would anyone harm them?”
“Apparently to rob them, señor. Both their handbags had been removed from the car and emptied on the ground beside it. There was no money or jewelry among the belongings. Also, one of the women, the driver, showed marks on her left wrist of having worn a watch, which was missing.”
“I’m going to have to get in touch with their families,” Wells said.
“Perhaps it would be better if I did that,” the capitán replied. “If you will give me the number.”
Wells looked at his wristwatch. “I’ll have to call the studio,” he said and went to the phone. After speaking to personnel he handed the capitán the names and numbers of their next of kin.
“May I ask, Señor Wells, why you did not have these numbers yourself?”
“I don’t know their families, Capitán; I have only the number of the apartment they share. When you speak to the families, would you please convey my condolences and tell them I will bear any expense involved in returning their remains to Los Angeles?”
“Of course, Señor Wells. If you will permit me, I will place these arrangements in the hands of a mortuary known to me, and they will send you a bill. Normally, in cases of this kind, the remains are cremated, which makes transport more convenient.”
“Whatever their families wish, Capitán, and I am very grateful for your help in this matter. Tell me, do you have any idea who did this?”
“No, señor, not yet. We found a stolen car abandoned in Acapulco that had paint from the women’s car on its bumper, but the car had been carefully cleaned of fingerprints.”
“I would appreciate it if you would keep me informed on the investigation,” Wells said. “And when you have spoken to their families, would you ask to whom and where I should send the belongings they left here?”
“Of course. And now we would like to speak to your housekeeper, if we may, and see their belongings.”
“This way,” Wells said, rising.
Half an hour later they were gone, seeming satisfied. With the women silenced and Jack Cato disappearing into Mexico, Wells began to breathe easier.
57
EAGLE AND SUSANNAH got back to his Santa Fe house by late afternoon and unpacked. They were having a drink when the phone rang, and Eagle answered.
“Ed, it’s Bob Martínez.”
“Hi, Bob.”
“An update for you: Detective Reese is in Los Angeles with an arrest warrant for Jack Cato, on a double-murder charge.”
“Donna Wells and her son?”
“Yes. We can put him in Santa Fe when Susannah was shot, too, but we still have more work to do on that.”
“Are you arresting Don Wells? By the way, I am no longer representing him.”
“When we get Cato in custody and back to Santa Fe we’ll make him an offer in the hope of getting him to turn on Wells. Grif Edwards is dead.”
“I heard.”
“There are still the two women who alibied Cato and Edwards, but they seem to have left L.A., so Cato is our only shot right now at implicating Wells. New York may have a chance, though.”
“Why?”
“They think Wells may have murdered his wife’s first husband, but they were unable to make a case at the time. Now they’ve cracked his alibi for the time of the murder, so they’re reopening the case. Of course, we’d rather see him go down in Santa Fe.”
“Of course.”
“The LAPD has lifted surveillance on your ex-wife, and, quite frankly, we don’t know where she is; maybe gone back to San Francisco. I’m not sure you can rest easy while she’s on the loose.”
“Thanks for calling, Bob. Please keep me abreast of developments.” He hung up and told Susannah the details of the conversation.
“Ed,” Susannah said, “do you think we’re safe now?”
“Yes, I do.”
“With Barbara still out there somewhere?”
“I don’t think we’re going to have to worry about Barbara anymore.”
“I don’t like the way you said that. You haven’t done anything stupid, have you?”
“That remains to be seen,” Eagle said.
A CHAUFFEURED MERCEDES called at La Reserve for Barbara at seven o’clock and drove her to a local marina. The driver held her door for her. “Madam, I’m told the yacht is on slip one hundred, at the end of the main pier,” he said, pointing.
She tipped and thanked him, then walked through the gate and down the pier. As she came to the pontoon at the end and turned a corner, the yacht came into view. Oh, gorgeous, she thought. Not only is this man the heir to a great fortune, he has impeccable taste in yachts.
A uniformed crew member stood at the end of the gangplank. “Mrs. Keeler?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Captain Ted,” the man said. “Welcome aboard Enticer. Mr. Gillette is waiting for you on the afterdeck. This way, please.”
He led her down the port side of the yacht, and she noted the gleaming varnished mahogany and the teak decks. As she rounded a corner, Ron Gillette stood up to greet her, resplendent in a blue blazer and white linen trousers.
“Barbara! Welcome aboard!” He offered her a comfortable chair, then a steward appeared with a bottle of Veuve Cliquot Grand Dame and poured them both a glass.
“Ted,” Gillette said, “I think we can get under way now.” He turned back to Barbara. “The other couple I mentioned in my card who were meant to join us are having sitter problems and won’t be coming. I hope you won’t mind dining alone with me.”
“Not in the least,” she said, giving him her best smile.
Lines were taken in, and the yacht moved, nearly silently, away from the dock, and headed toward the Pacific.
“Where are we cruising?” she asked.
“I’ve left that to our captain, Ted; he knows these waters well.”
“The yacht is very beautiful. Tell me about her.”
“My grandfather had her designed in 1935, by John Trump, and built in New Jersey; she’s been in the family ever since. Last year, I put her through a complete renovation—electrics, engines, navigational
equipment—so she’s now virtually a new yacht.”
“New yachts aren’t this beautiful,” Barbara said.
The steward appeared with hors d’oeuvres: bits of foie gras on toast and beluga caviar with little buckwheat cakes and sour cream.
“Would you prefer iced vodka with your caviar?” Gillette asked.
“Thank you, I prefer the champagne. You were kind to remember that I liked it.”
The yacht turned northward and cruised along slowly as the sun sank into the Pacific and Ron Gillette coaxed information from her and talked on and on about his family and his life as a world traveler. Barbara believed she might have met her fifth husband.
When darkness fell they moved into the saloon, where a sumptuous dinner was served by the steward and the chef. Soft piano music played from a hidden sound system, and the stars came out.
Slowly, as they dined, the yacht turned toward the west and continued until it was on a southerly heading. With the sun down, this was not obvious from the saloon.
AFTER DESSERT THEY moved to a comfortable sofa while the dishes were taken away. The steward served them cognac. “Will that be all, Mr. Gillette?”
“Yes, thank you, Justin. We’d like to be alone now.”
“Certainly, sir. You won’t be disturbed.” He vanished.
Gillette and Barbara clinked glasses and sipped their brandy, then he leaned over and kissed her lightly under the ear.
“What lovely perfume,” he said, nibbling at her earlobe.
“What a lovely kiss,” she said, raising her lips to him.
“I don’t believe I’ve shown you the owner’s cabin,” he breathed into her ear.
“I’d love to see it,” she replied.
They rose, and he led her down the companionway to the afterstateroom, which was large and comfortably furnished with a king-size bed. The lights had already been lowered, and they could still hear the lovely music.
“This is wonderful,” Barbara said as they sank into the bed.
“The evening is yours,” Gillette said. “You have only to tell me what you desire.”
And she told him.
58
JACK CATO BOARDED his flight, and through his window he saw lightning in the distance. His first instinct was to get off the airplane, but he wanted out of Acapulco before he had to have a conversation with the local police.
Five minutes after takeoff, while the airplane was still climbing, it was buffeted by turbulence and lit periodically by lightning flashes. Cato knew, from his flight training, what thunderstorms could do to an airplane, even one as large as this, and if he had been offered a parachute, he would gladly have jumped.
He wanted a drink desperately but wasn’t going to get one unless he could snag it from the unmoored cocktail cart that was careening up and down the aisle, and he had a window seat so could not reach it. The woman next to him vomited into her lap, and the stench was awful.
A man two rows ahead got out of his seat, trying to go God knew where, and had to be restrained by the flight attendant and another passenger. Here and there, an overhead locker flew open and pillows, blankets and luggage spilled onto the heads of the passengers. Women were screaming, and so were some of the men. The flight attendant, once again strapped into her seat, sat as if in a catatonic state, white as marble, her lips moving, without sound.
And then, suddenly, they were on top of the clouds, and the flight, in a matter of seconds, became perfectly smooth. He could see the array of stars as they made their way north.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the pilot said over the PA system, “I wish to apologize for the roughness of our ascent, but I want you to know that we were never in any danger.”
“Lying son of a bitch,” Cato said to himself.
The flight attendant came and led the woman next to him to a toilet, and she returned after a few minutes, stinking less badly. The seat-belt sign remained on, and no drinks were served.
The flight attendant reached over and tapped him on the shoulder, and he started. “May I put your bag in the overhead compartment?” she asked.
He realized that he was hugging the soft leather bag with his money in it. “No,” he said. “Can I have a drink?”
“I’m sorry, sir, but the seat-belt sign is still on and will probably remain that way. Please be sure to put your bag under the seat in front of you for landing.” She went on her way.
Cato willed himself to relax and had nearly done so, when the airplane began its descent into Tijuana. Shortly they were in clouds, and the lightning started again. It was as if someone in some great video center was replaying their ascent, except the descent was, if anything, worse. The pilot announced final approach, and Cato knew he was flying the instrument landing system. The airplane yawed, bumped, made sharp ascents and descents, and he knew the pilot was hand-flying the approach, because the autopilot couldn’t operate in such turbulence.
They broke out of the clouds, but rain was streaming down Cato’s window, and the airplane was still bucking. Then, miraculously, they were on the ground and braking. Cato didn’t know how the pilot found the taxiway in the downpour, but he did. The moment the airplane stopped moving, Cato was on his feet, and the hell with the attendant’s instruction to remain seated. He was the first person off the airplane, and he nearly ran to the bar in the terminal.
It took two shots of tequila to begin to calm him; the third one he sipped more slowly. Finally, he weaved his way out of the terminal, and while his fellow passengers were still waiting for their luggage, he slung his bag over his shoulder and began waving for a taxi in the heavy rain. He was soaked before one finally stopped. He instructed the man to take him to the garage near the border crossing.
“Ah, yes, señor,” the man said. “I know the one. You would, perhaps like a clean hotel for the night? My cousin has a very nice place not far from this garage.”
“No, no thanks,” Cato said. He had an almost panicky need to be sure his truck was safe, then he would go to the Parador, where he had stayed before. He would have some dinner and a couple of drinks, and maybe a whore, then he would get a good night’s sleep and be on his way south the following morning.
The cab stopped in front of the garage, and Cato made his way to the elevator, since he had parked on the roof. The rain had begun to ease when he stepped out onto the upper deck and looked around for his truck. Then he saw something that chilled his soul. All the boxes that had been loaded into his truck bed were scattered around the roof. They had been cut open, and the contents—his clothes and belongings—were being blown about in the wind and rain. He heard tires squealing and looked wildly around, then saw his truck speeding onto the down ramp. The thief didn’t know about the lockbox welded into the truck’s chassis, the box with most of his money and the letter that he must destroy.
He had a chance, he thought. He stopped the elevator doors from closing and leapt back into the car. The ride down was painfully slow; it seemed to take half an hour to reach the ground. He ran from the elevator and into the street, looking up and down the block for his truck.
Then he saw it, at the Mexican side of the border crossing. The thief was driving it into the United States. He began to run, but the tequila was catching up with him. By the time he reached the Mexican side, the truck had been cleared and was driving toward the American side of the border. There were few cars waiting to cross, and he knew that soon the truck would be gone and that he would never find it.
He cleared the Mexican side and began to run again. “Stop that truck!” he yelled. “Stop that truck! It’s stolen! That’s my truck!” One of the American border patrol officers turned and looked at him. “Stop that truck!” he yelled again. “It’s stolen!”
The officer yanked open the truck door and pulled a young man out of the cab. “What did you say?” he asked Cato, as he wobbled up to the truck.
“That’s my truck; he stole it!” Cato puffed. “He threw all my stuff out and stole it from the garage.” Unable to co
ntinue, he sank to a cross-legged sitting position on the wet pavement and watched the officer handcuff the thief, then the man walked over to him.
“Are you all right, sir?”
“Gimme a minute,” Cato said, gulping in new air.
“What is your name, sir?”
“Ca . . . ah, Timmons,” Cato said.
“May I see the registration for the truck and your driver’s license?”
Cato reached into his right hip pocket for his wallet, then changed his mind and reached into the left pocket for his Timmons license. He handed it to the officer. “The registration is in the armrest of the truck,” he said.
“You got here just in time, Mr. Timmons,” the officer said. “Another ten seconds, and he would have been gone with your truck.”
“Thank you for stopping him,” Cato said, struggling to his feet.
The officer walked around the truck slowly. “You said the thief removed your belongings from the truck?”
“Yes, they’re scattered all over the roof of that garage over there,” he said, pointing. “Can I take my truck back and get my things now?”
The officer was looking at the truck registration. “First, let’s clear up something. Why is the license plate on your truck not the one listed on your registration, Mr. Timmons. And who is John W. Cato?”
Cato’s legs failed him again.
59
CUPIE AND VITTORIO stood on the fore-deck of Enticer, staring toward the shore. “Where the fuck is he?” Cupie asked.
“He’ll be here,” Vittorio said. “He promised me, and he owes me.”
“Owes you?”
“He accepted a gift: I gave him a beautiful Colt .45 the last time I saw him,” Vittorio explained. “I couldn’t cross the border with it, so I thought, what the hell, it couldn’t hurt to keep a capitán sweet.”
“You’re sure he’s coming?”
“She cut off his nephew’s dick. He’ll be here.”
“He’d better; the yacht has to be back at Marina del Rey tomorrow morning, or it will cost Eagle another five grand, and I don’t want to have to explain it to him.”
