by Stuart Woods
Cupie went to the bridge, where Captain Ted was lounging, letting the autopilot take them south at a leisurely eight knots.
“What’s up?” Ted asked.
Cupie grabbed the microphone of the VHF radio and tuned it to channel 16. “Capitán Rodríguez, Capitán Rodríguez, this is the yacht Enticer. Do you read?”
Static. Then a voice, very loud. “Enticer, this is Rodríguez. What is your position?”
Cupie looked up at the GPS and read off their latitude and longitude.
“That is not very far away. Are you wearing lights?”
“Yes, we are,” Cupie said. He turned to Ted. “Give me a white flare,” he said.
Ted dug into a locker and handed him the flare.
Cupie picked up the microphone again. “Watch for a bright light,” he said, then he walked back on deck, peeled the seal off the flare, struck it and held it overboard, so the phosphorous wouldn’t drip on him. The whole world lit up.
BARBARA WAS RIDING Ron Gillette as if he were a circus pony, and making a lot of noise doing it. She was suddenly reined in by a hammering on the door.
“Mr. Gillette!” a voice called out.
“Huh? Yes?” Gillette said.
“Please come on deck and bring Mrs. Keeler; the police want to inspect the yacht and see the crew’s papers. Please bring your passports!”
“Yeah, give us a couple of minutes, okay?”
Barbara sighed and rolled off Gillette. “What’s going on?”
“It’s just a routine thing,” Gillette replied. “Happens all the time; homeland security and all that. Let’s get dressed.”
They got into their clothes, and Barbara took a moment to apply lipstick. She grabbed her handbag. “Okay, I’m ready.”
“They’re going to want to see our passports,” Ron said, taking his from an inside pocket of his blazer and holding it up.
Barbara dug into her handbag and came up with her passport. “Got it.”
“Don’t worry,” Ron said. “We’ll be back in bed in ten minutes.”
“I’ll look forward to it,” Barbara said, smiling.
He led her up the companionway stairs and onto the afterdeck. A brightly lit motor vessel was moored alongside Enticer, bobbing on the small waves. It was flying a Mexican flag.
“Ron,” Barbara said, “that’s a Mexican flag.” She pointed.
“Yes, it is,” he replied.
“Are we in Mexico?”
Ron looked toward shore at some lights. “I guess so.” He pointed. “That must be Tijuana over there.”
Barbara looked around, as if for a way out, but there was no escape; she’d just have to brazen it through. Then two men appeared from forward on the yacht, and she knew one of them. “Cupie? What the hell are you doing here?”
“Hi, Barbara,” Cupie said cheerfully. “You remember Capitán Rodríguez, don’t you?”
Barbara stared in horror at the Mexican policeman. “No,” she said, “I don’t.”
“Well then,” Cupie said, “you remember his nephew . . .”
“Ernesto,” the capitán said, helpfully.
“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”
“May I see your passport, Mrs. Eagle?” Capitán Rodríguez said. “I’m sure we can straighten this out very quickly.”
“My name is Mrs. Walter Keeler,” she said, handing the capitán her passport. “You must have me confused with someone else.”
“Oh, he’s not confused, Babs,” Cupie said.
“No, señora,” the capitán replied, “I am not confused.” He removed a piece of paper from his tunic pocket and handed it to her. “I have a warrant for your arrest on three charges of attempted murder.”
“What on earth are you talking about?” she demanded.
Vittorio appeared on the afterdeck. “One,” he said, raising his hand. “Attempted murder by drowning.”
“Two,” Cupie said, raising his hand. “Attempted murder by gunshot.”
“And three,” the capitán said, “counting my nephew, who will be very happy to see you, Mrs. Eagle.”
“I tell you I am not this Eagle person!” Barbara said desperately. “My United States passport will tell you that!”
“Yes,” Cupie said, “she is.”
“Right,” echoed Vittorio.
“You are all insane!” she shouted. “Ron, do something!”
Gillette took the paper from her hand and glanced over it. “Well,” he said, “this appears to be a valid warrant. Did I mention that I’m a lawyer?”
“Well, if you’re a lawyer, do something!”
“I’m afraid I’m not licensed to practice in Mexico,” Gillette said. “I’m awfully sorry about this, Barbara, but it looks as though you’re going to have to go with this policeman.”
As if on cue, two other policemen, bearing automatic weapons, appeared behind the capitán.
“If you please, señora,” the capitán said, indicating that she should board his boat. “I hope it will not be necessary to handcuff you.” He took her by the wrist and elbow and began dragging her toward the other boat.
“This is outrageous!” Barbara shouted. “I want to speak to the American ambassador at once!”
“Unfortunately,” the capitán said, “we did not bring his excellency with us, but as soon as we reach my office you may telephone him.”
The two policemen stepped forward, lifted Barbara off her feet and handed her over the rail to two more policemen on the other boat.
The capitán gave Captain Ted a smart salute. “I think we need not detain you further, Captain,” he said. “I bid you all a good evening,” he said to the others, then, assisted by his officers, he climbed over the railing and reboarded his boat.
“Cupie!” Barbara shouted from the police boat, “call Ed Eagle! Tell him I need a lawyer!”
“Oh, don’t worry, Barbara. I’ll call Ed Eagle. You have a nice evening, now.” He waved as the police boat pulled away. “Well, Captain Ted,” he said, “if you could drop us in La Jolla, then you can be on your way back to Marina del Rey.”
“Sure, Cupie,” Ted replied.
“Oh, and may Vittorio and I have some dinner, please?”
“Of course. I’ll tell the chef.”
“I assume you’ve already eaten, Ron.”
“Yes, I have,” Gillette said, “but I’ll join you for a drink. Tell me, did that beautiful woman actually cut off somebody’s dick?”
“She certainly did,” Cupie said. “Probably more than one.” He got out his cell phone and speed-dialed Ed Eagle.
“Wow,” Gillette said, “I guess I got out lucky.”
The yacht slowly turned back toward La Jolla and her speed increased.
ED EAGLE PICKED up the phone. “Hello?”
“Hi, it’s Cupie.”
“What’s the news?”
“Mrs. Keeler is in custody.”
“Where?”
“In Tijuana, Mexico, though I think she will shortly be transported south, to the scene of the penilectomy. By the way, she asked me to call you, and I assured her I would.”
“Call me? Why?”
“It seems the lady needs a lawyer.”
Eagle laughed. “Well, she hasn’t lost her sense of humor,” he said. “Send me your bill, Cupie, and thank you so very much.” He hung up.
“What is it?” Susannah asked.
“It’s over,” Eagle said. “Let’s spend tomorrow in bed.”
“You talked me into it,” she said, melting into his arms.
60
ALEX REESE GOT out of his car at the border patrol station and ran inside. A man wearing captain’s bars got up from a desk and came toward him. “May I help you?”
"I’m Detective Alex Reese, Santa Fe P.D.”
“Oh, of course, Detective. I’m Captain Taylor.”
“The California Highway Patrol tells me you’ve got Jack Cato.”
“Either Cato or Timmons, take your pick.”
“Sorry?”
&nbs
p; “He had two sets of ID but only one registration for his truck, in the name of Cato. I don’t know how he got across the border. One of our people must have slipped up. The CHP says you can have him, though.”
“I’d like to see him,” Reese said.
“Come this way.” He led Reese down a hallway and opened a door. Jack Cato was visible in the next room through a one-way mirror. “He was drunk as a skunk when we got our hands on him; he’s probably just hungover by now.” He indicated a pile on a table behind them. “That’s all the stuff we found on him and in his truck. He had a kind of safe welded to the underside of the chassis.”
Reese turned and stared at the pile. “How much money is that?” “Something over two hundred grand; each of those bundles holds ten thousand dollars. He had more than a hundred thousand in the shoulder bag, there, and at least that much in the safe under the truck.”
Reese produced a pair of latex gloves and pulled them on. “Have you catalogued all this stuff?” He poked among the contents of Cato’s pockets.
“Yep, here’s a list. If you agree, then sign it, and we’ll give you a box to put all this stuff in.”
Reese went through the two wallets, then counted the bundles of money. “Looks good to me,” he said, signing the list and handing it to the captain.
The captain went to a locker and produced an evidence box. He raked all the money into it, revealing an envelope and a small dictation recorder that had been under the pile.
Reese picked up the envelope, opened it and looked at the letter inside.
“What’s that?” the captain asked. “I didn’t see that before.”
“It appears to be Cato’s confession,” Reese said in wonder. He picked up the dictating machine and pressed the play button. Immediately, he recognized the voice of Don Wells, speaking with Cato. “Well, I’ll be damned,” Reese said.
“What?”
“I think I just cleared another couple of murders.”
“Congratulations. You want us to put Cato in your vehicle?”
“I’ve got an airplane coming from Santa Fe; it should be at Montgomery Field in San Diego by now. Could you give us a lift over there and turn in my rental car for me tomorrow morning?”
“Sure thing.”
“And can I borrow some leg shackles?”
Reese left the room and went next door. “Hi, Jack,” he said, offering his hand. “Remember me?”
“Reeves,” Cato said, disconsolately.
“Reese. Call me Alex.”
“What are you doing here?”
“You and I are going to take a plane ride to Santa Fe,” Reese said, taking a document from his pocket. “You can sign this waiver, and we’ll be on our way.”
Cato looked at the document through bleary eyes. “Extradition?”
“Unless you’d rather do your time at San Quentin or Pelican Bay. Our place in Santa Fe is cozier, though.” Reese put a pen on the table.
“Oh, what the hell,” Cato said, then signed the document. “I would have liked one last Saturday night in Tijuana, though.”
“You’ll have a nice Sunday morning in Santa Fe, instead. The weather forecast for tomorrow is perfect.”
THEY WERE SOMEWHERE over the Mojave Desert in the state’s King Air, and Cato was gazing down at the moonlit landscape.
Reese went forward and tapped the copilot, a New Mexico state policeman, on the shoulder. “Can you come back here for a few minutes without the airplane crashing, Rico? I need a witness.”
“Sure,” the man said. He came back and took a seat across the aisle, while Reese settled into one opposite Cato.
“How much longer?” Cato asked.
“An hour and a half,” the copilot replied, “give or take.”
“You’ll be housed in Santa Fe for a while,” Reese said. “It’s not so bad, as jails go.”
“Will they go for the death penalty?” Cato asked.
“I think you can count on that, Jack.”
Cato nodded.
“But if you tell us everything, and I mean everything, and in court, I think I can get the D.A. to take the death penalty off the table.”
“You want me to give you Wells?”
“And the woman called Mrs. Keeler, and everything else you know.”
“I’ll give you Wells on a platter,” Cato said. “He hired me and Grif Edwards to do his wife and the boy. Our payment was what was in his safe in the Santa Fe house.”
“Just a minute, Jack.” Reese took a small recorder from his pocket, switched it on and placed it on the table between them. “My name is Detective Alex Reese, and I’m on a New Mexico State airplane with suspect Mr. Jack Cato. Sergeant Rico Barnes is a witness to this interrogation. Mr. Cato, do you agree to have this conversation recorded?”
“Yes, I do,” Cato said.
“For the record, I have offered to intercede with the district attorney to waive the death penalty in these cases, in return for your complete cooperation. Is that your understanding?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Have you been offered anything else for your cooperation, or have you been coerced in any way?”
“No,” Cato said.
“Now, let’s start at the beginning. Did you take the lives of Mrs. Donna Wells and her son, Eric?”
“Me and Grif Edwards,” Cato said. “We each shot one of them; Grif shot the boy. Don Wells hired us to do it and paid us with the cash and gold in his safe in the Santa Fe house, a hundred thousand. He gave us the combination.”
“Are you acquainted with a Mrs. Walter Keeler?”
“Yes, she hired me to kill a guy in Palo Alto, a Joe Wilen, and a woman in Santa Fe. I don’t know her name, but she’s a blonde. I shot her in the head with a rifle through the window of her house.”
“How much did Mrs. Keeler pay you?”
“A hundred thousand dollars for the two of them.”
“Can you identify her, if you see her?”
“No, I never saw her; I just talked to her on the phone. Oh, I killed Grif Edwards, too, and the two women.”
Reese blinked. “Two women?”
“Tina López and Soledad Rivera. I killed them this afternoon . . . yesterday afternoon, I guess it was . . . outside Acapulco. Don Wells paid a hundred grand for the two of them.”
“Holy shit,” Reese muttered under his breath. “Anybody else?”
“Nah. Oh, there was that one girl about four or five years ago. I fixed the brakes on her car, and she was killed in the crash. Another guy paid me for that. I can’t think of his name right now, but it will come to me.”
“Good, Jack,” Reese said. “That’s good. Just take your time. Now let’s go over the details.”
61
EARLY SUNDAY MORNING Don Wells got up, dressed and drove to the Acapulco airport. He handed his car over to a lineman for parking, then got aboard the CitationJet. While they were taxiing, he called Capitán Rodríguez at his office and was told that the capitán didn’t come in on Sundays.
“Please give him a message for me when he comes in tomorrow,” Wells said. “This is Donald Wells. Tell him that I have had to return to Los Angeles unexpectedly, but that if he needs any further information or assistance from me he can reach me at my office any time.” He gave the officer the number and hung up.
As the jet climbed out of Acapulco and turned toward Los Angeles, Wells allowed himself to relax in a fashion he had not known since he had made the phone call to Ed Eagle from Rome. Things had not gone as smoothly as he had planned, but he had met every twist and turn with the right moves, and now he could inherit the nearly one billion from his wife’s estate that was free and clear of other bequests, and with Jack Cato losing himself in Mexico, he could enjoy his new wealth without the nagging presence of his wife and the constant attention demanded by his stepson.
Jack would call him before long and let him know where to send his next payment, and when Jack went to meet the messenger, he would cease being of any concern to Wells. All doors
to his past would be closed, and he would be safe.
He accepted a Bloody Mary from the copilot and gazed out the window at the Mexican beaches far below. This would be his last trip to Mexico and his last trip anywhere in anything but the Gulfstream 550 jet he had already ordered.
Life was going to be sweet.
THEY LANDED AT Santa Monica, and his car was waiting as he came down the air stair. He tossed his briefcase into the front passenger seat and waited for a moment while his luggage was loaded into the trunk by the lineman, then drove out of the airport and headed home to Malibu.
He had his eye on a lot in the Malibu Colony, where he would build himself a new house, one designed only for him and not for a meddlesome wife and child with their own needs.
He would finance his own films from now on; he would never again have to make a pitch for studio money. He would move to new offices, too, and the Hollywood community would know that he was a force to be reckoned with. Membership in the Academy of Motion Picture Arts & Sciences would follow, maybe even an Oscar or two.
He would get rid of the Acapulco beach house and buy something in the South of France, something close enough to Cannes to allow him to throw major parties every year during the film festival. The new Gulfstream would transport him and his friends effortlessly to and from his new home in France.
Maybe a major house in Aspen, too, a real showplace. Maybe he’d start his own film festival there, become a patron to new directors and writers, people who could make him more money in the future.
He pulled into the garage of his Malibu home, closed the garage door and walked into his kitchen with his bags, then froze. Someone in dark clothes was bending over, looking into his refrigerator.
Wells stood and stared at this rather large ass. Burglar, had to be a burglar; go back to the car, leave the house, call the police.
“Mr. Wells?” a voice said from another direction.
Wells turned and stared at another man, who was wearing a business suit, latex gloves and a badge, hanging from his coat’s breast pocket.
“What’s going on?” Wells asked.
The man walked toward him, holding out two folded pieces of paper. “I am Detective John Ralston, of the Los Angeles Police Department. I have a warrant to search your premises . . .”
