by Stuart Woods
Barbara relaxed and submitted herself to the process.
* * *
FOUR HOURS LATER, she looked with approval at the new woman in the mirror, with her new hair color and her newly created makeup.
"It is astonishing how different you look," Eugene said, using his comb to perfect the hair, "and even more beautiful."
Barbara looked deeply into her own eyes, and she could not but agree. She tipped everyone lavishly, then left the spa and went to Mrs. Creighton's office.
"How may I help you?" Mrs. Creighton asked when she had seated Barbara.
"I want to consult a cosmetic surgeon for some minor work," Barbara said.
"Then may I recommend Dr. Felix Strange, whose offices are on our grounds? I think there is none better in Southern California." She took a card from a desk drawer and handed it to Barbara.
"You may indeed," Barbara said, accepting the card.
"May I make an appointment for you?"
"Yes, please, and as soon as possible."
Mrs. Creighton picked up a phone and dialed an extension, then spoke. She covered the phone with her hand. "Would you like to see him now?"
"Perfect," Barbara said. She got directions to Dr. Strange's cottage and walked quickly there. A receptionist showed her into his office without delay.
"Good afternoon," he said, waving her to a chair. "How may I be of service?"
"I wish to change my appearance but only slightly," Barbara said.
"What did you have in mind?" Strange asked.
"I thought I might shorten my nose a bit-I've always thought it too long-and perhaps enhance my chin."
"Come with me," Strange said. He led her into the next room where there was an examination chair and a video camera. He seated her and switched on some bright lights, then he stood at her side, raised the chair so that she was at eye level, and examined her profile. "Your judgment is very good," he said.
"Thank you."
"What I will do now is photograph you, then, through computer imaging, show you what your new profile will look like. It's quite accurate."
"Please do," she replied.
Strange manipulated the chair, took several shots from all sides, then removed the camera, switched off the bright lights and went to a computer, the display of which was a large, plasma flat screen hung on the wall. "Here is your current image," he said, hitting a few keys.
Barbara watched as her profile appeared on the screen.
"Now, let's shorten the nose a bit and strengthen the chin." He typed for a minute or so, and the image on the screen morphed into a new one.
"Fantastic!" she said. "It's perfect."
"No, you're perfect; you just need a little help."
"Can you rotate the image so that I can see my new face from the front?"
"Of course." He hit more keys and the image rotated slowly from one profile to the other, then back to center.
"Wonderful! How long will this take?" she asked.
"A couple of hours," he replied.
"And the recovery time?"
"Quite short. You won't have the black eyes that usually come with a rhinoplasty, since we're working only on the tip of your nose, and the incision for the chin implant will be made inside your lower lip. We can hurry the healing with anti-inflammatory drugs, and you should be entirely your new self in a week or so."
"If I'm photographed from the front tomorrow, will the image be markedly different from the new version?"
"Not markedly," he said. "May I schedule you for tomorrow afternoon?"
"That will be convenient."
"Come in at two o'clock. We'll take a history and give you a physical exam. You'll be on the table by four and in recovery by six. You'll have a nurse on duty in your cottage the first night, and after that you may do whatever you wish. I'll see that you are pain free, and I'll remove the stitches in your mouth after a few days."
Barbara thanked him and walked slowly back to her cottage. A week, and she would be free to carry out her plan. Back in her cottage, she called the front desk and ordered a car and driver for early the following morning.
Forty-five
THE SUN WAS RISING AS BARBARA STEPPED INTO THE BLACK Lincoln Town Car. "We're going to L.A.," she said to the chauffeur.
SHE DIRECTED THE DRIVER to get off the interstate at Venice Boulevard, then stopped him a block short of the beach. "Park here and wait for me," she said. "I'll be less than an hour."
She got out of the car and walked to the beach, then strolled along the promenade until she found an instant photo shop. She stood in front of a white background and was photographed by an electronic camera, which spat out a sheet of six passport pictures and six smaller shots, the size of California driver's license photos. She put them into her purse and left the shop, walking south. As she walked, she wrapped her head in a silk scarf and put on her sunglasses.
After a five-minute walk she came to a photographer's shop, with wedding pictures and portraits displayed in the window. She went inside and found a young girl behind the counter.
"May I help you?"
"I'd like to see Dan," Barbara said.
"Who shall I say?"
"Just tell him an old friend."
The girl disappeared for a moment, and Barbara looked up into the video camera over the counter and smiled broadly. The girl came back and motioned her through a curtain and into a hallway. "All the way to the back," she said.
Barbara found Dan sitting behind his desk in the rear office, looking at a contact sheet through a loupe. "Are you still using those old-fashioned film cameras, Danny?"
He put down the loupe and peered at her. "I can't quite place the face," he said.
"That's the idea," she replied. "But we've met before. For purposes of this visit, my name is Barbara Woodfield. I need some paper."
He said nothing but reached into a desk drawer and came out with a black box the size of a pack of cigarettes and extended an antenna from it, then he got up and went over her body with the antenna. Finally he moved it around her purse. "Cell phone?" he asked.
Barbara took Cupie's cell phone from her purse and handed it to him. "I'll make you a gift of it."
Dan put the phone in his pocket and went over her purse again, then he sat down. "What kind of paper?"
"U.S. passport, dated before they started putting in the electronic strips, California driver's license, social security card, birth certificate."
"California birth certificate?" he asked, making notes on a pad.
"Would that be easiest?"
"I can get you the real thing, if you want to be born in Long Beach before nineteen seventy-five. Any name you like."
"Sounds good. How much?"
"Five thousand each for the passport and driver's license, seven thousand for the birth certificate. The driver's license will be the real thing, on file with the DMV. You won't have to worry about traffic stops. I'll throw in the social security card for free, but don't use it for anything but I.D."
"Your prices have gone up," she said.
"You obviously know my work; if you think you can do better somewhere else, feel free."
"Agreed."
"Then let's take some photographs," he said.
She held up a hand to stop him. "I'll bring you photographs when I come to pick up the paper," she said, "and I'll watch you attach them."
"You're afraid I'll make copies?"
"I'll just be sure you don't."
"Whatever you say. You'll have to sit around for a couple of hours while I finish up."
"That's fine. When can you be ready for me?"
"Can you give me a week?"
"A week today," she said. She counted out ten thousand dollars in hundreds. "The rest, in cash, on the day."
"That will be satisfactory," he said, scooping up the cash. "You'll owe me seven thousand."
She nodded.
"There's one more thing you might like. It's expensive, but you'll need it, if you ever want to do any fi
nancial transactions involving identity or credit."
"What's that?"
"I can create a credit history for you and hack it into the mainframes of all three credit-reporting agencies."
"How much?"
"Ten grand, and you'll be able to access it from any computer with an Internet connection."
"Done." She counted out another five thousand.
"All right," he said, ripping a page off his pad. "Now we have to create a history for you-date and place of birth, work record, credit cards and charge accounts you've had-the works."
"Let's make me a Beverly Hills girl," she said, reeling off shops and stores. They made up past addresses, and she gave him the street address of the Bel-Air hotel as her current address.
"Before you use that address on, say, a credit application, be sure you file a change-of-address card with the post office, forward the mail to where you want it to go," Dan said.
"Good idea." She was making notes to herself as they talked. "Tell me, can you make me a really good LA. concealed carry license?"
"Sure. That's another five grand, but I'll throw in a Florida license, too. That will be good in twenty-seven other states. You'll need to bring driver's-license-size pictures for both of the carry licenses."
"Done. Anything else you need?"
"Nope. I'll go to work on all this today, and a week from today, when the cash is paid, everything will be activated."
"Is the passport going to pass muster if I travel overseas?"
"You'll be able to use if for about four years, then it expires. By that time, I hope to have the coded strip thing beaten, and you can come back for another one. Now, let's create a travel history for you, so I can put in the stamps." They spent ten minutes creating a record of trips to Europe.
"Danny, you're a wonder," she said when they had finished. "I'll see you in a week." She shook his hand and left.
She was back at La Reserve in time for her surgical appointment and in bed in Pine Cottage by six thirty, an ice pack applied to her face, sipping soup through a straw, very carefully, over her still-numb lower lip. The pain medication was working wonderfully well.
Forty-six
CUPIE HAD BEEN BACK HOME IN SANTA MONICA FOR nearly a week when his cell phone bill arrived. He was stunned. There were more than fifty calls he hadn't made, most of them long distance. He called the cell phone company and made a fraud complaint about the calls, but he didn't cancel the number.
After he hung up, it occurred to him that he had lost the phone in Mexico, but none of the calls were to Mexican numbers. His phone was in the United States. Cupie called a friend at the LAPD, the son of his old partner, a young man who was up to date on all the latest technology.
"Bob Harris," the voice said.
"Bobby, it's Cupie Dalton. How are you?"
"I'm great, Cupie. How about you?"
"Just fine. How's your old man?"
"As grouchy as ever. What's up?"
"Bobby, you can trace cell phone calls these days, can't you? I mean, locate the actual phone?"
"Sure, if it's a late-model phone, with the GPS chip."
"It's less than a year old."
"Then I could trace it. This for one of your clients? My captain is strict about that."
"No, it's for me; I lost the phone, and there are several hundred dollars of calls on my bill that I didn't make. I'd like to know who has it."
"Give me the number."
Cupie gave it to him.
"Now look at your bill. Were the calls made at a certain time of day?"
Cupie checked the bill. "Mostly afternoons, between two and five."
"Give me a day or two," Harris said. "You still at the same number?"
"Yep."
AT THREE-THIRTY THAT AFTERNOON Cupie got a call.
"I got a location for you," Harris said. "Venice Beach."
"You got an actual address?"
Harris gave him a range of street numbers. "That ought to narrow it to a block or so."
"Bobby, I can't thank you enough," Cupie said. "Let me know when I can do you a favor."
"Hey, Cupie, you can find out who my wife is fucking." Harris laughed loudly.
"Yeah, yeah, sure. See you around." Cupie grabbed a jacket. He had been getting bored, with no work. He headed for Venice Beach. If Barbara still had his cell phone, maybe he could nail down her location for Ed Eagle. It was something to do.
* * *
CUPIE FOUND A PARKING PLACE and began walking up and down the block of Venice Beach to which Harris had directed him. It was a collection of small shops, mostly tourist-oriented: T-shirts, souvenirs. He walked into a couple of them and had a look around. Finally, he stopped in front of a small photography shop and glanced at the window display. What really interested him, though, was that the young girl behind the counter inside was talking on a cell phone that looked very much like his.
He saw a public phone across the sidewalk, and on a whim, went to it and dialed his cell phone number. Busy signal. Bingo! He walked back into the shop and waited for the girl to complete her call.
"Can I help you?"
"I was thinking about some photographs. Hey, that's a good-looking cell phone, can I see it?" He took it from her hand before she could object, switched it off, then back on. As it booted up, it displayed his number.
"Great," he said, "where'd you get it?"
"It was a gift," she said, reaching for the phone, but he hung onto it.
"From who?"
A man stepped from behind a curtain, as if on cue, one hand in a pocket. "What's going on?" he asked.
Cupie recognized the guy but couldn't place him. "This young lady is using a stolen cell phone," Cupie said. "Care to explain that to me?" Cupie pulled his jacket back to reveal his old LAPD badge and the holstered gun, both on his belt. "And take your hand out of your pocket right now."
"I found it," the man said, removing his hand from his pocket.
"Where?"
"On the beach."
"Don't you know it's a crime to make calls on somebody else's phone?"
"Look, officer, I found it, okay?"
"When did you find it?"
"A few days ago, almost a week." Cupie put the phone in his pocket. "The phone company will be in touch," he said, then he turned and walked out of the shop.
BACK HOME, Cupie took another look at his phone bill. The first call had been made the evening he had crossed the border with Barbara, only a couple of minutes later. Then there was a gap of a couple of days before the calls resumed. The first number was in San Diego, and he dialed it.
"Good afternoon, La Reserve," a smooth male voice said.
"Uh, I'd like to book a table for two at eight-thirty," Cupie said.
"Are you a guest, sir?"
"A guest?"
"Our restaurant is not open to the public; this is a spa."
"Oh, I guess I got it mixed up with that other place. Where are you located?"
"In La Jolla, on the beach."
"Sorry about that," Cupie said, then hung up. Barbara was being nice to herself. He went to his computer and Googled La Reserve. Very nice, very plush, very expensive. He thought about it for a moment, then he called Ed Eagle.
"Hello, Cupie," Eagle said. "I sent your check a few days ago."
"Yes, Mr. Eagle, and I got it, thank you very much. I called, because I think I know where Barbara is, or was very recently."
"Where?"
"At a health spa in La Jolla called La Reserve. Very ritzy place, according to their website."
"And how do you know this?"
"My cell phone disappeared in Mexico-I think Barbara stole it-and a call was made on my phone to La Reserve a few minutes after we crossed the border. My guess is she called to book a room and went straight there."
"Very good, Cupie. You want to follow up on this?"
"Mr. Eagle, all due respect, but I've had enough of your wife; I don't want to go anywhere near her again. I just thought I'd pass on t
he information, and you can do with it as you like."
"Thank you, Cupie, I understand," Eagle said. "I assume you haven't entirely retired. Shall I call you again when something comes up?"
"Oh, sure, Mr. Eagle. I'm available for anything, except Mrs. Eagle."
"Thank you, Cupie."
EAGLE HUNG UP, called information, got the number for La Reserve and dialed it.
"Good afternoon, La Reserve," a man's voice said.
"May I speak to Barbara Eagle, please? She's a guest there; this is her husband."
"Just a mo-" The man stopped mid-word. "I'm afraid we have no one registered by that name, sir."
"Thank you," Eagle said, then hung up. He thought about it for a couple of minutes, then he made another call.
"Vittorio."
"It's Ed Eagle."
"Yes, Mr. Eagle, what can I do for you?"
"I've got a lead on Barbara's whereabouts." He described his phone conversation with Cupie and the man at La Reserve.
"I'm on it, Mr. Eagle."
"Wait a minute, Vittorio," Eagle said. "I want to reiterate: I do not want her killed, and I am not employing you for that purpose. I just want her signature on those blank sheets, this time, for real. Get that, and there's ten thousand dollars waiting for you."
"Yes, sir, I understand," Vittorio said. "I'll be in touch."
Vittorio hung up and began packing a bag. Ten minutes later he was on his way to Albuquerque Airport.
Forty-seven
EAGLE ARRIVED AT SEVEN AT SUSANNAH'S NEW HOUSE ON Tano Norte for her first dinner party. As he got out of his car, another car pulled up, and Rick Barron, the chairman of Centurion Studios, whom he had met briefly at the airport, got out, along with a woman who appeared to be his wife.
"Good evening, Ed," Barron said. "Nice to see you again. I'd like you to meet my wife, Glenna."
"How do you do, Glenna," Eagle said. If Barron was in his eighties, his wife appeared to be considerably younger, perhaps fifteen years or so.
"I've heard of your work, Mr. Eagle," Glenna Barron said.
"Please call me Ed. Shall we go in?"
