by Stuart Woods
“I should contact the boy’s biological father. Can you give me his name and number?”
“He’s dead. He was killed in a street robbery in New York.”
“How long ago?”
“About a year and a half before Donna and I were married, so between nine and ten years ago.”
“Was the perpetrator caught?”
“No, I don’t think so. The police said it was an ordinary mugging, gone wrong.”
“Anything else you can tell me?”
“I can’t think of anything.”
“All right, I’m going to put a Detective Reese on the line. The district attorney will be listening on an extension, and so will I. If I interrupt you, shut up immediately, is that clear?”
“Yes, I understand.”
“Confine your answers strictly to the questions asked; don’t volunteer anything or any theories until you and I have discussed them privately first. I’ll call the detective now.” Eagle shouted for Reese to come in, then he listened on the extension while the detective questioned his client thoroughly. He did not find it necessary to interrupt.
When the phone call was over, Martínez came into the room. “Okay,” he said, “we’re done, I think.”
“When can Mr. Wells have his house back?”
Reese spoke up. “We’ll seal the master suite, and he can stay in another bedroom, if he wants.”
“I’ll ask him.”
Reese left the room, and Martínez and Eagle were alone.
“You know who she was, don’t you?” Martínez asked.
“Mrs. Wells?”
“She was Donna Worth. Worth Pharmaceuticals?”
“Ah,” Eagle said.
“Five or six years ago, her father, the founder died, and she was his only heir.”
“How much?
“Billions,” Martínez said.
“I see.”
“Do you?”
“Speak plainly, Bob.”
“The boy was her only child. That means Wells is going to get the bulk of her estate. I mean, I’m sure there are charitable trusts and bequests, but Mr. Wells is going to be a very rich man.”
“That’s plain enough, Bob,” Eagle said.
Reese came back into the room. “We found an open wall safe in Mr. Wells’s dressing room, empty. I’d like to know what was in it when you speak to your client.”
“I’ll let you know,” Eagle said.
16
CUPIE DALTON AND Vittorio arrived at the Four Seasons Hotel in San Francisco, having already checked into a less expensive hotel nearby. Cupie gave the doorman a peek at his badge. “Hi, there. I’m looking for a fellow named Walter Keeler, who checked in here yesterday.”
“That an L.A. badge?” the doorman asked.
“Yep.”
“Keeler checked out this morning.”
“Bound for where?”
“I don’t know. He and his lady friend left here in a car-service Mercedes this morning, and a couple of hours later he called and asked that their luggage be sent somewhere else. We loaded it into a van.”
“And what would be that address? Another hotel?”
“Let me check with our dispatcher,” the doorman said. He picked up a phone at the bell stand and spoke into it for a minute or so, then wrote something down in a notebook. He returned to Cupie, tore the page out of the pad and handed it to him. “That’s it, and it’s not a hotel.”
Cupie glanced at the paper, then tucked it into a pocket and handed the doorman a twenty. “Thanks for your help,” he said. The doorman put them into a cab, and ten minutes later they pulled up to the imposing entrance of a large, limestone-faced apartment building.
“There you are,” the driver said.
Cupie and Vittorio got out of the cab and stood under the building’s awning, since a light rain had begun to fall. A doorman approached.
“May I help you?” he asked, eyeing them suspiciously.
Cupie flashed his tin. “A Mr. Walter Keeler had his luggage sent to this building this morning. Is this an apartment hotel?”
“No,” the doorman said, “it’s an apartment house, and all the tenants own their apartments.”
“Does Mr. Keeler own an apartment here?”
“I think you’d better speak to the super,” the man replied. He went inside and made a phone call.
A moment later, a man in shirtsleeves came outside, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Yes?”
“Sorry to interrupt your dinner,” Cupie said, showing his badge. “Does a Mr. Walter Keeler own an apartment here?”
“Is this official business?”
“Let’s say it’s for the benefit of Mr. Keeler.”
“This is a very prestigious building,” the super said. “The management frowns on calls from the police. I’d like to cooperate, but…”
“We have no intention of disturbing the peace of your building,” Cupie said. “I just need to know if Mr. Keeler owns an apartment here.”
“Unofficially, yes,” the super replied.
“Long time?”
“Since this morning. He and a woman arrived here and met a real estate agent at nine this morning. By noon, they had bought the apartment-the penthouse-moved in and were married by a judge.”
Cupie blinked. “All in the space of three hours?”
“That’s what I’m told.”
“Told by who?”
“Various staffers. The apartment had been on the market for, maybe, forty-eight hours. It was sold furnished by the late owner’s estate. Did you want to speak with Mr. Keeler?”
“Not at this time,” Cupie said.
“That’s good, because he left late this afternoon in a rented car that was delivered here.”
“Bound for where?”
The super shrugged. “Who knows? He didn’t share his travel plans with me, but he and Mrs. Keeler took luggage.”
“Okay, thanks,” Cupie said.
The super handed Cupie a card. “This is the management company’s number. Any further information you’ll have to get from them, and you and I never talked, okay?”
“Not only that, we never met,” Cupie replied. The super returned to his dinner.
“Can I get you a cab?” the doorman asked.
“One more question: Do you know which rental car company delivered the car?”
“Hertz,” the doorman replied. “I saw the contract folder when the guy handed it to Mr. Keeler.” He blew his whistle and waved down a cab. “It was a Mercedes,” he said, opening the cab’s door.
Cupie gave him a twenty, and he and Vittorio got in. Cupie gave the driver the address of their hotel. “So,” Cupie said to Vittorio, “these two people met after a few days, they flew from Palm Springs to Hayward and bought an expensive apartment, and got married the next day. That about it so far?”
“No,” Vittorio said, speaking for the first time in an hour. “They went on a honeymoon, too, and not so far away that they’d need to fly. Where around San Francisco would they go on a honeymoon?”
Cupie thought. “Yosemite?”
“Not romantic enough. How about… what’s the name of that town down the coast, with the crashing waves?”
“Carmel? Nah, that’s a three- or four-hour drive; they’d have flown into Monterey.”
“Where could they have gone that they could drive to by dinnertime?”
“The wine country,” Cupie said. “Napa, maybe.”
“Isn’t there an airport at Napa?”
“Yeah, but why didn’t Keeler land there?”
“Because he had to buy an apartment and marry Barbara. What are the most expensive hotels in Napa?”
“We’ll have to get a guidebook,” Cupie said. “There’s a bookstore next to the hotel.”
“I want a steak,” Vittorio said.
“Me, too, but let’s get a guide to Napa first.”
EAGLE AND SUSANNAH had just finished dinner when his cell phone vibrated. “Eagle.”
“
It’s Cupie. You sitting down?”
“Yes.”
“Your ex-wife has remarried.”
“What?”
“I kid you not; the girl is a fast worker. They arrived at the Four Seasons last night, and this morning Keeler bought a penthouse apartment in a top building. They were married by noon and drove away in a rented car late in the afternoon. My best guess is that they’re honeymooning in the wine country to the north. You want me to track them down there or wait for them to return here? I don’t think she’s going to bother you for a few days, at least.”
“No, Cupie, go home and find a way to keep tabs on Keeler from there-the FBO where he parks his airplane, somebody in the apartment building, whatever works. If they fly away from Hayward, I want to know.”
“Right. We’ll stay the night here, since we’ve already checked into a hotel, and fly home tomorrow.”
“Tell him I’m coming home,” Vittorio said.
“And Vittorio’s coming back to Santa Fe.”
“Send me a bill, Cupie. Good night.” He hung up and turned to Susannah. “You’re not going to believe this,” he said.
17
BARBARA/ELLIE and Walter Keeler sat in the sunshine in the walled courtyard of Tre Vigne, a lovely Italian restaurant in the Napa Valley, and lunched on fruit, bread and cheese. Barbara felt two things: one, that her recovery from prison had been complete and spectacular, and two, that she had gotten more than lucky in meeting Walter Keeler. The man was an amazing list of all the things every woman wanted in a man: handsome, rich, sensitive, funny, warm and sexy. She wondered why she didn’t love him.
She had felt the same way about Ed Eagle at first: that she ought to love him. She wondered, not for the first time, if there was something missing in her psychological makeup. She dismissed the idea, because she really had loved one man, her second husband. Of course, he had killed her first husband during the robbery of his diamond business and had sent her to prison with his testimony in the case. And him, she had loved!
Barbara knew she didn’t have a conscience; they had told her that during psychological counseling in prison. But that didn’t trouble her in the least. It allowed her to think only of herself and not feel bad about it. She knew that when Walter had outlived his usefulness she would dump him without a second thought, and that if he gave her a hard time about it, she would find a way to make him permanently sorry.
But for right now, Walter would do very nicely. He would feed, clothe and shelter her handsomely, introduce her to people and buy her anything she wanted. He was like a walking credit card with social entree and no charge limit. She smiled warmly at him.
“What are you thinking about?” Walter asked.
“Just about how improbably happy you’ve made me,” she replied.
“That’s my new job,” he said, grinning. “What would you like to do this afternoon?”
“I’d like to visit some wineries,” she said. “I’ve always thought that the making of wine was fascinating.”
“Of course. Tell me, do you play golf?”
“I tried it once; I was hopeless at it.”
“Everybody’s hopeless at it in the beginning. I’d like you to try again, with a really good instructor. I’m a lover of the game, and it would please me greatly if we could play together.”
“All right, I will.” Anything to keep him happy for a while-at least until he signed his new will.
“I love you, my darling,” he said.
“Not as much as I love you,” she replied, squeezing his crotch under the table.
ED EAGLE STOOD on the first tee of one of the two golf courses at Las Campanas, a large real estate development outside Santa Fe, and read the list of his partners. The tournament was for the entertainment of the Santa Clara County, California, Bar Association, and a lawyer friend with whom he had done some business there had asked him to play. Eagle’s playing partners had been chosen by lot, and now he was looking for them on the first tee. A man approached him.
“Ed Eagle?”
“Yes?”
“I’m Joe Wilen, one of your partners for the tournament.” He extended a hand.
Eagle shook it. “Good to meet you, Joe. I was looking for you.”
“The others are over here. We’re fourth to tee off, I believe.” Wilen lead him to where two other men were seated on a bench, waiting, and made the introductions.
The foursome waited their turn, then teed off. They passed the next four and a half hours playing the game they all loved and then settled into the bar at the clubhouse and ordered drinks.
“I’ve heard about you over the years,” Joe Wilen said to Eagle.
“You’ve had some impressive wins in California; I’m glad my company wasn’t among your opponents.”
“Company? Are you not in a firm, Joe?”
“Until recently I was general counsel for an electronics company. You’re a pilot, I expect you’ve heard of it: Keeler Avionics?”
Eagle’s heart skipped a beat. “Indeed, I have a panel full of your equipment in my airplane.”
“What do you fly?” "A JetProp-that’s a Malibu that’s had the piston engine ripped off and replaced with a turbine.”
“Oh, yeah, I’ve seen a couple of them at my airport. I fly a King Air.”
“Fine airplane. Tell me, how did you get involved with the Keeler outfit?”
“Oh, I met Walter Keeler right out of college-on a golf course, as it happened. When he formed the company he asked me to do the legal work, and after the business grew a bit, he invited me to become general counsel. I got in almost on the ground floor, and by the time Walter sold out, I was the second largest stockholder.”
“Good for you. I read about the sale; that was a very nice payday.”
“Indeed it was.”
“I suppose you and Keeler are close.”
“Very. I’m still his personal attorney, and I was just at his wedding.”
“I heard something about that,” Eagle said.
“You did?” Wilen asked, sounding surprised. “I didn’t think anybody knew about it yet.”
“Oh, word gets around.”
“How long have you been in Santa Fe, Ed?”
“A little over twenty-five years.”
“I’m very impressed with the place, and I was thinking about looking at some property.”
“I’d be glad to introduce you to a good real estate agent, and if you decide to buy something I’d be pleased to handle the closing as a courtesy.”
“That’s very kind of you.”
“Las Campanas is a good choice to buy or build,” Eagle said, “especially if you want to play a lot of golf.”
“I really like this course,” Wilen said.
“It’s one of two, and they’re the best golf around here. There’s a nice public course, and a nine-holer at another development.”
“I like the idea of being out in the country, and the views are fantastic.”
“Well, when your convention is over, why don’t you stay on for a day or two, and I’ll get an agent to set up some showings.”
“Wonderful!”
“Buy or build?”
“Buy, I think. I’m too impatient to build.”
"I’ll work on it,” Eagle said. I’ll work on something else, too, he thought.
18
EAGLE SAT BEFORE the fire in the lobby of the Inn of the Anasazi, a luxurious small hotel just off the Plaza, across the street from the old territorial governor’s mansion, and waited for Donald Wells to arrive from Albuquerque Airport in the car Eagle had sent for him.
At the stroke of nine, a man walked into the lobby, followed by a bellman and his luggage. He was a little over six feet tall, slender and well dressed in a casual way.
“Don Wells?” Eagle asked.
“Yes,” Wells said, offering his hand.
“I’m Ed Eagle. Have you had dinner yet?”
“No, and I’m starved.”
“Why don’t you chec
k in and get freshened up, then meet me in the dining room. We can talk for a bit.”
“Thank you, I’d like that. Will you order something for me? I eat anything.”
“Of course. Would you like a drink?”
“Chivas on the rocks, please.”
WELLS APPEARED, looking refreshed, a few minutes later, and Eagle signaled the waiter to bring their drinks.
“I expect you’re tired,” Eagle said. “I won’t keep you long.”
“Not too tired,” Wells replied. “I had last night in New York, and I got some sleep.”
“Our food will be along shortly. I want to bring you up to date on events since we last talked.”
“Please do,” Wells said, sipping his scotch.
“The medical examiner has issued his report. It’s pretty simple: both your wife and son were killed by two.380-caliber, hollow-point gunshots to the head. They didn’t suffer.”
“Thank God for small favors,” Wells said.
“They had probably been dead for one to two hours when I arrived.”
“That means they were probably killed shortly after I received the phone call in Rome.”
“Correct. Your hotel was right; the phone call you received in Rome was from the phone in your home, probably the one in the study, since that extension had been wiped clean of any fingerprints.”
“Any sign of how they got in?”
“When I arrived, the front door was unlocked, and the alarm system was not armed.”
“That’s the way my wife would have kept the front door and alarm system during the day; she would have locked the doors and set the alarm at bedtime.”
Their food arrived.
“Something the police want to know, and so do I: A safe in your dressing room was open and empty. Had there been anything in it?”
“That’s odd,” Wells said. “How could they have known the combination?”
“Why do you say, ‘they’?”
“Just a general pronoun. I suppose there might only have been one man… person.”
“What was in the safe?”
“Twenty-five thousand dollars in cash and an equal amount in Krugerrands.”
“Why?”
“Call it mad money, in case of some catastrophe: nuclear bomb, terrorist attack, whatever. There’s an equal amount in my safe in Malibu. I guess I’m a little paranoid.”
