Santa Fe Dead

by Stuart Woods

  “I hope you have.”

  “Does she know about my letter?”

  “Oh, yes. I showed her a copy when I delivered the news, so she knows that you were the cause of her downfall from billionairess to pensioner.”

  Eagle and Susannah exchanged a glance. “Oh,” Eagle said.

  “I hope I did the correct thing,” Wilen said. “You didn’t ask that I keep it confidential.”

  “You’re quite right, Joe, I didn’t, and nothing you did was incorrect.”

  “Are you in your new house, yet?” Susannah asked Sandi Wilen.

  “In would be too strong a word, but we’re got all the basic furniture, and before I go back to Palo Alto I expect to have it in pretty good shape. We’ll be sleeping there from tomorrow night.”

  “I bought Walter Keeler’s home furnishings from his Palo Alto house,” Wilen said. “Had everything valued, then bought it from the estate, including two cars. The moving van will be here tomorrow.”

  “That should save a lot of time,” Eagle said.

  “Walter and I had similar taste,” Sandi said, “so it’s a good fit. It will remind us of him, too. We’re going to miss him.”

  “I’m sure,” Eagle replied.

  “I’ve joined the golf club at Las Campanas,” Wilen said, “so Ed, you and I will have to play before I start my jet training.”

  “I’d like that,” Eagle said. “Joe, you said that Mrs. Keeler got occupancy of an apartment. Where?”

  “In San Francisco. Walter bought it a week before he died, paid seven million dollars for it.”

  “Whew!” Susannah said. “She’ll be well housed.”

  “She can’t sell it, though?” Eagle asked.

  “Nope, and she can’t rent it, either.”

  “Well, Mrs. Keeler is going to be a very angry woman,” Eagle said, half under his breath.

  “What?”

  “Nothing, Joe. Tell us about the house.”

  BARBARA/ELEANOR EAGLE/KEELER GOT off an airplane in Los Angeles and took a cab to Jimmy Long’s house. Jimmy greeted her with a big hug.

  “Hey, baby,” he said. “I’m glad to see you.”

  “Oh, Jimmy, I’m glad to see you, too,” she said.

  He took her bags upstairs and had a drink waiting for her when she came down.

  “God, I’m glad to be out of San Francisco,” she said, sinking into a chair.

  “I guess the memories are not good.”

  “Right, but not for the reason you think.”

  “I don’t understand. The town made you a billionaire; why wouldn’t you love it?”

  She told him about Eagle’s letter and Walter’s change of heart. “I got fifty grand a month and the use-the use, mind you-of the apartment, and that’s all.”

  “That’s horrible, sweetheart,” Jimmy said. “Still, you did all right for the work of a week or two.”

  “I guess so,” she said, “but it’s depressing.” She took a long draw of her drink. “Jimmy, darling, can I ask you a question in confidence?”

  “Of course.”

  “I mean it. This is just between you and me.”

  “Of course.”

  “You know a lot of people, a lot of different sorts of people, right?”

  “Yes, I suppose I do.”

  “Did you ever run across anyone in your travels through life who would do anything for money?”

  “Boy, have I! That pretty much describes everybody in this town!”

  “I mean this quite literally, Jimmy.”

  “What, specifically, did you have in mind that somebody might do for money?”

  “I suppose what I’m talking about is a hit man.”

  Jimmy looked at her for a moment. “Are you quite serious?”

  “Quite.”

  Jimmy took a sip of his drink and looked thoughtful. “There have been rumors around town for years about a guy named Al who owns a gun shop on Melrose, but I’m not even sure he’s still alive. And if he is, he’s probably too old for that sort of work.”

  “Who else?”

  Jimmy thought some more. “You know, I produced a western over at Centurion a couple of years ago. Remember The Long Ride?”

  “Sure, I do. I loved it.”

  “There was a stuntman on that picture that I heard a rumor about. Somebody told me that he had arranged a car ‘accident’ some years back. Out on the Pacific Coast Highway, I think.”

  “What was his name.”

  “Jack… Cass. No, Cato. Jack Cato.”

  “I’d like to meet him,” she said.

  32

  ALEX REESE MADE a call to Tijuana, to a cop he knew on the federal police force there.

  “This is Captain Rios,” the voice said.

  “Juan, this is Alex Reese, in Santa Fe. How are you?”

  “Very well, Alejandro! And you?”

  “I’m just fine. I’m working a case that requires some information from Tijuana, and I hope you can help me.”

  “Of course, if I can.”

  “There is a hotel near the bullring called Parador.”

  “Yes, I know it. It is one step up from a flea farm.”

  Reese gave him the dates. “I need to know if two men stayed there. Their names are Cato and Edwards. Could you find out for me?”

  “I will do so immediately,” Rios said. “Can you hold?”

  Reese waited for three or four minutes, then Rios came back on the line.

  “Alex? There were two American couples at the hotel on those dates, registered under those two names.”

  “Couples?”

  “As in a man and a woman? Mr. and Mrs. Jack Cato and Mr. and Mrs. Griffen Edwards. The clerk remembered that they paid in cash.”

  “Thank you, Juan, and it’s good to talk to you again. Let me know if I can ever do anything for you in Santa Fe.”

  “I will do so, Alex. Good-bye.”

  “Good-bye.” Reese hung up and pondered this information. Why did neither Cato nor Edwards mention women? He picked up the phone and called Jeff Bender at Centurion.

  “Bender.”

  “Jeff, it’s Alex Reese. I need some more information, and I wonder if you could get it for me?”

  “If I can.”

  “I checked out the Parador Hotel in Tijuana, and there were two American couples registered under the names of Cato and Edwards on the relevant dates. Could you ask the two guys who the women were? I’d like to know if they have the names ready for the question, and, of course, who they were, so I can talk to them. I need phone numbers, too.”

  “Sure, Alex, I’ll talk to them after lunch; I’m tied up until then.”

  “You’ve got my number.” Reese hung up and went to work on airline reservations between L.A. and Albuquerque the weekend of the murders.

  JACK CATO HAD a letter delivered by the studio mailman, an unusual event, since he got his mail at home. There was no return address, but the postmark was Los Angeles. He opened it and found a single sheet of paper.

  Mr. Cato,

  You come very well recommended. I have a highly paid job open that might interest you. If you’d like to know more, please be at the Seaside Café near the Santa Monica Pier at noon tomorrow. Take a table outside, sit facingthe sea, and when I’m sure you’ve come alone, I’ll join you. If you don’t show, I won’t contact you again.

  Cato’s first thought was that this was a setup, maybe by that cop from Santa Fe. His phone rang, and he picked it up. “Jack Cato.”

  “Hi, Jack. It’s Jeff Bender. The Santa Fe cop called and asked me to check something with you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Were you and Grif Edwards with anybody in Tijuana?”

  “Yeah, there were a couple of girls.”

  “I need their names and phone numbers.”

  Cato gave him the names. “They’re both in the L.A. phone book; they room together.”

  “Okay, Jack. Thanks. I don’t think you’ll hear any more from Detective Reese. He’s already b
ack in Santa Fe.”

  Cato hung up and read the letter again. What the hell, there was nothing incriminating about checking this out.

  BARBARA AND JIMMY LONG arrived at the Seaside Café at eleven thirty and took a table that allowed them to view the outside tables. At one minute past twelve a pickup truck pulled up to the curb, and a man got out.

  “That’s Cato,” Jimmy said.

  They watched as he chose a table and took a seat facing the Pacific Ocean.

  “Order me the lobster salad,” Barbara said. “I’ll be right back.” She got up, took her handbag and walked outside.

  CATO ORDERED A beer and began reading the menu.

  “Sit still and close your eyes,” a woman’s voice said from behind him. She removed his sunglasses and put another pair on him. “All right,” she said a moment later, “you can open your eyes, but keep the glasses on.”

  Cato opened his eyes, but he could see nothing. The glasses were large and tight fitting, and the lenses were black. “Who are you?”

  “That’s not important,” she said. She had, apparently, sat down across from him.

  “Who recommended me to you?”

  “That person would prefer not to be known.”

  “All right, what is this about? I have to be back at work.”

  “There’s an envelope on the table in front of you,” she said.

  He reached out and found it.

  “It contains twenty-five thousand dollars in one-hundred-dollar bills,” she said. “I want you to kill two men for me. They are in two different cities, and no one will connect them.”

  “You’ve got a lot of nerve, lady.”

  “Yes, I have. Now all that remains is to find out if you have enough nerve for this job.”

  “Are you a cop?”

  “Certainly not, and no cop has anything to do with this. Now listen to me carefully. Inside the envelope is a sheet of paper with the names and addresses of the two men. There is also an untraceable cell phone number. You have two weeks to get the jobs done. I don’t care how you do it. When you have killed the first man-it doesn’t matter which one is done first-you will receive another twenty-five thousand dollars in the mail at your home address. When you have killed the second man, you will receive another fifty thousand dollars by the same means. Do you understand?”

  “Why do you think I will do this?”

  “Because it’s not the first time you’ve done it, Jack, and you always need money. You have twenty-four hours to think it over. When you’ve decided, call the cell phone number and tell me. If you don’t want the job, we’ll arrange for the return of the money. Now count slowly to twenty, then you can take off the glasses.”

  BARBARA WENT BACK into the restaurant, sat down and began eating her lobster salad.

  JACK COUNTED TO twenty and took off the glasses. He opened the envelope and found the money there, as she had said. There were two names, one in Santa Fe and one in Palo Alto, and directions on how to find them. He looked around at the other patrons of the restaurant and didn’t see anyone he thought might be the woman, so he put a ten-dollar bill on the table, got into his truck and drove away.

  He had been back in the stable office for an hour when the phone rang. “Jack Cato.”

  “Mr. Cato,” a woman’s voice said, “this is Ms. Bishop at GMAC. You’re two payments behind on your truck loan, and unless we have payment immediately, we’re going to have to take the truck.”

  Cato fingered the money in the envelope on the desk. “I’ll send you a money order today,” he said.

  “Can we count on that?”

  “Yes, you can.” He hung up and dialed the cell number on the paper in the envelope.

  “Yes?” a woman’s voice said.

  “This is the man you met in the restaurant.”

  “Yes?”

  “I’ll do the job.”

  “You have two weeks,” she said. “If you’re late, I’ll have you killed.” She hung up.

  Cato hung up, too, and found that he was sweating.

  33

  ALEX REESE GOT a call from Jeff Bender, at Centurion.

  “Hello, Jeff. That was fast.”

  “It only took a phone call. The two women’s names are Tina López and Soledad Rivera. Cato says they’re both in the L.A. phone book. Tina is the seamstress at Centurion who was on your list of possible suspects when you came to see me.”

  “Thank you, Jeff; can you tell me any more about them?”

  “One of my people knows her and says she’s a real looker, with a fabulous body. I haven’t checked it out, myself.”

  “Maybe I’ll check it out for you,” Reese chuckled.

  “You never know; it might be worth a trip back to L.A.”

  “If it is, I’ll buy you lunch,” Reese said. He said goodbye and hung up. Immediately his phone rang.

  “Detective Reese.”

  It was the D.A.’s secretary. “He’d like to see you,” she said.

  “I’ll be right there.” He walked over to the D.A.’s office and presented himself.

  “Take a seat, Alex,” Martínez said. “Give me an update on your investigation into Donald Wells.”

  “My trip to L.A. was productive,” Reese said. “Out of half a dozen crew members my research identified, two of them could very well be hired guns.” He told Martínez about Jack Cato and Grif Edwards.

  “You like them?”

  “Yes, but they have an alibi I’m going to have to crack.”

  “Get on it.”

  “It may require another trip to L.A.”

  “Alex, you’re not going Hollywood on me, are you?”

  “Could be.”

  “All right. Send me the travel authorization. Any luck on tracing the Krugerrands from Wells’s safe?”

  “They’re pretty much untraceable,” Reese replied. “I’ve checked with some dealers, and finding a gold dealer in L.A. who would testify to cashing them in would be next to impossible.”

  “I was afraid of that,” Martínez said.

  “I’m having trouble putting Cato and Edwards in Santa Fe, too; the airlines have no record of them having flown into Albuquerque, and, as you know, there’s no L.A.-Santa Fe connection.”

  “They could have driven it,” Martínez pointed out.

  “Possibly, but it’s a long hike, and there’s no way to prove it, unless we find a witness who saw them here, and that’s not in the cards.”

  “Alex, I have to tell you, it’s beginning to sound like, if Wells did it, he’s going to get away with it.”

  “Not just yet, Bob. I’m still on it.”

  “Okay, Alex, but after talking to these two women, if you can’t break the alibi, I think we’re done.”

  Reese went back to his office and made an airline reservation to L.A.

  JACK CATO STAYED in his stable office after work. He managed to catch Grif Edwards before he left work.

  “Grif, I need a favor.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I need you to go over to my house right now and let yourself in. You know where the key is. Wave at the neighbors, if you see them; answer the phone if it rings. Tell anybody who calls that I’m down with something that seems like the flu: fever, chills, you know. If you need groceries or beer, pick them up on the way over there, because I don’t want you to leave the house until well after I get home.”

  “You need an alibi, huh?”

  “There’s five hundred in it for you.”

  “Okay, will do.”

  Around eight Cato drove his golf cart over to the studio commissary and had dinner, then he went back to his office and slept on a cot in a back room until a little after midnight.

  He opened the little lockbox in the bottom drawer of his desk and took out a ring of a dozen keys that he had collected over his years at Centurion, just in case, then he got back into the golf cart, drove back to the commissary and parked among three or four other carts there. From the commissary he walked a couple of hundred yar
ds to a long, low concrete-block building, then, at the door, began trying keys. Finally, he found one that worked in the lock of the armory.

  He let himself into the building and locked it from inside, then he took out a small flashlight and went into the armorer’s office to a padlocked metal cabinet, where he began trying more keys, until one worked.

  He opened the cabinet to display a wall full of handguns that were neatly hung on pegs. He selected a Walther PPK.380, and in one of the drawers at the bottom of the cabinet he found a silencer and screwed it into the Walther’s barrel, checking for fit. When he was satisfied that the two mated properly, he unscrewed the silencer and put it into a jacket pocket, then he put the Walther into another pocket, locked the cabinet, let himself out of the building and relocked the front door.

  Keeping close to the building’s wall, he walked back to the commissary and drove the golf cart back to the stable. Once there, he got into his truck and drove to a back gate of the studio, unlocked it with another of his keys and drove away.

  He stopped for gas, paying cash, took the opportunity to enter the target’s address into the GPS navigator in his truck, then began following its spoken directions. Soon he was on the freeway, headed north, and by early morning he was in Palo Alto.

  The GPS navigator obligingly took him directly to the target’s address, and Cato drove up and down the block a couple of times, checking it out. He parked on the street within sight of the residence and waited. He figured to take the day to identify the man, then follow him around until he had an opportunity. He loaded the Walther with hollow-point ammunition from his own supply, screwed in the silencer, then stuck it between the front seats of the truck and waited.

  Shortly before eight A.M. the garage door of the house opened, and Cato saw a man loading a set of golf clubs into the trunk of a BMW 760. He backed the car out of the garage, closing the door with a remote control, and drove up the street past where Cato’s truck was parked.

  Cato’s heart started beating a little faster. He started the truck, made a U-turn and followed at some distance. The neighborhood was slow to awake on a weekend morning, and there were only a couple of joggers and dog walkers to concern him. Then the target came to a traffic light and stopped.