by Stuart Woods
“Hi, Alex. She’s outside.”
“Yeah, I saw her.”
“Let’s get her in here, then,” Bender said, picking up his phone.
Soledad was more composed than she had been at their last meeting, Reese thought. “Good afternoon, Soledad,” he said.
“What do you want?” she asked, sounding hostile.
“I wanted to give you a chance to talk to me without Tina being here,” he said. “I think you’re about to get into a lot of trouble, and I want to help you, if I can.”
“You don’t want to help me,” she said, “and anyway, I don’t need your help. I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“Think about that, Soledad. If you testify in court that you were in Tijuana with Cato and Edwards, you’ll be in more trouble than you can imagine. Right at this moment, if you don’t talk to me, you’re obstructing justice.”
“I don’t have anything to say,” she said.
“Soledad, you have a good job and a nice life. Why would you want to throw that away, risk going to prison for the rest of your life?”
“I haven’t done anything wrong, and I don’t have anything to say.”
Reese and Bender exchanged a glance, and Bender shrugged.
Reese gave her his card. “If you change your mind, here’s my number. I can keep you out of jail, Soledad.”
She took the card but said nothing else, just walked out of the office.
“That didn’t go too well,” Reese said. “She was very emotional at our last meeting, and I thought she might break if I got her away from Tina, who is obviously in charge.”
“That reminds me,” Bender said. “A lot of gossip comes my way around here, and I heard something that might interest you.”
“What’s that?”
“This is just a rumor, mind you, and I can’t prove it, but I heard that Don Wells has been fucking Tina López for a while.”
“Before his wife’s murder?”
“That’s what I hear. I wish I could back it up, but I can’t.”
“That’s very interesting, Jeff.” He thanked the security chief for his help and left, headed for Santa Monica Airport.
39
AS DARKNESS APPROACHED, Jack Cato drove his car to the Compton airport, a small field southeast of Los Angeles International, then to the Compton Flying Club, where he had learned to fly fifteen years before and where he sometimes rented airplanes.
He parked his car and walked over to where the Beech Bonanza had been left parked for him. He opened the fuel caps and checked to be sure the airplane had been refueled, then he performed a preflight check and kicked away the chocks securing the wheels, finding the airplane’s key under the nosewheel chock.
He tossed his duffel and hat and the briefcase containing the sniper’s rifle into the rear seat, got the airplane started and taxied to the end of the runway. He called Socal Approach and gave them his tail number. “Departing Compton VFR, bound for Palmdale,” he said into the headset. “Request a squawk code and vectors to the Palmdale VOR.”
“Bonanza, squawk four-seven/four-seven cleared for takeoff. Fly runway heading and maintain VFR,” the controller said.
Cato taxied onto the runway and shoved the throttle forward. A moment later he lifted off just in time to see the upper limb of the sun sink into the Pacific. Twenty minutes later, after a number of vectored turns, he was at the Palmdale VOR, a navigation beacon. He thanked the Socal controller, was authorized to change frequencies, then switched off the transponder and turned the radio volume all the way down. Now he didn’t exist for the controllers, except as a primary radar target, so his tail number did not appear on their screens.
He entered 17,500 feet into the altitude preselect unit, entered SAF into the GPS computer, then climbed to his selected altitude, slipping on an oxygen mask at 10,000. He was flying across the Mojave Desert, direct to Santa Fe, at an altitude rarely used by general aviation aircraft, and although he had a screen display of other airplanes in the area, it was unlikely that any of them would ever come near him. All he had to do for the rest of the flight was to switch fuel tanks from time to time. He switched on the Sirius Satellite Radio, tuned in a country music station and opened a sandwich he had brought with him. The GPS told him he would be in Santa Fe in two hours and forty minutes.
Half an hour out of Santa Fe he took a sunglasses case from his pocket and opened it. Inside was something he had stolen from the makeup department during his last movie: a beautiful and voluminous handlebar moustache. He switched on the cabin lights, painted his upper lip with adhesive from a small bottle and, using a mirror, affixed the moustache.
He landed at Santa Fe, put on his large cowboy hat and went into the reception building at Santa Fe Jet. Using a fake driver’s license with an Austin, Texas, address, he signed up for the rental car he had reserved, left a thousand-dollar cash deposit and placed his fuel and oxygen order, then he was on his way. The girl behind the counter would remember only a man with a big hat, a broad Texas accent and an outlandish moustache.
Cato knew Santa Fe fairly well, because he had made two pictures there and because he had studied a map and had located the route prescribed by the woman who had hired him.
He checked into a motel on Cerrillos Road, a busy, six-lane approach to the city, and watched TV until he got sleepy. He slept until past ten A.M., then donned his moustache and hat and had breakfast at McDonald’s. He then drove to the northern outskirts of the city to a country road where he had once driven a stagecoach in a film.
He got out of the car and walked a couple of hundred yards into the desert, where he set up some stones as targets, then paced off one hundred yards. He assembled the rifle, loaded it and first from a prone position, then kneeling and standing, fired at the stones, making minute corrections to the telescopic sight until he was zeroed in. Then he disassembled the rifle, packed it into its case and walked back to his car.
He had some lunch at the Tesuque Market, a local grocery and restaurant, then he found the road where his target lived. He drove past the house, then turned around and drove back, checking it out again. Along the way he saw a little dirt track where he could park his car, unseen. Satisfied, he went back to his motel and watched a NASCAR race on TV.
He had a late dinner at a place on Canyon Road, still in his moustache and never removing his hat. A little past midnight, he got into his car and drove slowly out to the target house, parked his car and began to make ready.
EAGLE HAD DINNER in town with Susannah, made a lunch date with her for the next day, then drove her back to her house. He called a cell number he had been given.
“Yes?” a voice said.
“It’s Ed Eagle. Can I come home now?”
“Yes. I’m in the house, and I’ve got a man patrolling the perimeter of the property.”
“Thanks. I’ll be there shortly.” He drove back to his home, parked in the garage and let himself into the kitchen. A police detective was sitting at the counter, sipping coffee. “Good evening,” Eagle said.
“I made myself some coffee,” the cop said.
“Raid the refrigerator, if you’re hungry. I’m going to bed. Long day.”
“Good night, then,” the cop said.
Eagle went into his bedroom and switched on the lights.
JACK CATO HAD seen the car drive in and the light go on. He worked his way around the house a couple of dozen yards until he could see, through a window, someone moving. He sighted through the scope and found his victim, as described.
He knelt beside a large boulder and rested the rifle on it, giving himself a steady shooting cradle. The target walked past a window, but he didn’t have time to fire. Then the target came back and was satisfyingly still, framed by the window, undressing.
Cato needed only a single shot. He heard the glass break, and his target spun and fell, out of sight. Cato wasted no time. He walked quickly back to the car, disassembled the rifle, locked it in the trunk in the compartment with the spare tire, backed out of th
e dirt road with his lights off and drove away from the house. Using his map, he found another way back to town. An hour after the kill, he was in his bed, sound asleep, with the clock radio set for five A.M.
The following morning, Cato was back at the airport, just as Santa Fe Jet opened. He turned in his rental car and paid his fuel bill in cash, and half an hour later he was on his way back to Los Angeles.
After landing, he called the cell number he had been given.
“Yes?” she said.
“The job is done.”
“I’ll mail your money as soon as it’s confirmed.”
Cato hung up and drove home.
40
BARBARA TURNED OFF the cell phone and put it in her handbag.
“Well,” she said to Jimmy Long, who was sitting up in bed, reading the papers, “my work here is done.”
“You’re leaving today?”
“Tomorrow,” she said. “I want to see the papers before I leave.”
“I’ll miss you.”
“Don’t worry,” she said, “I’ll be back.”
DETECTIVE ALEX REESE got the call at home, and he arrived at the house to find an ambulance parked at the front door and a stretcher being loaded. He got to the driver before the vehicle pulled away.
“What’s the story?” he asked.
“Gunshot wound to the back of the head,” the man said. “Still alive, though.” He put the ambulance in gear and drove away.
Reese went into the house and found two deputy sheriffs placing yellow tape across a bedroom door. He ducked under the tape and walked into the master suite. Bullet hole through a windowpane, considerable blood on the carpet. There was nothing for him to do here, so he gave the deputies his card. “Tell the criminalist I want a copy of his report faxed to me the minute it’s ready,” he said.
Reese went into the study and found Ed Eagle on the phone.
“Cupie,” Eagle was saying, “it’s Ed Eagle. Call me as soon as possible on my cell phone.”
“What are you doing here, Mr. Eagle?” Reese asked.
“We had a lunch date; I found her on the bedroom floor, unconscious and bleeding, and I called nine-one-one.” He stood up. “I’m going to the hospital. If you want to talk more, I’ll see you there.”
“All right,” Reese said.
EAGLE LEFT SUSANNAH’S house in a cold fury and drove to the hospital. He went into the emergency room and found a doctor he knew, who promised to let him know as soon as an assessment of Susannah’s condition had been made, then he went and sat in the reception area.
Alex Reese came in and sat down beside him. “How is she?”
“They don’t know yet.”
“All right, Ed, tell me everything you know.”
Eagle explained about the death of Joe Wilen and how he had expected to be attacked that weekend. “Bob Martínez sent two detectives out to the house. We were hoping to arrest the assassin and question him, but, as it turns out, he was after Susannah, not me.”
“Who would have done this?” Reese asked.
“My ex-wife hired somebody to kill Wilen and, I thought, me. As it turns out, she had a plan to cause me a lot of pain first. Next, she’ll come after me.”
“Where is your ex now?”
“In Los Angeles. The police there have been watching her.”
“Any other possible suspects?”
“None. You’d be wasting your time if you looked for anybody else.”
A doctor approached them, and Eagle stood up. “Yes, Doctor?”
“Ms. Wilde has suffered a gunshot wound; the bullet creased the back of her skull and knocked her down. The scalp wound bled a lot, but she’s not seriously hurt. She has a concussion, so we’ll keep her overnight to make sure nothing further develops. She’s awake, if you want to see her, but she’s been sedated, so she’s pretty groggy.”
“Yes, please, I’d like to see her.” Eagle was led into a curtained cubicle where Susannah lay on a gurney. He picked up her hand. “How are you feeling?”
“Dreamy,” she said.
“I’m sorry this happened. I never believed she’d go after you.”
“Ed,” Susannah said, “come close.”
Eagle bent over and put his ear near her lips.
“If you don’t kill her,” Susannah whispered, “I’m going to.” Then she seemed to fall asleep.
EAGLE WAS DRIVING home when his cell phone vibrated. "Hello?”
“Hi, it’s Cupie.”
“Cupie, I thought Barbara’s hit man would come after me this weekend, but he didn’t. He went after Susannah Wilde instead.”
“Oh, shit.”
“She’s all right; the shot clipped her but missed doing serious damage by half an inch.”
“Do you think the hit man thinks she’s dead?”
“Probably.”
“Can you get a story planted in the Santa Fe paper saying she was shot and killed?”
“I know the editor, but I don’t think he would print a false report.”
“Tell him what’s up. It’s best if Barbara thinks she’s dead. Don’t use her name, just say an actress. Tell him to put it on the AP wire, too.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Eagle said. “In the meantime, I want you to start thinking about something.” Eagle told him what he had in mind.
“That’s going to be tough,” Cupie said, “and it involves serious criminal activity on my part.”
“You’ll be well paid, Cupie. If you don’t want to do this, tell me, and I’ll get somebody else.”
Cupie was quiet for a moment. “Let me get Vittorio in on this,” he said. “I think it would appeal to him.”
“All right, talk to him about it, then get back to me.”
“Will do.” Cupie hung up.
One way or another, Eagle vowed to himself, he was going to see Barbara taken out.
41
BARBARA WOKE EARLY and went downstairs. The L.A. Times and The Wall Street Journal were on the doorstep. She took them into the kitchen, made coffee and started leafing through the Times. Nothing in the front section. She was well into the arts pages before she found it.
ACTRESS MURDERED IN SANTA FE
AP: Santa Fe police announced the death by shooting of a woman they described as "a member of the film community” at her home outside the city. She had apparently been shot through a bedroom window by a sniper, who is being sought by police. Police are withholdingher name, pending notification of next of kin.
Barbara thought her coffee had never tasted better. In a rush of good feeling, she made breakfast for Jimmy and took it upstairs to him on a tray.
“Hey, the service is getting pretty good around here,” he said. “You sure you have to go?”
“Well, maybe I’ll stay on for a few days more,” she said. What the hell, she thought. I’m not going to get laid in San Francisco.
“You’re welcome as long as you’d like to stay,” he said.
Barbara was pulling on some jeans and a cotton sweater. “You’re sweet, baby.”
“Where are you going so early?” Jimmy asked.
“I have to go to the post office,” she replied. She went downstairs to his study, found a manila envelope, addressed it with a Magic Marker and stuffed it with fifty thousand dollars. The post office wouldn’t be open yet, so she grabbed a roll of stamps from Jimmy’s desk drawer, weighed the package on his postage scale and applied the postage.
DETECTIVE LUCY DIXON had just come on duty in her unmarked car when she saw the car, driven by the woman, come out of the Long driveway. She started her car and followed at a distance. Where the hell could the woman be going at seven forty-five in the morning? No shops were open at this hour.
She followed the car until it turned into the post office parking lot and watched as the woman deposited a manila envelope into the drive-thru mailbox, then left the parking lot and drove back the way she had come.
Dixon drove up to the mailbox and checked the schedule. A pickup was due
at eight A.M., and it was already ten past. No time to get a federal warrant. She pulled her car farther forward and stopped, blocking the driveway, then got out of the car and waited.
Another ten minutes passed before the truck arrived and the driver got out.
Dixon approached him with a smile. “Good morning,” she said.
“Good morning,” he replied looking her up and down.
This was a good sign. She smiled more broadly and showed him her badge. “I’m LAPD,” she said. “I wonder if you would let me look at a package that was mailed a few minutes ago?”
The driver shook his head. “Sorry, Detective, you can’t mess with the mail without a federal warrant.”
“It’s Lucy,” she said.
“Sorry, Lucy.”
“I don’t want to mess with it; I just want to see the address on it. It’s a manila envelope, and it was mailed ten minutes ago, so it should be right on top.”
He went around to the back of the box, shook open a mail bag and positioned it. Then he unlocked the box and raked the mail out and into the bag. “If you can see it, you can look at it,” he said.
Dixon stepped over and checked the mail. There were two manila envelopes visible, but only one of them was without a return address. She got out her notebook. The address read: J.C., 129 Forrest Lane, Studio City. “Thanks, pal,” she said. “You’re a sweetheart.”
“Hey, how about a movie and dinner this week?” he asked.
“Oh, I’m so sorry; I’m seeing somebody.”
The man shrugged, got into his truck and drove away.
Dixon got back into her car and called her watch commander.
“Evans.”
“Boss, it’s Dixon. You know you said something about Mrs. Keeler mailing money to a hit man?”
“Yeah, that was the theory.”
“Well, I just followed her to the post office and watched her mail a manila envelope at the drive-thru, so l waited for the truck to arrive, and I got the address off the envelope.”
“Good work, Dixon. Give it to me.”
She read him the address.
