Santa Fe Dead

by Stuart Woods

  “In the circumstances, Don, what with my connection to Susannah, I think you should get yourself another lawyer.”

  “You think I had something to do with an attempt on Ms. Wilde’s life?”

  “No, Don, but I’d feel uncomfortable continuing. Please get yourself another lawyer. I’ll recommend somebody, if you like.”

  “That won’t be necessary, Ed; I know lawyers in L.A.”

  “Well, then I wish you well, Don. Goodbye.” Eagle hung up.

  Susannah came looking for him and found him in the conference room. “Ready to go?”

  “Yes,” Eagle said, “and I’ve just washed my hands of Don Wells.”

  49

  JACK CATO HAD just wrapped his last scene when two detectives arrived on the set, took him to one side and sat him down. One of them read him his rights.

  “What’s this about?” Cato asked.

  “It’s about the death of Grif Edwards.”

  “I heard he committed suicide.”

  “You want a lawyer, Mr. Cato?”

  “Nope, I don’t think I need one.”

  “You knew Grif Edwards pretty well, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “When did you last see him?”

  “Last weekend, when we went down to Tijuana for the bullfights.”

  “Anybody with you?”

  “Yeah, Tina López and Soledad Rivera. They both work in the wardrobe department.”

  “Did you notice anything unusual about Edwards’s behavior?”

  “Yeah, he was very depressed, but he wouldn’t talk about it. He just drank a lot of tequila and didn’t say much.”

  “Did you see Edwards at all yesterday or in the evening?”

  “No, I left work a little after six and went home.”

  One of the detectives consulted a clipboard. “He’s on the front-gate list; drove out at six-oh-nine P.M.”

  “What do you think Edwards was doing in the armory last night?”

  “Well, from what I’ve heard, that’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?”

  “Did Edwards own any firearms?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “How would Edwards have gotten a key to the armory?”

  “I have no idea. I didn’t know he had one; those keys would be pretty tightly controlled, I expect.”

  “So you think he broke into the armory to get a weapon to shoot himself with?”

  “Makes sense to me.” The detective’s cell phone rang, and he answered it. After a brief conversation, he hung up. “Edwards left a note at his house,” he said to his partner.

  “A suicide note?” Cato asked.

  “That’s what it sounds like. Typed it on his own typewriter.”

  “All right, Mr. Cato, we’re done; you can go.”

  Cato got into his golf cart and stopped by the personnel office to leave his resignation, then made his way back to the stable. His money was stowed in a steel box welded under the frame of his truck, and everything was packed. It was nearly five o’clock. Just one more thing to do.

  He dialed a number on his prepaid cell phone.

  “Yes?”

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Keeler.”

  “Who is this?”

  “You know who this is; I ran a couple of errands for you, remember?”

  “The second one didn’t work out; you were ineffective.”

  “What are you talking about? It was a head shot.”

  “I just heard she’s alive and well, and you owe me fifty thousand dollars.”

  Cato laughed. “Well, I’m gonna give you some good news and some bad news, lady. First, the good news: I’m calling from out of the country, so I won’t be around to implicate you.”

  “That is good news. Now what about my fifty thousand?”

  “That’s the bad news. I shot the lady in the head, as you requested. She lived; that’s your problem. More bad news: You’re going to pay me twenty-five thousand dollars every year, starting in about a week. I’ll call you and give you an address to send it to. If I don’t get it, every year and on time, my next call will be to the D.A.’s in Palo Alto and Santa Fe. And if you send somebody after me, he won’t find me. I’m a careful man.”

  “You’re scum, Cato.”

  “That’s what you get when you hire somebody to do your dirty work for you, lady. I’ll say goodbye… for now. Get the money together.” He hung up.

  He took one more look around the stable, went through his office one last time to see if he’d forgotten anything, then he got into his truck and headed for the front gate.

  ED EAGLE WAS having lunch with his friend, Joe Sams, the police chief. He had explained about the connection of Jack Cato and Grif Edwards to the two shootings in Santa Fe.

  “I don’t know if you’ve heard, Ed, but Cato’s buddy, Grif Edwards, committed suicide last night.”

  “I hadn’t heard, but I’ll give you odds Cato killed him.”

  “Well, we don’t have any evidence of that. Why don’t you give all this to the Santa Fe cops? It’s their jurisdiction and they’ve already got warrants.”

  “They already know about it, and I expect they’re on their way to L.A. to pick up Cato. They probably don’t know about Edwards’s suicide yet. If I were you, I’d want to hang on to Cato until you have enough evidence against him in the Edwards killing. And one more thing: My ex-wife very probably hired Cato to kill her husband’s lawyer, Joe Wilen, in Palo Alto.”

  “We have constant surveillance on Mrs. Keeler,” Sams said.

  “If you pick up Cato, he’ll implicate her in Wilen’s killing.”

  “The Santa Fe police are picking him up, Ed.”

  “And what are you going to do if he bolts?”

  “They can track him down and bring him back.”

  “They can’t bring him back from Mexico.”

  “Ed, you’re getting too exercised about this.”

  “Joe, if you don’t get exercised about it you’re going to be left holding the bag that Cato slipped out of. And he’s the only one who can give you Don Wells for hiring him to kill Wells’s wife and son.”

  “Again, New Mexico jurisdiction.”

  “But wouldn’t you rather break the case than let them do it?”

  “Well, it would look good in the papers, I guess. But I’m not going to pick up a phone and order the arrest of Jack Cato right now. If Santa Fe wants him, let them come and get him.”

  “Then why don’t you pull your surveillance off my ex-wife and give her a little room to operate. Maybe she’ll make a mistake.”

  “That’s just the opposite of what you asked me to do a couple of weeks ago. What’s changed?”

  “Hell, Joe, it’s okay with me if your people tail her, if you want to keep applying those resources, but she’s not going to make a move while you’re watching her.”

  “Oh, all right, I’ll pull my people off.”

  “As you wish, Joe. Like I said, it doesn’t matter to me.”

  HALF AN HOUR LATER, Eagle was on the phone with Cupie Dalton. "Okay, Sams is going to pull his people back.”

  "Good news, Ed.”

  “I suggest that, from a distance, you watch the cops who are watching her. When they go away, then you can make your move.”

  “And make it we will,” Cupie said. “You sure you want to play it this way, Ed? You can still change your mind and let the law do the work for you.”

  “The law is never going to get her, Cupie. I’m sure this is the way to go.”

  “Then Vittorio and I are on it,” Cupie said, and hung up.

  50

  ALEX REESE ARRIVED at Centurion Studios and asked to see the head of security. As he waited, a black pickup truck pulled up next to him in the outbound lane, but from his tiny economy rental car he could not see the face of the driver high above him.

  The guard handed Reese a pass for his dashboard and waved him in. Reese went directly to the security office and was shown immediately into Jeff Bender’s off
ice. The two men shook hands.

  “What can I do for you, Alex?” Bender asked.

  “I’m here with a warrant to arrest Jack Cato for the murder of Don Wells’s wife and stepson,” Reese said. “I thought, as a courtesy, I should see you first.”

  Bender grabbed his jacket. “Let’s go,” he said. He led Reese to his golf cart, and the two men took off through the big lot at top speed, which was about 16 mph. Shortly, they arrived at the stable.

  The two men got out of the cart, and Reese unholstered his Glock. They walked into the stable and found it quiet. Bender opened the door to the little office and looked around. “This looks emptier than usual.” The phone on the desk rang, and Bender picked it up. “Hello?”

  “Mr. Cato?”

  “Who’s calling?”

  “This is studio personnel,” the woman said.

  “This is Jeff Bender, studio security. Cato isn’t here; can I help?”

  “No, I just wanted to get a forwarding address. Mr. Cato handed in his resignation about an hour ago, and he didn’t leave one.”

  “I suggest you write to his old address and see if it gets forwarded,” Bender said. “And I’d like to know about it when you find out.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Bender hung up. “Jack Cato resigned from his job an hour ago,” he said.

  “Oh, shit.”

  Bender dialed a number. “Front gate? This is Jeff Bender. Has Jack Cato left the lot?” He listened for a moment. “What was he driving? Do you have his plate number on file? Thanks.”

  He handed Cato’s license number to Reese. “Cato left the lot less than fifteen minutes ago, driving a black Chevrolet Silverado pickup.”

  “Shit again. I’d better call the LAPD and ask for an APB on him.”

  “They’re not going to give you an APB on an out-of-state warrant,” Bender said. “Protocol is to call your chief and have him call Chief Sams.”

  “May I use the phone?” Reese said.

  “Sure.”

  Reese called his HQ, asked for his chief and was told he had just entered a meeting and wasn’t expected out for some time. Reese left his cell phone number and asked to be called back on an urgent basis. He hung up and turned to Bender. “Cato seems to have a fondness for Tijuana. How long would it take him to drive down there?”

  “Man, it’s rush hour, and it’s rush hour in every city from here to the border, including San Diego. Who knows? If Cato is on the freeway, he’s parked, like everybody else. If he’s smart he’ll use the surface streets for a couple of hours, then, when traffic starts to thin out, get on the freeway again. When your chief calls back, ask him to call the Border Patrol and get Cato stopped when he tries to leave the U.S. Also, ask him to get that warrant on the wire right away, so that if Cato gets stopped by the highway patrol for a traffic violation they’ll detain him.”

  “What do you hear from the LAPD on the Grif Edwards suicide?”

  “They were here for several hours today, talking to everybody.”

  “Do they suspect Cato?”

  Bender shook his head. “Edwards left a note at his house, so right now they’re treating it purely as a suicide. They wouldn’t have put out an APB on Cato, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  Reese’s cell phone vibrated, and he answered it.

  “Detective Reese, this is Captain Ferraro; I saw your message for the chief, but he just left the building with some people. Can I help?”

  Reese told him what he needed. “I think the LAPD APB is the most important thing. If we could nail him before he leaves the city, life would be simpler. The California Highway Patrol should hear about it, too.” He recited the description of Cato’s truck.

  “I don’t have the authority to do that on my own, but I’ll grab the chief at the first opportunity and press your case.”

  “Thanks, Captain. You can reach me on my cell.” Reese hung up. “Damn! If I’d just made the earlier plane!”

  “Don’t blame yourself, Alex. This’ll work out; it’ll just take some time. It’s a big system, and it’ll nail Cato.”

  “Not if he makes it to Mexico,” Reese said.

  BARBARA EAGLE KEELER was watching Judge Judy on TV when Jimmy Long came home.

  “Your cop car is gone,” he said.

  “Really?”

  “First time in days I haven’t seen it parked out there.”

  Barbara stood up. “Jimmy, Jack Cato is headed for Mexico, which means that somebody’s after him. I’m going to disappear for a while, until I’m sure he’s not talking to the cops. I don’t know how he found out my name, but he knows it, and I can’t take the chance of staying here any longer.”

  “Okay. How can I help?”

  “Just keep an eye on the papers and an ear on the TV news. If you hear anything about Cato, call me on my cell phone.”

  “Where are you going to now?”

  “You don’t want to know that, Jimmy.”

  “Maybe not. What do you want me to tell the police, if they call?”

  “Tell them I went back to San Francisco.” Barbara went upstairs and started packing. When she was done, she came back downstairs. “I forgot,” she said, “I don’t own a car.”

  “You want me to drive you to a car rental place?”

  “Tell you what, drive me to a Mercedes dealership.”

  “Okay, babe.”

  CUPIE DALTON SAT up straight. “Here we go,” he said to Vittorio. “First, the cops leave, now there goes Barbara.”

  “That will be Long driving, I guess,” Vittorio said.

  “I don’t think she has a car,” Cupie replied. “Two to one, they’re on the way to the airport.”

  “Probably. Where do you think she’s going?”

  “Back to San Francisco is my guess.”

  “We don’t want that, do we?”

  “Nope.”

  “But we can’t do it while she’s with Long.”

  "Nope. We need to find her in some nice, quiet place, even if it’s in San Francisco.”

  51

  BARBARA WALKED INTO the Mercedes dealership and was immediately greeted by a salesman.

  “Good evening,” he said. “May I show you something?”

  “I’d like to see a list of every new car in stock that’s ready to drive away,” she said.

  The salesman went to his desk, offered her a chair and took an inventory from a drawer. He removed a page from the list and handed it to her. “That’s everything on the lot,” he said. “A couple need prepping before they go out.”

  Barbara ran down the list and stopped at a silver E55. “Let’s take a look at this one,” she said.

  “It’s right over there,” the man said, pointing across the showroom. “You know about the E55? It’s the fastest Mercedes.”

  “I know about it,” she replied.

  “We’re about to have a model change,” the salesman said, “so I can offer you a good deal on it.”

  Barbara sat in the car. “Is it prepped?”

  “Ready to drive away.”

  She got out of the car and checked the equipment list.

  “Just about every option,” the salesman said. “Do you have a trade-in?”

  “Nope, just cash.”

  He looked at the list price on the car and quoted her a price.

  She counteroffered and they settled on a price. “Check or credit card?” she asked.

  “Which credit card?”

  She handed him her black Amex card and her driver’s license.

  He compared her to the photo on the license. “Is the address on the license current?”

  “It is.”

  “Let me speak to our finance guy.” He noted her checking account number and walked into a private office with her credit card. Five minutes later, he was back.

  “We’ll be happy to take a check,” he said. He added in the sales tax and gave her the amount.

  Barbara sat at his desk and wrote the check.

  The printer on
the man’s desk began to spit paper. “The bill of sale is printing out right now.” He handed it to her. “Thank you very much for your business.”

  A man in Mercedes coveralls appeared and drove the car out of the showroom and onto the lot. Twenty minutes after arriving, Barbara gave Jimmy a good-bye kiss.

  “Take care of yourself, baby.”

  “I’ll be in touch,” she said, then she got into her new car and moved out into traffic.

  "THAT WAS FAST,” Vittorio said.

  Cupie put the car into gear. “It sure was. If I’d tried to buy a Mercedes, they’d have tied me up for an hour, running credit checks and probably taking a blood sample.”

  “It helps if you’re Mrs. Walter Keeler and beautiful.”

  They followed as Barbara got onto the freeway, headed south.

  “I guess she ain’t going to San Francisco,” Cupie said.

  BY SEVEN O’CLOCK, Jack Cato was sick of driving in the heavy traffic. He exited the freeway and found a steakhouse, and as he got out of his truck, he found something else, too. Parked two spaces away, shielded from the view of the restaurant by shrubbery, was a black Silverado pickup, identical to his, except that it didn’t have the toolbox bolted into the bed.

  Cato had a quick look around, then found a screwdriver in his glove box and removed the license plate from the other Silverado. Moving fast, he exchanged it with the plate on the other Silverado, then he went inside, got a table and ordered a New York strip. An hour later, he was headed south again in lighter traffic, in a vehicle nobody was looking for.

  IT WAS NEARLY midnight when Alex Reese got the call.

  “This is Captain Ferraro. Sorry to take so long, but the chief went out to dinner with some people, and his cell phone was turned off. You got your L.A. and statewide APB’s.”

  “Thanks, Captain.”

  “And both departments have your cell phone number for when they find him.”

  Reese thanked him again, then went to bed. He slept better knowing that every L.A. cop and CHP officer was looking for Jack Cato.

  Barbara reached La Jolla, a San Diego suburb, before midnight and drove directly to La Reserve, a spa where she had spent time before. Half an hour later she was having a late supper in her suite, watching an old movie on television.