Santa Fe Dead

by Stuart Woods

  "I KNOW THIS PLACE,” Vittorio said. “She’s been here before, and I know a woman who works here as a masseuse.”

  “Good,” Cupie said. “We might as well find a motel; she’s not going anywhere for a few days, and we have arrangements to make.”

  JACK CATO FOUND a motel in San Diego and used his Texas ID and credit card. He would cross the border in the morning, during rush hour. As soon as he got to his room he turned on the television, and not five minutes had passed before he saw his own face. “Shit!” he yelled. Fortunately, the picture they were showing was one from the western, with the handlebar moustache.

  Cato was nearly asleep when his cell phone rang, and he picked it up. “Yeah?”

  “It’s me,” Don Wells said. “Are you in Mexico yet?”

  “Almost… tomorrow morning.”

  “Have you got backup ID?”

  “Yes.”

  “I have another, very lucrative job for you in Mexico.”

  “How much?”

  “One hundred K.”

  “Who?”

  “Two people, traveling together.”

  “Where?”

  “Tomorrow morning, cross the border and take the noon flight from Tijuana to Acapulco. Book it tonight. You’ll be met by a man in a red straw hat carrying a sign saying ‘Mr. Theodore.’”

  “I’ll need a piece.”

  “The man will provide that and anything else you need, including twenty-five K, U.S.”

  “How long will this take?”

  “Up to you; shouldn’t be more than a day. You’ll follow two people; do it; then take their money and valuables. Call me on this cell phone when it’s done.”

  “When do I get the rest of the money?”

  “I own a little beach house; the man will take you there. I’ll arrive with your money after the job is done.”

  “All right. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Cato hung up, elated. He would add another hundred grand to his nest egg.

  52

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Cupie called a man he knew in L.A., a con man and sometime actor named Ron Gillette, who was fiftyish, handsome, beautifully dressed and too charming for his own good.

  “Hey, Cupie, how’s it going?”

  “Extremely well, Ronnie. Could you use a few days’ work at two grand a day and expenses?”

  “What does it involve?”

  “Being yourself, seducing a woman, a day or two in the sun.”

  “Does anybody get hurt?”

  “Of course not,” Cupie lied.

  “When and where?”

  “Be in San Diego by five o’clock today.” Cupie gave him the address of his motel. “I’ll have a room for you.”

  “Clothes?”

  “Blue blazer, white trousers, business suit, dinner jacket and your passport. You’ll be using your own name.”

  “Done.”

  “I want you to make a stop in Marina del Ray and have your picture taken. Wear your blazer.” Cupie gave him a name and a number. “Bring some postcard-size prints with you.”

  “Okay.”

  “One more thing: Do you know any beautiful women in San Diego?”

  “Will La Jolla do?”

  “Sure. Make a dinner date for tomorrow night, and pick her up at seven thirty.”

  “In that case, I won’t need the hotel room.”

  “Good. See you at five.” Cupie hung up.

  Vittorio was on his own phone, speaking Spanish, making arrangements. He hung up. “We’re good to go,” he said. “I’ll make one more call when it’s time.”

  Cupie nodded and called Ed Eagle.

  “Hello, Cupie. Is everything happening?”

  “Yep. Expenses are going to run to fifteen, twenty grand, plus our daily fees.”

  “It’s worth it. Where are you?”

  “Do you really want to know, Ed? Don’t you like surprises?”

  Eagle sighed. “All right, Cupie, I’ll trust you.”

  “Always the best thing. Why don’t you go back to Santa Fe, Ed? It’s better to be as far away as possible from the scene. I’ll call you in a couple of days.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” Eagle said.

  Cupie hung up and made some more arrangements.

  ALEX REESE HUNG around his hotel room, waiting for a call, but none came. He called Santa Fe and got Captain Ferraro on the phone.

  “It’s Alex Reese, Captain. Have they picked up Jack Cato?”

  “I haven’t heard a word, Alex,” the captain replied.

  “I don’t understand it; they should have had him by this time.”

  “Got a pencil? I’ll give you a contact number at the California Highway Patrol.”

  Reese wrote down the name and number, then hung up and re-dialed. “Colonel Tom Pace,” he said to the operator.

  “This is Tom Pace.”

  “Colonel, I’m Detective Alex Reese, Santa Fe P.D. Captain Ferraro gave me your number.”

  “Oh, yes. No joy on that APB, I’m afraid.”

  “I think he must be out of L.A. by this time. My best guess is, he’ll cross the border at Tijuana.”

  “We had a word with the border patrol; they’ve got his photo and his license number. He won’t get across.”

  “Will you call me when you hear something?”

  “Of course. I believe I have your cell number.”

  Reese thanked him and hung up. He went out, looking for breakfast.

  JACK CATO STARTED the day early at a barbershop, with a much shorter haircut and a shave. By nine thirty, he was approaching the Mexico border, and he had his ID ready when the agent approached. “Good morning,” he said with a smile. “Beautiful day.”

  “Yes, it is,” the man said, studying his ID. “How long are you staying in Mexico?”

  “I’m house hunting down there,” he said. “My stuff is in the back. You want to see it?”

  “Not today,” the man said, returning his ID to him. “Move on, please.”

  That had been easier than he had anticipated, Cato thought, but now he looked ahead to the Mexican side of the border and saw something he didn’t like: A police officer had a mirror on a pole, and he was examining the underside of vehicles as they approached the border. He had not anticipated this. He had a lockbox welded under his truck with his money in it, and he tried to remember if he had driven through any mud since he last had the truck washed. He hoped to God he had; he needed the camouflage.

  A policeman waved him forward to a barrier and asked him for his ID and vehicle registration. Cato complied, and as he did, he heard a scrape from under the truck. The man was there with his mirror.

  “What is the purpose of your visit to Mexico?” the policeman asked him.

  “Pleasure.”

  “What is in the back of the truck?”

  “My personal belongings. I’m planning to look for a holiday casa to buy.”

  “Please step out of the truck and come with me,” the cop said. He led the way to the rear of the truck. “Please remove the cover.”

  Cato unhooked the tarp over his goods and rolled it back.

  “Open this box,” the cop said, pointing.

  Cato opened it to reveal some of his clothes. He was instructed to open two other boxes, while another cop put a Labrador retriever into the back of the truck, who went happily to work with his nose. The other boxes contained pots and pans and some lamps.

  “You can secure the cover again,” the cop said. The dog jumped down and went on to the next vehicle with his handler. The policeman handed him back his ID. “Thank you, Mr. Timmons. You may enter Mexico.”

  Cato got into the truck and drove across the border. He parked his truck in a garage near the crossing, grabbed an overnight bag and took a cab to the airport. An hour later he was boarding his flight to Acapulco. It departed on time.

  Vittorio was having a very nice lunch on the beach at La Jolla with Birgit, his friend, the masseuse, at La Reserve. She was a good six feet tall, blonde, and beautiful in a swe
et way.

  “So, Vittorio, you’ve come to visit me at last.”

  “Yes, and I’ve been looking forward to it.”

  “How long can you stay?”

  “A day or two. I’ll do the best I can.”

  “Is your visit connected with your work this time?”

  “Yes. In fact, it’s connected with the same work I was doing last time.”

  Birgit laughed. “Yes, she checked in last night. I should have known you would not be far behind.”

  “Do you know what name she’s using?”

  “Keeler,” she said. “I gave her a massage this morning, and the staff has been talking about her. Apparently, her rich husband recently died.”

  “Yes, that’s true. Do you know what her plans for the day are?”

  “I believe she’s staying close to her cottage. She made a dinner reservation in the dining room while I was there. Eight thirty this evening.”

  “That’s good to know,” Vittorio said, then he set about seducing Birgit, an action she received with alacrity.

  53

  BARBARA DAWDLED OVER her lunch, thinking. She still had something to clean up before she could be at peace. Jack Cato was no longer of any use to her, so she needed fresh talent, someone closer to the scene. She got out her untraceable cell phone and made a call to Santa Fe, to a woman she had been intimate with when she had lived there.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, little one.”

  “Barb…”

  “Shhhhh, let’s not use names on the phone.”

  “What’s up, baby?”

  “Tell me about you, first.”

  “Oh, business is slow, and there’s not much love in my life at the moment.” Betty Shipp was a small, beautiful woman who liked sex of all sorts but preferred women.

  “Not in mine, either.”

  “Let’s get together, then.”

  “I’m afraid I’m a long way from you right now, but maybe later. If business is slow, maybe you could use a nice chunk of money.”

  Betty laughed. “Sure, who do I have to kill?”

  Barbara said nothing.

  “Oooooh, I was on the mark, huh?”

  “You were.”

  “Let me guess: the tall guy.”

  “And his girlfriend. It’ll be easy; they live together.”

  “When?”

  “A Sunday morning would be perfect.”

  “How?”

  “Two each to the head would be nice. Something small will do, maybe a.22.”

  “I never did two people before. Come to think of it, I’ve done only one just the one time, and God, the bastard deserved it. You’re the only one who knows.”

  “I know; I was your alibi, remember? Here’s how you’ll do it.” Barbara explained in detail. “Got it?”

  “Sounds simple enough. You mentioned money?”

  “I’ll wire you twenty-five thousand today, another twenty-five when I read about it in the papers.”

  “I’ll give you my account number.”

  “No. Just go to the Western Union office on Cerrillos Road, you know it. Give me a couple of hours to get it there.”

  “You got a deal. I never liked him anyway.”

  “You’ll like her even less, baby.”

  “When will I see you?”

  “We’ll need to wait a few weeks for things to cool down, then I’ll bring you to a place you’ll love. Bye-bye, sweetie.”

  “Bye.”

  Barbara hung up and went to her suitcase for the cash.

  JACK CATO WALKED through the Acapulco airport, his eyes darting everywhere.

  Ahead and to his right a man in a red straw cowboy hat held up a sign. Jack caught his eye as he passed and nodded, then continued outside. He stood on the curb and watched the man cross the road to the parking lot, then he followed.

  The man in the red hat walked to a van, opened the rear doors and got in, leaving the doors open. Jack looked around, then got in, too.

  “Good day, señor,” the man said.

  “Good day.”

  “I got some things for you.” He unfolded a map. “You know Acapulco?”

  “Pretty good.”

  The man pointed with a stubby finger. “Here is the airport. You leave, turn right, take the coast road. A few miles, you pass a bar, El Toro Loco, then you take your first right turn and follow the road to the beach and turn left. It’s the boss’s house, número 1040. You can remember that?”

  “Easy.” He remembered that he was going to have to do something about filing his tax return, unless he wanted another government agency searching for him.

  “You park your car here,” the man said, pointing.

  “Car?”

  The man rapped on the side of the van. “Parked just here.” He handed over the keys. “Every afternoon, five o’clock, about, the two women go to El Toro Loco for a margarita, then they go to town for shopping, on this road, here. It’s a quiet road; you can hit them going or coming, take your pick. Must look like a robbery, yes?”

  “Yes, I know.”

  The man handed him a very small semiautomatic pistol. “Is.380, plenty big?”

  “Yes.”

  “Comes with this,” the man said. He handed over a Ziploc bag containing two magazines, a silencer and a pair of latex gloves, and, using a handkerchief, he dropped the gun into the bag.

  “Gun and bullets don’t have no prints on them. You use gloves when you handle and when you drive car, got it?”

  “Got it.”

  “When you are finished, you drive into Acapulco and park car somewhere, walk away, leave nothing. Get a hotel. You call the man. He will arrange to meet you with the money; he will tell you where. Then you go back to Tijuana. Go now. Any questions?”

  “Do the two women have names?”

  “You know them: Tina and Soledad.”

  He knew them. Wells was leaving no loose ends. He thought maybe he would like to fuck them first, as he had before. He took the plastic bag and his overnight bag, got out of the van and into the car, a well-used Toyota. He ignored the latex gloves and put on his own leather driving gloves.

  First, he found the bar, then the house, then, using the map, he drove the road into Acapulco. There were two very sharp bends in the dirt road, a couple of miles from the bar, and a good ditch along the road. He saw only one car the whole time.

  He didn’t want to be seen anywhere by anybody, so he avoided El Toro Loco and drove back to the beach. He found a narrow track off the road behind some bushes that gave him a view of the house. He backed in and left the engine running, the air-conditioning on. He checked his watch: three forty.

  HE WAITED LESS than an hour before he saw the two women pull out of the driveway. He put the car in gear and waited until they passed and got some distance, then he followed. At El Toro Loco, they didn’t stop but turned toward Acapulco on the road he had just driven. He made the turn and accelerated to catch up; he wanted them at the first curve.

  It was not to be; a battered pickup truck was passing in the other direction. Cato swore, then caught up for the next curve. As they made the turn to the left, he stepped on the gas and went for the “pit,” a maneuver he had used in the movies. He struck their left rear bumper hard enough to throw the rear end of their car off the road, which pitched the whole vehicle into the ditch, turning it upside down.

  He took one last look around, then got out of the car and ran to theirs. “Tina? Soledad?” he called out.

  “Yes, we’re in here! Who is it?”

  “It’s Jack,” he called back. He ran around the upside-down car to the driver’s window and looked inside. The two women were still in their seat belts, their heads touching the ceiling.

  “Jack,” Tina said, smiling, “I don’t know what the hell you’re doing here, but get us out of this car!”

  “Don’t worry, Tina,” he said. He shot her in the side of the neck, under the ear. Soledad began screaming, so he shot her, too, near the heart. She kept
moving a little, then stopped. He felt both women for a pulse and found none.

  Their handbags were lying on the ceiling next to their heads. He grabbed them both and checked the road again for traffic. Nothing. He emptied both bags on the ground next to the car and took two wads of pesos and American currency, then tossed the handbags onto the pile of things. Then he remembered that Tina wore a gold Rolex that Don Wells had given her, and he went back and took it off her wrist.

  A moment later, he was driving off toward Acapulco, and he didn’t see another car until he reached the outskirts of the city. He drove into the center of town, grabbed his overnight bag, stuffed the gun and the plastic bag into it, locked the car and walked away. He found a cantina with a garden and ordered a Dos Equis, then got out his cell phone and dialed Wells.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s done.”

  “I told you to call me late at night.”

  “Sorry, I forgot.”

  “What else did you forget?”

  “Nothing. It went perfectly.”

  “Meet me at three o’clock tomorrow afternoon at the FBO next to the main terminal at the airport. Be there early. When you see me get off the airplane and enter the building, go to the men’s room. I’ll meet you there and give you your money.”

  “See you then,” Cato said and hung up. I wonder what else you’re going to give me, he thought, seeing that I’m the last loose end.

  54

  CUPIE AND VITTORIO were still making phone calls when there was a knock on the door of their motel room. Cupie answered the door. A tall, handsome man stood there.

  “Ron! How are you? Come on in.” Cupie introduced him to Vittorio.

  “I’m great, Cupie.” Gillette found a chair and settled down, looking way too good for his plain surroundings. “We all set to go?”

  “We are. You have to take your girlfriend to dinner at a place called La Reserve at eight thirty. Give me her address, and a car will pick you up shortly before that.” Cupie made a note of it.

  “What do I do there, just eat?”

  Cupie showed him a photograph. “This woman will be having dinner there at the same time, probably alone. Her name is Eleanor Keeler, but she sometimes goes by the name of Barbara Eagle. I want you to see her, and above all, I want her to see you. Vittorio has arranged through a friend for you to be seated near her, and if possible I want you to chat her up. If that doesn’t work, follow her when she leaves and introduce yourself. You can use your real name; it won’t matter. That’s all you have to do, until tomorrow night.”