by Stuart Woods
“Well, if you’re a lawyer, do something!”
“I’m afraid I’m not licensed to practice in Mexico,” Gillette said. “I’m awfully sorry about this, Barbara, but it looks as though you’re going to have to go with this policeman.”
As if on cue, two other policemen, bearing automatic weapons, appeared behind the capitán.
“If you please, señora,” the capitán said, indicating that she should board his boat. “I hope it will not be necessary to handcuff you.” He took her by the wrist and elbow and began dragging her toward the other boat.
“This is outrageous!” Barbara shouted. “I want to speak to the American ambassador at once!”
“Unfortunately,” the capitán said, “we did not bring his excellency with us, but as soon as we reach my office you may telephone him.”
The two policemen stepped forward, lifted Barbara off her feet and handed her over the rail to two more policemen on the other boat.
The capitán gave Captain Ted a smart salute. “I think we need not detain you further, Captain,” he said. “I bid you all a good evening,” he said to the others, then, assisted by his officers, he climbed over the railing and reboarded his boat.
“Cupie!” Barbara shouted from the police boat, “call Ed Eagle! Tell him I need a lawyer!”
“Oh, don’t worry, Barbara. I’ll call Ed Eagle. You have a nice evening, now.” He waved as the police boat pulled away. “Well, Captain Ted,” he said, “if you could drop us in La Jolla, then you can be on your way back to Marina del Rey.”
“Sure, Cupie,” Ted replied.
“Oh, and may Vittorio and I have some dinner, please?”
“Of course. I’ll tell the chef.”
“I assume you’ve already eaten, Ron.”
“Yes, I have,” Gillette said, “but I’ll join you for a drink. Tell me, did that beautiful woman actually cut off somebody’s dick?”
“She certainly did,” Cupie said. “Probably more than one.” He got out his cell phone and speed-dialed Ed Eagle.
“Wow,” Gillette said, “I guess I got out lucky.”
The yacht slowly turned back toward La Jolla and her speed increased.
ED EAGLE PICKED up the phone. “Hello?”
“Hi, it’s Cupie.”
“What’s the news?”
“Mrs. Keeler is in custody.”
“Where?”
“In Tijuana, Mexico, though I think she will shortly be transported south, to the scene of the penilectomy. By the way, she asked me to call you, and I assured her I would.”
“Call me? Why?”
“It seems the lady needs a lawyer.”
Eagle laughed. “Well, she hasn’t lost her sense of humor,” he said. “Send me your bill, Cupie, and thank you so very much.” He hung up.
“What is it?” Susannah asked.
“It’s over,” Eagle said. “Let’s spend tomorrow in bed.”
“You talked me into it,” she said, melting into his arms.
60
ALEX REESE GOT out of his car at the border patrol station and ran inside. A man wearing captain’s bars got up from a desk and came toward him. “May I help you?”
"I’m Detective Alex Reese, Santa Fe P.D.”
“Oh, of course, Detective. I’m Captain Taylor.”
“The California Highway Patrol tells me you’ve got Jack Cato.”
“Either Cato or Timmons, take your pick.”
“Sorry?”
“He had two sets of ID but only one registration for his truck, in the name of Cato. I don’t know how he got across the border. One of our people must have slipped up. The CHP says you can have him, though.”
“I’d like to see him,” Reese said.
“Come this way.” He led Reese down a hallway and opened a door. Jack Cato was visible in the next room through a one-way mirror. “He was drunk as a skunk when we got our hands on him; he’s probably just hungover by now.” He indicated a pile on a table behind them. “That’s all the stuff we found on him and in his truck. He had a kind of safe welded to the underside of the chassis.”
Reese turned and stared at the pile. “How much money is that?” “Something over two hundred grand; each of those bundles holds ten thousand dollars. He had more than a hundred thousand in the shoulder bag, there, and at least that much in the safe under the truck.”
Reese produced a pair of latex gloves and pulled them on. “Have you catalogued all this stuff?” He poked among the contents of Cato’s pockets.
“Yep, here’s a list. If you agree, then sign it, and we’ll give you a box to put all this stuff in.”
Reese went through the two wallets, then counted the bundles of money. “Looks good to me,” he said, signing the list and handing it to the captain.
The captain went to a locker and produced an evidence box. He raked all the money into it, revealing an envelope and a small dictation recorder that had been under the pile.
Reese picked up the envelope, opened it and looked at the letter inside.
“What’s that?” the captain asked. “I didn’t see that before.”
“It appears to be Cato’s confession,” Reese said in wonder. He picked up the dictating machine and pressed the play button. Immediately, he recognized the voice of Don Wells, speaking with Cato. “Well, I’ll be damned,” Reese said.
“What?”
“I think I just cleared another couple of murders.”
“Congratulations. You want us to put Cato in your vehicle?”
“I’ve got an airplane coming from Santa Fe; it should be at Montgomery Field in San Diego by now. Could you give us a lift over there and turn in my rental car for me tomorrow morning?”
“Sure thing.”
“And can I borrow some leg shackles?”
Reese left the room and went next door. “Hi, Jack,” he said, offering his hand. “Remember me?”
“Reeves,” Cato said, disconsolately.
“Reese. Call me Alex.”
“What are you doing here?”
“You and I are going to take a plane ride to Santa Fe,” Reese said, taking a document from his pocket. “You can sign this waiver, and we’ll be on our way.”
Cato looked at the document through bleary eyes. “Extradition?”
“Unless you’d rather do your time at San Quentin or Pelican Bay. Our place in Santa Fe is cozier, though.” Reese put a pen on the table.
“Oh, what the hell,” Cato said, then signed the document. “I would have liked one last Saturday night in Tijuana, though.”
“You’ll have a nice Sunday morning in Santa Fe, instead. The weather forecast for tomorrow is perfect.”
THEY WERE SOMEWHERE over the Mojave Desert in the state’s King Air, and Cato was gazing down at the moonlit landscape.
Reese went forward and tapped the copilot, a New Mexico state policeman, on the shoulder. “Can you come back here for a few minutes without the airplane crashing, Rico? I need a witness.”
“Sure,” the man said. He came back and took a seat across the aisle, while Reese settled into one opposite Cato.
“How much longer?” Cato asked.
“An hour and a half,” the copilot replied, “give or take.”
“You’ll be housed in Santa Fe for a while,” Reese said. “It’s not so bad, as jails go.”
“Will they go for the death penalty?” Cato asked.
“I think you can count on that, Jack.”
Cato nodded.
“But if you tell us everything, and I mean everything, and in court, I think I can get the D.A. to take the death penalty off the table.”
“You want me to give you Wells?”
“And the woman called Mrs. Keeler, and everything else you know.”
“I’ll give you Wells on a platter,” Cato said. “He hired me and Grif Edwards to do his wife and the boy. Our payment was what was in his safe in the Santa Fe house.”
“Just a minute, Jack.” Reese took a small recorder from his pock
et, switched it on and placed it on the table between them. “My name is Detective Alex Reese, and I’m on a New Mexico State airplane with suspect Mr. Jack Cato. Sergeant Rico Barnes is a witness to this interrogation. Mr. Cato, do you agree to have this conversation recorded?”
“Yes, I do,” Cato said.
“For the record, I have offered to intercede with the district attorney to waive the death penalty in these cases, in return for your complete cooperation. Is that your understanding?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Have you been offered anything else for your cooperation, or have you been coerced in any way?”
“No,” Cato said.
“Now, let’s start at the beginning. Did you take the lives of Mrs. Donna Wells and her son, Eric?”
“Me and Grif Edwards,” Cato said. “We each shot one of them; Grif shot the boy. Don Wells hired us to do it and paid us with the cash and gold in his safe in the Santa Fe house, a hundred thousand. He gave us the combination.”
“Are you acquainted with a Mrs. Walter Keeler?”
“Yes, she hired me to kill a guy in Palo Alto, a Joe Wilen, and a woman in Santa Fe. I don’t know her name, but she’s a blonde. I shot her in the head with a rifle through the window of her house.”
“How much did Mrs. Keeler pay you?”
“A hundred thousand dollars for the two of them.”
“Can you identify her, if you see her?”
“No, I never saw her; I just talked to her on the phone. Oh, I killed Grif Edwards, too, and the two women.”
Reese blinked. “Two women?”
“Tina López and Soledad Rivera. I killed them this afternoon… yesterday afternoon, I guess it was… outside Acapulco. Don Wells paid a hundred grand for the two of them.”
“Holy shit,” Reese muttered under his breath. “Anybody else?”
“Nah. Oh, there was that one girl about four or five years ago. I fixed the brakes on her car, and she was killed in the crash. Another guy paid me for that. I can’t think of his name right now, but it will come to me.”
“Good, Jack,” Reese said. “That’s good. Just take your time. Now let’s go over the details.”
61
EARLY SUNDAY MORNING Don Wells got up, dressed and drove to the Acapulco airport. He handed his car over to a lineman for parking, then got aboard the CitationJet. While they were taxiing, he called Capitán Rodríguez at his office and was told that the capitán didn’t come in on Sundays.
“Please give him a message for me when he comes in tomorrow,” Wells said. “This is Donald Wells. Tell him that I have had to return to Los Angeles unexpectedly, but that if he needs any further information or assistance from me he can reach me at my office any time.” He gave the officer the number and hung up.
As the jet climbed out of Acapulco and turned toward Los Angeles, Wells allowed himself to relax in a fashion he had not known since he had made the phone call to Ed Eagle from Rome. Things had not gone as smoothly as he had planned, but he had met every twist and turn with the right moves, and now he could inherit the nearly one billion from his wife’s estate that was free and clear of other bequests, and with Jack Cato losing himself in Mexico, he could enjoy his new wealth without the nagging presence of his wife and the constant attention demanded by his stepson.
Jack would call him before long and let him know where to send his next payment, and when Jack went to meet the messenger, he would cease being of any concern to Wells. All doors to his past would be closed, and he would be safe.
He accepted a Bloody Mary from the copilot and gazed out the window at the Mexican beaches far below. This would be his last trip to Mexico and his last trip anywhere in anything but the Gulfstream 550 jet he had already ordered.
Life was going to be sweet.
THEY LANDED AT Santa Monica, and his car was waiting as he came down the air stair. He tossed his briefcase into the front passenger seat and waited for a moment while his luggage was loaded into the trunk by the lineman, then drove out of the airport and headed home to Malibu.
He had his eye on a lot in the Malibu Colony, where he would build himself a new house, one designed only for him and not for a meddlesome wife and child with their own needs.
He would finance his own films from now on; he would never again have to make a pitch for studio money. He would move to new offices, too, and the Hollywood community would know that he was a force to be reckoned with. Membership in the Academy of Motion Picture Arts amp; Sciences would follow, maybe even an Oscar or two.
He would get rid of the Acapulco beach house and buy something in the South of France, something close enough to Cannes to allow him to throw major parties every year during the film festival. The new Gulfstream would transport him and his friends effortlessly to and from his new home in France.
Maybe a major house in Aspen, too, a real showplace. Maybe he’d start his own film festival there, become a patron to new directors and writers, people who could make him more money in the future.
He pulled into the garage of his Malibu home, closed the garage door and walked into his kitchen with his bags, then froze. Someone in dark clothes was bending over, looking into his refrigerator.
Wells stood and stared at this rather large ass. Burglar, had to be a burglar; go back to the car, leave the house, call the police.
“Mr. Wells?” a voice said from another direction.
Wells turned and stared at another man, who was wearing a business suit, latex gloves and a badge, hanging from his coat’s breast pocket.
“What’s going on?” Wells asked.
The man walked toward him, holding out two folded pieces of paper. “I am Detective John Ralston, of the Los Angeles Police Department. I have a warrant to search your premises…”
“Search my house? Why would you do that?”
“… and a warrant for your arrest on two charges of first-degree murder.” The man set the two documents on the kitchen counter and produced a pair of handcuffs. “Turn around, please, and put your hands behind you.”
Wells stood, frozen in place, so the detective spun him around and cuffed him.
“Now listen, please, while I read your rights. You have the right to remain silent…”
Wells immediately thought of Tina and Soledad. That’s what this is about, he thought. Keep your mouth shut and call a lawyer.
“Do you understand these rights?”
“Yes,” Wells said. “I want to call my lawyer.”
“Come with me; I’ll get you a telephone.” The detective led him into his study, uncuffed one hand and cuffed him to his chair. “There you go. Make your phone call and just wait here.” He started to leave.
Wells needed to know something. “Detective, whom am I charged with murdering?”
“Why, your wife and son, of course. The extradition process is under way. I’ll be back in a minute.” He left the room.
Wells had to reorient his thinking before he took his address book from an open drawer, looked up Ed Eagle’s home number in Santa Fe and dialed it.
“Hello,” the deep voice said.
“Ed, it’s Don Wells.”
“Good morning, Don. What can I do for you on a Sunday morning?” he asked drily.
“Ed, my house is full of cops, searching it.”
“What for?”
“I don’t know, but they also have an arrest warrant.”
“On what charge?”
“Murder of my wife and son. This is crazy, Ed! They’re extraditing me to Santa Fe, and I need you to represent me again.”
“Well, first of all, Don, it’s not crazy. I had a call a few minutes ago from Bob Martínez-you remember him-the district attorney here?”
“Yes, of course.”
“And Bob tells me they’ve got Jack Cato in jail here in Santa Fe, and he’s singing like a bird.”
“But that’s not possible; Jack’s in…”
“Mexico? I’m afraid not, Don. There was some sort of kerfuffle at the border,
and Cato made the mistake of reentering the United States, where an arrest warrant was waiting for him. They flew him back here overnight.”
“Ed, will you represent me?”
“No, Don, I’ve already resigned from that job, remember?”
“But I need the best possible Santa Fe lawyer, Ed, and that’s you.”
“Don, let me give you some free advice, something your next lawyer may not be too anxious to explain to you, since he will want to milk as much money as possible out of you before he does the deal.”
“Deal?”
“That’s my advice, Don. Make the best deal you can. Martínez is not unreasonable; he’ll take the death penalty off the table, if you give him a complete confession.”
“You’re advising me to send myself to prison?”
“It’s that or send yourself to death row for a few years until your appeals are exhausted and they execute you. You’re done, Don. Cato has cooked your goose to a fine turn. He even has you on tape. Now, if you want me to represent you just to make the deal, I’ll do that, but I won’t stand up in a courtroom and plead you not guilty. You’ve already lied to me repeatedly, and I don’t like clients who lie to me, even if a lot of them do.”
“I don’t want to take a deal,” Wells said.
“Then I suggest you call Raoul Samora, who is the second-best trial lawyer in Santa Fe, or James Parnell, who is nearly as good. You can get their numbers from Information. Anything else I can do for you, Don?”
“No,” Wells said, “there isn’t.” He hung up the phone and slumped in his chair. He looked around the room at the beautiful elm paneling in his study, at the books and papers that the police had scattered in their search, at the picture that had covered his safe, which stood exposed. He fought nausea.
With a trembling hand, Wells dialed 411 and got the usual recorded message. “Santa Fe, New Mexico,” he said, “residence of Raoul Samora.”
62
ED EAGLE HUNG up the phone just as Susannah entered the bedroom bearing a tray for him containing eggs Benedict. A moment later, she was back with her own tray and adjusting the rake of the electric bed. “Who was that, calling on a Sunday morning?”
