Cut and Thrust

by Stuart Woods

  “Yeah, what about it?”

  “Two things: it’s the new model, which is getting rave reviews, and the guy inside was driving the silver BMW back in the city.”

  “You’re nuts. How could he beat us here and be in another car?”

  “I’m just observing,” Morales said. “I haven’t figured that out yet.”

  Late in the day, Stone’s curiosity got the better of him. He called the West Los Angeles LAPD station and asked for Detective Morales. The extension rang, and a male voice answered. “Homicide. Detective Angelo.”

  “May I speak with either Detective Morales or Detective Croft?” Stone asked.

  “They’re out of the city on a case,” the man replied. “May I help you?”

  “Thank you, no,” Stone replied, and hung up. He called Peter’s office and asked for Billy Burnett.

  “I’m sorry,” a woman said, “he’s out with the flu, probably for a few days.”

  Stone thanked her, hung up, and called Billy’s cell number.

  “Billy Burnett,” a voice said.

  “It’s Stone Barrington. I’m sorry to hear you’re ill.”

  “Thanks, Stone, but I’m fine.”

  “I just wondered if you’d heard anything from Morales or Croft.”

  “Not a word,” Billy said, “but they’ve gone to San Francisco to talk with her.”

  “How do you know that?” Stone asked.

  Billy looked up and saw the red Korean car, which had been gone for nearly an hour, approaching the Grosvenor house again. “Trust me,” Billy said. “You’re going to have to excuse me, Stone. I’ll call you tomorrow.” He hung up without waiting for a reply. He watched as the little car turned into the Grosvenor driveway.

  —

  MORALES AND CROFT followed the long driveway through some trees and up a hill and came to a halt in front of the house. “Nice place,” Morales said.

  “Let’s get in there and brace her,” Croft said, opening the door.

  “Shall we use our new SFPD ID?” Morales asked.

  “We’re not in SF anymore,” Croft replied, ringing the bell.

  A huge young man in a well-cut suit came to the door. “Good afternoon,” he said. “How may I help you?”

  The two detectives flashed badges. “We’d like to speak with Mrs. Grosvenor,” Morales said.

  “May I know the nature of your business?”

  “It’s police business,” Croft replied. “Tell her that.”

  “Please come in,” the man said, stepping out of their way and indicating that they should go into a room to their left. “Please have a seat. I’ll let her know you’re here.”

  He left and the detectives found themselves in a handsome library, with shelves lined with leather-bound books. Croft took one off a shelf and looked at it. “Winston Churchill,” he said. He replaced the book.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” Barbara Grosvenor said, in her pleasant, well-modulated voice.

  They turned to find an elegantly dressed woman with straight gray hair to her shoulders. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Grosvenor,” Morales said.

  “Won’t you please sit down?”

  They both sat on a sofa, and she took a chair opposite them. “Would you like some refreshment?” she asked. “It’s late in the day—perhaps something more substantial?”

  “Anything soft would be very nice,” Morales said.

  Barbara lifted a phone on the table next to her and said, “May we have a pitcher of iced tea, please?” She hung up. “It won’t be a moment. I understand you’re from Los Angeles, is that correct?”

  “That is correct,” Morales said. “We’re conducting an investigation, and we think you can help us.”

  She started to speak, but a uniformed houseman entered the room and set a pitcher of iced tea, three glasses, and a plate of cookies on the coffee table before them.

  “Thank you, Benito,” Barbara said.

  He poured the tea, then left. Everyone took a sip of iced tea.

  “Excellent,” Morales said.

  Croft let Morales do the talking; he took a cookie and watched the woman closely.

  “An investigation?” Barbara said. “What sort of investigation?”

  “Early this morning, before dawn, an airplane exploded at Santa Monica Airport. Perhaps you saw something about it on TV.”

  “No, I haven’t seen a TV all day. Was anyone hurt?”

  “Only the man who placed the bomb in the nose of the airplane,” Morales said. He decided not to tell her Gregg was dead.

  “I’m a little confused,” Barbara said. “Why would you come all the way to Napa to ask me about the explosion of an airplane?”

  “The airplane belonged to your ex-husband, Ed Eagle,” Morales said.

  “And Ed wasn’t harmed?”

  “No, he had not yet arrived at the airport.”

  “How unfortunate,” she said with a smile.

  “I take it you and your ex-husband are not on good terms.”

  “I wouldn’t know, I haven’t seen him in years, and I was married to someone else after Ed and before Mr. Grosvenor. My former husband died in an automobile accident.”

  “Mrs. Grosvenor, are you acquainted with an employee of Centurion Studios named Harry Gregg?”

  “I don’t think so. Is he a producer there?”

  Nice touch, Morales thought. “No, he worked in the armory, where the studio keeps weapons used in films.”

  “I have an investment in Centurion Studios, but I have visited the place only once, for a stockholders’ meeting a few years ago. The only person I know there is Leo Goldman Junior, who is the chief executive.”

  “I see,” Morales said. “Before we go any further, Mrs. Grosvenor, I’m required by law to read you your rights.” He took a card from his pocket and did so. “Do you wish to have an attorney present while I question you?”

  “My goodness, no. Why would I need an attorney present?” Barbara said.

  “As you wish, Mrs. Grosvenor. Now, I should tell you that Harry Gregg had placed the bomb in the airplane and, while he was doing so, the bomb exploded, killing Mr. Gregg instantly.”

  “Poor Mr. Gregg,” Barbara said, with ironic sympathy.

  “In our investigation of the explosion we visited Mr. Gregg’s home in Venice and searched it thoroughly,” Morales said. “During the search we opened a safe in his home office and found multiple weapons and a great deal of cash.”

  Barbara stared at him blankly and shrugged, as if to say, “Why do I care?”

  “Twenty-five thousand dollars of the cash was in a plain white envelope, which we believe was a partial payment for the planting of the bomb in Mr. Eagle’s airplane. We found your thumbprint on that envelope.”

  Shit! Barbara thought, but her face betrayed only curiosity. “Heavens, why would my fingerprint be on an envelope in the home of this person—Mr. Gregg, was it?”

  “Correct. We were hoping you could answer that question. Why was your fingerprint on that envelope?”

  Barbara looked baffled. “I haven’t the foggiest idea,” she said. “Isn’t that the sort of thing you gentlemen are supposed to find out?”

  “It is,” Morales said.

  “Well, when you do, I shall be very curious to learn how that happened.”

  “We are inclined to think that your fingerprint was placed on the envelope when you handed it to Mr. Gregg,” Morales said.

  Croft watched the woman with fascination, but he said nothing.

  “Gentlemen, let me be perfectly clear,” Barbara said. “I do not now nor have I ever known this Mr. Gregg, and so it follows that I have never handed him an envelope, let alone one containing money.”

  “Mrs. Grosvenor, we are aware that you have been accused of murder in the past.”

  “Then
you must be aware that I was found innocent,” she replied smoothly. “Gentlemen, I must lay all of this at the feet of my former husband, Mr. Eagle. He has been saying for years that I am trying to kill him, when nothing could be further from the truth. I’m afraid that, during all that time, I am told by professionals, he has exhibited symptoms of severe paranoia. I have nothing to gain from his death. We have been divorced for many years, and I asked nothing of him at that time. I am very much more wealthy than he, so there could be no financial motive, and I bear him no ill will, except for these ridiculous charges of his, for which there has never been a shred of proof. I’m very much afraid that the best explanation for this airplane explosion is that Mr. Eagle hired this Mr. Gregg to blow it up, so that he could make yet another baseless charge against me.”

  “Then how do you explain the fingerprint on the envelope?”

  “When Mr. Eagle and I were married, I often typed correspondence for him. It is entirely possible, even likely, that he possessed an envelope bearing my fingerprint, one that he has preserved for this special occasion. Now, have you any other questions for me? I’m expecting guests for dinner, and I have to consult with the cook about the menu and then change.”

  “No, Mrs. Grosvenor,” Morales said. “We have no other questions—at this time. But you may expect to see us again.”

  Barbara stood up, and the detectives stood with her. “Then I bid you good evening, gentlemen.”

  The large young man had appeared silently at the door to the library, and he escorted them to the front door. “Good evening, gentlemen,” he said, closing it behind them.

  “Well,” Croft said, “Captain Clark was right—she is the coldest, smoothest bitch ever to come down the pike.”

  “Yes,” Morales said, “and she blew our fingerprint evidence right out of the water. Given her reasoning, it would never convict her.”

  “I’d like to make a prediction,” Croft said. “Nobody is ever going to convict that woman of anything.”

  They drove down the driveway to the road. “We may as well go back to San Francisco for the night,” Morales said. “It’s only an hour and a half or so, and we’re done here.”

  “So I won’t need my new shirt and shorts?”

  “No. By the way, did you notice that the Impala driven by the man from San Francisco was still parked in the side road?”

  “Will you stop it with this observation crap, Chico? There’s no way that guy could have got here and changed cars!”

  Billy Burnett saw them head back toward St. Helena, and he continued to wait quietly for darkness to fall.

  Morales and Croft got back to their hotel, cleaned up, then went back to the Huntington Hotel bar and settled down with drinks. Five minutes later, two very attractive young women who appeared to be in their early thirties came in and took the only two stools vacant, which happened to be right next to Croft.

  “Evening,” Croft said. “Can I get you two ladies a drink?”

  The two looked him up and down, then one of them said, “Why not? Two Tito’s martinis, straight up, with a fistful of olives.”

  The drinks arrived, and everyone toasted and drank. “I’m Stockton Croft, and this is my partner, Chico Morales.”

  “I’m Pam Hale, and this is Sherry Tate,” the blonder of the two said. “What are you two partners in?”

  “Crime fighting,” Croft said. “We’re LAPD detectives.”

  “Ah,” Pam said, “and what brings you all the way to San Francisco?”

  “The investigation of an attempted murder and an inadvertent suicide,” Croft replied. “What do you two do?”

  “I do news features on the six o’clock news at WSFO,” Pam said, “and Sherry is the weather girl.”

  “The meteorologist,” Sherry said.

  “Sorry, Sherry. Tell me about your crime, Stockton—what was it again?”

  “Attempted murder and inadvertent suicide.”

  “That sounds fascinating. Tell me everything.”

  “Well, this guy who works at a movie studio got hired to kill a lawyer who is a pilot, so he went out to Santa Monica Airport and packed half a pound of plastic explosives into the nosewheel well of a Citation and attached the detonator to a cell phone.”

  “So the guy could call the number and the bomb would go off?”

  “Exactly, except the guy got unlucky. Somebody called the number of the cell phone—probably a misdial—and the bomb went off while the guy was installing it.”

  “And what did that do to the guy?”

  “Blew off his head and one arm, and badly damaged his dignity.”

  The girls winced and laughed. “And thus,” Pam said, “attempted murder and inadvertent suicide!”

  “Right you are.”

  “I love it, but how did it get you to San Francisco?”

  “We came up to question a suspect.”

  “But the suspect is dead.”

  “The person who hired the suspect is not dead.”

  “Ah, and who is he?”

  “She.”

  “Who?”

  “No names,” Morales said suddenly, speaking for the first time. “She’s only a suspect at this point.”

  “A woman hired this guy?”

  “We’re pretty sure she did,” Croft said, “but we don’t have enough evidence to nail her—yet.”

  “Wow! So this is an ongoing investigation!”

  “That’s exactly what it is.”

  “You know, this is exactly the kind of story I cover,” Pam said. “I’d love to interview this lady.”

  “Oh, I don’t think she wants any publicity,” Croft said. “She’s a prominent person in your city—serves on a bunch of charity and arts boards, gives away millions.”

  “Oh, come on, Stockton . . .”

  “Call me Stock—everybody does.”

  “Stock, tell me all the details, and I’m buying dinner. There’s a very good restaurant right over there.” She pointed across the bar.

  Croft looked at Morales. “That’s a pretty good offer, Chico. What do you think?”

  “Sounds great, but no names.”

  “We’ll see about that after a bottle of good wine,” Pam said, waving at the headwaiter and holding up four fingers.

  —

  BILLY WAITED UNTIL the last vestiges of the sunset had gone, then started his car. Then he turned it off again. A car’s headlights were turning into the Grosvenors’ driveway, and a moment later two other cars arrived. The front door of the house was opened, and half a dozen people were admitted.

  Billy switched on the ignition and brought up the car’s navigator. He pressed the button that showed him his position, then cranked the zoom knob until he had a large-scale map of the immediate area. It took only a moment to find what he was looking for. To his left, another road turned off the main highway, then intersected with yet another road that ran behind the Grosvenor property. He started the car again and pulled into the main road, then took two rights, keeping the house on his right. As he made the second right, he turned off the headlights and stopped at a wide place in the road.

  Billy got out of the car, took off his tan windbreaker, and turned it inside out, making it black. He put on a black knitted cap, as well, then checked his little 9mm semiautomatic and returned it to its holster, then he closed the car door, climbed over a fence, and began walking toward the house.

  As he did, he screwed a silencer into the barrel of his weapon.

  By the time the first course arrived, the four had, by common consent, divided into two couples. Croft got Pam, Morales got Sherry, and everyone seemed happy with that.

  The bottle of wine Pam had selected arrived and was poured, then glasses were clinked.

  “Now,” Pam said, taking a bite of her pâté and leaning forward, “tell me everything.”

&n
bsp; Croft took a deep breath and started into Barbara Eagle’s history of trying to murder her husband, while Pam listened avidly and Sherry and Chico mumbled to each other. When Croft had finished, Pam said, “Wow.”

  —

  BILLY BURNETT MOVED through some trees and plantings behind the house until he could see people entering a room at a rear corner and sitting down. Dinner, he supposed. He ran the last few yards to the house, broke through some bordering shrubs, and knelt down, listening. Nothing: no alarms, no footsteps, no dogs. He rolled down his knitted cap, which covered his face but left openings for eyes and mouth, then, carefully, he stood up and looked in the window.

  Seven people were around a round table, and Barbara’s back was toward Billy. He unzipped his fanny pack, took out a small battery-operated amplifier, plugged a cord into it, then he licked a suction cup, stuck it to the window, and put an earbud into one ear. They were, apparently, continuing a conversation begun in the living room over drinks.

  —

  “I TELL YOU,” Barbara was saying, “Ed Eagle has made my life hell for years. He’s made at least four attempts on my life, then blamed me for trying to kill him. The latest you may have seen on TV. He hired someone to plant a bomb on his airplane, and the man cocked it up somehow and blew himself up, as well. Then, of course, he told the Los Angeles police that I had hired someone to kill him. Two LAPD detectives were here until an hour before you all arrived, questioning me.”

  “Why don’t you sue Eagle?” one of the women asked.

  “What for? I don’t want or need his money, and, anyway, Ed is one of the best trial lawyers in the country. It would cost me millions, then nothing would happen.”

  “Why don’t you go public, then?” the man asked.

  “Jack, what do you mean by ‘go public’?”

  “Take the offensive—give a few, select interviews to the right members of the press, and turn the whole thing back on Eagle. Show him up for the villain he is, ruin his reputation, cost him clients. Maybe he’d get the message then.”

  “I never thought of that,” Barbara said. “But I wouldn’t have a clue how to go about it.”

  “A good friend of mine, Hugh Gordon, is the top publicist in the city,” Jack said.