Santa Fe Rules

by Stuart Woods

  Such care was not present in Wolf’s obit. There was a brief, fairly accurate summary of his life before the William Morris Agency, then this statement:

  Wolf Willett’s subsequent career was so wrapped up in Jack Tinney’s as to be nearly invisible. Certainly, he devoted himself to relieving Tinney of the minutiae surrounding any filmmaker, allowing the director the time to polish his scripts and perfect his editing. Indeed, that may have been Wolf Willett’s chief, and perhaps only, contribution to American film.

  “Jesus fucking Christ!” he yelled into the roar of the airplane’s engine. Was that what the world thought he did? Relieve Jack Tinney of “the minutiae surrounding any filmmaker”? Did not the New York Times, in its artistic wisdom, know that he had browbeaten and cajoled Jack, who hated to write, into writing—then had edited, cut, compressed, and rewritten his scripts until they squeaked of economy and wit; that Jack had hardly ever entered an editing room? That he knew next to nothing about music and scoring and recording? That Wolf had paid his bills, negotiated his divorce settlements, forced him to file tax returns, cosigned his borrowings, invested his meager (and enforced) savings, paid off the paternity plaintiffs, and sobered him up a couple of times a year after Jack’s monumental binges? And after that, because it worked better in the trades and newspapers and the Academy, allowed Jack to take home the credit and the Oscars? Jesus fucking Christ!

  But if Jack’s obituary had infuriated him, Julia’s shook him to his core. It was not as brief as his own.

  The woman who called herself Julia Camden before she married Wolf Willett was born Miriam Schlemmer, daughter of a German-Jewish pawnbroker, Solomon Schlemmer, in Cleveland, Ohio, some seven years before her claimed birth date. During her high school years, she was arrested on numerous occasions, usually for shoplifting or joyriding in stolen cars with boy- friends. After moving to New York in the late 1970s, she served two brief terms in the Women’s Detention Center on Riker’s Island for prostitution, extortion, and trafficking in cocaine. In 1985, she turned up in Los Angeles with her new name and an apparently faked resume as an actress in off-Broadway productions and soon found work in the film business, at least once in a pornographic movie. It was when she appeared in Jack Tinney’s film Broken Charms—ironically, playing a streetwalker—that she met the man who would become her third husband. Previously, she had been married to a New York taxi driver who dabbled in procurement of women and drugs and to a man described by police as a minor Harlem drug kingpin.

  In her new existence as Mrs. Wolf Willett, she became active in film charities, and in Santa Fe became a follower of psychiatrist and “wholistic psychotherapist” Mark Shea, who had previously been arrested in New York for practicing medicine without a license.

  Mrs. Willett is survived by a younger sister who is serving a five- to eight-year sentence for the involuntary manslaughter of her husband, a diamond dealer in the New York jewelry district whom she had attempted, with an accomplice, to rob.

  It was a good thing the Bonanza had a working autopilot, because for some minutes Wolf was incapable of flying the airplane.

  CHAPTER

  4

  Wolf found Santa Fe Airport as deserted as he had hoped. He taxied past Capitol Aviation down to the T-hangars, put away the airplane, drove the Porsche out of the hangar, and locked up.

  He took Rodeo Road and Old Pecos Trail, avoiding as much of the downtown as possible, and it was just past eleven when he reached the entrance to Wilderness Gate. The subdivision was on the outskirts of the city, in the low mountains to the south. The area was zoned for lots of a minimum of five acres, and the houses built there were expensive. Three years earlier, Wolf had bought a mountainside lot so steep that his building costs had run an additional twenty percent just to hang the house on it. The drive came in from a point nearly level with the house and made a complete circle around it.

  He drove past the drive, looking for any sign of life—a police car, maybe—then turned around and came back. He stopped at the entrance to the short drive and looked at the house. It hung there, its angular shape standing out in the moonlight against large areas of pristine snow. No light was showing. When he rolled down the window and listened, no sound came from the house, only the yip and howl of a coyote somewhere up the mountain.

  Wolf slowly accelerated, then switched off the engine and let the car coast down the slight incline to the small, concealed service parking area behind the house. He left the car where it stopped of its own accord, taking a flashlight from the glove compartment. He did not use the light yet.

  He was surprised to learn that a hook had been driven into the jamb of the kitchen door, a wire run from it through the door handle, then fastened with a lead seal. A sign was posted on the door, which he could just read in the moonlight:

  CRIME SCENE. NO ENTRY WITHOUT PERMISSION OF THE DISTRICT ATTORNEY OF SANTA FE COUNTY.

  No doubt the front door would be similarly posted and fastened. He was sealed out of his own house. Well, nearly, anyway. He fumbled along the wall on the dark side of the house and came to a window. Thank God Maria, the housekeeper, was always concerned about getting enough fresh air; the window was open a good four inches. That explained a lot about his recent heating bills, but he silently thanked her.

  Wolf hoped to God the police had not left a guard. He pushed up the window and climbed silently through into the utility room, catching a whiff of laundry detergent and starch.

  He switched on the little flashlight and found his way into the kitchen, half expecting to be met by Flaps. But the dog was gone. Wolf hoped someone was taking care of her, being charmed by her grins.

  He turned now, reluctantly, to the guest wing. There was another seal affixed to the door. The hell with it, he thought, turning the doorknob. He opened the door as far as the wire would allow, then pushed his shoulder firmly against it; the wire snapped. He stopped, holding his breath. Why did he feel the need to be quiet?

  He moved down the hallway, looking into doors. There were four guest rooms, and they had often been filled. On the door of the last, at the end of the broad hallway, was another seal. He paused. Did he really want to see this? He really did. He performed his seal-breaking maneuver once more, then fearfully switched on his flashlight.

  The king-size bed was a horrible mess, soaked with blood, which had turned black. The headboard and the wall behind it were spattered, and there were the effects of three shotgun blasts—two in the headboard and one in the wall above it. One of the victims had apparently stood up on the bed when confronted with death. Until that moment, they had been in bed together. There was blood on the Navajo rug, too, and he remembered that he had paid $25,000 for it. The rest of the room was orderly, untouched, except for splotches of a black powder here and there. He turned the flashlight on his hands. Powder there, too. They must have been looking for fingerprints.

  He had had enough of this. He left the room, closing the door behind him, and let himself out of the guest wing. He walked silently down the hall, then through the living room and into the master bedroom.

  His room was neat; Maria had obviously done some of the cleaning before discovering the gory contents of the guest wing. He sat on the bed and thought for a minute. He longed to climb between the freshly starched linen sheets and go to sleep, but he could not let himself spend a night in this house. Who knew who might arrive in the morning? He had seen what he had come for…but there was something else. What was it?

  Clothes. Of course. He went into his dressing room, closed the door, and turned on the light in the windowless room. He changed his clothes, dropping the dirty things into a hamper, then chose a large leather zippered bag from the matched set of Italian luggage and began putting things into it, including his travel toilet kit. When he had enough for a week, he switched off the light and went back into the bedroom. What else did he need? His laptop computer, maybe? He wouldn’t be getting any work done for a while. Money: He would need that.

  He left the bedroom,
carrying his bag, started toward his study, then stopped. There had been a noise: papers being shuffled. More noise, then a light came on in the study. Wolf felt the thrill of fear associated with disturbing a burglar, only this could be anybody—policeman or thief.

  Wolf moved as quietly as he possibly could until he was at the wall between the living room and the study. Consumed with curiosity, he overcame his fear and inched along the wall until he was at the door. Around the corner, not six feet away, was…somebody. He wanted desperately to know who. Shifting his weight, he craned his neck and sought the crack at the door hinges; as he found it, the light went off, leaving him with no night vision. Footsteps retreated; he stepped into the room, blinking. A shadow of movement at the other door, then more footsteps down the hall. He followed as quickly as he could without making a sound. Then he heard the kitchen door open and close—the intruder must have broken the seal—and then footsteps crunching on the gravel of the drive, moving toward the back of the house.

  Abandoning caution, he ran to the kitchen window and looked out. No one. An engine started behind the house, on the back of the circular drive. He’d head the car off at the pass. He ran back down the hall and through the living room, and fumbled with the catch on the sliding doors to the deck, which gave him trouble; it always had. He got the door open and stepped onto the cedar deck. Far below, the carpet of Santa Fe lights winked back at him, like a mini-L.A. viewed from Mulholland Drive.

  The car was just disappearing down the drive—a four-wheeler of some kind—Jeep, Bronco, who could tell? There were thousands of the breed in the city. He lost sight of it at the end of the drive, heard it turn right, then saw its dim outline and headlights as it drove purposefully toward town.

  Who was the son of a bitch?

  Wolf went back into the study and played his flashlight about. Nothing much disturbed; the usual mess on his desk. What could anybody want in here?

  He remembered why he had headed for the study in the first place. He walked to a wall and pressed a panel, which swung out to reveal a small safe. Cursing because he could not remember the combination, he went to the file cabinet where he had taped the piece of paper, memorized the numbers again, and returned to the safe. There was a couple of thousand in cash inside—twenties, fifties, a few hundreds—and some foreign currency he kept for travel—pounds, francs—probably a couple of thousand more. He took it all, stuffing the dollars into his pockets and the foreign stuff in the bag.

  There was something else in the safe, something he’d almost forgotten about. He picked up the pistol, a small 9mm German automatic, and weighed it in his hand. Should he take it? Did he need it? He stuffed it into a hip pocket of his jeans. After all, somebody had recently made an attempt on his life. Shit, somebody had recently killed him.

  He left through the kitchen door—the seal had been broken anyway—and drove away from the house. He waited until he was at the entrance to Wilderness Gate before switching on his headlights.

  Now he headed for his next and last stop in Santa Fe. At this one, he hoped to get some answers.

  CHAPTER

  5

  Wolf needed advice, and he did not have to think twice about where to get it. He drove through the center of Santa Fe, went a couple of miles north on the Taos Highway, then turned left onto Tano Road. He drove west as rapidly as the dirt road would allow, dodging icy patches and gritting his teeth when mud splashed onto the Porsche. Dirt roads were thought to be chic in Santa Fe, but he had never accustomed himself to what they did to his car.

  The lights of houses became more widely spaced as the land changed from five-acre zoning to twelve and a half, then most of the lights disappeared. A mile farther on, he came to the gate. It was closed. Wolf pulled up to the intercom box and pressed the buzzer.

  A moment later, a voice said, “Yes?”

  Wolf took a deep breath. “Mark, it’s Wolf.”

  There was a long silence.

  “Mark, it’s Wolf. I’m not dead, I’m at your front gate. Let me in.”

  Another silence, then a loud electronic beep, and the electric gate slid open. Wolf drove quickly down the long drive. The compound was set on sixty acres, a quarter of a mile from the road; the house was dark, but a light burned in the little building next door, which Mark used as an office. As Wolf drove up to the building, an outside light came on, illuminating the Porsche. He got out, and as he reached the front door, it opened.

  Mark Shea stood just inside, a tall, bearlike figure, looking warily out. Then his face collapsed in astonishment. “It is you, for Christ’s sake.” He stepped forward and gathered Wolf into his arms. The two men embraced for a longer moment than usual, then Mark held him at arm’s length. Tears were streaming down his face. “And I thought I was never going to see you again.”

  The tears didn’t surprise Wolf; Mark was an emotional man, and he had always wept when moved—happy or sad. “I’m sorry you had to go through that, Mark,” he said.

  Mark pulled him into the room. “I expect you need a drink,” he said.

  “That I do,” Wolf replied, looking around. The room was paneled in oak, with bookshelves, floor to ceiling, along a long wall. The furniture was leather, masculine, welcoming.

  “Can I force some bourbon on you?” Mark asked, reaching for a bottle in a concealed liquor cupboard.

  “You can.”

  Mark handed him the drink, and his hand shook; he poured one for himself. He motioned Wolf to a chair in front of the fire, then took the one facing him. “Now,” he said, “tell me what’s happened.”

  “Christ, Mark, I don’t know what the hell’s happened. I thought you might.”

  “Of course; stupid of me. I confess, your showing up has rattled me to the core.”

  “I’m sorry about that, but I guess there was no way to avoid shocking you.”

  Mark smiled. “Nicest shock I ever had, believe me. Do you know anything at all?”

  “Only what I read in the New York Times this morning.”

  Mark nodded. “Then you know the worst. About Julia and Jack, I mean.” He looked into the fire, his craggy face sad. “I’m glad, at least, that I didn’t have to tell you that. I’m awfully sorry, Wolf. I know how much you loved them both.”

  For the first time since all this had started, Wolf lost control; he sat in the big chair and sobbed.

  Mark leaned forward, slapped a big hand onto Wolf’s knee, and squeezed. “Go ahead, man, you need to grieve.”

  Gradually, Wolf got hold of himself. “Do you know anything more about this?” he asked.

  Mark fell back into his chair. “I got a call from the police a little after ten Wednesday morning, asking me to come up to your place. They wouldn’t tell me what was going on, just said to get up there. When I arrived, the place was crawling with Santa Fe cops, deputy sheriffs, and the state police. They had obviously been there for a while and had been through the place thoroughly. The Santa Fe District Attorney, Martinez, took me aside and told me what had happened. Your maid had already identified the bodies, but he asked me to confirm. God, I hated doing that.”

  “I saw the room,” Wolf said, and took a big gulp of the dark bourbon.

  “You’ve been to the house?” Mark asked, alarmed.

  “I just came from there. For that matter, so did somebody else.”

  “What do you mean, somebody else?”

  “There was somebody in the house while I was there. I never got a look at him; he left in a hurry.”

  “A policeman, maybe?”

  “Maybe. It didn’t seem like a policeman; more like a burglar. Go on. What happened next?”

  “Martinez took me into the room, shooed the photographer out, and pulled back the sheet. It was…” he took a swig from his glass, “indescribable.”

  “I can imagine. Were they naked?”

  “Yes. Their clothes were scattered around the room.”

  “You were wrong about me; how did you identify Julia and Jack?”

  “Well
, of course, I had never seen any of you naked before, and the faces…the wounds were all to the head. Jack was wearing that enormous silver ring he bought from an old Indian on the plaza that day. We were with him, remember?”

  “Yes. And Julia?”

  “The tattoo.”

  Mark nodded. Julia had, before he had known her, had a tiny sunflower tattooed onto her right breast, high enough that it would show when she was wearing something low-cut. It had always amused him; he remembered how often he had run his tongue over it. “There’s no doubt about her, then.”

  “I’m afraid not. I hope I can be forgiven for thinking the other man was you. He was the same size and build, and his hair, what was left of it, was thick and graying, like yours.”

  “A natural enough mistake,” Wolf said absently.

  “I told Martinez about that afternoon,” Mark said.

  Wolf looked up. “What about that afternoon?”

  “Just that I had a drink with you over there around five, then came home. The day of the murders.”

  “You had a drink at my house that same afternoon?”

  “Well, of course; you called me. You were there alone. Surely you remember that.”

  “I don’t remember anything about that night, Mark, and nothing about the day before.”

  The two men stared at each other for a moment, and some unspoken fear seemed to pass between them.

  Mark spoke first. “Tell me where you’ve been,” he said, in the voice he had used when Wolf had been his patient.

  Wolf told him about waking alone in the house, about the trip to the Grand Canyon, his stay there, the trip back.

  “Well,” Mark said, when Wolf had finished. “Who would ever have thought to look for you at the Grand Canyon?”