The Ed Eagle Novels

Short Straw

Santa Fe Dead

Santa Fe Edge

Stuart Woods

Short Straw

BOOKS BY STUART WOODS

FICTION

Dark Harbor+

Iron Orchid*

Two-Dollar Bill+

The Prince of Beverly Hills

Reckless Abandon+

Capital Crimes†

Dirty Work+

Blood Orchid*

The Short Forever+

Orchid Blues*

Cold Paradise+

L.A. Dead+

The Run†

Worst Fears Realized+

Orchid Beach*

Swimming to Catalina+

Dead in the Water+

Dirt+

Choke

Imperfect Strangers

Heat

Dead Eyes

L.A. Times

Santa Fe Rules

New York Dead+

Palindrome

Grass Roots†

White Cargo

Deep Lie†

Under the Lake

Run Before the Wind†

Chiefs†

TRAVEL

A Romantic’s Guide to the Country Inns of Britain and Ireland (1979)

MEMOIR

Blue Water, Green Skipper

Short Straw

STUART WOODS

G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS NEW YORK

G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS

Publishers Since 1838

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA •

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(Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

Copyright © 2006 by Stuart Woods

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in

any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or

encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase

only authorized editions. Published simultaneously in Canada

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Woods, Stuart.

Short straw / Stuart Woods.

p. cm.

ISBN: 978-1-101-21986-7

Attorney and client––Fiction. 2. Santa Fe (N.M.)––Fiction. I. Title.

PS3573.O642S57 2006 2006041643

813'.54––dc22

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

While the author has made every effort to provide accurate telephone numbers and Internet addresses at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

This book is for

Bob Dattila and Betsy Hall.

Short Straw

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

Chapter Thirty-three

Chapter Thirty-four

Chapter Thirty-five

Chapter Thirty-six

Chapter Thirty-seven

Chapter Thirty-eight

Chapter Thirty-nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-one

Chapter Forty-two

Chapter Forty-three

Chapter Forty-four

Chapter Forty-five

Chapter Forty-six

Chapter Forty-seven

Chapter Forty-eight

Chapter Forty-nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-one

Chapter Fifty-two

Chapter Fifty-three

Chapter Fifty-four

Chapter Fifty-five

Chapter Fifty-six

Chapter Fifty-seven

Chapter Fifty-eight

AUTHOR’S NOTE

One

ED EAGLE DIDN’T WANT TO GET OUT OF BED. USUALLY HE woke at the stroke of seven, put his feet on the floor and was up and running, but not this morning. He drifted for a moment, then snapped back. He raised his head and looked at the large digital clock that rested on top of the huge, flat-screen TV on his bedroom wall: 10:03 A.M. Impossible. Clock broken.

He sat up and checked his wristwatch on the bedside table: 10:03. What the hell was going on? He had a hundred people coming to lunch at the grand opening of his new offices at noon, and there was much to do. Why hadn’t Barbara woken him? He stood up. “Barbara?” he yelled. Silence. He looked at the other side of the bed: still made up.

He staggered into the bathroom and splashed water on his face, then he walked across the hall to his wife’s bathroom. Not there. On the marble shelf under the mirror was a small plastic bottle from the pharmacy, lid off. He picked it up and read the label. AMBIEN. Sleeping pill. He never took them. He looked inside: empty.

He replayed the evening before: steaks for the two of them, grilled on the big Viking range, Caesar salad, bourbon before, bottle of red with. Half a bottle of red wine would not cause him to over-sleep. Not unless it contained an Ambien or two. He had an uncomfortable feeling in his gut.

He walked downstairs in his bare feet and checked every room, then he went to the garage. Barbara’s Range Rover was gone. Could she have gone to the office without him to get ready for the gathering, letting him sleep late? She must have.

Ed went back upstairs, shaved and stood in a shower until he felt human again, then he blew dry his longish black hair, dressed in a new shirt, recently arrived from his shirtmaker in London, then a new suit, recently arrived from his tailor in the same city. He pulled on a pair of black alligator western boots, which added a couple of inches to his six-feet, seven-inch height—or altitude, as he liked to think of it—chose a tie and a silk pocket square, grabbed his Stetson and headed for town.

He parked in his reserved space in the basement garage of the newly constructed, five-story office building, just off Santa Fe’s Plaza, then took the private elevator to the penthouse. His new offices were swarming with people: painters touching up here and there, janitors cleaning up after the painters, secretaries, caterers, people hanging pictures. Most of these things should have been done by the day before, but everything always ran a little late. He grabbed a passing secretary.

“Where’s Barbara?” he asked.

“Haven’t seen her,” the woman replied, then continued on her way.

He walked across the open flagstone area just inside the glass doors and into his new office, tossing his Stetson onto a bentwood hat rack. A painter was daubing at a place on the wall next to the windows. He picked up the phone and pressed the Page button.

“Barbara?” he said, hearing his voice echo across the whole floor.

His secretary picked up the phone. “Ed? Barbara’s not here yet. I thought she would come with you.”

“She left the house before I did, Betty, and I overslept.”

“I didn’t know you slept at all,” she replied drily.

“Not after seven A.M., I don’t.”

“Tie one on last night?”

“I tied on two ounces of bourbon and half a bottle of wine, and that’s all.”

“She’ll turn up,” Betty said. “Excuse me, I’ve got things to do.” She hung up.

Ed opened the French doors and walked out onto his newly planted, private terrace. He strolled over to the parapet and viewed the action in the plaza. Everything was as usual: the Indians selling their jewelry on the sidewalk in front of the Governor’s Palace, old folks taking the spring sun on the benches in the little park, shopkeepers sweeping their sidewalks. Santa Fe had been up for hours, but, like him, it was just waking. Ed went back inside and walked slowly around the offices, inspecting everything carefully. It was all finally coming together. He walked out onto the larger terrace. The caterers had set up a bar and a long lunch table, and they were hand-trucking in dishes, silverware and serving pieces.

He went back to his office and sat down, not knowing what to do next. He was still fuzzy around the edges. Coffee, that’s what. He walked over to the built-in cabinets on one wall of his office and opened a pair of doors, revealing a little kitchenette. Betty had already made the coffee, and he poured himself a mug and took a Danish from the plate she had left there. Special occasion. He went back to his desk and stood by it, sipping his coffee.

It was his fiftieth birthday. Moreover, with the opening of his new offices, this day was the culmination of everything he had worked for over the past twenty-five years. He had long been Santa Fe’s top trial attorney, but he had finally and firmly established himself as one of the half-dozen best trial lawyers west of the Mississippi, and that included Denver, Dallas, Los Angeles and San Francisco. When people were accused of bad things, they thought of Ed Eagle.

One case had done more than any other to help him achieve that status: the Wolf Willett murders, a couple of years earlier. Wolf was a Hollywood producer, and three people had been murdered in his Santa Fe home: himself and his wife, Julia, among them, or so it had first seemed. Wolf had been astonished to learn of his own death when he had read about it, and he had come to Ed Eagle for help. Ed’s clearing of Wolf Willett had made headlines all over the country and had revealed the sordid background of Julia Willett. Ed was now married to Julia’s sister, and he believed he knew everything about her background.

And where the hell was she? It was past eleven o’clock, and their guests were due at noon.

Betty came into his office with a sheet of paper in her hand, closed the door behind her and leaned against it. “You’re going to want to sit down,” she said.

“That sounds ominous,” he replied.

“It was meant to. Sit down.”

Ed obediently sat down.

Betty took a deep breath, walked over to his desk and laid the sheet of paper on it. “I just found this in the fax machine,” she said. “I’m sorry I didn’t see it sooner, but I’ve been busy.”

Ed picked up the sheet of paper, which was a letter from his bank. He read aloud: “This is to confirm the wire transfer of $930,000 from your firm account and $170,000 from your personal account to…” He stopped reading aloud. “To an account in the Cayman Islands? What the hell is this?”

“It sounds very much like all the cash you have,” Betty said. “Unless you’ve got something in your sock.”

Ed bared his teeth. “Look in my mouth,” he said to Betty. “Do I still have my eyeteeth?”

“Figuratively speaking,” Betty replied, “no.”

Two

EAGLE SET THE LETTER DOWN ON HIS DESK. HIS MIND, which had been slowed by the remnants of the sleeping pill, was suddenly operating under full steam. “Get me my broker,” he said to Betty.

Betty picked up the phone on his desk, dialed the number and handed him the phone.

“Jim?” Eagle said.

“Morning, Ed. I expect you’re calling about the wire transfer.”

“Yes, I am. Has it gone?”

“I’ve just been handed the authorization. We liquidated your accounts yesterday, as per your fax. The wire will be gone in five minutes.”

“Hold everything,” Eagle said.

“What?”

“Do not wire those funds.”

“All right; what do you want me to do with all this cash? It’s just over four million dollars.”

“Is it too late to cancel the sale of all those stocks?”

“Well, yes; it was done yesterday. I know you wanted the funds wired before two P.M., but we couldn’t release that large a sum until we had confirmations.”

“Jim, listen to me very carefully: the fax you got was not sent by me and did not reflect my wishes. Do you understand?”

“It was signed by Barbara, Ed.”

“I’m going to send you a letter confirming that the instructions were unauthorized, and I want you to call someone at the IRS immediately and inform them of that fact. Follow up with a letter, because otherwise, I’ll be faced with a hell of a tax bill for the capital gains on those sales.”

“Of course, I will, Ed, and I want to apologize, but I thought….”

“Don’t worry about it, Jim; we caught it in time, and I’m not going to hold your firm responsible for anything but the notification of the IRS. I’ll talk to you later. Oh, by the way, send me the paperwork immediately for removing Barbara’s name from all my accounts.”

Eagle hung up and turned to Betty. “Call the credit card companies and cancel all Barbara’s credit cards, with immediate effect. I’ll talk to them, if necessary. Also, have them fax copies of all the charges in the last and current billing cycle.”

“Got it,” Betty said and left the office.

Eagle got up and went into the shiny new bathroom off his shiny new office and vomited what was left of last night’s dinner into the shiny new toilet. He drank a glass of water, then went back to his desk and called Russell Norris. Norris was a retired top IRS agent who now worked as a consultant. He was very good at dealing with foreign banks. He explained the situation to Norris, who promised to get back to him quickly.

Eagle took a deep breath and called the president of his bank. “Fred?”

“Yes, Ed. I was just about to leave for your shindig.”

“Great. Before you do, I received a fax from you this morning, addressed to Barbara, confirming a transaction. I expect you are familiar with that.”

“Of course, Ed, I handled it myself, yesterday.”

“Listen to me carefully, Fred: I did not authorize the transaction; the instructions are fraudulent.”

There was a silence at the other end of the phone, and when the man spoke again, his voice was shaky. “Ed, tell me this is a joke.”

“It is not a joke. The instructions were not mine, and the signature on the fax is not mine.”

“I tried to call you to confirm it, but neither your old office or your new one answered. All I got was a message saying you were closed for moving.”

“Fred, you need to report this to your board immediately.”

“Of course.”

“And I want those funds back in my account before the close of business today.”

“Ed, I don’t know about that; I’ll have to talk to my board. Why did Barbara do this?”

“I don’t know yet; I’m just beginning my investigation. I will follow up with written notification of the fraud, and I will expect you and your board to do the right thing. Come to think of it, you can hold your board meeting right here, since all the members are coming to our opening.”

“Yes, I suppose we could, Ed. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Good-bye, Fred.”

Betty came into the office with several sheets of paper. “Looks like Barbara has been shopping for a lot of new clothes,” she said, laying them on the desk. “About thirty thousand dollars’ worth, and some new luggage, too. Oh, and there’s a little item on her American Express card for twenty-two thousand dollars for the charter of a jet from a company in Albuquerque. I called them: they picked up a Mrs. Eagle at seven A.M. this morning at the Santa Fe airport and flew her to Mexico City. She landed an hour ago.”

“Good God,” Eagle said.

“There’s no extradition from Mexico, is there?”

“Not even for murder,” Eagle replied.

“How much did she get away with?”

“One million, one hundred thousand dollars,” Eagle replied. “Of the bank’s money.”

“The bank’s money?”

“That’s my story and I’m sticking to it,” Eagle said.

“Sounds good to me,” Betty said. “Now, you’d better get on your feet and slap a smile on your face, because the governor just arrived, and the place is filling up fast.”

Ed stood up. “When the party’s over, send somebody out to the airport to pick up Barbara’s Range Rover.” He unclipped the key from his ring and handed it to her. “Can you think of anything else I should do?”

“Sure. Call the FBI.”

“Good idea,” he said. “Remind me when all these people have gone.” He straightened his tie and, trying not to look pale, walked out of his office and onto the terrace, where his guests were gathering.

Three

EAGLE HEADED STRAIGHT FOR THE GOVERNOR AND RECEIVED him warmly. Since Eagle had been a steady contributor to the man’s campaigns’ first for congress, then for governor, the warmth was returned.

When that duty had been accomplished, he worked the crowd, shaking every hand, accepting compliments on his new quarters, charming everyone wherever he went. The crowd drank, ate, then thinned, and after he had pumped the last hand, he returned to his office, where the bank president and the chairman of his board awaited on his sofa.

“Fred, Arthur,” he said, sitting down opposite them.

“I’ll come right to the point, Ed,” Fred said. “Arthur and I have canvassed every member of the board, we’ve talked to our attorneys, and we’ve consulted the state banking board. It’s like this: Barbara was a signator on both accounts, though not an owner of the accounts.”

“I know that, Fred.”

“Therefore, the bank is not liable for her actions. We received a lawful instruction from her, and we complied. Barbara has stolen not from the bank, but from you. You’re a lawyer; you should know that.”

“I had forgotten Barbara was a signator on the firm account,” Eagle said. “A year and a half ago, she reorganized our billing and payables, and we put her signature on the account at that time. We never removed it.”

“I’m sorry we can’t be of more help,” Fred said. “I know this puts you in a temporary bind. We can do a short-term loan to help your cash flow situation. How’s half a million?”

Eagle did some quick calculations. He had to finish paying for the work on the offices, nearly half a million; the party had cost fifty grand, and he had other payables, too. Also, he had to repurchase stocks to avoid taxes. “I’ll need a million and a half, Fred,” he said.

Fred and Arthur exchanged a glance. “That’s above my lending limit, Ed; Arthur’s, too. We’ll have to go to committee.”

“How long?”

“We meet every Wednesday. I can do the half-million immediately, if that helps.”

Eagle nodded. He hated borrowing money. “Send me the note this afternoon.” He stood up. “Thanks for your help, Fred, Arthur. I needn’t tell you this has to be kept highly confidential, even from your board, if that’s possible.”

“They already know, Ed, from our discussions earlier today. I’ll impress upon each of them the necessity of confidentiality.”

“Thank you.”

“I didn’t get to tell you earlier,” Fred said, “but the offices are magnificent, a credit to the community.”

“Thank you, Fred.” They shook hands and left.

Betty came in as soon as they were gone. “Russell Norris is on the phone.”

Eagle picked it up and pressed the button. “Russell?”

“Ed, I’m afraid we’re too late. If we’d known yesterday, I might have been able to intercept the funds.”

“Oh.”

“She bounced the money to Mexico City, just like her sister did a couple of years ago. It went to the Banco Internacional this morning; I might be able to do something there, depending on how fast she moves. It’s Friday; I could be there when the bank opens on Monday morning.”

“Barbara flew to Mexico City this morning, so she got there before the banks closed. She might have had time to move the money again.”

“Does she know the details of the Willett business, what her sister did?”

“A rough outline. She knows we stopped the funds in the Cay-mans before they could go to Mexico. She might think they’re safe in Mexico and not move fast.”

“Then it’s worth the trip,” Norris said. “You want me to go?”

“Yes, please. Let me know something on Monday.”

“I’m on it,” Norris said, then hung up.

Eagle buzzed Betty. “Get me Cupie Dalton.” Cupie was an ex-LAPD detective, now a P.I. who gained his nickname on the force because of his resemblance to the Cupie Doll: plump and pink.

“Hey, Ed, what’s up?”

“I’ll make it quick, Cupie. My wife ran off with a lot of my money; she landed in Mexico City this morning. She sent the money to the Banco Internacional there, so she may still be in town. I want you to find her. How’s your Spanish?”

“My mother was half Mexican,” Cupie said. “I get along. What do you want me to do when I find her?”

Eagle liked it that Cupie said “when,” not “if.” “Follow her wherever she goes, and call me. Does your cell phone work down there?”

“Yep. I’ll need five grand up front; you got the account number?”

“I do; it’ll be there in an hour.”

“Then I’ll be in Mexico City by bedtime.”

“Call me.” Eagle hung up and buzzed Betty. “Wire Cupie Dalton five thousand.”

“Have we got five thousand?”

Eagle winced. “Fred’s putting half a million in the account this afternoon; somebody’ll be here with a note soon.”

“There’s a kid with an envelope in reception now. Hang on.”

A moment later, Betty came in with the note; Eagle signed it, wincing again at the interest rate, and she stuffed it back in the envelope and returned it to the messenger.

There was a rap on the office door. “Come in!” Eagle yelled.

Wolf Willett opened the door and came in. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get here earlier,” Wolf said. “I was held up in a meeting at Centurion Studios.” He looked around. “The place is gorgeous.”

“Thanks, Wolf. Sit down.”

“You look beat. Big crowd?”

“Big crowd, but that’s not why I’m beat.”

“What’s going on?”

“Your former sister-in-law left town this morning after wiring a little more than a million dollars of my money to an offshore bank. She’s in Mexico City, I think.”

“Oh, my God, Ed.”

“Yeah.”

“The good news is, I stopped another four million from being wired from my brokerage account before she got her hands on it.”

“It’s like Julia all over again, isn’t it?”

“It is.”

“I feel responsible; you’d never even have met Barbara if…”

“None of that, pal; we’re both victims, that’s all.”

“Ed, I turned in the negative of my new movie this morning and got a big check. If you’re short…”

“The bank will come through with some short-term money, I think. But thanks.”

“If they don’t, or if the terms are unacceptable, I’m good for a million or two.”

Eagle grinned. “With a friend like you, who needs friends?”

“I mean it. I can actually write you a check on my brokerage account right now.” Wolf patted his jacket pocket.

“Thanks anyway, but I’m okay. Can I buy you dinner tonight?”

“No, but I’ll buy you dinner. Are Jane and Sara here?”

“No, Jane had some work to do this weekend. They’re staying in L.A.”

“It’s just you and me, then.”

“You and me.”

“Santa Café at eight?”

“Sure, I’ll book. I’ve got one more call to make, now; have a look around, and pardon all the dirty glasses.”

“See you later.” Wolf left, closing the door behind him.

Eagle picked up the phone and called the FBI.

Four

THE SPECIAL AGENT IN CHARGE OF THE SANTA FE FIELD office of the FBI was somebody Eagle had dealt with fairly often and knew well. Carlos Rodriguez was a native Santa Fean who’d been sent to his hometown office because he was good and because he would look good in the community.

“What can I do for you, Ed?” Rodriguez asked.

Eagle explained what had happened.

Rodriguez emitted a long sigh. “Well, Ed, I’m sure you already knew this, and it’s just as bad as you thought. The woman is your legal wife, isn’t she?”

“Yes.”

“And she was an authorized signator on both accounts?”

“Yes.”

“Then what you’ve got here is a civil matter.”

“You mean she hasn’t committed a crime?”

“Not unless she failed to file the federal form for moving more than ten thousand dollars, but the bank probably did that automatically. Anyway, I don’t know of anybody ever being arrested for failing to file. That charge is usually lumped in with others in these cases. So you’ll have to sue her to get your money back, like in divorce court. You are divorcing her, aren’t you?”

That brought Eagle up short; he hadn’t gotten that far, yet. “I expect so.” That sounded funny to his own ears. Twelve hours before, he had been in love with the woman.

“Then bring it up when the property settlement is discussed. Take it out of her share.”

“Thanks, Carlos,” Eagle said, then hung up.

There was a knock on his door, and Eagle looked up to find Judge Eamon O’Hara standing there, accompanied by two lawyers he knew. He had thought all his guests had left. “Come in, judge,” he said. “Take a chair. Can I get you a drink?”

The judge and the two lawyers went to his sofa and sat down. “Thanks, Ed, we’ve already had one. You know Dan and Enrico, don’t you?”

“Of course. Glad to see you, fellows.” He pulled up a chair. “What’s up?”

“You know James Reardon, don’t you?”

“Sure.” Reardon was a local lawyer.

“Well, Jimmy just blew his brains out in the courthouse men’s room, about four hours ago.”

“I hadn’t heard,” Eagle said. “Has he got a family?”

“Wife and a child. He shot them at home this morning, before he came to the courthouse.”

“The man must have been stark raving.”

“If so, nobody noticed, certainly not me,” the judge said. “Now Jimmy solved his own problem by eating his gun, but he didn’t solve mine.”

“And what’s your problem, judge?”

“Jimmy had three cases scheduled for trial in my court over the next six weeks: one fellow with half a dozen charges of burglary against him, another for repeated domestic abuse, and a triple murder. All were court-assigned. My guess is they’ll all eventually plead out, but we haven’t gotten around to that yet, and the public defender’s office is overwhelmed at the moment, so I’m going to appoint you three hombres to the cases, and I’m not in the mood to take no for an answer. Everybody got that?”

Nobody said anything. This was an annoyance that came up from time to time, and since all three lawyers regularly tried cases in O’Hara’s court, they weren’t inclined to annoy him by begging off.

The judge reached into his pocket and came up with three toothpicks. He broke one in half, an end off another and left the third whole. Behind his back he rearranged them, then held them up so the ends were visible. “Pick a straw, each of you.”

The two lawyers on the sofa each took one, concealing them, then Eagle took the remaining one. Then they held them up.

“Enrico,” the judge said, “you got the long straw, so you get the domestic abuse, so to speak; Dan, the medium straw and the burglar is yours; and Ed, you got the short straw. Boys, the burglar and the wife beater are in the city jail; Ed, your triple murderer is in the local hoosegow.” He handed each of them a file. “There are their particulars. I’ll expect to hear from you early next week on whether you want to go to trial.”

Shit, Eagle thought. He didn’t want to think about this right now. “Thank you so much, judge,” he said.

The judge got to his feet. “And let’s keep the hours down, boys; I don’t want you busting my budget.”

Eagle shook the hands of all three men, and they left.

Betty came in. “What did the judge want?”

“He’s dragged me into a triple homicide,” Eagle replied.

“Oh, was one of them Barbara?”

“Nope.”

“Too bad.”

Five

EAGLE ARRIVED AT SANTA CAFÉ ON TIME AND FOUND Wolf Willett already at the bar, sipping bourbon. Eagle ordered a Laphroaig, his favorite single-malt Scotch.

“I don’t know why you drink that stuff,” Wolf said, nodding at the amber liquid in Eagle’s hand.

“Nectar of the gods,” Eagle replied, “unlike that Kentucky horse piss you drink.”

“It’s the patriotic thing to do,” Wolf replied, raising his glass. “Unlike that foreign camel sweat you imbibe. How’d the party go today?”

“The way it was supposed to, I guess,” Eagle said.

“You don’t sound too happy about it. Or is it the thing with Barbara that’s got you down.”

“Jesus, Wolf, I was in love with the woman, really I was.”

“I was in love with Julia, too, right up to the moment when she tried to kill me and take my money. At least, Barbara didn’t try to kill you.”

“Maybe she did. She put Ambien in my wine last night; I found the bottle in her bathroom, empty. Maybe she didn’t use enough; maybe she forgot to refill the prescription.”

“You didn’t see this coming, then?”

“I guess that’s what really pisses me off. I pride myself on being able to read people, but man, I didn’t read her.”

The head waitress came to the bar. “Your table is ready, Mr. Willett, Mr. Eagle.”

They got up and followed her into the next room, where she seated them by the fireplace. The aromas of piñon smoke and good food filled the space. They ordered dinner and a bottle of wine.

“Are you going to put the cops on her?” Wolf asked.

Eagle shook his head. “She hasn’t broken the law, just me.”

“She steals what, a million two? And that doesn’t break the law?”

“She was authorized to sign on both accounts. The brokerage accounts, too, but I got to the broker five minutes before he wired her another four million.”

“Good timing. What are you going to do?”

“Well, forgiving her and inviting her back isn’t going to work, since she obviously wants to be somewhere else.”

“With somebody else?”

“I have no idea.”

“So, what are your options?”

“As far as I can figure, two: let her keep the money and divorce her, or find her and kill her.”

“I hope you’re not considering the second option.”

“No, I’m not mad enough at her—not yet, anyway—just disappointed.”

“Well, if you can get a divorce without giving her any more money, that wouldn’t be such a bad deal.”

“I guess not.”

“Does she have any other money?”

“Her first husband was a jeweler in New York; he gave her a lot of diamonds, but I’ve no idea what they’re worth.” He recalled that he had met Barbara in prison, after she had let her boyfriend through the security to rob her husband’s business, and the boyfriend had shot the husband. She had turned state’s evidence and gotten a short sentence, then had been paroled in a general release of nonviolent prisoners due to prison overcrowding.

“So, she should be pretty comfortable.”

“Not as comfortable as she was here,” Eagle said, “but I guess she could live well enough in Mexico on what she’s got. Of course, she was counting on another four million.”

Eagle’s cell phone vibrated on his belt. “Hello?”

“Ed, it’s Cupie.”

“Where are you, Cupie?”

“In Mexico City.”

“Jesus, that was fast.”

“I connected with a good flight.”

“Any luck?”

“I got a list of expensive hotels here off the Internet before I left, and I started calling them on the airplane phone. She’s registered at an elegant little inn called El Parador, very swish. I’m standing across the street now. What are your instructions?”

“If I told you to shoot her, would you?”

There was a brief silence. “I wouldn’t want to discuss that on the phone,” Cupie replied.

“Only joking, Cupie. What I’d like you to do is to follow her when she leaves the hotel, and when she sits down somewhere, call me, then give her the phone.”

“Okay, I can do that. I’ll go into the hotel, in case she’s having dinner there.”

“Before I talk to her, I’d like to know if she’s alone or with somebody.”

“Okay, I’ll see what kind of information a fifty will get me.”

“Talk to you later.” Eagle hung up and turned to Wolf. “I sent a P.I. down there, and he’s found her.”

“That’s some P.I.,” Wolf said.

“He’s a smart guy; he’s been useful in the past—on your case, as it happens. He found out that Julia and her boyfriend had gotten false passports.”

Their dinner arrived. Eagle hadn’t felt hungry, but the news that Barbara had been found had improved his appetite. “So,” he said, “Centurion Studios bought your final cut on the movie?” Wolf had made many movies with a partner, and he’d made one from his partner’s script after his death, but Eagle knew this was his first film made from his own script.

“They did, and without an argument.”

“Are you happy with it?”

“I certainly am. If it does good business, I’ll be back where I was with the studio when Jack was alive.”

“Congratulations, Wolf; it’s a milestone.”

“It’s a great relief,” Wolf said. “I’m already working on another script. My plan is to do a film a year, either from my own script or somebody else’s.”

Eagle’s cell phone vibrated again. “Hello?”

“Would you like to speak to Mrs. Eagle?” Cupie asked.

Six

EAGLE COULDN’T BELIEVE HIS LUCK. “YOU BET YOUR ASS, I’d like to speak to her.”

Cupie’s voice became a little fainter; apparently he was holding out the phone to Barbara. “Excuse me, Mrs. Eagle,” he was saying. “Yeah, you, sweetheart. Your husband would like to speak to you.” Then Cupie sounded alarmed. “Hey, wait a minute, lady! You don’t wanna…” Then there was a single, very loud noise.

Eagle took the phone away from his ear. “Jesus!” he said. “She shot him!”

“Are you sure?” Wolf asked.

“That was either a gunshot or a stick of dynamite,” Eagle replied. “It was plenty loud.” He put the phone back to his ear and listened. “Nothing,” he said. “The connection was broken.” He redialed Cupie’s cell phone, but he was sent straight to voice mail. “It’s Eagle; call me.” He hung up. “What the hell do I do now?” he asked.

LATER, BACK AT HOME, Eagle put the phone down. He had been trying to get hold of the Mexico City police for more than an hour, and finally he had gotten hold of a Colonel Ricardo. “The police can’t find Cupie,” he said to Wolf, who was sitting on the opposite sofa. “They searched the area near the hotel, and they couldn’t find anybody matching his description, shot or not shot. They found some blood in an alley next to the hotel, but they’re not even sure it’s human.”

“What else can you do?” Wolf asked.

“I’ve left a message for another guy I could send down there to look for him, but he hasn’t returned my call. I talked with the local FBI guy, too, but he says they don’t investigate shootings in Mexico, unless they involve U.S. officials, and Cupie isn’t that. He’s trying to get me a name in the federal police down there.”

“I hope you’re not thinking of going down there yourself,” Wolf said.

“No. My experience with Mexico is limited to a single visit to Acapulco fifteen years ago, for Easter weekend, and I don’t have the language. I’d be helpless.”

“It’s good that you know that. I’d go with you, but I’d be helpless, too.”

Eagle’s cell phone vibrated on his belt. He picked it up. “Hello?”

“It’s Cupie.” He sounded very tired.

“What happened, Cupie? I’ve had the Mexican cops looking for you.”

“The bitch shot me, that’s what happened! I was handing her the phone, and she pulled out this little gun, maybe a .25, and got off a round.”

“Are you badly hurt?”

“I was in the process of ducking when she fired, and the bullet went right through that piece of flesh between my neck and my shoulder, you know? I bled like a stuck pig, but it wasn’t too bad. I got back to my hotel and told the desk clerk I’d been robbed. He got me a doctor who, for an extra fifty, didn’t see a need to call the cops. He patched me up and gave me a shot of penicillin and some Percodan. I’m sorry I couldn’t get back to you sooner.”

“That’s all right. You take it easy, you hear? If you’ve lost a lot of blood, you’ll need time for your body to replace it.”

“Aw, I didn’t lose all that much; it just looked awful. People on the street ran from me until I could get a cab. You’re gonna owe me for a new suit, though.”

“Bill me. Now take a day or two off before you start moving around again.”

“The first thing I’m gonna do is find me a piece. I’m not going after that lady unarmed, I’ll tell you.”

“I’m astonished to think she would do that; I would have warned you, if I’d thought she’d get violent. Was she alone?”

“Yeah, she was. I was sitting in the lobby for an hour or so—the desk clerk had told me she was upstairs, alone—and she came down and left the hotel. I followed her, and she turned into an alley and turned around to face me. That’s when I called you.”

“Let me know when you decide on your next move, Cupie. I take it your cell phone is still working.”

“Yeah, I’m talking on it. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. I’m gonna get some sleep.”

“Good night, then.” Eagle hung up. “He’s all right,” he said to Wolf.

“That’s good news.”

“Flesh wound; he’s still on the job.”

Wolf stood up. “Well, I’m going to go home and get some sleep; I’ve got to work tomorrow.”

“So have I,” Eagle said. “I’ve got to meet with a client.”

Seven

THE FOLLOWING DAY, EAGLE VISITED THE SANTA FE County Detention Center. He parked, went through a door marked VISITORS, and through another marked ATTRONEYS. He gave his card and the name of his client to a guard, signed in and was shown to a small room, bisected by a table and containing three plastic chairs, two on his side of the table. He sat down, opened his briefcase, set it on the spare chair, extracted a yellow legal pad and took out a pen. Though he took few notes, the pad seemed to be expected of him by clients.

After a ten-minute wait, during which he reflected on his absent wife and the nature of her absence, a guard brought in a prisoner. He was a thickly built man of about six feet with a buzz haircut and dark, leathery skin, wearing a sour look. He was handcuffed to a chain around his waist, and Eagle could hear another chain rattle each time he took a step.

“Unhook him,” Eagle said to the guard.

“Can’t. Policy.”

“Policy is that attorneys can talk to their clients without benefit of restraints.” It was his experience that prisoners were more talkative when they were not chained.

The guard unhooked the man and left the room, taking the chains with him. “There’s a buzzer on the wall if he attacks you,” he said, as the door closed.

Eagle didn’t look at the buzzer, only at his client, who did not seem happy to see him. “My name is Ed Eagle,” he said. “I’m your court-appointed lawyer.”

“Never heard of you,” Joe Big Bear replied.

“You know a lot of lawyers?”

“Nope.”

“That could be why you’ve never heard of me. Ask around the yard.”

“Where’s the other lawyer they sent?”

“He blew his brains out in the courthouse men’s room.”

“I didn’t think he had enough brains for that.”

“Maybe he didn’t.”

“What do you want?”

“The question is, what do you want, Mr. Big Bear?”

“I want a steak and fries and a six-pack of beer,” Big Bear replied.

“First things first,” Eagle said. “Mind if I call you Joe?”

“Suit yourself. What do I call you?”

“Mr. Eagle will do.”

“What tribe are you?”

“I’m from an eastern tribe.”

“I never met a court-appointed lawyer that was worth a shit.”

“I thought you didn’t know any lawyers.”

“I’ve met a few, but I wouldn’t say I know them.”

“It’s like this, Joe: when the court calendar is crowded and the legal aid people are stretched thin, the judge will appoint local lawyers to handle cases.”

“How’d you pick mine?”

“I got the short straw.”

Big Bear managed a derisive laugh. “I’ve had a few of those.”

“Yeah,” Eagle said, removing Big Bear’s file from his briefcase, “I’ve been reading about you. Let’s see: arrests for assault, domestic battery, public drunkenness, DUI and now for a triple homicide.”

“One: I never assaulted anybody who didn’t assault me first; two: the domestic battery was a lie made up by a woman I yelled at, once; three: I wasn’t drunk in public, I just pissed off a cop; four: on the DUI my blood test put me at .081. How drunk is that? Oh, and five: I never killed anybody.”

“Oh, well, then, you’re a saint. They didn’t put that in your record.”

“They didn’t put any convictions in there, either, did they?”

“No,” Eagle admitted, “they didn’t. Tell me something about yourself.”

“Born on the reservation; educated there, sort of, through high school, did a stretch in the marines, came back here.”

“What kind of discharge did you get from the corps?”

“General, under honorable conditions.”

“Who’d you slug?”

“A shavetail lieutenant, right out of Annapolis. I did thirty days.”

“Why’d you slug him?”

“I asked him not to keep calling me ‘Chief.’ He forgot.”

“How do you earn your living?”

“I’m a shade tree auto mechanic, except there ain’t no shade trees, to speak of. I take my tools and go to peoples’ houses and fix their cars.”

“You any good at it?”

“There are a lot of crates around Santa Fe that would have already been compacted, if it hadn’t been for my work. People get their money’s worth.”

Eagle tapped the file. “Says here you killed three people with a shotgun. You want to tell me about that?”

“You want the long version or the short version?”

“The short one.”

“A guy was fucking my girl and a girlfriend of hers. That was my job. I came home to my trailer and found them splattered all over the bedroom, and I called the cops.”

“Tribal or local?”

“Local. I don’t live on the reservation. My trailer’s parked out near the airport by that junkyard, which I like to think of as my parts department.”

“Who was the guy?”

“I didn’t recognize him; he didn’t have a face.”

Eagle glanced at the file. “The name James Earl Hardesty mean anything to you?”

“Jimmy? Was that who it was?”

“Says here.”

“Yeah, I know…knew him. We both drank regular at a bar called the Gun Club out on Airport Road. I didn’t have nothing against him.”

“Until he screwed your girl?”

“Well, if I’d known about it, and I ran into him at the Gun Club, I might have taken a pool cue to his head, but I wouldn’t have killed him. It’s not like she was a virgin.”

“Your call to the cops came in at six-ten P.M. last Wednesday?”

“That sounds right. They were there in two minutes and asked me a lot of questions. Then two detectives showed up, looked around and arrested me.”

“Where were you before six-ten? Tell me about your day.”

“I left my trailer about seven-thirty, had breakfast at the IHOP on Cerrillos Road, fixed a guy’s car out on Agua Fría—that took all morning; I ate lunch at El Pollo Loco; I got a call on my cell phone about a job off of San Mateo—a fan belt was all it was. I went to Pep Boys for the belt, then put it on the car. I always check out a car for other things wrong, so I pointed out a couple things to the owner, and I fixed those, so he’d pass his inspection test. I didn’t have any other work for the day, so I stopped by the Gun Club for a beer around four-thirty and shot a couple games of pool, then I went home.”

“Who saw you at the Gun Club?”

“The guy I played pool with, but I didn’t know him; never seen him before. I took ten bucks off him, so he’d remember me. The bartender knows me; his name is Tupelo.”

“From the Gun Club, it’s a short drive home. Did you stop anywhere?”

“I picked up a bottle of bourbon at the drive-thru, that was all.”

Eagle tapped the file again. “Says here they found your fingerprints on the shotgun and gunshot residue on your hands.”

“It was my shotgun, so it would have my fingerprints on it, and I picked it up off the floor and set it on the kitchen counter, so I might have gotten some residue on my hands. When they tested me, they found it on my right palm.”

“Nowhere else?”

“Nope.”

“How fresh was the scene?”

“Not all that fresh; I couldn’t tell you how long, but some of the blood had dried.”

“Did you get any blood from the scene on yourself or your clothes?”

“No, sir; I backed right out of that bedroom when I saw the mess inside.”

“Step in anything?”

“That’s possible, but if I did, I didn’t notice it.”

“I’m going to need the names of the people whose cars you fixed.”

“Look on the front passenger seat of my pickup. It’s parked outside my trailer. I’ve got a plastic briefcase there, and there are two pads of receipts inside. There’s one name on the last receipt in each of them; address, too.”

“Anything else you want to tell me, Joe?”

“Can’t think of anything. Any chance of getting out of here?”

“Let me check out your alibi, and we’ll see. How much bail can you raise?”

“Not much.”

“Well, if your alibi checks, you might not need bail, but I’d plan to spend the weekend in here.” Eagle tossed the file and the pad into his briefcase, stood up and offered Big Bear his hand. “You’ll be hearing from me.”

“Okay,” Big Bear said.

Eagle left the jail and went back to his car. Big Bear’s story was simple enough to check out. If he wasn’t lying, why hadn’t he already been released?

Eight

ONE THING EAGLE COULD GET DONE BEFORE MONDAY: the Gun Club was no more than a quarter mile from the jail. He parked out front and went inside. It might as well have been midnight, for all the light in the place. It seemed entirely lit by beer signs. At the end of the bar, a sign over a doorway said, simply, HELL. Eagle didn’t want to go in there. The lunchtime crowds were digging into their beer and pork rinds, and the bartender was busy. Finally, he came to Eagle’s end of the bar.

“What’ll it be, sport?” Broad southern accent.

“You Tupelo?”

“Who’s asking?”

“Name’s Ed Eagle; I’m Joe Big Bear’s lawyer.”

“I already told the cops; you want me to tell you, too?”

“Please.”

“Right. Joe got here Wednesday afternoon around four-thirty-something, shot some pool with a guy I’d never seen before, had a couple of beers and left around six o’clock.”

“Describe the other pool player.”

“Short, scrawny, dark hair under a baseball cap, couple days’ beard.”

“What did it say on the baseball cap?”

“Who knows?”

“How was he dressed?”

“Dirty jeans, checkered shirt.”

“How’d he pay?”

“American dollars. We don’t take nothing else.”

“Anything you didn’t tell the cops?”

Tupelo shrugged. “Did Joe waste those folks?”

“Not if you’re telling the truth.” Eagle gave him a card and a twenty-dollar bill. “Call me if you remember anything else. I’ll be in touch. Appreciate your time.” Eagle went back to his car, glanced at his watch and drove slowly toward the airport. He passed a liquor store with a drive-up window. Just for the hell of it he turned in and stopped.

“Yessir?” the clerk asked through a bulletproof glass window.

“A fifth of Knob Creek, please.”

The clerk went away, came back with the bottle, stuffed it into a paper bag, took Eagle’s fifty and gave him change through a slide-out cash drawer, like at a bank.

Eagle drove back to Airport Road and continued his journey. He turned left at the sign for the airport and noted the large automobile graveyard on his right, a sight he saw every time he drove out to visit his airplane. Just past that was a battered house trailer with a new-looking green pickup parked out front. He turned in. The trailer door was sealed with police tape. Eagle looked at his watch: eight minutes since he’d left the Gun Club. He got out of his car and into the unlocked pickup; the briefcase was there, just as Big Bear had said.

Eagle opened it and found the two pads. Apparently, one was for credit card payments, the other for cash. Joe was filing a tax return but not reporting everything. He also found a receipt from the liquor store with a date and time stamp that said last Wednesday, 6:06 P.M.

He broke out his cell phone and called both of Big Bear’s Wednesday clients, taking the numbers from the receipts. The guy on Agua Fría backed Joe’s alibi, and Eagle left a message on the other guy’s answering machine. If he came through, his client was looking clean.

Still, he’d need the medical examiner’s report on the time of death and the detectives’ report. That wouldn’t happen until Monday. He did some grocery shopping and drove home.

As he turned onto his road from Tesuque, he noticed a black car with darkened windows behind him, and when he turned into his drive, past the stone eagle that marked the entrance, the car followed him in.

Eagle got out of the car with his groceries and stood, waiting for his visitor to emerge from the black car. After a moment, the car door opened, and the driver got out. He was not a big man—maybe five-eight and a hundred and sixty pounds—and he was dressed in a black leather jacket and jeans, silver belt buckle, black shirt and a flat-brimmed black hat, pinched at the top like a World War I campaign hat. The face under the hat was brown and smooth, the expression impassive.

“Ed Eagle?” The man asked.

“That’s right.”

“My name is Vittorio. You left me a message.”

Ah, Eagle thought, the other P.I., the one he’d called when he’d thought Cupie Dalton was out of action. “Sure, come on in.” He lead the way into the house and the kitchen and began putting things away.

“Can I get you a drink?”

The man set his hat on the kitchen counter and pulled up a stool. His thick, black hair was pulled straight back into a long ponytail and secured with a silver clip. He nodded at the bourbon bottle. “A taste of that would be good. Ice, if you’ve got it.”

Eagle poured two drinks and handed him one. “There was an Apache chief named Vittorio back in the late nineteenth century.”

“He was my great-great-grandfather.”

“How did your great-grandfather survive the massacre in the Tres Castillas mountains?” Eagle knew that Vittorio had left the reservation and conducted a three-year offensive against the whites. He had been cornered in the mountains, and he and sixty of his men and a group of women and children had been slaughtered there by the New Mexico militia.

“His mother wouldn’t let him fight; she made him hide in some rocks, where he saw the whole thing. When it was over, he scavenged the bodies for food and water, then he walked seventy miles to another Apache camp, where he was taken in. He was seven years old.”

“Jesus,” Ed said.

“Yeah. What can I do for you, Mr. Eagle?”

“The day before yesterday, my wife cleaned out two bank accounts and my brokerage accounts and chartered a jet for Mexico City. I stopped the transfer from the brokerage in time, but she got away with a million one, in cash.”

Vittorio nodded but said nothing.

“I sent a P.I. from L.A. after her, and he caught up with her at a hotel called El Parador last night. He followed her into the street, where he called me on his cell phone and attempted to hand it to her. She shot him.”

Vittorio’s eyebrows moved a fraction, but he still said nothing.

“The P.I. wasn’t badly hurt, and he’ll be back on the job soon, but he could use some help.”

“Does he know he could use some help?”

“I haven’t told him yet.”

“How is he going to feel about that?”

“I don’t much care how he feels about it. Can you leave for Mexico City today? There are flights from Albuquerque.”

“Yes. What do you want me to do when I find her?”

“I want to speak to her on the telephone, then I want her signature at the bottom of six blank sheets of paper.”

“You don’t want her hurt, then?”

“Not any more than it takes to get her signature. I’ll explain to her on the phone what it’s for. It will probably help if you scare the shit out of her.”

Vittorio nodded. “I get a thousand a day, plus expenses, for travel out of the country.”

“Hang on here a minute,” Eagle said. He went into his study and found a legal-size file folder and some of the paper his office used, then he went to his safe, where he always kept some cash, and put five thousand dollars in an envelope. He removed a photograph of Barbara from its frame, returned to the kitchen and handed the paper and the money to Vittorio. “Her maiden name was Miriam Schlemmer before she changed it to Barbara Kennerly; her first husband’s name was Rifkin. Or she could be using Eagle.”

“You have any idea where she might go, if she leaves Mexico City?”

“She told me that she had spent a nice week in Puerto Vallarta once. That’s a possibility, but she could go anywhere if she gets her hands on that cash. I’ve got another man trying to prevent that. You’d better take your passport with you.”

Vittorio nodded. “What’s the other P.I.’s name?”

“Cupie Dalton. He’s ex-LAPD, a good man.” Eagle wrote his own and Cupie’s cell phone numbers on the file folder, and Vittorio handed him a card with his own numbers. “Cupie was going to rest a little after being wounded. I’ll let him know you’re on the way and tell him to share any information he has.”

Vittorio stood up and put on his hat, and Eagle walked him to the door.

“There’ll be a ten-thousand-dollar bonus, if you can wrap this up quickly and get those papers signed. I’ll tell Cupie he’ll get the same. Call me every day.”

Vittorio shook his hand and headed for his car.

Jesus, Eagle thought as he watched him go. I wouldn’t want that guy looking for me.

Nine

CUPIE DALTON LAY ON THE BED IN HIS SO-SO MEXICO City hotel and blearily watched a soccer game, occasionally refreshed by a sip through a straw in a pint of tequila. Cupie despised soccer, but it was the only thing on Mexican TV he could understand; the plots of the soap operas were impenetrable, even with his pretty good Spanish. His cell phone rang.

“Dalton.”

“It’s Eagle. How are you, Cupie?”

“Not as good as I thought I was gonna be by now. I ran out of the Percodan, but I’ve got a call in to the doctor for more. Tequila helps.”

“I’m sending you some more help.”

“I don’t need any help, except the Percodan and the tequila.”

“It’s coming anyway. His name is Vittorio; no last name as far as I know. He’s an Apache Indian with a reputation for finding people.”

“Is he going to scalp me?”

“Not if you’re nice. Anyway, as I recall, you don’t have much hair left to take.”

“That wasn’t nice. What is this Vittorio going to do that I can’t do?”

“Twice as much as you can do alone. You can work together or split up. I don’t care. I just want her found. There’ll be a ten-thousand-dollar bonus for each of you if you find her quickly.”

“I already talked to the desk clerk at her hotel. She took a cab to the airport. The doorman heard her give the driver the name of the internal airline, so my guess is she’s headed for one coast or the other: Cozumel or Acapulco.”

“She likes Puerto Vallarta; start there.”

“When is Vittorio going to show?”

“Soon; he’s flying out of Albuquerque today. He’ll call you on your cell. Rest as long as you need to, but get him started immediately.”

“Okay.”

“Bye.” Eagle hung up.

VITTORIO PARKED AT ALBUQUERQUE airport and locked his guns and ammunition in a steel box welded to his SUV’s frame, under the carpet in the rear compartment.

Once on the airplane, he used the air phone to call Cupie Dalton’s cell phone and learn the name and address of his hotel, then he called a Mexico City number and placed a very specific order. After he had landed and cleared customs he walked out to the taxi stand, where a short, fat man carrying a small canvas duffel approached him.

“Vittorio?”

“That’s me.”

The man handed him the duffel. “That’ll be six hundred, U.S.”

Vittorio opened the bag and checked the contents, then he handed the man six hundreds, already counted out and folded.

“Nice doing business with you.”

Vittorio gave him another fifty. “Tell your boss thanks.”

The man nodded, then disappeared into the crowd.

Vittorio got into a cab and gave the driver the address of Dalton’s hotel.

“You want a girl, señor?”

“No, gracias,” Vittorio said. He unzipped the duffel and removed a short-barreled, Colt Defender semiautomatic .45 and three full magazines, then a Keltec .380 and one magazine. He had kept on his holsters, one at his waist for the .45 and one on his ankle for the little .380, and slipped a gun into each. He felt better already.

CUPIE HAD DOZED OFF, when there was a sharp rap on the door of his room. He struggled out of bed and opened the door, keeping the chain on. An evil-looking guy in black clothes stood outside.

“I’m Vittorio,” he said.

“Yeah, come on in.” Cupie closed the door, unhooked the chain, let in the Indian, then closed and hooked the door again.

“Expecting somebody else?” Vittorio asked, dumping his carry-on in a corner and taking the chair in the corner.

“I wouldn’t put it past Mrs. Ed Eagle to track me down and take another shot at me.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I followed her out of her hotel and around the corner and into an alley. When I spoke to her, she turned around and fired a round at me, then walked away, as calm as you please.”

“What kind of round?”

“A .25, I think; something small.” He pointed at where the bullet went in. “Went all the way through.”

“Weren’t you carrying?”

“Not at the time. Since then a bellhop found me a guy who found me a Sig P-239.” He poured himself a glass of water from the bedside jug and popped a pill.

“What’s that?”

“Percodan.”

Vittorio nodded at the tequila bottle. “You’re mixing it with that?”

“It hurts like a son of a bitch,” Cupie explained.

“You’re going to be useless until you’re off that combination for twenty-four hours. Tell me what you know while you can still move your lips.”

“I got friendly with the desk clerk at Mrs. Eagle’s hotel, and he told me she checked out and took a cab to the airport, to the terminal for an airline called Aerolitoral.”

Vittorio nodded. “Regional carrier; Mexico only. Where’d she go?”

“That was my next move,” Cupie said, “but I been busy. Eagle says she likes Puerto Vallarta; why don’t you check it out?”

“Tomorrow,” Vittorio said. “This place got any more rooms?”

“There’s the phone,” Cupie said, nodding, “or you can have the other bed here; I don’t really give a shit. I’m going to get some sleep.” He lay down on the bed and pulled the covers up.

“I’m going to get some dinner and a room,” Vittorio said, tossing a card onto the bed. “There’s my cell number. Tomorrow morning, early, I’m going to start tracking the lady. If you want to tag along, be downstairs, sober and wide awake, at seven A.M.”

“Pass,” Cupie said, snuggling in. “I’ll catch up with you in, maybe, another day.”

“Good night,” Vittorio said, picking up his bag and letting himself out.

“Yeah, whatever,” Cupie called back.

Vittorio was happy that Cupie didn’t want to go along. He wanted to wrap up this lady quickly, then get in some beach time.

Ten

AS EAGLE WALKED INTO HIS OFFICE, HIS SECRETARY flagged him down. “A Mr. Morales returned your call: he says that Joe Big Bear was at his house fixing his car between one-thirty and four-fifteen last Wednesday. I asked him if he was sure, and he said, yes, he could see him out the window. Mr. Big Bear was working on his car in the driveway the whole time.”

“Get him for me, will you?”

“He’s left town for a week, but I asked him if he’d be willing to testify to that in court, and he said yes.”

Eagle went into his office and called Bob Martinez, the district attorney for Santa Fe County.

“Morning, Ed.”

“Morning, Bob. You all right?”

“Can’t complain.”

“Judge O’Hara laid the Joe Big Bear case on me Friday afternoon.”

“I guess you’ll want the lab reports and the detectives’ notes.”

“I don’t think I’ll need them.”

“Oh, yeah? You want to plead him to three counts of first-degree?”

“Nope. You know, I really can’t believe that the cops could do such a lousy investigation on a triple homicide.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Big Bear told them he was working all day, didn’t he?”

“Yeah, but so what? If I’d just done three people, I’d say something like that, too.”

“Of course you would, Bob, but in Big Bear’s case, he can prove it.”

“How’s he gonna do that? He got some friends to give him an alibi, maybe?”

“No, he worked all morning on a perfect stranger’s car and all afternoon on another perfect stranger’s car. And he had his invoice books in his briefcase in his truck to prove it. We spoke with both customers, and they both back him up. Didn’t your people search his pickup?”

“Well, they already had the murder weapon; why should they search his truck?”

“To save themselves a lot of man-hours. You got a pencil?”

“Sure.”

“Write this down.” Eagle gave him the names and numbers of both customers. “The second guy is out of town for a week and unreachable, but he says he’ll testify. Big Bear was at his house from one-thirty to four-fifteen, then he went to the Gun Club on Airport Road and played pool until six o’clock; the bartender backs his story. He stopped at a liquor store on the way home and picked up a bottle. I drove the route, and it took eight minutes to get from the Gun Club to the trailer. He called in the crime at six-ten, and he says the blood in the bedroom was already dried at that time. I’ll bet you a hundred bucks your lab report backs that up. What does your man estimate as time of death?”

“Between three and four,” Martinez replied.

“So you’ve got the wrong guy.”

“Do you really think you’re going to get bail with a story like that?”

“Bail? With a story like that, I’m going to get the charges dismissed.”

“Dream on, Ed.”

“I’m going to petition for a hearing; you’ll be hearing from the judge.”

“Suit yourself.”

They both hung up, then Eagle’s secretary buzzed him. “Russell Norris on the phone.”

“Great!” Eagle picked up the phone. “Russell? What’s happening?”

“Well, I’m calling from the bank in Mexico City; I have the vice president in charge of personal accounts right here, and he’d like to speak to you.”

“I’d be glad to speak to him.”

“Hello, Mr. Eagle? This is Emiliano Rodriguez speaking.”

“Good morning, Mr. Rodriguez.”

“Would you be good enough, please, to tell me the circumstances of your wife’s wire transfer?”

“I’d be happy to. My wife made two unauthorized wire transfers, nine hundred and thirty thousand dollars from the account of my law firm, and a hundred and seventy thousand dollars from my personal account.”

“And how do I know these transactions were unauthorized?”

“If they were authorized, Mr. Rodriguez, you and I would not be having this conversation. I should tell you that she also instructed my stockbrokers to wire another four million dollars, the proceeds of the sale of all my stocks, but I was able to stop that transaction before it took place.”

“Well, Mr. Eagle, if you will give me a notarized affidavit to that effect, I will stop further withdrawals on the remaining balance in Mrs. Eagle’s account, pending the results of an investigation by my bank.”

“Remaining funds? How much is still in the account?”

“On Friday last, on faxed instructions of Mrs. Eagle, I wired three hundred thousand dollars to a bank in Puerto Vallarta, and this morning I was going to wire further amounts to banks in Cozumel and Rio de Janeiro, but I have not yet done so.”

“Mr. Rodriguez, I will fax you a notarized affidavit within the hour, and I will FedEx the original document today for delivery tomorrow. How long will your investigation take?”

“It will take a day or two to appoint an outside investigator, for purposes of objectivity. He will interview both you and Mrs. Eagle and anyone else necessary, then submit his recommendations. I should think this would take ten days to two weeks. Then the board of the bank will make a judgment on the matter, so in all, two to three weeks, I imagine.”

“Thank you, Mr. Rodriguez. I am pleased that we have been able to avoid a complex international legal action in this matter. You will have the fax of the affidavit this morning. May I speak to Mr. Norris, please?”

“Ed?”

“Russell, that was brilliant; thank you.”

“Ed, I think it would be a good idea if I stayed on here long enough to talk personally to the bank’s investigator.”

Eagle thought about this. “Good idea. I’ve already impressed on Mr. Rodriguez the possibility of legal action, should we not get a favorable solution.”

“Good. I’ll be in touch.”

Eagle hung up the phone and buzzed for Betty. He felt enormously relieved. If he could get out of this with the loss of only three hundred thousand, he’d be a very lucky man.

Betty came in.

“Take an affidavit,” Eagle said.

Eleven

VITTORIO LEFT THE PUERTO VALLARTA AIRPORT, TOSSED his carry-on into the back of a taxi and got in.

“Buenos días, señor,” the driver said.

“Amigo,” Vittorio replied, “what are the three best hotels in Puerto Vallarta?”

“Well, señor, there are many fine hotels, but if I must, I will name three.” He did so.

“Okay, let’s start with those.” Vittorio broke the seal on the box containing his guns, which he had checked through, and returned them and the magazines to his holsters. The first two desk clerks took his money and denied all knowledge of Barbara Eagle, under any name. At the third hotel, the clerk came up with a guest named Barbara Kennerly.

“Is Señorita Kennerly in her room now?” Vittorio asked.

“No, I saw her walk through the lobby in her swimsuit a few minutes ago, toward the pool,” the clerk said.

Vittorio asked for a room and checked in. Upstairs, he got into his swimsuit and put the Keltec .380 and his cell phone into his small briefcase, got into the provided robe and walked down to the pool.

Barbara Eagle was lying in the hot sun, lotion lathered on her very handsome body, reading a paperback book.

Vittorio waved at a waiter.

“What may I get you, señor?” the man asked.

“A Diet Coke. And tell me, can guests receive phone calls at the pool?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Can you take a phone to a guest?”

“No, sir. A guest receiving a call would need to go to the outside bar to receive it.”

“Thank you.” The man went to get his drink, and Vittorio called Ed Eagle.

“Vittorio? Where are you?”

“In Puerto Vallarta.”

“Any luck yet?”

“I’m looking at her across a swimming pool.”

“Can you get her on the phone?”

“Hang on a minute.” The waiter was returning with his Diet Coke. “You see the woman, there?” he asked nodding.

“Yes, señor.”

“I want you to take her this cell phone. Her name is Señorita Kennerly. Tell her she has a call and hand her the phone.” He gave the man the phone and a ten-dollar bill. “Keep an eye on her, and be sure you get the phone back when she hangs up.”

“Yes, señor.” The man placed the open cell phone on his tray and walked around the pool. Vittorio watched sidelong through his sunglasses as the waiter approached. She stared at him for a moment, then picked up the phone.

“HELLO?”

“Hello, Barbara,” Eagle said.

“I’ve nothing to say to you,” she said.

“You don’t have as much money as you think.”

“What?”

“I stopped the wire transfer from the brokerage house, and the funds still in the Mexico City account have been frozen.”

There was a long silence. “What do you want, Ed?”

“A divorce. You can keep the three hundred grand you’ve still got, and, of course, you have your jewelry. You can get by on that until another patsy comes along.”

“You bastard,” she said.

“In a few minutes, there will be a file waiting for you at the front desk of your hotel; it contains six sheets of blank paper. All you have to do is to sign at the bottom of each sheet and give the file back to the desk clerk, and it will be done. I’ll send the final papers to you wherever you wish for another signature. We will never have to see each other or speak again.”

“Ed, you think you know what’s happening, but you don’t.”

“Barbara, I don’t care what’s happening. Just do as I ask, and it’s over. You don’t want to get in court with me; I think you know that.”

“It won’t be over.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I don’t want to go into it now.”

“You don’t have to; just sign the sheets of paper.”

“You could put anything you wanted above my signature,” she said.

“I could, but I give you my word that all I will put on the paper will be a brief agreement giving you three hundred thousand dollars and terminating your marital rights.”

“And if I don’t sign the papers?”

“Then you will subject yourself to a punishing legal process, and, given your criminal record, you will very likely go to prison.”

“Ed, do you think I’m stupid? I haven’t broken any laws.”

“Barbara, if you believe that you can escape the legal process, then you have been very badly advised.”

“You don’t know what advice I’ve taken.”

“Whatever that advice is, what good has it done you? If you’d simply divorced me you’d have gotten a decent settlement, but instead, you tried to steal from me. I don’t understand how you could have been so stupid.”

“You are the one who’s stupid.”

“Don’t you realize that you’ve shot a man? That’s illegal, even in Mexico. Do you want to end up in a Mexican jail? Do you have any idea what that would be like? I can assure you it would be very different from the country club where you did your previous time. Sign the papers, and I’ll see that all that goes away; no charges will be pressed.”

The line suddenly went dead.

VITTORIO WATCHED as the waiter collected the cell phone from Barbara Eagle and walked around the pool toward him. It began ringing as the waiter approached. He grabbed it.

“Hello?”

“It’s Eagle. She hung up on me. Get her signature on those sheets of paper; I don’t care how you do it.”

“All right. Any other instructions?”

“Don’t let her get away from you until she signs.”

“Right.” Vittorio closed the phone, picked up his briefcase and walked into the hotel. He went to the front desk and asked for the manager. When the man appeared, Vittorio showed him ten one-hundred-dollar bills and explained to him that they would be his, if a desk clerk would inform him if Ms. Kennerly decided to check out and, further, to delay her departure for ten minutes. The man accepted the offer with alacrity, and Vittorio gave him five of the bills. He added a hundred to the offer, in exchange for a key card to her room. “It is purely a domestic matter,” he explained. “Her husband wishes to speak with her.”

EAGLE SAT AT HIS DESK and thought. What was the matter with the woman? He had offered her an easy way out. She had behaved stupidly, but she seemed to think he was the stupid one. What the hell was going on?

Twelve

VITTORIO RETURNED TO HIS ROOM, DRESSED AND PACKED his things. He had a feeling that Barbara Eagle would be leaving the hotel shortly. As if to confirm his judgment, the phone rang.

“Yes?”

“It is the manager, señor. Señorita Kennerly has ordered a taxi in thirty minutes’ time.”

“Thank you. You’ll have the rest of the money shortly.” He took his bag and briefcase down to the front desk, paid the manager and asked him to keep his bags for a few minutes. He removed the file from his briefcase and went upstairs. First, he listened at Barbara’s door, but he heard nothing. He looked at the surrounding doors and judged the size of her room, then he put an ear to the wall twenty feet down the hallway. He could hear water running, probably the shower.

Vittorio went back to the door, inserted the key card and cracked the door. He could hear the shower running. He let himself in and took a seat at a table in the corner, facing the open bathroom door, then put the file on the table and waited. A moment later the water was turned off, and he heard the shower door open and close. Perhaps ten seconds later, Barbara Eagle walked into the room, naked.

Vittorio hadn’t expected that. She was still wet, and for a woman who must have been forty, she looked spectacular. Her breasts were high, the nipples erect, her belly flat, all her pubic hair waxed away. She had a small tattoo of a bright yellow sunflower between her breasts.

“Good afternoon,” he said, putting a finger to the brim of his hat.

She did not move. “Who are you, and what do you want?”

“There are six sheets of paper in this file,” he said, tapping the file with a finger. “Sign each of them at the bottom, and I’ll leave you in peace.” She continued to stare at him and he at her, but she still made no move toward the table or to cover her body.

“If you don’t sign them, I am authorized to persuade you. I think I would enjoy that.” He knew from his experience that people, especially women, often found his appearance threatening, and he used this to his advantage. He actually considered himself a peaceful, nonviolent person, but threat had its uses.

“I’ll get a pen,” she said, nodding at her purse on the bed. She took a step toward it.

“Stop,” he said, opening his jacket, so she could see the gun at his waist. He took a pen from his jacket pocket and placed it on the file. “Use mine,” he said.

She did not move, just stared at him.

“It would be a mistake to try with me what you did to the other fellow,” Vittorio said. “In fact, he is on his way here at this very moment. I think it would be good for you to be gone before he arrives.”

She still just stood there.

Vittorio reached into his jacket pocket and removed a small plastic box cutter, bright orange. With a thumb, he extended the blade to its maximum, about three inches. “You have such a beautiful body,” he said. “It would be a shame to have it scarred.”

A shudder ran through her. She walked over to the table, picked up the pen, opened the file and signed all six pages at the bottom. “There,” she said. “You can tell him it’s not over.” She walked back to the bathroom door, then stopped and turned. “Now get out of my room.”

Vittorio put a finger to the brim of his hat, took the file and left. He was surprised it had been so easy. He collected his bag and got into a cab for the airport, still thinking about the beautiful, naked body. He was halfway to the airport when a trace of doubt drifted across his mind. He opened his briefcase and took out the file. Each of the pages was signed, perfectly legibly, “Minnie Mouse.”

“Turn around,” he said to the driver. She was a smart woman. She had known he would be looking at her tits, instead of her signature.

As his cab turned around, another taxi passed them, and Vittorio caught sight of Cupie Dalton in the rear seat. When he had told Barbara that Cupie was on his way, he had been bluffing, but there he was. Ten minutes later, they arrived simultaneously at the hotel.

“Wait for me,” he said to the driver.

Cupie got out of his cab, his left arm in a sling. “Oh, there you are.”

Vittorio said nothing. He walked into the hotel and went to the front desk, where the manager stood. Cupie followed.

“Señor,” he said.

“Is she still here?”

“She left in a taxi five minutes ago.”

“She’s gone?” Cupie asked.

“It seems so,” Vittorio replied. “Come on.” He went outside and waved a twenty at the doorman. “The tall American woman, which way did she go?”

The doorman pocketed the twenty and pointed down the road, away from the airport. “That way, señor,” he said.

“What kind of car and what color was the taxi?”

“It was a Ford, dark blue.”

Vittorio beckoned to Cupie and got back into his waiting cab.

Cupie tossed his bag into the front seat and got into the back with Vittorio.

“That way,” Vittorio said to the driver, pointing. “Find a dark blue Ford taxi.”

“Sí, señor,” the driver said.

“And go fast.”

“Sí, señor.”

“What happened? “Cupie asked.

“She signed the papers.”

“Then why are we chasing her?”

“She signed somebody else’s name.”

“And you didn’t check the signature before you let her go?”

“My attention was diverted,” Vittorio said. “Now, please shut up and look for the taxi.”

Thirteen

JOE BIG BEAR WAS LET OUT OF HIS JAIL CELL AT THE SANTA Fe County Corrections Center and allowed into the yard for exercise. He found a shady spot in the shadow of the building, near a corner and sat down; he liked to stay as far as possible from the other inmates. These people were criminals, and he had nothing in common with them. He wished he could smoke, but he had given up cigarettes three years before.

He stretched out his legs and rested his head against the side of the building. There was a little breeze, and for a few minutes, at least, he could forget he was in jail. He was aware of the murmur of voices around the corner from him, only a few feet away, but he had no interest in what other inmates might have to say. Until he heard the name Ed Eagle.

Joe opened his eyes and moved closer to the corner of the building.

“The guy’s got to go,” a voice said.

“So, what’s it to me?”

“There’s money to be made, amigo.”

“So why aren’t you doing it yourself?”

“I would have if they hadn’t busted me. I don’t get out until a week from Friday. You’re getting out the day after tomorrow.”

“How’d you know that?”

“I know a lot of things.”

“How much money we talking about?”

“Ten grand.”

“All of it for me?”

“That’s your cut.”

“How are you going to pay me, if you’re in here?”

“The thing has already been paid for. I’ll get it to you the moment I read in the paper that Eagle is wasted.”

“I’ll want something up front. After all, I’ve got to live when I get out.”

“You’ll be released along with the others at ten A.M., the day after tomorrow. There’ll be a woman in a red bandanna sitting in a pickup truck in the parking lot. Tell her your name, and she’ll give you an envelope with a thousand dollars in it. She’ll call you and meet you with the other nine grand as soon as I tell her to.”

“Let me tell you something, amigo: if I waste this dude, and the money don’t get to me, you’re a dead man as soon as you walk out of here.”

“That goes without saying. It also goes without saying that if you botch the job and get caught and mention me or my girl, then you’re a dead man.”

“How’s this woman going to find me when the job is done?”

“You got a number where you can be reached?”

“I got a place she can leave a message.”

“Write it on a piece of paper and give it to her when she gives you the first grand. As soon as I know the guy is dead, I’ll call her; she’ll call you, and she’ll deliver the money. Straight up, man.”

“It better be.”

There were noises of the men getting up, and Joe let his chin rest on his chest and snored. The two men walked past him and away. By the time he opened his eyes they were gone, probably mingling with the other prisoners. Joe closed his eyes again, just in case they were watching.

ED EAGLE PRESENTED HIMSELF at the jail and waited in the small room for his client. Joe Big Bear eventually appeared and was unhooked by the guard, who, apparently, had a memory.

“Morning, Joe,” Eagle said.

“When am I getting out of here?”

“It’s going to be a few days. We’ve got to have a hearing where the guy whose car you fixed last Wednesday afternoon can testify, but he’s gone out of town, and we don’t know where he is. We’re calling his house every day; the moment he gets back, I’ll ask for the hearing.”

“How much bail am I going to need?”

“I’m going for a dismissal of the charges. I’ll call the crime scene investigator who worked your trailer, and he’ll testify that the time of deaths was while you were working on a car. That should be it.”

“Is there a chance I’ll need bail? I’m going to have to borrow some money.”

“If the judge won’t dismiss the charges, he’s not going to release you on bail when you’re charged with a triple homicide. He’ll cut you loose, or nothing.”

Joe nodded. “There’s something I’ve got to tell you.”

Oh, no, Eagle thought; don’t confess. “You don’t have to tell me anything.”

“Well, if I want both of us to be at that hearing, I’d better.”

“I don’t understand.”

“There’s a contract out on you.”

“What?”

“I overheard two guys talking in the yard this morning, arranging the thing.”

“What, exactly, did they say?”

“They agreed on a price. The guy who’s paying had already been paid to do the job, but he got busted, and he doesn’t get out until a week from Friday. He’s paying a guy who gets out the day after tomorrow to whack you.”

“Who are these men? What are their names?”

“I don’t know. I was sitting on the ground around the corner of a building from them, and I could hear their voices clearly; when they left, I pretended to be asleep, so I never saw them.”

“I want you to find out who they are.”

“How the hell am I going to do that? I only heard their voices. If your name hadn’t been mentioned I wouldn’t have paid any attention to them.”

So this was what Barbara had been talking about, Eagle thought. She paid somebody to kill him before she left. With him dead, she would inherit his entire estate. Killing him was her insurance.

“You got a gun?” Joe asked.

“Yes.”

“If I were you, I’d carry it at all times. Oh, one thing that might help: the guy is being released at ten A.M. the day after tomorrow, and he’s to look for a woman wearing a red bandanna in a pickup truck. She’s going to give him a thousand, and he’s going to give her a phone number, so she can meet him to pay him another nine thousand when you’re dead.”

“That’s good, Joe. I’ll have the police pick him up and question him.”

“That’s no good,” Joe said. “These guys saw me when they walked around the building; they’ll figure it out, and I don’t want a shiv in my back. Find another way to deal with it.”

Eagle nodded. “All right, don’t worry.”

“You do the worrying,” Joe said.

EAGLE DROVE BACK to his office and called in Betty. “And bring in your pad,” he said. “I’m going to dictate a new will, and I want it executed by the end of the day.”

Fourteen

VITTORIO AND CUPIE DALTON SAT IN THE BACK OF THE un-air-conditioned cab and sweated, while they looked for Barbara’s taxi.

“Stay near the beach,” Cupie said to the man.

“That’s probably a good idea,” Vittorio admitted.

“You and I have to get something straight,” Cupie said.

Vittorio looked at him and waited.

“I had thirty years on the LAPD and retired as a detective sergeant. The last ten years I served in elite investigative units, everything from homicide task forces to fugitive hunts. You may think I’m just a fat guy in a cheap suit, but I know what I’m doing, and if you and I are going to work on this you’d better find a way to show me a little respect.”

“If you’re so good, how’d that lady happen to shoot you?”

“First time ever anybody put a bullet in me, and I had no reason to think she was armed. How’d she manage to get past you in that hotel room? She show you her tits?”

Vittorio managed a short laugh. “As a matter of fact, she did.”

“Something else: that evil Indian act of yours doesn’t wash with me. Try and act like a regular human being.”

“I am an evil Indian,” Vittorio said.

Cupie burst out laughing. “What were her tits like?”

“Magnificent.” He pointed at his chest. “She has a tattoo of a sunflower right here, and no bush, should you ever have to identify her.”

“As much as I would enjoy identifying her, I’ll never have need; her face is burned into my memory. Uh-oh.” Cupie pointed ahead. “Dark blue Ford cab.”

Vittorio peered through the windshield. “Right. Driver, twenty bucks, if you can force that cab off the road without killing anybody.”

“Señor…” Suddenly, the driver jerked his wheel to the right as a black Suburban with darkened windows cut him off while passing his taxi. He began slowing down.

“Keep up!” Cupie said. “Don’t let him get away from you.”

“No, señor,” the man said. “You don’t want to fuck with these people in the black car.”

“Who the hell are they?”

The driver pulled over to the side of the road and stopped. “No, señor; it is not worth my life.”

Cupie got out of the car, opened the driver’s door, and, with his good arm, shoved him into the passenger seat. He slammed the door, put the car in gear and spun the tires.

Vittorio reached over the seat, grabbed the driver and pulled him into the backseat, then took his place. “It’s one of two things,” he said to Cupie. “Either police or kidnappers.”

“Or both,” Cupie replied.

“That would be unfortunate,” Vittorio said.

“It would be right in line with our luck so far,” Cupie said. He was gaining on the black car.

Vittorio produced a pistol.

“Wait a minute,” Cupie said. “We’re not shooting at these people if they’re wearing uniforms or carrying automatic weapons.”

“Or if there are too many of them,” Vittorio said. “You can’t drive and shoot at the same time.”

“Don’t worry about me.”

BARBARA EAGLE LOOKED AHEAD of her taxi and saw a station wagon pull out into the road ahead of them and stop. “Watch it!” she shouted at her driver, who was already slamming on brakes. As they skidded to a stop, a black Suburban with dark windows stopped next to them.

“Is kidnappers!” her driver shouted. He slammed the car into park and dove for the floor.

Barbara dug into her handbag. It was the bank, she thought immediately. Somebody at the bank told them how much money she had.

As if in slow motion the rear door of the Suburban opened, and a man with a gun came out of it. He yanked open the door of her taxi, yelling something in Spanish.

Barbara shot him in the face, and for a moment, everything was quiet. Then another man came around the back of the Suburban and ran toward her open door. She waited for a heartbeat, then put two bullets into him. He fell down, then half got up and scrambled behind the Suburban. Her little .25 automatic didn’t have much stopping power.

Then another car skidded to a halt behind her taxi, and two men got out, firing, but not in her direction. She got down on the floor and waited. She had only three rounds left.

The firing continued for a moment, then there was the sound of the Suburban’s engine roaring, then receding.

“Mrs. Eagle?” a man shouted. “Barbara? Are you all right?”

CUPIE’S FIRST TWO SHOTS were fired straight through his own windshield, taking out the rear window of the Suburban, and he could see only a driver inside. Then a man clutching his gut struggled into the rear seat, screaming, and the Suburban took off. Vittorio was standing near another figure on the ground, kicking a gun away from him, yelling at Mrs. Eagle.

“It’s all right, Mrs. Eagle,” Cupie yelled. “They’re gone; don’t fire at us.”

She stuck her head out of the cab and looked at them. “You!” she said.

“And you’re damned lucky it’s us,” Vittorio said. “Give me that gun.” He yanked the little gun out of her hand and put it in his pocket, then grabbed her by the wrist and yanked her out of the cab. “Get her bag, Cupie.” He hustled her into the backseat of their taxi, while Cupie retrieved her bag, got back into the taxi and executed a U-turn.

“Where are we going?” Barbara demanded.

“Away from here and just as fast as we can,” Cupie replied, stomping on the accelerator.

Fifteen

EAGLE WOKE UP WITH A JERK AND GRABBED THE CUSTOM- built Terry Tussey .45 on the night table next to him. He had heard something outside.

The clock over the TV said 6:30 A.M. He got out of bed quickly, ran into his dressing room for some pants and shoes and grabbed his cell phone, in case he had to call the police. He went to one side of the drawn bedroom curtains and peeked outside. Nothing, nobody. He ran into the kitchen and looked out the kitchen windows. Still nobody. He went to the front door and looked out the little windows next to it. There was a man in the driveway, raking it: the groundsman, who came for two hours every day. He was early. The rake against the cobblestones was the sound Eagle had heard.

Eagle showered, with the gun close at hand, had breakfast, dressed and went to the office. Another twenty-four hours would pass before the hired killer would get out of jail, but he still watched his rearview mirror closely. He wished the Mercedes were armored.

Betty was already at her desk, munching a Danish and drinking coffee, when he arrived. She started to get up.

“Finish your breakfast,” he said, waving her down. He went into his office and read a copy of the will he had executed the day before. It still seemed satisfactory, and the original was locked in his safe, to which only he and Betty had the combination.

He worked through the morning, and around eleven, Wolf Willett called.

“Hi, you want to have lunch?”

“Let’s do it here,” Eagle replied. “We can order up from the restaurant downstairs. Twelve-thirty?”

“See you then.”

Betty buzzed him. “I’ve got your witness for Joe Big Bear on the phone; he says he’s coming home tomorrow morning.”

“Great.” Eagle picked up the phone. “Mr. Cartwright?”

“That’s me. This Mr. Eagle?”

“It is.”

“You’re coming home tomorrow? What time?”

“I’ll be there by lunchtime.”

“I want to schedule a hearing for tomorrow afternoon, so you can tell your story to the judge in the case. That all right with you?”

“Sure.”

Eagle asked him to go through his story, moment by moment, and was satisfied.

“My secretary will call and give you the time and courtroom number.”

“See you then.” The man hung up.

Eagle buzzed Betty. “Call Judge O’Hara’s clerk and ask for a hearing tomorrow after lunch. Tell him my witness will take minutes max, and maybe he’ll recess a case and listen to us. If he agrees, call Bob Martinez and let him know.”

Betty went to work.

WOLF WILLET SHOWED UP on time, and they sat at a table in the shade on Eagle’s private terrace, while a waiter from downstairs served them.

“So, how’s the search for Mrs. Eagle going?” Wolf asked.

“I’ve got two men on it; they’ll have her shortly.”

“Are you going to do anything to her?”

“Not if she’ll sign a settlement. I just want to be rid of her.” What he really wanted was her back in bed, which had always been her milieu.

Betty came out on the terrace with a cordless phone. “It’s Cupie Dalton,” she said, handing Eagle the phone.

“Cupie?”

“Right.”

“What’s happening?”

“Lots and lots,” Cupie replied. “She checked out of her hotel in Puerto Vallarta, but Vittorio and I chased her down just in time.”

“Just in time for what?”

“It went like this. When she transferred the three hundred grand from Mexico City to a local bank, somebody gave a gang of kidnappers a jingle to let them know there was cash to be had. Vittorio and I caught up with her cab just as the black hats went to work, but she hardly needed our help. She killed one of them and wounded another, then they thought better of their activity and got the hell out of there.”

“Where is she now?”

“She’s in a cab with Vittorio, half a block from the Puerto Vallarta police station. I’d be very happy to take her in there and charge her with shooting me, but she’d just buy her way out. What do you want us to do?”

“I want you to get her signature on those blank sheets of paper.”

“She’s already signed them once, in the name of Minnie Mouse, and she ain’t going to sign again. The lady is adamant.”

“Can’t Vittorio scare her into it?”

“He scared her into signing Minnie Mouse six times, but otherwise she seems immune to his charms. Short of torture or forgery, I don’t know what to do. You have any instructions?”

“Put her on the phone.”

“She’s already said she won’t talk to you.”

Eagle thought for a moment. “All right, tell her this: tell her that if she doesn’t sign, I’ll take the three hundred grand away from her and leave her to fend for herself. And tell her I know about the guy she hired to kill me, and it ain’t going to happen.”

“She hired somebody to kill you?”

“Yes. Now tell her.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll hang on.”

“Let me call you back in five.”

“Okay.”

Eagle switched off the phone and put it down

“Kidnappers tried to take her,” Eagle said to Wolf.

“You’re kidding me.”

“No, apparently kidnapping is all the rage in Mexico.”

“What now?”

The phone rang before Eagle could reply, and he picked it up. “Hello?”

“It’s Cupie; we got a problem.”

Sixteen

CUPIE CLOSED HIS CELL PHONE AND WALKED BACK TO- ward the cab. He’d had to move down the block to get a good signal, and he hadn’t been watching the car while he talked to Eagle. As he approached, he could see the driver, but he couldn’t see anybody in the backseat. He stuck his head in the front passenger window. “Where’d the man and the woman go?” He asked the driver.

“I dunno, señor. The woman got out of the car and ran, and the man ran after her. Señor, could you pay me, please? I got to make a living.”

Cupie shoved some money at him, got his, Vittorio’s and Barbara’s bags out of the car and found some shade. He couldn’t see either one of them anywhere, and he wasn’t going to try and find them, what with a bum shoulder and three suitcases to take care of. He sat down on one of the bags and waited.

Vittorio came around a corner, his hat off, wiping his brow.

“What happened?”

“She ran on me,” Vittorio said. “She went into the police station, where I didn’t want to follow her, and when I finally did, she was gone; she’d run out a side door into an alley, and I wasn’t able to find her.”

“Right,” Cupie said, trying not to sound nasty. He opened his cell phone and called Eagle. “We’ve got a problem,” he said into the phone, and then he explained what happened.

Eagle was annoyed but calm. “Now what?”

“Now we track her down,” Cupie said. “We’ve got her luggage, so all she’s got are the clothes on her back and her handbag. One thing we could do, is I could file a complaint with the police for her shooting me, and we might get some help.”

“What the hell, do it,” Eagle said, “and keep in touch.”

Cupie closed the phone. “I’m going to file a complaint,” he said, picking up Barbara’s bag and handing it to Vittorio. “Hold this; I want to see what’s inside.”

Vittorio cradled the case in his arms while Cupie went through it. Underwear, clothes, shoes, no documents. “Nothing of any use,” he said. “I was hoping, maybe, for a bank book.”

“Let’s see if she’s at the bank,” Vittorio said.

“Good idea. You know which bank?”

Vittorio shook his head.

“Tell you what, you work both sides of the street, here, check all the banks, and I’ll go talk to the boys at the el copo shopo.”

Vittorio nodded.

“And take your bag and hers, will you? I can’t handle more than mine.”

Vittorio slung his own bag over his shoulder by its strap and pulled out the handle on Barbara’s suitcase, so it would roll. “I’ll meet you back here in a few minutes,” he said.

Cupie nodded and went into the police station. Using his serviceable Spanish, he asked for the captain and was immediately shown to an office behind the front desk.

“Buenos días,” the captain said. He was a plump man with the inevitable Pancho Villa moustache. “How may I help you, señor?” he said in good English.

Cupie handed the man his LAPD I.D. and his card. “I am a retired Los Angeles detective sergeant, now working as a private investigator,” he said. “My client’s wife stole money from him and left for Mexico City. When I found her there, she shot me with a small handgun.” He reached into his pocket and produced the .25 automatic he had taken from Barbara, along with its magazine. “It’s unloaded.”

The captain racked the little slide and set the gun down, satisfied. “You wish her to be arrested?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Where is she?”

“Somewhere in Puerto Vallarta. She ran from my partner.”

The captain nodded, reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a two-sided form. He asked Cupie an interminable list of questions, laboriously entering the information in the spaces provided, then asked Cupie to sign it.

Cupie signed. “If you find her, I’ll take her off your hands,” he said. “And my client would be very grateful to you, personally.”

“How grateful, señor?”

“I might be able to persuade him to be grateful this much,” Cupie said, holding up five fingers. “Big ones.”

The captain nodded. “Where may I reach you?” Cupie gave the man his cell phone number, shook his hand and left.

Outside, Vittorio was waiting in a dusty taxi. Cupie tossed his bag into the trunk and got in.

“You think the policía will be of any use?”

“I promised him five grand,” Cupie said. “He knows the town better than I do. How about you?”

“Better than me, too.”

“I take it you had no luck at the banks.”

“Oh, I did, in the third bank I visited. She closed her account and took twenty-five grand in dollars and the rest in thousand-dollar cashier’s checks.”

“So much for Eagle’s getting his hands on the three hundred grand. He told me to tell her he’d do that, if she didn’t sign. I take it she didn’t sign?”

Vittorio tipped his hat down over his eyes and ignored the question. “She rented a Jeep Grand Cherokee and asked for a map and directions to Acapulco.”

“You think she actually went there?”

“She left a ten-thousand-dollar deposit and was told she could get a refund of her change at the firm’s Acapulco office. I don’t think the lady is the type to go somewhere else in those circumstances, do you?”

“I guess not,” Cupie said. “Driver, the airport.”

“That’s what I figured.”

“We’ll beat her there,” Cupie said, resting his head against the seat back and sighing deeply. He got out his cell phone and reported to Ed Eagle.

Seventeen

EAGLE HUNG UP THE PHONE AND TURNED TO WOLF Willett. “She got away from them in Puerto Vallarta, and she’s apparently headed for Acapulco.”

“Hitting all the high spots, huh?”

“It’s like her.”

“Well, at least she didn’t kill you.”

“Oh, she’s already planned that.”

“How do you mean?”

“She’s paid some guy twenty-five thousand dollars of my money to take me out. Fortunately, he’s in jail for another couple of weeks, but he’s hired another guy, a sort of sub-hitman, who gets out tomorrow. Client of mine overheard them talking about it in the can.”

Wolf sighed. “I’m so glad my life isn’t as interesting as yours.”

The phone rang, and Eagle picked it up. “Yes?”

“Russell Norris on the phone.”

Eagle pressed the button. “Russell?”

“Hi. I just left the bank, and we got really lucky. The balance in the Mexico City account is being wired back to the Santa Fe account from which it was sent, less a few hundred dollars for the investigator and administrative fees.”

“Russell, you’re a jewel. Take a couple of days in Mexico on me, then send me your bill.”

“Thanks, but I’ve gotta get back to my office; I’ll fax you a bill tomorrow.”

“You have my gratitude; if you ever need a reference, use my name.” Eagle hung up. “Now there’s some good news: I’m getting seven hundred and something thousand back from the Mexican bank.”

“That’s terrific. Now all you have to do is not get killed tomorrow, divorce your wife and you’re in great shape.”

Eagle looked at his watch. “I’ve got a hearing in half an hour.”

Both men stood up and shook hands. “Call me for some golf, if you’re still alive,” Wolf said.

“I’ll do that.”

EAGLE ARRIVED in the courtroom, and the bailiff told him his client was waiting in a holding cell.

“The judge is going to take a thirty-minute recess in a few minutes, and then he’ll hear your motion,” the bailiff said.

Eagle nodded and took a seat in the front row. Bob Martinez was questioning a witness and, apparently, getting nowhere.

A man came over and sat down next to Eagle. “Mr. Eagle, I’m Tom Cartwright, your witness.”

Eagle shook his hand, got up and led the man out into the hall.

“Mr. Cartwright, I really appreciate your coming, and so does Joe Big Bear.”

“The guy did a good job on my car; it’s the least I can do for an innocent man.”

“Let me ask you some questions, now, the same ones I’m going to ask when you’re on the stand.”

“Shoot.”

Eagle took him quickly through his testimony, then sat him down on a bench in the hallway and went back into the courtroom as Martinez finished questioning his witness.

“Mr. Eagle?” the judge said.

“Ready, Judge. He took a seat at the defense table, as Joe Big Bear was led into the courtroom, wearing an orange jumpsuit.

“Mr. Martinez?” the judge said.

“Ready, your honor.”

Eagle had Big Bear sworn and took him through his testimony, establishing his story, then he called Cartwright, who was duly sworn.

“Mr. Cartwright, are you acquainted with Joe Big Bear?”

“I certainly am. He fixed my car; did a good job.”

“Did you ever know him before that day?”

“No, I got his number off a bulletin board at Pep Boys parts shop.”

The mention of Pep Boys jogged something in Eagle’s head, but he couldn’t place it, so he continued. “Mr. Cartwright, on the day in question, what time did Mr. Big Bear arrive at your house?”

“Around one-thirty.”

“And what time did he finish his work and depart?”

“Four-thirty, quarter to five.”

“Was he there for the entire time?”

“He was.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I was in my home office all afternoon, and I could see him out the window, working on my car in the driveway.”

“Your witness,” he said to Martinez.

Martinez stood up. “Mr. Cartwright, you said you didn’t know Mr. Big Bear before that day?”

“That’s right; never set eyes on him before, until he came to my house that day.”

“Are you related to Mr. Big Bear by blood or marriage?”

“No, sir.”

“Were you acquainted with Mr. Big Bear’s girlfriend?”

“Didn’t know he had one, until I read it in the New Mexican.”

“No further questions.” Martinez sat down.

“Mr. Eagle, you have a motion?”

“Yes, your honor.” He reached into his briefcase and removed the coroner’s report. “Judge, the coroner has established that the murders in Mr. Big Bear’s trailer occurred between two and four in the afternoon. Every minute of Mr. Big Bear’s day has been accounted for—I’m sure the district attorney’s investigators can confirm that—and, in particular, Mr. Cartwright’s testimony has confirmed that Mr. Big Bear could not possibly have committed these murders. Therefore I move for dismissal of all charges and the immediate release of Mr. Big Bear.”

“Mr. Martinez?” the judge said.

“No objection, your honor.”

“The charges are dismissed for lack of evidence. Mr. Big Bear, you’ll be returned to the Santa Fe County Correctional Center and processed out today.”

Joe Big Bear pumped Eagle’s hand. “Thank you, Mr. Eagle!” he said.

Eagle took him to one side of the courtroom and spoke to him quietly. “Joe, let’s talk about my fee.”

“I’d like to work it off, or pay you overtime,” Big Bear said.

“There’s an easier way,” Eagle said. “Do you own a gun?”

“Yessir, I’ve got a shotgun—or at least the police have it—and I’ve got a handgun under the seat of my truck.”

“This hired killer you told me about is getting out of jail at ten o’clock tomorrow morning, right?”

“That’s what he said.”

“And he’s going to meet this woman in the parking lot who’s going to give him some money?”

“That’s right.”

“After that’s done, I’d like you to meet this gentleman and persuade him not to carry out his contract. You think you can do that?”

“One way or another.”

“Joe, I don’t want you to commit any crimes in the process; we just got you out. Now let’s keep you out, all right?”

“I got you, Mr. Eagle.”

“I wanted to know if you had the gun only for purposes of self-defense.”

“I understand.”

“Then I want you to ask this fellow who it was who hired him and when he’s getting out, and when he does, I want you to have a similar conversation with him. Tell him he can keep the money, because my wife isn’t coming back to Santa Fe. In both cases, you can use the threat of calling the police on them, since you overheard their conversation.”

“I understand.”

Eagle pressed five one-hundred-dollar bills into Big Bear’s hand. “This will cover your expenses, including cab fare back to your truck. Keep me posted on your progress, will you?”

“Yessir.”

“When this is done, you won’t owe me a dime.”

“Thank you, Mr. Eagle.”

Eagle shook his hand and left the courthouse, relieved that the situation had been taken care of.

Eighteen

CUPIE AND VITTORIO LANDED AT ACAPULCO AND WENT to the airport car rental counter. The only thing available was a huge Toyota 4Runner.

“I hate cars this big,” Cupie said, hoisting himself into the front passenger seat.

“Truck,” Vittorio replied.

“Whatever. How do we know Barbara is really on her way to Acapulco?” Cupie was flexing his left shoulder.

“The woman knows nothing about Mexico,” Vittorio said, “just the hot spots. Eagle said Puerto Vallarta was the only place here she’d ever been, but she’s heard of Acapulco, and since we’ve got her clothes, she needs a place with fancy shops. I think this is where we’ll find her.”

“Good point. Let’s make the rounds of a few hotels and buy some desk clerks, so we’ll get a call when she checks in.” Cupie took off his sling and flexed his shoulder some more.

“How’s the shoulder?” Vittorio asked.

“Better,” Cupie replied. “I need to stretch it some, so I’m ditching the sling. I also need a suit without a bullet hole in it. The hotel in Mexico city sent it to the cleaners, but they didn’t fix the hole.”

Their first stop was the Acapulco Princess, in one of whose shops Cupie found a seersucker suit and waited while the trouser bottoms were hemmed. Then they continued to another few likely hotels, leaving a trail of Ed Eagle’s hundred-dollar bills.

“I just thought of something,” Cupie said.

“What?”

“If somebody at Barbara’s bank made a call to the kidnappers about her three hundred grand, I’ll bet the same party has already made another call. I mean, she’s still got the three hundred grand, and she doesn’t even have to get it out of the bank; all she has to do is countersign the traveler’s checks, and the kidnappers can probably persuade her to do that.”

“She’ll probably sign them Minnie Mouse,” Vittorio said drily. “And they don’t know where she is.”

“If you figured out where she went, so can the kidnappers. Three hundred grand is a great incentive not to give up.”

“In that case,” Vittorio said, “they’re probably only an hour or two behind her, maybe less.”

“A scary thought,” Cupie said. “Maybe it will scare her when we tell her.” He studied the map the rental car agent had given them. “You know,” he said, “the main road from Puerto Vallarta is only a couple of blocks from where we are right now. Why don’t we just drive over there, park, and wait for her to show up?”

“Good idea.”

“You said she rented a Cherokee?”

“A Grand Cherokee is what the agent said. Red.”

“What a nice color; pops right out.”

Cupie directed Vittorio to the highway, and they found a spot a little way up a hill that gave them a view for half a mile up the road. They parked and settled in to wait.

“You an Angelino?” Vittorio asked.

“Grew up out in the San Fernando Valley,” Cupie replied. “Roy Rogers used to sing a song about it. Made me proud.”

“College?”

“Two years of night school. Wish I’d gotten a degree; I might have made lieutenant or even captain. You?”

“Grew up on the reservation, got a degree at Santa Fe State, did four years with the tribal police. Boring. Found out I was good at tracking people. I guess it’s a genetic thing; Apaches are great trackers. The signs you follow these days are different, of course. Instead of going rock to rock, you go cheap motel to cheap motel. If I had a hundred bucks for every cheap motel door I’ve kicked in, I could retire.”

“Me, too. Family?”

“Nah, I like single.”

“Girl?”

“I go from woman to woman; best not to get tied down. When I get to where I need somebody to cut my meat and wipe my chin, I’ll settle down. You?”

“Wife died six years ago—cancer. I’ve got a daughter graduating from UCLA next year. She wants to join the LAPD. Can’t seem to talk her out of it.”

“UCLA sounds expensive.”

“I live on my pension; the P.I. work pays for UCLA. Maybe when she’s out on her own I’ll just play golf all the time.”

“I play golf,” Vittorio said.

“Yeah? I never saw an Indian on a golf course.”

“Maybe not in L.A.”

“Something red,” Cupie said.

“Indians aren’t red.”

Cupie nodded. “Up the road, something red.”

Vittorio squinted, then produced a small pair of binoculars from a pocket. “Grand Cherokee,” he said.

“Check out four cars back.”

Vittorio moved the binoculars slightly. “Black Suburban,” he said, “with black windows. Trying to get around the traffic.”

Cupie sighed. “Here we go again.”

Nineteen

VITTORIO STARTED THE CAR, AND AS SOON AS THE BLACK Suburban passed, he gunned the V-8 engine and forced his way into the line of traffic, nearly causing a multicar accident.

“What the hell are you doing?” Cupie demanded, struggling to get his seat belt on.

“Is it the same Suburban?”

“Don’t you see the bullet hole in the rear window?”

“Right. Hang on; big curve coming up.”

“What’s your plan, Vittorio? If we chase these guys, they’re eventually going to get out of their car and shoot at us. You want to get shot at again?”

“Nope, I want to avoid getting shot at.”

They entered a sharp curve to the left, and Vittorio stomped on the accelerator again.

“Slow down!” Cupie yelled. “You want to hit them?”

“Yeah,” Vittorio said, his face screwed up with concentration.

“You’re tailgating!”

“Shut up, Cupie.” Well into the curve Vittorio pulled to the left, brought his front bumper in line with the Suburban’s rear bumper and jerked the wheel hard to the right. The bumpers connected, and the rear end of the Suburban began sliding to the right. It continued sliding until the big vehicle had rotated about a hundred and fifty degrees, then its rear wheels left the road and the Suburban began to travel, backward, down a steep, dirt embankment and toward a big copse of thick brush.

“Holy shit!” Cupie yelled.

They passed the Suburban when it had already reached the brush and was tearing, backward, into it.

“Where the hell did you learn to do that?”

“I used to drive in demolition derbies when I was a kid,” Vittorio said, permitting himself a rare, small smile. “Look back. Did they turn over?”

“No, but they’re still going backward.”

“Shit! I wanted to roll them over. I guess I’m a little rusty.”

“They’re going to be busy for a while, getting out of those brambles and back on the road.”

“Barbara is still three cars ahead of us,” Vittorio said, pointing.

“Good. Let’s hang back until she parks the car, then reintroduce ourselves.”

They followed the red Grand Cherokee into the shopping district of the village and watched Barbara park in front of a restaurant and go inside. They jumped down from the big Toyota and followed her.

The headwaiter was seating Barbara in a booth at the rear of the restaurant, and when he returned, Cupie waved him off. “We’re with the lady,” he said, brushing past the man.

Barbara didn’t see them coming until Cupie slid into the booth beside her and Vittorio sat opposite.

“Good afternoon,” Cupie said. “I missed lunch, too. What kind of food they got here?” He looked over her shoulder at the menu.

“Mexican,” she said acidly, glaring at him. “Why don’t you two guys just leave me alone?”

“Because if we do that, you’ll be kidnapped,” Cupie replied. “Didn’t you see the big black Suburban following you as you drove into Acapulco?”

“Liar.”

“No lie, sweetheart. Vittorio, here, managed to run them off the road in a way that must have been very embarrassing for them, but they’ll be back. This is the second time your bank gave them a call.”

“I’m having the combination plate,” she said, handing Cupie the menu.

A waitress came over, and she ordered.

“Whatever she’s having,” Cupie said.

Vittorio nodded. “Same here.”

“And three Carta Blancas,” Cupie added.

“Well, this is very cozy,” Barbara said. “How about if I cause a big scene, and they call the cops. Would you like that?”

“Okay by me,” Cupie said. “But you should know that I paid the cops in Puerto Vallarta a visit and swore out a complaint against you for shooting me, so they’re looking for you all over the country right now.”

“Lying again.”

“Would you like me to ask the headwaiter to call them?” Cupie asked, waving at the man, who started over.

“No!” she said.

Cupie waved off the man as their beers arrived, then he took a big swig. “Ahhhh,” he said, “that hits the spot.” He turned back to Barbara. “So let’s recap,” he said. “You’ve got three parties who insist on your company: the cops, the kidnappers and us. The cops will lock you away in a jail that will not meet your housekeeping standards and make you eat beans and rice with people you wouldn’t ordinarily see at dinner; on the other hand, the kidnappers will hurt you until you countersign all the travelers’ checks in your purse—they won’t take kindly to Minnie Mouse—then they’ll gang-rape you and leave you in an arroyo with a bullet in your brain; but all Vittorio and I want is for you to sign six blank sheets of paper, and then we’ll leave you alone. Who do you choose?”

Barbara took a pull on her beer. “I’m thinking it over,” she said.

“Any one of the options will meet our client’s wishes,” Cupie said, helpfully.

“And you…What’s your name?”

“Cupie Dalton, at your service.”

“And what do you and the grim savage, here, really want?”

“Only to be of service to our client, your very concerned husband.”

“Could you use ten thousand dollars each, in cash?”

“Why madam, are you trying to bribe us?”

“Because that’s what I’ll give you to get me out of this country, without being arrested or kidnapped, and back into the United States.”

Vittorio placed a file on the table, opened it and produced a pen. “Sign six sheets of paper with your proper name, and we’ll accept your offer.”

Cupie spoke up again. “Just sign the papers, take the three hundred grand and we’ll head to El Norte.”

Barbara picked up the pen, signed each of the papers, then put down the pen.

Vittorio examined the signatures, closed the file and put it away.

“Now,” she said, “do we have a deal?”

“Sure, why not?” Cupie asked.

“Well, I want to finish my lunch and get some sleep before we head out.”

“I guess we could use some lunch and some sleep, too.”

As if on cue, lunch arrived.

“I wouldn’t drink the water,” Cupie said. “Stick to beer for everything but showering.”

They dug in.

“Oh, I forgot,” Cupie said. “Your husband told us to tell you that your plan to have him murdered didn’t work. The guy you hired and his accomplice are in jail.”

They finished lunch, Cupie paid the check and they got up to leave. “Let me just remind you,” he said. “We already have what we want, so in effect, we’re now working for you. However, we do wish to be paid in advance; so we’d better go to a bank, so you can cash some traveler’s checks.”

“All right,” she said. “I have to turn in my rental car and get my deposit back, too.”

A few minutes later, Cupie and Vittorio were tucking cash into their pockets.

“Remember,” Cupie said, “if you want to scamper now, go right ahead, but you won’t have our protection any more, and bad people will be looking for you.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Barbara said. “I’m tired; let’s find a hotel.”

Twenty

JOE BIG BEAR SAT IN HIS TRUCK OUTSIDE THE SANTA FE County Corrections Center and waited, eyeing the woman in the car across the lot, wearing a red bandanna on her head. She was better looking than he had expected.

A few minutes after ten, the side door of the building was opened by a guard, and a dozen or fifteen men walked out of the building, blinking in the bright sunlight. Big Bear knew two of them by name, though not personally. The one called Bobby walked directly over to the car of the woman in the bandanna and got in. A short conversation ensued, then she handed him an envelope. He inspected the contents carefully, then some sort of argument ensued. After a moment of this, Bobby got out of the car, looking out of sorts, and the woman drove away. Bobby began to hoof it down the street toward the bus stop.

Big Bear drove out of the parking lot and pulled alongside the man. “Hey, Bobby, you need a lift?”

Bobby eyed him suspiciously. “Do I know you?”

“I got out yesterday. Come on, hop in.”

Bobby got into the car. “Oh yeah, I seen you in the yard. How come you’re giving me a lift?”

“Just passing by, and I saw you.”

“You wasn’t passing by; you was parked in the lot back there. You haven’t asked me where I’m going.”

“Oh, I know where you’re going,” Big Bear said. He reached down and pressed the switch that locked the doors. “Fasten your seat belt,” he said. “It’s the law.”

Bobby reluctantly put on his seat belt. “What’s going on?” he asked.

“I’m saving your life,” Big Bear replied.

“How’s that?”

“It’s like this: if you’d gone on your way and tried to kill Mr. Eagle, you’d end up with a bullet in your head.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m talking about the grand in your pocket and eleven more that what’s-his-name promised you.”

“Harold?”

“Yeah, Harold. What’s his last name? I forget.”

“Fuentes.”

“Yeah, Harold Fuentes. He the big guy with the bald head?”

“No, he’s the medium-size guy with the gray hair and the ponytail.”

“Right. Got it.”

“How do you know about this, anyway?”

“Word gets around,” Big Bear said. “It’s like this: Harold hired you to kill Mr. Eagle because he isn’t getting out for a couple of weeks. So he hires you, and that way, when Mr. Eagle dies, he’s in jail. Pretty good alibi, huh?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“And then, when Harold gets out, he meets you to give you the other eleven grand he promised you, and instead, he gives you a bullet. You’re gone, and he keeps all the money. The cops don’t much care who killed you, at least not the way they’d care who killed Mr. Eagle. Get the picture?”

Bobby gave a low whistle. “Man, I really bit, didn’t I?”

“You sure did.”

“But where are we going?”

Big Bear pulled over to the curb in front of the bus station. “We’re there,” he said, “and we’re about to save your life.”

“How?”

“It’s like this: you take some of the grand and you go inside and buy a bus ticket.”

“To where?”

“Anywhere you like, Bobby; that’s the beauty of this thing. You’re free as a bird, and you’ve got a thousand dollars in your pocket.”

“But I like it here, in Santa Fe.”

“Not anymore, Bobby. Santa Fe isn’t the place for you anymore.”

“Why not?”

“Two reasons: one, because when Harold gets out, he’ll kill you for not killing Mr. Eagle. Of course, he was always going to kill you.”

“I can handle Harold. What’s the other reason?”

Big Bear reached under his jean jacket, pulled out the Colt Python and pointed it at Bobby. “The other reason is that if you don’t go in there and get on a bus, I’m gonna kill you. Same if you should come back to Santa Fe. Now, is all that perfectly clear?”

“I guess so.”

“Don’t guess, Bobby.”

“It’s clear.”

“And don’t think things are going to improve if you wait awhile, because Harold will still be here, and I’ll still be here, too.” Big Bear unlocked the doors. “Go ahead. I’ll wait until I see you on a bus. Be sure and wave.”

“Well, thanks for the lift,” Bobby said. He got out of the truck and headed for the bus station.

Big Bear waited until the next bus pulled out, and he saw Bobby waving from a window. He started the engine, turned around and drove back to the jail. He shoved the pistol under his seat then went inside, presented himself at the visitors’ window and asked to see Harold Fuentes.

After a half-hour’s wait, a man with gray hair and a ponytail walked into the visiting room and sat down at a table, looking around for a familiar face. Big Bear walked over and sat down at the table. “Hey, Harold,” he said.

“Who the fuck are you?” Fuentes asked.

“I’m the guy who’s bringing you the good news,” Big Bear said.

“What good news?”

“You just made, what, twenty-four thousand dollars, and you didn’t have to do anything for it.”

Fuentes looked around warily. “What are you talking about?”

“It’s like this, Harold: the party who paid you the money is now in Mexico and is never coming back.”

“How do you know this?”

“I know all sorts of things you don’t know, Harold. For instance, I know that Bobby, the guy you hired to do the dirty work, is, right now, on a bus out of town, and he’s not coming back. So, you don’t have to kill him, and, of course, you don’t have to kill Mr. Eagle. When you get out, you just spend the money, without a care in the world.”

“And you’re sure about all this?”

“I’m absolutely positive, Harold.”

“Is that all you’ve got to tell me?”

“Just one more thing, Harold: if you should somehow forget all this and take it into your mind to harm Mr. Eagle anyway, I’m going to blow your fucking head off. Got that?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Have a nice stay here, Harold, and enjoy yourself when you get out.”

Harold stood up. “I’ll do my best. Oh, and thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” Big Bear said. “Not to anybody.” He got up and left the jail.

Once in the parking lot, he called Ed Eagle’s office and asked for the lawyer.

“Joe, it’s Eagle.”

“Good morning, Mr. Eagle. I just wanted you to know that the little problem you mentioned to me has been taken care of.”

“Peacefully?”

“Absolutely.”

“And you’ll see the other guy, when he gets out?”

“I visited him in jail. He was very happy to hear that he gets to keep the money without having to earn it. I put the other fellow on a bus out of town, and he won’t be back. We all square on my legal costs?”

“What legal costs?” Eagle asked. “Thanks, and good-bye, Joe.”

“Bye-bye, Mr. Eagle.”

Twenty-one

CUPIE GOT UP, SHOWERED AND SHAVED, THEN TURNED over the bathroom to Vittorio. He walked next door and rapped on Barbara’s door. “Good morning!” he shouted.

No reply.

“Answer me, or I’ll kick down the door,” Cupie said, wondering if she had flown the coop again.

“All right, all right,” she said.

“I’m going to go and change cars, and Vittorio and I will meet you in the restaurant for breakfast.”

“All right.”

Cupie got into the Toyota 4Runner, drove to the rental car office and exchanged it for a Camry. “The SUV is too big,” he explained to the clerk.

“Whatever you say, señor,” the woman replied.

“Can I drop the car at any of your offices?”

“As long as you drop it in Mexico,” the woman said. “You cross the border in it, and there’s no insurance and big trouble.”

Cupie drove back to the hotel and found Vittorio and Barbara silently eating breakfast. He sat down and ordered eggs and bacon.

“How are we going to do this?” Barbara asked.

“It’s fairly simple,” Cupie replied. “We drive to the airport and put you on the flight of your choice.”

“I’m paying you guys twenty thousand dollars for a ride to the airport?”

“A ride to the airport with armed guards,” Cupie explained. “Otherwise, it’s a long drive to the border.”

“What if the kidnappers or the police are watching the airport?”

“Then we’ll take a long drive to the border.”

“You got a new car?” Vittorio asked.

“Yeah, a nice Toyota Camry, anonymous green. Did you call Mr. Eagle?”

“Yeah, and he was very pleased. I’m going to drop off the paperwork at the Federal Express counter at the airport, then we’re done.”

“Not until my plane takes off,” Barbara said.

“Then we’re done with Mr. Eagle.”

“Funny, so am I.”

They finished their breakfast and loaded the luggage into the car.

Cupie opened the back door for her. “I’d like it if you’d lie down on the seat,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want to get unlucky. If certain people can’t see you, we’ll be luckier.”

“Oh, all right,” she groused.

“Unless you’d rather have people shooting at you through the windows.”

“I said all right, okay?” She got into the car and made herself comfortable.

“Then we’re off.”

“I’ll drive,” Vittorio said.

“Yeah, Geronimo, you got all the moves,” Cupie replied, sliding into the passenger seat.

“Wrong evil Indian; it’s Vittorio.”

“Whatever. Mrs. Eagle, what is your preferred destination city?”

“I don’t know. Where can you fly to from Acapulco?”

“Well, let’s see: certainly L.A. and San Francisco; maybe Denver, Atlanta, and probably New York.”

“Not L.A.,” she said.

“Bad vibes in L.A.?”

“Bad people.”

“They got those everywhere.”

“There’s bad, and there’s bad.”

“Well, L.A.’s my home sweet home, and that’s where I’m going. I’d love your company on the flight, but suit yourself. How about you, Vittorio?”

“Albuquerque,” Vittorio replied. “My car’s at the airport there.”

“Well, to each his own,” Cupie said. “What I think I’m going to do when I get home is take my daughter out to a really good restaurant and encourage her to go to law school.”

“Why law school?”

“Well, it might make her forget about joining the LAPD, and get her into the D.A.’s office, instead. And if it doesn’t, the law degree will impress the LAPD recruiters.”

“Lawyers are not nice people,” the voice from the backseat said. “I’ve seen too many lawyers the past few years and been married to one. Tell her to major in fashion design.”

“How would she ever meet an eligible, heterosexual man in the fashion business?” Cupie asked.

“You’d be surprised. Of course, the straight ones are very, very busy.”

“Next turn for the airport,” Cupie said.

“I saw the sign,” Vittorio replied drily. He made the turn. “I’ll drop you two off at curbside check-in, then I’ll turn in the car and find you inside.”

“Okay,” Cupie replied, “but don’t drive away until I’ve had a look around and give you the high sign.”

“The high sign?”

“Like a thumbs-up.”

“Oh.”

“Which airline?”

“Doesn’t matter; we’re not going to check in at curbside anyway. I don’t like it with all the cars driving by.”

“Uh-oh,” Vittorio said.

“What?” Cupie replied.

“Black suburban, battered, bullet hole in the rear window, at twelve o’clock, curbside.”

“Where?” Barbara asked, sitting up.

Cupie pushed her back down in the backseat. “I swear, you just want to be a duck in a shooting gallery, don’t you?” Cupie watched as the driver got out of the Suburban and strolled over to two Mexican police officers loafing on the curb.

“Just keep driving, Vittorio.”

“What, you thought I was going to stop and ask directions?” Vittorio asked.

Twenty-two

EAGLE HUNG UP THE PHONE FROM HIS CONVERSATION with Vittorio. He felt relieved, relaxed, clean, as if after a sauna and a massage. In one day, perhaps two, he’d have the blank sheets with Barbara’s signature, and life would be sweet again. So it had cost him three hundred thousand dollars plus the fees and expenses of Cupie, Vittorio and Russell Norris, say another fifty thousand. So what? It would be the cheapest divorce he could ever have obtained. Barbara had shot herself in the foot!

Apart from that, he had rid himself of one, possibly two, hit men and won Joe Big Bear’s case in court. All in all, it made him feel like playing golf when he should be working. It was more fun, if he should be working. He called Wolf Willett.

“You up for some golf?”

“Sounds like more fun than working,” Wolf said.

“Half an hour?”

“Done.”

HALF AN HOUR LATER they were on the first tee, looking at a very straightforward par four, three hundred and seventy-five yards. Wolf hit a nice straight drive. So did Eagle, but ten yards shorter.

“I’ve never understood why you can’t translate all that height of yours into length on the golf course,” Wolf said smugly. “I mean, I’m nearly a foot shorter than you, and I just outdrove you.”

“I want to encourage you,” Eagle said. “Later, when there’s more money involved, I’ll get longer.”

VITTORIO DROVE AWAY from the airport, then pulled over onto the shoulder of the highway. “I guess we can wait them out,” he said. “Check back every hour.”

“We got lucky that time,” Cupie said. “They were dumb enough to park that tank outside. Next time, they might be inside the terminal, and we only know what one of them looks like. Let’s drive to Puerto Vallarta and try the airport there.”

“Okay by me,” Vittorio said. “What about you, Babs?”

“You guys are nuts,” she said.

“What? We just earned our ten grand each, protecting you from the kidnappers; the rest is a free ride for you.”

“Let’s get going,” she said. At least, she had stopped popping up out of the backseat every ten minutes.

“Just relax, baby,” Cupie said, “and we’ll get you home. Wherever that is.”

“Shut up and drive,” she said.

Vittorio put the car in gear and headed for Puerto Vallarta.

THEY LEFT THE COURSE after nine holes and went to the clubhouse for some lunch. Eagle told Wolf about his feelings of relief and safety.

“Relieved and safe is a good way to be,” Wolf agreed. “Of course, there’s another woman out there somewhere, just waiting to do it to you all over again.”

“You mean you think they’re all thieves and murderers?”

“No, just our first wives. Maybe you’ll get lucky next time, the way I did.”

“You did get lucky, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, and now when I pay my film editor, the money stays in the family. And not only that, when she’s not working with me, she goes out and earns a very nice buck working for other filmmakers.”

“Now that is devoutly to be wished,” Eagle said, wonder in his voice. “To think that I was happy this morning, thinking all my wife had cost me was three hundred and fifty grand, and your wife is out there, bringing home the bacon.”

“The eggs, too, in a good year.”

“I’m never, ever, ever going to get married again,” Eagle said. “I should never have done it in the first place.”

“That’s not good thinking,” Wolf said. “Goes against the natural order of things.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that man is not meant to be alone; he craves companionship.”

“And sex.”

“That, too.”

“I got news for you, pal: from now on, dinner and a roll in the hay is enough companionship and sex for me. Maybe a dirty weekend now and then.”

“Yeah, but you’re not getting that warm, family feeling around the holidays.”

“I’ll sleep through the holidays.”

“Yes, and alone.”

“I HAVE TO PEE,” Barbara said.

“I’ll let you know when we’re at the next gas station,” Vittorio replied.

“I have to pee right now,” she said. “The road is bumpy.”

“Then you’re going to have to make do with a cactus for a bathroom.”

“Let me worry about that.”

Vittorio pulled over. “There’s a nice one right over there,” he said. “Some bushes, too.”

Barbara got out of the car and picked her way across twenty yards of desert in her high heels to a clump of flora.

“Uh-oh,” Vittorio said. He was looking in the rearview mirror.

Cupie swiveled his head around and looked back down the long, straight highway. “It’s a black dot,” he said.

“Right.”

“Gimme those binoculars of yours.” Cupie focused on the black dot. “Uh-oh,” he said. He rolled down the window, letting in a gust of hot, dry air. “Barbara!”

“Just a minute,” she yelled.

“Stay where you are,” Cupie called. “Car coming.”

“Big deal!”

“I hope not, but it could be.” Cupie watched through the glasses as the black dot got bigger. “Take off your hat,” Cupie said.

“What?”

“Vittorio, they may not remember you, but they’ll remember that fucking hat.”

Vittorio took off his campaign hat and dropped it on the floor. “You know what I wish?” he said.

“What?”

“I wish I had a heavy machine gun.”

Cupie was still glued to the binoculars. “It’s a black SUV,” he said. “I wish I had a hand grenade.”

Twenty-three

CUPIE AND VITTORIO WERE HOLDING UP A MAP, CONCEALING their handguns beneath it, when the black Suburban pulled alongside them and stopped. A window slid down, and two men grinned at them from the front seat. They couldn’t see who was in the backseat.

“Buenos días, señores,” the man in the passenger seat said. He was middle-aged, mustachioed, bad teeth.

“Hiya,” Cupie yelled, smiling, too. “You speaka the English?”

“Of course, señor,” the man replied. “Do you need help?”

“We’re just looking for the best way to Juárez.”

“You go straight ahead, all the way to Tijuana, then turn right on highway number two, and that takes you all the way to Juárez.”

Cupie looked at the map, puzzled. “Wouldn’t it be shorter to go more cross-country?”

“Yes, señor, but the roads are not so very good, and, of course, there are the banditos.”

“Oh, I see. Well, it sounds more exciting that way. Thanks very much.”

The rear window of the Suburban slid down a couple of inches and a pair of eyes appeared, looking into the rear seat of the Toyota, then it slid up again.

“Adiós, señores,” the front passenger said. “Vaya con Dios!” The Suburban roared away.

“Speaking of banditos,” Vittorio said, “that guy looked just like the bandit in Treasure of the Sierra Madre. The ‘We ain’t got no steenking badges’ guy.”

“Yeah, and his intentions are pretty much the same.” Cupie looked over to see Barbara coming. “Get back in the bushes!” he yelled, and she turned around and disappeared again. He turned back to Vittorio. “You think they bought it?”

“Well, they didn’t see the lady, did they?”

“I don’t think they bought it.” Cupie yelled out the window. “All right, they’re gone; get back in the car.”

Barbara made her way back to the Toyota and got in. “Was it them?”

“You bet your sweet ass it was,” Vittorio said.

“Where did they go?”

“Straight ahead.”

“Then let’s turn around and go back to the Acapulco airport.”

Vittorio shook his head. “The driver of the Suburban talked to the cops there; they’ll be looking for you.”

“He’s right,” Cupie agreed, “and they’re probably on the phone right now, giving them a description of us and our car.”

“So what do we do?” she asked.

“Let’s make a pass at the Puerto Vallarta airport,” Cupie said, “and if it’s staked out, we’ll just go straight on to Tijuana and walk across the border. We’ll get you a cab to the San Diego airport, and you’re free as a bird.”

“Sounds right to me,” Vittorio said. “You on board, Babs?”

“Do I have a choice?”

Vittorio put the car in gear and drove off, dawdling along at fifty miles an hour. “Let’s let them gain a little on us,” he said.

EAGLE WAS BACK at his desk at three o’clock, showered and relaxed.

Betty buzzed him. “That realtor, Sally Potter, is on the phone.”

Eagle picked it up. “Hi, Sally.”

“Hi, Ed. I just sold a house; you up for a closing?”

“Sure, send me the contract.”

“I’ll have the buyer bring it over; you in all afternoon?”

“I’ll be here until five.”

“You’re not breaking a sweat over there, are you?”

“Not so’s you’d notice.”

“The buyer will be there in twenty minutes.”

“I’ll dust off the welcome mat.” He hung up. Sally Potter and other realtors often recommended him as an attorney for house buyers. He did forty or fifty closings a year, and an assistant did all the work. It paid for the copying machine and the phone bill, he reckoned.

TWENTY MINUTES LATER, Betty buzzed him. “Your buyer is here,” she said.

“Send him in.”

There was a chuckle from the other end of the line, and Betty hung up.

Eagle looked up to see a knockout blonde walk into his office. She was in her thirties, five-seven, a hundred and twenty-five pounds, wearing tight, starched jeans, a fringed buckskin jacket and a chambray shirt with the top couple of buttons invitingly undone. Her breasts were contained in about a 36C, and he reckoned it was a cup size too small. Eagle was sure he had seen her someplace before, but he couldn’t place her. He was on his feet in a flash. “Good afternoon. I’m Ed Eagle.”

“Hello,” she said in a throaty voice. “I’m Susannah Wilde.” She held out a hand.

Eagle shook it and waved her to the sofa, taking the chair opposite. The movies, he thought. He didn’t go to the movies much, waiting for them to turn up on satellite TV, but he’d seen her in something. “So, you’ve bought a home in Santa Fe?”

“Yes, I have. The seller accepted my offer a couple of hours ago.” She dug into a large handbag and came out with a paper. “Here’s the contract.”

Eagle scanned the document. A nice place on Tano Norte. A writer had built it and sold it to somebody else, who was now selling it. Three million bucks; Ms. Wilde was either very successful in the movies or handsomely divorced, or both. “Will you require a mortgage?” he asked.

“No, it will be a cash deal.”

“I’ll get a title search done and arrange for title insurance. I can recommend an insurance agent for your homeowner’s policy.”

“Thank you, but Sally has already put me in touch with somebody.”

“What brings you to Santa Fe, Ms. Wilde?”

“Please call me Susannah. I’m an actress, and I live in L.A., but frankly I’m tired of it. I’ve sold my house there, and I’ve found a pied-à-terre for when I’m there on business, but I plan to make my real home here.”

“I know the original owner of your house, and I’ve been there for dinner. It’s a beautiful place. I especially remember the library.”

“Yes, I’m thrilled to have it.”

“When do you want to close?”

“The owner says he can close quickly, so the sooner the better.” She gave him the name of the seller’s attorney.

“A couple of weeks okay?”

“That’s fine with me.”

“Where are you staying?”

“At the Inn of the Anasazi.”

“I’ll call you as soon as we’ve agreed on a closing date. Will you be staying long?”

“I’m going back to L.A. tomorrow, to get moved into my new apartment, but I’ll be back for the closing, and I’ll move in the same day, so can you schedule it for first thing in the morning?”

“Of course.” He took a deep breath. “Would you like to have dinner tonight?”

She smiled. “How kind of you. Is this all part of the service?”

He smiled back. “No, this is a special occasion,” he said.

“I’d love to.” She stood and shook his hand again. “What time?”

“I’ll pick you up at seven-thirty, if that’s all right.”

“I look forward to it.” She turned and walked out of his office.

He watched her go. “Oh, shit,” he whispered to himself. “I may be in trouble again.”

Twenty-four

THEY ENTERED THE OUTSKIRTS OF PUERTO VALLARTA AND saw the airport sign.

“Not yet,” Cupie said. “Drive into town; I got an idea that might buy us a little breathing room.”

“Where do you want to go?” Vittorio asked.

“The police station.”

“I want to get out of here,” Barbara said.

“Of course you do, sweetheart,” Cupie replied, “And I think I can make your trip a little bit safer. Don’t park out front, Vittorio; make it about a block away.”

Vittorio found a parking spot, and Cupie walked down the street to the police station. As before, he was sent to the rear office of the captain, who was sitting at his desk reading a girlie magazine.

“Buenos días, señor,” the captain said, immediately recognizing a man who had promised him a five-thousand-dollar reward.

“And to you, captain,” Cupie said, taking a seat.

“We are looking for your shooting lady very hard,” the captain said. “We have covered all the airports and border crossings.”

“That’s what I came about,” Cupie said. “I want to withdraw the charges against the lady.”

The captain’s face fell. “But, señor, this is not so easy, you know. Much paper has been, how you say, pressed?”

“Pushed.”

“Many man-hours have been expended in the search.”

Yeah, sure, Cupie thought. “I’m aware of that, captain, and my client is very grateful for your cooperation.” Cupie reached into an inside pocket and came out with twenty one-hundred-dollar bills. “He has asked me to personally deliver to you this expression of his gratitude.” He laid the money on the desk. The captain made a motion with his hand, and it disappeared. “Even though the woman was not captured.”

“But she shot you, señor,” the captain said, his voice trembling with outrage. “Surely, you cannot let such an insult pass.”

“My client has made my honor whole,” Cupie said, “and the lady and I have settled our differences.”

“So, you know where she is?”

“She should be in New York by now, I think. Her husband sent a private aircraft for her, and I put her aboard it very early this morning.”

“Señor,” the captain said, “I hesitate to mention this, but I have had reports of two gringos in a Toyota SUV who caused a serious accident outside Acapulco yesterday. I wonder if you are aware of this?”

Cupie put on his most innocent face. “No, I have not heard of it,” he said. “My partner is not a gringo but an Apache Indian. He and I are driving a Toyota, but it is a sedan, not an SUV. I do hope the occupants of this car were not injured.”

The captain shrugged. “Only their pride,” he said. “They are police officers, you see.”

“Ah, any person would be very foolish who would cause an accident to police officers. Having been a policeman, myself, for thirty years, I can understand their displeasure. If you have a description of the two men, I would be happy to keep an eye out for them. Now that our work is done, my friend and I plan to spend a couple of days on the beach.”

“I’m afraid I do not have a description, other than that they are gringos,” the captain said. He stood up and offered his hand. “But this is not your problem, señor; we are perfectly capable of finding them without your assistance.”

Cupie stood up and shook the hand. “I am very sure you will do so, captain. Thank you again for your assistance, and I hope that we may meet again on some more pleasant occasion.”

“Vaya con Dios,” the captain said.

Cupie strolled back to the car and got in. “I think,” he said, “that I may have gotten the dogs called off. I gave the captain two grand and asked him to end the search for our lady friend.”

“You think that will work?” Barbara asked from the rear seat.

“Let’s give the captain an hour to give some orders and then make a run at the airport,” Cupie said. “We’ve still got plan B, Tijuana, in reserve.”

“I’m hungry,” Barbara said.

“Do you think you can eat lying down?” Cupie asked.

“Find me some food, and find me a place where I can eat without being seen,” she commanded.

“Vittorio?”

“Let’s look for a taco stand,” Vittorio said.

Twenty-five

THE THREE OF THEM SAT ON PINE NEEDLES IN A LITTLE patch of woods off the main road, eating tacos and drinking Dos Equis.

“I hope this food doesn’t do things to my digestive tract,” Cupie said.

“It’s cooked,” Vittorio pointed out, “and the beer isn’t going to hurt you.”

Barbara finished her taco and stood up. “Excuse me, while I locate the powder room,” she said, then vanished into the trees.

“There’s something I didn’t mention in front of the lady,” Cupie said.

“Oh, shit.”

“It’s not necessarily bad. The police captain told me his people are looking for the guys in the Toyota 4Runner; that’s you and me.”

Vittorio allowed himself to look minutely alarmed. “And how is that not bad?”

“They don’t have a description of us, just the SUV, and that is now history.”

“I hope it’s history they don’t bother to check with the rental car people.”

“So do I, but I think we’re okay. He took the two grand, made it disappear like a sleight-of-hand artist; that should mollify him. I also told him we put Barbara on a private jet out of here early this morning and that she’s halfway to New York by now.”

“Let’s hope he buys that.”

“He was disappointed, naturally, not to get the whole five grand.”

“Not as disappointed as he was not to get her three hundred grand in travelers checks. The natural state of mind of your average Mexican cop is Greedy, with a capital G.”

“Well, let’s hope he thinks she’s gone.”

“You know what I’d like to do?” Vittorio said. “I’d like to give her the ten grand back and get the first plane out of here to anywhere.”

“I don’t think you’d run out on the lady, after making her a promise, but I’d feel better if we were better armed,” Cupie said.

“I can do something about that,” Vittorio replied.

“You got a secret weapons cache?”

“I got a guy in Mexico city who can deliver anything anywhere. What would you like?”

“A nice twelve-gauge riot gun with an extended magazine would be nice. And a whole lot of double-ought buckshot.”

Vittorio took out his cell phone, checked for a signal and speed-dialed a number. His conversation was brief and in Spanish. He closed the phone. “An hour from now, at a little cantina south of Puerto Vallarta, not a ten-minute drive from here.”

“Now that’s what I call service,” Cupie said. “Your guy ought to be in the pizza business.”

Barbara returned, sat down, got out a compact and tended to her makeup.

“It’s nice of you to want to look pretty for us,” Cupie said.

“Force of habit,” she replied, “regardless of the company. What’s next on the program?”

“We’re going to wait here an hour, then stop at a cantina and pick up a package that Vittorio has ordered,” Cupie said.

“Package?”

“Don’t ask.”

“You’re not bringing drugs into this equation, are you?” she asked, looking alarmed.

“Nope. I assure you, the package is pertinent to the effort to get you out of the country as quickly and as safely as possible. And the hour is well spent: it’s better for you if Vittorio and I are not seen on the street for a little while.”

Barbara sighed. “I hope I hired the right guys.”

“You hired the only guys,” Cupie replied.

“That’s what I mean.”

THEY PARKED THE CAR behind the cantina, left Barbara lying down in the backseat and walked in the back door. There was a filthy kitchen to their left and a restroom to their right that, given the state of the kitchen, Cupie didn’t want to see.

There were four men in the place, two at a table and two at the bar. Vittorio made eye contact with each of them and didn’t get so much as a lifted eyebrow.

“It appears my guy’s guy isn’t here yet,” he said.

“Dos cervezas,” Cupie said to the bartender, holding up two fingers to prevent being misunderstood.

The bartender placed two sweaty bottles on the bar, and Cupie gave him five bucks American. He still didn’t have any pesos. They sat down.

“I don’t like this place,” Cupie said. “Where’s your guy’s guy?”

“Relax, we’re ten minutes early.”

Cupie stuck a hand under his jacket and manipulated something.

“Take it easy, Cupie, we’re not getting into any gunfights.”

Cupie leaned in close. “There are four guys in here, and every one of them looks like he lives for a gunfight. And I’m not too sure about the bartender, either.”

“Cupie, it’s just a cantina, okay?”

Cupie nursed his beer and continued to look worried.

At the stroke of the hour a man holding a longish cardboard box walked in. The box bore the legend CALLAWAY GOLF. He looked around for a moment, then his eye alighted on Vittorio, who was wearing his hat. He came over.

“Buenos días, señores,” he said. “Meester Vittorio?”

Vittorio nodded. “What’s the bill?”

“Nine hundred, señor. American.”

Vittorio handed him the money, already counted out. “Ammunition?”

“Two boxes double-ought, one of solid projectile,” the man said. “Bye-bye.” He turned and left.

“Let’s get out of here,” Cupie whispered hoarsely.

Vittorio got up and led the way, carrying the box, while Cupie walked backward behind him, watching the four men, whose expressions never changed.

Vittorio opened the trunk, set the cardboard box inside and opened it. Keeping both weapons inside the trunk, he handed Cupie a Remington riot gun and took a stockless Ithaca for himself. Both men loaded their weapons with eight rounds, pumped one into the chamber, then loaded a ninth.

“I like the extended magazine,” Cupie said. “Saves reloading when you’re about to die.”

They picked up the remaining ammunition and got into the car, placing the shotguns on the floorboards.

“Artillery?” Barbara said from the backseat. “Are we expecting war?”

“The worst thing that can happen is what you didn’t prepare for,” Cupie explained. “I feel better now; don’t you feel better?”

“I feel like getting on an airplane,” Barbara said.

“Time to make a pass at the airport,” Vittorio said, starting the car.

They drove back up the main highway to the airport turnoff, where Vittorio pulled off the road and stopped.

“Why are we stopping?” Barbara asked.

“Please be quiet,” Vittorio replied, picking up his binoculars and training them on the airport building, half a mile away. “Uh-oh,” he said, then handed the binoculars to Cupie.

Cupie trained them on the airport building. “I see two cops and—oh, shit! That fucking black Suburban! Why can’t we shake those sons of bitches?”

“Let’s go to Tijuana,” Vittorio said. “We’ll find a place for the night and get there tomorrow.”

Twenty-six

EAGLE WALKED INTO THE INN OF THE ANASAZI TO FIND Susannah Wilde waiting for him, standing in front of a roaring fireplace in the lobby. She was wearing a cream-colored linen dress that set off her tan, a string of pearls, a cashmere sweater over her shoulders and a big smile. She offered her hand.

Eagle took it. “The car is right outside,” he said, “not that we need it. The restaurant is just up the street.” He put her into the passenger seat, tipped the carhop and drove the two blocks to Santa Café.

“I’ve heard of this place,” she said as they were seated.

“I’m glad to be the first to bring you here. We’re blessed with good restaurants in Santa Fe, but this is my favorite.”

A waiter appeared.

“What would you like to drink?” he asked.

“I’ll have a Knob Creek on the rocks, please,” Susannah said.

“A woman after my own heart. Make that two. And where did an L.A. girl learn to drink hundred-proof bourbon?”

“Oh, I’m not an L.A. girl at all; I’m a Georgia girl, small town called Delano.”

“Never heard of it.”

“Neither has anybody else, but it got me my first movie role.”

“How?”

“A couple of weeks after I first arrived in L.A., I was waiting outside Neiman Marcus for my car to be brought around, and I got into a conversation with an elderly man named Richard Barron.”

“I’ve heard of Rick Barron,” he said. “He’s the chairman of Centurion Studios.”

“I didn’t know that, at the time. We had a five-minute wait, and he asked me where I was from. I told him, and, to my astonishment, he told me he had been born in Delano, Georgia, though he left there when he was quite young. You can imagine his surprise when I told him I was from Delano, too. Our cars arrived, he gave me his card and asked me to call him. I did, and he arranged for me to meet the head of production at Centurion, who introduced me to several producers at lunch, and a week later, I had an agent and was working in my first movie.”

“Are you always so lucky?”

“Not always. I married one of the producers, and I wouldn’t call that lucky.”

“Kids?”

“Nope.”

“How long have you been divorced?”

“A little over a year. How about you?”

Eagle looked at his watch. “By five o’clock tomorrow afternoon, if I’m lucky.”

“How long separated?”

“Less than a week.”

“How do you get a divorce so quickly?”

“One: you have a signed financial settlement; two: you have a very good reason; and three: you have a good buddy who’s a judge. I have all three.”

Their drinks came, and she raised her glass. “Here’s to all three,” she said.

Eagle raised his glass. “I’ll drink to that.”

“I take it you’re not in a frame of mind to reconsider your marriage.”

“You are a perceptive woman.”

“It’s not hard to see the anger underneath your otherwise charming demeanor.”

“That’s not anger,” he said. “It’s relief. The anger came when I found out she’d stolen over a million dollars from me and gone to Mexico.”

“Compared to my settlement divorce, that’s a cheap divorce,” Susannah said.

“That’s not counting the other four million she tried to steal but that I was able to hang onto. And it’s not costing me very much. I managed to get a lot of it back.”

“How did you do that?”

“I hire good people. What about you? Are you still angry at your former husband?”

“The anger pretty much went away when he made good on the settlement.”

“Good for you. Anger is self-destructive. It’s why I don’t do divorce work anymore; I couldn’t take the anger my clients were radiating. Let’s change the subject. I loved your work in Big Deal and Dare Me.”

“Thanks. You Googled me, didn’t you?”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because I Googled you, too.”

He laughed. “Got me, but I did see both pictures and a couple of others, too.”

“Supporting work is sometimes the best,” she said, “although, from your résumé, I take it you prefer to star.”

Eagle laughed. “Nobody ever put it exactly that way before, but yes, I do. I prefer associates to partners. Do you intend to keep on working after your move to Santa Fe?”

“Yes, but I’m not going to look very hard for it. I’ll let my agent do that, and I’ll only take the good roles. If I don’t get those, then I’ll produce something myself and shoot it in Santa Fe.”

“You’re a smart girl,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind being called that.”

“Smart or girl?”

“Girl.”

“I’m old enough to take it as a compliment.”

They ordered dinner and a bottle of wine.

“What tribe are you?” she asked.

“An eastern tribe.”

“Which one?”

“I don’t suppose you’d believe I’m the last of the Mohicans?”

“I know the story too well to buy that.”

“Ashkenazie.”

“That’s more like one of the tribes of Israel, isn’t it?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Funny, the Internet thinks you’re an Indian.”

“I never said so to anybody,” Eagle said, “but I never contradicted anybody who thought so.”

“You’re an interesting man, Ed Eagle.”

“And you’re an interesting woman, Susannah Wilde.”

Twenty-seven

AFEW MILES NORTH OF PUERTO VALLARTA, VITTORIO spoke up. “Something’s wrong,” he said.

“What?” Cupie responded. “What’s wrong?”

Vittorio pulled over to the shoulder of the road and got out. He looked at the left front wheel, kicked it and screamed, “Goddammit!!!”

Cupie got out. “Flat?”

“Flat.” Vittorio opened the trunk.

“Spare?”

“It’s here,” Vittorio said, freeing the tire and rolling it to the front of the car. “Get the tools, will you?”

Cupie went back to the trunk and returned with a jack and a lug wrench. He knelt down, placed the jack and pumped away, until the tire was nearly free of the road, then he handed the lug wrench to Vittorio. “The rest is yours,” he said. He leaned against the car and mopped his brow, then he glanced down the highway. “Uh-oh,” he said. “Black Suburban coming.”

Vittorio yanked the flat off the car and stood up. “Not again,” he moaned. “Get in the car and get her down,” he said.

Cupie got back in the car. “Barbara,” he said.

She was sitting in the backseat, looking bored.

“I want you to get all the way down on the floor, and right now.”

“Shit,” she said, but she did it.

Cupie picked up his shotgun, flipped off the safety, then opened the road map and used it to cover the weapon. “All set in here,” he said, then pretended to study the map.

Vittorio got the spare on the car and had the lugs finger-tight before the Suburban arrived.

The big, black vehicle slowed, then stopped, and the front passenger window slid down. Same bandito as before. “Buenos días, señores,” he said. “Do you have trouble?”

“Not any more,” Vittorio said, tightening the lugs. He stood up and rolled the flat tire to the trunk and tossed it in, then went back for the tools.

“Are you certain you do not require any help?”

Vittorio closed the trunk then went and stood next to the rear door of the car, blocking any view of the backseat. “All done,” he said, wiping his brow with his sleeve.

The rear window of the Suburban slid down a few inches, and this time Vittorio could see the figure in the rear seat. The window slid up again.

“Vaya con Dios, señores,” the front passenger said, and the Suburban moved away.

Vittorio got into the car. “The guy in the rear seat was wearing a police uniform,” he said. “I have the very strong feeling that we’re going to encounter a roadblock before we go too many more miles.”

“Make a U-turn,” Cupie said. “I saw an interesting sign back there.”

Vittorio turned the car around and started back. A mile or so down the road the sign appeared.

EL RANCHO ENCANTADA

Parador

“Let’s take a look,” Cupie said, and Vittorio turned right. They drove down a single-track dirt road for a couple of miles, encouraged by further signs. As they crested a rise, the Pacific Ocean appeared, perhaps a mile ahead, and they could see a group of low buildings along the beach.

“Looks nice,” Cupie said.

Barbara peered over the backseat. “What looks nice?”

Cupie pointed. “There. Now you get back down on the floor. We don’t want anybody to see you.”

She did as she was told.

Vittorio drove down the hill and pulled into the parking lot of the main building.

“Let me do this,” Cupie said. “And, Barbara, you stay down.”

Cupie got out and walked into the building. An attractive woman sat at a large leather-topped desk.

“Buenos días,” she said.

“And to you,” Cupie replied. “I wonder if you might have a cottage available?”

“For how many people, señor?”

“Two gentlemen, but we’d prefer separate bedrooms.

“And for how long?”

“One night, possibly two.”

She consulted a ledger. “Yes, señor, we have such a cottage available.” She quoted a price. “Will you need help with your luggage?”

“No, thank you; we’re traveling light.” He gave her a credit card and filled out the registration form. “How long a drive to Tijuana?”

“Four to six hours,” she replied, “depending.”

Depending on kidnappers, crooked cops and bandits, no doubt, Cupie thought.

She handed him two keys. “Will you require a table for dinner?”

“Is room service available?”

“Yes, señor.”

“I think we might order in. It’s been a long day.”

“As you wish, señor. Your cottage is number twelve, the southernmost one. I hope you enjoy your stay.”

“Thank you.” Cupie returned to the car. “Two bedrooms, and they have room service,” he said.

“Can I get up now?” Barbara asked.

“In a minute,” Cupie said. “It’s the last cottage.”

Vittorio drove down a short road and stopped. He and Cupie got out, and Cupie used a key to open the front door. He looked up and down the road. “Okay, Barbara, run for it.”

She got out of the car and sauntered into the cottage.

“Not bad,” Cupie said, walking in. He looked into the two bedrooms, one on either side of the living room. “This one’s yours,” he said to her. “Vittorio and I will take the room with the twin beds.”

“How disappointing for you,” she said. “I know you must have been looking forward to sleeping together.”

Twenty-eight

JOE BIG BEAR WRUNG OUT THE MOP AND WENT OVER THE bedroom of his trailer one more time. It had been a mess, what with bits of dried blood, flesh and brains spattered on the walls, but Joe was a stoic, and he cleaned the place thoroughly. He burned the bedding and the mattress behind the trailer and unloaded the new mattress from his pickup truck. Pretty soon, the place was neat and fresh again, ready for new action.

Action was expensive, though, requiring beer money at the very least, and he was very short of money. The cost of the mattress had reduced his net worth considerably, and he hadn’t had any work since his arrest. What he needed was an injection of cash into his life, and enough to keep him going while he rebuilt his business. When he thought of money, his mind went unerringly to Harold, the would-be hit man, sitting up there in the county jail. Joe made a mental note to go see him the following morning.

Cupie, Vittorio and Barbara sat around the table in their cottage, over the remains of a feastlike Mexican dinner, drinking tequila shooters. The atmosphere had grown convivial.

“You know,” Barbara was saying, her words only slightly slurred, “you two sons of bitches aren’t such sons of bitches after all.”

This struck Cupie and Vittorio as hilariously funny, and they collapsed in mirth, pounding the table.

“And you aren’t so bad, yourself,” Cupie said.

“Not bad at all,” Vittorio said, leering at Barbara.

“And to think, a few days ago, you were trying to kill me,” Cupie said.

Barbara rested her chin on her hand and frankly returned Vittorio’s gaze. “I never tried to kill you, did I?”

“Not yet,” Vittorio said, glancing at his watch. “But it’s only nine o’clock.”

Cupie looked from one to the other. “Well,” he said, placing his palms on the table and hoisting himself to his feet, “I think I’m going to turn in.” He stretched and yawned for effect.

“Good night, Cupie,” Vittorio said.

“Good night, Cupie,” Barbara echoed.

They never stopped looking at each other.

Cupie left them, stood in a shower for five minutes, put on a clean pair of pajamas and melted into his mattress. “God help both of them,” he said aloud, as he descended into unconsciousness.

ED EAGLE LAY on his back in bed, projecting imaginary movies starring Susannah Wilde onto the ceiling. This was some girl, he thought, and she couldn’t have come along at a better moment. She was leaving for L.A. in the morning, but she’d be back as soon as she got moved into her new apartment. He’d see if he couldn’t move up the closing on her house for a few days, to get her back even sooner.

He turned over and sought sleep, and something right out of left field popped into his mind: Pep Boys. Why the hell had he thought of that? He tried to trace the thought back to its origins and got as far as his courtroom questioning of Cartwright, in the Joe Big Bear case, but it went back farther than that. He let his mind roam free for Pep Boys references.

Then he sat bolt upright in bed, his eyes wide open. Pep Boys. It was at his first meeting with Joe at the county jail. In his account of his afternoon, on the day of the triple murder, Joe had said that, while working on Cartwright’s car, he had had to go to Pep Boys, the auto parts place, for a fan belt. At something like three-thirty in the afternoon. Eagle had been so preoccupied with Barbara’s absconding that he had forgotten about it.

Eagle placed Pep Boys in his mind: it was out on Cerrillos Road, a busy commercial thoroughfare, not far from Airport Road. Joe could have gone to Pep Boys, then to his trailer, and he could have been there in five minutes, with good traffic. Then back to Cartwright’s, and the whole thing, the triple murder, could have been accomplished in half an hour, tops.

He sank back into bed. Why the hell hadn’t he remembered that sooner? Then he thought, “What would I have done if I had thought of it sooner?” He thought about that until he finally fell asleep.

Twenty-nine

CUPIE WOKE UP VERY EARLY, NEEDING THE BATHROOM. That accomplished, he passed a window on the way back to bed and was struck by what he saw. Barbara and Vittorio were emerging from the Pacific Ocean, hand in hand, laughing and naked. They walked back toward the cottage and flopped down on a blanket, shielded from the view of the rest of the empty beach by a screen of palm fronds. Then Barbara rolled over on top of Vittorio.

Cupie went back to bed.

JOE BIG BEAR turned up at the Santa Fe County Correctional Center in time for visiting hours and asked for Harold. Soon they were seated across a table from each other.

“So?” Harold asked, looking at Joe narrowly.

“So, Harold, I think you and I are going to do some business.”

“What business? We got no business.”

“Listen to me careful, Harold,” Joe said. “First of all, I want a phone number for Mrs. Eagle.”

“You said she was in Mexico.”

“She’s coming back, Harold,” he lied.

“Why do you want her phone number?”

“Harold, I got friends in this place who would mash you into the ground for twenty bucks. Give me the number.”

Harold blinked a couple of times, then recited it from memory.

Joe wrote it down. “Now, Harold, I’m going to take over Bobby’s role in your little plan.”

“You mean you’re going to off Eagle?”

“That’s right.”

“But you said I get to keep all the money.”

“That was then, Harold; this is a whole new now.”

“You’re going to do the job?”

“Don’t make me repeat myself, Harold.”

“For the same as Bobby?”

“For twelve and a half grand, Harold, up front.”

“But I already paid Bobby a thousand.”

“That’s between you and Bobby, cost of doing business.”

“I’m not giving you that kind of money up front.”

“Sure you are, Harold. Remember my friends in here? There’s that, and then there’s the fact that if you don’t get on board with this right now, I’m going to go see your old lady and take all the money from her, and when you get out of here, you’ll have nothing.”

Harold blinked some more.

“So here’s what you do: you go back in there and call her, and tell her to bring twelve-five to the parking lot outside, and right now. You got that?”

Harold thought about it.

“Time’s up, Harold. Get it done now, or by the end of the day, you’re going to be broke, and nobody who knows you is going to recognize you for a long time.”

“Okay,” Harold said, finally. “Twelve-five outside in an hour. But I want the job done before I get out of here. You got five days. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” Joe replied. “Twelve-five, outside, sixty minutes,” he repeated, just to be sure Harold had it down.

Harold nodded, got up and went back through the door behind him.

Joe left the jail and drove up to Garcia Street, where there was a coffee shop he liked. He bought a double espresso and a newspaper and sat outside in the morning sun for a while, then he dialed the number Harold had given him. It rang four times before she answered.

“Hello?”

“Mrs. Eagle?”

“Who’s this?”

“My name is Pepe,” he said, “and I’m calling to do you a favor.”

“Who are you, and what do you want?”

“I told you, my name is Pepe. I’m going to kill your husband for you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You know the other hombre you hired to do the job, Harold? Harold went and got himself busted; he’s in jail, and he ain’t getting out any time soon.”

“What do you want?”

“This is about what you want, Mrs. Eagle. If you want your husband dead within four days, it will cost you twenty-five thousand dollars, cash, wired to me in Santa Fe.”

“How do I know you’re not a cop?”

“Well, I guess you don’t know, but you’re in Mexico, so the cops can’t touch you. And look at it this way, the insurance company is paying for the work, not you.” Joe was guessing that Ed Eagle had mucho insurance.

A long pause. “How can I reach you?”

“You can reach me by wiring twenty-five thousand dollars to me today. There’s no other way. If I don’t receive it within twenty-four hours, your husband will go right on living, and you will collect nothing, and I’ll remind him to change the beneficiary on the life insurance policy. I don’t think you’re going to have another opportunity to arrange this hit from Mexico before he does that.”

She was quiet for a moment. “What name do I wire it to?”

“Well, let’s make up a name,” Joe said. “Wire it to Pepe Oso Grande”—he had a driver’s license with that name on it—“care of Western Union, Santa Fe.” He spelled the name for her.

“Let me think about it,” she said.

“Think about it all you like, but if the money isn’t in Santa Fe by noon tomorrow, Ed Eagle lives, and you lose, big time. I’ll look forward to hearing from you,” Joe replied and clicked off.

Joe looked at his watch, finished his coffee and drove back to the jail. He had only a five-minute wait before the woman in the pickup turned into the parking lot. He walked over to her. “Good morning,” he said. “Harold sent me to pick up twelve thousand, five hundred dollars.”

The woman looked at him with hatred. “Harold says if you don’t do it before he gets out, he’ll find you and kill you, Joe Big Bear.”

So Harold had found out his name. “Thank you for that message,” Joe said. “Give me the money.”

She handed him a red bandanna, tied up in a bundle.

Joe peeped inside. “I’m going to count it later,” he said. “If it isn’t all there, Harold is going to get hurt today. So are you.”

She started the truck, backed out of the parking space and drove away.

Joe went back to his truck, got in and counted the money. It was all there. “Jesus,” he said aloud, “why didn’t I go into this line of work sooner?”

BARBARA PUT DOWN her cell phone and turned to Vittorio. “How long are we staying here?”

“I figure one more night, just to let things cool off.”

“I have to go to a bank or a Western Union office today.”

“Are you nuts?”

“My sister has an emergency, and she needs money. Don’t argue with me, Vittorio; it has to be done.”

VITTORIO DROVE HER into town, parked in front of a bank, checked the street in every direction and waved her inside. Half an hour later, she was back.

“Everything go okay?” he asked.

“Perfectly,” she said.

“Then why do you look so nervous? I never saw you look nervous before.”

“Shut up and drive,” she said.

Thirty

EAGLE DIALED SUSANNAH’S CELL PHONE NUMBER.

“Well, hi there,” she said.

“Are you moved in yet?”

“In a manner of speaking,” she replied. “I mean, the boxes have all been dumped here; now they’re unpacking them.”

“I’m glad you’ve got help,” he said.

“I’ve got four guys here, working like beavers. If I can keep them from breaking the crystal, I’ll have this place in shape by dinnertime.”

“I wish I were there to cook for you.”

“You cook?”

“When you’re a bachelor for as long as I was, it’s a survival skill. When are you coming back? I hope you’re not waiting until the closing.”

“Well, I was going to, but once this place is livable I don’t really have anything to occupy me here, until I get some work.”

“Come here, and I’ll occupy you. In fact, I’ll see if I can’t get the closing brought forward. I know that the owner has already moved out. And I have a comfortable guest suite, and I’d be very pleased if you’d stay at my house until the closing.”

“That would be very nice. See what you can do about the closing, and I’ll go ahead and have my furniture shipped.”

“Do you have enough to fill the house?”

“No, not with splitting my things between two places.”

“I’ll give you a list of all the best shops.”

“I’m going to need a housekeeper and a secretary, too.”

“I’ll put my secretary on that right away.”

“You’re a doll, Ed Eagle.”

“I hope you’ll still think so a year from now.”

“Why a year?”

“I reckon that’s how long it will take you to find out.”

“We’ll see. I’ve gotta run. Somebody just dropped a Baccarat goblet.”

Eagle hung up feeling like a new man, but then it occurred to him that he hadn’t received the FedEx package from Vittorio. He called the Apache’s cell phone.

“Hello?”

“Vittorio? It’s Ed Eagle.”

“Good morning, Mr. Eagle.”

“Why haven’t I received the FedEx package from you?”

“I was planning to send it from the airport yesterday, but I got held up. It’ll go out today, I promise.”

“Everything all right?”

“Couldn’t be better,” Vittorio replied.

“Give my best to Cupie.”

“Will do.” He hung up.

Eagle wasn’t going to feel comfortable until he had those blank pages in hand.

JOE BIG BEAR SAT outside the Western Union office, reading a paperback novel, a western. He glanced up at the storefront, watching the clerk inside for some sign that he had received the wire. Nothing. He looked at his watch: eleven-forty. She wasn’t going to send it.

Oh, well, he thought, I’ll just have to get by with the twelve-five from Harold. At that moment, the clerk left his counter, went to the front door and waved Joe inside. His heart leapt, and he hurried into the office.

“Your wire is in,” the man said. “How do you want the money?”

“In cash.”

“You sure you don’t want a cashier’s check? It’s safer.”

“Nah, I’ve gotta pay for a car in cash.”

“Give me a minute,” the man said. “I’ll have to see if we’ve got that much.” He disappeared into a back room.

Joe took a chair, picked up a magazine and tried to be cool.

Five minutes later, the clerk returned with a large brown envelope. “I don’t have it all in hundreds,” he said, “so I had to give you a lot of fifties and twenties.”

“No problem,” Joe said.

The man handed him the envelope. “Count it, please.”

Joe riffled through each stack of bills, counting quickly. “It’s all here,” he said.

“Sign right here, Mr. Grande,” the clerk said, offering him a pen. “Pepe Oso Grande,” the clerk mused. “Doesn’t that mean Joseph Big Bear in English?”

“Something like that,” Joe replied. He signed the document, took his money and walked out. Back in the car, he didn’t trust himself to drive for a moment. His heart was pounding, he was breathing rapidly, and he was sweating.

“Thirty-seven thousand, five hundred dollars,” he said aloud, mopping his brow. He’d never had more than two thousand dollars at once in his life. He took some deep breaths and started the car. He had no idea where to go, so he just wandered slowly in the direction of home. What would he do with all this money? He hadn’t allowed himself to think about that until now.

“Buy a safe,” he said aloud. He turned into Sam’s Club, stuffed the cash under his seat and locked the pickup. He was back in twenty minutes with a heavy, cardboard box on a dolly. With the help of a clerk, he muscled it into the pickup and unlocked the cab, checking to see that the money was still under the seat.

He drove back to his trailer, got his toolbox and bolted the safe to the floor under a kitchen cabinet. Then he set the combination into the electronic lock and practiced opening it a few times. Satisfied, he took the money out of its envelope and placed it on a shelf in the safe, along with the twelve-five from Harold, then he closed and locked the safe and got a beer from the fridge.

He sat, sipping it, thinking about what he could do with thirty-seven thousand, five hundred dollars. It was all his, and he didn’t have to do a fucking thing for it. The woman didn’t know who she’d wired the money to.

Then the beer went sour in his mouth. Harold knew who he was, and he had promised to find and kill him if Eagle wasn’t dead before he got out of jail.

Joe swallowed hard. It was the first time it had occurred to him that he was really going to have to kill Ed Eagle. And he was probably going to have to kill Harold, too, when he got out. And his wife; she knew his name, too.

Thirty-one

BARBARA WOKE UP BEFORE DAWN. VITTORIO WAS SLEEPING soundly beside her. She picked up her handbag, then walked to where Vittorio’s bag stood open and felt inside, coming up with the Federal Express envelope. She took it into the bathroom, locked the door and turned on the light.

It was just an ordinary FedEx shipping envelope; he hadn’t affixed the label, yet. She pulled the tab that opened it and removed the signed blank sheets of paper inside. Then she opened her large handbag and took out the FedEx envelope and blank paper she had gotten from the bank. She stuffed the blank sheets inside, sealed it, then put the old envelope and the signed sheets into her handbag. Then she switched off the light, unlocked the door and tiptoed to Vittorio’s bag. She put the FedEx envelope containing the blank sheets into the bag, then crept back into bed.

“What?” Vittorio said.

“Nothing,” she said. “I just went to the bathroom.”

He reached for her, and she melted into his arms, feeling for his crotch. Gotta keep him sweet, she thought, and she ducked under the covers, giving herself to the enterprise.

WHEN SHE WAS DONE, she nestled in his arms.

“That was wonderful,” he said.

“You know what would be wonderful?”

“What?”

“If we could just stay down here.”

“In Mexico?”

“Yes. I like it down here, and you can live dirt cheap.”

“Your three hundred grand wouldn’t last all that long.”

“I’ve got more coming,” she said. “A lot more.”

“From where?”

“From Ed,” she said.

“I don’t think that’s going to happen,” he said.

“It’ll happen, if you don’t FedEx him those signed sheets.”

“That wouldn’t work,” he said.

“Why not?”

“Cupie.”

“What about him?”

“He wouldn’t sit still for that.”

“So, don’t tell him. We can just send him on his way.”

“But when Eagle doesn’t get the signatures, he’ll put Cupie on us. Cupie is very smart; he’d find us again.”

She wondered if she could talk him into killing Cupie. Probably not. “I guess you’re right,” she said. She turned over, putting her back to him. He reached for her ass, but she removed his hand.

“Look, baby,” he said, “I took the man’s money; I have to finish the job.”

“You took my money, too.”

“And I’m going to finish that job. I’ll get you back to the States.”

She said nothing.

“And then there’s the Mexican police: they’re still looking for you.”

He had a point. She couldn’t stay in Mexico. But if he sent Ed those blank sheets, the hunt would be on again, at least until this guy Pepe did the job. If he did the job. There were too many loose ends to this; she was going to have to think of a way to tie some of them up. When Eagle was dead, then she’d have everything she needed.

What she had to do now was buy time, until Pepe did his work. If Eagle died without a signed settlement agreement, she’d get his estate and the life insurance. That was the best way.

CUPIE PUT HIS BAG in the trunk of the Toyota, then leaned against it, gazing out across the Pacific. Something was wrong, he figured, maybe a lot. First, he had to get straight with Vittorio, then they could discuss the rest.

Vittorio came out of the casita, carrying his and Barbara’s luggage, and put it into the trunk.

“We’ve gotta talk,” Cupie said.

“I’m listening,” Vittorio replied.

“Your new, ah, relationship with the lady is screwing up this job.”

“How?”

“She’s gonna try to talk you out of going through with it, and I’ll be left with an angry client.”

“She’s not going to talk me into anything,” Vittorio replied. “I’m getting laid; I’m enjoying it. All I have to do to complete the job is to FedEx Eagle those signatures, then get the lady to the U.S. Eagle will be happy, and she’ll be happy, then we can all say bye-bye.”

“Has she asked you yet not to send Eagle the signatures?”

“Of course, but I’m going to anyway. I’ll find a shipping office in Mazatlán and FedEx them from there. That will take care of our client, Ed Eagle, then all we’ll have to do is take care of our client, Barbara Eagle.”

“You’re sure you’re on board for this?”

“I’m on board, Cupie. Besides, I wouldn’t want you dogging my ass.”

“Then there’s something else we have to talk about,” Cupie said.

“Shoot.”

Barbara came out of the casita and headed for the car.

“We’ll talk later,” Cupie said.

“Okay.”

They got into the car, and Vittorio started the engine.

Cupie was looking at the map. “I got an idea,” he said.

“What’s that?” Vittorio asked.

Cupie pointed at the map. “You see this dotted line that runs from Mazatlán over to La Paz, in Baja, California?”

“Yes.”

“That means there’s a ferry. Instead of driving straight up the road to Tijuana, why don’t we take the ferry and drive up the Baja peninsula. It won’t take much longer, and the policía won’t be expecting it.”

“I like it, Cupie; good thinking.” Vittorio turned and looked at Barbara in the back seat. “You okay with that?”

“Good idea,” she said. Barbara thought it was a really good idea, but not for the reason Cupie and Vittorio did.

Thirty-two

JOE BIG BEAR SAT IN HIS PICKUP A HUNDRED YARDS UP THE mountain from Ed Eagle’s driveway. He checked his watch again: eight o’clock. As if a button had been pushed, Eagle’s Mercedes came out of the driveway and turned downhill toward Tesuque. Joe did not follow; there was no point. There was just the one road.

He waited until the car had disappeared down the road, then he started the pickup and drove slowly down the hill. Halfway to the village, he went round a bend, then pulled over at a wide place on the shoulder and got out. This was good, he thought. Eagle would come around the bend and see the truck there with the hood up. Joe would step out and flag him down, as if he needed help. Eagle would recognize him and stop, roll down the passenger window. Joe would put both barrels into him, get back in his pickup and drive away.

He waited in the spot for another half hour, and no one drove by. No commuters at this time of day, except Eagle. Good.

ED EAGLE WALKED into his office at 8:30 A.M. and called the agent representing the seller of Susannah’s new house. Within a few minutes he had moved up the closing a week. He called Susannah.

“Hello?”

“Good morning. How did the unpacking go?”

“Very well, thanks, and I got a good night’s sleep. By the end of the day it’s going to look like I’ve always lived here.”

“Good. I moved up the closing to this Friday. That okay with you?”

“Sounds great.”

“Can you fly here tomorrow?”

“I can. I think I might even be able to wangle a seat on the Centurion Jet. Rick Barron has a place in Santa Fe, and he goes every weekend.”

“Let me know, and I’ll meet you at the airport.”

“Great, because I don’t have a car in Santa Fe, yet. I’ll have to buy one.”

“I’ll take you car shopping.”

“That would be very nice.”

“And I’ll cook you dinner tomorrow night.”

“That would be wonderful. You sure you don’t mind putting me up until Friday?”

“Longer, if you can’t get your furniture here by then.”

“I’ve already told them to ship it. I’ll call and see when I can expect it to arrive.”

“Call me from the airplane and let me know your ETA tomorrow.” He gave her his cell phone number.

“Will do. I’m looking forward to seeing you.”

“And I you.” Eagle hung up feeling just wonderful.

THEY DROVE INTO MAZATLÁN and followed the signs toward the ferry. Vittorio pointed ahead. “There’s a pack-and-ship place,” he said, pulling into a parking place. “I’ll be right back.” He got out of the car.

Barbara, lying in the rear seat, lifted her head and watched him go, the FedEx envelope in his hand. Less than ten minutes later, he returned empty-handed. She was very disappointed with him. When Ed got the envelope with the blank pages, he’d be on the phone to Vittorio, and there would be hell to pay.

She lay back down and thought about her plan. It wasn’t foolproof; she’d have to get lucky. On the other hand, she’d always been able to make her luck, one way or another.

HALF AN HOUR LATER they rolled onto the car ferry. Barbara stole a look around as they drove on. It wasn’t very big: half a dozen vehicles and some foot traffic.

“Barbara,” Cupie said, “you’re going to have to stay where you are; we can’t take any chances. There’s a snack bar one deck up. Can I bring you anything?”

“No,” she replied. “I’m going to take a nap. How long is the ferry ride?”

“An hour and a half,” Cupie replied. “Vittorio, you want a sandwich?”

“No, I’m going to the top deck, I think. I like to be as far from the water as possible on boats like this.”

“Suit yourself.” The two men got out of the car.

Barbara thought back to their first dip in the Pacific the day before. Vittorio had refused to go into the water more than waist deep. Vittorio couldn’t swim.

HAROLD FUENTES SAT in the dining hall of the Santa Fe County Correctional Center and ate his Jell-O. It wasn’t going down very well. This Joe Big Bear had pissed him off. Big Bear had taken twelve thousand, five hundred dollars of Harold’s money and insulted him in the process. The man had no respect, and Harold was very big on respect.

Harold had already decided to kill Big Bear as soon as he got out. He knew where the guy lived, in that trailer next to the junkyard on the road to the airport, so it wouldn’t be all that hard. When it was done he’d ransack the trailer and find the money, get it all back. But as he thought some more about it, he didn’t relish doing the actual deed. After all, Big Bear had weapons of his own, and he might be a light sleeper. Then Harold smiled to himself. Maybe there was a better way.

He finished his lunch, then went and stood in line at the bank of pay phones outside the dining hall, fingering the quarters in his pocket. He’d show the son of a bitch, then he’d get his money back.

WHEN EAGLE GOT BACK from lunch, Betty followed him into his office and closed the door.

“What’s up?” he asked.

“You had a phone call a few minutes ago,” she said.

“Who?”

“I don’t know, but the caller I.D. said it came from the county jail.”

“We got any clients in there right now?”

“This wasn’t from a client; it was about a client.”

“Who?”

“The caller said that your client, Joe Big Bear, is going to try to kill you, so to watch your ass.”

Eagle sat down. “Why would Joe want to kill me?” he asked. “I mean, I just got him off a triple-murder rap.”

“The caller didn’t say why; he just said that Big Bear was going to try and kill you.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Eagle said. “Well, thanks for letting me know, Betty, but I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“I think the guy was right; you’d better watch your ass.”

“I will, thank you.”

The phone rang, and Eagle spoke to another client. He forgot about the earlier message.

WHEN THEY REACHED the snack-bar deck of the ferry, Cupie put his hand on Vittorio’s arm before he could continue up the stairs. “Wait a minute,” he said.

“What’s up, Cupie?”

“There’s something wrong about this kidnapping thing and the interest of the Mexican police in our Barbara.”

“What do you mean, wrong?”

“I mean, these kidnapping rings down here have got this down to a science: they pick on business executives whose companies have big insurance policies covering kidnapping. They snatch a CEO, or somebody like that, then they do a deal for five or ten million dollars. The insurance company pays, the businessman gets sent home, maybe minus an ear, and everybody but the insurance company is happy.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard about that. What’s your point?”

“My point is, they wouldn’t be chasing Barbara around for the three hundred grand in traveler’s checks in her handbag. That’s small potatoes to these people.”

“It doesn’t sound like small potatoes to me,” Vittorio said.

“Not only is it small potatoes, but it’s one hell of a lot of trouble for them, too. They’ve lost one man and had another shot.”

“That means nothing to these people. To them, life is cheap.”

“And we messed up their Suburban pretty good, too.”

“Well, maybe we pissed them off enough that they would keep looking for her.”

Cupie shook his head. “I don’t think so. I think it’s something else.”

“What else?”

“I don’t know. I just think there’s another reason for all this, and I wish I knew what it was.”

“Cupie, my friend, you’re getting paranoid. Relax. We’ll be in Tijuana by lunchtime tomorrow, and we’ll be rid of Mrs. Eagle.”

“I hope you’re right,” Cupie said doubtfully.

“I am,” Vittorio replied.

Cupie watched him climb the stairs to the upper deck. “Something’s wrong,” he said aloud to himself.

Thirty-three

JOE BIG BEAR GOT OUT HIS DOUBLE-BARRELED SHOTGUN from the storage compartment under the living room sofa of his trailer and wiped it with an oily rag. He took it out to his pickup, rummaged in the aluminum tool chest bolted to the truck bed and came up with a good-size vise. He clamped the vise to the tailgate, got a battery-operated radial saw out of the toolbox, changed the blade and began working on the shotgun’s barrels. Thirty minutes and two blades later, he had a sawed-off shotgun. He used the saw to take off most of the wooden stock, too, leaving only enough for a hand to grip. Finally, he filed the rims of the barrels to remove any burrs. The whole thing was only about two feet long. He loaded the weapon with double-ought buckshot and put it under the seat of the pickup. He was armed.

BARBARA CHECKED HER WATCH: they had been underway for forty minutes, which meant they were pretty much in the middle of the Gulf of California. Now to see if her luck was holding.

She got out of the car and looked around; she was alone in the garage. She found the stairs and walked up two decks to the top of the little ship. She looked both ways from the door and saw no one, so she stepped out onto the deck. The wind from the ship’s passage blew her hair around her face, and she brushed it aside as she walked aft. Vittorio was standing, his back to her, his hands on the rail, looking aft at the boiling wake. No one else was in sight. Perfect.

She walked toward him, careful to keep her steps light. Then, when she had only six feet to go, he glanced over his shoulder and turned around, smiling. He leaned against the rail and opened his arms. “Come here,” he said.

She couldn’t fight him face to face, she knew that; she’d have to think of something else. She moved into his arms, and the bulge at his crotch gave her the answer. She kissed him, grinding her body into his, and the bulge grew. The railing cut across his ass.

“I know what you want,” she said, reaching down and unzipping his fly.

“Well, we are all alone up here, after all,” he replied.

She knelt, unbuckled his belt, pushed down his pants and took him into her mouth, getting a noisy response from him. He ran his fingers through her hair, took hold and pulled her to him.

Shit, she thought. She pulled back and took him out of her mouth. “If you want me to keep doing this, don’t mess up my hair,” she said.

He took his hands away and gripped the railing on either side of him. “Any way you want it, baby,” he said.

She continued her work, massaging his balls with one hand, and suddenly, convulsively, he began to come. She reached down, hooked her fingers under the bottoms of his jeans and heaved quickly upward.

“Hey!” he yelled, grabbing at the railing, but it was too late. He flew backward over the side and disappeared into the frothy wake.

She watched for a minute, but he didn’t come up again. All that was left was his hat, floating upside down on the water. If they ever found him, an autopsy would show no violence, just drowning. She wiped her mouth with a tissue, threw it overboard and walked back toward the stairs. In a moment, she was back in the rear seat of the car, dozing off, satisfied. She didn’t wake up until she heard the car door open.

“Barbara?” Cupie said.

She raised her head and brushed the hair out of her eyes. “Huh?” She didn’t have to act to look sleepy.

“Have you seen Vittorio? We’re coming into La Paz, and I can’t find him.”

“No,” she replied, “I’ve been asleep.”

“I’ll go look again.” He closed the car door and left.

Now, she thought, there’s only Cupie to deal with.

Thirty-four

CUPIE RAN UP THE STAIRS TO THE TOP DECK AND CHECKED one more time. He could feel the ferry slowing as it came into the dock. He looked around and saw another door, and he ran through that and climbed another short flight of stairs to the bridge.

The door stood open, and he could see a uniformed officer at the helm, working the throttles to ease the ferry into its berth. When the man rang the telegraph for all stop, Cupie stepped onto the bridge.

“Capitán?” he asked.

The man turned. “Sí. How can I help you, señor? Passengers are not allowed on the bridge.”

“There is a passenger missing,” Cupie said. “Please do not allow anyone off the ferry until we have found him.”

The captain looked alarmed. “Who is this person?”

“He is a business associate of mine, and his name is Vittorio, no last name.”

“What does he look like?”

“He’s about six feet tall, a hundred and seventy pounds, and he’s dressed in black, with a black, flat-brimmed hat.”

“I have seen this person on the upper deck after we left Mazatlán,” the captain said. “What happened?”

“I don’t know. After we sailed, I went to the snack bar and had some lunch, then read a newspaper. When we were approaching La Paz, I went to the upper deck to find him, but he wasn’t there. I went down to my car, and he wasn’t there, either. I’ve looked everywhere, and I can’t find him.”

The captain picked up a microphone and made an announcement of a delay in disembarkation, then he led Cupie below and to the bow of the ship. He ordered one man to take two others and search the ship from stem to stern and another to watch the gangplank where foot traffic disembarked for anyone fitting Vittorio’s description, then he and Cupie looked in each car and its trunk as it left the ferry, finding nothing.

“Señor,” the captain said. “You are absolutely certain he was aboard?”

“I am absolutely certain; I came aboard in his company. You must call the coast guard and ask for a search of our route across the gulf. He can only have gone overboard.”

The captain nodded, produced a cell phone and made a call, speaking in rapid Spanish. He closed the phone. “It will be done immediately, señor,” he said. “A boat will leave from Mazatlán and another from La Paz, and they will meet in the middle of the gulf, then make the return trip. The tide is slack, so if your friend fell overboard, he will not have drifted far. Can he swim?”

“I don’t know,” Cupie said. He remembered seeing Vittorio coming out of the sea with Barbara, but he had not seen him actually swimming.

“Señor, you must remove your car from the ferry, as we have to reload and return to Mazatlán. We will keep an eye out for your friend as we cross, so there will be three vessels looking for him. I suggest you inquire at the coast guard office at the head of the pier about the search.”

Cupie suddenly had an awful thought. “My friend had the key to the car,” he said.

“Then we must push it ashore,” the captain replied.

Cupie went back to the car and rousted Barbara, told her what had happened. “You and Vittorio went swimming together, didn’t you?”

“Yes, back at the casita.”

“Could he swim?”

“I don’t know; we didn’t go in very deep. He didn’t seem to be afraid of the water.”

“We’re going to be delayed, now,” Cupie said. “I’ve got to contact the car rental company and get either a new key or a new car, and we have to wait and find out about the results of the search.”

“Of course, whatever’s necessary. Do you really think he fell overboard?”

“He’s not on the ship; there’s only one other place he can be, and it’s being searched. You steer the car while we push.”

Barbara got into the front seat, and saw Cupie’s cell phone on the passenger seat. She switched it off and put it into her handbag. No calls to Ed Eagle today.

CUPIE SAT WITH BARBARA in a restaurant near their hotel, picking at his food. “I can’t believe this,” he said. “Are you sure you didn’t see him again after we got out of the car?”

“No. I told you, I went to sleep.”

“And why would he take my cell phone?”

“I don’t know. Maybe his battery was low, and he wanted to make a call.”

“I guess that makes sense. I’ve got to call Eagle and tell him what’s happened.” He looked around for a phone.

“Why don’t you wait until you hear from the coast guard? You don’t even know what to tell him yet.”

“Yeah, I guess. Listen, there’s something I have to talk to you about.”

“What’s that?”

“Vittorio and I talked about this today, before he…whatever he did. There’s something wrong about this business with the kidnappers and the policía.”

“Of course, there’s something wrong,” she said. “They’re trying to kidnap me for my money.”

“It’s more than that. Three hundred grand isn’t much to these people; they get multimillion-dollar ransoms. There’s got to be some other reason why they’re so interested in you. Tell me what it is.”

Barbara looked baffled. “I don’t have the faintest idea,” she said. “Why would they want me for any other reason than my money?”

“You said you’d been to Puerto Vallarta before, right?”

“Yes, but that was years ago.”

“This whole business started after we got to Puerto Vallarta. Did anything happen on your last visit that would have interested the police?”

“No, I came down with a girlfriend for a long weekend, and we liked it, so we stretched it into a week.”

“What did you do while you were there?”

“The usual: we lay on the beach, drank margaritas, shopped, like that.”

“Did you get stopped by the police for any reason? Help me out here, Barbara. Help me to protect you. Why do these people want you?”

“Cupie, this is crazy; the police here have no interest in me or, at least, not until I wired the three hundred thousand to the local bank. I think you were right: somebody at the bank tipped them off.”

Cupie sighed. “All right. The car rental company will supply a new key in the morning. We’ll start after we hear from the coast guard, and we should be in Tijuana by nightfall.”

He didn’t believe her, but he didn’t know what else to do. One thing, though: he was going to watch his back for the rest of this trip.

Thirty-five

ED EAGLE WOKE FEELING FRESH AND READY FOR THE new day. He was looking forward to work, something he had not felt since Barbara’s decamping. He showered and shaved, and as he looked in the mirror he thought again about the message from the county jail that Joe Big Bear was going to kill him.

It didn’t make any more sense this morning than it had the day before. He thought of calling the police or the D.A., but what would he tell them? Joe had not told him the name of the man in jail who had been hired to kill him, and that must have been who made the phone call. And Joe was a free man only because of him, and people tended to be grateful for that kind of help.

He had breakfast and slipped into his suit jacket, and as he was about to leave he stopped at the front door. Better to be safe. He went back to his dressing room and removed the Terry Tussy custom. 45 from the safe, slipped off his belt and replaced it with the wider, thicker gun belt, then threaded the holster onto the belt. He checked the magazine and made sure there was one in the chamber, then he cocked and locked the pistol and shoved it into the custom-made Mitch Rosen holster, which held the pistol high against his rib cage, making it easier to conceal. He left by the front door, picking up the Santa Fe New Mexican and the New York Times on the doorstep, and got into his car, tossing the papers onto the next seat.

He drove down the driveway and stopped, looking up and down the road. The pistol was digging into a rib, so he took it out of the holster and placed it on the passenger seat between the two newspapers, so it wouldn’t get the leather seat oily.

He turned right and started down the mountain, driving in a leisurely fashion, thinking about the day ahead. As he came around a bend he saw a pickup truck pulled over onto the shoulder with the hood up, and he slowed. He’d see if the driver needed help. As he did, a man waving a hand stepped from behind the pickup’s raised hood. The man looked familiar.

Then, as the man approached, Eagle belatedly recognized him. Joe Big Bear was smiling and waving with his left hand, seemingly relieved to have some help, and his right hand was behind his back. Eagle pressed the button that automatically lowered the passenger-side window, and as he did, something in the back of his mind told him he was making a mistake.

What came next happened very quickly and yet seemed in slow motion. Big Bear leaned over and put his face in the window, then his right hand came around with something odd-looking in it. A tool, maybe? Not a tool, not the kind needed to repair a broken pickup, anyway. Eagle began to operate on pure instinct.

As the shotgun came through the window he grabbed at it as the first barrel fired, then he put a hand under the top newspaper, made contact with the pistol and, without pulling it out or aiming it began firing through the door, his hand coming up with each shot, while the shotgun fired again. The noise from the two weapons was incredible.

Simultaneously, Joe Big Bear’s face winced in surprise, as the shotgun in his hand bucked. Eagle’s last two rounds went through the open window and blew Big Bear backward, as if he had been jerked by a rope, and he disappeared from view.

Eagle sat, dazed, and tried to figure out what had happened. His windshield had a large hole in it and had crazed, ruining the view forward; there was something warm running down his neck, and he spat something out of his mouth into his hand. It was a single, double-ought buckshot the size of a garden pea and bloody. Eagle turned the rearview mirror so that he could see his reflection. There was a notch in his left earlobe and a black hole in his left cheek, and his face had flecks of black in the skin.

He got out of the car, spat blood, and walked around the vehicle, the. 45 still in his hand and held out in front of him. With his left hand he found a handkerchief in his left hip pocket and pressed it to his bleeding ear. His ears were ringing, and the sound of the car door as he closed it seemed to come from far away.

Joe Big Bear was lying on his back, the shotgun near his right hand and his eyes open and staring blankly at the morning sky. Eagle bent over and felt Big Bear’s neck where a pulse should be and felt nothing. He suddenly felt a wave of nausea and dizziness, and he vomited on the ground next to Big Bear’s body. When he had stopped retching he leaned against the car and took deep breaths.

He regained his composure after a minute or so and clawed the cell phone from its holster on his belt, speed-dialing the district attorney’s direct line.

“Martinez,” a voice said.

“Bob, it’s Ed Eagle,” he managed to say before he had to spit blood again.

“Morning, Ed. You sound funny. Is anything wrong?”

“You remember my client, Joe Big Bear?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“He just tried to shotgun me on the road, down the hill from my house.”

“Ed, are you hurt?”

“Only a little, but Big Bear is dead. I’d appreciate it if you’d call the sheriff for me and get him out here with a crime scene team and two ambulances, one of them for me. I don’t think I can drive.”

“Ed, you’re not going to bleed to death or anything before anybody can get there, are you?”

“No, Bob, but please ask them to hurry.”

“I’ll call you back in a minute. You’re on your cell phone?”

“Yes.”

Martinez hung up, and Eagle sank to the ground, sitting cross-legged and leaning against his car. His cell phone rang.

“Yes?”

“It’s Bob. They’re on their way, and so am I.” He hung up.

A SHERIFF’S CAR was there in four minutes, by Eagle’s watch, and two ambulances and Bob Martinez were right behind him. Eagle insisted on walking them through what had happened before he got into the ambulance.

“You hit him with all four shots,” Martinez said, “from his right knee to his belly to his chest.”

“I wasn’t even aiming,” Eagle said.

AT THE HOSPITAL a young resident did something to his earlobe and stuck a swab into the hole in Eagle’s cheek, then he poured some liquid into a small cup and handed it to Eagle.

“Mr. Eagle, I know this is going to sound like an odd treatment, but I want you to take some of this into your mouth, close your lips tightly and spit it out the hole in your cheek.”

Eagle did as he was told, and a stream of clotted blood and antiseptic shot out the hole. It would have hurt like hell, he thought, but for the local anesthetic the man had injected into his cheek.

Then, in short order, an oral surgeon appeared and stitched up the wound inside Eagle’s mouth, and a plastic surgeon was next, carefully suturing the wound in his cheek with tiny stitches.

“I want you to keep this on your cheek for as long and as often as you can stand it,” the plastic surgeon said, pressing a wrapped ice pack against his face. “It’ll help prevent swelling, and you’ll look more normal.” He put a square of flesh-colored tape on the stitched wound.

When the medics were done, Bob Martinez, who had watched the treatment with interest, drove him home, so that he could change his bloody clothing.

“I had your car flat-bedded to the dealer in Albuquerque,” Martinez said. “The windshield will have to be replaced, and the door fixed, and the interior will need some attention. Do you have a second car?”

“Thanks, Bob, I’ve still got Barbara’s Range Rover.”

“Where’s Barbara?”

“Gone, and for good. There’s something I can tell you, Bob, now that Joe Big Bear is dead.”

“What’s that?”

“My witness at Big Bear’s hearing, Cartwright, was wrong about something. I don’t think it was deliberate, but he said that Joe had been at his house the whole time the car was being repaired. I didn’t remember it until later, but at our first meeting, Joe told me he had had to leave the job to go to Pep Boys on Cerrillos for a fan belt.”

Martinez’s eyebrows went up. “Ah, opportunity,” he said. “That matches up nicely with motive and means.”

“Yes, it does. I think Joe did the three murders.”

“Well, I can clear that case,” Martinez said as he pulled into Eagle’s driveway.

Eagle got out, thanked Martinez again, and went inside. He called Betty and said that he wasn’t feeling well and wouldn’t be in that day, then he stripped off his bloody clothes, took another shower and got into bed. He didn’t wake up until Susannah Wilde called in the late afternoon from the Centurion jet to say that she’d be landing in Santa Fe at six o’clock.

Thirty-six

EAGLE MET THE CENTURION GULFSTREAM IV AT THE SANTA Fe Jet Center, feeling like shit, hurting all over as if he had been beaten up. The ice had helped, but his face was still swollen, and his left eye was black.

When the jet taxied up to the ramp, Eagle walked out to meet it as the door opened, and several people came down the airstair. Susannah was first off, followed by a rather handsome, if elderly, man.

“Oh, Ed, what happened to you?” she asked, looking alarmed.

“Just a little accident; nothing to worry about.”

“Ed, let me introduce Rick Barron, the chairman of Centurion Studios.”

“Ed, how are you?” the elderly man asked.

“Very well, Mr. Barron.”

“Please call me Rick.”

“Thank you.”

“Susannah, it looks as though you don’t need a lift into town,” Barron said.

“No, I’m fine, Rick. Thank you so much for the ride; it’s so much easier than flying commercial to Albuquerque and driving from there.”

“Any time. We’re returning Sunday evening, if you need a round trip.”

“No, I’ll be staying to get my new house in order.” She kissed him on the cheek, Eagle took her luggage from a flight attendant and they walked to the Range Rover.

As soon as they were in the car, before he could even start it, she put a hand on his arm. “All right, now tell me what really happened. Did you get into a fight?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Eagle replied. “I want you to understand that incidents like this are not a normal or regular part of my life.”

“Understood. Now what happened?”

“A man, a former client, tried to kill me with a sawed-off shotgun. Fortunately, it didn’t turn out as he had planned.” He explained the circumstances as fully as he could.

“You should be at home in bed,” she said.

“I spent the day in bed, and I’m just fine, thanks.”

“I expect you could use a drink,” she said. “So could I; let’s get going.”

HE PUT HER THINGS in the guest room. “Do you want to change?”

“Nope, I’m okay as I am. Where’s the kitchen?”

“This way.” He led her there and poured them both a Knob Creek on the rocks.

“Now, you sit here,” she said, pushing him onto a barstool. “I’m going to cook dinner.”

“That’s really not…”

“Don’t argue with me,” she said, taking a swig of her drink and opening the refrigerator door. “What have we got here?”

“There are some steaks and salad makings.”

“Got it,” she said, starting the grill on the Viking range. “Dinner in half an hour.”

THE FISHING BOAT MADE IT into Cabo San Lucas well after dark. Vittorio sat on a beer cooler, a dirty blanket around his shoulders, and watched as the boat was eased into her berth, then he pressed five hundred dollars on its captain and jumped onto the dock.

Vittorio could not swim, but he could float. He had floated for the better part of an hour, terrified of growing tired and sinking, before the fishing boat appeared and heard his shouts. They had even rescued his hat, which was floating alongside him.

When he had gone over the side, he had been stunned by his uncontrolled impact with the water and frightened that he was under it for what seemed like minutes. He broke the surface just in time to see her turn away from the rail and walk away. He had been too out of breath even to shout, before the ferry was a hundred yards away. He had taken deep breaths, arched his back and he thanked God that the sea was flat.

He had had time to contemplate the end of his life before it was saved by the fishermen and to plan what he was going to do to Barbara if he ever got his hands on her. Once aboard the boat he’d tried to call Ed Eagle, but his cell phone had been ruined by the salt water.

Now, as he walked into the town, angry and damp, all he wanted was food, tequila and a bed. Then he remembered that he had the key to the Toyota. He found a cab and negotiated a price for the ride to Mazatlán. The cab ride was over an hour, and on arrival he went directly to the ferry terminal. As he had suspected, the Toyota was parked there. He retrieved his luggage from the trunk and found a hotel.

He ordered from room service, then he rinsed the salt water out of his clothes so they would dry properly, flushed out his. 45 Colt as best he could and soaked in a hot tub until the food came. A quarter of a bottle of tequila later, he fell soundly asleep, grateful to be alive.

EAGLE AND SUSANNAH ATE slowly and talked, sipping a good cabernet.

“I feel as though I’m starting a whole new chapter in my life,” she said.

“I’m almost there, myself, and I will be as soon as I can get the divorce out of the way.”

“Is that going to be a problem with her being out of the country?”

“Somewhere else is where I want her to be,” Eagle said. “I’ll have a signed agreement tomorrow morning, when I get to the office for your closing. The rest is just paperwork.”

“My divorce wasn’t so easy,” she said. “He wouldn’t settle, so we had to go to trial. It was all over the papers, and I hated that, but in the end, he had to pay more than I’d asked for, and he had to pay in cash, so at least I’m well fixed.”

“I’m happy for you.”

“The shipping company says my furniture will be here by noon Monday.”

“Then I’m looking forward to our weekend together.”

“So am I.”

“We’ll do a walk-through with the real estate agent first thing in the morning, then we’ll close at my office. An associate has already prepared all the paperwork. It’s a lot simpler for a cash transaction; fewer documents to sign. The seller won’t be there, but his lawyer already has the signed documents. Did you bring a cashier’s check for the sale price?”

“Yep. I’m ready to close.”

“I wish all my clients were so easy to deal with.”

“Well, I’m not always easy to deal with. I’m an actress, after all.”

“You seem to have a solid sense of yourself, without the usual ego inflation of people in your business.”

“Maybe that’s because I’ve seen so many inflated egos, and I wanted to avoid that. It’s the money, really. So many of those people are being paid so much money that they come to believe that they’re actually worth it. I know an actress who lives in Malibu who has a big piece of property with four houses on it, and she takes turns living in all of them.”

“Maybe there really is such a thing as too much money.”

“Live in L.A. for three months, and you’ll learn how true that is.”

“I think three months might be too much for me. I spent five weeks there once, for a trial. The client put me up at the Bel-Air hotel, and after a while I began to think I was worth it.”

AFTER DINNER, SHE WANTED to go to bed, and so did he. He kissed her good night outside the guest room, then fell into his own bed and quickly fell unconscious.

Thirty-seven

EAGLE WOKE THE NEXT MORNING FEELING NEARLY HUMAN. He showered, shaved and checked the state of his face. There was still the discolored eye, but the swelling in his face had gone down. He put antibiotic cream on his wound and applied a bandage. By the time he was dressed, he could smell bacon cooking.

“Good morning,” she said as he walked into the kitchen.

“You really don’t have to cook all our meals,” he said.

“I’ve got to earn my keep somehow.”

“I guess I’m going to have to take you out this evening to keep you from cooking again.”

“Don’t you like my cooking?”

“It’s wonderful, but I don’t like making you work.”

They sat down and ate a big breakfast, then Eagle got out the Range Rover and drove them through Tesuque and down Tano Road.

“This route isn’t as easy as it used to be,” he said as he first followed a four-lane highway, then turned onto a dirt road. “They closed the entrance to Tano Road in some sort of weird traffic rerouting, so it’ll take you a little longer to get home than it once did.”

“I don’t mind the drive,” she said.

He turned onto Tano Norte. “This road used to be called County Road 85, or something like that, but the writer who built your house and Stanley Marcus, of Neiman’s fame, who lived right there”—he pointed out a house as they passed—“got together and had the name of the road changed and the houses numbered.”

They drove on down Tano Norte until they came to the house, where Susannah’s real estate agent was waiting for them. The walk-through went well, and Susannah made notes for minor repairs and changes she wanted done.

“I’ll recommend somebody to take care of all that,” Eagle said.

The walk-through completed, they drove to Eagle’s office, where his associate had the paperwork arranged on the conference table in his suite. The seller’s lawyer showed up, the papers were signed and money changed hands.

“Congratulations,” Eagle said, “you’re a Santa Fe home owner.”

VITTORIO WOKE UP LATER than he had intended, had some breakfast and got dressed. He could see the Toyota in the ferry parking lot across the street, and he kept an eye on it as he dressed. His intention had been simply to go and get into the car when Cupie and Barbara did, but then he had a strange thought: Could the two of them have been in cahoots? He dismissed the idea as implausible, but he resolved to be more cautious.

He asked the hotel to provide a rental car, to be dropped off in Tijuana, and when Cupie arrived at the Toyota with their bags he was waiting across the street in a red Chevrolet.

CUPIE OPENED THE TRUNK and set his and Barbara’s luggage inside, then he stopped. Vittorio’s luggage had been there; now it was gone. He checked the lock on the Toyota; it was undisturbed; the trunk had not been broken into. He closed the trunk and looked carefully around him. What was going on here? The coast guard had reported not finding Vittorio’s body. This was creepy.

VITTORIO DUCKED AND WAITED for Cupie to drive away, then he followed. Cupie stopped at a side entrance to a hotel, and Barbara ran from the building and dived into the rear seat of the Toyota. Cupie was still being careful. Good.

Vittorio followed at a distance as the Toyota made its way out of town, north toward Tijuana. He wasn’t sure just how he was going to handle this yet, but what he really wanted was to kidnap her himself and sell her to a pimp in Tijuana. Maybe life as a sex slave in a Mexican whorehouse would be good for her.

BOB MARTINEZ SAT IN his car with a detective, across the street from the Santa Fe County Corrections Center, and watched the day’s crop of released inmates leave the building.

“You know any of these guys, Pedro?” he asked the detective. “I’m looking for a man who might do a contract killing.”

Pedro Alvarez watched the men through small binoculars. “I know three of them,” he said. “One is a burglar, one is a car thief and the third is what you might call a jack-of-all-trades.”

“What’s the jack’s name?”

“Harold Fuentes,” Pedro replied, as he watched Fuentes get into a pickup truck with a woman. “He’s your best bet.”

“Then let’s follow him.”

“What do you expect to learn by doing that? I could just brace the guy.”

“We don’t have enough to charge him with anything yet. Let’s just see where he goes and what he does.”

Pedro started the car and followed the pickup at a distance.

“You know where he lives?” Martinez asked.

“Off Agua Fría, in a little adobe,” Pedro replied.

Martinez watched as Fuentes passed Agua Fría without turning. “Harold appears to be going somewhere else,” he said.

Fuentes passed the road to the interstate without turning. “There’s nothing out here but a water-treatment plant and the airport,” Pedro said.

“Let’s see which one he chooses,” Martinez replied.

Fuentes turned left toward the airport.

“You know who lives out here?” Pedro said.

“Yeah, Joe Big Bear, or at least he did before Ed Eagle so kindly blew him away for us.”

Fuentes drove past the big junkyard, then turned into a road alongside it.

“Bingo,” Pedro said.

“Stop here, and let’s see what he does,” Martinez ordered.

Pedro pulled over and looked through his binoculars. “He’s trying to get into Big Bear’s trailer,” he said. “The woman is keeping watch. He’s fiddling with the lock.” He watched as Fuentes gave up on the lock, returned to the pickup for a tire iron, then jimmied the door. The woman followed him inside.

“Now we’ve got a charge,” Martinez said. “Let’s go get him.”

Pedro drove down the road and turned into the trailer’s driveway, then coasted to a stop. “Are you carrying?” he said to the D.A.

“You bet,” Martinez said, producing a Walther. 380. “Let’s go.”

The two men got out of the car and walked to the trailer, its door ajar. They peeked inside and saw Fuentes and the woman ransacking the place.

“Here!” the woman cried, opening the undersink cabinet. “He’s got a safe.”

They watched as Fuentes knelt in front of the safe, took hold of it and tried to lift it. “It’s bolted down,” he said, taking the tire iron to the plywood floor.

Martinez signaled Pedro to wait, and the two men watched through the door until Fuentes had the safe free of the floor. “Now,” he said, stepping back and letting the detective precede him.

Pedro pushed open the door, held out his gun and yelled, “Freeze, police!”

Fuentes was lifting the safe from under the sink, and he dropped it as if it were red hot and turned around. “What?” he said. “What’s going on?”

“You’re under arrest for burglary, both of you,” Pedro said.

“What are you talking about? My wife and me live here.”

“Come on, Harold, this is Joe Big Bear’s trailer.”

“I rented it from him the day before yesterday,” Fuentes protested. “I’ve got the agreement in my truck.”

“You talked to Joe the day before yesterday?”

“Sure, I did. He came to see me in jail.”

“Is that when you hired him to kill Ed Eagle?”

“Now, wait a minute Detective Alvarez,” Harold said. “Maybe I better explain this a little better.”

“Okay, Harold,” Pedro said, producing handcuffs. “Let’s go down to the station, and you can explain it to me and the D.A.”

Thirty-eight

EAGLE AND SUSANNAH HAD LUNCH AT THE TESUQUE Market, sitting on the front porch. The weather was gorgeous, as it usually was in Santa Fe.

“I’m kind of drowsy,” Susannah said. “Maybe I’d better have a cup of coffee.”

“No, you should have a nap. What you have is a mild case of altitude sickness; you have to remember that we’re at seven thousand feet of elevation here, and it takes at least twenty-four hours to get over it. Let’s go back to the house, and you can stretch out for a while.”

They drove back up the mountain, and on the front doorstep Eagle picked up a Federal Express envelope with a shipping label showing that it had been sent from Mexico. He put Susannah to bed, then went into his study, sat down and opened the envelope with a real sense of satisfaction. Inside were six blank sheets of paper. Furious, he called Vittorio’s cell phone, but all he got was voice mail. He tried Cupie’s, too, and the same thing happened. What the hell was going on down there? Then he noticed the light on his answering machine was flashing. He pressed the message button.

“Ed, it’s Cupie,” a voice said. “I’ve got some bad news: Vittorio is dead. We were on a ferry across the Gulf of California yesterday, and he disappeared from the upper deck. The coast guard has conducted a thorough search, and they haven’t been able to find him. Vittorio couldn’t swim, it seems. Apparently, he borrowed my cell phone, so that’s gone, too. I won’t be able to get another one until I get back to the states. I’m calling from a hotel in La Paz, but Barbara and I are leaving for Tijuana right now. I’ll call you again when we’re across the border.”

Eagle was stunned. Vittorio dead? Cupie and Barbara on their way to Tijuana? She was coming back to the States? The phone rang, and he picked it up. “Hello?”

“Ed, it’s Bob Martinez. We’ve arrested the man we believe called you from the Santa Fe jail. You might want to come down to the police station and hear what he has to say about the attempt on your life.”

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” Eagle said. He hung up and looked in on Susannah, who was sound asleep, then he got into the Range Rover and started for town.

CUPIE DROVE ALONG at a steady sixty miles an hour, glancing regularly in his rearview mirror. For a long time he saw nothing that worried him, then he did. He drove faster, then slower. “Barbara?”

“What?” she said from the backseat.

“You sure there’s nothing you want to tell me about that might cause the Mexican police to be interested in you?”

“Cupie, I already told you, there’s nothing. Now leave me alone.”

“Reason I ask is, there’s a red car following us, keeping well back. When I speed up, he speeds up; when I slow down, he slows down.”

“Oh, shit,” she said.

“My sentiments exactly. Now, maybe if you told me what’s going on here, it might help me figure out what to do.”

“I’ll tell you what to do,” she said. “You give me my gun back, and get ready to use yours.”

EAGLE WAS LED to a small room separated from an interrogation room by a one-way mirror. Martinez and a detective were waiting for him.

“You know Detective Pedro Alvarez?” Martinez asked.

“We’ve met in court, I believe,” Eagle said, shaking the man’s hand.

“The gentleman handcuffed to the table in the next room is Harold Fuentes,” Martinez said. “He’s a small-time offender who imagines himself capable of bigger things. He was released from the county jail this morning and, with his wife, went directly to Joe Big Bear’s trailer, broke in and started ransacking it. Pedro and I followed him and watched as he forcibly removed a safe that was bolted to the floor. We arrested him on a burglary charge, and we’ve got somebody working on the safe right now, to see what he was stealing.”

“Have you questioned him at all?” Eagle asked.

“Not yet.”

The door opened, and a uniformed officer walked in carrying a basket containing a substantial sum of cash. “Here we are, Mr. Martinez,” the officer said. “The safe had over thirty-six thousand dollars in it and a copy of a receipt from Western Union, showing that a Pepe Oso Grande received a wire transfer of twenty-five thousand dollars the day before yesterday.”

“Spanish for Joe Big Bear,” Alvarez said.

“The money was wired from a bank in Mazatlán, Mexico,” the officer said. “There was no name listed in the space for the sender.”

“Thank you,” Martinez said. The man set down the basket and left.

“My wife is in Mexico,” Eagle said.

“Pedro,” Martinez said, “I think it’s time for you to wring out Mr. Fuentes for us. We’ll watch.”

Alvarez got up and left the room, and a moment later, appeared on the other side of the glass. Martinez turned up the volume on a speaker.

“I’ve read you your rights,” Alvarez said. “Do you understand them?”

“Sure,” Fuentes replied.

“Sign this,” Alvarez said, placing a sheet of paper before him. Fuentes signed.

“Well, Harold,” Alvarez said, “it’s more than simple burglary, now; it’s grand theft. There was thirty-six thousand dollars in that safe.”

Fuentes didn’t looked surprised. “That money belongs to me,” he said. “I didn’t steal nothing.”

“So, the day before yesterday you were in Mexico, instead of in jail?”

“Huh?”

“Twenty-five thousand dollars of that money was wired from a bank in Mexico on that day. How’d you manage that, Harold?”

“It was the woman wired it, then,” Harold said. “The other twelve thousand, five hundred was mine, what I gave Joe Big Bear.”

“Let’s start at the beginning of all this, Harold, and while you’re telling me the story, don’t leave out the part about the woman.”

“Okay, a couple of weeks ago, right before I got arrested and sent to jail, I’m sitting at a traffic light on Paseo de Peralta, and this woman in a big SUV pulls up next to me and waves. She says, ‘Follow me; there’s money in it for you,’ and drives off. I’m curious, so I follow her. We go up Canyon Road, and we make a few turns and she parks, waves me over, gets out of her car and gets into my truck. She says she’s heard that I’m a man who can get things done, and she has a job for me. Am I interested?

“I say, maybe, and she says she wants somebody killed. I ask who, and she says her lawyer, name of Ed Eagle. I heard of him, and I ask why she wants him dead. She says, none of my business, and she says how much? I say fifty grand, and we bargain some. We settle on twenty-five grand, all of it up front, because after that moment, we won’t meet again.”

“Wait a minute, Harold,” Alvarez said. “You’re telling me she gave you twenty-five grand up front? What’s to keep you from just walking away with the money and doing nothing?”

“That’s what I figured to do,” Fuentes said, “but after she counts out the cash from her pocketbook, she says there’s another guy who’s going to be watching me, and if the job doesn’t get done, he’s going to kill me.”

“And you believed her?”

“Sort of, yeah.”

“Did she tell you her name?”

“No, and I didn’t ask. I just figured she was a dissatisfied client of Eagle’s.”

“And when did you hear from her next?”

“I didn’t hear from her again; I got busted on an old warrant the next day, and the judge gave me thirty days, half of it suspended.”

“Did you make any attempt to kill Ed Eagle?”

“No.”

“So how did Joe Big Bear get involved in this?”

“He was in at the same time I was, but I didn’t have no truck with him. Then, a few days ago, he turns up in the visitor’s room at the jail and asks for me. I sit down with him, and he says he’s going to do the job on Eagle, and he wants twelve, five for it. He says he knows I was paid twenty-five, and he wants half. In fact, he insists. He says if I don’t give him the money, he’s going to visit my wife, kill her and steal it, so I call her, and she gives him the money. She’ll tell you.”

“And that’s it?”

“Oh, yeah, he wants the cell phone number of the woman who hired me.”

“You had her cell phone number? You didn’t mention that before.”

“Yeah, she gave me the number and told me to call her when Eagle was dead.”

“What was the number?”

Fuentes gave it to him.

“So did Joe Big Bear contact her?”

“I guess so, because there was all that money in his safe. I mean, I just went there to get my twelve, five back, see? I wasn’t stealing it.”

EAGLE, WATCHING AND LISTENING with Martinez in the next room turned to the D.A. “Bob, I got a message this morning: she’s driving from La Paz up the Baja to Tijuana, with a private detective I hired, and she’ll cross into San Diego, probably tonight. Can you get the cops there to pick her up?”

Martinez got up. “I’ll go see Judge O’Hara for a warrant; I know what golf course he’s playing on.”

Thirty-nine

CUPIE WAITED UNTIL HE WENT AROUND A SHARP CURVE, separating him from the red car, then he floored the Toyota. It didn’t exactly give him whiplash, but the V-6 began to put on speed, while Cupie watched the rearview mirror. The red car was a good half mile behind him, so he had a thirty-or forty-second edge.

The road whipped back in the other direction, putting two curves between the Toyota and the red car, and then Cupie saw exactly what he wanted: a dirt road to the left, climbing a hill into a grove of piñons. He jerked the wheel and left the main road. The dirt road was little more than a track, and the Toyota did some dancing.

“What the hell is going on?” Barbara shouted from the rear seat.

“Shut up,” Cupie explained. He whipped the car to the left behind some trees and quickly got out, peering through the branches at the road below him. The red car shot by, having picked up speed. For a moment, Cupie had thought he saw Vittorio at the wheel, but he guessed his mind must be playing tricks. He turned to Barbara, who was leaning out the rear window. “Break out the sandwiches,” he said. “We’re having lunch here.”

VITTORIO CAME OUT of the first curve and saw an empty road ahead. He stood on the accelerator and by the time he got around the second curve, he was doing eighty. He went around several more curves before he realized he had been snookered. He had underestimated Cupie.

He slowed to make a U-turn, but before he could execute it he saw blue lights flashing in his rearview mirror. A police car came up quickly and sat on his bumper. Behind that was the black Suburban. He pulled over, rolled down his window and placed his hands on the steering wheel.

The police car pulled in front of him and stopped, and from the passenger side emerged an officer wearing a captain’s insignia, the same cop he had seen in the rear seat of the Suburban the last time he had been stopped.

The captain strolled toward him in a leisurely fashion, then stopped, looking astonished. “Dios mío!” he said. “Are you a dead man?”

“Not quite,” Vittorio replied.

“But there was a search of the Gulf for you.”

“I slipped and fell overboard from the ferry, but a fishing boat picked me up and took me to Cabo San Lucas.”

“You are a very lucky man, señor…”

“Vittorio.”

“Yes, I remember the name.”

“What can I do for you?”

“You were driving very fast, Señor Vittorio. The speed limit on this road is one hundred kilometers per hour; that’s sixty-two miles per hour.”

“I’m very sorry,” Vittorio said. “It’s a mostly empty road, and I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Would you step out of the car, please, señor?”

Vittorio reached outside and opened the car door, so that his hands would remain in view. He wasn’t going to give this man an excuse to shoot him. “How can I help you?” he asked the cop.

“You can tell me where is the woman you and the other gringo had with you.”

Vittorio shrugged. “I expect she is in New York City,” he said. “We put her aboard an airplane in Puerto Vallarta.”

“Señor,” the captain said, “nothing happens in Puerto Vallarta that I don’t know about. No charter airplane took off from the airport that morning.”

“Well, she said she had arranged a charter, and we left her there. Perhaps…”

“Señor, you are beginning to try my patience. Open the trunk immediately.”

Vittorio got the keys from the ignition, walked to the rear of the car and opened the trunk. He kept his hand ready to draw the. 45 in the holster on his belt. The captain leaned forward to peer inside, but there was only a spare tire and Vittorio’s single piece of luggage.

The cop spun around, anger on his face and his hand on his gun. “Where is she?”

“Captain, I give you my word, I don’t know where she is. As you can see, I am traveling alone, and I only wish to drive to Tijuana and return to my country.”

“Where is your partner, Señor Cupie?”

“I don’t know. After I fell off the ferry, I never saw him again. I expect that, since he must think I’m dead, too, he went home to Los Angeles.”

The captain seemed to cool off a bit. “Perhaps you are right, señor,” he said.

“Captain, may I ask, why are you so interested in this woman?”

“Because she is a murderer,” he replied.

Vittorio was not shocked to hear this. “And who did she murder?”

“My nephew.”

“Please accept my condolences, captain. When did this happen?”

“Some years ago. She came to Puerto Vallarta with another woman on a vacation—she used a different name, then. She met my nephew at the bar of her hotel, and they spent the remainder of the evening…entertaining each other. The following morning she checked out of the hotel, and the maid found my nephew’s body. He had been killed by a knife in his heart. Then, earlier this week, she checked into another hotel in Puerto Vallarta, and an employee there, who had formerly worked at the hotel where the murder took place, recognized her, even though she had changed her appearance.”

“Why do you suppose she would be so foolish as to return to Puerto Vallarta?”

“Because she was running from her husband,” the captain replied. “This is what your friend Mr. Cupie told me. Also, she had shot Mr. Cupie, and she had to leave Mexico City. I was not surprised to hear that this woman and your client’s wife were the same person. Perhaps you can understand why I am extremely disappointed not to have apprehended her.”

“I can certainly understand,” Vittorio said. “I would like to meet her again myself, for my own reasons.”

“Is it possible that the woman had something to do with your swim in the Gulf, señor?”

“Let’s just say that if I should encounter her again in the United States, you will have no further need of arresting her.”

The captain smiled broadly, revealing two gold teeth. “Perhaps if that should happen, señor, you might do me the courtesy of informing me of the outcome?” He handed Vittorio his card.

Vittorio pocketed the card. “I would be very pleased to do so,” he said.

The captain saluted. “Then I bid you good day and good journey,” he said.

They shook hands, and the policeman returned to his car.

Vittorio got back into the Chevrolet, wondering if the captain’s story could be true. He decided it probably was.

Forty

EAGLE RETURNED HOME AND FOUND SUSANNAH SITTING in the living room, reading a book.

“Hi, there,” she said. “When I woke up, you had gone.”

“Yes, I had a call from the district attorney.”

“About the man who tried to kill you?”

“No, about another man, the one who called me from the jail to warn me.”

“I don’t know about that. Why don’t you tell me the whole story?”

Eagle sat down next to her on the sofa and began at the beginning, taking her up to his killing of Joe Big Bear.

“And the man you talked to today called to warn you?”

“Yes, but I didn’t exactly talk to him; I observed his interrogation by the police from the next room, through a one-way mirror.”

“Is it over, then?”

“No, it isn’t. A detective I hired to find Barbara was supposed to send me some sheets of paper with her signature on them. They arrived today, but they were blank, and I haven’t been able to reach either of the two investigators I hired to find her. I don’t know what to think.”

“You certainly lead an interesting life, Ed Eagle.”

“Lately, it’s been a little too interesting.”

“What are you going to do next?”

“Nothing. There’s nothing I can do, until I hear from either Vittorio or Cupie. I’ve left messages on their voice mails.”

“Doing nothing isn’t much fun for a man like you, is it?”

Eagle smiled. “I think you’ve got a pretty good grip on me.”

“Not yet,” she said, “but stick around.”

VITTORIO HUNG BACK until the police car and the black Suburban left him behind, then he made a U-turn and went in search of Cupie and Barbara. The delay had allowed him to cool off a bit and to think ahead about what he would do when he caught up with her.

He didn’t think Cupie would sit still for his shooting her, so he was going to have to wait until he had an opportunity of getting her alone, and he didn’t know how he was going to do that or what he was going to do when he did. He abandoned the search for the Toyota. Instead, he pulled into a side road and behind a cluster of billboards, where he could wait until the Toyota passed by, as it would have to eventually.

CUPIE AND BARBARA sat in the car, finishing the sandwiches the hotel had prepared for them, Barbara drinking from a bottle of tepid white wine. Cupie stuck to a can of soda, wanting to keep his wits about him. The pistol on his belt was handy, in case the red car turned around and came looking for them.

“Barbara,” he said, “are you ready to tell me yet why the police want you so badly?”

Barbara sighed. “Does it really matter? They want me, that’s all. I should never have gone back to Puerto Vallarta, but I thought enough time had passed.”

“Passed since what?”

“All right, one of my sisters and I were there several years ago for a few days. We met this guy in the hotel bar who was good-looking and rather sexy. After a few margaritas we started talking about a threesome, and we went upstairs to our room. He got very drunk and began to slap us both around, wanting us to perform on each other. I mean, we were sisters, for Christ’s sake!”

“What happened?” Cupie asked.

“I hit him over the head with a tequila bottle, and we were going to dump him in the hallway with his clothes, but Julia was really, really angry, and when she got angry she was dangerous. She found a switchblade knife in his pocket, and it was razor sharp.”

Cupie’s jaw dropped. “She killed him?”

“Not exactly,” Barbara said.

“Not exactly? What the hell does that mean? What did she do to him?”

“She cut his dick off and stuck it in his mouth. He was still unconscious and didn’t feel a thing, but there sure was a lot of blood. We packed up and beat it out of there.”

Cupie blanched. “Do you have any idea who this fellow was?”

“Does it matter?”

“It may matter a very great deal.”

“I don’t remember his name; I just remember that he bragged about having a brother and an uncle who were policemen.”

“Well,” Cupie said, “I think that answers pretty fully my question about why the police want you.”

“Frankly, I think it’s the traveler’s checks,” she said. “There was no way to connect me with what happened back then. I had a different name then.”

“Maybe somebody recognized you.”

“Who could recognize me?”

“Somebody who remembered you from your first visit.”

“But I stayed in a different hotel this time.”

“Workers—waiters, desk clerks, maids—move from hotel to hotel.”

“That seems pretty far-fetched to me.”

“Far-fetched doesn’t even begin to describe what’s already happened.”

She looked at her watch. “Let’s get to Tijuana; I don’t want to spend another night in this country.”

“I don’t blame you,” Cupie said, starting the car. “Neither do I. Get in the backseat.” She climbed over the front seat and lay down. He turned the car around, headed down the hill, and turned north again.

VITTORIO SAT UP at attention; the Toyota had just passed his location, headed north at moderate speed. He gave Cupie another minute to gain ground, then he started the Chevy and followed, waiting for an opportunity.

Forty-one

EAGLE TURNED OFF THE PAVEMENT OF TANO ROAD ONTO unpaved Tano Norte, toward Susannah’s new house.

“You think they’ll ever pave this road?” she asked.

“Who knows? I thought the county would never pave Tano Road, but they did. Anyway, a lot of people in Santa Fe think dirt roads are charming.”

“Really? I think they’re dusty in summer and muddy in winter.”

“Your opinion is unassailable, but add icy to muddy. I’ve seen eight inches of snow on this road. You’re going to need snow tires.”

“And a stock of canned and frozen food, too.”

“Not really. The county plows the roads in good time.” Eagle turned in through her front gate and pointed at the garage. “You’re going to need a private contractor to plow your parking area, though. It’s uphill from your garage to the gate. I’ll give you a name.”

“It’s very convenient that you have this stock of people to do anything needed,” she said.

They got out of the car and walked down the steps to her front door. She unlocked it and stepped inside. “Oh,” she said. “It’s so much better without the seller’s furniture. I hated his furniture. And it’s spotless.”

“I sent my housekeeper and half her family over yesterday.”

“Ed Eagle, you are an angel.”

Eagle pointed at the mover’s truck that was pulling in through the gate. “It’s going to look even better with your furniture in it,” he said.

THE SUN WAS SETTING as the mover’s truck departed, and Eagle sat on a sofa in the handsome study while Susannah poured them a drink.

“God, I’m tired,” she said, handing him a newly unpacked glass and flopping down beside him.

“All you need is a drink and some dinner and a good night’s sleep,” he said.

“I don’t even know which box the sheets are in,” she replied, taking a big swallow of the bourbon.

“Don’t even look for them. Sleep at my house tonight and officially move in tomorrow. My housekeeper and her sister, who is going to be your new housekeeper, will be here to help you get things sorted out.”

She rested her head on his shoulder. “What would I do without you?”

He put his arm around her and pulled her closer. “I hope you don’t find an answer to that question anytime soon.”

CUPIE HIT THE OUTSKIRTS of Tijuana just as it was getting dark. He pulled over and consulted the map from the rental car agency, looking for a place to leave the car. “Good,” he said, “there’s a drop-off point very near the border crossing. We’ll be there in ten, fifteen minutes.”

“Let’s get some dinner first,” she said.

Cupie turned toward the backseat and looked at her. “Barbara,” he said evenly, “are you out of your fucking mind?”

“I want food,” she said.

“You want to die,” he replied.

“Oh, relax, Cupie.”

“Barbara, I know very well that it was you, not your sister, who cut that guy’s dick off, but I can only imagine what his uncle, the policeman, is going to do to you when he finds you.”

“You’re being melodramatic.”

“I’m being wise,” he said. “This is what is going to happen: We’re going to drive to the drop-off, leave the car, take our bags out of the trunk and then I’m going to escort you into the United States and we’ll say good-bye. But I’ll buy you dinner on the other side of the border, if you’re interested.”

“Oh, all right.”

Cupie put the car in gear and, after checking the map again, headed for the border.

VITTORIO WATCHED CUPIE drive away. He would be going straight for the border crossing and the rental car drop-off there, but Vittorio knew the town better. Driving quickly, he cut through back streets and emerged a hundred yards from the border. He drove into the rental car drop-off, got his bag out of the trunk, marked down the mileage and tossed the contract on the desk of a dozing clerk. Then he walked across the street and stood in a doorway. Two minutes later, Cupie drove up, removed luggage from the car and went inside. Barbara did not appear.

CUPIE APPROACHED THE DESK and laid the car contract on its surface. “How would you like to buy a couple of very nice guns, amigo?” he asked the clerk.

“Guns, señor?” the man asked.

“Maybe you don’t need them, but they’ll sell quickly on the street.” He laid his 9mm and Barbara’s. 25 on the desk, first popping the magazines and checking the breach to be sure they were unloaded.

The man quickly examined both guns and put them back on the desk. “How much?”

“Six hundred American for the two of them.”

“I’ll give you three-fifty.”

“Five-fifty.”

The clerk looked doubtful.

“Five hundred, and that’s my best price.”

“Are they clean, señor?”

“Of course, amigo. I brought them from the United States myself,” Cupie lied.

“Momentito,” the man said. He went into a back room and came back with two hundreds and six fifties. The money changed hands, and the guns disappeared into the clerk’s desk drawer. “Vaya con Dios,” the clerk said.

“You betcha,” Cupie replied. He went back to the car and opened the rear door. “Okay, sweetheart,” he said, “here’s how we’re going to do this.” He pulled the towing handle out from her large case. “You’re going to walk ahead of me down the street to your right, then turn for the border crossing to your left. It’s very brightly lit, so you can’t miss it. I’m going to be about fifty feet behind you.”

“Why can’t we go together?”

“Because if our policeman friend is watching and he sees you with me, he’ll know who you are. Alone, he may not spot you; I doubt if he has a picture.”

“I suppose that makes sense,” she said, taking a scarf from her purse and tying it around her head.

“Good idea,” he said. “You look different already.”

She got out of the car, took the handle of her rolling suitcase and began walking.

Cupie gave her a head start, then followed. He had no idea what he would do if the police turned up, except deny that Barbara was who they were looking for.

VITTORIO WATCHED from the doorway across the street as the two left the drop-off and started toward the border. He fell in ten yards behind Cupie. There was a line of pedestrians at the crossing, perhaps fifty people, some carrying luggage, some drunk, all brightly illuminated by floodlights and waiting patiently to speak to the border patrol officers. He watched as Barbara joined the end of the line and Cupie held back, to allow a few others to separate him from her. Vittorio waited, then he joined the line, too.

As he did, a police car rolled slowly around a corner and toward the border crossing. Another patrol car was already parked next to the line of pedestrians, with two officers inside, watching them shuffle past.

Vittorio was glad he had the. 45 Colt on his belt, and then he wasn’t glad. He wasn’t going to get into a shoot-out among all these people, and neither was he going to attempt to carry the pistol across the border; he had to get rid of it.

The second police car came to a stop next to the first, and Vittorio could see his friend, the police captain, sitting in the rear seat, less than twenty feet from where Barbara, then Cupie, would pass him.

Vittorio had to do something now.

Forty-two

VITTORIO PICKED UP HIS BAG AND WALKED STRAIGHT toward the police car, moving to put himself between the police captain and Barbara. He wanted her for himself.

The captain leaned toward his open car window. “Señor Vittorio,” the policeman said, smiling broadly and displaying his gold teeth. “You are leaving us?”

“Yes, capitán,” Vittorio replied, putting down his bag and placing his left hand on top of the car, bracing himself as he bent down to talk.

“I see you have reunited with your friend Señor Dalton,” the policeman said, nodding toward the line.

“Where?” Vittorio asked turning to look at the line, but still keeping himself between the captain and Barbara. “Oh, yes, there he is. Perhaps I’ll buy him a drink on the other side.” The line was moving more quickly now. “Capitán, I wonder if you might accept a small gift?”

The captain smiled again. “I would not be so rude as to refuse your generosity, Señor Vittorio.”

Vittorio pulled back his jacket to reveal the. 45 in its holster. He removed it, popped the magazine, handed it to the captain, then locked the slide back and inspected the pistol to be sure it was unloaded, then handed it to the captain.

The broad smile continued. “It is a very beautiful weapon, Señor Vittorio,” he said, slapping the magazine home, releasing the slide and thumbing back the safety. “I am most grateful.”

Vittorio unbuckled his belt and handed over the holster, as well.

“And surely there must be something I can do for you, Senor Vittorio,” the captain said, being well informed in the business of tit for tat.

Vittorio decided to surprise him. “Nothing, capitán. Perhaps some other day when I am back in Mexico you will remember me.”

“How could I forget after so generous a gift,” the captain replied, offering his card. “Here are all my numbers; please do not hesitate to call on me at any time you are in my country.” He offered his hand.

Vittorio shook it, then glanced over his shoulder. Barbara was speaking to the American border patrol officer, and Cupie was half a dozen people behind her. “I hope to see you again soon, capitán,” he said. “And now I think I’ll catch up to Señor Dalton and buy him that drink in El Norte.”

“Vaya con Dios,” the captain said, giving him a little wave.

“And you, capitán,” Vittorio replied. He picked up his bag, turned, and walked toward Cupie, still keeping himself between the policeman and Barbara, who was putting her passport back into her handbag.

Cupie spotted him. “Well, hello, Vittorio,” he said. “Somehow, after I found your bag gone from the car, I expected you might turn up.”

Vittorio shook his hand and glanced at Barbara. “Oh, I couldn’t let her get away.”

“What happened on the ferry?” Cupie said. “For a while, I thought you were a goner. When I couldn’t find you aboard, I went to the captain, and he started a search of the ferry and radioed the coast guard.”

“I was picked up by a fishing boat,” Vittorio replied, staring at Barbara. Suddenly she turned and their eyes locked for a moment. She grabbed the handle of her suitcase and walked quickly into the United States.

“I want her,” Vittorio said.

“What happened on the ferry?” Cupie asked again.

“She did her very best to murder me,” Vittorio replied. He waited impatiently while the line moved forward, then he presented his passport to the border patrolman.

“You are a citizen of the United States?” the man asked.

“Native born,” Vittorio replied.

“What was the purpose of your visit to Mexico?”

“Business and pleasure.”

“Are you carrying any firearms?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you purchase any gifts for people at home?”

“No, sir.”

The patrolman handed him back his passport. “Welcome home.”

Vittorio took the passport and hurried across the border, just in time to see Barbara get into a taxi and pull away. Vittorio cursed; the taxi stand was empty; she had taken the last cab.

Cupie hurried up to him. “What are you going to do?”

“Find her,” Vittorio said. “Just as soon as I can get a taxi. She was giving me a blow job, and she grabbed the bottom of my trousers and tossed me over the rail. She knew I didn’t swim.”

“Well, Vittorio,” Cupie said, “I don’t think I’ll want to be there when you two meet again. I’ll bid you good-bye.” The two men shook hands. “Maybe we’ll work together again sometime.”

“That would be my pleasure, Cupie,” Vittorio replied, then watched the older man walk away toward a bar, towing his suitcase. He looked back toward the taxi stand in time to see two cabs pull into it and discharge passengers, and he ran for the first one.

EAGLE LAY NAKED in bed, Susannah’s head on his shoulder. They were both panting and sweating copiously. “That was wonderful,” he said.

“It was better than that,” Susannah replied. “But at least I was able to begin to repay you for all your kindnesses.”

“You mean there’s more to come?”

“Oh, yes.”

“I’m not sure if my health can stand it,” Eagle said.

“You’re pretty healthy.”

The phone rang, and Eagle jerked reflexively toward it, then sank back onto his pillow. “Fuck ’em,” he said, “whoever they are.”

“No,” she said, “fuck me.”

“You’re going to have to give me a few minutes,” he said.

“Oh, all right, a few minutes.”

The answering machine clicked on, and a voice said, “Mr. Eagle, it’s Cupie. If you’re there, please pick up.”

“Excuse me,” Eagle said to the woman on his shoulder, “but I really have to get that.”

“Go ahead,” she said.

Eagle picked up the phone. “Cupie? Where are you?”

“In San Diego,” Cupie said. “I crossed the border right after Barbara, but she got the only cab available and lost me.”

“I’ve been trying to reach you. What happened?”

“Lots and lots,” Cupie said. “Barbara was being chased by the Mexican cops, because of an incident with a knife a few years back. The victim was the nephew of a police captain. She asked Vittorio and me to get her back to the States, and since I didn’t think you wanted her dead, we helped her. On the ferry across the Gulf of California, she took the opportunity to shove Vittorio overboard; she knew he couldn’t swim. I thought we had lost him, but he was picked up by a fishing boat and caught up with us at the border. He’s after her now; when he finds her, it isn’t going to be pretty.”

“Swell,” Eagle said. “When he finds her, I hope the authorities don’t think I hired him to kill her.”

“You’re okay on that point,” Cupie said. “I can testify what the arrangement was and why Vittorio went after her. I’m sorry it took so long to call you, but my cell phone disappeared—I suspect Barbara. I’m calling from a bar.”

“Where are you headed now?”

“Home. I’m exhausted, and I have no idea where Barbara went, so I can’t chase her any more. If you hear where she is, I’ll go after her again.”

“I got the papers I thought I wanted, but they were blank. Why?”

“Blank? Vittorio got her to sign them, and I watched him FedEx them to you. I guess Barbara must have…”

“Yeah, I guess she did. Go home and rest, Cupie, and send me your expenses. I’ll call you if I need you.”

“Oh, one more thing: she converted the three hundred grand she stole from you into traveler’s checks. They’re in her purse.”

“Thanks, Cupie.” Eagle hung up and flopped back onto his pillow. “What’s happened?” Susannah asked. “Barbara’s back in the country,” Eagle said. “Is that good or bad?” “That remains to be seen, but I’m not optimistic.”

Forty-three

BARBARA EAGLE GOT INTO THE CAB AND SAID, “LA JOLLA,” then she dug into her purse and came up with a cell phone, Cupie’s as it happened. What the hell. She tapped in a number she knew well. As the number was connecting, they passed a corner shop with several signs: PAWNSHOP • GUNS • GUNSMITH. She made a note of the intersecting streets.

“La Reserve,” a smooth woman’s voice said.

“Let me speak with Mrs. Creighton,” Barbara said.

“I’m sorry, but Mrs. Creighton is out for the evening; may I connect you with Mr. Wilson?”

“Of course.”

The extension rang twice, and a soft male voice said, “Front desk. Mr. Wilson.”

“Mr. Wilson, this is Barbara Eagle.”

“Good evening, Mrs. Eagle,” the man said, with enthusiasm. “I hope you’re well.”

“I will be if you can accommodate me for a few days, perhaps a few weeks.”

“Of course, Mrs. Eagle; Pine Cottage is available. Will that be suitable?”

“Pine will be perfect.”

“And when may we expect you?”

“Within the hour. And no one except Mrs. Creighton is to know I’m there.”

“As you wish. We look forward to welcoming you soon.”

“Good-bye.” She settled back into her seat. The cab stank of cigarette smoke.

THE CAB SWUNG into the hidden drive, marked only by a mailbox, and stopped under a portico where a uniformed servant awaited. He opened the cab door. “Good evening,” he said.

“Everything in the trunk,” Barbara said to the man.

“I will take your luggage directly to Pine Cottage,” the man replied. “Mr. Wilson is waiting at the front desk.”

Barbara went inside, through a foyer and into a comfortable living room.

To one side, opposite the fireplace, an extremely graceful young man sat at a desk. On seeing her, he sprang to his feet. “Oh, Mrs. Eagle, welcome!”

“Thank you, Mr. Wilson, it’s good to be back.”

“Have you had dinner?”

“No, I’ll order something sent to my room.”

“I’ll alert the kitchen. May I show you to Pine Cottage?”

“Yes, thank you.”

He led her outside and along a paved path through a sub-tropical garden, until they arrived at the cottage door. He let her in and gave her the key. “Everything is ready; the room service menu is on the desk. May I do anything else for you?”

“Yes. First thing tomorrow morning, book me into the salon for four hours. I’ll want a two-hour massage—with Birgit, please—a facial, a manicure and pedicure and a consultation with Eugene and his colorist and his makeup designer. And will you please let your office know that I’d like to cash ten thousand dollars in traveler’s checks tomorrow morning?”

“Of course, Mrs. Eagle, that will not be a problem.”

She handed him a fifty-dollar bill, and he backed out of the cottage, bowing, as if she were royalty. She looked around. Her suitcase was nowhere to be seen, but her clothes had been put away in the dressing room. She would replace most of them in the days to come. She flung open the French doors and walked out onto the stone patio. The moon was rising, blazing a silver streak across the Pacific; a light breeze, perfumed by the garden, played across her face. She was as much at home as she would be for the foreseeable future.

VITTORIO PACED THE SAN DIEGO airport, as he had done for an hour. She would come here, he knew she would. She would want to get as far away as possible. He questioned the desk clerks at every airline, strewing hundred-dollar bills as he went, but no one had seen anyone answering to the name or description of Barbara Eagle.

He waited another hour, then boarded the last flight of the evening, to Albuquerque. His anger was contained, but deep inside, it burned brightly. It would continue to do so until he had delivered a slow, exquisitely painful Apache death to Barbara Eagle.

CUPIE DALTON LET HIMSELF into his little house in Santa Monica, went into the laundry room, opened his suitcase and dumped the contents into the washing machine. He stripped off his clothes and added them to the pile, then started the machine. He grabbed a light cotton robe, then went to the cabinet where he kept the liquor, filled a glass with ice, then filled it again with a very good Scotch and let himself out onto the back porch, where he sank into a rocker. His garden looked nice in the moonlight; the Japanese man came twice a week to keep it that way.

He sipped the Scotch and thought about the past week: he had been shot, shot at, chased by kidnappers and Mexican cops and made a fool of by the most cunning and conscience-free woman it had ever been his displeasure to meet. She would make a fine chapter or two in his memoirs, when he got around to writing them, but he hoped to God that Ed Eagle would not ask him again to find her or that he would ever again, in any circumstances, set eyes on her.

BARBARA WOKE WELL AFTER the sun came up and ordered breakfast sent to her patio. She wolfed it down, watching the people on the beach at the bottom of the cliffs, then she phoned the front desk.

“Good morning, Mrs. Eagle,” a woman with a cultivated British accent said. “I’m so sorry I was not available to receive you last evening.”

“That’s quite all right, Mrs. Creighton.”

“We have arranged for your massage at eleven o’clock, followed by lunch on the salon terrace. The manicurist will tend to your needs at two, and Eugene and his colorist will consult with you at three.”

“That will be perfect, Mrs. Creighton. By the way, during my stay I wish to be known as Barbara Woodfield. I do not wish to hear the name Eagle ever again.”

“Of course.”

“Will you arrange a taxi for me in fifteen minutes?”

“It would be my pleasure. And the cash you requested is ready for you. Are hundreds and fifties all right?”

“I’d like a hundred in twenties and a hundred in fives and tens.”

“Of course.”

Barbara hung up the phone, dressed in slacks and a blouse, then wrapped a scarf around her head and put on her big, dark glasses. She took ten thousand dollars in traveler’s checks from her large purse and locked the remainder in the safe in her dressing room.

FORTY MINUTES LATER Barbara got out of the cab. “Wait for me,” she said to the driver. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She walked into the shop and found it empty, except for a skinny, balding man in a wheelchair. “Good morning,” she said.

“Morning. What can I do for you?” the man asked. He appeared to be about fifty.

“First of all, I am not a police officer, a federal agent or anyone else who wishes to create legal complications for you.”

“Well, I’m real glad to hear that,” the man said. “Who sent you?”

“Nobody. I saw your shop after I crossed the border last night, and your sign advertised the services I need.”

“You want to pawn something?”

“No, I want a gun.”

“What sort of gun?”

“I want something small and light that will fit into a purse, probably either a. 25 or a. 380. I do not want a background check, nor do I wish to wait three days for it. I expect to pay for the privilege.”

The man rolled his wheelchair to the front door, locked it and turned over a sign that read BACK IN HALF AN HOUR. “Follow me,” he said. He led her into a back room, where he opened a large safe, then reached inside and brought out a small black pistol and handed it to her. “Walther PPK,” he said. “James Bond carries one.”

She weighed it in her hand. “Nice size; too heavy.”

He returned the gun to the safe and brought out another. It looked like a miniature of the. 45 that Vittorio had carried, and it was very light.

“Colt Government. 380,” the man said. “Small, aluminum frame, made for a woman’s hand and purse.”

She hefted it. “I like it,” she said. “How much?”

“Since you’re not a cop or a federal agent, let me ask you an illegal question,” the man said.

“All right.”

“Could you use a silencer?”

“Maybe.”

He reached into the safe, brought out a black tube about four inches long and showed her how it screwed into the barrel. “All you’ll hear is pffft! Made it myself.”

“How much for the two pieces?”

“Twelve hundred, and I’ll throw in some ammo.”

“Done,” she said. She counted out the money from her purse. “What do you recommend for bullets?”

“Well, since it’s a light caliber, you’d want something that will still do some damage, wouldn’t you?”

“I would.”

He took a small Ziploc bag containing a dozen or so cartridges from the safe, then removed one and held it up for her to see. “This looks like a regular bullet, but it contains pellets, sort of like a shotgun. It’s powerful, and it makes a hole all out of proportion to the caliber. Very good for close work, and it won’t go through a wall and hit somebody next door.”

“Excellent,” she said.

He took two magazines from the safe, loaded them, inserted one into the pistol and handed her the other.

“You know how this works?”

“Perfectly,” she said.

“Just pump one into the chamber, and you’re loaded for bear. We never met; have a nice day.”

She popped the gun, the silencer and the spare magazine into a side pocket of her bag, gave him a little wave and left the shop.

“Back to where you picked me up,” she said to the cabbie.

Forty-four

VITTORIO SLEPT UNTIL NEARLY NOON, THEN ROLLED OUT of bed and made himself scrambled eggs, bacon and a tortilla from the supplies left by the Apache woman who kept house for him. He was stiff and sore, and he needed exercise.

He changed into shorts and a T-shirt, buckled on a knife and scabbard underneath and put on sweat socks and running shoes. He stepped out of the house, a small adobe in the desert east of Santa Fe, pausing in his front yard to do some stretching exercises, then he began to run slowly through the widely spaced piñon trees, feeling the noonday sun on his head. After a mile or so, he stepped up the pace, circling back toward his property. By the time he reached the house he had run a good four miles.

He did a hundred push-ups and a hundred crunches, then chinned himself fifty times on a bar installed on his front porch. When he was finished and had showered and dressed, he felt better. He reflected that he was going to have to find somebody to teach him to swim.

He went to his safe and took out the ten thousand dollars in traveler’s checks Barbara had paid him, got into his car and drove into Santa Fe. He went to two banks where he did business, cashing half of the traveler’s checks in each bank, to avoid filing the federal form for a transaction of more than five thousand dollars. After that he drove to Ed Eagle’s office building where he had another ten thousand to collect.

He had to wait nearly an hour before Eagle was free, then he was shown in. Eagle shook his hand and sat him down.

“Are you all right?” Eagle asked. “I heard from Cupie you had some problems.”

“I’m all right,” Vittorio replied. “Did you receive the FedEx package I sent you?”

Eagle opened a desk drawer, removed a FedEx envelope and tossed it to him. “Look inside,” he said.

Vittorio inspected the contents of the envelope and looked at Eagle, speechless.

“That’s the way I received it,” Eagle said.

“I can only apologize,” Vittorio replied. “I had the signed sheets, and I thought they were what I sent you. There will be no further charge for my services.”

“Thank you,” Eagle said.

“I lost her after crossing the border last night. I thought she would go to the San Diego airport, and I went there, but she never showed up. Do you want me to continue looking for her?” He intended to continue looking for her, no matter what Eagle replied, but he’d rather be paid for it.

“Where would you look?”

Vittorio shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“I expect I’ll hear from her or about her, one way or another,” Eagle said. “When I do, I’ll call you.”

“Next time I find her, you won’t be troubled by her again.”

“I didn’t hear that, Vittorio,” Eagle said. “I do not want her killed, and I won’t pay you to do it; is that perfectly clear?”

“Perfectly,” Vittorio said. “You have my cell phone number.” He remembered he had to buy another cell phone.

“Yes. I’ll be in touch.”

Vittorio shook the man’s hand and left the building. He found a cell phone shop on Cerrillos Road and bought a new one, had his old number programmed into it, then he went home.

He switched on his computer and logged onto a website maintained by an organization of private detectives and bounty hunters. He went to a page called “Wanted,” uploaded a photograph of Barbara that Eagle had given him and typed in a complete description, offering a one-thousand-dollar reward for her location. It was a long shot, but the website had paid off before. Now there would be a thousand sets of eyes on the lookout for her all over the country.

BARBARA WOODFIELD APPEARED at the La Reserve spa, on time for her massage. Birgit was a six-foot-tall Swede of striking good looks and strong hands. She had been a nurse in Sweden, then a model in New York, until her weight had increased to that of a normal person, then she had turned to massage therapy, learned in her youth, for her living. And she knew all sorts of therapy.

AFTER PERFUNCTORY GREETINGS, Birgit went to work on Barbara’s body, working slowly and carefully. For an hour and a half she eased tension, worked away soreness and soothed every muscle. Then she dribbled a little oil into the crevice between Barbara’s buttocks and lightly ran a finger up and down the area, caressing the anus and spreading the lubrication.

She turned Barbara over on her back and continued her ministrations, lightly massaging her nipples with one hand and her clitoris with the other. When she was wet, Birgit bent and spread the labia with her tongue, inducing a sharp intake of breath from her client.

For twenty minutes she did her work, bringing Barbara to orgasm a dozen times, with tongue, teeth and fingers. Finally she went lightly over her body once again, then stepped back. “Will there be anything else, Ms. Woodfield?” she asked.

“I cannot imagine what else there could possibly be,” Barbara sighed.

“I have toys, if you would enjoy penetration,” Birgit replied.

“Thank you, but I’m fine,” Barbara said. With Birgit’s help she sat up, and Birgit helped her into a light robe.

“Your lunch is waiting,” she said.

AFTER LUNCH, Barbara had her manicure and pedicure, then presented herself to Eugene, who ran the beauty salon.

“So good to see you again, Ms. Woodfield,” Eugene said smoothly, standing behind her and running his fingers through her long, dark hair.

“And you, Eugene.”

“And what can we do for you today?”

“I want it shorter—to the shoulders would be good—and a new cut. Then I want to be a streaked blond again.”

“You will be a beautiful blonde,” Eugene said. “First we will have you shampooed, then we will go to work.”

Barbara relaxed and submitted herself to the process.

FOUR HOURS LATER, she looked with approval at the new woman in the mirror, with her new hair color and her newly created makeup.

“It is astonishing how different you look,” Eugene said, using his comb to perfect the hair, “and even more beautiful.”

Barbara looked deeply into her own eyes, and she could not but agree. She tipped everyone lavishly, then left the spa and went to Mrs. Creighton’s office.

“How may I help you?” Mrs. Creighton asked when she had seated Barbara.

“I want to consult a cosmetic surgeon for some minor work,” Barbara said.

“Then may I recommend Dr. Felix Strange, whose offices are on our grounds? I think there is none better in Southern California.” She took a card from a desk drawer and handed it to Barbara.

“You may indeed,” Barbara said, accepting the card.

“May I make an appointment for you?”

“Yes, please, and as soon as possible.”

Mrs. Creighton picked up a phone and dialed an extension, then spoke. She covered the phone with her hand. “Would you like to see him now?”

“Perfect,” Barbara said. She got directions to Dr. Strange’s cottage and walked quickly there. A receptionist showed her into his office without delay.

“Good afternoon,” he said, waving her to a chair. “How may I be of service?”

“I wish to change my appearance but only slightly,” Barbara said.

“What did you have in mind?” Strange asked.

“I thought I might shorten my nose a bit—I’ve always thought it too long—and perhaps enhance my chin.”

“Come with me,” Strange said. He led her into the next room where there was an examination chair and a video camera. He seated her and switched on some bright lights, then he stood at her side, raised the chair so that she was at eye level, and examined her profile. “Your judgment is very good,” he said.

“Thank you.”

“What I will do now is photograph you, then, through computer imaging, show you what your new profile will look like. It’s quite accurate.”

“Please do,” she replied.

Strange manipulated the chair, took several shots from all sides, then removed the camera, switched off the bright lights and went to a computer, the display of which was a large, plasma flat screen hung on the wall. “Here is your current image,” he said, hitting a few keys.

Barbara watched as her profile appeared on the screen.

“Now, let’s shorten the nose a bit and strengthen the chin.” He typed for a minute or so, and the image on the screen morphed into a new one.

“Fantastic!” she said. “It’s perfect.”

“No, you’re perfect; you just need a little help.”

“Can you rotate the image so that I can see my new face from the front?”

“Of course.” He hit more keys and the image rotated slowly from one profile to the other, then back to center.

“Wonderful! How long will this take?” she asked.

“A couple of hours,” he replied.

“And the recovery time?”

“Quite short. You won’t have the black eyes that usually come with a rhinoplasty, since we’re working only on the tip of your nose, and the incision for the chin implant will be made inside your lower lip. We can hurry the healing with anti-inflammatory drugs, and you should be entirely your new self in a week or so.”

“If I’m photographed from the front tomorrow, will the image be markedly different from the new version?”

“Not markedly,” he said. “May I schedule you for tomorrow afternoon?”

“That will be convenient.”

“Come in at two o’clock. We’ll take a history and give you a physical exam. You’ll be on the table by four and in recovery by six. You’ll have a nurse on duty in your cottage the first night, and after that you may do whatever you wish. I’ll see that you are pain free, and I’ll remove the stitches in your mouth after a few days.”

Barbara thanked him and walked slowly back to her cottage. A week, and she would be free to carry out her plan. Back in her cottage, she called the front desk and ordered a car and driver for early the following morning.

Forty-five

THE SUN WAS RISING AS BARBARA STEPPED INTO THE BLACK Lincoln Town Car. “We’re going to L.A.,” she said to the chauffeur.

SHE DIRECTED THE DRIVER to get off the interstate at Venice Boulevard, then stopped him a block short of the beach. “Park here and wait for me,” she said. “I’ll be less than an hour.”

She got out of the car and walked to the beach, then strolled along the promenade until she found an instant photo shop. She stood in front of a white background and was photographed by an electronic camera, which spat out a sheet of six passport pictures and six smaller shots, the size of California driver’s license photos. She put them into her purse and left the shop, walking south. As she walked, she wrapped her head in a silk scarf and put on her sunglasses.

After a five-minute walk she came to a photographer’s shop, with wedding pictures and portraits displayed in the window. She went inside and found a young girl behind the counter.

“May I help you?”

“I’d like to see Dan,” Barbara said.

“Who shall I say?”

“Just tell him an old friend.”

The girl disappeared for a moment, and Barbara looked up into the video camera over the counter and smiled broadly. The girl came back and motioned her through a curtain and into a hallway. “All the way to the back,” she said.

Barbara found Dan sitting behind his desk in the rear office, looking at a contact sheet through a loupe. “Are you still using those old-fashioned film cameras, Danny?”

He put down the loupe and peered at her. “I can’t quite place the face,” he said.

“That’s the idea,” she replied. “But we’ve met before. For purposes of this visit, my name is Barbara Woodfield. I need some paper.”

He said nothing but reached into a desk drawer and came out with a black box the size of a pack of cigarettes and extended an antenna from it, then he got up and went over her body with the antenna. Finally he moved it around her purse. “Cell phone?” he asked.

Barbara took Cupie’s cell phone from her purse and handed it to him. “I’ll make you a gift of it.”

Dan put the phone in his pocket and went over her purse again, then he sat down. “What kind of paper?”

“U.S. passport, dated before they started putting in the electronic strips, California driver’s license, social security card, birth certificate.”

“California birth certificate?” he asked, making notes on a pad.

“Would that be easiest?”

“I can get you the real thing, if you want to be born in Long Beach before nineteen seventy-five. Any name you like.”

“Sounds good. How much?”

“Five thousand each for the passport and driver’s license, seven thousand for the birth certificate. The driver’s license will be the real thing, on file with the DMV. You won’t have to worry about traffic stops. I’ll throw in the social security card for free, but don’t use it for anything but I.D.”

“Your prices have gone up,” she said.

“You obviously know my work; if you think you can do better somewhere else, feel free.”

“Agreed.”

“Then let’s take some photographs,” he said.

She held up a hand to stop him. “I’ll bring you photographs when I come to pick up the paper,” she said, “and I’ll watch you attach them.”

“You’re afraid I’ll make copies?”

“I’ll just be sure you don’t.”

“Whatever you say. You’ll have to sit around for a couple of hours while I finish up.”

“That’s fine. When can you be ready for me?”

“Can you give me a week?”

“A week today,” she said. She counted out ten thousand dollars in hundreds. “The rest, in cash, on the day.”

“That will be satisfactory,” he said, scooping up the cash. “You’ll owe me seven thousand.”

She nodded.

“There’s one more thing you might like. It’s expensive, but you’ll need it, if you ever want to do any financial transactions involving identity or credit.”

“What’s that?”

“I can create a credit history for you and hack it into the mainframes of all three credit-reporting agencies.”

“How much?”

“Ten grand, and you’ll be able to access it from any computer with an Internet connection.”

“Done.” She counted out another five thousand.

“All right,” he said, ripping a page off his pad. “Now we have to create a history for you—date and place of birth, work record, credit cards and charge accounts you’ve had—the works.”

“Let’s make me a Beverly Hills girl,” she said, reeling off shops and stores. They made up past addresses, and she gave him the street address of the Bel-Air hotel as her current address.

“Before you use that address on, say, a credit application, be sure you file a change-of-address card with the post office, forward the mail to where you want it to go,” Dan said.

“Good idea.” She was making notes to herself as they talked. “Tell me, can you make me a really good L.A. concealed carry license?”

“Sure. That’s another five grand, but I’ll throw in a Florida license, too. That will be good in twenty-seven other states. You’ll need to bring driver’s-license-size pictures for both of the carry licenses.”

“Done. Anything else you need?”

“Nope. I’ll go to work on all this today, and a week from today, when the cash is paid, everything will be activated.”

“Is the passport going to pass muster if I travel overseas?”

“You’ll be able to use if for about four years, then it expires. By that time, I hope to have the coded strip thing beaten, and you can come back for another one. Now, let’s create a travel history for you, so I can put in the stamps.” They spent ten minutes creating a record of trips to Europe.

“Danny, you’re a wonder,” she said when they had finished. “I’ll see you in a week.” She shook his hand and left.

SHE WAS BACK at La Reserve in time for her surgical appointment and in bed in Pine Cottage by six thirty, an ice pack applied to her face, sipping soup through a straw, very carefully, over her still-numb lower lip. The pain medication was working wonderfully well.

Forty-six

CUPIE HAD BEEN BACK HOME IN SANTA MONICA FOR nearly a week when his cell phone bill arrived. He was stunned. There were more than fifty calls he hadn’t made, most of them long distance. He called the cell phone company and made a fraud complaint about the calls, but he didn’t cancel the number.

After he hung up, it occurred to him that he had lost the phone in Mexico, but none of the calls were to Mexican numbers. His phone was in the United States. Cupie called a friend at the LAPD, the son of his old partner, a young man who was up to date on all the latest technology.

“Bob Harris,” the voice said.

“Bobby, it’s Cupie Dalton. How are you?”

“I’m great, Cupie. How about you?”

“Just fine. How’s your old man?”

“As grouchy as ever. What’s up?”

“Bobby, you can trace cell phone calls these days, can’t you? I mean, locate the actual phone?”

“Sure, if it’s a late-model phone, with the GPS chip.”

“It’s less than a year old.”

“Then I could trace it. This for one of your clients? My captain is strict about that.”

“No, it’s for me; I lost the phone, and there are several hundred dollars of calls on my bill that I didn’t make. I’d like to know who has it.”

“Give me the number.”

Cupie gave it to him.

“Now look at your bill. Were the calls made at a certain time of day?”

Cupie checked the bill. “Mostly afternoons, between two and five.”

“Give me a day or two,” Harris said. “You still at the same number?”

“Yep.”

AT THREE-THIRTY THAT AFTERNOON Cupie got a call.

“I got a location for you,” Harris said. “Venice Beach.”

“You got an actual address?”

Harris gave him a range of street numbers. “That ought to narrow it to a block or so.”

“Bobby, I can’t thank you enough,” Cupie said. “Let me know when I can do you a favor.”

“Hey, Cupie, you can find out who my wife is fucking.” Harris laughed loudly.

“Yeah, yeah, sure. See you around.” Cupie grabbed a jacket. He had been getting bored, with no work. He headed for Venice Beach. If Barbara still had his cell phone, maybe he could nail down her location for Ed Eagle. It was something to do.

CUPIE FOUND A PARKING place and began walking up and down the block of Venice Beach to which Harris had directed him. It was a collection of small shops, mostly tourist-oriented: T-shirts, souvenirs. He walked into a couple of them and had a look around. Finally, he stopped in front of a small photography shop and glanced at the window display. What really interested him, though, was that the young girl behind the counter inside was talking on a cell phone that looked very much like his.

He saw a public phone across the sidewalk, and on a whim, went to it and dialed his cell phone number. Busy signal. Bingo! He walked back into the shop and waited for the girl to complete her call.

“Can I help you?”

“I was thinking about some photographs. Hey, that’s a good-looking cell phone, can I see it?” He took it from her hand before she could object, switched it off, then back on. As it booted up, it displayed his number.

“Great,” he said, “where’d you get it?”

“It was a gift,” she said, reaching for the phone, but he hung onto it.

“From who?”

A man stepped from behind a curtain, as if on cue, one hand in a pocket. “What’s going on?” he asked.

Cupie recognized the guy but couldn’t place him. “This young lady is using a stolen cell phone,” Cupie said. “Care to explain that to me?” Cupie pulled his jacket back to reveal his old LAPD badge and the holstered gun, both on his belt. “And take your hand out of your pocket right now.”

“I found it,” the man said, removing his hand from his pocket.

“Where?”

“On the beach.”

“Don’t you know it’s a crime to make calls on somebody else’s phone?”

“Look, officer, I found it, okay?”

“When did you find it?”

“A few days ago, almost a week.” Cupie put the phone in his pocket. “The phone company will be in touch,” he said, then he turned and walked out of the shop.

BACK HOME, Cupie took another look at his phone bill. The first call had been made the evening he had crossed the border with Barbara, only a couple of minutes later. Then there was a gap of a couple of days before the calls resumed. The first number was in San Diego, and he dialed it.

“Good afternoon, La Reserve,” a smooth male voice said.

“Uh, I’d like to book a table for two at eight-thirty,” Cupie said.

“Are you a guest, sir?”

“A guest?”

“Our restaurant is not open to the public; this is a spa.”

“Oh, I guess I got it mixed up with that other place. Where are you located?”

“In La Jolla, on the beach.”

“Sorry about that,” Cupie said, then hung up. Barbara was being nice to herself. He went to his computer and Googled La Reserve. Very nice, very plush, very expensive. He thought about it for a moment, then he called Ed Eagle.

“HELLO, CUPIE,” Eagle said. “I sent your check a few days ago.”

“Yes, Mr. Eagle, and I got it, thank you very much. I called, because I think I know where Barbara is, or was very recently.”

“Where?”

“At a health spa in La Jolla called La Reserve. Very ritzy place, according to their website.”

“And how do you know this?”

“My cell phone disappeared in Mexico—I think Barbara stole it—and a call was made on my phone to La Reserve a few minutes after we crossed the border. My guess is she called to book a room and went straight there.”

“Very good, Cupie. You want to follow up on this?”

“Mr. Eagle, all due respect, but I’ve had enough of your wife; I don’t want to go anywhere near her again. I just thought I’d pass on the information, and you can do with it as you like.”

“Thank you, Cupie, I understand,” Eagle said. “I assume you haven’t entirely retired. Shall I call you again when something comes up?”

“Oh, sure, Mr. Eagle. I’m available for anything, except Mrs. Eagle.”

“Thank you, Cupie.”

EAGLE HUNG UP, called information, got the number for La Reserve and dialed it.

“Good afternoon, La Reserve,” a man’s voice said.

“May I speak to Barbara Eagle, please? She’s a guest there; this is her husband.”

“Just a mo—” The man stopped mid-word. “I’m afraid we have no one registered by that name, sir.”

“Thank you,” Eagle said, then hung up. He thought about it for a couple of minutes, then he made another call.

“Vittorio.”

“It’s Ed Eagle.”

“Yes, Mr. Eagle, what can I do for you?”

“I’ve got a lead on Barbara’s whereabouts.” He described his phone conversation with Cupie and the man at La Reserve.

“I’m on it, Mr. Eagle.”

“Wait a minute, Vittorio,” Eagle said. “I want to reiterate: I do not want her killed, and I am not employing you for that purpose. I just want her signature on those blank sheets, this time, for real. Get that, and there’s ten thousand dollars waiting for you.”

“Yes, sir, I understand,” Vittorio said. “I’ll be in touch.”

Vittorio hung up and began packing a bag. Ten minutes later he was on his way to Albuquerque Airport.

Forty-seven

EAGLE ARRIVED AT SEVEN AT SUSANNAH’S NEW HOUSE ON Tano Norte for her first dinner party. As he got out of his car, another car pulled up, and Rick Barron, the chairman of Centurion Studios, whom he had met briefly at the airport, got out, along with a woman who appeared to be his wife.

“Good evening, Ed,” Barron said. “Nice to see you again. I’d like you to meet my wife, Glenna.”

“How do you do, Glenna,” Eagle said. If Barron was in his eighties, his wife appeared to be considerably younger, perhaps fifteen years or so.

“I’ve heard of your work, Mr. Eagle,” Glenna Barron said.

“Please call me Ed. Shall we go in?”

The front door was ajar, and Eagle called out to Susannah.

“Come in,” she shouted from the kitchen, “and go into the living room. Ramón will get you a drink.”

A houseman in a white jacket and black bow tie appeared and led them into a large living room off the central hallway. He took their drink orders and prepared them inside what appeared to be a large armoire, which was actually the entrance to a roomy bar.

A moment later, Susannah joined them. “Did you all meet?” she asked.

“We did,” Eagle replied.

Ramón handed her a drink, and she joined them. “I’m glad you’re in time for the sunset,” she said, and they all turned toward the large windows to see a lurid sky with a sun sinking behind the Jemez mountains.

“Los Alamos is right up there,” Susannah said, pointing. “Where the atom bomb was built.”

“Which saved a lot of lives,” Eagle said, “in addition to snuffing out a lot of others. Were you in World War II, Rick?” he asked the movie producer.

“I was,” Barron replied. “I flew fighters off the carrier Saratoga, until I got a knee shot up over Guadalcanal. That got me sent home, so I wasn’t one of the lives saved by the bomb.”

Glenna spoke up. “I was actually able to see Rick aboard the Saratoga,” she said, “the day before he was wounded.”

“What on earth were you doing aboard an aircraft carrier in the middle of a shooting war?” Eagle asked.

“I came aboard with the Artie Shaw Orchestra,” she said. “I was their singer on a USO tour.”

“I was just a bit surprised to see her,” Rick laughed.

They talked on until they were called to dinner.

AFTER DINNER SUSANNAH led them to a paneled library across the central hallway from the living room and served Eagle and Barron coffee and brandy, then she took Glenna on a tour of the house.

“I’m aware of your domestic difficulties,” Barron said.

“Oh? Is word getting around?”

“Not really, but I have my sources. In the circumstances I might be able to suggest a solution.”

“Do you have a lot of experience in resolving marital problems, Rick?”

“No, but I have a lot of other kinds of experience. Let me tell you a story: As a young man I was an officer in the Beverly Hills Police Department, and late one warm June evening in 1939, I was parked in a patrol car just off Sunset Boulevard when I heard something very loud and very fast approaching from the direction of the Sunset Strip. I looked up to see a Ford coupe on the other side of the boulevard run a stop sign and drive onto Sunset, directly into the path of a black Mercedes sports car doing, I don’t know, sixty or seventy, I guess, and the sports car struck the Ford, spinning it around and pretty much totaling it. The Mercedes continued until it jumped the curb and came to rest in a hedge half a block away.

“I jumped out of the patrol car and checked the Ford: there was a very dead woman inside. Then I ran to the Mercedes and found that the driver, who had been thrown clear and landed in the hedge, looked very familiar. I suddenly realized he was the movie star Clete Barrow.”

“I remember his films well,” Eagle said. “He was killed in the war, wasn’t he?”

“Yes, but that’s another story. In those days, the Beverly Hills PD was very protective of movie people, and there were rules—unwritten—about how to do it. Barrow gave me the number of a man named Eddie Harris, who was a bigwig at Centurion Studios, and, after I’d put Barrow in the back of my patrol car and radioed in the report of the accident, and a sergeant had arrived, I called Harris and was told to bring Barrow to the studio.

“That I did, and Harris and a doctor were waiting in Barrow’s bungalow dressing room. He was okay, and they took a sample of my blood to substitute for Barrow’s, who was quite drunk, and so I helped my superiors and the studio cover up the whole business. That’s just the way things were done in those days. The woman had been at fault, for running the stop sign, after all.

“Anyway, as a result of my performance that evening, Eddie Harris hired me as head of security for the studio. Part of my job—the biggest part—was protecting the actors and actresses under contract as well as the name of the studio. Glenna was an actress there, and that’s how we met.

“Shortly after I came to work for Centurion, Eddie Harris gave me the name of someone who was willing to perform rather extreme services, when conditions became extreme and there was no other way. As it turned out, I had known the man for years. His name was Al Moran, and he ran a gun shop where all the cops bought their weapons.”

“Did you ever employ Al’s services?” Eagle asked.

“I did, but not his most extreme services; that came later and was not my doing. There was a gangster—a mafioso, you’d call him today—named Chick Stampano, who worked for Ben ‘Bugsy’ Siegel, and he loved going out with movie actresses. He also loved beating them up, and that made me very angry, especially when he became a threat to Glenna.”

“What did you do about it?”

Barron took some money from his pocket and handed Eagle a hundred-dollar bill. “I wish to retain you to represent me as my attorney.”

Eagle smiled. “All right,” he said, putting the money in his pocket, “I’m your lawyer, and attorney-client confidentiality is in full effect.”

“I confronted Stampano, more than once, and finally, I beat him up pretty good. He reacted by taking it out on Glenna. At that point, I was ready to call Al Moran and employ his most extreme services, but I didn’t.”

“What did you do?”

“Left no other alternative, I went over to Stampano’s house with a gun, and when he came out the door with his own gun, I killed him.”

“Wow,” Eagle breathed.

“Then, by previous arrangement, I joined the navy. It was summer 1941, with Pearl Harbor still to come. Clete Barrow had been killed at Dunkirk the year before, and I was about to be a wanted man. After flight training—I was already a pilot—I served out my hitch in the Pacific, and came home and married Glenna. Eddie Harris and a couple of my friends on the police force had arranged for the Stampano killing to remain unsolved.”

“That’s quite a story,” Eagle said.

“There’s more,” Barron replied. “On our wedding day, in 1947, we received an over-the-top floral arrangement from Bugsy Siegel, and Eddie Harris took that as a threat. Siegel was, apparently, still angry at me for killing one of his protégés. Eddie didn’t tell me about this until years later, when he was dying, but what he did was call Al Moran. Al took a Browning automatic rifle over to Virginia Hill’s house—she was Siegel’s girlfriend—then he sat outside and fired a burst through a window at Bugsy Siegel.”

“Are you kidding me, Rick?” Eagle asked. “I thought the Mafia killed Siegel after Virginia Hill stole a lot of money from the Flamingo casino.”

“That’s what the preponderance of opinion was at the time,” Rick replied. “But Al Moran killed Siegel for Eddie Harris, who did it for Glenna and me.”

“And who else knows this?”

“Certainly not Glenna, and you should never mention it to her or anybody else while either of us is alive. Eddie Harris is dead, so now only you and I know. And Al Moran, of course. He’s still alive.”

“And why are you telling me all this, Rick?”

“Because Al, although he’s retired, has two sons, who still run his gun shop, and they are known by a select few people to perform the same services Al did.”

Eagle didn’t say anything.

“From what I’ve heard of your present circumstances, it may not be possible, in the end, to deal with your wife in the conventional manner, through the courts.” He handed Eagle a card. “Should it come to that, call Al; his number is on the back of my card. Tell him I sent you.”

The women were approaching from down the hall, chatting loudly.

Eagle took a sip of his drink and stood up for the entrance of the women. “I don’t believe it will ever come to that,” he said quietly, “but thank you, Rick, for your concern.”

Eagle put the card into his pocket.

Forty-eight

ON THE FLIGHT TO SAN DIEGO, VITTORIO WAS LEAFING through a copy of Vanity Fair, when he came across an article about West Coast spas, which included a long description of La Reserve, in La Jolla. There was a good deal written about the spa’s reputation for privacy and seclusion, and it occurred to him that he was not going to be able to just walk into the place and take a look around for Barbara.

He picked up the airphone at his seat and called La Reserve.

“Good afternoon, La Reserve,” a British-accented woman’s voice said.

Vittorio made an effort to sound charming. “Good afternoon,” he said. “I’m on an airplane to San Diego right now, and I read the Vanity Fair piece that included your spa. It sounds just wonderful.”

“I assure you it is, Mr….”

“Breckinridge, Victor Breckinridge,” Vittorio replied. It was an alias he sometimes used when traveling, and he had documents and a credit cart to support it. “I wonder if you might have a room available tonight?”

“For how long, Mr. Breckinridge?”

“Let’s say two nights, but if I can get my business done in an expeditious fashion, I might be able to extend my stay.”

“Let’s see, the only thing we have available right now is Willow Cottage, one of our smaller units. The rate is eight hundred dollars a night, not including meals or services, of course.”

Vittorio gulped, but he was, after all, paying with Barbara’s money. “That sounds perfect,” he said.

“And what time may we expect you, Mr. Breckinridge?”

“I should think in the late afternoon.”

“May I schedule a massage for your arrival? Say, six o’clock in your cottage?”

“Thank you, yes.”

“We’ll look forward to greeting you in the late afternoon,” the woman said.

“Good-bye.”

Vittorio called a rental car company and asked what luxury cars were available. He booked a Jaguar.

AFTER LANDING AND GETTING the Jaguar, Vittorio drove into La Jolla, a place he had never visited, and looked for an upscale men’s shop. He could hardly walk into La Reserve dressed in his usual black outfit, looking as though he was about to scalp somebody. He found a Polo/Ralph Lauren shop and bought a lightweight jacket and some colorful polo shirts as well as a dress shirt and tie. He asked directions to La Reserve, then, dressed in his new clothes, he arrived there at half past five.

A bellman whisked his luggage away and directed him to the desk in the sitting room, where a handsome, middle-aged woman sat. “Good afternoon,” he said, “I’m Victor Breckinridge. We spoke on the phone earlier today.”

“Of course, Mr. Breckinridge. Please have a seat, and let’s get you registered. My name is Mrs. Creighton.”

“How do you do?”

Shortly a slender young man appeared at the desk and was introduced as Mr. Wilson. He conducted Vittorio to Willow Cottage, where his luggage awaited him. The cottage, although small, was lavishly decorated and very comfortable.

“And, Mr. Breckinridge, your masseuse, Birgit, will be with you shortly. You’ll find a robe in your closet.”

Vittorio gave the young man fifty dollars, then got undressed and waited for Birgit to appear. When she did, she was breathtaking: tall, blond and with a fetching Nordic accent. She immediately put him at his ease, and soon he was facedown on her folding table, being kneaded into total relaxation.

But it was when she turned him over on his back that her work rose to a new level, as did he. By the time she was done, it was eight o’clock, and Vittorio couldn’t make a fist.

She helped him sit up, and he reached for his money, taking his time riffling through the bills. “Birgit, I used to know a woman who came here named Barbara Eagle. Do you know her?”

“Of course,” Birgit said. “She’s here now, but under the name of Barbara Woodfield. She gave strict instructions to Mrs. Creighton that she was no longer to be called Mrs. Eagle; something about a divorce, I think.”

Vittorio peeled off a hundred and pressed it into her palm, holding her hand. “And which room is she in?”

“She’s in Pine Cottage, I believe. Thank you so much, Mr. Breckinridge. Have you booked a dinner table for this evening?” Birgit asked. “Shall I do it for you?”

“Thank you, Birgit, yes. Will you ask for a table with some privacy but where I may see the other diners? I’d like to know who my fellow guests are, and I want to surprise Barbara, so please don’t tell her I’m here.”

“Ah, yes, there is a little terrace with a small table from where you can see everything.” She called the desk and booked it. “Will there be anything else?” she asked.

“Perhaps tomorrow morning at nine o’clock?”

“Certainly, whatever you wish.” She gave him a smile and left, her table under an arm.

Vittorio showered and dressed in his new clothes, then following a map on his desk, made his way through the gardens to the dining room, keeping an eagle eye out for Barbara. He was seated on the little terrace, and he moved his chair to give him a better view of the room. Soon the room was full, but still no Barbara. She had to be here somewhere.

EARLIER THAT AFTERNOON, Barbara appeared at the photography shop on Venice Beach and was immediately shown into Dan’s office.

“Have a seat,” he said. “All your papers are ready, except that I have to affix your photograph to each of the documents.”

She handed him the two sheets of larger and smaller photos. “I’d like to watch,” she said.

“Come into the back room,” he replied. He went to a bookcase, pressed a button and the bookcase swung open, revealing what appeared to be a commercial art studio in an adjoining room. Dan closed the bookcase, motioned Barbara to a chair and went to work.

Barbara was impressed with how quickly he worked and yet how careful he was. As he finished each document he handed it to her for inspection, showing her where to sign, and when he was done with his work, he laminated those documents that required it and wiped them free of fingerprints. Then he motioned her to a computer.

“This is how you can take a look at your credit report from any computer,” he said. As she took notes, he went to the website, entered her user name and password and displayed a long record of perfect credit, going back seven years. Her credit score was 801, very high. “There,” Dan said, “now you’re a new person, and no one knows but you.”

And you, Danny, she thought. She had thought of killing him, but he was too valuable; she might need him again in the future. She paid him the remaining cash owed, returned to her chauffeured car and was driven back to La Jolla and La Reserve, where she ordered dinner sent to her room.

Then she went into her bathroom, switched on all the lights and gazed once more upon her newly altered countenance. The swelling was gone, and only a little redness remained, which was easily covered with makeup. She brushed her newly blond hair and went to answer her door, admitting the room service waiter.

Tomorrow she would be off again, and soon she would be a wealthy woman.

Forty-nine

VITTORIO LINGERED OVER HIS DINNER, EXPECTING BARBARA to stroll into the dining room at any moment, but she did not. After dessert and coffee, he got out the map of the spa and found Pine Cottage. It was at the other end of the resort from his cottage and closer to the sea. He thought it best to have a look at it.

He signed the check and left the dining room, then, following the map, strolled slowly through the gardens, approaching Pine Cottage by a circuitous route. He spotted the place finally, and there was a light in the living room window, but there were other guests about, so he did not approach. Instead, he walked back to his own Willow Cottage and let himself in.

He sat down in the easy chair in his bedroom and thought about his next move. Finally, he got up, went to his luggage and began to put together a little kit. From his briefcase he took a file folder and some blank paper, then he emptied the briefcase and put the folder and a roll of duct tape inside. Finally, he changed into his black clothing and slipped a knife in its scabbard onto his belt. He was taking no chances with this woman.

That done, he sat down in his chair and switched on the flat-screen TV in his living room and searched for a movie. He would have to wait for the resort to settle in for the night before he made a move.

BARBARA FINISHED HER DINNER and pushed the room service cart out the front door for collection, then she ran a hot bath and settled into it, drowsily reviewing her plans. Finally, she stood up and dried herself slowly with a towel, admiring her image in the bathroom mirror. She was pleased with Dr. Strange’s work on her face and with her blond hair, and she was more than satisfied with her body, of which she had taken such good care. No surgery necessary there.

She slipped into a robe and went into her bedroom, where she exchanged the robe for a short silk nightgown. She opened the safe in her dressing room and removed the box she had carried away from the pawnshop, then she went and sat on the edge of her bed and removed the top.

The little Colt gleamed darkly as she found the magazine release and popped it. She loaded the magazine from the bag of ammunition the gun dealer had given her. The pistol was heavier, loaded, but it felt good in her hand. She reached into the box for the silencer the man had made and figured out how to screw it into the barrel. The gun was heavier, still, but still very manageable. She loaded the spare magazine and set that and the pistol on her bedside table, then she collapsed the box and stuffed it into her wastebasket. She still had one round of ammunition, so she worked the action of the pistol, pumping a round into the barrel, then she popped the magazine again, loaded the final round, shoved it back into the pistol and put the safety on. Cocked and locked, that was called, she remembered.

She set the gun back on the night table and went to the dressing table, where she went through her nightly routine of skin cleansing and moisturizing. Finally, feeling sleepy, she switched off the lights and got into bed.

Dan had said she was a new woman, and that was how she felt. She could even prove it. She would establish an address in L.A., open a bank account and obtain a credit card, maybe open a few charge accounts along Rodeo Drive. Then, when she was ready, she would effect the changes that would make her new life.

She drifted off, thinking of that life and smiling to herself.

VITTORIO AWOKE with a jerk. The movie had ended, and there was an infomercial on, selling some sort of diet drug. The bedside clock read 2:34 A.M. He went into the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face. Time to visit Barbara Eagle. He would get the signatures from her, hurting her if he had to, and then…He wasn’t sure about then. He was still very angry with her for dumping him into the Gulf of California, but his anger had cooled a little, and he wasn’t sure he was going to kill her. He’d decide later.

He slipped into his black sneakers, pulled on a black knit shirt and a matching ski cap, grabbed his briefcase and, after switching out all the lights, except the night light in the bathroom, left the cottage, having first unlocked the door from the bedroom to the terrace.

He switched off the porch light and stepped outside; he stood stock still, looked and listened. There was a breeze, which rustled the palms around the gardens, and a new moon, the sliver of which didn’t give much light. He stayed there for perhaps five minutes, listening for footsteps and waiting for his eyes to become accustomed to the darkness. The only electric light visible was from low lights along the flagstone walkways around the resort, but that was enough to allow him to be seen, should anyone, perhaps a night watchman, happen along.

He knelt and put a hand on the grass outside his front door. Dry. The breeze had kept away the dew, so he would not leave footprints on the grass. He stepped off his front porch and walked quickly along the paved walkway for a few yards, then stepped off the walk and began moving from tree to tree, shrub to shrub. Then, from some distance away he heard the click of hard heels on pavement and a jingling sound. He stepped into the deep shadow of a cottage and waited, listening.

The sounds grew closer, then seemed to pass. Vittorio looked around the corner of the cottage and saw a uniformed security guard ambling away into the darkness. He noted that the man was armed with a Glock in a holster on his belt and that he carried a can of pepper spray and handcuffs there, too.

Vittorio then moved quickly. Assuming there would be no more than the one security guard, he ran lightly alongside the path, making no noise, until he came to an overlook of the sea, then made his way toward Pine Cottage.

The cottage was dark, with only a glow from a small window that must be the bathroom. It had a night-light, like his own. He went to the window and looked through the slatted blinds into the bathroom, seeing only the floor. Empty. He walked around the cottage to the front door and found the porch light on. He ducked back into the shadows, took a pair of latex gloves from a pocket and pulled them on. That done, he checked again for security guards or guests, then walked to the front porch and unscrewed the light bulb until it went out. He put an ear to the front door and listened for a moment. No TV or music. Nothing.

He slowly turned the front door knob, but it held firm. He could breach that, he knew, but it might make noise. Instead, he walked around the cottage to the seaward side, to the terrace off the bedroom that was a feature of every cottage at the resort. He was pleased to see that the French doors to the bedroom stood open. Apparently, Barbara liked the night air.

A cloud drifted over the sliver of a moon, and he saw his chance. He vaulted lightly over the balustrade that separated the terrace from the gardens, then stopped and listened for a moment as he pulled the ski cap over his face. He had cut holes for his eyes.

BARBARA HEARD A TINY scraping sound from outside her front door. She opened her eyes and listened hard. Then came a sound, perhaps a footstep, from her terrace. She lifted her head and thought she saw a black shape standing in the open door.

VITTORIO MOVED FORWARD and stepped into the bedroom. As he did so, he heard a sharp pfffttt! sound, and felt a searing pain in his right side. He did not hesitate; he turned and ran, leaping over the terrace balustrade and running across the grass toward the next cottage, his right forearm clamped to his side. Not until he had the next cottage between himself and Barbara did he slow down and think. Much to his astonishment, he had been shot, and with a silenced weapon! He had underestimated her.

He sprinted for his cottage, wanting desperately to reach it before she raised the alarm. He leaped onto his bedroom terrace and ducked inside, listening. Nothing, no alarm.

He went into the bathroom and set down his briefcase, then stripped off his black knit shirt. Standing next to the night-light, which was incorporated into a shaving mirror, he looked at his side. A small groove about two inches long was bleeding freely, and there were three or four of what appeared to be pellet holes in his skin. He grabbed a handful of tissues and pressed them to the wound, while he went through his shaving kit. He found some antibiotic cream and several bottles of pills.

He applied the cream to the wound, which was bleeding more slowly now, then he flushed the bloody tissues down the toilet, folded a clean washcloth, pressed it to the wound and clamped it there with his forearm, while he ripped off a piece of duct tape from the roll in his briefcase. He taped the washcloth in place and turned his attention to the pill bottles. Holding each up to the night-light, he found some naproxen, an anti-inflammatory and painkiller, and some amoxicillin, an antibiotic, left over from a trip to the dentist. He washed down two of the naproxen and two of the amoxicillin, then he rinsed the blood from his knit shirt and stuffed it into a laundry bag from his dressing room. He got out of his clothes into some pajamas and into bed, still breathing hard.

When they came to his cabin, he wanted to be calm and free of sweat.

Barbara sat in a chair for a long time, holding the pistol and thinking. Who was the intruder? Her first thought was of Vittorio, but that was impossible, since he had no idea where she was. She dismissed Cupie as a possibility; it just wasn’t his style. Finally, she concluded that she had fired at a would-be burglar or rapist who, now that he knew she was armed, would not be back.

She thought of alerting the management, but that would only result in a visit from the police, and she did not wish to explain herself and her pistol to them. Finally, calmer, she went back to bed and got some sleep, the pistol in her hand.

Fifty

VITTORIO JERKED AWAKE; THERE WAS SOMEBODY AT HIS front door. He turned and looked at his bedside clock: nine o’clock. He got out of bed, wincing at the pain in his side, and went to the door. Birgit stood there, smiling, her folding table slung over one shoulder, her huge handbag over the other.

“Good morning,” she said. “We have a nine o’clock appointment. Am I waking you?”

“Yes, I overslept. Please come in and get set up. I’ll be right with you.” He went into the bathroom and swallowed two naproxen and an amoxicillin, then brushed his teeth and went back into the bedroom.

Birgit patted the table. “Up,” she said.

Vittorio stripped off his pajamas and started to get onto the table.

“Wait,” she commanded. “What is this?” She took hold of a corner of the duct tape and ripped it off.

Vittorio gritted his teeth but managed not to scream. “Just a nick,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Lie down,” she ordered. “On your back.” She was already digging into her big handbag. “What kind of wound is this?” she asked. “I’ve not seen anything like.”

“You’ve seen a lot of wounds?” he asked, avoiding a straight answer.

“I am trained as a nurse,” she said. “You need sewing.”

“I don’t have the time to go to a doctor,” he replied. “You can put another bandage on, if you have one.”

“I have one; I also have the needle. What I don’t have is the local anesthetic. Can you stand some pain?”

He started to tell her that he was Apache, but he didn’t want to explain. “Yes,” he said.

She went into the bathroom and came back with two facecloths, then dug a bottle of peroxide out of her bag, held one cloth below the wound and poured the foaming liquid on the flesh, catching the excess with the cloth. Then she produced a small, plastic box, a curved needle, forceps and thread. “Don’t worry, is sterile,” she said.

“I believe you.”

She folded the second facecloth and held it to his lips. “Bite,” she said.

He bit down on the cotton terry, and she went to work. When she was done she took some long, slender tweezers from her kit.

“Now I must dig,” she said.

He nodded, and bit down again for what seemed an interminable time.

“Good,” she said, finally holding out her hand to show him four tiny pellets. “What is this?”

Vittorio shrugged and took the facecloth out of his mouth. “Don’t know.”

She looked at him skeptically, then she bathed the area in more peroxide and bandaged it. “Now you need antibiotic,” she said. “I don’t have.”

“I’ve already taken antibiotics,” he replied.

“Okay,” she said, “on your belly.”

Vittorio turned over gingerly, but the naproxen was working now, and there wasn’t much pain.

Birgit began working on his neck and shoulders. “You are tense from my medicine,” she said.

“Can you blame me?” he asked. “Next time get some lidocaine for your kit.”

“Good idea,” she said, “but I don’t do many gunshot wounds since I worked in emergency room in Stockholm. Not many then, either.”

Vittorio said nothing.

She continued her work. “I am wondering how you got gunshot wound since last night,” she said.

“Let’s just say there was an intruder,” he replied, “and let it go at that.”

“You want police?”

“I appreciate your concern, but no, thank you.”

“Okay,” she said.

WHEN SHE WAS FINISHED she helped him sit up and checked the bandage. “No bleeding,” she said. “I will give you extra bandages; you must change every day and put on peroxide.”

“Thank you,” he said.

The cell phone on her belt rang, and she answered it and listened for a moment. “Yes, thank you,” she said, and closed the phone. “Did you see your friend Barbara?” she asked.

“No, we didn’t cross paths.”

“Too bad,” she said. “She just cancel her ten-thirty appointment. Checked out.”

“Shit!” Vittorio said.

“I think you are following her,” Birgit said. “I think you are private eye.”

“You’ve been seeing too much film noir,” he replied, standing up and stretching gingerly.

“You are not getting gunshot wound from movies,” she replied. “You want me to find out where Barbara Woodfield goes?”

“Can you do that?”

“Bell captain would know. He wants to fuck me pretty bad; he will tell me anything.”

“Well, yes, I would like to know, but I wouldn’t want you to fuck him on my behalf.”

“Don’t worry; I pick out who I fuck,” she said, folding her table and packing her bag. “You would be good for this, I think.”

“Well,” he said, “you’re not going to get an argument from me.”

“Not now, though; when you recover from gunshot wound.” She took out a card and wrote something on the back. “Cell number,” she said, handing it to him. “I bet your name is not Victor Whatsit,” she said.

“No.”

“What is your name?”

“Vittorio.”

“Just the one?”

“Just the one.”

“I will go talk to bell captain. You checking out, too?”

“Just as soon as I can get dressed,” he replied.

“I will come back soon,” she said. “You wait.”

“I’ll wait,” he said, heading for the shower.

VITTORIO was packing his bag when Birgit came back. “Any luck?”

“Much luck,” she said. “Ms. Barbara asks him for nice, quiet apartment hotel in Beverly Hills somewhere. He books for her at Château Sunset.” She handed him a slip of paper. “Here is address.”

Vittorio took her face in his hands and kissed her gently. “You are a good guy,” he said.

“You think I am a guy?” she laughed, taking his hand and placing it on her breast.

“A figure of speech,” he said. “Do you ever travel?”

“When I feel like it,” she replied. “You need your bandage changed, you call me, Vittorio.”

He gave her his card with the cell number. “In case you can’t wait,” he said.

She laughed loudly. “Maybe you must change your own bandage!”

Vittorio grabbed his bags and headed for the front desk. He checked out, paid in cash and called for his car. When the car arrived the bellman put his bags in the trunk, and he drove away. Shortly, he pulled over, went to the trunk, got out his Walther. 380 and slipped the holster onto his belt. He would not again approach Barbara Eagle Woodfield unarmed.

Shortly, he was headed for Los Angeles in his rented Jaguar.

Fifty-one

ED EAGLE WAS AT HIS DESK WHEN THE CALL CAME.

“Vittorio for you on line one.”

Eagle pressed the button. “Ed Eagle.”

“Mr. Eagle, I’ve found Barbara.”

“Was she at La Reserve?”

“Yes, but she checked out this morning.”

“Why didn’t you get the signatures before that?”

“I visited her cottage last night and got shot for my trouble.”

“Are you badly hurt, Vittorio?”

“No. I had some stitches, but it’s superficial.”

“Where is she now?”

“She’s on her way to L.A. The concierge at La Reserve booked her into an apartment hotel called Château Sunset.”

“I know the place; it’s the kind of hotel where people who’ve been thrown out of their houses during divorces go to live temporarily. It’s expensive, but not as much as the Beverly Hills or the Bel-Air.”

“She’s still got whatever traveler’s checks she hasn’t spent.”

“I can’t imagine that would last her long, if she’s living in places like Château Sunset.”

“I guess not. I’m on the road, about two hours behind her.”

“I’m coming to L.A.,” Eagle said.

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Vittorio replied.

“I’m coming anyway. You confirm that she’s checked in at Château Sunset, then find yourself a room. Meet me in the bar at the Bel-Air at seven o’clock.”

“As you wish,” Vittorio said. “What’s your plan?”

“I don’t have one yet, but I will by seven o’clock.”

“I’ll see you at the Bel-Air, then.”

Eagle hung up. He might not have a plan yet, but he was sure of one thing: Barbara did.

VITTORIO CALLED A SUITE HOTEL, Le Parc, and booked himself in. It would be half the price of Château Sunset and a better place for Barbara, he reflected. He drove straight to the hotel, off Melrose in West Hollywood, and checked in, then he called Château Sunset.

“Château Sunset,” the operator said.

“May I speak to Barbara Woodfield?” he asked.

“Just a moment…She hasn’t checked in yet, but we’re expecting her. Can I take a message?”

“This is the concierge at La Reserve, in La Jolla. Please tell her that we called just to see if everything was all right. There’s no need for her to return the call.”

“I’ll see that she gets the message on check-in,” the woman said.

Vittorio hung up, satisfied that Château Sunset was where she was headed. He changed the dressing on his wound, then lay down for a nap.

BARBARA EAGLE WOODFIELD checked in at Château Sunset a few minutes later.

“There’s a message for you,” the desk clerk said, gazing at his computer screen.

“A message?” she asked, alarmed. Nobody knew she was here.

“The concierge at La Reserve in La Jolla called to be sure everything is all right. No need for you to return the call.”

Barbara heaved a sigh of relief. “Thank you.”

A bellman wearing a pin-striped suit led her to a corner suite overlooking the pool in the courtyard behind the hotel, got her some ice and accepted her tip.

Barbara had a look around and approved. She unpacked and ran a bath, then called the concierge.

“Yes, Ms. Woodfield?”

“I’d like a massage in my room in an hour. Can you arrange that?”

“Of course. Would you prefer a male or female, and what technique?”

“Female, Swedish.”

“It will be done, Ms. Woodfield.”

Barbara hung up and walked into the bathroom, then stopped. She was feeling randy, and she wanted male company. She went back into the bedroom and got her address book from her purse, then called a number.

“Hello?”

“Hi, there. How are you?”

“Who’s this?”

“Don’t you recognize the voice?”

“Of course, I do. How are you, Barbara?”

“Very well, thank you.”

“Last I heard, you were married and living in Santa Fe.”

“Both of those are over. You free for dinner?”

“Sure. Where are you staying? I’ll pick you up.”

“I’ll be out and about. Why don’t we meet somewhere?”

“You name it.”

“How about the bar at the Bel-Air, at seven-thirty? We could dine there, too.”

“See you then.”

“Oh, I’m a blonde, now.”

“I can’t wait to see that.”

“Bye-bye.”

EAGLE CALLED SUSANNAH.

“Hello?”

“Good morning. How are you?”

“I’m just dandy, thanks.”

“I have to go to L.A. overnight, maybe two. Want to come with me?”

“Funny you should mention that; there are some things I want from my apartment there. How are we traveling?”

“In my airplane. If they’re small things, no problem.”

“Great. I’d invite you to stay at my place, but it’s being redecorated and will be a mess.”

“I’ll book us in at the Bel-Air. Pick you up at, say, noon?”

“Fine. Shall I make us a sandwich?”

“Good idea. See you then.” Eagle hung up and buzzed Betty.

“I have to go to L.A. for a day or two. Cancel all my appointments for tomorrow and the next day.”

“All right. There’s nothing pressing.”

“And please call the Bel-Air and book me into my usual suite for two nights, then call the rental car people and get me something nice, delivered to Supermarine at Santa Monica airport at three-thirty P.M.”

“Will do.”

Eagle went home and packed a bag. He gave some thought as to whether to take a weapon, but he didn’t have a California carry license, so he put it out of his mind. He called the airport and asked that his airplane be pulled out of his hangar and refueled, then he went to his computer and his flight-planning software. He constructed a plan, then called for a weather forecast and filed the flight plan.

EAGLE PICKED UP SUSANNAH at noon and drove to Santa Fe Municipal Airport. He opened the hangar door and parked inside, then took their luggage out of the trunk and closed the hangar door.

Eagle unlocked the airplane and stowed the baggage behind the rear seats, then helped Susannah into the copilot’s seat. He closed and locked the door, then climbed in next to her.

“What kind of airplane is this?” she asked.

“It’s a pressurized, six-place, single-engine Piper Malibu Mirage that’s had the engine ripped off and replaced with a turbine, turning a propeller.”

“What’s a turbine?”

“A jet engine. The airplane is now called a Jetprop.”

Eagle started the airplane and worked his way through his checklist, listening to the airport weather on the radio, then obtaining an Instrument Flight Rules clearance from the tower, then taxiing to the runway.

Twenty minutes later, they were at twenty-four thousand feet.

Fifty-two

EAGLE FLEW THE KIMMO ONE ARRIVAL INTO SANTA

Monica, descending steeply and flying right past the towers of downtown L.A. He set down on runway 21 and taxied onto the Supermarine ramp. As he was shutting down the engine a large Mercedes sedan pulled up next to him, and a lineman got out and received their luggage, stowing it in the car’s trunk.

“Top off the inboards with Jet A, with Prist, and add ten gallons to each outboard,” Eagle said to the man. “I’ll be back the day after tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Eagle,” the young man said as he chocked the wheels.

Eagle locked the airplane door, and he and Susannah got into the car.

“General aviation is so much nicer than flying the airlines these days,” Susannah said.

Twenty minutes later they checked into the Hotel Bel-Air and were taken to a suite, one of two in a beautifully planted courtyard with a private patio out back. Eagle booked a dinner table in the restaurant for seven-thirty. “I’ve got to meet with someone at seven for a few minutes,” he said to Susannah. “Will you meet me in the bar at seven-thirty?”

“Of course,” she said, unpacking her bag and hanging up some things.

BARBARA CHECKED HERSELF in the mirror. She was wearing a bright red Chanel suit she had bought in La Jolla, and it really set off her blond hair. The red shoes were a nice touch, too.

She went downstairs, where the concierge had a rented Mercedes SLK convertible waiting for her. She signed the documents and drove down the long driveway to Sunset, where she turned right and headed for Bel-Air.

VITTORIO WAS WAITING at the Bel-Air bar when Eagle entered. They both ordered drinks, and Eagle took a stool facing the door, so he’d see Susannah when she arrived.

“So,” Vittorio said, “what’s your plan?”

Eagle handed him a folder. “Here are four copies of a settlement agreement, giving her the three hundred thousand dollars she already has and holding her blameless for having stolen the money from me; I have already signed it. You get her signature and witness it. Give her a copy and return the other three to me.”

“And how should I accomplish that?” Vittorio asked.

“That’s your part of the plan,” Eagle said. “Twenty thousand dollars and your expenses when you return the properly executed documents to me.”

Vittorio took a sip of his tequila. “How would you feel about having her disappear?” he asked.

“I’ve already told you, Vittorio, I don’t want her killed, and I won’t hire you to do it. I won’t be a part of murder.”

“I wasn’t thinking of murder,” Vittorio replied. That was nearly the truth.

“You may use any legal method you see fit,” Eagle said. “I certainly would be very pleased not to see her again.” He looked up, his eye caught by a blonde in a bright red suit.

BARBARA SAW EAGLE the moment she walked into the Bel-Air bar. Her date was sitting four or five stools behind him. She had certainly not expected this. What the hell, she thought, this is as good a time as any. She walked across the room and directly past Eagle, passing no more than three feet from him, earning an appreciative glance.

She pecked her date, Jimmy, on the cheek, took his hand and led him back across the room to a table, this time passing Vittorio, who glanced at her, too.

“NICE,” VITTORIO SAID after she had passed.

“Yes,” Eagle agreed. Another blonde walked into the room, this one his. “You’re going to have to excuse me, Vittorio,” he said. “I’ve got a dinner date.” Eagle put some money on the bar and shook the Apache’s hand. “Call me on my cell with progress reports. I’ll be in L.A. until the day after tomorrow.”

He walked over to Susannah and kissed her on the cheek. “Shall we go straight in to dinner?”

“Good,” she said.

BARBARA WATCHED THEM LEAVE. She had passed muster; neither of them had recognized her, and she felt elated.

“So,” Jimmy said, “what have you been up to? You certainly look different.”

“It’s the hair and the suit,” she said.

“It’s more than that,” he said, putting a finger under her chin and turning her head. “I can’t quite figure out exactly what it is.”

“Good,” she said, sipping the margarita that had just arrived. “Are we having dinner here?”

“Unless there’s somewhere else you’d rather go,” Jimmy replied. “I’ve booked a table.”

“I like it here,” she said. “Let’s finish our drink and go in.”

“Great. I’ve always liked this place.”

“So have I,” she said. And so had Ed Eagle. And, when she was done, that little fact would be the end of him.

EAGLE AND SUSANNAH were seated at a banquette with a good view of the room. They were ordering when the blonde in the red suit and her Hollywood-looking companion entered the dining room. A couple of weeks earlier, he would have been interested enough to ask the headwaiter who she was and if she was a guest at the hotel, but now he was otherwise occupied and very happy to be.

BARBARA AND JIMMY were seated at a table near the window overlooking the garden restaurant, and her view of Eagle was just perfect. She could move her eyes without moving her head and watch his every move.

She knew his companion from somewhere, she was sure. Maybe she was an actress?

“That’s Susannah Wilde you’re looking at,” Jimmy said. “She’s a very good actress.”

“Oh, yes. I thought she looked familiar.”

“Don’t worry; she’s nothing compared to you, not tonight, not in that suit.”

“Why, thank you, Jimmy,” she said, enjoying the compliment. “Maybe later, I’ll make you glad you said that.”

EAGLE AND SUSANNAH rose from their table and walked from the restaurant. From her table by the window, Barbara watched as they passed, then continued up the walkway toward the suite where Eagle always stayed. She knew, because she had stayed there with him on half a dozen occasions. She knew the little courtyard, and she knew the patio behind the suite.

“Jimmy,” she said, folding her napkin. “Why don’t we get out of here? I’ll follow you to your place, so you won’t have to get up in the morning to take me home.”

Jimmy grinned and tossed a credit card on the table.

SHORTLY, THEY RECEIVED their respective cars and drove from the Bel-Air parking lot, following the winding roads to Sunset, then on to Beverly Hills. They turned up Camden and soon pulled into Jimmy’s steep driveway.

Barbara made a point of leaving her car pointing downhill toward his gate.

Fifty-three

BARBARA FOLLOWED JIMMY THROUGH THE LIVING ROOM of his house to the kitchen, where he snagged a bottle of Dom Perignon from the fridge and two champagne flutes from a cupboard, before continuing upstairs to his bedroom.

“Your wife isn’t in town, I take it,” Barbara said.

“She left five weeks ago,” Jimmy replied, slipping out of his pants. “I wish she’d come and get the rest of her clothes,” he said, nodding at a closet. “I could use the space for mine.”

Barbara matched his speed at undressing. She pulled him on top of her and let him find his way inside her. Jimmy had always been an athletic lover, but he was a little out of shape these days, and she wanted him tired, so she let him do all the work, while she uttered encouraging words and noises.

An hour later, Jimmy had been rendered helpless. Barbara decided to nap for a while; she didn’t want to make her move until much later.

Eagle and Susannah were locked in each other’s arms until exhaustion came, then she went to the bathroom and returned to find him fast asleep. An orgasm, she remembered, rendered a man unconscious.

BARBARA WOKE FROM HER NAP and discovered from the bedside clock that she had slept until nearly three in the morning. She checked on Jimmy and found him snoring happily. He had always been a sound sleeper, she reflected.

She rose from the bed and went to Jimmy’s wife’s closet. From a large selection, she chose a dark dress, a black silk scarf and a pair of sneakers. The shoes were a little too large, but she could manage.

She dressed, wrapped her head in the black scarf, completely covering her hair, and quietly left the room, taking her large handbag with her. Outside, she got into her little SLK and, without closing the door, put the transmission in neutral and let the car roll down the driveway and out the gates. Once in the street, she closed the door, started the engine and headed for Sunset Boulevard.

Ten minutes later she drove past the main exit of the Bel-Air parking lot, where she got a good look at the lone parking attendant, sitting in a chair, leaning against the attendants’ shed, dozing, then on, past the entrance to the lot, and to a driveway, which, at this hour, she knew from experience, would be unattended. She switched off her headlights.

This drive led to a couple of smaller parking lots where guests could park near their rooms without having to take the longer walk through the hotel lobby. She knew where Eagle always parked, and she put her car there.

Before leaving the car she took the little. 380 Colt from her bag and found the silencer, screwing it into place. She checked to be sure there was a round in the chamber, then she put the weapon back into her handbag and got out of the car, stopping to listen for footsteps before continuing.

The silence was broken only by a chirping insect nearby. She walked lightly down a footpath toward the courtyard where Eagle’s favorite suite was, and when she found the gate to the courtyard, she pulled herself up so that she could see over. All the lights were out inside.

She walked around the building to the rear of the suite and found the fence that enclosed the patio off the bedroom. A nearby garbage can would do for a stool she could stand on to survey the inside. The doors from the bedroom to the patio were wide open, and she could see the foot of the bed, by the light of an outdoor lamp over the path behind her.

She set her bag on the ground beside the garbage can and took out the small, silenced pistol, sticking it into the belt of her borrowed dress, then, with one last look around for company, she climbed onto the garbage can, hiked up her skirt and threw a leg over the fence. She dropped lightly to the stone patio. She didn’t much care if he came outside to meet her; it would just make things simpler.

She stopped and listened for a moment but heard no noise, no rustling sheets. Satisfied that all was quiet, she tiptoed to the French doors and looked inside. She could see the shapes of two people in bed, Eagle with his dark head and the actress with her yellow hair. She took another step inside.

Neither moved. She raised the pistol and fired two shots into Eagle’s head, then, as the woman woke to the small sounds, two more rounds into her.

Done.

She went back to the fence, moved a patio chair, stood on it and looked around. No person, no sound but the chirping insect. She threw a leg over the fence, found the garbage can and let herself down. She replaced the can where she had found it, took a handkerchief from her bag and wiped the can and the top of the fence clean of any fingerprints, then she dropped the pistol into her bag and began making her way toward where she had parked her car.

She was about to step from a short tunnel into the lot when she heard a noise, and headlights flashed, as a car pulled into the lot. She turned and ran lightly out of the tunnel and stood behind a small tree, trying not to breathe audibly.

She heard car doors slam, and a moment later, a couple, holding hands and laughing, came out of the tunnel and turned up a path toward another building.

Barbara paused to hear their door close, then she made her way through the tunnel and back to her car. She waited until she had driven out to Stone Canyon Road and passed the Bel-Air parking lot before turning on her headlights.

She saw no cars before reaching Sunset, and only two or three before she made it back to Camden. She turned up Jimmy’s driveway and parked her car as before, making as little noise as possible.

She let herself into the house and undressed at the foot of the stairs, before tiptoeing back to the master bedroom. Quietly, she put away the borrowed clothes, then eased back into bed. Jimmy still slept soundly.

She woke him in the most pleasant possible way, with her lips and tongue on his penis. She wanted him to remember that they had made love in the middle of the night.

As she mounted him she caught sight of the bedside clock. She had been out of the house for a little less than half an hour. Now, using all her charms, she began establishing her alibi in a way he could never forget.

When they were done, he glanced at the bedside clock. “God, it’s four-thirty,” he said. “And I’ve got to work tomorrow.”

“Hush, baby, and go to sleep,” Barbara said, rubbing the back of his neck. Good boy, Jimmy, she said to herself.

Fifty-four

VITTORIO WOKE WITH THE CALIFORNIA SUN ON HIS FACE. The girl beside him, whom he had picked up in the Bel-Air bar after Eagle and his friend had gone to dinner, slept soundly.

He found his watch: half past ten, and he was hungry. He found the remote and snapped on the TV. “Hey,” he said, poking the girl, “what do you want for breakfast?”

She stirred. “Tomato juice, half a grapefruit and green tea,” she murmured.

Vittorio made a face: so that was what passed for breakfast in L.A. He got on the phone and ordered a western omelet, orange juice and coffee for himself, plus what the girl wanted. Then, as he hung up the phone, he heard the words Hotel Bel-Air from the TV. He turned to see video of two stretchers being loaded into an ambulance, with sheets covering two bodies, one tall, one much shorter.

The newscast went on: “The two murder victims have not yet been identified by authorities, pending notification of families,” the woman was saying. “This is the first time in the history of the very private and quiet hotel that anyone can remember a violent crime being committed in the hotel. The bodies were discovered just after nine this morning when a room service waiter arrived to deliver breakfast for two, ordered the night before. We understand from someone who spoke to the waiter that each of the victims received two gunshots to the head, and a police officer, who would not identify himself, said that it looked like a professional job. The other guests were unaware of any problem until the police arrived.”

“It was all very odd,” a woman was saying. “I looked out my window, and there were suddenly a lot of people here who didn’t seem to belong. Then I saw some uniforms, and the ambulance arrived. It was a long time before they brought out the bodies. I guess they were doing that crime scene thing you see on TV all the time.”

“We hope to have the names of the victims for the noon news,” the woman said, then a soap opera came back on, in mid-hysterics.

Vittorio had a queasy feeling in his stomach. He picked up the phone and called the hotel.

“Hotel Bel-Air,” an operator said.

“May I speak to Ed Eagle, please? He’s a guest here.”

There was a brief pause. “I’m sorry, at the request of the guest, we’re not putting any calls through to that room at this time. Who’s calling, please?”

Vittorio hung up. This was bad. He headed for the shower. By the time he was dressed and had roused the girl, breakfast had arrived, and his stomach hurt from hunger. He wolfed down the food and hurried the girl to get dressed.

“What’s the rush?” she asked, pouting.

“I have an appointment in fifteen minutes,” he lied.

VITTORIO ARRIVED AT THE BEL-AIR and gave his car to the valet. He crossed the bridge over the little creek, with its pair of swans and lush plantings, and entered the lobby. Then he changed his mind. The front desk was not going to give him Eagle’s room number. He decided to take a walk. He left the lobby and walked purposefully up one of the many paths, as if he belonged at the hotel. He met a bellman coming the other way and stopped him. “Good morning,” he said.

“Good morning, sir.”

“Tell me, in what room were those murders last night?”

The man looked around nervously. “We’re not supposed to talk about that.”

“I’m not from the press,” Vittorio said, pressing a fifty into the man’s palm, “I’m just curious.”

“You go straight ahead,” the man said, nodding in the direction, “cross the driveway, turn right, then left. You’ll see all the cops.”

Vittorio thanked the man and followed the directions. He stopped when he came to a large courtyard with a fountain and saw two uniforms standing guard outside a gate that, apparently, led to a smaller courtyard. He approached them. “Good morning,” he said to the cops.

Both nodded and looked him up and down. “Can you tell me the names of the victims of last night’s shooting?”

They shook their heads simultaneously. “You’d have to speak to the detective in charge,” he said, “and he’s going to be busy inside for a while.”

Vittorio thanked them and retraced his steps toward the lobby, this time taking another path leading in that direction. He went past the large swimming pool and into the garden restaurant, and then he saw a familiar face. He walked over to the table. “Good morning,” he said.

“Good morning, Vittorio,” Eagle said. “Have you met Susannah Wilde?”

“How do you do?” she said, smiling at him.

“Very well, thank you.”

“Sit down,” Eagle said. “What brings you here?”

“I saw a television report that said two people had been murdered here,” Vittorio said.

“That’s true,” Eagle said. “And right next door to us. Our suite shares a front courtyard with another suite, next door. I’ve stayed in both many times. I’m glad the shooter didn’t mistake us for the people next door. We didn’t hear a thing.”

“May I speak with you alone for a minute, Mr. Eagle?”

“Sure. I’ll be right back, Susannah.” He led Vittorio a few yards away, then stopped. “What is it?”

“Maybe it was the other way around,” Vittorio said.

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe the shooter thought she was shooting you and Ms. Wilde.”

“She? What makes you think that?”

“You remember I told you that Barbara shot me when I entered her cottage in La Jolla?”

“Yes.”

“The gun she used was silenced.”

Eagle blinked. “I don’t think she’d go that far,” he said.

“Then you’re in denial, Mr. Eagle. She shot Cupie Dalton in Mexico City; she pushed me off a ferry in the middle of the Gulf of California; and I know for a fact that she and/or her sister cut up a man in Puerto Vallarta some years ago. He was the nephew of a police captain there, and they’re still looking for her.”

Eagle shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“Tell me, Mr. Eagle, do you have any insurance policies?”

“Yes, but…”

“Have you changed the beneficiary since Barbara absconded?”

Eagle’s face dropped. “I’ll do it this morning.”

“Good idea,” Vittorio said.

“But Barbara doesn’t know I’m in L.A..”

“My guess is, she does. I don’t know how, but she knows. But, as bad as this is, there’s an upside.”

“And what is that?”

“Now you can go to the police. We know where she’s staying, and we know she has a silenced gun. They’ll be all over her, and she’ll be out of your hair. Your divorce may take a little longer to accomplish, but so what?”

“You’re right,” Eagle said, taking out his cell phone.

“Don’t bother with that,” Vittorio said. “The officer in charge of the investigation is still in the suite next door to yours. Make your excuses to Ms. Wilde, and let’s go talk to him.”

Eagle went back to the table and Susannah and handed her the car keys. “You go ahead to your place and pick up whatever you want to take back to Santa Fe. If you can get it into the car, we can probably get it into the airplane.”

“All right. What are you going to do?”

“I have some business with Vittorio to take care of. I’ll see you later. I’ll be on my cell, if you need me.” He turned to Vittorio. “Let’s go see that man,” he said.

Fifty-five

EAGLE WALKED QUICKLY ALONGSIDE VITTORIO TOWARD his suite. Vittorio had been right: he had been in denial. He had underestimated Barbara at every turn, but now she had gone too far. The police could take it from here.

Vittorio stopped as they were entering the large courtyard with the fountain. “You don’t need me for this,” he said. “And I have something else to do. I’ll check with you later.”

Eagle nodded and continued toward the gate guarded by two policemen. “Good morning,” he said to them. “My name is Ed Eagle, I’m an attorney, and I occupy the suite next door to your crime scene. Please tell the investigating officer in charge that I wish to speak with him, that I have information that may be helpful.”

“Just a minute,” one of the officers said. He went inside for a moment, then returned. “Please go in, Mr. Eagle, and ask for Lieutenant Charles Vickers. And don’t touch anything.”

Eagle thanked the man and entered the suite. He recognized Vickers immediately as a detective who had testified in a case he had tried in Los Angeles some years before.

Vickers came over and shook his hand. “Morning, Mr. Eagle. What brings you to see us?”

“I think we’d better sit down, Lieutenant; I have a lot to tell you, including, I believe, the name and location of your perpetrator.”

The lieutenant led him to a chair in the suite’s living room. “All right, let’s hear it.” He produced a notebook.

“I have reason to believe that your perp is my ex…, my estranged wife. She’s traveling under the name of Barbara Woodfield.” Eagle gave the detective a summary of her background, her prison record and her absconding with his money, while Vickers took rapid notes in shorthand. “I believe she’s staying at Château Sunset.”

VITTORIO PARKED IN FRONT of Château Sunset and walked into the lobby to the front desk. He flashed a wallet that contained his California carry license and an LAPD badge he had bought from a badge catalogue years before, which bore the rank of sergeant and the number 714. It was Joe Friday’s Dragnet badge, but nobody ever noticed. “I need to speak with your guest Barbara Woodfield,” he said. “Just give me her room number and don’t call her.”

“I’m afraid Ms. Woodfield checked out a couple of hours ago,” the desk clerk said.

“Do you have a forwarding address?”

“No, and she didn’t say anything about her destination.”

“How was she traveling?”

“Well, she turned in her rental car, and someone picked her up.”

“A limo service?”

“No, I believe it was a gentleman in a BMW, black. Seemed to be a private car. She got into the front seat.”

“Has her suite been cleaned yet?”

The man consulted his computer. “No.”

“Then I’d like to see it, and keep the maid out until I’m done.”

“Of course, Sergeant.” The clerk gave him the room number and a key card.

Vittorio went upstairs and opened the door to the suite. It was a mess, with empty shopping bags from Rodeo Drive shops and wrapping paper everywhere. He went over the place quickly, looking for anything that might give him a clue to her destination, looking particularly for hotel notepads that might contain airline flight information or other information. There was nothing.

He returned to the front desk and gave the clerk the key card. “Thank you,” he said. “There’ll be other officers here soon.” He returned to his car.

BARBARA GOT OUT of the BMW, and a bellman took her bags. “Jimmy, you’re a sweetheart to drive me,” she said, giving him a kiss.

“Glad to do it, sweetie. As I said, I have business down here anyway. I’ll pick you up at seven for dinner; you’re going to love this place. And I won’t mind at all if you wear that red suit again.”

“Maybe I will, baby. See you then,” she said, closing the car door.

EAGLE FINISHED GIVING his account of Barbara’s activities and watched as Vickers issued a stream of orders to his colleagues. He tried to relax. This was all going to be over soon, though he would, no doubt, have to testify at her trial. The police would have her in custody within minutes, and she wasn’t going to get bail from any judge in his right mind.

Vickers came back to where Eagle was sitting. “I want to thank you Mr. Eagle,” he said. “The victims were a man named Ippolito and his girlfriend, from New York. He had serious Mafia connections, and without your help, we would have been chasing mob leads all over the place, wasting our time. And I’m glad Ms. Woodfield didn’t find you.”

“So am I, Lieutenant.” Eagle gave the man his card. “Let me know if you need me again. I’ll be here for another night, then I’m headed back to Santa Fe.” He put Vickers’s card into his pocket and went back to his own suite.

Vittorio was back at his own suite, wondering what his next move should be, when his cell phone rang.

“Yes?”

“Vittorio?” A woman’s voice.

“Yes.”

“It’s Birgit, here.”

He smiled. “Hello, Birgit, how are you?”

“The question is being, how are you? Any infection?”

“No, you did a great job; I’m healing well.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m in L.A.”

“Coming back this way any time soon?”

“I don’t think so, Birgit.”

“Maybe I can persuade?”

“What did you have in mind?”

“Well, guess who I am just giving massage?”

“Beats me.”

“Your friend, Barbara.”

Vittorio’s heart leapt. “She’s back at La Reserve?”

“In the Pine Cottage, like before, and with lots of new clothes.”

“Sweetheart, I’ll be in La Jolla as soon as I can.”

“You won’t find her here tonight, though.”

“Why not?”

“Well, she’s going out to dinner; she asked me about the restaurant.”

Vittorio looked at his watch. It was after one o’clock. “Birgit, I’m going to drive down there right now. I’ll call you when I arrive.”

“Okay, I’m looking forward to change your bandage.”

“Oh, will you book me a room there? It will save me time.”

“Sure, I talk to desk. Bye-bye.”

“Use the fake name, remember?” Vittorio grabbed his bags and ran for his car.

TWO HOURS LATER, Vittorio was still stalled in a monumental traffic jam on the interstate, south of L.A., and the only way out was to get out of the car and jump over the railing to the ground. Vittorio had considered it more than once, but it was a good sixty feet, he reckoned. He’d have to sweat it out.

It was a little after seven when he arrived at La Reserve and checked in. He called Birgit.

“Good day,” she said.

“It’s Vittorio. Thanks for booking the room.”

“I am glad to.”

“Do you know where Barbara is now?”

“I have seen her in the hotel shop some minutes ago.”

“Where is the shop?”

“In the main building, but she is not there no more.”

“Where is she?”

“I am seeing her getting into black BMW for her dinner date.”

“Do you know where she is dining?”

“Yes, she is asking me about restaurant.”

“Which restaurant?”

“La Fonda.”

“Do you know the address?”

“Not exactly address. It is on the beach outside town.”

“What road?”

“The big main road; I forget the number.”

“Never mind; it doesn’t matter.” He would wait for her in her cottage.

“I am sorry. I have been to this restaurant once before. It is best in Tijuana.”

“La Fonda is in Tijuana?”

“Yes, on the road from Tijuana, on the beach. Is easy to find.”

That put a whole new light on things. “Thank you, Birgit.”

“We are having dinner, Vittorio?”

He thought about it. Why not? “You want to go to La Fonda?”

“Oh, yes.”

“How soon can you be ready?”

“Thirty minutes?”

That would give them time to settle down at the restaurant before he arrived. “I’ll meet you out front in half an hour.”

VITTORIO HAD TWO PHONE CALLS to make. First, he called the Bel-Air and asked for Ed Eagle.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Eagle, it’s Vittorio.”

“Yes, Vittorio?”

“I know where Barbara is, or at least, where she’ll be a little later this evening.”

“Tell me, and I’ll call the police.”

“I’m afraid that won’t help.”

“Why not?”

“She’s staying at La Jolla again, but she’s gone to Tijuana for dinner. I’m headed down there; do you want to be there when I confront her?”

“Yes, I do.”

“You have an airplane, don’t you?”

“Yes. The flight is less than an hour.”

“She’ll be at a restaurant called La Fonda. It’s on the beach, west of the city. Any cabdriver should know it. I’ll be outside.”

“See you there.” Eagle hung up, and Vittorio began getting into his resort clothes.

Then he made his second phone call.

Fifty-six

EAGLE GRABBED A JACKET AND A FILE CONTAINING MORE copies of the divorce settlement. He walked into the bathroom, where Susannah was putting on her makeup.

“I’m sorry, but I have to fly to Tijuana. It’s to do with Barbara, and I hope we can wrap this up tonight. Do you mind dining alone?”

“Not at all,” she replied. “You go ahead. Will you be back tonight?”

“Yes,” he replied, “with any luck at all.”

EAGLE PICKED UP the phone and called Cupie Dalton.

“Hello?”

“Cupie, it’s Ed Eagle.”

“Good evening.”

“I have to fly to Tijuana right now to get the divorce settlement papers signed. Will you come with me for support?”

“Sure.”

“How soon can you be at Supermarine, at Santa Monica Airport?”

“Ten minutes.”

“See you there.” He hung up and headed for the parking lot. From the car Eagle phoned Supermarine and asked that his airplane be ready, then he called Flight Services and filed an international flight plan for Tijuana. His insurance policy already covered flights to Mexico. Then he made one more phone call. Half an hour later, he and Cupie were in the air.

VITTORIO AND BIRGIT LEFT La Reserve and headed south toward the border. Vittorio’s mind was racing, thinking ahead, trying to plan. Barbara was a very slippery lady, and he was determined to keep her from slipping through his fingers this time. Birgit sat quietly beside him.

At the border he chatted briefly with the guards, then was allowed to drive through. He had not wanted to cross the border armed, so he had not brought a weapon.

BARBARA AND JIMMY were shown to a table on the upstairs terrace, facing the sea. They sat down, ordered margaritas and gazed at the remnants of the sunset over the Pacific.

“So,” Jimmy said, “what are your plans, now that you’re divorced?”

“I’m not exactly divorced yet,” she said. “But soon.”

“Say, did you see the news on TV about the murders at the Bel-Air last night?”

“No, I haven’t looked at a TV all day,” she lied. “Who was murdered?”

“The police hadn’t released a name when I saw the report, but there were shots of two corpses being wheeled out of the hotel. Jesus, we were just there last evening!”

Barbara smiled. “What I remember about last evening was a lovely dinner and the best night I ever spent in bed,” she said. “I’ll never forget it.”

“Neither will I,” Jimmy replied. “Not any detail.” He raised his glass. “Let’s drink to that.”

They touched glasses. Barbara’s mind raced ahead. She’d stay at La Reserve for another week or two, then she’d call the insurance company, get the forms signed and claim four million dollars in insurance money. Once that was in the bank, she’d take the copy of Eagle’s will in her bag to Santa Fe and file for probate. She doubted very much if he’d bothered to change it yet. Then she’d move in to Eagle’s house, throw out the furniture and start over. She’d always loved Santa Fe, and now she could settle down there on her own terms. Even if he had changed his will, she could fight it. After all, as his undivorced widow, she was entitled to a big chunk of his estate.

VITTORIO, following Birgit’s instructions, drove west from Tijuana, then along the coast road. A mile or two further, the restaurant appeared, a large building on the beach.

“Tell me the layout of the place,” he said to Brigit.

“The bar is being downstairs, and the dining room is being upstairs. There’s a balcony to overlook the sea. I suggest to Barbara this is the best place for tables.”

As Vittorio pulled up in front of the restaurant, his cell phone vibrated.

“Hello?”

“It’s Eagle; I’m leaving the airport in a cab now, and Cupie Dalton is with me. Where are you?”

“I’ve just arrived at the restaurant,” Vittorio replied.

“Don’t go in until I get there,” Eagle said. “The driver says it will be less than twenty minutes.”

“As you wish, Mr. Eagle.” Vittorio hung up.

“Who was this?” Birgit asked.

“My client.”

“What is the work you do?”

“I’m a private investigator, and I’m working for Barbara’s husband. She stole some money from him and tried to have him killed.”

“I don’t believe this,” Birgit said.

“Birgit, last night, Barbara went to the Hotel Bel-Air in Los Angeles and murdered two people in the suite next door to her husband, thinking she was killing him.”

Birgit looked shocked.

“She’s also wanted by the police in Mexico for cutting off a man’s penis.”

Birgit’s jaw had dropped now. “A perfectly good penis?”

“A perfectly good penis.”

“Is a waste.”

“Well, yes.”

“What will you do here? You will kill Barbara? I don’t want this.”

“No, I will not kill her. I don’t even have a gun.” He showed her the file folder. “I will just get her to sign these documents, then I will be done with her, and we can have a good dinner.”

“This is all?”

“I promise you, I will not harm her.”

“Why are we not going inside, then?”

“I’m waiting for Ed Eagle, her husband, to arrive. He will be here shortly, and five minutes after that, it will all be over.”

“You are promising?”

“I am promising.”

Vittorio looked around but didn’t see anyone else. There should be people here. He punched a number into his cell phone.

“Sí?”

“This is Vittorio. I am at the restaurant; where are you?”

“Coming to Tijuana now. I will be thirty minutes, I think.”

“When you arrive, wait in her car. I don’t want to make a scene inside, and it will be best to take her when she leaves the restaurant.”

“As you wish, Vittorio.”

Vittorio hung up.

“And who was that?” Birgit asked.

“A friend,” Vittorio replied.

Fifty-seven

EAGLE’S TAXI PULLED UP IN FRONT OF THE RESTAURANT, and he and Cupie got out. Vittorio got out of a car and came toward them.

“Good evening, Mr. Eagle, Cupie,” Vittorio said, shaking their hands.

“Evening, Vittorio,” Eagle said. “What is the plan?”

Vittorio held up the file folder. “My plan is that I go in there and get Barbara to sign these papers, then we leave.”

Eagle was silent for a moment. “That sounds way too simple,” he said. “I brought Cupie for backup.”

“Thanks for coming, Cupie, but I don’t think that will be necessary.”

“I’m missing something here, Vittorio,” Cupie said. “We couldn’t get those papers signed when we had her for days. What makes you think she’s going to sign now?”

“If you will just leave this to me, I promise I’ll get her signature.”

“What’s plan B?” Cupie asked.

“Tell you what, Cupie,” Vittorio said. “If she doesn’t sign the papers, I’ll call you and Mr. Eagle, and you can have a shot at her when she leaves the restaurant.”

“There’s something you’re not telling us,” Eagle said.

“Yes, sir, there is,” Vittorio replied. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He turned and walked toward the restaurant, taking note of a black BMW with California plates.

Vittorio entered the building and, from the doorway, had a good look around the bar. He wanted surprise to be on his side.

A headwaiter approached. “May I help you, sir?”

“I’d like a table for two in about ten minutes, if that’s possible.”

“I’m afraid we’re fully booked in the dining room,” the man said, “but we can accommodate you in the bar.”

“That will be fine,” Vittorio said. “Do you mind if I have a look at the dining room? I’ve heard a lot about it, and I’d like to see it for myself.”

“Of course, sir,” the headwaiter said. “May I have your name?”

“Vittorio. My guest, a lady, will be arriving shortly.”

The headwaiter noted the name in his book. “Please have a look around, Mr. Vittorio.”

Vittorio walked up the stairs, and after a moment, as he neared the top, he stopped, with only his head above the railing, and surveyed the dining room.

It was a large room with perhaps fifty or sixty tables, stone walls, wide plank floors and a pianist playing a Spanish song. Half the tables were on the terrace Birgit had described. Vittorio surveyed the room, but did not spot Barbara at first, so he began a table-by-table viewing, starting with the indoor tables. Still no Barbara.

He began checking the tables on the terrace, and that was harder, since all the people were facing the sea, with their backs to him. Still no Barbara. He walked up the remaining steps and looked again, then he began making his way through the tables toward the terrace. He had now viewed all the tables twice, and he had not seen anyone who even resembled Barbara.

THEN, AS HE WATCHED, a blond woman in a red suit, carrying a large handbag, got up from a table at the edge of the terrace and began making her way toward the rear of the room, probably to the ladies’. Her face wasn’t clearly visible, but the handbag and the suit were familiar, and bells were clanging in Vittorio’s brain.

Then the full realization hit him: she was the woman who had entered the Bel-Air bar the night before, when he and Eagle were meeting there. She had walked right past them, coming and going, and they had both admired her. And the handbag was Barbara’s. She had changed her appearance and fooled them both, and that was how she had known Eagle was at the Bel-Air.

Vittorio turned and followed her, at a distance, toward the restrooms. As he approached the ladies’ room, the door opened and a woman left the room. As the door swung shut, Vittorio caught sight of Barbara, standing at the restroom sink, checking her makeup in the mirror. Then, just before the door closed, her eyes locked on his, and shock flooded her face.

As Vittorio reached for the door he heard the lock turn. “Shit,” he muttered to himself. Then, as he knocked on the door, two closely spaced holes appeared in it, and he felt a tug at his jacket. He jumped aside. That had been two rounds from a silenced pistol, and one of them had nicked his clothing.

He jumped to one side of the door and leaned against the stone wall. “Barbara,” he called out, “listen to me very carefully.”

Another bullet hole appeared in the door, but he was well out of the way.

“If you fire another round, I’ll have the Mexican police break down the door and take you. We can avoid that, if you’ll listen.”

There was a long silence, then a muffled voice. “I’m listening, Vittorio.”

“I have some papers here. If you’ll sign them I’ll call off the police and be on my way.”

“What papers?”

“A divorce settlement, giving you three hundred thousand dollars and nothing else.”

“And what makes you think I would sign that?”

“You’ve no reason not to; Eagle has changed his will and changed the beneficiaries on his insurance policies. You would have to fight for everything in court, and you’d lose. If you don’t sign them, I’ll turn you over to the Mexican police. Remember the capitán from Puerto Vallarta? The uncle of the man you maimed? He’s waiting outside with two carloads of policemen.”

“You’re bluffing.”

“The only way for you to find out is to risk losing everything, maybe even your life. You’re never going to get another dime out of Eagle, and you’re not going to get out of this building without being arrested, unless I help you, so you may as well sign.”

There was a long silence. “Let me see the papers,” she said, finally.

“First, I want the gun. You can have it back when we’re done.” After a pause, he heard the door unlock. “Hand it out butt first,” he said. The door opened slightly, and the butt appeared; the slide was locked back and the weapon empty. He took it and pushed the door cautiously open.

She was standing, facing the door, her back to the mirror. It took him a moment to be sure it was really Barbara, but it was, indeed.

“Let me see the papers,” she said.

He handed her the folder. “There are four copies; sign them all and keep one.”

She quickly scanned the single-page agreement. “Call off the police,” she said.

“As soon as you’ve signed.”

“We seem to be at an impasse,” she said.

“It’s over, Barbara; the alternative is a Mexican jail, assuming the capitán lets you make it that far.” He handed her a pen.

She looked at him for a long moment. “You were a good lay,” she said. Then she signed the papers, kept a copy and handed him back the folder. “Now call the capitán.”

Vittorio took back the pen, so she couldn’t use it as a weapon, inspected the signatures, then he pressed the redial button on his cell phone.

“Sí?”

“Capitán?”

“Yes, Vittorio, we are ten minutes away.”

“Capitán, I am sorry to tell you that I have made a mistake; she is not in the restaurant. The woman I was following was another person entirely. I apologize for this terrible inconvenience.”

Vittorio held the phone away from his ear to avoid the torrent of Spanish cursing and so that Barbara could hear the policeman. “I’m sorry, capitán,” he said, when the swearing had ebbed. “It was the wrong woman.”

“Vittorio,” the captain said, “I owe you no more favors.” He broke the connection.

“Did you hear that?” Vittorio asked Barbara.

“Yes, I heard it.”

He took a towel and wiped his fingerprints from the pistol, then handed it to her. “Have a nice evening,” he said. “I don’t think we’ll be seeing each other again.” He stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind him. He could hear a thumping noise against the door as he walked away; she was apparently punishing the door.

Outside, he found Eagle and Cupie leaning against the car. He opened the folder, rested it on the trunk, witnessed the documents and handed the folder to Eagle. “There’s your signed agreement,” he said.

Eagle checked the signatures. “All is in order, Vittorio. I’ll send you a check when I get back to Santa Fe.”

Cupie spoke up. “When do the capitán and his men arrive?”

Vittorio laughed.

“Come on, it’s all you had to threaten her with.”

“I called him off,” Vittorio said.

“Are you sure?” Eagle asked. “I don’t want her hurt.”

“I’m sure. Can I give you a lift to the airport?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Eagle looked around the parking lot. “Do you know which car she arrived in?”

“The black BMW,” Vittorio replied.

The three men got into Vittorio’s rented Jaguar. He introduced Eagle and Cupie to Birgit, then he started the car and headed for the airport.

Vittorio turned to Birgit. “You might have told me she had changed her appearance,” he said.

“Sorry, I forget about that.” She smiled sweetly. “I’m hungry,” she said.

“Later,” he said.

Fifty-eight

THE JAGUAR WAS APPROACHING THE TURNOFF TO THE airport when Eagle spoke up. “Don’t turn for the airport. Take me back to Tijuana instead, to the border crossing.”

“As you wish,” Vittorio said, speeding up. “Why do you want to go to the border?”

Eagle didn’t reply, and Vittorio didn’t question him further. He drove into the city and made his way to the border crossing.

“Park over there,” Eagle said, pointing to a space.

“All right,” Vittorio replied.

“Before you confronted Barbara, did you see their table?”

“From a distance.”

“Could you tell how far along with dinner they were?”

“I saw a waiter take away dishes; I assume they had finished their main course.”

“All right,” Eagle said, then went silent again.

Vittorio settled down to wait for whatever Eagle was waiting for.

BARBARA AND JIMMY FINISHED their coffee, and Jimmy asked for the check.

“You’ve gone all quiet on me,” he said.

“I’m sorry,” she replied, “I was lost in thought.” She had been quiet, indeed. Now that Eagle had dried up as a source of money, she needed to make new plans. “Jimmy, you said your wife left you, what, three weeks ago?”

“Yep.”

“You haven’t sounded upset about it.”

“I’m not; I feel nothing but relief.”

“Have you filed for divorce?”

“She has. I was served less than a week after she moved out.”

“Have you enjoyed our time together?”

“Every minute of it. What are your plans?”

“Oh, I think I’ll spend a couple of days at La Reserve, then maybe go back to L.A. for a while. Want to stay with me and relax for a bit?”

“I’d love it,” he said, reaching over and kissing her. “And when we get back to L.A., why don’t you move in with me?”

“What a nice idea,” she said, kissing him back. She breathed a sigh of relief. Nice to have old Jimmy waiting in line.

VITTORIO BEGAN TO HAVE uncomfortable thoughts. “Mr. Eagle,” he said, “could I speak to you in private for a moment?”

“Sure, Vittorio.”

They both got out of the car and walked a few steps away.

“Mr. Eagle, you said you didn’t want Barbara harmed, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Well, I’m beginning to get the feeling that something is about to happen to her, and if that’s so, I don’t want to be here when it happens.”

“Relax, Vittorio,” Eagle said. “The responsibility is all mine; you have nothing to worry about.” He walked back to the car and got in.

Vittorio followed him, still troubled. Then, as he watched, two Mexican police cars pulled into reserved parking spots about thirty yards in front of him, between his car and the border.

BARBARA SAT AS CLOSE as she could to Jimmy in the car and let her hand wander inside his thigh. “Jimmy,” she said in a low voice. “I don’t have much in the way of clothes, since I left Eagle, so I need to do some shopping. Do you think you could arrange a credit card for me?”

“Sure, babe,” Jimmy replied. “I’ll make the call in the morning; you’ll have it the day after.”

“And please remember to put my new name, Woodfield, on it, will you?” she said, giving his crotch a little squeeze.

“Sure thing.”

He reached over and ran a hand up her skirt, and she opened her legs to give him access.

“We’ll be back at La Reserve in less than an hour,” she said, “and when we get there I’m going to make you forget last night.”

“That’s going to take some doing,” he replied.

“But it will be done,” she said.

They were approaching the border crossing now.

Barbara felt a stab of fear, as she spotted the two police cars parked near the crossing. Jimmy pulled the car into line at one of the drive-throughs and stopped, rolling down his window.

Then Barbara saw Vittorio and Ed Eagle getting out of a Jaguar and walking toward her. She began looking for somewhere to run.

EAGLE SPOTTED THE BLACK CAR as it got in line at a border patrol station; he got out of the Jaguar and began walking slowly toward the BMW. Vittorio got out and followed him with Cupie right behind.

Vittorio left Eagle and walked toward the police cars; as he did, the captain got out of one of them and met him. He did not offer his hand. “Good evening, capitán,” Vittorio said.

“Where is she?” the captain demanded. “I know she is here, if you are here.”

“Look around. Do you see her?”

“Where is the woman you were following?”

“In the BMW, there,” Vittorio said, nodding toward the car. “As you can see, it is a different woman.”

“Then why did you tell me it was she?”

“I was misinformed. Believe me, I did not like making this trip for nothing.”

BARBARA SAW VITTORIO and the captain talking, looking her way. She turned away from them and froze, looking frantically about. The line of traffic was moving, and they were now at a crossing station.

“Good evening, folks,” the border patrolman said.

“Good evening, officer,” Jimmy replied.

“Are you folks American citizens?”

“Yes, we are,” Jimmy said.

“May I see your passports or a government-issued picture I.D.?”

“Of course,” Jimmy said, handing him his driver’s license.

Barbara handed over her passport.

“How long have you been in Mexico, folks?”

“Only a few hours,” Jimmy said. “We just came over for dinner.”

“Have you purchased anything during your stay in Mexico?”

“Only dinner,” Jimmy replied.

“Do you own this car, sir?” The patrolman asked.

“Yes, I do. Would you like to see the registration?”

“Yes, please.”

Jimmy dug into the glove compartment and handed over the California document.

“All appears to be in order, sir,” the patrolman said, handing back their documents. “Welcome home.” He waved them on.

Jimmy pulled the car up to a barrier and waited for it to open.

“AND WHO IS THE tall Indian gentleman who is staring at the car?” the captain asked.

“He is my client,” Vittorio replied. “He is disappointed, too, as he had hoped to take his wife back to El Norte tonight.”

The captain watched as the BMW moved up to the barrier.

EAGLE STOPPED A FEW feet behind the BMW and motioned Cupie to stop, too. “Let’s just wait right here,” he said. Vittorio joined them.

As they watched, two men in suits and half a dozen uniformed policemen approached the BMW from the U.S. side of the border.

BARBARA WAS SURPRISED, when someone opened her car door, not to be confronted by the Mexican capitán.

“Barbara Woodfield?” A man in a suit asked.

“Yes?” she said uncertainly. What was going on here?

“I’m Lieutenant Charles Vickers of the Los Angeles Police Department.” He handed her a folded sheet of paper. “This is an arrest warrant with your name on it; the charge is first-degree murder, two counts.”

“I believe you’ve made a mistake,” she said, reaching for her handbag, but Vickers got there first. He reached out and snapped a cuff closed on her wrist. An officer on the driver’s side of the car began cuffing Jimmy.

“You’re making a terrible mistake,” Barbara said.

“Yes,” Jimmy joined in. “We’ve just come back from dinner. She hasn’t murdered anybody; I can attest to that.”

“Well, sir,” Vickers said, “we’re going to have a long talk about that just as soon as we get back to L.A.”

The police removed both of them from the BMW, and a police officer got behind the wheel and moved it. A moment later, Barbara and Jimmy were in the rear seats of separate police cars.

“SHE LOOKS DIFFERENT,” Eagle said.

“She’s had some work done,” Vittorio replied. “We saw her in the Bel-Air bar last night, remember.”

“I do now.”

“All this was very nicely done,” Vittorio said.

“Now you know why I didn’t want her harmed,” Eagle replied. “You’ll probably be called to testify.”

“I doubt if I’ll be needed,” Vittorio said. “The gun she used is in her handbag. If she’s smart, she’ll plea-bargain for her life.”

“Oh, she’s smart,” Ed Eagle said. “She’s very smart, but I’m glad I’m not defending her.” He clapped Vittorio on the shoulder. “Now you can drive me to the airport.”

AUTHOR’S NOTE

I am happy to hear from readers, but you should know that if you write to me in care of my publisher, three to six months will pass before I receive your letter, and when it finally arrives it will be one among many, and I will not be able to reply.

However, if you have access to the Internet, you may visit my website at www.stuartwoods.com, where there is a button for sending me e-mail. So far, I have been able to reply to all of my e-mail, and I will continue to do so.

If you send me an e-mail and do not receive a reply, it is because you are among an alarming number of people who have entered their e-mail address incorrectly in their mail software. I have many of my replies returned as undeliverable.

Remember: e-mail, reply; snail mail, no reply.

When you e-mail, please do not send attachments, as I never open these. They can take twenty minutes to download, and they often contain viruses.

Please do not place me on your mailing lists for funny stories, prayers, political causes, charitable fund-raising, petitions, or sentimental claptrap. I get enough of that from people I already know. Generally speaking, when I get e-mail addressed to a large number of people, I immediately delete it without reading it.

Please do not send me your ideas for a book, as I have a policy of writing only what I myself invent. If you send me story ideas, I will immediately delete them without reading them. If you have a good idea for a book, write it yourself, but I will not be able to advise you on how to get it published. Buy a copy of Writer’s Market at any bookstore; that will tell you how.

Anyone with a request concerning events or appearances may e-mail it to me or send it to: Publicity Department, G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014.

Those ambitious folk who wish to buy film, dramatic, or television rights to my books should contact Matthew Snyder, Creative Artists Agency, 9830 Wilshire Boulevard, Beverly Hills, CA 90212-1825.

Those who wish to conduct business of a more literary nature should contact Anne Sibbald, Janklow & Nesbit, 445 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10022.

If you want to know if I will be signing books in your city, please visit my website, www.stuartwoods.com, where the tour schedule will be published a month or so in advance. If you wish me to do a book signing in your locality, ask your favorite bookseller to contact his Putnam representative or the G. P. Putnam’s Sons Publicity Department with the request.

If you find typographical or editorial errors in my book and feel an irresistible urge to tell someone, please write to Rachel Kahan at Putnam’s address above. Do not e-mail your discoveries to me, as I will already have learned about them from others.

A list of my published works appears in the front of this book and on my website, www.stuartwoods.com. All the novels are still in print in paperback and can be found at or ordered from any bookstore. If you wish to obtain hardcover copies of earlier novels or of the two nonfiction books, a good used-book store or one of the online bookstores can help you find them. Otherwise, you will have to go to a great many garage sales.

A Stone Barrington Novel

A Holly Barker Novel

A Stone Barrington Novel

A Stone Barrington Novel

A Will Lee Novel

A Stone Barrington Novel

A Holly Barker Novel

A Stone Barrington Novel

A Holly Barker Novel

A Stone Barrington Novel

A Stone Barrington Novel

A Will Lee Novel

A Stone Barrington Novel

A Holly Barker Novel

A Stone Barrington Novel

A Stone Barrington Novel

A Stone Barrington Novel

A Stone Barrington Novel

A Will Lee Novel

A Will Lee Novel

A Will Lee Novel

A Will Lee Novel

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Epilogue

Author’s Note

BOOKS BY STUART WOODS

FICTION

TRAVEL

A Romantic’s Guide to the Country Inns of Britain and Ireland (1979)

MEMOIR

Blue Water, Green Skipper (1977)

*A Holly Barker Novel †A Stone Barrington Novel

‡A Will Lee Novel §An Ed Eagle Novel

G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS

Publishers Since 1838

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto,

Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Canada Inc.)

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Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

Copyright © 2008 by Stuart Woods

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned,

or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not

participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.

Purchase only authorized editions.

Published simultaneously in Canada

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Woods, Stuart.

Santa Fe dead / Stuart Woods.

p. cm.

eISBN : 978-0-399-15490-4

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

While the author has made every effort to provide accurate telephone numbers and Internet addresses at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

http://us.penguingroup.com

This book is for Leslie Alexander.

1

ED EAGLE SAT, all six feet seven inches of him, propped up on many pillows in bed, watching Court TV on the fifty-inch flatscreen television of his suite at the Hotel Bel-Air in Los Angeles. He had decided to watch from bed rather than attend the trial of his former wife, Barbara, since he had already spent three days in the courtroom, giving his testimony against her. Now it was time for the summations.

The prosecutor, a woman apparently in her midthirties named Valerie Simmons, whom Eagle found quite attractive, had done a very good job in the trial, he thought, and since he was one of the half dozen best trial lawyers in the western United States, his opinion counted for something. Now all Ms. Simmons had to do was nail the lid on the thing. Eagle would have preferred nailing and screwing the lid on it, but he would settle for nailing—anything to get Barbara into a cell for the next fifty years or so.

Eagle’s girlfriend of the last year, the actress Susannah Wilde, came out of the bathroom, her hair wet, her robe hanging open. She crawled across his body, deliberately stroking his face with her breasts as she went, and snuggled up next to him.

“Don’t wave those things at me,” Eagle said. “I have to watch Barbara go down.”

“Wouldn’t you rather watch me go down?” Susannah asked, tickling his lower belly.

“On another occasion, yes,” he replied. “But right now you’re going to have to contain yourself, as difficult as that may be.”

Susannah sighed and pulled herself upright next to him, plumping her pillows. “Oh, all right,” she said.

Valerie Simmons rose and walked toward the jury. “Ladies and gentlemen,” she said to them, “I want to thank you for your attention to what has been a lengthy trial. Now, I want to summarize the evidence against Barbara Eagle, as succinctly as I can, and I would remind you that everything I am about to say has been testified to by witnesses. You have heard from Ms. Eagle’s former husband, Ed Eagle, how he first met Ms. Eagle when she was serving a prison sentence in New York for armed robbery and as an accessory to the killing of her first husband during that robbery. You have heard how she was released on parole and moved to Santa Fe, New Mexico, where she renewed her acquaintance with Mr. Eagle, and how they came to be married a year or so later.

“You have heard how Mr. Eagle woke up one morning, having been drugged with the sleeping pill Ambien in his wine the night before, and found his wife gone, and how she had taken more than a million dollars of his money from his bank accounts and attempted to take five million more from his brokerage accounts, something he managed to forestall.

“You have heard how Mr. Eagle hired two private investigators to find his wife in Mexico, where she had fled, and how she shot one of the investigators and pushed the other overboard from a ferry in the Sea of Cortez. Both were lucky to survive. You have heard how she hired two men from Santa Fe to murder Mr. Eagle and how one of them nearly succeeded.

“You have heard how she came back to the United States and checked into a resort in San Diego, where she had her appearance altered by having her dark hair dyed blond and with cosmetic surgery. You have heard how she then traveled to Los Angeles and contacted a friend, Mr. James Long, and how they had dinner together that evening at the Hotel Bel-Air. You have heard that Mr. Eagle and a friend were also dining there and how he did not recognize Ms. Eagle, because of her altered appearance.

“You have heard how Ms. Eagle, later that night, drugged her companion, Mr. Long, once again with Ambien, left his home, returned to the Hotel Bel-Air and sought out the suite of Mr. Eagle. You have heard how she entered the suite next door, in error, and shot Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Dattila of New York, believing that they were Mr. Eagle and his friend.

“All of this is in evidence, and the weight of it is enough for you to send Ms. Eagle to prison for the rest of her life. I ask you to do just that. Thank you.” Valerie Simmons sat down.

The judge turned to the defense table. “Mr. Karp?” he said.

Richard Karp rose and faced the jury. “Good morning,” he said. “Ladies and gentlemen, this case is about reasonable doubt. If you believe that there is a reasonable doubt that Barbara Eagle killed Mr. and Mrs. Dattila—and that is all that she is charged with—then you are legally and morally bound to acquit her. Everything you have heard from the prosecution about Ms. Eagle’s past and what she may or may not have done in Mexico is window dressing, nothing more, and none of what you have heard is supported by any material evidence, just the testimony of questionable witnesses.

“While you heard Mr. Eagle testify that he was drugged with Ambien, there is no scientific evidence to support that contention. What happened was that Mr. Eagle had too much to drink the evening before and overslept. The funds that Ms. Eagle took with her to Mexico, in a desperate attempt to remove herself from an abusive marriage, were marital funds, and she was legally entitled to take them. I would remind you that one of the two men allegedly hired to kill Mr. Eagle is dead, and the other could not pick Ms. Eagle out of a lineup.

“I would remind you that it is not a crime in the United States to shoot someone in Mexico in self-defense or to push someone off a boat in an attempt to defend herself from a rape, and you have heard that both of her attackers survived. I would remind you that, although Ms. Eagle and Mr. Long dined at the Bel-Air the evening before the murder, you have also heard, from Mr. Long, that she spent the entire night in his bed in his home and did not return to the Bel-Air to shoot Mr. Dattila, who, you have heard, was the son of the Mafia kingpin Carmine Dattila, who also met a violent death. It is far more likely that Thomas Dattila was killed by his own associates or competitors than by Ms. Eagle.

“I would remind you that Mr. James Long underwent no testing for the drug Ambien, and he has testified that Ms. Eagle spent the night with him—indeed, that they made love in the middle of the night. I would remind you that it is not a crime for a woman to have her appearance enhanced by her hairstylist and her cosmetic surgeon.” He smiled knowingly.

“In fact, stripped to its relevant essentials, the prosecution’s case is nothing more than a lot of hot air, backed only by the testimony of an angry ex-husband and the two private detectives he hired to bully and harass her and to come into this court and lie about her. There is no physical evidence, no murder weapon and no motive for the murders of two people Ms. Eagle had never even met.

“I put it to you that the doubt of guilt in this case is not only reasonable but overwhelming, and I ask you, after a careful examination of the evidence—or, rather, nonevidence—to acquit Barbara Eagle and set her free, so that she may still have a chance to find some happiness in what has, so far, been a life full of abuse and harassment by her ex-husband and others. Find her not guilty.” Karp sat down.

“What did you think?” Susannah asked.

“Well, they both said pretty much what I would have said, if I had been prosecuting or defending,” Eagle said. “I think the jury will convict her.”

“Well, then,” Susannah said, “while the jury is deliberating, may I distract you?”

“You may,” Eagle said, rolling over and taking her in his arms.

SHE HAD BEEN distracting him for ten minutes or so, when Eagle was redistracted by a sudden intensity in the voice of the Court channel’s anchor.

“We’re just getting word,” the anchor said, “that something has happened outside the courtroom where the trial of Barbara Eagle has just ended. Let’s go to our reporter on the scene for the details.”

A beautiful young woman in a red suit and with perfect hair came on-screen. “Well,” she said, breathlessly, “it seems that Barbara Eagle has disappeared from the conference room where she and her lawyer were awaiting a verdict. Apparently, while Mr. Karp had excused himself to go to the men’s room, Ms. Eagle somehow got out of the conference room, in spite of a guard on the door, and maybe even out of the building. A search is being conducted for her now.”

“Ed,” Susannah said, “you’ve gone all limp.”

2

BARBARA EAGLE SAT at the table in a conference room near the courtroom where she had just been tried, awaiting the jury’s verdict. She had had lunch in this room every day during her trial, so she knew that it was on the first floor and overlooked the rear parking lot of the courthouse, reserved for judges. She knew, also, that the windows would open only ten or twelve inches, and only from the top.

She had been keeping her lawyer’s water glass full for two hours, and she was waiting for results. Finally, he excused himself and went into the adjoining toilet. Barbara moved quickly. She climbed onto the windowsill, stuffed her shoes, handbag and jacket through the top opening of the window, then grabbed the bottom of the opening on the extreme left and swung her right, stockinged foot up until she could hook a toe over the edge of the window. From this point, it was all muscle, and she had had nearly a year in jail to work out. She lifted herself until she could get a knee over the edge, then continued until all that was left of her inside the room was her head, one leg and her ass. She turned to the left, and got her head out the window. From there she wriggled her ass through the window—the dieting had helped—then all she had to do was bring her leg outside after her.

She dangled from the window and took a quick look around the parking lot: a man got out of a car and went into the building through a rear door, but he wasn’t looking up, and the parking lot was screened from the street by a high hedge. Once he was inside she dropped to the ground, a distance of some seven or eight feet, landed on the soft earth of a flower bed, behind some azalea bushes, and toppled over. She got up, brushed herself off, put on her shoes, grabbed her handbag and walked quickly across the parking lot to the row of ficus trees that had begun to grow together.

She pressed between them, then stopped halfway through to get a look at the street. The Toyota was parked where it was supposed to be, and Jimmy Long was at the wheel. There were no police cars or cops in sight, so she stepped out of the hedge, crossed the sidewalk, opened the rear door of the car and got in. “Hey, Jimmy,” she said.

“Hey, sweetie, we okay?”

“Yep. Let’s roll.” Barbara lay low on the backseat, and the car started to move.

“Where to?”

“The nearest place you can get a taxi.”

“There’s a hotel a few blocks down.”

“That’s good.” Her luggage was sitting on the rear seat and floor, and Barbara rummaged in a bag and came out with an auburn wig and a green jacket. She tucked her hair, which was already pinned up, under the wig, sat up and checked herself out in the rearview mirror, then she got into the green jacket and stuffed her beige one into the bag. “Okay, brief me.”

“The car belonged to my housekeeper’s sister, who has a last name different from hers. I bought it and registered it in your new name, Eleanor Wright. I went to see the photographer you sent me to in Venice, and he was able to change the hair color on the last photos he took of you and make you the same package of documents he did for you before—passport, driver’s license, credit cards, Social Security—all with my address on them. Ms. Wright used to rent my garage apartment, but she left a couple of months ago, if anybody asks. Everything is in a paper bag on the front passenger seat.

“The car registration and insurance card are in the center armrest, along with a nontraceable cell phone, prepaid for a hundred hours of use, no GPS chip, blocked for caller ID. I went to the pawnshop in San Diego where you shopped last year and got the gun and silencer you wanted and a box of ammunition. There’s ten thousand dollars in mixed bills in the bag, too.”

“You’re a dear, do you know that?”

“Sweetheart, this is the most fun I’ve ever had; I’ve loved every minute of it. I took the letter you sent me and used it to transfer the money into your Eleanor Wright account, so you’ve got a little over two hundred and fifty grand in there. You can write me a check for the ten grand, plus eighteen grand for the car, plus the twenty-five grand I paid the documents guy.” He handed her a checkbook, and she wrote the check and handed it to him.

“Oh, there’s another bag on the seat, too, with the auburn hair dye and the book on spas you wanted. Everything you stored in my garage is in the backseat, but it will probably need pressing.”

“Jimmy, you’re a dream. Now you’ve got to get home before the cops show up. They’re missing me at the courthouse by now.”

“Here’s the hotel,” he said. “I’ll get out and hop a cab. You just drive away.” He stopped the car.

She got out, gave him a hug and a kiss and got back into the car.

Jimmy leaned through the window. “The car has twenty-two thousand miles on it, it’s just been serviced and the gas tank is full. Good luck, kiddo.”

“I’ll be in touch when I can,” Barbara said. She put the car in gear and drove away, careful to obey all traffic laws. At the first opportunity, she pulled into a fast-food restaurant and ordered lunch from the drive-thru.

When she had eaten, she went through her new ID and put everything into the wallet in her handbag, then restowed her luggage in the trunk. Finally, she took the book on spas and began to read. It took her twenty minutes to find just the right place, called El Rancho, secluded on a mountaintop overlooking Palm Springs. She used her new cell phone to call.

“Good morning. El Rancho,” a woman’s voice said.

“Good morning. My name is Eleanor Wright, and I’ve just had a sudden urge to get away from it all. Do you have any accommodation available?”

“Let’s see, we have a small suite at twelve hundred dollars per day and a double room at nine hundred. The suite has the better view, and the price includes all meals and drinks. No liquor is served. We offer a full range of spa activities, a beauty salon, tennis and golf half an hour’s drive away.”

“I’ll take the suite, please. Would you schedule me for a two-hour massage at five P.M. and make an appointment with the hairdresser and a colorist for tomorrow morning?”

“Of course. May I have a credit card number to hold your reservation?”

Barbara gave it to her and got driving directions from the interstate. On the way she stopped at a liquor store and bought a bottle of good bourbon whiskey.

AS SOON AS she had checked into her suite, Barbara unpacked, then went into the bathroom and used the auburn hair dye, cleaning up after herself carefully. She left her hair wet and combed it back. Tomorrow, she would have a better job done by a professional. She had her massage, then dinner in her room, along with a couple of large scotches, then settled down to watch the TV coverage of her escape. Finally, she fell asleep.

SHE WOKE THE following morning to learn from the TV that she had been acquitted of second-degree murder. “Holy shit!” she said aloud. She hadn’t figured on that.

3

ED EAGLE NEARLY choked on his eggs. “Susannah!” he yelled.

She stuck her head around the bathroom door. “Yes?”

“Barbara was acquitted!”

“What?”

“I’m not kidding; she got off!”

“What does this mean, Ed?”

“It means that all they’ve got on her now is escaping from the courthouse. She can’t be charged with the two murders again.”

“Anything on where she is?”

“Nothing; she’s very, very good at disappearing.”

“Do we have anything to worry about?”

“Well, given that she’s already tried to kill us once, I’d say yes.”

“Are we okay here in the hotel?”

“You will recall that here is where she tried to kill us last time. We should get out of here. Are you done in L.A.?”

“I need another day to see my agent. We can go to my apartment; Barbara wouldn’t know where that is.” Susannah had a pied-à-terre in Century City.

“I hate your apartment,” he said. “And your ex-husband knows where it is, doesn’t he?”

“Maybe. I’m not sure, but I haven’t heard from him for a while.”

“That’s because you’ve spent most of your time in Santa Fe.”

“We could move to another hotel.”

Eagle sighed. “All right, let’s go to your apartment.” He pointed at her tray. “Have some breakfast, then pack and we’ll get out of here.” He began packing, himself, and he retrieved the small .45 pistol and holster he traveled with and ran the holster onto his belt. He wasn’t taking any chances.

BARBARA WAITED UNTIL after nine o’clock, then phoned her lawyer in Los Angeles.

“Good morning. Karp and Edelman.”

“Richard Karp, please; it’s Barbara Eagle.”

“Oh.”

Karp came on the line. “Barbara? Where the hell are you?”

“Richard, you don’t really want to know that, do you? Let’s just say I’m out of the country.”

“Have you heard the news?”

“Yes, and I have to say I’m surprised.”

“Why are you surprised? I told you I’d get you off.”

“And I believed you, Richard, right up until the moment when I climbed out that window.”

“Well, now we’ve got an escaping-from-custody charge to deal with. I’m going to need a ten-thousand-dollar retainer.”

“Richard, after all I’ve already paid you? How difficult can this be? I’m innocent in the eyes of the law.”

Karp was quiet for a moment. “Give me a number where I can reach you.”

It was Barbara’s turn to think. Jimmy had said there was no GPS chip in her new phone. “All right.” She gave him the number.

“I’ll try to get back to you inside an hour,” Karp said, then hung up.

AFTER A LONG look around the Bel-Air parking lot, Eagle got into the rented Mercedes, and Susannah got into the passenger seat. “Keep your eyes open,” he said.

“Yeah, for a blonde.”

“I very much doubt that she’s still a blonde.”

“Okay, what should I look for?”

“A woman with a gun.”

“Oh.”

He drove to Century City, sticking to the surface streets and being very watchful, then parked in the lot under her building. Susannah found a cart, and they wheeled their luggage into the elevator and upstairs.

The place was spotless and not as cramped as Eagle had remembered it, when it was still full of unpacked boxes.

“God, I have sixteen messages,” Susannah said, picking up the phone and pressing the Message button.

Eagle took their luggage into the bedroom, which was nearly as cramped as he remembered it. When he came back she was still listening to messages, and she looked angry.

Susannah hung up the phone. “One call from my agent, who canceled our appointment, and fifteen messages from my ex-husband.”

“What’s his problem?”

“His problem is, he’s still angry about the settlement he had to pay.”

“Call your lawyer and let him deal with it.”

“Every time I so much as speak to him it costs me five hundred dollars,” she said.

“You’re not going to get any sympathy from me over your legal fees,” Eagle replied.

“You lawyers are all alike.”

“No, some of us charge a thousand dollars for a phone call. Does your ex have any sort of legitimate beef?”

“Certainly not. He’s just nuts, that’s all.”

“Then instruct your lawyer to get a temporary restraining order. That will stop him from calling you. Does he have your Santa Fe number?”

“He doesn’t even know I bought the Santa Fe house—at least, as far as I know. My publicist kept it out of the press, and my number is unlisted.”

"How many people in L.A. know you bought the house?”

“Three or four, I guess. I told them all not to tell anybody.”

"How often does that work in L.A.?”

She picked up the phone and called her lawyer.

RICHARD KARP PHONED Judge Henry Allman, who had presided over the Barbara Eagle case, catching him before he went into court.

“Yes, Richard?”

“Judge, I’ve heard from my client.”

“And you’ll be surrendering her when?”

“I’m sorry; I don’t know where she is. She says she’s out of the country.”

“Then why are you calling me?”

“Judge, the woman is absolutely panicked; that’s why she did what she did. I don’t think for a minute it was planned, she just went nuts and bolted.”

“Well, get her into my court, and she can explain herself.”

“Now she’s afraid for her life; she’s convinced that Ed Eagle will have her killed.”

“That’s not my problem, until she’s in my court. I can send the police to get her, if you like.”

“Judge, it’s my hope that you’ll drop the escape charge.”

“Well, you can hope.”

"The woman has spent a year in the L.A. County Jail, and she’s officially innocent. No one was hurt in her escape, and the incarceration has to count for something; she’s already served more time than she’s likely to get on the escape charge. I think, given the jury’s verdict, that she should be allowed to go and live her life without fear of arrest. She was in a very fragile state, mentally, and she needs to be able to recover without fear of being incarcerated again.”

“Have you talked to the D.A. about this?”

“No.” Karp could hear the judge’s fingers drumming on his desk. “All right, I’ll dismiss the escape charges. Write an order and messenger it over here. The D.A. will scream bloody murder, but she always does. Let’s get this thing out of the way.”

“Yes, Judge, the order will be on your desk when you break for lunch; I’ll have the messenger wait for it.” Karp hung up and called Barbara Eagle.

Barbara was in the colorist’s chair in the beauty salon when her phone vibrated. “Yes?” she said, warily.

“It’s Richard. All right, you’re off the hook. I have to write an order and messenger it to the judge for his signature, but you’re a free woman.”

“Thank God,” Barbara said.

“No, thank Richard. And you owe me ten thousand dollars.”

4

EAGLE WENT INTO the bedroom to make some phone calls, then he took a shower, having left the Bel-Air in too much of a hurry for one. He laid his clothes neatly on the bed, along with the small .45 pistol. He was still in the shower when the phone rang once, then stopped.

He stood under the torrent of water for another couple of minutes, then turned it off, grabbed a towel and dried himself before he stepped out of the shower. He walked back into the bedroom, got a fresh pair of boxer shorts out of his bag and was stepping into them when he heard the gunshot. He looked at his holster on the bed; it was empty.

Eagle ran to the living room door and stopped. “Susannah?” he called. “Are you all right?”

“I think so,” she said.

“Can I come in there without getting shot?”

“I think so.”

Eagle stepped into the living room, and then he could see where the gunshot had gone. It was in the chest of a man who was lying on the floor, just inside the front door. He walked over to Susannah and took the gun from her, then led her to the living room sofa and sat her down. “Just take some deep breaths,” he said, stroking her face.

“The doorman called from downstairs,” she said. “He said Rod, my ex-husband, had walked right past the desk and taken the elevator up before the doorman could stop him. I went into the bedroom for you, but you were in the shower, so I picked up your gun and went to answer the door. When I opened it, he had a gun in his hand; he raised it, and I shot him.”

“Just sit here quietly and compose yourself,” Eagle said.

“I’m composed. Is he dead?”

“I’m going to go find out right now.” He left her, walked to the door and felt for a pulse in the man’s neck. Nothing. There was a bloody hole just left of the center of his chest. “He’s dead.”

“I thought he might be,” she replied.

Eagle went back into the bedroom, got his address book and phoned the chief of police, who was a pretty good friend of his.

“Chief Sams’s office,” a woman’s voice said.

“This is Ed Eagle. I’m a friend of the chief’s, and I need to speak to him right now.”

“I’m sorry, he’s in a meeting. Can I have him call you?”

“Please write a note saying the following: Ed Eagle is on the phone. He says there’s been a shooting, and a man is dead, and he needs to speak with you immediately. Have you got that?”

“Please hold, Mr. Eagle.”

Eagle sat and waited. And waited.

Finally, she came back on the line. “Mr. Eagle, you’re connected with the chief.”

“Joe?”

“Hello, Ed. What’s this about a shooting?”

“I’m at the home of a friend of mine, Susannah Wilde, an actress.”

“I know who she is.”

“Her ex-husband has just come to her apartment in Century City, armed, and he was shot. He’s dead.”

“Did you call nine-one-one?”

“No, you were my first thought.”

“Call nine-one-one, and let’s get that on the record. They’ll refer the call to a detective in the precinct that covers Century City, and I’ll speak with the watch commander. Don’t touch anything; wait for the detectives.”

“Thank you, Joe. I’ll call nine-one-one right now.” Eagle hung up and called the emergency number.

“Nine-one-one. What is your emergency?”

“A man has been shot in Century City.”

“Is he still alive?”

“No.”

“Are you certain?”

“He has a hole in his chest, he’s not breathing and he doesn’t have a pulse.”

The dispatcher asked for his name, phone number and address. “Someone will be there shortly.”

Eagle hung up. “What’s the number for the front desk?”

Susannah gave it to him.

Eagle phoned it and told the doorman that the police were on the way and to send them upstairs without delay, then he hung up and went to check the body again for signs of life. Still nothing. There was a snub-nosed .38 revolver on the floor beside it. That was good. He went into the bedroom, grabbed some clothes and went back into the living room, dressing as he spoke to Susannah.

“Tell me what happened when you opened the door.”

“I opened it and stepped back at the same time.”

“The gun was in your hand?”

“Yes, but I held it behind me; I didn’t want to seem to be threatening him.”

“Did you see his gun?”

“Yes.”

“Where was it?”

“His hand was in his pocket. He said, ‘You filthy bitch,’ and he pulled the gun out of his pocket and began to raise it. That’s when I shot him.”

“All right, when the police get here I want you to answer their questions truthfully.”

“All right.”

“Are the messages still on your answering machine?”

“Voice mail. I didn’t erase them.”

“That’s good. Did Rod seem angry?”

“Yes, but it seemed like a cold anger; there was no expression on his face. It felt as though he had already made the decision to kill me.”

The phone rang, and Susannah picked it up. “Yes? Thank you.” She hung up. “The police are on the way up.”

Since the door was already open, Eagle didn’t have to answer it. Two detectives appeared, their badges displayed. “Are you Ed Eagle?” one of them asked.

“Yes.”

The two men briefly examined the body, then turned back to Eagle.

“I’m Detective Lieutenant Rivera. This is Detective Sergeant Riley.”

“Thank you for coming. This is Susannah Wilde. I’m acting as her attorney, but she’s willing to answer your questions.”

“Good. Mr. Eagle, will you go into the bedroom with Sergeant Riley? He will question you there.”

“No. I’ll have to be present while you question Ms. Wilde, so that I’ll know what she says to you.”

“As you wish. When we’re done questioning her, I’ll question you separately. There’ll be a crime scene team here shortly, so let’s get started.” The two detectives took chairs opposite the sofa, and Eagle sat down next to Susannah.

“Mr. Eagle, do you mind if I record this interview?”

“No,” Eagle replied.

Rivera placed a small recorder on the coffee table and switched it on. “Ms. Wilde, my name is Lieutenant Rivera, and this is Sergeant Riley.” He noted the date and time and read Susannah her rights. “Are you willing to answer our questions?”

“Yes.”

“For the record, you are represented by counsel, Mr. Ed Eagle.”

“Yes.”

“Are you acquainted with the decedent? The dead man?”

“Yes, he is my ex-husband. We were divorced about ten months ago.”

“Can you give me his name, age and occupation?”

“His name is Rodney Spearman, he’s . . .” She thought for a moment. “He’s forty-five, and he’s a film producer at Centurion Studios.”

The questioning continued for ten minutes, until the crime scene team arrived and were briefed, and then it began again. When the detectives had finished questioning Susannah, Eagle took her into the bedroom and made her lie down.

“I don’t need to lie down,” she protested.

“Yes, you do, and the detectives want to question me alone.”

“Oh, all right.” She stretched out on the bed, and Eagle went back into the living room and sat down. The detectives questioned him closely. Shortly, the crime scene investigator walked over.

“Lieutenant, you want my preliminary report?”

“Yes, please.”

“Cause of death, gunshot wound to the heart; time of death, approximately half an hour ago. We have the weapon, a .45-caliber, semiautomatic pistol.” He held up a plastic bag containing Eagle’s gun. “One shot fired, range three to four feet. A .38 revolver was on the floor beside the decedent in a position consistent with it being in his hand when he was shot. I’ll need to examine the woman’s hands for gunshot residue.”

Eagle went into the bedroom and got Susannah, explaining what was to be done. She sat at the dining room table with the investigator. When he was done, she got up and went back into the bedroom.

Rivera held up the gun. “Mr. Eagle, you said this is yours?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Do you live in this apartment with Ms. Wilde?”

“No.”

“Do you have a license for this weapon in Los Angeles?”

Eagle produced his carry license.

“Where do you reside?”

“In Santa Fe, New Mexico.” Eagle gave them the address.

“How did you obtain this license?”

“I filled out an application and sent it to Chief Sams.”

“I see you’ve had it for some years,” Rivera said, checking the date on the license, then returning it to Eagle. “It’s an interesting gun,” he said. “Tell me about it.”

“It was made by a gunsmith named Terry Tussey, who lives and works in High City, Nevada. One of his specialties is making small, lightweight .45s.”

“Ah, yes. I’ve seen photographs of his work. How much does it weigh?”

“Twenty-one ounces, empty. I would be grateful if you would return it to me as soon as your investigation will allow; it’s an expensive weapon, and I don’t want to lose it.”

“I’ll see that you get it back as soon as it’s released.” Rivera handed the gun to Riley. “All right, Mr. Eagle. Our preliminary investigative conclusion is that this was a legal shooting, so we won’t be arresting Ms. Wilde, unless evidence to the contrary emerges.”

“Thank you. I should tell you that Ms. Wilde and I plan to fly to Santa Fe tomorrow, where we both have residences.” He handed Rivera his card. “You are welcome to speak with her by telephone, through me. If you require her presence in Los Angeles, I’ll bring her back within twenty-four hours of the request. In the meantime, anything you can legally do to keep her name out of the press would be very much appreciated.”

“I can’t make any promises, but I’ll do what I can. Mr. Eagle, do you always travel armed?”

“I always have a weapon in my luggage, and sometimes I wear it. I fly my own airplane, so I don’t have to deal with airport security.”

“Did you have some particular reason to be wearing it on this trip?”

“Yes, I think my ex-wife wants to kill me.”

“I read about the trial,” Rivera said. “It seems that, between you and Ms. Wilde, you have an abundance of murderous ex-spouses.”

“An overabundance,” Eagle said, “until today.”

The body was removed, and Eagle saw the two detectives out. The bloodstain on the carpet was the only evidence of what had occurred.

Eagle went into the bedroom to check on Susannah. She was lying on the bed, sound asleep.

5

BARBARA EAGLE/ELEANOR WRIGHT regarded her new auburn-colored, artfully streaked hairdo in the salon mirror and nodded. Even if she was no longer wanted by the police, she thought it a good idea to have a different look. Half the country had watched her trial on Court TV and the evening news, and she had no wish to be recognized. It was time to learn whether she would be.

She left the salon, went into the very chic El Rancho shop and tried on bikinis, selecting two, along with some suntan lotion. Her new, slimmer figure was shown to great advantage by the tiny swimsuits. She went back to her suite, got into a bikini, grabbed a robe and headed for the pool. It was nearly lunchtime, and she was getting hungry.

She selected a chaise at poolside, and a waitress materialized a second or two later. “May I bring you something, Mrs. Wright, or would you prefer to choose from our low-fat buffet?” she asked, indicating the setup at the end of the pool.

“Thank you,” Barbara replied. “I’d like a turkey club sandwich on rye toast with real, honest-to-God bacon and mayonnaise and a Bloody Mary.”

“Of course, ma’am, but I’m afraid it will be a virgin Mary, since we don’t serve alcohol.”

“All right, all right,” she said, and the young woman vanished.

There were some magazines on the table next to her chaise, and she had begun leafing through a Vanity Fair when she saw a man come from the direction of the rooms and drop his robe on a chaise two down from hers. He appeared to be in his late forties, but his hair was almost entirely gray; he was tanned and fit-looking, with a flat belly and well-developed musculature.

Barbara pointed her eyes at the magazine and used her peripheral vision. The man walked past her to the diving board, stretched a little, then performed a perfectly executed dive into the pool. He surfaced and began swimming laps, moving easily and gracefully through the water.

The waitress arrived with her sandwich and began setting up the table beside Barbara.

“Who is the gentleman in the pool?” Barbara asked.

“Oh, that’s Mr. Walter Keeler,” the young woman replied. “He was widowed recently and has been with us for the last month or so, resting and toning up.”

It’s working, Barbara said to herself. “What does he do?” she asked.

“I believe he sold his company not long ago—some sort of electronics, I think.”

“Thank you, dear,” Barbara said, signing the check and adding a crisp twenty from her purse.

“Oh, thank you, ma’am,” the young woman said. “May I get you anything else?”

Barbara wanted to say Yes, get me Mr. Walter Keeler, but she restrained herself. “No, thank you, dear.” She busied herself applying suntan lotion, while surreptitiously following Keeler’s progress with his laps. He must have swum fifty, she thought, because she had finished her club sandwich by the time he got out of the pool.

He looked toward her as he passed, smiling and nodding. She rewarded him with a small smile, then went back to her magazine.

He stood, drying himself with a large towel. He toweled his hair dry, then ran his fingers through it. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?” he said.

She turned and looked at him, affecting surprise. “Sorry?”

“The weather, it’s lovely.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Yes, it is.”

“It usually is up here. It’s cooler than in Palm Springs, what with the elevation.”

“Have you been here long?”

“A month tomorrow,” he replied.

“That’s a long stay.”

“You must have just arrived; I haven’t seen you before.”

“Yes, just last night. I just felt like getting away for a few days.”

“Away from where?” he asked.

“I’ve been staying in Los Angeles with friends. I came out from New York last month.”

“Is New York your home?”

“I’ve just sold my apartment there,” Barbara said, “and I haven’t decided where I want to alight.”

“You sound free as a bird.”

“I suppose I am,” she said. “It’s not quite as much fun as I thought it would be. I lost my husband a few months ago, and I thought a change of scenery might help.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said. “I know how you feel, because I lost my wife recently. I suppose I’m footloose, as well; I sold my business after her death, and I haven’t decided yet where I want to live.”

“Where were you living before?”

“In Palo Alto. I had an aircraft electronics business there.”

“A pleasant place?”

“Yes, it is, but I’d like to get away from the Silicon Valley crowd. I’ve been thinking about San Francisco.”

“Such a beautiful city.”

“Yes, it is. Oddly enough, I’ve spent very little time there, even though I’ve been living close by for more than fifteen years.”

“Where else are you considering?”

“Oh, I thought about Seattle, but there’s such a lot of rain there. The cool summers in San Francisco appeal to me.”

“I know what you mean; I’ve never liked the heat much.”

Keeler put down his towel. “May I join you?” he asked, indicating the empty chaise next to her.

“Please.”

He settled onto the chaise. “Lunch?”

“I’ve just eaten, thanks.”

“I hope you don’t mind watching me eat.”

“Not at all.”

He ordered a sandwich and a virgin Mary. “I haven’t gotten used to the no-alcohol rule, though I suppose it hasn’t hurt me. I’ve lost nine or ten pounds since I got here.”

“You look great,” she said, “but a man should have two drinks a day, according to the latest medical studies.”

“Doctor’s orders? I like that.”

She sipped her virgin Mary.

“A friend of mine used to call a virgin Mary a ‘bloody awful.’”

She laughed. “Well said.”

They chatted on into the afternoon, and Barbara invented her background on the fly.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Walter Keeler—Walt.”

“I’m Eleanor Wright,” she said. “Ellie.” And you and I, she thought, are going to get to know each other very well.

6

EAGLE AWOKE AT seven, as usual, and checked Susannah. She was still soundly asleep. He showered, shaved and dressed, then sat down on the bed next to her and stroked her cheek. “You ready for some breakfast?” he asked.

Her eyelids fluttered and she moved a bit. “Good morning.” “Breakfast?”

“Toast and coffee, please.”

“Don’t go back to sleep; we need to get an early start.”

“Why?” she asked sleepily.

“I’ve been out of the office for a week, and things have been piling up.”

She struggled into a sitting position. “Okay, I’m awake.”

Eagle made coffee and toast and poured juice. Susannah’s hair was still wet from the shower when she came to the table.

“How are you feeling?”

“Good,” she said. “I slept very soundly.”

“Did you dream?”

“Probably, but I don’t remember what.”

She seemed to have no thought of what had happened the day before. She had been asleep for a good fifteen hours. He wondered if she had, somehow, blocked the shooting from her mind. “I’ll get packed,” he said, “and you get dressed.”

AN HOUR LATER they took the elevator to the lobby, and Eagle held the door for her while she spoke to the man at the desk.

“Terry, please get the carpet cleaners in and have them do the apartment,” she said, “with special attention to the area by the front door.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the man replied, reaching for the phone.

Susannah returned to the elevator, and Eagle let it continue to the basement garage. Apparently, she hadn’t completely forgotten about yesterday.

THEY TOOK OFF from Santa Monica Airport in Eagle’s airplane less than an hour later, shepherded by air traffic control to the Palmdale VOR, then cleared direct Grand Canyon, direct Santa Fe. Sped along by a strong tailwind, they got a good look at the spectacular hole in the ground and were in Santa Fe in plenty of time for lunch.

“Your place or mine?” he asked her as they drove away from the airport.

“Mine,” she replied. “I’ve got some stuff to do around the house. I’ll pick up some things and come to you by dinnertime.”

“Out or in?”

“Make a reservation somewhere,” she said.

They drove the twenty minutes to her house, and he pulled into the driveway, got her bags out and took them into the house. Before he left, he sat her down in the study.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

“I’m very well, Ed, I told you that.”

“Listen, you’ve been through a traumatic experience, and it’s going to catch up with you sooner or later.” He wrote a name and number on the back of his business card and gave it to her. “This guy is the best psychotherapist in Santa Fe. His name is Daniel Shea, and he lives and works two or three miles from here. I think you should have a talk with him.”

“Ed, please believe me, I’m fine.”

“You have the number. If you start to feel . . . depressed, please call him.”

“If I start to feel depressed,” she said. “I’ll see you later—six or six thirty, at your house.”

“Okay.” He kissed her and left the house, then drove to his office.

HIS OFFICES WERE only a year old, atop one of the taller buildings around the Plaza, the heart of the city. Eagle strolled through the outer area, waving at his employees. “All right, everybody,” he called to them, “get to work; the boss is back.”

His secretary followed him into the office. “There’s a stack of phone messages on your desk that weren’t important enough to forward to L.A.”

“Fine, make a reservation for two at Santa Café at seven thirty, please.”

“Will do. There’s some correspondence, too, and a couple of briefs that you dictated before you left. Please review them.”

“Okay, okay.” He began making phone calls, apologizing for his absence. Half the people he spoke to had watched his testimony at Barbara’s trial. One of the messages was from Daniel Shea. He called the number.

“Dan? It’s Ed.”

"Hello, Ed. Congratulations on your performance in L.A.”

“A lot of good it did me; she’s free as a bird.”

“How do you feel about that, Ed?”

“Don’t you ask me those shrink questions, Dan,” Eagle said, chuckling. “I’ll feel just fine as long as Barbara is in another state.”

“Is that where she is?”

“I hope I never know.”

“Ed, we’ve never talked much about this, but you should know that Barbara, like her late sister, Julia, is an obsessive.”

“And what is her obsession?”

“You.”

“Oh, come on, Daniel. She’s out; she’ll want to stay out. She won’t want to mess with me.”

“Are you forgetting that Julia tried to set up her husband for a triple murder and then killed my brother? And damn near got away with it? Are you forgetting that Barbara hired two men to kill you? I’m telling you, it runs in the family. I never knew the third sister, but I’d be willing to bet she shared the family trait.”

"Well, I was careful in L.A. after I learned that she had escaped the courthouse.”

“Now she doesn’t have to be careful, you know. She can move right back to Santa Fe, if she wants to, and live on her divorce settlement from you.”

That settlement still rankled Eagle, but it had been worth it to get rid of her. “Yes, I suppose she could, but why would she want to?”

“Ed, do you know what an obsession is? It’s the opposite of a phobia. A phobia is an irrational fear of something: flying, water, open spaces, almost anything. An obsession is a compulsive fascination with something, either a love or a hatred of the object. You are the object, and she is not going to walk away from you.”

“By the way, Dan, I’ve been seeing a woman named Susannah Wilde, and yesterday, in L.A., she shot and killed her ex-husband, who was threatening her with a gun. She’s off the hook legally, but I’m not sure about psychologically. It’s weird; she behaves as if the shooting never happened, and I’m not sure how long she can keep that up.”

“Tell her to call me; I’ll work her in.”

“I already have. I just wanted you to know who she is when she calls.”

“Maybe you should come and see me, too, Ed.”

“Come on, Dan. You know I have no neuroses. I’m the sanest guy you know.”

“I’ll concede that, but it troubles me that you seem unable to face the Barbara problem.”

“Dan, if the Barbara problem arises again, I’ll deal with it, but I’m not going to spend my days and nights worrying about it.”

“That’s a sane approach, Ed, but a potentially dangerous one.”

“Let’s have dinner soon, okay?”

“Are you free tonight?” Daniel asked.

“Tell you what, meet Susannah and me at Santa Café at seven thirty.”

“I’d love to.”

“She’s going to think I’m setting her up, so don’t bring up her problem.”

“Of course not. See you at seven thirty.”

"We’ll look forward to it.” Eagle hung up and went back to the work on his desk.

7

SUSANNAH ARRIVED AT Eagle’s house and deposited her things in the master bedroom’s second dressing room. Eagle had long ago given Barbara’s clothes to the Salvation Army, and the room had been empty until Susannah had begun to leave a few things there.

They got into Eagle’s car. “A friend is joining us,” he said as he pointed the car down the mountain road.

“Who’s that?”

“His name is Daniel Shea.”

“The shrink you told me about?”

“Yes, but I’m not setting you up. He called this afternoon and suggested dinner, so I asked him to join us.”

“You’re just trying to get my head shrunk, aren’t you?”

“No, I’m not, I swear. Dan’s a good guy, and you’ll like him.”

“Tell me about him.”

“He had a brother, Mark Shea, who was a psychiatrist here; he was murdered by Barbara’s sister.”

“Oh, yeah, your sister-in-law. I remember.”

“She had been dead for a year when Barbara and I married.”

“So, Dan replaced Mark in Santa Fe?”

“Pretty much. Dan was Mark’s heir. They were twins—not identical, fraternal—and Dan inherited Mark’s property in Santa Fe. Dan had had a practice in Denver, but he moved here, wrote a letter to all of Mark’s clients, saying that he was taking over the practice, and he retained most of Mark’s clients. If anything, he has been more successful than Mark was.”

“Are you one of his clients?”

“Me? I’m impervious to analysis; I have no neuroses. Dan knows this, but he keeps kidding me about getting therapy.”

“Okay, I’ll try to talk to him just like a real person, instead of a shrink.”

THEY ARRIVED AT Santa Café, Eagle’s favorite local restaurant, which managed to be at once cool and festive. Daniel Shea was waiting for them at the bar. He stood up and approached, his hand out.

“Hello, Ed. And this must be Susannah.” He shook her hand warmly. He was not as tall as Eagle but broader, a bear of a man.

“Why do I feel so small in this company?” Susannah asked and got a laugh.

They were seated, ordered drinks, consulted menus and ordered food.

“I must tell you,” Shea said, “I’m a fan of your work.”

“Why thank you, Dan,” Susannah said.

“I don’t go to the movies all that much, but I see everything on satellite, and I’ve watched most of your movies more than once.”

“Well, I’m settling into my character period, I think, since I’m pushing forty now. The good news is, I produce most of what I appear in, so I just cast myself in good supporting roles.”

“That’s very smart,” Shea said. “Tell me, how does one learn to produce films? It seems very complicated.”

“Well, first of all, I’ve appeared in a lot of them, and I guess it didn’t hurt to be married to a producer for some years, and I got to watch him work. He’s very good at it.”

There was a silence.

“Oh, that’s right. I should have used the past tense,” Susannah said. “He was very good at it.”

“I won’t pretend I don’t know about that,” Shea said.

“Thank God. Ed promised me he hadn’t set me up for over-dinner therapy.”

“You’re a smart woman, I think,” Shea said. “You’ll call me if you need me. A lot of people wait a lot longer than they should, but I don’t think you’re one of those.”

“That’s a pretty good observation,” Susannah said. “What else have you divined about me during our brief acquaintance?”

“You mean besides beautiful and intelligent? Let’s see: frank to the point of being blunt, disdainful of charade, good judge of character.”

“Then why did I marry the schmuck I married?”

“You’re in the company of millions; love and sex distort judgment.”

“Go on with your observations.”

“I think that’s as far as I’d like to go on short acquaintance; I don’t want to get you mixed up with the characters you’ve played.”

“Well, you’re pretty much on target,” Susannah said, “especially the beautiful and intelligent part.”

Eagle laughed. “I can vouch for your perceptions, Dan.”

Susannah sipped her drink. “There’s something wrong with this drink,” she said. “It tastes funny.”

Eagle, who was drinking the same bourbon, tasted his, then tasted hers. “They seem the same to me.”

Susannah held up a hand, as if telling him not to speak, then she picked up her napkin, held it in both hands and vomited into it.

A waiter rushed over and relieved her of the napkin and handed her another.

“Excuse me,” Susannah said, starting to get up. “I’m feeling a little odd.” She got to her feet and fainted into Daniel Shea’s waiting arms.

“I think it’s caught up with her,” Shea said, sweeping her up. “Let’s get her home.”

Eagle followed behind him and helped get her into the car. “Should we take her to the hospital?”

“I don’t think that will be necessary.” He handed Eagle his car keys. “There’s a medical bag in my trunk; get it for me, will you?”

Eagle retrieved the bag. When he returned Shea was sitting in the backseat with Susannah, her head in his lap. He held his fingers to her throat. “Her vitals are fine; she’s just having a bout with post-traumatic stress disorder. My guess is she’ll be fine after a good night’s sleep, though she may want to come and talk to me.”

“I’ll encourage it,” Eagle said.

“Don’t. Let it be her idea.”

“I’ll drive you home when we’ve gotten her in bed.”

“I’d better stay over, to be there if she needs me. You do have a guest room, don’t you?”

“A guesthouse; you’re welcome to it.”

“She may wake up in the night and move around. Try to settle her down. If she becomes agitated, call me, and I’ll give her something to calm her down.”

“I’m almost as surprised at her reaction as I was at her lack of reaction after the shooting,” Eagle said.

“Some people are just stoics,” Shea replied. “It takes them a longer time than most people to externalize what they’re feeling inside. It’s good that she’s finally let it out.”

Eagle drove on, hoping that this was the worst effect she would experience from the shooting.

8

EAGLE AND SHEA were having breakfast when Susannah, looking dazed, wandered into the kitchen. Eagle got her into a chair.

“I’m sorry about last night,” Susannah said.

“It’s all right,” Ed said.

“Had to happen,” Dan chimed in. “You can’t go through something like that without it having an effect. How do you feel?”

“Rested but a little dopey. Did you give me something?”

“No,” Dan said. “I didn’t think you needed anything.”

“I’ll make you some eggs,” Eagle said.

She picked up half of his English muffin and spread some marmalade on it. “No, thanks, this will do fine.”

Eagle gave her some juice and, when she had downed it, filled her coffee mug.

“That’s what I need,” she said, sipping the strong liquid.

“Well,” Dan said, rising, “I have appointments this morning; I’d better get going.”

“Can I come and see you?” Susannah asked.

“Of course.” He consulted a pocket diary. “How about two o’clock? I’m usually reading medical publications at that time, but any excuse not to.”

“I’ll see you at two.”

Shea gave her directions.

Eagle got up. “I’ll drop you at your car,” he said. He turned to Susannah. “Will you be all right on your own?”

“Of course. Get out of here, both of you.”

THEY GOT INTO Eagle’s car and drove down the mountain.

“She’ll be okay,” Dan said. “Last night was a good thing for her, a wake-up call.”

“I think you’re right,” Eagle said. “She’s a sturdy person.”

EAGLE SETTLED BEHIND his desk and looked at the messages waiting there. He returned a couple of calls and signed some letters, then sat alone in his office and thought for a long moment about what Dan Shea had said to him the day before. Finally, he picked up the phone and dialed a number in Santa Monica.

“Dalton,” the voice said.

“Cupie, it’s Ed Eagle. How are you?”

“Well, hello there. I’m okay, you?”

“Not bad. I watched your testimony on TV; you did a good job.” Cupie Dalton was one of the two private investigators Eagle had hired to follow his ex-wife to Mexico when she had decamped with a lot of his money.

“I watched yours, too, and so did you.”

“You heard she was acquitted.”

“Yeah. Go figure.”

“A friend has convinced me that I need to know where she is.”

“A good friend,” Cupie said. “I’m surprised you couldn’t figure that out on your own. She’s a dangerous woman.”

“I can’t imagine that she’d come back to Santa Fe, but I’d feel better if you could track her down.”

“I hear she walked on the escape charge, so I guess she’s free as a bird.”

“Yes. I’d feel better if she were reporting to a parole officer every week.”

“Well, yeah. You got any leads for me?”

“Just one: Jimmy Long.”

“He was her alibi for the time of the shooting, right?”

“Right.”

“What do you know about him?”

“He’s a rich kid who always wanted to make movies, and something of a playboy. Surprisingly, he’s produced some pretty good films.”

“So he’s well-known around town?”

“He is. He lives somewhere in Beverly Hills or Bel-Air, I think.”

“It won’t be any trouble to find out.”

“I’m sure he helped her with the escape; she doesn’t have any other friends out there that I know of.”

“You think she might be holed up at his house?”

“I doubt it,” Eagle said. “She was a fugitive for twenty-four hours or so, and that’s the first place the cops would have looked.”

“Last time, she laid low at a high-end spa place in La Jolla,” Cupie said.

“I doubt if she’d go where anyone knows her.”

“Probably not, but I’d be willing to bet she’d go to another place a lot like it.”

“Well, Southern California is riddled with those places; it would be hard to know where to start.”

“Of course,” Cupie said, “but I’ll bet she chose one not that far away. She’d want to get off the roads as soon as possible after her escape, and no later than dinnertime.”

“That’s a good thought. You don’t think she’d go back to Mexico?”

Cupie snorted. “Not while there’s a chief of police down there whose nephew’s dick she and her sister cut off.”

“You’re right.”

“I’ll start with Jimmy Long.”

“I don’t think he’s going to want to talk to you,” Eagle said.

“Does he have an office outside his home?”

“I don’t know.”

“Won’t take long to find out.”

“She’s probably using another name,” Eagle said.

“Probably, but I know where she got her last set of documents. I’ll pay somebody a call.”

“Good man.”

“It’s a thousand a day with a five-thousand minimum, plus expenses.”

“Agreed. She will probably have changed her appearance, too, if her last outing is any indication.”

“I’ll take that into consideration.”

“Just remember that she knows what you look like, Cupie, so she’ll have the advantage of you. Don’t let it get you hurt, like last time.”

“Yes, she does have a tendency to shoot first and not bother with questions, doesn’t she?”

“She does.”

“Well, you can bet I’ll be more careful than I was in Mexico,” Cupie said. “Listen, are you sure that all you want is to know where she is?”

“That’s all, Cupie, nothing else. Let’s be clear about that. Once you’ve found her, though, I may want you to keep tabs on her location.”

“When we get to that point, I can hire somebody cheaper just to watch her movements.”

“There’s something else, Cupie.”

“What’s that?”

“She’s good at using men. The last time you went after her she never had time to get next to anybody, but she’s been on the loose for a few days, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she has probably already latched onto somebody.”

“The poor bastard,” Cupie said.

9

BARBARA/ELEANOR HAD NOW spent two days in the company of Walter Keeler, and she had played her cards very carefully. She had listened rather than talked, and, eventually, he had poured his heart out. As she had suspected, his marriage to his late wife hadn’t been all he had wanted it to be, and there was an element of relief as well as guilt in his feelings about being a newly minted widower.

She had talked about herself only when he had asked her questions, and she had always been brief, sticking to a story that would be easy for her to remember. She had never made any allusion to any future after their time together at the spa, not even “Let’s have dinner sometime.” She would make it her business to make him want to see her again, and often.

She had her chance as they were finishing dinner in the spa’s restaurant.

“You know,” he said, “I like this place, but there’s something unnatural about not having an occasional drink, and I was stupid enough not to bring something with me.”

“Well,” she said, smiling, “I guess I’m smarter than you are.”

His eyebrows went up. “Oh, yeah?”

“If you’d like some very fine bourbon, let’s part company now, then meet in my suite in fifteen minutes.”

“What a grand idea!” he said.

“And be stealthy; we wouldn’t want to give the staff something to talk about.”

“I’ll do better than that,” he said. “I’ll be sneaky.”

Barbara stood up and offered her hand. “Thank you so much for dinner, Walt. I enjoyed it.”

“So did I,” he said. He sat down and waved for the check.

BARBARA WENT BACK to her suite, stripped naked and slipped into a cotton shift with a zipper down the back. She freshened her body with a damp facecloth and sprayed her crotch with something both scented and flavored.

When his knock came, she let him in and waved him to the large comfortable sofa. “How would you like it?” she asked.

“What?”

“Your drink,” she said, laughing.

“Oh, on the rocks, please.”

She poured two generous drinks and set them on the coffee table, then sat down—not too close to him—and faced him, pulling her knees onto the sofa.

Keeler sipped his drink. “That’s wonderful! What is it?”

“Knob Creek, a boutique bourbon. I’ll never drink anything else; it’s my only real legacy from my late husband.” Good to plant that thought now.

“This is the best I’ve felt for a long time,” he said.

“Must be the bourbon.”

He smiled and shook his head. “No, it’s a lot more than that.”

“Oh?”

“Come on, you feel this, too.”

“I certainly feel something,” she said.

“You’re sure it’s not the bourbon?”

“Fairly sure.”

He put his hand on her cheek and kissed her, sweetly, no tongue.

She returned the kiss in the spirit in which it was offered. He sighed. “It’s been a long time.”

“Yes, it has been for me, too.”

“I have a feeling that empty period of my life has come to a close.”

“That’s what I’d like to feel,” she said.

He kissed her again, this time more passionately.

She flicked her tongue in and out of his mouth and ran her fingers through his thick hair.

He took hold of her, turned her around and laid her across his lap, her head on his shoulder.

She put an arm around his neck and played with an ear. She could feel him hardening under the weight of her body.

“Does this suite have a bedroom?” he asked.

“It does.”

“Why don’t we continue this conversation there, before I explode?”

“I think that’s a good idea,” she said. “I wouldn’t want you to explode—not just yet, anyway.”

He scooped her up in his arms and carried her into the bedroom, laying her on the bed.

She turned her back to him. “Zipper, please?”

He complied, and she heard his own zipper working. A moment later they were fully embracing.

“Easy,” she said. “Be tender.”

He was, and so was she.

Somewhat to her surprise and much to her delight, he did not immediately enter her. Instead, he parted her vulva with his tongue and lingered there until she insisted he mount her.

They both came that way, then rested for a while. Then she began bringing him back, stroking him first with her fingers, then with her tongue. She would not let go, until he had climaxed again.

They lay under the covers, panting, gradually recovering themselves.

“Did I mention that I have my airplane at Palm Springs Airport?”

“I don’t remember,” she lied.

“Why don’t you and I fly to San Francisco tomorrow for a few days?”

“What a sweet thought,” she said. “Don’t you think it might be a little early in our acquaintance for that sort of trip?”

“I think we just settled that,” he replied.

“But what would I do with my car?”

“Ditch it, if you like; I’ll buy you a new one.”

“Nonsense,” she said. “Perhaps I can get someone from the hotel to drive it to Los Angeles, to a friend’s house.”

“That’s good, clear thinking,” he said.

“But you don’t have a place in San Francisco, do you?”

“Not yet, but I know a good hotel.”

“I didn’t bring San Francisco clothes, I’m afraid. I don’t think I can get by with a couple of cotton dresses and a bikini.”

“That’s what shops are for. I think I’d enjoy watching you shop.”

“I think I’d enjoy watching you watching me shop,” she said.

“You’re game, then?”

“That’s the nice thing about being free again,” she said, with more depth of feeling than he knew. “You can do anything you want to.”

“That’s right,” he said. “You can, and so can I.”

“I think doing it together will be fun,” she said.

“I will make it so,” he replied.

BARBARA/ELEANOR DRIFTED OFF to sleep, physically satisfied but very, very curious. She woke up in the middle of the night to the sound of his regular breathing.

She got up, got online and Googled the name Walter Keeler. It took only a moment to find a news report of the sale of his electronics business. She gave a little gasp. His share of the deal had been $2.7 billion!

She was going to have to play this very, very carefully.

10

CUPIE DALTON DROVE over to Venice and, lucky him, found a parking spot. He strolled along the beachfront, taking the sun, his straw porkpie hat keeping the heat off his bald spot. He caught sight of the sign for the photographer’s shop a hundred yards away, knowing from his past encounter with Barbara Eagle that the place was a hotbed of counterfeit document sales. Then he was startled to see the owner, the man he wanted to see, walk out of the shop and start down the sidewalk toward him.

Cupie stepped off the sidewalk and found a spot on a bench, his back to the foot traffic. He waited for a few moments, then hazarded a glance to his right. The photographer was walking briskly, a package under his arm. Cupie watched as he stopped at a mailbox, dropped in the package and started back toward his shop.

Cupie waited until he was certain the man had walked behind him, then he caught sight of him turning into his shop. Good.

Cupie got up, walked down the sidewalk toward the shop and had a peek through the window. The owner’s pretty teenaged daughter was the only person in view. Cupie walked in, straight past the counter, toward the rear office.

“Hey,” the girl shouted, “you can’t go back there. It’s private!”

But Cupie was already back there. He pushed the curtain aside and stepped into the surprisingly large office, filled with computers and copying machines. The owner sat behind his desk. He looked up, registered Cupie and started to get up.

“Relax, my friend,” Cupie said, taking the chair across from him. “This is going to be short and sweet.”

The man said nothing, just glared at Cupie. It was obvious that his memory of their last meeting was an unpleasant memory.

“Now, my friend,” Cupie said, in his most avuncular voice. “All I want is her new name.”

The man stared at him and said nothing.

“Come on, you and I both know that holding out on me is not going to be good for business. Tell you what: I’ll sweeten it just a little.” He reached into a pocket for a wad of bills, peeled off two hundreds and tossed them onto the desk. “For your trouble.”

Finally, the man spoke. “Five hundred.”

Cupie sighed and tossed three more C-notes onto the desk. "I know it’s not really necessary to mention this,” he said, “but if you give me a wrong name, I won’t even need to come back. You’ll be raided before you can spend the five hundred—LAPD or the Feds, take your pick.”

“The name is Eleanor Wright,” he said.

Cupie stared at him.

“And I colored her hair auburn, photographically. It was a good job, even if I do say so.”

“Did you give her the whole package: passport, driver’s license, Social Security, credit cards?”

The man nodded. “And they’ll all stand up. Now, that’s all you get for your five hundred.”

Cupie stood up. “It’s so much easier talking to me than working for a living, isn’t it?” He gave a little wave and walked out of the office. “Good day, sweetheart,” he said to the daughter as he passed.

He walked on down the sidewalk until he found a bookstore. He located the travel section and found a shelf of books on spas, settling on one that covered Southern California. He paid for his purchase, pocketed the receipt and walked back outside. He found another bench, this one overlooking the sandbox where the muscle boys played. They glistened in the sun, stretching, lifting and assuming poses. Half a dozen gay men were happy spectators.

Cupie began leafing through the spa book. “Now, I’m Eleanor Wright, formerly Barbara Eagle,” he said aloud to himself. “If I had just decamped from a courthouse while the jury in my trial was still deliberating, where would I choose to go and rehabilitate my image?” He took a highlighter from his coat pocket and began marking likely spots. His criteria were luxury, seclusion, exclusivity and easy access from greater L.A.

When he had highlighted twelve spas, he took out his cell phone and began calling them. Each time the phone was answered he asked for Mrs. Eleanor Wright. Surely Barbara would not pretend to be a single girl but rather a divorcée or widow. On the ninth phone call he hit pay dirt.

“Oh,” a woman’s voice said, “you’ve just missed her. She checked out less than half an hour ago.”

“I’m so sorry to miss her,” Cupie said. “This is her father. Did she say where she was going? Back here, to L.A.?”

“No, but I don’t think so, because she hired one of our employees to drive her car there and leave it with a friend.”

“Oh, that would be Jimmy Long,” he said.

“Why, that’s right.”

“It’s rather odd that she would suddenly send her car back but not come back herself. How was she traveling?”

“Well, she left with Mr. Walter Keeler, and I know that he had flown into Palm Springs in his own airplane. He’s from up in Silicon Valley, the electronics entrepreneur.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know the gentleman,” Cupie said. “Do you think she’ll be all right in his company? I worry about my girl.”

“Oh, Mr. Keeler is a very upstanding citizen,” she said. “I know Mrs. Wright would be safe with him.”

“Well, I’m relieved to hear that,” Cupie said. “I’m sure she’ll give me a call when she reaches her destination. Thank you so much for your help.” He hung up.

Cupie walked back to his car and drove home. He couldn’t wait to get to his computer. Once at his desk he Googled “Walter Keeler.” His eyes widened as he read of the sale of Keeler’s company. “Two point seven bil!” he said aloud. He then went straight to the Federal Aviation Agency website, to the page for airplane registrations. He entered the name Walter Keeler and found a CitationJet III registered to him. He made a note of the tail number, then he called up a nifty little program called Flight Aware.

Flight Aware could track the progress and destination of any aircraft, airline or private; all you had to do was enter the flight number or, in this case, the tail number. Cupie did so. Seconds later, a little red airplane symbol appeared on the screen, located over the Central Valley, the farming capital of California, headed northwest. Destination: Hayward, California. “What the hell is in Hayward?” Cupie asked himself.

He got out his road atlas and found Hayward. It was a small city on the eastern shore of San Francisco Bay, just south of Oakland. He picked up the phone and dialed.

“The Eagle Practice,” a woman’s smooth voice said.

“Ed Eagle, please. It’s Cupie Dalton calling.”

“Just a moment, Mr. Dalton.”

“Cupie?”

“Good morning, Ed.”

“News?”

“News. Our girl, as soon as she left the courthouse, drove down to a spa called El Rancho Encantado on a mountaintop overlooking Palm Springs, traveling under the name of Eleanor Wright. She checked in and there met a gentleman named Walter Keeler.”

“I know that name, I think.”

“You ought to; he just sold his electronics conglomerate and pocketed two point seven billion bucks.”

“Are they still at the spa?”

“Nope, she shipped her car back to Jimmy Long’s house and left Palm Springs Airport on Keeler’s CitationJet, bound for Hayward, California, on the eastern shore of San Francisco Bay. What I can’t figure out, at least at the moment, is what the hell anybody would do in Hayward.”

“There’s a general aviation airport there that serves San Francisco. I land there, myself, when I’m going there on business. It’s not like a smaller airplane would want to mix it up with the heavy iron landing at San Francisco International. When did they go there?”

Cupie looked at his computer screen. “They’ll be landing in about ten minutes,” he said. “And it looks like our girl has hooked herself a big one.”

11

BARBARA/ELEANOR SAT IN the rear of the jet, her feet propped up on the opposite seat, reading Vanity Fair. She loved the airplane, so roomy and quiet. Up front, Walter was speaking to an air traffic controller, getting landing instructions. She could hear the conversation over the music on her headset. Maybe she would take up flying; it seemed easy enough.

The airplane touched down gently at Hayward Executive and taxied to an FBO. She knew that meant fixed-base operator, from her experience of flying with Ed Eagle. A black Mercedes drove out onto the ramp and positioned itself near the airplane’s door, its trunk open and waiting. Barbara handed Walter her small bag, containing only her makeup and toiletries and a single change of clothes, having sent everything else to L.A. in her Toyota. She would be starting from scratch, at Walter’s insistence. She liked it when men insisted.

An hour later she and Walter were enjoying a fine lunch on the terrace of their large suite at the Four Seasons.

“Have you spent much time in San Francisco?” Walter asked.

“No. I’ve been here only once, just overnight.”

“You’ll find great shopping around Union Square, which is just up the street from the hotel. I’ve kept the car for you, and the driver will take you up there and follow you around, to take the packages off your hands.”

“Walt, you think of everything.”

The doorbell rang, and Walter got up to answer it. He came back with an envelope addressed to her. “And you’ll need this,” he said, handing it to her.

“My goodness, gifts already?” she asked, tearing open the envelope.

“The gift of gifts,” Walter said.

She plucked a black card from the envelope. “Oh, my God,” she said.

“It’s the American Express Centurion card,” Walter said, “made of titanium, just so it will feel richer.”

“But we only decided to come here this morning; how did you get it so fast?”

“The Centurion service is very good. It was hand-delivered from the local AMEX office.”

She got up from the table and kissed him. “You are the sweetest man!”

“All right,” he said, “go shopping. The concierge has made a dinner reservation for us at eight, so that’s your deadline. I have some shopping of my own to do.”

“I won’t argue with you,” she said, grabbing her handbag and heading for the door.

Union Square and the streets around it were a treasure trove, waiting to be plundered, and she did not keep the shops waiting. She bought two suits and a coat from Chanel; half a dozen dresses, a raincoat and several blouses and pairs of slacks from Armani; shoes from Prada and Jimmy Choo; and lingerie, hosiery and cosmetics at a department store. She bought two alligator handbags from Lana Marx and a sweet little diamond bracelet and a gold Panthere watch from Cartier. It was exhilarating. Only days before she had been a guest of the City of Los Angeles, sharing a cell with a chubby hooker, and now she felt like the queen of San Francisco! She found a luggage shop and chose a quartet of handmade Italian cases.

She returned to the hotel at five. Walter was still out, so she called the concierge for a hair appointment in the suite. She made all the boxes and wrappings go away, hanging her new wardrobe in her closet, and had a long soak in the giant tub while she waited for the hairdresser to arrive.

Her hair was shampooed, cut, shaped and dried, and the woman also applied her light makeup. When Walter returned, it was a little past seven, and she waited until he was in the shower to dress.

Walter emerged in a well-cut blue suit and a gold necktie. He stopped short and stared at her in her new Armani dress. “Wow!” he said. “I’ve never seen anything so gorgeous!”

“Aren’t you nice,” she said, giving him a tiny peck that would not muss her newly applied lipstick. “Where are we having dinner?”

HE TOOK HER to a restaurant called Boulevard. It was large, a little noisy, in the way that wildly successful restaurants always are, and the food was delicious. They drank two bottles of wine, a chardonnay and a cabernet, both from a Napa vineyard, Far Niente. Barbara tried not to get too drunk, but everything was so delicious and the wines so heady that she nearly forgot herself.

CUPIE SAT AT his computer and trolled the Internet, breaking into hotel systems nearly at will. Cupie and computers had been friends from the day they first met. He found Walter Keeler registered in the smaller of the two presidential suites at the Four Seasons, and he tried to image what a small presidential suite must look like. He called Eagle to report in.

“Good work, Cupie. Just keep track of her—that’s all I want. If she heads toward Santa Fe I’ll start packing heat. It shouldn’t be too hard; anybody who flies his own jet isn’t going to be separated too far from his airplane.”

“Good point,” Cupie said. “I’ll check Flight Aware daily for his position.”

THEY MADE LOVE at bedtime, then Barbara gently woke Walter in the middle of the night and introduced him to new techniques.

“I’ve never done that before,” Walter said when they were done, panting a little.

“Sweetheart,” she said, “for as long as you know me, you will never want for any sexual technique at my disposal. For years I had an awful sex life with my late husband, and I’m going to enjoy making up for it with you.”

“Ellie,” he said sleepily, “will you marry me?”

“Oh, hush, Walter, and go to sleep.” It was working.

HE RUSHED HER through breakfast the following morning. “We have an appointment at nine o’clock sharp,” he said.

“An appointment for what?”

“You’ll see.”

The driver deposited them in front of a handsome old apartment building on a hill, and a real estate agent took them to the top floor in the elevator.

They stepped out directly into the foyer of a spacious apartment. A huge bouquet of fresh flowers sat on a table, their scent pervading the air. They moved through beautifully furnished rooms, bedrooms, a magnificent kitchen, a paneled library and a dining room that seated sixteen. Finally, they emerged onto a huge planted terrace, more of a yard, she thought. San Francisco lay at their feet, the bay sparkling, a fog bank nearly enveloping the Golden Gate Bridge, its towers peeking through.

“It’s breathtaking,” she said. “But what are we doing here?”

Walter turned to the real estate agent. “Will you excuse us for a moment?” The woman disappeared, and he turned back to Ellie. “Do you think you could be happy living here?”

“Why, of course. Who wouldn’t be happy living here?”

“Good. But I’m an old-fashioned guy; you’ll have to marry me first.”

“But Walter, we’ve known each other for only a few days. You hardly know me.”

“Let me ask you something: Do you think you know me?”

“Well . . . yes—unless you have some deep dark secret you’re hiding.”

“Nope. What you see is what you get. My feeling is that you are the same way. Am I wrong?”

She put her arms around his neck. “No, you’re not wrong.”

“I love you, Ellie. Will you marry me?”

“Oh, yes,” she said, kissing him, not worrying about her lipstick.

“I’ve arranged for a license; a judge will bring it at noon. A few friends are coming up from Palo Alto. Is there anyone you’d like to ask?”

“I have no friends in California,” she said. “Only you.”

“Then I will just have to be enough,” he said. “The judge will marry us at noon, then we’ll have a luncheon on the terrace.”

“Will the real estate agent let us do that?”

“Oh, I almost forgot,” he said, beckoning to the woman, who was waiting in the living room. She came out onto the terrace, and he produced a cashier’s check. “Here you are; you may close with my attorney immediately.” He handed her a card.

“The place is yours, Mr. Keeler,” she said. “And may I offer my congratulations?” She shook both their hands and left.

“All the furnishings come with it?” Ellie asked.

“It was an estate sale. The owners died in a yachting accident three months ago, and the agents had the place repainted and freshened up. It comes with two servants, too, a very nice couple, who will be here shortly with the caterers.” The doorbell rang. “That will be our clothes arriving from the hotel.” He went to let them in.

Barbara/Ellie turned and took in the view again. “There is a God,” she said aloud to herself.

12

EAGLE SAT, clearing up his desk. Everybody else in the office had left for the day. The phone rang, and he picked it up. “Ed Eagle.”

“It’s Cupie.”

“What’s up?”

“They checked out of the Four Seasons this morning, but the airplane is still at Hayward Executive. I haven’t been able to find them.”

Eagle thought for a moment. Where would they go without the airplane?”

“Not another hotel; I’ve been checking reservation lists all day. Anyway, why would anybody move out of the presidential suite at the Four Seasons in favor of another hotel?”

“Maybe there was a fly in the soup. Find them.”

“Ed, if I have to leave my computer to find them, I’m going to need some help.”

“Hire anybody you need.”

“I’d like Vittorio.” Vittorio was an Apache Indian who lived near Santa Fe. Cupie had worked with him the last time they had to find Barbara, and he had testified at Barbara’s trial.

“Great, call him.”

“I think Vittorio would like it better if you called him. He can reach me at home; he has the number.”

“I’ll see if I can reach him,” Eagle said. He hung up and found Vittorio’s cell phone number.

Voice mail picked up. “You have reached the number you dialed,” Vittorio’s voice said. “Leave your name and number.”

“Vittorio, it’s Ed Eagle. I need to speak with you as soon as possible.” He left his office, home and cell numbers.

MR. AND MRS. Walter Keeler sat on their new terrace, watching the sunset and sipping martinis. Their guests for the wedding luncheon had only just left.

Eleanor Wright Keeler hadn’t much liked the three couples Walter had invited. She had played them carefully, laughing at the men’s jokes but paying particular attention to the women. They had all known Walter’s late wife, and each of them had made a point of telling her what a wonderful person she had been, by which they meant that Eleanor had better be a wonderful person, too. She concentrated on giving them absolutely no reason to hate her. She’d make friends with them later, if it became absolutely necessary.

Walter, bless his heart, had stressed to his friends how he had swept her off her feet and that she had married him against her better judgment.

Now it was time for some practical conversation. “Walt,” she said, “I know you just sold your company, but what sort of company was it?”

“Well, you know those four big screens you saw in the cockpit of the CitationJet?”

“Yes, that was an impressive display.”

“I designed and manufactured them. I began twenty-five years ago, right out of Caltech, by designing an aircraft radio. It was smaller and cheaper and just as effective as anything else on the market, and it made me a small fortune in just a few years. Being a private pilot—I owned a little Cessna 182, at the time—I started dreaming up new ideas for the cockpit. I bought a couple of other companies that made other aircraft products, and I took in a couple of partners by trading stock for their companies. A few years later we had a whole suite of avionics for light aircraft, and then I heard about the global positioning system, which is a network of twenty-five satellites circling the earth and which, at that time, could be used only by the military. I saw the possibilities, and I got a license from the government, in my own name, to design a civilian receiver. Both my partners were older than I and wanted to retire, so I borrowed a lot of money and bought them out, giving them a handsome profit, and when the government finally opened GPS to civilian use, I was ready with the first receiver. That was the smartest move I ever made. The second smartest was to incorporate the screens used on laptop computers as cockpit displays and to design systems for corporate aircraft like mine, which sell at a lower price than the competition.”

“And you’re completely retired now?”

“Yep. I’m going to concentrate on you, now.”

“Well, I assume that, since you seem to spend money like a drunken sailor, you must be fairly well off.”

“Ellie, my darling,” he said, “you will never have to worry about money again.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear it. I’m afraid my late former husband died without a will, and a huge fight with his children over the estate ensued. I had no stomach for the courts, so I lost out.”

“I’ve already given my lawyer notes for a new will, and it will be signed in a day or two.”

“Thank you, sweetheart,” she said, squeezing his hand. “You’ve no idea what a relief that is to me.”

“By the way, you’re free to do anything you want with this apartment. Throw everything away and start from scratch, if you like.”

“I like most of it very much,” she said. “Maybe a new paint color here and there; it’s mostly Wright as it is.”

“Spend like a drunken sailor, as you put it; I can afford it if you spend like a drunken navy.”

Barbara laughed and squeezed his hand again.

“By the way, I thought I’d take you on a little honeymoon tomorrow.”

“That’s fine with me,” she said. “I would like a little time to think about what to do with the apartment. Where do you want to go? Where will we jet off to this time?”

“It’s close enough to drive,” Walter said. “Let it be a surprise.”

“You may surprise me all you wish,” she said, pouring them another martini from the shaker.

EAGLE AND SUSANNAH were finishing dinner at his house when the phone rang. Eagle took it in the study; he didn’t want Susannah to worry about this.

“Hello?”

“Ed, it’s Vittorio.”

“Thanks for returning my call, Vittorio,” he said. “Are you available for some work?”

“Yes, but I’m still in Los Angeles. I finished another job yesterday, and I thought I’d take a day or two off.”

“It’s good you’re there. Call Cupie and go see him, will you?”

“Sure. I saw him briefly after we testified. What’s the job?”

“Cupie will brief you.”

“Come on, Ed, what are you not telling me?”

“It’s about Barbara,” Eagle said.

“Oh, shit,” Vittorio replied.

13

EAGLE WAS FINISHING a sandwich at his desk the following day when his secretary buzzed him. He picked up the phone. “Yes?”

“Mr. Eagle, there’s a gentleman on the phone who says he’s calling from Rome, Italy, and he says he needs to speak to you urgently. His name is Donald Wells.”

“Never heard of him.”

“You want me to get rid of him?”

Eagle sighed. “No, I’ll speak to him.” He pressed the flashing button. “This is Ed Eagle.”

“Mr. Eagle,” the man said, “my name is Don Wells.” His accent was American.

“Yes, Mr. Wells, how can I help you?” He tried to convey that he was very busy and that the man should hurry up and get to the point.

“I’m in Rome, at the Hassler Villa Medici Hotel, and I received a phone call a few minutes ago saying that my wife and son have been kidnapped.”

“Mr. Wells, I think you want the FBI, not an attorney.”

“Yes, of course, but I’m a rather well-known figure in the film industry, and I don’t want to be on record as having called the police, if this should turn out to be a hoax. These things have a way of finding their way into the press, and that would be embarrassing for my wife and me.”

“What would you like me to do, Mr. Wells?”

“I have homes in Santa Fe and in Malibu, but neither phone answers. Could you possibly go to my Santa Fe home and take a look around and call me if you find anything that might indicate that something untoward has occurred? And could you arrange to have someone in L.A. check the Malibu house?”

“Mr. Wells, it would be a lot cheaper just to call the police in Santa Fe and Malibu.”

“I’m not concerned about your fees, Mr. Eagle. I know your reputation, and I would very much appreciate it if you would handle this for me.”

Eagle took a deep breath and let it out. “All right, Mr. Wells. Please give me your Santa Fe address and tell me how to get into the house.”

“The address is 180 Tano Norte. Do you know the road?”

The place was out past Susannah’s house. “Yes, I know it. If no one answers the bell, how will I get in?”

“There’s a rack holding half a cord of firewood to the right of the front door. There’s a key under the left end of the rack.”

“How about Malibu?”

“The house is in the Malibu Colony. You know it?”

“Yes.”

“Your people should just ask for the Wells house at the gate and give the guard the password, which is Featherweight.”

“Featherweight, all right.”

“And the key is in a window box to the left of the front door.”

“And how do I reach you?”

“You can call me at the Hassler, or you can reach me on my international cell phone.” He recited the number.

“Mr. Wells, where would you expect your wife and son to be on this date?”

“I haven’t spoken to them for a couple of days, but my wife had planned to fly from L.A. to Santa Fe for a few days. She just wasn’t sure yet when she could get away.”

“And to which address should I send my bill?”

“Please send that to my business manager, whose office is in Century City.” He gave Eagle the address.

“One more thing, Mr. Wells: How would your wife and son be traveling from L.A. to Santa Fe?”

“I’m in a fractional jet program call NetJets, and we fly out of Santa Monica.”

“Have you called them?”

“Not yet; I’d like to hear your report first.”

“Can you give me a physical description of your wife and son?”

“My wife—her name is Donna—is forty-nine years old, five-seven, a hundred and forty pounds, blonde hair; my son is fourteen, about the same height as his mother, dark hair, a hundred and thirty pounds. His name is Eric. He’s autistic.”

“Is he in school somewhere?”

“No, his mother has home-tutored him, with the help of various teachers, since he was nine.”

“How functional is he?”

“He doesn’t talk much, but most people wouldn’t know he was autistic on meeting him in our home, but he becomes anxious, if he’s away from his mother or me, and then he can be difficult to deal with.”

“I’ll call you back when I know more,” Eagle said. “Good-bye.”

“Good-bye.”

Eagle hung up and called Cupie Dalton’s cell number.

“This is Dalton.”

“Cupie, this is Ed Eagle. Are you still in L.A.?”

“Vittorio and I are on the way to the airport for a flight to San Francisco.”

“I’ve got a detour for you,” Eagle said, then explained what he wanted.

“Okay, we’ll get a later flight to San Francisco.” Cupie hung up.

Eagle looked at his watch, then got his coat and hat and walked out of his office. “I have to run an errand,” he said to his secretary. “I’ll be back in an hour or so.”

14

CUPIE CLOSED HIS cell phone and turned to Vittorio, who was driving. "U-turn, pal.”

“What’s going on?”

“That was Eagle on the phone. He got a call from Rome from some guy named Wells, who says his wife and son may have been kidnapped. We have to go and check out his Malibu house for any evidence of same.”

Vittorio shrugged. “Okay.” He whipped the car around and gunned it.

“And let’s not get arrested on the way.”

“Aren’t you carrying tin?”

“Yeah, but I don’t like to use it with a cop for something as light as a speeding ticket.”

Traffic was easy for L.A., and soon they were on the Pacific Coast Highway, heading north.

“You ever been out here?” Cupie asked, as they came to the long string of cheek-by-jowl beach houses that composed most of Malibu.

“No,” Vittorio said. “With these houses jammed together like this, how does anybody get to the beach?”

“That’s the idea,” Cupie replied. “Nobody does, unless he has the keys to a house. Keeps out the riffraff. It’s a long walk from the nearest public beach to out here.”

“I thought all the beaches in California were public.”

“There’s public, and there’s public.”

They passed the turnoff for the little shopping center that passed for Downtown Malibu and soon turned off the highway into a driveway blocked by a guard shack and a bar across the drive. A uniformed guard stepped out of the shack and waited for them to come to a halt. For a moment he eyed the odd pair: a cherubic man in a seersucker suit and an Indian dressed in black. “Can I help you?” he asked.

Cupie flashed his LAPD badge, the slightly smaller version that retired cops toted. “We’re here at Mr. Don Wells’s request to inspect his property. The password is Featherweight.”

The guard went back into the shack, checked something on a clipboard and pressed the button that raised the bar. He waved them on.

Vittorio followed Cupie’s directions. “You been out to this place before?”

“A few times. These are some of the most expensive houses in the United States. Over there,” he said, pointing at a large house that backed up onto the beach. “See the sign? Wells.”

Vittorio pulled into the driveway. Cupie’s car was a gray Ford Crown Victoria, chosen because it looked like an unmarked police car, just for occasions like this. Nobody was going to call the cops, if they thought the cops were already there.

Cupie found the key in the window box. He pulled a wad of latex gloves from a coat pocket and handed a pair to Vittorio. “Don’t touch anything, even with these, unless you have to. We don’t know what we’re going to find, and if it’s bad, we want to be investigators, not suspects.”

Vittorio nodded.

Cupie unlocked the door and tapped the alarm code into the keypad. “Alarm was armed; that’s a good sign.” He led the way down a long entrance hall, more of a gallery, really, hung with a collection of abstract paintings. “Let’s stick together,” Cupie said, “and be careful.”

“Come on, Cupie, you think I don’t know how to deal with a crime scene?”

“Four eyes are better than two.” Cupie produced a flashlight about four inches long. They walked into a large living room with glass sliding doors overlooking a porch and the beach at one end. The room was a good forty feet long, Cupie reckoned. “Great for entertaining a hundred and fifty of your closest friends, huh?”

“I could get my closest friends into a jail cell,” Vittorio remarked. “This place looks like a platoon of maids just left.”

Cupie used his flashlight to illuminate corners of the spotless room. He looked under sofas and chairs, too. Nothing in the living room. They moved into the next room, a library, with a spacious home office off one end. Nothing.

They retraced their footsteps and crossed the hall into a large dining room, then through a swinging door into a kitchen, appropriate for a large restaurant. The block holding all the kitchen knives was full—no empty spaces—and everything was perfectly neat.

“Upstairs,” Cupie said. “Stay close to the wall, behind me, and don’t touch the banister.” There was a huge master suite upstairs that included two dressing rooms and two baths. Vittorio looked in the closets. They crossed the hall and walked into another bedroom.

“The kid’s room,” Cupie said, “but weird. No rock posters, no sports-team pennants. I’ve never seen a kid’s room this neat.”

Vittorio checked the closets, too. “This place is untouched by human hands,” he said.

Cupie led him back downstairs and to the kitchen. “Guesthouse at the other end of the pool,” he said. He opened a sliding glass door and walked the length of the fifty-foot pool. The front-door key worked in the guesthouse door, too. They found two bedrooms and a sitting room, and the place smelled a little musty, as if unused for a while. “Let’s walk the perimeter of the property,” Cupie said.

They did so, finding no footprints outside ground-level windows, no sign of forced entry. They reentered the house through the kitchen sliding door. Cupie called Ed Eagle’s office.

“He’s out for an hour or so,” the secretary said.

Cupie thanked her, hung up and called Eagle’s cell phone.

“Eagle,” he said.

“We’re in Malibu,” Cupie said. “The house is clean as a whistle. Any criminals operating here had a lot of house-cleaning experience.”

“Lock up and wait in your car to hear from me,” Eagle said. “I’m almost to the Tano Norte house.”

EAGLE PULLED INTO the driveway and stopped in front of the house. It was a typical Santa Fe home for an affluent family, he thought. Looked to be seven or eight thousand square feet, richly landscaped with native plants, guesthouse fifty yards down a flagstone path. He walked around the house and found nothing more surprising than a four-car garage, then he went back to the front door and found the house key under the firewood rack.

He rang the bell a couple of times and, getting no response, tried the front door, which turned out to be unlocked. The alarm system was not armed, either. “Hello!” he shouted, but got no answer. He turned right and came to the kitchen, a big room, with all the usual top-end appliances: SubZero fridge, Viking range, two Miele dishwashers. Not very different from his own kitchen, he thought.

He checked the dining room next door, then walked into the living room, which seemed to be in perfect order. He walked across a hallway to a large study, with many books on the shelves, then left it through another door and came to what seemed to be a wing of bedrooms. Directly ahead of him was a set of large double doors. He opened one of the doors and stepped into the master suite. Immediately, he detected a familiar odor, but he couldn’t place it. He stopped and thought about it, then it came to him.

It smelled like a butcher shop.

15

EAGLE TRIED NOT to move his feet. He leaned over and looked into the bedroom. He could see the corner of the bed and a pair of feet, a woman’s, with one shoe missing. He took a deep breath and walked into the room, keeping near the wall.

He stared at the bed for a long moment, until he was sure he had seen enough, then he retraced his steps and stood in the hall, taking deep breaths. When he had calmed himself, he went to his cell phone’s address book and called the district attorney’s direct office line.

“Bob Martínez.”

“Bob, it’s Ed Eagle. Write this down: I’m at 180 Tano Norte, that’s the old County Road 85, renamed a few years ago, runs off Tano Road.”

“I know it. What’s up?”

“I had a phone call an hour or so ago from a man named Donald Wells, calling from Rome. He said he had had a phone call saying that his wife and son had been kidnapped, and he asked me to check it out.”

“Did you call the police?”

“No, he didn’t want that, unless something was confirmed.”

“And . . . ?”

“And I’m at the house, and his wife and son are dead in the master suite. There’s a lot of blood.”

Martínez was not fazed. “Okay, call nine-one-one right now, and let’s get this on the record. I’ll be there soon.” He hung up.

Eagle called 911 and answered the operator’s list of questions, then he went outside and sat in a rocking chair on the front porch to wait for the police. His cell phone vibrated.

“Ed Eagle.”

“Mr. Eagle, it’s Don Wells. Your office gave me your cell phone number. I wanted you to know that I went downstairs and spoke with the manager, who spoke with the hotel telephone operator on duty. The call I got about the kidnapping came from my Santa Fe house.”

“Tell me about the call.”

“The phone rang, and I picked it up. There was a kind of click and I heard some sort of computer-generated voice, a recording, I guess. It said something like, ‘We have your wife and son. Start raising five million dollars, and we will contact you about arranging payment. If you tell anyone about this, your wife and son will be killed.’ Then there was another click, and the line went dead.”

“Mr. Wells, are you sitting down?”

“Yes, I’m at the desk in my sitting room.”

“I’m at your house now, and I’m sorry to tell you that your wife and son are dead.”

There was a long silence, and when Wells spoke again his voice was unsteady and his breathing audibly shallow. “Are you sure about this?”

“I’m sorry, I am sure. I’ve called the police and the district attorney, and I’m waiting for them to arrive.” Eagle heard the sound of a police whooper from somewhere up the road. “I can hear them coming.”

“But why?” Wells said. “Why didn’t they wait for the money? I would have given it to them.”

Eagle thought he knew why, but he said, “I don’t know at this point. It’s important that you stay right where you are; the police will want to speak to you. Please don’t leave your suite until you hear from me or the police, but you might ask the concierge to arrange travel for you to Santa Fe as soon as possible. I’ll speak to you later to get your arrival time.”

“All right,” Wells said, sounding dejected but in control of himself. “Mr. Eagle, I want to retain you to represent me in all this.”

“You have already done so, Mr. Wells. I’m very, very sorry for your loss. When you feel up to it, you might give some thought to any arrangements you want to make. My office will assist you.”

“Thank you,” Wells said softly, then hung up.

Eagle looked up to see two police cars and a van pull into the drive. He stood up to greet them. Before he could speak to the first officer, the district attorney’s car drove in behind the other vehicles, and Bob Martínez got out.

EAGLE TOOK THEM through the house, following his original path, then he went back to the front porch and sat down again. A few minutes passed, then Martínez and a Detective Reese joined him, pulling up chairs.

“Take us through it from the first phone call,” the detective said.

Eagle explained himself. “Right after I spoke to you, Bob, Wells called me on my cell phone. He checked with the hotel operator and learned that the kidnap threat call had come from this house. He said the voice was electronically altered and he was told to raise five million dollars. He was also told that if he called anybody, his wife and son would be killed. It occurs to me that, somehow, the perpetrators may have known that he made the call to me, and that’s why the murders took place. I didn’t mention this to him. I told him to stay in his suite and that the Santa Fe police would be in touch with him. I also told him to have his hotel make travel arrangements for him to come to Santa Fe.”

“Please call him back, Mr. Eagle, and find out when he’s due here, then let me speak to him,” Detective Reese said.

“We’d better call from inside the house, so we can each be on an extension,” Eagle said. “He’s retained me to represent him, and I have to be present for any questioning.”

“There are two phones in the study,” Martínez said, “and we’ve already processed them and the one in the living room.”

“Then let me speak to him first, and I’ll tell you when he’s ready to talk to you.”

“All right,” the detective said. “We’ll wait in the living room.”

Eagle went into the study, sat down at Wells’s desk and got connected with Wells. “Mr. Wells, have you made travel arrangements?”

“Yes, I’ll fly to New York tomorrow morning, change for Dallas, then for Albuquerque. My plane gets in at seven tomorrow evening.” He gave Eagle the flight number.

“I’ll have you met and brought to a hotel in Santa Fe.”

“Can’t I stay in my own home?”

“I’ll try, but I doubt it. The police have a lot of work to do here, and the master suite is not habitable at the moment.”

“Is that where they were killed?”

“Yes. The police want to speak with you now, but before I put them on the phone, I want you to think carefully: Is there anything you’ve failed to tell me that I might need to know?”

Wells seemed to reflect. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Mr. Wells, I must tell you that you will be the first suspect, until the police have been able to eliminate you as such.”

“But how could I have anything to do with this? I’m in Rome!”

“Of course you are, but they will suspect you anyway; it’s how they work, and you shouldn’t be upset by it. Now, tell me, what was the state of your marriage?”

“We’ve been married for eight years,” Wells said. “We are . . . were both very content with things, I think.”

“You say ‘content,’ instead of ‘happy.’”

“We were settled in for the long haul,” Wells said.

“You said your son was fourteen.”

“That’s right.”

“Then I take it, he was your stepson.”

“Yes, but I loved the boy; it was no different than being his real father.”

“I should contact the boy’s biological father. Can you give me his name and number?”

“He’s dead. He was killed in a street robbery in New York.”

“How long ago?”

“About a year and a half before Donna and I were married, so between nine and ten years ago.”

“Was the perpetrator caught?”

“No, I don’t think so. The police said it was an ordinary mugging, gone wrong.”

“Anything else you can tell me?”

“I can’t think of anything.”

“All right, I’m going to put a Detective Reese on the line. The district attorney will be listening on an extension, and so will I. If I interrupt you, shut up immediately, is that clear?”

“Yes, I understand.”

“Confine your answers strictly to the questions asked; don’t volunteer anything or any theories until you and I have discussed them privately first. I’ll call the detective now.” Eagle shouted for Reese to come in, then he listened on the extension while the detective questioned his client thoroughly. He did not find it necessary to interrupt.

When the phone call was over, Martínez came into the room. “Okay,” he said, “we’re done, I think.”

“When can Mr. Wells have his house back?”

Reese spoke up. “We’ll seal the master suite, and he can stay in another bedroom, if he wants.”

“I’ll ask him.”

Reese left the room, and Martínez and Eagle were alone.

“You know who she was, don’t you?” Martínez asked.

“Mrs. Wells?”

“She was Donna Worth. Worth Pharmaceuticals?”

“Ah,” Eagle said.

“Five or six years ago, her father, the founder died, and she was his only heir.”

“How much?

“Billions,” Martínez said.

“I see.”

“Do you?”

“Speak plainly, Bob.”

“The boy was her only child. That means Wells is going to get the bulk of her estate. I mean, I’m sure there are charitable trusts and bequests, but Mr. Wells is going to be a very rich man.”

“That’s plain enough, Bob,” Eagle said.

Reese came back into the room. “We found an open wall safe in Mr. Wells’s dressing room, empty. I’d like to know what was in it when you speak to your client.”

“I’ll let you know,” Eagle said.

16

CUPIE DALTON AND Vittorio arrived at the Four Seasons Hotel in San Francisco, having already checked into a less expensive hotel nearby. Cupie gave the doorman a peek at his badge. “Hi, there. I’m looking for a fellow named Walter Keeler, who checked in here yesterday.”

“That an L.A. badge?” the doorman asked.

“Yep.”

“Keeler checked out this morning.”

“Bound for where?”

“I don’t know. He and his lady friend left here in a car-service Mercedes this morning, and a couple of hours later he called and asked that their luggage be sent somewhere else. We loaded it into a van.”

“And what would be that address? Another hotel?”

“Let me check with our dispatcher,” the doorman said. He picked up a phone at the bell stand and spoke into it for a minute or so, then wrote something down in a notebook. He returned to Cupie, tore the page out of the pad and handed it to him. “That’s it, and it’s not a hotel.”

Cupie glanced at the paper, then tucked it into a pocket and handed the doorman a twenty. “Thanks for your help,” he said. The doorman put them into a cab, and ten minutes later they pulled up to the imposing entrance of a large, limestone-faced apartment building.

“There you are,” the driver said.

Cupie and Vittorio got out of the cab and stood under the building’s awning, since a light rain had begun to fall. A doorman approached.

“May I help you?” he asked, eyeing them suspiciously.

Cupie flashed his tin. “A Mr. Walter Keeler had his luggage sent to this building this morning. Is this an apartment hotel?”

“No,” the doorman said, “it’s an apartment house, and all the tenants own their apartments.”

“Does Mr. Keeler own an apartment here?”

“I think you’d better speak to the super,” the man replied. He went inside and made a phone call.

A moment later, a man in shirtsleeves came outside, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Yes?”

“Sorry to interrupt your dinner,” Cupie said, showing his badge. “Does a Mr. Walter Keeler own an apartment here?”

“Is this official business?”

“Let’s say it’s for the benefit of Mr. Keeler.”

“This is a very prestigious building,” the super said. “The management frowns on calls from the police. I’d like to cooperate, but . . .”

“We have no intention of disturbing the peace of your building,” Cupie said. “I just need to know if Mr. Keeler owns an apartment here.”

“Unofficially, yes,” the super replied.

“Long time?”

“Since this morning. He and a woman arrived here and met a real estate agent at nine this morning. By noon, they had bought the apartment—the penthouse—moved in and were married by a judge.”

Cupie blinked. “All in the space of three hours?”

“That’s what I’m told.”

“Told by who?”

“Various staffers. The apartment had been on the market for, maybe, forty-eight hours. It was sold furnished by the late owner’s estate. Did you want to speak with Mr. Keeler?”

“Not at this time,” Cupie said.

“That’s good, because he left late this afternoon in a rented car that was delivered here.”

“Bound for where?”

The super shrugged. “Who knows? He didn’t share his travel plans with me, but he and Mrs. Keeler took luggage.”

“Okay, thanks,” Cupie said.

The super handed Cupie a card. “This is the management company’s number. Any further information you’ll have to get from them, and you and I never talked, okay?”

“Not only that, we never met,” Cupie replied. The super returned to his dinner.

“Can I get you a cab?” the doorman asked.

“One more question: Do you know which rental car company delivered the car?”

“Hertz,” the doorman replied. “I saw the contract folder when the guy handed it to Mr. Keeler.” He blew his whistle and waved down a cab. “It was a Mercedes,” he said, opening the cab’s door.

Cupie gave him a twenty, and he and Vittorio got in. Cupie gave the driver the address of their hotel. “So,” Cupie said to Vittorio, “these two people met after a few days, they flew from Palm Springs to Hayward and bought an expensive apartment, and got married the next day. That about it so far?”

“No,” Vittorio said, speaking for the first time in an hour. “They went on a honeymoon, too, and not so far away that they’d need to fly. Where around San Francisco would they go on a honeymoon?”

Cupie thought. “Yosemite?”

“Not romantic enough. How about . . . what’s the name of that town down the coast, with the crashing waves?”

“Carmel? Nah, that’s a three- or four-hour drive; they’d have flown into Monterey.”

“Where could they have gone that they could drive to by dinnertime?”

“The wine country,” Cupie said. “Napa, maybe.”

“Isn’t there an airport at Napa?”

“Yeah, but why didn’t Keeler land there?”

“Because he had to buy an apartment and marry Barbara. What are the most expensive hotels in Napa?”

“We’ll have to get a guidebook,” Cupie said. “There’s a bookstore next to the hotel.”

“I want a steak,” Vittorio said.

“Me, too, but let’s get a guide to Napa first.”

EAGLE AND SUSANNAH had just finished dinner when his cell phone vibrated. “Eagle.”

“It’s Cupie. You sitting down?”

“Yes.”

“Your ex-wife has remarried.”

“What?”

“I kid you not; the girl is a fast worker. They arrived at the Four Seasons last night, and this morning Keeler bought a penthouse apartment in a top building. They were married by noon and drove away in a rented car late in the afternoon. My best guess is that they’re honeymooning in the wine country to the north. You want me to track them down there or wait for them to return here? I don’t think she’s going to bother you for a few days, at least.”

“No, Cupie, go home and find a way to keep tabs on Keeler from there—the FBO where he parks his airplane, somebody in the apartment building, whatever works. If they fly away from Hayward, I want to know.”

“Right. We’ll stay the night here, since we’ve already checked into a hotel, and fly home tomorrow.”

“Tell him I’m coming home,” Vittorio said.

“And Vittorio’s coming back to Santa Fe.”

“Send me a bill, Cupie. Good night.” He hung up and turned to Susannah. “You’re not going to believe this,” he said.

17

BARBARA/ELLIE and Walter Keeler sat in the sunshine in the walled courtyard of Tre Vigne, a lovely Italian restaurant in the Napa Valley, and lunched on fruit, bread and cheese. Barbara felt two things: one, that her recovery from prison had been complete and spectacular, and two, that she had gotten more than lucky in meeting Walter Keeler. The man was an amazing list of all the things every woman wanted in a man: handsome, rich, sensitive, funny, warm and sexy. She wondered why she didn’t love him.

She had felt the same way about Ed Eagle at first: that she ought to love him. She wondered, not for the first time, if there was something missing in her psychological makeup. She dismissed the idea, because she really had loved one man, her second husband. Of course, he had killed her first husband during the robbery of his diamond business and had sent her to prison with his testimony in the case. And him, she had loved!

Barbara knew she didn’t have a conscience; they had told her that during psychological counseling in prison. But that didn’t trouble her in the least. It allowed her to think only of herself and not feel bad about it. She knew that when Walter had outlived his usefulness she would dump him without a second thought, and that if he gave her a hard time about it, she would find a way to make him permanently sorry.

But for right now, Walter would do very nicely. He would feed, clothe and shelter her handsomely, introduce her to people and buy her anything she wanted. He was like a walking credit card with social entree and no charge limit. She smiled warmly at him.

“What are you thinking about?” Walter asked.

“Just about how improbably happy you’ve made me,” she replied.

“That’s my new job,” he said, grinning. “What would you like to do this afternoon?”

“I’d like to visit some wineries,” she said. “I’ve always thought that the making of wine was fascinating.”

“Of course. Tell me, do you play golf?”

“I tried it once; I was hopeless at it.”

“Everybody’s hopeless at it in the beginning. I’d like you to try again, with a really good instructor. I’m a lover of the game, and it would please me greatly if we could play together.”

“All right, I will.” Anything to keep him happy for a while—at least until he signed his new will.

“I love you, my darling,” he said.

“Not as much as I love you,” she replied, squeezing his crotch under the table.

ED EAGLE STOOD on the first tee of one of the two golf courses at Las Campanas, a large real estate development outside Santa Fe, and read the list of his partners. The tournament was for the entertainment of the Santa Clara County, California, Bar Association, and a lawyer friend with whom he had done some business there had asked him to play. Eagle’s playing partners had been chosen by lot, and now he was looking for them on the first tee. A man approached him.

“Ed Eagle?”

“Yes?”

“I’m Joe Wilen, one of your partners for the tournament.” He extended a hand.

Eagle shook it. “Good to meet you, Joe. I was looking for you.”

“The others are over here. We’re fourth to tee off, I believe.” Wilen lead him to where two other men were seated on a bench, waiting, and made the introductions.

The foursome waited their turn, then teed off. They passed the next four and a half hours playing the game they all loved and then settled into the bar at the clubhouse and ordered drinks.

“I’ve heard about you over the years,” Joe Wilen said to Eagle.

“You’ve had some impressive wins in California; I’m glad my company wasn’t among your opponents.”

“Company? Are you not in a firm, Joe?”

“Until recently I was general counsel for an electronics company. You’re a pilot, I expect you’ve heard of it: Keeler Avionics?”

Eagle’s heart skipped a beat. “Indeed, I have a panel full of your equipment in my airplane.”

“What do you fly?” "A JetProp—that’s a Malibu that’s had the piston engine ripped off and replaced with a turbine.”

“Oh, yeah, I’ve seen a couple of them at my airport. I fly a King Air.”

“Fine airplane. Tell me, how did you get involved with the Keeler outfit?”

“Oh, I met Walter Keeler right out of college—on a golf course, as it happened. When he formed the company he asked me to do the legal work, and after the business grew a bit, he invited me to become general counsel. I got in almost on the ground floor, and by the time Walter sold out, I was the second largest stockholder.”

“Good for you. I read about the sale; that was a very nice payday.”

“Indeed it was.”

“I suppose you and Keeler are close.”

“Very. I’m still his personal attorney, and I was just at his wedding.”

“I heard something about that,” Eagle said.

“You did?” Wilen asked, sounding surprised. “I didn’t think anybody knew about it yet.”

“Oh, word gets around.”

“How long have you been in Santa Fe, Ed?”

“A little over twenty-five years.”

“I’m very impressed with the place, and I was thinking about looking at some property.”

“I’d be glad to introduce you to a good real estate agent, and if you decide to buy something I’d be pleased to handle the closing as a courtesy.”

“That’s very kind of you.”

“Las Campanas is a good choice to buy or build,” Eagle said, “especially if you want to play a lot of golf.”

“I really like this course,” Wilen said.

“It’s one of two, and they’re the best golf around here. There’s a nice public course, and a nine-holer at another development.”

“I like the idea of being out in the country, and the views are fantastic.”

“Well, when your convention is over, why don’t you stay on for a day or two, and I’ll get an agent to set up some showings.”

“Wonderful!”

“Buy or build?”

“Buy, I think. I’m too impatient to build.”

"I’ll work on it,” Eagle said. I’ll work on something else, too, he thought.

18

EAGLE SAT BEFORE the fire in the lobby of the Inn of the Anasazi, a luxurious small hotel just off the Plaza, across the street from the old territorial governor’s mansion, and waited for Donald Wells to arrive from Albuquerque Airport in the car Eagle had sent for him.

At the stroke of nine, a man walked into the lobby, followed by a bellman and his luggage. He was a little over six feet tall, slender and well dressed in a casual way.

“Don Wells?” Eagle asked.

“Yes,” Wells said, offering his hand.

“I’m Ed Eagle. Have you had dinner yet?”

“No, and I’m starved.”

“Why don’t you check in and get freshened up, then meet me in the dining room. We can talk for a bit.”

“Thank you, I’d like that. Will you order something for me? I eat anything.”

“Of course. Would you like a drink?”

“Chivas on the rocks, please.”

WELLS APPEARED, looking refreshed, a few minutes later, and Eagle signaled the waiter to bring their drinks.

“I expect you’re tired,” Eagle said. “I won’t keep you long.”

“Not too tired,” Wells replied. “I had last night in New York, and I got some sleep.”

“Our food will be along shortly. I want to bring you up to date on events since we last talked.”

“Please do,” Wells said, sipping his scotch.

“The medical examiner has issued his report. It’s pretty simple: both your wife and son were killed by two .380-caliber, hollow-point gunshots to the head. They didn’t suffer.”

“Thank God for small favors,” Wells said.

“They had probably been dead for one to two hours when I arrived.”

“That means they were probably killed shortly after I received the phone call in Rome.”

“Correct. Your hotel was right; the phone call you received in Rome was from the phone in your home, probably the one in the study, since that extension had been wiped clean of any fingerprints.”

“Any sign of how they got in?”

“When I arrived, the front door was unlocked, and the alarm system was not armed.”

“That’s the way my wife would have kept the front door and alarm system during the day; she would have locked the doors and set the alarm at bedtime.”

Their food arrived.

“Something the police want to know, and so do I: A safe in your dressing room was open and empty. Had there been anything in it?”

“That’s odd,” Wells said. “How could they have known the combination?”

“Why do you say, ‘they’?”

“Just a general pronoun. I suppose there might only have been one man . . . person.”

“What was in the safe?”

“Twenty-five thousand dollars in cash and an equal amount in Krugerrands.”

“Why?”

“Call it mad money, in case of some catastrophe: nuclear bomb, terrorist attack, whatever. There’s an equal amount in my safe in Malibu. I guess I’m a little paranoid.”

“Back to the combination of the safe: How would they have opened it?”

Wells looked baffled. “I don’t know. Safecracker, maybe? The safe cost less than a thousand dollars; it was meant to be fireproof and burglarproof, but I don’t suppose it would stand up to a professional safecracker.”

“What is the combination?”

“It’s an electronic keypad; the combination was DWELLS.”

“Not very smart,” Eagle said.

Wells looked sheepish. “It was the first six letters I thought of, I guess.”

“Then they could have just guessed and got lucky.”

“I suppose.”

“Did your wife know the combination?”

“Yes.”

“More likely they pointed a gun at your son and demanded the combination from your wife.”

“She would certainly have given it to them, in those circumstances.”

“Mr. Wells . . . ”

“Don, please.”

“Don, did your wife have a will?”

“Yes. Both her will and mine are in my safe in Malibu.”

“Have you read it?”

“No; both wills are in sealed envelopes.”

“Are you familiar with the terms of her will?”

“Only what she told me: that she had made a large bequest to her family’s charitable foundation and some other, smaller bequests to distant relatives, servants, that sort of thing. Then there would have been a large bequest to a trust for our son, to ensure that he had a home and proper care. I think I told you, he’s . . . was autistic.”

“Is there a bequest to you in the will?”

“Yes, but I don’t know of what size.”

“Your wife, I understand, was a very wealthy woman.”

“Yes, she was; her great-grandfather established a pharmaceutical company in the late nineteenth century. It was a private company, until after her father’s death some years ago; it was taken public, then she gradually liquidated her holdings.”

“What was she worth?”

“I don’t really know, but I think, probably, some hundreds of million dollars.”

“I have to ask you some other questions now, and please don’t take offense; this is absolutely necessary, and the district attorney is going to want them answered, too.”

“Go ahead. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”

“What is your own net worth, Don, separate from your wife’s?”

“Well, we owned the two houses together, so half of the value of those, I guess. Maybe twenty million dollars. Then I have some investments, probably another three million, plus other possessions. Maybe a total of twenty-five million dollars? I can have my business manager put together a financial statement, if you like.”

“Please do so tomorrow and have it faxed to my office. Now, who paid for the two houses?”

“My wife did; she insisted. While I’m very well off and could have afforded to buy the Santa Fe house, I could not have afforded the Malibu Colony house. She chose them both and bought them.”

“But they were put in both your names.”

“Yes, that’s how she wanted it.”

“What sort of income do you earn from your film business? An average for the last five years, or so?”

“Let’s see: probably an average of two and a half, three million dollars. I have prospects for a lot more in the future.”

“Will your wife’s death affect your income?”

“No. She had no interest in my business. She loaned me the money to get it started, and I repaid her.”

“I assume you can substantiate that.”

“Of course. My business manager has copies of all the documents.”

“I’ll want to see those, too,” Eagle said. “One more question, then I’ll let you get to bed, and I need a perfectly honest answer. Remember, this is a privileged conversation.”

“Shoot.”

“Are you now having or have you ever had an affair outside your marriage?”

“I’ve slept with a few women, mostly minor actresses or crew on my pictures. Nothing serious, ever.”

“Define serious.”

“Serious enough to make me think of leaving my wife.”

“I warn you, Don, if you are being less than frank with me, it will come back and bite you on the ass.”

“I’m being perfectly frank with you,” Wells said.

Eagle thought he believed the man.

“Good. We have an appointment at nine tomorrow morning in my office with the district attorney, Roberto Martínez, and a Detective Reese. You’ll give a formal statement along the lines of our previous conversations on the phone and tonight. I’ll pick you up out front at eight forty-five.”

"Fine.”

19

IT WAS NEARLY Eagle’s bedtime when he got home, and Susannah was already asleep in his bed, but there was something on his mind, and he had to deal with it.

He went to his study and switched on the computer, then opened his word-processing program and began to write.

To Walter Keeler:

Dear Mr. Keeler,

You and I are not acquainted, but I am in possession of some informationwhich I feel you should have. I met Joe Wilen on the golf course today in Santa Fe, and during our conversation later at the clubhouse, he told me that you and he had been business associates and that he is your personal attorney. I thought it would be better if I asked him to deliver this letter than if I simply sent it to you. I have not, however, discussed its contents with him. I have told him only that it concerns the woman you recently married. The following is everything that I know of her.

She was born Hannah Schlemmer, in Cleveland, Ohio, one of three daughters, to a Jewish pawnbroker. As an adult she moved to New York City and worked in a restaurant there. At some point she married a diamondwholesaler named Murray Rifkind, and she worked for some time at running his office.

She subsequently met a man named James Grafton and fell in love with him, apparently her first time. Grafton had a criminal background, and he convinced her that the only way they could be together was for him to rob Rifkind’s business premises. She went to the office and used her knowledge of its security systems to admit him for the robbery. Grafton then shot and killed her husband. She was shocked, she said, but he forced her to come with him to Miami, where he liquidated the diamonds he had stolen.

Shortly after that, they were both arrested. Hannah then agreed to cooperatewith the prosecution and testified against Grafton. She pled to involuntarymanslaughter and received a sentence of five to eight years in a women’s prison near Poughkeepsie, New York. During this time, I visited her in connection with a double murder in a client’s home in Santa Fe, involving her older sister, Miriam, who had changed her name to Julia. Hannah would ordinarily have been considered for parole after three years served, but as a result of a lawsuit against the State of New York alleging prison overcrowding, she was released early and unconditionally. While in prison, she legally changed her name to Barbara Kennerly.

Shortly after her release, Barbara came to Santa Fe and contacted me. I helped her find employment, and we began to see each other socially. A romance developed, and we were married a year later.

We had been married for a year when I awoke one morning to find that I had been drugged the night before and that Barbara had left Santa Fe after emptying my bank accounts of an amount exceeding a million dollars and wire-transferred the funds to a Cayman Islands bank and thence to one in Mexico City. She also attempted to empty my brokerage accounts, but I was able to prevent that minutes before the broker would have wired the proceeds.

I hired a former IRS agent, specializing in forensic financial work, who was able to recover all but $300,000 of the funds. I also hired two private investigators to go to Mexico and try to persuade Barbara to sign divorce papers and a settlement agreement giving her the $300,000. She shot one of the investigators and pushed the other off a ferry in the Gulf of Cortez. Both recovered. My investigators learned during this period that Barbara and her sister, Julia, by then deceased, were being sought by the Mexican police on a charge of having cut off the penis of a man they said was trying to rape them.

Barbara eluded my investigators and crossed the border into California, where she hid in a well-known spa in La Jolla and had her appearance altered.She came to Los Angeles and saw me in the dining room of the Hotel Bel-Air. Because of the changes in her appearance, I did not recognize her.

Later that night, she drugged the man she was staying with, returned to the hotel and went to the suite where she and I had stayed a number of times while we were married. Unfortunately, the suite was occupied by another couple, and she shot both of them in their sleep, then returned to her friend’s house. The following morning, he did not realize that she had left the house.

She was later arrested and tried for the two murders. While waiting for the verdict and fearing conviction, she escaped from a courthouse conference room and, with the help of a friend, made her way to the El Rancho Encantado Spa. She had, by this time, bought a forged driver’s license and passport in the name of Eleanor Wright. Ironically, she was acquitted at trial, due to the testimony of her friend, who placed her in his home at the time of the murders. It was at this point you made her acquaintance.

I know that all this will come as a shock to you, because Barbara is a very convincing liar. It will seem strange to you, as it does to me, that, having been released from prison and being comfortably married, she would then decamp with my funds and be willing to kill, both to avoid being detained and to take some sort of revenge against me. A psychiatrist friend of mine who knew her says that she is certainly a sociopath and may be a paranoid schizophrenic, a dangerous one. Perhaps it runs in her family, because her older sister murdered three people, one of them her youngest sister.

I tell you these things simply as a matter of conscience, because I believe that you may well be at considerable personal risk. I have no other motive.

My address and phone number are on my letterhead, should you wish to contact me. In the meantime, I hope you will take steps to protect yourself and your property.

Sincerely,

Ed Eagle

Eagle signed the letter, put it into an envelope and sealed it, then he went to bed and slept well.

20

THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Eagle picked up Donald Wells at his hotel and drove him the short distance to his law office. They parked in the underground garage and took the elevator to Eagle’s seventh-floor penthouse offices.

He took Wells into his private office, sat him down and gave him coffee. “Don,” he said, “I want you to answer the questions of Martínez and Reese fully, but don’t overdo it; that would make you appear nervous and not credible. Answer only the questions they ask; don’t volunteer anything. If they fail to ask some question I deem important to your status, I will ask the question. They will record your answers, and they may well videotape you, as well. Do you have any objections to that?”

“No, none at all,” Wells replied. He seemed perfectly relaxed.

Eagle’s secretary came into the office with a courier package, and he opened it. “Ah, here are the documents concerned with your business setup and your financial statement.” He handed the statement to Wells. “Does this seem correct to you?”

Wells looked it over while Eagle reviewed the business documents.

“Yes, it does.”

“Then sign it at the bottom.” Eagle had his secretary come in and notarize it. “Mr. Martínez and Mr. Reese are here,” she said, “and they have some sort of technician with them.”

“Please send them in,” Eagle said. He stood and greeted the men and offered them coffee while the technician set up a video camera and fitted everyone with microphones.

“Are we ready?” Martínez asked.

“Perfectly,” Eagle replied.

Martínez nodded to the technician to start the camera, which was pointed at Wells. Martínez noted the date and time, then began. “This is the recorded statement of Donald Wells as to the facts surrounding the death of his wife and son. Present are Mr. Wells, his attorney, Ed Eagle, Detective Alex Reese and myself, Roberto Martínez, district attorney of Santa Fe County. Mr. Wells, are you aware that your voice and image are being recorded?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Do we have your permission to record this interview?”

“Yes.”

Martínez read Wells his rights and produced a Bible and swore him in. “Now, Mr. Wells, please give us an account of your actions from the time you first heard of the kidnapping of your wife and son.”

Wells went through his story in a lucid fashion, interrupted only occasionally by questions from Martínez and Reese.

“What did you do after you received the phone call saying your wife and son had been kidnapped?”

“I called the house and got no answer, then I called Mr. Eagle and asked him to go to the house and check it out. I gave him directions on where to find a key, and I also gave him the alarm code.”

“For the record,” Eagle said, “when I arrived at the house, the front door was unlocked and the alarm had not been armed.”

“My wife would normally only lock the door and arm the alarm if she was going out or before retiring at night.”

Martínez questioned Wells about the contents of his safe, which had been found open, and he replied fully.

“Our theory,” Eagle said, “is that the perpetrators threatened the boy, in order to get the combination from Mrs. Wells.”

Martínez nodded. “It strikes me as a very good way to give a hired killer an instant payoff,” he said.

“That is a conclusion not supported by the facts,” Eagle said.

“I had nothing whatever to do with the death of my wife and son,” Wells said.

“Then perhaps you can tell me why a kidnapper, facing the prospect of a five-million-dollar profit, would immediately murder his hostages for a fifty-thousand-dollar payoff?”

Wells shrugged. “Maybe he got cold feet, and when he found the contents of the safe, decided to settle for that.”

“I should point out, Bob,” Eagle said, “that the collection of a ransom is a very high-risk activity for the perpetrator, offering multiple opportunities to be caught, whereas the taking of the cash and gold coins held the promise of a higher level of safety.”

“But then why would he kill the woman and the boy?”

“Kidnappers,” Eagle said, “historically decide early in their planning whether to kill the hostages or free them after the ransom has been collected. This particular perpetrator obviously traded their lives for his own safety.”

“Did your wife have a will, Mr. Wells?”

“Yes, she did.”

“Are you aware of its provisions?”

“Only in a general sense, from what she told me. Both our wills were executed on the same day, placed in envelopes that were sealed by the attorneys, then placed in my safe in Malibu.”

“And what was your understanding of the benefits of the will with regard to yourself?”

“She mentioned nothing in that regard.”

“Was it your assumption that she would leave you a large bequest?”

“We never discussed it; her money was not a factor in our marriage.”

“A national magazine has ranked your wife as the fifth wealthiest woman in the United States,” Martínez said, “with a net worth in the billions.”

“She laughed at that when she heard,” Wells said.

Eagle spoke up. “Mrs. Wells did loan Mr. Wells the money to set up what has become a successful film company, and he repaid the loan. Here are copies of the relevant documents and a notarized copy of Mr. Wells’s personal financial statement, as prepared by his business manager. As you will see, he has a net worth of some twenty-five million dollars, which does not include Mrs. Wells’s share of their two homes, which would normally accrue to him upon her death. He earns a multimillion-dollar income from his film company, as well, so he would have no financial motive against his wife.”

“I think we’ll decide that after seeing Mrs. Wells’s will.”

“We will be happy for Mr. Wells to authorize his attorneys to give you a copy of the will, even though we do not know its contents.”

“How soon?” Martínez asked.

“I’ll call them today,” Wells replied.

“What else can we do for you, Bob?” Eagle asked.

Martínez looked at Reese, who shook his head.

“Have his attorneys fax me the will,” Martínez said, handing Eagle his card. “That will be all for the present.”

“Bob,” Eagle said, “is Mr. Wells a suspect in this case?”

“Let’s just say that he remains a person of interest,” Martínez replied.

“I would prefer it if you would couch that in more positive terms when you speak to the press,” Eagle said.

“I’ll just say that Mr. Wells has not been charged. Will he be available in Santa Fe if we have further questions?”

Eagle looked at his client. “Don?”

“My wife expressed a wish to be cremated and have her ashes scattered on our property in Santa Fe,” Wells said. “I can stay for a few more days, until that is accomplished, but then I must return to Los Angeles for business reasons. I have just finished shooting a film in Rome, and I must begin the postproduction process, if I am to make our release date.”

“When will the bodies be released?” Eagle asked.

“Today, I should think. All right, Mr. Wells, you may return to Los Angeles, but I would be grateful if you would be available by telephone.”

“Of course,” Wells said, handing Martínez his card. “And I want to say how grateful I am for your and Detective Reese’s efforts in the solution of this crime.”

Everyone shook hands cordially, and the visitors left.

“What do you think?” Wells asked when they were gone.

“You did well,” Eagle said.

“They didn’t ask whether I was having an affair, as you did.”

“Don’t worry, they’ll ask everybody else you know.”

“Do you think I’m a suspect?”

“Right now, you’re the only suspect.”

21

EAGLE SPENT THE remainder of the morning working on briefs and meeting with clients. Just before lunch he had a phone call from Joe Wilen.

“Good morning, Joe.”

“Morning, Ed. I’ve decided to take you up on your offer to introduce me to a real estate agent.”

“I’d be delighted to. What is your cell phone number?”

Wilen gave it to him.

“You’ll hear from an agent with French and French, named Ashley Margetson. She has an outstanding knowledge of the market, and I’m sure she can show you properties that will interest you.”

“I’ll wait for her call,” Wilen said.

BARBARA/ELLIE WIPED Walter Keeler’s genitals with a hot facecloth, eliciting a happy groan, then pulled the sheet up to his chin. She walked outside, sat down and used her cell phone to call Jimmy Long.

"Hello?”

“It’s Barbara.”

“Eleanor! How are you? Your car arrived a few days ago. What was that all about?”

“I flew off to San Francisco with a gentleman,” she said.

“That was fast work.”

“You heard I was acquitted, that I’m a free woman?”

“I did.”

“I’m sticking with the Eleanor Wright identity, though. Will you go see our friend in Venice and tell him I need a certified copy of my birth certificate? I want to get a real passport and driver’s license.”

“Sure, babe.”

“I’ll reimburse you, of course.”

“Don’t worry about it. I just turned my new film over to the studio and got a very nice check. What do you want me to do with your stuff?”

“Get rid of it all. Sell the car and keep the money. That will make us more than even. Give the clothes to the Salvation Army or something; I already have a new wardrobe.”

“You never cease to amaze me.”

“Are you sitting down? Stand by to be further amazed: I was married in San Francisco the day before yesterday.”

“Holy shit! Are you kidding me?”

“I kid you not. I am, at the moment, on my honeymoon at a beautiful hotel in the Napa Valley.”

“Who’s the lucky guy?”

“His name is Walter Keeler.”

“Hang on. I know that name, don’t I? From the Wall Street Journal, maybe?”

“You have a good memory, my dear. He sold his company— Keeler Avionics—a while back?”

“God, yes, I remember. He walked away with a bundle of money, didn’t he?”

“He walked away with a busload of money.”

“Man, you are something else!”

“We have a new apartment in San Francisco; got a pencil?” She gave him the address and phone number. “I’ll let you know when I get a new cell phone.”

“Well, baby, I hope this doesn’t mean we can’t fuck each other from time to time.”

“From time to time,” she said, laughing. “I won’t forget you.”

“I’ll send you the pink slip for the car to sign, so I can sell it.”

“You can mail me the birth certificate, too, and as soon as possible, please. I have to run now, sweetie, but I’ll be in touch.”

“I’ll send you the birth certificate pronto. Take care!”

She hung up and sighed. Soon she would be legally documented again, and there would be no stopping her.

A DAY AFTER Joe Wilen’s call, Eagle received another.

“Hello, Joe.”

“Ed, I found a place, and it’s just perfect. I talked it over with my wife, and she’s all for it, so I want to proceed to closing. The house is empty, and it’s all cash, so I guess all I need is a title search.”

“Give me the details, and I’ll get that taken care of immediately. When do you want to close?”

“Do you think we can do it tomorrow? I want to get it done before my wife has second thoughts.”

“Tell Ashley to set it up at my office late tomorrow afternoon, and you’ll be home in that King Air by bedtime.”

“Will do.”

Eagle noted the details of the property, gave Wilen his account number for wiring closing funds and said good-bye. He called the title company and got the search started; they would do it quickly for him.

THE FOLLOWING DAY, Ellie and Walter were having lunch at Galiano Vineyards with the owner, Emilio Galiano, an old friend of Walter’s. He made some of the best wines in Napa, wines that people lined up to buy well in advance of their general release.

“I must say, Walt,” Emilio said, “you have outstanding taste in wives.”

“You bet your ass I do,” Walter replied.

“You’re sweet, Emilio,” Barbara said. “Walt, what would you think of buying a little vineyard in Napa? Wouldn’t that be fun?”

“Fun?” Galiano asked. “It’s bloody hard work, is what it is.”

“I’ve been trying for years to get Emilio to sell to me,” Walter said, “but he enjoys teasing me too much about how willing he is to sell.”

“I’m not playing with you,” Emilio said. “I might just sell. You know, I’ve been training my winemaker for eight vintages now, and he’s very, very good.”

Walter sniffed his glass and tasted the wine. “I cannot but agree. Your kids aren’t really interested in running the place, are they, Emilio?”

“Well, the girls are busy raising my grandchildren, and I have no sons, so . . .”

“Name a figure,” Walter said. To his surprise, Emilio named a figure.

Walter made a sucking sound through his teeth. “Woooo . . . you really think it’s worth that much, Emilio?”

“I’ve been thinking about it, and I do, Walt. Of course, that includes the acreage and the house. Besides which, I wouldn’t sell it for less. That price is only for you, because I know you won’t kick me out of my winery until you’ve sucked me dry of knowledge about how to run the place.”

“What do you think, Ellie?” Walter asked.

“You and Emilio know best,” she said. “I have no inkling of what the place is worth.”

Walter reached into a pocket of his jacket, which was hanging on his chair, and produced a checkbook. He wrote a check, handed it to Emilio and held out his hand.

Emilio feigned a coronary. “You mean it?”

“I’ll need a day to move enough money into my checking account before you cash the check. The lawyers can close later.”

Emilio looked at the check again, then reached across the table and shook Walter’s hand. “Done,” he said. He took Ellie’s hand and kissed it. “The new mistress of Galiano Vineyards,” he said.

“Of Galiano-Keeler Vineyards,” Walter corrected.

“As you wish,” Emilio said, smiling.

No, Barbara thought, as I wish. This said to her that Walter would do anything she asked of him as long as she kept him happy. And now she was in the wine business.

22

EAGLE PUT A stack of documents on his conference table and began handing them, one at a time, to Joe Wilen for his signature. When that was finished, the seller signed everything, and Eagle presented him with a cashier’s check for the selling price, less the real estate agent’s commission, a check for which he handed to Ashley Margetson.

“Congratulations, Joe,” Eagle said. “I admire your approach to buying property.”

“I would have been a lot more reticent if Ashley hadn’t shown me the perfect house,” Wilen said.

“Joe, may I speak to you privately for a moment?”

“Of course.”

The two men said good-bye to the seller and the agent, then sat down on Eagle’s sofa. “Joe, I would be grateful if you would deliver a confidential letter to Walter Keeler.”

“A letter from whom?”

“From me.”

“On what subject?”

“I’ll tell you only that it concerns his wife and that he should read it before he makes a new will.”

“I’ll need to know more than that, Ed.”

Eagle shook his head. “I’ve told Keeler in the letter that you are not privy to its contents. If he wants you to read it, that’s fine with me.”

Wilen shrugged. “All right, I’ll deliver your letter.”

Eagle took the envelope from his jacket pocket and handed it to Wilen. “I’m grateful to you, and I believe Keeler will be, too.”

“Walt has already given me notes for a new will; I have an associate drawing it in my absence, and Walt is supposed to sign it as soon as I get home.”

“Then I’m in time,” Eagle said. He stood up and offered his hand to Wilen. “I’ll look forward to seeing you and your wife when you move into your new house,” he said. “You must come for dinner.”

Wilen shook his hand. “Thank you, Ed, and thank you again for handling this closing with such dispatch.”

“It was my pleasure.” Eagle watched Wilen leave his offices and hoped to God that he would keep his word and deliver the letter.

THE FOLLOWING DAY, having returned to San Francisco with his new wife, Walter Keeler drove down to Palo Alto for the day to see his lawyer and to pack up some of his belongings there to move to the new apartment, so Eleanor had a day to herself. She used her new birth certificate and marriage certificate to obtain a driver’s license in the name of Eleanor Keeler, then had photos taken and hired an expediting service to obtain a passport for her.

She spent the rest of her day doing some serious shopping for her new wardrobe, taking pleasure in buying the best of everything with her new American Express card.

WALTER KEELER STOOD in his old home and pointed at things for the movers to take to the San Francisco apartment. Except for his clothes, papers, books and pictures, he would sell the house furnished. When the movers had left, he took one last look around the place, then left and drove to his lawyer’s office.

Joe Wilen greeted him warmly. “Just got back from Santa Fe last night,” he said, “and I bought a house there.”

“That’s great; it’s a beautiful place,” Keeler replied. “You know, Joe, you should sell the King Air and make the jump to a jet. I’m moving up to something with transatlantic range; why don’t you buy my CitationJet? It’s actually easier to fly than your King Air.”

“Walt, that’s a damned good idea,” Wilen said. Keeler named a very low price, and Wilen agreed. “I’ll need to get signed up for the training right away,” he said.

“Why wait? The airplane is at Hayward, but I’ll have it flown over to San Jose for you tomorrow. You can have my hangar rental, too; I’m building something bigger.”

Wilen buzzed his secretary and asked her to cut a check for the airplane and to download the FAA registration forms from the Internet. “We’ll wrap it up now,” he said to Keeler.

“Good for you, Joe! It’s a beautiful airplane; you’ll enjoy it.”

“The house is not far from the first tee at a development called Las Campanas. Maybe I’ll whittle down my handicap, who knows?”

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Keeler said. “I’ve bought Emilio Galiano’s vineyard and winery in Napa.”

“Wow! I thought he would never sell.”

“That’s what I thought, too, but I guess I caught him at a weak moment. I asked him to name his price, and he did. I gave him a personal check, so will you move the funds from my investment account and close the deal for me? You have my power of attorney.” He jotted down the figure and handed Wilen the paper.

“Sure, I’ll move the money right now. Any preference on what to sell?”

“You figure it out, Joe; you know I hate to deal with that stuff.”

“Okay, there’s enough in your tax-free municipals fund.” He buzzed his secretary and gave her instructions for wiring the funds to Keeler’s checking account, and when she brought in the form, he signed it and told her to fax it immediately.

Wilen opened an envelope on his desk and set a sheaf of papers before him. “Here’s your new will. Are you ready to sign it?”

“Yes, I am.”

Wilen handed him the will. “Please read it first.”

Keeler read through the new will. “Joe, do you think I should make Eleanor my executor? I mean, I know you’ll do a fine job, but shouldn’t she have that power?”

“Do you think she has the knowledge and organizational ability to deal with a complex estate like yours?”

“You have a point, Joe. I don’t know.”

“Then perhaps it would be best to leave things as they are. I’ll certainly do everything possible to look out for her interests.”

“Of course you will, Joe, and I trust you implicitly. Shouldn’t you get some witnesses in here, before I sign this thing?”

“I have one other duty to you first,” Joe said. “Have you heard of a Santa Fe lawyer called Ed Eagle?”

“Yes, I believe I have. Didn’t he win that big judgment against one of my competitors a while back?”

“That’s the fellow. I met him when I was in Santa Fe. We were partners in a golf tournament, and he was kind enough, when I expressed an interest in buying a house there, to introduce me to an agent. He also handled the closing. I liked him very much, and he’s certainly a fine lawyer.”

“I’m sure he is, but what does he have to do with your duty to me?”

Wilen took a sealed envelope from a desk drawer and pushed it across the desk to Keeler. “He asked me to personally deliver this letter to you.”

Keeler looked at the envelope but didn’t pick it up. “What is this, some business deal?”

“No, it’s not that. He declined to tell me anything about what’s in his letter, except that it concerns your wife.”

“Ellie? Does he know her?”

“I don’t know, but he said it was important that you read it before signing a new will.”

“How did he know I would be signing a new will?”

“He knew that you had remarried, so I assume he thought that you would, in the normal course of things, make a new will.”

“I’m not sure I like the idea of a lawyer I don’t know writing me letters about my wife,” Keeler said.

“My impression was that he believed he was acting in your interests.”

“You said he didn’t tell you what was in the letter; how do you know he’s acting in my interests?”

“That was just my impression of his intent. He said that he didn’t mind if you told me what was in the letter, but he wouldn’t tell me himself.”

“Joe, my interests and those of my wife are one and the same,” Keeler said. He picked up Eagle’s unopened envelope, walked across the room and fed it into Wilen’s shredder, then he came back and sat down. “Now,” he said, “let’s get those witnesses in here.”

Wilen called in his secretary and two associates and watched as Keeler signed the will and the three witnesses added their signatures.

“That’s it,” Wilen said. “Do you want the original or a copy? I can keep the original in my safe, if you like.”

“Do that, Joe, and give me a copy for Ellie.”

Wilen sent the will to be copied. Shortly, his secretary returned with the copy of the will and the FAA documents and check for the CitationJet. Wilen signed the check, and Keeler signed the transfer of the registration.

Keeler stood up. “Joe, will you deposit the check for the airplane in my account here for me?”

“Of course. I’ll send my secretary to the bank now.”

Keeler stuck out his hand. “Thank you, Joe. You’re a good lawyer and a good friend.”

Wilen shook his hand and watched his friend leave. He wondered what the hell had been in Ed Eagle’s letter.

23

WALTER KEELER GOT into his rented Mercedes and tossed the envelope containing the copy of his will onto the passenger seat. He pulled out of the building’s garage, switched on the radio to a local classical music station and started north on Highway 101, Mozart caressing his ears. He had just passed through Fair Oaks when a report came over the radio of an accident on the San Mateo-Hayward Bridge that was backing up traffic for miles, south of San Mateo. He saw Woodside Road coming up and knew that it would take him to I-280, so he made a left, congratulating himself on saving a lot of time.

Once on I-280, driving north in fairly heavy traffic, he took his cell phone from its holster, called the management company that took care of his airplane at San Jose Airport and asked for the manager.

“Hello, Ralph, it’s Walter Keeler. How are you?”

“Just fine, Mr. Keeler. What can I do for you?”

"I’ve just sold my airplane to my friend Joe Wilen. You know him, don’t you?”

“Of course. We take care of his King Air.”

“Well, he’s going to be selling it, because I’ve just sold him my CitationJet.”

“Congratulations to you both. I hope I’m not losing a customer.”

“No, I’m moving up to a larger airplane, so I’ll still be around. The CitationJet is over at Hayward right now. Can you send a pilot over there to fly it back to San Jose?”

“Sure. I’ll have somebody over there first thing tomorrow morning.”

“I think Joe is going to want my hangar, but you can talk with him about that.”

“Be glad to. Anything else I can do for you?”

“That’s it, Ralph. See you soon.” As Keeler closed the cell phone it vibrated in his hand. He looked down at the screen to see who was calling. It was Ellie. He flipped it open again. “Hi, there,” he said.

“And hi to you. Where are you?”

“I’m on the way back to San Francisco. I had to leave 101 because of an accident on the San Mateo Bridge, so I’m on I-280 now, and the traffic’s okay, so I should be home in an hour or so.”

“That’s good. I’ll have a drink waiting for you.”

“I’ll see you . . .” Keeler looked up and saw something he couldn’t believe: a tanker truck had jackknifed in the oncoming lane and had crossed the median, traveling sideways. “Oh, shit!” he yelled, a second before he and the car next to him struck the tanker.

Ellie listened in disbelief as the noise of the explosion came over the cell phone, a split second before it went dead. She stood on the terrace, the phone in her hand, wondering what to do. She went into Walter’s study, found his address book, called Joe Wilen’s office and asked to be put through to him.

“Hello, Ellie?”

"Joe, I’ve just been on the phone with Walt, and I think he’s been in an accident.”

“Where is he?”

“On I-280, somewhere south of San Francisco.”

“That makes sense, I guess. Why do you think he’s been in an accident?”

She told him about their interrupted conversation.

“Are you at home?”

“Yes.”

“Let me make a call, and I’ll get right back to you.”

“All right.”

Wilen hung up, went to his computer address book and dialed the direct number of the commander of the California State Highway Patrol in Sacramento. The man answered immediately.

“Colonel, it’s Joe Wilen.”

“Hello, Joe.”

“I believe Walter Keeler may have been in an accident on I-280 North, south of San Francisco. Do you know anything about that?”

“Hang on a minute,” he replied, then put Wilen on hold.

Joe sat, tapping his foot, hoping that this was all some mistake.

The colonel came back on the line. “Joe, switch on your TV.”

Wilen switched on the flat-screen television in his office and tuned to a local channel. He found himself watching a helicopter shot of an enormous fire on the interstate. “Jesus Christ!” he said.

“That’s on I-280,” the colonel said. “I’ll call our nearest station personally and find out if Walter’s mixed up in that.”

“Thank you, Colonel.” He gave the man his office and cell numbers, then he called Ellie. “I’ve spoken with the highway patrol commander in Sacramento, and there’s a huge fire on I-280. Turn on your TV set.” He waited for her to come back.

“I see it, Joe. Don’t tell me Walter is involved in that.”

“I don’t know, but Walter is a big contributor to the governor’s campaigns, and the colonel knows it. We’ll find out as soon as possible. I’ll call you back.”

ELLIE SAT AND watched the fire on the TV. "I hope to God Walter signed that will,” she said.

AN HOUR PASSED before the phone rang again in Joe Wilen’s office. “Hello?”

“It’s Colonel Thompson. Do you know what kind of car Mr. Keeler was driving?”

“It was a rental,” Wilen said. “He was moving from Palo Alto to San Francisco today, and he drove down from San Francisco. I expect it was a Mercedes, because when he rented, that’s what he always asked for. I don’t know the color.”

“The color isn’t important anymore,” the colonel replied. “There was a Mercedes smack in the middle of that conflagration. The fire’s out, now, and they’re removing bodies. We’re going to need Mr. Keeler’s dental records.”

“I’ll have them faxed to you,” Wilen said, jotting down the number. “Walter and I go to the same dentist.” He hung up, made the call to the dentist and waited.

It was nearly dark when the colonel called back. “Thanks for the dental records, but it looks like we won’t need them. We found a fragment of a driver’s license on one of the bodies, which was badly burned. It belongs to Walter Keeler.”

“You’re sure there’s no mistake?”

“I’m sure. The car was consumed, but Mr. Keeler apparently got out of the car before the fire got to him.” The colonel gave Wilen the number of the morgue where the bodies had been taken. Wilen thanked him and hung up.

He picked up the phone to call Ellie Keeler; then he put it down again and called another number instead.

“Ed Eagle,” the voice said.

“Ed, it’s Joe Wilen.”

“Hello, Joe. Are you back in Palo Alto?”

“Yes. Ed, I’m going to need you to fax me a copy of the letter you wrote to Walter Keeler.”

24

EAGLE WAS QUIET for a moment. "Joe, I’m afraid I can’t do that without Keeler’s permission.”

“Ed, Walter Keeler died in an automobile accident south of San Francisco a couple of hours ago.”

“I’m sorry; I didn’t know. Did Keeler sign a new will?”

“I can’t go into that right now, Ed, but I need a copy of your letter.”

“All right. It’s on my home computer. I’m leaving the office now; I’ll fax it to you in half an hour.”

Wilen gave him the fax number. “Thank you, Ed. I’ll wait here for it.”

Wilen hung up and walked to the window. Lights were coming on in Palo Alto.

His secretary came to the door. “Mr. Wilen, I think I’m done for the day. Is there anything else you need?”

“No, Sally,” he said. “I’ll be here for a while; I’m waiting for a fax.”

“Eleanor Keeler called when you were on the phone a few minutes ago.”

“I’ll call her,” Wilen said. He said good night to his secretary, went back to his desk and dialed the number.

“Hello?”

“Eleanor, it’s Joe Wilen.”

“What have you learned?”

“I’ve had a call from the state highway patrol. Walter was killed in the crash. They identified his body from a fragment of his driver’s license.”

“Are they sure?”

“I believe so, but I’ve had his dental records sent there for a positive identification. I think it will be a day or so before that can be done.”

Eleanor sounded as if she were crying. “This can’t be,” she sobbed. “We’ve only been married a week. What am I going to do?”

“Eleanor, do you have any family or friends you can call?”

She seemed to get control of herself. “No, nobody in San Francisco. Nobody at all, really.”

“I think the best thing for you to do tonight is just to have some dinner and try to get some rest. I’ll call you tomorrow and tell you what I’ve learned.”

“Joe, what am I going to do? I don’t even know if I have any money.”

“You and Walter have a joint bank account, don’t you?”

“Yes, he opened one at the San Francisco branch of his bank last week.”

“You can draw on that for anything you may need,” Wilen said.

“Joe, I know this is an awful thing to ask, but did Walter sign his new will?”

“Yes, he did, and you are very well taken care of, Eleanor. I’ll come up there in a couple of days and go through everything with you, but please be sure that you have no cause for concern.”

“Thank you, Joe. That makes me feel better.”

“Good night, Eleanor. Try and get some rest.”

“I will, Joe. Good night.” She hung up.

As Wilen hung up the phone, he heard the fax machine in his secretary’s office ring. He walked into her office and switched on the lights. The machine was cranking out two sheets of paper. He took them back to his office.

He sat down, switched on his desk light and began to read. As he did so, his eyes widened. He had been expecting unfavorable information, but what Eagle had to say was astonishing. The woman was not only a fraud, she was very likely a murderer. He read the letter twice, doing his best to commit it to memory.

If Eagle had only told him about this in Santa Fe, he could have prevented Walter from signing the will. He would have done anything to make him read the letter. Now Walter had willed this awful woman more than a billion dollars in liquid assets!

Wilen could not shake the feeling that, somehow, this was his fault. He had failed to protect his friend and client, the man who had made him rich beyond his dreams. He had to find a way to fix this.

ELEANOR WRIGHT KEELER ordered in dinner from an impossibly expensive fancy grocer down the street. She sat on her terrace, drinking from a well-chilled bottle of Veuve Cliquot Grande Dame champagne and eating beluga caviar with a spoon from a half-kilo can. When she had eaten all she could stand, she called Jimmy Long.

“Hello?”

“Jimmy, it’s Barbara.”

“Hey Babs.”

“My husband was killed in a car crash this afternoon.”

“Oh, God, Babs, I’m so sorry!”

“Don’t be, baby; I’m a fucking billionaire!”

“What?”

“I’m not kidding. He signed a new will today that leaves me everything—well, almost everything. He said there would be some bequests to his alma mater and some charities, but damned near everything!”

“You take my breath away, kid. What are you going to do with yourself?”

“Any fucking thing I want!” she crowed. “I’m going to buy a jet airplane and fly around the world, stopping everywhere! You want to go?”

“You bet I do.”

“Wait a minute, I already have a jet airplane. It’s not big enough, though. I’m going to buy one of those . . . what do you call them, the ones that can fly from here to Tokyo nonstop?”

“A Gulfstream Five?”

“Yes, that’s the one.”

“They cost forty or fifty million dollars.”

“What the fuck do I care? I’ve got a billion!” she exulted. “I can buy anything! Go anywhere!”

“That’s unbelievable!”

“I know, I know. I just had to tell you, baby.”

“I’m glad you did.”

“Listen, it’s going to take a few days to sort everything out. I guess there’ll have to be a funeral or a memorial service or something. Then, when all that’s over and the estate is settled, I’m coming to L.A. and buying something nice in Bel-Air.”

“Great idea!”

“Something big, for entertaining, something with an Olympic-sized pool—one of those old movie star mansions, maybe!”

“You deserve it, kiddo, after all you’ve been through.”

“You’re damned right I do! I’ll call you, Jimmy!”

She hung up and did a little dance around the apartment, making exultant noises. She could have anything!

BACK IN HIS OFFICES, Joe Wilen sat at his secretary’s desk, reading Walter Keeler’s will on her computer. Two pages needed fixing. He began fixing them.

25

DETECTIVE ALEX REESE of the Santa Fe Police Department read through the last of a stack of financial documents he had gathered from various sources, including Donald Wells’s business manager in Los Angeles, then he got up and went over to the D.A.’s office. The secretary told him to go right in.

“Morning, Alex,” Martínez said. “What’s up?”

“My background check on Donald Wells didn’t turn up much. He was born in a little town in Georgia called Delano, and he got his job at Centurion Studios through the chairman there, who is from the same town. He got arrested for domestic violence against a live-in girlfriend fifteen years ago, but the charges were dropped. He had a lot of parking tickets and a few speeding tickets when he was younger, but he seems to have calmed down the past ten years or so.”

“Have we got motive?”

“I’ve combed through all of Wells’s financials, and, in my opinion, there’s more than enough there for motive to kill his wife.”

“Tell me.”

“In short, Wells would have nothing, if he hadn’t married Donna. When they met, he was working for Centurion Studios as an associate producer, which is one notch up from gofer in that business. He meets Donna, then a couple of months after that her husband is dead, and a year or so later, they’re married. She loans him three million dollars to set up his own shop. He rents office space from the studio, pays himself half a million dollars a year, probably six times what he had been making, and starts acquiring books and magazine articles and having screenplays written from them. Out of the first half dozen things he produced, one was a big hit—a horror thing aimed at teenagers called Strangle. Within three years he had made enough back to repay his wife’s loan.

“The two houses he co-owned with his wife were bought entirely by her, but the deeds were recorded in both their names. This real estate co-ownership adds twenty million dollars to his net worth, as expressed on his financial statement. Apart from the houses, his net worth is under five million, and three million of that is expressed as accounts receivable from Centurion or his film distributors, and he has to perform to receive those funds, delivering scripts, mostly. Set those receivables aside and he’s worth less than two million bucks, not much for a supposedly successful film producer. His first benefit from his wife’s will is that her half of the real estate goes to him, nearly doubling his net worth. He does have a high income, though, from his company: an average of two and a half or three million a year.

“His wife’s will also leaves him five million dollars—more than enough for motive right there—but the fact that his wife and son died simultaneously leaves him in a much more favorable position, since her son was her principal heir. It’s only a guess right now— we’ll need to subpoena her financial records—but it looks like his inheritance could be in the region of half a billion dollars.”

“Wow,” Martínez said. “I’d certainly call that motive.”

“His alibi holds. I spoke to the manager of the Hassler Hotel in Rome, and he supports both Wells’s contention that he was in Rome when his wife died and that he received the phone call from his Santa Fe house when he said he did.”

“So, he would have had to hire somebody. Any candidates?”

“My best guess is somebody he worked with in the movies, either in L.A. or Santa Fe. He’s shot a couple of movies here. I’ve compiled a list of people who worked for him from the credits of his pictures. On the theory that anyone he knew well enough to ask to kill his wife would have worked for him more than once, I’ve come up with a list of thirty-one names of people who worked on two or more of his movies, and I’m running them through the New Mexico, California and federal databases for criminal records. I should have something by tomorrow that will give me the basis for interviews.”

“That’s good work, Alex. What if none of them pans out?”

“I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.”

“Okay, let me know who in that list of thirty-one people looks good.”

“I’m likely to have to go to L.A. to question some of these people, so I’ll send you a travel authorization.”

“How long will you need there?”

“Probably no more than a week, but Wells isn’t going to be a flight risk. He’s going to sit tight and let the legal process work to get his wife’s will probated, which could take months.”

“Right. There’s something else I’d like you to look into, Alex.”

“What’s that?”

“Wells told us in his deposition that Mrs. Wells’s first husband was killed in a mugging in New York.”

“That’s right, he did.”

“I’d like to know if there’s any chance Wells had a hand in that. Call the NYPD and see if you can track down the detectives who investigated the killings and see if you can figure out where Wells was when it happened.”

“That’s a good idea, Bob; I’ll get on it.”

“Don’t talk to Wells about it just yet. If he was involved, I want him to think he skated on that one.”

“I won’t talk to Wells again until I’ve come to you first.”

“Good. I don’t want Ed Eagle to know how interested we are in his client, either.”

“Yeah, it’s interesting that when Wells got the kidnapping threat, he didn’t call the police but called a lawyer, instead.”

“Yeah, I find that very, very interesting.”

26

JOE WILEN, after a night of little sleep, arrived at his office and found a message from his contact at the state police. He returned the call.

“Good morning, Mr. Wilen,” the colonel said.

“Good morning, Colonel. Do you have any news for me?”

“Yes, the dental records you sent us match the teeth of the corpse carrying Walter Keeler’s driver’s license.”

“Would you send me the coroner’s report and a death certificate?”

“Of course, I’ll do it right away. My condolences on the loss of your friend. We’ll be releasing the names of the deceased today.”

“By the way, Colonel, did anything in the car survive the fire? Any papers or other contents of Walter’s pockets?”

“No, the fire consumed the car and its contents entirely. The only reason the driver’s license fragment survived was that Mr. Keeler was thrown clear of the car.”

“Thank you, Colonel, and thank you very much for your assistance in this matter. I wonder if I could ask your help on another matter?”

“Anything I can do, Mr. Wilen.”

“I’m going to fax you a letter concerning Mrs. Keeler. I’d be grateful if you could ascertain or refute the assertions made in the letter.”

“I’ll do what I can.”

“This must be held in the strictest confidence, Colonel, as you will see, and I’d like you to destroy the letter afterward.”

“As you wish.”

Wilen thanked him, faxed the letter, then called his secretary. “Margie, please get Lee Hight and the two of you come into my office.”

“Yes, sir.”

Lee Hight was the associate who had drafted Walter Keeler’s will, and Margie had proofed it on her computer. The two women knocked and entered Wilen’s office.

“Please sit down,” Wilen said. “Lee, Margie, I have some bad news: Walter Keeler was killed in an automobile accident on the way to San Francisco after our meeting here yesterday.”

The two women looked shocked.

“I’m very sorry, Joe,” Lee said.

“So am I, Mr. Wilen,” Margie echoed.

“I’ve asked you in here, because I have to make an important decision, and before I do, I want to get your opinion. First, I want to read you a letter from a Santa Fe attorney named Ed Eagle. Mr. Eagle gave me the letter a few days ago, when I was in Santa Fe, and asked me to deliver it to Walter. He did not tell me the contents of the letter, only that it concerned the woman Walter married last week. I assumed that the contents were unfavorable to her, because Eagle asked me to deliver the letter to Walter before he signed his will.

“I gave Walter the letter, but he declined to read it. He walked over to my shredder and fed the unopened letter into it. At that point I called the two of you and Helen Brock in here to witness the will. I haven’t asked Helen to join us. Lee, when you were drafting the document, did Helen see any of it?”

“No, Joe, she didn’t.”

“So only the three of us know the contents of the will.”

The two women nodded.

“Here is the letter from Ed Eagle.” Wilen read the entire letter to the two women.

The two women sat in stunned silence for a moment. “That’s appalling,” Lee said finally.

“Now, here’s my question to both of you. You were both well acquainted with Walter Keeler. Do you think that, if he had been in possession of this information about his wife, he would have signed his will in its present form?”

“No,” Margie said. “Of course not.”

“Not unless he was out of his mind,” Lee said.

“I knew him better than either of you, and I entirely agree. If I had known the contents of the letter from Eagle, I would have insisted that Walter read it before signing, but I didn’t. Eagle faxed me the letter yesterday, after I told him of Walter’s death.”

“Joe,” Lee said, “I want to remind you that Walter’s will, after all his other bequests, leaves his wife more than a billion dollars in liquid assets.”

“Thank you, Lee, but I don’t need reminding. Now, the three of us have to make a decision together, and it has to be a unanimous decision. I warn you now that what I am talking about here is nothing less than a criminal conspiracy, a felony punishable by years in prison. I am considering altering the terms of Walter’s will by replacing two pages of it with new pages which will accomplish two things: one, I will set up a trust that will pay Mrs. Keeler fifty thousand dollars a month for life, contingent on her noncriminal behavior, and give her possession for life, but not ownership, of the San Francisco apartment, which Walter paid seven million dollars for. Two, it will reduce to one dollar the inheritance of any beneficiary, including Mrs. Keeler, who contests the terms of the will or who complains about it to the press.

“Walter’s copy of the will was destroyed in a fire that accompanied the accident, so the original on my desk is the only copy. I am proposing to forge Walter’s initials on these two pages with my pen—the same pen that Walter signed with—and substitute the two new pages for the old pages leaving Mrs. Keeler that huge inheritance. I believe that she will accept the will, especially when she learns what I know about her past. Do you both understand what I want to do?”

“Yes,” both women said simultaneously.

“If I do this, you will substitute a new computer file on both your computers, so that everything matches. Lee, do you still have my notes for drafting the will?”

“No, after you approved my draft, I shredded them.”

“Now, I have to ask each of you what your wishes are in this matter. Please remember that I am suggesting that you become part of a conspiracy to deny Mrs. Keeler the fortune she is legally entitled to and that her husband wanted her to have. If you agree to join me in this conspiracy, you can never tell another soul what I’ve done, and if you are ever deposed, or if you testify in court about this matter, you will have to perjure yourselves to protect yourselves. Do you understand what I am asking of you?”

“Yes,” both women said.

“If either of you feels, for any reason, that you should not do this, I will shred the new pages of the will and have it probated as it stands, and we can all forget that this conversation ever took place. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” both women said.

“What do you wish to do? Margie?”

“Put the new pages in the will.”

“Lee? This is a particularly important decision for you, because should the conspiracy ever become known, you would lose your law license and your livelihood.”

“I have two questions, Joe,” Lee said.

“Go ahead.”

"First, if this money does not go to Mrs. Keeler, to whom will it go?”

“Under the terms in my redraft, it will be put into a charitable trust already mandated in the will.”

“And two, will Mrs. Keeler have any part in managing the estate?”

“No, she will not. I will remain the executor of the will and Walter’s trustee, and after the estate is probated, I will have as little contact as possible with Mrs. Keeler. This law firm will manage the charitable trust, and a large part of our work here will have to do with that.”

“Then I am happy to take part in denying the bitch the money,” Lee said. “Where do I sign?”

“You don’t have to sign,” Wilen said. “You can both leave now, and I will personally alter the will. Last chance to change your minds.”

Both women shook their heads.

Wilen handed them each a computer disk. “Please copy this onto your computers, replacing the old file, and erase the backup files.”

The two women accepted the disks and left Wilen’s office.

Wilen carefully initialed the two pages and inserted them into the will. He shredded the old pages, then went to his secretary and handed her the will.

“Margie, will you make a copy of Walter Keeler’s will for Mrs. Keeler and file the original in the office vault?”

“Of course, Mr. Wilen. I’ll have the copy for you in just a moment.” She walked to the copying machine, placed the document on top and pressed a button. A moment later, she handed Wilen the copy.

“Thank you, Margie.”

Wilen took the copy into his office and sat down. He held a hand out in front of him. It was perfectly steady. He had never done anything like this in his life, but he would have done anything to protect Walter Keeler’s interests, in death as well as in life.

27

DETECTIVE ALEX REESE checked into his Los Angeles hotel, then drove his rented car to Centurion Studios. The guard at the main gate confirmed his appointment, then put a studio pass on the dashboard of his car and gave him directions to the security office.

Reese parked in a visitor’s spot, walked into the building and presented himself to the secretary of the head of security. “I’m Detective Alex Reese of the Santa Fe Police Department; I have an appointment with your head of security.”

“Of course,” she replied, then pressed the intercom button. “Mr. Bender, Detective Reese is here.” She hung up the phone. “Please go in, Detective.” She pointed at the door.

The door opened, and a man in his shirtsleeves waved him in and stuck out his hand. “I’m Jeff Bender, Detective; please come in and have a seat.”

Reese took a seat on a leather sofa, and Bender sat down in a facing chair. “What can I do for the Santa Fe P.D.?”

“Mr. Bender . . .”

“Jeff, please.”

“And I’m Alex. Jeff, I’m investigating the murder in Santa Fe of Mrs. Donald Wells and her son, Eric.”

“Yes, I know about that; it’s been big in the L.A. papers. I assume that, since you’re here, Don Wells is a suspect?”

“We have no evidence against him, but he is, of course, a person of interest.”

“Yeah, I understand that she was very, very rich. Always a good motive for the husband. I was a homicide cop on the Beverly Hills force; I know how it goes.”

“May I speak to you in confidence about this?”

“Of course.”

“My working theory of the case is that, since Mr. Wells was in Rome at the time, he could have hired someone to kill his wife, and that, if he did so, he might have hired someone who worked for him in the movie business.”

“Reasonable assumption,” Bender said. “Have you found anything to back it up?”

“That’s why I’m here. Another assumption is that such a person would be someone who Wells knows well and trusts, so he or she would probably be someone who has worked for him on several pictures.”

“Wells has produced only eight or ten pictures,” Bender said, “so it wouldn’t be hard to narrow the list.”

“I’ve already done that,” Reese said. “From a list of thirty-one people who’ve worked as crew on more than one of Wells’s pictures, I’ve found six who have arrest records, and I’d like to discuss them with you.”

“Who are they?”

Reese ripped out a page of his notebook and handed it to Bender.

“Five men, one woman,” he said, reading the names.

“Do you know them?”

“Only one of them: Jack Cato, a stuntman. I think one of the other guys, Grif Edwards, is a stuntman, too. I know him when I see him. What kind of records do they have?”

Reese consulted a sheet of paper. “Cato has had a number of arrests for disorderly conduct or assault over the past seven years. He seems to have a tendency to get into bar fights.”

“Yeah, I’ve had to bail him out a couple of times, once in L.A., once on location in Arizona.”

“And Edwards stole a couple of cars when he was in his early twenties, got probation, which he served without incident, then he took a baseball bat to his brother-in-law after the man beat up his sister. That was two years ago.”

“What about the records of the others?”

“The three other men had arrests for domestic abuse, either with a girlfriend or a wife. The woman apparently ran with a Hispanic gang for a couple of years and had a shoplifting conviction. Nothing for the last four years, so maybe she straightened out her life.”

Bender went to his desk and began typing on his computer. “Four years is how long she’s had her job. Tina López started as an assistant seamstress and is now a seamstress in the costume department. She seems an unlikely candidate, though she might know someone from her gang past who would do the job. However, it’s unlikely that Wells would have had much contact with her, since she’s pretty far down the pecking order from a producer, especially one with his own company.

“Cato has worked at Centurion as a stuntman and wrangler for twelve years and Edwards for nine. Edwards’s specialty is car work: chases, crashes. Former stock-car racer. The other three guys are in makeup, accounting and catering—like the woman, pretty far removed from Wells. I wouldn’t think they would make good suspects.”

“Okay, I’ll talk to Cato and Edwards first. How do I find them?”

Bender did some more computer work. “They’re both full-time employees: Cato at what we call the ranch, where animals are kept, out on the back lot; Edwards at the motor pool. When he’s not doing stunt work, he’s a mechanic. Neither is working on a film right now. Why don’t I go along with you, lend a little studio authority to the interviews?”

“I’d appreciate that,” Reese said.

Bender got his coat and put on a western straw hat. “Keeps the sun off my fair skin,” he said. “A day in the sun means a trip to the dermatologist.” He led the way outside, and they got into a golf cart. “It’s how we travel on the lot,” he said.

Reese had a good look at the studio as they drove down a long avenue with big hangar-like buildings on both sides.

“These are the soundstages, where interiors are filmed,” Bender said. He stopped at an intersection and pointed. “Down there is the New York street set, which is the most-used standing set on the lot.” He began driving again. “The studio commissary is over there, and down the side streets are the office buildings where the independent producers, like Wells, rent space. There are also bungalows that are dressing rooms for our stars.”

He swung the cart into a large shedlike building and stopped. It looked like the workshop of an auto dealer, only larger. There were a number of hydraulic hoists, and along the rear of the building were two rows of parked vehicles with covers over them. “The cars back there are period stuff, everything from Packards to delivery vans to a fire truck.”

A man in coveralls approached the golf cart. “Hey, Jeff,” he said to Bender. “What can I do for you?”

“Hi, Ted. This is Alex Reese; we’d like to talk to Grif Edwards. He around?”

Ted pointed. “He’s working on the car on the lift, last on the left.”

Bender drove down to the lift and stopped. A man in coveralls was using a grease gun on what looked like a late-forties Ford. “Grif Edwards?” Bender called out.

The man turned and looked at Bender. “Who wants to know?”

28

CUPIE DALTON SAT in front of his computer, looking at the Air Aware program. He picked up the phone and dialed a number.

"Ed Eagle.”

“Hi. It’s Cupie.”

“Hello, Cupie.”

“Walter Keeler’s airplane has made a move but only from Hayward to San Jose, a short hop.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore, Cupie; Walter Keeler is dead.” Cupie’s jaw dropped. “She offed him already?”

“Apparently not. Keeler was killed in a collision with a gasoline tanker truck on the freeway while Barbara was in San Francisco.”

“Holy shit. I hope he hadn’t made a new will.”

“I hope so, too, but it’s possible. His lawyer wouldn’t say. I gave him a letter for Keeler, but he didn’t read it, so I had to fax the lawyer a copy.”

“A letter about Barbara?”

“All about Barbara.”

“So what’s next?”

“My guess is that Barbara is going to be stuck in San Francisco for a few days at least, while she buries her husband and reads his will.”

“You know what I think? I think a very rich Barbara would be more dangerous than ever.”

“Yes, in my experience, the very rich tend to feel omnipotent, and an omnipotent Barbara is not a good thought.”

“You have any instructions for me?”

“Yes. Bribe somebody in her building to keep an eye on her and let you know if she leaves town.”

“I can do that; I got acquainted with the super on our last visit.”

“Apart from that, just sit tight. I may have some work for you in L.A. soon. I’ve got a new client who might get charged with murder. His name is Donald Wells, and somebody killed his very rich wife and her son while he was in Rome. I think the cops and the D.A. like him for it. Wells is a movie producer based on the Centurion lot.”

“I know the head of security at Centurion, Jeff Bender. You want me to pay him a visit?”

“Maybe you should. I would like to know as early in the game as possible if the Santa Fe police are investigating Wells.”

“I’ll give him a call.”

“Okay. And keep me posted on Barbara’s whereabouts.”

“Will do.”

GRIF EDWARDS LOOKED like a central-casting hoodlum out of a Warner Brothers noir movie—big, heavyset, broken nose, blue stubble—just the sort of guy who would beat up Bogart in act 1 and take a slug in the last scene.

“I’m Jeff Bender, studio security,” Bender said. “This is Alex Reese, out of Santa Fe P.D. He’d like to ask you a few questions, and I’d like to hear your answers.”

Edwards looked back and forth at the two men, then shrugged. “Okay.”

“Mr. Edwards, where were you last weekend, Friday through Sunday?”

“I went down to Tijuana, to a bullfight,” Edwards replied.

“What day was the bullfight?”

“Saturday and Sunday.”

“Who was fighting?”

“I don’t know. Some spic guys.”

“Anybody get hurt?”

“Naw, I was hoping, but they all walked away. The bulls didn’t do so good.”

“What else did you do in Tijuana?”

“Drank some tequila, ate some tacos, got the runs.”

“Who did you go with?”

“Buddy of mine.”

“What’s his name?”

“Jack Cato. He works on the back lot.”

“Anybody else?”

“Just the two of us. We drove down in my car.”

“Where’d you stay?”

“Some dump not far from the bullring.”

“Its name?”

“Beats me. Some spic name.”

“How many nights?”

“Friday and Saturday. We drove back Sunday, after the fight.”

“You know a producer on the lot called Don Wells?”

“Sure, I worked three or four of his pictures. We’re not exactly buddies, though.”

“Ever see him socially? Have a drink or something?”

“Naw.”

“Thanks for your time, Mr. Edwards.”

Bender turned the golf cart around and headed out.

“I saw a rack of time cards near the door,” Reese said. “I’d like to see what time Edwards clocked out last Friday.”

“Okay.” Bender stopped the cart, went to the rack and found Edwards’s card, then he got back into the car. “Five eleven.”

Reese wrote down the time.

“Now let’s go see Jack Cato, and see if they’ve got their stories straight,” Bender said.

The buildings were left behind them, and Reese found himself driving down the dirt street of a western town. They passed the saloon, the jail and the general store and came to a building with the fading words LIVERY STABLE painted in large letters on the side. Next to it was a corral with half a dozen horses in it.

“Here we are,” Bender said. “This is both a set and a real stable.” He led the way through the big doors to a small office inside.

A tall, wiry man in jeans and a work shirt looked up from a desk, where he had a hand of solitaire dealt out. “Hey Jeff,” he said, standing up and offering his hand. His leathery skin and narrow eyes were right out of a B western. “What can I do you for?”

“Hi, Jack. This is Alex Reese, Santa Fe P.D. He’d like to ask you some questions.”

“Questions? About what?”

“Just tell him what he wants to know, okay? It’s lunchtime, and I’m hungry.”

“Hell, all right.”

“Mr. Cato, where were you last weekend?”

“Me and Grif Edwards—he works over to the motor pool—was down in Tijuana.”

“When did you leave L.A.?”

“We got out a little early on Friday, to beat the traffic. Around three, I guess.”

“What time did you get to Tijuana?”

“Well, shit, we didn’t beat the traffic, so it was pretty near bedtime when we got there.”

“What time was that?”

“I don’t know, ten, maybe.”

“Where’d you stay?”

“A little hotel called the Parador, down near the bullring. That’s what we went down there for, the bullfights.”

“Who was fighting?”

“Shit, I can never remember their names.”

“How many bullfights did you go to?”

“Well, we went Saturday and Sunday, and there was three each afternoon. We came on back when they was over on Sunday.”

“What time did you leave?”

“Around five, I guess. There was less traffic, so we were back in L.A. around nine.”

“Do you know Don Wells, a producer on the lot?”

“Well, yeah, I’ve worked most of his pictures, either as a stuntman or an extra.”

“He’s a buddy of yours, then?”

“Sort of. We play poker every Thursday night, when he’s in town.”

“Where do you play?”

“Over at his office.”

“When was the last time you played?”

“Right before he went to Italy. That was a few weeks ago.”

“Does Grif Edwards play, too?”

“Yeah, he’s a regular.”

“I guess that’s it. Thanks a lot.”

“Don’t mention it. See you, Jeff.”

The two men got back into their golf cart and drove away.

“Okay, I guess that went well,” Bender said. “Cato lied about what time they left on Friday, and Edwards lied about not knowing Wells socially.”

“It’s a start,” Reese said.

29

JOE WILEN TOOK the elevator up to Eleanor Keeler’s apartment, accompanied by his associate, Lee Hight. Eleanor met him as he stepped directly into the foyer. “Thank you so much for coming to San Francisco, Joe,” Eleanor said, shaking his hand warmly and ushering him into the living room. “I don’t even have a car. Walter was going to ship his two cars up here along with his household goods, but none of that has arrived yet.”

“Eleanor, may I introduce my associate, Lee Hight?”

The two women shook hands, then Eleanor sat down on the living room sofa and offered them the facing chairs. “Can I get you anything? Coffee?”

“Thank you, no,” Wilen said. “I’d rather get directly down to business.”

“Of course. I must say, Joe, that you look a little grim this morning.”

Wilen didn’t respond to that. “Much has transpired since we met on your wedding day,” he said, avoiding using her name.

“Well, yes, you’re right about that.”

“Including some events you don’t yet know about. That’s why I’m here.” Wilen set his briefcase on the coffee table, opened it and placed the copy of the doctored Keeler will before her. “This is the will that Walter executed an hour or so before his death in the accident,” he said. “It makes very specific bequests to you, and I want to tell you about the bequests and the conditions attached to them.”

“Conditions?” Eleanor was looking wary now.

Wilen ignored the question. “Walter took me aside on your wedding day and gave me some notes for a new will. When I returned to the office, I gave the notes to Lee, here, along with my instructions, and asked her to draft the will while I was away for a couple of days in Santa Fe.”

Eleanor’s expression changed ever so slightly at the mention of Santa Fe.

“I played in a golf tournament in Santa Fe, and my partner was your former husband, Ed Eagle.”

Eleanor’s face became stony. “A very untruthful man,” she said. “I hope you didn’t believe anything he told you about me.”

“Mr. Eagle wrote a letter to Walter and asked me to deliver it. He did not tell me of its contents but said Walter could, if he wished to.”

“A letter?”

“This letter,” Wilen said, handing her the copy from Eagle.

She glanced through it. “This is preposterous,” she said.

“No, it is not,” Wilen replied. “I took the precaution of having the state police check it out, and they confirmed all of the major assertions.”

“You don’t understand,” she said.

“It doesn’t matter whether I understand. Walter was at the point of signing his new will when I gave him the letter. When he had finished reading it, he showed me the letter and told me that he wished to make some changes in the will before he signed it. He dictated some new instructions to me, and I asked Lee to make the changes. When Walter had read the new draft, he signed it in the presence of three witnesses, as you will see on the final page.”

“Just give me the short version,” Eleanor said, her face hard.

“Walter has left you a stipend of fifty thousand dollars a month for life, to be paid from a trust that now also owns this apartment. He has also given you lifetime occupancy of the apartment but not ownership. You may neither sell or rent the apartment or use it for any other purpose than your residence. You will be held liable for any damage to the apartment. Both the stipend and your residency in the apartment are contingent on noncriminal behavior on your part. Should you be convicted of any felony, the stipend will stop immediately, and you will be given thirty days notice to vacate the apartment.”

Barbara had gone pale. “That was not what he gave me to believe,” she said. “I was to get everything after his charitable bequests.”

“He changed his mind after reading Mr. Eagle’s letter,” Wilen replied.

“This will not stand. I will break this will.”

“I should point out that Walter also dictated a clause stating that, if any of his heirs contest the will or complain about its terms to the press, his or her inheritance will be reduced to one dollar.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Eleanor spat.

“I assure you that it is perfectly legal, as is everything else in this will, and I can assure you, as Walter’s executor, that, if necessary, I will expend whatever funds are necessary to uphold the will. I don’t think you would be able to find a lawyer anywhere who would contest the will under these circumstances.”

“What about Walter’s airplane?”

“He sold it the day he signed his will. He planned to buy a better one but never had the chance.”

“What about the vineyard we bought?”

“I spoke with Emilio Galiano, and he has released the estate from the sale and returned Walter’s check.”

“But that was to be mine!”

“A great deal might have been yours but for your dishonesty.” Wilen closed his briefcase and stood up. “I want to make it perfectly clear that I in no way represent you legally. I do not wish to speak to you again. If you have any need to communicate with me, put it in writing and send it to my office. Do you understand?”

Eleanor stood up. “Get out.”

Wilen turned to go, then stopped. “Oh, by the way, you have about ninety thousand dollars in your checking account, and you may keep that. Walter’s household goods and cars will not be shipped here; they are now part of his estate. You will receive your payments on the first of each month, wired to your checking account. Good day.” Wilen stalked out of the apartment, followed by Lee Hight.

They were out of the building before either of them spoke. “That was very good, Joe,” Hight said.

“It was very satisfying,” Wilen replied.

“I’m very glad that we acted as we did with regard to the will.”

“If I had any doubts, they have all been resolved,” Wilen said.

BARBARA PACED THE living room of her apartment, crying and swearing, cursing Walter Keeler, Ed Eagle and Joe Wilen aloud. “I will make you pay, Ed Eagle!” she cried. “And you, Joe Wilen, will eat dirt before I’m done with you!”

DOWNSTAIRS, the superintendent of the apartment building opened an envelope in his mail and found five one-hundred-dollar bills. A note told him that he would receive another five hundred each time he reported on the movements of Mrs. Walter Keeler. He put the money in his pocket, smiling. His wife didn’t need to know anything about this.

BARBARA FELL ASLEEP on the living room sofa, and it was late afternoon before she woke. She was calm, now, and resigned to the terms of the will. At least she got six hundred thousand a year out of that fucking Walter, she thought, and the use of this apartment.

But while she was calm, her anger at Ed Eagle and Joe Wilen had shrunk into a cold, hard lump in her breast. She would deal with both of them.

30

CUPIE SAT AT his table in the garden at Spago Beverly Hills and waited for Jeff Bender to arrive. He had known Bender since he was a rookie detective in Beverly Hills, when Cupie was an LAPD detective, and they had always been friendly. Bender liked chic restaurants, and Cupie was happy to entertain him at one, especially since Ed Eagle was buying.

Cupie’s cell phone rang, and he answered. “Cupie Dalton.”

“Mr. Dalton, this is the superintendent at Mrs. Keeler’s apartment building.”

“Yes, what’s up?”

“Mrs. Keeler left for the airport a few minutes ago. She said something to the doorman about being in Los Angeles for a few days.”

“Right. Your money will be in the mail today.” He hung up.

Cupie saw Bender enter the restaurant and work his way across the garden toward their table, waving at acquaintances and occasionally stopping to shake hands and chat for a moment. Finally, he reached the table, shook Cupie’s hand and sat down.

“What are you drinking?” Cupie asked as a waiter appeared.

“Absolut martini, two olives, very cold,” Bender replied.

“A Diet Coke for me,” Cupie said. The waiter departed.

“You on the wagon, Cupie?” Bender asked.

“Nope, it’s just that if I drink at lunch, I fall asleep in the afternoon. The golden years will come to you, too, Jeff.”

“What are you up to these days?”

“I’m a busy bee, I am,” Cupie replied. “I guess word must be getting around about what an ace P.I. I am.”

“What sort of stuff you working on?”

“Oh, a widow who’s been a bad girl; a husband who may have been a bad boy. That sort of thing.”

“I wouldn’t have thought you’d be interested in the domestic stuff,” Bender said.

“Listen, I’m not kicking down doors and snapping Polaroids, kid; this is very important, big-money stuff.”

Bender seemed to prick up his ears. “How much money we talking about?”

“Oh, a billion here, a billion there.”

Their drinks arrived, and they raised their glasses and sipped.

“Tell me,” Bender said, “would one or more of these billions relate to somebody at Centurion?”

Cupie grinned. “You’re way ahead of me, Jeff.”

“Well, I didn’t think you were springing for Spago because you like a pretty face at your table.”

“I suppose you already know the name of the gentleman.”

“It wouldn’t be one Donald Wells, movie producer and recent widower, would it?”

“The name has a familiar ring,” Cupie said. “Seems there was something about the gent in the papers the last few days.”

“Oh, it’s big news and drawing attention from various places.”

“What sort of places?”

“Santa Fe, of course, since that’s where it all went down.”

“Who in Santa Fe?”

“A detective specializing in homicides.”

Cupie flagged down a waiter and ordered another round.

“Why, Cupie, I think you’re trying to get me drunk.”

“Come on, Jeff, a second martini never made you blink.”

“I’m not resisting,” Bender said, as the second drink arrived.

“What would the name of this detective be?” Cupie asked.

“Alex Reese.”

“And what was he looking for?”

“Detective Reese is a very smart fellow,” Bender said. He told Cupie about how Reese had combed the credits of Wells’s movies for suspects.

“And who at Centurion did he find?”

“Two very likely candidates, I should think.”

“Tell me about them.”

“Two staff stuntmen, who double, in one case, as a wrangler and stable hand, and in the other, as a mechanic in our motor pool.”

“Names?”

“Jack Cato and Grif Edwards, respectively.”

“You know them?”

“I know Cato, and I’ve met Edwards.”

“You think they’re the kind of guys who would kill for money?”

“I think Edwards would kill for money,” Bender said. “I think Cato would kill for money, then blackmail the guy who paid him to do it. He’s the smarter of the two and the leader.”

“And Reese is now a dog with a bone.”

“You bet your ass he is. I’d give you odds that right now he’s checking the guest list at the Parador Hotel in Tijuana, which is where these two boys claimed to have been on the relevant dates. It seems they’re aficionados of the bullfight, though they couldn’t come up with any of the names of the toreros in question on the dates in question. Also, Edwards lied about how well he knew Wells, and Cato lied about when they left for Tijuana. I’ll bet Reeves is checking airline reservations between L.A. and Santa Fe, too.”

“Are these guys smart enough to get away with it?”

“Cato may be; Edwards certainly isn’t. In fact, I think that if this cop gets much closer to them, Edwards could meet with a fatal accident.”

“Courtesy of Cato.”

“If the boy has the balls to kill one of America’s richest women, do you think he’d hesitate to cap Edwards, if he began to think he was a liability?”

“What about Don Wells?” Cupie asked.

“What about him?”

“Does he have the balls to cap Cato, in similar circumstances?”

“Well, now, that’s a very interesting question,” Bender said. “You know, all sorts of people are smart enough or crazy enough to hire somebody to remove a wealthy spouse from the scene, but could Wells point a gun at Cato and pull the trigger? I don’t know. I really don’t.”

AFTER HE HAD poured Jeff Bender into his car, Cupie sat in his own vehicle and got out his cell phone.

“Ed Eagle.”

“It’s Cupie. The superintendent in Barbara’s building says she left for Los Angeles this morning. She told the doorman she’d be away for a few days.”

“Good to know. Let me know when she goes home. How did your meeting with the security guy go?”

“It went very well indeed; you’ll get the bill from Spago. Sorry about that, but Bender has expensive tastes when somebody else is buying.”

“Tell me it was worth the money.”

“I believe it was. It seems that a cop from Santa Fe named Reese has questioned two studio stuntmen at Centurion; names Jack Cato and Grif-with-a-G Edwards.”

“And?”

“Bender thinks they look good for it. They claim to have been in Tijuana when the killings took place, but he thinks Reese might punch holes in that.”

“That’s very interesting to know, Cupie.”

“A strong hint that Bender is right could come if Grif Edwards meets with an unfortunate accident. He sort of predicted that. Cato is the smart one, and Edwards is not.” He explained about the lies Reese had caught them in.

“Cupie, you can take anybody to Spago on my dime, anytime you think it’s useful,” Eagle said.

“You want me to pursue any of this further?”

“Not at the moment, but let me know if anything happens to Edwards.”

“You betcha.”

31

ED EAGLE AND Susannah Wilde sat at their table at Santa Café and waited for Joe Wilen and his wife to arrive. “I told you about helping him find a house, didn’t I?” Eagle asked.

“Yes, you did and about closing the sale, too.”

“They’re back to move in, I think,” Eagle said. He looked up and saw them walk into the dining room. “Here they are.”

“Hello, Ed. I’d like you to meet my wife, Sandi. Sandi, this is Ed Eagle and . . .”

“Susannah Wilde,” she said.

The couple sat down.

“Good flight in?” Eagle asked.

“Yes, and the return trip will be my last in the King Air. I’ve sold it to an old friend.”

“You must’ve bought something else,” Eagle said.

"I bought Walter Keeler’s CitationJet Three; I start training in it for my type rating next week.”

“That will make the trips from the coast to Santa Fe quicker.”

“I’m pleased about it, too,” Sandi said. “I never liked the idea of propellers; I was always afraid that one would fall off. Or both.”

They ordered drinks and dinner.

“By the way, Ed,” Wilen said, “I can answer that question you asked me last time we spoke.”

“What question was that?”

“The answer is yes, Walter did read your letter before signing his will, and as a result, his wife’s inheritance was sharply limited. She gets a monthly stipend and the use of an apartment, and that’s it.”

“And how did she take the news?” Eagle asked.

“Not well. I had the pleasure of delivering it personally.”

“Joe, I hope you got the message in my letter to Walter, that she is dangerous when crossed.”

“Oh, at my suggestion, Walter included a clause cutting off her payments and evicting her if she is convicted of criminal activity, so I don’t think she’ll be out to get me.”

“That was a smart move. Did you explain that to her, as well?”

“You bet I did and in no uncertain terms. I’m glad to see the back of that woman.”

“I hope you have.”

“Does she know about my letter?”

“Oh, yes. I showed her a copy when I delivered the news, so she knows that you were the cause of her downfall from billionairess to pensioner.”

Eagle and Susannah exchanged a glance. “Oh,” Eagle said.

“I hope I did the correct thing,” Wilen said. “You didn’t ask that I keep it confidential.”

“You’re quite right, Joe, I didn’t, and nothing you did was incorrect.”

“Are you in your new house, yet?” Susannah asked Sandi Wilen.

“In would be too strong a word, but we’re got all the basic furniture, and before I go back to Palo Alto I expect to have it in pretty good shape. We’ll be sleeping there from tomorrow night.”

“I bought Walter Keeler’s home furnishings from his Palo Alto house,” Wilen said. “Had everything valued, then bought it from the estate, including two cars. The moving van will be here tomorrow.”

“That should save a lot of time,” Eagle said.

“Walter and I had similar taste,” Sandi said, “so it’s a good fit. It will remind us of him, too. We’re going to miss him.”

“I’m sure,” Eagle replied.

“I’ve joined the golf club at Las Campanas,” Wilen said, “so Ed, you and I will have to play before I start my jet training.”

“I’d like that,” Eagle said. “Joe, you said that Mrs. Keeler got occupancy of an apartment. Where?”

“In San Francisco. Walter bought it a week before he died, paid seven million dollars for it.”

“Whew!” Susannah said. “She’ll be well housed.”

“She can’t sell it, though?” Eagle asked.

“Nope, and she can’t rent it, either.”

“Well, Mrs. Keeler is going to be a very angry woman,” Eagle said, half under his breath.

“What?”

“Nothing, Joe. Tell us about the house.”

BARBARA/ELEANOR EAGLE/KEELER GOT off an airplane in Los Angeles and took a cab to Jimmy Long’s house. Jimmy greeted her with a big hug.

“Hey, baby,” he said. “I’m glad to see you.”

“Oh, Jimmy, I’m glad to see you, too,” she said.

He took her bags upstairs and had a drink waiting for her when she came down.

“God, I’m glad to be out of San Francisco,” she said, sinking into a chair.

“I guess the memories are not good.”

“Right, but not for the reason you think.”

“I don’t understand. The town made you a billionaire; why wouldn’t you love it?”

She told him about Eagle’s letter and Walter’s change of heart. “I got fifty grand a month and the use—the use, mind you—of the apartment, and that’s all.”

“That’s horrible, sweetheart,” Jimmy said. “Still, you did all right for the work of a week or two.”

“I guess so,” she said, “but it’s depressing.” She took a long draw of her drink. “Jimmy, darling, can I ask you a question in confidence?”

“Of course.”

“I mean it. This is just between you and me.”

“Of course.”

“You know a lot of people, a lot of different sorts of people, right?”

“Yes, I suppose I do.”

“Did you ever run across anyone in your travels through life who would do anything for money?”

“Boy, have I! That pretty much describes everybody in this town!”

“I mean this quite literally, Jimmy.”

“What, specifically, did you have in mind that somebody might do for money?”

“I suppose what I’m talking about is a hit man.”

Jimmy looked at her for a moment. “Are you quite serious?”

“Quite.”

Jimmy took a sip of his drink and looked thoughtful. “There have been rumors around town for years about a guy named Al who owns a gun shop on Melrose, but I’m not even sure he’s still alive. And if he is, he’s probably too old for that sort of work.”

“Who else?”

Jimmy thought some more. “You know, I produced a western over at Centurion a couple of years ago. Remember The Long Ride?”

“Sure, I do. I loved it.”

“There was a stuntman on that picture that I heard a rumor about. Somebody told me that he had arranged a car ‘accident’ some years back. Out on the Pacific Coast Highway, I think.”

“What was his name.”

“Jack . . . Cass. No, Cato. Jack Cato.”

“I’d like to meet him,” she said.

32

ALEX REESE MADE a call to Tijuana, to a cop he knew on the federal police force there.

“This is Captain Rios,” the voice said.

“Juan, this is Alex Reese, in Santa Fe. How are you?”

“Very well, Alejandro! And you?”

“I’m just fine. I’m working a case that requires some information from Tijuana, and I hope you can help me.”

“Of course, if I can.”

“There is a hotel near the bullring called Parador.”

“Yes, I know it. It is one step up from a flea farm.”

Reese gave him the dates. “I need to know if two men stayed there. Their names are Cato and Edwards. Could you find out for me?”

“I will do so immediately,” Rios said. “Can you hold?”

Reese waited for three or four minutes, then Rios came back on the line.

“Alex? There were two American couples at the hotel on those dates, registered under those two names.”

“Couples?”

“As in a man and a woman? Mr. and Mrs. Jack Cato and Mr. and Mrs. Griffen Edwards. The clerk remembered that they paid in cash.”

“Thank you, Juan, and it’s good to talk to you again. Let me know if I can ever do anything for you in Santa Fe.”

“I will do so, Alex. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye.” Reese hung up and pondered this information. Why did neither Cato nor Edwards mention women? He picked up the phone and called Jeff Bender at Centurion.

“Bender.”

“Jeff, it’s Alex Reese. I need some more information, and I wonder if you could get it for me?”

“If I can.”

“I checked out the Parador Hotel in Tijuana, and there were two American couples registered under the names of Cato and Edwards on the relevant dates. Could you ask the two guys who the women were? I’d like to know if they have the names ready for the question, and, of course, who they were, so I can talk to them. I need phone numbers, too.”

“Sure, Alex, I’ll talk to them after lunch; I’m tied up until then.”

“You’ve got my number.” Reese hung up and went to work on airline reservations between L.A. and Albuquerque the weekend of the murders.

JACK CATO HAD a letter delivered by the studio mailman, an unusual event, since he got his mail at home. There was no return address, but the postmark was Los Angeles. He opened it and found a single sheet of paper.

Mr. Cato,

You come very well recommended. I have a highly paid job open that might interest you. If you’d like to know more, please be at the Seaside Café near the Santa Monica Pier at noon tomorrow. Take a table outside, sit facingthe sea, and when I’m sure you’ve come alone, I’ll join you. If you don’t show, I won’t contact you again.

Cato’s first thought was that this was a setup, maybe by that cop from Santa Fe. His phone rang, and he picked it up. “Jack Cato.”

“Hi, Jack. It’s Jeff Bender. The Santa Fe cop called and asked me to check something with you.”

“What’s that?”

“Were you and Grif Edwards with anybody in Tijuana?”

“Yeah, there were a couple of girls.”

“I need their names and phone numbers.”

Cato gave him the names. “They’re both in the L.A. phone book; they room together.”

“Okay, Jack. Thanks. I don’t think you’ll hear any more from Detective Reese. He’s already back in Santa Fe.”

Cato hung up and read the letter again. What the hell, there was nothing incriminating about checking this out.

BARBARA AND JIMMY LONG arrived at the Seaside Café at eleven thirty and took a table that allowed them to view the outside tables. At one minute past twelve a pickup truck pulled up to the curb, and a man got out.

“That’s Cato,” Jimmy said.

They watched as he chose a table and took a seat facing the Pacific Ocean.

“Order me the lobster salad,” Barbara said. “I’ll be right back.” She got up, took her handbag and walked outside.

CATO ORDERED A beer and began reading the menu.

“Sit still and close your eyes,” a woman’s voice said from behind him. She removed his sunglasses and put another pair on him. “All right,” she said a moment later, “you can open your eyes, but keep the glasses on.”

Cato opened his eyes, but he could see nothing. The glasses were large and tight fitting, and the lenses were black. “Who are you?”

“That’s not important,” she said. She had, apparently, sat down across from him.

“Who recommended me to you?”

“That person would prefer not to be known.”

“All right, what is this about? I have to be back at work.”

“There’s an envelope on the table in front of you,” she said.

He reached out and found it.

“It contains twenty-five thousand dollars in one-hundred-dollar bills,” she said. “I want you to kill two men for me. They are in two different cities, and no one will connect them.”

“You’ve got a lot of nerve, lady.”

“Yes, I have. Now all that remains is to find out if you have enough nerve for this job.”

“Are you a cop?”

“Certainly not, and no cop has anything to do with this. Now listen to me carefully. Inside the envelope is a sheet of paper with the names and addresses of the two men. There is also an untraceable cell phone number. You have two weeks to get the jobs done. I don’t care how you do it. When you have killed the first man—it doesn’t matter which one is done first—you will receive another twenty-five thousand dollars in the mail at your home address. When you have killed the second man, you will receive another fifty thousand dollars by the same means. Do you understand?”

“Why do you think I will do this?”

“Because it’s not the first time you’ve done it, Jack, and you always need money. You have twenty-four hours to think it over. When you’ve decided, call the cell phone number and tell me. If you don’t want the job, we’ll arrange for the return of the money. Now count slowly to twenty, then you can take off the glasses.”

BARBARA WENT BACK into the restaurant, sat down and began eating her lobster salad.

JACK COUNTED TO twenty and took off the glasses. He opened the envelope and found the money there, as she had said. There were two names, one in Santa Fe and one in Palo Alto, and directions on how to find them. He looked around at the other patrons of the restaurant and didn’t see anyone he thought might be the woman, so he put a ten-dollar bill on the table, got into his truck and drove away.

He had been back in the stable office for an hour when the phone rang. “Jack Cato.”

“Mr. Cato,” a woman’s voice said, “this is Ms. Bishop at GMAC. You’re two payments behind on your truck loan, and unless we have payment immediately, we’re going to have to take the truck.”

Cato fingered the money in the envelope on the desk. “I’ll send you a money order today,” he said.

“Can we count on that?”

“Yes, you can.” He hung up and dialed the cell number on the paper in the envelope.

“Yes?” a woman’s voice said.

“This is the man you met in the restaurant.”

“Yes?”

“I’ll do the job.”

“You have two weeks,” she said. “If you’re late, I’ll have you killed.” She hung up.

Cato hung up, too, and found that he was sweating.

33

ALEX REESE GOT a call from Jeff Bender, at Centurion.

“Hello, Jeff. That was fast.”

“It only took a phone call. The two women’s names are Tina López and Soledad Rivera. Cato says they’re both in the L.A. phone book. Tina is the seamstress at Centurion who was on your list of possible suspects when you came to see me.”

“Thank you, Jeff; can you tell me any more about them?”

“One of my people knows her and says she’s a real looker, with a fabulous body. I haven’t checked it out, myself.”

“Maybe I’ll check it out for you,” Reese chuckled.

“You never know; it might be worth a trip back to L.A.”

“If it is, I’ll buy you lunch,” Reese said. He said goodbye and hung up. Immediately his phone rang.

“Detective Reese.”

It was the D.A.’s secretary. “He’d like to see you,” she said.

“I’ll be right there.” He walked over to the D.A.’s office and presented himself.

“Take a seat, Alex,” Martínez said. “Give me an update on your investigation into Donald Wells.”

“My trip to L.A. was productive,” Reese said. “Out of half a dozen crew members my research identified, two of them could very well be hired guns.” He told Martínez about Jack Cato and Grif Edwards.

“You like them?”

“Yes, but they have an alibi I’m going to have to crack.”

“Get on it.”

“It may require another trip to L.A.”

“Alex, you’re not going Hollywood on me, are you?”

“Could be.”

“All right. Send me the travel authorization. Any luck on tracing the Krugerrands from Wells’s safe?”

“They’re pretty much untraceable,” Reese replied. “I’ve checked with some dealers, and finding a gold dealer in L.A. who would testify to cashing them in would be next to impossible.”

“I was afraid of that,” Martínez said.

“I’m having trouble putting Cato and Edwards in Santa Fe, too; the airlines have no record of them having flown into Albuquerque, and, as you know, there’s no L.A.-Santa Fe connection.”

“They could have driven it,” Martínez pointed out.

“Possibly, but it’s a long hike, and there’s no way to prove it, unless we find a witness who saw them here, and that’s not in the cards.”

“Alex, I have to tell you, it’s beginning to sound like, if Wells did it, he’s going to get away with it.”

“Not just yet, Bob. I’m still on it.”

“Okay, Alex, but after talking to these two women, if you can’t break the alibi, I think we’re done.”

Reese went back to his office and made an airline reservation to L.A.

JACK CATO STAYED in his stable office after work. He managed to catch Grif Edwards before he left work.

“Grif, I need a favor.”

“What’s that?”

“I need you to go over to my house right now and let yourself in. You know where the key is. Wave at the neighbors, if you see them; answer the phone if it rings. Tell anybody who calls that I’m down with something that seems like the flu: fever, chills, you know. If you need groceries or beer, pick them up on the way over there, because I don’t want you to leave the house until well after I get home.”

“You need an alibi, huh?”

“There’s five hundred in it for you.”

“Okay, will do.”

Around eight Cato drove his golf cart over to the studio commissary and had dinner, then he went back to his office and slept on a cot in a back room until a little after midnight.

He opened the little lockbox in the bottom drawer of his desk and took out a ring of a dozen keys that he had collected over his years at Centurion, just in case, then he got back into the golf cart, drove back to the commissary and parked among three or four other carts there. From the commissary he walked a couple of hundred yards to a long, low concrete-block building, then, at the door, began trying keys. Finally, he found one that worked in the lock of the armory.

He let himself into the building and locked it from inside, then he took out a small flashlight and went into the armorer’s office to a padlocked metal cabinet, where he began trying more keys, until one worked.

He opened the cabinet to display a wall full of handguns that were neatly hung on pegs. He selected a Walther PPK .380, and in one of the drawers at the bottom of the cabinet he found a silencer and screwed it into the Walther’s barrel, checking for fit. When he was satisfied that the two mated properly, he unscrewed the silencer and put it into a jacket pocket, then he put the Walther into another pocket, locked the cabinet, let himself out of the building and relocked the front door.

Keeping close to the building’s wall, he walked back to the commissary and drove the golf cart back to the stable. Once there, he got into his truck and drove to a back gate of the studio, unlocked it with another of his keys and drove away.

He stopped for gas, paying cash, took the opportunity to enter the target’s address into the GPS navigator in his truck, then began following its spoken directions. Soon he was on the freeway, headed north, and by early morning he was in Palo Alto.

The GPS navigator obligingly took him directly to the target’s address, and Cato drove up and down the block a couple of times, checking it out. He parked on the street within sight of the residence and waited. He figured to take the day to identify the man, then follow him around until he had an opportunity. He loaded the Walther with hollow-point ammunition from his own supply, screwed in the silencer, then stuck it between the front seats of the truck and waited.

Shortly before eight A.M. the garage door of the house opened, and Cato saw a man loading a set of golf clubs into the trunk of a BMW 760. He backed the car out of the garage, closing the door with a remote control, and drove up the street past where Cato’s truck was parked.

Cato’s heart started beating a little faster. He started the truck, made a U-turn and followed at some distance. The neighborhood was slow to awake on a weekend morning, and there were only a couple of joggers and dog walkers to concern him. Then the target came to a traffic light and stopped.

As Cato approached, he checked ahead of and behind him. Both sides of the street were clear. He pulled up next to the BMW, in the left-turn lane, put it in park and rolled down his passenger-side window. He slid across the seat and shouted, “Excuse me!”

The man turned and looked at him.

“Mr. Wilen?”

The man rolled down the window. “Yes?”

“Are you Mr. Joe Wilen?”

“Yes, I am. What can I do for you?”

Cato pointed the gun at him. “Just hold still,” he said. The bullet struck Wilen just above the left eye, and he went down immediately. Cato didn’t feel the need for a second shot, since he was using hollow-point ammunition and since there were blood and brains all over the inside of Wilen’s windshield and dashboard.

He put the truck in gear, and as the light changed, turned left. In his rearview mirror he saw the BMW coast across the intersection and come to rest against a curb. He checked his pulse: up maybe ten beats, no more. He took a few deep breaths and worked on settling down. Then a police car appeared behind him, its lights flashing, giving him a low growl of the siren.

Cato signaled a right turn, then pulled over to the curb, his hands on the steering wheel, and waited. The police car drove straight past him, not even looking at him, headed to some other destination.

Cato took some more deep breaths, drove a few more blocks, and, when he stopped at another traffic light, selected his home address in the GPS menu and pressed the direct button.

Once on the freeway he stopped for gas and made a call from a pay phone to the cell phone number he had been given.

“Yes?” the woman’s voice said.

“The job in Palo Alto was completed an hour ago,” he said.

“When I have confirmation on the news or in the paper, I’ll send the next package. You have eleven days.” She hung up.

THAT NIGHT, back in L.A., Cato drove to Centurion, let himself in through the back gate, cleaned and oiled the gun, then took a thin file and scored the barrel enough to change the ballistic markings it would produce. He returned it to its cabinet in the armory, wiped clean of prints, and went home for some rest.

Grif’s car was parked on one side of the driveway. Cato let himself into the garage with the remote control and closed the door after him. It was dark outside, and he had seen none of his neighbors on the street.

Grif was sitting in front of the living room TV, eating chips and drinking a beer. “Hey,” he said.

“Evening.”

“Everything come out all right?”

Cato ignored the question. He peeled five hundreds off the roll in his pocket and handed them to Edwards. “Thanks for your help. Any calls?”

“Tina called. The cop from Santa Fe is coming to see her. She’s got her story down pat, though.”

“Good. Was that all?”

“There was a message from GMAC, saying they received your truck payment.”

“Good. Anybody else?”

“That’s everything. I saw your next-door neighbor when I got here yesterday with a sack of groceries. She asked after you, and I told her you were down with the flu. She wanted to bring over chicken soup, but I told her it wasn’t necessary.”

“All good,” Cato said. “I’m going to go get some sleep; you can go home, if you want to.”

“After the game,” Edwards said.

Cato showered, dove into bed and slept well.

34

ON SUNDAY MORNING, Eagle called Joe Wilen’s new Santa Fe house and got his wife, Sandi, on the phone.

“Good morning, it’s Ed Eagle.”

“Good morning, Ed.”

“Is Joe awake yet? I thought I’d roust him out for some golf.”

“No, he went back to Palo Alto Friday night; he had a tournament to play there this weekend, and he starts his flight training tomorrow.”

“Well, he’ll be out of pocket for a couple of weeks, I guess. Tell him I’ll see him when I see him.”

“Okay, Ed. Tell Susannah I’ll call her for lunch.”

“Will do. Bye-bye.” Eagle hung up and went to make breakfast. Susannah was up and in the shower.

He was about to start scrambling eggs when the kitchen phone rang. “Hello?”

“Ed?” It was Sandi Wilen, and she sounded shaky.

“Hi, Sandi. Anything wrong?”

"I just got a call from the Palo Alto police. They told me Joe is dead.”

Eagle took a moment to digest this. “Are they sure it’s Joe?”

“Yes, he had ID on him. He was shot in his car, on the way to the golf course.”

“When did this happen?”

“Yesterday morning. They’ve been trying to reach me, but they didn’t know about the Santa Fe house. A neighbor finally told them to try me here.”

“Sandi, I’m so very sorry. I didn’t know Joe very well, yet, but I was looking forward to getting to know him and having him as a neighbor.”

“Thank you, Ed.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

“No, I have to go back to Palo Alto. It’s going to take me all day, what with the airline connections.”

“Sandi, I’ll be happy to fly you directly to Palo Alto. We can be there by lunchtime, and I’m sure you’re going to need some help dealing with this when we get there.”

“I wouldn’t want to put you to that trouble, Ed, but . . .”

“I’ll pick you up in forty-five minutes, okay?”

“Well, all right, Ed. I really appreciate this.”

“See you then.” Eagle hung up.

Susannah appeared in fresh jeans and a sweater, her hair wet. “I don’t like the look on your face,” she said. “What’s happened?”

“Joe Wilen is dead, shot.”

Susannah was shocked. “Is it Barbara, do you think?”

“Yes, I do think. I’m going to fly Sandi home and see if I can help there.”

“Can I come?”

“Sure, if you want to. I could use some help with Sandi, I’m sure.”

“I’ll pack for a couple of days,” she said, disappearing into the bedroom.

EAGLE LANDED AT San Jose and soon they were at Palo Alto police headquarters. A detective came down and met them, and introductions were made.

“I want to see my husband,” Sandi said.

“Of course, Mrs. Wilen,” the detective said. “We’ll need your identification of the body. I’ll get someone to take you over to the morgue.” He picked up the phone and made a call. A moment later another detective appeared and escorted her away, with Susannah in tow.

“May I speak with you, Detective?” Eagle asked.

“Sure, let’s use this room over here.” The detective led Eagle into an interrogation room and closed the door. The two men sat down.

“Please tell me how Joe Wilen died.”

“Your name again?”

“Ed Eagle. I’m an attorney, friend of the family. I may be able to help.”

“Mr. Wilen was scheduled to play in a golf tournament yesterday morning. He left his house and a few blocks away, he stopped at a traffic signal. We think another vehicle drove alongside his car and someone shot him once in the head. The weapon was a .380, the bullet a hollow-point. One was all it took. A jogger found the car a few yards away; it had come to rest against a tree at low speed, and the engine was still running. The jogger didn’t see another vehicle, but from the angle of the wound we think it was a taller vehicle, an SUV or a truck.”

“I think I may have a suspect for you.”

“Tell me who he is.”

“It’s a she, and she has more than one name: Barbara Eagle, sometimes; recently she was calling herself Eleanor Wright; and a couple of weeks ago, she married a Palo Alto man, Walter Keeler.”

“I know who Keeler is, sure,” the detective said. “He was killed last week in a car crash on the interstate.”

“That’s correct.”

“What would Mrs. Keeler’s motive be for killing her new husband?”

“I don’t think she did that, but I think she either killed Joe Wilen or hired someone to do it.”

“Okay, what was her motive for killing her husband’s lawyer?”

Eagle explained about the letter he had written, that Wilen had shown to Keeler, causing him to change his will. “If Wilen hadn’t shown him the letter, Mrs. Keeler would have inherited more than a billion dollars. After he read it, he cut her inheritance down to fifty thousand dollars a month for life and the use, but not the ownership, of their San Francisco apartment.”

“So she was angry with Wilen?”

“Oh, yes, and she told him so to his face. He told me, and I warned him to be careful.”

“Are you related to Mrs. Keeler?”

“She’s my ex-wife. She was recently tried for a double murder in L.A. and got off—this was only a few weeks ago.”

“And where can I find her now?”

“Maybe at her San Francisco home, but she could also be at the home of a friend called James Long, in Los Angeles.”

There was a knock on the door, and the detective got up and opened it.

An attractive woman in her thirties stood there. “Detective Hayman?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Lee Hight. I’m an associate of Joe Wilen—actually, his law partner.”

The detective offered her a chair and brought her up to date.

“I was at the meeting where Joe told Mrs. Keeler about her inheritance,” she said. “The woman looked as though she might kill him on the spot. It was scary.”

“So you concur that Mrs. Keeler should be our chief suspect?”

“Without any doubt.”

“Do you have the address of her San Francisco apartment?”

Hight gave it to him.

“Expect her to have a good alibi,” Eagle said, “but she’s responsible for Joe Wilen’s murder, I promise you.”

35

EAGLE AND SUSANNAH drove Sandi Wilen to her home, and she insisted that they stay overnight. They consented, and Susannah cooked dinner for them that evening.

“Ed, you think Walter Keeler’s widow had something to do with this, don’t you?” Sandi asked over dinner. “You told us at dinner the other night that she could be dangerous.”

“I have no doubt that she is responsible,” Ed replied. “She probably hired someone, because it would be too dangerous for her to do it herself, given the clause in Walter’s will, cutting her off if she committed a crime.”

“Did you tell the police detective about her?”

“Yes, I did, and Joe’s law partner, Lee Hight, added her weight to the opinion.”

“Lee is a good person and a good lawyer,” Sandi said. “Joe made her a partner in the firm just this past week.”

“Does the firm have a lot of clients?”

“One or two of Joe’s friends. Most of the work was for Walter Keeler, and Joe said that would continue to be the case, because they’ll be administering Walter’s estate, which, as you can imagine, is considerable.”

The doorbell rang, and Sandi went to answer it. She came back with Lee Hight. “Lee, you’ve met Ed Eagle; this is his friend, Susannah Wilde.”

Lee sat down. “Mr. Eagle, you should know that, tomorrow morning, I’m going to cancel all payments from Walter Keeler’s estate to Mrs. Keeler and issue an eviction notice for the apartment.”

“Lee, do the terms of Keeler’s will allow you to do that because you suspect Mrs. Keeler, or does she have to be convicted?”

“The will says she has to be convicted, but what the hell, she can sue us.”

“Please don’t do this,” Eagle replied.

“Why not? Do you think she’ll pursue it through the courts?”

“Yes, but more important, I think you would be placing your life in danger. If she has already had Joe killed, do you think she would hesitate to go after you? She’s a very angry woman.”

Hight looked worried. “I hadn’t got that far in my thinking,” she said.

“My advice is to continue to make the payments, and as soon as she’s convicted, stop them.”

“I guess that’s good advice,” Hight said. “I’m just so fucking angry about this, I’m not thinking straight.”

“Sandi tells me Joe made you a partner last week. Do you have that in writing?”

“Yes, Joe took care of that.”

“Then go run your law firm and don’t worry about Mrs. Keeler. Let the police do that.”

“All right, Mr. Eagle. I’ll do that.”

“And if I were you, I’d get a gun permit from your local police department, take some instruction, and carry it until Mrs. Keeler is locked safely away.”

“I think that’s good advice, too,” she said.

THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Eagle called Cupie Dalton.

“This is Cupie.”

Eagle told him about Wilen’s murder.

“Man, she’s something, isn’t she?”

“Yes, and she’s probably in L.A.”

“So I should watch my ass?”

“So you should watch your ass.”

“Do you know where she is in L.A.?”

“Probably at her friend Jimmy Long’s house.”

“I could tail her.”

“Better somebody she doesn’t know. I’m going to speak to the chief of police about that; maybe he’ll authorize surveillance. God knows, the D.A. would like another crack at her.”

“Good idea.”

“You might look into who the hit man could be, Cupie. My guess is that Jimmy Long found somebody for her, since she doesn’t really know a lot of people in L.A.”

“I’ll look into it.”

Eagle said good-bye and hung up. Next, he called his friend, the Los Angeles Chief of Police, Joe Sams.

“Hello, Ed, how are you?”

“I’ve been better, Joe. You remember my former wife, Barbara?”

“The double murderess? How could I forget.”

“Well, she’s done it again.”

“Not in L.A., I hope.”

“No, in Palo Alto. I believe she hired someone from L.A. to kill a lawyer named Joe Wilen.”

“Why from L.A.?”

“Because she doesn’t know anybody in San Francisco, where she’s now living. A couple of weeks ago, she married a very rich retired businessman named Walter Keeler.”

“I knew Walter; I read about his death in the papers. Did she have anything to do with that?”

“No, it was a traffic accident.” Eagle explained about the terms of Keeler’s will and Wilen’s part, as well as his own part in preventing her from inheriting everything.

“So she got Wilen, and you’re next?”

“Probably. Don’t worry, I’m carrying, thanks to your help with my license.”

“Do you have anything on the woman that would give me probable cause to arrest her?”

“No. I think what your people could do best would be to find out who she hired to do it.”

“And where do we start?”

“She has a friend named Jimmy Long, a successful movie producer. He was her alibi at her trial, and it was his story that got her off. He’s her only friend here, as far as I know, so she might have turned to him to help her find a contract killer.”

“Would this Jimmy Long be likely to know a contract killer?”

“He’s in the movie business, Joe.”

“Oh. All right, I’ll assign some people to track down his connections and see if a likely hit man turns up. Anything else I can do?”

“If I can think of anything, I’ll call you, Joe. Thanks for your help.” Eagle hung up.

“You’re carrying?” Susannah asked.

“You know I usually do, especially when I’m in L.A.”

“Should I be carrying?”

“Maybe so. Barbara saw you at the trial, and she may have recognized you from the movies. Do you have a license for L.A.?”

“Yes. So you think she would really come after me?”

“Yes, because she knows it would hurt me.”

36

DETECTIVE ALEX REESE found the apartment building in West Hollywood where Tina López and her roommate, Soledad Rivera, lived and rang their bell.

The door was opened by a short, plump, pretty woman. “Yes?”

Reese flashed his badge. “I’m Detective Reese, Santa Fe Police Department. Are you Tina López or Soledad Rivera?”

“I’m Soledad,” she replied. “What do you want?”

“I’d like to ask you and Ms. López some questions regarding an investigation I’m conducting. Is she here?”

“Maybe.”

“May I come in?”

“What do you want to know?”

Before he could reply, another woman came down a hallway and approached the door. She was taller and quite beautiful, wearing low-cut jeans that exposed an expanse of belly from well below her navel to just below her deeply cut cleavage.

“Are you Tina López?”

“He’s a cop from Santa Fe, Tina,” Soledad said.

“What do you want?”

“I’d like to ask both of you some questions concerning an investigation I’m conducting. May I come in?”

“I guess so,” Tina replied.

Reese took a seat in the small living room. “It’s my understanding that you were both in Tijuana for the bullfights recently.” He gave them the dates. “Is that correct?”

“Yes,” Tina replied.

“Who were you with?”

“Grif Edwards and Jack Cato,” Soledad said quickly.

“And where did you stay?”

“At the Parador,” Soledad said.

“Before I ask you the next question I should tell you that my investigation is of a double murder, a mother and her son, in Santa Fe, and that anyone who gives false information to me with regard to those killings is liable to be charged as an accessory. Being an accessory to murder carries the same prison sentence as that for the actual murderer. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

Both women stared at him blankly, and he thought he saw tears begin to well in Soledad’s eyes.

“Do you understand?”

“We don’t want to talk to you anymore,” Tina said.

“Grif and Jack weren’t with you in Tijuana, were they? It was two other men, wasn’t it?”

“I don’t . . .” Soledad began, but Tina elbowed her.

“We don’t want to talk to you anymore,” Tina said again.

“In that case, I’ll have to have the Los Angeles police take you to police headquarters, and we can start all over again with a written record of your questioning.” Reese changed his tone. “Ladies, let me give you some good advice: You don’t want to go to prison for protecting these two guys. They’re not worth it.”

Soledad turned and looked at Tina, and tears began to roll down her cheeks.

“Shut up, Soledad,” Tina said. She turned to Reese. “Now you get out of my house.”

“I’ll see you at the police station,” Reese said, “and if I were you, I’d get a good criminal lawyer, and that’s going to be expensive.”

Soledad began to bawl.

Reese turned to her. “Soledad, do you want to talk to me and save yourself a lot of grief?”

“I told you to get out!” Tina cried.

“Soledad hasn’t asked me to leave.”

Soledad continued to cry loudly.

Tina jumped to her feet, went to the door and pointed outside. “Get out!”

Reese got up, taking his cell phone from his belt. As he walked to the door he made a show of calling a number. “LAPD? I’d like to speak to the chief of detectives, please.” The door slammed behind him.

Reese went back to his rental car, got in and waited. Ten minutes later, Soledad Rivera ran out of the apartment building, carrying a nylon duffel bag, got into a Volkswagen Beetle and drove away. Reese started his car and followed at a distance.

Soledad drove to a neighborhood that seemed to be completely Hispanic, judging from the signs on the storefronts and the people on the streets. She turned into the driveway of a small, neat house, got out of her car and ran inside.

Reese noted the address. “Soledad has run home to Mama,” he said aloud to himself.

ED EAGLE LANDED at Santa Monica Airport, picked up a rental car and drove with Susannah to her Century City apartment. Eagle called Don Wells at Centurion Studios.

“Ed? How are you?”

“Very well, thank you, Don. May we have lunch today?”

“Sure, why don’t you come out to Centurion, and we’ll go to the studio commissary.”

“All right.”

Wells gave him directions, and Eagle hung up.

“How long are we going to be here?” Susannah asked.

“One night, maybe two,” Eagle replied.

Susannah went to a wall safe behind a picture, opened it and held up a small semiautomatic pistol. “This goes into my purse,” she said.

“Good.”

EAGLE WAS GIVEN a studio pass at the front gate and directed to the commissary. Don Wells was waiting at a table inside. He stood up and waved.

Eagle made his way across the crowded dining room to Well’s corner table and sat down.

“Drink?” Wells asked.

“No, thanks, just some iced tea,” Eagle replied, accepting a menu from a waitress. They ordered lunch.

“So, anything happening with the Santa Fe D.A.?” Wells asked.

“Do they have any leads on the killer or killers?”

“They seem to be concentrating on you,” Eagle said.

“You mean Jack Cato?”

“You know about that?”

“He told me he and Grif Edwards had a visit from a Santa Fe detective.”

“Does that concern you?”

“Why should it?”

“It seems clear that the Santa Fe police are theorizing that you hired Cato and Edwards to kill your wife and son.”

“Listen to me, Ed . . .”

Eagle held up a hand to stop him. “Before you say anything else, let me explain something, Don. Hypothetically speaking, if a client tells his lawyer that he’s guilty of a crime, then when he is tried for it, the lawyer can’t put him on the stand.”

“Why not?”

“Because if the client, having told the lawyer he’s guilty, claims innocence on the stand, then the lawyer is suborning perjury, since he knows his client is lying. Do you understand?”

“Yes, and don’t worry; I’m not going to tell you I’m guilty.”

“Good. What is your relationship with Cato and Edwards?”

“Not much of one. They’ve both worked on a number of my pictures as stuntmen or extras, and they’re part of a group that plays poker at my office once a week when I’m in town.”

“Do you think that these two men are the sorts who would hire out to commit murder?”

“Beats me,” Wells said. “All I know about them is that Cato is hard to read at the poker table, and Edwards scratches his head when he draws good cards. Anything beyond that would be news to me.”

“Ever heard any rumors about either of them?”

“What kind of rumors?”

“Rumors about their hiring out for murder.”

“Nope. Stuntmen are a funny breed, though: a lot of swagger and big talk. It wouldn’t surprise me if one of them bragged about something like that, whether he did it or not.”

“From what you know of them, do you think they might become loose cannons if put under pressure by the police?”

“I honestly don’t know, Ed. My impression of Cato is that he’s the sort who’s steady under pressure; I’ve seen that in his stunt work. Edwards? Who knows?”

“Don, at the very least, the police investigation of these two men means that they are taking you very seriously as a suspect. Have you ever given either of these men sums of cash?”

“Yeah, after a poker game, but I think I’ve won it back.”

“You’ve said that you keep cash and Krugerrands in your Malibu safe, just as you did in Santa Fe. Is that money still there?”

“Yes, of course.”

“See that it doesn’t disappear. You may have to open that safe for the police, before this is over.”

“I get it,” Wells said.

Eagle hoped he did.

37

BARBARA WAS SOAKING in a hot tub when Jimmy knocked on the bathroom door.

“Come in,” she called.

Jimmy let himself into the bathroom. “There’s what looks like an unmarked police car parked near the end of the driveway,” he said.

“What kind of car?”

“A green Ford, I think.”

Barbara stood up, allowing soapy water to cascade down her still beautiful, naked body. “Well,” she said, “I think I’ll take them shopping.”

JACK CATO WAITED until the mailman arrived before leaving for work. He took the mail inside; among the overdue bills was a manila envelope. It bore no return address. He opened it and shook out the contents, a Ziploc bag containing two stacks of one-hundred-dollar bills. He stuffed the money into his jacket pocket, then got into his truck and drove to work. On the way, he stopped at a drugstore that took payments for the electric, gas and telephone companies and paid his bills in cash. He was now up-to-date on all his bills, and he intended to stay that way.

Once at the studio stables he found a pry bar and left the barn through a rear door. He looked around for spectators, and, seeing none, he opened the door of a prop outhouse, pried up some of the floorboards and, with his hands, scraped the loose dirt away, revealing a safe set in a concrete pad. He opened the safe and dropped the money into it, retaining enough for his day-to-day expenses. He closed the safe, raked the dirt back over it and hammered down the floorboards with the pry bar.

Soon he would have another fifty thousand dollars to add to his stash, and he had only ten days to accomplish his task. He had no doubt that this woman would make good on her threat to kill him if he didn’t fulfill his mission on time. He had no idea who she was, so she could walk up behind him anywhere and put a bullet in his head. He began planning his work for the coming weekend.

He called Tina López at work, on her cell phone. “Hey,” he said.

“Hey, yourself.”

“You up for a trip to Tijuana this weekend?”

“Listen, Jack, we had a cop from Santa Fe come see us yesterday. Soledad went nuts and went home to her mother’s house. She’s scared shitless, and she might crack if she’s pressed anymore.”

“That’s not good, sweetheart,” he said. “You need to talk to her and tell her to get a grip. The story will hold, if she doesn’t crack.”

“I’ll do the best I can. That’s all I can promise. What the hell are you doing that I have to cover your ass again?”

“You don’t want to know, Tina. Don’t ever ask me that again.”

“Look, we’ve got what we want. If you keep doing stuff, you’re going to blow the lid off this thing, and we’ll all go down.”

“This is my last weekend’s work,” Cato said. “Just get your ass down to Tijuana on Friday, and don’t come back until late Sunday night. There’s five grand in it for you.”

“You think I need five grand? I’m going to have more money than you could believe!”

“Yeah, but you don’t have it yet, and you’ve got rent and car payments to make, right? Five grand should tide you over until it can come through.”

She fumed for a moment. “All right, but this is the last time, you hear me?”

“I hear you. I’ll give you your money on Monday.”

“Right.” She hung up.

BARBARA NOTED THE police car as she pulled out of Jimmy Long’s driveway, and she made it easy for them, driving a steady thirty miles an hour and stopping for all the stop signs. She had never understood why there were all these four-way stop signs in Beverly Hills. Hadn’t these people ever heard of right-of-way streets?

She drove down Rodeo Drive and gave her rental car to the attendant behind the Ralph Lauren store. She had not been inside the shop for more than a minute before she spotted a woman browsing whose cheap pants suit made her look out of place in the elegant store. Well, she could just eat her heart out, Barbara thought.

She tried on half a dozen things and chose a slinky, black dress and a couple of cashmere sweaters. She made sure the policewoman saw her black American Express card as she paid for them.

She walked out the front of the store and made her way down Rodeo, window-shopping, occasionally going inside and buying a dress or a pair of shoes. She had lunch alone in the garden at Spago, then worked her way back to the Ralph Lauren shop and retrieved her car. She was back at Jimmy’s by midafternoon, and so was the police car. Let them report that!

JACK CATO REPEATED his actions of the weekend before, but this time he brought along a set of lock picks. What he wanted from the armory was locked in a large room that he had never been able to get a key to.

He let himself into the building and walked into a windowless hallway, closing the door behind him so that he could switch on the lights. He knelt before the double steel doors and took a close look at the lock. It was the sort of thing you’d see on the front door of a house, really, nothing special. He put on his reading glasses and unzipped the little case holding his lock picks. He selected two and began probing the lock, feeling it out.

It turned out to be a pain in the ass before he could get it open, but at least he knew the lock now, and it would be easier to deal with later. He swung open the heavy door and switched on the lights inside. The fluorescent fixtures flickered on, and he was staring at enough weapons to equip the SWAT teams of a city: assault rifles, machine guns, grenade launchers, even half a dozen mortars. He’d love to have sacked the whole room, but he wanted only one thing: an ordinary-looking aluminum briefcase, tucked away on a high shelf. He pulled up a stepladder and got it down.

It had two combination locks securing it, but it turned out that the combinations were just three zeros. He opened it and checked out the contents: a beautifully crafted, disassembled sniper’s rifle that had been made by an old man named Al, a gunsmith who had a shop on Melrose, for a spy movie that had been made on the lot. Jack doubted if it had had more than half a dozen rounds put through it.

He closed the case and helped himself to a pocketful of .223 ammunition from a drawer. He knew the armorer didn’t log ammo use, so he was safe. He relocked the steel door, let himself out of the building and returned to the stables.

He had already checked the shooting schedules for work under way. Nobody would need the sniper’s rifle anytime soon, so he was good through the weekend.

He called a phone number and waited.

“Compton Flying Club,” a woman’s voice said.

“Hey, Sheila, it’s Jack Cato.”

“Hi, Jack. What can I do for you?”

“Is the Bonanza available this weekend?”

“Let me check.”

He could hear her turning the pages of her desk calendar.

“All weekend,” she said.

“Great, I’ll take it Friday evening and have it back by Monday morning. I’m going up to San Francisco this weekend. Can you have it fueled and left on the line after about five on Friday? Leave the key under the nosewheel chock.”

“Sure thing. Have a good flight.”

Cato hung up. Everything was all set now.

38

EAGLE GOT A call from the LAPD a couple of days after his request to the chief.

“Mr. Eagle, this is Detective Barnes; the chief asked me to call you.”

“Yes, Detective.”

“We’ve had a team on Barbara Eagle for two days now, and all we’re seeing is shopping trips in the daytime and restaurants in the evening. Mr. Long seems to work at home as much as he does at the studio. I don’t know how much longer the chief will let us keep this up.”

“Has she met anybody on her shopping trips or in the restaurants?”

“Hasn’t spoken a word to anybody but store clerks and waiters and the diners, but we don’t have the phone tapped, so who knows? Oh, I don’t know if this is important, but she stopped in the Beverly Hills Post Office and mailed a package.”

“What sort of package?”

“Just a manila envelope.”

“She mailed a payoff to the hit man. Were you able to see an address?”

“No, sir, we couldn’t get close enough.”

“Okay, thanks very much, and thank the chief for me. Be sure and tell him about the envelope.” Eagle hung up. The weekend was coming, and he had an idea the hit man was coming, too.

He called Susannah, who was at her house, dealing with a washing-machine repairman. “Hello, there.”

“Hi, what’s happening?”

“Barbara is still in L.A., and the cops are keeping an eye on her.”

“That’s reassuring.”

“Don’t let it be. She was seen at the post office, mailing a package. That has to be the payment for killing Joe Wilen. I have a feeling we’re going to hear from her hit man this weekend, and I’d like you to stay at your house.”

“Not going to happen,” she said. “If the hit man shows up, you’re going to need another gun. You already know I can shoot.”

“Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ll have help. I want you out of harm’s way. Barbara saw you at the trial, and she may have recognized you from your movies. I hope you understand.”

“I understand, but I don’t like it.”

“After the weekend, you can come home to me.”

“Ed, I don’t think you’ve thought this through.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, suppose you catch the guy, or kill him. Do you think that’s going to stop Barbara?”

“Probably not,” he admitted.

“I think what you’re going to have to do is stop her before she gets to you.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“I think you should take whatever steps are necessary.”

“I’m not sure I like the sound of that.”

“I don’t like saying it, but you have to protect yourself. If you don’t, she’s going to keep trying until she wins.”

“Right now, we have to think about this weekend, so let’s talk about this another time,” Eagle said. “I’ll call you tomorrow. Bye-bye.”

Eagle called the district attorney.

“Bob Martínez.”

“It’s Ed Eagle, Bob.”

“Hello, Ed.”

“I need your help.”

Martínez chuckled. “In court?”

“Thanks, no. That I can handle by myself.”

“What, then?”

“I think Barbara is going to send a hit man to Santa Fe—the same guy who killed Joe Wilen in Palo Alto—probably this weekend.”

“Why do you think that?”

“You know her history. What would you expect her to do?”

“You have any idea who he is? A description would help.”

“No, no idea.”

Martínez didn’t speak for a moment. “You want some protection, is that it?”

“A couple of men will do, just for the weekend.”

“Let me call the chief. I’ll get back to you.”

“Thanks, Bob.”

DETECTIVE ALEX REESE was driving to Centurion Studios on Friday afternoon for his meeting when his cell phone buzzed.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Alex. It’s Raoul Hernández.”

“Hi, Raoul.” Hernández was a New Mexico state trooper who was also a pilot and who often flew state officials.

“Are you still in L.A.?”

"Yep, I’ve got one more interview, then I’ll get a plane home later this afternoon.”

"I’m in L.A., too, and I’ll give you a lift back to Santa Fe, if you can be at Santa Monica Airport in a couple of hours.”

“That would be great, Raoul. I’ll be there.”

“The airplane’s at Supermarine.”

“See you there.” Reese hung up. This was a nice break; now he wouldn’t have to fly to Albuquerque and take the shuttle bus to Santa Fe. He could be home for dinner.

At Centurion he went directly to Jeff Bender’s office. Soledad Rivera was sitting in Bender’s waiting room, and she glared at him as he passed through to Bender’s office. He had summoned her there from the costume department, where she worked with Tina López.

“Hi, Alex. She’s outside.”

“Yeah, I saw her.”

“Let’s get her in here, then,” Bender said, picking up his phone.

Soledad was more composed than she had been at their last meeting, Reese thought. “Good afternoon, Soledad,” he said.

“What do you want?” she asked, sounding hostile.

“I wanted to give you a chance to talk to me without Tina being here,” he said. “I think you’re about to get into a lot of trouble, and I want to help you, if I can.”

“You don’t want to help me,” she said, “and anyway, I don’t need your help. I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“Think about that, Soledad. If you testify in court that you were in Tijuana with Cato and Edwards, you’ll be in more trouble than you can imagine. Right at this moment, if you don’t talk to me, you’re obstructing justice.”

“I don’t have anything to say,” she said.

“Soledad, you have a good job and a nice life. Why would you want to throw that away, risk going to prison for the rest of your life?”

“I haven’t done anything wrong, and I don’t have anything to say.”

Reese and Bender exchanged a glance, and Bender shrugged.

Reese gave her his card. “If you change your mind, here’s my number. I can keep you out of jail, Soledad.”

She took the card but said nothing else, just walked out of the office.

“That didn’t go too well,” Reese said. “She was very emotional at our last meeting, and I thought she might break if I got her away from Tina, who is obviously in charge.”

“That reminds me,” Bender said. “A lot of gossip comes my way around here, and I heard something that might interest you.”

“What’s that?”

“This is just a rumor, mind you, and I can’t prove it, but I heard that Don Wells has been fucking Tina López for a while.”

“Before his wife’s murder?”

“That’s what I hear. I wish I could back it up, but I can’t.”

“That’s very interesting, Jeff.” He thanked the security chief for his help and left, headed for Santa Monica Airport.

39

AS DARKNESS APPROACHED, Jack Cato drove his car to the Compton airport, a small field southeast of Los Angeles International, then to the Compton Flying Club, where he had learned to fly fifteen years before and where he sometimes rented airplanes.

He parked his car and walked over to where the Beech Bonanza had been left parked for him. He opened the fuel caps and checked to be sure the airplane had been refueled, then he performed a preflight check and kicked away the chocks securing the wheels, finding the airplane’s key under the nosewheel chock.

He tossed his duffel and hat and the briefcase containing the sniper’s rifle into the rear seat, got the airplane started and taxied to the end of the runway. He called Socal Approach and gave them his tail number. “Departing Compton VFR, bound for Palmdale,” he said into the headset. “Request a squawk code and vectors to the Palmdale VOR.”

“Bonanza, squawk four-seven/four-seven cleared for takeoff. Fly runway heading and maintain VFR,” the controller said.

Cato taxied onto the runway and shoved the throttle forward. A moment later he lifted off just in time to see the upper limb of the sun sink into the Pacific. Twenty minutes later, after a number of vectored turns, he was at the Palmdale VOR, a navigation beacon. He thanked the Socal controller, was authorized to change frequencies, then switched off the transponder and turned the radio volume all the way down. Now he didn’t exist for the controllers, except as a primary radar target, so his tail number did not appear on their screens.

He entered 17,500 feet into the altitude preselect unit, entered SAF into the GPS computer, then climbed to his selected altitude, slipping on an oxygen mask at 10,000. He was flying across the Mojave Desert, direct to Santa Fe, at an altitude rarely used by general aviation aircraft, and although he had a screen display of other airplanes in the area, it was unlikely that any of them would ever come near him. All he had to do for the rest of the flight was to switch fuel tanks from time to time. He switched on the Sirius Satellite Radio, tuned in a country music station and opened a sandwich he had brought with him. The GPS told him he would be in Santa Fe in two hours and forty minutes.

Half an hour out of Santa Fe he took a sunglasses case from his pocket and opened it. Inside was something he had stolen from the makeup department during his last movie: a beautiful and voluminous handlebar moustache. He switched on the cabin lights, painted his upper lip with adhesive from a small bottle and, using a mirror, affixed the moustache.

He landed at Santa Fe, put on his large cowboy hat and went into the reception building at Santa Fe Jet. Using a fake driver’s license with an Austin, Texas, address, he signed up for the rental car he had reserved, left a thousand-dollar cash deposit and placed his fuel and oxygen order, then he was on his way. The girl behind the counter would remember only a man with a big hat, a broad Texas accent and an outlandish moustache.

Cato knew Santa Fe fairly well, because he had made two pictures there and because he had studied a map and had located the route prescribed by the woman who had hired him.

He checked into a motel on Cerrillos Road, a busy, six-lane approach to the city, and watched TV until he got sleepy. He slept until past ten A.M., then donned his moustache and hat and had breakfast at McDonald’s. He then drove to the northern outskirts of the city to a country road where he had once driven a stagecoach in a film.

He got out of the car and walked a couple of hundred yards into the desert, where he set up some stones as targets, then paced off one hundred yards. He assembled the rifle, loaded it and first from a prone position, then kneeling and standing, fired at the stones, making minute corrections to the telescopic sight until he was zeroed in. Then he disassembled the rifle, packed it into its case and walked back to his car.

He had some lunch at the Tesuque Market, a local grocery and restaurant, then he found the road where his target lived. He drove past the house, then turned around and drove back, checking it out again. Along the way he saw a little dirt track where he could park his car, unseen. Satisfied, he went back to his motel and watched a NASCAR race on TV.

He had a late dinner at a place on Canyon Road, still in his moustache and never removing his hat. A little past midnight, he got into his car and drove slowly out to the target house, parked his car and began to make ready.

EAGLE HAD DINNER in town with Susannah, made a lunch date with her for the next day, then drove her back to her house. He called a cell number he had been given.

“Yes?” a voice said.

“It’s Ed Eagle. Can I come home now?”

“Yes. I’m in the house, and I’ve got a man patrolling the perimeter of the property.”

“Thanks. I’ll be there shortly.” He drove back to his home, parked in the garage and let himself into the kitchen. A police detective was sitting at the counter, sipping coffee. “Good evening,” Eagle said.

“I made myself some coffee,” the cop said.

“Raid the refrigerator, if you’re hungry. I’m going to bed. Long day.”

“Good night, then,” the cop said.

Eagle went into his bedroom and switched on the lights.

JACK CATO HAD seen the car drive in and the light go on. He worked his way around the house a couple of dozen yards until he could see, through a window, someone moving. He sighted through the scope and found his victim, as described.

He knelt beside a large boulder and rested the rifle on it, giving himself a steady shooting cradle. The target walked past a window, but he didn’t have time to fire. Then the target came back and was satisfyingly still, framed by the window, undressing.

Cato needed only a single shot. He heard the glass break, and his target spun and fell, out of sight. Cato wasted no time. He walked quickly back to the car, disassembled the rifle, locked it in the trunk in the compartment with the spare tire, backed out of the dirt road with his lights off and drove away from the house. Using his map, he found another way back to town. An hour after the kill, he was in his bed, sound asleep, with the clock radio set for five A.M.

The following morning, Cato was back at the airport, just as Santa Fe Jet opened. He turned in his rental car and paid his fuel bill in cash, and half an hour later he was on his way back to Los Angeles.

After landing, he called the cell number he had been given.

“Yes?” she said.

“The job is done.”

“I’ll mail your money as soon as it’s confirmed.”

Cato hung up and drove home.

40

BARBARA TURNED OFF the cell phone and put it in her handbag.

“Well,” she said to Jimmy Long, who was sitting up in bed, reading the papers, “my work here is done.”

“You’re leaving today?”

“Tomorrow,” she said. “I want to see the papers before I leave.”

“I’ll miss you.”

“Don’t worry,” she said, “I’ll be back.”

DETECTIVE ALEX REESE got the call at home, and he arrived at the house to find an ambulance parked at the front door and a stretcher being loaded. He got to the driver before the vehicle pulled away.

“What’s the story?” he asked.

“Gunshot wound to the back of the head,” the man said. “Still alive, though.” He put the ambulance in gear and drove away.

Reese went into the house and found two deputy sheriffs placing yellow tape across a bedroom door. He ducked under the tape and walked into the master suite. Bullet hole through a windowpane, considerable blood on the carpet. There was nothing for him to do here, so he gave the deputies his card. “Tell the criminalist I want a copy of his report faxed to me the minute it’s ready,” he said.

Reese went into the study and found Ed Eagle on the phone.

“Cupie,” Eagle was saying, “it’s Ed Eagle. Call me as soon as possible on my cell phone.”

“What are you doing here, Mr. Eagle?” Reese asked.

“We had a lunch date; I found her on the bedroom floor, unconscious and bleeding, and I called nine-one-one.” He stood up. “I’m going to the hospital. If you want to talk more, I’ll see you there.”

“All right,” Reese said.

EAGLE LEFT SUSANNAH’S house in a cold fury and drove to the hospital. He went into the emergency room and found a doctor he knew, who promised to let him know as soon as an assessment of Susannah’s condition had been made, then he went and sat in the reception area.

Alex Reese came in and sat down beside him. “How is she?”

“They don’t know yet.”

“All right, Ed, tell me everything you know.”

Eagle explained about the death of Joe Wilen and how he had expected to be attacked that weekend. “Bob Martínez sent two detectives out to the house. We were hoping to arrest the assassin and question him, but, as it turns out, he was after Susannah, not me.”

“Who would have done this?” Reese asked.

“My ex-wife hired somebody to kill Wilen and, I thought, me. As it turns out, she had a plan to cause me a lot of pain first. Next, she’ll come after me.”

“Where is your ex now?”

“In Los Angeles. The police there have been watching her.”

“Any other possible suspects?”

“None. You’d be wasting your time if you looked for anybody else.”

A doctor approached them, and Eagle stood up. “Yes, Doctor?”

“Ms. Wilde has suffered a gunshot wound; the bullet creased the back of her skull and knocked her down. The scalp wound bled a lot, but she’s not seriously hurt. She has a concussion, so we’ll keep her overnight to make sure nothing further develops. She’s awake, if you want to see her, but she’s been sedated, so she’s pretty groggy.”

“Yes, please, I’d like to see her.” Eagle was led into a curtained cubicle where Susannah lay on a gurney. He picked up her hand. “How are you feeling?”

“Dreamy,” she said.

“I’m sorry this happened. I never believed she’d go after you.”

“Ed,” Susannah said, “come close.”

Eagle bent over and put his ear near her lips.

“If you don’t kill her,” Susannah whispered, “I’m going to.” Then she seemed to fall asleep.

EAGLE WAS DRIVING home when his cell phone vibrated. "Hello?”

“Hi, it’s Cupie.”

“Cupie, I thought Barbara’s hit man would come after me this weekend, but he didn’t. He went after Susannah Wilde instead.”

“Oh, shit.”

“She’s all right; the shot clipped her but missed doing serious damage by half an inch.”

“Do you think the hit man thinks she’s dead?”

“Probably.”

“Can you get a story planted in the Santa Fe paper saying she was shot and killed?”

“I know the editor, but I don’t think he would print a false report.”

“Tell him what’s up. It’s best if Barbara thinks she’s dead. Don’t use her name, just say an actress. Tell him to put it on the AP wire, too.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Eagle said. “In the meantime, I want you to start thinking about something.” Eagle told him what he had in mind.

“That’s going to be tough,” Cupie said, “and it involves serious criminal activity on my part.”

“You’ll be well paid, Cupie. If you don’t want to do this, tell me, and I’ll get somebody else.”

Cupie was quiet for a moment. “Let me get Vittorio in on this,” he said. “I think it would appeal to him.”

“All right, talk to him about it, then get back to me.”

“Will do.” Cupie hung up.

One way or another, Eagle vowed to himself, he was going to see Barbara taken out.

41

BARBARA WOKE EARLY and went downstairs. The L.A. Times and The Wall Street Journal were on the doorstep. She took them into the kitchen, made coffee and started leafing through the Times. Nothing in the front section. She was well into the arts pages before she found it.

ACTRESS MURDERED IN SANTA FE

AP: Santa Fe police announced the death by shooting of a woman they described as "a member of the film community” at her home outside the city. She had apparently been shot through a bedroom window by a sniper, who is being sought by police. Police are withholdingher name, pending notification of next of kin.

Barbara thought her coffee had never tasted better. In a rush of good feeling, she made breakfast for Jimmy and took it upstairs to him on a tray.

“Hey, the service is getting pretty good around here,” he said. “You sure you have to go?”

“Well, maybe I’ll stay on for a few days more,” she said. What the hell, she thought. I’m not going to get laid in San Francisco.

“You’re welcome as long as you’d like to stay,” he said.

Barbara was pulling on some jeans and a cotton sweater. “You’re sweet, baby.”

“Where are you going so early?” Jimmy asked.

“I have to go to the post office,” she replied. She went downstairs to his study, found a manila envelope, addressed it with a Magic Marker and stuffed it with fifty thousand dollars. The post office wouldn’t be open yet, so she grabbed a roll of stamps from Jimmy’s desk drawer, weighed the package on his postage scale and applied the postage.

DETECTIVE LUCY DIXON had just come on duty in her unmarked car when she saw the car, driven by the woman, come out of the Long driveway. She started her car and followed at a distance. Where the hell could the woman be going at seven forty-five in the morning? No shops were open at this hour.

She followed the car until it turned into the post office parking lot and watched as the woman deposited a manila envelope into the drive-thru mailbox, then left the parking lot and drove back the way she had come.

Dixon drove up to the mailbox and checked the schedule. A pickup was due at eight A.M., and it was already ten past. No time to get a federal warrant. She pulled her car farther forward and stopped, blocking the driveway, then got out of the car and waited.

Another ten minutes passed before the truck arrived and the driver got out.

Dixon approached him with a smile. “Good morning,” she said.

“Good morning,” he replied looking her up and down.

This was a good sign. She smiled more broadly and showed him her badge. “I’m LAPD,” she said. “I wonder if you would let me look at a package that was mailed a few minutes ago?”

The driver shook his head. “Sorry, Detective, you can’t mess with the mail without a federal warrant.”

“It’s Lucy,” she said.

“Sorry, Lucy.”

“I don’t want to mess with it; I just want to see the address on it. It’s a manila envelope, and it was mailed ten minutes ago, so it should be right on top.”

He went around to the back of the box, shook open a mail bag and positioned it. Then he unlocked the box and raked the mail out and into the bag. “If you can see it, you can look at it,” he said.

Dixon stepped over and checked the mail. There were two manila envelopes visible, but only one of them was without a return address. She got out her notebook. The address read: J.C., 129 Forrest Lane, Studio City. “Thanks, pal,” she said. “You’re a sweetheart.”

“Hey, how about a movie and dinner this week?” he asked.

“Oh, I’m so sorry; I’m seeing somebody.”

The man shrugged, got into his truck and drove away.

Dixon got back into her car and called her watch commander.

“Evans.”

“Boss, it’s Dixon. You know you said something about Mrs. Keeler mailing money to a hit man?”

“Yeah, that was the theory.”

“Well, I just followed her to the post office and watched her mail a manila envelope at the drive-thru, so l waited for the truck to arrive, and I got the address off the envelope.”

“Good work, Dixon. Give it to me.”

She read him the address.

“I’ll find a city directory and see who J.C. is.”

“You know, boss, if you could get a federal warrant, I could intercept the envelope and open it.”

“I’ll see what I can do, Dixon.”

“You want me back on Long’s house?”

“Well, yeah. It seems to be working, doesn’t it?”

“Okay, I’m gone.” She got back into the car and drove back to the Long house, very pleased with herself.

DETECTIVE FIRST GRADE Tom Evans started to call the U.S. Attorney’s office about the search warrant but realized the time. Nobody would be there just yet. He wrote a note to himself to call them and put it in a little tray where he kept reminders, since his short-term memory had started to go. He had only a year before his thirty years were up, and he wasn’t about to get dumped on a non-work-related medical by reporting his memory loss. He could fake it for a year. He went back to work.

DIXON FINISHED HER shift at four o’clock and drove back to the station house to leave the patrol car and pick up her own. As she walked past the front desk to leave the keys, she saw Detective Evans. “Hi, boss.”

“Hello, Dixon.”

“What’s happening with that federal warrant?”

Evans looked a little startled. “Huh? Oh, that’s in the works,” he replied.

“I’d love to go out to Studio City in the morning and serve that warrant,” she said. Anything would beat sitting on Mrs. Keeler for another day, watching her shop and go to the beauty salon.

“I’ll let you know,” Evans said. What the hell was she talking about? He went back to his desk and went through the notes to himself in the tray on his desk. “Shit!” he said aloud. He turned around to see half a dozen detectives looking at him.

“You,” he said, pointing to a cop. “Get your ass over to the U.S. Attorney’s office and get me a federal warrant to search a mailbox in Studio City.” He grabbed a form for the warrant and filled it out; then he handed it to the detective and explained the circumstances. “Here’s the request.”

“Right, boss.” The detective got his coat and left.

Evans looked at his watch: four thirty. “And move your ass!” he shouted after the detective.

42

DETECTIVE ALEX REESE had the weird feeling that he was starting a new investigation that was really an old investigation. Granted, the circumstances of the two cases were very different; granted, the weapons used were different; granted, he had not the slightest evidence to connect them. Still, they felt connected.

He had two people checking the airline schedules for likely killers— either one male or two males traveling together—and for forty-eight hours before the murder there had been a dozen single males traveling, and every one of them had checked out as legit.

Reese was driving in to work when he passed Airport Road, and he had a sudden thought. He made a quick U-turn and drove to the airport. He parked and walked into Santa Fe Jet, and approached the young woman behind the counter. “Hi,” he said, showing her his badge. “Did you work this past weekend?”

“Yep, one weekend a month,” she said.

“Do you remember any general aviation aircraft coming in with a single male pilot or two males?”

“Well, let’s see,” she said. “Best way would be to go through the fuel tickets to remind me. Here’s a Learjet with two guys, in from New York; here’s a Bonanza with one guy, in from Austin, Texas; here’s a guy in from Albuquerque in a Cessna 182. Everything else was groups, I think. The guy from Austin was kind of a hoot: a standard-issue Texan with a big hat and a big moustache. He looked kind of familiar, like that actor, Sam Elliot?”

“Are you sure it wasn’t Sam Elliot?”

She flipped through the fuel tickets. “No, he was a Carl Timmons.” She showed him the signature. “He flew in Friday night and left at the crack of dawn on Sunday morning.”

“How’d he pay for his fuel?”

“In cash. That was kind of unusual.”

“How often do people pay in cash?”

“Never, since I’ve been here. It’s always a check or credit card.”

“Did he rent a car?”

“Yes, he did.”

“And how’d he pay for that?”

“Again, in cash.”

“Where’s the car?”

She looked at the list. “It’s been rented again, not due back for a week.”

Reese made a note of the address in Austin of Carl Timmons and of the tail number of the Bonanza.

“Has Timmons ever been in here before?”

“Not that I know of.”

“How about the airplane?”

“Could be; we get lots of Bonanzas—very popular airplane.”

“Is there anything else you can think of about Timmons? How was he dressed?”

“Like a cowboy: jeans, western shirt, cowboy boots. Alligator boots, come to think of it. Those things are expensive.”

Reese handed her his card. “If you remember anything else about the guy, will you give me a call? It’s very important.”

“Sure, be glad to.”

REESE LEFT THE airport and drove back to his office. He went online to the website of the Federal Aviation Administration and checked the tail number of the Bonanza: It was registered to an Anthony DeMarco, M.D., of a Brentwood address in L.A. He found the office number of the doctor and phoned him.

“Dr. DeMarco’s office,” a woman’s voice said.

“Good morning, may I speak with Dr. DeMarco, please?”

“Who’s calling?”

“This is Detective Alex Reese of the Santa Fe, New Mexico, police department.”

“I’m afraid Dr. De Marco is in surgery all day today,” she said. “I can take your number and ask him to call you when he gets a break.”

“Yes, please,” Reese said. He gave the woman his number and cell number. “Any time of day. By the way, what sort of medicine does Dr. DeMarco practice?”

“He’s a cosmetic surgeon; he operates three days a week, and this is one of them.”

“Thank you. I look forward to hearing from him.” Reese hung up and went back to work.

JACK CATO WAS shooting his first scene on a new movie, so he rose early, shaved and showered and had breakfast. The mailman arrived just as he was leaving the house, so Cato took the mail inside. A fat manila envelope was among the bills, and he took a peek inside. What he saw caused a wave of relief and elation to wash over him. He put the envelope into his briefcase and closed and locked it.

He was about to leave the house when the doorbell rang. He looked out the window and saw what appeared to be an unmarked police car. He put his briefcase into a drawer of a chest in the living room, then answered the door. A man and a woman stood there.

“Good morning,” the woman said. “I’m Detective Lucy Dixon, LAPD, and this is Detective Watts.” She handed him a document. “This is a federal search warrant to search your mailbox.”

Cato looked at the document. “Well, okay, but I’ve already taken the mail out. You want to see it?”

“Thank you, yes.”

“Then come inside.” He led them into his little home office and pointed to the desk. “There you go, that’s everything that came. You just missed the mailman.”

The woman went through all the envelopes. “Are you sure this is everything, Mr. Cato?”

“That’s it. Mostly bills, I’m afraid.”

Dixon opened each envelope and perused the contents. She was particularly interested in the bill from GMAC. “Mr. Cato, are you acquainted with a Mrs. Eleanor Keeler, widow of one Walter Keeler?”

“Nope. I mean, I know who Walter Keeler was, because I use some equipment he made, and I read about his car accident a while back.”

“You’ve never met Mrs. Keeler?”

“Not to my knowledge. A lot of people come on tours through the movie studio where I work, so I suppose she could have come through.”

“Which studio?”

“Centurion. That reminds me, I’m shooting this morning, so I gotta go. Anything else I can do to help you?”

“I guess not. We’ll be here again tomorrow morning, so don’t open your mailbox; we’ll do it for you.”

“Okay, no problem. Can you tell me what this is about?”

“I’m afraid not.” The two officers thanked him and left. He gave them a moment to get away, then retrieved his briefcase, put it into the toolbox bolted to his truck, locked it and drove to work.

Cato knew exactly what they were looking for: the money. How the hell could they know about that? He would have to be very careful with his spending. One good thing, though: Now he knew the name of the woman who had hired him. That might come in handy.

DIXON AND WATTS were driving back to their station, empty-handed.

“Anything of interest in his mail?” Watts asked.

“I thought it was interesting that there were no past-due balances on any of his bills,” she said, “and his bill from GMAC showed he had recently been three months behind on his truck payments, but he had brought the account up to date in the past week or so. Still, he had only a little over three hundred bucks in his bank account. I think we should pull a credit report on Mr. Cato.”

43

JACK CATO TOOK his golf cart over to the studio commissary at lunchtime. He looked around the dining room and spotted Tina López and Soledad Rivera at a table together. He went through the cafeteria line, took his tray over to their table and sat down.

“Hey, Jack,” Tina said.

“Hey, Tina, Soledad. How was Tijuana?”

“You tell me,” Tina said. “You were there, too.”

“Drunk, I guess.”

“You got something for me?”

He picked up her napkin, stuffed an envelope into it and put it in her lap.

She groped around, found the money and smiled.

“Need any help down there?” he asked, nodding at her lap.

“Thanks, but I’m all fixed up for that.”

“He’s back, huh?”

She shrugged.

“I’ll see him at poker tonight, then.”

Soledad spoke up. “Am I going to hear from that cop again?”

“What if you do?” Cato asked, digging into his lunch. “You know what to tell him.”

“Everything turn out all right this weekend?” Tina asked.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Cato replied, shoving a chunk of meat loaf into his mouth.

LUCY DIXON SAT down at her sergeant’s desk. “Boss, we came up dry at Cato’s house; he got to the mailbox first.”

“Who?”

“Jack Cato. That’s his name. J.C.?”

He shuffled through some slips of paper in a tray on his desk. “No money, huh?”

“Well, I think it came, but like I said, he got to it first. The mailman comes early in Studio City; we were about a minute late. I went through what mail there was, mostly bills and a bank statement. All his bills are current, but he’s only got a few hundred bucks in the bank.”

“So what? That’s all I’ve got, too.”

“I pulled a credit report on him: very spotty, lots of payments a month or two late. And yet, everything is current now. What does that tell you?”

“You tell me.”

“It tells me that all his bills are paid because he came into some money.”

“That makes sense.”

“I checked with the studio. He’s on a base salary of fifty-two grand a year, but he gets paid for doing stunt work in movies on top of that.”

“So, if he makes two or three movies a year, he’s flush, huh?”

“He hasn’t worked on a film this year, until this morning, when he started one.”

“All this makes sense to me, Dixon, but you’ve got nothing that the D.A. would want to take to court. Stay on this woman, what’s her name?”

“Keeler.”

“Like Ruby Keeler. I liked her movies when I was a kid.”

“I’ll stay on her, boss.” Dixon went back to her patrol car and drove back to Beverly Hills.

CATO THOUGHT ABOUT it for a while, then he picked up the phone and called the cell number she had given him.

“Yes?”

“I got your package this morning,” Cato said. “Thanks.”

“Then we have nothing further to talk about. Good-bye.”

“Wait! I’ve got a heads-up for you.”

“What?”

“About a minute after I opened your envelope, two LAPD cops showed up with a federal warrant to search my mailbox. Fortunately, I had already put it away, but they opened all my mail. I think you can guess what they were looking for.”

“How would they know about that?”

“Well, they didn’t hear about it from me, Mrs. Keeler. You’d better look to yourself.”

“What did you call me?”

“It’s what they called you. They asked me if I knew you.”

“And what did you tell them?”

“What do you think I told them? I blew them off. Now I’ll say good-bye; I just thought you ought to know about this.” He hung up.

BARBARA PUT THE cell phone away and retraced her steps for the past couple of days. That female cop had followed her to the post office, and she must have seen her mail the envelope. But how did she know it had been sent to Cato? Then the penny dropped. Oh, shit, she thought. She waited for the box to be opened and found the envelope, and I have no one to blame but myself.

And, as a result, Jack Cato now knew her name, and he must think that she was very, very rich.

CATO’S FIRST SCENE wrapped late in the afternoon, and at six, he went over to Don Wells’s offices. Grif Edwards and a couple of other players were already there. Wells came in from the set, and the poker table was set up.

“Give me five hundred,” Cato said to the banker, tossing five hundreds onto the table.

Wells looked at him sharply but said nothing.

Cato won two hundred and twenty dollars, and when the game wrapped at midnight, he got into his golf cart and went back to the stable to get his truck. As he got out of the cart, a Mercedes with its headlights off pulled up next to him, and the window slid down.

“You’re getting careless, Jack,” Wells said.

“What do you men?”

“Throwing hundred-dollar bills on a poker table. Did that money come from my safe?”

“No, Don, it didn’t.”

“Then where’d you get it?”

Cato shrugged. He realized now that he had made a very big mistake.

“A guy owed me some money, and he paid in hundreds.”

“You find a bank where nobody knows you, and you get some small bills, you hear me?”

“Okay, Don.”

“Don’t be caught anywhere at any time with anything bigger than a fifty in your pocket, and not many of those.”

“You’re right, Don; I should have thought.”

“Think more, Jack. The cops have already talked to you once.”

“My alibi is tight, Don.”

“Yeah, I heard about how Soledad cut and ran when the cop showed up.”

“Tina’s got her straightened out.”

“Yeah, I know. She’d better stay straightened out, and so had you.”

“Don’t worry about me, Don.”

“I will, Jack. I will,” Wells said. Then he put up his window and drove away.

Cato stood looking after him, sweating.

44

EAGLE PICKED UP Susannah at the hospital and drove her to her house to pick up some clothes. Her shoulder-length hair covered the bandage on the back of her head. “Are you in pain?” he asked.

“No, they gave me something for it, but I haven’t had to take it. I have a nice little bald spot on the back of my head, though.”

“Susannah, I’m so sorry I let you stay here alone.” They pulled into her driveway and went into the house.

“Ed, you don’t need to say that to me again. It’s not your fault; it’s her fault.” She walked into her bedroom and looked at the window. “Where’s the bullet hole?”

“I had the windowpane replaced.”

“Thank you, Ed, that was very thoughtful.” She filled a large suitcase with clothes and cosmetics, then a smaller case. “I think that’s it. Let’s get out of here.”

Eagle put the bags into his trunk and started the car. “I’m not letting you out of my sight until this is over,” he said.

“And when will it be over? Do you know?”

“Soon,” Eagle said.

DON WELLS CALLED Ed Eagle.

“Good morning, Don,” Eagle said.

“Ed, what’s going on with the investigation? When are they going to clear me?”

“I don’t want to ask Bob Martínez about that, Don; he’ll think we’re getting nervous, and we don’t want that. I’m sure they’re still investigating, but when their leads don’t turn up anything, they’ll drop it.”

“Will they send me a letter clearing me?”

“I think the best we can hope for is that they’ll release a statement to the press, saying that you’re no longer a suspect.”

“When?”

“Don, it might be a few days; it might be a few weeks. If I don’t hear from them in, say, a month, I’ll get somebody from the press to call and interview Martínez. That will give him an opportunity to clear you.”

“Should I proceed to probate with my wife’s will?”

“Of course. Do anything you’d normally do in the circumstances.”

“What sort of leads do you think they’re following?”

“Well, we know they’re looking for anyone you might have hired to do the job. Detective Reese has already interviewed your two stuntmen, and I’m sure he’s checked their alibis.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“I know you want to be out from under this, Don, but you’re just going to have to be patient.”

“All right, Ed. Let me know if you hear anything.”

“Of course I will. Goodbye.”

EAGLE HUNG UP. He was beginning to think that Don Wells was awfully nervous for an innocent man.

ALEX REESE WAS momentarily stumped. He’d checked out all his leads; now he was waiting for a break. Then he remembered something he hadn’t checked out. He called a friend of his at the NYPD.

“Hi, Alex. How you doin’?”

“Pretty good, Ralph. Could you check something out for me on your computer?”

“Sure thing.”

“There was a street killing in Manhattan, a mugging gone wrong, some years back. I’d like to speak to the lead detective on the case.”

“What’s the victim’s name?”

Reese consulted his notes. “William John Burke.”

“Hang on.”

Reese heard the sound of computer keys tapping.

“Got it,” Ralph said. “It’s still open. The lead guy was a detective in the One-Nine named Dino Bacchetti. I know him. He’s a lieutenant now, runs the detective squad over there. Here’s his number.”

Reese wrote down the number. “Thanks, Ralph. I appreciate it.” Reese dialed the Nineteenth Precinct.

“Bacchetti,” the man said.

“Lieutenant Bacchetti, my name is Detective Alex Reese, Santa Fe, New Mexico, P.D.”

“What can I do for you, Detective?”

“You worked a homicide some years ago. Victim was one William John Burke. You remember that?”

“Yeah, I remember. I was never able to clear it. It looked like a mugging, but the guy had a rich wife, and that always interests me.”

“Do you remember the name Donald Wells, in connection with that case?”

“Yeah, I do. He was a friend of the couple—more of an acquaintance, really. He had been at a dinner party with the two of them the night before Burke was killed. I talked to him, but he had a solid alibi, and he struck me as uninvolved. Until . . .”

“Until what?”

“A year later—no more than that, a year and a half, maybe—I saw Mrs. Burke and Donald Wells at a restaurant together, looking very interested in each other. Not long after that, I saw in the papers that they had gotten married.”

“Did you interview him again?”

“No. I went over my notes, and, like I said, he had a solid alibi. He was at some sort of awards ceremony at a table of eight. I couldn’t find any substantive reason to talk to him again.”

“Did he seem like the kind of guy who might have the connections to hire somebody to mug or murder Burke?”

“I thought of that at the time, but no, he didn’t seem like that kind of guy, and none of his acquaintances I talked to thought so, either. They were a pretty straight crowd. But you never know, do you? There might be somebody in anybody’s past who would commit murder for enough money.”

“That’s right. You never know.”

“You looking at Wells for something else?”

“Yeah, somebody murdered his wife and stepson.”

“The same one? The rich one?”

“Same one.”

“Ahhhhh,” Bacchetti breathed. “Now, that’s interesting.”

“And this time I’ve found a possible hit man—two of them, in fact.”

“Would you do me a favor and find out how long he’s known these two guys?” Bacchetti asked.

“Not long enough to go back to your case. They’re both stuntmen at Centurion Studios, and, as far as I can tell, he hasn’t known them for more than four years.”

“Tell you what, Alex. I’ll put a couple of men on the Burke homicide. You never know what they might come up with.”

“Thanks a lot, Dino.” Reese hung up wishing he had some way to help Bacchetti tie Wells to the Burke killing, too.

45

BOB MARTÍNEZ HAD just returned to his office from court when his secretary buzzed him. “Yes?”

“Mr. Martínez, there’s a man on the phone named Jason Bloomfield, who says he’s the executive director of the Worth Foundation. Will you speak to him?”

“Worth Foundation? Is that the one that Donna Wells’s will mentions?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Put him on.”

“Mr. Martínez?”

“Yes, Mr. Bloomfield, what can I do for you?”

“You’re aware that I run the Worth Foundation?”

“Yes, my secretary just told me.”

“I’d like to talk with you about the investigation into the murders of Donna Worth Wells and her son.”

“Well, I can confirm that we’re investigating that case, but I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you, until our investigation is complete.”

“Let me explain my problem, then you can tell me if you can help.”

“All right, Mr. Bloomfield, go ahead.”

“I believe you’ve seen a copy of Mrs. Wells’s will.”

“Yes, I have.”

“Then you know that the foundation is one of her beneficiaries.”

“Yes.”

“And you know that, since both she and her son are dead, Donald Wells becomes the principal beneficiary.”

“Yes, I do.”

“You would also know that, should Mr. Wells be found responsible for his wife and stepson’s deaths, he would not be able to inherit, and the foundation would become the principal beneficiary?”

“In addition to being district attorney, I’m an attorney, Mr. Bloomfield.”

“Can you tell me whether Donald Wells is a suspect in the murders?”

Martínez didn’t speak for a moment, and when he did, he was careful. “Mr. Bloomfield, I expect that you’ve seen enough TV shows to know that in any homicide of a female, the first suspect is usually the husband or boyfriend.”

“Yes, I do.”

“And that’s the case, even when hundreds of millions of dollars are not at stake?”

“I can understand that.”

“Then I think you can draw your own conclusions about Mr. Wells’s status in the investigation.”

“I need just a little more than that, Mr. Martínez. If I know that Mr. Wells is a suspect, then, when he files for probate, I can ask the judge to stop any further action, until it’s clear whether Mr. Wells is implicated in the homicides.”

“That’s a civil matter, Mr. Bloomfield, and thus outside the jurisdiction of this office.”

“Let me put it another way, Mr. Martínez: It’s my understanding from watching all those TV shows, that putting pressure on a suspect is sometimes an investigative technique used by the police and the district attorney.”

Martínez thought about that. “All right, Mr. Bloomfield, you can tell a judge that I said that Donald Wells is a suspect—no, the only suspect—in the homicides of his wife and stepson.”

“Would you give me that in writing?”

“You can refer the judge to me for confirmation.”

“Thank you very much, Mr. Martínez.”

“You’re very welcome, Mr. Bloomfield.”

DONALD WELLS WAS at his desk when he got a phone call from an old friend in New York.

“Don, this is Edgar Fields.”

“Hello, Edgar, long time. How are you?”

“Very well, thanks. Don, I just wanted to tell you that I had a visit this morning from two police detectives investigating the death of John Burke.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, and Bessie Willoughby had a visit from the same two detectives last evening.”

“Yes?”

“Don, you will remember that Bessie and I were two of the seven people who established your whereabouts the evening of Burke’s murder.”

“Yes, Edgar, I remember.”

“Well, it seems that the police have reopened the case and are reinterviewing everybody at that table.”

“It does seem that way, doesn’t it?”

“Well, I just wanted to let you know, Don.”

"I wouldn’t worry about it, Edgar; after all I was at that table that evening.”

“Except for about half an hour or forty-five minutes, when you went out for a smoke.”

“I don’t remember that, Edgar.”

“I do, and so does Bessie. I’m sure the others do, too.”

“Did you mention that to the detectives?”

“They specifically asked both of us if you left the table for more than five minutes during the evening. I had to tell them that. They also asked me if you smoke. I told them I didn’t know, I assumed so.”

“Well, that’s all right, Edgar; I have nothing to fear in all this, so there’s no need to worry.”

“I’m glad to hear it, Don. I wish you well.”

“Thank you, Edgar.” Wells hung up. Why the hell would they be reopening that investigation? He didn’t like this at all.

His secretary buzzed him again. “Your lawyer, Marvin Wilson, is on line one.”

Wells picked up the phone. “Yes, Marvin?”

“Don, I just got served with some papers. The Worth Foundation has filed a petition with the probate court to stop probate of Donna’s estate.”

Wells was alarmed. “On what grounds, Marvin?”

“On the grounds that the Santa Fe district attorney says that you’re the only suspect in the murders.”

“That’s preposterous!” Wells said.

“Of course it is, Don, but I now have to appear at a hearing to argue against their petition.”

“Well, sure, go ahead.”

“Don, I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“It’s not going to look good in the press if a judge stops probate because you’re the only suspect in a double homicide.”

“Well, I guess not. What do you recommend?”

“I think it would be better if I called the foundation’s attorney and agreed to withdraw our petition for probate, if they will withdraw their petition. We can probably deal with this on a handshake.”

“How long before we can file for probate, Marvin?”

“It will depend on the Santa Fe district attorney’s actions in the case. If he gets you indicted or if you’re arrested, then we couldn’t file until you’re cleared or tried and found not guilty.”

“What can we do in the meantime to resolve this?”

“Well, after some time has passed, we can have your Santa Fe attorney press the D.A. for some sort of statement of nonculpability that would satisfy the probate judge.”

“How much time?”

“A few months, at least.”

“And you feel strongly that this is our best course of action?”

“I do. And if word of this gets leaked to the press, you can take the position that you have no objection to waiting for probate, and you’re anxious to see the case resolved.”

“All right, go ahead and call their attorney.” Wells hung up, and there was a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He had a big project in preproduction, and he had planned to finance it himself, once the will was probated. Now that had to come to a screeching halt, and he was left holding the bag for the preproduction costs. He would have to go to the studio for the money.

Wells reviewed his prospects. There were four people out there who could hurt him, if too much pressure were put on them: Jack Cato, Grif Edwards, Soledad Rivera and, of course, Tina. He was going to have to find a way to see that none of them cracked.

46

DETECTIVE ALEX REESE was about to leave his office for lunch when his phone rang, and he picked it up. “Detective Reese.”

“Detective Reese, this is Luisa, you remember?”

“Give me a hint.”

“Out at the airport? Santa Fe Jet?”

“Oh, of course, Luisa. What’s up?”

“Well, you gave me your card and asked me to call you if I thought of anything else?”

“Yes, I did. Have you thought of something?”

“Not exactly, but I know where I saw that Timmons guy from Austin.”

“Where?”

“Driving a stagecoach.”

“A stagecoach?”

“In a movie. I remember that I knew the movie was made in Santa Fe, because I could see the Jemez Mountains in the background. I can see the Jemez from my mother’s house.”

Reese drew a quick breath. “Do you remember the name of the movie, Luisa?”

“No, it was several weeks ago, and it was on TV, on one of the cable channels, because there weren’t any commercials.”

“Thank you, Luisa,” Reese said, “you’ve been a big help, and I appreciate it.” He hung up and ran down the hall, where three other detectives were leaving for lunch. “Hang on, everybody, we’re ordering in, on me.”

“What’s up, Alex?” one of the detectives asked.

“We’re going to the movies. Hal, get those DVDs of the Donald Wells productions. You can draw straws for this, but I want somebody sitting there with a remote control on fast forward. Stop when you see a stagecoach. I’m looking for a stagecoach driver with a handlebar moustache and a big hat. When you find it, get a very good print made from the best frame, then go to the credits and look for the name, Jack Cato. He should be the driver.”

Everybody shuffled into the conference room, where a TV set was set up. Reese was elated. He called the D.A. with the news.

BOB MARTÍNEZ WAS pleased. “What about the airplane you think he used?”

“It’s registered to a plastic surgeon from L.A.; he hasn’t returned my calls yet.”

“Keep on him.”

JACK CATO HAD finished his day’s shooting, which involved being dragged behind a horse for four takes. He went back to the livery stable to shower in the rough bathroom there, then he put on some clean clothes and went back to his little office. He retrieved an item he had bought and tore the plastic wrapping off, then inserted batteries. He tried it; it worked. Then he put it back into the drawer. He wanted to get Mrs. Keeler on tape.

DON WELLS DROVE by the stable and saw Cato’s truck still there. He pulled up to the building and stopped. There was a light on in the office. He got out of the car and walked inside. Cato was sitting at the desk, writing checks, and he looked up. “Hey, Don.”

Wells sat down.

“I’m just paying some bills; today was payday.”

“Go ahead, Jack. I’ll wait.”

Cato wrote two more checks and sealed them into envelopes. “Okay, I’m done. What’s up?”

“I want you to take a little trip, Jack.”

“Where to?”

“I don’t much care, but out of the country. You like Mexico, don’t you?”

“Well, yeah, but I’m not sure I can afford a vacation right now.”

Wells tossed some bundles of money on the desk. “That’ll give you a running start. It’s twenty-five grand. With what you’ve got saved, you should be able to live well down there.”

“How long do I need to be gone, Don?”

“I think you should look at this as a permanent change of address.”

“But what about my job?”

“That’s going to have to go. I’ll be shooting in Mexico from time to time; you can work then, and I’ll put you in speaking parts. Also, I’ll make some calls to a couple of people I know in the film business down there. You should be able to make a good living playing gringos in Mexican pictures. You’ll live a lot better there than here.”

Cato opened a desk drawer and put the paid bills inside, then he pressed a button on his new purchase and left the drawer open. “Don, what’s going on? Why do you want me to leave the country?”

“Because I have a feeling the Santa Fe police are on to you.”

“You mean on to you, don’t you?”

“It’s the same thing, Jack. If one of us goes down, we all go down. You see that, don’t you?”

“Don, I think if we just hang tight, everything will be fine.”

“If it gets to be fine, I’ll let you know,” Wells said. “Then you can come back. But in the meantime, we have problems.”

“What kind of problems?”

“I’ll take care of Tina and Soledad, send them away for a while, but then there’s Grif Edwards.”

“You don’t have to worry about Grif, Don. I mean, he’s not the smartest guy in the world, but he’ll stand up.”

“Let me describe a situation, Jack, and you tell me what you think about it. You’re Grif Edwards, and you get arrested. The cops tell you they’ve got evidence that puts you in my house in Santa Fe at the time of the murders; they tell you that they’ll go easy on you if you’ll implicate others, maybe even tell you you’ll walk if you turn state’s evidence. You’re Grif Edwards; what would you do?”

“Okay, I get the point. What would make you feel more comfortable, Don?”

“Get Edwards to meet you in Mexico; see that he doesn’t come back.”

“You know, Don, if I stay at Centurion, I can retire with a pension in a few years.”

“Here’s what I’ll do, Jack: Right now, I can’t probate my wife’s will, because I’m still a suspect. But with the four of you unavailable to the police, I’ll be cleared in a few weeks or months. Once that happens, and her estate is settled, every year, the first week in January, I’ll send you twenty-five grand in cash. That’s a lot of money in Mexico, Jack, and it’s as much as you’d get from a pension. A buck goes a long way down there.”

“How long will you send the money?”

“For as long as we both shall live,” Wells said. “If I die, you’ll have to go to work. If you die, well, you won’t need the money. Fair enough?”

“Well . . .”

“Let me mention one other thing, Jack: If you stay in L.A., or anywhere else the cops can find and extradite you, you’re looking at life with no parole, at a minimum. And in New Mexico, they still have the death penalty.”

Cato sighed. “Okay, Don. When I finish this picture, I’ll go.”

“You finish the picture tomorrow, Jack. I want you to go home now, pack up your stuff and load your truck. Throw away what you can’t take with you. Tell the neighbors you’ve got a job back east, or you inherited some money. Write your landlord a letter; pay him anything you owe him. Tomorrow, when the picture wraps, don’t go back to your house. Give the employment office your resignation, leave the studio and don’t be seen in this country again. We’ve both got untraceable cell phones. If you have to communicate with me, do it that way. Don’t leave any messages. If I don’t answer, try me later, late at night.”

“That’s pretty final, Don.”

“It can get a lot more final, Jack.” Wells shook his hand, went back to his car and drove home to Malibu. He hoped to God that Cato had taken him seriously, because if he hadn’t, Cato was going to have to go, and Don Wells was going to have to see to it himself.

JACK CATO SAT at his desk and thought it through. He called the motor pool, and Grif Edwards answered.

“Hey, it’s me.”

“How you doin’?”

“Pretty good. I hear we’ve been cleared on that thing.”

“Yeah? That’s great news. How do you know?”

“Let’s don’t talk about it on the phone. Are you working late?”

“Yeah, I’ve got a ring job on a ’38 Ford, and I need to finish it tonight. I should be done by ten, ten thirty.”

“When you finish, come over to the stable. I’ll tell you what’s going on. There’s going to be more money, too.”

“See you around ten.”

Jack got his pry bar and went out to the privy behind the barn. He got the floor up, brushed back the dirt and opened the safe. He removed all the money and put it into a small, plastic trash bag, then locked the safe, rearranged the dirt and hammered down the floorboards.

He returned to the stable and went through his desk drawers to see if there was anything he wanted to keep. He stuffed a few things into the trash bag, then he typed out a letter of resignation, saying he had gotten a better job offer and was leaving Centurion immediately.

He got into his truck and left by the main gate, taking particular care that the guard recognized him. He drove around the studio property to the back-lot gate and let himself in with his key, then returned and parked the truck in the stable, out of sight.

He put on a pair of thin driving gloves and typed two letters. He put one into an envelope but didn’t seal it, then put it into his inside coat pocket. He put the other letter, the money from the privy and the small tape recorder in a lockbox welded to the underside of his truck, then he wiped the typewriter clean of any of his old fingerprints that might remain.

Around ten o’clock, Grif Edwards showed up. “Hey, Jack,” he said.

“C’mere a second and try out this typewriter.” He handed Grif a sheet of paper.

Grif put the paper into the machine and typed, Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their country. “Yeah,” he said, “it’s okay.”

“You want it? I’ll give it to you.”

“Thanks. I guess I can use it.” Edwards picked up the typewriter and put it into his car, then came back. “Why are you getting rid of it?”

“Because I’m moving to Mexico. You want to go with me?”

“Why are you moving down there?”

“Because Don Wells told me if I don’t, I’m going to end up in prison.”

“Holy shit! I thought you said we were in the clear.”

“I thought we were, until Don came by here after I called you and told me the cops were on to me. That means you, too.”

“Jesus, Jack, I thought our alibis were airtight.”

“Something broke along the way. I don’t know what.”

“So you’re going to Mexico?”

“Tomorrow after work. I’m gonna go home tonight and load up my truck. You want to go?”

Edwards shook his head. “I don’t know, Jack.”

“Well, you let me know tomorrow. In the meantime, I want to give you a present.”

“What’s that?”

“Come on, I’ll show you. You’re gonna like it.”

The two men got into Edwards’s car and drove over to the armory. Cato let them in and led Edwards to the little office, where he opened the steel gun cabinet. He picked up a Colt Officer’s .45, shoved a clip into it and racked the slide. He picked up a soft cloth on the desk, wiped the gun down, picked it up with the cloth and handed it to Edwards. “Remember this? You always liked it.”

“Oh, yeah, I used it in that cop thing we did, remember?”

“It’s yours, now. They’ll never have any idea where it went.”

Edwards hefted the gun in his hand and aimed it.

“Let me show you something about this weapon,” Cato said, taking it from him. Quickly, he held the gun, wrapped in the cloth, an inch from Edwards’s temple and pulled the trigger. Blood and brains sprayed on the wall behind him, and the force knocked him to the floor.

Cato picked up Edwards’s right hand and put some more of his prints on the weapon, and on the letter and envelope from his pocket, then he put the armory key into Edwards’s pocket. Still wearing his driving gloves, Cato took the typewriter from the backseat of Edwards’s car, then walked back to the stable, showered again and rolled his clothes into a tight wad. He put on clean clothes, collected the remaining stationery and envelopes in his desk drawer, then got into his truck and drove to the back-lot gate and let himself out, chaining it shut again.

He drove to Edwards’s house, found the key under the flowerpot and let himself in. He put the stationery into a drawer in Edwards’s desk, then set the typewriter on the desktop. He removed the envelope from his pocket and leaned it against the telephone on the desk.

He let himself out, then, on the way home, he ditched his blood-spattered clothes in a street trash basket.

47

ALEX REESE WAS sitting at his desk the following morning when the phone rang. “Alex Reese.”

“Detective Reese? This is Dr. Anthony DeMarco in Los Angeles, returning your call. I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you earlier, but I’ve had a busy week.”

“Thank you for calling, Dr. DeMarco. Do you own a Beech Bonanza?” He gave him the registration number.

“Yes, I do.”

“Have you recently flown your airplane to Santa Fe?”

“No, I haven’t, but I lease the airplane to the Compton Flying Club at Compton Airport, and one of their members may have rented it and flown it there. I’ll give you their number.”

Reese wrote down the number. “Thank you very much, Dr. DeMarco,” he said, then hung up and phoned the club.

“Compton Flying Club. This is Margie,” a woman’s voice said.

“Good morning. My name is Detective Alex Reese, from the Santa Fe, New Mexico, Police Department.”

“What can I do for you?”

Reese gave her the relevant dates. “Did you rent Dr. Anthony DeMarco’s Beech Bonanza to a member that weekend?”

“Hang on, let me check the log.” She came back. “Yes, we rented it to a member named Jack Cato.”

Reese’s heart leapt, then he had another thought. He gave her some earlier dates.

“Yes, we rented the Bonanza to Mr. Cato then, too.”

“Were you there when Mr. Cato took off?”

“Not the second time; he asked me to fuel the airplane and leave the key under the nose wheel. But the first weekend I was there when they left.”

“Someone was with him?”

“Yes, another man.”

“Do you know the other man’s name?”

“Jack called him Grif. I don’t know his last name.”

“Would you be kind enough to write me a letter to that effect?” Reese gave her his address, then hung up. He went immediately to the D.A.’s office.

Bob Martínez waved Reese to a chair. “What’s up?”

“You’re not going to believe this: Jack Cato and Grif Edwards killed Donna Wells and her son, and Cato fired the shot that struck Susannah Wilde.”

“They did both?”

“Well, I think Cato worked alone on the Wilde thing, but Edwards was with him for the Wells murders. I have a witness that saw them take off together in the Bonanza from Compton Airport, in L.A. I don’t have a witness yet who saw them in Santa Fe, but I’ve got one at the airport who puts Cato in the Bonanza the second time. She made him from a movie he was in, one of Don Wells’s pictures.”

“This is fantastic work, Alex, but I don’t get the Susannah Wilde thing. What connection does Wells have with her?”

“Well, they’re both in the movie business; maybe they know each other that way. That’s going to take some more investigating.”

“Oh, another thing,” Martínez said. “There’s a break in the murder case of Donna’s first husband. Wells’s alibi for that occasion now has a crack in it.”

“Wonderful! Will you get me a murder warrant for Jack Cato and Grif Edwards? I’ll get the LAPD to pick them up, and then we’ll extradite them.”

“I’ll not only get that warrant; I’ll get you extradition papers, too. I want you to go back to L.A. and be in on the arrest; it’ll look good in the papers.”

“What about Don Wells? Shouldn’t I pick him up, too?”

“We’ve got a problem there,” Martínez said. “We can connect Wells to Cato and Edwards, but we don’t yet have any evidence that he hired them to kill his wife and son. We’re going to have to break Cato or Edwards—or both—to get that.”

“There are also the two girls who gave Cato and Edwards their alibi. I’ve learned that one of them is sleeping with Wells, and has been for some time.”

That will sound good at trial, but we don’t have enough to arrest the girls yet. Maybe Cato and Edwards will give them up, too.”

“I’ll question them again after we’ve arrested Cato and Edwards. The problem is, when Wells hears about it, he might run. God knows, he has the money.”

“Yeah, that could be a problem. I’ll request LAPD surveillance on him.” Martínez looked at his watch. “Can you make the eleven o’clock plane from Albuquerque?”

“No, I have to stop at home and pick up some things. I’ll make the three o’clock plane, though.”

“I’ll have the warrants and extradition papers for you in an hour,” Martínez said. “I’ll get the LAPD to get search warrants for their homes and places of work, too.”

REESE LEFT, and Martínez dictated the warrant and extradition details to his secretary, called a judge and sent his secretary to him for his signature. He called the L.A. Chief of Police and requested surveillance on Don Wells, then he called the LAPD office for search warrants. Then he made another call.

“Ed Eagle.”

“Ed, it’s Bob Martínez.”

“Morning, Bob.”

“I have some news. Call it disclosure.”

“Yes.”

“You recall the two stuntmen who worked for Don Wells, the ones we questioned in L.A.?”

“Yes.”

“We can put them in Santa Fe at the time of the murders of Donna Wells and her son.”

“Lots of people come to Santa Fe for a weekend, Bob, especially from L.A.”

“There’s more, Ed.”

“What more?”

“We can put one of them, Jack Cato, in Santa Fe at the time of the shooting of Susannah Wilde.”

There followed a stunned silence.

“That doesn’t make any sense, Bob. Wells has no motive to kill Susannah; they don’t even know each other. No, it was Barbara who sent the shooter to Susannah’s house.”

“Well, it’s looking like the same shooter as the one who committed the Wells killings.”

“Then we’ve got two different people hiring the same hit man.”

“Happens all the time, Ed. The pros will work for anybody.”

“Are you arresting Cato and Edwards?”

“Yes, the warrants are being issued now. Alex Reese is flying to L.A. this afternoon to serve them and make the arrests.”

“What about my client? Are you arresting him?”

“No, we have insufficient evidence for that. On the other hand, if he tries to run, we’ll bring him in. You might convey that to him, Ed.”

“I’ll pass on the message. Thanks for calling.”

48

JACK CATO STAYED up late packing most of his belongings and stuffing others into trash bags. He unloaded the trash bags into a Dumpster at a construction site a few blocks away, then he went home and loaded everything else into his truck.

He got a couple of hours sleep and was on the set at Centurion at seven A.M. Don Wells walked past him, stopped and consulted a clipboard. “I’m going to shoot your stuff first, Jack; you’ll be out of here by noon. Are you ready to move?”

“Yep, everything’s in my truck.”

THEY HAD BEEN working for a little over an hour when the director called for a change of setup. “Where are my guns?” he yelled at an assistant director.

“They’re late,” he said. “I’ll call the armory.” The young man pressed a button on his cell phone, talked, listened, then came back to the director, who was talking with Don Wells. “You know that stunt guy, Grif Edwards?”

Both men nodded.

“Well, he’s dead. Shot himself over at the armory. That’s why the guns aren’t here; the cops are crawling all over the place.”

“We can’t shoot this scene without guns,” the director said.

“Come on,” Wells replied, “let’s go over there and see what we can do.” The two men got into a golf cart and drove over to the armory.

There was yellow tape over the door, and as they looked in, a detective approached them. “Can I help you gentlemen?”

“We heard there was a shooting over here,” the director said. “We’re shooting the final scenes of a film, and we need our guns.”

“Do you gentlemen know a man named Griffin Edwards?”

“Sure,” the director said, “he’s worked on our films as a stuntman. Did he kill himself?”

“Do you know any reason why he would?”

“Not me,” the director said.

“Me, either,” Wells chimed in. “Is the guy who runs the armory here?”

“Yeah, just a minute.”

They waited until the armory manager came outside. “You heard?”

“Yes,” the director said, “and we’re sorry, but we need half a dozen Winchesters and six-guns. I ordered this stuff last week.”

Another detective came outside and introduced himself as the officer in charge of the investigation. The manager explained the situation.

“Well,” the detective said, “Edwards didn’t use a Winchester or a six-gun, so I guess you can give them to these people.”

“We’ll have them back this afternoon,” Wells said. They loaded the guns and blank ammunition into the golf cart and returned to the set.

Wells waved Cato over. “Seems Grif Edwards has shot himself over at the armory.”

“Jesus!” Cato said. “Why would he do that?”

“Who knows?” Wells said. “Let’s get back to work.”

ED EAGLE AND Susannah Wilde took off from Santa Fe and headed for Los Angeles. They were halfway there before Eagle put it all together in his mind. “I’ve got it,” he said.

“Got what?”

“Wells had nothing to do with the attempt on your life; that was Barbara, as we’ve always thought. But she used the same hit man that Wells used.”

“How would Barbara and Wells be using the same hit man?”

“The connection is the movie business. Barbara’s pal, Jimmy Long, is a producer, too, and he works out of Centurion. I’d be willing to bet that Jack Cato worked in at least one of his pictures.”

“That makes sense as a connection, I guess. What are you going to do about all this?”

“First, I’m going to talk to two P.I.s who work for me sometime, then I’m going to talk to Don Wells, then I’m going to talk to the chief of police.”

THEY WERE MET at Santa Monica Airport by Cupie Dalton and Vittorio. Eagle made the introductions, then he talked with the two men while Susannah went inside to freshen up.

“How are you progressing?” Eagle asked.

“We can get it done,” Cupie said, “but first, we’ve got to solve a problem.”

“What problem?”

“The LAPD has got surveillance on Barbara; we can’t get to her as long as that’s the case.”

“Well, shit,” Eagle said. “That’s my fault; I asked Joe Sams to have her watched.”

“Can’t you ask him to call off his men?” Cupie asked.

Vittorio spoke up. “That’s not very smart,” he said. “If you do that, and then we do our job, Sams will make the connection.”

“You’re right, Vittorio,” Eagle said. “Let me think about how to do this. You two just keep an eye on her and let me know if she starts looking like she’s leaving L.A.”

“Whatever you say, Ed,” Cupie said. The two men got into their car and drove away.

Eagle went inside the FBO, found an empty conference room and called Don Wells.

“Hello, Ed,” Wells said.

“Don, there have been developments.”

“Tell me.”

“The Santa Fe police have been able to place your two stuntmen, Cato and Edwards, in Santa Fe at the time your wife and son were killed.”

“I don’t think those guys would do something like that.”

“Well, the police do, so you’d better expect to hear from them.”

“Ed, there’s nothing connecting me to those two, except work and a few poker games.”

“Don, here’s how the police think: They’re looking for motive, means and opportunity. As far as you’re concerned the motive is your wife’s money, the means is those two stuntmen and the opportunity is their presence in Santa Fe at the time of the murders. Do you see where this is heading?”

“Ed, I’ve got nothing to fear in this, unless somebody’s planning to frame me.”

“Good, I’m glad you feel that way. Just be sure that you don’t leave town or give them any other reason to believe that you’re involved.”

“Oh, there’s something you should know, Ed: One of the stuntmen, Grif Edwards, committed suicide at the studio armory last night.”

“Swell,” Eagle said. “Don’t look at this as good for you; it sounds like Cato killed him to keep him from talking.”

“I didn’t think of that,” Wells said.

“There’s something else, Don: Do you know who Susannah Wilde is?”

“The actress? Sure.”

“She also lives with me, most of the time. It looks as though Cato tried to kill her, too.”

“Christ, Cato is a busy guy, isn’t he?”

“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 office. 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.

"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 sweet 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.”

“Okay, got it.”

“Sorry, there’s also the postcard. Did you bring the photos I asked you to?”

Gillette took an envelope from his pocket and handed it to Cupie.

“They came out great.”

Cupie looked at the postcard prints, selected one and handed it to Gillette. “I want you to write what I tell you to on the back of the photo.”

Gillette took a handsome fountain pen from his pocket, uncapped it and took Cupie’s dictation.

“Keep the postcard, then tonight, when you leave La Reserve, leave it in an envelope with Barbara’s name on it at the front desk. Then wait for her call.”

“What do I do tomorrow night?” Gillette asked.

“She’ll accept your invitation, so welcome her, make her comfortable, give her a drink, then tell her it’s just going to be the two of you. Fuck her, if you can; it won’t be hard. Vittorio and I will be at hand, but she won’t see us. After that, just go along with the play. That’s all there is to it.”

“And what’s the play?”

“It’s better you don’t know.” Cupie gave him a few more instructions, then sent him on his way.

JACK CATO FINISHED his cerveza, then left the cantina, looking for a hotel. He nearly threw the gun and the plastic bag into a Dumpster but thought better of it. He wasn’t out of this alive yet, and he wasn’t going to take any chances. By the weekend, he should be free and clear; he’d collect his truck from Tijuana and vanish into Mexico. He had a couple of ideas about where he might settle, and the money Wells was bringing him would move him into a better real estate bracket. He was beginning to feel good about his new country of residence.

He found a hotel and was delighted to find a whore working the bar who looked a lot like Tina López. He hadn’t had a chance to fuck her before the end, so he made up for it with the girl from the bar.

RON GILLETTE AND his girl, Lauren Knight, arrived at La Reserve on time. Eleanor Keeler wasn’t in the restaurant yet, so they had a drink at the bar and caught up.

“You’re looking gorgeous, Lauren,” Gillette said.

“You, too, Ron. What have you been up to?”

“A little picture work, a little of this and that; you know my drill.”

“I do. How long can you stay?”

“Only tonight, I’m afraid. I’ll have to leave you tomorrow afternoon.” He looked up to see Eleanor Keeler being shown to her table. “Finish your drink,” he said to Lauren. “I’m starving.”

Eleanor Keeler was sitting on the banquette at one side of the dining room, and the headwaiter seated them next to her, at a corner table. Gillette slipped the headwaiter a fifty. “Good evening,” he said to Barbara as he slipped into his seat.

“Good evening,” she said, giving him a smile. Women always gave him a smile. He ordered another round of drinks and asked for a menu, then watched as a waiter poured Barbara a glass of champagne from a bottle of Veuve Cliquot Grand Dame.

“That’s my favorite champagne,” he said to her.

“Mine, too,” she said.

“I’m Ron Gillette, and this is Lauren Knight,” he said, offering his hand.

“Eleanor Keeler,” she said, squeezing his hand. “Do you two live in La Jolla?”

“Lauren does. I’m in town on my yacht, cruising.”

“Where are you cruising?”

"Oh, back up the coast,” he said. "I’m based in L.A. most of the time.”

“Is it Gillette, as in razor blades?” she asked.

The woman didn’t waste any time, he thought. “Yes, but I sold the company after I inherited some years back. Now I’m free as a bird.” He could see her becoming more interested.

He turned back to give Lauren some attention, since he wanted to get laid that night, but from time to time, they both talked more with Ms. Keeler. She finished dinner first.

“It was such a pleasure meeting you both,” she said, shaking their hands, then she said, more pointedly, to him, “I hope I’ll see you again sometime.”

“I hope so, too,” he said.

“What was that all about?” Lauren asked. “That stuff about the yacht?”

“I didn’t want her to think I lived here,” he replied. “She might have been hurt when I didn’t call her. Excuse me a minute, I have to go to the men’s room.”

“Don’t you dare follow her,” Lauren said.

“I’m headed in the opposite direction,” he replied, and did so.

He stopped at the front desk and asked for an envelope, then he inserted the postcard into it, wrote Eleanor Keeler’s name on it, sealed it and asked that it be delivered to her room. Then he returned to the dining room and collected Lauren.

The car was waiting for them and delivered them back to her La Jolla beach house, where they spent a very pleasant night together.

Barbara was getting ready for bed when an envelope was slid under her door. She opened it, read it and smiled broadly. What a nice invitation, she thought. She called the cell number and left a voice-mail message, accepting. “And I’m looking forward to it,” she said.

55

ALEX REESE WALKED around his hotel’s neighborhood with his cell phone in his pocket, waiting for the call. He walked all morning, had some lunch, then walked most of the afternoon. He didn’t know what else to do.

Finally, he called Captain Ferraro. “Afternoon, Captain. I’ve heard nothing from the CHP; how long should I wait?”

“I don’t know, Alex. You’d think they’d have him by now. Tell you what, give it until tomorrow morning, and if nothing happens, come on home. You can always go back for Cato. By the way, I took a call from a Lieutenant Dino Bacchetti of the NYPD. He says they’ve cracked Donald Wells’s alibi for the time of his wife’s former husband’s murder, and the case is wide open again. They’re reviewing all the work that was done in the original investigation, and he hopes they’ll have enough for an arrest.”

“I hope not,” Reese said. “I want to get my hands on Cato and get him to implicate Wells in his family’s murder before New York shows up and snatches him away.”

“You’ve got a point. Keep in touch.” The captain hung up.

Reese switched on the TV in his room and searched for something to watch that would take his mind off Jack Cato.

JACK CATO WAS at the FBO at the Acapulco airport half an hour early. He read an aviation magazine and waited nervously for Don Wells to show. He checked inside his overnight bag for the position of the gun inside.

At five minutes past three a Cessna CitationJet taxied up to the space in front of the terminal, and the door opened. A car pulled up to the airplane, and a crew member got off with some luggage and loaded it into the car. Then Don Wells stepped into the sunshine, a briefcase in his hand, and walked down the stairs and onto the tarmac. He said something to the crew member, then headed toward the FBO.

Cato got up and went into the men’s room. He kicked the stall doors open to be sure they were empty, then busied himself washing his hands. A moment later, Wells walked into the room. “Are we alone?” he asked.

Cato set his overnight bag on the counter and unzipped it. “Yes, we are.”

Wells walked over, took some paper towels from the holder and wiped water from the counter, then set his briefcase on it and snapped open the locks.

Here it comes, Cato thought. He put his hand inside the bag and gripped the pistol.

Wells opened the briefcase, removed a manila envelope and handed it to Cato.

Cato didn’t want to let go of the pistol, but he needed both hands to open the envelope. It was filled with stacks of hundred-dollar bills. He riffled through some of them to be sure they weren’t hiding newspaper, then he put the envelope in his overnight bag. For a tiny moment of panic he realized the envelope blocked his access to the pistol, but Wells closed his briefcase and stuck out his hand.

“Thanks, Jack. You lie low down here until I get in touch with you.”

“I’ll do that, Don. Thanks for the money.”

“Don’t spend it all in one place,” Wells said, then he turned and walked out of the men’s room.

Cato splashed some water on his face and dried it, then he took the gun from the bag and stuck it in his belt under his jacket, and walked back into the lobby. He turned and walked toward the sidewalk and outside, his eyes sweeping every person in sight. He felt that if he could just get into the terminal building he’d be safe.

It was a two-minute walk, and he made it unmolested, then he realized he had to go through security. He found the men’s room, waited until it was empty, then wiped the gun clean and dumped it into a stainless-steel waste basket along with the plastic bag containing the extra magazines. Then he went to the Aero México counter and checked in for the next flight to Tijuana. He had an hour and a half to wait, so he bought some magazines and made himself comfortable, but he still kept a watchful eye on other people.

Suddenly, he heard a Mr. Timmons being paged over the public-address system, and he looked around again for danger and found none.

“Mr. Timmons, please come to the Aero México desk,” a woman’s voice said again.

Cato presented himself at the desk. “I’m Mr. Timmons.”

“Oh, good, Mr. Timmons. We have an extra seat on the earlier flight to Tijuana, which leaves in ten minutes, and I wondered if you would like to have it?”

“Yes, thank you.”

She changed his ticket, gave him the gate number and said good-bye.

Things seemed to be going his way, Cato reflected, as he buckled his seat belt. He’d get back to Tijuana, put the money into the lockbox under his truck and get a good night’s sleep before heading south. There was a letter in there, too, that he wanted to burn. It no longer seemed necessary.

56

DONALD WELLS DROVE his car to his beach house, nervous about what he might find there. He turned into the drive, half expecting to find the place swarming with Mexican police, but there was only the housekeeper’s car. He let himself into the garage with the remote, removed his luggage from the trunk and walked in through the kitchen door.

“María!” he called out.

"Sí, sí,” his housekeeper called back from another room, then entered the kitchen, carrying a vacuum cleaner. “Buenos días, Señor Wells,” she said. “Did you have a good trip?” Her English was good, if heavily accented.

“Very good, María. Are the ladies here?”

“No, señor, and their beds were not slept in last night.”

“That’s odd,” Wells said, trying to sound worried. “Did you see them yesterday?”

“Yes, señor. They were lying on the beach when I came, and I changed both their beds. The linens are still fresh and unwrinkled; that’s how I know they did not sleep here.”

“Did they have a car?”

“Yes, señor, a green Honda from renting.”

“Will you unpack these bags for me, please, María? I’ll see if I can reach Tina on her cell.”

María left with the luggage, and Wells went into his study and called Tina’s cell phone, which went straight to voice mail. “Tina, it’s Don Wells. I just got into town, and María says you and Soledad didn’t sleep here last night. I’m concerned about you, so please call me at the house and let me know you’re all right.” Then he looked up the number for the police and dialed it. “Capitán Morales, please,” he said when it was answered.

“This is Morales,” the capitán said, in Spanish.

“Capitán, this is Don Wells. How are you?”

“Oh, Señor Wells, I am quite good, and you?”

“I’m fine. I just got in from Los Angeles, and I expected to find my house guests, two young women, here, but they are not in the house, and my housekeeper tells me their beds were not slept in last night. I don’t want to be an alarmist, but I am concerned about them.”

“Ah, Señor Wells, I will come out to your casa to see you about this. In about an hour?”

“I don’t want to put you to any trouble.”

“No, no, señor, no trouble. I will see you in one hour.”

Wells hung up, went into the kitchen and got himself a beer, some of María’s guacamole, and some chips. He took them into the study and ate them on the leather couch in front of the big TV.

Sometime later the doorbell rang, and María escorted Capitán Morales and two men in plainclothes into the study. Wells seated them and noticed that one of the men was holding an envelope.

“Now, Señor Wells,” the capitán said, “please tell me about these two young women.”

“Their names are Tina López and Soledad Rivera; they work in the wardrobe department at the movie studio where I have my offices. They have often worked on films I have produced. They both had some vacation time coming, so I let them use this house. I believe they arrived three or four days ago.”

“I see. And when did you arrive?”

“A few minutes before I spoke to you on the phone. I flew into the airport on a private aircraft, and we landed at three o’clock.”

One of the other men spoke up. “May I have the registration number of the airplane and the names of the pilots?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know the registration number, since it is a chartered airplane. The pilot’s name is Dan Edmonds; I don’t know the copilot’s name.”

“And the name of the company you chartered from?”

“Elite Aircraft, at Burbank Airport, in Los Angeles.”

The man took all this down. “May I use a telephone in another room?”

“Of course. There’s one in the kitchen.”

The man left, and his partner resumed the questioning. “When you arrived at the airport, did you speak to anyone?”

“No, my car was waiting, and I went inside the FBO to use the men’s room while the pilots loaded my luggage into it.”

“Was there not a toilet on the airplane, señor?”

Wells smiled. “Yes, but our approach was very bumpy, not conducive to aiming well.”

The other detective came back and nodded to the capitán, who spoke up again. “Señor Wells, can you describe the two young women?”

“They are both in their late twenties or early thirties. Tina is about five feet seven inches tall and a hundred and thirty pounds; Soledad is smaller, about five-four and a hundred and thirty pounds. They are both Hispanic and speak Spanish but were born in Los Angeles, I believe.”

The capitán held out his hand, and one of the detectives put the manila envelope in it. He opened the envelope and handed Wells two photographs. “Are these the two women?”

Wells looked at the photos and let his eyes widen. “What happened to them?”

“Are they your two friends?”

“Yes, they are. What happened?”

“They were apparently driving from this house into Acapulco yesterday afternoon. They were found in their car, upside down in an arroyo, both dead.”

“That’s very upsetting,” Wells said, frowning, “an awful accident.”

“It was not an accident, Señor Wells,” the capitán said. “Their car was apparently run off the road and into the ditch; both women were shot once each, with a small-caliber handgun.”

“Good God! Why would anyone harm them?”

“Apparently to rob them, señor. Both their handbags had been removed from the car and emptied on the ground beside it. There was no money or jewelry among the belongings. Also, one of the women, the driver, showed marks on her left wrist of having worn a watch, which was missing.”

“I’m going to have to get in touch with their families,” Wells said.

“Perhaps it would be better if I did that,” the capitán replied. “If you will give me the number.”

Wells looked at his wristwatch. “I’ll have to call the studio,” he said and went to the phone. After speaking to personnel he handed the capitán the names and numbers of their next of kin.

“May I ask, Señor Wells, why you did not have these numbers yourself?”

“I don’t know their families, Capitán; I have only the number of the apartment they share. When you speak to the families, would you please convey my condolences and tell them I will bear any expense involved in returning their remains to Los Angeles?”

“Of course, Señor Wells. If you will permit me, I will place these arrangements in the hands of a mortuary known to me, and they will send you a bill. Normally, in cases of this kind, the remains are cremated, which makes transport more convenient.”

“Whatever their families wish, Capitán, and I am very grateful for your help in this matter. Tell me, do you have any idea who did this?”

“No, señor, not yet. We found a stolen car abandoned in Acapulco that had paint from the women’s car on its bumper, but the car had been carefully cleaned of fingerprints.”

“I would appreciate it if you would keep me informed on the investigation,” Wells said. “And when you have spoken to their families, would you ask to whom and where I should send the belongings they left here?”

“Of course. And now we would like to speak to your housekeeper, if we may, and see their belongings.”

“This way,” Wells said, rising.

Half an hour later they were gone, seeming satisfied. With the women silenced and Jack Cato disappearing into Mexico, Wells began to breathe easier.

57

EAGLE AND SUSANNAH got back to his Santa Fe house by late afternoon and unpacked. They were having a drink when the phone rang, and Eagle answered.

“Ed, it’s Bob Martínez.”

“Hi, Bob.”

“An update for you: Detective Reese is in Los Angeles with an arrest warrant for Jack Cato, on a double-murder charge.”

“Donna Wells and her son?”

“Yes. We can put him in Santa Fe when Susannah was shot, too, but we still have more work to do on that.”

“Are you arresting Don Wells? By the way, I am no longer representing him.”

“When we get Cato in custody and back to Santa Fe we’ll make him an offer in the hope of getting him to turn on Wells. Grif Edwards is dead.”

“I heard.”

“There are still the two women who alibied Cato and Edwards, but they seem to have left L.A., so Cato is our only shot right now at implicating Wells. New York may have a chance, though.”

“Why?”

“They think Wells may have murdered his wife’s first husband, but they were unable to make a case at the time. Now they’ve cracked his alibi for the time of the murder, so they’re reopening the case. Of course, we’d rather see him go down in Santa Fe.”

“Of course.”

“The LAPD has lifted surveillance on your ex-wife, and, quite frankly, we don’t know where she is; maybe gone back to San Francisco. I’m not sure you can rest easy while she’s on the loose.”

“Thanks for calling, Bob. Please keep me abreast of developments.” He hung up and told Susannah the details of the conversation.

“Ed,” Susannah said, “do you think we’re safe now?”

“Yes, I do.”

“With Barbara still out there somewhere?”

“I don’t think we’re going to have to worry about Barbara anymore.”

“I don’t like the way you said that. You haven’t done anything stupid, have you?”

“That remains to be seen,” Eagle said.

A CHAUFFEURED MERCEDES called at La Reserve for Barbara at seven o’clock and drove her to a local marina. The driver held her door for her. “Madam, I’m told the yacht is on slip one hundred, at the end of the main pier,” he said, pointing.

She tipped and thanked him, then walked through the gate and down the pier. As she came to the pontoon at the end and turned a corner, the yacht came into view. Oh, gorgeous, she thought. Not only is this man the heir to a great fortune, he has impeccable taste in yachts.

A uniformed crew member stood at the end of the gangplank. “Mrs. Keeler?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Captain Ted,” the man said. “Welcome aboard Enticer. Mr. Gillette is waiting for you on the afterdeck. This way, please.”

He led her down the port side of the yacht, and she noted the gleaming varnished mahogany and the teak decks. As she rounded a corner, Ron Gillette stood up to greet her, resplendent in a blue blazer and white linen trousers.

“Barbara! Welcome aboard!” He offered her a comfortable chair, then a steward appeared with a bottle of Veuve Cliquot Grand Dame and poured them both a glass.

“Ted,” Gillette said, “I think we can get under way now.” He turned back to Barbara. “The other couple I mentioned in my card who were meant to join us are having sitter problems and won’t be coming. I hope you won’t mind dining alone with me.”

“Not in the least,” she said, giving him her best smile.

Lines were taken in, and the yacht moved, nearly silently, away from the dock, and headed toward the Pacific.

“Where are we cruising?” she asked.

“I’ve left that to our captain, Ted; he knows these waters well.”

“The yacht is very beautiful. Tell me about her.”

“My grandfather had her designed in 1935, by John Trump, and built in New Jersey; she’s been in the family ever since. Last year, I put her through a complete renovation—electrics, engines, navigational equipment—so she’s now virtually a new yacht.”

“New yachts aren’t this beautiful,” Barbara said.

The steward appeared with hors d’oeuvres: bits of foie gras on toast and beluga caviar with little buckwheat cakes and sour cream.

“Would you prefer iced vodka with your caviar?” Gillette asked.

“Thank you, I prefer the champagne. You were kind to remember that I liked it.”

The yacht turned northward and cruised along slowly as the sun sank into the Pacific and Ron Gillette coaxed information from her and talked on and on about his family and his life as a world traveler. Barbara believed she might have met her fifth husband.

When darkness fell they moved into the saloon, where a sumptuous dinner was served by the steward and the chef. Soft piano music played from a hidden sound system, and the stars came out.

Slowly, as they dined, the yacht turned toward the west and continued until it was on a southerly heading. With the sun down, this was not obvious from the saloon.

AFTER DESSERT THEY moved to a comfortable sofa while the dishes were taken away. The steward served them cognac. “Will that be all, Mr. Gillette?”

“Yes, thank you, Justin. We’d like to be alone now.”

“Certainly, sir. You won’t be disturbed.” He vanished.

Gillette and Barbara clinked glasses and sipped their brandy, then he leaned over and kissed her lightly under the ear.

“What lovely perfume,” he said, nibbling at her earlobe.

“What a lovely kiss,” she said, raising her lips to him.

“I don’t believe I’ve shown you the owner’s cabin,” he breathed into her ear.

“I’d love to see it,” she replied.

They rose, and he led her down the companionway to the afterstateroom, which was large and comfortably furnished with a king-size bed. The lights had already been lowered, and they could still hear the lovely music.

“This is wonderful,” Barbara said as they sank into the bed.

“The evening is yours,” Gillette said. “You have only to tell me what you desire.”

And she told him.

58

JACK CATO BOARDED his flight, and through his window he saw lightning in the distance. His first instinct was to get off the airplane, but he wanted out of Acapulco before he had to have a conversation with the local police.

Five minutes after takeoff, while the airplane was still climbing, it was buffeted by turbulence and lit periodically by lightning flashes. Cato knew, from his flight training, what thunderstorms could do to an airplane, even one as large as this, and if he had been offered a parachute, he would gladly have jumped.

He wanted a drink desperately but wasn’t going to get one unless he could snag it from the unmoored cocktail cart that was careening up and down the aisle, and he had a window seat so could not reach it. The woman next to him vomited into her lap, and the stench was awful.

A man two rows ahead got out of his seat, trying to go God knew where, and had to be restrained by the flight attendant and another passenger. Here and there, an overhead locker flew open and pillows, blankets and luggage spilled onto the heads of the passengers. Women were screaming, and so were some of the men. The flight attendant, once again strapped into her seat, sat as if in a catatonic state, white as marble, her lips moving, without sound.

And then, suddenly, they were on top of the clouds, and the flight, in a matter of seconds, became perfectly smooth. He could see the array of stars as they made their way north.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the pilot said over the PA system, “I wish to apologize for the roughness of our ascent, but I want you to know that we were never in any danger.”

“Lying son of a bitch,” Cato said to himself.

The flight attendant came and led the woman next to him to a toilet, and she returned after a few minutes, stinking less badly. The seat-belt sign remained on, and no drinks were served.

The flight attendant reached over and tapped him on the shoulder, and he started. “May I put your bag in the overhead compartment?” she asked.

He realized that he was hugging the soft leather bag with his money in it. “No,” he said. “Can I have a drink?”

“I’m sorry, sir, but the seat-belt sign is still on and will probably remain that way. Please be sure to put your bag under the seat in front of you for landing.” She went on her way.

Cato willed himself to relax and had nearly done so, when the airplane began its descent into Tijuana. Shortly they were in clouds, and the lightning started again. It was as if someone in some great video center was replaying their ascent, except the descent was, if anything, worse. The pilot announced final approach, and Cato knew he was flying the instrument landing system. The airplane yawed, bumped, made sharp ascents and descents, and he knew the pilot was hand-flying the approach, because the autopilot couldn’t operate in such turbulence.

They broke out of the clouds, but rain was streaming down Cato’s window, and the airplane was still bucking. Then, miraculously, they were on the ground and braking. Cato didn’t know how the pilot found the taxiway in the downpour, but he did. The moment the airplane stopped moving, Cato was on his feet, and the hell with the attendant’s instruction to remain seated. He was the first person off the airplane, and he nearly ran to the bar in the terminal.

It took two shots of tequila to begin to calm him; the third one he sipped more slowly. Finally, he weaved his way out of the terminal, and while his fellow passengers were still waiting for their luggage, he slung his bag over his shoulder and began waving for a taxi in the heavy rain. He was soaked before one finally stopped. He instructed the man to take him to the garage near the border crossing.

“Ah, yes, señor,” the man said. “I know the one. You would, perhaps like a clean hotel for the night? My cousin has a very nice place not far from this garage.”

“No, no thanks,” Cato said. He had an almost panicky need to be sure his truck was safe, then he would go to the Parador, where he had stayed before. He would have some dinner and a couple of drinks, and maybe a whore, then he would get a good night’s sleep and be on his way south the following morning.

The cab stopped in front of the garage, and Cato made his way to the elevator, since he had parked on the roof. The rain had begun to ease when he stepped out onto the upper deck and looked around for his truck. Then he saw something that chilled his soul. All the boxes that had been loaded into his truck bed were scattered around the roof. They had been cut open, and the contents—his clothes and belongings—were being blown about in the wind and rain. He heard tires squealing and looked wildly around, then saw his truck speeding onto the down ramp. The thief didn’t know about the lockbox welded into the truck’s chassis, the box with most of his money and the letter that he must destroy.

He had a chance, he thought. He stopped the elevator doors from closing and leapt back into the car. The ride down was painfully slow; it seemed to take half an hour to reach the ground. He ran from the elevator and into the street, looking up and down the block for his truck.

Then he saw it, at the Mexican side of the border crossing. The thief was driving it into the United States. He began to run, but the tequila was catching up with him. By the time he reached the Mexican side, the truck had been cleared and was driving toward the American side of the border. There were few cars waiting to cross, and he knew that soon the truck would be gone and that he would never find it.

He cleared the Mexican side and began to run again. “Stop that truck!” he yelled. “Stop that truck! It’s stolen! That’s my truck!” One of the American border patrol officers turned and looked at him. “Stop that truck!” he yelled again. “It’s stolen!”

The officer yanked open the truck door and pulled a young man out of the cab. “What did you say?” he asked Cato, as he wobbled up to the truck.

“That’s my truck; he stole it!” Cato puffed. “He threw all my stuff out and stole it from the garage.” Unable to continue, he sank to a cross-legged sitting position on the wet pavement and watched the officer handcuff the thief, then the man walked over to him.

“Are you all right, sir?”

“Gimme a minute,” Cato said, gulping in new air.

“What is your name, sir?”

“Ca . . . ah, Timmons,” Cato said.

“May I see the registration for the truck and your driver’s license?”

Cato reached into his right hip pocket for his wallet, then changed his mind and reached into the left pocket for his Timmons license. He handed it to the officer. “The registration is in the armrest of the truck,” he said.

“You got here just in time, Mr. Timmons,” the officer said. “Another ten seconds, and he would have been gone with your truck.”

“Thank you for stopping him,” Cato said, struggling to his feet.

The officer walked around the truck slowly. “You said the thief removed your belongings from the truck?”

“Yes, they’re scattered all over the roof of that garage over there,” he said, pointing. “Can I take my truck back and get my things now?”

The officer was looking at the truck registration. “First, let’s clear up something. Why is the license plate on your truck not the one listed on your registration, Mr. Timmons. And who is John W. Cato?”

Cato’s legs failed him again.

59

CUPIE AND VITTORIO stood on the fore-deck of Enticer, staring toward the shore. “Where the fuck is he?” Cupie asked.

“He’ll be here,” Vittorio said. “He promised me, and he owes me.”

“Owes you?”

“He accepted a gift: I gave him a beautiful Colt .45 the last time I saw him,” Vittorio explained. “I couldn’t cross the border with it, so I thought, what the hell, it couldn’t hurt to keep a capitán sweet.”

“You’re sure he’s coming?”

“She cut off his nephew’s dick. He’ll be here.”

“He’d better; the yacht has to be back at Marina del Rey tomorrow morning, or it will cost Eagle another five grand, and I don’t want to have to explain it to him.”

Cupie went to the bridge, where Captain Ted was lounging, letting the autopilot take them south at a leisurely eight knots.

“What’s up?” Ted asked.

Cupie grabbed the microphone of the VHF radio and tuned it to channel 16. “Capitán Rodríguez, Capitán Rodríguez, this is the yacht Enticer. Do you read?”

Static. Then a voice, very loud. “Enticer, this is Rodríguez. What is your position?”

Cupie looked up at the GPS and read off their latitude and longitude.

“That is not very far away. Are you wearing lights?”

“Yes, we are,” Cupie said. He turned to Ted. “Give me a white flare,” he said.

Ted dug into a locker and handed him the flare.

Cupie picked up the microphone again. “Watch for a bright light,” he said, then he walked back on deck, peeled the seal off the flare, struck it and held it overboard, so the phosphorous wouldn’t drip on him. The whole world lit up.

BARBARA WAS RIDING Ron Gillette as if he were a circus pony, and making a lot of noise doing it. She was suddenly reined in by a hammering on the door.

“Mr. Gillette!” a voice called out.

“Huh? Yes?” Gillette said.

“Please come on deck and bring Mrs. Keeler; the police want to inspect the yacht and see the crew’s papers. Please bring your passports!”

“Yeah, give us a couple of minutes, okay?”

Barbara sighed and rolled off Gillette. “What’s going on?”

“It’s just a routine thing,” Gillette replied. “Happens all the time; homeland security and all that. Let’s get dressed.”

They got into their clothes, and Barbara took a moment to apply lipstick. She grabbed her handbag. “Okay, I’m ready.”

“They’re going to want to see our passports,” Ron said, taking his from an inside pocket of his blazer and holding it up.

Barbara dug into her handbag and came up with her passport. “Got it.”

“Don’t worry,” Ron said. “We’ll be back in bed in ten minutes.”

“I’ll look forward to it,” Barbara said, smiling.

He led her up the companionway stairs and onto the afterdeck. A brightly lit motor vessel was moored alongside Enticer, bobbing on the small waves. It was flying a Mexican flag.

“Ron,” Barbara said, “that’s a Mexican flag.” She pointed.

“Yes, it is,” he replied.

“Are we in Mexico?”

Ron looked toward shore at some lights. “I guess so.” He pointed. “That must be Tijuana over there.”

Barbara looked around, as if for a way out, but there was no escape; she’d just have to brazen it through. Then two men appeared from forward on the yacht, and she knew one of them. “Cupie? What the hell are you doing here?”

“Hi, Barbara,” Cupie said cheerfully. “You remember Capitán Rodríguez, don’t you?”

Barbara stared in horror at the Mexican policeman. “No,” she said, “I don’t.”

“Well then,” Cupie said, “you remember his nephew . . .”

“Ernesto,” the capitán said, helpfully.

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

“May I see your passport, Mrs. Eagle?” Capitán Rodríguez said. “I’m sure we can straighten this out very quickly.”

“My name is Mrs. Walter Keeler,” she said, handing the capitán her passport. “You must have me confused with someone else.”

“Oh, he’s not confused, Babs,” Cupie said.

“No, señora,” the capitán replied, “I am not confused.” He removed a piece of paper from his tunic pocket and handed it to her. “I have a warrant for your arrest on three charges of attempted murder.”

“What on earth are you talking about?” she demanded.

Vittorio appeared on the afterdeck. “One,” he said, raising his hand. “Attempted murder by drowning.”

“Two,” Cupie said, raising his hand. “Attempted murder by gunshot.”

“And three,” the capitán said, “counting my nephew, who will be very happy to see you, Mrs. Eagle.”

“I tell you I am not this Eagle person!” Barbara said desperately. “My United States passport will tell you that!”

“Yes,” Cupie said, “she is.”

“Right,” echoed Vittorio.

“You are all insane!” she shouted. “Ron, do something!”

Gillette took the paper from her hand and glanced over it. “Well,” he said, “this appears to be a valid warrant. Did I mention that I’m a lawyer?”

“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 pocket, 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 & 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?”

“Don Wells,” Eagle said. “They’ve arrested him, and he’s looking for a lawyer again.”

“Not you, I hope.”

“That’s what I told him. I gave him a couple of names. With Cato’s testimony facing him he’s going to have to plead guilty to save his life.”

“Which is pretty much over.”

“Who knows, maybe they’ll let him do a prison film.”

They both dug into their eggs.

“It really is over, isn’t it? Confirm that for me just once more.”

“It really is over. Barbara’s in a Mexican jail, Don Wells will soon be in a New Mexican jail, and Jack Cato, the man who shot you already is.”

“Nobody’s ever going to shoot me again,” Susannah said.

“I sincerely hope not.”

The front doorbell rang the bedside phone intercom.

“Who the hell would be here on a Sunday morning?” Susannah asked.

Eagle pressed the speaker button on the phone. “Yes?”

“Flowers for Mr. Eagle and Ms. Wilde,” a woman’s voice said.

“Flowers?” Susannah asked. “Who would send us flowers?”

“Just leave them on the front doorstep,” Eagle said.

“I’m sorry, sir. I need a signature.”

“Who are they from?”

“I’m sorry; I’m not allowed to read the card.”

“Hang on a minute,” Eagle said. He switched off the speakerphone, set his tray aside and got out of bed, naked.

“Just tell her to go away,” Susannah said.

“This will just take a minute,” Eagle said, getting into a robe and slippers. He walked through the house to the front door and opened it. A small woman stood there, mostly hidden by an elaborate bouquet of flowers.

“Where would you like me to put them?” the woman asked.

“On the table over there,” Eagle said, “to your right.” He stepped back and allowed the woman to enter. As she passed, he snagged a small envelope hanging from the bouquet, opened it and read the card:

Thanks for everything, Ed. You deserve this.

Barbara

“When did you take this order?” Eagle asked the woman, who had set down the bouquet and was turning to face him. He heard the noise before he saw the gun in her hand. He flinched as something struck his left ear, then he ran for the front door, hoping to close it between them before she could get off another round.

“Susannah, get out of the house!” he yelled as another shot struck the doorjamb.

Then he heard another, louder noise, just once, and everything went quiet.

“Ed?” Susannah called.

“She’s got a gun!” Eagle yelled, flattening himself against the outer wall of the house.

“Not anymore,” Susannah said. “You can come back in.”

Eagle peeked through the front door. The flower woman was lying, spread-eagled on her back, her chest pumping blood. Susannah still stood in a combat stance, holding the .45 that he kept in his bedside drawer.

“Who is she?” Susannah asked.

“I have no idea, except that she delivered a message.” He picked up the card from where he had dropped it and handed it to Susannah.

She glanced at it but kept the pistol pointed at the flower woman. “She’s still bleeding, so she must still be alive. You’d better call an ambulance and the police. Make that two ambulances; you’re bleeding like a stuck pig.”

Eagle put a hand to his ear and walked over to the flower woman, kicking her small pistol away from her. “She’s stopped bleeding,” he said, bending over and putting two fingers to her throat. “She’s dead.”

Susannah walked to the nearest phone, called 911, and spoke to the operator, then she went to the fridge in the kitchen and came back with some ice wrapped in a dish towel and applied it to Eagle’s ear.

“You’ve got a nice, clean notch there,” she said. “A battle scar in the Barbara wars.”

“Which are now, officially, over,” he said.

“That’s what you said five minutes ago,” she replied, kissing him. “I’m going to keep going around armed for a while.”

“So am I,” he said, putting an arm around her and leading her back to the bedroom. “We’d better dress for the police.”

“When they’re gone, I’ll start over with the eggs Benedict,” she said.

“When they’re gone, we’ll start over with everything,” Eagle replied.

Epilogue

LEE HIGHT SAT at her desk in Joe Wilen’s old office, drafting a document in connection with his charitable foundation. Margie, Joe’s old secretary and now Lee’s, walked into the room, holding a newspaper.

“Did you see this?” she asked, placing the San Francisco morning paper on her desk. She tapped a story at the bottom of the front page.

Lee looked up to see the headline:

WALTER KEELER’S WIDOW CONVICTED IN MEXICO

Acapulco (AP) Barbara Eagle Keeler, widow of Palo Alto billionaire Walter Keeler, was convicted today in an Acapulco court of three counts of attempted murder. In spite of a brigade of expensive Mexican lawyers, the testimony of the three victims, Cupie Dalton of Los Angeles, Vittorio (only one name) of Santa Fe, New Mexico, both private investigators, and Ernesto Rodríguez, the nephew of the chief of police of Acapulco, proved convincing to the all-male jury.

Mrs. Keeler’s attorneys moved for a stay of sentencing, pending appeal, but the judge rejected their motion and immediately sentenced her to a term of twenty-five years to life and ordered her to prison.

A two-attorney delegation from the Palo Alto district attorney’s office presented an extradition request and arrest warrant on one count of murder, that of Joe Wilen, a business associate of and attorney for Walter Keeler, but the judge told them they would have to wait at least twenty-five years to serve the papers.

A man, Jack Cato, who alleges that Mrs. Keeler hired him to kill Mr. Wilen, has been giving testimony in another murder trial in a Santa Fe, New Mexico, court, that of film producer, Donald Wells, who is charged with arranging the murders of his wife, a pharmaceuticals heiress, and her son.

The article continued inside the paper, but Lee stopped reading. “This is all I need,” she said. “Margie, I’ll dictate a letter to our bank, cutting off the woman’s monthly payments, then you get hold of a San Francisco realtor and put the apartment on the market. Tell them to clean out her clothes and personal belongings and give them to some charity.”

“Love to,” Margie replied, sitting down, steno pad in hand.

Author’s Note

I am happy to hear from readers, but you should know that if you write to me in care of my publisher, three to six months will pass before I receive your letter, and when it finally arrives it will be one among many, and I will not be able to reply.

However, if you have access to the Internet, you may visit my website at www.stuartwoods.com, where there is a button for sending me e-mail. So far, I have been able to reply to all of my e-mail, and I will continue to try to do so.

If you send me an e-mail and do not receive a reply, it is because you are among an alarming number of people who have entered their e-mail address incorrectly in their mail software. I have many of my replies returned as undeliverable.

Remember: e-mail, reply; snail mail, no reply.

When you e-mail, please do not send attachments, as I never open these. They can take twenty minutes to download, and they often contain viruses.

Please do not place me on your mailing lists for funny stories, prayers, political causes, charitable fund-raising, petitions or sentimental claptrap. I get enough of that from people I already know. Generally speaking, when I get e-mail addressed to a large number of people, I immediately delete it without reading it.

Please do not send me your ideas for a book, as I have a policy of writing only what I myself invent. If you send me story ideas, I will immediately delete them without reading them. If you have a good idea for a book, write it yourself, but I will not be able to advise you on how to get it published. Buy a copy of Writer’s Market at any bookstore; that will tell you how.

Anyone with a request concerning events or appearances may e-mail it to me or send it to: Publicity Department, Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014.

Those ambitious folk who wish to buy film, dramatic or television rights to my books should contact Matthew Snyder, Creative Artists Agency, 9830 Wilshire Boulevard, Beverly Hills, CA 98212-1825.

Those who wish to make offers for rights of a literary nature should contact Anne Sibbaid, Janklow & Nesbit, 445 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10022. (Note: This is not an invitation for you to send her your manuscript or to solicit her to be your agent.)

If you want to know if I will be signing books in your city, please visit my website, www.stuartwoods.com, where the tour schedule will be published a month or so in advance. If you wish me to do a book signing in your locality, ask your favorite bookseller to contact his Penguin representative or the Penguin publicity department with the request.

If you find typographical or editorial errors in my book and feel an irresistible urge to tell someone, please write to Rachel Kahan at Penguin’s address above. Do not e-mail your discoveries to me, as I will already have learned about them from others.

A list of my published works appears in the front of this book and on my website. All the novels are still in print in paperback and can be found at or ordered from any bookstore. If you wish to obtain hardcover copies of earlier novels or of the two nonfiction books, a good used-book store or one of the online bookstores can help you find them. Otherwise, you will have to go to a great many garage sales.

FROM A LIMITED EDITION OF

one hundred fifty copies

printed and bound especially

for friends of the author,

this and every other copy

has been numbered

001

so that everyone may

have a low number.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

AUTHOR’S NOTE

BOOKS BY STUART WOODS

FICTION

Lucid Intervals[2]

Kisser[2]

Hothouse Orchid[1]

Loitering with Intent[2]

Mounting Fears[3]

Hot Mahogany[2]

Santa Fe Dead[4]

Beverly Hills Dead

Shoot Him If He Runs[2]

Fresh Disasters[2]

Short Straw[4]

Dark Harbor[2]

Iron Orchid[1]

Two-Dollar Bill[2]

The Prince of Beverly Hills

Reckless Abandon[2]

Capital Crimes[3]

Dirty Work[2]

Blood Orchid[1]

The Short Forever[2]

Orchid Blues[1]

Cold Paradise[2]

L.A. Dead[2]

The Run[3]

Worst Fears Realized[2]

Orchid Beach[1]

Swimming to Catalina[2]

Dead in the Water[2]

Dirt[2]

Choke

Imperfect Strangers

Heat

Dead Eyes

L.A. Times

Santa Fe Rules[4]

New York Dead[2]

Palindrome

Grass Roots[3]

White Cargo

Deep Lie[3]

Under the Lake

Run Before the Wind[3]

Chiefs[3]

TRAVEL

A Romantic’s Guide to the Country Inns of Britain and Ireland (1979)

MEMOIR

Blue Water, Green Skipper (1977)

G.P. PUTNAM’S SONS

Publishers Since 1838

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA • Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) • Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England • Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd) • Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd) • Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi-110 017, India • Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd) • Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

Copyright © 2010 by Stuart Woods

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions. Published simultaneously in Canada

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Woods, Stuart.

Santa Fe edge / Stuart Woods. p. cm.

eISBN : 978-1-101-44344-6

1. Eagle, Ed (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Organized crime—Mexican-American Border Region—Fiction. 3. Divorced women—Fiction. 4. Santa Fe (N.M.)—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3573.O642S

813’.54—dc22

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

While the author has made every effort to provide accurate telephone numbers and Internet addresses at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur after publication.

Further, the publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

http://us.penguingroup.com

This book is for Bonnie Piceu and Paul Dietz.

1

Ed Eagle sat at his breakfast table and watched his new wife, Susannah Wilde, cook his breakfast. He was a lucky man, he thought.

She set down two plates of huevos rancheros and joined him.

“What are you doing today?” he asked. He was concerned that she might become bored, and he didn’t want that.

“I’m having lunch with a producer I worked with a few years back, Dan Karman. You remember that novel I bought a few weeks ago?”

“Yes, sure.”

“Danny’s written a screenplay based on it, and we’re going to talk about shooting it in Santa Fe.” Susannah was a well-known actress.

“Sounds great,” Eagle replied, and he meant it. He didn’t want her spending a lot of time in L.A., shooting a movie.

“What are you up to?” Susannah asked.

“The usual. I’m having a first meeting with a man who’s been charged with murdering his wife. It happened early this morning.”

“You meet such nice people in your work,” she said.

“Oh, this one’s quite a nice fellow, I’m told, and he might even be innocent.”

“I thought all your clients were innocent.”

“He’s not my client yet,” Eagle replied. “If he’s not innocent now, he will be by the end of the day.”

Susannah laughed. “That’s my Ed,” she said, pouring him a second cup of coffee. “Do you remember a film producer named James Long?”

Eagle put down his coffee. “I certainly do,” he replied. “He’s the guy who furnished Barbara’s alibi in her trial for murdering those people at the Hotel Bel-Air, when she thought she was murdering me.”

“Long has his own production company, backed by inherited wealth, and Danny thinks he might be a good choice to get this film made. How would you feel about that?”

Eagle shrugged. “I don’t have anything against the guy,” he said. “I suppose he’s as much Barbara’s victim as I. She drugged him, left the house, shot those two people, then returned before he woke up. He thought she was in bed with him the whole time, and testified to that.”

“Long might be the best way to go,” she said. “He puts up a big chunk of the production money, then raises the rest from private investors, so he doesn’t have to take any crap from a studio.”

“Sounds good, but how does he distribute?”

“He has a good track record for making successful films on moderate budgets, so the distributors look on him favorably. Shouldn’t be a problem.”

“I liked the novel,” Eagle said. “I hope you get a good screenplay.”

“You can read it tonight,” she said, clearing the table.

AN HOUR LATER Eagle sat in the attorneys’ visiting room at the Santa Fe Municipal Jail, waiting for his prospective client. He read through a single-page report put together by an associate in his firm.

Terrence Hanks, known as Tip, is a twenty-nine-year-old golf professional, born in Delano, Georgia, a small town, and educated in the public schools and on a golf scholarship at Florida State University. He got his PGA Tour card six years ago and moved to Santa Fe two and a half years ago, building a house out at Las Campanas.

Ten months ago he married Constance Clay Winston, the ex-wife of another golf pro, Tim Winston. She and Hanks were having an affair while she was still married to Winston.

Yesterday, Hanks returned home after uncharacteristically missing the cut at a tournament in Dallas. His story is that he found his wife in their bed, dead of a gunshot wound to the head. He called 911.

The police found a handgun near the bed that had Hanks’s fingerprints on it and charged him with murder. He was referred to you by his personal attorney, Earl Potter, who, as you know, doesn’t do criminal work.

Hanks is a relatively successful tour player, earning an average of a little over a million and a half dollars a year since getting his card, so he can afford representation.

Precious little information, Eagle thought, but it was a start. He looked up to see a young man being escorted into the room, and he waited while he was unshackled. He was maybe six-one, a hundred and seventy, tanned and freckled, with a mop of sun-bleached hair that reminded Eagle of a younger Jack Nicklaus.

Hanks stuck out his hand. “I’m Tip Hanks, Mr. Eagle,” he said, and his handshake was cool, dry and firm.

Eagle shook the hand. “Call me Ed,” he said, “and have a seat.”

“Earl Potter speaks highly of you,” Hanks said.

“Earl’s a good lawyer and a good fellow,” Eagle replied. “Tell me how you ended up in here, and please remember, everything you say to me is privileged—that is, I can’t disclose what you say to anyone, and no court can force me to do so, unless I believe you intend to commit a crime, in which case I’m bound to report that to the court.”

“Earl has already explained that to me,” Hanks replied. “I’d like you to represent me, if you’re available.”

“Did Earl also explain that if you admit guilt to me, I can’t put you on the stand to testify that you’re innocent?”

“He did, and I understand that, too. For the record, I’m not going to admit guilt, because I’m completely innocent of killing my wife. Will you represent me?”

“Tell me what happened this morning, and then we’ll talk about representation.”

“I played in a charity tournament in Dallas, starting with the pro-am on Wednesday. I played badly, and I missed the cut. Do you know what that means?”

“Yes, I’m a golfer.”

“I had planned to fly home yesterday, but I had a couple of drinks with two other guys who also missed the cut, and that turned into an early dinner. We finished about seven, and I went to my room, called my wife and told her I’d be home around noon today. Then I got into bed and turned on the TV. I woke up about three A.M. with the TV on, and I couldn’t get back to sleep. Finally, around four A.M. I got up, got dressed and went to the airport.”

“Which airport?”

“Love Field.”

“Which FBO?”

“Vitesse.”

“I don’t know it,” Eagle said. “I usually fly into Signature.”

“You’ll save money on fuel by going to Vitesse.”

“What do you fly?”

“A Piper Meridian.”

This was a single-engine turboprop, similar to the JetProp Eagle had once owned. “What time did you take off?”

“About five twenty. I was lucky with the winds, and I landed in Santa Fe at eight fifteen. My car was there, and I got home about eight forty.”

“Did you notice anything unusual when you arrived?”

“No, everything was normal, except my wife had been shot in the bed. She still had a pulse, but she had taken a bullet to the right temple, and it seemed obvious that she wasn’t going to live long. I called nine-one-one, and it took the ambulance about eight minutes to get there. Sometime during that eight minutes, she died.”

“Was there anything unusual about the bedroom?”

“It was pretty neat, and my wife’s clothes were on a chair.”

“Was that where she usually left them when you went to bed?”

“No, she has a dressing room, and she undresses in there, unless . . . we’re in a hurry.”

“I understand.”

“Something else: She was on my side of the bed. I always sleep on the left side, and she sleeps on the right, even when I’m away.”

“Had both sides been slept on?” Eagle asked.

“Yes.”

“Do you think she started sleeping on her usual side, then shifted to your side?”

“I’ve never known her to do that,” Hanks replied.

“Did you see the gun?”

“Yes, it was on the floor beside the bed, and the bedside-table drawer was not quite closed. That’s where I keep the gun.”

“Did your wife know it was there?”

“Yes, and she knew how to use it.”

“What sort of gun was it?”

“It was a Colt Government .380.”

“Loaded?”

“I kept it in the drawer with the magazine in and a round in the chamber, cocked, but with the safety on.”

“Were you expecting trouble?”

“I had a burglary right after the house was finished,” Hanks replied. “I suspected it was somebody who worked on the house.”

“Tell me about that.”

“It was a Saturday afternoon. I went out to the Santa Fe flea market, gone about two hours, and when I came back I went into my dressing room and found a jewelry box turned upside down. I was missing a Rolex watch, a couple pairs of cuff links and my old wedding ring. I was divorced at the time.”

“How did they get in?”

“I believe by the bedroom door opening to the outside. I had put the alarm on but hadn’t locked the house. The transom window over the door was open, and it turns out that deactivates that part of the alarm, something I didn’t know before. I think the guy came in through that door, went straight to the dressing room, emptied the jewelry box and got out in a hurry. There’s a dirt road that cuts across my property behind the house, and he could have driven in there without being seen.”

“Any luck on recovering any of the stolen items?”

“None at all. And I believe the man who shot my wife came in and left the same way. If he’d left by the front door I would likely have passed him on the way to the house. As I walked into the bedroom I heard a car drive away behind the house, and when I looked out I saw some dust raised, but the car wasn’t in sight.”

“Do you know why the police arrested you?”

“They said because my fingerprints were on the gun. But it was my gun, so you’d expect that.”

“I’ll represent you, Tip,” Eagle said, “and I think I can probably get you bail. How much equity do you have in your house?”

“It’s paid for. Am I going to be able to continue playing golf? I have to make a living.”

“I’ll try, but maybe not. But you’ll be able to practice. I’ll need a retainer of fifty thousand dollars against my hourly rate and expenses.”

“I can raise that and reasonable bail,” Hanks said. “How much do you think that will be?”

“Maybe a couple of hundred thousand.” Eagle looked at his watch. “You’ll probably be arraigned within the hour. I’ll see you in the courtroom.”

The two men shook hands, and Eagle left. This one didn’t look so tough, he thought.

2

Barbara Eagle Keeler was taken by a female guard from her cell in the El Diablo Prison for Women, east of Acapulco, Mexico, handcuffed and delivered to the office of Pedro Alvarez, the warden of the facility. It was not her first trip there.

She had been imprisoned now for nine weeks after a trial of one hour and ten minutes and a jury deliberation of half that, and sentenced to twenty-five years to life in prison for each of three attempted murders, the sentences to run concurrently. One of the attempted murders had consisted of Barbara’s severing with a straight razor the penis of a young man who turned out to be the nephew of a captain of police in Acapulco. This had proven an unfortunate choice of both victim and technique, and had ensured her conviction by an all-male jury, who, upon hearing the young man’s testimony, had, as one man, crossed their legs.

Before leaving the Acapulco jail for El Diablo, Barbara had been raped repeatedly by the captain and a couple of his subordinates, as the nephew had watched, but the young man had not been allowed to cut up her face, as he had wished to do.

“It is more difficult in prison for a beautiful woman than an ugly one,” the captain had explained. “You will be avenged often.”

The captain had spoken without taking into account the animal cunning that reposed in this particular woman. Barbara had survived an awful second marriage to the murderer of her first husband. She had been convicted as an accessory, though she had not known of the man’s intentions, and had served a sentence in a New York State prison, where she had been schooled in female-on-male violence and other criminal activity by other inmates and where she had been interviewed by the Santa Fe attorney, Ed Eagle, on the subject of her criminal sister, who had been married to a Hollywood film producer with a Santa Fe home.

Upon her early release, due to a court order after a lawsuit concerning prison overcrowding, Barbara had made her way to Santa Fe, where she had looked up Ed Eagle and, in fairly short order, enticed him into marriage.

A few months later, she had made off with a large sum of his money, and, after an extensive search by two clever private detectives, she had been lured aboard a yacht in La Jolla, California, and transported to a spot in Mexican waters a few miles off Tijuana, where, by previous arrangement, the police had boarded the yacht and arrested her for the three attempted murders, two of which victimized the private detectives.

Upon transfer to El Diablo, she had established herself among her fellow prisoners as someone who would not be fucked with, as she would have put it, without violence being perpetrated upon her assailant. At the same time she had preserved her appearance and her physical fitness, and she had made it her business to be noticed by the warden, Capitán Alvarez.

Alvarez lived with his very plain wife in an apartment adjacent to his office, and Barbara had learned that the wife sometimes traveled to Acapulco to visit her mother. Twice Barbara had been ordered to Alvarez’s office, where he had raped her.

Barbara had accepted this stoically, even letting the man believe she enjoyed it, because she knew that if she fought him, he would kill her—or have it done by the guards. Now his wife was in Acapulco again, Barbara had learned through the prison grapevine, and she was back in Alvarez’s office.

The capitán was, perhaps, six-two and three hundred pounds.

“Get naked,” he had said to her, forgetting to say “please.”

He had removed her handcuffs, then closed and locked his office door. He poured himself what was, apparently, not his first shot of tequila of the morning and sipped it while he watched her undress.

Barbara had done so without hesitation, and had even managed to be alluring during the process. Alvarez had dropped his pants, sat down on his office sofa, taken her by the hair and pulled her to her knees, where she did what was expected of her. Such was her skill that it did not take long for him to reach a successful conclusion. He sagged sideways onto the sofa and, after a few minutes of her caresses, fell asleep, snoring loudly and breathing tequila into the close atmosphere of the small room.

Barbara did not waste time putting on her clothes. She went to the interior door she believed led to his quarters, opened it as quietly as possible and entered the apartment.

It consisted of a living room with a dining area, a bedroom and a bath. There were bars on the windows of the living room and bedroom, but an exploration of the bathroom revealed a small window over the toilet that had not been fitted with bars. She stood on the toilet seat and unlatched the window, which swung outward. She found herself looking a dozen feet down into an alley, which ran off a larger street to her left that a sign revealed to be Camino Cerritos. Directly across the street from the alley was an establishment named, on a large sign, Cantina Rosita.

Barbara closed the window, then inspected the bedroom. Inside a closet she found a wardrobe of dresses perhaps two sizes larger than her own, and shoes slightly smaller than her feet.

She looked through a chest of drawers and a bedside table, hoping to steal money but finding nothing except some awful costume jewelry. There was something else she was very glad to see: a telephone on the bedside table. She closed the bedroom door and found the phone book. Her Spanish was poor, but she managed to divine how to call the United States, so she dialed a number she knew very well, belonging to her dear friend, the film producer James Long.

“Hello?” a sleepy male voice said.

“Jimmy, it’s Barbara,” she said softly.

“Good God! I read in the paper you were in a Mexican jail!”

“I am—in a prison called El Diablo, in a little town east of Acapulco, called Tres Cruces. Write all this down.”

“Okay, I’ve got a pen.”

“Listen to me carefully,” she said. “Do you still have the same cell phone number?”

“Yes.”

“I have some clothes and some identity documents in a suitcase in the apartment over your garage, remember?”

“Yes, of course.”

“I’ve found a way out of here. Can you come to Acapulco?”

“Yes.”

“Charter a small airplane. I’ll pay for it. Ask the pilot to wait, for two or three days, if necessary.”

“All right, when?”

“Now, today. Book a room at the Acapulco Princess, and check in. I’ll call you on your cell when I’m ready. Tomorrow, rent a car from the hotel, drive to Tres Cruces and find Camino Cerritos and a bar called Cantina Rosita. Park near there. There’s an alley across the street. I’ll call you on your cell, then drive into the alley, and you’ll see a small window about ten or twelve feet above the pavement, on your right. Park under the window. Got it?”

He repeated the instructions.

“Buy me some hair dye, auburn, in the hotel shop, and some good scissors.”

“Okay.”

“I love you, baby,” she said. “I’ll call as soon as I can.” She hung up and returned to the office, where Alvarez still snored away, and began searching the room for useful items. There was a cabinet containing guns, but it was securely locked and grilled with ironwork. There was also a substantial safe with an electronic keypad lock.

She went to the desk and methodically searched the drawers, but the only thing of use to her was half a dozen of what appeared to be handcuff keys. She took one and put it into her mouth, under her tongue, then she looked at the sides and bottoms of the drawers, finally finding what she was looking for, taped to the bottom of a pull-out typewriter shelf. It was a piece of paper with a six-digit number written on it, and she did not doubt that it would open the safe. She also did not doubt that if she used the code now, it would cause electronic beeping that would waken the warden. She memorized the number.

Alvarez stirred. She ran back to the sofa, sat on the floor beside him and pretended to be asleep.

“Hey, you, girl,” Alvarez said, shaking her.

Barbara raised her head. “Hey, you,” she said in a low voice.

“You’re pretty good, you know?”

“I know.”

“Get dressed and get out. I’ll send for you again.”

“I’d love to see you again,” she said. “When?”

“You want some more, eh?”

“Oh, yes,” she agreed.

“Maybe tomorrow,” he said.

“When does your wife return?” she asked.

“What do you know about my wife?” he demanded.

“Just that she’s away.”

He looked at her for a moment. “Sunday,” he said.

“Then we have tomorrow to play,” she said, standing up and slowly putting on her clothes.

“Tomorrow, then,” he said.

“Yes, Capitán,” she replied. “I will be ready.”

He handcuffed her, then unlocked the office door and turned her over to the guard who waited outside.

The guard marched her back down the dirty hallways and put her back in the small cell that she shared with five other women.

“Have a good time?” one of the women asked suggestively.

“Shut up, bitch,” Barbara replied, and lay down on her bunk. Tomorrow, she thought. Saturday at the latest.

Later, she got up and motioned to the guard in the hallway.

“Eh?” the woman said.

“I can’t sleep,” Barbara said. “I need something to take.”

“Sleep is expensive,” the woman replied.

“Twenty dollars American for Ambien or two Valiums.”

“Show me the money.”

“When I see the medicine.”

The woman went away and returned with two yellow pills. “Valium,” she said. “See the writing?”

Ten milligrams, Barbara thought. Ideal. She retrieved the money from a capsule in her vagina and paid the woman. Now all she had to do was survive tomorrow.

3

It was nearly noon before the guard came for Barbara in her cell, and she had been getting nervous, thinking something had gone wrong. The guard finally opened the cell door, and she didn’t handcuff Barbara.

The guard took her down the corridors, let her into Alvarez’s office and closed the office door behind her. Barbara locked it herself.

This seemed to please Alvarez. “Would you like a drink?” he asked.

“Sure,” she replied, walking toward his desk, where a bottle of tequila reposed, along with some glasses. “Let me get you one.” She was unbuttoning her blouse as she walked.

“Good girl,” Alvarez said, unzipping his pants.

Barbara fished the two Valium tablets from her bra and ground them between her thumb and forefinger into the glass as she poured the liquid. She turned and walked over to Alvarez while reaching behind her and unhooking her bra.

“You’re not having one?” he asked.

“Afterward,” she replied. “I enjoy it more if I’m sober.” She knelt between his legs and began toying with his penis. “Salud.”

He tossed off the tequila, grabbed her hair and pulled her into his crotch.

She took longer this time, hoping the drug would work quickly, playing with him, bringing him to the brink of orgasm, then backing off. After fifteen minutes or so he came loudly, then sagged sideways on the sofa, as he had done the previous day. She continued to stroke him until he fell asleep.

Barbara walked back to the desk, took a swig from the tequila bottle, swished it around her mouth and spat it onto the floor, then went into the apartment, picked a dress from the closet and put it on. She took a scarf from a drawer to wear over her blond hair, then picked up the phone and dialed James Long’s cell number.

“Hello?”

“Where are you?”

“Just driving down Camino Cerritos,” he said. “I was delayed by some roadwork.”

“Can you be under the window in five minutes?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“See you then.” Barbara hung up and looked around the room for something else but didn’t find it. She walked back into the office and looked around. In a corner was a silver-trimmed Mexican saddle, with a cowboy’s rope tied to it. She took the rope and started back into the apartment, then stopped.

She had nearly forgotten the safe. She knelt before it and pressed in the code she had found in the desk. There was a soft click, then she turned the handle and the door swung open. To her delight, the first thing she saw was two stacks of bills, one of dollars, the other of pesos. She took both. On a lower shelf, half a dozen pistols were arrayed. She chose a small Beretta semiautomatic and checked to be sure it was loaded.

At the bottom of the safe she found a cloth bag and put the gun and the money into it and tied it around her neck. She walked back to where Alvarez slept, thought about putting a bullet into his brain, then decided against it. It would just make the authorities angrier and motivate their search for her.

She went back into the apartment and into the bathroom, where she tied one end of the rope around the base of the sink, then she stood on the toilet, opened the window and, with one foot on the sink, raised herself and looked out. A car was just turning into the alley, with Jimmy at the wheel. Perfect.

Barbara tossed the remainder of the rope out the window, then, pushing off the toilet tank, got her upper half out the window and looked down. The car was directly beneath her.

Holding tightly to the rope, she allowed the rest of herself to fall out the window, breaking the fall with the rope. She landed in a sitting position on top of the car, then let herself to the ground. “Hi, there,” she said to Jimmy.

“Hey, babe,” he replied, smiling.

She got into the backseat. “Let’s get out of here,” she said, “but slowly. We have some time, I think.”

Jimmy backed slowly down the alley and into the street, then put the car in drive and headed back the way he had come.

Barbara kept her head down until they had cleared the town, then she crawled over the seat and into the front.

“How long until Acapulco?” she asked.

“A little over an hour.”

“How long before the roadwork?”

“Half that.”

“Stop well before it, and I’ll get into the trunk. We don’t want the workers remembering a car with a woman in it.”

“Good thinking,” he said. “How are you? Was it rough?”

“At times, but nothing I couldn’t handle.”

“What’s that around your neck?” he asked.

“Ill-gotten gains,” she replied.

Twenty minutes later Jimmy slowed the car. “I think the roadwork is just around the bend ahead.”

They both got out of the car and checked for traffic. Barbara climbed in the trunk. “I’ll let you out when it’s safe,” Jimmy said, then closed it after her.

He got in and drove away, while Barbara did her best to make herself comfortable. Shortly, the car stopped, then moved forward in little spurts, then they were finally past the work and at speed. Jimmy slowed and stopped again, then helped her out of the trunk.

Barbara put on the head scarf and took Jimmy’s sunglasses from him and put them on. “There,” she said. “Did you get the hair dye?”

“It’s in our suite,” he said. “Why don’t we go straight to the airport and get out of here?”

“No,” she said. “They’ll shut that down as soon as I’m missed. Let’s go to the Princess. We’ll check on the airport tomorrow. I don’t care if we have to wait for a few days, until the heat is off.”

“I don’t think the pilot will wait that long,” he said.

“Call him when we get to the hotel and tell him tomorrow. Where’s my suitcase?”

“In the suite,” he replied. “I had everything in it pressed.”

“Good.” As they approached Acapulco, Barbara put her head in Jimmy’s lap. “Wake me when we’re there,” she said.

Jimmy drove to the hotel, passing the main entrance, then stopping at a side door. He handed her a key card. “This will let you in through that door and into the suite. It’s number nine hundred, ninth floor, turn right out of the elevator. I’ll go park the car.”

Barbara got out of the car and let herself into the hotel, then followed Jimmy’s directions to the suite. It was spacious and sunny, with a terrace overlooking the Pacific. She undressed, went into the bathroom and began applying the hair color. By the time Jimmy got upstairs, she was a redhead. She dried her hair, and when she came out of the bathroom, Jimmy was in bed, naked.

“You deserve a reward,” she said, climbing in beside him.

4

When Alvarez awoke it was dark in his office. He stood up and groggily felt for the light switch along the wall above the sofa. Then he took a step and fell heavily on the floor. His trousers were around his ankles.

He pulled them up and buckled his belt, then, holding on to the arm of the sofa, pulled himself to his feet and found the light switch. He was alone in the office. Panicked, he went to the safe and checked the door, but it was locked. Relieved, he sank into his office chair and poured himself a glass of tequila from the open bottle on the desk. Where the hell was the woman? Then he noticed that the door to his apartment was open. Was she in his bed? He’d kill her!

He got up and staggered into the apartment, switching on an overhead light. She was not in the living room, so he went into the bedroom and turned on a bedside lamp. The bed was perfectly made. He tried the bathroom and was stunned to see a rope, one end tied to the sink pedestal, the other end hanging out the window above the toilet. He pulled it in and untied it from the sink, then returned to his office and placed the rope back on his prize saddle. Everything had to be in perfect order when his wife came home.

But where was the woman? He unlocked his office door and stepped into the hallway. No one there. Thank God the guard was gone. He went back into his office and sat down at his desk. She had escaped, and he had to do something, but what? If he sounded the alarm, he would have to explain how she got out of his office. He would be fired out of hand the moment the story hit the papers and TV. What was even worse was that he would have to explain it to his wife.

He looked at his clock on his desk: just after eight P.M. There was a knock on the office door. “Come in!” he called.

The door opened and the guard stood there, looking around the room. “My shift is ending,” she said. “Do you want me to return the American woman to her cell?”

Alvarez, borne on a cloud of tequila, improvised. “The American woman has been transferred,” he replied.

“Transferred? Where?”

“Who knows? I think the woman has connections in the government. They came, they had the proper papers, they took her away. Now go home and forget about it. If anybody asks about her you know nothing, except that she has been transferred. You don’t want to get caught in that particular flypaper.”

“That is true,” the woman said, and closed the door.

Transferred—that was it! Alvarez mopped his brow and poured himself another tequila. The woman was gone, and good riddance! He would stick to his story. There had been a telephone call from the Ministry of Justice. He was to bring the woman to his office, where she would be collected in due course. They had brought a transfer order, properly signed and stamped, and had taken her away. If anyone asked, he knew nothing further. He drank more tequila.

BARBARA AND JIMMY WERE, at that moment, having a room-service dinner on the terrace of their suite, watching the moon rise over the Pacific. Barbara kept an eye on the TV, waiting for her picture to be displayed, but it didn’t happen. What was going on?

“You still looking for yourself on TV?” Jimmy asked.

“Yes, and I don’t understand it.”

“Maybe the warden is still asleep.”

“Possibly,” she said, “Or . . .”

“Or what?”

“Alvarez is now in a very difficult position,” Barbara said. “I’m gone, and there’s a rope hanging out his bathroom window. What does he do?”

“Sound the alarm?”

“I’ve been gone for hours,” she said. “The Valium had to put him down for quite a while, especially when mixed with the tequila.”

“Yeah, that would do it, if he drank enough.”

“He’s a lush. He drinks all the time.”

“Then maybe he’s still out.”

“It’s been more than eight hours,” she said. “When he wakes up and I’m gone, he’s going to have to figure out what to do, and from his point of view, the absolute worst thing he could do is raise an alarm for my recapture.”

“Good point,” Jimmy said. “You’ve got that on your side.”

“He’s in control inside the prison. If I’m gone he can cover it up, at least for a while, but if his superiors know I’m out, all hell will break loose.”

“Granted.”

“And then there’s his wife,” Barbara said, smiling. “Word is, he’s more frightened of her and her father than of his bosses. She comes home tomorrow morning. If he’s smart, and he is, in a kind of reptilian-brain way, he’ll cover it up.”

“How about the money you stole from him?”

“I’d bet anything she knows nothing about it. It’s graft—bribes he’s taken over time. There was sixty-one thousand dollars and about twenty in pesos.”

“So, only you and Alvarez know about that.”

“Right, but if they catch me, everyone will know. Jimmy, we have to get out of here tomorrow morning, first thing. Call your pilot.”

Jimmy got out his cell phone. “Hello, Bart? Jim Long. I want to fly back to L.A. tomorrow morning.”

“No,” Barbara said, tugging at his sleeve.

“We have to stop somewhere on the way to L.A. What’s an out-of-the-way airport?”

Jimmy shrugged. “How about Yuma?” he said to Barbara.

“Perfect. Tell him to file for there, then he can drop me and take you back to Santa Monica.”

Jimmy passed on the request and hung up. “Bart’s good with that,” he said.

“How well do you know him?”

“Very well. He’s worked on nearly all of my films as a stunt pilot, and ferrying around cast and crew. He can do just about anything, and I put money in his pocket all the time.”

“Good, then he won’t ask too many questions about me.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Tell him I live in Yuma, and my husband doesn’t know I’ve been in Mexico.”

“Okay.”

“Does he fly to Mexico a lot?”

“All the time.”

“Good. You can give him Alvarez’s pesos.”

The following morning they drove to the Acapulco Airport and onto the ramp, stopping next to the Beech Baron and depositing their luggage with Bart, who seemed to think nothing of taking on an unexpected passenger and dropping her in Yuma.

They took off and climbed to twelve thousand feet, and headed northeast. Barbara opened her suitcase and went through all her ID—credit cards, driver’s license and passport, all genuine, all in the name of Eleanor Keeler. Her last husband had been Walter Keeler, who had died in a car crash. She had been left a tightly controlled legacy and suspected Walter’s lawyer of having screwed her out of anything more. He had, no doubt, cut off payments when she had been convicted in Mexico, but she still had a fund of several hundred thousand dollars in a San Francisco bank. It would take some doing, but she would get her hands on that.

The airplane landed at Yuma later in the day, and Barbara handed the pilot her passport. “For some reason, they didn’t give me an entry stamp when I crossed the border,” she said.

“When did you cross?”

“Three days ago. I flew private into Acapulco.”

“It’ll probably be okay,” he said.

She and Jimmy waited next to the airplane. She was nervous, and she looked for a way out of the airport. There was a midsized jet parked next to them with the engines running. Maybe she could hide in the toilet.

Their pilot came walking across the tarmac with a uniformed customs official, scaring her half to death, but the official wanted only to inspect the airplane, which took no more than two minutes, then he left.

“We’re cleared,” the pilot said, returning her passport. “It was no sweat about your entry stamp, and you’re stamped into the U.S. now.” He got her bag out of the airplane for her.

She put an arm around Jimmy’s neck and kissed him. “I’ll be in touch, baby. You just go back to L.A. and live your life. You know nothing about me.”

“Gotcha, kiddo,” he said, climbing back into the airplane.

BARBARASPENT THE NIGHT in an airport motel, then, the following morning, rented a car and drove to Phoenix, ending up in Scottsdale at the Mondrian, a fashionable hotel full of beautiful people.

She had a new life to invent now, and a long shopping list of a car, an untraceable cell phone, clothes and luggage. She started with a day at the hotel spa, including a recoloring and cut of her hair.

That night, snuggling in bed with a business executive she had met at the bar, Barbara thought of Ed Eagle. He was still out there, in Santa Fe, waiting for her.

She wouldn’t disappoint him.

5

Ed Eagle stopped by the D.A.’s office and asked to see him.

Roberto Martínez rose as Eagle entered, then shook his hand, waving him to a chair. “I’ve been expecting you, Ed.”

“Well, I’m glad I didn’t disappoint you, Bob,” Eagle replied with an easy smile.

“You ready for arraignment?”

“Oh, I don’t think we need to go that far, Bob.”

“ ‘That far’?”

“I think we should just settle this here, and get it over with.”

“Ed, are you already looking to plea-bargain? That makes me feel even better about our case.”

“Bob, I expect you haven’t had time to go over the case file,” Eagle said, starting to get up.

“Wait a minute,” Martínez said, waving him back to his chair. “I’ve had a look at the summary. It’s a good case.”

“Bob, Tip Hanks can account for every minute of his time between the hours of four A.M. and when he called nine-one-one. He was in Dallas, he couldn’t sleep, so he decided to get up and return home early. His wife wasn’t expecting him until noon.”

“So, he killed her earlier than planned,” Martínez said, leaning his chair way back and putting his feet on the desk.

“No, Bob, whoever she was in bed with shot her, and before Tip’s car pulled up to the house, because Tip never heard the shot. The killer heard Tip’s car door slam and beat it out of the bedroom door opening to the terrace, then ran down the hill to the dirt road where he’d parked his car. Tip heard him leave, and when he looked out the back door he saw dust, but the car was already around the bend and out of sight. If you can get the investigating officers to put down their comic books long enough, they might be able to get some footprints and tire tracks before it rains or the wind blows them away.”

“You want me to dismiss the charges on nothing more than that story?”

“Both sides of the bed had been slept in, but she was on the left side of the bed, where Tip slept. Somebody had moved her there while he was screwing her. I expect her ex-husband will testify to that sleeping habit of hers.”

“What else?”

“We don’t need anything else. You’re postulating that Tip walked into his house, went to the bedroom, took his gun out of the bedside table and shot his wife in the head, then called nine-one-one. That doesn’t make any sense.”

“It didn’t have to happen that way,” Martínez said.

“The staff at the FBO at the airport will testify to Tip’s arrival time. They log in every aircraft that lands, and his was probably the first of the day. Drive the route from the FBO to his house and walk in. You’ll see there was no time for him to make love to her and have an argument before killing her. I think it likely that the medical examiner is going to discover somebody else’s DNA inside her.”

“We’ll see about that.”

“Even if the killer used a condom and left no trace, the M.E. will say that she had sex with somebody, and Tip’s DNA won’t be inside her.”

“Maybe he used a condom.”

“He knew she was on the pill. There was no need for him to do that.” Eagle was making this up, but he could see Martínez begin to show signs of folding.

Martínez put his feet back on the floor and leaned over his desk. “What evidence do you have that she was having an affair?”

“She has a history, Bob. Tip was screwing her while she was still married to her last husband. I expect that if I send an investigator to Dallas to talk to other members of the tour and their wives and girlfriends, we’ll find that she had a reputation among the camp followers. This is an old story, Bob, and it will embarrass everybody concerned when the news desks pick it up from the sports pages. You really want to stir that up?”

“Maybe they’ve been fighting. Maybe we’ll turn that up among their friends.”

“So what? Every couple fights, but they rarely murder each other. Now, do you really want to arraign him? If you do, then I’ll get him released on his own recognizance and he’ll go back to playing golf for a living, and the whole thing will drag on for weeks before I get a dismissal. Do the right thing, here, Bob.”

Martínez opened a file on his desk and made a show of reading it, while Eagle sat mute, occasionally crossing and recrossing his legs just to let him know he was still there.

“All right, I’ll drop the charges for now,” Martínez said, “but if we turn up anything else—anything at all—I’ll have him rearrested.”

“That’s fair, Bob. Now, will you please fax over a release order to the jail, so I can drive the boy home? He’s got some grieving to do.”

Martínez buzzed his secretary. “Type up a release order for one Terrence Hanks,” he said. “I’ll sign it, and you can fax it to the jail.”

Eagle stood up and offered his hand. “Thank you, Bob,” he said. “You won’t regret doing that.”

Eagle left the office, got into his car and drove back to the jail, phoning ahead to let them know he was coming and to have his client processed out. He had only a few minutes to wait before Tip Hanks appeared, taking his belongings out of an envelope and stuffing them into his pockets.

“Is it time for the arraignment?” he asked as he shook Eagle’s hand.

“You’re not going to be arraigned,” Eagle said. “I persuaded the D.A. to drop the charges.”

Hanks looked at him incredulously. “How did you do that?”

“He hadn’t even read the case file thoroughly,” Eagle replied, leading him out the front door. “Once he did, he reconsidered, after I had pointed out how weak his case was.”

They got into the car, and Eagle turned toward Las Campanas. “By the way,” he said, “I told him that your wife was on the pill; I hope that’s true.”

“It is,” Hanks replied.

“Here’s my theory of the case: Your wife was having an affair, and she didn’t expect you home before noon today. Her lover had already shot her, for reasons of his own, when you pulled up, and he ran. Maybe they’ll find DNA, maybe not. He could have used a condom. But they won’t find your DNA in her, right?”

“Right,” Hanks said.

“You’re wondering who she was having the affair with?”

“Yes.”

“Any ideas?”

“Could have been anybody,” Hanks replied. “She liked sex more than any woman I ever met, and she wanted it regularly. Normally, she’d have been in Dallas with me, but she’s missed a couple of tournaments lately, saying she wasn’t feeling well enough to go. She was a terrible hypochondriac.”

“Well, I’m sorry,” Eagle said.

“What are the chances that they’ll catch the guy?” Hanks asked.

“Fifty-fifty, I’d say. A lot better if there’s DNA.”

Hanks put his head back against the headrest and sighed. “She didn’t deserve this,” he said.

“Are you scheduled to play next weekend?”

“No, I passed on the next one. The week after, though.”

“That’s time enough to get your head together,” Eagle said. “Go out and practice as you usually do; look sad, don’t laugh at anybody’s jokes; keep any conversations about her to an absolute minimum. People are going to be watching your reactions. Same thing when you rejoin the tour.” He followed directions to Hanks’s front door, and the young man got out.

“I’ll send you a check. What do I owe you?” he asked.

“I get ten grand for getting out of bed,” Eagle said. “I’ll send you a bill.”

“Fair enough.”

“If the evidence doesn’t go your way and Martínez has you rearrested, I’ll apply it to my retainer.” Eagle reached into his glove compartment and found a card. “This is the number of a service that cleans up crime scenes,” he said. “Don’t call them until the police let you know they’ve released the scene. Take care.”

Eagle drove away, thinking he’d done a good day’s work.

6

Barbara spent a day shopping in Phoenix and Scottsdale, and found a used, low-mileage Mercedes station wagon within her budget. By the time she had finished shopping she still had twenty thousand dollars of Alvarez’s money in her new purse. She employed her old, legal identity as Eleanor Keeler, which would be all right as long as Warden Alvarez didn’t report her escape.

She found a branch of her San Francisco bank and arranged a wire transfer of cash from her account, and they issued her a new checkbook. None of her credit cards had expired.

After a room-service dinner and a movie in her room she called Canyon Ranch, in Tucson, a top-notch spa resort, and booked herself into a suite for a week. Then the following morning she drove there and checked in.

It was a beautiful place, and her little cottage was near the dining room and classrooms. She didn’t need to lose any weight, but she took the opportunity to tone up and pamper herself with facials and massages.

A couple of days after she checked in, as she sat down for dinner in the crowded dining room, an attractive couple asked if they could join her.

“We’re Hugh and Charlene Holroyd,” the man said, and she shook both their hands. “Eleanor Keeler,” Barbara replied. She had no qualms about using the name, because, according to Jimmy, the AP reports of her arrest and trial in Mexico had used the name Barbara Eagle.

Everyone got on together immediately, and they hadn’t been sitting at her table more than five minutes before Barbara knew what they had in mind, which was fine with her, because she hadn’t had enough voluntary sex for nearly three months, and she missed it.

After dinner they invited her back to their cottage, which was larger than hers, and everybody had a drink. Fifteen minutes later the three of them were in bed together.

Later, when they had exhausted themselves, Hugh asked, “Where do you hail from, Eleanor?”

“San Francisco,” Barbara replied, “but I’m thinking of making a change. How about you two?”

“We have a ranch near Los Alamos, in New Mexico,” Hugh said. “You should come for a visit. It’s nice around there.”

“What a kind invitation,” Barbara said, kissing Charlene again. “I just might take you up on it.”

“You girls play,” Hugh said. “I’ll just watch, until I, ah, catch my breath.”

TIP HANKS SHOWED the cleaners out of the house. They had made his bedroom as new and replaced the bedding and mattress. He was all right, really, except that he was still angry with his wife, and he was glad for the cleaners to take away garbage bags full of her clothes and other belongings. Now there was nothing left of her in the house, and he wanted it that way. He’d kept her jewelry, which was locked in the safe.

The phone rang, and he answered. It was his caddie, Mike Pat-rick. “Hey buddy,” Tip said.

“I heard about it on TV,” Mike said. “Are you okay?”

“I’m getting past it,” Tip replied. “I’m going to start practicing again tomorrow.”

“You want me there?”

“Nah, Mike, I’ll meet you in Houston next Tuesday night. You’ve already booked the hotel, haven’t you?”

“Yeah. I just wanted to be sure you felt up to playing.”

“I will by next week.”

“Okay, I’m just going to lie around the house until then. See you in Houston.”

Tip took calls from his agent and sponsors as well, then things quieted down. He had a call from the medical examiner’s office saying that Connie’s body had been released. Ed Eagle’s office recommended a mortuary, and he ordered the body collected and cremated. Connie had no family, so there was no one to notify.

As he was getting some pocket money from the safe he saw the envelopes holding their wills, and he opened Connie’s, which he hadn’t seen before. It turned out that she had received a substantial settlement in her last divorce, and she had left everything to him. His net worth had suddenly been increased by some seven hundred thousand dollars. He faxed the will to Eagle’s office.

Tip made himself a sandwich for lunch and thought about what had happened. Who the hell could Connie have been fucking? And why would the guy want to kill her? If he’d been five minutes earlier coming home, he might have surprised them. Then it occurred to him that if that had happened, the guy might have killed them both.

He put his dishes into the dishwasher and went back to the safe, where he kept a small nine-millimeter semiautomatic pistol. He threaded the holster onto his belt and pulled out his shirttail to cover it. He would carry it for a while, at least while he was in Santa Fe. He was licensed in the state, and his old Florida license covered him in nearly half the country.

He went into his study and found a stack of bills next to his computer. Connie had usually paid them online, but he knew how to do it. The one on top was her credit card bill, and there were a lot of lunch charges, and judging from the amounts, they were for two people. That surprised him, because Connie had not made a lot of friends since she had been in Santa Fe. The charges were from half a dozen of Santa Fe’s best restaurants.

Tip called Ed Eagle and told him what he had found.

“That’s interesting,” Eagle said. “I think the police might like to know who she’d been lunching with, but I think we might like to know first. Will you spring for a few hundred dollars for an investigator to visit the restaurants?”

“Sure, Ed. By the way, I faxed you Connie’s will. I’d like you to take care of whatever legalities are involved.”

“I’ll put an associate on it,” Eagle said, “and I’ll send a messenger out there for the original; we’ll need it.”

“I’ll leave it on the front porch in an envelope,” Tip said.

“Good. I’ll let you know what our investigator learns, and we can decide if it should go to the police.”

“Good, thanks.”

“One other thing,” Eagle said. “I’ve spoken to the medical examiner, and there was no DNA present at the scene, not yours or anybody else’s.”

“So, he would have used a condom?”

“One supposes. Have you thought any more about the killer? Does anyone leap to mind?” Eagle asked.

“No. Connie didn’t have many friends in Santa Fe.”

“Someone from out of town?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Be careful of your behavior, Tip. The police are still thinking about you, and they may even have you followed.”

“I thought I was cleared.”

“Not necessarily. The charges have been dropped, but the D.A. could always bring them again, if new and incriminating evidence should emerge. You have to remember that having the charges dropped was a slap in the face to the investigating detectives, so they’re not exactly on your side.”

“I don’t see how they can find anything incriminating,” Tip said. “After all, I didn’t do it.”

“Right. Fax me the credit card bills, and I’ll get back to you as soon as our investigator checks them out.”

Tip hung up, put the will in an envelope and left it leaning against the front door with Eagle’s name on it, then went back to paying bills. He was going to have to hire a secretary, he thought.

7

Teddy Fay’s single-engine Cessna 182 RG crossed a range of snowcapped mountains late in the afternoon. It had been a long day against headwinds. He looked to his right at Lauren Cade, who seemed to be dozing. He placed a hand on her knee, and she stirred. “We’ll be on the ground at Santa Fe in fifteen minutes,” he said.

Lauren looked around. “What are these mountains?”

“The Sangre de Cristos,” he said. “They run up to Taos, north of here.”

“What about south?”

“They peter out.”

“Pretty. Is it going to be cold in Santa Fe?”

“Probably, but it’s a dry cold. You won’t feel it so much.”

“I’m going to have to buy a coat,” she said. “I didn’t own one in Florida.”

“We’ll both have to do that,” Teddy said.

Albuquerque Center called. “Descend and maintain one zero thousand,” the controller said. “Report the airport in sight.”

The weather was startlingly clear, and after consulting the GPS map, he thought he could pick out the field. The automated weather recording said that the wind was 190 at 10 knots. Five minutes later he reported the airport in sight.

“Cleared for the visual approach to Santa Fe,” the controller said.

Teddy descended to eight thousand, and once at that altitude, he turned left downwind for runway twenty and called Santa Fe tower.

“Cleared to land on twenty,” the controller replied.

He touched down smoothly on the runway and taxied to Santa Fe Jetcenter, where a rental car awaited them. He placed a fuel order and arranged hangar space, then he and Lauren drove into the city.

“Teddy,” she said, “I know there are some things you haven’t told me about yourself.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because you talk so little about your past. I just want you to know that as far as I’m concerned, your life began the day I met you.”

Teddy smiled. “I feel exactly the same way,” he said. He had been struggling with how much to tell her, and how to justify his behavior since he had retired from the CIA some years before after a thirty-year career. Teddy had been an assistant deputy director for technical services at the Agency. Tech Services was the innocuous name for the department that supported foreign agents in the field, supplying identities, weapons, disguises, communications and anything else they might need. The work had given him an astonishing range of skills, and he had used them to stay out of prison. He turned to Lauren.

“I’ll tell you this much,” he said. “I worked for the Central Intelligence Agency for thirty years. I know that sounds like a bad pickup line in a bar, but it’s true.”

“I believe you,” she said. “Is that why you know so much about so many things?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Did you have to do bad things?”

“I’ve done some bad things, and I don’t want to talk about them, if that’s all right.”

“It’s fine,” she said. “I’d just as soon not know.” Lauren had been a sergeant with a special investigative unit of the Florida State Police. She’d left a good career to go with Teddy. He knew it and was grateful.

“I’ve booked us into the Inn of the Anasazi for a week,” he said. “If you like the town, we can look for a house to rent. If not, we can go on to California whenever you like.”

They continued into the town, drove through the Plaza and checked into the hotel, which, like just about everything else in the town, was built in Santa Fe style. A fire of piñon logs burned in the lobby, and the piney scent filled the air.

THE FOLLOWING MORNING, eighteen hundred miles east of Santa Fe, Holly Barker arrived at her office a little after seven AM. Holly was assistant deputy director of operations, reporting directly to the director of operations, Lance Cabot, and she wanted to get to the office before he did. Lance had been on leave when she had returned from a month in Orchid Beach, Florida, where she had once been the chief of police.

She had been in her office for only a moment when Lance rapped on her doorjamb.

“Welcome back,” she said.

“Same to you. Anything to report?”

Holly took a deep breath. “Yes. Maybe you’d better sit down.”

“Come into my office,” he said.

She followed him down the hall and sat on his sofa, next to the chair where Lance liked to sit during meetings.

“So?”

Holly decided to just blurt it out. “Teddy Fay is still alive,” she said.

Lance put his face in his hands. “I didn’t hear that,” he said. “And I’m not going to hear the rest of what you have to tell me.”

“I met him in Orchid Beach,” she said. “I had no idea who he was.”

“He would have planned it that way,” Lance said. “Do you think he planned to meet you?”

“No, I’m certain he didn’t, but I’m also certain he knew who I was.”

“Is he still there?”

“No, he left town shortly before I did. I stopped by the cottage he rented to say good-bye to his girlfriend, a state police officer named Lauren Cade, who I knew in the army. The house had been cleared.”

“How do you know it was him?”

“I didn’t until the last day. I found him interesting, and a little odd. He was an excellent cook.”

“He cooked dinner for you?”

“For my boyfriend, Lauren and me.”

“Good God.”

“When I stopped by the cottage to see Lauren, there was a big safe in a closet that I didn’t know about. He had left a note on the safe for the landlord. The note said the combination was T-E-D-D-Y.”

“Any idea where he went when he left Orchid Beach?”

“None,” she said. “He could be anywhere.”

“He’s not anywhere,” Lance said. “He’s somewhere. Have you met Todd Bacon, who’s the station chief in Panama?”

“No.”

“He has a special interest in finding Teddy,” Lance said. “Call him and tell him he’s done in Panama, to report to me here as soon as he can clear his desk and pack his things.”

“Am I going to be involved in this?” she asked.

“Do you want to be?”

“No more than I have to.”

“You can brief Todd on your experience with Teddy in Orchid Beach,” Lance said. “After that I’ll try to keep you out of it. I know you have some sympathy for him.”

“I’ll do what I can to help,” Holly said, but she wasn’t looking forward to it.

8

Tip Hanks stood outside the clubhouse at Las Campanas, hitting chip shots to the practice green. About one out of six was going into the cup, but, of course, he was hitting from the same position. Still, he was getting better at sinking chip shots, and that could win tournaments. Tip had had a number of top-ten finishes this season, and one in the top five. He was determined, in the next season, to start winning, instead of just making a good living.

The season playoffs were just ahead—four tournaments—and the winner on points would win the FedEx Cup, and that was a ten-million-dollar check. Tiger Woods was out with a knee injury, so it was anybody’s to win.

A member ambled by and stopped for a moment to convey his condolences. Tip was momentarily surprised. He had been shaken by Connie’s death but, he reflected, more shaken when he had been arrested. It had not been much of a relationship beyond sex, and he wondered—not for the first time—if God had somehow short-changed him in the emotions department.

He walked over to the driving range, teed up a ball and snapped into his brain’s swing mode, which obviated any other thought, even of his dead wife. He hit a bucket of balls with his driver and fairway woods and was satisfied with the results. He had improved his driving a lot this season by shaving ten yards off his length and hitting fairways instead of hooks and slices.

He had lunch in the bar, then put away his clubs and went home. When he got out of the car he saw an envelope propped against his front door. Inside was a letter.

Dear Mr. Hanks,

My name is Dolly Parks, and first of all I want to tell you how sad I was to hear of Connie’s death. We had met only recently, but I liked and admired her.

We met when I posted a notice on a bulletin board at the farmers market in town, seeking an assistant’s position, full- or part-time. She called me, and we had lunch, and she told me that the two of you had discussed hiring someone to deal with the bills, the house maintenance and travel arrangements. I was supposed to start next Monday.

I don’t know if you are still interested in hiring someone, but I would appreciate the opportunity to talk with you about it. My number is below.

Her résumé was attached. She had held office and secretarial jobs in New York for a period of ten years or so.

Connie and he had talked about hiring a secretary, Tip remembered. He picked up the phone, called her and asked her to come to the house for a drink in the late afternoon.

He showered and shaved and dressed, then took an hour’s nap. By the time he had roused himself and dressed, the doorbell was ringing.

Dolly Parks was unexpectedly attractive—small, blond and shapely. She had dressed in informal but appropriate clothes for her interview. Tip invited her into his study. “Would you like a drink?” he asked.

“No, thanks,” she said. “Maybe later.”

“I liked your résumé,” he said. “Sounds like you’re a well-organized person. When did you last see Connie?”

“At the end of last week. She called the day before she . . . died and said that she had checked my references and that I was hired.”

“At what salary?” he asked.

“Twenty-five dollars an hour, health insurance, three weeks’ vacation after six months. She said that she thought you would need me only half a day, but if the work mounted up, maybe longer. That’s why we agreed on an hourly rate. I have one other client in Santa Fe, but I work for him only a couple of hours a day, three days a week.”

“That sounds fine to me. I’m leaving on Tuesday to play a tournament. Can you start tomorrow? I’d like to get you familiar with the computer banking I’ve set up.”

“Of course. I’d be glad to.”

“Come on, I’ll show you some ropes now.” He went to his computer and began explaining the banking program.

“I’m already working with that for my other client,” she said, “and for the same bank, so I can hit the ground running.”

“That’s good news,” he said. “My caddie, Mike, has been doing the travel arrangements, but he’s not very good at it, so I’d like you to take over that. I have an airplane and fly myself, so there won’t be much in the way of airline reservations, except for Mike, if he’s meeting me at a tournament. He lives in Dallas.

“My checks from the PGA are deposited into a savings account at the bank here, and I make computer transfers to the checking accounts, one for business, one for household and personal. I’ll make you a signatory on those two, so you won’t need my signature to pay bills, and I’ll transfer funds into them as needed. My accountant does regular audits on my accounts, so he’ll catch you and send you to prison if you steal.” Tip laughed, and she laughed, too.

“I understand,” she said. “Do you travel with a laptop?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I can scan the bills and e-mail them to you for approval. After a while, I’ll learn your spending habits, and you might want to give me a little more freedom.”

“Probably.”

“I would like you to check every credit card bill, though, to see if the charges are genuine. There’s a lot of credit card fraud around, and you don’t want to fall victim to that.”

“Right. I’ll also want you to keep track of my tax-deductible expenses, so you can give them to my accountant at the end of the year. I don’t like to deal with taxes any more than I have to.”

“I’m very familiar with the IRS schedules and which expenses belong on which schedule,” she said, “so that won’t be a problem. How much are you gone?”

“I play, on average, about three times a month during the season, which is drawing to a close now. This winter I’ll play some in Japan and maybe Australia and the Middle East, to keep the income stream going. I could be gone for six or seven weeks at a time.”

“Well, before you leave I’ll be familiar with everything, and we’ll have e-mail to stay in touch.”

“Right.” He got up and led her to a door that opened into an empty room next door. “We’ve used this for storage. Why don’t you clean it out and outfit it as an office for you? Get yourself a computer, some file cabinets and bookcases, whatever you need. There’s a closet over there for supplies. We have an account with a local office-supply firm.”

“I’m good with computers,” Dolly said. “If you’ll give me a credit card number I’ll order a computer online and transfer all the business software to the new computer.”

Tip handed her his business credit card. “Call American Express and order a card for you. I’ll speak to them when you’re on the line with them.”

They went back into the study, Dolly made the call and the card was ordered.

“Stop by the bank tomorrow and get new signature cards, and we’ll both sign them.”

“Certainly.”

“I can’t think of anything else to tell you, Dolly. Would you like that drink now?”

“Yes, thanks. That would be very nice.”

Tip made the drinks from the concealed bar in his study, and they watched the sunset together.

9

Near the end of her stay at Canyon Ranch, Barbara drove to the Tucson Airport and took a plane to Los Angeles. She got a cab to Venice Beach and got out a block from her destination.

She walked slowly to the end of the block, looking at every person she saw, then walked past her destination for another block, then slowly returned, still checking. The man she was visiting was in a potentially dangerous business, and his camera and photography shop might be staked out by the police or, worse, the Feds.

Finally, she went in and asked for the owner. “Name?” the girl behind the counter asked.

“Tell him an old customer,” Barbara said.

The girl left, then came back. “You can go in,” she said.

Barbara walked to the rear of the store to the office and rapped on the doorjamb.

He looked up and stared for a moment before he placed her. “Ah, hello,” he said. “Took me a minute, what with the red hair.”

She sat down in the chair next to his desk. “I need the works,” she said, “and in two identities.” She wrote down the two names, addresses and vital statistics on a pad he handed her.

“How soon?”

“I can give you a week.”

“I can do that, but it’s going to be expensive; prices have gone up. Sixty grand.”

“All right, but everything has to work, has to show up in the relevant databases.”

“Always,” he said.

She opened her purse and paid him in hundreds, then watched while he checked a sample of the bills on a light box.

“All good,” he said. “Let’s get a couple of pictures.”

Barbara checked her makeup, then posed, once as the redhead she now was, and once with a blond wig.

“You can pick them up a week from today,” he said.

“I’d like you to FedEx them, overnight, to this address.” She wrote it down for him. “I’m trusting you by paying you before I see the paper,” she said.

“I don’t fail my best customers,” he replied.

She thanked him and left. She walked a couple of blocks before she found a cab back to the airport. She didn’t want to spend any more time in L.A. than necessary.

CUPIE DALTON SAW the woman coming from a block away. He always spotted beautiful women from a distance; it was a trait learned over the decades. Cupie was ex-LAPD, now a private investigator, and because of his work a lot of faces looked familiar to him. Also, there was something about the way she walked. He ducked behind a palm tree as she approached, then watched her pass and get into a taxi. She was different but still familiar. Images flashed through his mind. “Jesus,” he said aloud, “it can’t be. I must be getting old.”

Cupie was one of two P.I.s who had been hired by Ed Eagle to find the wife who had stolen his money, and he had been responsible for the ruse that had got her to Mexico, where she could be arrested. “It can’t be,” he said again, but he thought he should call Ed Eagle.

He had already dialed the number, but as he was about to press send, he stopped. No need to make a fool of himself. First, he would check. He looked up a number in his cell phone address book and pressed the call button. A woman answered in Spanish.

“I’d like to speak to the capitán,” he said. “Tell him it’s Cupie. He’ll know.”

“Momento,” the woman said, then there was a click and the man came online.

“Cupie, my friend,” the police captain said. “How are you? Are you in Tijuana?”

“No, Capitán,” Cupie said. “I’m in L.A., but I just saw a familiar body walk past me, and I thought I was dreaming.”

“You always dream of women, Cupie,” the capitán said.

“This one is a nightmare,” Cupie said. “You took her off a yacht for me a few months ago.”

“Oh, La Barbara,” the capitán said. “I will never forget her.”

“She was convicted, remember?”

“Oh, yes. She will die in prison.”

“Are you sure she’s still there?”

There was a brief silence. “Do you have some reason to believe she is not?”

“I told you, I could swear I saw her five minutes ago. Can you find out if she’s still in prison?”

“Instantly,” the capitán said. “Give me your number.”

Cupie gave him the number, then went and sat on a bench, looking out over the Pacific.

THE CAPITÁN DIALED the number and listened to it ringing.

“Capitán Alvarez,” a voice said.

“Pedro, it’s me.”

“Good day to you, my friend. Are you in Acapulco?”

“No, I’m in Tijuana. I just wanted to check something with you.”

“Of course. How can I help you?”

“Tell me, is the woman, Barbara Eagle, still in your custody?”

Alvarez didn’t miss a beat. “Of course she is,” he replied. “I fucked her in the ass this morning. She loved it.”

“I’m relieved to hear that,” the capitán said.

“Why do you ask me this?”

“A friend saw a woman in L.A. a few minutes ago who looked like her.”

“Your friend drinks too early in the day. Next time you’re in Acapulco, drive up here, and you can fuck her, too.”

“That might be fun, as long as there isn’t a straight razor around.”

“No worries there, my friend. I would never let her near sharp instruments.”

“Thank you, Pedro. I’ll call you when I come south and take you up on your offer.” He hung up and called Cupie.

“Hello?”

“It’s me, Cupie.”

“What did you find out?”

“She’s still in the prison in Tres Cruces. The warden told me he fucked her in the ass this morning.”

“I’m relieved to hear that.”

“He says you drink too early in the day.”

“Maybe I’m getting old,” Cupie said. “Thanks, my friend. I’ll buy you a drink the next time I’m in Tijuana.”

“You do that.” The capitán hung up.

Cupie took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He was glad he’d checked. If he had made that call he might have destroyed his credibility with Ed Eagle, who was one of his better clients.

IN TRES CRUCES, Pedro Alvarez ran into the toilet and vomited. Still this woman haunted him. He wished he’d shot her in the head and buried her in the mountains.

10

Dolly Parks spent the entire day of Tip’s departure for the Houston tournament directing the moving in of office furniture. She arranged things efficiently, not forgetting to give herself a nice view of the Jemez Mountains from her seat at her desk.

When everything was arranged as it should be and wiped down for dust she opened the box containing her new computer and set it up, hanging the twenty-one-inch flat monitor on the wall beside her desk. She had only to swivel her chair to the right to have the keyboard at hand and the screen before her. She plugged in all the cables, then tucked the tiny Enano PC away in a corner of her desk.

She took a box of writable CDs into Tip’s study and copied all his files, then loaded them into her computer. A few minutes of testing the bank program and she was up and running. She spent the rest of the day putting away her office supplies on the shelves she had had installed in the closet, and then she was done.

She went into the little powder room off her new office and put her own cosmetics into the medicine chest, then washed the dust from her hands and splashed some water on her face. Exhausted, she went into Tip’s study, opened the cabinet containing the bar and poured herself a stiff Scotch, then she stretched out on the leather sofa and watched the sun set behind the mountains as she sipped her drink.

Soon, healed and relaxed by the whiskey, she began thinking about Tip Hanks, his mop of sun-bleached hair and his taut body. She unzipped her jeans and pulled them down to her knees, then, with the Scotch in the other hand, she began to stroke her clitoris. She was already wet, and it took only a couple of minutes of fun to bring her to orgasm.

When she stopped panting she wiped herself with tissues, pulled up her jeans and soon fell asleep on the couch.

TIP LANDED AT HOUSTON’S Hobby Field at dusk and taxied to Atlantic Aviation for refueling and hangaring, then picked up his rental car and drove to the Four Seasons hotel and checked in. He showered and changed, then went down to the bar for a drink before dinner.

Everybody there was properly respectful of his mourning, and he couldn’t pay for a drink. There were the usual hanger-on girls, some of whom showed an interest in him, but in spite of his stir-rings, he was determined to remain chaste on the tour, at least for a while.

He had dinner with a couple of cronies and got to bed early. He was playing the pro-am the next day with some movie star, and he wanted to be fresh. The golf course had been renovated, and it was his first opportunity to play it since. He took a look at the pin positions in the book before retiring, and he liked what he saw. The course was set up well for his game.

Before he fell asleep he wondered, not for the first time, why he was not more upset about his wife’s murder. It was as if he was viewing a film of the event, and he was playing his part badly. All he felt was emptiness.

BARBARA HAD LEFT TUCSON early in the morning, driving east, and she arrived in Santa Fe at dusk and found the FedEx office still open and the package waiting for her. She got back into the car and examined the passports, driver’s licenses and credit cards the man in Venice Beach had created for her. They were of his usual excellent quality.

She had another hour and a half of driving to reach the Holroyds’ house beyond Los Alamos, and she was tired, so she checked into the Hotel Santa Fe, at Cerrillos and Paseo de Peralta, a place where she had not been known when she had lived in the town, and called the Holroyds, telling them she’d be there for lunch the following day. She had a quiet dinner in the bar, followed by a good night’s sleep.

The following morning she drove up the winding mountain road to Los Alamos, continued through what was visible of the town and followed the directions to the ranch that Hugh Holroyd had given her.

Charlene greeted her with a big kiss as she got out of the car. “You made it! We missed you last night.”

“I was whipped when I got into Santa Fe,” Barbara said, opening the rear of the station wagon so that a servant could remove her new luggage.

Hugh met her at the door with another big kiss, and she was shown to her room, which, not to her surprise, was connected to the master suite by a door and a short hallway.

She spent the afternoon unpacking, napping and watching a golf tournament from Houston, which featured a player she found very attractive. She was pleased to hear an announcer say he hailed from Santa Fe. Maybe she’d look him up later.

They were served a sumptuous dinner prepared by the Holroyds’ chef, then given after-dinner drinks before an open fire in the living room, where they lounged on large cushions. From that moment, Barbara noticed, there were no servants in sight.

Charlene got things started by giving Barbara a playful kiss, and soon they were all naked while Hugh watched the two women make love, and he weighed in from time to time. Then they rested and drank for a while and started in again, this time with Barbara and Hugh. She found them both very comfortable to be with.

AT ED AND SUSANNAH EAGLE’S house up the mountain from the village of Tesuque, they hosted the writer and producer who had arrived in Santa Fe to begin production on Susannah’s film project. She had taken the supporting role, on Ed’s advice, because the character had a couple of scenes the likes of which would be taken notice of by the Los Angeles film community and members of the Academy of Motion Pictures Arts and Sciences.

Susannah had been nominated twice before, and this seemed the perfect opportunity to seal the deal.

Eagle was interested to talk to Jim Long. Previously, he had seen the producer only on TV, when he had testified at Barbara’s trial. Eagle might as well break the ice, he thought.

“Jim, have you heard from Barbara since her incarceration?”

Long shook his head. “From what little I know of Mexican jails, people seem to just disappear into them. She’s going to be in for a long, long time.”

“I think that’s best,” Eagle said.

“Maybe you’re right,” Long agreed. “She was a bad, bad girl.”

The group drank, dined and talked on until after midnight, then the visitors excused themselves and drove back to their hotel.

Eagle and Susannah got ready for bed while the cook and her helpers cleaned up after the party.

“What did you think of Jim Long?” Susannah asked.

“Seems like a nice fellow,” Eagle replied. “He agreed with me that Barbara will be away for a long, long time.”

“I suppose she will,” Susannah said. “It’s a pity Mexico doesn’t have the death penalty.”

11

Tip Hanks stood on the eighteenth green and sized up his putt. Not good. He had been at the top of his game for four days, and now he had a one-stroke lead on the last hole. Trouble was, he had a thirty-five-foot putt that was going to go over a little rise in the green, then break on the downhill slope to the hole, while his opponent had a six-foot straight-in putt to tie the match and force a play-off. Tip did not want a play-off. He conferred with Mike, his caddie.

“Play it like the hole is at the top of the rise,” Mike advised, “and a foot past. Aim for a line a foot right of the hole. It’s going to break left and be very fast downhill.”

Tip took another look from ten feet behind the ball and agreed. He took a couple of practice swings, then stepped forward and struck the ball smoothly. It rolled up the rise, slowed nearly to a halt at the top, then curved gracefully down the slope and into the cup. The crowd went nuts.

Tip walked to the edge of the green and leaned on his putter. His opponent had to sink this putt to keep sole possession of second place. He sank it, and it was over. Tip had won it.

He hugged Mike, then shook hands with his opponent and his opponent’s caddie. The crowd swarmed around him as he walked to the tent where he would double-check his scorecard and sign it. That done, he walked to the cleared area in front of the clubhouse and was interviewed briefly for television, where he accepted condolences for Connie, then appeared appropriately modest about his win.

All that remained then was to accept the trophy and hit the showers, secure in the knowledge that tomorrow morning there would be a wire transfer to his bank account of one million, one hundred thousand dollars. He was now officially richer than he had ever been, and he had improved his position to fifth in the race for the FedEx Cup.

He was too tired to fly but not too tired to celebrate, so he stayed another night at the Four Seasons and celebrated with the few stragglers who had not immediately flown home. When he returned to his room at bedtime, he found a congratulatory e-mail from Dolly waiting for him. They had exchanged e-mails every day, always with a business reason but always pleasantly. She seemed to be on top of things at home.

The following morning he took off from Hobby Field and flew northwest to Santa Fe. He arrived at the house at noon and saw Dolly’s little BMW convertible parked out front. “Anybody home?” he called as he entered the house. He dropped his bag by the door for his housekeeper to unpack and walked into his study.

Dolly came out of her office smiling. “Congratulations,” she said, walking forward and offering her hand. When he shook it, she stepped forward and kissed him on the cheek. He seemed surprised. “The transfer is in your savings account,” she said, “and I’ve already sent the check for the taxes to your accountant.”

“Thanks, Dolly,” he said. “Let’s see what you’ve done with your office.” She led him there, and he looked around for a moment. “Very nice,” he said, but he was more impressed than that. If she handled his affairs as neatly as she did her office, everything would be fine.

“Have you had lunch?” she asked.

“No. Why don’t you join me?”

“I’ll tell Carmen,” she said, going off to find the housekeeper.

His study was a lot neater than when he had left, and he liked that, too.

BARBARA SLEPT LATE, and when she was dressing she heard a sound she hadn’t heard for quite some time: a cell phone ringing. Surprised, she dug it out of her purse. It had to be Jimmy. He was the only person who had the number.

“Hey,” she said.

“Where are you?” he asked.

“I’d rather not say,” she replied. “Where are you?”

“In Santa Fe.”

She was surprised. “Why?”

“I’m producing a film here that’s starting production right away.”

“Good,” she said. “You’ll enjoy the town.”

“Something else,” he said. “It’s starring the wife of your nemesis.”

“What?”

“Relax. It was a good deal for me. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Have you seen Ed?”

“Last night. They had me, the writer/director and the star for dinner.”

“Isn’t Susannah starring?”

“No. She could have, but she took a supporting role. Smart move, too.”

“Listen, I’ve got to run,” she said. “I’ll call you in a few days.”

“Okay. Take care.”

She hung up and swore. This was a very big monkey wrench in her works. She had been planning to kill them both, but she couldn’t do that to Jimmy; he’d lose a lot of money. She paced around the room. What would she do now? She could stay on briefly with Charlene and Hugh, but only briefly. They’d be sick of her in a few days, and she couldn’t blame them.

She picked up the Santa Fe New Mexican, which had been left at her door, and sat down with the real estate pages, circling likely-sounding rentals. One sounded particularly nice, and she called the agent and made an appointment to see it.

She sat at the dressing table and inspected herself carefully. Her new hair color and the cosmetic surgery she had had before her incarceration might make it unlikely for people who had known her in Santa Fe to recognize her, but still, she had to be careful.

IN THE EARLY AFTERNOON she drove back to town and, following the directions the agent had given her, drove to the development called Las Campanas, which she knew about from her earlier stay in the town when she had been married to Eagle. The property was a guesthouse, nicely furnished and available at a very reasonable rent, in return for keeping an eye on the house. The couple would not return until next summer.

She signed the lease on the spot and gave the agent a check for a month’s rent and a security deposit, then she drove back to the Holroyds’ ranch, arriving in time for dinner.

She didn’t tell them about her rental. It was best that no one knew where she was. “I’ve got to go back to the West Coast on business,” she said to them.

They expressed suitable regret, and she showed her gratitude for inviting her by making them both very happy in bed that night.

The following morning she packed, then drove back to Las Campanas.

12

Pedro Alvarez sat at his desk, filling out requisition forms for food for his prisoners. He had a very sweet deal with his purveyor: Alvarez checked off good-quality goods on the form, and the purveyor supplied him with cheaper selections for each one, and Alvarez got a very nice cash payment when the food was delivered.

He had accumulated a nice little nest egg, doing this and taking bribes from prisoners for various items he supplied, such as beauty products, and the best part was that his wife knew nothing about his arrangements or his nest egg. He planned to play cards with some friends that evening, and he went to the safe to get some cash. To his astonishment, the money was gone! But how? No one else had the combination to the safe. He opened his wallet, where he kept the combination written on a card: still there. He checked the edge of his desk drawer, where he kept the combination taped: still there.

Barbara! It had to be that bitch. She had taken his wallet or found the combination on the drawer’s edge! He couldn’t believe it. He felt sick.

The phone rang, and he picked it up. “Alvarez.”

“Hello, Pedro,” the capitán said. “You don’t sound very well.”

“Just a little indigestion,” Alvarez replied. “Are you well?”

“Yes, and I’m coming to Acapulco tomorrow morning. I thought I might drive up to Tres Cruces and take you up on your offer of fucking the lovely Barbara.”

Alvarez was seized with panic. The capitán had many connections in the Ministry of Justice. He had found Alvarez this job. If he discovered that Barbara was no longer in his prison, there would be hell to pay.

He fell back on his earlier invention. “You know, Capitán, the day after you called, two men appeared in my office with a transfer order for the woman, and they took her away.”

“Away where?” the capitán asked.

“I don’t know. They told me that if I told anyone of her transfer I would lose my job, so I assumed they were from the Ministry.”

“That is very peculiar,” the capitán replied. “I will make some inquiries.”

“Oh, no, please! If you start asking around, whoever is behind this will hear of it and will take it out on me. I beg you, don’t mention this to anyone else.”

“Pedro, you must know this is highly irregular,” the capitán said.

“And I was told to continue to keep her on my roster of prisoners, to make no change.”

“Do you know the names of these men?”

“No, but they had a fully executed transfer order with all the proper stamps.”

“I see. Then I suppose you had no choice but to surrender the woman to them.”

“No choice whatsoever, Capitán. When I questioned them they threatened to call Mexico City and have me disciplined.”

“All right, Pedro, don’t worry about it. I won’t mention it to anyone in the Ministry, or anyone else, for that matter.”

“Thank you, Capitán,” Alvarez said. “If you’d like to come up, I can give you your choice of other women. None as beautiful as the Eagle woman, of course, but very nice.”

“Perhaps another time, Pedro,” the capitán said. “I must run now. Good-bye.”

Alvarez hung up the phone, and he was bathed in sweat. His money was gone, and he could only hope that the capitán would keep his word.

THE CAPITÁN STARED AT his phone for a moment, then picked it up and dialed a number at the Ministry of Justice in Mexico City. He was greeted warmly by his contact.

“I would like you to do something for me,” the capitán said. “Can you check your computer for the El Diablo women’s prison in Tres Cruces and see if there is a record of a transfer for a prisoner named Barbara Eagle? She is an Anglo.”

“It will take only a moment,” the man said. Shortly he returned to the phone. “No, there is no such record. She is carried on the roll of El Diablo as a prisoner there.”

“Would the transfer of any inmate be recorded in your computer files?”

“Yes, indeed. The issuance of a transfer order and the execution of the order would both be recorded.”

The capitán thanked the man, then hung up. Something smelled of fish, he thought. Then he thought again. No, not of fish—of escape. The woman had somehow got herself out of El Diablo and was now free. Then he remembered something.

He looked up the number for Cupie Dalton, in Los Angeles, and dialed it.

“This is Cupie,” a voice said.

“Cupie, it’s me.”

“Capitán! How the hell are you?”

“All right, I guess. You remember you phoned me a little while back about the woman Barbara Eagle?”

“Yeah, sure, I did.”

“You wanted to know if she was still in prison?”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“She is not.”

Cupie thought about that for a moment. “Barbara is out?”

“It would appear so. The day following our conversation two men appeared at the prison with a transfer order, supposedly issued by the Ministry of Justice. The warden told me it was properly executed, and the men took Eagle away, telling him to continue to keep her on his roll of prisoners and warning him to tell no one.”

“Good God! Where did they take her?”

“I have no idea. The Ministry has no record of a transfer. I suspect that this was an escape arranged by some friend of hers.”

“Is anyone looking for her?”

“No, that would be . . . inconvenient, at this time.”

“I can understand how it might be,” Cupie said.

“Cupie, it seems possible that your eyes did not deceive you when you thought you saw her.”

“It certainly does,” Cupie replied.

“My friend, I would be very grateful if you could try and trace her. It is impossible for me to pay you at this time, but if you were able to find her and return her to Mexico, I could arrange a substantial reward for you.”

Cupie thought about that. It wasn’t as though he had much work at the moment. “Capitán, I would be very happy to try and find her,” he said.

“Good, Cupie, very good.”

“I can’t estimate how much time it might take, but there are leads I can follow.”

“Please call and tell me of your progress,” the capitán said.

The two men said good-bye and hung up, then Cupie made another call.

“Hello?”

“Vittorio? It’s Cupie.”

“Hello, Cupie,” Vittorio replied. The two men had worked together twice for Ed Eagle, searching for his ex-wife.

“I just heard from our friend, the capitán, in Tijuana,” Cupie said. “Barbara is out.”

13

Ed Eagle sat in a canvas director’s chair on the set of Susannah’s film. It was the first day of shooting, and since he had invested in the film, his name was emblazoned on his chair.

Eagle had never watched a movie being filmed, and he found the process painfully slow. Scenes were shot from different angles; there were master shots, two shots and close-ups, and the lighting had to be adjusted for each setup. Grass grew faster, he decided, and he was pleased when his cell phone vibrated. He got up and walked off the soundstage. “Hello?”

“Ed, it’s Cupie Dalton.”

“Hello, Cupie.”

“I’m sorry if I’m disturbing you.”

“It’s all right. You got me out of watching a movie being made. I’ve rarely been so bored.”

“I have some bad news, I’m afraid.”

“Did somebody die, Cupie?”

“Not yet,” Cupie replied, “but you’d better watch your ass. Barbara is out of prison.”

Eagle froze, and it took him a moment to respond. “How?” he asked.

Cupie told him how two men had appeared at the prison with a transfer order and taken her away. “Turns out the order was a fake.”

“When did this happen?”

“I’m not sure, exactly—two, three weeks ago. I think I saw her at Venice Beach about that time.”

Eagle took a deep breath. “Why would she be at Venice Beach?”

“There’s a guy has a photography business down there, and as a sideline he makes paper for those who can afford him. Or maybe the sideline is the photography.”

“So, she has a new identity?”

“That’s my guess.”

“Any idea where she is?”

“No, but sooner or later she’s going to be wherever you are. We both know that.”

“Yes, we do,” Eagle replied.

“I’ve been offered a reward, if I can return her to Mexico, but I need expense money for Vittorio and me.”

“What do you need?”

“Three hundred a day each,” Cupie replied, “and ten grand each if we can take her back.”

“Done,” Eagle said. “I’ll wire you the first week’s expenses immediately. Your account information still the same?”

“Yes. I’ll be coming to Santa Fe. There’s no point in trying to track her, since we know her destination.”

“Get on it, then.”

“You know, Ed, somebody had to arrange this for her, a friend on the outside.”

“Barbara doesn’t have any friends,” Eagle replied.

“Except for one.”

“As it happens, he’s here in Santa Fe right now, in the next room, in fact.”

“Don’t let on that you know she’s out,” Cupie said. “He’s our only link to her.”

“All right.”

“I’ll be there tonight,” Cupie said, “and we’ll start tomorrow morning.”

“Thanks, Cupie. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” Eagle called his office and gave his secretary instructions on wiring funds to Cupie, then he waited until the red light went off above the soundstage door and walked back in. They were changing setups.

Jim Long was deep in conversation with the director, and Eagle’s first impulse was to collar him, drag him outside and beat the shit out of him. As satisfying as that might be, however, doing so would not help him find Barbara, so he restrained himself.

CUPIE CALLED VITTORIO. “I talked to Eagle. He’s wiring expense money, and I’m getting a three-o’clock plane to Albuquerque. Can you meet me?”

“Sure, and you can stay with me. We can save money, not get a hotel.” Vittorio lived in a small adobe house in the desert outside Santa Fe.

“See you in Albuquerque,” Cupie said. He hung up, packed his bags, got into his car and drove to his bank, where he made a cash withdrawal of four thousand dollars. He left his car in long-term parking and caught the bus to the terminal.

VITTORIO, WHO WAS an Apache, descended from his great-greatgrandfather of the same name, stood out in the airport crowd, with his black clothing and black flat-brimmed hat. The inky braided hair to his shoulder blades helped, too.

In the car, Cupie handed him two thousand in cash. Vittorio tucked it into an inside pocket of his vest and started the car. Shortly they were on I-25, headed north toward Santa Fe. “What have we got to go on?” he asked.

“Zip,” Cupie said, “except we know she’s going to go after Eagle, and Eagle is in Santa Fe. So is James Long, who is her only friend in the world, as far as I can tell. He’s going to be our link.”

“Barbara makes friends quickly,” Vittorio observed. “Then she fucks them or kills them, or both.”

Cupie laughed. “You would know, wouldn’t you?” Vittorio had fucked her, and she had pushed him off a ferry in the Sea of Cortez.

“Don’t rub it in,” Vittorio said ruefully.

“What’s the deal with Long?” Cupie asked.

“She fucks him, but she hasn’t killed him,” Vittorio replied. “I guess she has to leave somebody alive to help her when she’s in trouble.”

“Yeah, but why does he do it?”

“Some guys will do anything for a good lay, and Barbara is one hell of a lay.”

“That’s it?”

“What else? Can you think of anything?”

“Not really.”

“I didn’t think so.”

“But how the hell could Jimmy Long engineer this prison break? Who does he know that could forge a transfer order from the Mexican Ministry of Justice?”

“Somebody in the Ministry of Justice, I guess,” Vittorio replied. “The guy has made movies in Mexico, you know. He has to deal with government officials and probably bribe them to get the necessary permits.”

“Yeah, but the Ministry of Justice doesn’t handle that, do they?”

“Beats me,” Vittorio said. “You think Barbara could already be in Santa Fe? Or maybe she’s just going to hire somebody like last time.”

“Last time didn’t work,” Cupie said, “and the guy’s doing life. She’s going to want to see to it herself this time; I’ll bet on it.”

14

Dolly Parks waited until Tip Hanks had come home from his practice session before trying it. She came into his study from her adjoining office. “Tip,” she said, “I’m going to need to take a day or two off to find a new place to live. I’ve had a week-to-week deal at my current apartment, hoping to get a long-term lease, but the landlord wants it back for his granddaughter.”

Tip swiveled around in his chair. “Why don’t you move into my guesthouse?” he asked. “Connie made me build it for her friends, and I rarely have guests.”

“That’s very kind of you,” Dolly said. “Are you sure it wouldn’t be an imposition?”

“Not at all. Come on, I’ll show you the place.” He led her out of the house by the kitchen door and down a path to the guesthouse. “The house key works in this lock, too,” Tip said, unlocking the front door and holding it open for her.

“It’s beautiful,” Dolly said, looking around the living room, then looking at the two bedrooms and kitchen.

“There’s a patio out back, with a path leading to the pool and tennis court,” Tip said.

“What sort of rent are we talking about?” she asked, turning to face him.

He looked puzzled. “Rent? No rent, just take it as part of your deal.”

She wanted to hug him, but it was too soon. “Oh, Tip, you’re wonderful,” she said.

“Move in whenever you like,” he replied.

Dolly glanced out the living-room window and saw a corner of another house. “Who lives there?”

“Oh, some couple from New York. They’re only here in the summer. That’s their guesthouse.”

Dolly walked to the window and saw a woman taking things from a car and carrying them into the house.

“You’ve got your own driveway,” Tip said. “Right this way.” He led her outside and showed her how to drive to her new house. There was also a one-car garage.

“The house has its own linens and washer and dryer, and Carmen will keep it clean and do your laundry.”

“It’s so wonderful, I can’t believe it!” Dolly enthused. This had been easier than she thought.

“I’ve got to get back to my e-mail,” Tip said. “You stay and look into the nooks and crannies.” He left and went back to the main house.

Dolly went into the kitchen and began opening cabinet doors. It was well equipped, and there were even pots and pans and utensils. She liked cooking, and she would enjoy this kitchen.

To her surprise there was a knock at the kitchen door, and she opened it. A very beautiful woman of indeterminate age stood there in tight jeans and a sweater.

“Hi,” the woman said. “My name is Ellie Keeler. I’m just moving in next door, and I thought I’d say hello.”

“Please come in,” Dolly said. “I’m Dolly Parks, and I’m just moving in, too.”

“Beautiful place,” Barbara said, looking around the living room. “This is the guesthouse, right?”

“Yes. The main house is up the walk.”

“Who lives there?”

“His name is Tip Hanks. He’s a professional golfer.”

“Oh, yes. I watched the end of the tournament in Houston, when he sank that long putt.” Barbara went and looked at the bedrooms. “Looks like you haven’t moved in yet.”

“No, I’ll do that tomorrow.”

“I’ll give you a hand, if you like.”

“Thanks, but I don’t have a lot of stuff, mostly clothes. I’m moving from a small, furnished apartment in town. Would you like a drink? There’s some liquor in a little bar and some beer in the fridge.”

“A beer would be great,” Barbara replied, settling onto a sofa.

BARBARA WATCHED HER walk away and admired her figure. There was something about this girl, she thought. Something in her is like me. Dolly came back with two beers and took a seat on a chair.

“Where are you from, Dolly?” Barbara asked.

“I grew up in Connecticut—Westport—and I worked in New York for a few years before I came out here earlier this year. How about you?”

“I grew up in La Jolla,” Barbara lied. “When I met my husband I moved to San Francisco with him. He was killed a few months ago in a car crash.”

“I’m so sorry,” Dolly said.

“Well, being a widow requires some adjustment,” Barbara said. “You wake up and there’s nobody on the other side of the bed. I miss the sex. Have you ever been married?”

“No. I had a couple of close scrapes, but I managed to stay out of trouble.”

“Smart girl,” Barbara said. “Someone as beautiful as you won’t have any trouble attracting men.”

“Thank you,” Dolly said, “but it isn’t always easy. Most of the single men I’ve met in Santa Fe have been gay. They’re good company and good friends, but you know . . .”

“I know,” Barbara said.

They talked and laughed for the better part of an hour and got through another beer before Barbara excused herself.

“I’ve got some unpacking to do,” she said. “Maybe we could have dinner sometime?”

“Why don’t you come over tomorrow evening, and we’ll christen my new kitchen? I enjoy cooking.”

“How nice! What time?”

“Say seven?”

“I’ll look forward to it.”

Dolly showed her to the kitchen door, and Barbara went back to her own guesthouse. This was going to work out well, she thought, if she was right about Dolly.

15

Lauren Cade woke up and found Teddy looking at her. “Hey, there,” she said.

“Hey, yourself,” he replied. He was sitting up in bed with the morning newspapers.

They had been in Santa Fe for several days now. “I love this town,” she said. “Let’s look for a house to rent.”

“I’ve got the real estate section right here,” he replied. “We’ll start looking today, but first there’s something we have to talk about.”

“What’s that?”

“Your new name.”

“I noticed that you checked into the hotel as Charles Tatum,” she said. “Shall I call you Charlie?”

“That’s good,” he replied, “when others are around.” He handed her a plastic envelope containing a passport, a driver’s license and a credit card.

She took the envelope but didn’t open it. “Tell me why we need new names.”

“I’m officially dead,” Teddy replied, “but there’s always the possibility that someone may be looking for me. Holly Barker, whom we met in Orchid Beach, may be the catalyst for that.”

“Why Holly?”

“She’s an official of the CIA,” he said, “and she may have suspicions.”

“Why do you think that?”

“I don’t necessarily think she does, but I have to prepare for the possibility.”

Lauren thought about it for a moment, then nodded. “All right.” She opened the envelope, took out the passport and opened it. “Theresa Tatum,” she read aloud.

“How about Teri, with an I?”

“I like it,” she said. “Who made these IDs?”

“I did. It’s one of the skills I acquired when I worked at the Agency. I also learned how to insert these document numbers into the various federal and state databases, so for all practical purposes, they’re real.”

“What about the credit card?”

“It’s from a bank in the Cayman Islands,” he said. “It will work the same as any other credit card, but the charges will be deducted from my investment balance at the bank, and the statement is available only online, identified by a number instead of a name.”

“That’s very clever,” she said. “How do you cash a check?”

“I open a local bank account with cash, which I always travel with, then use those funds locally. I can always replenish it from the Cayman account with a wire transfer that’s untraceable.”

Her brow furrowed. “I read in a newspaper that the U.S. government can now force offshore banks to give them a list of their depositors.”

“Doesn’t matter. Mine is a numbered account, and the bank doesn’t have a name and address for me, not even a false one.”

“You’re very good, Charlie,” she said, kissing him.

“You’re not so bad yourself, Teri,” he replied.

“One question: I understand why you have to change your name, but why mine?”

“Holly knew you by your real name in Orchid Beach. Her people could trace us through you.”

“Sorry. That was a dumb question.”

“There’s a bio for you in the envelope, too. You have to memorize every detail, like your maiden name, your high school, your college—both of which have very good transcripts for you—your parents’ names—they’re both dead—and every other detail. You have a credit record under both your maiden and married names, too. If you memorize the bio perfectly, you could withstand a prolonged interrogation. You can make up your own details, as long as they fit. After all, there would be details of your childhood that even your husband wouldn’t know about.”

“How long have we been married?”

“Three years. Read the bio.”

“Teri” started reading while “Charlie” ordered breakfast and began calling realtors.

AT MIDAFTERNOONTHEY STOOD in the living room of the fourth house they had seen, while the agent waited outside to give them some privacy.

“You like it?” Teddy asked.

“I love it. Can we afford it?”

“We can,” Teddy replied. The house was in the East Side neighborhood of Santa Fe, on a quiet tree-lined street. It had a living room with a dining area, a kitchen, two bedrooms, two and a half baths and a study where he could work. It was nicely furnished. “Let’s do it.” He called the realtor back in and filled out the rental application.

“I’ll run this,” she said, “and assuming everything is confirmed, I’ll have a lease for you by six o’clock, and you can move in tomorrow.” Teddy gave her a check on the local account he had opened earlier that day.

They celebrated with a dinner at Geronimo, a restaurant on Canyon Road. The following morning they checked out of the hotel and moved into the house.

“I’m going to need a big safe,” Teddy said, looking for one on the Internet.

THAT SAME MORNING, Holly Barker and Todd Bacon sat in Lance Cabot’s office at the Central Intelligence Agency.

“Todd,” Lance said, “what I have to say to you—indeed, our entire conversation—is limited to the three of us. Do you understand?”

“Certainly,” Todd replied.

“We have reason to suspect that Teddy Fay may not be entirely dead.”

“I can’t say that I’m surprised,” Todd replied. “When I pumped those rounds into his airplane’s wing it occurred to me that he might be able to make an airport or a field, then disappear.”

“He must still have the airplane,” Holly said, “because I saw it at the Vero Beach Airport the first time I saw him.”

“Did you get the registration number?” Todd asked.

“No,” she replied, “because I had no reason to suspect him at that time. In any case, it would have been changed by now.”

“It’s a Cessna 182 RG, isn’t it?”

“I can’t remember whether it had fixed or retractable gear,” she said.

Holly told him of each encounter she had with Teddy in Orchid Beach, giving him every detail she could recall.

“Did anybody die while he was there?” Todd asked.

“There was a series of murders of women at the time,” Holly replied.

“That’s not Teddy’s thing,” Todd said. “He kills only for very good reasons—or what he believes to be good reasons.”

“I agree. There was one death with which he may very well have been involved. The victim was a retired army colonel named James Bruno, and Teddy’s girlfriend had once been a victim of rape by Bruno, so he had a very good reason to kill. He was fortunate that the death was declared a suicide.”

“He never bothered to make a killing look like a suicide before,” Todd pointed out.

“No, but in this case he didn’t want to run, so an apparent suicide was the best way to dead-end the investigation.”

“Give me the best physical description you can of Teddy,” Todd said.

“Six feet, a hundred and sixty pounds; wiry, athletic build; gray hair, probably bald or balding, but he wore a hairpiece when I saw him, and a very good one that I didn’t suspect. I don’t remember an eye color, and he had no other distinctive features. That’s why he’s so good at disguises.”

“Am I going to have any help?”

“No,” Lance said quickly. “Just Holly by phone. We’re going to carry you on the Agency’s rolls as active but on extended leave. You’ll have an Agency laptop and communications equipment and the usual access to our computers here in Langley. If there’s anything you can’t dig up on your own, Holly will do it for you.”

“All right.”

Lance handed him a slip of paper. “You can draw this in cash, and you can use your Agency credit cards.”

“I want a light airplane,” Todd said. “That’s how Teddy travels, and I want to travel the same way.”

“Holly will arrange that for you. No jets, however.”

“I’m not trained for jets,” Todd said, “but I’d like something fairly fast.”

“I can do that,” Holly said.

Lance stood up and offered his hand. “Good luck,” he said.

Todd shook the hand. “One thing: You didn’t tell me what you want me to do when I find Teddy.”

Lance walked him to the door. “I didn’t hear the question,” he said, closing the door behind them.

16

Cupie Dalton and Vittorio sat in Vittorio’s SUV down the street from the Inn of the Anasazi and waited for James Long to show. It was nearly nine A.M. when Long walked out of the hotel and into his car, a silver Lincoln Town Car that the valet had brought around.

“Well, at least he’ll be easy to follow,” Cupie said. “Let’s go, and keep well back.”

“Cupie,” Vittorio said, “I don’t have to be told how to run a tail.”

“Right.”

“You keep doing that, and I’m going to have to scalp you, as unrewarding as that would be.”

Cupie rubbed his bald head. “I like it where it is,” he said.

Long drove directly to the soundstage where Susannah Wilde’s film was being shot, parked in the parking lot and entered the building.

“He’s going to be there all day,” Vittorio said.

“Maybe not,” Cupie replied.

“So, where’s he going to go?”

“Maybe he’s going to have lunch with Barbara,” Cupie said.

“That would certainly make life easy for us, wouldn’t it?”

“Sure would,” Cupie agreed. “Vittorio . . . ?”

“What?”

“From my brief conversation with Ed Eagle about Barbara, I got a vibe that wasn’t there when we worked for him before.”

“What kind of vibe?”

Cupie sighed. “Have you ever killed anybody?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Because I think that’s what Eagle is going to want done.”

“Did he say that?”

“No, I told you it was just a vibe.”

“You want to kill somebody based on a vibe?”

“Oh, no. When he wants it done he’ll say so, or find some other way to make it perfectly clear.”

“Have you ever killed anybody, Cupie?”

“Twice, both times when I was on the force, with my service revolver. Both of them were shooting at me.”

“Anybody else?”

“No. All right, I answered your question, now you answer mine.”

“Yes.”

Cupie turned and looked at Vittorio. “Yes, you’ve killed somebody?”

“I’m not going to tell you again.”

“Under what circumstances?” Cupie asked.

“Which time?”

“When you were a cop.”

“I was never a cop, Cupie.”

“All right, the first time.”

“I was fourteen, and a man who lived with us was beating up my mother.”

“And?”

“And I took him by the hair, cut his throat with my hunting knife and scalped him.”

Cupie blinked. “You actually scalped a man? How did you know how to do that?”

“Cupie, I’m an Apache. You might call it cultural memory. Anyway, I’d seen it done a couple of times on the reservation.”

“I didn’t know that sort of thing was still being done,” Cupie said.

“It isn’t, much. I said I was fourteen.”

“How about other Apaches?”

“When someone wants to make a point, I guess.”

Cupie gulped. “How about the second time?”

“I shot a man in the face with a shotgun.”

“Why?”

“He was coming at me with a knife.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Anybody else?”

“Two others.”

“Jesus, Vittorio.”

“Jesus had nothing to do with it.”

“Who were these people?”

“They were both white men. The first two were Apache.”

“Why did you do them?”

“They were both trying to kill me. The first one, I thought I might be a better knife fighter than he was. I was right.”

“And the other one?”

“That one was more complicated: I was sleeping with his wife.”

“That doesn’t sound like you, Vittorio.”

“Ex-wife, actually.”

“Okay.”

“He put out the word that he was going to kill me. I was out behind the house, putting in some fence posts, and I heard his car drive up. He yelled my name and said something uncomplimentary. The back door was open, and I heard him kick the front door open. I was unarmed at the time.”

“What did you do?”

“I stood by the back door, pressed against the wall. I figured when he’d had a look around inside he’d see the back door open and come outside. He came out slowly. The first thing I saw was the gun in his hand. I let him take another step, then I hit him in the head with a fence post.”

“That’s a pretty good-sized piece of wood, isn’t it?”

“Bigger than a baseball bat. I caught him across the forehead—he was shorter than I thought—and that did it. I didn’t have to hit him again. Then I called the sheriff.”

“Why did you do that?”

“You ever tried to get rid of a body?”

“Can’t say that I have.”

“It’s harder than it sounds. If you put it in a river or lake, it comes up, eventually. If you bury it in the ground, the coyotes dig it up. If you put stones on top of the grave to prevent that, then it looks like a grave, and that makes you look guilty. I was defending my life, so I called the sheriff.”

“What happened?”

“He’d already heard reports that the guy was looking to kill me, so I didn’t have to prove that. And the guy’s gun went off when I hit him, so you could say he’d shot at me. And the fence post had his blood and brains all over it, so my story was obviously true.”

“So, you walked?”

“He didn’t even run me in, he just told me to try to stay out of situations where I might have to do that again. And I’ve tried to take his advice.”

“So, what are you going to do if Eagle asks us to off Barbara?”

“I don’t know,” Vittorio said, sounding thoughtful. “God knows she needs it.”

“Yeah,” Cupie replied, “she does.”

17

Cupie and Vittorio sat in the car straight through lunchtime, and James Long never showed himself. Around two o’clock they drove to a sandwich shop and came back to the studio with their food. Long’s car had disappeared from the parking lot.

“Shit,” Cupie said. “We were gone, what, twenty minutes?”

Vittorio put the SUV into gear and drove away from the studio.

“Where are we going?”

“I want to see if he went back to the hotel,” Vittorio said, “but . . .”

“Why would he go back to the hotel?”

“I don’t know, but where else are we going to look?”

“The airport, maybe?” Cupie offered.

Vittorio took a hard left and gunned it. “All right, the airport. Albuquerque or Santa Fe?”

“Long doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who would fly commercial,” Cupie said. “Santa Fe.”

They drove to Santa Fe Airport, parked the car along the fence and looked around. “Where do they park the rentals?” Vittorio asked.

“I don’t know, but guys who fly in private airplanes drive their cars onto the ramp and abandon them.”

They walked over to the Santa Fe Jetcenter and peered through the fence and out onto the tarmac. The Lincoln was parked on the ramp, and the trunk was still open. A Citation was taxiing away from the FBO.

“He’s going back to L.A.,” Vittorio said.

“Does that mean Barbara is still in L.A.?” Cupie asked.

“Why would she be in L.A.?” Vittorio asked.

“I don’t know,” Cupie said, “but that’s the last place I saw her. I told you about seeing her in Venice.”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t make any sense, not if she wants to kill Ed Eagle.”

“Maybe Long’s not in touch with her,” Cupie said.

“I thought we’d already decided that Long is the only person in the world who would spring her from that prison. After all, he’s helped her before.”

“Maybe she’s staying at his house in L.A.,” Cupie said. “She’s done that before, too.”

“That might explain why Long is headed back to L.A.,” Vittorio said. “He wants to get laid.”

“If he wants to get laid, why did he leave her and come to Santa Fe?”

“I think we should operate on the premise that Barbara is in Santa Fe,” Vittorio said. “It’s the only thing that makes any sense, given what we know about her, and if she’s not here she will be, when she gets around to taking a shot at Ed Eagle.”

“Okay, I buy that,” Cupie said. “If you were Barbara, and you were lying low in Santa Fe, waiting for an opportunity to kill Ed Eagle, where would you lie low?”

“Not a hotel,” Vittorio said. “Too expensive. An apartment maybe, or a house, but something nice. After all, she’s been in prison for months. She’ll want some comfort.”

“If she’s in an apartment or a house, she probably found it in the New Mexican,” Cupie said.

“Why not one of those real estate magazines that are all over town?”

“She wouldn’t look there for a rental,” Cupie said. “Those are for sales.”

They got back into Vittorio’s SUV and drove to the newspaper’s office. Cupie bought ten days of back issues and took them back to the car. He handed Vittorio half of the papers. “Look for something comfortable, not too big and furnished,” he said.

Vittorio began opening the papers to the real estate section. “Here’s one,” he said, circling an ad.

“Let’s go through them all,” Cupie said.

They spent most of an hour cutting out and dating ads for possible houses and apartments, then sorted through them, finding seven likely properties.

Cupie went through them again, checking the dates. “There are ads for three houses that stopped running in the past couple of days,” he said. “That means they’ve been rented.” He handed the ads to Vittorio.

“Two of them are from the same agent,” Vittorio said. He got out his cell phone and called the agent’s office and asked for her.

“Hello?”

“This is Sergeant Rivera at the Santa Fe Police Department,” Vittorio said.

“How can I help you, Sergeant?”

“You ran ads for two rental houses in the New Mexican,” he said.

“More than two,” she replied. “I specialize in rentals.”

“There are two that you stopped advertising: one in Tesuque, one at Las Campanas.”

“Yes, both those have been rented.”

“Can you give me the renters’ names?”

“Let’s see,” she said. “The Tesuque place went to a Mr. and Mrs. Torrance, and the Las Campanas house—it was a guesthouse—went to a Mrs. Keeler, from San Francisco.”

“Can you describe Mrs. Keeler?” Vittorio asked.

“Five-six or -seven, slim, auburn hair, very attractive.”

“Thank you so much,” Vittorio said and hung up. He turned to Cupie. “What was that guy’s name that Barbara married in San Francisco?”

Cupie screwed up his face. “Walter something, electronics zillionaire. I can’t think of the last name.”

“Could it have been Keeler?” Vittorio asked.

“It could have been, and it was!” Cupie said.

The two men exchanged a high five.

“Let’s get out to Las Campanas,” Vittorio said.

18

Barbara dressed carefully in casual but elegant clothes: tight silk pants and a tight cashmere sweater that showed off her cleavage.

At dusk she turned out the lights in her guesthouse and walked up to Dolly’s place, bearing a good bottle of wine. As she reached the door it occurred to her that she should have left a light on for her return home, but then it didn’t really matter, as she kept a small flashlight in her purse. She knocked on the door.

Dolly opened it, smiling. “Hi, there,” she said. “Come on in.” She was dressed similarly to Barbara but wearing a small apron.

“I don’t know what you’re cooking, but I brought some wine,” Barbara said, offering it.

“Zinfandel,” Dolly said, reading the label. “Perfect. We’re having a veal stew. Would you like something to drink?”

“Do you have bourbon?” Barbara asked.

“Bought some this afternoon,” Dolly said, going to the little bar and holding up a bottle of Knob Creek. “Tip drinks this, so it must be good.” She poured some over ice.

“My favorite,” Barbara said, accepting the drink. “Tip seems like quite a fellow,” she said. “I was very impressed with that last putt of his. He must do very well.”

“Yes, he does. He’s won only a few times on the tour, but he’s usually in the top ten, sometimes in the top five. I don’t think the public understands how much money a pro can make playing that kind of golf regularly and finishing high up consistently.”

“How much can he make?”

“A million or two a year, maybe.”

Barbara whistled. “I hope he’s paying you well.”

“He is, and he just added this house to my compensation package.”

“Is he single?”

“Yes. He was widowed recently. His wife was either murdered or committed suicide, I’m not sure which.”

“In that house next door?” Barbara asked.

“Yes, in their bedroom. Tip came back from playing a tournament in Dallas and found her.”

“He must be very shaken up, but he played so well in Houston.”

“He seems oddly serene,” Dolly said, “but I think he’s just a stoic. That’s my read on him, anyway.”

Dolly sat down beside her on the sofa with her drink. “Dinner’ll be ready in half an hour. There’s nothing left to do but serve it.”

Barbara started to say she was hungry, but she stopped in mid-sentence. She’d heard a car drive up and stop nearby, and now she heard two car doors close. She got up and peered through the little window in Dolly’s front door. “A car,” she said. “Two flashlights.”

VITTORIO STOPPED THE SUV at the locked gate of the main house, and he and Cupie got out. He handed Cupie a compact flashlight. “These are very good,” he said. “Lithium ion batteries: They’re bright enough to temporarily blind a man in the dark.”

They climbed over the low gate. “Let’s have a look at this guesthouse,” Vittorio said.

“Pretty dark,” Cupie replied. “No lights, and the garage door is closed.”

They reached the house and walked around it, shining their lights through windows. “Very neat and clean,” Cupie said. “Doesn’t look like anybody lives here.”

“Not even a toothbrush in the bathroom,” Vittorio replied. “Why don’t we ask at the house next door? There are lights on there.”

Cupie went ahead. “Let me do it,” he said. “You’re too scary on a dark night.”

“I HAVE TO TELL YOU,” Barbara said. “One of the reasons I’m in Santa Fe is that I’m being stalked by a man I went out with after my husband died. It would be just like him to show up here or to send a private detective to find me. Looks like two men coming this way.”

“Go into the guest room and close the door,” Dolly said. “If they come here I’ll handle it.” She put Barbara’s drink in the kitchen sink and her own on the counter. The doorbell rang.

Dolly went to the door, switched on the porch light and opened the door a foot, keeping her boot jammed against it. A plump, baby-faced man in a tweed topcoat and tweed hat stood there. A few feet behind him, in the shadows, stood another man wearing a flat-brimmed hat that partly hid his face.

Cupie swept off his hat and smiled. “Good evening. I’m sorry to disturb you,” he said. “I’m looking for the woman who lives next door, a Mrs. Keeler.”

“No one lives next door,” Dolly said. “The place is owned by some people from New York, but they’re only here in the summer.”

“I’d heard that this Mrs. Keeler had rented it in the past couple of days, and it’s important I get in touch with her on a business matter. Some papers have to be signed.”

“I’d know if it had been rented,” Dolly said, “and it hasn’t. In fact, I spoke to the woman in New York this morning, and she told me they had taken it off the rental market.”

“Are you alone here, ma’am?”

“No, the main house is occupied,” she said. “Is there anything else?”

“I wonder if I could use your telephone?”

“I haven’t had it turned on yet,” she said, “and cell phones don’t work out here. Good night.” She made to close the door, but he stuck a hand through. “Here’s my card,” he said. “I’d appreciate it if you would give me a call, if someone turns up in the house.”

“Sure,” Dolly said. She took the card, closed the door, locked it and turned off the porch light.

Barbara edged into the room. “Everything all right?”

“Shhh,” Dolly said, waving her back. “They haven’t gone yet. I can still see their flashlights.”

A minute passed and she heard car doors slam, then the car’s headlights came on and it turned around and went back the way it had come. “Okay,” Dolly called out. “The coast is clear.”

Barbara came back into the living room. “That was scary,” she said.

“The guy at the door wasn’t very scary, but he had a friend, and he was.”

“Did they give you a name?” Barbara asked.

“They gave me a card,” Dolly responded, handing it to her.

“Oh, I know these guys,” she said. “My ex had them tailing me in San Francisco.”

“They asked for you by name,” Dolly said, “but don’t worry, I told them the house hadn’t been rented to anyone and that the owners had taken it off the rental market.”

“Oh, thank you, Dolly,” Barbara said, kissing her on the cheek. “Now I won’t have to move.”

Dolly hugged her. “I know you’re going to be happy here, Ellie,” she said.

“I think I will be,” Barbara replied, returning the hug.

19

Barbara awoke to the sound of her cell phone vibrating on the bedside table. Dolly was still asleep, naked, in the bed beside her, so she took the phone into the living room before she answered.

“Yes?”

“It’s Jimmy,” he said.

“Hi. It’s a little early, isn’t it?”

“I’m on Pacific time. Isn’t it later there?”

She ignored the probe. “You’re back from Santa Fe, then?”

“Yes, I got back last evening, after watching a couple of days’ shooting. I just wanted to reassure myself that my writer/director knows what he’s doing. He does.”

“That’s good.”

“Something I thought you should know: Yesterday I was followed by those two private detectives that were watching my house in L.A. when Eagle was looking for you. I think he must know you’re out and probably coming to Santa Fe. I wouldn’t go there if I were you.”

“That’s good advice, Jimmy. Thanks for letting me know about the two men. I’ll watch myself.”

“You might be better off holing up here with me,” Long said. “I’ll take good care of you.”

“Thanks. I might take you up on that at some point, but I’m okay where I am for the moment.”

“Whatever you say,” he replied. “Take care of yourself, wherever you are.”

“Thanks, baby. I will. Oh, Jimmy . . .”

“Yes?”

“You remember you said that our pilot on the flight back from Mexico did a lot of odd jobs for you?”

“Yes, he has in the past.”

“Do you think he might do a little odd job for me?”

“Do I want to know what kind of odd job?” he asked.

“No, but you’d better find out if he’s squeamish.”

“Ooookay,” Long said. “I’ll have a chat with him. Can I reach you at the same number?”

“Yes,” she said. “Soon, please.” She closed the phone.

“Ellie?” Dolly called from the bedroom.

“I’m here,” she said, walking back there to get her clothes.

“Come back to bed,” Dolly said alluringly.

“Thanks, but I’ve got things to do today,” Barbara replied. “Don’t you have to go to work?”

“Eventually. Tip always goes to the practice range early and doesn’t get back until midmorning. I’ll be at my desk by then. What are you going to do about those two men who came last night?”

“I’m going to keep my lights off in the evening and keep my garage door closed.”

“You’re welcome to sleep here,” Dolly said.

Barbara knelt on the bed and kissed her on a nipple, then on the lips. “That’s comforting to know,” she said, then got dressed and went back to her own house.

VITTORIO RAPPED SHARPLY on the guest-bedroom door. “Wake up, Cupie! Time to get going. There’s coffee on.”

“Be there in a couple of minutes,” Cupie called back.

Vittorio went back to the kitchen, toasted a muffin and was eating when Cupie wandered in, dressed but still looking sleepy. “Morning. Kind of early, isn’t it?”

“We’ve got things to do,” Vittorio said.

“What have we got to do?”

“I want to take another look at that guesthouse in daylight.”

“Wouldn’t afternoon daylight be as good as dawn daylight?” Cupie asked, pouring himself a cup of coffee.

“If Barbara slept there last night, maybe she’s up and around now.”

“The house was empty, Vittorio, and the neighbor confirmed it.”

“I thought the neighbor was hostile to our inquiry,” Vittorio said.

“We were two strange men at her door—one of us very strange—and after dark. What did you expect, to be invited in for a drink?”

“Maybe you’re right,” Vittorio said, “but then again, maybe not. You ready?”

“Okay, okay,” Cupie said, getting to his feet. “You got a to-go cup?”

“Take the one in your hand,” Vittorio said.

VITTORIO STOPPED THE SUV at the top of the hill above the house. He could see only a little of the guesthouse, most of it hidden by cottonwood trees. He started down the hill, then put the gearshift in neutral and let it coast down the road, braking to keep his speed from increasing.

BARBARA, SITTING IN HER kitchen over coffee, heard a brake squeal. Quickly, she put her dishes in the sink, then took her coffee mug into the bedroom, first checking that her toothbrush had been put away in the medicine cabinet. She stepped into her bedroom closet and slid the slatted door closed behind her, then stood quietly, sipping her coffee.

Shortly, she heard car doors closing and the rattle of the main gate as someone climbed over it. Then there was the crunch of shoes on gravel. The doorbell rang twice, then she heard them walking around the house. Finally, the footsteps retreated, and she heard the car doors slam. The car started and drove away.

She waited another two minutes before she came out of the closet.

“I THINK she’s back in L.A.,” Cupie said.

“Barbara should be here,” Vittorio responded, “and she fits the description of the woman who rented the guesthouse.”

“Just because somebody rented it doesn’t mean that she’s going to move in right away.”

“Possibly.”

“You’re like a dog with a bone,” Cupie said. “If she was here, maybe she flew back to L.A. with Long. We didn’t see him board the airplane. Maybe she was there waiting for him.”

“Cupie, have you forgotten what a determined, goal-oriented person Barbara is?”

“No, I haven’t forgotten.”

“I think you have. She wants Eagle dead, so she has to come to where Eagle is. I think she already has.”

“If she has, I think she went back to L.A. with Long.”

“It’s not like her to backtrack from her goal,” Vittorio said. “Not like her at all.”

“I don’t disagree with that, Vittorio, but people do unpredictable things sometimes.”

“I’m not going to L.A.,” Vittorio said. “You want to go, you go, but here is where the action is going to be, and this is where I’m staying.”

“Okay,” Cupie said. “We’ll stay here, but what are we going to do next?”

“Since we don’t know where she is,” Vittorio said, “we should stick with Eagle.”

“He won’t like being tailed,” Cupie pointed out.

“Then he shouldn’t know,” Vittorio said.

20

Ed Eagle was back at his law office, having had enough of watching the sausage that was film made ever so slowly. He had some phone calls to return and some correspondence to dictate, and he was at it when his secretary buzzed him.

“Yes?”

“District Attorney Roberto Martínez for you on line one. You in?”

“I’ll get it,” Eagle said. He pressed the button. “Hello, Bob?”

“Morning, Ed,” Martínez said. “I thought you had gone into the film business. You back earning an honest living again?”

“Yep. I discovered that the film business can get along without me. I spent two days at that studio and couldn’t think of a single suggestion to make. You wouldn’t believe how long it takes them to get a scene in the can.”

“No, and I don’t want to hear about it,” Martínez said, “unless there are some very beautiful women in that movie.”

“Only two: One of them is sleeping with the director, and the other is sleeping with me.”

“Rats. Listen, can you use some good news?”

“Always.”

“The crime lab called me this morning with some new information that casts a new light on the Constance Hanks case.”

“You have my undivided attention,” Eagle said.

“A technician found two lipstick smears on the pillow on which Mrs. Hanks’s head rested when found.”

“Did they belong to Mrs. Hanks?”

“One of them did,” Martínez said.

“Aaaaah,” Eagle said. “And the other?”

“The technician at the scene took samples of all of the lipsticks belonging to Mrs. Hanks—the ones in the medicine cabinet and her dressing table, and the second smear didn’t match any of them. A detective interviewed the Hanks’ housekeeper on the day of the murder, and she told him she’d changed the bed linens the day before, so the unidentified smear was made within twenty-four hours of Mrs. Hanks’s death.”

“Any DNA mixed in with the lipstick?”

“You’d think, but I’m afraid not.”

“Pity.”

“Yes, it is, but I think you can consider your client cleared of this murder.”

“That’s great news, Bob. I’ll pass it on to him. Let me know when you find your female suspect, will you? I’m curious to know who it is.”

“Will do. See you around, Ed.” Martínez hung up.

Eagle looked up Tip Hanks’s phone number and dialed it.

DOLLY WAS IN THE bathroom off Tip’s study, peeing, when she heard the phone ring. She decided not to disturb herself, to let the machine get it.

After three rings, the machine answered. “This is Tip Hanks. Please leave your number and the date of your call, and I’ll return your call when I get back.”

There was a beep, and another, deeper voice spoke. “Tip, it’s Ed Eagle. I just had a call from the district attorney, telling me that you have been cleared as a suspect in Connie’s murder. This is great news, and I congratulate you. Take care of yourself. Oh, the reason you were cleared is that a crime scene technician found two smears of lipstick on Connie’s pillow—one hers, one belonging to another person. It matched none of Connie’s, so it appears that the unknown chief suspect is a woman. Go figure.” Eagle hung up the phone.

“Shit!” Dolly said aloud. She stood there thinking for a moment, then opened Tip’s center desk drawer. There was a handheld recorder there, and she opened it and removed the tape. She took the tape from the telephone answering machine, inserted it into the dictator and turned it on. The message played, but she stopped it after Eagle had said, “Take care of yourself.” Then she held down the record button and let the tape run for thirty seconds, recording silence over the last part of Eagle’s message. She returned the tape to the answering machine and reinserted the second tape into the recorder and returned it to the desk drawer.

Dolly went back to her desk, where she had left her handbag, and found two lipsticks in it. She took a tissue from a box and wiped all the lipstick from her lips, then picked up a tube, cranked the whole stick out of its holder and broke it off into the tissue. She went back to the bathroom and flushed the tissue and lipstick down the toilet, and watched to see that they cleared the bowl. She then went back to her desk and applied the other lipstick to her lips and returned it to her purse. Finally, she walked through the house and the kitchen and out to where the garbage cans were kept in a small wooden shed. She opened the top and unwound the wire closure from the top of one bag, dropped in the old lipstick case, and reclosed the bag. Finally, she went back into the house.

She was working at her computer when Tip returned to the house a few minutes later.

“Good morning,” he said, stopping at her door.

She gave him a broad smile. “Good morning. How did practice go?”

“Really well,” Tip replied. “I worked on shaping my drives, and I’m getting really good at it.”

“Gonna hit around those doglegs, huh?” she asked.

“You said it. Anything going on here?”

“Nope. Oh, you had a phone message when I was in the powder room. I haven’t played it back.”

Tip went into his study and pressed the play button, and Ed Eagle’s deep voice filled the room, giving him the news: He was no longer a suspect. “Take care of yourself,” Eagle said, and the message ended. Tip reset the machine, then went back to Dolly’s office.

“The call was from Ed Eagle,” he said. “I’m off the hook on Connie’s murder, no longer a suspect.”

Dolly grabbed his hand and squeezed it. “Oh, Tip, that’s wonderful news! I’m so happy for you.”

“Thanks, Dolly,” he said. “Uh . . . there’s something else.”

“What is it?” she asked.

“I wonder if . . . I mean, it’s pretty soon after Connie’s death, but would you like to have dinner sometime?”

“Oh, I’d love to,” Dolly replied with enthusiasm. “But I think you’re right: We probably shouldn’t be seen socializing in Santa Fe so soon. Tell you what: Why don’t I cook dinner for you some night soon? I’m a very good cook.”

“I’d like that a lot,” Tip said, “and I’ll look forward to it.” He kissed her on top of the head and went back into his study.

Dolly went happily back to her work, thinking of what she would cook for their first dinner together. Something good but not great—she’d want to top it at a later dinner.

21

Todd Bacon landed his Agency-furnished Beech Bonanza at Vero Beach Airport and taxied to parking at Sun Aviation. He left a credit card number for his fuel and asked the woman behind the desk, “A friend of mine named Jack Smithson is in town and he keeps his airplane here. It’s a Cessna 182 RG. I wonder if you have a phone number for him?”

The woman checked her computer and gave him a number. “Jack left here a couple of weeks ago and hasn’t returned,” she said. “I don’t know what his intentions are.”

“Thanks,” Todd said. “I’ll call and leave him a message.” He rented a car and, using the onboard GPS, drove to the last known address for Teddy Fay. He parked his car next to the cottage and looked inside. It was nicely furnished and clean, but there was no sign of an occupant. Todd looked around, then picked the lock on the front door and let himself in.

He walked through the entire cottage slowly, looking at everything, but he could find nothing that seemed to belong to Teddy, except the large safe in a closet. He remembered that Holly had seen a note left there saying that the combination to the safe was T-E-D-D-Y, and he tapped it in and opened the safe. It was entirely empty. He closed the door and spun the wheel to lock it.

He picked up the phone and found it disconnected, then sat down in the comfortable chair next to it and picked up the local phone book. He turned to the yellow pages, then found a list of moving and storage companies. One of them had a small arrow inked in, pointing to its number. He called the number with his cell phone.

“Beach Moving and Storage,” a woman’s voice said.

“Hi. This is Jack Smithson. I left some things there to be shipped a couple of weeks ago, and I wondered if they’d gone out yet.”

“Let me check.” She came back a moment later. “I have nothing in your name, Mr. Smithson,” she said. “Could they be in another name?”

Todd had an idea and checked his notebook. “Try Lauren Cade,” he said.

She put him on hold for a moment, then came back on the line. “Yes, those boxes were picked up last Monday and should have been delivered to the storage company in Santa Fe yesterday.”

“May I have the name of the storage company, please? I don’t know where Lauren is having them sent.”

“They were sent to Adobe Moving and Storage on Cerrillos Road,” she said.

“To what name?”

“I assume to herself. I have no other name.”

“Thanks so much,” Todd replied, and hung up, jotting the name in his notebook. He got the number from information and was connected.

“Hi. This is Jack Smithson. I’m calling for Lauren Cade. Was her shipment delivered on time yesterday?”

“What was the name again?” the man asked.

“Lauren Cade.” He spelled it.

“No, we received nothing yesterday, the day before or today for a Lauren Cade.”

“Is it possible to check your receivables on those days again?”

“I’ve just done that in the computer. There’s nothing for a Lauren Cade.”

“Thank you,” Todd said, and broke the connection. He looked at his watch. A little late in the day to take off for Santa Fe. He left the cottage and found a motel nearby and checked in. He cranked up his laptop and did a search for fixed-base operators at Santa Fe Airport. There were three, and he called each of them and inquired, first, if a Jack Smithson had arrived there. A no from all three. Then he asked each if they had had a 182 RG arrive. Two of the three had had such arrivals, but only one, Santa Fe Jetcenter, in the time frame that interested Todd. He asked for the tail number.

Todd went to the FAA website and accessed the aircraft registration list and entered the tail number. Nothing. He typed in “Jack Smithson” and got nothing.

AS TODD WAS CHECKING the FAA database, Teddy Fay was flying his 182 RG to a small airport in Albuquerque that had a paint shop, flying at low altitude and without filing a flight plan. He landed, taxied up to the shop, got out, found the owner and introduced himself as Ralph Pearson. “I spoke to you on the phone yesterday,” he said.

“Oh, yes. You wanted your registration number changed. Have you got your paperwork?”

Teddy gave him the FAA documents he had created.

The man looked over the airplane. “It’ll take us two full days of work,” he said, “what with drying time and doing the shadowing in the contrasting color. You can pick it up in three days.”

Teddy thanked the man, then walked out to the parking lot, where Lauren was waiting for him in the used Jeep Grand Cherokee he had bought. “You can drive me back down here in three days,” he said.

They drove back to Santa Fe, to their new rental house, and Teddy went to his computer, where he entered the FAA mainframe and inserted registration for his airplane with the new tail number, giving a false name and an address in Fort Smith, Arkansas.

“I see your boxes arrived,” Teddy said. “Did you have them shipped the way I asked you to?”

“I did,” she replied. “My name appears nowhere on them.”

“Good.”

“We’re going to have to go out for dinner,” Lauren said, “since we don’t have any groceries yet. We can pick up breakfast at a convenience store on the way home.”

“Fine with me,” he said, closing the computer. “Another trip to Geronimo? We haven’t been there yet.”

“Sure, that’s fine. Shall I call?”

“Is the phone working?”

“We didn’t get phone service, remember?” she reminded him. “We’re using our cells.”

“Oh, right.”

Lauren called and made the reservations, then brought a drink to him and sat down beside him on the sofa. “What are we going to do with our days, Teddy?” she asked. “I’m used to being busy.”

“Then get busy,” Teddy replied. “Boredom is a self-inflicted wound. Get to know Santa Fe; learn to appreciate the light and the terrain; read books; TiVo the good stuff at night and watch it in the daytime. Maybe we’ll take up golf.”

“It all sounds wonderful,” Lauren replied, clinking her glass with his. “A whole new world.”

22

Todd Bacon landed the B-36TC Bonanza at Santa Fe Airport late in the afternoon and taxied to the Santa Fe Jetcenter, a mock-adobe building with a large ramp. An assortment of aircraft populated the place, from large corporate jets and turboprops to his own turbocharged piston Bonanza.

Todd lost no time in questioning the young woman on the desk. She checked her computer. “No, Paul Janzen, the man who flew the 182 RG, is no longer here. He turned in his rental car yesterday and flew away. He said something about selling his airplane to somebody in Texas,” she said.

“And he’s not returning?”

“Didn’t seem like it,” she said.

“Do you know if he was selling the airplane through a broker?”

“No, sir.”

“Or what town in Texas? It’s a big state.”

“Nope. I only saw him twice, the day he arrived and the day he left.”

“Was there a woman with him either time?”

She looked thoughtful. “There was a woman in here on the day he arrived, but it didn’t look like she was with him. He came in and signed the paperwork for his rental, then he went out to the ramp, got in the car and drove away.”

“Without the woman?”

“Yes. Like I said, she didn’t appear to be with him. There were several airplanes unloading that afternoon, and she could have been on any of them.”

“Can you give me a physical description of the man?”

“I guess he was in his early fifties, dark hair, going a little gray around the ears.”

“Anything else you can remember?”

“No. He was just like anybody else.”

“Do you remember what kind of car he rented?”

She went to her computer, looked it up and told him.

“Thanks,” Todd said, then got into his own rental car, took a good look at the map and drove into Santa Fe. As he got into the city it looked to him like the sort of place he’d like to live himself, and he couldn’t blame Teddy if he’d picked it. He drove to the Plaza and found La Fonda, the big old hotel that had served visitors to the town for decades. It had been nicely updated, and he was given a small suite on the top floor. He opened his bags and got out his computer, then logged on to the Agency mainframe and sent an e-mail to Holly Barker.

Checked out Vero Beach and discovered that Lauren Cade had left some boxes in storage there and that they had been shipped to Santa Fe, but the company had nothing under her name. Arrived Santa Fe an hour ago and checked for 182 RG at Santa Fe Jetcenter, but owner had turned in his rent-a-car and left yesterday. Appeared to be alone on both arrival and departure. Description by woman at the desk vague, could fit hundreds of people. Said he was going to Texas to sell his airplane, no mention of what city.

I’ll follow every lead in Santa Fe tomorrow and report on anything I find. I tried to find a photograph of Lauren Cade in the records of the Florida State Police and motor vehicles department, to no avail. I guess you were right about our friend’s ability to scrub items on databases.

Todd

HOLLY, WORKING LATE at her desk as usual, read the e-mail, and it was nothing less than she had expected. Teddy was a chameleon with endless bags of tricks, and she wasn’t entirely sure that Todd understood who he was up against. Still, he was a resourceful young man who wanted to further impress Lance Cabot, so he was highly motivated.

TODD GREW HUNGRY around dusk, so he showered and changed and stopped at the concierge’s desk in the lobby.

“May I help you, sir?” the young woman said.

“Yes. Can you recommend a very good restaurant for dinner outside the hotel? Something with local color?”

“I’d recommend either Santacafé or Geronimo,” she said. “I suppose Geronimo has more local color.”

“Can you book me a table for one, please?”

She called the restaurant and spoke to them, then turned to Todd. “They have no tables, but you can dine in the bar; you won’t need a reservation there.”

“All right. Thanks.” Todd turned toward the garage, then turned back.

“Can you give me directions?”

“It’s very easy. Turn right out of the parking lot, then drive toward the cathedral and take your next right. Go straight at the traffic light, then take your first left onto Canyon Road. Geronimo is about halfway to the top, and they have valet parking.”

TEDDY AND LAUREN were seated at a corner table at Geronimo, Teddy in his preferred gunfighter’s seat with his back to the corner. He saw a young man enter the restaurant and walk straight through the dining room toward the bar. Bells went off in Teddy’s head. He never forgot a face, but where had he seen this one?

A waitress approached with menus and asked if they’d like drinks. Lauren ordered and waited for Teddy to place his order, but he seemed lost in thought. “Teddy?”

“Oh, sorry. A margarita, please, straight up with salt.” The waitress left.

“Give me just a minute,” he said to Lauren. “I have to think about something.”

“Sure,” Lauren said. She watched as he seemed to go almost into a trance: eyes closed, face expressionless.

Teddy reversed the video recorder in his brain and watched the young man enter the restaurant again, then again. Now he had the face fixed in his mind. Panama City. He had been on his motorcycle and he had just shot the Agency station chief on the street outside the American Embassy, when he’d looked up at the windows of their offices. The young man had been standing at a window. Teddy had seen him before in a local bar. He was Agency. Teddy opened his eyes.

“Everything okay, Teddy?” Lauren asked.

“No,” Teddy said. “Not entirely. There’s someone from the Agency in this restaurant right now.”

“Someone you worked with before?”

“No, he’s much younger than I. He worked in the Panama station only a couple of months ago, and he turned up on Cumberland Island when I was dealing with a problem. There was something of a chase, but I took off from the beach. He put a couple of holes in the airplane that I had to fix later, before I went to Orchid Beach.”

“Is he here looking for us?” she asked.

“Very possibly,” Teddy said.

“But there’s no way he could have traced us here.”

“There’s always a way. I could have made a mistake.”

“Do you want to leave? Should we run?”

“No,” Teddy said. “I have a better idea. Let’s just relax and enjoy our dinner.” They ordered, then Teddy excused himself to go to the men’s room.

TODD BACON SAT at the bar, sipping a margarita. There was a couple at a table near the bar, and it occurred to him that they were a fit for Teddy Fay and Lauren Cade. He was sixtyish and slim and wore an obvious toupee. She was much younger, blond and attractive. He summoned the bartender and lowered his voice. “Do you know the couple to my left?”

“Yes,” the man replied. “They’re the Hamptons, regular customers.”

“For how long?”

“Ever since I’ve been here, and that’s two years.”

Todd nodded. Well, that would have been too easy. A man walked past him and into the men’s room. A couple of minutes later he walked out and past Todd again. He appeared to be in his early fifties, dark hair, gray at the temples. That matched the description of the man in the 182 RG that was given to him by the young woman at the airport.

Todd shook his head. Now he was getting paranoid. Everybody was looking like Teddy Fay.

TEDDY TOOK HIS SEAT in the dining room.

“Everything all right?” Lauren asked.

“Suspicions confirmed,” he replied.

23

Todd Bacon slept later than he had meant to, then ordered breakfast from room service. He still had one lead to follow, and he finished breakfast in a hurry and showered.

Ten minutes later, he was driving out Cerrillos Road, looking for Adobe Moving and Storage. He found it and turned into the parking lot. A middle-aged man was behind the counter.

“Good morning,” Todd said to the man. “I wonder if you could help me?”

“What can I do for you, sir?”

“A couple of days ago you had some boxes arrive here from Vero Beach, Florida. Can you find that shipment in your records?”

The man turned to his computer. “Vero Beach, Florida,” he muttered to himself. “Yes, here it is.”

“Can you tell me to whom the shipment was addressed?”

The man peered at the screen. “No name.”

“No name? How could you deliver it?”

“The boxes, four of them, were addressed to us, and identified by a number.”

“Can you tell me to whom you delivered the boxes?”

“We couldn’t deliver them; we had no name and address. I remember they were picked up here at the office by a woman.”

“Can you describe her?” Todd asked.

“Fairly tall, wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. Also a baseball cap and dark glasses. I helped her load the boxes into her car.”

“What kind of car?”

“A Lincoln Town Car, I think, silver color.”

“Can you remember anything else about her?” Todd asked.

“No, just that she was very nice. She might have been pretty without the cap and the sunglasses.”

“Thank you,” Todd said and left. A silver Town Car—that’s what the man with the 182 RG had rented. He drove back to the airport to the FBO. The same young woman was behind the desk.

“Morning,” Todd said. “We spoke yesterday.”

“I remember,” she replied.

“You said that the man with the 182 RG had rented a Lincoln Town Car?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Could I have a look at the car?” he asked.

She turned to her computer. “I’m afraid it was rented again. Left half an hour ago.”

“Do you have the credit card information on the man who rented it?”

She looked again. “Paul Janzen, Atlanta, Georgia.” She gave him the address and phone number.

“What kind of credit card?” Todd asked.

“I only have the number,” she said, and to his surprise, she gave it to him.

“Thank you so much,” Todd said, and left, excited now. Back in his own car he dialed the phone number of Paul Janzen. A pizza parlor answered. He called information, but no Paul Janzen had a number in Atlanta.

He drove back to his hotel, sat down at his computer, got into the Agency mainframe and ran the credit card number. To his surprise, it existed but there was no name for it, just the number. Very odd. He got into the FAA database and did a search for Janzen but got nothing.

“This guy is Teddy Fay,” Todd said aloud to himself. “But where the hell did he go?”

TEDDY SAT IN HIS new living room, watching Lauren unpack her boxes. He had examined the packages, and they didn’t appear to have been opened since he left them in Vero Beach. There was nothing in the boxes that would identify Lauren—no tracking devices, either, just clothes, shoes and makeup. She couldn’t be identified from the labels.

“When you picked up the boxes,” he said to her, “did anything unusual happen?”

“No,” Lauren replied. “They were sitting in the office, and the man behind the desk helped me load them into the Lincoln.”

“Did he ask for your name?”

“No. I just gave him the numbers on the boxes, the way you told me to.”

Teddy nodded. The young man—Bacon, his name was—had only two nexuses for him in Santa Fe: the FBO and the storage company. If he was any good at all he would have worked both of them to the bitter end, but in both cases, he would have come up empty. Everything he could learn would have pointed to Teddy turning in the rental car and leaving town in his airplane, which he had done, of course.

“We’re safe,” he said to Lauren. “But we’re going to stay in the house for a couple of days.” She had already been to the grocery store.

“If you say so,” she said. “Why are you so confident?”

“Because I could not have found us with the information he had,” he replied, “so he couldn’t, either. He was sitting in the bar last night when I went to the men’s room, and he didn’t recognize me, so he doesn’t have more than a general description. And we’re driving a different car now.”

“That makes sense,” Lauren said. “He must have come to Santa Fe because we shipped the boxes here, but that’s a dead end.”

“Let’s not ship anything else,” Teddy said. “If we need to leave Santa Fe, we’ll travel lighter. We can always buy clothes.”

“Sure, we can.”

“We’re going to stay in the house for two more days, until it’s time to pick up the airplane, then we’re going to take it to Las Vegas, New Mexico, which is a few minutes’ flight east of Santa Fe. It’s dangerous to backtrack, to take it back to Santa Fe. Bacon could have left word at the FBOs there to call him if I turn up again. If, on the odd chance, we ever need to run, we can drive to Las Vegas in a hurry and take off from there.”

“Sounds good,” Lauren said. “And we should be safe in Santa Fe, because when Bacon leaves he’ll check it off his list and won’t come back, having already exhausted his search here.”

“I like the way you think,” Teddy said. “It’s like the reverse of the cop you used to be.”

24

Barbara woke up at her usual hour, had some breakfast and prepared for the usual visit from Vittorio and Cupie. She cleaned the kitchen, put away her clothes and stuffed her makeup and toothbrush into the bathroom medicine cabinet.

Promptly at nine o’clock she heard the SUV stop outside on the road, and she took her coffee into the bedroom closet again.

“VITTORIO,” CUPIE SAID. “How long are we going to keep making this trip?”

“Until she shows up,” Vittorio replied. “The real estate agent has confirmed that she rented the place to Barbara, and that her lease is month-to-month. If she has gone away somewhere, she’ll return here, and when she does, she’s ours.”

They did their usual walk-around of the little house, peering into windows.

“Nothing’s changed,” Cupie said. “She’s not here.”

“Until tomorrow,” Vittorio said.

THEY WERE CLOSE ENOUGH to the bedroom window that Barbara could hear that exchange. Maybe Jimmy was right; maybe she should go to L.A. for a while. She called Jimmy.

“Hey, baby,” he said.

“I’m taking your advice, sweetheart,” she said. “Can you put me up for a while?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“I’ll get a plane from Albuquerque today and a cab to you. Should be there late afternoon.”

“I’ll look forward to it,” he said.

“Me, too!”

Barbara packed her bag and, being careful to leave the house exactly the way it had been, got the Mercedes station wagon out of the garage and began driving toward I-25, which would take her to Albuquerque. She backtracked a couple of times, driving through residential neighborhoods, to be sure she wasn’t being followed, then kept an eye on her tail all the way to the airport. Along the way, she used her cell phone to book a seat on a flight.

VITTORIO AND CUPIE sat in the SUV, parked just off the Plaza, with a view of the entrance to Eagle’s office building.

“He’s in for the morning,” Cupie said. “Let’s go to Tia Sophia’s and get a good breakfast.”

“Cupie,” Vittorio said with some exasperation, “you’ve got to remember that we’re not watching for Eagle, we’re watching for Barbara.”

“Well, she’s not likely to come to his office, is she? She’s much more likely to wait out near his house and shoot him when he comes home. He’s safe in his office.”

“All right, all right,” Vittorio said, starting the vehicle. “I guess I’m hungry, too.” He drove a couple of streets over and found a parking spot near Tia Sophia’s, a popular breakfast and lunch spot.

“At least we’ll get a table now,” Cupie said. “The breakfast crowd has already gone to work.”

Cupie was right. Soon they were having huevos rancheros.

BARBARA ARRIVED at Jimmy’s house in Beverly Hills a little before six, and he was waiting for her with martinis already mixed. He took her bags upstairs while she relaxed with her drink.

He came back down, poured his own martini and sat down. “So, how’s it going?” he asked.

“Not so hot,” she said. “Ed knows I’m either in town or on my way. Those two P.I.s, Vittorio and Cupie Dalton, have figured out that I rented my house, and they’re out there every day, trying to catch me there. I’m going to have to get a new place when I get back.”

“Sounds like a good idea. They can waste their time looking for you while you’re here with me.”

“Jimmy, tell me more about this pilot of yours—what’s his name?”

“Bart Cross. I’ve known him since he was a kid, and he’s done a lot of work for me on films. I helped him get a union card.”

“Is he one of those people who always needs money?”

“I think that’s true of most people, babe, but more so of Bart than most. He’s a poker player, and no better than so-so. He wins sometimes, but he loses more often. And he has to make the payments on that Beech Baron of his. That’s gotta be costing him four or five grand a month, and then there’s insurance, hangar and maintenance.”

“So, you think he’d be up for making some large cash?”

“How large?”

“I guess I’d go to twenty-five grand,” she said. “If I have to.”

“Bart would do just about anything for that kind of money,” Long said.

“Good. I’d like to meet him tomorrow. Can I have his number?”

“I’ll call him for you.”

“No, I’d rather do it directly and cut you out of this. We don’t ever want him to be able to testify that he put us in touch.”

“All right.”

“Does Bart know that I escaped from prison in Mexico?”

“Not from me he doesn’t, and nothing’s been on TV about it here, and he’s not the sort to read the papers. I’d say he’s ignorant of your Houdini act.”

Barbara looked at her watch. It was an hour earlier in Santa Fe, so she called her real estate agent.

“Yes, Mrs. Keeler?”

“I wanted to let you know that I won’t be needing the house after the end of the first month.”

“I’m sorry you couldn’t stay longer,” the woman said. “Will you be needing another place?”

“No, I’ve decided to go back to San Francisco.” Barbara gave her a bank account number to wire her security deposit to when her month ended.

“Thank you for all your help,” she said, then hung up. She thought about Dolly Parks and whether to call her, then decided not to. Best to cut her trail clean.

“So, you’re not going back?”

“Eventually,” Barbara said, “but that house is blown for me. I’ll find another place, if I need it.”

Long went to his desk, opened his address book and wrote down a number. “Here’s Bart Cross’s cell number,” he said, handing her a slip of paper. “He’s not working at the moment, so you’ll probably catch him at home in the morning.”

Barbara tucked the paper into her bra. “Thanks, sweetie,” she said. “I’ll be sure to tell him you know nothing about my seeing him.”

“I’ve still got your old Toyota,” Long said. “It’s in the garage, on a trickle charger. It should be okay.”

“I think I’ll have another martini,” Barbara said, holding out her glass.

25

The following morning Barbara called Bart Cross’s cell number.

“This is Bart,” he drawled.

“We last met in Yuma,” Barbara said.

It took him a moment. “Oh, yeah. How are you?”

“Lunch today.” She gave him the name and address of a restaurant on the Santa Monica waterfront. “One o’clock sharp,” she said.

“Uh, okay.”

She hung up. She spent the morning shopping in Santa Monica, especially in a bookshop, where she bought a fairly large-scale map of Santa Fe. Then she went to a RadioShack and bought two prepaid cell phones. Back in the car, she opened the map and marked her rental house and Ed Eagle’s house. Then she put on her blond wig and made herself up in an overdone fashion with lots of eye shadow.

AT ONE O’CLOCK, she watched from a distance as Bart arrived at the restaurant and got a table outside. When he was settled she walked over and sat down. “I won’t be here long,” she said, “so listen carefully.” She placed an envelope on the table. “I’ll be blunt,” she said. “I want two people killed: They’ll be together. I’ll pay you twenty-five thousand dollars for the job, and another five thousand for expenses. There’s ten thousand in this envelope, and the rest will be paid when the work is done. Do you want the job? If not, say so now, and I’ll be gone.”

Bart lifted the flap of the envelope and peeked inside. “Yes,” he said.

“The man is in Santa Fe. His name is Ed Eagle, and he’s a lawyer. He cheated me out of a lot of money in the settlement of a lawsuit, and I want him dead by the end of the month. Specifically, I want his throat cut. The other is his wife; I don’t care how you kill her.”

“That can be done,” Bart said.

She pushed the folded map and a key across the table. “There are two houses well marked on this map. Don’t open it now. The one on Tano Norte is a guesthouse where you can stay; the other is Eagle’s house. Your best chances are going to be morning around nine when he goes to work, or after dinner when he comes home. You’ll have to watch him for a while to get the lay of the land.”

“All right.”

“I want them both dead, together, and you have eighteen days to do it. After that day, you have to vacate the house. If anyone comes to the door looking for me, say that you sublet the house, paid me in advance, and that I may be in San Francisco.”

“All right.”

“Fly into Double Eagle Airport in Albuquerque, without filing a flight plan, and take a taxi to the big airport.” She placed a car key on the table, along with the parking receipt. “This is for a Mercedes station wagon, tan metallic, which is in long-term parking at Albuquerque Airport. The space number is written on the back of the ticket. When the work is done, park the car as nearly as possible to the same spot, and you can give me the key when we meet for your final payment.”

She gave him one of the two phones. “Memorize this number,” she said, reciting the number of the phone she retained.

“Got it,” he said.

“You are to use this phone to contact me and to avoid making calls on your own phone. You will contact me only if absolutely necessary.”

“Got it.”

“Make no calls from your own cell phone after you leave L.A. Clear?”

“Clear.”

“When you are back in L.A., call me and I’ll arrange to pay you the remainder of your money. After you have it, destroy the cell phone and scatter the pieces. Any questions?”

“No.”

“Call me if you need more information. I’m leaving now. If anyone sees you here with me, tell them I’m a hooker who tried to pick you up. One more thing,” she said. “If they’re both not dead by the eighteenth day, you’re dead.” She got up and walked away.

BART PUT THE MONEY and the map into his inside coat pockets. His heart was beating rapidly. This was a gift from heaven, he thought. He put the prepaid phone in his pocket and got out his own cell phone and dialed a number.

“Yes?”

“It’s Cross.”

“You better have my money.”

“That’s why I’m calling. I can give you the cash whenever you like.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m at a restaurant in Santa Monica.” He gave the man the address.

“I’m five minutes away,” the man said.

Shortly, a car pulled up in front of the restaurant, and a large man got out. He came to the table.

“Sit down,” Bart said.

“I don’t have time.”

“If you want to get paid, sit down.”

The man sat down. “You’re a pain in the ass,” he said.

Bart slid the menu across the table. “The money is under it,” he said. “Put it in your pocket.”

The man did so. “Nice doing business with you,” he said.

“We won’t be doing any more business,” Bart said.

“Fine by me.” The man got up, got in his car and drove away.

The waitress appeared. “Is anyone joining you?” she asked.

“No. I shooed away a hooker, and some guy mistook me for somebody else.” He ordered lunch and sat, basking in the sunshine, feeling great.

BARBARA DROVE BACK to Bel Air, to Jimmy’s house, thinking hard all the way. She had to have a backup plan. There was simply no way she was going to put all her eggs in a basket named Bart Cross.

She was still thinking about it when she walked into the house.

“Hey,” Jimmy called from his study.

She walked into the room and fell into a chair. “I know how early it is, but I need a drink.”

Jimmy got up and made a martini for her. “Here you go.”

“I met with Bart,” she said.

“Everything go all right?” he asked.

“Seemed to. Do you think he has any guts?”

“Guts is something Bart has never been short of,” Jimmy replied. “I saw him take a bigger guy in a bar fight in Long Beach once. Bart was smaller, but he was meaner, too.”

“I hope you’re right,” Barbara replied.

Jimmy shrugged. “Worse come to worse,” he said, “if you want something done right, you have to do it yourself.”

And like that, she had her backup plan.

26

Todd Bacon sat at his computer, composing a report to Holly Barker. He was embarrassed to have so little to tell her. He pressed the send button and sat, staring at his computer screen, wondering what to do next. As he watched, an e-mail notice appeared in the lower right-hand corner. He checked his inbox.

Call me at this number, the unsigned message read.

Todd called the number.

“Sounds like you’re coming up dry,” Holly Barker said, without preamble.

“So far,” Todd admitted. “I believe he was here, but now I think he may have left town.”

“I understand why you believe that,” Holly said, “but don’t believe it. If he was in town he’d want you to think he’d left.”

“Well, then, he’s pretty convincing,” Todd replied. “I don’t know what to do next.”

“Stop looking for him,” Holly said. “Find Lauren Cade. After all, she’s what got you where you are.”

“I don’t even have a photograph,” he complained. “All I’ve got is the description you gave me.”

“That has already changed,” Holly said. “She’s no longer a blonde, I can promise you that, but she can’t change her body. She’s a slim girl with impressive breasts and a skinny ass. I know the tits can be bought off the shelf, but not the ass. Look for the combination. Go where people go—restaurants, grocery stores, shops. She’s in a new town, and she’s going to want new clothes. Everybody in Santa Fe goes to the Plaza sooner or later. Go there and look. You’re a good-looking guy. When you see someone with that combination who’s not a blonde, try and pick her up. You might get lucky.”

“They didn’t train me for this at the Farm,” he said, referring to the Agency’s training facility in the Virginia countryside.

“Then you’ll have to train yourself,” Holly said. “When you find her, you’ll have found a new skill.”

“If I were an older guy with a younger girl, like him,” Todd said, “I’d stick close to her.”

“Maybe he will,” Holly said, “but don’t expect him to look his age. He’s good at changing his appearance, and he’s not going to make himself look like an old man while he’s with someone as great-looking as Lauren. If he’s sixtyish, look for a man who looks fifty or younger.”

“Are you sure I can spend the Agency’s time on something as ephemeral as this?”

“The boss has already made that decision,” she said. “He has, in effect, cut you loose. You’re just going to have to get out there and give yourself a chance to get lucky. Gotta run.” Holly hung up.

Todd hung up and sat there, thinking. Holly’s suggestion seemed crazy, too random. He was convinced he had a better chance of finding Teddy’s airplane than he did of finding Teddy himself.

He brought up his flight-planning program on the computer and looked at the Santa Fe area. Maybe Teddy had just moved his airplane to a less conspicuous spot. Todd thought about what he himself would look for if he were deciding at which airport to land. He’d want fuel, certainly, so that would eliminate some little backcountry dirt strip. He’d want maintenance services, too. Small aircraft needed taking care of, and he’d want a mechanic, maybe an avionics shop as well. The field should be within easy driving distance of Santa Fe, say fifty to sixty miles.

He looked at all the surrounding airports. There was Albuquerque International, but that was too big, and fuel and services would be too expensive. There were a dozen or so small airports, mostly shown on the map as red circles, but many of those wouldn’t have the necessary services. There were two general aviation airports marked in blue: Double Eagle, outside Albuquerque, which was fifty miles or so away, and Las Vegas, to the east, about the same distance.

He checked his airport guide: Las Vegas had no services, except a restaurant, but Double Eagle had a full-service FBO, with both mechanical and avionics shops.

Todd thought about flying down there, but it was only fifty miles; it would be almost as fast to drive. He got his car from the garage and drove south through town to I-25. He set his cruise control at five miles an hour under the speed limit and tried to stay awake.

TEDDY AND LAUREN LEFT their rented house and drove out Old Pecos Trail.

“How long a drive is it?” Lauren asked.

“An hour or so. Then it will take you at least two hours to drive to Las Vegas and pick me up.”

“I’m sleepy,” Lauren said, moving her seat back to a reclining position. “I’m going to take a nap.”

Teddy set his cruise control at five miles an hour over the speed limit and let the SUV take care of itself. There wasn’t a lot of traffic, and soon he began overtaking a red Taurus ahead of him, driven by a man alone. He moved to the left lane and let his car overtake the other. As he passed it, he caught a glimpse of the driver’s profile. It was the young Agency man, Todd Bacon, whom Teddy had seen at Geronimo a couple of nights before. He put on a baseball cap and increased his speed.

TODD WATCHED the Jeep Grand Cherokee sail past him and thought nothing of it. If there’d been a couple inside he would have been more interested.

TEDDY KEPTHIS speed up all the way to his exit from the interstate, and by that time Bacon’s car was out of sight. It was unlikely that they’d be heading to the same destination. He drove to the airport and, in the parking lot, woke up Lauren. “We’re here,” he said. “Do you want some coffee before you start for Las Vegas?”

“No,” she replied, stretching. “I’m fine.” He got out, and she moved to the driver’s seat. “See you there,” she said, then pulled out of the parking lot and headed back toward the interstate.

TODD REACHED HIS EXIT and turned toward Double Eagle Airport. Halfway there he passed the Grand Cherokee he’d seen earlier, but this time it was driven by a woman. The two cars passed too quickly for him to get a good look at her.

AT DOUBLE EAGLE, Teddy went to the paint shop and found his airplane sitting on the ramp. He inspected the paint job on the new tail number, then went into the office and paid his bill, getting a five percent discount for cash. He went back to the airplane, did a quick preflight, checking the tanks to be sure the fuel he’d ordered was aboard, then Teddy got into the Cessna, started the engine and began running through his checklist.

TODD PARKED HIS CAR and walked past the FBO and onto the ramp, to check the place out. A Beech Baron was landing, and he watched it touch down, then he turned and began walking to the FBO. Then he saw something that interested him. There was a paint shop on the field, something that hadn’t been mentioned in his airport guide.

He walked into the hangar and saw a small glassed-in office to one side, where a man worked at a desk. He rapped on the door. “Good morning,” he said.

“Morning,” the man replied. “Can I help you?”

“I was just wondering, have you had a Cessna 182 RG in recently for some paint work?”

“Yeah, I had a customer who wanted his tail number changed.”

Todd tried to control his excitement. “When was that?”

“He paid his bill less than half an hour ago,” the man replied. “He might still be on the line.”

Todd ran out of the hangar and looked at the parked airplanes, running along the line. There were plenty of Cessnas, as usual, but he didn’t see a 182 RG. Then he turned and looked toward the runway, where a Cessna was beginning its takeoff roll. He watched it lift off and then saw the landing gear come up. He squinted, but it was too far away to read the registration number on the side. He kept watching it as it climbed, until it began making a turn to the east and disappeared.

Todd ran back to the paint-shop office. “Can you tell me what tail number you painted on that airplane?” he asked.

“Sure,” the man replied, and gave him the number.

“Do you have a name and address for the owner?” Todd asked. “I’m looking to buy a nice 182 RG.”

The man looked through some papers stacked on his desk. “Yeah, here’s the FAA form. I’m afraid he’s from Arkansas, though, and he told me he was headed home.”

“Let me make a note of this, and I’ll call him,” Todd said, scribbling down the information. He thanked the man, then ran for his car.

BART CROSS TAXIED HIS Beech Baron to the ramp at Double Eagle Airport, then ran through his shutdown checklist and cut the engines. He got his luggage out of the rear compartment, then went into the FBO to arrange for parking and fuel. Shortly after that he was on his way to Albuquerque International Airport to pick up the Mercedes station wagon.

27

Todd gunned his red Taurus and headed for the interstate. Teddy, if he wasn’t really going to Arkansas, would likely be headed for Las Vegas, the second of his airport guesses, and Lauren would be driving there to meet him. She had at least a half-hour head start—more like three-quarters of an hour. He turned onto the I-25 and set his cruise control at seventy-five. This was no time to get stopped by the state patrol.

TEDDY LANDED at Las Vegas after a forty-minute flight and taxied up to the little municipal terminal. He gave his fuel order to a lineman, then went inside to the front desk, where a man sat behind the counter. “Good afternoon,” he said.

“Hey,” the man replied. “You just refueling? Anything else we can do for you?”

“I’d like to hangar my airplane,” Teddy said. “Do you have any space?”

“I’ve got a T-hangar that might work for you,” the man said. “Let’s go take a look.” He led the way to an old Jeep, and they drove along a line of hangars and stopped at the last one. The man unlocked a padlock and pulled up the bifold door. “You’ve got power, but if you want heat, you’ll have to furnish your own heater.”

Teddy looked around. The hangar was ideal—clean and conveniently located.

“The price includes pull-out service when you need the airplane, or I’ll give you a key and you can pull it out yourself, if you feel like it.”

Teddy asked the price, negotiated and took the hangar for a three-month period. “I’d be grateful if you’d keep this confidential,” he said to the man. “The tax man might be around.”

“Sure thing,” the man replied, grinning.

They drove back to the terminal, and Teddy paid in cash for the rental and the fuel and collected his hangar key, then went over to the little airport restaurant to have a cheeseburger and to wait for Lauren to catch up. He looked at his watch and figured he had an hour to wait. When he had been there for forty-five minutes, he ordered a burger for her and had it put into a bag.

She arrived on time, and he drove back so that she could eat her burger on the way to Santa Fe.

TODD HAD PASSED Santa Fe and had been on the road for an hour and a half when he saw the tan Grand Cherokee approaching in the opposite lane, with a man driving and a woman in the passenger seat. He had just passed the exit for Serafina, and he didn’t know how far it was to the next exit. He was about to drive across the meridian of the four-lane highway when he checked his mirror and saw a car approaching from behind him with something on the roof. He switched off the cruise control and let his speed drop, while cursing his bad luck. It was a state patrol car, and it stayed behind him all the way to the Los Montoyas exit, where he was able to make a U-turn and head back toward Santa Fe. He put his foot down, then turned the cruise control on again at ninety. He hoped the police car was the only one in the sector.

TEDDY SAW THE TAURUS carrying Todd Bacon coming and watched him pass, then disappear in his rearview mirror. He got off the interstate at the next exit, opened the glove compartment and handed Lauren a map. “Navigate me to Santa Fe on the surface roads,” he said. “We just passed Bacon going the other way, and he saw me.”

She opened the map and told him to take the next right. When they got to Santa Fe, Teddy drove to the dealer where he had bought the Grand Cherokee, found the same salesman and made a deal to trade for a very nice, low-mileage Volvo station wagon with four-wheel drive and winter tires.

“I’m not going to let this guy run me out of Santa Fe,” he said to Lauren as they drove toward home. When they arrived there he went immediately to his computer and went through the Agency mainframe to access the New Mexico Department of Motor Vehicles and started making changes.

TODD GOT OFF the interstate at the Santa Fe exit, surprised that he had not caught up with Teddy’s Grand Cherokee. He drove into town on Old Pecos Trail, checking every parking lot for the SUV but not seeing it. He drove back to La Fonda, parked the car, went upstairs and got on his computer. He logged in to the Agency mainframe and accessed the New Mexico DMV. He did a search for tan Grand Cherokees and found four registered in Santa Fe. He looked away for a moment to find a pad to write on, and when he returned his attention to the computer screen there were only three Grand Cherokees. He could have sworn there had been four a moment before, but he wasn’t positive. He jotted down the names and addresses of the owners and went back to his car. He was going to start running them down now.

TEDDY HAD CHANGED the owner’s name and address to one in Albuquerque. Now he changed the name and address of the Volvo to a Taos owner, then exited the Agency mainframe.

Lauren, who had been watching over his shoulder, said, “That was very slick.” She kissed him on the neck.

28

Bart Cross found the Mercedes station wagon, transferred his luggage from the taxi and drove out of the airport area to I-25 and headed north to Santa Fe.

He had flown Jim Long to the city a couple of times when he was shooting films here and had once stayed for three weeks, when he and a stuntman had driven a stagecoach in a western, so he knew the town pretty well. He drove through downtown and around the Plaza, just to get a look at it again, then picked up some food for dinner and headed north on the road to Taos and turned off at the sign for Las Campanas. He followed the road map Barbara had given him and found the house and guesthouse with no problem. He put the station wagon in the garage as instructed, put his clothes away and heated up the roast chicken he had bought for dinner. While it was warming, he found the liquor and poured himself a bourbon over ice. He had just turned on the TV for the news and sat down with his drink when he heard car doors slamming outside.

“THERE’S A LIGHT ON,” Vittorio said as they pulled up at dusk.

“She’s finally come home,” Cupie replied. He got out of the car, pulled his Smith & Wesson snub-nosed .38 from the holster, checked that it was loaded and snapped the cylinder shut. He did not return it to the holster.

“Stand beside the front door and cover me,” Vittorio said, then stepped up to the front door and used the knocker.

BART ALREADY HAD a gun in his hand. He looked through the little window in the door and saw an Indian in a flat-brimmed black hat. He leaned on the wall next to the door, the gun in his fist, and opened the door a foot or so with his left. “Yeah?”

“I’m sorry to bother you,” Vittorio said, “but I’m looking for Mrs. Keeler, who rents this house.”

“I’m a subletter,” Bart said. “There’s no one else here.”

“May I ask how you came to sublet the place?” Vittorio asked pleasantly.

“There was an ad on a bulletin board where I work, at a film studio in L.A. We did the deal over the phone. She was in San Francisco.”

“How long will you be subletting?” Vittorio asked.

“Till the end of the month—longer if my work here calls for it. Will you excuse me? My dinner’s getting cold.”

“Of course. I’m sorry to have troubled you,” Vittorio said. He turned to go back to the car.

Bart watched through the window in the door as another man fell in behind the Indian, and saw him returning a pistol to its holster. He locked the door, found the cell phone Eleanor Keeler had given him and called the number he had memorized.

BACKIN THE CAR, Cupie slammed his door. “Now can we stop coming out to this place all the time, please?”

“All right, all right. Sounds like Barbara doesn’t need her house anymore. You think she’s really in San Francisco?”

“That’s what I heard the guy say,” Cupie replied. “If he did the sublet deal on the phone, he would have been calling a San Francisco number, if that’s where she was. And by the way, he had a gun in his right hand, out of sight.”

“Did you see it?”

“No,” Cupie said. “I smelled the oil.”

BARBARA GOT TO the cell phone in her purse on the fifth ring. “Yes?”

“It’s me. I’m at the house. There were two men just here looking for you: an Indian and a fat guy, like you said.”

“That’s Vittorio and Cupie Dalton,” she said. “What did you tell them?”

“That I saw an ad on a bulletin board at the studio and called you in San Francisco and sublet the place. They asked how long I would be here, and I said until the end of the month, maybe longer, if work required. They left peaceably, and I saw Dalton putting away a gun as he went.”

“If they come back again, kill them, and I’ll pay you another ten grand,” she said.

“Hey, wait,” Bart replied. “Let’s not litter the landscape out here with corpses before I get the main job done.”

“They’ve seen you now. It would be in your interests to kill them as quickly as possible.”

“We’ll see. I’m not ready to commit to that right now.”

“They work for Eagle,” she said. “When it’s done, they’ll come looking for you, and I don’t want them to find you.”

“Look, lady, I don’t want this job to spin out of control. Jim will cover my alibi that I’m working for him here.”

“We’ll see. I’ll mention it to him. He’s coming back there in a few days to see how his shooting is going.”

“Tell him to find me some work here when he comes,” Bart said. “That’ll help with my alibi.”

“All right.” She hung up.

VITTORIO AND CUPIE SAT in the Blue Corn Café on Water Street and ate dinner.

“I think he’s a hit man she hired,” Vittorio said.

“Why do you think that?” Cupie asked.

“That’s just how it smells,” Vittorio said. “It doesn’t make any sense for Barbara to be in San Francisco, or to sublet the house before she’s done with Eagle. We need to keep an eye out for this guy.”

“I didn’t see him,” Cupie said. “What does he look like?”

“Six-two, dark hair, thirty-five to forty, athletic; wearing jeans, cowboy boots and a western-style shirt.”

“I didn’t see a car.”

“In the garage,” Vittorio said. “We don’t know what kind. That’s a disadvantage for us.”

“Jesus, this food is hot,” Cupie said, wiping his sweaty face with his napkin.

“It’s the peppers,” Vittorio replied. “Better get used to it while you’re in Santa Fe.”

“I’ll never get used to peppers,” Cupie said.

“We need to be at Eagle’s house early tomorrow, before he leaves for work. That’s a vulnerable time for him.”

“You think this guy has already got him staked out? Looks like he just got here.”

“No way to know,” Vittorio said.

TODD BACON GOT BACK to his hotel room hot and tired. He had chased down three Grand Cherokees, owned, respectively, by an old lady, a local doctor and a couple in their seventies. He had been to the Las Vegas Airport and talked with the man who ran the place, who told him he hadn’t seen any Cessnas that day and that he hadn’t had any hangar space for rent.

That didn’t make any sense at all. There was no other airport where Teddy Fay could have taken his airplane except Las Vegas, given the direction he had flown in and the fact that Lauren Cade had obviously picked him up there. He still hadn’t gotten a decent look at either of them, and the Grand Cherokee had just melted away in Santa Fe.

This was driving Todd nuts.

29

Shortly before dawn Vittorio had scrambled up the hill above Eagle’s house and placed himself in a nest of good-sized rocks. He had a hunting rifle with a big scope by his side, already sighted for the distance. Cupie was down the road below the house, in some other rocks, positioned to fire into an automobile racing down the hill from Eagle’s place.

They were using handheld radios the size of a Snickers bar, and Cupie pressed the push-to-talk button. “Are you sure this is the best place for me?” he asked. “I can’t see a goddamned thing.”

“You can see the road in both directions, can’t you?” Vittorio replied.

“Well, yeah.”

“Then you can warn me when a car is coming up the hill, so I can be ready, and I can warn you when one’s on the way down the hill, having made an attempt on our client.”

“Yeah to that, too,” Cupie admitted. “I just won’t see any of the action.”

“I’ve got the action covered,” Vittorio said. “You just keep your eye on the road, and don’t get seen by anybody.”

“You expect me to hit the driver of a car, first shot, with a revolver with a two-inch barrel?”

“Okay, we’ll get you a better piece for the job. You’d have a shot anyway, if you extend your arm, brace against a rock, then cock and squeeze. Don’t try it double-action.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Cupie muttered. “I’m going to bring some kind of folding chair, too. This fucking rock is incompatible with my ass.”

“You’ve got your own built-in cushion, Cupie.” Vittorio chuckled. “Quit your bitching.”

“Have you got the coffee Thermos?”

“Yes, I have.”

“I want one of my own tomorrow.”

“You had your coffee before we left,” Vittorio pointed out.

“I can’t have a second cup?”

“Tomorrow you can have all you can choke down.”

“It’s your fault if I fall asleep.”

The sun crested the mountain above the house, and the light from it worked its way across the parking area in front and eventually illuminated the front door. It was close to eight before the door opened and Eagle stepped onto the front porch, followed by Susannah. He turned, gave her a kiss and walked toward his black Mercedes, while Susannah, with a wave, went back inside.

Vittorio pressed the button. “He’s outside. Anybody coming?”

“Nobody either way,” Cupie replied.

“He’s in the car, and it’s moving. It’s a black Mercedes. Don’t shoot him.”

“No? I was looking forward to it,” Cupie growled. “Okay, he’s driving past.”

“Can he see you? He won’t like it if he knows we’re staking out his house.”

“He won’t see me. There, he’s gone, down the mountain toward Tesuque. Can we get out of here now?”

“Let me get the car, and I’ll pick you up in three minutes.”

“Bring coffee,” Cupie said.

TEDDY FAY LAY IN BED, Lauren’s head on his shoulder. They had made love—Lauren liked it best in the morning—and she had gone back to sleep.

Teddy reviewed his day. It was his practice when settling in a place, however temporarily, to immediately start work on new identity documents, so as to be prepared to run if he found himself being pursued. He’d start that this morning.

He was being pursued, sort of, but his pursuer wasn’t certain he was still in Santa Fe. He’d had a call from the man at Las Vegas Airport: Bacon had been there inquiring about him, but the man had told him no Cessnas had landed there and that there was no hangar space available. That would have confused Bacon.

Teddy had put himself in the younger man’s shoes: He was looking for two people, neither of which he had ever had a good look at, nor did he have photographs of them. He didn’t know where they were living or what car they were driving, and their trail had gone cold. How long would Bacon hang on before giving up?

Teddy felt some sympathy for the boy. He had outfitted hundreds of young agents over his decades with the Agency, sending them out to God knew where, to die or to return, often disillusioned with the work they were doing. A few came back excited, still wanting more. Bacon would be one of those, given Teddy’s experience of him.

Teddy had given a lot of thought as to whether to kill Todd. He would, if he had to, if the boy got too close, but if he had to, if Bacon simply disappeared, as Teddy was capable of making him do, then they might send out another agent, maybe more than one, and he would certainly have to move.

Teddy liked Santa Fe, and so did Lauren, and he didn’t want to move. If he could convince Todd Bacon they were gone, then maybe they could stay; maybe they could make a real home here. Teddy missed having a home. He was a nest builder, and he always assembled the twigs necessary to make that nest. His new safe would arrive today, so he could pack away his equipment and hunker down. He was looking forward to that. He wished he had some pictures to hang. They would have to look in on the galleries on Canyon Road.

TODD BACON ENDED HIS phone call to Holly Barker, his face red and hot. She was starting to think of him as an amateur; he could tell by the sound of her voice. He could hear the exasperation as she made more suggestions.

Now he was going to have to start cruising grocery stores and ladies’ shops, looking for Lauren Cade. It was the least effective thing he could do, he thought, but he couldn’t think of anything better.

He’d thought of checking out new hookups of electricity and telephones, but if Teddy had sublet a house, those things would already exist, so that was a time waster. What else did new people in town have to do for themselves besides utilities? He couldn’t think of anything.

Maybe Holly was right; maybe Lauren would want new clothes in a new town, and maybe she would go shopping for them. Maybe the Plaza was where he should waste his time looking for her.

Or maybe he should just spend the day in bed with the newspapers and half a bottle of bourbon. He would be just as effective that way, and he wouldn’t strain himself.

“Oh, what the fuck,” he said aloud, getting out of bed and heading for the shower.

30

Tip Hanks finished an afternoon of hitting with his driver and fairway woods on the practice range. He had a drink at the clubhouse bar, then drove home. He showered and put on a robe, then went into his study to check his e-mail.

He stuck his head into Dolly’s office. “Anything going on?”

“A couple of phone messages,” she replied. “They’re next to your computer. How was your practice session?”

“Just great. My swing is right where it should be. I’m looking forward to this weekend.” He had a tournament in San Diego.

“Good news. You must be tired. Can I get you a drink?”

“Sure,” he said. “I’m just going to check my e-mail.”

She got up and went to the bar while he went to his computer. Nothing pressing: just one e-mail from his agent and one from his clothing sponsor, and he dealt with those.

She walked up behind him, set his drink near his computer mouse and began massaging his shoulders.

“God, that’s good,” he said, relaxing to her touch. “Where did you learn to do that?”

“From having it done to me, I guess,” she replied. She pulled his head back to nestle between her breasts and continued to rub his neck and shoulders.

“Mmmm, nice cushion,” he said, feeling for his drink and taking a pull at it. “You’re a woman of many talents.” He had enjoyed her cooking a while back, but he had kept his hands off her.

She spun him around and pulled his head back to her breasts, still rubbing his neck.

He was becoming aroused now. He kissed her on a breast, and she made a welcoming noise. He pushed her sweater up and unhooked her bra. Her nipples answered the call.

“You’re bad,” she breathed.

“You make me want to be bad,” he said.

She pushed him back in his chair and knelt in front of him. She was tall enough for him to reach her lips, and they kissed repeatedly.

His robe fell open, and she took him in her hand and stroked him. He was already fully erect, and she bent down and kissed his penis a few times. He pulled her head down, and she took him into her mouth. He was making all the right noises, then suddenly he came.

She continued what she was doing until he fell back, spent, then took him by the hand, picked up his drink and led him to his bed, pulling back the covers. “You need a nap,” she said, setting his drink on the bedside table.

“Take a nap with me,” he said.

“No, you need the rest,” she replied. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

She was lying on the sofa in the study a couple of hours later, when he came and knelt beside her. “Your turn,” he said, undoing her jeans and pulling them off.

She lay back and enjoyed herself. He was really good at this, she thought—not quite as good as Ellie, but very good. Where had Ellie gone? Why hadn’t she said good-bye?

VITTORIO AND CUPIE had assumed their positions near Eagle’s house, waiting for him to arrive home from work, when Cupie came on the radio. “Mercedes station wagon heading up the hill. You read?”

“I read you,” Vittorio said. “I’m watching for it.”

The station wagon appeared, driving slowly up the road, then it slowed to a crawl in front of Eagle’s house, as if the driver wanted to get a good look at it, then continued up the road and out of sight.

“Whoever that was took a good look at the house,” Vittorio said into the radio. “I couldn’t see who was driving; the car’s roof was in the way.”

“That’s not the sort of car a hit man would drive,” Cupie said. “He’d be in a rental if he was from out of town.”

“Agreed,” Vittorio said. He sat for a few minutes, thinking that it was good to have Cupie around. He spent too many of his days alone, and it was nice to have somebody to bitch at.

He jerked back to reality as the station wagon reappeared, headed down the hill. Vittorio still couldn’t see the driver. He picked up the radio. “The Mercedes is headed back down the hill. See if you can get a look at the driver.”

“Here it comes,” Cupie said. “Naw, the setting sun is reflecting in the windshield; can’t see past that. He’s gone. Did he check out the house again?”

“He didn’t seem to slow down, but he was driving slowly,” Vittorio replied.

“Hey, here comes Eagle,” Cupie said.

“I’ve got him,” Vittorio replied as Eagle’s car appeared down the road. The black Mercedes pulled into the driveway, and Eagle got out, looked around, then went into the house. He didn’t seem to use the garage much. “Okay,” Vittorio said into the radio, “he’s in the house. I’ll pick you up shortly.”

He got the car and drove down to where Cupie waited.

“Let’s stop at the Tesuque Market and get a drink and some dinner,” Cupie said.

“Good idea,” Vittorio replied. The Tesuque Market was a grocery, restaurant and bar that did a good business from the local residents and some tourists, too. “Look,” Vittorio said, pointing at the cars parked outside. The Mercedes station wagon was among them.

Vittorio found a parking place, and they found a table on the front porch and ordered a drink. As they were looking at the menu a man walked past their table, a newspaper under his arm and a bag of food in his other hand. He got into the station wagon, backed out and drove away.

“You know who that is?” Vittorio asked.

“Never saw him before,” Cupie replied, sipping his drink.

“That’s the guy who’s staying in Barbara’s house.”

“You think he’s driving her car?”

“That’s my guess,” Vittorio replied. “If she went to San Francisco or L.A. she wouldn’t drive, would she? She’d fly.”

“Yep,” Cupie replied. “We need that guy’s name.”

“The car won’t be registered to him. How will we get that?”

Cupie thought about it. “We could hit him over the head and take a look at his wallet.”

“There’s gotta be a lazier way,” Vittorio said. He got up, walked into the market and over to the checkout counter, where a young girl was sitting at the register, looking bored. “Excuse me,” Vittorio said to her. “That guy who just walked out: Do you know his name? He looked familiar.”

“The tall guy?” she asked.

“Yeah, with the western shirt.”

She looked down at an electronic credit card reader and pushed a couple of buttons. “Barton Cross, it says here,” she said.

“Nah, he’s not who I thought he was. Thanks.” Vittorio returned to the table. “His name is Barton Cross,” he said to Cupie.

“Mean anything to you?”

“He said he worked at a movie studio and he was doing some work here. That would probably be on James Long’s movie, wouldn’t it?”

“Yeah, probably. I think that’s the only production in town at the moment.”

“What’s that studio in L.A. that Long works out of?”

“Centurion,” Cupie replied.

Vittorio got out his cell phone and dialed information, and they connected him.

“Centurion Studios,” an operator said.

“Mr. Barton Cross, please.”

“Just a moment.” There was a click followed by ringing.

“Long Productions,” a man’s voice said.

“May I speak with Barton Cross,” Vittorio asked.

“Bart is on vacation,” the man replied. “Can I take a message?”

“Do you know when he’ll be back?”

“End of the month, I think.”

“I’ll call back then.” Vittorio hung up. “Bart Cross is on vacation for a couple of weeks.”

“Not working in Santa Fe?”

“Nope. On vacation.”

“I like him for a hit man,” Cupie said.

“So do I,” Vittorio replied.

31

Barbara dialed the throwaway cell phone she had given Bart Cross and got no answer. “Damn him!” she said aloud. “I told him to keep that phone handy!”

Her own throwaway suddenly rang. “Yes?”

“It’s me,” he said. “I was in the shower and didn’t get there in time.”

“All right,” she said. “Are you making progress?”

“I had a good look at the property today,” he replied. “I know you want me to use a knife, but I think the better plan is to use a rifle from up the road. There’s a good view of the front of the house, and I can get a clean shot when he leaves for work.”

“I want you to use the knife,” she said. “I want him to have time to think about why he’s dying before he does. That won’t work with a rifle; you’ll just put his lights out. I want her to find him bleeding, too, before you do her. You can shoot her if you want to, after she’s seen him.”

“You’re one angry lady,” Bart said.

“Yes, and you don’t want me angry at you. Are you doing the things I told you?”

“Yeah, I’m using only this phone, not my own.”

“What about credit cards?”

There was a brief silence. “Well . . .”

“You used your own credit card?”

“Just once, at the Tesuque Market.”

“Don’t you know that can let the police place you in Santa Fe?”

“It won’t happen again, and there’ll be no reason for them to look at me.”

“I want you to take the station wagon back to Albuquerque tomorrow, put it in the same spot in the parking lot, then steal a car.”

“That’s a bad idea,” Bart said. “I’d have to use a credit card. They won’t let you pay cash up front.”

“Don’t you have any false ID?”

“I have one, but it’s not a driver’s license.”

“Then after you leave the wagon in the parking lot, buy a used car and abandon it in the parking lot when you’re done. It’ll be there for weeks, maybe months, before anyone notices it.”

“You paying for a new car?”

“No, that’s part of your expenses. You wouldn’t have to do this if you hadn’t so stupidly used your credit card. I’m just trying to keep you from getting arrested.”

“All right, I’ll do it your way,” he said.

“Take the car back to Albuquerque first thing in the morning.”

“All right.”

“Call me tomorrow and tell me what you’ve done.”

“I was going to kill him tomorrow morning.”

“You’re not ready until you fix the car problem,” she said, then hung up.

BART WOKE UP LATER than he had planned: It was after nine. He got himself together, got out the car and headed for Albuquerque.

As he got onto I-25 he remembered that he hadn’t closed the garage door. He thought about going back and doing it, but he would be gone for only a few hours, so what the hell?

He drove to Albuquerque International and returned the station wagon to the parking lot, left the ticket under the sun visor and got a cab into town. “Is there a street with a lot of car dealerships?” he asked the driver.

“Yeah, sure.”

“Take me there.”

The driver dropped him off in front of a Toyota dealer, and Bart strolled around the used lot. He was looking for something old, anonymous, but with fairly low mileage. Instead, he stopped in front of a shiny pickup truck.

A salesman approached. “Nice one, isn’t it?”

“Not bad,” Bart said, checking the mileage.

“Driven by a woman who had a landscaping business, so it never carried anything heavier than a bag of fertilizer and a few plants. It’s not like it was used for construction.”

The key was in the ignition, and Bart started the truck. “Let’s go for a ride.” He returned after driving it three or four miles. It was perfect. “Can you ship it to L.A.?” he asked.

“Sure. Probably cost you five hundred.”

“What are you asking?”

“Ten thousand; that’s a wholesale price.”

“I’ll give you seventy-five hundred, cash.”

The man got out his cell phone. “Let me call my boss.” He got out of the truck and made the call while Bart walked around the vehicle, looking for flaws. There weren’t any, and it had new tires on it.

The salesman closed his phone. “Eight thousand is as low as he’ll go,” he said to Bart.

Bart thought about it; he had about fourteen thousand on him. “Deal,” he said.

“Let’s go into the office.”

“I’ll bring it back end of the month, and you can ship it,” he said.

“No problem. I’ll make the arrangements today, and if you pay now, all you’ll need to do is phone me and I’ll pick up the truck at the airport. You’ll be flying out, I guess.”

“That’s right,” Bart said. “You can keep a key.”

VITTORIO SLOWED AS HE neared Barbara’s little guesthouse. “The garage door is open,” he said, “and there’s no car inside.”

“Why don’t we see if we can get into the house through there?” Cupie offered.

They pulled into the driveway and got out. Vittorio led the way into the garage. “Inside door,” he said, pointing. He tried it, but it was locked.

“I can handle that,” Cupie said, taking out his wallet and removing a set of lock picks he’d made from a filed-down hacksaw blade. He had the door open in less than a minute.

Both men wiped their feet carefully, then stepped inside. It was a mess.

“The guy’s a pig,” Cupie said. “He’s only been here a couple of days, and look at it.”

They poked around the living room, where dirty plates and chicken bones had been abandoned, then went into the bedroom.

Vittorio opened a bureau drawer. “Looka here,” he said, pulling a sock onto his hand and holding up a Beretta nine-millimeter pistol. “And a silencer, too,” he said, holding up the tube. “Nice work,” he said, inspecting it. He replaced the two items and looked further. “And this,” he said, holding up a large bowie knife and removing it from its holster.

“It’s practically a sword,” Cupie said. “What is it, a foot long?”

“About a ten-inch blade,” Vittorio said. “And you could shave with it. Why would a guy travel with an ax like that?”

“Maybe he plans to use it,” Cupie said.

They made sure the place was as they’d found it, then got out.

“Where do you suppose Cross is?” Cupie asked.

“He won’t find Eagle coming or going,” Vittorio said. “He’s safe in his office at this hour.”

BART PULLED INTO his garage early in the afternoon, went inside and called Barbara.

“Yes?”

“I’m all set,” he said. “I bought a vehicle.”

“What kind?”

“An old pickup truck. I’ll ditch it when I leave.”

“When, then?”

“Tomorrow morning,” Bart replied.

“Call me when you’re done.”

32

Todd Bacon left La Fonda and stepped into the Plaza, the main square of Santa Fe. Two sides of the area contained shops and art galleries, while a third side was taken up by the old Palace of the Governors, the seventeenth-century seat of power in the city’s early days. The fourth side was of less interest to him, since it was mostly taken up by restaurants and a bank.

He began working his way through the shops on the opposite side from the Palace of the Governors. They specialized mostly in women’s clothing and art. He wandered through each shop, looking cursorily at its wares and paying particular attention to the female shoppers. They came in all shapes and sizes except one—fairly tall, slender, with noticeable breasts: Those seemed to be in short supply.

He tried the west side of the Plaza, which had more art and less clothing, but came up dry. Finally he turned his attention to the Palace of the Governors.

An Indian street market featuring silver jewelry and some pottery took up most of the broad sidewalk under a portico, and the crowd was thick around the sellers, who had spread their wares on blankets. Todd drifted through the crowd, glancing at the displays but paying more attention to the shoppers.

They seemed to be mostly tourists, sloppily dressed and carrying shopping bags. Then one woman stopped him in his tracks: She fit the physical description of Lauren Cade—five-seven, made taller by western boots that looked new; chestnut-colored hair; and a tight sweater, secured at the waist with a broad belt and a silver buckle that accentuated her breasts, which were more than ample.

She would have attracted his attention at any time, but since she was the first woman he had seen who matched what he was looking for, he had trouble keeping his eyes off her.

She locked eyes with him for a moment, then went back to looking at jewelry. He noticed that she was wearing a gold wedding band. That would have been disappointing on a personal level, but it fit a woman who was traveling with a man.

Todd had a creepy feeling that he was being watched from behind, and it occurred to him that if he was right about the woman, her companion might be nearby, and if it was Teddy Fay, he was dangerous, even in a public place.

He turned around and scanned the faces of the men present: Two of them could be Teddy, he thought, but they were both with women, so he turned back to watch the putative Lauren. She was nowhere to be seen.

Todd began searching the crowd for her, trying not to show the panic he felt at losing her. Then his eyes swept the Plaza and he saw her, already on the other side of the square, disappearing down a side street. He broke out of the crowd and began to run.

LAUREN MADE IT AROUND the corner, but as she hazarded a glance back, she saw the man break from the crowd and start across the Plaza. Damn, she thought, another two seconds and he wouldn’t have seen her.

She hurried across the street and into a building that had a restaurant on the ground floor and a stairway up to galleries on a mezzanine. She ran up the stairs and looked for a way out of the rear of the building. An exit sign over a door drew her, and she opened it to find fire stairs descending to an exterior door. In a moment she was out the rear of the building and into a parking lot that faced the street behind. She ran to the sidewalk and turned up the street in the general direction of where she had parked the car, near the cathedral.

TODD REACHED THE CORNER and surveyed the street, which was not crowded. He couldn’t see her anywhere. He started down the street, looking through the windows of each shop, then crossed and worked his way up the other side, toward the Plaza. She was nowhere to be found.

LAUREN CROSSED THE STREET in front of the cathedral and hurried to where she had parked the green Volvo station wagon. Before she approached the car she checked carefully to be sure the man was not behind her, then she jumped into the car, got it started and pulled into traffic, which was moving slowly because of a stop sign at the end of the block.

She kept checking the rearview mirror, looking for the man, but she didn’t see him. Then it was her turn at the stop sign, and a moment before she was able to turn, she checked the mirror again and saw him come running around the corner into her block.

TODD STOOD ON the bumper of a pickup truck parked on the block, to give himself some more height, and looked up and down the street. The slow-moving traffic was being held up by a stop sign.

He got down from the truck’s bumper and began walking down the middle of the street, checking the driver of each car.

LAUREN TURNED RIGHT AT the stop sign, because that would put her on the opposite side of the car from her pursuer. She forced herself not to do it quickly, because that might attract his attention. Ahead of her was a long, straight stretch of roadway, leading to and crossing a main artery, so she took the first left, then another, then a right, then another right, which she hoped would keep her out of his line of sight.

TODD REACHED THE CORNER just after a green Volvo station wagon made a turn to the right, then drove away. A woman was at the wheel, but all he could see was the back of her head. He began running, but before he could close the distance between them she turned left, and he lost sight of her again. By the time he reached the next corner she had disappeared. The big problem was, he had no idea if the woman in the car was the woman at the Indian market.

LAUREN MADEIT BACK to Canyon Road, then turned onto Garcia Street and pointed the car toward home, constantly checking her mirror. Once home, she pulled into the garage and closed the door behind her. She jumped out of the car and ran into the kitchen, where Teddy was sipping a cup of tea.

“I think I got made,” she said.

“Where?”

“At the jewelry market in front of the Palace of the Governors,” she said. “When he turned his back for a moment I got out of there, but I think he spotted me. Then I lost him for about ten minutes, but he nearly caught up to me in traffic, though he couldn’t have had any idea which car I was in.”

“Do you think the Volvo is blown?” Teddy asked.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Describe the man.”

“Six feet, a hundred and eighty, short, sandy hair, sort of muscular, like he works out a lot.”

“Did you make eye contact?”

“Once, just for a second, then he turned around and looked at the people behind him. He may have been looking for you.”

Teddy put his arms around her and kissed her on the cheek. “He’s lucky I wasn’t there,” he said.

33

Bart Cross woke up at four A.M., shaved, showered and began cleaning up the house. It took him the better part of an hour to make it presentable, then he wiped all the surfaces down with Windex to remove his fingerprints, packed his gear and threw it into the bed of the pickup.

On the front seat were three empty FedEx boxes. Using his super-sharp bowie knife he cut apart two of them and pasted them to the doors of the pickup with two-sided tape. The third box he closed and sealed, and put it back onto the front seat with a clipboard he had bought.

He locked up the place and closed and locked the garage, and by five thirty he was making his way toward Tesuque on dark roads.

He drove up the hill past Ed Eagle’s house and found a perch where he could keep an eye on the place through binoculars, then sat down among the rocks and ate a breakfast he had prepared the night before. At about six thirty he heard a car come up the road, but when he looked down the hill in the dim light he saw nothing.

VITTORIO DROPPED OFF CUPIE at his usual rock, then drove past Eagle’s house and into the rocks, where he normally parked. He was in place by the time the sun began its climb, and he knew that Eagle would appear around a quarter to eight. He pressed the button on the radio. “You okay, Cupie?”

“Yeah,” Cupie responded. “I’ve got my coffee.”

BART KNEW THAT EAGLE arrived at his offices at eight, so he figured him to leave the house fifteen minutes before that. He watched the time carefully. At twenty before eight, he got into the truck, slipped into a navy-blue Windbreaker and matching baseball cap, checked his gun and knife, and started down the hill, coasting, so they wouldn’t hear any engine noise. At precisely a quarter to eight, Bart pulled into the Eagle driveway at the exact moment when Eagle left the house. As Bart got out of the truck, carrying the empty FedEx box and the clipboard, Eagle stopped on his porch to kiss his wife good-bye.

VITTORIO’S ATTENTION was diverted for a moment as he watched a hawk circling in the sky, hunting. When he looked back at the house he was astonished to see a dark pickup truck parked in Eagle’s driveway, and a man in a Windbreaker and baseball cap getting out, as Eagle stood on his front porch, talking with Susannah. Then he saw the FedEx logo on the side of the truck and the box and clipboard the man was carrying, and he relaxed. Just an early FedEx delivery.

BART SMILED to put the two people at ease and walked toward them. “Good morning, Mr. Eagle,” he said. “FedEx delivery for you.”

Eagle turned and faced him, while his wife went back into the house and closed the door. “You’re kind of early, aren’t you?”

“Gotta get the day started,” Bart replied, handing him the clipboard. “Sign on line one, please; first delivery of the day.” He patted his pockets. “Left my pen in the truck.”

“That’s all right,” Eagle said, reaching into an inside pocket. “I’ve got one.”

Now both of Eagle’s hands were occupied, and Bart saw his chance. He whipped the bowie knife out of its scabbard stuck down his pants and swung it in a wide arc at Eagle’s throat, feeling it hit the mark and seeing the blood spurt. Eagle went down on one knee, clutching at his throat, and Bart backhanded him and knocked him to the ground, then ran for the front door.

VITTORIO COULDN’T BELIEVE what he had seen. He drew his gun and his cell phone simultaneously and dialed 911 as he made his way, running, through the rocks and down the hill.

“Nine-one-one. What is your emergency?” the operator asked.

“I need an ambulance and the police. A man has been knifed in the throat and the assailant is in his house, where his wife is.” He gave the address, closed the phone and grabbed his radio. “Cupie, Eagle is down, ambulance on the way. Get up here and be careful; single assailant in the house now!”

BART DREW HIS PISTOL and entered the house, leaving the door open behind him. He saw no one inside. “Mrs. Eagle?” he called. “I have a package for you, too. I need a signature.” He got no response. Holding the gun at his side, he made his way toward where he believed the kitchen would be. Then he heard running footsteps from the driveway outside.

“Ed,” a voice shouted. “Hold this on the wound and apply pressure.”

BART FOUND THE KITCHEN and went out the rear door as fast as he could. He made his way around the corner of the house and peeked at the front porch. Eagle was lying on his back, and whoever had been there must have gone inside. He sprinted for the pickup truck, got it started, backed out and started up the hill, away from Tesuque. In his rearview mirror he saw a fat man huffing and puffing his way up the hill, then he was around a bend and gone.

VITTORIO WENT into the house carefully, his gun drawn. He checked the kitchen, then crept into the living room, which was empty. He was headed toward where he thought the bedrooms would be when he heard the truck start outside and the crunch of tires on gravel. Shit, the guy was gone. “Mrs. Eagle?” he yelled. “Are you all right?”

Susannah Wilde Eagle stepped from a doorway, a pistol held out in front of her, and fired two rounds.

Vittorio was spun around and went down.

CUPIE STOPPED TO CHECK on Eagle, who was breathing and pressing a bloody cloth to his throat. “Hang on, Ed, an ambulance is on the way.” He walked into the house just in time to hear two gunshots. “Oh, shit,” Cupie said aloud. “I hope he hasn’t shot Susannah.”

BART DROVE AS QUICKLY as he safely could over the hill, then turned toward the north side of Santa Fe and made his way on back roads until he crossed under I-25. He traveled south, toward Albuquerque, keeping parallel with but avoiding I-25, where he knew the state patrol might already be looking for the truck. At one point, nearly to Double Eagle Airport, he stopped and pulled the FedEx signs off the truck, called the dealer from whom he had bought the truck and told him he could pick it up from the parking lot at Double Eagle and ship it to L.A., as planned. Then he called Barbara.

“Yes?”

“It’s done.”

“You’re sure he’s dead?”

“I cut his throat and left him bleeding out on his front porch.”

“What about the woman?”

“Problem there. She went back into the house. I followed her in, but turns out Eagle had two men, those P.I.s, watching the house. I got out just in time, but I heard shooting from inside. I don’t know who fired or got shot.”

“Do the P.I.s know who you are?”

“They don’t know my name, and only one of them, the Indian, has seen me.”

“Where are you now?”

“I’m nearly to Double Eagle. I’ll ditch the car and be in the air in twenty minutes.”

“Call me when you’re back in town.” She hung up, and so did he.

He drove the last mile to Double Eagle, got his gear out of the truck and wiped the vehicle down with Windex, then hurried to the ramp where his airplane was parked. He’d already paid for his fuel and parking, and he wasn’t going to file a flight plan.

He got the engines started and began working through his checklist as he taxied. At the end of the runway he did a quick run-up of the engines, then announced his intentions over the airport frequency, checked for landing traffic, then taxied onto the runway and shoved the throttles forward.

Half an hour later he was at sixteen thousand five hundred feet, sucking oxygen, on his way to Burbank Airport, in the San Fernando Valley, near where he lived. He felt elated.

34

Vittorio held out a hand and yelled, “Don’t shoot, Susannah!”

“Vittorio?” she asked. “My God, have I shot you?”

“Call nine-one-one and tell them we need two ambulances instead of one,” Vittorio replied, struggling to sit up and check his wounds. He found he had taken a bullet high and to the left in his chest, and after checking his breathing and the blood flow, he figured it had missed the lung and the artery. “You have any bandages?” he asked Susannah. “Just a clean dishcloth will do.”

She ran to the kitchen and returned with a dishcloth, and he pressed it to his chest. “Where’s Ed?” she asked.

“He’s on the front porch. Cupie is with him.”

She ran for the front door.

Vittorio changed his position for comfort and heard something hit the tile floor. He looked behind him and saw a bloody, intact bullet on the floor. Thank God she had been using hardball ammunition instead of hollow-points. He calculated that unless they found internal injuries he hadn’t figured on, he would need only stitches, a dressing and a shot of ampicillin.

He felt exhausted now, having used up all his available adrenaline. “Cupie!” he yelled.

Cupie came running through the doorway. “Vittorio, you okay?”

“Not exactly,” he said. “Did she call for another ambulance?”

“I did,” Cupie said, kneeling beside him and pulling away the dishcloth so that he could check Vittorio’s wound. “Not bleeding too bad,” he said. “Just enough to keep it clean.” He checked Vittorio’s back. “Same here,” he said. “I think you got lucky. Hang on, I’ll get another dishcloth.”

Vittorio waited patiently for him to return with the cloth, which Cupie pressed to his back. Then Cupie leaned him against the wall. “Did you get a look at the guy?” he asked.

“Nah,” Cupie said. “He was already in the truck when I saw it, and I had the light-reflection problem on the window. How about you?”

“He was wearing a baseball cap, and I was looking down on him.”

“Was it Bart Cross?”

“I don’t know. He was tall enough, but that wasn’t Cross’s vehicle.”

“He could have stolen it,” Cupie said. “I hear sirens.”

“About time,” Vittorio said. “Don’t let them give me morphine. I want a clear head.”

“Whatever you say,” Cupie replied.

“How’s Eagle?”

“I don’t know,” Cupie said. “Ed is still bleeding, but holding pressure on the wound may be slowing it down. The cut looks long but shallow to me. Susannah is on the case.”

The sirens got louder, and there was the sound of tires crunching on gravel and doors slamming.

“I’ll get somebody in here,” Cupie said.

Vittorio started to speak, but a wave of nausea overcame him. He took a deep breath, then sagged to the floor and passed out.

VITTORIO WOKE UP in a hospital room with Cupie asleep in a chair next to him. He fumbled around, found the control unit for the bed and sat himself up and elevated his feet.

Cupie stirred. “You’re awake?”

“Yeah. How’s Eagle?”

“In surgery. They have a vascular specialist here, so Ed’s got some sort of shot. I’m type O, so I gave some blood. Eagle is A-positive.”

“I’m A-positive,” Vittorio said.

“You can’t spare any,” Cupie said.

“When can I get out of here?”

“What? You haven’t even talked to a doctor yet. You got some place to be?”

“I want to know if Bart Cross is still out at that guesthouse in Las Campanas.”

“I can check on that without your help,” Cupie said drily.

“Well, stop fluttering around here like an old woman and do it,” Vittorio said.

“I’m not fluttering, and you need some morphine,” Cupie said, pressing the call button.

A nurse appeared. “Can I help you?”

“This man needs morphine,” Cupie said.

“I don’t want morphine!” Vittorio said. “I told you!”

“Ignore him,” Cupie said to the nurse, and she disappeared. “You’re way too cranky,” Cupie said, “and that will get your blood pressure up and slow your recovery.”

“I thought you were going to go check on Bart Cross,” Vittorio said.

“Just as soon as I hold you down for the nurse,” Cupie replied.

WITH VITTORIO SETTLED INTO a morphine haze and Eagle still in surgery, Cupie drove out to Las Campanas, to the guesthouse where Cross had been staying. He drew his gun and hammered on the door. “Police!” he yelled. “Open up!”

That got him nowhere. He walked around the house, looking into windows. “Neat as a pin,” he said aloud to himself. “The rooster has flown the coop.”

He got into Vittorio’s car and drove back to the hospital. Vittorio was sitting up in bed, dozing lightly. He opened his eyes when Cupie walked in. “Eagle’s still alive,” he said. “That’s all I know. He’s in the ICU, and Susannah is with him.”

There was a knock on the door, and two men in suits walked in, flashing badges.

“I’m Romera; this is Reed,” the taller of the two said. “You feel up to answering some questions, Mr.”—he read a card in his hand—“Victoria?”

“It’s Vittorio,” Cupie corrected him. “No last name.”

“And who might you be?”

“Cupie Dalton. I work with him.” He jerked a thumb toward Vittorio.

“How’s Eagle?” Vittorio asked.

“Still out,” the detective replied. “Lots of tubes in him. You want to tell me what happened?”

Vittorio recited the chain of events as economically as possible.

“The guy shoot you?” Romera asked.

“No, Mrs. Eagle shot me, mistook me for the guy.”

“Jesus Christos, what a mess!” Romera said. Reed wrote it down. “Where were you, Mr. Dalton?”

“I was staked out down the hill sixty or seventy yards. The pickup didn’t pass me, must have come down the hill from up the mountain. He escaped that way, too.”

“And neither of you got a look at the guy’s face?” Romera asked.

“No,” Vittorio said quickly. “And I didn’t know him.”

“I didn’t even see him,” Cupie said. “Just the truck.”

“What kind of truck?”

“Pickup, maybe a Chevy,” Cupie replied. “I’m not good with trucks.”

“I am,” Vittorio said. “It was a Toyota. It had a FedEx logo on the door and a New Mexico plate.”

“Was he wearing a FedEx uniform?”

Vittorio shrugged, causing him pain. “Maybe. A dark Windbreaker and matching baseball cap.”

“You want to bring any charges against Mrs. Eagle for shooting you?” Romera asked.

“Of course not,” Vittorio said. “She just mistook me for the guy who cut her husband.”

“Whatever you say,” Romera replied. “She’s shot a couple of other people in the past, you know—her ex-husband in L.A. and a woman delivering flowers to Eagle’s house here last year.”

“Yeah, and the woman was trying to kill them both.”

“You figure the ex-wife is behind this, then?”

“I do.”

“But she’s in prison in Mexico,” Romera said. “I checked.”

“If you say so,” Vittorio replied.

35

Bart Cross landed at Burbank and taxied to his T-hangar, on a quiet part of the field. He opened the hangar door with a remote control, then swung the airplane around facing away from the hangar, ran through his checklist and cut the engines. He sat for a moment in the airplane, thinking, then picked up his logbook and wrote in the flight to Albuquerque and a return the day before. That would check with the parking lot’s electronic records and give him an alibi.

He got out of the airplane, hooked up the towbar and pushed it backward into the hangar. As he was about to leave, someone he knew taxied past him to two hangars down, cut his engine and got out.

“Hey, Bart,” the man said. “How’s it hanging?”

“Not bad,” Bart replied. “Spent a few days in Santa Fe at a friend’s house.”

“That’s not bad, either.”

“Hey, Tom, if anybody should ask, you saw me put away my airplane yesterday, okay?”

“Sure, kiddo. You can do the same for me sometime.”

“Thanks, Tom.” Cross walked to the parking lot, got his car and drove home. He’d be back at work tomorrow. As he pulled into his driveway his cell phone went off. “Hello?”

“Where are you?” she asked.

“Just got home from Santa Fe. The car is back where I picked it up.”

“Will you be there tonight? I want to pay you.”

“Sure thing. I’m too tired to go out.”

“Where do you live?”

He gave her the address and directions from Coldwater Canyon.

“I’ll be there late, maybe very late. I’ve got to make a stop on the way.”

“I’ll be here,” he said.

She hung up.

Bart picked up the papers on the doorstep on his way into the house but tossed them aside without reading them. He needed a nap.

CUPIE GOT BACK TO the hospital and found Vittorio sound asleep in his bed. He walked back to the nurses’ station.

“Hi,” he said to the nurse. “Anything new on Mr. Eagle’s condition?”

“Still in the ICU,” she said. “He’s awake, though, and the prognosis is good.”

“Can I see him for a minute?” Cupie knew this was a favor, but he had been chatting her up for such an occasion.

The nurse looked both ways, up and down the hall. “Okay, just for a minute, Cupie. His wife just went down to the cafeteria. Third door on your left. If he’s asleep, don’t wake him.”

Cupie went down to the door marked “Intensive Care” and let himself in. There was only one patient, and he was awake. Cupie pulled up a chair. “Ed, how you doing?” he asked.

Eagle took a deep breath. “Tired,” he said.

“Don’t talk, just listen. The guy got past us. Our fault, but we know who he is. We’ll take care of it, no charge.”

Eagle nodded. “What about Barbara?”

“She’s not in town, on purpose, but we have an idea where to find her.”

Eagle nodded again.

“You want us to take care of that, too?”

Eagle closed his eyes and seemed to go to sleep. Cupie tiptoed out of the unit and walked back to Vittorio’s room. He pulled up a comfortable chair close to the bed and turned on the TV, keeping the volume low. He surfed through the channels, looking for a local news program, finally settling on an Albuquerque broadcast. He sat through a weather forecast, then the anchor came back on-screen.

“This just in from Santa Fe,” he said. “A spokesman for Saint Michael’s Hospital has announced that local attorney Ed Eagle, a trial lawyer known throughout the West, is in what doctors describe as a normal recovery after surgery for a knife wound in an assassination attempt early this morning. His prognosis is favorable. Police are still searching for the unknown assassin.”

“And they’re not going to find him,” Cupie said aloud to himself. “But we are.”

“That’s right,” Vittorio said.

Cupie turned to find Vittorio awake and looking at him. “Hey. You feeling better?”

“Much, thanks. The morphine was the right thing to do.”

“Bart Cross has cleared out of Barbara’s place and is probably back in L.A. by now.”

“I want out of here,” Vittorio said.

“Yeah, I know, pal, but you’re going to stay right where you are until your doctors pronounce you fit to walk around like a person.”

“We have a call to make. I didn’t mention Cross to the cops.”

“I noticed. Don’t worry, he’ll keep, and we know where to find him.”

“He’s not the only one we need to find.”

“I’m with you, buddy. You just relax for a few days and get strong, okay?”

But Vittorio had dozed off again.

BARBARA WENT WITH Jimmy Long to a dinner party in Beverly Hills. Before she left, she did a Google search for Ed Eagle and found a report on the AP that he was recovering in a Santa Fe hospital. When she left for the dinner party, she didn’t take any cash with her.

She enjoyed the party, and Jimmy enjoyed himself a little too much, so she drove him home in his black BMW and put him to bed. He would sleep late tomorrow, she thought.

She went to her luggage and got what she needed, then got back into the Beamer and drove up Coldwater Canyon, then down into the Valley. She followed Cross’s directions carefully and found his street. It was past one o’clock now, and she drove around the block twice to be sure there was no activity in the neighborhood. Every house on Cross’s block was dark, except his. She stopped at the top of a little hill and called his cell number.

“Hello.”

“I’ll be there in five minutes,” she said. “We’ll make this quick.”

“I’ll be here.”

“Right,” she said. “Turn off the porch light.” She hung up, switched off the engine, put the car in neutral and coasted slowly downhill with her lights off, stopping in front of the house. She got out and closed the door quietly, and with a brown envelope in one hand and her other hand in her large purse, she walked to the house. The porch light was off.

She rang the doorbell and waited. Shortly, he came to the door and opened it.

“Hey, I didn’t hear you drive up. Come on in,” he said, and turned to lead her into the living room.

Barbara took the silenced pistol from her purse and shot him once in the back of the head. He crumpled and fell forward onto the floor, striking his head on the coffee table on his way down. She backed away a couple of feet to avoid splatter and shot him again in the head, then looked around.

The cell phone she had given him was on the coffee table, and she put that into her purse. She went through his pockets and took his wallet, which contained a dozen hundreds, then found his bedroom and searched it. She found a lot of other cash, her cash, in a bureau drawer and took that, then left the house, opened the car door and pushed until it started rolling, then got inside and waited until she was at the bottom of the hill before starting the car.

She stopped at a quiet place, took the batteries out of the two cell phones, wiped everything clean and dropped it all into the brown envelope. She removed the credit cards from the wallet and put that into the envelope, too. On the way home, she found a house being remodeled with a Dumpster outside and tossed the phones and the wallet into it. A few blocks later, she dropped the credit cards into a sewer, then drove to Jimmy’s, undressed and got into bed with him.

Barbara slept like a lamb.

36

Cupie went to the hospital the following morning and found Vittorio’s bed empty. He looked up and down the hall and spotted him at the nurses’ station.

He walked down to where Vittorio stood, filling out a form. He was fully dressed, and his left arm was in a sling. “What are you doing out of bed?”

“I’m checking myself out of here,” Vittorio said. “I’m fine.”

“He really shouldn’t leave here,” the nurse said, “but he’s stubborn.”

“I’ve got a pocketful of pills to take,” Vittorio said, signing the document and handing it to the nurse. “Now the hospital has zero liability.”

“The doctor isn’t going to like this.”

“I don’t like it, either,” Cupie said, “but there’s no stopping this guy.”

“Let’s get out of here,” Vittorio said, starting down the hallway. They looked in on Ed Eagle, who had been moved to a room, and found him asleep. “Just as well. I don’t want to talk to him until this is over. Let’s go,” he said to Cupie, and they walked out into the parking lot. “We need to be in Los Angeles.”

“No, we don’t,” Cupie said. “We’re going to your place, and we’ll talk about L.A. tomorrow.”

“Cupie—”

“Shut up and get in the car, Vittorio.”

Vittorio got in, and Cupie drove him home.

As soon as they were there, Cupie called Centurion Studios and asked for Bart Cross.

“Long Productions,” a woman said.

“May I speak to Bart Cross, please?”

“Who is this?”

“A friend of his. He asked me to call him when I came to L.A., and I’m here.”

“I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news for you,” the woman said. “Bart has died.”

“Died? How?”

“He was murdered last night.”

“Murdered?” Cupie asked. “Who murdered him?”

“The police don’t know yet. His cleaning lady found him this morning in his living room. He had been shot.”

“I’m shocked to hear that,” Cupie said. “Can you give me his address? I’d like to send some flowers.”

The woman gave him the address. “It’s just west of Burbank Airport,” she said, “off Coldwater Canyon.”

“Thank you very much,” Cupie said.

“May I have your name, please?”

But Cupie had already hung up.

“Barbara killed him,” Vittorio said. “She must have found out that Eagle is still alive. This means she’s in L.A.”

“And probably at James Long’s house,” Cupie said. “I know a cop in Burbank. Let me make a call.” He put the phone on speaker and dialed the number.

“Burbank police,” a male voice said.

“Detective Dave Santiago,” Cupie said.

“Hang on.” The phone rang.

“Detective Santiago.”

“Dave, it’s Cupie Dalton.”

“Hey, Cupie, how are you?”

“Not bad. You working the Bart Cross murder?”

“I’m not the lead, but I was out there early this morning. Did you know the guy?”

“Friend of a friend. What did you see out there?”

“He took two in the head from behind,” Santiago replied. “Looked like a pro to me.”

“When did it happen?”

“TOD was between midnight and two A.M., the M.E. says.”

“Any leads?”

“None. We’re just getting started. What’s your interest in this, Cupie?”

“Just idle curiosity,” Cupie said. “I heard the name on the news and thought I knew him.”

“Should we talk to your friend?”

“Nah, he knows nothing. He doesn’t even live in L.A. Thanks for the info, Dave. I’ll pass it on.”

“Buy me lunch one of these days.”

“Sure thing,” Cupie said, and hung up. He turned to Vittorio. “There you go.”

“It’s Barbara. She went there to pay him off—or at least Bart thought that. I bet they didn’t find any money in the house.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“She found out Eagle is alive and burned Cross to cut the trail to her.”

“Yeah, but she knows that won’t do it for us,” Cupie said. “She knows we know. That means she’ll run. She won’t be in L.A. when we get there.”

“She’ll be coming to Santa Fe,” Vittorio said.

“Maybe, but not right away. Once Eagle talks to the cops, she’ll be too hot here. Maybe she’ll just hire somebody else.”

“She’ll be very pissed off that Eagle is still alive,” Vittorio said. “I think she’ll come here pretty quick.”

“She won’t go back to the same house,” Cupie said. “She knows we know about that place.”

“What was that detective’s name who talked to us?”

“Uh, Romeo? No, Romera, or Romero.”

“I’m going to call him,” Vittorio said, picking up the phone.

“What for?”

“Eagle’s going to need a police guard while he’s in the hospital, and maybe when he gets out, too.”

“What’s wrong with us?”

“We didn’t do so hot before,” Vittorio pointed out.

“But if we call in the police, we’re not going to get a shot at Barbara.”

“If they’ve got any brains, they’ll be guarding him anyway,” Vittorio said.

“They weren’t guarding him as recently as an hour ago,” Cupie said.

Vittorio punched the speakerphone button on the phone, called the Santa Fe Police Department and asked for Detective Romera.

“Romera,” the man said.

“Detective, this is Vittorio. You talked to me yesterday at the hospital.”

“Yeah, I remember.”

“I got out this morning, and there was no police guard on Ed Eagle.”

“I think the guy with the knife is long gone,” Romera said.

“You’re right about that, Detective, but the woman who hired him could still be around.”

“The ex-wife?”

“It’s gotta be.”

“You think she’ll hire another man?”

“Maybe, or maybe she’ll want to do it herself. I know her. She’s very determined.”

“You may have a point,” Romera said. “I’ll put a couple of uniforms on Eagle’s hospital room.”

“Twenty-four hours a day?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“They should get a list of nurses authorized to be in there and check everybody against the list who goes into the room.”

“Yeah, okay. Thanks for calling.” Romera hung up.

“He didn’t sound too enthusiastic to me,” Cupie said.

“Maybe not, but he’s got enough street smarts to know that if Eagle gets killed in the hospital he, personally, will be left holding the bag. He’ll put the guards on.”

“I guess you’re right,” Cupie said. “So, what are we going to do?”

“Maybe we can stop her from getting as far as the hospital,” Vittorio said. “If we can find her.”

37

Todd Bacon sat in his hotel room, staring at his computer screen. He had reported in, told Holly Barker that her idea had worked but that he had lost Lauren Cade. She had not been pleased, and he wasn’t pleased with himself, either.

Now he was faced with new difficulties. Lauren, knowing that she had been spotted, would go to ground, and what’s more, she now knew what he looked like. He didn’t even know if it had been she in the Volvo station wagon; that was just a guess.

Nevertheless, he logged on to the Agency mainframe, accessed the New Mexico DMV records and did a search for green Volvo station wagons. They were apparently popular in the state, because the search turned up fourteen of the cars in green, none of them in Santa Fe. There was, however, one in Taos that had been registered the day he had spotted Teddy in the Grand Cherokee. That would have been the day he would have traded cars, and Teddy certainly knew enough about the Agency’s computers to hide the trade.

This was a lead so slim that it hardly qualified as a lead, but it was all he had. The Taos car was registered to a Walt Gooden. A quick call to 411 confirmed that no one by that name had a phone in Taos, nor did he, after another check, have one in Santa Fe. Well, Teddy wouldn’t have registered the car in the alias he was using, would he?

Todd continued to deduce. If Lauren had gone to ground after being spotted, would Teddy have done the same? And if so, what might cause one of them to leave wherever they were living? They weren’t going to run—they had already demonstrated that. But they could just wait him out. After all, Todd wasn’t going to spend the rest of his career on this job, no matter how important it was to Lance Cabot.

Food. They had to eat. Maybe one of them would leave to buy supplies—not only a meal but groceries. Todd reasoned that they would not go just to a convenience store, where choices would be limited, but to a proper supermarket, where they could find a large enough variety to keep them in good meals for an extended time, maybe a week or ten days.

In his travels around Santa Fe Todd had seen only one large supermarket, though certainly there must be more. He had seen a large Albertsons in a shopping center with a big parking lot. It was as good a place to start as any. He went down to the garage and started to get into his rented red Taurus, then stopped. Teddy had already seen that car. He went into the hotel, to the rental car desk, and exchanged the Taurus for a silver Toyota, then drove to where he had seen the Albertsons store.

A sea of cars greeted him. He figured if they were going to shop for groceries, they would park as close to Albertsons as possible, so he started at the front door and began driving slowly up and down the rows of parked cars, checking for Volvo station wagons. He found a silver one and a white one but no green one. He continued to look.

Finally, he had covered the entire parking lot without finding the car he was looking for. He’d come back tomorrow and start again. Then, as he was driving back toward the supermarket, he saw a green Volvo station wagon, empty. He checked the plates: New Mexico, Santa Fe County. He double-parked, got out of his car and tried a door on the Volvo. Locked. He walked slowly around the car, looking inside. He saw a map of the state and nothing else.

Todd returned to his car, opened the trunk and opened a case he traveled with. He chose two items, closed the case and the trunk, and returned to the Volvo. He looked around for cops or someone paying attention to him, found no one, then dropped to the ground, crawled halfway under the car, far enough that no one could reach unless they crawled as far as he had, and attached the little box magnetically to the frame. He pressed a button on the side and watched a red light start to flash. It would continue for two minutes.

He got up from under the station wagon, went back to his car, drove a hundred yards away and stopped. He switched the GPS device on and pressed the button for current location. The device took a moment to locate itself, and then a map of Santa Fe appeared. He pressed another button, and a red light on the map began to flash. It had nailed the location of the green Volvo station wagon. Now he didn’t have to closely tail the car; when it moved, he could follow at an unseen distance.

He found a parking space and sat in the car, waiting.

BARBARA WAS WATCHING television in Jimmy’s study when he came home from the studio. “Hi,” she said.

He didn’t reply but went to the bar, poured himself a stiff drink, then flopped down in his easy chair.

“Something wrong, sweetie?” she asked. He hadn’t even offered her a drink.

“Yeah, something’s wrong,” he replied, without looking at her.

“What is it?”

“You remember the pilot who flew us back from Mexico?”

“Of course. What was his name?”

“Bart Cross.”

“Oh, sure. What about him?”

“I gave you his name, remember?”

“I had forgotten,” she said.

“Did you ever speak with him?”

“No. I decided he might not be the right man for the job.”

“Well, Bart is dead,” Jimmy said. “He was shot at his home last night. It’s all over the papers.”

“I haven’t read a paper today,” she said.

“There was something else in the paper,” he replied. “Somebody attacked Ed Eagle with a knife in Santa Fe yesterday but failed to kill him.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Sounds like somebody was doing you a favor.”

“Well, trying, maybe.”

“Barbara, did you hire Bart to kill Eagle? I mean, I knew you were going to do something like that, and I didn’t really care.”

“I think you know the answer to that,” she said.

“Did you hire Bart Cross?”

She said nothing, just went to the bar and poured herself a drink, then came back and sat down.

“Yes,” she said.

“And did you kill him for failing?”

“Jimmy, he made mistakes. The police would have been onto him before the week was out. He’d have given me up in a plea bargain.”

“Well, I can’t argue with that,” he said, “but I don’t like you killing a man who worked for me, somebody I liked.”

“I’m sorry. It was necessary.”

Jimmy took a deep breath and sighed. “Barbara, you’re going to have to leave here and not come back for a long time.”

“All right, if that’s what you wish.”

“I mean right now. I’ll drive you to the airport. I don’t want there to be a record of a taxi pickup here.”

Barbara stood up. “I’ll go and pack now and be ready in half an hour.”

“Thank you,” he said.

TEDDY CAME OUT OF Albertsons and saw that it had begun to snow, and he figured that if it kept up like this there would be at least six inches on the ground by morning. He put his groceries in the luggage compartment and returned his cart. Then, as he approached the Volvo, something occurred to him. He squatted and read the side of one of the tires: It was rated for mud and snow. The salesman had told him the vehicle was equipped with snow tires, and he knew that was a whole different thing. The driveway at the house was pretty steep, and in a couple of inches of snow, and with these tires, the car wouldn’t make it up.

He got into the car and headed for Cerrillos Road.

THREE HUNDRED YARDS AWAY, Todd Bacon was parked across the road from the National Cemetery, reading the local paper, when the GPS unit beeped. The Volvo was on the move.

He started the car.

TEDDY FOUND A DISCOUNT tire dealer on Cerrillos and asked if they had Pirelli 210s in stock. They did and could install them immediately and give him a small trade-in on his current tires. He was directed to drive the car into a service bay. He got out and watched as the hydraulic lift raised the car until the tires were at a working level.

He thought he’d have a look at the chassis to check for rust, so he stooped and walked under the car. He inspected everything carefully, then stopped. Something had been placed under the car; he knew it instantly, because he had designed it himself. He reached up and detached it from the frame. Good thing it had snowed, he thought. In a day or two the device would have been covered with road grime and difficult to spot.

He walked out of the service bay and looked around: no Volvos, but there was a dark green Ford wagon parked outside. He bent down and attached the device under the rear bumper, then went back into the service bay, where his car was waiting. He lowered the hydraulic lift, and when the technician came toward him, he told the man he had changed his mind.

He got back on Cerrillos Road and drove to the dealer where he had bought the Volvo, remembering that he had seen a sign offering a ten-day car exchange with no questions asked.

TODD WAS STOPPED AT a traffic light when he checked the GPS unit again. The Volvo was moving again, this time headed north. He checked his fuel and found that he had been given the car with only a quarter of a tank, so he pulled into a gas station and topped off the tank. He could catch up at his leisure.

When he got back into the car he discovered that the Volvo had departed Santa Fe to the north and was headed toward Tesuque. He followed.

38

Dolly lay in bed with Tip Hanks, her head on his shoulder and her hand cupping his balls. She had just given him the blow job of his life, judging from his reaction, and for all practical purposes he was now hers. All she had to do was keep it that way.

Dolly had made a very nice career for herself. Born Helga Swenson in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, she had been a bookkeeper in a small factory for four years, and during that time she had taught herself to steal while covering her tracks. She had made only one mistake, one made by many embezzlers: She had taken a vacation.

An embezzler, she had learned, couldn’t do that, because someone else would do the bookkeeping in her absence and discover her crime. By that time, however, Helga had stolen nearly a million dollars, and she still had seven hundred thousand of it in a safe-deposit box.

She had returned from her two weeks in the islands to find several messages from her boss on her phone machine, and one from a police officer. She had immediately packed a bag and booked into a motel for the night. The following morning, she was at the bank at opening time and cleaned out her box. She drove to Chicago, sold her car, bought another from another dealer and headed west.

She was a smart girl, and she had taken the precaution of obtaining a genuine passport and a driver’s license under a new name, using a stolen birth certificate, so she made a clean getaway.

She repeated her crime at two other companies, in Kansas City, Missouri, and Tulsa, Oklahoma, then she had had a bit of luck. Departing Tulsa, she had met a man in the bar of a fine hotel in Dallas, and before the week was out she was his mistress in a nice apartment and his personal assistant. He was a consultant in the oil business and traveled almost constantly, leaving her in charge of his bank accounts, which she had looted while charging a new wardrobe to his credit cards. Since she paid the bills, he never noticed.

She had moved on to Santa Fe and met Tip’s wife in a bar, too, and after years of switch-hitting had no trouble in endearing herself. Constance Hanks had been smarter than her earlier bosses, though, and had caught her stealing cash from Tip’s desk drawer. Then she had found herself in the position of sex slave instead of sex partner, and she had not enjoyed it. She found a way out when she discovered a gun in the bedside drawer while looking for a sex toy. She planned the event carefully and surprised herself with her own coolness and lack of guilt. She had no plans to repeat the experience, because it was too dangerous, but it was nice to know she had the guts to do it if she had to.

Tip Hanks, unbeknownst to him, was now on the brink of a major hit to his financial status. His inheritance of his wife’s estate would soon result in a very large cash deposit being made into his bank account, to which Dolly was now a signatory, and she was tracking the progress on the settling of the estate.

Dolly had become more sophisticated in her techniques over the years. On a vacation in the Cayman Islands she had had a conversation with a banker and, as a result, had learned how, through a series of wire transfers to accounts established around the world, to make cash virtually untraceable, especially in the relatively modest amounts she stole. Less than a million dollars, she had learned, would not interest a Treasury or FBI agent, who would certainly have bigger fish to reel in. Still, she had managed, through thrift and daring, to amass a small fortune of nearly two million dollars, and she meant to see that it grew.

Soon she would arrange a convergence of the settling of Connie Hanks’s estate with one of Tip’s five-day trips to a golf tournament, and when he returned home he would discover that his checks were bouncing. By that time, of course, she would be establishing herself in another city, perhaps Los Angeles, in an area not frequented by golf pros.

Dolly gently left the bed of the snoring Tip and got into the shower. She had already, at his invitation, moved from the guesthouse into the master suite, and Tip was talking marriage, when a suitable period of mourning had been served. She liked Tip, but she liked his money more.

ED EAGLE WAS SITTING up in bed when Susannah arrived with flowers and magazines.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, kissing him fondly.

“Stronger,” Eagle replied. “Not so tired. I’m going to bust out of here in a day or two.”

“Maybe, sport, but you’re not going back to work just yet. I get to pamper you a little more before you do that.”

“You think we really need the cop on the door?” he asked.

“You bet your sweet ass I do,” Susannah replied. “You don’t think Barbara is done, do you?”

Eagle sighed. “I guess I don’t, and the thought depresses me.”

“Then don’t think it,” she said. “Let me do that.”

“You know, don’t you, that if you keep on shooting people we’re going to end up in court.”

“You have a point,” she agreed. “Vittorio has been a prince about it, though. He says my mistake was perfectly understandable, and I cannot bring myself to disagree with him.”

“I paid his hospital bill,” Eagle said.

“And I’ve been sending him his meals while he recuperates,” Susannah said. “Turns out he loves Mexican, and you know what a good Mexican cook I am.”

“I do indeed,” Eagle said, squeezing her hand.

“Listen, Ed, I was going to bring this up, even if you hadn’t nearly died, but do you think you’re in a position to ease up on the practice of law? I don’t mean sell the firm, just take, say, half as many cases, personally.”

“Well,” he replied, “there’s nothing like a near-death experience to make you reevaluate your existence. I don’t want to make any rash promises. Let me think about it.”

“That’s all I ask,” she said, “for the moment.”

AT THAT SAME MOMENT Barbara was getting off an airliner in Albuquerque. She collected her bags and took a taxi to the long-term parking lot and found her car there, with the ticket tucked under the driver’s sun visor. She found a decent restaurant in Albuquerque and had some dinner, then checked into a motel.

The following morning she looked for a medical supply store in the yellow pages and purchased some hospital scrubs, a white lab coat, a stethoscope and some of those awful white sneakers that nurses wear.

While in the store, she saw a woman with beautiful hair and asked who her hairdresser was. She spent the afternoon there getting a facial, a manicure and pedicure, and becoming a brunette.

It was time to get this thing done, once and for all.

39

Cupie came back from town to Vittorio’s house with some groceries and liquor, and found his host watching a soap opera on television.

Vittorio quickly turned off the TV. Cupie settled into a chair and passed him the Los Angeles Times he had bought in Santa Fe. “Read the article.”

Vittorio read.

“Barbara was burning her bridges,” Cupie said. “Smart girl.”

“Isn’t she something?” Vittorio tossed back the newspaper. “So, she’s headed here, right?”

“Right. And we don’t have to worry about Eagle as long as he’s under guard in the hospital.”

“You forget that he was under guard when he got his throat cut,” Vittorio pointed out. “And you and I were the guard.”

“Just a slipup,” Cupie said. “Anybody can make a mistake.”

“A mistake that got Eagle cut and me shot. You think that the SFPD is smarter than we are?”

“Look, as long as he’s in a hospital room with a guard on the door, he’s fine,” Cupie said. “There’s only one way into the room, remember? Watch your soap opera.” Cupie turned on the TV.

“What soap opera?”

“Has Craig found out yet that Jonathan is the father of Alexandra’s baby?” Cupie asked.

“Not yet,” Vittorio replied.

BARBARA SPENT THE DAY reading magazines in her room, then at dusk she drove up to Santa Fe. She remembered a suite hotel that catered to traveling salesmen, and it was not far from the hospital. She phoned ahead and booked a suite.

Once in the city she went first to the hospital and had a good look at it. There were two entrances, one for the emergency room and a main entrance. She parked outside and soaked it all in. As she sat there a uniformed policeman came through the door to the main entrance, buttoning his coat against the cold. He stood outside the door and lit a cigarette. He was no more than thirty yards from her, and she got a good, long look at him: maybe fifty, once muscular and athletic, now with a gut and jowls and a complexion that indicated a large and regular use of alcohol. She couldn’t read his name tag from where she sat, but she would remember that face and build.

She drove to her hotel, checked in and began going over things in her mind. She called the hospital on her cell phone.

“How may I direct your call?”

“This is Crystal Florists,” Barbara said. “We have a delivery. Is Mr. Ed Eagle still in room 304?”

“No, he’s in 106,” the operator said. “Shall I connect you?”

“No, thanks. I don’t need to speak to him.”

“Just deliver your flowers to the ground-floor nurses’ station,” the operator said. “One of the nurses will see that the patient gets them.”

“Thanks. Good night,” Barbara said. She hung up. A good first step.

TIP HANKS LEFT FOR his golf tournament and would be gone for five days, and Dolly, having become accustomed to regular sex, got out of the house. She drove up Canyon Road to Geronimo, where she had met with Ellie Keeler, and took a seat at the bar. “A margarita, please, straight up with salt,” she said to the bartender. Half a minute later the drink materialized, and she closed her eyes and took her first, very welcome, sip. “Aaaaah,” she breathed.

“I’m going to feel exactly the same way in just a minute,” a male voice said beside her. “One for me, too,” he said to the bartender, and it was done.

Dolly turned her head and got a first look at her companion in tequila: tall, athletic-looking, sandy hair, a little on the short side, early thirties.

“Aaaaah,” he said, having taken his first sip.

Dolly laughed. “What did your day hold that made you need a drink?”

“Sunset,” Todd responded. “I’m on vacation. I don’t need a better excuse.”

“What are you on vacation from?” she asked.

“Would you believe me if I told you I’m a CIA agent?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Nope.”

“Then don’t ask.” He smiled and stuck out a hand. “I’m Todd Bacon.”

She took the hand, which was large and warm. “I’m Dolly Parks. Where are you on vacation from?”

He thought about that. “I’m afraid I don’t know.”

“You don’t know where you’re from?”

“Well, until very recently I lived in Panama, but I was recalled, and as yet, I’m unassigned.”

“Where would you like to be reassigned?”

“Here, I think. Santa Fe is a wonderful place.”

“Then why don’t you get your company to transfer you here?”

“I’m afraid my company doesn’t do business here.”

“Then change jobs.”

“I’m afraid there is very little demand for ex-CIA agents in Santa Fe.”

“That’s your story, and you’re sticking to it, huh?”

“That’s my story. Where do you hail from?”

“Oh, I’m a midwesterner, but I’ve lived in Santa Fe for a few months now.”

“Think you’ll make it permanent?”

“As wonderful as it is, I doubt it. I’m not very good at putting down roots.”

“That’s funny,” he said. “Neither am I.”

“Think you’ll ever improve?” she asked.

“Probably not,” he replied. “It wouldn’t do my career any good.”

“How’s your career going?”

“Extremely well,” he said. “Even better than I’d hoped. What do you do?”

“Oh, I’m a sort of general, all-around factotum for a golf pro.”

“Which one?”

“Tip Hanks.”

“Oh, sure. I see him play on TV now and then. He lives in Santa Fe?”

“He does, but he left today to play this weekend in California.”

“And left you all alone?”

“Sad, isn’t it?”

“Then I think you should have dinner with me,” Todd said.

A woman’s voice came from behind him. “Well, hello, Dolly, to coin a phrase.”

Todd and Dolly both turned to look. Todd saw a very attractive woman, older, maybe early forties.

“Ellie!” Dolly said. “Where have you been?”

“I had to go back to San Francisco to take care of some business,” Barbara replied. “Can I buy you two a drink?”

“Hi, I’m Todd,” he said, extending a hand. “I had just asked Dolly to join me for dinner. Why don’t you join us both?”

“Love to,” Barbara replied. “If that’s okay with you, Dolly.”

“Of course it is,” Dolly replied.

“Bartender,” Todd said, “do you think you could find us a table for three?”

Dolly thought the odds of a very good evening had improved by a factor of three.

40

Todd woke up sometime in the middle of the night. There was a woman asleep on his shoulder and another asleep with her head on his crotch. He wasn’t sure, in the dark, which was which. The two of them had exhausted him during the first hour of their visit to his room at the Inn of the Anasazi, and his last memory before drifting off was of the two of them occupied with each other. This was a first for Todd, but he hoped it wouldn’t be the last.

His frustration with his work in Santa Fe had reached a new high when he had followed the red light on his GPS unit north from Santa Fe, then through a turn toward Taos. Baffled, he had pulled closer to the Volvo until he saw the green shape, and when the car ahead had stopped at a gas station he continued past it, only to find that it was a Ford, not a Volvo.

He made a U-turn and pulled into the station, just in time to see an elderly woman pumping gas. When she went into the station to pay, he did a quick search under her car and, swearing aloud, found the little box under her rear bumper.

He returned to his car and drove back to Santa Fe. How the hell could Lauren Cade—or, for that matter, Teddy Fay—have found the thing? It was uncanny, and he could not come up with a plausible explanation for how the switch of the device to the Ford had happened.

Now his frustration had melted into a warm pool of carnal gratification, and he didn’t feel so bad about losing the Volvo. Fortunately, he had not lost the little box, which would live to spy again.

The woman whose head was on his crotch stirred, and he stirred, too, when he found himself in her mouth.

“Oh, good,” she said, “you’re back.” Then she returned to work. It was Dolly.

TEDDY WAS FINISHING his breakfast when Lauren came in from taking out the garbage. “I’m confused,” she said. “Why do we have a Tahoe in the garage?”

“It was the only thing the dealer had that was in good shape and had four-wheel drive and snow tires.”

“Why do we need it?” she asked.

“Did you look around when you went outside? There’s six inches of snow on the ground. Happens every year about this time.”

“Oh, come on, Teddy. What happened?”

He explained about his discovery of the little black box under the Volvo.

“Good God. How long had it been there?”

“Not long,” Teddy replied, “or young Mr. Bacon would have been all over us. My guess is he saw the Volvo in the grocery-store parking lot and recognized it from when he chased you. Don’t worry, I transferred the device to another car, so he’s out there somewhere following a Ford around.”

She kissed him on the cheek. “You are so smart.”

“Well, I’m a little smarter than Todd Bacon,” Teddy said. “And I’ll try to keep it that way.”

THE THREE OF THEM had breakfast at the table in Todd’s room, notwithstanding the look on the room-service waiter’s face. Nobody was embarrassed, but everybody was pretty much wrung out, Todd thought.

“You were wonderful last night,” Dolly said to him.

“We were all wonderful,” Barbara said.

“We must do it again sometime,” Todd offered.

“I’m going to be tied up for a few days,” Barbara said, “but you kids enjoy yourselves.”

“What’s in that?” Dolly asked, pointing to a sturdy-looking aluminum case on the bench at the end of the bed.

“Spy stuff,” Todd replied, popping a piece of sausage into his mouth.

“Todd,” Dolly said to Barbara, “is sticking with the old pickup line about being a CIA agent.”

“Why do you think it’s a line?” Barbara asked. “I mean, there are people who are CIA agents, and some of them must get to Santa Fe from time to time. Wouldn’t it amuse you to believe him?”

Todd laughed. “What do you do, Ellie, and what brings you to Santa Fe?”

“I’m a rich widow for a living, and I go where I please. At the moment, I’m pleased to be in Santa Fe.”

“Where were you most recently?” he asked.

“In San Francisco,” she replied. “And before that, in a Mexican prison.”

Todd laughed. “You see, Dolly, Ellie has an even better story than mine.”

“Perhaps we all have noncredible backgrounds,” Dolly said. “I’m an embezzler on the run!”

“Then let’s all stick with our stories,” Barbara said.

41

Susannah arrived at the hospital with a cake tin filled with Ed’s favorite cookies, only to have a nurse stop her on the way to his room.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Eagle,” the woman said, “but your husband has picked up an infection. We’ve got him on IV antibiotics, but he’s going to have to stay a few more days, until his temperature is normal and he’s strong enough to walk by himself.”

“Is there anything that can be done that isn’t already being done?” Susannah asked.

“No, ma’am,” the woman replied. “He’s getting everything he needs except, maybe, a cookie.”

Susannah smiled wanly and continued to Ed’s room. She greeted the cop at the door, then went into the room. “Good morning!” she said brightly.

Ed’s bed was in the sitting-up position, and he turned to greet her with a wan smile of his own. “Hey, baby,” he said wearily. “Seems I’ve got an infection and a fever. You’re going to have to wait awhile to take me home.”

She sat on the bed and brushed the hair from his forehead. “That’s all right, sweetie,” she said. “You just rest.” She set the cake tin down on his belly. “I brought you some cookies,” she said.

Eagle lifted the tin. “Pretty weighty for just cookies,” he replied.

“Well, there’s a little pre-Christmas gift in there, too.”

“I hope it’s bourbon,” he said.

“Let’s just say it’s good for what ails you.”

“Yesterday this time I thought I’d be going home this morning.”

She kissed him high on the cheek, a place he liked. “Don’t you worry about a thing,” she said. “Every little thing is under control.”

DOWN THE ROAD a couple of hundred yards, one of the little things that was not under control was taking the cellophane wrapping off a box of very expensive chocolates. Barbara checked herself in the mirror. She had spent the earlier part of the morning at a copy and computer shop, making herself an ID that said she worked for the state Department of Health. She had copied a state seal off the department’s website, photographed herself in scrubs, printed the photo, added her typeset name and printed the badge, then laminated it. It wasn’t perfect, but it would pass. She also made a state sticker for her windshield and downloaded a full-size copy of a New Mexico State employee license plate, which she printed out on a plastic material with a sticky side. She tucked the box of candy under an arm and left the hotel for the hospital. She applied the phony license plate over the real one and stuck the state sticker on the inside of her windshield, on the driver’s side.

She parked in the employees’ lot and walked past the fat cop, who was outside, smoking again. “Morning,” she said with a wave. He hardly noticed her. She walked down the hallway and saw the relief cop at Eagle’s door, marking it very nicely.

“Good morning,” she said cheerfully to the man. “Have one of these delicious chocolates. They were a gift, but if I eat them all I’ll gain twenty pounds.” She thrust the box at him.

He picked out one and popped it into his mouth. “Thanks,” he mumbled.

Now both the cops knew her by sight. She walked on down the hallway to the nurses’ station, where three women were at work. “Good morning, ladies,” she said. “I’m Ruth Barrow from the state. I’ll be here for a few days, doing safety checks.”

“What kind of safety checks?” one of the nurses asked.

“Oh, it’s nothing to worry you ladies about. You obviously run a very tight ship here.” She opened the chocolate box. “Help me out here, will you? This was a gift, and if I eat them all I’ll explode,” she said, laughing at her own joke.

The women gathered around and fished candy out of the box. “Take two,” Barbara said, “and save me from myself. I see you’ve got a prisoner down the hall. Is that a common thing here? Isn’t there a lockup ward?”

“Oh, no, it’s not a prisoner. That’s Ed Eagle’s room. He’s a local lawyer who got attacked by a madman last week.”

“My God,” Barbara said. “I hope they caught the guy.”

“Not yet,” the nurse replied. “That’s why the cop is on the door. There are two of them; they take turns.”

“That’s good,” Barbara replied. “I mean, everybody’s got to pee sometime.”

“Smoke is more like it,” the nurse said. “They’re both junkies, have to light up every few minutes.”

“I’ve heard of Ed Eagle,” Barbara said. “How’s he doing?”

The nurse shook her head. “Not well. He was doing all right until last night, when he contracted an infection. It’s going to take a few more days before he’ll be strong enough to go home.”

“Well, I certainly hope he recovers quickly,” Barbara said. She was going to be able to take her time and get this right.

VITTORIO GOT INTO the passenger seat of his SUV, and Cupie got behind the wheel.

“You sure you’re up to this?” he asked Vittorio.

“I’m feeling just great. Now get this crate moving.”

“Where are we going?”

“I think the best thing we can do, given our lack of information, is to look for that Mercedes station wagon,” Vittorio said. “She doesn’t know we know about it, and if we find it, all we have to do is sit on it until she shows up.”

“Where do you want to start?”

“Well, right now the hospital is ground zero, because Eagle’s there. I want to visit him anyway and see how he’s doing, so let’s start there.”

Cupie put the car into gear and drove off toward Santa Fe. They passed through some beautiful high desert before reaching the urbanized outskirts.

“You know,” Cupie said, “I wouldn’t mind retiring here one of these days. I love the climate.”

“You’d enjoy it,” Vittorio replied, “but I can’t ever see you either retiring or leaving L.A. You’ve still got a daughter there in the D.A.’s office, haven’t you?”

“Yeah, she’s trying a lot of cases now, getting some good experience, but between her job and her boyfriend, I’m lucky if I have lunch with her every other Sunday.”

Vittorio directed him to the hospital. “Let’s take a look around the parking lot before we go in,” Vittorio said.

Cupie moved slowly up and down the rows of cars, then pointed. “Over there,” he said, “in the employees’ lot.”

“I see it,” Vittorio said. “Let’s get over there and take a closer look.”

Cupie drove into the lot and pulled up behind the Mercedes station wagon, and Vittorio got out and walked around it, then came back and got into the car. “Nah,” he said. “It’s got a New Mexico government tag and a health-department sticker on the windshield.”

“Why would a state employee be driving a Mercedes?” Cupie asked.

“Must be a personal car. It’s got an employee’s tag.”

Cupie found a space in the visitors’ lot, and they walked into the hospital and down the hall toward where a cop sat outside Eagle’s room. As they approached the nurses’ station, a woman in scrubs with a chocolate box under her arm walked away, down the other end of the hall, toward the elevators.

“Nice ass,” Cupie muttered.

“Morning, gentlemen,” the nurse behind the desk said. “Sorry, Mr. Eagle isn’t having any visitors today.”

“Something wrong?” Cupie asked.

“He’s contracted an infection. We’re dealing with it, but he’s not up to seeing anybody but his wife.”

“We’ll come back tomorrow,” Cupie said, and he and Vittorio left the hospital.

“Let’s go check the hotel lots,” Vittorio said, getting into the car.

42

Barbara left the hospital and drove back to the computer shop where she had made her state ID and license plate. She had an idea about how to improve them.

The man at the desk directed her to a vacant computer, and on a whim, she decided to check her old e-mail address. There were hundreds of spam messages, but as she scrolled down she found an e-mail from a law firm she had paid a retainer to when consulting them about overturning her late husband’s will. On the morning he was killed in the car crash he had signed a new will that severely limited what she would get in the event of his death. The lawyer had advised her that the will was impenetrable, and there was nothing she could do about it. In addition, the will contained a clause that would reduce the sum paid to any beneficiary to one dollar if the beneficiary contested the will.

There had been one thing she could do, though, and she had done it. She had hired someone to murder her husband’s attorney.

“Mrs. Keeler,” it read, “there has been an interesting development concerning your late husband’s will. It could be greatly to your benefit if you would telephone me as soon as you receive this e-mail.” It was signed by Ralph Waters, and the e-mail was dated the day she had escaped from prison in Mexico.

This was interesting, Barbara thought. She forgot why she had come to the computer store and immediately returned to her hotel, where she sat down and called the attorney on her cell phone. He came on the line immediately.

“Mrs. Keeler? This is Ralph Waters. Thank you for returning my call.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner, Mr. Waters,” she said, “but I’ve been traveling. What is your news?”

“I know I don’t have to remind you about the terms of the will your late husband signed on the day of his death.”

“They are etched in my memory,” she replied.

“I expect so, but a couple of weeks ago I was playing golf with a lawyer friend of mine who serves on the ethics committee of the California Bar Association, and he told me a very interesting story. A woman named Margaret Jepson, known as Margie, who was the secretary of Joseph Wilen, your husband’s attorney, has made a report to the bar association that may change everything.”

“Tell me,” Barbara said.

“I’m not sure yet what her motives are, but she says that the will that was probated was not the will that Walter Keeler signed that morning, that Joe Wilen made some crucial changes to it after he heard of Mr. Keeler’s death in the accident. According to Ms. Jepson, Wilen harbored some ill feelings toward you, so he made certain changes to the will in the word processor, reducing your share to a stipend of fifty thousand dollars a month and the use of, but not the ownership of, Mr. Keeler’s San Francisco apartment, then he initialed the pages with the same pen Keeler had used and substituted them for two pages that he removed and destroyed. He told Margie Jepson and an associate in his firm, Ms. Lee Hight, of his actions, since both of them had witnessed the will, and they agreed to join him in a conspiracy to reduce your inheritance.”

“The son of a bitch!” Barbara said. “I knew there was something wrong. Walter would have never done that to me. Do we know what the original pages said?”

“Ms. Jepson reportedly has a copy of the will that Mr. Keeler signed, so that would bolster our position. Worst case, if her testimony holds up we could get the will thrown out and then the previous will would apply, and even though you had been married only a short time and might not be mentioned in the earlier will, California law would entitle you to a large share of the estate.”

Barbara’s heart was pounding. “As I recall, Walter had more than a billion dollars in liquid assets, plus real estate, and others, like a jet airplane.”

“That is correct,” Waters said. “And there are more good tidings: The will has not yet cleared probate, so none of the assets have been dispersed. Only your stipend has been paid out.”

“That’s wonderful!” Barbara said. “What should our next move be?”

“I’ll need to depose Ms. Jepson and get her to sign an affidavit confirming her story, then I can take it to a judge with a petition to invalidate the will and reinstate the original version. If he signs off on it, then we can submit the original will for probate. Our fallback position would be to get the will declared invalid and reinstate the earlier version.”

“Mr. Waters, I direct you to do just that,” Barbara said, “and along the way I’d like to see that bitch Lee Hight disbarred for her part in the conspiracy.”

“That won’t be necessary, Mrs. Keeler, because Ms. Hight died of breast cancer last month. I suspect that is one reason that Ms. Jepson has come forward, since telling her story relieves her conscience and doesn’t punish anyone.”

“One other thing, Mr. Waters,” Barbara said. “I want you to hold this in absolute confidence. I do not want the press to get wind of it. Is that clear?”

“I’ll do everything I can, Mrs. Keeler, but at some point this will become a matter of public record, and given the prominence of Mr. Keeler, someone is going to notice.”

“I’m going to give you my cell phone number,” Barbara said, “and you are not to share it with anyone else.” She gave him the number. “I do not wish to be contacted by anyone but you, and should the press contact you, you are to make no comment without my authorization. Is that clear?”

“Perfectly clear, Mrs. Keeler. I’ll be in touch.” They both hung up.

Barbara leapt from her chair and did a little dance around the room, then fell back into the chair, laughing and crying. She was going to get, at least, hundreds of millions out of this! Then she stopped and began to think.

As far as she knew, her absence from the Mexican prison was not known north of the border. If she now murdered Ed Eagle, the whole story of her divorce from him and her arrest and imprisonment in Mexico might very well come out in the news reports of his death, and she might be either charged with his murder or extradited to Mexico and prison.

“Shit!” she screamed. She was going to have to lie low until the will was probated, and probably for some time after that. She picked up the phone and called her new friends, Hugh and Charlene Holroyd.

“Ellie, how are you?” Charlene asked. “Hugh, pick up the extension.”

“Hey there, Ellie,” he said. “We’ve missed you.”

“I’m very well, thanks,” Barbara replied. “Do you suppose you could put me up for a little while?”

“Of course. You can have your old room back,” Hugh said.

“Or if you’d like more space, take our guesthouse. You can visit us whenever you like,” Charlene added.

“The guesthouse sounds wonderful,” Barbara said.

“Where are you now?”

“In Santa Fe.”

“Well, come on over here,” Hugh said. “May we expect you for cocktails?”

“You certainly may,” Barbara said. “I’ll see you then.” She hung up, lay back in her chair and sighed.

It would be fun to see the Holroyds, but she had been so looking forward to killing Ed Eagle.

43

Teddy Fay sat down at his computer and logged in to the Agency mainframe, first establishing his own computer’s position in Elmira, New York. He went to the personnel files and pulled up Todd Bacon’s service record.

Young Bacon, he learned, had been born in Charleston, West Virginia, to a single mother, had been a star athlete and valedictorian of his high school class, and had attended Columbia University on a full academic scholarship, majoring in languages while playing football and rowing for his school. He had been recruited for the CIA by a professor there and had graduated summa cum laude. He was perfect for the Agency.

He had excelled in every area of his training at the Farm and had had three foreign postings since. In Panama, after Teddy had assassinated the station chief, who had recognized him in a bar, Bacon had been made acting station chief.

It was shortly after Bacon’s promotion that he had crossed Teddy’s trail on Cumberland Island, in south Georgia, and had managed to put some bullet holes in his airplane’s wing. Teddy was uncertain how or why Bacon had made the leap from Panama to Georgia, but he had to believe that the young agent was pursuing him.

Teddy thought he could see the fine hand of Lance Cabot in all this, and that meant Holly Barker as well. This was irritating, since Teddy, after faking his death, had enjoyed being dead. He could not believe that it was in the Agency’s interests to pursue and kill him. The media had bought the story of his death, and it would be embarrassing if it was learned that he was still alive. Probably Cabot was just tidying up a messy corner of his realm as deputy director of operations, and if so, Holly Barker would be involved too, since she was his assistant deputy director.

He went to the interoffice e-mail program and addressed a message to her.

My Dear Holly,

It was so very good to encounter you in Florida recently. I had thought that since we were not at loggerheads there, you and your superior were prepared to let sleeping dogs lie, as it were. However, the presence of your representative in my last city of residence, and his ingenious but ineffectual attempts to locate me, has told me that someone at Langley wishes to put me permanently to sleep. That is regrettable, and not just for me.

You may tell your superior(s) that I am now reestablished in another part of the world, and should your young protégé, or anyone else, pursue me, I will be forced to put him out of his misery and to do so in a very public manner, requiring distasteful explanations to be made.

I should think that your young man could be more useful to the Agency alive and that he might better be employed elsewhere. If your superior(s) can see the way clear to preserve your agent’s good health and not to send others after him, I will promise to henceforth live very quietly. If not, things could get very, very messy.

You may respond to this missive at your internal box number 100001.

Hugs and kisses,

T.

Teddy gave his e-mail a high-priority rating and inserted a sender’s line not his own.

HOLLY BARKER SAT at her desk, making notes for a report she had to write on a recent Agency operation, when her computer made a chiming noise and a box appeared on her screen, reporting that she had received a high-priority internal message from the director. She opened and read it with growing consternation, then printed it, saved the message and went next door to Lance Cabot’s office.

“A moment?” she asked from his open door.

“Come in,” Lance replied, not looking up from his desk.

Holly closed the door behind her, which got his attention, then sat down and passed the message across his desk.

Lance began to read it, and she saw a tiny flicker of something on his usually impassive face. When he finished, he put the message down. “I don’t believe it,” he said.

“You’ll notice that the e-mail appears to have been sent from the director’s computer,” Holly said.

“The gall!” Lance said, with more emotion than she had ever seen him display. “He broke into our mainframe and into the director’s mailbox!”

“Looks that way,” Holly said. She leaned forward. “Lance, what is your response going to be?”

“Response? You think I’m going to respond to this?”

“It’s addressed to me. I’ll respond, if you like. He’s apparently created an internal mailbox for himself.”

“When did you last hear from Todd Bacon?” he asked.

“This morning. I’m afraid Teddy is running rings around him.”

“Should we send someone to help him?”

“Lance, read the message again.”

“I’ve read it twice.”

“Then you understand that he is going to start killing again. Do you want that?”

“Of course not.”

“Please remember,” Holly said, “that Teddy is professionally and personally very well equipped—perhaps as much as anyone in the Agency—to eliminate anybody who tries to get to him, and he’s right: If he starts to do that, then explanations are going to have to be made.”

“Are you telling me that Todd can’t handle this?”

“I have a high opinion of Todd,” Holly said. “He is certainly a rising star here and could succeed at any number of assignments. He could also get dead on this one. In fact, I’m surprised that since Teddy so obviously knows about him, he isn’t dead already.”

“Do you believe, as he implies in his message, that Teddy has moved on from Santa Fe?”

“That’s what he does when he thinks he might be discovered: He moves on. I have no reason to doubt him.”

“Todd found him once. He could find him again.”

“That could very well be the worst possible thing that could happen, both to Todd and to you and, by extension, to me.”

“So, Holly, you’re worried about your hide?”

“In dangerous situations, Lance, I always worry about my hide.”

“Not the mission?”

“This isn’t a mission, it’s a vendetta, and vendettas can always turn around and bite you on the ass.”

“I’ll give it some thought.”

“Do you want me to respond to the e-mail?” Holly asked.

“Yes. Say, ‘Message received and understood.’ ”

“Is that a threat or are you agreeing to his terms? We’d better be clear.”

“I don’t want to be clear,” Lance said. “I want him to worry.”

“Then respond to the message yourself,” Holly said, standing up and walking out.

44

Vittorio and Cupie spent their entire day touring Santa Fe’s hotel parking lots, motel parking lots, shopping malls and the Plaza. They had spotted two tan Mercedes wagons, both driven by people who were not Barbara.

They returned, dejected, in the late afternoon, and Cupie poured them both a drink. “Maybe we can’t protect Ed Eagle,” he said as he sank into the recliner next to Vittorio’s.

“You going to fink out on me?” Vittorio asked.

“No. We both have an obligation to Eagle, because we let him nearly get killed while we were on the job.” He sat silently for a moment, then picked up the phone on the table between the two chairs and called a number.

“Detective Santiago,” a voice said.

“Dave, it’s Cupie Dalton.”

“Hey, Cupie. Twice in one week. That’s something.”

“Dave, you remember the Bart Cross killing.”

“Sure.”

“Did you find anything interesting at his residence?”

“In the way of evidence? Not much. His killer was a pro, I’d bet on that.”

“Did you take any personal stuff from his house, like a diary?”

“Nah, there was no diary. Come to think of it, there was an airplane logbook.”

“Now, that’s interesting,” Cupie said.

“Why?”

“Well, I’m trying to put together a picture of his last few days, in connection with a protection job I’m working on. I think he might be the guy who tried to kill a client of mine, put him in the hospital.”

“I see.”

“Could you copy the last, say, four pages of the logbook and fax or e-mail them to me?”

“Sure, I guess so. Which do you prefer?”

“E-mail, if you can scan them.”

“Give me a few minutes,” Santiago said. “You’re buying lunch, right?”

“Wherever you like, Dave. I’ll take you to the Brown Derby, if you like.”

“Cupie, you know very well the Brown Derby closed twenty-five years ago.”

“Okay, you can name the place.”

“Spago Beverly Hills.”

“Done.”

“What time?”

“Not today, Dave. I’m in Santa Fe on a case. As soon as I get back. I promise.”

“Okay. You’ll have the pages shortly.”

Cupie gave him his e-mail address and hung up.

“What are you looking for?” Vittorio asked.

“I’ve no idea,” Cupie replied. “Anything. I’m desperate.”

They drank their drinks, then Cupie’s laptop made the little chiming noise that signaled a new e-mail.

“Incoming,” Cupie said, getting out of his chair and setting his drink down on the desk, next to his laptop. He pulled up Dave Santiago’s e-mail and opened the attachment, then connected his laptop to Vittorio’s computer and printed it.

“So,” Vittorio said, “what have you got?”

Cupie went slowly through the pages. “Seems Bart Cross kept a very meticulous logbook,” he said, “including dates and names of his passengers.” Cupie got to the last page. “Here we go: Bart flew Jim Long to Acapulco and came back the next day with Long and—bingo!—Barbara! Cleared customs at Yuma.”

“Yuma? Why Yuma?”

“Well,” Cupie said, “if you had just escaped from jail in Mexico, you might want to land at some out-of-the-way place, right?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Vittorio said.

“Then he went back to L.A. and landed at Burbank.”

“What about after that?” Vittorio asked.

“A few days later he flew to Albuquerque! Shortly after that we saw him at Barbara’s house. Then the day of the attempt on Eagle, he flew back to Burbank. That was the day he got killed.”

“I guess Barbara didn’t take the news of Eagle’s survival too well,” Vittorio said.

“Hey, look,” Cupie said. “In the notes section he wrote down the color and tag number of Barbara’s Mercedes wagon! Arizona plate.” Cupie wrote down the plate number in his notebook. “Now we know exactly what to look for.”

“I’m getting tired of looking for tan Mercedes wagons,” Vittorio said. “Too many of them out there. We saw three today.”

“Always good to get the correct plate number, though,” Cupie replied. “We got more than that, though.”

“What else we got?”

“We know that Jim Long busted Barbara out of the Mexican jail—or at least got her out of the country after she got out.”

“That is interesting,” Vittorio said. “It’s the sort of information that might make Long willing to talk to us.”

“Tell you what,” Cupie said. “Eagle’s going to be in the hospital for a few more days. Why don’t we go to L.A. tomorrow and pay a little visit on our famous film producer?”

“We got nothing else to do,” Vittorio said.

Cupie called Long’s office at Centurion Studios.

“Long Productions,” a woman said.

“Hi. Can you tell me if and when there’s going to be a funeral for Bart Cross?”

“Why, yes,” the woman replied. “Are you a friend of his?”

“Yes, indeed,” Cupie said.

“Well, there’ll be a graveside service at Forest Lawn tomorrow afternoon at three. Got a pencil? I’ll give you instructions.”

“Shoot,” Cupie said, then wrote down everything. “Will Jim Long be there?” he asked.

“Yes, he will,” she said. “Can I tell him you’re coming?”

“Thank you, yes,” Cupie said, then hung up before she could ask his name.

“Okay, we know where Long is going to be at three tomorrow afternoon.”

“We’ll ambush him, then,” Vittorio replied.

“If anybody knows where Barbara is, it’s Jim Long,” Cupie said.

“Maybe she’ll be at the funeral.”

“Hey, I hadn’t thought of that. Maybe we can shoot her and throw her into Cross’s grave.”

The thought made Vittorio smile.

45

Cupie and Vittorio got off the airplane at LAX and took the bus to the long-term parking lot, where Cupie had left his car. He tossed their bags into the trunk, then opened an aluminum case. “I can offer you a small nine-millimeter or a snub-nosed Smith and Wesson .38. What is your pleasure?”

“I’ll take the nine-millimeter,” Vittorio replied. “I know you ex-cops like the S and W.”

“It’s compact, and it doesn’t jam,” Cupie said, handing Vittorio the semiautomatic in its holster.

Vittorio threaded the holster onto his belt and looked at his watch. “We’d better go directly to the cemetery,” he said. “I’d like to look at the setup before people arrive.”

Cupie knew the way to Glendale and Forest Lawn. They stopped at the gate for a map, and the guard showed them where the grave site was.

“This is one hell of a big cemetery,” Vittorio said, looking at the map while Cupie drove. “Three hundred acres, a quarter of a million graves, it says here.”

“Yeah, anybody who’s anybody is buried here,” Cupie replied.

“How do you suppose a guy like Bart Cross gets buried here?”

“Long probably paid for the plot.”

They drove for ten minutes, following the map, to a corner of the cemetery where there were, mostly, lines of graves marked by flush bronze plaques.

“Over there,” Vittorio said, pointing to where a backhoe was at work.

Cupie found a parking spot, and they looked around the area. He pointed to a marble bench with a view of the grave site. “Let’s have a seat and wait.” He took a newspaper from his jacket pocket and opened it to the crossword puzzle, while Vittorio seemed to zone out, closing his eyes and looking like a statue of himself.

CUPIE POKED VITTORIO on the knee. “Here they come,” he said. A hearse leading a short procession of half a dozen cars appeared and drove up a service road near the grave site. Attendants removed the casket from the rear and placed it on a trolley, which they rolled to the graveside. They positioned the casket over the grave, while a few other cars appeared and parked. Soon there was a group of fifteen or twenty people gathered around the grave, and a minister in a dark suit began to read from a Bible.

“Not a bad turnout,” Cupie said. “I doubt if I’ll do as well.”

“There’s James Long,” Vittorio said, nodding toward the foot of the casket.

“Got ’im,” Cupie said.

They watched as the service concluded and the casket was lowered into the grave. People began walking back to their cars.

“Long is in the BMW,” Cupie said, “and he appears to be alone. Let’s follow and look for an opportunity to brace him. I don’t think this is the place for it.”

“Whatever you say,” Vittorio replied.

They got back into Cupie’s car and waited for Long’s BMW to pass them, then they fell in behind at a reasonable distance. Long headed in the general direction of Centurion Studios, then, after a mile or so, pulled into a gas station, got out and began to refuel his car.

“Now,” Cupie said, pulling into the station and parking to one side. He and Vittorio got out and approached Long, who was leaning against his car and talking on his cell phone while the pump did the work.

“Good morning, Mr. Long,” Cupie said. “Remember us?”

“I’ll call you back,” Long said, and closed his phone. “How could I forget?”

“We won’t take much of your time,” Cupie said. “We just want to inform you of some of the evidence against you that the police will soon be pursuing.”

“What are you talking about?” Long said, looking nervous.

“We can demonstrate to the police that you abetted the escape of Barbara Eagle from a Mexican prison, then flew her to Yuma in Bart Cross’s airplane,” Cupie said.

“I abetted no one in anything,” Long replied, but he didn’t move.

“We’ve got the pages from Bart’s airplane logbook, mentioning both your names and your destinations,” Vittorio said. “That, of course, led to an attempt on Ed Eagle’s life by Bart. You introduced Barbara to him, remember? Then, there’s the matter of Barbara’s murder of Bart. You’re up to your neck in all this, Mr. Long.”

“You guys are not cops,” Long said.

“I used to be,” Cupie said, “and I know lots of guys who still are, even one in Burbank who’s investigating Bart’s murder.”

“What do you want from me?” Long asked.

“We want Barbara,” Vittorio said. “And if we can’t find her ourselves, then we’ll just have to go to the police with our evidence, and they’ll start talking to everybody involved, including you. So, it’s down to you or Barbara. What’s it going to be? You can do yourself a favor by telling us now where she is.”

“I don’t know where she is,” Long said. “I threw her out of my house after I learned of Bart’s death. I don’t know where she went.”

“But you know where she’s going to end up, don’t you?” Cupie asked. “You’re her only friend in the world; you’ve helped her at every turn. You know what she’s up to.”

“She’s obsessed with Ed Eagle,” Long said. “I don’t have to tell you that. I drove her to LAX, so I assume she took a plane somewhere, probably to Santa Fe.”

“And once she gets to Santa Fe, where will she go?”

“I don’t know.”

“Looks like our next call is to the Burbank police,” Cupie said.

“She told me she met a couple at a spa in Tucson who live near Los Alamos,” Long said. “Name of Holroyd. That’s all I know. Maybe she’s there, but I can’t tell you for sure.”

“And how do you get in touch with Barbara?” Cupie asked.

“She uses throwaway cell phones,” Long said.

“Give me the number,” Cupie said.

Long recited a number while Cupie wrote it in his notebook. “This better be correct,” he said.

“It was working as recently as a few days ago,” Long said. “You’ll keep me out of this?”

“That’s not up to us, Mr. Long,” Vittorio said, “but if the information you’ve given us is correct, we won’t bring the police into it. The Burbank department has Bart’s logbook; they’ll be calling on you eventually. You’d better get your story straight and call your lawyer. Or take a prolonged vacation in Mexico.”

The gas pump stopped.

“Your tank is full, Mr. Long,” Cupie said. “Good luck.” Vittorio and Cupie walked back to Cupie’s car and got in.

“Well,” Vittorio said, “we’ve got more to go on now than we’ve had so far.”

“Too fucking right,” Cupie said, looking at his watch. “We can still make the six thirty flight to Albuquerque.”

46

Teddy Fay logged on to the Agency mainframe, apparently from Billings, Montana, and checked the mail for box 10001.

Message received and understood.

The e-mail was unsigned, but it was from Lance Cabot’s mailbox. Still, it was inconclusive: Was he off Teddy’s back? Or did he understand but not give a shit? This wasn’t good enough.

“Any news?” Lauren asked as she came from the kitchen.

Teddy showed her the message.

“That’s great!” she said.

“It could mean anything,” Teddy responded. “Lance Cabot, Holly’s boss, is a very tenacious young man, and at times, he can be reckless.”

“What’s your next move?” she asked.

“Well, it’s clear I’m going to have to make one. I can’t just sit back and wait to see what happens.”

“That sounds ominous,” she said.

“Not necessarily. I’m going to give Lance until tomorrow to communicate with his agent, then I’m going to go looking for young Todd Bacon.”

“What will you do when you find him?” Lauren asked.

“I haven’t decided yet,” Teddy replied. He went to the command level of the e-mail program and checked Holly Barker’s trash box. There were four discarded messages from Todd Bacon, and Teddy read them, chuckling at the report about the GPS tag he had placed on Teddy’s Volvo. The first message mentioned La Fonda.

Teddy then hacked into the central computer of the company that supplied rental cars to the Santa Fe Jetcenter and found that Todd had rented a red Taurus there, but Teddy hadn’t seen that car on the day when Todd was following him. He went further and found that La Fonda used the same company, and that Todd had exchanged the Taurus for a silver Toyota. He made a note of the license plate.

LATE THAT NIGHT, Teddy put a few things into a case, then drove to La Fonda, only five minutes away. He entered the hotel parking garage and began looking for a silver Toyota. He found two, and the second one had the correct plate number.

Teddy opened his case and removed a later version of the same tracking unit that Todd had placed on the Toyota. He fastened it in place under the car, then closed his case and left the garage. Back in his car, he turned on the handheld GPS unit and got a response from the Toyota.

Good, he thought. Now he could choose the time and place of his meeting with Todd.

TODD WAS, at that moment, in bed with Dolly in his hotel room, doing one of the things that she clearly loved most. After he had brought her and himself to a screaming climax, he lay back in bed with her head on his chest and ran his fingers through her thick hair.

“What’s become of your friend Ellie Keeler?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Dolly replied. “I haven’t heard from her.”

“That name is familiar. Is her first name Eleanor?”

“Yes.”

“How did you meet her?”

“She rented the guesthouse next door to Tip’s place when I was living in his guesthouse. She knocked on the door, and I gave her a drink.”

“I’ll bet that’s not all you gave her.” Todd chuckled.

She reached up and slapped him lightly across the face. “Behave yourself,” she said.

“I was thinking, why don’t we get together again? She was quite something.”

“Yes, she is, isn’t she? I’d like that.”

“Do you know how to get in touch with her?”

“I have her cell phone number,” Dolly replied. “I’ll call her in the morning, if you like.”

“Tomorrow night is good for me,” Todd said. “I’ll take the two of you to dinner, if you can get hold of her.”

“I’m sure she’d like to get hold of you,” Dolly laughed.

“And you as well,” Todd said.

VITTORIO AND CUPIE got back to Vittorio’s house late, after stopping for dinner on the way from Albuquerque Airport.

Vittorio found the Los Alamos section of the phone book and looked for the name “Holroyd.” There was only one listing.

“It’s on Big Bowl Road,” he said.

“Do you know it?”

“Yeah. A zillion years ago the mountain where Los Alamos is was an active volcano. One day the thing exploded, blowing the top off the mountain and sending pieces of it as far away as Kansas. The result was that a big, shallow bowl of a valley was formed where the top of the mountain used to be, and that’s where Big Bowl Road is. It’s very beautiful up there.”

“Well, tomorrow, why don’t we do some sightseeing?” Cupie suggested.

“I think that’s a good idea.”

“Is there a house number?”

“Yes, 1228. That’s part of the new federal plan to give every house in the U.S. a street address, for the emergency services, in case they have to find it. It means that the Holroyd house is twelve-point-twenty-eight miles from the nearest intersection with a main road, so it shouldn’t be hard to find.”

“Now,” Cupie said, “we have to talk about what we do if we find her.”

“Yeah,” Vittorio replied. “I guess we do.”

BARBARA HAD REACHED the Holroyds’ house in time for dinner, and their cook had done some of her best work. They feasted on venison that Hugh had shot near his house.

“There’s plenty of it up here,” he said. “All you have to do is conceal yourself, make sure you have a clear field of fire and wait. One will come along soon.”

“Hugh, how long have you two lived up here?”

“Seven years,” Holroyd said, “though we travel a lot. We also kept our place in San Francisco.”

“That’s where I live, too,” Barbara said.

“Wait a minute: Keeler. Were you married to Walter Keeler?”

“Yes, I was,” Barbara replied.

“I read about his death in that awful accident,” Hugh said. “I’m very sorry.”

“Thank you. Did you know Walter?”

“Yes. I did some business with him, supplied aluminum avionics trays for the units he manufactured. I liked him.”

“So did I,” Barbara said.

“I knew his lawyer, too—Joe Wilen?”

“Oh, yes,” Barbara said. “I knew him, too.”

“I didn’t like him as much as Walter, though. He tried to screw me on a deal once.”

“He did the same for me,” Barbara said. She told them about how Wilen and his associate had changed her husband’s will.

“Well, I hope you finally get everything that’s coming to you,” Hugh said.

“I usually do,” Barbara replied.

47

Ed Eagle was pushed in a wheelchair to the door of the hospital, and a cop held the car door open for him. Susannah got behind the wheel, then the cop got into the unmarked car behind them and followed them home.

Ed walked into the house and looked around. “God, but I’ve missed this place,” he said.

Susannah helped him off with his coat. “And you’ve been missed here, too.” The first couple of nights after he was hospitalized, she had slept on a cot near him, but when he was better she had gone home nights.

“Do you want to lie down?” she asked.

“No,” he replied. “I want to call the office and tell them I’m still alive.” He went into his study, called his secretary, got a few phone messages and told her he’d be back at work the following Monday.

Susannah made them lunch and sent sandwiches out to the two cops, who sat in their car, the motor running, the heater turned up.

“Do you feel safe?” Susannah asked.

“No.”

“Neither do I.”

“She’s still out there somewhere,” Eagle said. “I wonder where Vittorio and Cupie are.”

“I had a call from Cupie yesterday. He said they were making a quick trip to L.A. He didn’t say why.”

CUPIE AND VITTORIO DROVE up the winding mountain road to Los Alamos, drove through the town and out the other side.

“Next right,” Vittorio said, looking at the map. After Cupie had turned, Vittorio said, “Check the odometer for the mileage. We want to drive twelve-point-twenty-eight miles.”

They wound down the road into the broad valley, Big Bowl, and as they came up on the house number, Vittorio pointed to a large stone with the name “Holroyd” etched into it.

“Now what?” Cupie asked. “We can’t just drive down the driveway.”

“There was a dirt road forty or fifty yards up the hill,” Vittorio said. “Turn around and let’s take a look in there.”

Cupie did as he was instructed, then stopped. “I think we ought to go on foot from here,” he said. “If Barbara is at the end of this track we don’t want her to see the car.”

The two men got out of the car and began walking down the road. After a hundred yards they passed a copse of piñon trees and the view down the hill opened up. They could see the Holroyd house and what appeared to be a guesthouse.

Vittorio stopped and took a small pair of binoculars from his coat pocket. He scanned the house carefully, then handed the lenses to Cupie. “Look at the corner of the guesthouse,” he said.

Cupie got the binoculars focused, then panned from the main house to the guesthouse and stopped.

“What does that look like behind the corner of the guesthouse?” Vittorio asked.

Cupie grinned. “The rear of a tan station wagon,” he said.

“Okay,” Vittorio said. “Now we have to go talk to Ed Eagle.”

LATE IN THE DAY the phone rang, and Eagle picked it up. “Hello?”

“Mr. Eagle,” a cop said, “I’ve got Vittorio and Cupie out here, and they want to see you.”

“Send them in,” Eagle said. He hung up and walked to the front door to meet them.

“Good to see you looking well, Ed,” Cupie said.

“It’s good to feel well,” Eagle replied.

“We want to apologize again for letting that guy get at you,” Vittorio said.

“Apology unnecessary,” Eagle said. “You probably saved my life by getting an ambulance here so fast.” He took them into his study and sat them down.

“Here’s what we know so far, Ed,” Cupie said. “When Barbara got away from the jail—and we still don’t know how she did that—she was met by James Long in Acapulco and flown back to the States by a pilot who worked for Long named Bart Cross. They dropped Barbara off in Yuma. Somewhere between Yuma and Santa Fe she met some people called Holroyd, from Los Alamos.

“Barbara rented a guesthouse at Las Campanas and was apparently in Santa Fe for a few days, at least. Then she went back to L.A. and hired the pilot, Cross, to kill you. After he attacked you he went back to L.A., probably thinking you were dead. Then Barbara, having heard that you were still alive, went to his house in Burbank and shot him. We were able to get hold of some pages from his aircraft logbook that confirms some of this.

“Yesterday, we went to L.A. and watched Cross’s funeral at Forest Lawn, from a distance, and after that we followed James Long to a gas station and questioned him. He talked to us, because he’s afraid he’ll be implicated both in the attack on you and the murder of Cross.”

“The son of a bitch,” Eagle said. “And we’re actually in business with him on this film Susannah is making.”

“Right. Long gave it up that he drove to LAX, and that Barbara might look up the Holroyds in Los Alamos, and this morning we drove up there and confirmed that a car like hers is parked at their guesthouse.”

“So, she’s in Los Alamos?”

“A few miles the other side,” Vittorio said. “What we need to know now is what you want to do about her. We can call the police, but the problem is, she’s not currently wanted for anything in this country. We could tell the Burbank cops that she killed Bart Cross, but there’s only the aircraft logbook to tie her to him at all, and we have no evidence that she hired Cross to kill you.”

“I see the problem,” Eagle said. “She’ll be wanted in Mexico for breaking prison, I assume.”

“There’s a problem there, too,” Cupie said, “because nobody seems to know she’s out of prison except the warden and a cop I know in Tijuana, who got the warden to tell him.”

“How could nobody know about a prison break?” Eagle asked.

“We believe that the warden had been screwing Barbara, or vice versa, and that she probably found an opportunity to get out through his office or his attached apartment, and that when he found her gone, he simply didn’t tell anybody. When you think about it, the only way she could be proved missing would be for the government to send some people down there and count noses. But that hasn’t happened.”

“So, getting her arrested in Mexico, the way we did before, isn’t an option?”

“Not really. And she entered the country legally, at Yuma, so right now nobody can lay a hand on her.”

“So, I’m supposed to sit around and wait for her to try to kill me again?”

Cupie and Vittorio exchanged a meaningful glance.

“What?” Eagle asked.

“The next step is entirely up to you, Ed,” Cupie said.

Eagle looked at them both. “You have a recommendation?”

“No,” Cupie said. “We don’t, and I think we should be careful what we discuss.”

Eagle gazed out the window at the landscape for a long moment. “I’m going to have to think about this and talk with Susannah about it.”

“I wouldn’t do that, Ed,” Cupie said.

48

Eagle looked up a number in his address book. “Hang on,” he said to Cupie and Vittorio. “I need to make a call to a guy I went to law school with, who works in the State Department now.”

Eagle dialed the number, a direct line that was picked up by a secretary.

“Mr. Abbott’s office,” she said.

“This is Ed Eagle speaking. I’m an old friend of Mr. Abbott’s, and I’d like to speak to him, please.”

“One moment, Mr. Eagle,” the woman said. “I’ll see if I can locate him.” Eagle pressed the speaker button so the two P.I.s could hear.

“Ed?”

“Bob, how are you?”

“I’m very well, and you?”

“I’m well and getting better.” He told Abbott about the attack on him.

“Wow,” Abbott said. “I guess the practice of criminal law is more dangerous than I thought.”

“In this case, Bob, the danger is in whom you choose to marry.

This is the third attempt on my life, and my ex-wife was behind all three.”

“Didn’t I read something about her being arrested in Mexico?”

“Yes, and she was sent to prison there, but she escaped.”

“Is there some way I can help, Ed?”

“I hope there is, Bob. I have reason to believe that the warden of the prison from which she escaped has not reported that fact to his superiors, so there is no police search on for her.”

“How could that happen?”

“My assumption is he just kept her on his books, and nobody outside the prison knows she’s gone. What I need is for somebody from the Mexican Ministry of Justice to go there and demand to see Barbara Eagle. When they learn she’s gone, she’ll officially be wanted.”

“Do you have any idea where she is now?”

“Two private investigators I’ve employed tell me she’s at the home of some people she knows, near Los Alamos.”

“Why don’t you call the New Mexico State Police?”

“Because she’s not wanted for any crime in the U.S. If the Mexican government makes a request for extradition, then she can be arrested here and sent back. It’ll take time, but she’ll at least be in jail while we’re waiting. Right now, we’re pretty sure she’s plotting another attempt on my life.”

“Ed, this is the worst thing I’ve ever heard. I have a solid contact in the Mexican foreign ministry, and he will certainly know someone at Justice. I’ll call him and see if we can get an investigation going.”

“Thank you, Bob,” Eagle said. “You can understand that time is of the essence.”

“Certainly, Ed. I’ll get back to you when I know something.”

“Thank you so much, Bob.” Eagle hung up and turned to Cupie and Vittorio. “All right, we’re moving on that front. Now I suggest, Cupie, that you call whoever you can in L.A. and see if you can get them to issue an arrest warrant for Barbara. I know we’re light on evidence, but I’d like her off the street.”

“So would we, Ed,” Cupie said. “I’ll get right on it.”

“You can use the phone in the living room,” Eagle said.

Cupie went into the living room, dialed the number in Burbank and asked for Dave Santiago.

“Detective Santiago.”

“Dave, it’s Cupie Dalton. I’m going to give you an opportunity to turn that lunch I owe you into a dinner, with a very expensive bottle of wine.”

“You have my attention, Cupie.”

“I know who killed Bart Cross.”

“Are you going to share that name with me?”

“It’s two names. Got a pencil?”

“Always.”

“Her name is Barbara Eagle, and she also uses the name Eleanor Keeler.”

“Wait a minute,” Santiago said. “Isn’t that the woman who was tried and acquitted of the murder of some Mafioso at the Hotel Bel-Air?”

“One and the same.”

“And she was married to that guy, Keeler, the electronics zillionaire, who drove his car into a gasoline tanker?”

“It sounds as though you’ve been introduced to the lady.”

“No, but I read the tabloids like everybody else. Tell me why you think she killed Cross.”

“Evidence that she knew him is in the airplane logbook you’re already in possession of. The next-to-last page in the logbook.”

“Wait a minute,” Santiago said. He came back a moment later. “Okay, I’ve got it: a flight from Acapulco to Yuma?”

“That’s it. That’s proof that she knew him. The guy she was traveling with is James Long.”

“Movie producer?”

“Righto.”

“Motive?”

“She hired Cross to kill my client, Ed Eagle, and he very nearly got it done, cut the man’s throat. When Barbara heard Eagle was still alive, she killed Cross and burned her bridges.”

“Is Long involved in this?”

“I can’t prove that he knew she was going to kill Cross, but he certainly introduced the two, and he told me that he kicked her out of his house when he heard about the murder. Cross worked for him out at Centurion.”

“What can you prove?”

“I’m afraid that’s up to you and your guys, pal, but trust me, she’s your perp.”

“Any idea where she is?”

“As a matter of fact I do. Long told me she knows some people in Los Alamos, and my partner and I tracked her there this morning, saw her car parked at their guesthouse. Their name is Holroyd.” Cupie gave him the address.

“Cupie, I’ve been through the murder book, and we don’t have anything that can place anybody in that house on the night Cross was killed.”

“Well, you know somebody was there, Dave.”

“Sure, we do.”

“You need to go back to that house and find something—anything—that can put her at the scene. Her prints and DNA are in the system.”

“I can get that done,” Santiago replied.

“In the meantime, can you get a warrant and get her off the street before she makes another attempt on Ed Eagle’s life?”

Santiago was silent for a moment. “Cupie, I’d like to help you, but all we can prove is that she knew Cross, and that’s not enough for an arrest warrant. The D.A. would throw me out of his office.”

“I’ll give you odds she’s still got the gun,” Cupie said. “And that would be all you need.”

“Cupie, she’s in New Mexico.”

“I know that.”

“Haul James Long in and grill him. Maybe he’ll give her up.”

“Guy like that is going to lawyer up instantly.”

“I’ll bet you he’d sell her out for immunity.”

“It’s a thought. I’m going to have to get back to you, Cupie.”

“Make it soon, Dave. You’ve got my cell number.”

“Where are you now?”

“In Santa Fe, at Eagle’s house.”

“When I know something,” Santiago said, and hung up.

Cupie went back and reported to Eagle.

“All right,” Eagle said. “Now all we can do is wait: me for my guy, you for yours.”

Vittorio spoke up. “Ed, we’ve involved the U.S. government and the Burbank police in this, and that means that we can’t do anything, ah, extracurricular, to Barbara.”

“I understand that,” Eagle said, “and we’re all better off not being tempted.”

49

Barbara was watching Morning Joe on MSNBC, as Joe Scarborough, in a generous mood, was saying something nice about Barack Obama.

“Pinko!” she shouted at the screen as her cell phone rang. Barbara found it under a pile of clothes and picked it up. “Yes?”

“Barbara, this is Ralph Waters, in Palo Alto.”

“Yes, Ralph.”

“I’ve made some real progress here,” the lawyer said. “I’ve located Margie, the secretary, and she’s given me copies of the two pages that were changed in Walter’s will, along with copies of the two replacement pages. I’ve taken it to a judge, and he’s going to schedule a hearing as soon as he can appoint a new executor to represent the estate.”

“Why does he have to do that?”

“Because Joe Wilen was the executor, and Ms. Hight was the backup, and they’re both dead.”

“Oh. How long is this going to take?”

“I can’t say. I’ve pushed the judge as hard as I can to move this along, and I’ll call his clerk tomorrow to remind him.”

“Once the hearing date is set, how long will the process take?”

“If everything goes smoothly everything could be decided at the hearing, and I’ll ask the judge for expedited probate.”

“All right, Ralph. Call me the minute you know something.”

“Do you want to come to the hearing?”

“Not unless I have to.”

“No, you don’t. I can represent you.”

“Thank you, Ralph, and please continue to keep this quiet.”

“I’ll do the best I can.”

They both hung up.

She tried not to hope, lest she be disappointed. She watched television for another two hours and was about to get into a shower when her cell phone rang again.

“Yes?”

“Barbara, it’s Ralph Waters.”

“Hello again, Ralph.”

“I’ve got something incredible to tell you: The judge has appointed a new executor. He’s an underemployed crony of the judge, who will do whatever he’s told. We’ve got a hearing tomorrow, and Margie is going to be there with the original pages of the will!”

“That’s fantastic, Ralph! I don’t know how you got this done so quickly!”

“It was a matter of knowing which judge to take this to,” Waters said.

“What about the other heirs?”

“There’ll be no dispute there. They’ll inherit as per the will, so they’ll have no beef. The only entity that will lose on this is Walter’s personal charitable foundation, and Walter’s old secretary is the head of that. What sort of relationship did you have with her?”

“I met her only once, and we got along very well. After that, I spoke to her when I was calling Walter, or he was calling me, and that’s all.”

“Then I hope she won’t be a problem,” Waters said. “One thing:

The judge wants you at the hearing, and I think your testimony will be valuable.”

“I’ll be there. If the hearing goes our way, do you think you can get the new executor to release Walter’s airplane for my use?”

“I’ll try, Barbara.”

“You call me the minute that hearing is over, Ralph. What time is it set for?”

“Eleven A.M. The judge is a late sleeper.”

“I’ll look forward to hearing from you,” Barbara said, then hung up and fell to her knees. “Dear God,” she prayed, “I’m sorry I’ve been such a bad person, but if you’ll let me have this money, I’ll never kill anybody again, not even Ed Eagle!”

IN TRES CRUCES, Pedro Alvarez was sitting at his desk, speaking to his bookie about a soccer game in Mexico City that weekend, when there was a knock on his door.

“Come in!” Alvarez shouted, and went on with his conversation. The door opened, but he paid no attention. “One hundred pesos on Mexico City,” he was saying.

“Capitán,” the female guard said.

Alvarez turned and looked at her, and there were two men in suits and a federal police officer standing next to her. “I’ll call you back,” he said to the bookie, and hung up.

“Capitán Alvarez,” the taller of the two civilians said. “I represent the minister of justice.”

Alvarez’s mouth dropped open. This did not sound good, and the presence of the policeman was even worse. He got to his feet and saluted. “Good morning, señor,” he said. “How may I be of service?”

The man handed him a document. “This is an order, signed by the minister of justice,” he said. “It demands that you produce your prisoner Barbara Eagle forthwith.”

Alvarez’s mouth went dry, his head began to spin and he fainted. He woke up when someone threw a glass of water in his face. He raised a hand to wipe away the water and discovered that it was handcuffed to his other hand.

ED EAGLE ANSWERED his ringing phone. “Hello?”

“Ed, it’s Bob Abbott, in Washington.”

“Hello, Bob. I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon.”

“I spoke to my friend in the Mexican foreign ministry after you called, and he spoke to his contact in the Ministry of Justice. Apparently, there was a Justice official in Acapulco for a conference, and yesterday morning he and an associate visited the women’s prison in Tres Cruces and confronted the warden, a Captain Alvarez.”

“That’s good news, Bob. What was the outcome?”

“They demanded that he produce Barbara Eagle, and he passed out on the floor.”

Eagle laughed. “That must have been a rude shock for the man.”

“Apparently so. When they revived him he confessed that he had not reported her escape because he was embarrassed.”

“I expect he was.”

“In any case, the official called Mexico City, the minister of justice signed an arrest warrant for Barbara Eagle on a charge of escape from prison, and he faxed the warrant to me. I have it in my hand.”

“That’s wonderful news, Bob. What’s the next step?”

“I have to messenger this over to the attorney general, who will issue an order to the director of the FBI, directing him that the U.S. government has acquiesced to extradition. The director will then instruct the agent in charge of the Santa Fe office to see a federal judge and apply for an extradition warrant. Once that’s signed by the judge, then agents will go to the address in Los Alamos and arrest her. There’ll be an extradition hearing soon after that.”

“I don’t see how she can beat extradition,” Eagle said.

“Neither do I. It’s going to take several days to penetrate all these layers, but I’ll move it along as well as I can.”

“Thank you, Bob,” Eagle said. “I owe you a very nice vacation as my guest in Santa Fe, just as soon as this is over.”

“I’ll take you up on that, Ed.”

Eagle thanked him again and hung up. “Susannah!” he shouted. “Good news!”

50

Ralph Waters called Barbara back half an hour later. “I’ve spoken to the executor, and he’s released the airplane for the roundtrip. I’ve spoken to the FBO, and they can have the airplane in Santa Fe by five o’clock, at Santa Fe Jetcenter. You’ll be home by dinnertime.”

“Wonderful!” Barbara said. “See you tomorrow morning!” She packed everything and called the live-in maid at the San Francisco apartment and warned her of her arrival. She then announced her departure to the Holroyds, who were sorry she was leaving and invited her back anytime. She was at the airport by four thirty and watched the beautiful airplane land and taxi in.

The captain came into the FBO, introduced himself and directed the loading of her luggage. There was no need to refuel, so he escorted her aboard the airplane immediately.

Barbara stood in the aisle and looked around her at the gleaming leather and walnut interior. “It’s wonderful,” she said to the stewardess. “What kind is it?”

“It’s a Gulfstream Four,” the young woman replied. “Haven’t you flown on it before?”

“No. Walter had a CitationJet when we were married, and he bought this airplane immediately after that. He died before we could fly in it together.”

The stewardess helped her choose a seat and brought her a drink and a snack while they were taxiing to the runway. As the big airplane roared down the runway Barbara smiled and thought to herself that this was the only way to travel.

They landed at San Jose two hours later, after bucking a head-wind, and the FBO had arranged a car to meet her. An hour later she walked into the San Francisco apartment and found it exactly as she had left it. She ordered dinner and began going through her wardrobe to select the perfect courtroom outfit.

THE JUDGE CALLED the court to order and asked Ralph Waters to present his case.

“I call Mrs. Walter Keeler,” Waters said, and Barbara took the stand and was sworn. She was wearing a black Chanel suit and appropriate jewelry.

“Mrs. Keeler, how long did you and Mr. Keeler know each other before you were married?”

“Only a few weeks,” Barbara replied. “We fell in love almost on sight.”

“Do you remember the day Mr. Keeler died?”

“Very well.”

“Can you tell us what occurred that day before his death?”

“We had breakfast together on the terrace. Walter said that he wanted to go down to Palo Alto to close up his old apartment, and that he wanted to see Joe Wilen and make a new will.”

“Did he tell you what would be in the will?”

“Yes. He told me he had a few bequests to make, including one of a hundred million dollars to his foundation, and that the rest would come to me. In fact, he had made notes to that effect, and he showed them to me.”

“And after Mr. Keeler’s death, when did you hear from Mr. Wilen?”

“He called me that afternoon to tell me about the accident, but I had already heard about it on television. He said he needed to see me and made an appointment for the next day.”

“And what did he have to say to you at that time?”

“He told me that my inheritance was use of the apartment and a monthly allowance for life, nothing else. He also told me that Walter had put a clause in the will saying that anyone who contested it would have their inheritance reduced to one dollar, and he advised me not to contest it. I told him what Walter had said to me the previous morning, but he said that was not what was in Walter’s mind. He gave me a copy of the will and showed me the relevant pages.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Keeler,” Waters said. “That concludes my questioning. Your Honor, do you have any questions for my witness?”

“No,” the judge said.

Waters called the secretary, Margie, to the stand and asked her to give her version of events on the day Walter Keeler had died.

“Mr. Keeler had come into the office that day to sign the will that Mr. Wilen had prepared from his telephone instructions,” she said. “He also instructed Mr. Wilen to disperse funds to pay for an airplane he had bought.”

“Did Mr. Keeler read the will?” Waters asked.

“Yes, and very carefully. He took his time, then he signed it and Ms. Hight, another office worker, and I witnessed it, and I notarized his signature.”

“What did you do with the will at that point?” Waters asked.

“I made two copies for Mr. Keeler and his wife, and I put the original in our safe, at his request.”

“Can you give us a brief summary of Mr. Keeler’s bequests in the will?”

“He left bequests for his alma mater and several friends, and a bequest to his personal charitable foundation. The remainder of the estate he left to his wife, Eleanor Keeler.”

“How much was the total of the bequests left to others?” Waters asked.

“Approximately four hundred million dollars,” Margie replied.

“And how much was the residue left to Mrs. Keeler?”

“Approximately one billion two hundred million dollars in liquid assets,” she said, “plus the San Francisco apartment; the Palo Alto apartment, which he planned to sell; the new airplane he had just bought; and several pieces of commercial real estate, including a hangar with an apartment in it at San Jose Airport.”

“What was Mr. Keeler’s mood during his visit to your law firm?”

“He was quite cheerful and happy. He had just been married, and he was very happy about that.”

“What time did Mr. Keeler leave the firm?”

“Around three in the afternoon,” she replied. “He wanted to beat the rush-hour traffic back to San Francisco, and he took the two copies of the will with him.”

“And do you remember what happened after that?”

“Yes, vividly. Half an hour after he left the office, someone had a local TV station on our office set, and they reported that a car driven by Walter Keeler had collided with a gasoline tanker truck on the interstate, and that he had been killed and his car destroyed by the flames.”

“What happened then?”

“Joe Wilen called Ms. Hight and me into his office and read us a letter from Mrs. Keeler’s ex-husband, which said some bad things about her. I didn’t think much of it, since people who’ve been divorced often say terrible things about each other, but Mr. Wilen took it very seriously. He told us he had shown the letter to Mr. Keeler and urged him not to leave so much to Mrs. Keeler, but that he had refused to even read it and said the will reflected his desires, something he also said when the witnesses were sworn.”

“What happened next?”

“Mr. Wilen told Ms. Hight and me that he despised Mrs. Keeler and was determined to see that she did not get the bulk of Mr. Keeler’s estate. He told us about his plan for doing her in and asked if the two of us would cooperate with him. He warned us that what he was doing was unethical, and that if it was ever found out, all of us might go to prison.”

“What was the reaction of Ms. Hight and yourself?”

“Ms. Hight agreed immediately, as she shared Mr. Wilen’s opinion of Mrs. Keeler, but I was reluctant because although I had met her only once, I thought Mrs. Keeler was a very nice lady.”

“But you agreed to join them in this?”

“I felt under a great deal of pressure,” Margie said. “I had worked for Mr. Wilen for more than twenty years, and he had been very kind to me, so, to my regret, I went along.”

“Tell us how the will was changed, please.”

“It was very simple: Mr. Wilen removed the two pages of the will that dealt with bequests and dictated changes to me which reduced Mrs. Keeler’s inheritance to the use of, but not the ownership of, the San Francisco apartment, and an allowance of fifty thousand dollars a month, both for life. I typed up the new pages and Mr. Wilen forged Mr. Keeler’s initials on them with the same pen he had used to sign the will, and he instructed me to destroy the original pages.”

“Did you do so?”

“I did not. I could foresee a time when I might have to reveal what Mr. Wilen had done.”

“And did you do so?”

“Yes. Mr. Wilen was murdered a couple of weeks later, and a few weeks later Ms. Hight was diagnosed with advanced breast cancer. She died a couple of months later. Since they were both gone, I felt I should reveal what had been done to the will, so I wrote to the Ethics Committee of the California Bar Association and told them what had been done to the will.”

Waters picked up four pieces of paper from his table and handed them to Margie. “What are these papers?” he asked.

Margie held up two pages. “These are the original pages from the will, as Mr. Keeler had instructed them to be drawn.” She held up two pages with her other hand. “These are the two pages that Mr. Wilen dictated to me, eliminating nearly all of Mrs. Keeler’s inheritance.”

The judge spoke up. “Hand them to me,” he said. He read all four pages carefully. “I understand that the chairman of Mr. Keeler’s foundation is here with her attorney.”

A lawyer stood up. “I represent the foundation, judge.”

“Have you read these four pages?” the judge asked.

“Yes, Judge, both the chairman and I have read them.”

“Do you have an opinion as to the veracity of this witness’s testimony?”

“Judge, we believe her testimony is accurate, and although accepting it reduces drastically the amount due to the foundation, we feel we must accept it.”

“Is there any other person in the courtroom who has any objections to raise or wishes to contradict this lady’s testimony?”

There was silence in the courtroom.

“In that case I rule in favor of Mrs. Keeler and order that the original pages be restored to the will, and that it receive expedited probate. Mr. Waters, do you have any requests?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Waters said. “We request that the executor immediately transfer the sum of one hundred million dollars, or securities in that value, and that she be given the free use of Mr. Keeler’s airplane and its hangar, and that bills for the support and fuel of the airplane be paid by the executor until the will is probated and all the funds dispersed.” Waters held up a document. “I have prepared an order to that effect.”

“So ruled,” the judge said. “Give me the order.” He signed two copies and gave one to the executor and one to Waters. “This court is adjourned.”

BARBARA HAD TO SIT DOWN, and she had to work very hard not to pee in her pants.

Waters sat down beside her and handed her the court order. “Are you all right?” he asked.

“I’m very well, thank you. I just need a moment.”

“Take your time.”

The executor walked over and introduced himself. “Mrs. Keeler, if you will give me a voided check on your bank account, I will transfer the funds in cash immediately.”

Barbara ripped out a check, wrote “VOID” across it and handed it to the man.

“And as soon as I get back to the office I’ll fax a letter to the FBO ordering that you control the airplane and that bills are to come to me, until the estate is settled.”

“Thank you so much,” Barbara said, giving him a winning smile.

51

Half an hour passed before Barbara could collect herself enough to allow Ralph Waters to walk her out of the court-house and put her into a cab.

As Waters held the door for her, she grabbed him and gave him a huge, wet kiss. “Send me a big bill,” she said, “and on top of that, I owe you the best blow job of your life.”

She got into the cab, and the stunned lawyer mustered enough control to close the door and wave her off.

Barbara gave the driver the address of her apartment building, but as they were driving toward home, she saw an important sign hanging in front of a plate-glass window. “Stop!” she said, and the cab skidded to a halt before the premises.

“What’s the matter, ma’am?” the driver asked, alarmed.

Barbara handed him a hundred-dollar bill. “Absolutely nothing,” she replied, opening the door and getting out. “Have a wonderful life!” She opened the door to the business and walked inside.

A distinguished-looking, middle-aged gentleman, clad in a double-breasted blue blazer with brass buttons, approached her with a welcoming smile. “Good morning, madam,” he said smoothly in a mid-Atlantic accent. “How . . .”

“That is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen,” Barbara said, interrupting and pointing. “Exactly what is it?”

“That,” the gentleman said, “is the brand-new Bentley Mulsanne, and this is the first of its kind to reach the San Francisco market. By the way, my name is Charles Grosvenor,” he said, handing her an engraved and embossed card.

“How do you do? I am Mrs. Walter Keeler. I don’t suppose this one is for sale,” Barbara said.

“Actually, it was a special order by a regular customer, but we received word only this morning that he has suffered a serious illness and will be unable to complete the sale.”

“How very sad,” Barbara said, looking through a window at the gorgeous interior. “I’ll take it.”

“This example is in Aspen green with an interior of saffron and green leather, and trim of burled English walnut.”

“I’ll take it,” Barbara said.

“It has a twin-turbocharged, twelve-cylinder engine rated at six hundred horsepower.”

“I’ll take it,” Barbara said.

“The base price of the car is two hundred and eighty-five thousand dollars, but this particular Mulsanne is equipped with every option available for the car, bringing the total price to three hundred and forty-five thousand dollars, plus sales tax of nine-point-five percent, making a total of three hundred seventy-seven thousand, seven hundred and seventy-five dollars.”

Barbara sat down at the salesman’s desk and withdrew her checkbook from her purse. “To whom would you like the check made?” she asked.

“Bentley of San Francisco,” Grosvenor replied.

Barbara wrote the check, ripped it out and handed it to the man. “I’m going to need a driver,” she said.

“We will be pleased to supply you with a uniformed chauffeur until such time as you are able to hire your own person,” he replied. “May we arrange automobile insurance for you? We recommend Chubb.”

“That’s fine. They insure my apartment. My address and phone number are on the check. Tell them to add the car to my policy.”

“Do you require a personalized number plate?”

“Yes. Make it KEELER.”

He wrote down the name. “We will be happy to make that application for you. Will you excuse me for a very few minutes while I have the ownership paperwork prepared for your signature?”

“Of course,” Barbara said, walking over to the car, opening the driver’s door, seating herself inside and closing the door with a satisfying thud. The man was calling her bank, of course.

She explored the car’s interior, opening the glove box and the center console, running her fingers over the leather and walnut. She adjusted the seat and steering wheel, switched on the ignition and tried to figure out the radio. Soon she had a soft flow of lovely classical music playing through hidden speakers.

Ahead of her along the showroom wall a door opened and a small man in a sharply cut black suit with a peaked cap under his arm emerged and walked toward the car and stopped outside the open driver’s window.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Keeler,” he said in a cockney accent. “My name is Stanley Willard, and I have been assigned as your driver.”

“What do you like to be called?” Barbara asked.

“Willard is the usual term of address,” he replied. “No title is necessary.”

“Willard it will be,” Barbara said.

“May I give you a tour of the car’s controls?” Willard asked.

“Thank you. Yes.”

Willard walked around the car and got into the front passenger seat, and for the next ten minutes he took her carefully through each control and showed her how to operate the many systems that displayed on the car’s navigation screen.

As they completed the tour Charles Grosvenor entered the showroom with a file folder under his arm and escorted Barbara back to his desk. “Ownership requires a few signatures,” he said. “You will receive a temporary dealer’s tag and registration. Your vanity plate and permanent registration will be mailed to your home address.”

Barbara signed all the papers, and Grosvenor tucked them into a heavy cream-colored envelope embossed with the Bentley logo and handed it to her. “Is there anything else I may do for you, Mrs. Keeler?”

“Yes, there is,” Barbara replied. “I would like to buy Stanley Willard.”

Grosvenor smiled. “Willard is a free agent, Mrs. Keeler, and you may negotiate directly with him.” He leaned in closer and lowered his voice. “You may like to know that he is currently paid five hundred dollars a week.”

Barbara stood up and offered him her hand. “Thank you, Mr. Grosvenor, for handling this transaction with such dispatch.”

“It has been my very great pleasure, Mrs. Keeler, and I hope that I may continue to be of service. Please call me at any time for any reason.”

“Are you married, Mr. Grosvenor?” she asked.

“I was widowed two years ago,” he replied.

“Would you like to have dinner this evening?”

“How very kind of you, Mrs. Keeler. I would be delighted to join you.”

“Drinks at my home at seven, followed by dinner at Boulevard? I’ll send Willard for you.”

“Perfect. Willard knows my address.”

“Now, how do we get the car through the plate-glass window?” Barbara asked.

Grosvenor pressed a button on the wall next to him, and the window rose like a garage door. “There we are.”

“I’ll drive, Willard,” Barbara said, sliding into the car and adjusting her skirt. “You ride shotgun.”

“You may put the ignition key in your purse, if you wish,” Grosvenor said. “The starter button will operate any time you’re in the car, and the doors will lock or unlock as you arrive or leave.”

Barbara settled into the seat, pressed the start button and was greeted with a sound like a distant Ferrari. She put the car in gear, drove across the sidewalk and turned toward home.

“Willard,” she said, “I’d like you to come to work for me. How’s seven hundred and fifty dollars a week, paid vacation and medical insurance sound?”

“I am delighted to accept, Mrs. Keeler,” Willard replied, fastening his seat belt as Barbara rounded a corner with a roar and squealing of tires.

52

Lieutenant Dave Santiago pulled up to the Beverly Hills address, stopped at the curb and switched off the engine. “Jeff, let’s get something straight before we go in there,” he said to the FBI agent, Jeff Borden, in the passenger seat.

“What’s that, Dave?”

“This is my investigation, and I take the lead in the questioning. Got it?”

“In our book,” Borden said, “a murder in the United States takes precedence over a prison escape in Mexico.”

“Good.”

“Dave, I don’t have to tell you how thin the ice is that you’re skating on, do I? I mean, given the lack of direct evidence against Barbara Eagle in the murder of Bart Cross, you may have to settle for letting us send her back to Mexico. At least she’ll be off the streets of L.A.”

“I understand that, Jeff, but this guy is our best shot for hanging the homicide on her, if I can turn him. I’m going to be the good cop here—then, if it looks like I’m not getting anywhere, I’ll defer to you, and you can explain his other liabilities to him, okay?”

“Okay. I’m good with that,” Borden replied.

As they opened their car doors a big BMW swung into the driveway and stopped. James Long unfolded himself from the car and started up the walk toward the front door.

“James Long?” Santiago called.

Long stopped and looked at the two men in suits, their jackets unbuttoned, a badge showing on the belt of the one who had spoken to him.

“Yes?”

“I am Detective David Santiago, and this is Special Agent Jeff Borden of the FBI. We’d like to speak to you, please. May we go inside?”

“Sure,” Long said. He unlocked the front door and set his briefcase on a table in the foyer, then led them into the living room and waved them to seats. “Would you like a drink?”

“On duty, I’m afraid,” Santiago said, “but thanks for the thought.”

“Mind if I have one?”

“Certainly not,” Santiago replied. He didn’t mind questioning a man who was drinking.

Long walked to a bar built into a bookcase, poured himself a shot of something, downed it, then put ice into his glass and poured another, then returned to where the two sat and took a chair. “What can I do for you?” he asked, taking a tug at his drink.

He was trying to look calm, Santiago thought, but he wasn’t making it. “My department is investigating the murder of your former employee, Barton Cross.”

“Good. I’m glad to hear it. I was very upset when I heard of Bart’s death. He was a good man.”

“I’m sure he was, Mr. Long. Specifically, I want to talk to you about your relationship with Barbara Eagle.”

“Okay,” Long said. “What would you like to know?”

Mistake, Santiago thought. He should have asked how Barbara Eagle was related to the death of Cross. “When did you last see Mrs. Eagle?”

“About a week ago,” he said. “She stayed here for a couple of days, and then I drove her to the airport.”

“To LAX?”

“That’s right.”

“Where was she going?”

“She didn’t say, and I didn’t ask,” Long replied. A light film of sweat had appeared on his forehead.

“That seems odd, Mr. Long. You drive an old friend to the airport, and there’s no conversation about where she’s going?”

“Well, Barbara is kind of odd about her privacy,” Long said, seeming to grope for an answer.

Santiago took his notebook from his shirt pocket, opened it to a blank page and stared at it for a moment. “Let’s see,” he said, “the day you drove her to the airport was the, what, twenty-eighth?”

“That sounds about right,” Long said.

“What time of day?”

“Afternoon, I believe. I had just come home from work, and she said she had to leave.”

“That would be the day after Mr. Cross was shot in the head in his living room, wouldn’t it?” Santiago asked.

“I don’t see the connection,” Long said, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand and taking another pull from his drink.

“Well, Mr. Long, we know that Barbara shot Bart Cross. The question now is how much help you gave her.”

“Help?” Long asked, wiping sweat from his upper lip.

Santiago glanced at his notebook again. “For a start, you introduced Barbara to Bart, didn’t you.” It was not a question. “In Acapulco, it’s says here. That’s so, isn’t it.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m connected to anything.”

“It means that Barbara is connected to Bart, and you made the connection,” Santiago said, careful to sound reasonable, to keep accusation out of his voice. “And you’re right, there’s nothing wrong with introducing two people. You and Bart dropped her off at Yuma International, didn’t you? I’m just trying to get the sequence of events established.”

“Well, yes, and I didn’t see her for a couple of weeks after that.”

“She asked you how to get in touch with Bart, didn’t she?” Santiago asked. “I mean, you were her only connection to him, weren’t you? Seems logical that she would ask you for his number.”

“She may have,” Long replied, wrinkling his brow as if trying to remember.

“So, here’s how it went after that, Mr. Long,” Santiago said. “She hired Bart to kill Ed Eagle, and he did his best, but Eagle survived the attack. Barbara killed him so he couldn’t connect her to the attempt.”

“Look here,” Long said. “Do I need a lawyer?”

“You’re certainly entitled to a lawyer, Mr. Long. I’d be happy to explain your rights in detail, if you wish. Whether you need a lawyer is another matter.”

“I have a law degree,” Long said, pulling himself upright in his chair. “I don’t need to have my rights explained to me.”

“Duly noted,” Santiago said, scribbling something in his notebook. “Do you need a lawyer, Mr. Long?”

Long stared at him. The booze was obviously taking effect now, and his thinking must be affected.

“Mr. Long,” Santiago said gently, “I’m not after you. I know you didn’t kill Bart Cross, just as I know that Barbara did. What you have to decide now is how much you want your future to be affected by what Barbara has done. Surely you know that this is not the first time she has hired a killer. There was a fellow named Jack Cato, who also worked for you from time to time as a stuntman. She hired him to kill a lawyer in Palo Alto, remember?”

“I don’t know anything about that,” Long said emphatically.

“Mr. Long,” Santiago said slowly. “If you cooperate with my investigation now, answer questions freely and agree to repeat your answers in court, I don’t see why you should be placed in jeopardy for what Barbara has done. You’re not a target of my investigation now, but from here on in, the story could change, depending on your truthfulness. Do you understand?”

Long stared into his drink. “I think I want a lawyer,” he said.

“If you make that a formal request, then this questioning will end right here,” Santiago said, “but I need to explain to you that a lawyer will instruct you not to answer any other questions about your relationship to Barbara and her decision to kill Bart. He will advise you to stand on your rights under the Fifth Amendment of the United States Constitution, but frankly, that would be a very big mistake. Don’t you think so, Jeff?”

Borden took his cue and leaned forward in his chair. “I should tell you, Mr. Long, that in Mexico, you may not have the same rights as you do in the United States. We now know that Barbara Eagle escaped from a Mexican prison and met you in Acapulco—perhaps you even drove her there—and that you assisted her in entering the United States.”

“She has a passport. She had a right to enter the country.”

“But the Mexicans are going to say that you abetted her escape from prison and in fleeing the country. And on this side of the border, well, Homeland Security will have to get involved, and frankly, I don’t think you’re going to have time to produce movies while you’re trying to stay out of prison in two countries.”

Long was breathing harder now.

“I should tell you, too, that the Mexican Ministry of Justice has requested the extradition of Barbara Eagle to Mexico, and the attorney general of the United States has agreed to extradite her, and a federal judge has issued a warrant for her arrest.”

Long drained his glass and set it down on a table next to him. “That woman is the best piece of ass I have ever had in my life,” he said, “but I am not going to go to prison for her.”

“You’ve made the right decision, Mr. Long,” Santiago said. He removed a pocket recorder from his jacket pocket, pressed a button and set it down on the coffee table in front of Long. “Now, let’s start again.”

53

Todd Bacon was watching a football game on television when the phone rang. “Hello?”

“Hi. It’s Dolly. How are you?”

“I’m good, Dolly. I’ve been waiting to hear from you.”

“I was trying to reach Ellie, but she didn’t answer her cell phone right away. When I finally got her, she was in San Francisco, so she can’t join us.”

“That’s too bad,” Todd said, with genuine regret.

“Can you make do with just me?”

“You bet I can,” he replied with feeling.

“Tell you what, why don’t you come out here to the house?”

“Okay. Give me directions.”

She told him how to get to Las Campanas and to the house.

“Take the second drive to the guesthouse,” she said. “That way I won’t have to worry about my boss coming home and rousting us.”

“Sounds good. Can I bring anything?”

“Nope. Right now is good. See you soon?”

“I’m on my way,” Todd said, switching off his TV.

Todd had been holed up in his room for a day and a half, hoping Holly Barker and Lance Cabot would think he was working. His plan now was to fuck Dolly’s brains out, then pack up tomorrow morning and leave, maybe try Sedona, in Arizona. Teddy could be there just as well as anyplace else.

He got to the garage and drove out.

AT HOME, Teddy’s little GPS unit made a chiming noise, and he picked it up. Todd’s car was on the move. Teddy had begun to think he had locked himself in his room and committed suicide.

“I’ve got to go out for a while,” he called to Lauren, who was starting dinner. “I’ll call you when I’m on the way home.”

“Okay,” she called back. “Don’t be too late, or I’ll be drunk!”

“I’ll catch up,” he said, laughing. He unplugged the GPS from its charger and got into the Tahoe. Todd’s car was moving north toward the road to Espanola, but it turned west, then north again. Teddy followed, not having to see the Toyota, just following the dot.

TODD FOLLOWED the directions to the golfer’s house, then passed the driveway and made the next turn. He stopped at the small guesthouse and rapped on the door.

Dolly came to the door naked, grabbed him by the belt and pulled him into the house, towing him toward the bedroom. She stripped him and pulled him into bed with her. “I want you inside me,” she said, helping him perform that task.

TEDDY MADE HIS way north, passing the sign for Las Campanas, turned into a driveway and stopped. He could see the large house ahead of him, and there were no cars parked out front. He backed up and drove a little farther down the road until he saw another dirt track, then pulled over and left the car.

The sun was just sinking below the horizon as he approached the guesthouse, and lights came on, as if on a timer or a light sensor. He had a look through a window into the living room and saw no one, so he walked slowly around the house. No one in the kitchen, either, but then he came to a bedroom window and was transfixed momentarily by the sight of a young woman on top of Todd Bacon, riding him like a rodeo pony.

Teddy waited until he heard the noises of orgasm, then the woman got off Todd, went to the bathroom for a minute, then came out. He could hear her say, “Don’t you move. I’m not through with you yet, I’m just going to get a drink.” She exited the bedroom.

Now, knowing the layout of the house, Teddy let himself quietly inside and peeked around a corner to see her doing something at the kitchen counter. He walked silently to her and chopped her across the back of the neck with the edge of a hand, then caught her and led her easily to the floor. Then he walked toward the bedroom.

As Teddy turned a corner he got a look at the rumpled bed, which was empty. He heard water running in the bathroom and stood by the door, his back pressed against the wall. He removed the nine-millimeter pistol from the holster on his belt and waited. The toilet flushed, and Bacon walked out.

Teddy pressed the barrel of the pistol to the back of Todd’s neck. “Stand perfectly still and listen to me,” he said. “Cross your arms in front of you.” Todd did so. “I’m leaving Santa Fe tonight,” Teddy said, “and if you follow me, if I ever lay eyes on you again, anywhere in the world, I’ll going to kill you immediately, if not sooner. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

“You can’t run forever, Teddy,” Todd said. “They’ll keep sending people until they find you.”

“You’re out of your league, Todd. Remember what I said.” He rapped Todd on the back of the head sharply with the barrel of his pistol, and the young man sank to the floor in a heap.

Teddy left the house and walked back to his car.

DOLLY CAME TO FIRST. She didn’t understand immediately what had happened to her, but she put a hand to the back of her neck and found it sore. That son of a bitch! Why had he done that? She grabbed a butcher knife and walked back to the bedroom, staggering a little. Todd lay crumpled at the foot of the bed. “What the hell?” Dolly said aloud.

Todd stirred a little, and she turned him over and pinched his cheeks. “Wake up!” she yelled at him.

Todd’s eyelids fluttered, and he focused on her face. “What?” he said.

“Somebody’s been here,” she said. “What’s going on?”

Todd struggled up onto one elbow and felt the back of his head, which was damp. He looked at his hand and found blood on it, then got to his feet and sat down heavily on the bed. “Get me some ice in a towel,” he said.

She went to the kitchen and returned, and he held the ice pack to the back of his head.

“Did you see anyone?” he asked.

Dolly sat down beside him. “No. I was getting some ice out of the fridge for a drink, and the next thing I knew I woke up on the floor.”

“Are you hurt?”

“No, but I’m going to have a hell of a headache tomorrow morning,” she said.

“That makes two of us,” Todd replied, looking at the towel, which had only a little blood on it. “That was expert,” he said to no one in particular. He started looking for his clothes.

“What has happened here?” she demanded.

“I can tell you only that it’s work-related.”

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“Back to the hotel. I want to wake up in my own bed. I’m leaving town tomorrow.”

“I’m leaving here pretty soon myself,” Dolly said. “Give me your cell phone number.”

He recited the number, and she wrote it down.

“It’s been fun,” he said, “up until a few minutes ago.”

TEDDY GOT HOME in time for a drink and a good dinner, then before he turned in, he went to his computer, logged on to the Agency mainframe, making his location Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan, and addressed and composed an e-mail message.

TODD GOT BACK to his hotel room, took three aspirin and sent Holly Barker an e-mail. “He’s gone. I’m moving on to Sedona tomorrow.”

54

David Santiago worked late, finishing up his notes and filling out his application for a warrant. Finally, he locked everything in his desk and made a phone call.

“It’s Cupie.”

“Hey, Cupie. It’s Dave Santiago.”

“You working late, pal?”

“You know the drill.”

“How’d you do with Jim Long?”

“A lot better than I expected. I turned him. I got everything on tape, in exchange for a guarantee of immunity for anything our girl Barbara has done, plus for any testimony he gave at her previous trial.”

“That’s great news, Dave.”

“I’m going to the D.A. first thing tomorrow morning. You got any idea where the girl is, Cupie?”

“First of all, it’s dangerous to think of her as a girl. Think monster.”

“C’mon. How tough can she be?”

“Well, the first time I ever set eyes on her I followed her out of a hotel, and she turned into an alley. I called out to her, and she turned around and shot me.”

“No shit?”

“None at all.”

“I assume you recovered.”

“A couple of inches lower and this would be a very long-distance call,” Cupie said. “Then there’s what she did to Vittorio.”

“What’d she do?”

“We had her on ice, taking her back to the States. We were on the top deck of a ferry across the Sea of Cortez, leaning against the rail, basking in the sunshine, when I had to go to the can. In the two minutes I was gone, I later found out, she hustled Vittorio into giving him a blow job, and while she was at work, she grabbed the bottoms of his jeans and tossed him into the drink.”

“Holy shit.”

“Worse than that—did I mention that Vittorio doesn’t swim?”

“How’d you get him back?”

“He found something to hang on to, and a few minutes later a fishing boat picked him up. You see what you’re dealing with now?”

“I think I’m getting the picture. Any idea where she is?”

“She’ll end up here in Santa Fe,” Cupie said, “because she’s got this wild hair up her ass about killing Ed Eagle. She might be in Los Alamos.”

“Nah. The Feds went to the Los Alamos house to serve the extradition warrant, and she was gone. They claimed not to know where.”

“Well, she won’t go back to Long’s house,” Cupie said. “He threw her out, and she’s already taken care of her L.A. business, so she could be anywhere. Remember, she uses the Eleanor Keeler name sometimes.”

“Yeah, that’s on my aka list. You got any other names for her?”

“She’s used a lot, but I don’t remember any of them right now.”

“How come you’re still in Santa Fe, Cupie?”

“Vittorio and I are still on the Ed Eagle thing. We screwed it up once already, when Bart Cross got to him, but this time we’ve got the local cops to help.”

“If she turns up there, shoot her for me, will you?”

“It would be my pleasure, Dave, but she’s very, very smart, and I wouldn’t give you odds.”

“Well, I’ll start all over tomorrow,” Santiago said. “Good night, Cupie.”

“Night, Dave.” Both men hung up, and Santiago went home.

THE FOLLOWING MORNING Todd Bacon got up early, went to his computer and did a flight plan for Sedona, then called Flight Services, got a weather report and filed.

He ordered some breakfast from room service. Then, as he was about to start packing up his laptop, he thought he’d check his agency e-mail. There were two messages, the first from Holly Barker.

Message received. Good luck in Sedona.

Then he clicked on the second message, which was from Lance Cabot.

Report to this office Monday, nine a.m., for reassignment.

Apparently Lance and Holly had disagreed on what his next step was. He started to compose a message to Lance requesting more time, but then he thought better of it. If he got more time and failed again, that could reflect negatively on his future at the Agency. After all, he was dealing directly with the DO.

Todd’s instinct was to go on to Sedona. The events of last night had not put him off. Indeed, they had added anger to his motive for finding Teddy. Still, one did not ignore a direct order from the DO. Todd started packing his things.

TEDDY AND LAUREN were having a good breakfast at their new Santa Fe home.

“You’re humming,” Lauren said.

“Am I?”

“You only hum when you’re very happy,” she said. “Why are you happy? Does it have something to do with whatever you were doing last evening before dinner?”

“You might say that,” Teddy replied. “I was out neutralizing Todd Bacon.”

“Do you really think you can neutralize him?”

“I worked it from two angles,” Teddy said. “I sent him an e-mail from Lance Cabot, recalling him to Langley for reassignment.”

“Well, that might get him out of Santa Fe for a few days, but do you really think that they will stop looking for you?”

“They just might. I sent Lance a note about that very thing a few days back, and by now he’s had time to see the wisdom of my suggestion. Lance is a practical fellow. When I used to equip him for missions, he always displayed that. Some of the boys and girls who went out were dreamers, but not Lance.”

“I hope you’re right,” Lauren said. “I like it here, and it would be nice if we didn’t have to leave.”

“I know you do, sweetheart, and I’ll do everything I can to see that we stay here.”

She leaned over and kissed him on the forehead. “That’s good enough for me,” she said.

55

Barbara slept late and had breakfast in bed. She felt wonderful, having had a good dinner and a fine roll in the hay with Charles Grosvenor the evening before, but something was nagging at the edges of her brain, something she couldn’t put a finger on. She didn’t feel safe.

Mexico, she decided. At some point Pedro Alvarez was going to screw up. It was in his nature, and sooner or later someone above his pay grade was going to find out that she had flown that particular coop. She put aside her breakfast tray, picked up her new lawyer’s card, called his number and was immediately connected to him.

“Good morning, Mrs. Keeler,” Waters said. “I hope you’re feeling well today.”

“I am, Ralph,” she replied, “but I have a question for you.”

“Anything I can do,” he said.

“Who would be the best lawyer, besides yourself, to fight an extradition to Mexico?”

“For whom?”

“For me.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Is this conversation covered by attorney-client privilege?” she asked.

“Of course.”

“Some months ago I was falsely accused of a crime in Mexico, and after a sham trial I was sent to a women’s prison there. I managed to get out and back to this country, but eventually they may come after me. Now, please answer my question.”

“We have a partner in this firm who would be ideal to handle that,” Waters said.

“If you were in my position, would you choose him above all others?”

“I would, most certainly,” Waters replied.

“What is his name?”

“Raoul Estevez. He was born in Mexico and has been a naturalized citizen for more than thirty years, and he has the advantage of the Spanish language, which can be helpful in these matters. He also has a number of contacts in the Mexican government.”

“Would you ask him to come and see me this afternoon?”

“At what hour?”

“Four o’clock would be convenient.”

“I will see that he is there,” Waters replied. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“This is less urgent, but I have reason to believe that someone in this country wishes to charge me with a crime. I hope that won’t happen, but if it does, then I will need the best criminal lawyer in this city.”

“I believe Raoul Estevez would fill that bill as well.”

“Good. I’ll see him at four.” She went to Walter’s computer and fired it up, and in a very few minutes she had opened an online brokerage account. She wrote the account number on a card and tucked it into her purse.

She picked up the phone and called her bank. “This is Mrs. Walter Keeler,” she said. “Who is the president of the bank?”

“That would be Mr. Evan Hills, Mrs. Keeler,” the operator said. “May I connect you?”

“Thank you. Yes.”

There was a click. “Mr. Hills’s office,” a woman said.

“This is Mrs. Walter Keeler. I would like an appointment to see Mr. Hills at the earliest possible time.”

“One moment, please.”

Within a satisfyingly short time a male voice said, “Mrs. Keeler? This is Evan Hills.” They exchanged brief pleasantries, then Hills said, “May I offer you lunch today in my private dining room?”

“That would be lovely,” Barbara said.

BARBARA ARRIVED at her bank in the Bentley, chauffeured by the trusty Willard. He gave her a card with his cell phone number. “I’ll be in the bank’s garage,” he said. “Please call if you need me.” He held the door for her.

Barbara swept into the bank and was immediately greeted by a man who appeared to be in his mid-thirties.

“Good day, Mrs. Keeler,” he said, “My name is Morton Johns. May I take you up to Mr. Hills’s office?”

“Thank you,” she replied. She was whisked into a private elevator. They emerged on a high floor and walked past two secretaries and into the office of the bank’s president.

Hills leapt to his feet and shook her hand warmly. “I’m so sorry for your loss of Mr. Keeler,” he said, “and I was delighted to read in this morning’s paper that you had successfully solved your problems with Walter’s estate. I know he would be pleased to see his wishes honored.”

“Thank you, Mr. Hills.”

“I’ve asked Mr. Johns to join us, since he is the senior vice president who will oversee the day-to-day work on your account and who will be available to you twenty-four hours a day.”

“I’m pleased to hear that,” Barbara said, accepting Johns’s card.

“Would you like to go straight in to lunch?”

“Thank you, but first I’d like to do a little business.”

Hills offered her a chair and went behind his desk. Johns took a seat next to her. “What may we do for you?” Hills asked.

“You should have received a wire transfer into my account this morning,” she said.

“Yes, Mrs. Keeler, we have had a deposit of one hundred million dollars from the executor of Mr. Keeler’s estate.”

“You will be receiving a great deal more in the course of events,” Barbara said, “and we will discuss over lunch how investments are to be handled. Right now, though, I would like you to wire twenty million dollars to this brokerage account.” She handed Johns the card with the account number on it.

“Of course, Mrs. Keeler,” Hills replied. “Morton will be happy to do that at once.”

“And I would like a cashier’s check, payable to me, for twenty million dollars,” Barbara said.

Hills appeared to gulp. “Of course,” he finally managed to say. “Morton, will you attend to those two transactions immediately, then join us for lunch?”

“Certainly,” Johns said. “Mrs. Keeler, are there any other transactions you would like to make at this time?”

“Well, I wrote a check yesterday for three hundred and seventy-seven thousand dollars to the Bentley people. You might see that it is paid upon presentation.”

“Of course. I’ll be back shortly.” Johns vanished, as if in a cloud of smoke.

HILLS AND BARBARA were already seated at a beautifully set table in the next room with a fabulous view of San Francisco Bay and the Golden Gate Bridge. Hills said, “I’d like you to know that Mort Johns is the brightest and most capable man at this bank, and I do not exclude myself from comparison. He is destined to have my job when I go, and I think you will be very pleased with him.”

“I’m sure I shall be,” Barbara replied.

Johns rejoined them and handed Barbara an envelope. “Your cashier’s check for twenty million dollars and your receipt for the wire transfer to your brokerage account,” he said, then seated himself.

“Thank you, Morton,” Barbara said. “Now, let’s talk about what we’re going to do with the more than one billion dollars in cash and liquid assets that will soon be sent to the bank.”

Barbara issued instructions while the young banker made notes and two waiters served them a lunch of caviar and salmon. When they were done, Hills asked if there was anything else they could do for her.

“I’d like to make an acquisition,” Barbara said. “A business. I would be grateful if you would research its soundness and availability, and ascertain what price I should offer for it and what I might expect to pay.”

This request was received as if it were an unexpected gift.

56

Ed Eagle sat at his desk, munching on a sandwich and reading

The Wall Street Journal. His eye fell on a news story on page two that caused him to begin choking.

WIDOW OF WALTER KEELER BREAKS WILL

When avionics billionaire Walter Keeler died in a car crash, he left a will that severely restricted the inheritance of his new wife, Eleanor Keeler, to a monthly allowance of $50,000 and the lifetime use, but not ownership, of their apartment in San Francisco. The remainder of his estate went to a few charitable bequests and to support his foundation.

Earlier this week, on the testimony of his late attorney’s secretary, two pages illegally excluded from the will were restored, and the bulk of Keeler’s $l.5 billion estate reverted to his widow. Today, the newly appointed executor is to turn over to Mrs. Keeler more than $1.2 billion in liquid assets, plus her apartment and extensive other real estate holdings.

The lawyer who took it upon himself to change Walter Keeler’s will was subsequently murdered outside his home, and an associate who participated in the fraud has died of breast cancer. The secretary, who had typed the original will, had kept the original pages and, freed from the threat of retribution by her former boss, disclosed his actions to the ethics committee of the California Bar Association. She has been rewarded by Mrs. Keeler with a substantial whistle-blower’s reward.

Eagle cleared his throat with a gulp of iced tea and pressed a button on his phone. “Find Cupie Dalton and Vittorio and get them in here,” he said.

CUPIE AND VITTORIO SAT across Eagle’s desk from him and read the Journal article. “I don’t believe it,” Cupie said.

“Who could believe a story like that?” Eagle asked. “What does this mean to us?”

“I think it means,” Cupie replied, “that Barbara is going to be too busy spending her money to have time to try to kill you again.”

“Well, should she get caught at that, she certainly has a lot more to lose now than ever before,” Eagle said.

“And she has a murder charge and an extradition warrant to deal with,” Cupie said. “She’ll soon be out of our hair.”

“I’m not so sure,” Eagle said. “Now she can afford any attorney in the United States to defend her. I’ll bet she’s working on that right now.”

BARBARA WAS SITTING ON HER terrace overlooking San Francisco Bay when the maid led Raoul Estevez outside and announced him.

Barbara held out a hand and waved him to a chair. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Mr. Estevez,” she said. She found him handsome and well tailored.

“And I you, Mrs. Keeler. Ralph Waters has asked me to inform you that your husband’s estate has cleared probate, and the executor has begun to transfer cash and stock accounts to your bank.”

“That is very good news indeed,” Barbara said brightly.

“Now, Mrs. Keeler, how may I be of service to you?”

“I’ll be as concise as I can,” Barbara replied. “Two or three years ago I and my sister were on a vacation in Acapulco when we met a charming young man. In the course of events we took him into our bed, but he became violent and abusive, and in order to defend our lives, my sister grabbed a steak knife from a room-service cart and stabbed him, killing him. She also, in a rage, took it upon herself to, ah, remove a part of his genitalia.

“We managed to leave the country undetected, but the young man turned out to be related to an important captain in the Federal Police. My sister subsequently met her death in Santa Fe, and I married a man there, an attorney named Ed Eagle. Do you know him?”

“We’ve never met, but I know him by his formidable reputation,” Estevez replied. “Go on, please.”

“I left Ed, and divorce negotiations became difficult. He hired two private detectives to lure me aboard a yacht out of San Diego for a dinner cruise. Later that evening, unbeknownst to me, the yacht sailed into Mexican waters, where it was met by a police boat. I was arrested and subsequently received a brief, extremely unfair trial and was sentenced to twenty years to life in a women’s prison at Tres Cruces, east of Acapulco.

“There I was repeatedly sexually assaulted and raped, on almost a daily basis, by the warden, a Captain Pedro Alvarez. Finally, after several months of this abuse, I was able to slip a dose of Valium into his tequila, and I escaped through a window in his apartment, which adjoined the prison. A friend drove me to Acapulco, then we were both privately flown back to the United States.”

“I understand, Mrs. Keeler,” Estevez replied. “I take it you have not read this morning’s Examiner?”

“No, I have not.”

“There is a story that the United States attorney general has acquiesced to a request for extradition from the Mexican minister of justice, and that a federal judge has issued a warrant for your arrest.”

“I was not aware of that,” Barbara said.

“I will leave for Mexico City tonight and begin to try and right this wrong that has been done to you,” Estevez said. “I understand that you have access to a private jet aircraft.”

“That is so.”

“I suggest, entirely off the record, that you leave the country immediately and wait for me to contact you.”

“Would the Bahamas do?” Barbara asked.

“Very nicely,” he replied.

“I will follow your advice, Mr. Estevez.”

“Mr. Waters mentioned another legal concern?”

“That will have to wait,” Barbara replied.

“If I am to be successful in Mexico one or more bribes will have to be paid. The total could come to as much as a million dollars, perhaps even more.”

“I will leave that entirely to your judgment,” Barbara replied.

“Very well. Please arrange with your bankers to be able to wire-transfer funds on a moment’s notice to accounts in Mexico or other countries, the numbers of which I will supply you with.”

Barbara wrote down her cell number and the number of the sat-phone on the airplane and handed them to him. “Thank you, Mr. Estevez. Now, if you will excuse me, I have some calls to make and some packing to do.” She stood up, shook his hand and waved him off.

Barbara sat down again and called Morton Johns at her bank and explained that she was leaving town immediately and about the need to wire funds. He gave her his cell number.

“Call at any hour of the day or night and I will attend to it,” he said. “Incidentally, I have researched the business investment you wish to make, and we here consider it to be an attractive proposition.” He mentioned the price. “There is one owner, and he is prepared to close immediately. I will send the report to you in San Jose,” he said.

“Please proceed with all speed,” Barbara said. “You may use the power of attorney I gave you. Keep in touch with me by phone, as I will be traveling. You have the numbers.”

“Of course, Mrs. Keeler. And I have some good news for you: Your husband’s estate has transferred eight hundred million dollars to your account here, and there is more to come, I am assured.”

“Wonderful news,” Barbara said. She thanked him and instructed him to initiate the procedures they had discussed at lunch. She hung up and called the FBO in San Jose and ordered the airplane to be prepared for an immediate departure to Nassau, then made another call.

“Bentley Motors,” the operator said.

“Charles Grosvenor, please,” Barbara said.

“Please hold.”

“This is Charles Grosvenor.”

“Charles, it’s Ellie Keeler.”

“How nice to hear your voice.”

“I have an invitation for you,” she said. “You’ve said that you enjoy travel.”

“Yes, indeed, Ellie.”

“Do you have your passport handy?”

“Yes. It’s in my briefcase.”

“Here’s what I’d like you to do. I’d like you to go directly to the San Jose Airport and meet me there.” She gave him directions to the FBO. “We will be departing immediately for the Bahamas.”

“I’ll have to get time off,” Grosvenor said.

“Please don’t worry about that. Just walk away now. I’ll explain later.”

“But my job.”

“Don’t worry about it, and don’t worry about clothes. We’ll get you a new wardrobe in Nassau.”

“Whatever you say, my dear,” he replied. “I’ll look forward to seeing you in an hour.”

“I’ll look forward to it as well,” she said, then ran to pack a small bag.

AS WILLARD DROVE HER away in the Bentley, a government car drove up to Barbara’s apartment building, and two FBI agents got out and went inside. They were told by the maid, as per Barbara’s instructions, that she had flown to Rome earlier in the day.

57

Lieutenant David Santiago was shown into the office of the chief deputy district attorney and asked to sit down and be quick with his report.

Santiago handed the man his completed request for an arrest warrant for Eleanor Keeler. The deputy D.A., whose name was Warren, opened a copy of The Wall Street Journal and handed it to Santiago. “Does your request for a warrant refer to this Mrs. Eleanor Keeler?”

Santiago read the article quickly. “I believe so,” he said.

“Play me the tape recording,” Warren said, placing his feet on his desk and leaning back in his chair.

Santiago played the recording.

Warren smiled. “I compliment you on the thoroughness of your questioning and the quality of your recording,” he said. “I did not see any reference to the discovery of the murder weapon or any physical evidence connecting Mrs. Keeler to the murder of Mr. Cross,” he said. “Did I miss something?”

“No, sir. I believe Mrs. Keeler may still be in possession of the weapon, though, and a search warrant might bring it into our possession.”

“Lieutenant, are you aware that the Feds have procured an extradition warrant for Mrs. Keeler, and that as soon as she is arrested, she will be returned to prison in Mexico?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, rather than involve this office in what would be an incredibly long and hideously expensive trial against the kind of defense team that only large sums of money can provide, and without the weapon or any physical evidence, I think it is in our best interests to let the Feds return Mrs. Keeler to Mexico to serve out her sentence. Perhaps during her twenty years to life there you will develop other, stronger evidence that can be used to prosecute her here when she gets out, should either of us still be alive when that occurs.”

“Yes, sir,” Santiago replied, getting to his feet.

Warren stood and shook his hand. “Good day.”

ON HIS ARRIVAL in Mexico, Raoul Estevez checked into his hotel, dined in his suite with the beautiful young woman associate he had brought with him, screwed her thoroughly and got a good night’s sleep.

The following morning, having phoned the previous day for an appointment, he breakfasted with the deputy minister of justice, a civil servant who had run his ministry with an iron hand through many governments over many years, and who was routinely deferred to by the political appointees above him, who were happy to deal with the trappings of office instead of the responsibilities. Their conversation took place in the garden of the deputy’s home in a Mexico City suburb and was conducted in elegant and nuanced Spanish.

“Raoul, it is good to see you,” the deputy said, embracing the lawyer warmly.

“Benicio, it has been too long.”

A large breakfast was brought by servants while the two men chatted amiably about fast horses and brave bulls. When the garden had been cleared of servants the deputy sat back, folded his hands and simply nodded.

“Benicio,” Estevez said, “I wish to bring to your attention a very serious matter which could cause a great deal of trouble both domestically and internationally for your ministry.”

The deputy made a concerned face and nodded again.

“More than three years ago two American women made the acquaintance of a young man who subsequently beat and raped both of them. One of them got her hands on a knife and killed him, then removed the penis from the corpse.”

“Ahhhh,” the deputy said, nodding.

“I knew you would know of this, Benicio. The woman who wielded the knife is now dead, but her sister, in the midst of an angry divorce, was kidnapped by operatives of her husband and taken aboard a yacht into Mexican waters, where it was met by a police boat. After a brief and highly prejudicial trial the woman was convicted and sentenced to a prison term at the El Diablo prison in Tres Cruces, run by a Capitán Pedro Alvarez.

“There she was raped and otherwise sexually abused by Alvarez on nearly a daily basis. Finally, unable to bear further ill treatment, she managed to drug the capitán and escape through a window from his apartment. She eventually made her way back to El Norte, and now her former husband, who has political influence, has intrigued to have her extradited from the United States and returned to prison.

“The woman, formerly known as Barbara Eagle and now as the recent widow of Walter Keeler, a very wealthy man from San Francisco, has inherited his wealth and is in a position to fight the extradition in the most public and time-consuming manner. Once her story is told and retold ad infinitum by the media on both sides of the border, both our countries will be faced with the worst sort of publicity, and in the end, she might well avoid extradition.

“I believe it would be to the advantage of both your ministry and Mrs. Keeler if you could suggest a discreet resolution to this affair. Mrs. Keeler understands that such a resolution would involve considerable expense and would see that your ministry does not suffer the costs.” Estevez sat back in his chair and waited for the deputy to speak.

“Where is the woman at this time?” the deputy asked.

“It is my understanding that she has left the United States, possibly for Italy.”

“So, that would complicate even further any attempt to return her to Mexico.” It was not a question.

“I am very much afraid that it would.”

“The prison warden, Alvarez, has already been dealt with,” the deputy said. “He is now supervising a prison work program in the jungles in the south of the country, and all records relevant to the woman have been removed from his former office. It is as if she was never there.”

“I see,” Estevez replied.

“I believe the simplest solution to our mutual problem would be if our president issued a pardon.”

“My client would be extremely grateful if that could be effected, Benicio.”

The deputy produced a notebook. “What is your client’s full name?” he asked.

“Eleanor Eagle Keeler,” Estevez replied.

“What time is your flight home?” the deputy asked.

“At one P.M. from the general aviation terminal,” Estevez replied.

“And the aircraft registration number?”

Estevez gave it to him.

“I calculate that the costs of this transaction will come to”—the deputy did some quick counting with his thumb against his fingers—“two million, seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars.” He wrote something on a page of his notebook, tore it off and handed it to Estevez. “Here is an account number.”

“Will you excuse me for a moment while I telephone?” Estevez asked.

“Of course. I will go and put on a necktie for the office while you call.”

Estevez made the call and waited for the deputy’s return.

“The funds will be in the account by the time you reach your office,” he said.

“Oh, good. Upon verification the pardon will be prepared, signed and delivered to your aircraft in time for your departure. Come, walk with me to our cars.”

Estevez fell in step with him, and the two men linked arms. “There is one further step I would be very grateful for,” Estevez said.

“Please.”

“If you could telephone the United States attorney general, explain that Mrs. Keeler has been pardoned and is no longer a fugitive in the U.S. and that her extradition warrant should be canceled, then she could resume her normal life immediately.”

“Consider it done, Raoul.” The deputy stopped at his open limousine door and offered his hand. “It is always good to see you, Raoul, and, of course, always a pleasure to do business with you. Go with God.”

Estevez shook his hand and got into his own limousine, where his associate waited.

“How did it go?” she asked, placing a hand on his thigh.

“Perfectly and profitably,” Estevez replied, adjusting his position so that her hand could better reach its target.

58

Barbara put down the telephone at the pool of her cottage at a private club in Nassau.

Charles sat beside her on the double chaise. “You’re smiling. Good news?”

“Very good news,” she replied. “For us both.”

“Ellie, I don’t think I can receive good news properly until I understand why you are unconcerned with my employment status. I do need the job, you know, and I can’t relax here while worrying about it.”

“Would you like a promotion at your firm?” she asked.

“I’m already the top-producing sales manager for the firm,” he replied. “Anything else would be a demotion.”

“How do you get along with your general manager?” she asked.

“He’s an ass, but there’s nothing he can do to me, except for cause, and I’ve never given him cause, until I walked out of that showroom yesterday.”

“Would you like his job?”

Charles thought about that. “Only if I could continue to render service to my clients, and only if I could have the pleasure of personally firing my general manager and throwing him out of his office.”

“Then do so,” Ellie said. “Yesterday, I bought the firm.”

Charles turned and stared at her. “My God, are you that rich?”

“I am,” Barbara said. “Charles, I know this will seem sudden, but I think it would be very much to our mutual advantage if we married.”

Charles fell back onto the lounge. “You are breathtaking, Ellie.”

“If you accept my proposal I will make you a gift of the dealership and provide working capital for it. In return, you would sign a prenuptial agreement limiting your settlement, in the event of a divorce, to the firm and any money I have invested in it.”

“That is a very generous proposition, Ellie,” Charles said. “And I think we could make each other very happy.”

“Then why don’t we start the honeymoon right now, my dear,” Barbara said, snuggling up to him.

ED EAGLE TOOK the phone call from his friend in the State Department. “How are you, Bill?”

“I’m okay, Ed, but I have some rather startling news for you.”

“Go ahead and startle.”

“I’ve had an e-mail from the attorney general’s office. The general received a phone call today from a highly placed officer of the Mexican Ministry of Justice.”

“They’ve extradited Barbara?”

“No, the president of Mexico has pardoned her.”

Eagle was dumbstruck.

“Ed? Are you still there?”

“Just barely, Bill,” Eagle replied. “Have you any idea how this happened?”

“I don’t have any details, only deductions. Have you seen the piece in The Wall Street Journal?”

“Yes, I have.”

“You must know, Ed, that when the sort of money she has inherited comes into play, things can happen in a hurry, especially in Mexico.”

“Are you telling me that Barbara bribed the president of Mexico?”

“Of course not. That isn’t how it works.”

“How does it work?”

“My best guess is Barbara got herself a lawyer who knows people down there, and he passed a large sum of money to someone in the Ministry, who then took care of things and distributed the funds accordingly, probably in cash. That’s only a guess, mind you, but I’ve heard of other cases where this sort of thing happened.”

“I could sue her for injury resulting from her attempt on my life, I guess,” Eagle said.

“Come on, Ed. What would you say to a client who walked into your office and wanted to sue a billionaire?”

“All right, all right.”

“Ed, I’m awfully sorry about this. I did what I could.”

“Bill, you did more than I could ever have expected. Thank you.” Eagle hung up and sagged in his chair.

THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Barbara called a number at the Nassau Airport and chartered a twin-engine airplane for the day. She instructed the company to file a flight plan to Georgetown, Cayman Islands, and to file a return flight plan for later in the day.

BARBARA TOOK A CAB from the Georgetown airport to a large bank on a principal street and walked in. She approached a man at a desk in the lobby.

“Good day, madam. May I help you?” he asked.

“Yes. I’d like to open an account.”

“Please be seated,” he said, holding a chair for her. “What kind of account would you like to open?”

“A very private account,” she replied. “One with a number, not a name.”

“Of course, madam.” He looked at his computer, selected a new account number and printed a document. “Please sign here,” he said, indicating a line at the bottom.

“I don’t wish to sign anything,” Barbara said. She took the twenty-million-dollar cashier’s check from her purse and handed it to him.

“Of course, madam,” the man said. “There is no necessity for a signature. Would you like a card that can draw on the account from anywhere in the world?”

“What a nice idea,” Barbara said.

He typed a few more keystrokes on his computer. “The card will be ready momentarily,” he said. “Would you like us to invest the funds for you, or would you prefer an interest-bearing account? Currently the rate is three percent.”

“The latter, please.”

He printed another document. “This will tell you how to view your account and statements online. Nothing will be mailed, since we don’t have your name or address.”

Barbara received the credit card and her deposit receipt, put them in her purse, shook the man’s hand and left the bank. She got into her idling taxi, went to the airport and was flown back to Nassau. Upon entering the country she used the false passport she had had made in California.

“What did you do with yourself today?” Charles asked.

“I built an escape hatch from my life,” she replied.

He looked at her oddly but did not question her further.

The following day they were married. Then the Gulfstream flew them back to San Jose.

59

Tip Hanks stood in front of the cameras and received his silver cup and a dummy check for nine hundred eighty-nine thousand dollars. The amount would automatically be wired to his account.

During the past few days he had set a course record and won the tournament by four strokes. He gave an interview to a television journalist, then returned to the clubhouse, showered and changed, and gave another, longer interview to a woman from The Golf Channel.

That night he had a steak dinner, watched TV, then turned in early. He slept late the following morning, and it was noon before he got to the airport. He drove up to his Santa Fe home at four thirty that afternoon, noticing that Dolly’s car was not parked out front. She must be running an errand, he thought.

He walked into his home, unpacked his clothes, put the dirty things into a laundry hamper, then walked to his study next door. The room seemed oddly messy. He looked into Dolly’s office and found drawers pulled out and papers scattered around the room. His first thought was a burglary, and he went back into his study to phone the police, but he found a pink message slip stuck to the phone.

Bye-bye, sweetie. It’s been fun.

He was still puzzling over that when the phone rang, and he picked it up. “Hello?”

“Tip, it’s George Herron.” Herron was his accountant.

“Hello, George. Did you see I won the tournament yesterday?”

“Yes, I did, and congratulations. I’m afraid I have some troubling news, though.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I looked through your accounts online today for some tax information, and I saw that your prize money had been wired into your account this morning.”

“That is as it should be, George.”

“The problem was that it was wired out of your account only a few minutes later to an account in Singapore, as were another seven hundred thousand dollars from a bond fund in your brokerage account. Do you have a bank account in Singapore, Tip? Because if you do we haven’t been reporting that to the IRS, as the law requires.”

“No, George, I don’t have an account in Singapore, and I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Who else is a signatory on your accounts?”

“Well, my assistant, Dolly . . .” Tip stopped and looked at the pink message slip. “Oh, shit,” he said.

CUPIE ANSWERED THE TELEPHONE.

“Cupie, it’s Dave Santiago.”

“Hey, Dave. How are you?”

“Not so good.”

“Did you pick up Barbara?”

“No, I didn’t. The D.A. wouldn’t sign the warrant. Not enough evidence and too much money.”

Cupie’s face dropped. “I saw the newspaper piece. He was scared off by the money?”

“Of course, he was,” Santiago replied. “Think about it. If you were the D.A. would you issue a warrant on a woman with that much money, without a murder weapon or physical evidence? You’d be looking at another O.J. trial against the best lawyers in the country. It would cost the county millions.”

“I see your point,” Cupie said. “Thanks for trying, Dave.”

He hung up and turned to Vittorio.

“No warrant, huh?” Vittorio asked.

“No warrant.”

“I guess you’ll be going back to L.A., huh, Cupie?”

“I guess,” Cupie replied woodenly.

“It doesn’t have to be over,” Vittorio said. “She’ll do something outrageous again, and maybe we’ll be in on the takedown.”

“Yeah,” Cupie said, brightening. “She’ll do that, and we’ll do that.”

60

Todd Bacon landed at the Manassas, Virginia, airport on Sunday night and left the keys to the Bonanza at the FBO desk for pickup by the Agency the following day. He checked into a nearby hotel for the night. Then, the following morning, he was at the Langley headquarters by eight thirty. He killed a little time in the lobby, then checked in with security and took the elevator up to the executive floor.

HOLLY WALKED into Lance Cabot’s office.

“What do you hear from our man in Santa Fe?” Lance asked.

“He’s our man in Sedona now,” Holly replied. “I had an e-mail from him.”

“Why Sedona?”

“He didn’t say. I suppose he had some trail to follow.”

There was a knock on the open door, and both Holly and Lance looked that way. Todd Bacon stood in the doorway.

“Good morning,” he said. “I’m reporting as ordered.”

Lance stared at him, uncomprehending. “Reporting for what?”

“As ordered,” Todd said. “For reassignment.” He took a folded sheet of paper from his inside pocket and approached Lance’s desk.

Holly took the paper from him and read it, then handed it to Lance. “Something you want to tell me, Lance?”

Lance read the e-mail, and his face fell.

“That’s the e-mail you sent me,” Todd said.

“Oh, my God,” Holly said.

“I thought you were in Sedona,” Lance said.

“Well, I was going there, but then I got your message. It was in my Agency mailbox.”

Lance had turned quite red. “Have you got any vacation time coming?” he asked.

“Yes. I’ve got two weeks,” Todd replied.

“Take it,” Lance replied. “Go. Report for reassignment when you get back.”

Todd looked at Holly questioningly.

Holly made a shooing motion with her hands.

“Can I keep the Bonanza for my time off?”

“Yes,” Holly said.

Todd watched as Lance fed the e-mail into his deskside shredder, then he got the hell out of there.

“Well?” Lance said to Holly. “What are you looking at?”

“Absolutely nothing,” Holly said, rising.

“None of this ever happened,” Lance said.

“Of course not,” Holly replied.

She went back to her office and started looking for something to take Lance’s mind off Teddy Fay.

ED EAGLE GOT DOWN a suitcase from the top shelf of his dressing room and started packing.

Susannah entered the room and watched for a moment. “Going somewhere?” she asked.

“I’ve got some business to take care of,” Eagle said.

“Where?”

“It’s better if you don’t know.”

“I want to come with you,” she said.

“I’m sorry, no.”

“Ed, if you’re going to do this you’ll have a better chance of bringing it off if there are two of us.”

Eagle closed his suitcase and stared at her. “Listen to yourself. Where do you think I’m going?”

“San Francisco,” she replied.

“Why San Francisco?”

“Because that’s where Barbara is.”

“Do you think I’m going to Barbara?”

“I think you’re going for Barbara.”

Eagle thought about that for a moment. “No. You have to stay here.”

“What makes you think you can tell me what to do?” she asked, her hands on her hips.

“I don’t know,” Eagle said. “I never tried before.”

She walked over and put her arms around his waist and her head on his shoulder. “And don’t you ever try again,” she said.

Eagle sighed and kissed the top of her head. “All right,” he said. “Pack a bag.”

She ran to her dressing room.

Eagle went back into his dressing room and opened his safe. There was an old .45 in there, one he hadn’t fired for years, one somebody had given to him, one that couldn’t be traced back to his ownership. He checked the magazine, pocketed another, then put the weapon into a holster and threaded it onto his belt.

When he came back into the bedroom he saw Susannah about to close her suitcase. Her little Smith & Wesson Ladysmith was lying on top of her clothes. “You ready?” he asked.

“More than ready,” she said, zipping the bag shut.

Eagle called the airport and asked that his airplane be pulled from its hangar and refueled, then he and his wife got into his car and headed out.

TEDDY CRADLED LAUREN in his arms. They had just made love, and this was the time he liked most.

“Teddy,” Lauren said, “do we live in Santa Fe now? Is this our home?”

“It is,” Teddy replied. “Until it isn’t.”

AUTHOR’S NOTE

I am happy to hear from readers, but you should know that if you write to me in care of my publisher, three to six months will pass before I receive your letter, and when it finally arrives it will be one among many, and I will not be able to reply.

However, if you have access to the Internet, you may visit my website at www.stuartwoods.com, where there is a button for sending me e-mail. So far, I have been able to reply to all my e-mail, and I will continue to try to do so.

If you send me an e-mail and do not receive a reply, it is probably because you are among an alarming number of people who have entered their e-mail address incorrectly in their mail software. I have many of my replies returned as undeliverable.

Remember: e-mail, reply; snail mail, no reply.

When you e-mail, please do not send attachments, as I never open these. They can take twenty minutes to download, and they often contain viruses.

Please do not place me on your mailing lists for funny stories, prayers, political causes, charitable fund-raising, petitions or sentimental claptrap. I get enough of that from people I already know. Generally speaking, when I get e-mail addressed to a large number of people, I immediately delete it without reading it.

Please do not send me your ideas for a book, as I have a policy of writing only what I myself invent. If you send me story ideas, I will immediately delete them without reading them. If you have a good idea for a book, write it yourself, but I will not be able to advise you on how to get it published. Buy a copy of Writer’s Market at any bookstore; that will tell you how.

Anyone with a request concerning events or appearances may e-mail it to me or send it to: Publicity Department, Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014.

Those ambitious folk who wish to buy film, dramatic or television rights to my books should contact Matthew Snyder, Creative Artists Agency, 9830 Wilshire Boulevard, Beverly Hills, CA 98212-1825.

Those who wish to make offers for rights of a literary nature should contact Anne Sibbald, Janklow & Nesbit, 445 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10022. (Note: This is not an invitation for you to send her your manuscript or to solicit her to be your agent.)

If you want to know if I will be signing books in your city, please visit my website, www.stuartwoods.com, where the tour schedule will be published a month or so in advance. If you wish me to do a book signing in your locality, ask your favorite bookseller to contact his Penguin representative or the Penguin publicity department with the request.

If you find typographical or editorial errors in my book and feel an irresistible urge to tell someone, please write to Rachel Kahan at Penguin’s address above. Do not e-mail your discoveries to me, as I will already have learned about them from others.

A list of my published works appears in the front of this book and on my website. All the novels are still in print in paperback and can be found at or ordered from any bookstore. If you wish to obtain hard-cover copies of earlier novels or of the two nonfiction books, a good used-book store or one of the online bookstores can help you find them. Otherwise, you will have to go to a great many garage sales.

1

A Holly Barker Novel

2

A Stone Barrington Novel

3

A Will Lee Novel

4

An Ed Eagle Novel

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Short Straw

Santa Fe Dead

Santa Fe Edge