Santa Fe Dead (13 page)

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.”