Santa Fe Edge (22 page)

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

B
arbara 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

T
eddy 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.”