The Bequest (24 page)

Detective Swafford pulled
to a stop in front of a two-story
stucco house on Bedford Drive in Beverly Hills, not far from the Los

Angeles Country Club. A hedge of hibiscus framed the yard like a fence,
blood red blossoms polka-dotting rich green leaves. A chain link gate was
closed across the sidewalk to the front porch that split the hedge into
halves. An elderly Hispanic man clipped stray tentacles that threatened to
mar the perfect face of the hedge. A second, younger man, a leaf blower
strapped to his back, came along behind him, blasting the trimmings into
the street.

The younger man stopped the blower as Swafford exited his car and
watched him with the kind of wary eye typically triggered by cop-detector
radar that some people naturally maintained. People who have reason to
be wary.

His radar hadn’t gone off at all, but his curiosity had.
“His car is in the garage, but I haven’t seen him,” the leaf blower said
with remarkably precise diction.
Swafford immediately felt guilty for his assumption that, if you had a
leaf blower strapped to your back, you must be an illegal.
“Is that normal?”
“He’s generally already gone to work when we show up, so yes, it’s
unusual for his car to be here in the middle of the day.”
Swafford nodded, swung open the gate, and walked to the front
porch. He pressed the door bell and, satisfied that he heard the sound of a
ring inside the house, pulled out his cell phone. He rang the bell again
while he waited for Stillman to pick up on the other end of his call.
“So what have you got?” Stillman said.
“What? No hello? See, that’s the problem with caller I.D. No one
says hello anymore.”
“Hello,” Stillman said. “So what have you got?”
Still no answer at the door. Swafford tried the handle, but found it
locked, so he stepped off the porch and walked around the house, looking
in windows.
“I’ve got workers here who say Capalletti’s car is in the garage, but
they haven’t seen hide nor hair of him since they’ve been here. He’s not
answering the door, and I’m not seeing any movement inside. They say
it’s unusual for his car to be here in the middle of the day.”
“Do you see a phone in any of the windows?”
Swafford cupped one side of his face with his free hand and pressed
close to a window on the side of the house. The room was dark, the
narrow gap in mini-blinds barely wide enough to permit sunlight inside.
Still, it was enough that Swafford could make out a table and chairs, a
counter and, beyond the counter, cupboards and a stove.
He squinted and surveyed the walls in the room. “Yeah, got one on
the wall in the kitchen,” he said.
“Okay, hang on a sec.”
After a few beats, the phone on the wall began to ring.
And ring. And ring. And ring.
“It’s ringing,” Swafford said.
“No one’s picking up. And we’ve been trying his cell for the past
fifteen minutes with no luck.”
“It got a GPS in it?”
“If it does, he’s turned it off or disabled it. We can’t pick up a
location.”
“Call the cell again and let it ring.”
“It goes to voicemail after about ten seconds or so.”
“Then keep calling it,” Swafford said. “I’m going to move around the
house and see if I can hear it.”
“Why don’t you just pick the lock or kick the door in and go inside?”
“This is Beverly Hills. We do things different here. I can’t go busting
inside unless I think a crime is in process or someone’s in danger—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. The irony is that, even though you’re in a movie
city, you’d never make it as a movie cop. In the movies they just—”
“I know; I’ve seen ‘em. This would be the part where I say, ‘Do you
hear that? Sounds like a cry for help.’
Then
I kick the door in.”
“All right, put your ears on,” Stillman said. “We’re gonna start
calling.”
Swafford hung up and put the phone in his coat pocket. He leaned
close to the kitchen window, waited, then moved on to the next window
upon hearing nothing. He had just made it around the back corner of the
house when he heard faint strands of music coming from above his head.
He looked up and saw a patio extending from the rear of the house. At the
far end, a stairway led down and spilled onto a flagstone sitting area, with
outdoor furniture centered around an exterior fireplace. As if anyone
needed an outdoor fireplace in southern California. Still, the wealthy had a
need to spend their dollars in ways that might seem impractical to working
stiffs, like police detectives.
Swafford pulled out his phone and punched re-dial. “Keep calling that
number,” he said when Stillman answered. “I think we’re on to something.
I’ll keep this line open.”
“Will do.”
Swafford held the phone at his side as he took the stairs two at a time.
At the top, the music was louder and clearer.
“Rolling Stones?” he asked into his phone.
He heard muffled voices in the background and then Stillman said,
“That’s his normal ringtone.”
Swafford crossed the second-story patio to a sliding glass door. Heavy
drapes had been drawn, blotting out any view of the interior, but the door
was open just slightly, enough to allow the music to be heard. Swafford
grabbed the door handle and slid it open. Slowly. Silently.
The musical strains played louder.
Swafford pulled his gun from his holster and used the barrel to push
the
drapes aside.
He
stepped across
the
threshold then paused
momentarily to allow his eyes to adjust to the dimness. He found himself
in a small alcove, a sitting area of sorts, with a floor lamp and love seat
across from a three-shelf bookcase.
He stepped out of the alcove into the full bedroom area. The room
was dark as night, only faint outlines of furniture visible. The drapes were
thick, obviously designed for day-sleeping. He stepped back to the alcove
and pulled the drapes open all the way. Light streamed inside, made its
way across a hardwood floor, to a Persian rug that outlined a king-sized
bed, in which—
Mike Capalletti lay still as death, a bullet hole between his eyes.
“Time to kick the doors down,” Swafford said.

Clad in a
long-sleeve denim work shirt, jeans, and heavy work boots,
Chad Palmer slipped safety goggles over his head and adjusted them
around his eyes. He fitted plastic ear muffs over his sweat-stained Texas
Rangers baseball cap, tugged up his work gloves, then flipped the chainsaw
switch to on. Kneeling on one knee, he grasped the starter cord and gave
it a
sharp yank.
On cue, the
saw went from zero to sixty almost
instantaneously, the sound just a faint buzz thanks to the ear muffs.

He lifted the saw and scanned his target: a copse of cedar trees
clogging an ancient stand of giant Post Oaks at the far edge of a meadow
that separated the entry road to his ranch house from a thick stand of
woods that covered the east thousand acres of the ranch. In the semi-arid
Texas Hill Country, water was scant, and conventional wisdom had it that
one adult cedar tree consumed up to thirty-five gallons of the precious
liquid per day. Better to eliminate trash trees that were as plentiful as
cockroaches in order to protect the more desirable oaks and, in some areas
of his 4,760 acre ranch, rare maples.

That’s right; maples.
Although most
commonly
associated
with
northern climes, such as New England, these trees also called the Texas
Hill Country home. In fact, not thirty minutes away, as Chad often liked
to point out, one of Texas’s most popular parks, Lost Maples State Natural
Area, fostered a stand of maples on its 2,200 acres that annually drew
nearly 200,000 visitors from across the country.

Chad bent, turned the chainsaw sideways and placed the bar nearly
flush with the dirt. Because a felled cedar won’t re-grow, the goal was to
sever it right at ground level so as not to leave any stump. He squeezed the
trigger, the chain whirred, and he pressed against the trunk. The teeth bit
instantly, spewing chips of wood and unleashing the aroma of fresh-cut
cedar. He loved the smell, which for him ranked right up there with
burning wood in a fireplace and charcoal-grilled steaks.

When the saw cleared the trunk, he pulled it clear, pressed the sole
of his boot against the tree, and pushed. As it started its fall, he stepped
back and applied his saw to the next, larger, tree in line. Just as he pulled
the trigger, he caught a glimpse of movement in his peripheral vision on
the dirt road that led to his ranch house. A vehicle was approaching,
plumes of dust trailing behind.

Chad pressed harder, forcing the chain deeper into the cedar, now
halfway through the eight-inch diameter. He tried to keep his focus on the
saw, despite the approaching vehicle. He wasn’t expecting anyone, but
country veterinarians often had unexpected visitors, which was why he
typically left his front gate open during the day. It was just one of the
hazards, if you could call it that, of the job in rural ranch and farm areas,
especially when you were a large-animal vet. Cows and horses didn’t keep
track of time or days; when they needed a vet, they needed a vet now.

The chainsaw cleared the far side of the trunk. Chad extracted the
bar and pushed the tree with his foot. As it started its fall away from him,
he turned and sought out the vehicle, which had now stopped at the edge
of the field where he was working, maybe five first downs away. It pulled
in through an opening in the fence that he had created by removing a
stretch of barbed wire and stopped beside his old Ford pick-up truck. It
was a newer model SUV, looked like a Toyota; not a car he recognized.
He held the chainsaw at his side, finger off the trigger so as to still the
spinning chain. He removed his goggles and waited to see who his visitor
might be.

He flipped the switch to kill the saw, ripped off his goggles and ear
muffs, dropped the saw, and raced to the SUV.
Teri met him in the middle of the meadow in a strong, sweaty hug.

Teri paced while Chad perched on the edge of an un-reclined recliner in
the den of his ranch house. Through sliding glass doors, a view beckoned
that was not unlike that from Teri’s house in California, but instead of the
smog of Los Angeles and the low-hanging smoke that lingered from the
recent fires, this was pure, unspoiled Texas Hill Country. The house
perched on the edge of a low bluff, overlooking a valley below that
featured the Medina River.
Water rippled effortlessly down a small
waterfall, no more than a foot or two high, but just enough to create the
kind of natural sounds that “sleep machines” and “white noise” makers
replicated and that sold like wildfire to city dwellers.

Chad held a coffee mug with both hands, the liquid long since cooled.
Teri looked as if she had aged thirty years since the last time he had seen
her, though it had been but twenty. But while the stress that settled on her
face robbed her of youthfulness, it had no impact on her beauty. Not even
the broken nose and black eyes. At least not as far as he was concerned.
He waited without interrupting for her to finish her story—a tale that he
struggled to grasp and, quite frankly, to believe.

At last she finished her recitation and turned to face him. “I had to
come home,” she said. “I just got in the car and kept driving until I got
here.”

He thought for a moment, any number of thoughts, admonitions, and
advice struggling for prominence.
Stay here, turn back the clock...Marry me.
He shook off that last one as he found his voice. “Have you eaten?”
“I’ve just been running on coffee.”
“When was the last time you had any sleep?”
“I don’t know. Before I left Los Angeles. Twenty-four hours ago,
maybe?”
“The first thing you do is get something to eat and some sleep. Then
we’ll figure it out from there.”
“A shower and a nap do sound nice. Any chance I can get some of
those famous
huevos rancheros
of yours?”
“I’ll fire ‘em up while you shower. Take my bedroom. There should
be fresh towels in the bathroom. I’ll bring in your bag from the car.”
As Teri started toward the hallway that led to the bedrooms, Chad
watched her walk away. Her gait had a new spring in it since she arrived,
and her face had brightened, as if the mere act of unloading her story lifted
the burden that weighed her down during her drive from California. Or
maybe it was because he was shouldering that burden with her.
She stopped and looked back at Chad.
He met her eyes and waited for her to speak.
“You’re the only one who always believed in me, no matter what,”
she said.
Then she turned and disappeared down the hall.