Santa Fe Dead (11 page)

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.