Santa Fe Edge (11 page)

“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

E
d 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

T
odd 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

T
odd 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?”