Santa Fe Edge (27 page)

“Perfect. Willard knows my address.”

“Now, how do we get the car through the plate-glass window?” Barbara asked.

Grosvenor pressed a button on the wall next to him, and the window rose like a garage door. “There we are.”

“I’ll drive, Willard,” Barbara said, sliding into the car and adjusting her skirt. “You ride shotgun.”

“You may put the ignition key in your purse, if you wish,” Grosvenor said. “The starter button will operate any time you’re in the car, and the doors will lock or unlock as you arrive or leave.”

Barbara settled into the seat, pressed the start button and was greeted with a sound like a distant Ferrari. She put the car in gear, drove across the sidewalk and turned toward home.

“Willard,” she said, “I’d like you to come to work for me. How’s seven hundred and fifty dollars a week, paid vacation and medical insurance sound?”

“I am delighted to accept, Mrs. Keeler,” Willard replied, fastening his seat belt as Barbara rounded a corner with a roar and squealing of tires.

52

L
ieutenant Dave Santiago pulled up to the Beverly Hills address, stopped at the curb and switched off the engine. “Jeff, let’s get something straight before we go in there,” he said to the FBI agent, Jeff Borden, in the passenger seat.

“What’s that, Dave?”

“This is my investigation, and I take the lead in the questioning. Got it?”

“In our book,” Borden said, “a murder in the United States takes precedence over a prison escape in Mexico.”

“Good.”

“Dave, I don’t have to tell you how thin the ice is that you’re skating on, do I? I mean, given the lack of direct evidence against Barbara Eagle in the murder of Bart Cross, you may have to settle for letting us send her back to Mexico. At least she’ll be off the streets of L.A.”

“I understand that, Jeff, but this guy is our best shot for hanging the homicide on her, if I can turn him. I’m going to be the good cop here—then, if it looks like I’m not getting anywhere, I’ll defer to you, and you can explain his other liabilities to him, okay?”

“Okay. I’m good with that,” Borden replied.

As they opened their car doors a big BMW swung into the driveway and stopped. James Long unfolded himself from the car and started up the walk toward the front door.

“James Long?” Santiago called.

Long stopped and looked at the two men in suits, their jackets unbuttoned, a badge showing on the belt of the one who had spoken to him.

“Yes?”

“I am Detective David Santiago, and this is Special Agent Jeff Borden of the FBI. We’d like to speak to you, please. May we go inside?”

“Sure,” Long said. He unlocked the front door and set his briefcase on a table in the foyer, then led them into the living room and waved them to seats. “Would you like a drink?”

“On duty, I’m afraid,” Santiago said, “but thanks for the thought.”

“Mind if I have one?”

“Certainly not,” Santiago replied. He didn’t mind questioning a man who was drinking.

Long walked to a bar built into a bookcase, poured himself a shot of something, downed it, then put ice into his glass and poured another, then returned to where the two sat and took a chair. “What can I do for you?” he asked, taking a tug at his drink.

He was trying to look calm, Santiago thought, but he wasn’t making it. “My department is investigating the murder of your former employee, Barton Cross.”

“Good. I’m glad to hear it. I was very upset when I heard of Bart’s death. He was a good man.”

“I’m sure he was, Mr. Long. Specifically, I want to talk to you about your relationship with Barbara Eagle.”

“Okay,” Long said. “What would you like to know?”

Mistake,
Santiago thought. He should have asked how Barbara Eagle was related to the death of Cross. “When did you last see Mrs. Eagle?”

“About a week ago,” he said. “She stayed here for a couple of days, and then I drove her to the airport.”

“To LAX?”

“That’s right.”

“Where was she going?”

“She didn’t say, and I didn’t ask,” Long replied. A light film of sweat had appeared on his forehead.

“That seems odd, Mr. Long. You drive an old friend to the airport, and there’s no conversation about where she’s going?”

“Well, Barbara is kind of odd about her privacy,” Long said, seeming to grope for an answer.

Santiago took his notebook from his shirt pocket, opened it to a blank page and stared at it for a moment. “Let’s see,” he said, “the day you drove her to the airport was the, what, twenty-eighth?”

“That sounds about right,” Long said.

“What time of day?”

“Afternoon, I believe. I had just come home from work, and she said she had to leave.”

“That would be the day after Mr. Cross was shot in the head in his living room, wouldn’t it?” Santiago asked.

“I don’t see the connection,” Long said, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand and taking another pull from his drink.

“Well, Mr. Long, we know that Barbara shot Bart Cross. The question now is how much help you gave her.”

“Help?” Long asked, wiping sweat from his upper lip.

Santiago glanced at his notebook again. “For a start, you introduced Barbara to Bart, didn’t you.” It was not a question. “In Acapulco, it’s says here. That’s so, isn’t it.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m connected to anything.”

“It means that Barbara is connected to Bart, and you made the connection,” Santiago said, careful to sound reasonable, to keep accusation out of his voice. “And you’re right, there’s nothing wrong with introducing two people. You and Bart dropped her off at Yuma International, didn’t you? I’m just trying to get the sequence of events established.”

“Well, yes, and I didn’t see her for a couple of weeks after that.”

“She asked you how to get in touch with Bart, didn’t she?” Santiago asked. “I mean, you were her only connection to him, weren’t you? Seems logical that she would ask you for his number.”

“She may have,” Long replied, wrinkling his brow as if trying to remember.

“So, here’s how it went after that, Mr. Long,” Santiago said. “She hired Bart to kill Ed Eagle, and he did his best, but Eagle survived the attack. Barbara killed him so he couldn’t connect her to the attempt.”

“Look here,” Long said. “Do I need a lawyer?”

“You’re certainly entitled to a lawyer, Mr. Long. I’d be happy to explain your rights in detail, if you wish. Whether you
need
a lawyer is another matter.”

“I have a law degree,” Long said, pulling himself upright in his chair. “I don’t need to have my rights explained to me.”

“Duly noted,” Santiago said, scribbling something in his notebook. “Do you need a lawyer, Mr. Long?”

Long stared at him. The booze was obviously taking effect now, and his thinking must be affected.

“Mr. Long,” Santiago said gently, “I’m not after you. I know you didn’t kill Bart Cross, just as I know that Barbara did. What you have to decide now is how much you want your future to be affected by what Barbara has done. Surely you know that this is not the first time she has hired a killer. There was a fellow named Jack Cato, who also worked for you from time to time as a stuntman. She hired him to kill a lawyer in Palo Alto, remember?”

“I don’t know anything about that,” Long said emphatically.

“Mr. Long,” Santiago said slowly. “If you cooperate with my investigation now, answer questions freely and agree to repeat your answers in court, I don’t see why you should be placed in jeopardy for what Barbara has done. You’re not a target of my investigation now, but from here on in, the story could change, depending on your truthfulness. Do you understand?”

Long stared into his drink. “I think I want a lawyer,” he said.

“If you make that a formal request, then this questioning will end right here,” Santiago said, “but I need to explain to you that a lawyer will instruct you not to answer any other questions about your relationship to Barbara and her decision to kill Bart. He will advise you to stand on your rights under the Fifth Amendment of the United States Constitution, but frankly, that would be a very big mistake. Don’t you think so, Jeff?”

Borden took his cue and leaned forward in his chair. “I should tell you, Mr. Long, that in Mexico, you may not have the same rights as you do in the United States. We now know that Barbara Eagle escaped from a Mexican prison and met you in Acapulco—perhaps you even drove her there—and that you assisted her in entering the United States.”

“She has a passport. She had a right to enter the country.”

“But the Mexicans are going to say that you abetted her escape from prison and in fleeing the country. And on this side of the border, well, Homeland Security will have to get involved, and frankly, I don’t think you’re going to have time to produce movies while you’re trying to stay out of prison in two countries.”

Long was breathing harder now.

“I should tell you, too, that the Mexican Ministry of Justice has requested the extradition of Barbara Eagle to Mexico, and the attorney general of the United States has agreed to extradite her, and a federal judge has issued a warrant for her arrest.”

Long drained his glass and set it down on a table next to him. “That woman is the best piece of ass I have ever had in my life,” he said, “but I am
not
going to go to prison for her.”

“You’ve made the right decision, Mr. Long,” Santiago said. He removed a pocket recorder from his jacket pocket, pressed a button and set it down on the coffee table in front of Long. “Now, let’s start again.”

53

T
odd Bacon was watching a football game on television when the phone rang. “Hello?”

“Hi. It’s Dolly. How are you?”

“I’m good, Dolly. I’ve been waiting to hear from you.”

“I was trying to reach Ellie, but she didn’t answer her cell phone right away. When I finally got her, she was in San Francisco, so she can’t join us.”

“That’s too bad,” Todd said, with genuine regret.

“Can you make do with just me?”

“You bet I can,” he replied with feeling.

“Tell you what, why don’t you come out here to the house?”

“Okay. Give me directions.”

She told him how to get to Las Campanas and to the house.

“Take the second drive to the guesthouse,” she said. “That way I won’t have to worry about my boss coming home and rousting us.”

“Sounds good. Can I bring anything?”

“Nope. Right now is good. See you soon?”

“I’m on my way,” Todd said, switching off his TV.

Todd had been holed up in his room for a day and a half, hoping Holly Barker and Lance Cabot would think he was working. His plan now was to fuck Dolly’s brains out, then pack up tomorrow morning and leave, maybe try Sedona, in Arizona. Teddy could be there just as well as anyplace else.

He got to the garage and drove out.

AT HOME, Teddy’s little GPS unit made a chiming noise, and he picked it up. Todd’s car was on the move. Teddy had begun to think he had locked himself in his room and committed suicide.

“I’ve got to go out for a while,” he called to Lauren, who was starting dinner. “I’ll call you when I’m on the way home.”

“Okay,” she called back. “Don’t be too late, or I’ll be drunk!”

“I’ll catch up,” he said, laughing. He unplugged the GPS from its charger and got into the Tahoe. Todd’s car was moving north toward the road to Espanola, but it turned west, then north again. Teddy followed, not having to see the Toyota, just following the dot.

TODD FOLLOWED the directions to the golfer’s house, then passed the driveway and made the next turn. He stopped at the small guesthouse and rapped on the door.

Dolly came to the door naked, grabbed him by the belt and pulled him into the house, towing him toward the bedroom. She stripped him and pulled him into bed with her. “I want you inside me,” she said, helping him perform that task.

TEDDY MADE HIS way north, passing the sign for Las Campanas, turned into a driveway and stopped. He could see the large house ahead of him, and there were no cars parked out front. He backed up and drove a little farther down the road until he saw another dirt track, then pulled over and left the car.

The sun was just sinking below the horizon as he approached the guesthouse, and lights came on, as if on a timer or a light sensor. He had a look through a window into the living room and saw no one, so he walked slowly around the house. No one in the kitchen, either, but then he came to a bedroom window and was transfixed momentarily by the sight of a young woman on top of Todd Bacon, riding him like a rodeo pony.

Teddy waited until he heard the noises of orgasm, then the woman got off Todd, went to the bathroom for a minute, then came out. He could hear her say, “Don’t you move. I’m not through with you yet, I’m just going to get a drink.” She exited the bedroom.

Now, knowing the layout of the house, Teddy let himself quietly inside and peeked around a corner to see her doing something at the kitchen counter. He walked silently to her and chopped her across the back of the neck with the edge of a hand, then caught her and led her easily to the floor. Then he walked toward the bedroom.

As Teddy turned a corner he got a look at the rumpled bed, which was empty. He heard water running in the bathroom and stood by the door, his back pressed against the wall. He removed the nine-millimeter pistol from the holster on his belt and waited. The toilet flushed, and Bacon walked out.

Teddy pressed the barrel of the pistol to the back of Todd’s neck. “Stand perfectly still and listen to me,” he said. “Cross your arms in front of you.” Todd did so. “I’m leaving Santa Fe tonight,” Teddy said, “and if you follow me, if I ever lay eyes on you again, anywhere in the world, I’ll going to kill you immediately, if not sooner. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

“You can’t run forever, Teddy,” Todd said. “They’ll keep sending people until they find you.”

“You’re out of your league, Todd. Remember what I said.” He rapped Todd on the back of the head sharply with the barrel of his pistol, and the young man sank to the floor in a heap.