Santa Fe Dead (16 page)

41

BARBARA WOKE EARLY and went downstairs. The
L.A. Times
and
The Wall Street Journal
were on the doorstep. She took them into the kitchen, made coffee and started leafing through the
Times
. Nothing in the front section. She was well into the arts pages before she found it.

ACTRESS MURDERED IN SANTA FE

AP: Santa Fe police announced the death by shooting of a woman they described as "a member of the film community” at her home outside the city. She had apparently been shot through a bedroom window by a sniper, who is being sought by police. Police are withholdingher name, pending notification of next of kin.

Barbara thought her coffee had never tasted better. In a rush of good feeling, she made breakfast for Jimmy and took it upstairs to him on a tray.

“Hey, the service is getting pretty good around here,” he said. “You sure you have to go?”

“Well, maybe I’ll stay on for a few days more,” she said. What the hell, she thought. I’m not going to get laid in San Francisco.

“You’re welcome as long as you’d like to stay,” he said.

Barbara was pulling on some jeans and a cotton sweater. “You’re sweet, baby.”

“Where are you going so early?” Jimmy asked.

“I have to go to the post office,” she replied. She went downstairs to his study, found a manila envelope, addressed it with a Magic Marker and stuffed it with fifty thousand dollars. The post office wouldn’t be open yet, so she grabbed a roll of stamps from Jimmy’s desk drawer, weighed the package on his postage scale and applied the postage.

DETECTIVE LUCY DIXON had just come on duty in her unmarked car when she saw the car, driven by the woman, come out of the Long driveway. She started her car and followed at a distance. Where the hell could the woman be going at seven forty-five in the morning? No shops were open at this hour.

She followed the car until it turned into the post office parking lot and watched as the woman deposited a manila envelope into the drive-thru mailbox, then left the parking lot and drove back the way she had come.

Dixon drove up to the mailbox and checked the schedule. A pickup was due at eight A.M., and it was already ten past. No time to get a federal warrant. She pulled her car farther forward and stopped, blocking the driveway, then got out of the car and waited.

Another ten minutes passed before the truck arrived and the driver got out.

Dixon approached him with a smile. “Good morning,” she said.

“Good morning,” he replied looking her up and down.

This was a good sign. She smiled more broadly and showed him her badge. “I’m LAPD,” she said. “I wonder if you would let me look at a package that was mailed a few minutes ago?”

The driver shook his head. “Sorry, Detective, you can’t mess with the mail without a federal warrant.”

“It’s Lucy,” she said.

“Sorry, Lucy.”

“I don’t want to mess with it; I just want to see the address on it. It’s a manila envelope, and it was mailed ten minutes ago, so it should be right on top.”

He went around to the back of the box, shook open a mail bag and positioned it. Then he unlocked the box and raked the mail out and into the bag. “If you can see it, you can look at it,” he said.

Dixon stepped over and checked the mail. There were two manila envelopes visible, but only one of them was without a return address. She got out her notebook. The address read: J.C., 129 Forrest Lane, Studio City. “Thanks, pal,” she said. “You’re a sweetheart.”

“Hey, how about a movie and dinner this week?” he asked.

“Oh, I’m so sorry; I’m seeing somebody.”

The man shrugged, got into his truck and drove away.

Dixon got back into her car and called her watch commander.

“Evans.”

“Boss, it’s Dixon. You know you said something about Mrs. Keeler mailing money to a hit man?”

“Yeah, that was the theory.”

“Well, I just followed her to the post office and watched her mail a manila envelope at the drive-thru, so l waited for the truck to arrive, and I got the address off the envelope.”

“Good work, Dixon. Give it to me.”

She read him the address.

“I’ll find a city directory and see who J.C. is.”

“You know, boss, if you could get a federal warrant, I could intercept the envelope and open it.”

“I’ll see what I can do, Dixon.”

“You want me back on Long’s house?”

“Well, yeah. It seems to be working, doesn’t it?”

“Okay, I’m gone.” She got back into the car and drove back to the Long house, very pleased with herself.

DETECTIVE FIRST GRADE Tom Evans started to call the U.S. Attorney’s office about the search warrant but realized the time. Nobody would be there just yet. He wrote a note to himself to call them and put it in a little tray where he kept reminders, since his short-term memory had started to go. He had only a year before his thirty years were up, and he wasn’t about to get dumped on a non-work-related medical by reporting his memory loss. He could fake it for a year. He went back to work.

DIXON FINISHED HER shift at four o’clock and drove back to the station house to leave the patrol car and pick up her own. As she walked past the front desk to leave the keys, she saw Detective Evans. “Hi, boss.”

“Hello, Dixon.”

“What’s happening with that federal warrant?”

Evans looked a little startled. “Huh? Oh, that’s in the works,” he replied.

“I’d love to go out to Studio City in the morning and serve that warrant,” she said. Anything would beat sitting on Mrs. Keeler for another day, watching her shop and go to the beauty salon.

“I’ll let you know,” Evans said. What the hell was she talking about? He went back to his desk and went through the notes to himself in the tray on his desk. “Shit!” he said aloud. He turned around to see half a dozen detectives looking at him.

“You,” he said, pointing to a cop. “Get your ass over to the U.S. Attorney’s office and get me a federal warrant to search a mailbox in Studio City.” He grabbed a form for the warrant and filled it out; then he handed it to the detective and explained the circumstances. “Here’s the request.”

“Right, boss.” The detective got his coat and left.

Evans looked at his watch: four thirty. “And move your ass!” he shouted after the detective.

42

DETECTIVE ALEX REESE had the weird feeling that he was starting a new investigation that was really an old investigation. Granted, the circumstances of the two cases were very different; granted, the weapons used were different; granted, he had not the slightest evidence to connect them. Still, they
felt
connected.

He had two people checking the airline schedules for likely killers— either one male or two males traveling together—and for forty-eight hours before the murder there had been a dozen single males traveling, and every one of them had checked out as legit.

Reese was driving in to work when he passed Airport Road, and he had a sudden thought. He made a quick U-turn and drove to the airport. He parked and walked into Santa Fe Jet, and approached the young woman behind the counter. “Hi,” he said, showing her his badge. “Did you work this past weekend?”

“Yep, one weekend a month,” she said.

“Do you remember any general aviation aircraft coming in with a single male pilot or two males?”

“Well, let’s see,” she said. “Best way would be to go through the fuel tickets to remind me. Here’s a Learjet with two guys, in from New York; here’s a Bonanza with one guy, in from Austin, Texas; here’s a guy in from Albuquerque in a Cessna 182. Everything else was groups, I think. The guy from Austin was kind of a hoot: a standard-issue Texan with a big hat and a big moustache. He looked kind of familiar, like that actor, Sam Elliot?”

“Are you sure it wasn’t Sam Elliot?”

She flipped through the fuel tickets. “No, he was a Carl Timmons.” She showed him the signature. “He flew in Friday night and left at the crack of dawn on Sunday morning.”

“How’d he pay for his fuel?”

“In cash. That was kind of unusual.”

“How often do people pay in cash?”

“Never, since I’ve been here. It’s always a check or credit card.”

“Did he rent a car?”

“Yes, he did.”

“And how’d he pay for that?”

“Again, in cash.”

“Where’s the car?”

She looked at the list. “It’s been rented again, not due back for a week.”

Reese made a note of the address in Austin of Carl Timmons and of the tail number of the Bonanza.

“Has Timmons ever been in here before?”

“Not that I know of.”

“How about the airplane?”

“Could be; we get lots of Bonanzas—very popular airplane.”

“Is there anything else you can think of about Timmons? How was he dressed?”

“Like a cowboy: jeans, western shirt, cowboy boots. Alligator boots, come to think of it. Those things are expensive.”

Reese handed her his card. “If you remember anything else about the guy, will you give me a call? It’s very important.”

“Sure, be glad to.”

REESE LEFT THE airport and drove back to his office. He went online to the website of the Federal Aviation Administration and checked the tail number of the Bonanza: It was registered to an Anthony DeMarco, M.D., of a Brentwood address in L.A. He found the office number of the doctor and phoned him.

“Dr. DeMarco’s office,” a woman’s voice said.

“Good morning, may I speak with Dr. DeMarco, please?”

“Who’s calling?”

“This is Detective Alex Reese of the Santa Fe, New Mexico, police department.”

“I’m afraid Dr. De Marco is in surgery all day today,” she said. “I can take your number and ask him to call you when he gets a break.”

“Yes, please,” Reese said. He gave the woman his number and cell number. “Any time of day. By the way, what sort of medicine does Dr. DeMarco practice?”

“He’s a cosmetic surgeon; he operates three days a week, and this is one of them.”

“Thank you. I look forward to hearing from him.” Reese hung up and went back to work.

JACK CATO WAS shooting his first scene on a new movie, so he rose early, shaved and showered and had breakfast. The mailman arrived just as he was leaving the house, so Cato took the mail inside. A fat manila envelope was among the bills, and he took a peek inside. What he saw caused a wave of relief and elation to wash over him. He put the envelope into his briefcase and closed and locked it.

He was about to leave the house when the doorbell rang. He looked out the window and saw what appeared to be an unmarked police car. He put his briefcase into a drawer of a chest in the living room, then answered the door. A man and a woman stood there.

“Good morning,” the woman said. “I’m Detective Lucy Dixon, LAPD, and this is Detective Watts.” She handed him a document. “This is a federal search warrant to search your mailbox.”

Cato looked at the document. “Well, okay, but I’ve already taken the mail out. You want to see it?”

“Thank you, yes.”

“Then come inside.” He led them into his little home office and pointed to the desk. “There you go, that’s everything that came. You just missed the mailman.”

The woman went through all the envelopes. “Are you sure this is everything, Mr. Cato?”

“That’s it. Mostly bills, I’m afraid.”

Dixon opened each envelope and perused the contents. She was particularly interested in the bill from GMAC. “Mr. Cato, are you acquainted with a Mrs. Eleanor Keeler, widow of one Walter Keeler?”

“Nope. I mean, I know who Walter Keeler was, because I use some equipment he made, and I read about his car accident a while back.”

“You’ve never met Mrs. Keeler?”

“Not to my knowledge. A lot of people come on tours through the movie studio where I work, so I suppose she could have come through.”

“Which studio?”

“Centurion. That reminds me, I’m shooting this morning, so I gotta go. Anything else I can do to help you?”

“I guess not. We’ll be here again tomorrow morning, so don’t open your mailbox; we’ll do it for you.”

“Okay, no problem. Can you tell me what this is about?”

“I’m afraid not.” The two officers thanked him and left. He gave them a moment to get away, then retrieved his briefcase, put it into the toolbox bolted to his truck, locked it and drove to work.

Cato knew exactly what they were looking for: the money. How the hell could they know about that? He would have to be very careful with his spending. One good thing, though: Now he knew the name of the woman who had hired him. That might come in handy.

DIXON AND WATTS were driving back to their station, empty-handed.

“Anything of interest in his mail?” Watts asked.

“I thought it was interesting that there were no past-due balances on any of his bills,” she said, “and his bill from GMAC showed he had recently been three months behind on his truck payments, but he had brought the account up to date in the past week or so. Still, he had only a little over three hundred bucks in his bank account. I think we should pull a credit report on Mr. Cato.”

43

JACK CATO TOOK his golf cart over to the studio commissary at lunchtime. He looked around the dining room and spotted Tina López and Soledad Rivera at a table together. He went through the cafeteria line, took his tray over to their table and sat down.

“Hey, Jack,” Tina said.

“Hey, Tina, Soledad. How was Tijuana?”

“You tell me,” Tina said. “You were there, too.”

“Drunk, I guess.”

“You got something for me?”

He picked up her napkin, stuffed an envelope into it and put it in her lap.

She groped around, found the money and smiled.

“Need any help down there?” he asked, nodding at her lap.

“Thanks, but I’m all fixed up for that.”

“He’s back, huh?”

She shrugged.

“I’ll see him at poker tonight, then.”

Soledad spoke up. “Am I going to hear from that cop again?”

“What if you do?” Cato asked, digging into his lunch. “You know what to tell him.”

“Everything turn out all right this weekend?” Tina asked.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Cato replied, shoving a chunk of meat loaf into his mouth.

LUCY DIXON SAT down at her sergeant’s desk. “Boss, we came up dry at Cato’s house; he got to the mailbox first.”

“Who?”

“Jack Cato. That’s his name. J.C.?”

He shuffled through some slips of paper in a tray on his desk. “No money, huh?”

“Well, I think it came, but like I said, he got to it first. The mailman comes early in Studio City; we were about a minute late. I went through what mail there was, mostly bills and a bank statement. All his bills are current, but he’s only got a few hundred bucks in the bank.”

“So what? That’s all I’ve got, too.”

“I pulled a credit report on him: very spotty, lots of payments a month or two late. And yet, everything is current now. What does that tell you?”

“You tell me.”

“It tells me that all his bills are paid because he came into some money.”

“That makes sense.”

“I checked with the studio. He’s on a base salary of fifty-two grand a year, but he gets paid for doing stunt work in movies on top of that.”

“So, if he makes two or three movies a year, he’s flush, huh?”

“He hasn’t worked on a film this year, until this morning, when he started one.”

“All this makes sense to me, Dixon, but you’ve got nothing that the D.A. would want to take to court. Stay on this woman, what’s her name?”

“Keeler.”

“Like Ruby Keeler. I liked her movies when I was a kid.”

“I’ll stay on her, boss.” Dixon went back to her patrol car and drove back to Beverly Hills.

CATO THOUGHT ABOUT it for a while, then he picked up the phone and called the cell number she had given him.

“Yes?”

“I got your package this morning,” Cato said. “Thanks.”

“Then we have nothing further to talk about. Good-bye.”

“Wait! I’ve got a heads-up for you.”

“What?”

“About a minute after I opened your envelope, two LAPD cops showed up with a federal warrant to search my mailbox. Fortunately, I had already put it away, but they opened all my mail. I think you can guess what they were looking for.”

“How would they know about that?”

“Well, they didn’t hear about it from me, Mrs. Keeler. You’d better look to yourself.”

“What did you call me?”

“It’s what they called you. They asked me if I knew you.”

“And what did you tell them?”

“What do you think I told them? I blew them off. Now I’ll say good-bye; I just thought you ought to know about this.” He hung up.

BARBARA PUT THE cell phone away and retraced her steps for the past couple of days. That female cop had followed her to the post office, and she must have seen her mail the envelope. But how did she know it had been sent to Cato? Then the penny dropped. Oh, shit, she thought. She waited for the box to be opened and found the envelope, and I have no one to blame but myself.

And, as a result, Jack Cato now knew her name, and he must think that she was very, very rich.

CATO’S FIRST SCENE wrapped late in the afternoon, and at six, he went over to Don Wells’s offices. Grif Edwards and a couple of other players were already there. Wells came in from the set, and the poker table was set up.

“Give me five hundred,” Cato said to the banker, tossing five hundreds onto the table.

Wells looked at him sharply but said nothing.

Cato won two hundred and twenty dollars, and when the game wrapped at midnight, he got into his golf cart and went back to the stable to get his truck. As he got out of the cart, a Mercedes with its headlights off pulled up next to him, and the window slid down.

“You’re getting careless, Jack,” Wells said.

“What do you men?”

“Throwing hundred-dollar bills on a poker table. Did that money come from my safe?”

“No, Don, it didn’t.”

“Then where’d you get it?”

Cato shrugged. He realized now that he had made a very big mistake.

“A guy owed me some money, and he paid in hundreds.”

“You find a bank where nobody knows you, and you get some small bills, you hear me?”

“Okay, Don.”

“Don’t be caught anywhere at any time with anything bigger than a fifty in your pocket, and not many of those.”

“You’re right, Don; I should have thought.”

“Think more, Jack. The cops have already talked to you once.”

“My alibi is tight, Don.”

“Yeah, I heard about how Soledad cut and ran when the cop showed up.”

“Tina’s got her straightened out.”

“Yeah, I know. She’d better stay straightened out, and so had you.”

“Don’t worry about me, Don.”

“I will, Jack. I will,” Wells said. Then he put up his window and drove away.

Cato stood looking after him, sweating.