Santa Fe Dead (18 page)

47

ALEX REESE WAS sitting at his desk the following morning when the phone rang. “Alex Reese.”

“Detective Reese? This is Dr. Anthony DeMarco in Los Angeles, returning your call. I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you earlier, but I’ve had a busy week.”

“Thank you for calling, Dr. DeMarco. Do you own a Beech Bonanza?” He gave him the registration number.

“Yes, I do.”

“Have you recently flown your airplane to Santa Fe?”

“No, I haven’t, but I lease the airplane to the Compton Flying Club at Compton Airport, and one of their members may have rented it and flown it there. I’ll give you their number.”

Reese wrote down the number. “Thank you very much, Dr. DeMarco,” he said, then hung up and phoned the club.

“Compton Flying Club. This is Margie,” a woman’s voice said.

“Good morning. My name is Detective Alex Reese, from the Santa Fe, New Mexico, Police Department.”

“What can I do for you?”

Reese gave her the relevant dates. “Did you rent Dr. Anthony DeMarco’s Beech Bonanza to a member that weekend?”

“Hang on, let me check the log.” She came back. “Yes, we rented it to a member named Jack Cato.”

Reese’s heart leapt, then he had another thought. He gave her some earlier dates.

“Yes, we rented the Bonanza to Mr. Cato then, too.”

“Were you there when Mr. Cato took off?”

“Not the second time; he asked me to fuel the airplane and leave the key under the nose wheel. But the first weekend I was there when they left.”

“Someone was with him?”

“Yes, another man.”

“Do you know the other man’s name?”

“Jack called him Grif. I don’t know his last name.”

“Would you be kind enough to write me a letter to that effect?” Reese gave her his address, then hung up. He went immediately to the D.A.’s office.

Bob Martínez waved Reese to a chair. “What’s up?”

“You’re not going to believe this: Jack Cato and Grif Edwards killed Donna Wells and her son,
and
Cato fired the shot that struck Susannah Wilde.”

“They did
both
?”

“Well, I think Cato worked alone on the Wilde thing, but Edwards was with him for the Wells murders. I have a witness that saw them take off together in the Bonanza from Compton Airport, in L.A. I don’t have a witness yet who saw them in Santa Fe, but I’ve got one at the airport who puts Cato in the Bonanza the second time. She made him from a movie he was in, one of Don Wells’s pictures.”

“This is fantastic work, Alex, but I don’t get the Susannah Wilde thing. What connection does Wells have with her?”

“Well, they’re both in the movie business; maybe they know each other that way. That’s going to take some more investigating.”

“Oh, another thing,” Martínez said. “There’s a break in the murder case of Donna’s first husband. Wells’s alibi for that occasion now has a crack in it.”

“Wonderful! Will you get me a murder warrant for Jack Cato and Grif Edwards? I’ll get the LAPD to pick them up, and then we’ll extradite them.”

“I’ll not only get that warrant; I’ll get you extradition papers, too. I want you to go back to L.A. and be in on the arrest; it’ll look good in the papers.”

“What about Don Wells? Shouldn’t I pick him up, too?”

“We’ve got a problem there,” Martínez said. “We can connect Wells to Cato and Edwards, but we don’t yet have any evidence that he hired them to kill his wife and son. We’re going to have to break Cato or Edwards—or both—to get that.”

“There are also the two girls who gave Cato and Edwards their alibi. I’ve learned that one of them is sleeping with Wells, and has been for some time.”

That will sound good at trial, but we don’t have enough to arrest the girls yet. Maybe Cato and Edwards will give them up, too.”

“I’ll question them again after we’ve arrested Cato and Edwards. The problem is, when Wells hears about it, he might run. God knows, he has the money.”

“Yeah, that could be a problem. I’ll request LAPD surveillance on him.” Martínez looked at his watch. “Can you make the eleven o’clock plane from Albuquerque?”

“No, I have to stop at home and pick up some things. I’ll make the three o’clock plane, though.”

“I’ll have the warrants and extradition papers for you in an hour,” Martínez said. “I’ll get the LAPD to get search warrants for their homes and places of work, too.”

REESE LEFT, and Martínez dictated the warrant and extradition details to his secretary, called a judge and sent his secretary to him for his signature. He called the L.A. Chief of Police and requested surveillance on Don Wells, then he called the LAPD office for search warrants. Then he made another call.

“Ed Eagle.”

“Ed, it’s Bob Martínez.”

“Morning, Bob.”

“I have some news. Call it disclosure.”

“Yes.”

“You recall the two stuntmen who worked for Don Wells, the ones we questioned in L.A.?”

“Yes.”

“We can put them in Santa Fe at the time of the murders of Donna Wells and her son.”

“Lots of people come to Santa Fe for a weekend, Bob, especially from L.A.”

“There’s more, Ed.”

“What more?”

“We can put one of them, Jack Cato, in Santa Fe at the time of the shooting of Susannah Wilde.”

There followed a stunned silence.

“That doesn’t make any sense, Bob. Wells has no motive to kill Susannah; they don’t even know each other. No, it was Barbara who sent the shooter to Susannah’s house.”

“Well, it’s looking like the same shooter as the one who committed the Wells killings.”

“Then we’ve got two different people hiring the same hit man.”

“Happens all the time, Ed. The pros will work for anybody.”

“Are you arresting Cato and Edwards?”

“Yes, the warrants are being issued now. Alex Reese is flying to L.A. this afternoon to serve them and make the arrests.”

“What about my client? Are you arresting him?”

“No, we have insufficient evidence for that. On the other hand, if he tries to run, we’ll bring him in. You might convey that to him, Ed.”

“I’ll pass on the message. Thanks for calling.”

48

JACK CATO STAYED up late packing most of his belongings and stuffing others into trash bags. He unloaded the trash bags into a Dumpster at a construction site a few blocks away, then he went home and loaded everything else into his truck.

He got a couple of hours sleep and was on the set at Centurion at seven A.M. Don Wells walked past him, stopped and consulted a clipboard. “I’m going to shoot your stuff first, Jack; you’ll be out of here by noon. Are you ready to move?”

“Yep, everything’s in my truck.”

THEY HAD BEEN working for a little over an hour when the director called for a change of setup. “Where are my guns?” he yelled at an assistant director.

“They’re late,” he said. “I’ll call the armory.” The young man pressed a button on his cell phone, talked, listened, then came back to the director, who was talking with Don Wells. “You know that stunt guy, Grif Edwards?”

Both men nodded.

“Well, he’s dead. Shot himself over at the armory. That’s why the guns aren’t here; the cops are crawling all over the place.”

“We can’t shoot this scene without guns,” the director said.

“Come on,” Wells replied, “let’s go over there and see what we can do.” The two men got into a golf cart and drove over to the armory.

There was yellow tape over the door, and as they looked in, a detective approached them. “Can I help you gentlemen?”

“We heard there was a shooting over here,” the director said. “We’re shooting the final scenes of a film, and we need our guns.”

“Do you gentlemen know a man named Griffin Edwards?”

“Sure,” the director said, “he’s worked on our films as a stuntman. Did he kill himself?”

“Do you know any reason why he would?”

“Not me,” the director said.

“Me, either,” Wells chimed in. “Is the guy who runs the armory here?”

“Yeah, just a minute.”

They waited until the armory manager came outside. “You heard?”

“Yes,” the director said, “and we’re sorry, but we need half a dozen Winchesters and six-guns. I ordered this stuff last week.”

Another detective came outside and introduced himself as the officer in charge of the investigation. The manager explained the situation.

“Well,” the detective said, “Edwards didn’t use a Winchester or a six-gun, so I guess you can give them to these people.”

“We’ll have them back this afternoon,” Wells said. They loaded the guns and blank ammunition into the golf cart and returned to the set.

Wells waved Cato over. “Seems Grif Edwards has shot himself over at the armory.”

“Jesus!” Cato said. “Why would he do that?”

“Who knows?” Wells said. “Let’s get back to work.”

ED EAGLE AND Susannah Wilde took off from Santa Fe and headed for Los Angeles. They were halfway there before Eagle put it all together in his mind. “I’ve got it,” he said.

“Got what?”

“Wells had nothing to do with the attempt on your life; that was Barbara, as we’ve always thought. But she used the same hit man that Wells used.”

“How would Barbara and Wells be using the same hit man?”

“The connection is the movie business. Barbara’s pal, Jimmy Long, is a producer, too, and he works out of Centurion. I’d be willing to bet that Jack Cato worked in at least one of his pictures.”

“That makes sense as a connection, I guess. What are you going to do about all this?”

“First, I’m going to talk to two P.I.s who work for me sometime, then I’m going to talk to Don Wells, then I’m going to talk to the chief of police.”

THEY WERE MET at Santa Monica Airport by Cupie Dalton and Vittorio. Eagle made the introductions, then he talked with the two men while Susannah went inside to freshen up.

“How are you progressing?” Eagle asked.

“We can get it done,” Cupie said, “but first, we’ve got to solve a problem.”

“What problem?”

“The LAPD has got surveillance on Barbara; we can’t get to her as long as that’s the case.”

“Well, shit,” Eagle said. “That’s my fault; I asked Joe Sams to have her watched.”

“Can’t you ask him to call off his men?” Cupie asked.

Vittorio spoke up. “That’s not very smart,” he said. “If you do that, and then we do our job, Sams will make the connection.”

“You’re right, Vittorio,” Eagle said. “Let me think about how to do this. You two just keep an eye on her and let me know if she starts looking like she’s leaving L.A.”

“Whatever you say, Ed,” Cupie said. The two men got into their car and drove away.

Eagle went inside the FBO, found an empty conference room and called Don Wells.

“Hello, Ed,” Wells said.

“Don, there have been developments.”

“Tell me.”

“The Santa Fe police have been able to place your two stuntmen, Cato and Edwards, in Santa Fe at the time your wife and son were killed.”

“I don’t think those guys would do something like that.”

“Well, the police do, so you’d better expect to hear from them.”

“Ed, there’s nothing connecting me to those two, except work and a few poker games.”

“Don, here’s how the police think: They’re looking for motive, means and opportunity. As far as you’re concerned the motive is your wife’s money, the means is those two stuntmen and the opportunity is their presence in Santa Fe at the time of the murders. Do you see where this is heading?”

“Ed, I’ve got nothing to fear in this, unless somebody’s planning to frame me.”

“Good, I’m glad you feel that way. Just be sure that you don’t leave town or give them any other reason to believe that you’re involved.”

“Oh, there’s something you should know, Ed: One of the stuntmen, Grif Edwards, committed suicide at the studio armory last night.”

“Swell,” Eagle said. “Don’t look at this as good for you; it sounds like Cato killed him to keep him from talking.”

“I didn’t think of that,” Wells said.

“There’s something else, Don: Do you know who Susannah Wilde is?”

“The actress? Sure.”

“She also lives with me, most of the time. It looks as though Cato tried to kill her, too.”

“Christ, Cato is a busy guy, isn’t he?”

“In the circumstances, Don, what with my connection to Susannah, I think you should get yourself another lawyer.”

“You think I had something to do with an attempt on Ms. Wilde’s life?”

“No, Don, but I’d feel uncomfortable continuing. Please get yourself another lawyer. I’ll recommend somebody, if you like.”

“That won’t be necessary, Ed; I know lawyers in L.A.”

“Well, then I wish you well, Don. Goodbye.” Eagle hung up.

Susannah came looking for him and found him in the conference room. “Ready to go?”

“Yes,” Eagle said, “and I’ve just washed my hands of Don Wells.”

49

JACK CATO HAD just wrapped his last scene when two detectives arrived on the set, took him to one side and sat him down. One of them read him his rights.

“What’s this about?” Cato asked.

“It’s about the death of Grif Edwards.”

“I heard he committed suicide.”

“You want a lawyer, Mr. Cato?”

“Nope, I don’t think I need one.”

“You knew Grif Edwards pretty well, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I did.”

“When did you last see him?”

“Last weekend, when we went down to Tijuana for the bullfights.”

“Anybody with you?”

“Yeah, Tina López and Soledad Rivera. They both work in the wardrobe department.”

“Did you notice anything unusual about Edwards’s behavior?”

“Yeah, he was very depressed, but he wouldn’t talk about it. He just drank a lot of tequila and didn’t say much.”

“Did you see Edwards at all yesterday or in the evening?”

“No, I left work a little after six and went home.”

One of the detectives consulted a clipboard. “He’s on the front-gate list; drove out at six-oh-nine P.M.”

“What do you think Edwards was doing in the armory last night?”

“Well, from what I’ve heard, that’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?”

“Did Edwards own any firearms?”

“Not that I know of.”

“How would Edwards have gotten a key to the armory?”

“I have no idea. I didn’t know he had one; those keys would be pretty tightly controlled, I expect.”

“So you think he broke into the armory to get a weapon to shoot himself with?”

“Makes sense to me.” The detective’s cell phone rang, and he answered it. After a brief conversation, he hung up. “Edwards left a note at his house,” he said to his partner.

“A suicide note?” Cato asked.

“That’s what it sounds like. Typed it on his own typewriter.”

“All right, Mr. Cato, we’re done; you can go.”

Cato got into his golf cart and stopped by the personnel office to leave his resignation, then made his way back to the stable. His money was stowed in a steel box welded under the frame of his truck, and everything was packed. It was nearly five o’clock. Just one more thing to do.

He dialed a number on his prepaid cell phone.

“Yes?”

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Keeler.”

“Who is this?”

“You know who this is; I ran a couple of errands for you, remember?”

“The second one didn’t work out; you were ineffective.”

“What are you talking about? It was a head shot.”

“I just heard she’s alive and well, and you owe me fifty thousand dollars.”

Cato laughed. “Well, I’m gonna give you some good news and some bad news, lady. First, the good news: I’m calling from out of the country, so I won’t be around to implicate you.”

“That is good news. Now what about my fifty thousand?”

“That’s the bad news. I shot the lady in the head, as you requested. She lived; that’s your problem. More bad news: You’re going to pay me twenty-five thousand dollars every year, starting in about a week. I’ll call you and give you an address to send it to. If I don’t get it, every year and on time, my next call will be to the D.A.’s in Palo Alto and Santa Fe. And if you send somebody after me, he won’t find me. I’m a careful man.”

“You’re scum, Cato.”

“That’s what you get when you hire somebody to do your dirty work for you, lady. I’ll say goodbye . . . for now. Get the money together.” He hung up.

He took one more look around the stable, went through his office one last time to see if he’d forgotten anything, then he got into his truck and headed for the front gate.

ED EAGLE WAS having lunch with his friend, Joe Sams, the police chief. He had explained about the connection of Jack Cato and Grif Edwards to the two shootings in Santa Fe.

“I don’t know if you’ve heard, Ed, but Cato’s buddy, Grif Edwards, committed suicide last night.”

“I hadn’t heard, but I’ll give you odds Cato killed him.”

“Well, we don’t have any evidence of that. Why don’t you give all this to the Santa Fe cops? It’s their jurisdiction and they’ve already got warrants.”

“They already know about it, and I expect they’re on their way to L.A. to pick up Cato. They probably don’t know about Edwards’s suicide yet. If I were you, I’d want to hang on to Cato until you have enough evidence against him in the Edwards killing. And one more thing: My ex-wife very probably hired Cato to kill her husband’s lawyer, Joe Wilen, in Palo Alto.”

“We have constant surveillance on Mrs. Keeler,” Sams said.

“If you pick up Cato, he’ll implicate her in Wilen’s killing.”

“The Santa Fe police are picking him up, Ed.”

“And what are you going to do if he bolts?”

“They can track him down and bring him back.”

“They can’t bring him back from Mexico.”

“Ed, you’re getting too exercised about this.”

“Joe, if you don’t get exercised about it you’re going to be left holding the bag that Cato slipped out of. And he’s the only one who can give you Don Wells for hiring him to kill Wells’s wife and son.”

“Again, New Mexico jurisdiction.”

“But wouldn’t you rather break the case than let them do it?”

“Well, it would look good in the papers, I guess. But I’m not going to pick up a phone and order the arrest of Jack Cato right now. If Santa Fe wants him, let them come and get him.”

“Then why don’t you pull your surveillance off my ex-wife and give her a little room to operate. Maybe she’ll make a mistake.”

“That’s just the opposite of what you asked me to do a couple of weeks ago. What’s changed?”

“Hell, Joe, it’s okay with me if your people tail her, if you want to keep applying those resources, but she’s not going to make a move while you’re watching her.”

“Oh, all right, I’ll pull my people off.”

“As you wish, Joe. Like I said, it doesn’t matter to me.”

HALF AN HOUR LATER, Eagle was on the phone with Cupie Dalton. "Okay, Sams is going to pull his people back.”

"Good news, Ed.”

“I suggest that, from a distance, you watch the cops who are watching her. When they go away, then you can make your move.”

“And make it we will,” Cupie said. “You sure you want to play it this way, Ed? You can still change your mind and let the law do the work for you.”

“The law is never going to get her, Cupie. I’m sure this is the way to go.”

“Then Vittorio and I are on it,” Cupie said, and hung up.