“Take us through it from the first phone call,” the detective said.

Eagle explained himself. “Right after I spoke to you, Bob, Wells called me on my cell phone. He checked with the hotel operator and learned that the kidnap threat call had come from this house. He said the voice was electronically altered and he was told to raise five million dollars. He was also told that if he called anybody, his wife and son would be killed. It occurs to me that, somehow, the perpetrators may have known that he made the call to me, and that’s why the murders took place. I didn’t mention this to him. I told him to stay in his suite and that the Santa Fe police would be in touch with him. I also told him to have his hotel make travel arrangements for him to come to Santa Fe.”

“Please call him back, Mr. Eagle, and find out when he’s due here, then let me speak to him,” Detective Reese said.

“We’d better call from inside the house, so we can each be on an extension,” Eagle said. “He’s retained me to represent him, and I have to be present for any questioning.”

“There are two phones in the study,” Martínez said, “and we’ve already processed them and the one in the living room.”

“Then let me speak to him first, and I’ll tell you when he’s ready to talk to you.”

“All right,” the detective said. “We’ll wait in the living room.”

Eagle went into the study, sat down at Wells’s desk and got connected with Wells. “Mr. Wells, have you made travel arrangements?”

“Yes, I’ll fly to New York tomorrow morning, change for Dallas, then for Albuquerque. My plane gets in at seven tomorrow evening.” He gave Eagle the flight number.

“I’ll have you met and brought to a hotel in Santa Fe.”

“Can’t I stay in my own home?”

“I’ll try, but I doubt it. The police have a lot of work to do here, and the master suite is not habitable at the moment.”

“Is that where they were killed?”

“Yes. The police want to speak with you now, but before I put them on the phone, I want you to think carefully: Is there anything you’ve failed to tell me that I might need to know?”

Wells seemed to reflect. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Mr. Wells, I must tell you that you will be the first suspect, until the police have been able to eliminate you as such.”

“But how could I have anything to do with this? I’m in Rome!”

“Of course you are, but they will suspect you anyway; it’s how they work, and you shouldn’t be upset by it. Now, tell me, what was the state of your marriage?”

“We’ve been married for eight years,” Wells said. “We are… were both very content with things, I think.”

“You say ‘content,’ instead of ‘happy.’”

“We were settled in for the long haul,” Wells said.

“You said your son was fourteen.”

“That’s right.”

“Then I take it, he was your stepson.”

“Yes, but I loved the boy; it was no different than being his real father.”

“I should contact the boy’s biological father. Can you give me his name and number?”

“He’s dead. He was killed in a street robbery in New York.”

“How long ago?”

“About a year and a half before Donna and I were married, so between nine and ten years ago.”

“Was the perpetrator caught?”

“No, I don’t think so. The police said it was an ordinary mugging, gone wrong.”

“Anything else you can tell me?”

“I can’t think of anything.”

“All right, I’m going to put a Detective Reese on the line. The district attorney will be listening on an extension, and so will I. If I interrupt you, shut up immediately, is that clear?”

“Yes, I understand.”

“Confine your answers strictly to the questions asked; don’t volunteer anything or any theories until you and I have discussed them privately first. I’ll call the detective now.” Eagle shouted for Reese to come in, then he listened on the extension while the detective questioned his client thoroughly. He did not find it necessary to interrupt.

When the phone call was over, Martínez came into the room. “Okay,” he said, “we’re done, I think.”

“When can Mr. Wells have his house back?”

Reese spoke up. “We’ll seal the master suite, and he can stay in another bedroom, if he wants.”

“I’ll ask him.”

Reese left the room, and Martínez and Eagle were alone.

“You know who she was, don’t you?” Martínez asked.

“Mrs. Wells?”

“She was Donna Worth. Worth Pharmaceuticals?”

“Ah,” Eagle said.

“Five or six years ago, her father, the founder died, and she was his only heir.”

“How much?

“Billions,” Martínez said.

“I see.”

“Do you?”

“Speak plainly, Bob.”

“The boy was her only child. That means Wells is going to get the bulk of her estate. I mean, I’m sure there are charitable trusts and bequests, but Mr. Wells is going to be a very rich man.”

“That’s plain enough, Bob,” Eagle said.

Reese came back into the room. “We found an open wall safe in Mr. Wells’s dressing room, empty. I’d like to know what was in it when you speak to your client.”

“I’ll let you know,” Eagle said.

16

CUPIE DALTON AND Vittorio arrived at the Four Seasons Hotel in San Francisco, having already checked into a less expensive hotel nearby. Cupie gave the doorman a peek at his badge. “Hi, there. I’m looking for a fellow named Walter Keeler, who checked in here yesterday.”

“That an L.A. badge?” the doorman asked.

“Yep.”

“Keeler checked out this morning.”

“Bound for where?”

“I don’t know. He and his lady friend left here in a car-service Mercedes this morning, and a couple of hours later he called and asked that their luggage be sent somewhere else. We loaded it into a van.”

“And what would be that address? Another hotel?”

“Let me check with our dispatcher,” the doorman said. He picked up a phone at the bell stand and spoke into it for a minute or so, then wrote something down in a notebook. He returned to Cupie, tore the page out of the pad and handed it to him. “That’s it, and it’s not a hotel.”

Cupie glanced at the paper, then tucked it into a pocket and handed the doorman a twenty. “Thanks for your help,” he said. The doorman put them into a cab, and ten minutes later they pulled up to the imposing entrance of a large, limestone-faced apartment building.

“There you are,” the driver said.

Cupie and Vittorio got out of the cab and stood under the building’s awning, since a light rain had begun to fall. A doorman approached.

“May I help you?” he asked, eyeing them suspiciously.

Cupie flashed his tin. “A Mr. Walter Keeler had his luggage sent to this building this morning. Is this an apartment hotel?”

“No,” the doorman said, “it’s an apartment house, and all the tenants own their apartments.”

“Does Mr. Keeler own an apartment here?”

“I think you’d better speak to the super,” the man replied. He went inside and made a phone call.

A moment later, a man in shirtsleeves came outside, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Yes?”

“Sorry to interrupt your dinner,” Cupie said, showing his badge. “Does a Mr. Walter Keeler own an apartment here?”

“Is this official business?”

“Let’s say it’s for the benefit of Mr. Keeler.”

“This is a very prestigious building,” the super said. “The management frowns on calls from the police. I’d like to cooperate, but…”

“We have no intention of disturbing the peace of your building,” Cupie said. “I just need to know if Mr. Keeler owns an apartment here.”

“Unofficially, yes,” the super replied.

“Long time?”

“Since this morning. He and a woman arrived here and met a real estate agent at nine this morning. By noon, they had bought the apartment-the penthouse-moved in and were married by a judge.”

Cupie blinked. “All in the space of three hours?”

“That’s what I’m told.”