“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.”