57

EAGLE AND SUSANNAH got back to his Santa Fe house by late afternoon and unpacked. They were having a drink when the phone rang, and Eagle answered.

“Ed, it’s Bob Martínez.”

“Hi, Bob.”

“An update for you: Detective Reese is in Los Angeles with an arrest warrant for Jack Cato, on a double-murder charge.”

“Donna Wells and her son?”

“Yes. We can put him in Santa Fe when Susannah was shot, too, but we still have more work to do on that.”

“Are you arresting Don Wells? By the way, I am no longer representing him.”

“When we get Cato in custody and back to Santa Fe we’ll make him an offer in the hope of getting him to turn on Wells. Grif Edwards is dead.”

“I heard.”

“There are still the two women who alibied Cato and Edwards, but they seem to have left L.A., so Cato is our only shot right now at implicating Wells. New York may have a chance, though.”

“Why?”

“They think Wells may have murdered his wife’s first husband, but they were unable to make a case at the time. Now they’ve cracked his alibi for the time of the murder, so they’re reopening the case. Of course, we’d rather see him go down in Santa Fe.”

“Of course.”

“The LAPD has lifted surveillance on your ex-wife, and, quite frankly, we don’t know where she is; maybe gone back to San Francisco. I’m not sure you can rest easy while she’s on the loose.”

“Thanks for calling, Bob. Please keep me abreast of developments.” He hung up and told Susannah the details of the conversation.

“Ed,” Susannah said, “do you think we’re safe now?”

“Yes, I do.”

“With Barbara still out there somewhere?”

“I don’t think we’re going to have to worry about Barbara anymore.”

“I don’t like the way you said that. You haven’t done anything stupid, have you?”

“That remains to be seen,” Eagle said.

A CHAUFFEURED MERCEDES called at La Reserve for Barbara at seven o’clock and drove her to a local marina. The driver held her door for her. “Madam, I’m told the yacht is on slip one hundred, at the end of the main pier,” he said, pointing.

She tipped and thanked him, then walked through the gate and down the pier. As she came to the pontoon at the end and turned a corner, the yacht came into view. Oh, gorgeous, she thought. Not only is this man the heir to a great fortune, he has impeccable taste in yachts.

A uniformed crew member stood at the end of the gangplank. “Mrs. Keeler?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Captain Ted,” the man said. “Welcome aboard Enticer. Mr. Gillette is waiting for you on the afterdeck. This way, please.”

He led her down the port side of the yacht, and she noted the gleaming varnished mahogany and the teak decks. As she rounded a corner, Ron Gillette stood up to greet her, resplendent in a blue blazer and white linen trousers.

“Barbara! Welcome aboard!” He offered her a comfortable chair, then a steward appeared with a bottle of Veuve Cliquot Grand Dame and poured them both a glass.

“Ted,” Gillette said, “I think we can get under way now.” He turned back to Barbara. “The other couple I mentioned in my card who were meant to join us are having sitter problems and won’t be coming. I hope you won’t mind dining alone with me.”

“Not in the least,” she said, giving him her best smile.

Lines were taken in, and the yacht moved, nearly silently, away from the dock, and headed toward the Pacific.

“Where are we cruising?” she asked.

“I’ve left that to our captain, Ted; he knows these waters well.”

“The yacht is very beautiful. Tell me about her.”

“My grandfather had her designed in 1935, by John Trump, and built in New Jersey; she’s been in the family ever since. Last year, I put her through a complete renovation-electrics, engines, navigational equipment-so she’s now virtually a new yacht.”

“New yachts aren’t this beautiful,” Barbara said.

The steward appeared with hors d’oeuvres: bits of foie gras on toast and beluga caviar with little buckwheat cakes and sour cream.

“Would you prefer iced vodka with your caviar?” Gillette asked.

“Thank you, I prefer the champagne. You were kind to remember that I liked it.”

The yacht turned northward and cruised along slowly as the sun sank into the Pacific and Ron Gillette coaxed information from her and talked on and on about his family and his life as a world traveler. Barbara believed she might have met her fifth husband.

When darkness fell they moved into the saloon, where a sumptuous dinner was served by the steward and the chef. Soft piano music played from a hidden sound system, and the stars came out.

Slowly, as they dined, the yacht turned toward the west and continued until it was on a southerly heading. With the sun down, this was not obvious from the saloon.

AFTER DESSERT THEY moved to a comfortable sofa while the dishes were taken away. The steward served them cognac. “Will that be all, Mr. Gillette?”

“Yes, thank you, Justin. We’d like to be alone now.”

“Certainly, sir. You won’t be disturbed.” He vanished.

Gillette and Barbara clinked glasses and sipped their brandy, then he leaned over and kissed her lightly under the ear.

“What lovely perfume,” he said, nibbling at her earlobe.

“What a lovely kiss,” she said, raising her lips to him.

“I don’t believe I’ve shown you the owner’s cabin,” he breathed into her ear.

“I’d love to see it,” she replied.

They rose, and he led her down the companionway to the afterstateroom, which was large and comfortably furnished with a king-size bed. The lights had already been lowered, and they could still hear the lovely music.

“This is wonderful,” Barbara said as they sank into the bed.

“The evening is yours,” Gillette said. “You have only to tell me what you desire.”

And she told him.

58

JACK CATO BOARDED his flight, and through his window he saw lightning in the distance. His first instinct was to get off the airplane, but he wanted out of Acapulco before he had to have a conversation with the local police.

Five minutes after takeoff, while the airplane was still climbing, it was buffeted by turbulence and lit periodically by lightning flashes. Cato knew, from his flight training, what thunderstorms could do to an airplane, even one as large as this, and if he had been offered a parachute, he would gladly have jumped.

He wanted a drink desperately but wasn’t going to get one unless he could snag it from the unmoored cocktail cart that was careening up and down the aisle, and he had a window seat so could not reach it. The woman next to him vomited into her lap, and the stench was awful.

A man two rows ahead got out of his seat, trying to go God knew where, and had to be restrained by the flight attendant and another passenger. Here and there, an overhead locker flew open and pillows, blankets and luggage spilled onto the heads of the passengers. Women were screaming, and so were some of the men. The flight attendant, once again strapped into her seat, sat as if in a catatonic state, white as marble, her lips moving, without sound.

And then, suddenly, they were on top of the clouds, and the flight, in a matter of seconds, became perfectly smooth. He could see the array of stars as they made their way north.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the pilot said over the PA system, “I wish to apologize for the roughness of our ascent, but I want you to know that we were never in any danger.”

“Lying son of a bitch,” Cato said to himself.

The flight attendant came and led the woman next to him to a toilet, and she returned after a few minutes, stinking less badly. The seat-belt sign remained on, and no drinks were served.

The flight attendant reached over and tapped him on the shoulder, and he started. “May I put your bag in the overhead compartment?” she asked.