“Reeves,” Cato said, disconsolately.

“Reese. Call me Alex.”

“What are you doing here?”

“You and I are going to take a plane ride to Santa Fe,” Reese said, taking a document from his pocket. “You can sign this waiver, and we’ll be on our way.”

Cato looked at the document through bleary eyes. “Extradition?”

“Unless you’d rather do your time at San Quentin or Pelican Bay. Our place in Santa Fe is cozier, though.” Reese put a pen on the table.

“Oh, what the hell,” Cato said, then signed the document. “I would have liked one last Saturday night in Tijuana, though.”

“You’ll have a nice Sunday morning in Santa Fe, instead. The weather forecast for tomorrow is perfect.”

THEY WERE SOMEWHERE over the Mojave Desert in the state’s King Air, and Cato was gazing down at the moonlit landscape.

Reese went forward and tapped the copilot, a New Mexico state policeman, on the shoulder. “Can you come back here for a few minutes without the airplane crashing, Rico? I need a witness.”

“Sure,” the man said. He came back and took a seat across the aisle, while Reese settled into one opposite Cato.

“How much longer?” Cato asked.

“An hour and a half,” the copilot replied, “give or take.”

“You’ll be housed in Santa Fe for a while,” Reese said. “It’s not so bad, as jails go.”

“Will they go for the death penalty?” Cato asked.

“I think you can count on that, Jack.”

Cato nodded.

“But if you tell us everything, and I mean everything, and in court, I think I can get the D.A. to take the death penalty off the table.”

“You want me to give you Wells?”

“And the woman called Mrs. Keeler, and everything else you know.”

“I’ll give you Wells on a platter,” Cato said. “He hired me and Grif Edwards to do his wife and the boy. Our payment was what was in his safe in the Santa Fe house.”

“Just a minute, Jack.” Reese took a small recorder from his pocket, switched it on and placed it on the table between them. “My name is Detective Alex Reese, and I’m on a New Mexico State airplane with suspect Mr. Jack Cato. Sergeant Rico Barnes is a witness to this interrogation. Mr. Cato, do you agree to have this conversation recorded?”

“Yes, I do,” Cato said.

“For the record, I have offered to intercede with the district attorney to waive the death penalty in these cases, in return for your complete cooperation. Is that your understanding?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Have you been offered anything else for your cooperation, or have you been coerced in any way?”

“No,” Cato said.

“Now, let’s start at the beginning. Did you take the lives of Mrs. Donna Wells and her son, Eric?”

“Me and Grif Edwards,” Cato said. “We each shot one of them; Grif shot the boy. Don Wells hired us to do it and paid us with the cash and gold in his safe in the Santa Fe house, a hundred thousand. He gave us the combination.”

“Are you acquainted with a Mrs. Walter Keeler?”

“Yes, she hired me to kill a guy in Palo Alto, a Joe Wilen, and a woman in Santa Fe. I don’t know her name, but she’s a blonde. I shot her in the head with a rifle through the window of her house.”

“How much did Mrs. Keeler pay you?”

“A hundred thousand dollars for the two of them.”

“Can you identify her, if you see her?”

“No, I never saw her; I just talked to her on the phone. Oh, I killed Grif Edwards, too, and the two women.”

Reese blinked. “Two women?”

“Tina López and Soledad Rivera. I killed them this afternoon… yesterday afternoon, I guess it was… outside Acapulco. Don Wells paid a hundred grand for the two of them.”

“Holy shit,” Reese muttered under his breath. “Anybody else?”

“Nah. Oh, there was that one girl about four or five years ago. I fixed the brakes on her car, and she was killed in the crash. Another guy paid me for that. I can’t think of his name right now, but it will come to me.”

“Good, Jack,” Reese said. “That’s good. Just take your time. Now let’s go over the details.”

61

EARLY SUNDAY MORNING Don Wells got up, dressed and drove to the Acapulco airport. He handed his car over to a lineman for parking, then got aboard the CitationJet. While they were taxiing, he called Capitán Rodríguez at his office and was told that the capitán didn’t come in on Sundays.

“Please give him a message for me when he comes in tomorrow,” Wells said. “This is Donald Wells. Tell him that I have had to return to Los Angeles unexpectedly, but that if he needs any further information or assistance from me he can reach me at my office any time.” He gave the officer the number and hung up.

As the jet climbed out of Acapulco and turned toward Los Angeles, Wells allowed himself to relax in a fashion he had not known since he had made the phone call to Ed Eagle from Rome. Things had not gone as smoothly as he had planned, but he had met every twist and turn with the right moves, and now he could inherit the nearly one billion from his wife’s estate that was free and clear of other bequests, and with Jack Cato losing himself in Mexico, he could enjoy his new wealth without the nagging presence of his wife and the constant attention demanded by his stepson.

Jack would call him before long and let him know where to send his next payment, and when Jack went to meet the messenger, he would cease being of any concern to Wells. All doors to his past would be closed, and he would be safe.

He accepted a Bloody Mary from the copilot and gazed out the window at the Mexican beaches far below. This would be his last trip to Mexico and his last trip anywhere in anything but the Gulfstream 550 jet he had already ordered.

Life was going to be sweet.

THEY LANDED AT Santa Monica, and his car was waiting as he came down the air stair. He tossed his briefcase into the front passenger seat and waited for a moment while his luggage was loaded into the trunk by the lineman, then drove out of the airport and headed home to Malibu.

He had his eye on a lot in the Malibu Colony, where he would build himself a new house, one designed only for him and not for a meddlesome wife and child with their own needs.

He would finance his own films from now on; he would never again have to make a pitch for studio money. He would move to new offices, too, and the Hollywood community would know that he was a force to be reckoned with. Membership in the Academy of Motion Picture Arts amp; Sciences would follow, maybe even an Oscar or two.

He would get rid of the Acapulco beach house and buy something in the South of France, something close enough to Cannes to allow him to throw major parties every year during the film festival. The new Gulfstream would transport him and his friends effortlessly to and from his new home in France.

Maybe a major house in Aspen, too, a real showplace. Maybe he’d start his own film festival there, become a patron to new directors and writers, people who could make him more money in the future.

He pulled into the garage of his Malibu home, closed the garage door and walked into his kitchen with his bags, then froze. Someone in dark clothes was bending over, looking into his refrigerator.

Wells stood and stared at this rather large ass. Burglar, had to be a burglar; go back to the car, leave the house, call the police.

“Mr. Wells?” a voice said from another direction.

Wells turned and stared at another man, who was wearing a business suit, latex gloves and a badge, hanging from his coat’s breast pocket.

“What’s going on?” Wells asked.

The man walked toward him, holding out two folded pieces of paper. “I am Detective John Ralston, of the Los Angeles Police Department. I have a warrant to search your premises…”

“Search my house? Why would you do that?”

“… and a warrant for your arrest on two charges of first-degree murder.” The man set the two documents on the kitchen counter and produced a pair of handcuffs. “Turn around, please, and put your hands behind you.”