“Ed Eagle?” The man asked.
“That’s right.”
“My name is Vittorio. You left me a message.”
Ah, Eagle thought, the other P.I., the one he’d called when he’d thought Cupie Dalton was out of action. “Sure, come on in.” He lead the way into the house and the kitchen and began putting things away.
“Can I get you a drink?”
The man set his hat on the kitchen counter and pulled up a stool. His thick, black hair was pulled straight back into a long ponytail and secured with a silver clip. He nodded at the bourbon bottle. “A taste of that would be good. Ice, if you’ve got it.”
Eagle poured two drinks and handed him one. “There was an Apache chief named Vittorio back in the late nineteenth century.”
“He was my great-great-grandfather.”
“How did your great-grandfather survive the massacre in the Tres Castillas mountains?” Eagle knew that Vittorio had left the reservation and conducted a three-year offensive against the whites. He had been cornered in the mountains, and he and sixty of his men and a group of women and children had been slaughtered there by the New Mexico militia.
“His mother wouldn’t let him fight; she made him hide in some rocks, where he saw the whole thing. When it was over, he scavenged the bodies for food and water, then he walked seventy miles to another Apache camp, where he was taken in. He was seven years old.”
“Jesus,” Ed said.
“Yeah. What can I do for you, Mr. Eagle?”
“The day before yesterday, my wife cleaned out two bank accounts and my brokerage accounts and chartered a jet for Mexico City. I stopped the transfer from the brokerage in time, but she got away with a million one, in cash.”
Vittorio nodded but said nothing.
“I sent a P.I. from L.A. after her, and he caught up with her at a hotel called El Parador last night. He followed her into the street, where he called me on his cell phone and attempted to hand it to her. She shot him.”
Vittorio’s eyebrows moved a fraction, but he still said nothing.
“The P.I. wasn’t badly hurt, and he’ll be back on the job soon, but he could use some help.”
“Does he
know
he could use some help?”
“I haven’t told him yet.”
“How is he going to feel about that?”
“I don’t much care how he feels about it. Can you leave for Mexico City today? There are flights from Albuquerque.”
“Yes. What do you want me to do when I find her?”
“I want to speak to her on the telephone, then I want her signature at the bottom of six blank sheets of paper.”
“You don’t want her hurt, then?”
“Not any more than it takes to get her signature. I’ll explain to her on the phone what it’s for. It will probably help if you scare the shit out of her.”
Vittorio nodded. “I get a thousand a day, plus expenses, for travel out of the country.”
“Hang on here a minute,” Eagle said. He went into his study and found a legal-size file folder and some of the paper his office used, then he went to his safe, where he always kept some cash, and put five thousand dollars in an envelope. He removed a photograph of Barbara from its frame, returned to the kitchen and handed the paper and the money to Vittorio. “Her maiden name was Miriam Schlemmer before she changed it to Barbara Kennerly; her first husband’s name was Rifkin. Or she could be using Eagle.”
“You have any idea where she might go, if she leaves Mexico City?”
“She told me that she had spent a nice week in Puerto Vallarta once. That’s a possibility, but she could go anywhere if she gets her hands on that cash. I’ve got another man trying to prevent that. You’d better take your passport with you.”
Vittorio nodded. “What’s the other P.I.’s name?”
“Cupie Dalton. He’s ex-LAPD, a good man.” Eagle wrote his own and Cupie’s cell phone numbers on the file folder, and Vittorio handed him a card with his own numbers. “Cupie was going to rest a little after being wounded. I’ll let him know you’re on the way and tell him to share any information he has.”
Vittorio stood up and put on his hat, and Eagle walked him to the door.
“There’ll be a ten-thousand-dollar bonus, if you can wrap this up quickly and get those papers signed. I’ll tell Cupie he’ll get the same. Call me every day.”
Vittorio shook his hand and headed for his car.
Jesus, Eagle thought as he watched him go. I wouldn’t want that guy looking for me.
Nine
C
UPIE DALTON LAY ON THE BED IN HIS SO-SO MEXICO
City hotel and blearily watched a soccer game, occasionally refreshed by a sip through a straw in a pint of tequila. Cupie despised soccer, but it was the only thing on Mexican TV he could understand; the plots of the soap operas were impenetrable, even with his pretty good Spanish. His cell phone rang.
“Dalton.”
“It’s Eagle. How are you, Cupie?”
“Not as good as I thought I was gonna be by now. I ran out of the Percodan, but I’ve got a call in to the doctor for more. Tequila helps.”
“I’m sending you some more help.”
“I don’t need any help, except the Percodan and the tequila.”
“It’s coming anyway. His name is Vittorio; no last name as far as I know. He’s an Apache Indian with a reputation for finding people.”
“Is he going to scalp me?”
“Not if you’re nice. Anyway, as I recall, you don’t have much hair left to take.”
“That wasn’t nice. What is this Vittorio going to do that I can’t do?”
“Twice as much as you can do alone. You can work together or split up. I don’t care. I just want her found. There’ll be a ten-thousand-dollar bonus for each of you if you find her quickly.”
“I already talked to the desk clerk at her hotel. She took a cab to the airport. The doorman heard her give the driver the name of the internal airline, so my guess is she’s headed for one coast or the other: Cozumel or Acapulco.”
“She likes Puerto Vallarta; start there.”
“When is Vittorio going to show?”
“Soon; he’s flying out of Albuquerque today. He’ll call you on your cell. Rest as long as you need to, but get him started immediately.”
“Okay.”
“Bye.” Eagle hung up.
V
ITTORIO PARKED AT ALBUQUERQUE
airport and locked his guns and ammunition in a steel box welded to his SUV’s frame, under the carpet in the rear compartment.
Once on the airplane, he used the air phone to call Cupie Dalton’s cell phone and learn the name and address of his hotel, then he called a Mexico City number and placed a very specific order. After he had landed and cleared customs he walked out to the taxi stand, where a short, fat man carrying a small canvas duffel approached him.
“Vittorio?”
“That’s me.”
The man handed him the duffel. “That’ll be six hundred, U.S.”
Vittorio opened the bag and checked the contents, then he handed the man six hundreds, already counted out and folded.
“Nice doing business with you.”
Vittorio gave him another fifty. “Tell your boss thanks.”
The man nodded, then disappeared into the crowd.
Vittorio got into a cab and gave the driver the address of Dalton’s hotel.
“You want a girl, señor?”
“No, gracias,” Vittorio said. He unzipped the duffel and removed a short-barreled, Colt Defender semiautomatic .45 and three full magazines, then a Keltec .380 and one magazine. He had kept on his holsters, one at his waist for the .45 and one on his ankle for the little .380, and slipped a gun into each. He felt better already.
C
UPIE HAD DOZED OFF,
when there was a sharp rap on the door of his room. He struggled out of bed and opened the door, keeping the chain on. An evil-looking guy in black clothes stood outside.
“I’m Vittorio,” he said.
“Yeah, come on in.” Cupie closed the door, unhooked the chain, let in the Indian, then closed and hooked the door again.
“Expecting somebody else?” Vittorio asked, dumping his carry-on in a corner and taking the chair in the corner.
“I wouldn’t put it past Mrs. Ed Eagle to track me down and take another shot at me.”
“Tell me about it.”
“I followed her out of her hotel and around the corner and into an alley. When I spoke to her, she turned around and fired a round at me, then walked away, as calm as you please.”
“What kind of round?”
“A .25, I think; something small.” He pointed at where the bullet went in. “Went all the way through.”
“Weren’t you carrying?”
“Not at the time. Since then a bellhop found me a guy who found me a Sig P-239.” He poured himself a glass of water from the bedside jug and popped a pill.
“What’s that?”
“Percodan.”
Vittorio nodded at the tequila bottle. “You’re mixing it with
that?
”
“It hurts like a son of a bitch,” Cupie explained.
“You’re going to be useless until you’re off that combination for twenty-four hours. Tell me what you know while you can still move your lips.”
“I got friendly with the desk clerk at Mrs. Eagle’s hotel, and he told me she checked out and took a cab to the airport, to the terminal for an airline called Aerolitoral.”
Vittorio nodded. “Regional carrier; Mexico only. Where’d she go?”
“That was my next move,” Cupie said, “but I been busy. Eagle says she likes Puerto Vallarta; why don’t you check it out?”
“Tomorrow,” Vittorio said. “This place got any more rooms?”
“There’s the phone,” Cupie said, nodding, “or you can have the other bed here; I don’t really give a shit. I’m going to get some sleep.” He lay down on the bed and pulled the covers up.
“I’m going to get some dinner and a room,” Vittorio said, tossing a card onto the bed. “There’s my cell number. Tomorrow morning, early, I’m going to start tracking the lady. If you want to tag along, be downstairs, sober and wide awake, at seven
A.M.
”
“Pass,” Cupie said, snuggling in. “I’ll catch up with you in, maybe, another day.”
“Good night,” Vittorio said, picking up his bag and letting himself out.
“Yeah, whatever,” Cupie called back.
Vittorio was happy that Cupie didn’t want to go along. He wanted to wrap up this lady quickly, then get in some beach time.
Ten
A
S EAGLE WALKED INTO HIS OFFICE, HIS SECRETARY
flagged him down. “A Mr. Morales returned your call: he says that Joe Big Bear was at his house fixing his car between one-thirty and four-fifteen last Wednesday. I asked him if he was sure, and he said, yes, he could see him out the window. Mr. Big Bear was working on his car in the driveway the whole time.”
“Get him for me, will you?”
“He’s left town for a week, but I asked him if he’d be willing to testify to that in court, and he said yes.”
Eagle went into his office and called Bob Martinez, the district attorney for Santa Fe County.
“Morning, Ed.”
“Morning, Bob. You all right?”
“Can’t complain.”
“Judge O’Hara laid the Joe Big Bear case on me Friday afternoon.”
“I guess you’ll want the lab reports and the detectives’ notes.”
“I don’t think I’ll need them.”
“Oh, yeah? You want to plead him to three counts of first-degree?”
“Nope. You know, I really can’t believe that the cops could do such a lousy investigation on a triple homicide.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Big Bear told them he was working all day, didn’t he?”
“Yeah, but so what? If I’d just done three people, I’d say something like that, too.”
“Of course you would, Bob, but in Big Bear’s case, he can prove it.”
“How’s he gonna do that? He got some friends to give him an alibi, maybe?”
“No, he worked all morning on a perfect stranger’s car and all afternoon on another perfect stranger’s car. And he had his invoice books in his briefcase in his truck to prove it. We spoke with both customers, and they both back him up. Didn’t your people search his pickup?”
“Well, they already had the murder weapon; why should they search his truck?”
“To save themselves a lot of man-hours. You got a pencil?”
“Sure.”
“Write this down.” Eagle gave him the names and numbers of both customers. “The second guy is out of town for a week and unreachable, but he says he’ll testify. Big Bear was at his house from one-thirty to four-fifteen, then he went to the Gun Club on Airport Road and played pool until six o’clock; the bartender backs his story. He stopped at a liquor store on the way home and picked up a bottle. I drove the route, and it took eight minutes to get from the Gun Club to the trailer. He called in the crime at six-ten, and he says the blood in the bedroom was already dried at that time. I’ll bet you a hundred bucks your lab report backs that up. What does your man estimate as time of death?”
“Between three and four,” Martinez replied.
“So you’ve got the wrong guy.”
“Do you really think you’re going to get bail with a story like that?”
“Bail? With a story like that, I’m going to get the charges dismissed.”
“Dream on, Ed.”
“I’m going to petition for a hearing; you’ll be hearing from the judge.”
“Suit yourself.”
They both hung up, then Eagle’s secretary buzzed him. “Russell Norris on the phone.”
“Great!” Eagle picked up the phone. “Russell? What’s happening?”
“Well, I’m calling from the bank in Mexico City; I have the vice president in charge of personal accounts right here, and he’d like to speak to you.”
“I’d be glad to speak to him.”
“Hello, Mr. Eagle? This is Emiliano Rodriguez speaking.”
“Good morning, Mr. Rodriguez.”
“Would you be good enough, please, to tell me the circumstances of your wife’s wire transfer?”
“I’d be happy to. My wife made two unauthorized wire transfers, nine hundred and thirty thousand dollars from the account of my law firm, and a hundred and seventy thousand dollars from my personal account.”
“And how do I know these transactions were unauthorized?”
“If they were authorized, Mr. Rodriguez, you and I would not be having this conversation. I should tell you that she also instructed my stockbrokers to wire another four million dollars, the proceeds of the sale of all my stocks, but I was able to stop that transaction before it took place.”