Santa Fe Dead

60

ALEX REESE GOT out of his car at the border patrol station and ran inside. A man wearing captain’s bars got up from a desk and came toward him. “May I help you?”

"I’m Detective Alex Reese, Santa Fe P.D.”

“Oh, of course, Detective. I’m Captain Taylor.”

“The California Highway Patrol tells me you’ve got Jack Cato.”

“Either Cato or Timmons, take your pick.”

“Sorry?”

“He had two sets of ID but only one registration for his truck, in the name of Cato. I don’t know how he got across the border. One of our people must have slipped up. The CHP says you can have him, though.”

“I’d like to see him,” Reese said.

“Come this way.” He led Reese down a hallway and opened a door. Jack Cato was visible in the next room through a one-way mirror. “He was drunk as a skunk when we got our hands on him; he’s probably just hungover by now.” He indicated a pile on a table behind them. “That’s all the stuff we found on him and in his truck. He had a kind of safe welded to the underside of the chassis.”

Reese turned and stared at the pile. “How much money is that?” “Something over two hundred grand; each of those bundles holds ten thousand dollars. He had more than a hundred thousand in the shoulder bag, there, and at least that much in the safe under the truck.”

Reese produced a pair of latex gloves and pulled them on. “Have you catalogued all this stuff?” He poked among the contents of Cato’s pockets.

“Yep, here’s a list. If you agree, then sign it, and we’ll give you a box to put all this stuff in.”

Reese went through the two wallets, then counted the bundles of money. “Looks good to me,” he said, signing the list and handing it to the captain.

The captain went to a locker and produced an evidence box. He raked all the money into it, revealing an envelope and a small dictation recorder that had been under the pile.

Reese picked up the envelope, opened it and looked at the letter inside.

“What’s that?” the captain asked. “I didn’t see that before.”

“It appears to be Cato’s confession,” Reese said in wonder. He picked up the dictating machine and pressed the play button. Immediately, he recognized the voice of Don Wells, speaking with Cato. “Well, I’ll be damned,” Reese said.

“What?”

“I think I just cleared another couple of murders.”

“Congratulations. You want us to put Cato in your vehicle?”

“I’ve got an airplane coming from Santa Fe; it should be at Montgomery Field in San Diego by now. Could you give us a lift over there and turn in my rental car for me tomorrow morning?”

“Sure thing.”

“And can I borrow some leg shackles?”

Reese left the room and went next door. “Hi, Jack,” he said, offering his hand. “Remember me?”

“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.”