Santa Fe Edge

45

Cupie and Vittorio got off the airplane at LAX and took the bus to the long-term parking lot, where Cupie had left his car. He tossed their bags into the trunk, then opened an aluminum case. “I can offer you a small nine-millimeter or a snub-nosed Smith and Wesson.38. What is your pleasure?”

“I’ll take the nine-millimeter,” Vittorio replied. “I know you ex-cops like the S and W.”

“It’s compact, and it doesn’t jam,” Cupie said, handing Vittorio the semiautomatic in its holster.

Vittorio threaded the holster onto his belt and looked at his watch. “We’d better go directly to the cemetery,” he said. “I’d like to look at the setup before people arrive.”

Cupie knew the way to Glendale and Forest Lawn. They stopped at the gate for a map, and the guard showed them where the grave site was.

“This is one hell of a big cemetery,” Vittorio said, looking at the map while Cupie drove. “Three hundred acres, a quarter of a million graves, it says here.”

“Yeah, anybody who’s anybody is buried here,” Cupie replied.

“How do you suppose a guy like Bart Cross gets buried here?”

“Long probably paid for the plot.”

They drove for ten minutes, following the map, to a corner of the cemetery where there were, mostly, lines of graves marked by flush bronze plaques.

“Over there,” Vittorio said, pointing to where a backhoe was at work.

Cupie found a parking spot, and they looked around the area. He pointed to a marble bench with a view of the grave site. “Let’s have a seat and wait.” He took a newspaper from his jacket pocket and opened it to the crossword puzzle, while Vittorio seemed to zone out, closing his eyes and looking like a statue of himself.

CUPIE POKED VITTORIO on the knee. “Here they come,” he said. A hearse leading a short procession of half a dozen cars appeared and drove up a service road near the grave site. Attendants removed the casket from the rear and placed it on a trolley, which they rolled to the graveside. They positioned the casket over the grave, while a few other cars appeared and parked. Soon there was a group of fifteen or twenty people gathered around the grave, and a minister in a dark suit began to read from a Bible.

“Not a bad turnout,” Cupie said. “I doubt if I’ll do as well.”

“There’s James Long,” Vittorio said, nodding toward the foot of the casket.

“Got ’im,” Cupie said.

They watched as the service concluded and the casket was lowered into the grave. People began walking back to their cars.

“Long is in the BMW,” Cupie said, “and he appears to be alone. Let’s follow and look for an opportunity to brace him. I don’t think this is the place for it.”

“Whatever you say,” Vittorio replied.

They got back into Cupie’s car and waited for Long’s BMW to pass them, then they fell in behind at a reasonable distance. Long headed in the general direction of Centurion Studios, then, after a mile or so, pulled into a gas station, got out and began to refuel his car.

“Now,” Cupie said, pulling into the station and parking to one side. He and Vittorio got out and approached Long, who was leaning against his car and talking on his cell phone while the pump did the work.

“Good morning, Mr. Long,” Cupie said. “Remember us?”

“I’ll call you back,” Long said, and closed his phone. “How could I forget?”

“We won’t take much of your time,” Cupie said. “We just want to inform you of some of the evidence against you that the police will soon be pursuing.”

“What are you talking about?” Long said, looking nervous.

“We can demonstrate to the police that you abetted the escape of Barbara Eagle from a Mexican prison, then flew her to Yuma in Bart Cross’s airplane,” Cupie said.

“I abetted no one in anything,” Long replied, but he didn’t move.

“We’ve got the pages from Bart’s airplane logbook, mentioning both your names and your destinations,” Vittorio said. “That, of course, led to an attempt on Ed Eagle’s life by Bart. You introduced Barbara to him, remember? Then, there’s the matter of Barbara’s murder of Bart. You’re up to your neck in all this, Mr. Long.”

“You guys are not cops,” Long said.

“I used to be,” Cupie said, “and I know lots of guys who still are, even one in Burbank who’s investigating Bart’s murder.”

“What do you want from me?” Long asked.

“We want Barbara,” Vittorio said. “And if we can’t find her ourselves, then we’ll just have to go to the police with our evidence, and they’ll start talking to everybody involved, including you. So, it’s down to you or Barbara. What’s it going to be? You can do yourself a favor by telling us now where she is.”

“I don’t know where she is,” Long said. “I threw her out of my house after I learned of Bart’s death. I don’t know where she went.”

“But you know where she’s going to end up, don’t you?” Cupie asked. “You’re her only friend in the world; you’ve helped her at every turn. You know what she’s up to.”

“She’s obsessed with Ed Eagle,” Long said. “I don’t have to tell you that. I drove her to LAX, so I assume she took a plane somewhere, probably to Santa Fe.”

“And once she gets to Santa Fe, where will she go?”

“I don’t know.”

“Looks like our next call is to the Burbank police,” Cupie said.

“She told me she met a couple at a spa in Tucson who live near Los Alamos,” Long said. “Name of Holroyd. That’s all I know. Maybe she’s there, but I can’t tell you for sure.”

“And how do you get in touch with Barbara?” Cupie asked.

“She uses throwaway cell phones,” Long said.

“Give me the number,” Cupie said.

Long recited a number while Cupie wrote it in his notebook. “This better be correct,” he said.

“It was working as recently as a few days ago,” Long said. “You’ll keep me out of this?”

“That’s not up to us, Mr. Long,” Vittorio said, “but if the information you’ve given us is correct, we won’t bring the police into it. The Burbank department has Bart’s logbook; they’ll be calling on you eventually. You’d better get your story straight and call your lawyer. Or take a prolonged vacation in Mexico.”

The gas pump stopped.

“Your tank is full, Mr. Long,” Cupie said. “Good luck.” Vittorio and Cupie walked back to Cupie’s car and got in.

“Well,” Vittorio said, “we’ve got more to go on now than we’ve had so far.”

“Too fucking right,” Cupie said, looking at his watch. “We can still make the six thirty flight to Albuquerque.”