Cut and Thrust

38

Detective Sergeant Chico Morales and his partner, Stockton Croft, arrived at the Venice Beach home of Harry Gregg; no one answered the door. Croft picked the lock on the front door.

“Very nice,” Morales said, looking around. The house was beautifully furnished, and there was a high-end stereo system in the living room, along with a large flat-screen TV.

“He’s been out of the military how long?” Croft asked.

“Less than a year, I think Burnett said.”

“And he’s making less than a hundred grand at the studio?”

“And driving a new pickup truck,” Morales said. “I checked the title — no liens on it, so he paid cash.”

“Sounds like Mr. Gregg has a business going on the side,” Croft said.

They looked into the two bedrooms and found nothing of interest. In a home office, however, they found a large safe.

“We’re going to have to call Tech Services and get a safecracker,” Morales said.

“That’s going to take a day or two,” Croft said. “On the other hand, I know a guy.”

“What the fuck, call him.”

Forty minutes later, a small man carrying a briefcase presented himself at the front door.

“Hello, Manny,” Croft said. “Come take a look.” He led the man into the home office.

“Fifteen minutes,” Manny said. “A hundred bucks, special police rate.”

“Done,” Croft said, “but I’ll want a receipt.”

Manny inspected the lock, then pulled a stethoscope from his briefcase and pressed it against the safe door while slowly rotating the dial. “That’s one,” he said, turning the dial in the opposite direction. In twelve minutes, he had it open.

Croft gave him a hundred and accepted a receipt.

“You think the captain will okay that?” Morales asked.

“It’s cheaper than having the LAPD do it.” Croft pulled on a pair of latex gloves and opened the door. “Looka here,” he said. There were half a dozen handguns of different calibers and two silencers on the shelves. There was a briefcase on the floor of the safe that, when opened, revealed a sniper rifle, broken down into parts so as to fit in the case. There was also a hefty silencer.

“It seems that Mr. Gregg offered a range of assassination services,” Croft said. There was a stack of money, secured by a rubber band, and he counted it. “Thirty-nine grand,” he said. There was also a plain white envelope containing only hundreds. “Twenty-five grand,” he said. “I’ll bet that’s the first half of the payment for Eagle’s airplane. We’d better check the envelope for prints.”

Croft put the envelope into a plastic evidence bag. “You know,” he said, “it was a good plan. Gregg could have walked down to the beach, waited for the airplane to take off, then dialed the number. The airplane would have crashed into the Pacific Ocean and broken apart. It would have taken a major operation to recover it and check for evidence, and we would have found nothing useful. But somebody dials a wrong number, and blooey! The assassin is assassinated.”

“I guess we better go talk to Mrs. Grosvenor,” Morales said.

“Not until we see if we can lift a print from this envelope,” Morales said, holding up the evidence bag.

Two hours later, they had a thumbprint and a name: Barbara Eagle.

“She was tried for the murder of a Mafia-connected guy at the Bel-Air Hotel,” Croft said. “Thought it was Ed Eagle. She was acquitted. Weird thing is, she escaped from the courthouse while the jury was deliberating and later had to plead to the escape. Let’s go see her.”

They presented themselves at the front desk of the Bel-Air Hotel and identified themselves. “Mr. and Mrs. Grosvenor checked out at eleven this morning,” the desk clerk told them.

“You got a home address for them?” Morales asked.

The woman checked. “Twelve Eaton Place, London SW1,” she said.

“London, England?”

“That’s correct.”

“Was that their destination when they checked out?”

“I assume so,” she said.

“Has their room been cleaned yet?”

“I’ll call housekeeping.” She made the call. “Yes, and a new arrival has checked in.”

Morales thanked her, and they left. “You got the address of that house in Bel-Air that the Grosvenors made an offer on?”

Croft checked his notebook. “Here we are — it’s over on Copa de Oro.”

“Let’s see what we can find there.”

The house was impressive without being ostentatious. Morales rang the bell, and a uniformed houseman came to the door. Badges were flashed. “Is the owner at home?” he asked.

“Yes, sir, if you’ll come in and wait a moment. He’s on the tennis court, I believe.”

“Just take us out there,” Morales said. “What’s his name?”

“Simpson,” the man replied, then led the way.

Two middle-aged men were banging away on the tennis court. One of them came over after a point. “What’s up?” he asked.

Badges were flashed again, and Morales introduced himself and Croft. “Mr. Simpson, I understand that you had an offer on your house from a Mr. and Mrs. Charles Grosvenor. Is that correct?”

“That is correct.”

“Did you accept the offer?”

“I made a counteroffer. They wanted to think it over.”

“When did you last see them?”

Simpson looked at his watch. “About an hour ago,” he said.

“Do you know where they went when they left?”

“They said they were going home.”

“Home to England?”

“I assume so.”

“Do you happen to know on what airline they were traveling?”

“During our conversation, there was passing mention of a private jet,” Simpson replied.

“Do you know what kind of jet?”

“No, but it would have to be a fairly big one for an Atlantic crossing.”

“Did they mention an airport?”

“Yes, they said they were flying out of Burbank.”

“Thank you, Mr. Simpson.”

The two detectives left the house and headed for Burbank. Forty minutes later they were in the airport’s tower.

“May I help you, gentlemen?”

“I hope so,” Morales said. “Have you had a departure today of a flight to London, England?”

The man went to a computer. “Nobody would file from here to London,” he said, tapping some keys. “It would likely be for a general aviation airport near London, like Cambridge or Biggin Hill.” He scrolled through the flight plans on file. “Nothing for England at all.”

“Maybe they were refueling and filed for someplace in between?” Croft asked.

“I’ve got half a dozen flight plans for Teterboro, New Jersey. That’s New York.”

“May I have a list of the registration numbers?” Croft asked.

The man printed them out and handed them to the detective. “There you go. I can check the registrations if you like.”

“I like,” Croft said.

Shortly, he was handed a list of owners of the aircraft. “They’re all corporations,” Croft said. “Do you have a list of the owners?”

“Afraid not,” the man said. “You’ll have to do a legal search. A lot of airplanes are owned by Delaware corporations. You might start there.”

“Well,” Morales said, “I feel a dead end coming on.”

“Let’s go see an ADA,” Croft said. “The print might be enough for an arrest warrant, maybe even for an extradition.”

“Or maybe they’ll send us to London,” Croft said hopefully.

Morales had a thought. “Any departures for San Francisco today?”

“Let’s see,” he said, sitting down at the computer again. “Oakland would be the likely destination for a general aviation aircraft.” He tapped some keys. “I’ve got two — a Citation and a Gulfstream IV. The GIV left an hour ago.”

“Gotta be the Gulfstream,” Croft said. “That’s a transatlantic airplane. Let’s go talk to Captain Clark. He’ll spring for a San Francisco trip on a crime that’s getting as much TV time as this one.”