Santa Fe Dead

41

BARBARA WOKE EARLY and went downstairs. The L.A. Times and The Wall Street Journal were on the doorstep. She took them into the kitchen, made coffee and started leafing through the Times. Nothing in the front section. She was well into the arts pages before she found it.

ACTRESS MURDERED IN SANTA FE

AP: Santa Fe police announced the death by shooting of a woman they described as "a member of the film community” at her home outside the city. She had apparently been shot through a bedroom window by a sniper, who is being sought by police. Police are withholdingher name, pending notification of next of kin.

Barbara thought her coffee had never tasted better. In a rush of good feeling, she made breakfast for Jimmy and took it upstairs to him on a tray.

“Hey, the service is getting pretty good around here,” he said. “You sure you have to go?”

“Well, maybe I’ll stay on for a few days more,” she said. What the hell, she thought. I’m not going to get laid in San Francisco.

“You’re welcome as long as you’d like to stay,” he said.

Barbara was pulling on some jeans and a cotton sweater. “You’re sweet, baby.”

“Where are you going so early?” Jimmy asked.

“I have to go to the post office,” she replied. She went downstairs to his study, found a manila envelope, addressed it with a Magic Marker and stuffed it with fifty thousand dollars. The post office wouldn’t be open yet, so she grabbed a roll of stamps from Jimmy’s desk drawer, weighed the package on his postage scale and applied the postage.

DETECTIVE LUCY DIXON had just come on duty in her unmarked car when she saw the car, driven by the woman, come out of the Long driveway. She started her car and followed at a distance. Where the hell could the woman be going at seven forty-five in the morning? No shops were open at this hour.

She followed the car until it turned into the post office parking lot and watched as the woman deposited a manila envelope into the drive-thru mailbox, then left the parking lot and drove back the way she had come.

Dixon drove up to the mailbox and checked the schedule. A pickup was due at eight A.M., and it was already ten past. No time to get a federal warrant. She pulled her car farther forward and stopped, blocking the driveway, then got out of the car and waited.

Another ten minutes passed before the truck arrived and the driver got out.

Dixon approached him with a smile. “Good morning,” she said.

“Good morning,” he replied looking her up and down.

This was a good sign. She smiled more broadly and showed him her badge. “I’m LAPD,” she said. “I wonder if you would let me look at a package that was mailed a few minutes ago?”

The driver shook his head. “Sorry, Detective, you can’t mess with the mail without a federal warrant.”

“It’s Lucy,” she said.

“Sorry, Lucy.”

“I don’t want to mess with it; I just want to see the address on it. It’s a manila envelope, and it was mailed ten minutes ago, so it should be right on top.”

He went around to the back of the box, shook open a mail bag and positioned it. Then he unlocked the box and raked the mail out and into the bag. “If you can see it, you can look at it,” he said.

Dixon stepped over and checked the mail. There were two manila envelopes visible, but only one of them was without a return address. She got out her notebook. The address read: J.C., 129 Forrest Lane, Studio City. “Thanks, pal,” she said. “You’re a sweetheart.”

“Hey, how about a movie and dinner this week?” he asked.

“Oh, I’m so sorry; I’m seeing somebody.”

The man shrugged, got into his truck and drove away.

Dixon got back into her car and called her watch commander.

“Evans.”

“Boss, it’s Dixon. You know you said something about Mrs. Keeler mailing money to a hit man?”

“Yeah, that was the theory.”

“Well, I just followed her to the post office and watched her mail a manila envelope at the drive-thru, so l waited for the truck to arrive, and I got the address off the envelope.”

“Good work, Dixon. Give it to me.”

She read him the address.

“I’ll find a city directory and see who J.C. is.”

“You know, boss, if you could get a federal warrant, I could intercept the envelope and open it.”

“I’ll see what I can do, Dixon.”

“You want me back on Long’s house?”

“Well, yeah. It seems to be working, doesn’t it?”

“Okay, I’m gone.” She got back into the car and drove back to the Long house, very pleased with herself.

DETECTIVE FIRST GRADE Tom Evans started to call the U.S. Attorney’s office about the search warrant but realized the time. Nobody would be there just yet. He wrote a note to himself to call them and put it in a little tray where he kept reminders, since his short-term memory had started to go. He had only a year before his thirty years were up, and he wasn’t about to get dumped on a non-work-related medical by reporting his memory loss. He could fake it for a year. He went back to work.

DIXON FINISHED HER shift at four o’clock and drove back to the station house to leave the patrol car and pick up her own. As she walked past the front desk to leave the keys, she saw Detective Evans. “Hi, boss.”

“Hello, Dixon.”

“What’s happening with that federal warrant?”

Evans looked a little startled. “Huh? Oh, that’s in the works,” he replied.

“I’d love to go out to Studio City in the morning and serve that warrant,” she said. Anything would beat sitting on Mrs. Keeler for another day, watching her shop and go to the beauty salon.

“I’ll let you know,” Evans said. What the hell was she talking about? He went back to his desk and went through the notes to himself in the tray on his desk. “Shit!” he said aloud. He turned around to see half a dozen detectives looking at him.

“You,” he said, pointing to a cop. “Get your ass over to the U.S. Attorney’s office and get me a federal warrant to search a mailbox in Studio City.” He grabbed a form for the warrant and filled it out; then he handed it to the detective and explained the circumstances. “Here’s the request.”

“Right, boss.” The detective got his coat and left.

Evans looked at his watch: four thirty. “And move your ass!” he shouted after the detective.