Santa Fe Dead

51

BARBARA WALKED INTO the Mercedes dealership and was immediately greeted by a salesman.

“Good evening,” he said. “May I show you something?”

“I’d like to see a list of every new car in stock that’s ready to drive away,” she said.

The salesman went to his desk, offered her a chair and took an inventory from a drawer. He removed a page from the list and handed it to her. “That’s everything on the lot,” he said. “A couple need prepping before they go out.”

Barbara ran down the list and stopped at a silver E55. “Let’s take a look at this one,” she said.

“It’s right over there,” the man said, pointing across the showroom. “You know about the E55? It’s the fastest Mercedes.”

“I know about it,” she replied.

“We’re about to have a model change,” the salesman said, “so I can offer you a good deal on it.”

Barbara sat in the car. “Is it prepped?”

“Ready to drive away.”

She got out of the car and checked the equipment list.

“Just about every option,” the salesman said. “Do you have a trade-in?”

“Nope, just cash.”

He looked at the list price on the car and quoted her a price.

She counteroffered and they settled on a price. “Check or credit card?” she asked.

“Which credit card?”

She handed him her black Amex card and her driver’s license.

He compared her to the photo on the license. “Is the address on the license current?”

“It is.”

“Let me speak to our finance guy.” He noted her checking account number and walked into a private office with her credit card. Five minutes later, he was back.

“We’ll be happy to take a check,” he said. He added in the sales tax and gave her the amount.

Barbara sat at his desk and wrote the check.

The printer on the man’s desk began to spit paper. “The bill of sale is printing out right now.” He handed it to her. “Thank you very much for your business.”

A man in Mercedes coveralls appeared and drove the car out of the showroom and onto the lot. Twenty minutes after arriving, Barbara gave Jimmy a good-bye kiss.

“Take care of yourself, baby.”

“I’ll be in touch,” she said, then she got into her new car and moved out into traffic.

"THAT WAS FAST,” Vittorio said.

Cupie put the car into gear. “It sure was. If I’d tried to buy a Mercedes, they’d have tied me up for an hour, running credit checks and probably taking a blood sample.”

“It helps if you’re Mrs. Walter Keeler and beautiful.”

They followed as Barbara got onto the freeway, headed south.

“I guess she ain’t going to San Francisco,” Cupie said.

BY SEVEN O’CLOCK, Jack Cato was sick of driving in the heavy traffic. He exited the freeway and found a steakhouse, and as he got out of his truck, he found something else, too. Parked two spaces away, shielded from the view of the restaurant by shrubbery, was a black Silverado pickup, identical to his, except that it didn’t have the toolbox bolted into the bed.

Cato had a quick look around, then found a screwdriver in his glove box and removed the license plate from the other Silverado. Moving fast, he exchanged it with the plate on the other Silverado, then he went inside, got a table and ordered a New York strip. An hour later, he was headed south again in lighter traffic, in a vehicle nobody was looking for.

IT WAS NEARLY midnight when Alex Reese got the call.

“This is Captain Ferraro. Sorry to take so long, but the chief went out to dinner with some people, and his cell phone was turned off. You got your L.A. and statewide APB’s.”

“Thanks, Captain.”

“And both departments have your cell phone number for when they find him.”

Reese thanked him again, then went to bed. He slept better knowing that every L.A. cop and CHP officer was looking for Jack Cato.

Barbara reached La Jolla, a San Diego suburb, before midnight and drove directly to La Reserve, a spa where she had spent time before. Half an hour later she was having a late supper in her suite, watching an old movie on television.

"I KNOW THIS PLACE,” Vittorio said. “She’s been here before, and I know a woman who works here as a masseuse.”

“Good,” Cupie said. “We might as well find a motel; she’s not going anywhere for a few days, and we have arrangements to make.”

JACK CATO FOUND a motel in San Diego and used his Texas ID and credit card. He would cross the border in the morning, during rush hour. As soon as he got to his room he turned on the television, and not five minutes had passed before he saw his own face. “Shit!” he yelled. Fortunately, the picture they were showing was one from the western, with the handlebar moustache.

Cato was nearly asleep when his cell phone rang, and he picked it up. “Yeah?”

“It’s me,” Don Wells said. “Are you in Mexico yet?”

“Almost… tomorrow morning.”

“Have you got backup ID?”

“Yes.”

“I have another, very lucrative job for you in Mexico.”

“How much?”

“One hundred K.”

“Who?”

“Two people, traveling together.”

“Where?”

“Tomorrow morning, cross the border and take the noon flight from Tijuana to Acapulco. Book it tonight. You’ll be met by a man in a red straw hat carrying a sign saying ‘Mr. Theodore.’”

“I’ll need a piece.”

“The man will provide that and anything else you need, including twenty-five K, U.S.”

“How long will this take?”

“Up to you; shouldn’t be more than a day. You’ll follow two people; do it; then take their money and valuables. Call me on this cell phone when it’s done.”

“When do I get the rest of the money?”

“I own a little beach house; the man will take you there. I’ll arrive with your money after the job is done.”

“All right. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Cato hung up, elated. He would add another hundred grand to his nest egg.