Santa Fe Dead

61

EARLY SUNDAY MORNING Don Wells got up, dressed and drove to the Acapulco airport. He handed his car over to a lineman for parking, then got aboard the CitationJet. While they were taxiing, he called Capitán Rodríguez at his office and was told that the capitán didn’t come in on Sundays.

“Please give him a message for me when he comes in tomorrow,” Wells said. “This is Donald Wells. Tell him that I have had to return to Los Angeles unexpectedly, but that if he needs any further information or assistance from me he can reach me at my office any time.” He gave the officer the number and hung up.

As the jet climbed out of Acapulco and turned toward Los Angeles, Wells allowed himself to relax in a fashion he had not known since he had made the phone call to Ed Eagle from Rome. Things had not gone as smoothly as he had planned, but he had met every twist and turn with the right moves, and now he could inherit the nearly one billion from his wife’s estate that was free and clear of other bequests, and with Jack Cato losing himself in Mexico, he could enjoy his new wealth without the nagging presence of his wife and the constant attention demanded by his stepson.

Jack would call him before long and let him know where to send his next payment, and when Jack went to meet the messenger, he would cease being of any concern to Wells. All doors to his past would be closed, and he would be safe.

He accepted a Bloody Mary from the copilot and gazed out the window at the Mexican beaches far below. This would be his last trip to Mexico and his last trip anywhere in anything but the Gulfstream 550 jet he had already ordered.

Life was going to be sweet.

THEY LANDED AT Santa Monica, and his car was waiting as he came down the air stair. He tossed his briefcase into the front passenger seat and waited for a moment while his luggage was loaded into the trunk by the lineman, then drove out of the airport and headed home to Malibu.

He had his eye on a lot in the Malibu Colony, where he would build himself a new house, one designed only for him and not for a meddlesome wife and child with their own needs.

He would finance his own films from now on; he would never again have to make a pitch for studio money. He would move to new offices, too, and the Hollywood community would know that he was a force to be reckoned with. Membership in the Academy of Motion Picture Arts amp; Sciences would follow, maybe even an Oscar or two.

He would get rid of the Acapulco beach house and buy something in the South of France, something close enough to Cannes to allow him to throw major parties every year during the film festival. The new Gulfstream would transport him and his friends effortlessly to and from his new home in France.

Maybe a major house in Aspen, too, a real showplace. Maybe he’d start his own film festival there, become a patron to new directors and writers, people who could make him more money in the future.

He pulled into the garage of his Malibu home, closed the garage door and walked into his kitchen with his bags, then froze. Someone in dark clothes was bending over, looking into his refrigerator.

Wells stood and stared at this rather large ass. Burglar, had to be a burglar; go back to the car, leave the house, call the police.

“Mr. Wells?” a voice said from another direction.

Wells turned and stared at another man, who was wearing a business suit, latex gloves and a badge, hanging from his coat’s breast pocket.

“What’s going on?” Wells asked.

The man walked toward him, holding out two folded pieces of paper. “I am Detective John Ralston, of the Los Angeles Police Department. I have a warrant to search your premises…”

“Search my house? Why would you do that?”

“… and a warrant for your arrest on two charges of first-degree murder.” The man set the two documents on the kitchen counter and produced a pair of handcuffs. “Turn around, please, and put your hands behind you.”

Wells stood, frozen in place, so the detective spun him around and cuffed him.

“Now listen, please, while I read your rights. You have the right to remain silent…”

Wells immediately thought of Tina and Soledad. That’s what this is about, he thought. Keep your mouth shut and call a lawyer.

“Do you understand these rights?”

“Yes,” Wells said. “I want to call my lawyer.”

“Come with me; I’ll get you a telephone.” The detective led him into his study, uncuffed one hand and cuffed him to his chair. “There you go. Make your phone call and just wait here.” He started to leave.

Wells needed to know something. “Detective, whom am I charged with murdering?”

“Why, your wife and son, of course. The extradition process is under way. I’ll be back in a minute.” He left the room.

Wells had to reorient his thinking before he took his address book from an open drawer, looked up Ed Eagle’s home number in Santa Fe and dialed it.

“Hello,” the deep voice said.

“Ed, it’s Don Wells.”

“Good morning, Don. What can I do for you on a Sunday morning?” he asked drily.

“Ed, my house is full of cops, searching it.”

“What for?”

“I don’t know, but they also have an arrest warrant.”

“On what charge?”

“Murder of my wife and son. This is crazy, Ed! They’re extraditing me to Santa Fe, and I need you to represent me again.”

“Well, first of all, Don, it’s not crazy. I had a call a few minutes ago from Bob Martínez-you remember him-the district attorney here?”

“Yes, of course.”

“And Bob tells me they’ve got Jack Cato in jail here in Santa Fe, and he’s singing like a bird.”

“But that’s not possible; Jack’s in…”

“Mexico? I’m afraid not, Don. There was some sort of kerfuffle at the border, and Cato made the mistake of reentering the United States, where an arrest warrant was waiting for him. They flew him back here overnight.”

“Ed, will you represent me?”

“No, Don, I’ve already resigned from that job, remember?”

“But I need the best possible Santa Fe lawyer, Ed, and that’s you.”

“Don, let me give you some free advice, something your next lawyer may not be too anxious to explain to you, since he will want to milk as much money as possible out of you before he does the deal.”

“Deal?”

“That’s my advice, Don. Make the best deal you can. Martínez is not unreasonable; he’ll take the death penalty off the table, if you give him a complete confession.”

“You’re advising me to send myself to prison?”

“It’s that or send yourself to death row for a few years until your appeals are exhausted and they execute you. You’re done, Don. Cato has cooked your goose to a fine turn. He even has you on tape. Now, if you want me to represent you just to make the deal, I’ll do that, but I won’t stand up in a courtroom and plead you not guilty. You’ve already lied to me repeatedly, and I don’t like clients who lie to me, even if a lot of them do.”

“I don’t want to take a deal,” Wells said.

“Then I suggest you call Raoul Samora, who is the second-best trial lawyer in Santa Fe, or James Parnell, who is nearly as good. You can get their numbers from Information. Anything else I can do for you, Don?”

“No,” Wells said, “there isn’t.” He hung up the phone and slumped in his chair. He looked around the room at the beautiful elm paneling in his study, at the books and papers that the police had scattered in their search, at the picture that had covered his safe, which stood exposed. He fought nausea.

With a trembling hand, Wells dialed 411 and got the usual recorded message. “Santa Fe, New Mexico,” he said, “residence of Raoul Samora.”