Stuart Woods - Santa Fe Edge

They returned, dejected, in the late afternoon, and Cupie poured them both a drink. “Maybe we can’t protect Ed Eagle,” he said as he sank into the recliner next to Vittorio’s.

“You going to fink out on me?” Vittorio asked.

“No. We both have an obligation to Eagle, because we let him nearly get killed while we were on the job.” He sat silently for a moment, then picked up the phone on the table between the two chairs and called a number.

“Detective Santiago,” a voice said.

“Dave, it’s Cupie Dalton.”

“Hey, Cupie. Twice in one week. That’s something.”

“Dave, you remember the Bart Cross killing.”

“Sure.”

“Did you find anything interesting at his residence?”

“In the way of evidence? Not much. His killer was a pro, I’d bet on that.”

“Did you take any personal stuff from his house, like a diary?”

“Nah, there was no diary. Come to think of it, there was an airplane logbook.”

“Now, that’s interesting,” Cupie said.

“Why?”

“Well, I’m trying to put together a picture of his last few days, in connection with a protection job I’m working on. I think he might be the guy who tried to kill a client of mine, put him in the hospital.”

“I see.”

“Could you copy the last, say, four pages of the logbook and fax or e-mail them to me?”

“Sure, I guess so. Which do you prefer?”

“E-mail, if you can scan them.”

“Give me a few minutes,” Santiago said. “You’re buying lunch, right?”

“Wherever you like, Dave. I’ll take you to the Brown Derby, if you like.”

“Cupie, you know very well the Brown Derby closed twenty-five years ago.”

“Okay, you can name the place.”

“Spago Beverly Hills.”

“Done.”

“What time?”

“Not today, Dave. I’m in Santa Fe on a case. As soon as I get back. I promise.”

“Okay. You’ll have the pages shortly.”

Cupie gave him his e-mail address and hung up.

“What are you looking for?” Vittorio asked.

“I’ve no idea,” Cupie replied. “Anything. I’m desperate.”

They drank their drinks, then Cupie’s laptop made the little chiming noise that signaled a new e-mail.

“Incoming,” Cupie said, getting out of his chair and setting his drink down on the desk, next to his laptop. He pulled up Dave Santiago’s e-mail and opened the attachment, then connected his laptop to Vittorio’s computer and printed it.

“So,” Vittorio said, “what have you got?”

Cupie went slowly through the pages. “Seems Bart Cross kept a very meticulous logbook,” he said, “including dates and names of his passengers.” Cupie got to the last page. “Here we go: Bart flew Jim Long to Acapulco and came back the next day with Long and-bingo!-Barbara! Cleared customs at Yuma.”

“ Yuma? Why Yuma?”

“Well,” Cupie said, “if you had just escaped from jail in Mexico, you might want to land at some out-of-the-way place, right?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Vittorio said.

“Then he went back to L.A. and landed at Burbank.”

“What about after that?” Vittorio asked.

“A few days later he flew to Albuquerque! Shortly after that we saw him at Barbara’s house. Then the day of the attempt on Eagle, he flew back to Burbank. That was the day he got killed.”

“I guess Barbara didn’t take the news of Eagle’s survival too well,” Vittorio said.

“Hey, look,” Cupie said. “In the notes section he wrote down the color and tag number of Barbara’s Mercedes wagon! Arizona plate.” Cupie wrote down the plate number in his notebook. “Now we know exactly what to look for.”

“I’m getting tired of looking for tan Mercedes wagons,” Vittorio said. “Too many of them out there. We saw three today.”

“Always good to get the correct plate number, though,” Cupie replied. “We got more than that, though.”

“What else we got?”

“We know that Jim Long busted Barbara out of the Mexican jail-or at least got her out of the country after she got out.”

“That is interesting,” Vittorio said. “It’s the sort of information that might make Long willing to talk to us.”

“Tell you what,” Cupie said. “Eagle’s going to be in the hospital for a few more days. Why don’t we go to L.A. tomorrow and pay a little visit on our famous film producer?”

“We got nothing else to do,” Vittorio said.

Cupie called Long’s office at Centurion Studios.

“Long Productions,” a woman said.

“Hi. Can you tell me if and when there’s going to be a funeral for Bart Cross?”

“Why, yes,” the woman replied. “Are you a friend of his?”

“Yes, indeed,” Cupie said.

“Well, there’ll be a graveside service at Forest Lawn tomorrow afternoon at three. Got a pencil? I’ll give you instructions.”

“Shoot,” Cupie said, then wrote down everything. “Will Jim Long be there?” he asked.

“Yes, he will,” she said. “Can I tell him you’re coming?”

“Thank you, yes,” Cupie said, then hung up before she could ask his name.

“Okay, we know where Long is going to be at three tomorrow afternoon.”

“We’ll ambush him, then,” Vittorio replied.

“If anybody knows where Barbara is, it’s Jim Long,” Cupie said.

“Maybe she’ll be at the funeral.”

“Hey, I hadn’t thought of that. Maybe we can shoot her and throw her into Cross’s grave.”

The thought made Vittorio smile.

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.