Stuart Woods: Santa Fe Edge

“I’m very familiar with the IRS schedules and which expenses belong on which schedule,” she said, “so that won’t be a problem. How much are you gone?”

“I play, on average, about three times a month during the season, which is drawing to a close now. This winter I’ll play some in Japan and maybe Australia and the Middle East, to keep the income stream going. I could be gone for six or seven weeks at a time.”

“Well, before you leave I’ll be familiar with everything, and we’ll have e-mail to stay in touch.”

“Right.” He got up and led her to a door that opened into an empty room next door. “We’ve used this for storage. Why don’t you clean it out and outfit it as an office for you? Get yourself a computer, some file cabinets and bookcases, whatever you need. There’s a closet over there for supplies. We have an account with a local office-supply firm.”

“I’m good with computers,” Dolly said. “If you’ll give me a credit card number I’ll order a computer online and transfer all the business software to the new computer.”

Tip handed her his business credit card. “Call American Express and order a card for you. I’ll speak to them when you’re on the line with them.”

They went back into the study, Dolly made the call and the card was ordered.

“Stop by the bank tomorrow and get new signature cards, and we’ll both sign them.”

“Certainly.”

“I can’t think of anything else to tell you, Dolly. Would you like that drink now?”

“Yes, thanks. That would be very nice.”

Tip made the drinks from the concealed bar in his study, and they watched the sunset together.

Near the end of her stay at Canyon Ranch, Barbara drove to the Tucson Airport and took a plane to Los Angeles. She got a cab to Venice Beach and got out a block from her destination.

She walked slowly to the end of the block, looking at every person she saw, then walked past her destination for another block, then slowly returned, still checking. The man she was visiting was in a potentially dangerous business, and his camera and photography shop might be staked out by the police or, worse, the Feds.

Finally, she went in and asked for the owner. “Name?” the girl behind the counter asked.

“Tell him an old customer,” Barbara said.

The girl left, then came back. “You can go in,” she said.

Barbara walked to the rear of the store to the office and rapped on the doorjamb.

He looked up and stared for a moment before he placed her. “Ah, hello,” he said. “Took me a minute, what with the red hair.”

She sat down in the chair next to his desk. “I need the works,” she said, “and in two identities.” She wrote down the two names, addresses and vital statistics on a pad he handed her.

“How soon?”

“I can give you a week.”

“I can do that, but it’s going to be expensive; prices have gone up. Sixty grand.”

“All right, but everything has to work, has to show up in the relevant databases.”

“Always,” he said.

She opened her purse and paid him in hundreds, then watched while he checked a sample of the bills on a light box.

“All good,” he said. “Let’s get a couple of pictures.”

Barbara checked her makeup, then posed, once as the redhead she now was, and once with a blond wig.

“You can pick them up a week from today,” he said.

“I’d like you to FedEx them, overnight, to this address.” She wrote it down for him. “I’m trusting you by paying you before I see the paper,” she said.

“I don’t fail my best customers,” he replied.

She thanked him and left. She walked a couple of blocks before she found a cab back to the airport. She didn’t want to spend any more time in L.A. than necessary.

CUPIE DALTON SAW the woman coming from a block away. He always spotted beautiful women from a distance; it was a trait learned over the decades. Cupie was ex-LAPD, now a private investigator, and because of his work a lot of faces looked familiar to him. Also, there was something about the way she walked. He ducked behind a palm tree as she approached, then watched her pass and get into a taxi. She was different but still familiar. Images flashed through his mind. “Jesus,” he said aloud, “it can’t be. I must be getting old.”

Cupie was one of two P.I.s who had been hired by Ed Eagle to find the wife who had stolen his money, and he had been responsible for the ruse that had got her to Mexico, where she could be arrested. “It can’t be,” he said again, but he thought he should call Ed Eagle.

He had already dialed the number, but as he was about to press send, he stopped. No need to make a fool of himself. First, he would check. He looked up a number in his cell phone address book and pressed the call button. A woman answered in Spanish.

“I’d like to speak to the capitán,” he said. “Tell him it’s Cupie. He’ll know.”

“Momento,” the woman said, then there was a click and the man came online.

“Cupie, my friend,” the police captain said. “How are you? Are you in Tijuana?”

“No, Capitán,” Cupie said. “I’m in L.A., but I just saw a familiar body walk past me, and I thought I was dreaming.”

“You always dream of women, Cupie,” the capitán said.

“This one is a nightmare,” Cupie said. “You took her off a yacht for me a few months ago.”

“Oh, La Barbara,” the capitán said. “I will never forget her.”

“She was convicted, remember?”

“Oh, yes. She will die in prison.”

“Are you sure she’s still there?”

There was a brief silence. “Do you have some reason to believe she is not?”

“I told you, I could swear I saw her five minutes ago. Can you find out if she’s still in prison?”

“Instantly,” the capitán said. “Give me your number.”

Cupie gave him the number, then went and sat on a bench, looking out over the Pacific.

THE CAPITÁN DIALED the number and listened to it ringing.

“Capitán Alvarez,” a voice said.

“Pedro, it’s me.”

“Good day to you, my friend. Are you in Acapulco?”

“No, I’m in Tijuana. I just wanted to check something with you.”

“Of course. How can I help you?”

“Tell me, is the woman, Barbara Eagle, still in your custody?”

Alvarez didn’t miss a beat. “Of course she is,” he replied. “I fucked her in the ass this morning. She loved it.”

“I’m relieved to hear that,” the capitán said.

“Why do you ask me this?”

“A friend saw a woman in L.A. a few minutes ago who looked like her.”

“Your friend drinks too early in the day. Next time you’re in Acapulco, drive up here, and you can fuck her, too.”

“That might be fun, as long as there isn’t a straight razor around.”

“No worries there, my friend. I would never let her near sharp instruments.”

“Thank you, Pedro. I’ll call you when I come south and take you up on your offer.” He hung up and called Cupie.

“Hello?”

“It’s me, Cupie.”

“What did you find out?”

“She’s still in the prison in Tres Cruces. The warden told me he fucked her in the ass this morning.”

“I’m relieved to hear that.”

“He says you drink too early in the day.”

“Maybe I’m getting old,” Cupie said. “Thanks, my friend. I’ll buy you a drink the next time I’m in Tijuana.”

“You do that.” The capitán hung up.

Cupie took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He was glad he’d checked. If he had made that call he might have destroyed his credibility with Ed Eagle, who was one of his better clients.

IN TRES CRUCES, Pedro Alvarez ran into the toilet and vomited. Still this woman haunted him. He wished he’d shot her in the head and buried her in the mountains.