Stuart Woods - Short Straw

"Let's make me a Beverly Hills girl," she said, reeling off shops and stores. They made up past addresses, and she gave him the street address of the Bel-Air hotel as her current address.

"Before you use that address on, say, a credit application, be sure you file a change-of-address card with the post office, forward the mail to where you want it to go," Dan said.

"Good idea." She was making notes to herself as they talked. "Tell me, can you make me a really good LA. concealed carry license?"

"Sure. That's another five grand, but I'll throw in a Florida license, too. That will be good in twenty-seven other states. You'll need to bring driver's-license-size pictures for both of the carry licenses."

"Done. Anything else you need?"

"Nope. I'll go to work on all this today, and a week from today, when the cash is paid, everything will be activated."

"Is the passport going to pass muster if I travel overseas?"

"You'll be able to use if for about four years, then it expires. By that time, I hope to have the coded strip thing beaten, and you can come back for another one. Now, let's create a travel history for you, so I can put in the stamps." They spent ten minutes creating a record of trips to Europe.

"Danny, you're a wonder," she said when they had finished. "I'll see you in a week." She shook his hand and left.

She was back at La Reserve in time for her surgical appointment and in bed in Pine Cottage by six thirty, an ice pack applied to her face, sipping soup through a straw, very carefully, over her still-numb lower lip. The pain medication was working wonderfully well.

CUPIE HAD BEEN BACK HOME IN SANTA MONICA FOR nearly a week when his cell phone bill arrived. He was stunned. There were more than fifty calls he hadn't made, most of them long distance. He called the cell phone company and made a fraud complaint about the calls, but he didn't cancel the number.

After he hung up, it occurred to him that he had lost the phone in Mexico, but none of the calls were to Mexican numbers. His phone was in the United States. Cupie called a friend at the LAPD, the son of his old partner, a young man who was up to date on all the latest technology.

"Bob Harris," the voice said.

"Bobby, it's Cupie Dalton. How are you?"

"I'm great, Cupie. How about you?"

"Just fine. How's your old man?"

"As grouchy as ever. What's up?"

"Bobby, you can trace cell phone calls these days, can't you? I mean, locate the actual phone?"

"Sure, if it's a late-model phone, with the GPS chip."

"It's less than a year old."

"Then I could trace it. This for one of your clients? My captain is strict about that."

"No, it's for me; I lost the phone, and there are several hundred dollars of calls on my bill that I didn't make. I'd like to know who has it."

"Give me the number."

Cupie gave it to him.

"Now look at your bill. Were the calls made at a certain time of day?"

Cupie checked the bill. "Mostly afternoons, between two and five."

"Give me a day or two," Harris said. "You still at the same number?"

"Yep."

AT THREE-THIRTY THAT AFTERNOON Cupie got a call.

"I got a location for you," Harris said. "Venice Beach."

"You got an actual address?"

Harris gave him a range of street numbers. "That ought to narrow it to a block or so."

"Bobby, I can't thank you enough," Cupie said. "Let me know when I can do you a favor."

"Hey, Cupie, you can find out who my wife is fucking." Harris laughed loudly.

"Yeah, yeah, sure. See you around." Cupie grabbed a jacket. He had been getting bored, with no work. He headed for Venice Beach. If Barbara still had his cell phone, maybe he could nail down her location for Ed Eagle. It was something to do.

CUPIE FOUND A PARKING PLACE and began walking up and down the block of Venice Beach to which Harris had directed him. It was a collection of small shops, mostly tourist-oriented: T-shirts, souvenirs. He walked into a couple of them and had a look around. Finally, he stopped in front of a small photography shop and glanced at the window display. What really interested him, though, was that the young girl behind the counter inside was talking on a cell phone that looked very much like his.

He saw a public phone across the sidewalk, and on a whim, went to it and dialed his cell phone number. Busy signal. Bingo! He walked back into the shop and waited for the girl to complete her call.

"Can I help you?"

"I was thinking about some photographs. Hey, that's a good-looking cell phone, can I see it?" He took it from her hand before she could object, switched it off, then back on. As it booted up, it displayed his number.

"Great," he said, "where'd you get it?"

"It was a gift," she said, reaching for the phone, but he hung onto it.

"From who?"

A man stepped from behind a curtain, as if on cue, one hand in a pocket. "What's going on?" he asked.

Cupie recognized the guy but couldn't place him. "This young lady is using a stolen cell phone," Cupie said. "Care to explain that to me?" Cupie pulled his jacket back to reveal his old LAPD badge and the holstered gun, both on his belt. "And take your hand out of your pocket right now."

"I found it," the man said, removing his hand from his pocket.

"Where?"

"On the beach."

"Don't you know it's a crime to make calls on somebody else's phone?"

"Look, officer, I found it, okay?"

"When did you find it?"

"A few days ago, almost a week." Cupie put the phone in his pocket. "The phone company will be in touch," he said, then he turned and walked out of the shop.

BACK HOME, Cupie took another look at his phone bill. The first call had been made the evening he had crossed the border with Barbara, only a couple of minutes later. Then there was a gap of a couple of days before the calls resumed. The first number was in San Diego, and he dialed it.

"Good afternoon, La Reserve," a smooth male voice said.

"Uh, I'd like to book a table for two at eight-thirty," Cupie said.

"Are you a guest, sir?"

"A guest?"

"Our restaurant is not open to the public; this is a spa."

"Oh, I guess I got it mixed up with that other place. Where are you located?"

"In La Jolla, on the beach."

"Sorry about that," Cupie said, then hung up. Barbara was being nice to herself. He went to his computer and Googled La Reserve. Very nice, very plush, very expensive. He thought about it for a moment, then he called Ed Eagle.

"Hello, Cupie," Eagle said. "I sent your check a few days ago."

"Yes, Mr. Eagle, and I got it, thank you very much. I called, because I think I know where Barbara is, or was very recently."

"Where?"

"At a health spa in La Jolla called La Reserve. Very ritzy place, according to their website."

"And how do you know this?"

"My cell phone disappeared in Mexico-I think Barbara stole it-and a call was made on my phone to La Reserve a few minutes after we crossed the border. My guess is she called to book a room and went straight there."

"Very good, Cupie. You want to follow up on this?"

"Mr. Eagle, all due respect, but I've had enough of your wife; I don't want to go anywhere near her again. I just thought I'd pass on the information, and you can do with it as you like."

"Thank you, Cupie, I understand," Eagle said. "I assume you haven't entirely retired. Shall I call you again when something comes up?"

"Oh, sure, Mr. Eagle. I'm available for anything, except Mrs. Eagle."

"Thank you, Cupie."

EAGLE HUNG UP, called information, got the number for La Reserve and dialed it.

"Good afternoon, La Reserve," a man's voice said.

"May I speak to Barbara Eagle, please? She's a guest there; this is her husband."