Stuart Woods - Santa Fe Dead

“Cato has worked at Centurion as a stuntman and wrangler for twelve years and Edwards for nine. Edwards’s specialty is car work: chases, crashes. Former stock-car racer. The other three guys are in makeup, accounting and catering-like the woman, pretty far removed from Wells. I wouldn’t think they would make good suspects.”

“Okay, I’ll talk to Cato and Edwards first. How do I find them?”

Bender did some more computer work. “They’re both full-time employees: Cato at what we call the ranch, where animals are kept, out on the back lot; Edwards at the motor pool. When he’s not doing stunt work, he’s a mechanic. Neither is working on a film right now. Why don’t I go along with you, lend a little studio authority to the interviews?”

“I’d appreciate that,” Reese said.

Bender got his coat and put on a western straw hat. “Keeps the sun off my fair skin,” he said. “A day in the sun means a trip to the dermatologist.” He led the way outside, and they got into a golf cart. “It’s how we travel on the lot,” he said.

Reese had a good look at the studio as they drove down a long avenue with big hangar-like buildings on both sides.

“These are the soundstages, where interiors are filmed,” Bender said. He stopped at an intersection and pointed. “Down there is the New York street set, which is the most-used standing set on the lot.” He began driving again. “The studio commissary is over there, and down the side streets are the office buildings where the independent producers, like Wells, rent space. There are also bungalows that are dressing rooms for our stars.”

He swung the cart into a large shedlike building and stopped. It looked like the workshop of an auto dealer, only larger. There were a number of hydraulic hoists, and along the rear of the building were two rows of parked vehicles with covers over them. “The cars back there are period stuff, everything from Packards to delivery vans to a fire truck.”

A man in coveralls approached the golf cart. “Hey, Jeff,” he said to Bender. “What can I do for you?”

“Hi, Ted. This is Alex Reese; we’d like to talk to Grif Edwards. He around?”

Ted pointed. “He’s working on the car on the lift, last on the left.”

Bender drove down to the lift and stopped. A man in coveralls was using a grease gun on what looked like a late-forties Ford. “Grif Edwards?” Bender called out.

The man turned and looked at Bender. “Who wants to know?”

CUPIE DALTON SAT in front of his computer, looking at the Air Aware program. He picked up the phone and dialed a number.

"Ed Eagle.”

“Hi. It’s Cupie.”

“Hello, Cupie.”

“Walter Keeler’s airplane has made a move but only from Hayward to San Jose, a short hop.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore, Cupie; Walter Keeler is dead.” Cupie’s jaw dropped. “She offed him already?”

“Apparently not. Keeler was killed in a collision with a gasoline tanker truck on the freeway while Barbara was in San Francisco.”

“Holy shit. I hope he hadn’t made a new will.”

“I hope so, too, but it’s possible. His lawyer wouldn’t say. I gave him a letter for Keeler, but he didn’t read it, so I had to fax the lawyer a copy.”

“A letter about Barbara?”

“ All about Barbara.”

“So what’s next?”

“My guess is that Barbara is going to be stuck in San Francisco for a few days at least, while she buries her husband and reads his will.”

“You know what I think? I think a very rich Barbara would be more dangerous than ever.”

“Yes, in my experience, the very rich tend to feel omnipotent, and an omnipotent Barbara is not a good thought.”

“You have any instructions for me?”

“Yes. Bribe somebody in her building to keep an eye on her and let you know if she leaves town.”

“I can do that; I got acquainted with the super on our last visit.”

“Apart from that, just sit tight. I may have some work for you in L.A. soon. I’ve got a new client who might get charged with murder. His name is Donald Wells, and somebody killed his very rich wife and her son while he was in Rome. I think the cops and the D.A. like him for it. Wells is a movie producer based on the Centurion lot.”

“I know the head of security at Centurion, Jeff Bender. You want me to pay him a visit?”

“Maybe you should. I would like to know as early in the game as possible if the Santa Fe police are investigating Wells.”

“I’ll give him a call.”

“Okay. And keep me posted on Barbara’s whereabouts.”

“Will do.”

GRIF EDWARDS LOOKED like a central-casting hoodlum out of a Warner Brothers noir movie-big, heavyset, broken nose, blue stubble-just the sort of guy who would beat up Bogart in act 1 and take a slug in the last scene.

“I’m Jeff Bender, studio security,” Bender said. “This is Alex Reese, out of Santa Fe P.D. He’d like to ask you a few questions, and I’d like to hear your answers.”

Edwards looked back and forth at the two men, then shrugged. “Okay.”

“Mr. Edwards, where were you last weekend, Friday through Sunday?”

“I went down to Tijuana, to a bullfight,” Edwards replied.

“What day was the bullfight?”

“Saturday and Sunday.”

“Who was fighting?”

“I don’t know. Some spic guys.”

“Anybody get hurt?”

“Naw, I was hoping, but they all walked away. The bulls didn’t do so good.”

“What else did you do in Tijuana?”

“Drank some tequila, ate some tacos, got the runs.”

“Who did you go with?”

“Buddy of mine.”

“What’s his name?”

“Jack Cato. He works on the back lot.”

“Anybody else?”

“Just the two of us. We drove down in my car.”

“Where’d you stay?”

“Some dump not far from the bullring.”

“Its name?”

“Beats me. Some spic name.”

“How many nights?”

“Friday and Saturday. We drove back Sunday, after the fight.”

“You know a producer on the lot called Don Wells?”

“Sure, I worked three or four of his pictures. We’re not exactly buddies, though.”

“Ever see him socially? Have a drink or something?”

“Naw.”

“Thanks for your time, Mr. Edwards.”

Bender turned the golf cart around and headed out.

“I saw a rack of time cards near the door,” Reese said. “I’d like to see what time Edwards clocked out last Friday.”

“Okay.” Bender stopped the cart, went to the rack and found Edwards’s card, then he got back into the car. “Five eleven.”

Reese wrote down the time.

“Now let’s go see Jack Cato, and see if they’ve got their stories straight,” Bender said.

The buildings were left behind them, and Reese found himself driving down the dirt street of a western town. They passed the saloon, the jail and the general store and came to a building with the fading words LIVERY STABLE painted in large letters on the side. Next to it was a corral with half a dozen horses in it.

“Here we are,” Bender said. “This is both a set and a real stable.” He led the way through the big doors to a small office inside.

A tall, wiry man in jeans and a work shirt looked up from a desk, where he had a hand of solitaire dealt out. “Hey Jeff,” he said, standing up and offering his hand. His leathery skin and narrow eyes were right out of a B western. “What can I do you for?”

“Hi, Jack. This is Alex Reese, Santa Fe P.D. He’d like to ask you some questions.”

“Questions? About what?”

“Just tell him what he wants to know, okay? It’s lunchtime, and I’m hungry.”

“Hell, all right.”