Stuart Woods - Santa Fe Dead

“Yes, thank you.”

She changed his ticket, gave him the gate number and said good-bye.

Things seemed to be going his way, Cato reflected, as he buckled his seat belt. He’d get back to Tijuana, put the money into the lockbox under his truck and get a good night’s sleep before heading south. There was a letter in there, too, that he wanted to burn. It no longer seemed necessary.

DONALD WELLS DROVE his car to his beach house, nervous about what he might find there. He turned into the drive, half expecting to find the place swarming with Mexican police, but there was only the housekeeper’s car. He let himself into the garage with the remote, removed his luggage from the trunk and walked in through the kitchen door.

“María!” he called out.

"Sí, sí, ” his housekeeper called back from another room, then entered the kitchen, carrying a vacuum cleaner. “ Buenos días, Señor Wells,” she said. “Did you have a good trip?” Her English was good, if heavily accented.

“Very good, María. Are the ladies here?”

“No, señor, and their beds were not slept in last night.”

“That’s odd,” Wells said, trying to sound worried. “Did you see them yesterday?”

“Yes, señor. They were lying on the beach when I came, and I changed both their beds. The linens are still fresh and unwrinkled; that’s how I know they did not sleep here.”

“Did they have a car?”

“Yes, señor, a green Honda from renting.”

“Will you unpack these bags for me, please, María? I’ll see if I can reach Tina on her cell.”

María left with the luggage, and Wells went into his study and called Tina’s cell phone, which went straight to voice mail. “Tina, it’s Don Wells. I just got into town, and María says you and Soledad didn’t sleep here last night. I’m concerned about you, so please call me at the house and let me know you’re all right.” Then he looked up the number for the police and dialed it. “Capitán Morales, please,” he said when it was answered.

“This is Morales,” the capitán said, in Spanish.

“Capitán, this is Don Wells. How are you?”

“Oh, Señor Wells, I am quite good, and you?”

“I’m fine. I just got in from Los Angeles, and I expected to find my house guests, two young women, here, but they are not in the house, and my housekeeper tells me their beds were not slept in last night. I don’t want to be an alarmist, but I am concerned about them.”

“Ah, Señor Wells, I will come out to your casa to see you about this. In about an hour?”

“I don’t want to put you to any trouble.”

“No, no, señor, no trouble. I will see you in one hour.”

Wells hung up, went into the kitchen and got himself a beer, some of María’s guacamole, and some chips. He took them into the study and ate them on the leather couch in front of the big TV.

Sometime later the doorbell rang, and María escorted Capitán Morales and two men in plainclothes into the study. Wells seated them and noticed that one of the men was holding an envelope.

“Now, Señor Wells,” the capitán said, “please tell me about these two young women.”

“Their names are Tina López and Soledad Rivera; they work in the wardrobe department at the movie studio where I have my offices. They have often worked on films I have produced. They both had some vacation time coming, so I let them use this house. I believe they arrived three or four days ago.”

“I see. And when did you arrive?”

“A few minutes before I spoke to you on the phone. I flew into the airport on a private aircraft, and we landed at three o’clock.”

One of the other men spoke up. “May I have the registration number of the airplane and the names of the pilots?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know the registration number, since it is a chartered airplane. The pilot’s name is Dan Edmonds; I don’t know the copilot’s name.”

“And the name of the company you chartered from?”

“Elite Aircraft, at Burbank Airport, in Los Angeles.”

The man took all this down. “May I use a telephone in another room?”

“Of course. There’s one in the kitchen.”

The man left, and his partner resumed the questioning. “When you arrived at the airport, did you speak to anyone?”

“No, my car was waiting, and I went inside the FBO to use the men’s room while the pilots loaded my luggage into it.”

“Was there not a toilet on the airplane, señor?”

Wells smiled. “Yes, but our approach was very bumpy, not conducive to aiming well.”

The other detective came back and nodded to the capitán, who spoke up again. “Señor Wells, can you describe the two young women?”

“They are both in their late twenties or early thirties. Tina is about five feet seven inches tall and a hundred and thirty pounds; Soledad is smaller, about five-four and a hundred and thirty pounds. They are both Hispanic and speak Spanish but were born in Los Angeles, I believe.”

The capitán held out his hand, and one of the detectives put the manila envelope in it. He opened the envelope and handed Wells two photographs. “Are these the two women?”

Wells looked at the photos and let his eyes widen. “What happened to them?”

“Are they your two friends?”

“Yes, they are. What happened?”

“They were apparently driving from this house into Acapulco yesterday afternoon. They were found in their car, upside down in an arroyo, both dead.”

“That’s very upsetting,” Wells said, frowning, “an awful accident.”

“It was not an accident, Señor Wells,” the capitán said. “Their car was apparently run off the road and into the ditch; both women were shot once each, with a small-caliber handgun.”

“Good God! Why would anyone harm them?”

“Apparently to rob them, señor. Both their handbags had been removed from the car and emptied on the ground beside it. There was no money or jewelry among the belongings. Also, one of the women, the driver, showed marks on her left wrist of having worn a watch, which was missing.”

“I’m going to have to get in touch with their families,” Wells said.

“Perhaps it would be better if I did that,” the capitán replied. “If you will give me the number.”

Wells looked at his wristwatch. “I’ll have to call the studio,” he said and went to the phone. After speaking to personnel he handed the capitán the names and numbers of their next of kin.

“May I ask, Señor Wells, why you did not have these numbers yourself?”

“I don’t know their families, Capitán; I have only the number of the apartment they share. When you speak to the families, would you please convey my condolences and tell them I will bear any expense involved in returning their remains to Los Angeles?”

“Of course, Señor Wells. If you will permit me, I will place these arrangements in the hands of a mortuary known to me, and they will send you a bill. Normally, in cases of this kind, the remains are cremated, which makes transport more convenient.”

“Whatever their families wish, Capitán, and I am very grateful for your help in this matter. Tell me, do you have any idea who did this?”

“No, señor, not yet. We found a stolen car abandoned in Acapulco that had paint from the women’s car on its bumper, but the car had been carefully cleaned of fingerprints.”

“I would appreciate it if you would keep me informed on the investigation,” Wells said. “And when you have spoken to their families, would you ask to whom and where I should send the belongings they left here?”

“Of course. And now we would like to speak to your housekeeper, if we may, and see their belongings.”