Ben stood up and shook his hand. “Always glad to help. Tell me, did Baxter hurt anybody?”
“By some miracle, nobody. He reported his car stolen, weaseling out of any action we could take, in the absence of witnesses who could place him in the car.”
Ben began walking his guest to the door. “There is something else,” he said, “and I have this from a good source. One of our employees took some time off and went to Santa Fe, where he worked briefly on a Baxter film on location there. Baxter, who’s apparently pretty paranoid, somehow got the impression that our man was there to do him harm, and he called in a professional from L.A. to rid him of the menace.”
“Do you mean to eliminate him?”
“I don’t know what his intentions were, but the pro attacked our man, who defended himself and put the man in the hospital.”
“So there’s some unresolved animus there?”
“I don’t know. I just mention it as background, as you put it.”
“May I have your employee’s name?”
“Billy Barnett. He works as a producer in the Barrington unit on our lot. Would you like to speak to him?”
“Thank you, sir, yes.”
Ben opened his office door and spoke to his secretary. “Marsha, would you call Billy and see if he has time to speak to Sergeant Rivera, here? He’ll need directions to the bungalow.”
? ? ?
RIVERA PARKED HIS CAR and walked into a bungalow with the name “Barrington” on a placard outside. A moment later he found himself sitting across the desk of a man, apparently in his fifties, but fit-looking.
“Ben Bacchetti’s secretary called,” Barnett said. “What can I do for you?”
“I spoke with Mr. Bacchetti for a few minutes about events following his lunch with a Mr. Dax Baxter last Friday.”
“Yes, the gate guard captain told me about that. Apparently Mr. Baxter departed the lot in something of a hurry.”
“That is my information,” Rivera said. “Mr. Bacchetti also told me about an encounter you had with an associate of Mr. Baxter’s in Santa Fe that resulted in the man’s being hospitalized.”
“Mr. Bacchetti told you that?”
“Yes.”
“I believe I have some recollection of such an event. Is the fellow bringing charges against me?”
“Oh, no, sir, nothing like that. I asked Mr. Bacchetti for background information on Mr. Baxter, and he told me that story.”
“Ah.”
“During your time in Santa Fe, did you spend any time with Mr. Baxter?”
“Very little,” Teddy replied. “Mr. Baxter’s wife caused the death of my wife, Betsy, in an accident. He seemed to believe that I bore a grudge because of that and had come there to harm him in some way.”
“And how did he get that impression?”
“His paranoia whispered it in his ear, I expect. I had no such intention and told him so.”
“But he didn’t believe you?”
“Apparently not. I was at Mr. Baxter’s house at a wrap party, and the man approached me outside, holding a knife. He introduced himself by trying to kick me in the head.”
“And what was the nature of the injury that put him in the hospital?”
“A knife wound to the back of a leg, his right, I believe, that required surgery to repair.”
“Was it your intention to wound him in such a manner?”
“If I’d been trying to kill him, he would be dead,” Teddy replied calmly. “Now, if you don’t have any more questions, Sergeant, I don’t think I should incriminate myself further.” He smiled a little.
Rivera got to his feet and handed the man his business card. “Sounds like self-defense to me, Mr. Barnett. If you should come across any other relevant information about Mr. Baxter, I’d appreciate a call, and don’t worry about incriminating yourself.”
? ? ?
THEY SHOOK HANDS, and the policeman left. Teddy looked at the card and saw that the sergeant’s assignment was to the vehicle theft unit, which puzzled him.
29
IT WAS NEARLY six o’clock when Sally came into Teddy’s office. “I’m done for the day,” she said.
“How did it go?”
“Very well, I think. Peter seemed pleased. I’m a quick study.”
Teddy closed a couple of computer files and got his jacket on. “Then let’s get out of here,” he said. They went out to the parking lot and got into the Cayenne. At the front gate Teddy got out of the car and went to the glass booth where the captain sat.
“How are you, Billy?”
“Very well, thanks, Jerry.”
“Your first day back go well?”
“Very well. There’s something I’d like your help on though.”
“Anything I can do,” Jerry replied.
“This morning, driving in from Malibu, I saw a bright yellow vehicle in my rearview mirror, very well back, but persistent. It disappeared about the time I got here.”
“I didn’t see such a vehicle,” Jerry replied.
“I think it was some sort of eighties muscle car, but I didn’t get a good enough look at it to figure out which one. I’m going to leave the lot now, and I’d appreciate it if you’d observe from here and see if you see such a vehicle following me.”
“Be glad to.”
“I’d like to know the type of car and the plate number, if you see it.”
Jerry picked up his binoculars. “I’m on it.”
“You’ve got my cell number,” Teddy said. “Call me if you see the car.” He went back to the car and drove off the lot, keeping an eye on his rearview mirror. He saw nothing yellow there, just the usual mishmash of car colors. A few blocks away, his cell rang. “Yes?”
“It’s Jerry. I kept an eagle eye on you until you were out of sight, but I didn’t see anything yellow following you.”
“Thank you, Jerry, I appreciate your help.” He hung up.
Sally, who had heard the conversation on the car’s speaker, said, “What’s up?”
“I thought I saw a bright yellow car following us from Malibu this morning, and I asked Jerry to watch for it. He saw nothing.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” Sally said.
“How about dinner in Malibu Village?”
“You’re on,” she replied.
? ? ?
CARLOS RIVERA, back at his desk, thought about what he’d heard at Centurion Studios, and he had a feeling he was getting involved in something beyond stolen cars. As he thought about that, Lieutenant Bart Goodwin, who headed up the violent crimes unit, passed his office door walking in the direction of the office of Captain Tom Fitzhugh, who commanded the station. He got up and followed.
Bart Goodwin was standing in the captain’s office doorway, chatting with his boss, as Rivera approached.
“Afternoon, Carlos,” the lieutenant said.
“Lieutenant, Captain,” Rivera replied. “I wonder if I could speak with you both for a moment?”
“Come in, Carlos,” the captain said, “and take a seat.”
Rivera did so, and so did Goodwin. “On Friday we had a report of a very expensive sports car, a Porsche 969, being stolen.”
“Is that anything like a 911?” the captain asked.
“Yes, sir, but it’s a lot more expensive—eight hundred grand.”
The captain made a small noise. “Did you recover the car?”
“It was returned to its owner—or so he says.”
“I’m not following,” the captain replied.
“The car belongs to a big-time movie producer named Dax Baxter. Its plate number is DAX. I interviewed Mr. Baxter and he gave me an implausible explanation of the return of the car.” Rivera ran through Baxter’s story.
“Well,” the captain said, “that’s a weird one, but what is your concern now?”
Rivera told him of his interview with Ben Bacchetti at Centurion.
“Baxter hired a hit man to kill somebody he thought might be trying to kill him?”
“That seems to be it.”
“But this Barnett fellow took out the hired killer?”
“Put him in the hospital.”
“This sounds like something out of one of Baxter’s movies.”
“Yes, sir, it does, but it’s not Baxter’s story. It was confirmed by Barnett, himself.”
“I believe I’m getting the picture,” Bart Goodwin said.
“Oh, good,” the captain replied, “maybe you can explain it to me.”
“I think Carlos believes that Baxter may not be done with Mr. Barnett, and he wants the case.”