? ? ?
A PATROL CAR pulled into the Hollywood Hills driveway, and the cop got out and rang the bell. He heard a scream from inside, so he drew his weapon, backed up a step, and launched a kick at the door. The jamb splintered and the door flew open, revealing a woman sitting on the floor, screaming hoarsely.
He got her calmed down a little. “Are you alone in the house?” She nodded, then thought better of it and shook her head. “In the garage,” she said, pointing.
The cop found the door open; he stuck his head inside and yelled, “LAPD! Show yourselves!” Then he saw the heap beside the Ping-Pong table. He moved cautiously into the garage, cleared the area, then stood looking at the two corpses.
His body radio sputtered. “Bravo Three, come back.”
He keyed the mike. “This is Bravo Three. I’m on-site at the nine-one-one. I need homicide detectives, a crime-scene unit, and the ME. I’ve got two corpses, male, naked. One of them is . . . incomplete.”
In minutes, everybody was there. The detectives did their work, then turned the garage over to the ME and the crime-scene people. Then they went into the kitchen, where the maid was sitting, drinking tea.
“You feeling better, ma’am?” one of them asked her.
She nodded. “I can’t talk very good,” she said.
He sat down and produced his notebook. “Who owns the house?”
“I don’t know. I never see anybody here.” She gave him a card with her service’s number, and he called.
“I don’t know who owns it,” her manager said. “We’ve had the contract for five, six years, and we get a check from a bank out of town.”
His partner came into the room. “Tax records say the place is owned by a Delaware corporation.”
“Let’s talk to the neighbors,” the senior man said. They split up and he went to the house where the 911 call had originated. The woman there offered him coffee, which he accepted.
“Do you know who owns the house?” he asked the woman.
“It used to be owned by some Hollywood big shot, but he left several years ago. I never saw a real estate sign there, so maybe he still owns it.”
“Let’s try again for a name.”
“It had an X in it, that’s all I remember.” She picked up a copy of the L.A. Times and opened it to the arts section. “There,” she said, pointing at a full-page movie ad. “That’s it.”
The ad began: “A DAX BAXTER PRODUCTION.”
? ? ?
CHITA LOOKED UP to see two obvious cops approaching her desk. Her first thought was, something’s happened to Carlos, but she was wrong.
The two men showed badges and introduced themselves. “We’d like to see Mr. Dax Baxter,” the taller one said.
“I’m sorry, he’s not in.”
“What time do you expect him?”
“I’m not sure,” she lied. Dax had told her he didn’t want anyone to know he was out of town.
“Can you tell me if Mr. Baxter owns a house in the Hollywood Hills?” He gave her the address.
“No, he lives up on Mulholland Drive,” she replied.
“Has he ever owned the Hollywood Hills house?”
“I’ve worked here for two years, and I’ve never heard that address mentioned.”
“Miss, where can we find Mr. Baxter?”
She thought it over for a minute. “He’s out of town,” she said finally.
“Where?”
“In New Mexico.”
“Where in New Mexico?”
“Santa Fe.” She looked at her watch. “He should be there by now.”
“He left this morning?”
“Yes, from Burbank, in a private jet. About eight o’clock.”
“I’m going to need an address and a phone number.”
She checked her computer and wrote down both for them.
“Right,” the detective said. “And, miss?”
“Yes?”
“I’m going to have to ask you not to let him know we’re coming.”
She looked surprised.
“I know he pays your salary, but this is a very serious matter, and we wouldn’t want him to change locations again. Do you understand?”
Chita nodded, and they left.
Grace, who had heard everything from her adjoining desk, said, “I’m certainly not going to call him, and I don’t think you should either.”
“I’m with you on that,” Chita said.
? ? ?
THE TWO DETECTIVES got into their car. “I’d better call the boss and see if he’ll authorize the King Air.”
“You think we should call the Santa Fe cops?” his partner asked.
“Not just yet,” the senior man replied.
42
CARLOS RIVERA FINISHED his day at half past five and got into his jacket. As he passed the Violent Crimes squad, the lieutenant flagged him down.
“You still interested in Dax Baxter?” he asked.
“Sure,” Carlos replied. “You got something?”
“I was just having a chat with a buddy at LAPD Homicide, and they’ve got something.”
“Is Baxter dead?”
“No, but there was a double homicide last night at a house he owns in the Hollywood Hills.”
“I thought he lived on Mulholland.”
“He used to live in the subject house, but it’s been empty for some years.”
“Who are the victims?”
“I didn’t get that far in our conversation before he had to hang up.”
“What’s the detective’s name?”
“Bob Jensen, with an e.”
“Thanks, Lieutenant, I’ll check it out.” On the way to his car he called the detective, whose shift had ended. He checked his watch. What the hell, he had time to get to the morgue before he had to pick up Chita. He drove over there, parked, went inside, and asked for the ME.
“He’s doing a couple of autopsies,” the woman at the desk said. “You can go in room one, if you’re not squeamish.”
“Thanks,” he said. He knew where room one was, and he went there. He looked through the round windows in the swinging door and saw a large man hunched over a table. He could see the soles of two pairs of feet facing him. He opened the door a foot. “Hey, Doc, it’s Carlos Rivera from Beverly Hills PD. May I join you?”
“If you’re not squeamish. I don’t want you vomiting in here.”
“No problem,” Carlos replied, and walked over to him, between the two tables. He got a good look at both corpses, and for a moment he thought he was going to embarrass himself, but he got over it. “You got IDs yet?”
The ME pointed at a clipboard hanging at the end of the table. “One of ’em has a Russian name,” he said.
Carlos picked up the clipboard, looked at the two mug shots, and read the sheets on both men. “The Russian doesn’t have any convictions, but he’s a well-known hit man.”
“Well,” the ME said, “he ran into a better hit man. That incision looks a lot like one of mine.” He pointed with the large scalpel in his hand.
“Very impressive,” Carlos said. “The other guy seems to be missing something.”
“Yeah. Over there on the desk, in a steel pan. Take a look.”
Carlos walked over to the desk and viewed the object. “Holy shit,” he muttered.
“That’s pretty much what everybody who’s seen it said,” the ME replied.
Carlos walked back to where the ME stood.
“How did he die?”
“Are you kidding? From blood loss, of course. He also had two knife wounds in the heart. Short blade, razor sharp. Both of these guys bled out, and they didn’t have very long to think about it.”
Carlos looked at his watch. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’m running late for dinner.”
“Good luck with that,” the ME replied.
“Yeah, I think I’ll need a drink first.” Carlos left and headed for Chita’s apartment.
? ? ?
CARLOS NEEDED TWO drinks before he could think about food.
“Anything wrong?” Chita asked.
“You don’t want to know,” he replied.
“If you say so. Two cops showed up at the office around noon, looking for Dax,” she said.
“LAPD Homicide?”
“How’d you know?”
“There was a double homicide at a house Dax owns in the Hollywood Hills.”
“They mentioned the house. They didn’t mention a double homicide, just said it was serious.”
“Did they talk to Dax?”
“Dax called me at the crack of dawn this morning and started issuing orders—get his jet ready, fuel for Santa Fe, don’t tell anybody where he is.”
“Did you tell the two detectives?”
“Damned right I did. I’m not covering for Dax, not with the cops.”