“We’ve got us a situation here,” the captain said. “Homicide is underwater, and you’ve got time on your hands. Goodwin, here, has asked for you two. How would that suit you?”
“Very well indeed, Captain,” Carlos said, and Joe was nodding rapidly.
“All right, we’ll get your desks moved over there today.”
“Something else,” Goodwin said. “LAPD is short-handed in Homicide, what with Reeves and Jensen being out. They’ve asked us for some help, and since all my people have active cases right now, and you’re the new guys, I’m going to send you over there and let you do what you can for them. They need another team, so you’re on loan. Get over there and ask for Sergeant Ortega, Jensen’s number two, and he’ll put you to work. By the time you get back, we’ll have your desks moved.”
“Yes, sir.” The two cops got up, saluted, and headed out.
? ? ?
AT THE LAPD they found Ortega, looking harassed. “You’re Rivera and Rossi?” he asked.
“Carlos and Joe,” Rivera said.
“You’ll have to share a desk, until I can get Reeves’s stuff out of there.” He handed them a folder. “Here’s the case file on the double homicide. Have you heard anything about it?”
“I happened to be at the morgue and the ME showed me the corpses. Very messy.”
“You could say that,” Orgeta replied. “We’re looking for a connection between that and the shootings of Reeves and Jensen.” He handed them another folder. “Concentrate on that.”
“Right, Sarge.” The two detectives found chairs and pulled them up to the desk. They went carefully through the two case files. A couple of hours later, Ortega wandered over. “You get through the files?”
“Yes, Sarge,” Rivera said. “As far as we can tell, the only connection between the two cases is that Reeves and Jensen were working the double homicide. There’s no connecting evidence to their shooting.”
“Well, now you know as much about these two cases as anybody else around here,” Ortega said. “I can’t spare anybody else, so tomorrow morning, I want you to fly to Santa Fe and interview Dax Baxter about the homicides at his property, and see if he’ll spit up a connection between the two cases.”
“Yes, sir.”
“There’s no direct flight to Santa Fe, so in order to avoid overnight expenses, I’ve ordered a King Air from the LAPD flight department. You’re to be at Burbank Airport at eight AM tomorrow. They’ll take you there, you do the interview, and return in the afternoon. We’ve made an appointment with Baxter for you.” He handed them a slip of paper. “Here’s the address. Cab it there and back to the airport.”
“Got it, Sarge,” Rivera said. Ortega left them.
“I’ve never been to Santa Fe,” Rossi said.
“I spent a weekend there a couple of years ago.”
“What’s it like?”
“Nice, you’ll like it. It’s a pity we can’t make an overnight of it.”
“That’s my luck weighing you down,” Rossi said.
“You want to know what I think about connecting these two cases?” Rivera said.
“Okay.”
“I think they’ve got fuck-all to do with each other. Once we get Baxter out of the way, I think we’re going to find that this cop shooting is connected to another case entirely, maybe some old case.”
“I can’t argue with you on that,” Rossi said.
46
STONE AND ANA arrived at Santa Monica Airport and, almost immediately, ran into Billy Barnett in the lobby at Atlantic Aviation.
Stone and Teddy shook hands. “Headed somewhere?” Stone asked.
“We’re going to Santa Fe for the weekend. Sally wants to get a few things from her house, so I borrowed your old Mustang from Peter.”
“Maybe we’ll see you there,” Stone said. “Call me, if you’ve got any dead time.”
“Will do,” Teddy said. Sally joined him, and they walked out onto the ramp where the Mustang awaited.
Stone and Ana took off a few minutes later. As they landed in Santa Fe, Stone saw the Mustang being towed off the ramp. As he taxied in, a black car pulled onto the ramp to meet them. Half an hour later they were at Ana’s house, and she was calling clients and employees.
? ? ?
CARLOS RIVERA AND JOE ROSSI used the GPS on their rental car to locate Dax Baxter’s address. As they pulled into the drive, two large men came out of the house, and each opened a door for the detectives.
“Who are you?” one of them asked.
“We’re Detectives Rivera and Rossi, BH—rather, LAPD. We have an appointment with Mr. Baxter.”
The two men led them into the house, installed them on a sofa in the large living room, then went and stood by the door across the room.
Dax Baxter came in and shook their hands. They showed their badges. “What can I do for you, gentlemen?” he asked. “We’ll have some coffee in a minute.”
“We’re here in connection with the double homicide at your house, Mr. Baxter,” Carlos said. “We—”
“Hold on a minute,” Baxter said, raising a warning hand. “What did you say happened at my house?”
“A double homicide,” Rivera said.
“When?”
“The night before last.”
“I was home that evening, and no such thing happened.”
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Baxter, not at your home on Mulholland Drive. I’m referring to a property you own in the Hollywood Hills.”
“I do own a house there, but it’s been empty since I moved out four years ago. A cleaning service keeps it neat, but it’s all locked up.”
“And you’ve been told nothing about what happened there?”
“No, your office called mine and made this appointment, but nobody mentioned homicide. What happened?”
Carlos opened his briefcase and showed him photographs of the two men. “The one on the left is a Russian, called Dimitri Kasov, the other is named Richard Krauss. Do you know them?”
Baxter looked at the photographs and shook his head. “Neither of them. They were murdered at my house?”
“Yes, in the garage. Both were knifed in a rather gory fashion.”
“Who the hell are they, and what were they doing in my house?”
“Kasov has a reputation as a hired killer, and Krauss worked for him. We don’t know what they were doing in your house or how they got in. Your cleaning lady discovered the bodies.”
Coffee arrived, and a maid poured it for them. Baxter sat back in his chair and sipped. “This is a joke, right? Somebody put you up to this?”
“It’s not a joke, Mr. Baxter. Have you ever had reason to want somebody killed?”
“Four or five times a week, when I’m filming,” Baxter replied. “It’s like that. But I’ve never had any reason to hire a professional killer.”
“Do you have any idea how they got access to your property?” Rossi asked.
“I don’t know—maybe there’s a key under the doormat. This whole business is just crazy.”
“Are you acquainted with a film producer named Billy Barnett?”
“Him I know. When I was shooting here in Santa Fe a few weeks ago, he was hired as a production assistant, under an assumed name—Ted Shirley.”
“Why under an assumed name?”
“Beats me. Turned out, the fellow was very good at his job. He saved me a considerable amount of money when we ran into problems on the shoot.”
“Do you have any reason to wish him harm?”
“Certainly not. I just told you, he saved me money. I gave him a bonus at the end of shooting.”
“Is your wife’s name Geraldine Baxter?”
“Yes.”
“Where is she at the present time?”
“We are estranged. She’s been in a clinic for treatment of an addiction problem for several weeks.”
“Are you aware that she ran down a pedestrian in Beverly Hills while driving under the influence?”
“Yes, I know about that. She had some sort of attack. No charges were brought against her.”
“Did you know that the woman she ran down was the wife of Billy Barnett? Betsy Barnett?”
Baxter looked shocked. “I’m sorry, I didn’t remember her name. I never made that connection.”
“Do you understand why Billy Barnett might have some sort of grudge against you?”
“Why? I didn’t run over his wife, and he never mentioned the incident to me when I met him.”
“You never felt that he might be a danger to you?”
“Never. How is he connected to these homicides?”