“We have no evidence that he is, but we’ll be talking to him.”
“Well, gentlemen,” Baxter said, “if you ever get this worked out, please let me know the details. It sounds as though it would make an interesting movie. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“Mr. Baxter,” Rossi said, “why do you have bodyguards here in your own home?”
“Over the years, I’ve disagreed with various people—artistic differences, you might say. I don’t wish to be disturbed.”
“Do you have security personnel at your home on Mulholland Drive?” Rivera asked.
“No.”
“Then why in Santa Fe?”
Baxter appeared to be searching for a reason. “I gave a wrap party at my house when we finished filming in Santa Fe, and two people got into a fight on my patio. One of them was hospitalized, the other left.”
“Who were they, and what was the fight about?”
“I’m not sure I was ever told their names, and I have no idea why they were fighting. I found the incident disturbing, though—thus, the security.”
“When do you plan to return to Los Angeles, Mr. Baxter?”
“I haven’t decided. I’ll be working here with a writer, developing my next picture. It depends on how that goes—days, weeks, whatever it takes.” Baxter stood up. “Now, if there’s nothing further, gentlemen, I have to go to work.”
They thanked him for his time, then left.
? ? ?
“HOW MUCH OF that did you buy?” Rossi asked as they got into their car.
“Not much,” Rivera replied. “His surprise about the homicides seemed genuine enough, but he began to flounder as we progressed. Have we got a phone number for Barnett?”
Rossi checked the homicide file. “Yes, looks like a cell number.”
“Call him, maybe we can see him after we get back this afternoon.”
Rossi rang the number. “Hello, is that Mr. Billy Barnett? . . . My name is Rossi. I’m a detective with the LAPD. My partner and I would like to speak to you for a few minutes late this afternoon, if you’re available.” He got out a pen. “Thank you. May I have the address?” He wrote something down. “Is that in Malibu? . . . Oh, we’re in Santa Fe, too. How about in half an hour? See you then.” He hung up. “There’s a stroke of luck. Barnett is in Santa Fe. I’ll put the address in the GPS.”
“What a coincidence,” Rivera said. “I hate coincidence.”
47
RIVERA AND ROSSI found the address: a small adobe house in the Eastside section of Santa Fe. Billy Barnett opened the door.
“What’s the LAPD doing in Santa Fe?” Teddy asked, waving them to a seat.
“We could ask you the same question,” Rivera replied.
“My girlfriend owns this house. She’s been living with me in Malibu, and she wanted to pick up some of her things, so we decided to make a weekend of it.”
“Did you drive?”
“No, we borrowed a friend’s airplane.”
“And we borrowed the LAPD’s airplane,” Rossi said.
“You haven’t told me why you are in Santa Fe,” Teddy said.
“We came to question a Mr. Dax Baxter, whom I believe you know,” Rivera said.
“I do,” Teddy said with a grimace.
“Not your favorite person, I gather.”
“Not anybody’s favorite person,” Teddy replied. “Though I do have to thank him for introducing me to my girlfriend. We both worked on a film of his here.”
“I believe you’re also acquainted with a Dimitri Kasov,” Rivera said.
Teddy shook his head. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“It’s our understanding that you and Mr. Kasov had a conversation during which knives were employed.”
“Ah, is that his name?”
“It is.”
“It wasn’t a very long conversation,” Teddy said. “No introductions were made.”
“When you met Mr. Kasov at Mr. Baxter’s house, were you anticipating an attack?”
“I was given a warning before the party.”
“Who warned you?”
“A member of the film crew told me that Baxter had hired a Russian to kill me. I went to see Baxter about it, and he denied it, but I was wary when I went to his house.”
“So you were carrying a knife?”
“It was a legal one, five-inch, fixed blade.”
“How did you happen to know how to use it?”
“I was given some instruction in self-defense when I was a young man in the service.” He didn’t mention which service.
“Had you any occasion to hone those skills in the years since?”
“No. Fists, a couple of times, no knives.”
“Would you describe yourself as a combative man, Mr. Barnett?”
“I am a peaceable person, who has, on widely separated occasions, had cause to defend myself. I expect you gentlemen have, as well.”
“Mr. Barnett, I believe you recently lost your wife.”
“That is so. She was run down by a drunk driver in Beverly Hills.”
“I recall the case,” Rivera said. “Do you know the name of the person who ran her down?”
“I suppose I was told, but I don’t remember it. I’ve made a great effort to put that event behind me.”
“Was she prosecuted?”
“I don’t believe so. I was told that she had some sort of medical episode, blacked out.”
“Are you aware that she is the wife of Dax Baxter?”
Barnett looked at him for a long moment. “I was not.”
“So you don’t bear a grudge against Mr. Baxter?”
“Why would I do that? He didn’t run down my wife.”
“Is it possible that Mr. Baxter believed that you had a grudge against him, and that you planned to harm him?”
“I don’t know, he didn’t mention it on the occasion when we met. Incidentally, that was the only occasion on which we met.”
“Do you know whether Mr. Baxter has paranoid tendencies?”
A woman’s voice behind them said, “I can answer that.”
“Come in, Sally,” Teddy said. “These are Detectives Rivera and Rossi. Gentlemen, this is Sally Ryder, whose home this is.”
“How do you do,” Rivera replied. “You were saying, Ms. Ryder?”
“Dax Baxter was well known among the film crew to be a paranoiac. He had a very thin skin, and he employed two large men to protect him on the set.”
“Protect him from who or what?”
“Who knows?”
“Mr. Barnett,” Rossi said, “do you think it’s possible that Mr. Baxter sent Mr. Kasov to see you a second time?”
“I’m under the impression that the Russian gentleman was hospitalized after our encounter, and I think it’s unlikely that he would be well enough for another such encounter.”
“I don’t think you need worry about him,” Rivera said. “He was murdered the night before last at a house owned by Dax Baxter.”
Teddy shrugged. “Well, I suppose that is a hazard associated with the man’s trade. Did Baxter kill him? He doesn’t seem like the type, frankly.”
“That remains undetermined at this time. When he was killed, Mr. Kasov was in the company of another man, his employee, whose name was Richard Krauss. Do you know him?”
“No, I’ve never heard of him.”
“He was a rather large man. Perhaps Mr. Kasov felt he would make up for his own temporary disability.”
Teddy shrugged. “I have no such knowledge.”
“Mr. Barnett,” Rivera said, “is it possible that Mr. Baxter sent Mr. Kasov and Mr. Krauss to kill you, and that you were again required to defend yourself?”
“When did you say these killings occurred?”
“The night before last,” Rivera said.
“Sally and I had dinner after work at a restaurant about a mile from my house. We came home after that and remained there for the rest of the evening.”
“That is so,” Sally echoed.
“And if Mr. Baxter still wants to kill me, he’s beyond paranoid, he’s crazy.”
The doorbell rang, and Sally went to answer it, and a couple came in. “Gentlemen,” she said to the detectives, “this is Stone Barrington.”
“And this is Ana Bounine,” Stone said. “Billy Barnett and Sally Ryder.”
“Stone,” Teddy said, “these gentlemen are Detectives Rivera and Rossi from Los Angeles.”
“Billy,” Stone said, “do you need an attorney?”
Teddy laughed. “No, I don’t think so.” He turned to the detectives. “Gentlemen, we have plans for dinner, so if there’s nothing else . . .”
“Nothing else at this time,” Rivera said.