TEDDY WATCHED AS the man appeared from around the corner of the house, then made his way back to his car. He turned around and drove back toward Santa Fe, this time with his headlights on, the dash lights revealing his face.
Now Teddy knew why he looked familiar. He bore a strong resemblance to Kasov—a familial resemblance, perhaps. There seemed to be only one reason why the man would seek out Dax’s Santa Fe house, then visit him in the middle of the night. He had a very strong intuition that Dax Baxter was now dead.
He started the car and drove back to Sally’s house.
49
TEDDY AWOKE TO the smell of bacon and coffee, and shortly, Sally came into the bedroom with a tray. They propped themselves up in bed and watched the morning news show.
“I woke up sometime after midnight and you were gone,” Sally said.
“I took a stroll.”
She looked at him askance. “Really?”
Teddy smiled and kissed her on the forehead. “Nothing to worry about.”
“Frankly, I thought you’d gone to Dax Baxter’s house and killed him.”
Teddy just laughed. He switched to the local news, but Baxter’s name was not mentioned.
“I’m going to walk over to La Fonda and get us a New York Times,” she said. “Can I bring you anything?”
“Maybe the Santa Fe paper, as well.”
“Okay.”
She left and he tried the Albuquerque stations: still no mention of Baxter. The man had four guards in or around the house; surely one of them would have discovered his body by this time.
Sally came back after a few minutes with the papers, and he read the Santa Fe New Mexican first. No mention, but they had probably gone to press after dinner sometime, so they wouldn’t have the story until tomorrow.
“I saw Hal Palmer at the hotel,” she said. “You remember, the writer on Dax’s Western?”
“Sure, I remember him.”
“He’s here to work with Dax on the screenplay for his new film—expects to be here for at least a couple of weeks.”
“Better him than me,” Teddy said.
While Sally cleaned up the breakfast dishes, Teddy turned on the radio and tried a couple of stations. Nothing. Something was wrong, here: the guards would have discovered Baxter’s body and called the police, and somebody at the police department would have leaked the news. Then he had a chilling thought. Dax was not dead.
If the man had gone there to kill him, he must have blamed Dax for Kasov’s death. But Dax must have talked him out of it—probably bought him off. It’s what Dax would have done. What’s more, he would have told the man that Billy Barnett was Kasov’s killer. Moreover, he would have tried to hire the man to kill him.
Teddy realized he had made a big mistake the night before. He didn’t kill Baxter because he believed him already dead, and he had missed an opportunity to follow the killer and deal with him, as well.
Sally came back into the bedroom. “Sweetheart,” he said, “did you mention to Hal Palmer that I’m in Santa Fe, too?”
“I believe your name came up. Hal said to say hi to you.”
Hi, indeed, Teddy thought. As soon as Hal Palmer was in Dax’s company he might very well mention that he and Sally were in town, and that would put the fear of God into Dax. Shortly, he would have even more security in place.
? ? ?
STONE ANSWERED HIS cell phone over breakfast at Ana’s. “Hello?”
“Hi, Stone, it’s Billy.”
“Good morning, Billy.”
“I want to ask a favor of you.”
“Of course.”
“Can you arrange for Sally and me to stay at the Arrington for a few days? I want to have my house painted, and I don’t want to be there for that.”
“I can do better than that, Billy. You and Sally can use my house on the grounds. There’s a staff there, and they’ll take good care of you.”
“That’s very kind of you,” Teddy said.
Stone gave him directions to the house. “I’ll let the staff know and arrange for security passes for the grounds. When will you arrive?”
“Tonight.”
“They’ll be expecting you.”
Teddy thanked him again and hung up. He got dressed and found Sally. “We have to fly back this afternoon, but I’ve arranged a little vacation for us in L.A. We won’t be going back to the house for a few days.”
“Where will we be staying?”
“That will be a surprise,” Teddy said.
? ? ?
CARLOS RIVERA PICKED up Joe Rossi at his house.
“Where are we headed?” Joe asked.
“In the direction of Malibu,” Carlos replied. “Do you know a clever locksmith?”
“Sure, in Santa Monica.”
“Is he good enough to make some keys from tracings?”
“I don’t see why not,” Joe said.
They drove to the shop in Santa Monica and found the locksmith. “I want a couple of keys made,” Carlos explained to the man, “but I don’t have the originals. I made a tracing of them, though.” He showed him the drawings he had made.
“Sure, I can do that,” he said. “It’ll take me an hour or so, because it’s all handwork, it’s not like duplicating an existing key.”
They left the tracings with him and found a place for breakfast nearby. “Okay,” Joe said when they had ordered. “You want to tell me what this is about?”
“I wish I could, but I don’t know.”
“Make sense, Carlos.”
“Okay, I had an opportunity to get into Dax Baxter’s briefcase, and I found some keys there, and I traced them.”
“What are they keys to?”
“Beats me. I guess we’ll have to try every lock in L.A.”
“Okay, why are we headed toward Malibu?”
“Dimitri Kasov lived in that trailer park on your right, past Sunset.”
“Up on the hill?”
“Right. I’d like for us to take a look at it. We won’t need a warrant, it’s an extension of the crime scene, and the owner is dead.”
“And what do you hope to find?”
“I don’t know.”
“Jesus, for a cop, you don’t know anything, do you?”
“Don’t you like surprises, Joe?”
“Only on my birthday.”
? ? ?
THEY PICKED UP the keys and drove out to the Pacific Coast Highway. The trailer park was not a run-of-the-mill place: people had landscaped their plots, and many of the cars parked there were expensive—BMWs and Mercedeses. Carlos checked his notes for the address, and they pulled into a little yard, where half a dozen cars were parked.
“Jeez,” Joe said, “the yellow one is a ’71 Pontiac GTO. That would be worth some money at auction.”
“You can mention that to Kasov’s heirs, if such exist.”
They got out of the car and approached the entrance to the trailer, which was a big Airstream.
“I saw something move inside,” Joe said. “Maybe Kasov does have heirs.”
There was a doorbell, and they rang it.
50
JOE WAS GETTING IMPATIENT. “Why don’t you just kick it in?” he asked.
“You said you saw somebody in there. What if it’s a burglar? What if he’s armed?”
“Suddenly, you’re a pessimist,” Joe said. “Why don’t you try the keys?”
“What keys?” Carlos knocked loudly. “Police! Open up!”
“The ones you just had made. They came from Dax’s briefcase—maybe he owns the trailer.”
Carlos looked at the two keys and held up one. “This is a Yale key, and that’s a Yale lock.”
“Then they were made for each other,” Joe said. “Try it.”
Carlos inserted the key and tried to turn it. Nothing.
“Jiggle it at little, he said it might be rough.”
Carlos jiggled it and pulled out the key just a hair. The lock turned.
Joe pulled his weapon. “Me, first,” he said, opening the door. As he did, the glass in the door exploded and Joe fell inside, blood coming from his neck.
Carlos drew his weapon and dropped to one knee, then peered around the door. There was a pfft noise, and something struck the doorjamb above his head. He held his pistol out and sprayed the interior of the trailer, then he heard a door slam at the other end. He checked Joe’s pulse. He was moving and had clamped a hand to his neck. He stepped over Joe and ran toward the other end of the trailer, where he found a rear door flapping in the breeze. He stuck his head out and saw no one. He went back to Joe. “Are you alive?”