Short Straw (26 page)

Fifty-four

V
ITTORIO WOKE WITH THE CALIFORNIA SUN ON HIS FACE.
The girl beside him, whom he had picked up in the Bel-Air bar after Eagle and his friend had gone to dinner, slept soundly.

He found his watch: half past ten, and he was hungry. He found the remote and snapped on the TV. “Hey,” he said, poking the girl, “what do you want for breakfast?”

She stirred. “Tomato juice, half a grapefruit and green tea,” she murmured.

Vittorio made a face: so that was what passed for breakfast in L.A. He got on the phone and ordered a western omelet, orange juice and coffee for himself, plus what the girl wanted. Then, as he hung up the phone, he heard the words
Hotel Bel-Air
from the TV. He turned to see video of two stretchers being loaded into an ambulance, with sheets covering two bodies, one tall, one much shorter.

The newscast went on: “The two murder victims have not yet been identified by authorities, pending notification of families,” the woman was saying. “This is the first time in the history of the very private and quiet hotel that anyone can remember a violent crime being committed in the hotel. The bodies were discovered just after nine this morning when a room service waiter arrived to deliver breakfast for two, ordered the night before. We understand from someone who spoke to the waiter that each of the victims received two gunshots to the head, and a police officer, who would not identify himself, said that it looked like a professional job. The other guests were unaware of any problem until the police arrived.”

“It was all very odd,” a woman was saying. “I looked out my window, and there were suddenly a lot of people here who didn’t seem to belong. Then I saw some uniforms, and the ambulance arrived. It was a long time before they brought out the bodies. I guess they were doing that crime scene thing you see on TV all the time.”

“We hope to have the names of the victims for the noon news,” the woman said, then a soap opera came back on, in mid-hysterics.

Vittorio had a queasy feeling in his stomach. He picked up the phone and called the hotel.

“Hotel Bel-Air,” an operator said.

“May I speak to Ed Eagle, please? He’s a guest here.”

There was a brief pause. “I’m sorry, at the request of the guest, we’re not putting any calls through to that room at this time. Who’s calling, please?”

Vittorio hung up. This was bad. He headed for the shower. By the time he was dressed and had roused the girl, breakfast had arrived, and his stomach hurt from hunger. He wolfed down the food and hurried the girl to get dressed.

“What’s the rush?” she asked, pouting.

“I have an appointment in fifteen minutes,” he lied.

V
ITTORIO ARRIVED AT THE BEL-AIR
and gave his car to the valet. He crossed the bridge over the little creek, with its pair of swans and lush plantings, and entered the lobby. Then he changed his mind. The front desk was not going to give him Eagle’s room number. He decided to take a walk. He left the lobby and walked purposefully up one of the many paths, as if he belonged at the hotel. He met a bellman coming the other way and stopped him. “Good morning,” he said.

“Good morning, sir.”

“Tell me, in what room were those murders last night?”

The man looked around nervously. “We’re not supposed to talk about that.”

“I’m not from the press,” Vittorio said, pressing a fifty into the man’s palm, “I’m just curious.”

“You go straight ahead,” the man said, nodding in the direction, “cross the driveway, turn right, then left. You’ll see all the cops.”

Vittorio thanked the man and followed the directions. He stopped when he came to a large courtyard with a fountain and saw two uniforms standing guard outside a gate that, apparently, led to a smaller courtyard. He approached them. “Good morning,” he said to the cops.

Both nodded and looked him up and down. “Can you tell me the names of the victims of last night’s shooting?”

They shook their heads simultaneously. “You’d have to speak to the detective in charge,” he said, “and he’s going to be busy inside for a while.”

Vittorio thanked them and retraced his steps toward the lobby, this time taking another path leading in that direction. He went past the large swimming pool and into the garden restaurant, and then he saw a familiar face. He walked over to the table. “Good morning,” he said.

“Good morning, Vittorio,” Eagle said. “Have you met Susannah Wilde?”

“How do you do?” she said, smiling at him.

“Very well, thank you.”

“Sit down,” Eagle said. “What brings you here?”

“I saw a television report that said two people had been murdered here,” Vittorio said.

“That’s true,” Eagle said. “And right next door to us. Our suite shares a front courtyard with another suite, next door. I’ve stayed in both many times. I’m glad the shooter didn’t mistake us for the people next door. We didn’t hear a thing.”

“May I speak with you alone for a minute, Mr. Eagle?”

“Sure. I’ll be right back, Susannah.” He led Vittorio a few yards away, then stopped. “What is it?”

“Maybe it was the other way around,” Vittorio said.

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe the shooter thought she was shooting you and Ms. Wilde.”

“She? What makes you think that?”

“You remember I told you that Barbara shot me when I entered her cottage in La Jolla?”

“Yes.”

“The gun she used was silenced.”

Eagle blinked. “I don’t think she’d go that far,” he said.

“Then you’re in denial, Mr. Eagle. She shot Cupie Dalton in Mexico City; she pushed me off a ferry in the middle of the Gulf of California; and I know for a fact that she and/or her sister cut up a man in Puerto Vallarta some years ago. He was the nephew of a police captain there, and they’re still looking for her.”

Eagle shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“Tell me, Mr. Eagle, do you have any insurance policies?”

“Yes, but…”

“Have you changed the beneficiary since Barbara absconded?”

Eagle’s face dropped. “I’ll do it this morning.”

“Good idea,” Vittorio said.

“But Barbara doesn’t know I’m in L.A..”

“My guess is, she does. I don’t know how, but she knows. But, as bad as this is, there’s an upside.”

“And what is that?”

“Now you can go to the police. We know where she’s staying, and we know she has a silenced gun. They’ll be all over her, and she’ll be out of your hair. Your divorce may take a little longer to accomplish, but so what?”

“You’re right,” Eagle said, taking out his cell phone.

“Don’t bother with that,” Vittorio said. “The officer in charge of the investigation is still in the suite next door to yours. Make your excuses to Ms. Wilde, and let’s go talk to him.”

Eagle went back to the table and Susannah and handed her the car keys. “You go ahead to your place and pick up whatever you want to take back to Santa Fe. If you can get it into the car, we can probably get it into the airplane.”

“All right. What are you going to do?”

“I have some business with Vittorio to take care of. I’ll see you later. I’ll be on my cell, if you need me.” He turned to Vittorio. “Let’s go see that man,” he said.

Fifty-five

E
AGLE WALKED QUICKLY ALONGSIDE VITTORIO TOWARD
his suite. Vittorio had been right: he had been in denial. He had underestimated Barbara at every turn, but now she had gone too far. The police could take it from here.

Vittorio stopped as they were entering the large courtyard with the fountain. “You don’t need me for this,” he said. “And I have something else to do. I’ll check with you later.”

Eagle nodded and continued toward the gate guarded by two policemen. “Good morning,” he said to them. “My name is Ed Eagle, I’m an attorney, and I occupy the suite next door to your crime scene. Please tell the investigating officer in charge that I wish to speak with him, that I have information that may be helpful.”

“Just a minute,” one of the officers said. He went inside for a moment, then returned. “Please go in, Mr. Eagle, and ask for Lieutenant Charles Vickers. And don’t touch anything.”

Eagle thanked the man and entered the suite. He recognized Vickers immediately as a detective who had testified in a case he had tried in Los Angeles some years before.

Vickers came over and shook his hand. “Morning, Mr. Eagle. What brings you to see us?”

“I think we’d better sit down, Lieutenant; I have a lot to tell you, including, I believe, the name and location of your perpetrator.”

The lieutenant led him to a chair in the suite’s living room. “All right, let’s hear it.” He produced a notebook.

“I have reason to believe that your perp is my ex…, my estranged wife. She’s traveling under the name of Barbara Woodfield.” Eagle gave the detective a summary of her background, her prison record and her absconding with his money, while Vickers took rapid notes in shorthand. “I believe she’s staying at Château Sunset.”

V
ITTORIO PARKED IN FRONT
of Château Sunset and walked into the lobby to the front desk. He flashed a wallet that contained his California carry license and an LAPD badge he had bought from a badge catalogue years before, which bore the rank of sergeant and the number 714. It was Joe Friday’s
Dragnet
badge, but nobody ever noticed. “I need to speak with your guest Barbara Woodfield,” he said. “Just give me her room number and don’t call her.”

“I’m afraid Ms. Woodfield checked out a couple of hours ago,” the desk clerk said.

“Do you have a forwarding address?”

“No, and she didn’t say anything about her destination.”

“How was she traveling?”

“Well, she turned in her rental car, and someone picked her up.”

“A limo service?”

“No, I believe it was a gentleman in a BMW, black. Seemed to be a private car. She got into the front seat.”

“Has her suite been cleaned yet?”

The man consulted his computer. “No.”

“Then I’d like to see it, and keep the maid out until I’m done.”

“Of course, Sergeant.” The clerk gave him the room number and a key card.

Vittorio went upstairs and opened the door to the suite. It was a mess, with empty shopping bags from Rodeo Drive shops and wrapping paper everywhere. He went over the place quickly, looking for anything that might give him a clue to her destination, looking particularly for hotel notepads that might contain airline flight information or other information. There was nothing.

He returned to the front desk and gave the clerk the key card. “Thank you,” he said. “There’ll be other officers here soon.” He returned to his car.

B
ARBARA GOT OUT
of the BMW, and a bellman took her bags. “Jimmy, you’re a sweetheart to drive me,” she said, giving him a kiss.

“Glad to do it, sweetie. As I said, I have business down here anyway. I’ll pick you up at seven for dinner; you’re going to love this place. And I won’t mind at all if you wear that red suit again.”

“Maybe I will, baby. See you then,” she said, closing the car door.

E
AGLE FINISHED GIVING
his account of Barbara’s activities and watched as Vickers issued a stream of orders to his colleagues. He tried to relax. This was all going to be over soon, though he would, no doubt, have to testify at her trial. The police would have her in custody within minutes, and she wasn’t going to get bail from any judge in his right mind.

Vickers came back to where Eagle was sitting. “I want to thank you Mr. Eagle,” he said. “The victims were a man named Ippolito and his girlfriend, from New York. He had serious Mafia connections, and without your help, we would have been chasing mob leads all over the place, wasting our time. And I’m glad Ms. Woodfield didn’t find you.”

“So am I, Lieutenant.” Eagle gave the man his card. “Let me know if you need me again. I’ll be here for another night, then I’m headed back to Santa Fe.” He put Vickers’s card into his pocket and went back to his own suite.

Vittorio was back at his own suite, wondering what his next move should be, when his cell phone rang.

“Yes?”

“Vittorio?” A woman’s voice.

“Yes.”

“It’s Birgit, here.”

He smiled. “Hello, Birgit, how are you?”

“The question is being, how are
you
? Any infection?”

“No, you did a great job; I’m healing well.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m in L.A.”

“Coming back this way any time soon?”

“I don’t think so, Birgit.”

“Maybe I can persuade?”

“What did you have in mind?”

“Well, guess who I am just giving massage?”

“Beats me.”

“Your friend, Barbara.”

Vittorio’s heart leapt. “She’s back at La Reserve?”

“In the Pine Cottage, like before, and with lots of new clothes.”

“Sweetheart, I’ll be in La Jolla as soon as I can.”

“You won’t find her here tonight, though.”

“Why not?”

“Well, she’s going out to dinner; she asked me about the restaurant.”

Vittorio looked at his watch. It was after one o’clock. “Birgit, I’m going to drive down there right now. I’ll call you when I arrive.”

“Okay, I’m looking forward to change your bandage.”

“Oh, will you book me a room there? It will save me time.”

“Sure, I talk to desk. Bye-bye.”

“Use the fake name, remember?” Vittorio grabbed his bags and ran for his car.

T
WO HOURS LATER,
Vittorio was still stalled in a monumental traffic jam on the interstate, south of L.A., and the only way out was to get out of the car and jump over the railing to the ground. Vittorio had considered it more than once, but it was a good sixty feet, he reckoned. He’d have to sweat it out.

It was a little after seven when he arrived at La Reserve and checked in. He called Birgit.

“Good day,” she said.

“It’s Vittorio. Thanks for booking the room.”

“I am glad to.”

“Do you know where Barbara is now?”

“I have seen her in the hotel shop some minutes ago.”