by Stuart Woods
“It was returned. I saw it in the parking lot outside Baxter’s office.” He produced his iPhone, pressed some buttons, and handed it to Rossi. “I took pictures.”
Rossi regarded the car with reverence. “So that’s what eight hundred grand looks like?”
“That’s it. The thief washed and waxed it, too. It was clean as a hound’s tooth.”
Rossi laughed. “Now I’ve heard it all. A car is stolen, and the thief returns it cleaner than it was?”
“It wasn’t stolen,” Rivera said.
“Run me through that.”
“It went like this, as best as I can figure it out. Baxter drives the car out of Centurion Studios, where he had just had lunch, and he’s running with the pedal to the metal. The gate guard at Centurion calls nine-one-one and reports a dangerous driver with a tag that reads ‘DAX.’ Baxter drives around town at a hundred miles an hour for a few minutes, then, when he realizes patrol cars are going to be looking for the car, he turns into a car wash, leaves it there, and takes a cab back to his office, while somebody collects the car for him. By the time I get to the studio, the car is in the parking lot.”
“Did Baxter admit to any of that?”
“Of course not. He said he left the keys in the car and didn’t see the thief.”
“I believe that’s what they used to call at the Academy an ‘improbable explanation.’”
“Fucking outrageous,” Rivera said, “and I had to drive out to the Valley to listen to it. Pisses me off.”
“Well, what are ya going to do?” Rossi sighed.
“Something,” Rivera said. “I don’t know what, yet.”
“I’ll tell you what you should do,” Rossi said. “You should take a look at the newly reported thefts, pick one, and run it down. Then do another one.”
“That’s your prescription, is it?”
“What are you going to do, break his taillight, then arrest him and beat him up? If that guy can pay eight hundred grand for a fucking car, he could spare a little more to hire a lawyer and make your life hell. People like that guy know people—you know?”
“What you say makes perfect sense, Joe,” Rivera said, “but life doesn’t always make sense. I mean, an Alka-Seltzer ain’t going to make the feeling in my gut go away. This guy does this outrageous thing, then lies about it and wastes my time while he’s lying. Just because he thinks he can get away with it.”
“He can get away with it, Carlos,” Rossi replied, “and he will, and you’ll be left holding a bag with your stripes in it, if not your badge and gun. Forget about it and go find cars stolen in Beverly Hills. That’s what you get paid for.”
“Yeah, I know,” Rivera said. But he knew he was going to do something about it; he just wasn’t sure what.
28
TEDDY AND SALLY drove to work together on her first day, and as soon as they left the house something yellow appeared in his rearview mirror and stayed there. Not too close, but always within sight. It appeared to be an older model muscle car, but he never got a good enough look to nail the type.
The yellow disappeared as Teddy turned into the main gate at Centurion and got a salute from the captain in charge. He paused to say good morning to the man.
“How you doing, Billy?” the captain asked.
“Not bad, Jerry.”
“You hear about our bit of bother on Friday?”
“Nope.”
“Somebody in a souped-up Porsche was drag racing with himself on the lot, and nearly blew my gate away. I called the cops, but I hear the guy got away with it.”
“They didn’t catch him?”
“They caught the car, but the guy had reported it stolen. It had a license plate that said DAX. That ring a bell?”
“Dax Baxter?”
“That’s what I hear. I know a cop named Rivera who runs the stolen vehicle unit at the Beverly Hills PD.”
“That’s very interesting, Jerry,” Teddy said. “Gotta go to work.” Teddy drove to the Barrington bungalow, parked his car, and escorted Sally into the building. “Right that way, sweetheart,” he said, giving her a little push on the tush. “Knock ’em dead.”
Sally pushed her way through the glass doors and disappeared into executive-office land.
• • •
CARLOS RIVERA SPOKE to his buddy Jerry at the gate, was given a pass, and found his way to the executive office building, where the studio’s top brass worked.
Ben Bacchetti didn’t keep him waiting long. He shook his guest’s hand and motioned him to a chair across his desk. “What can I do for the Beverly Hills Police Department this morning, Sergeant?”
“I appreciate your taking the time to see me, Mr. Bacchetti. I just have a few questions. I understand that you had lunch on your lot last Friday with a Mr. Dax Baxter.”
“That is correct,” Ben replied. “It was a pretty brief lunch. Turned out that Mr. Baxter and I really didn’t have anything to say to each other.”
“Do you remember what sort of mood Mr. Baxter was in when he left your lunch?”
“Actually, it was I who left the lunch, but I guess I would say that Baxter was in a foul mood.”
“What did he say to indicate that?”
“He didn’t say anything. I showed him where to exit, then I left the room. A minute later I heard a car door outside slam shut, just about as hard as anybody could slam a car door, then there was a roaring noise and some rubber burned.”
“Did you actually see the car depart?”
“No, I just heard it. I expect just about everybody on the lot heard it.”
“But you think it was Baxter?”
“I can’t think of anybody who works here who would leave the lot in that manner.”
“How well do you know Mr. Baxter, Mr. Bacchetti?”
“I had never met him before Friday, but his reputation preceded him.”
“And what is his reputation?”
“You want rumors? I learned by watching Dragnet reruns as a kid that the cops want only the facts.”
“Let’s call it background information.”
“All right. I hear the guy is a gold-plated asshole who doesn’t give a damn for anybody but himself, and I’m told he has a stable of ex-wives who can confirm that.”
“Do you know the names of any of his ex-wives?”
“Nobody on our lot. Google him.”
Rivera stood up. “Thank you, Mr. Bacchetti,” he said. “I’m grateful for your time.”
Ben stood up and shook his hand. “Always glad to help. Tell me, did Baxter hurt anybody?”
“By some miracle, nobody. He reported his car stolen, weaseling out of any action we could take, in the absence of witnesses who could place him in the car.”
Ben began walking his guest to the door. “There is something else,” he said, “and I have this from a good source. One of our employees took some time off and went to Santa Fe, where he worked briefly on a Baxter film on location there. Baxter, who’s apparently pretty paranoid, somehow got the impression that our man was there to do him harm, and he called in a professional from L.A. to rid him of the menace.”
“Do you mean to eliminate him?”
“I don’t know what his intentions were, but the pro attacked our man, who defended himself and put the man in the hospital.”
“So there’s some unresolved animus there?”
“I don’t know. I just mention it as background, as you put it.”
“May I have your employee’s name?”
“Billy Barnett. He works as a producer in the Barrington unit on our lot. Would you like to speak to him?”
“Thank you, sir, yes.”
Ben opened his office door and spoke to his secretary. “Marsha, would you call Billy and see if he has time to speak to Sergeant Rivera, here? He’ll need directions to the bung
alow.”
• • •
RIVERA PARKED HIS CAR and walked into a bungalow with the name “Barrington” on a placard outside. A moment later he found himself sitting across the desk of a man, apparently in his fifties, but fit-looking.
“Ben Bacchetti’s secretary called,” Barnett said. “What can I do for you?”
“I spoke with Mr. Bacchetti for a few minutes about events following his lunch with a Mr. Dax Baxter last Friday.”
“Yes, the gate guard captain told me about that. Apparently Mr. Baxter departed the lot in something of a hurry.”
“That is my information,” Rivera said. “Mr. Bacchetti also told me about an encounter you had with an associate of Mr. Baxter’s in Santa Fe that resulted in the man’s being hospitalized.”
“Mr. Bacchetti told you that?”
“Yes.”
“I believe I have some recollection of such an event. Is the fellow bringing charges against me?”
“Oh, no, sir, nothing like that. I asked Mr. Bacchetti for background information on Mr. Baxter, and he told me that story.”
“Ah.”
“During your time in Santa Fe, did you spend any time with Mr. Baxter?”
“Very little,” Teddy replied. “Mr. Baxter’s wife caused the death of my wife, Betsy, in an accident. He seemed to believe that I bore a grudge because of that and had come there to harm him in some way.”
“And how did he get that impression?”
“His paranoia whispered it in his ear, I expect. I had no such intention and told him so.”
“But he didn’t believe you?”
“Apparently not. I was at Mr. Baxter’s house at a wrap party, and the man approached me outside, holding a knife. He introduced himself by trying to kick me in the head.”
“And what was the nature of the injury that put him in the hospital?”
“A knife wound to the back of a leg, his right, I believe, that required surgery to repair.”
“Was it your intention to wound him in such a manner?”
“If I’d been trying to kill him, he would be dead,” Teddy replied calmly. “Now, if you don’t have any more questions, Sergeant, I don’t think I should incriminate myself further.” He smiled a little.
Rivera got to his feet and handed the man his business card. “Sounds like self-defense to me, Mr. Barnett. If you should come across any other relevant information about Mr. Baxter, I’d appreciate a call, and don’t worry about incriminating yourself.”
• • •
THEY SHOOK HANDS, and the policeman left. Teddy looked at the card and saw that the sergeant’s assignment was to the vehicle theft unit, which puzzled him.
29
IT WAS NEARLY six o’clock when Sally came into Teddy’s office. “I’m done for the day,” she said.
“How did it go?”
“Very well, I think. Peter seemed pleased. I’m a quick study.”
Teddy closed a couple of computer files and got his jacket on. “Then let’s get out of here,” he said. They went out to the parking lot and got into the Cayenne. At the front gate Teddy got out of the car and went to the glass booth where the captain sat.
“How are you, Billy?”
“Very well, thanks, Jerry.”
“Your first day back go well?”
“Very well. There’s something I’d like your help on though.”
“Anything I can do,” Jerry replied.
“This morning, driving in from Malibu, I saw a bright yellow vehicle in my rearview mirror, very well back, but persistent. It disappeared about the time I got here.”
“I didn’t see such a vehicle,” Jerry replied.
“I think it was some sort of eighties muscle car, but I didn’t get a good enough look at it to figure out which one. I’m going to leave the lot now, and I’d appreciate it if you’d observe from here and see if you see such a vehicle following me.”
“Be glad to.”
“I’d like to know the type of car and the plate number, if you see it.”
Jerry picked up his binoculars. “I’m on it.”
“You’ve got my cell number,” Teddy said. “Call me if you see the car.” He went back to the car and drove off the lot, keeping an eye on his rearview mirror. He saw nothing yellow there, just the usual mishmash of car colors. A few blocks away, his cell rang. “Yes?”
“It’s Jerry. I kept an eagle eye on you until you were out of sight, but I didn’t see anything yellow following you.”
“Thank you, Jerry, I appreciate your help.” He hung up.
Sally, who had heard the conversation on the car’s speaker, said, “What’s up?”
“I thought I saw a bright yellow car following us from Malibu this morning, and I asked Jerry to watch for it. He saw nothing.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” Sally said.
“How about dinner in Malibu Village?”
“You’re on,” she replied.
• • •
CARLOS RIVERA, back at his desk, thought about what he’d heard at Centurion Studios, and he had a feeling he was getting involved in something beyond stolen cars. As he thought about that, Lieutenant Bart Goodwin, who headed up the violent crimes unit, passed his office door walking in the direction of the office of Captain Tom Fitzhugh, who commanded the station. He got up and followed.
Bart Goodwin was standing in the captain’s office doorway, chatting with his boss, as Rivera approached.
“Afternoon, Carlos,” the lieutenant said.
“Lieutenant, Captain,” Rivera replied. “I wonder if I could speak with you both for a moment?”
“Come in, Carlos,” the captain said, “and take a seat.”
Rivera did so, and so did Goodwin. “On Friday we had a report of a very expensive sports car, a Porsche 969, being stolen.”
“Is that anything like a 911?” the captain asked.
“Yes, sir, but it’s a lot more expensive—eight hundred grand.”
The captain made a small noise. “Did you recover the car?”
“It was returned to its owner—or so he says.”
“I’m not following,” the captain replied.
“The car belongs to a big-time movie producer named Dax Baxter. Its plate number is DAX. I interviewed Mr. Baxter and he gave me an implausible explanation of the return of the car.” Rivera ran through Baxter’s story.
“Well,” the captain said, “that’s a weird one, but what is your concern now?”
Rivera told him of his interview with Ben Bacchetti at Centurion.
“Baxter hired a hit man to kill somebody he thought might be trying to kill him?”
“That seems to be it.”
“But this Barnett fellow took out the hired killer?”
“Put him in the hospital.”
“This sounds like something out of one of Baxter’s movies.”
“Yes, sir, it does, but it’s not Baxter’s story. It was confirmed by Barnett, himself.”
“I believe I’m getting the picture,” Bart Goodwin said.
“Oh, good,” the captain replied, “maybe you can explain it to me.”
“I think Carlos believes that Baxter may not be done with Mr. Barnett, and he wants the case.”
“What case?” the captain asked. “There isn’t any case. Maybe Santa Fe has one, but we don’t.”
“But Baxter is back in L.A., Captain,” Rivera said, “and if he continues with this, it will certainly be our problem. I’d rather deal with it before it’s a homicide, instead of afterward.”
“Carlos has a point, Captain,” Goodwin said. “While, strictly speaking, my unit isn’t in the homicide prevention business, we would be obliged to act if we heard someone was planning a murder. But right now, we’re pursuing four active homicide cases, and we’re stretched
pretty thin. If you want to assign Carlos to this, I have no objection.”
The captain regarded Rivera with interest. “Your unit, Carlos, or just you?”
“Me and a partner,” Rivera said. “We don’t usually work in teams in vehicle theft, but I’d like Joe Rossi on this.”
“How big a case backlog do you have right now, Carlos?” the captain asked.
“We’re all caught up, Captain. It seems that more Angelinos are buying their cars at the moment, instead of stealing them.”
“All right, Carlos, take a few days, say a week, and check out Mr. Baxter’s homicidal tendencies, but I don’t want to see anything in the media about this. If it looks like it’s going that way, you come back to me and I’ll assign somebody in Media Relations to work with you. I don’t like celebrity arrests unless we know we can make ’em stick.”
“I understand, Captain,” Carlos said. “We’ll work quietly, don’t worry.”
“You’ve got a week,” the captain said. “Get out of here.”
“Thank you, sir, thank you, Lieutenant.”
Carlos went back to his desk and found Joe Rossi playing a computer game on his iPhone. “Joe, I see you’re underworked,” he said.
“Aw come on, Carlos, it’s not my fault people are returning stolen cars, instead of chopping them.”
“Joe, did you ever work Homicide?”
“In my youth,” Rossi replied. “I had a tour on the squad, but it was thought by my betters that I wasn’t gifted in that area.”
“How would you like to work on a homicide that hasn’t happened yet?” Carlos asked.
30
THE RUSSIAN WAS sitting in his trailer at the park overlooking the Pacific Coast Highway, when there was a heavy knock on his door. He opened his desk drawer and put his hand on the snub-nosed .38 there. “Yeah?” he called.
“It’s the Bear,” a voice said.
“It’s unlocked.”
A large man in a short-sleeved shirt with a thick, short beard entered the trailer. “Okay,” he said, “I followed them from the movie studio back to Malibu, where they’re eating dinner right now at a Mexican joint in the Village.”