Unbound

by Stuart Woods

  He handed it to her then sat down beside her. “Are you all right?”

  “Astonishingly, yes,” she said. “My head has cleared. Did they drug me?”

  “Yes, and me, too. I was careless.”

  “All the way back here I thought about it, and I realize that you had to do what you did. There was really no other way. They would have just kept coming, wouldn’t they?”

  “They were very confident,” Teddy replied. “Too confident, really.”

  The sun was rising now, and light was pouring into the room. “I’ll make us some breakfast,” he said. “We have to go to work in a couple of hours. Everything has to be normal.”

  “I understand,” she said.

  Teddy went into the kitchen and put on the coffee. Then he took the cell phone he had found in the garage and dialed the last number that had called.

  • • •

  DAX BAXTER SAT, collapsed in a chair in his study, numb, with a large drink. He had to get his brain working again. He was lifted off his chair by the buzz of the cell phone in his shirt pocket. He took it out and looked at it as if it were a cobra. Finally he pressed the button, but said nothing.

  “The smart move,” Billy Barnett said, “would be to kill yourself now. Eat a gun, run a hot bath and cut your wrists—remember, lengthwise, not across. Go any way you like, because when I find you—and I will, when you least expect it—you won’t like the way things end.”

  He hung up, leaving Dax Baxter staring into the dawning sky.

  41

  CHITA ROMERO HAD just stepped out of the shower when her phone rang. Who would call this early? “Hello?”

  “This is Dax. Got a pencil?”

  “Just a moment.” She found one.

  “I want you to call my pilot and tell him to get weather and fuel and file for Santa Fe, departure in ninety minutes.”

  She thought he sounded a little shaky. “Got it. Are you all right, Dax?”

  “Yes. Call the Santa Fe caretaker and tell him to get the housekeeper over there and clean, then leave my car at Signature Aviation at the airport.”

  “Got it. Anything else?”

  “Call Cupie Dalton and tell him I want the four toughest security men he can find, two of them to fly with me, the other two tomorrow, at the latest, in Santa Fe.”

  “Got it.”

  “I want my phones answered at Standard and routed to Santa Fe. Nobody is to know I’ve left town.”

  “Got it.”

  “I’ll call you for messages when I get there.” He hung up.

  Chita made the calls, then was getting dressed when the phone rang; she was expecting Dax again. “Yes?”

  “It’s Carlos. How about dinner tonight?”

  “You’re on. Say, something has spooked Dax. He’s leaving for Santa Fe this morning, and he doesn’t want anybody to know he’s gone.”

  “Interesting,” Carlos replied. “Seven o’clock?”

  “See you then.”

  • • •

  AT EIGHT AM the contract cleaning lady let herself into Dax’s Hollywood Hills house. She had been there for an hour before she went into the garage for some bleach. She switched on the lights and stood stock-still while she tried to figure out what she was looking at.

  • • •

  SHORTLY AFTER NINE AM, a 911 operator answered a call. The woman gave her name and address. “There’s a woman in the house next door screaming bloody murder,” she said.

  “Who lives there?”

  “Nobody, I think. It used to belong to some movie guy. She’s still screaming—you better get somebody over there.”

  “They’re on their way,” the operator said.

  • • •

  A PATROL CAR pulled into the Hollywood Hills driveway, and the cop got out and rang the bell. He heard a scream from inside, so he drew his weapon, backed up a step, and launched a kick at the door. The jamb splintered and the door flew open, revealing a woman sitting on the floor, screaming hoarsely.

  He got her calmed down a little. “Are you alone in the house?” She nodded, then thought better of it and shook her head. “In the garage,” she said, pointing.

  The cop found the door open; he stuck his head inside and yelled, “LAPD! Show yourselves!” Then he saw the heap beside the Ping-Pong table. He moved cautiously into the garage, cleared the area, then stood looking at the two corpses.

  His body radio sputtered. “Bravo Three, come back.”

  He keyed the mike. “This is Bravo Three. I’m on-site at the nine-one-one. I need homicide detectives, a crime-scene unit, and the ME. I’ve got two corpses, male, naked. One of them is . . . incomplete.”

  In minutes, everybody was there. The detectives did their work, then turned the garage over to the ME and the crime-scene people. Then they went into the kitchen, where the maid was sitting, drinking tea.

  “You feeling better, ma’am?” one of them asked her.

  She nodded. “I can’t talk very good,” she said.

  He sat down and produced his notebook. “Who owns the house?”

  “I don’t know. I never see anybody here.” She gave him a card with her service’s number, and he called.

  “I don’t know who owns it,” her manager said. “We’ve had the contract for five, six years, and we get a check from a bank out of town.”

  His partner came into the room. “Tax records say the place is owned by a Delaware corporation.”

  “Let’s talk to the neighbors,” the senior man said. They split up and he went to the house where the 911 call had originated. The woman there offered him coffee, which he accepted.

  “Do you know who owns the house?” he asked the woman.

  “It used to be owned by some Hollywood big shot, but he left several years ago. I never saw a real estate sign there, so maybe he still owns it.”

  “Let’s try again for a name.”

  “It had an X in it, that’s all I remember.” She picked up a copy of the L.A. Times and opened it to the arts section. “There,” she said, pointing at a full-page movie ad. “That’s it.”

  The ad began: “A DAX BAXTER PRODUCTION.”

  • • •

  CHITA LOOKED UP to see two obvious cops approaching her desk. Her first thought was, something’s happened to Carlos, but she was wrong.

  The two men showed badges and introduced themselves. “We’d like to see Mr. Dax Baxter,” the taller one said.

  “I’m sorry, he’s not in.”

  “What time do you expect him?”

  “I’m not sure,” she lied. Dax had told her he didn’t want anyone to know he was out of town.

  “Can you tell me if Mr. Baxter owns a house in the Hollywood Hills?” He gave her the address.

  “No, he lives up on Mulholland Drive,” she replied.

  “Has he ever owned the Hollywood Hills house?”

  “I’ve worked here for two years, and I’ve never heard that address mentioned.”

  “Miss, where can we find Mr. Baxter?”

  She thought it over for a minute. “He’s out of town,” she said finally.

  “Where?”

  “In New Mexico.”

  “Where in New Mexico?”

  “Santa Fe.” She looked at her watch. “He should be there by now.”

  “He left this morning?”

  “Yes, from Burbank, in a private jet. About eight o’clock.”

  “I’m going to need an address and a phone number.”

  She checked her computer and wrote down both for them.

  “Right,” the detective said. “And, miss?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m going to have to ask you not to let him know we’re coming.”

  She looked surprised.

  “I know he pays your salary, but this
is a very serious matter, and we wouldn’t want him to change locations again. Do you understand?”

  Chita nodded, and they left.

  Grace, who had heard everything from her adjoining desk, said, “I’m certainly not going to call him, and I don’t think you should either.”

  “I’m with you on that,” Chita said.

  • • •

  THE TWO DETECTIVES got into their car. “I’d better call the boss and see if he’ll authorize the King Air.”

  “You think we should call the Santa Fe cops?” his partner asked.

  “Not just yet,” the senior man replied.

  42

  CARLOS RIVERA FINISHED his day at half past five and got into his jacket. As he passed the Violent Crimes squad, the lieutenant flagged him down.

  “You still interested in Dax Baxter?” he asked.

  “Sure,” Carlos replied. “You got something?”

  “I was just having a chat with a buddy at LAPD Homicide, and they’ve got something.”

  “Is Baxter dead?”

  “No, but there was a double homicide last night at a house he owns in the Hollywood Hills.”

  “I thought he lived on Mulholland.”

  “He used to live in the subject house, but it’s been empty for some years.”

  “Who are the victims?”

  “I didn’t get that far in our conversation before he had to hang up.”

  “What’s the detective’s name?”

  “Bob Jensen, with an e.”

  “Thanks, Lieutenant, I’ll check it out.” On the way to his car he called the detective, whose shift had ended. He checked his watch. What the hell, he had time to get to the morgue before he had to pick up Chita. He drove over there, parked, went inside, and asked for the ME.

  “He’s doing a couple of autopsies,” the woman at the desk said. “You can go in room one, if you’re not squeamish.”

  “Thanks,” he said. He knew where room one was, and he went there. He looked through the round windows in the swinging door and saw a large man hunched over a table. He could see the soles of two pairs of feet facing him. He opened the door a foot. “Hey, Doc, it’s Carlos Rivera from Beverly Hills PD. May I join you?”

  “If you’re not squeamish. I don’t want you vomiting in here.”

  “No problem,” Carlos replied, and walked over to him, between the two tables. He got a good look at both corpses, and for a moment he thought he was going to embarrass himself, but he got over it. “You got IDs yet?”

  The ME pointed at a clipboard hanging at the end of the table. “One of ’em has a Russian name,” he said.

  Carlos picked up the clipboard, looked at the two mug shots, and read the sheets on both men. “The Russian doesn’t have any convictions, but he’s a well-known hit man.”

  “Well,” the ME said, “he ran into a better hit man. That incision looks a lot like one of mine.” He pointed with the large scalpel in his hand.

  “Very impressive,” Carlos said. “The other guy seems to be missing something.”

  “Yeah. Over there on the desk, in a steel pan. Take a look.”

  Carlos walked over to the desk and viewed the object. “Holy shit,” he muttered.

  “That’s pretty much what everybody who’s seen it said,” the ME replied.

  Carlos walked back to where the ME stood.

  “How did he die?”

  “Are you kidding? From blood loss, of course. He also had two knife wounds in the heart. Short blade, razor sharp. Both of these guys bled out, and they didn’t have very long to think about it.”

  Carlos looked at his watch. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’m running late for dinner.”

  “Good luck with that,” the ME replied.

  “Yeah, I think I’ll need a drink first.” Carlos left and headed for Chita’s apartment.

  • • •

  CARLOS NEEDED TWO drinks before he could think about food.

  “Anything wrong?” Chita asked.

  “You don’t want to know,” he replied.

  “If you say so. Two cops showed up at the office around noon, looking for Dax,” she said.

  “LAPD Homicide?”

  “How’d you know?”

  “There was a double homicide at a house Dax owns in the Hollywood Hills.”

  “They mentioned the house. They didn’t mention a double homicide, just said it was serious.”

  “Did they talk to Dax?”

  “Dax called me at the crack of dawn this morning and started issuing orders—get his jet ready, fuel for Santa Fe, don’t tell anybody where he is.”

  “Did you tell the two detectives?”

  “Damned right I did. I’m not covering for Dax, not with the cops.”

  “Good girl.”

  “Dax sounded funny,” she said, “rattled, maybe.”

  “I expect he had just come from his old house.”

  “You think he murdered two people?”

  “No, I think he had occasion to view the bodies. So did I—that was what ruined my appetite.”

  Chita raised a hand. “No further details, please.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Do you think the cops went to Santa Fe, looking for Dax?”

  “I expect so,” he replied.

  “You think Dax is in jail?”

  “If he was, who would he call?”

  “His lawyer, I guess. He’d call me if he wanted anything done in his absence, and he didn’t do that.”

  “My guess is, he hasn’t been arrested. For that, they’d have to be able to put him at the house. Is Dax the kind of guy who’d pull a knife on somebody?”

  “I think Dax Baxter is the biggest coward I’ve ever met. He’s a bully, but he backs down in a hurry.”

  “He didn’t kill the two guys. One of them was a cold-blooded hit man, and the other—well, he worked for the hit man.”

  “That sounds like the sort of men he might hire to do his dirty work,” she said.

  “You think he’s capable of having somebody murdered?”

  “In a fit of anger, yes. And he’s capable of staying angry for long periods—days, sometimes.”

  They ordered dinner, and Carlos pulled out his cell phone. “Excuse me, I want to check something.” He pulled up the surveillance app. “The Porsche is still in his garage,” he said. “Did he have another car?”

  “Yes, a Bentley sedan. I’ve had it serviced for him.”

  “Might he drive it to the airport?”

  “More likely, he would call a car service. I could check, if you like.” Her cell phone rang, and she got it out of her bag. “It’s Dax,” she said. “Hello?” She listened for a moment. “First thing,” she said, then hung up. “He left his briefcase in his office, and he wants me to FedEx it to him tomorrow morning.”

  “Chita,” Carlos said, “do you think I could have a look in that briefcase before you send it?”

  She shrugged. “Right after dessert,” she said.

  43

  STONE WAS HAVING a before-dinner drink with Ana, when his cell rang: Cupie. “Hello, Cupie.”

  “How you doin’, Stone?”

  “I’m knee deep in bourbon, so pretty good.”

  “I’ve got some news on Dax.”

  “What news?”

  “He got out of town early this morning, but not before one of his people called me and asked for four rough, tough security guards.”

  “Did you supply them?”

  “I did. Two flew out with him and two met him in Santa Fe. These guys break heads, on request.”

  “You have any background on why he left town?”

  “Well, yeah. An old buddy of mine still works Homicide at LAPD. There was a double homicide at a vacant house Dax owns in the Hollywood Hills.”
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  “Anybody anyone knows?”

  “One of them was a hit man known as the Russian.”

  “Him, even I have heard of. How did they die?”

  “Badly, by the blade.”

  “Let me understand,” Stone said. “Dax’s hit man, who’s said to be invincible, was knifed by somebody?”

  “I don’t think Dax could handle that himself.”

  “So what’s going on?”

  “Beats me, but Dax was pretty wired, according to his secretary.”

  “Well, that’s fascinating, Cupie,” Stone said. “I wouldn’t mind hearing more, if it comes to you.”

  “Sure thing. Have a nice evening.”

  Ana looked at Stone curiously. “Anything wrong?”

  “Not with me,” Stone said. “Excuse me a second.” He got up and walked into another room, then called Billy Barnett.

  “Hi, Stone.”

  “Hi, Billy. Just a little heads-up. I came by a piece of information, and I’d rather not talk about how. Also, this call to you was just catching up, okay?”

  “Whatever you say, Stone.”

  “There was a double homicide last night at a house owned by Dax Baxter, and he left for Santa Fe this morning in the company of heavy security.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Nope. Nice not talking to you.” Stone hung up and went back to the study and Ana.

  “You know,” she said, “I’m enjoying myself here enormously, but I have to show my face in Santa Fe soon, or my clients will think I’m drying out somewhere.”

  Stone laughed. “I like having you here, but if you have to go, I’ll get somebody to fly you home in my plane.”

  “We could extend this little tryst for a while if you came with me.”

  “Well, I have to get back to New York soon, and I could use a couple of days in Santa Fe. Maybe I’ll fly you myself.”

  “That would be lovely.”

  “And maybe after you’ve shown your face in Santa Fe, you’d like to spend some time in New York.”

  “It’s a thought,” she said.

  The butler brought dinner in on a rolling table and set it up.

  • • •

  CHITA GOT THEM past the guard at the gate, saying Dax needed something from his office. She let them into the building, and they went upstairs. “You want lights or no lights?” she asked Carlos.