by Stuart Woods
“Oh, good,” she said, “you’re back.” Then she returned to work. It was Dolly.
TEDDY WAS FINISHING his breakfast when Lauren came in from taking out the garbage. “I’m confused,” she said. “Why do we have a Tahoe in the garage?”
“It was the only thing the dealer had that was in good shape and had four-wheel drive and snow tires.”
“Why do we need it?” she asked.
“Did you look around when you went outside? There’s six inches of snow on the ground. Happens every year about this time.”
“Oh, come on, Teddy. What happened?”
He explained about his discovery of the little black box under the Volvo.
“Good God. How long had it been there?”
“Not long,” Teddy replied, “or young Mr. Bacon would have been all over us. My guess is he saw the Volvo in the grocery-store parking lot and recognized it from when he chased you. Don’t worry, I transferred the device to another car, so he’s out there somewhere following a Ford around.”
She kissed him on the cheek. “You are so smart.”
“Well, I’m a little smarter than Todd Bacon,” Teddy said. “And I’ll try to keep it that way.”
THE THREE OF THEM had breakfast at the table in Todd’s room, notwithstanding the look on the room-service waiter’s face. Nobody was embarrassed, but everybody was pretty much wrung out, Todd thought.
“You were wonderful last night,” Dolly said to him.
“We were all wonderful,” Barbara said.
“We must do it again sometime,” Todd offered.
“I’m going to be tied up for a few days,” Barbara said, “but you kids enjoy yourselves.”
“What’s in that?” Dolly asked, pointing to a sturdy-looking aluminum case on the bench at the end of the bed.
“Spy stuff,” Todd replied, popping a piece of sausage into his mouth.
“Todd,” Dolly said to Barbara, “is sticking with the old pickup line about being a CIA agent.”
“Why do you think it’s a line?” Barbara asked. “I mean, there are people who are CIA agents, and some of them must get to Santa Fe from time to time. Wouldn’t it amuse you to believe him?”
Todd laughed. “What do you do, Ellie, and what brings you to Santa Fe?”
“I’m a rich widow for a living, and I go where I please. At the moment, I’m pleased to be in Santa Fe.”
“Where were you most recently?” he asked.
“In San Francisco,” she replied. “And before that, in a Mexican prison.”
Todd laughed. “You see, Dolly, Ellie has an even better story than mine.”
“Perhaps we all have noncredible backgrounds,” Dolly said. “I’m an embezzler on the run!”
“Then let’s all stick with our stories,” Barbara said.
41
Susannah arrived at the hospital with a cake tin filled with Ed’s favorite cookies, only to have a nurse stop her on the way to his room.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Eagle,” the woman said, “but your husband has picked up an infection. We’ve got him on IV antibiotics, but he’s going to have to stay a few more days, until his temperature is normal and he’s strong enough to walk by himself.”
“Is there anything that can be done that isn’t already being done?” Susannah asked.
“No, ma’am,” the woman replied. “He’s getting everything he needs except, maybe, a cookie.”
Susannah smiled wanly and continued to Ed’s room. She greeted the cop at the door, then went into the room. “Good morning!” she said brightly.
Ed’s bed was in the sitting-up position, and he turned to greet her with a wan smile of his own. “Hey, baby,” he said wearily. “Seems I’ve got an infection and a fever. You’re going to have to wait awhile to take me home.”
She sat on the bed and brushed the hair from his forehead. “That’s all right, sweetie,” she said. “You just rest.” She set the cake tin down on his belly. “I brought you some cookies,” she said.
Eagle lifted the tin. “Pretty weighty for just cookies,” he replied.
“Well, there’s a little pre-Christmas gift in there, too.”
“I hope it’s bourbon,” he said.
“Let’s just say it’s good for what ails you.”
“Yesterday this time I thought I’d be going home this morning.”
She kissed him high on the cheek, a place he liked. “Don’t you worry about a thing,” she said. “Every little thing is under control.”
DOWN THE ROAD a couple of hundred yards, one of the little things that was not under control was taking the cellophane wrapping off a box of very expensive chocolates. Barbara checked herself in the mirror. She had spent the earlier part of the morning at a copy and computer shop, making herself an ID that said she worked for the state Department of Health. She had copied a state seal off the department’s website, photographed herself in scrubs, printed the photo, added her typeset name and printed the badge, then laminated it. It wasn’t perfect, but it would pass. She also made a state sticker for her windshield and downloaded a full-size copy of a New Mexico State employee license plate, which she printed out on a plastic material with a sticky side. She tucked the box of candy under an arm and left the hotel for the hospital. She applied the phony license plate over the real one and stuck the state sticker on the inside of her windshield, on the driver’s side.
She parked in the employees’ lot and walked past the fat cop, who was outside, smoking again. “Morning,” she said with a wave. He hardly noticed her. She walked down the hallway and saw the relief cop at Eagle’s door, marking it very nicely.
“Good morning,” she said cheerfully to the man. “Have one of these delicious chocolates. They were a gift, but if I eat them all I’ll gain twenty pounds.” She thrust the box at him.
He picked out one and popped it into his mouth. “Thanks,” he mumbled.
Now both the cops knew her by sight. She walked on down the hallway to the nurses’ station, where three women were at work. “Good morning, ladies,” she said. “I’m Ruth Barrow from the state. I’ll be here for a few days, doing safety checks.”
“What kind of safety checks?” one of the nurses asked.
“Oh, it’s nothing to worry you ladies about. You obviously run a very tight ship here.” She opened the chocolate box. “Help me out here, will you? This was a gift, and if I eat them all I’ll explode,” she said, laughing at her own joke.
The women gathered around and fished candy out of the box. “Take two,” Barbara said, “and save me from myself. I see you’ve got a prisoner down the hall. Is that a common thing here? Isn’t there a lockup ward?”
“Oh, no, it’s not a prisoner. That’s Ed Eagle’s room. He’s a local lawyer who got attacked by a madman last week.”
“My God,” Barbara said. “I hope they caught the guy.”
“Not yet,” the nurse replied. “That’s why the cop is on the door. There are two of them; they take turns.”
“That’s good,” Barbara replied. “I mean, everybody’s got to pee sometime.”
“Smoke is more like it,” the nurse said. “They’re both junkies, have to light up every few minutes.”
“I’ve heard of Ed Eagle,” Barbara said. “How’s he doing?”
The nurse shook her head. “Not well. He was doing all right until last night, when he contracted an infection. It’s going to take a few more days before he’ll be strong enough to go home.”
“Well, I certainly hope he recovers quickly,” Barbara said. She was going to be able to take her time and get this right.
VITTORIO GOT INTO the passenger seat of his SUV, and Cupie got behind the wheel.
“You sure you’re up to this?” he asked Vittorio.
“I’m feeling just great. Now get this crate moving.”
“Where are we going?”
“I think the best thing we can do, given our lack of information, is to look for that Mercedes station wagon,” Vittorio said. “She doesn
’t know we know about it, and if we find it, all we have to do is sit on it until she shows up.”
“Where do you want to start?”
“Well, right now the hospital is ground zero, because Eagle’s there. I want to visit him anyway and see how he’s doing, so let’s start there.”
Cupie put the car into gear and drove off toward Santa Fe. They passed through some beautiful high desert before reaching the urbanized outskirts.
“You know,” Cupie said, “I wouldn’t mind retiring here one of these days. I love the climate.”
“You’d enjoy it,” Vittorio replied, “but I can’t ever see you either retiring or leaving L.A. You’ve still got a daughter there in the D.A.’s office, haven’t you?”
“Yeah, she’s trying a lot of cases now, getting some good experience, but between her job and her boyfriend, I’m lucky if I have lunch with her every other Sunday.”
Vittorio directed him to the hospital. “Let’s take a look around the parking lot before we go in,” Vittorio said.
Cupie moved slowly up and down the rows of cars, then pointed. “Over there,” he said, “in the employees’ lot.”
“I see it,” Vittorio said. “Let’s get over there and take a closer look.”
Cupie drove into the lot and pulled up behind the Mercedes station wagon, and Vittorio got out and walked around it, then came back and got into the car. “Nah,” he said. “It’s got a New Mexico government tag and a health-department sticker on the windshield.”
“Why would a state employee be driving a Mercedes?” Cupie asked.
“Must be a personal car. It’s got an employee’s tag.”
Cupie found a space in the visitors’ lot, and they walked into the hospital and down the hall toward where a cop sat outside Eagle’s room. As they approached the nurses’ station, a woman in scrubs with a chocolate box under her arm walked away, down the other end of the hall, toward the elevators.
“Nice ass,” Cupie muttered.
“Morning, gentlemen,” the nurse behind the desk said. “Sorry, Mr. Eagle isn’t having any visitors today.”
“Something wrong?” Cupie asked.
“He’s contracted an infection. We’re dealing with it, but he’s not up to seeing anybody but his wife.”
“We’ll come back tomorrow,” Cupie said, and he and Vittorio left the hospital.
“Let’s go check the hotel lots,” Vittorio said, getting into the car.
42
Barbara left the hospital and drove back to the computer shop where she had made her state ID and license plate. She had an idea about how to improve them.
The man at the desk directed her to a vacant computer, and on a whim, she decided to check her old e-mail address. There were hundreds of spam messages, but as she scrolled down she found an e-mail from a law firm she had paid a retainer to when consulting them about overturning her late husband’s will. On the morning he was killed in the car crash he had signed a new will that severely limited what she would get in the event of his death. The lawyer had advised her that the will was impenetrable, and there was nothing she could do about it. In addition, the will contained a clause that would reduce the sum paid to any beneficiary to one dollar if the beneficiary contested the will.
There had been one thing she could do, though, and she had done it. She had hired someone to murder her husband’s attorney.
“Mrs. Keeler,” it read, “there has been an interesting development concerning your late husband’s will. It could be greatly to your benefit if you would telephone me as soon as you receive this e-mail.” It was signed by Ralph Waters, and the e-mail was dated the day she had escaped from prison in Mexico.
This was interesting, Barbara thought. She forgot why she had come to the computer store and immediately returned to her hotel, where she sat down and called the attorney on her cell phone. He came on the line immediately.
“Mrs. Keeler? This is Ralph Waters. Thank you for returning my call.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner, Mr. Waters,” she said, “but I’ve been traveling. What is your news?”
“I know I don’t have to remind you about the terms of the will your late husband signed on the day of his death.”
“They are etched in my memory,” she replied.
“I expect so, but a couple of weeks ago I was playing golf with a lawyer friend of mine who serves on the ethics committee of the California Bar Association, and he told me a very interesting story. A woman named Margaret Jepson, known as Margie, who was the secretary of Joseph Wilen, your husband’s attorney, has made a report to the bar association that may change everything.”
“Tell me,” Barbara said.
“I’m not sure yet what her motives are, but she says that the will that was probated was not the will that Walter Keeler signed that morning, that Joe Wilen made some crucial changes to it after he heard of Mr. Keeler’s death in the accident. According to Ms. Jepson, Wilen harbored some ill feelings toward you, so he made certain changes to the will in the word processor, reducing your share to a stipend of fifty thousand dollars a month and the use of, but not the ownership of, Mr. Keeler’s San Francisco apartment, then he initialed the pages with the same pen Keeler had used and substituted them for two pages that he removed and destroyed. He told Margie Jepson and an associate in his firm, Ms. Lee Hight, of his actions, since both of them had witnessed the will, and they agreed to join him in a conspiracy to reduce your inheritance.”
“The son of a bitch!” Barbara said. “I knew there was something wrong. Walter would have never done that to me. Do we know what the original pages said?”
“Ms. Jepson reportedly has a copy of the will that Mr. Keeler signed, so that would bolster our position. Worst case, if her testimony holds up we could get the will thrown out and then the previous will would apply, and even though you had been married only a short time and might not be mentioned in the earlier will, California law would entitle you to a large share of the estate.”
Barbara’s heart was pounding. “As I recall, Walter had more than a billion dollars in liquid assets, plus real estate, and others, like a jet airplane.”
“That is correct,” Waters said. “And there are more good tidings: The will has not yet cleared probate, so none of the assets have been dispersed. Only your stipend has been paid out.”
“That’s wonderful!” Barbara said. “What should our next move be?”
“I’ll need to depose Ms. Jepson and get her to sign an affidavit confirming her story, then I can take it to a judge with a petition to invalidate the will and reinstate the original version. If he signs off on it, then we can submit the original will for probate. Our fallback position would be to get the will declared invalid and reinstate the earlier version.”
“Mr. Waters, I direct you to do just that,” Barbara said, “and along the way I’d like to see that bitch Lee Hight disbarred for her part in the conspiracy.”
“That won’t be necessary, Mrs. Keeler, because Ms. Hight died of breast cancer last month. I suspect that is one reason that Ms. Jepson has come forward, since telling her story relieves her conscience and doesn’t punish anyone.”
“One other thing, Mr. Waters,” Barbara said. “I want you to hold this in absolute confidence. I do not want the press to get wind of it. Is that clear?”
“I’ll do everything I can, Mrs. Keeler, but at some point this will become a matter of public record, and given the prominence of Mr. Keeler, someone is going to notice.”
“I’m going to give you my cell phone number,” Barbara said, “and you are not to share it with anyone else.” She gave him the number. “I do not wish to be contacted by anyone but you, and should the press contact you, you are to make no comment without my authorization. Is that clear?”
“Perfectly clear, Mrs. Keeler. I’ll be in touch.” They both hung up.
Barbara leapt from her chair and did a little dance around the room, then fell back into the chair, laughing and crying. She was going to ge
t, at least, hundreds of millions out of this! Then she stopped and began to think.
As far as she knew, her absence from the Mexican prison was not known north of the border. If she now murdered Ed Eagle, the whole story of her divorce from him and her arrest and imprisonment in Mexico might very well come out in the news reports of his death, and she might be either charged with his murder or extradited to Mexico and prison.
“Shit!” she screamed. She was going to have to lie low until the will was probated, and probably for some time after that. She picked up the phone and called her new friends, Hugh and Charlene Holroyd.
“Ellie, how are you?” Charlene asked. “Hugh, pick up the extension.”
“Hey there, Ellie,” he said. “We’ve missed you.”
“I’m very well, thanks,” Barbara replied. “Do you suppose you could put me up for a little while?”
“Of course. You can have your old room back,” Hugh said.
“Or if you’d like more space, take our guesthouse. You can visit us whenever you like,” Charlene added.
“The guesthouse sounds wonderful,” Barbara said.
“Where are you now?”
“In Santa Fe.”
“Well, come on over here,” Hugh said. “May we expect you for cocktails?”
“You certainly may,” Barbara said. “I’ll see you then.” She hung up, lay back in her chair and sighed.
It would be fun to see the Holroyds, but she had been so looking forward to killing Ed Eagle.
43
Teddy Fay sat down at his computer and logged in to the Agency mainframe, first establishing his own computer’s position in Elmira, New York. He went to the personnel files and pulled up Todd Bacon’s service record.
Young Bacon, he learned, had been born in Charleston, West Virginia, to a single mother, had been a star athlete and valedictorian of his high school class, and had attended Columbia University on a full academic scholarship, majoring in languages while playing football and rowing for his school. He had been recruited for the CIA by a professor there and had graduated summa cum laude. He was perfect for the Agency.