his secretary to him for his signature. He called the L.A. Chief of Police and requested surveillance on Don Wells, then he called the LAPD office for search warrants. Then he made another call.
“Ed Eagle.”
“Ed, it’s Bob Martinez.”
“Morning, Bob.”
“I have some news. Call it disclosure.”
“Yes.”
“You recall the two stuntmen who worked for Don Wells, the ones we questioned in L.A.?”
“Yes.”
“We can put them in Santa Fe at the time of the murders of Donna Wells and her son.”
“Lots of people come to Santa Fe for a weekend, Bob, especially from L.A.”
“There’s more, Ed.”
“What more?”
“We can put one of them, Jack Cato, in Santa Fe at the time of the shooting of Susannah Wilde.”
There followed a stunned silence.
“That doesn’t make any sense, Bob. Wells has no motive to kill Susannah; they don’t even know each other. No, it was Barbara who sent the shooter to Susannah’s house.”
“Well, it’s looking like the same shooter as the one who committed the Wells killings.”
“Then we’ve got two different people hiring the same hit man.”
“Happens all the time, Ed. The pros will work for anybody.”
“Are you arresting Cato and Edwards?”
“Yes, the warrants are being issued now. Alex Reese is flying to L.A. this afternoon to serve them and make the arrests.”
“What about my client? Are you arresting him?”
“No, we have insufficient evidence for that. On the other hand, if he tries to run, we’ll bring him in. You might convey that to him, Ed.”
“I’ll pass on the message. Thanks for calling.”
48
JACK CATO STAYED up late packing most of his belongings and stuffing others into trash bags. He unloaded the trash bags into a Dumpster at a construction site a few blocks away, then he went home and loaded everything else into his truck.
He got a couple of hours sleep and was on the set at Centurion at seven A.M. Don Wells walked past him, stopped and consulted a clipboard. “I’m going to shoot your stuff first, Jack; you’ll be out of here by noon. Are you ready to move?”
“Yep, everything’s in my truck.”
THEY HAD BEEN working for a little over an hour when the director called for a change of setup. “Where are my guns?” he yelled at an assistant director.
“They’re late,” he said. “I’ll call the armory.” The young man pressed a button on his cell phone, talked, listened, then came back to the director, who was talking with Don Wells. “You know that stunt guy, Grif Edwards?”
Both men nodded.
“Well, he’s dead. Shot himself over at the armory. That’s why the guns aren’t here; the cops are crawling all over the place.”
“We can’t shoot this scene without guns,” the director said.
“Come on,” Wells replied, “let’s go over there and see what we can do.” The two men got into a golf cart and drove over to the armory.
There was yellow tape over the door, and as they looked in, a detective approached them. “Can I help you gentlemen?”
“We heard there was a shooting over here,” the director said. “We’re shooting the final scenes of a film, and we need our guns.”
“Do you gentlemen know a man named Griffin Edwards?”
“Sure,” the director said, “he’s worked on our films as a stuntman. Did he kill himself?”
“Do you know any reason why he would?”
“Not me,” the director said.
“Me, either,” Wells chimed in. “Is the guy who runs the armory here?”
“Yeah, just a minute.”
They waited until the armory manager came outside. “You heard?”
“Yes,” the director said, “and we’re sorry, but we need half a dozen Winchesters and six-guns. I ordered this stuff last week.”
Another detective came outside and introduced himself as the officer in charge of the investigation. The manager explained the situation.
“Well,” the detective said, “Edwards didn’t use a Winchester or a six-gun, so I guess you can give them to these people.”
“We’ll have them back this afternoon,” Wells said. They loaded the guns and blank ammunition into the golf cart and returned to the set.
Wells waved Cato over. “Seems Grif Edwards has shot himself over at the armory.”
“Jesus!” Cato said. “Why would he do that?”
“Who knows?” Wells said. “Let’s get back to work.”
ED EAGLE AND Susannah Wilde took off from Santa Fe and headed for Los Angeles. They were halfway there before Eagle put it all together in his mind. “I’ve got it,” he said.
“Got what?”
“Wells had nothing to do with the attempt on your life; that was Barbara, as we’ve always thought. But she used the same hit man that Wells used.”
“How would Barbara and Wells be using the same hit man?”
“The connection is the movie business. Barbara’s pal, Jimmy Long, is a producer, too, and he works out of Centurion. I’d be willing to bet that Jack Cato worked in at least one of his pictures.”
“That makes sense as a connection, I guess. What are you going to do about all this?”
“First, I’m going to talk to two P.I.s who work for me sometime, then I’m going to talk to Don Wells, then I’m going to talk to the chief of police.”
THEY WERE MET at Santa Monica Airport by Cupie Dalton and Vittorio. Eagle made the introductions, then he talked with the two men while Susannah went inside to freshen up.
“How are you progressing?” Eagle asked.
“We can get it done,” Cupie said, “but first, we’ve got to solve a problem.”
“What problem?”
“The LAPD has got surveillance on Barbara; we can’t get to her as long as that’s the case.”
“Well, shit,” Eagle said. “That’s my fault; I asked Joe Sams to have her watched.”
“Can’t you ask him to call off his men?” Cupie asked.
Vittorio spoke up. “That’s not very smart,” he said. “If you do that, and then we do our job, Sams will make the connection.”
“You’re right, Vittorio,” Eagle said. “Let me think about how to do this. You two just keep an eye on her and let me know if she starts looking like she’s leaving L.A.”
“Whatever you say, Ed,” Cupie said. The two men got into their car and drove away.
Eagle went inside the FBO, found an empty conference room and called Don Wells.
“Hello, Ed,” Wells said.
“Don, there have been developments.”
