Santa Fe Rules Page 14

  “Well, there aren’t as many people and cars here as in L.A., and we’re also about seven thousand feet up in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains,” Wolf explained. “The mountain air is so clear that on some days you can see over a hundred miles.”

  When Wolf opened the door to the house, Flaps was all over them. At the sight of a child, the dog went berserk. The feeling, apparently, was mutual; the eight-year-old burst in, hugged the dog, and the two of them ran from room to room, Sara asking questions about everything, while Jane tried to quiet her and Wolf laughed at her questions.

  She found the Christmas tree immediately. “But it’s not decorated,” she complained.

  “That’s your job,” Wolf said. “Yours and your mother’s. The decorations are in those boxes.”

  By dinnertime the tree was magnificent, and all the presents were tucked under it. Jane fed Sara early and put her to bed, protesting; Flaps wouldn’t leave the child’s room. Wolf made pasta and a salad, and they sat at the kitchen table and ate slowly.

  “I’ve missed you,” Wolf said.

  “I’ve missed being here,” Jane replied. “Life has seemed dull.”

  “Have you been working?”

  “Not on a feature. I cut two commercials that a friend shot. That pays the bills while I build a career.”

  “You’re not going to have to worry about a career when L.A. Days is released. The phone is going to be ringing off the hook.”

  She grinned. “That would be nice.”

  “How do you feel about your agent?”

  “Not so hot. I seem to get all the work myself; he just negotiates the contracts.”

  “Do you have an out in your contract with him?”

  “Thirty days notice.”

  “Call him tomorrow and fire him.”

  “But then I won’t have an agent at all.”

  “You’ll have an agent by the middle of January, I promise you. There’s a young woman at the Creative Artists Agency who’s doing great things for people on the production side; I’ll call her. She’d be perfect for you.”

  “It’s scary being without an agent, even for a month.”

  “You’ve got to get that thirty days out of the way; you don’t want him suing you for breach of contract later.”

  “All right, I’ll do it.”

  “I like it that you trust me so much,” he said.

  “I owe you a lot.”

  “You don’t owe me anything. I owe you for the way you came through on L.A. Days.”

  “It was the kind of break everybody in this business dreams of.”

  “It was a break for me, too,” he said honestly.

  “I’m glad you think so.”

  “Sara is an amazing child.”

  Jane laughed. “She’s a handful, she really is.”

  “She’s extraordinarily bright.”

  “She is that. She drove her teachers crazy for a while because she learns so fast; she’s in a special class for bright kids now.”

  “She also has the good fortune of looking like her mother.”

  Jane laughed. “When she’s eighteen, I plan to start passing her off as my sister.”

  “Good plan; it’ll work.”

  “So how’s work on Jack’s script coming along?” she asked.

  “It’s finished. Oh, there’ll be the inevitable changes as we get closer to production, but I’ve taken it as far as I can, for the moment. It’s lean now, and that’ll give us a little room to get creative during shooting.”

  “What are you going to do for a director?”

  “I haven’t figured that out yet. I can’t go into production until this mess is behind me, anyway, so there’s nothing pressing about figuring that out.”

  “Why don’t you direct?” she asked.

  “Oh, no,” he said, throwing up his hands as if to ward off an attack. “That’s not for me; I’d rather stay above it all and complain about the director.”

  “You’d be a terrific director. I know; I worked on L.A. Days with you, remember? You were always improving Jack’s work. You knew when the camera should have been placed better. You were right on target in your comments on the performances.”

  “That’s kind, my dear, but I don’t even know if I could get the film financed if I directed.”

  “You’ve got a deal with Centurion, haven’t you?”

  “Sure, but that was with Jack directing.”

  “Listen, Centurion is yanking teenagers out of UCLA film school and throwing money at them. Why do you think they wouldn’t go with somebody as experienced as you are?”

  “With Jack, we had the final cut; they’d never give me that.”

  “They might. And even if they won’t, they’ll have to after your first feature.”

  “You’ve got a lot of confidence in me,” Wolf said.

  “No more than you’ve got in me.”

  Wolf took a deep breath. “This is scary,” he said. “I mean, I’ve thought about this, sure, but not seriously.”

  “Who were you thinking about to direct the new project?”

  “Nobody, really. I didn’t have a name in mind.”

  “You were thinking about you, that’s what you were doing. You just wouldn’t admit it to yourself.”

  “I’ll think about it,” Wolf said. “But I don’t think I’ll do it. It’s too much responsibility, producing and directing.”

  “No, it’s not. Dozens have done it, and most of them weren’t any smarter than you.”

  “Well, I—” The doorbell rang, causing Wolf to jump a foot. “Excuse me.” He got up and walked to the back door, a few yards away. When he opened it, he recognized the two men immediately—Carreras of the Santa Fe Police Department and Warren of the state police; they had interviewed him at the beginning. He felt sick to his stomach.

  “Mr. Willett,” the Latino officer said, showing a badge, “you’re under arrest on a charge of triple first-degree homicide. I’ll have to ask you to come with us, please.”

  Wolf tried to speak and failed, then tried again. His bowels felt loose. “I’d like to call my attorney,” he finally managed to croak.

  “You can do that from the police station,” the officer said. “Get your coat.”

  The two officers stood and watched as he went to a closet and got a coat. He came back to the table, where Jane sat, looking frightened. “Jane,” he said, “I have to go down to the police station for a while. Please call Ed Eagle for me and tell him where I am. The number is in my address book in the study.”

  “Let’s go, Mr. Willett,” the officer said.

  Wolf stood his ground. “If for any reason I can’t get back tonight, I’ll have Ed call you and explain.” He put his car keys on the table. “Use the house as your own, and the car. Show Sara some of the town; there are some guidebooks in the study.”

  “Mr. Willett?” the officer said.

  “Jane, don’t worry about this. It’s going to be all right. Just call Ed Eagle, all right?”

  She squeezed his hand. “Of course, Wolf. Don’t worry about us. We’ll be all right.”

  He smiled at her and left the house with the two officers. He heard a clink of metal, and handcuffs were produced. “You won’t need those,” he said.

  “Sorry, Mr. Willett, it’s policy.”

  His hands were drawn behind his back, and he felt cold steel encircle his wrists. As they walked toward the police car, Carreras began reading Wolf his rights.

  CHAPTER

  26

  The two policemen drove Wolf to the Santa Fe County Detention Center, a low adobe structure on Airport Road. Wolf had passed it dozens of times on the way to and from his airplane, never thinking that he might one day end up there.

  A sergeant booked him. He was told to empty his pockets, and his wristwatch and belt were taken away; he was allowed to keep a quarter, then everything else was sealed in an envelope and he was given a receipt. During this process he stood between a very dirty drunk who could hardly stay on his fee
t and a short, wiry Latino who, although bleeding copiously from an apparent knife wound to his arm, remained handcuffed, while cursing all those around him, including Wolf, who tried to meet all this new experience with numbness.

  Carreras led him down a hallway and stopped before a pay phone. “Okay,” the officer said, “you can call your lawyer—or whoever you like.”

  Wolf thought for a minute. Jane would already have called Ed Eagle; he put the quarter in the phone and dialed his own number.

  “Hello?” Jane said, sounding anxious.

  “Hi, it’s me. Did you get hold of Ed?”

  “He was out. I left a message on his answering machine, and I called his office and left a message on the machine there, too.”

  “He’s probably at dinner. We’ll hear from him soon. Are you all right?”

  “Of course, but what about you?”

  “I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.”

  Carreras broke in. “Okay, that’s it. You’ll have to hang up now.”

  “I’m being paged,” Wolf said. “Talk to you soon.”

  “I’ll keep trying Eagle,” she said.

  He hung up the telephone. “All right, now what?” He did his best to sound calm, but he was seething with fear inside. His attempt at numbness wasn’t working.

  “Follow me,” Carreras said. He led the way, while the silent Warren followed Wolf. They entered a small, windowless room that stank of stale tobacco smoke; a steel table and four matching chairs were the only furniture, and a tape recorder was on the table. “Have a seat.”

  Wolf sat down.

  Carreras produced a pack of cigarettes. “Care for one?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Mind if I smoke?”

  “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t.”

  This brought Carreras up short. He thought about it, then put away the cigarettes. “Sure,” he said. “Look, Wolf—can I call you Wolf?”

  “If you like.”

  “I’m Joe, and this is Sam. I want to keep this on a friendly basis.”

  “Okay with me, Joe, Sam.”

  “You mind if I tape-record our conversation?”

  “I thought this was going to be friendly.”

  “It’s for your protection. That way we can’t claim you said something you didn’t.”

  “Okay, turn it on.”

  Carreras turned on the machine and spoke into one of the microphones. “Questioning of Wolf Willett conducted by Captain Joe Carreras and Major Sam Warren at the Santa Fe City Jail.” He added the date and time, then read Wolf his rights again. “Do you understand these rights?”

  “Yes,” Wolf said.

  “Have you been given an opportunity to call your lawyer?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you willing to answer our questions at this time?”

  Wolf was starting to feel better now, more confident. “All right. I’ll let you know if I change my mind.”

  “You do that. State your name and address for the record.”

  “Wolf Willett, Wilderness Gate, Santa Fe.”

  Carreras loosened his tie. “Okay, Wolf, what we want to do is clear this thing up once and for all.”

  “I’d be very happy if we could do that,” Wolf said sincerely.

  “During the time since Sam and I talked with you the last time, a lot has come out.”

  “I’d be interested to hear about it,” Wolf said, leaning forward.

  “Well, let’s just say that what’s come out hasn’t backed up your story. In fact, everything we’ve learned has contradicted what you’ve told us.”

  Wolf felt a sting of alarm. They obviously knew something he didn’t. “I don’t see how that’s possible,” he said. “I’ve told you the truth right down the line.” The truth as he knew it, he reminded himself. What truth did they know?

  Carreras shook his head sadly. “You told us you didn’t know one James Grafton.”

  “I don’t. I’d never heard the name until Ed Eagle mentioned it to me.”

  “Come on, Wolf, we’re wasting time here. We’ve got witnesses who can put you in a Los Angeles restaurant, having lunch with Grafton. A very friendly and intense lunch—just the two of you.”

  Wolf was stunned. “That’s ridiculous. What restaurant? When?”

  “Don’t worry, it’ll all come out at your trial. We’ve also got a witness who can put you in that bedroom that night, when your wife and Grafton and Jack Tinney died.”

  “What?” He was terrified now. His worst nightmare was coming true.

  “And you didn’t tell us that Jack Tinney made a will a couple of months ago that leaves you everything.”

  “I didn’t even know that the last time I saw you,” Wolf said, trying not to hyperventilate.

  Carreras was angry now, and his voice began to rise. “That stuff about not remembering anything just isn’t going to work, Wolf. We know too much, and let me tell you, you sonofabitch, we’re going to nail you for these three murders. You’re going to get the needle.”

  Before Wolf could speak, Warren broke in. “Hold it, Joe,” he said, placing a hand on the officer’s shoulder. “Look, why don’t you go have a smoke and let me talk to Wolf?”

  Carreras glared at Wolf. “Okay, Sam, but you better talk some sense into this guy, or when I come back I’m going to take him apart.” He got up and left. He pointedly lit a cigarette at the door and blew the smoke back into the room.

  “Take it easy, Wolf,” Warren said, leaning back in his chair. “It doesn’t have to be as bad as all that. Would you like some coffee?”

  Wolf’s mouth was dry. “A soft drink, maybe.”

  “Sure.” Warren got up and left the room. He came back a moment later with a diet cola. “Hope this is all right,” he said. “The machine was out of everything else.”

  “It’s fine,” Wolf said gratefully, sipping the drink, thankful for the icy wetness against his parched throat.

  Warren leaned forward. “Now, look. I’m afraid you’re zipped up on all sides here. Let me explain something to you that your lawyer may not have told you.”

  “All right.”

  “New Mexico has the death penalty.”

  “I’m aware of that, but it’s only if a police officer is murdered, isn’t it?” That thought had given Wolf the only peace he had had with regard to what might happen to him.

  “I’m afraid not,” Warren said. “You can also get the death penalty for killing a witness to a murder.”

  “A witness?” Wolf asked weakly.

  Warren nodded gravely. “You see, when you killed the first of those three people, the other two immediately became witnesses.” He stopped and waited for this information to sink in.

  Wolf gulped but didn’t reply.

  “Wolf, I want to help you if I can, and if you’ll let me, I think I can save your life.”

  “That would be nice,” Wolf said.

  “This is what I think I can do—I’ll have to talk to the D.A., of course, but with my experience of him, I think he’ll go along. He wants to clear this up as much as anybody.”

  “What did you have in mind?” Wolf asked.

  “Joe is right about the needle. If you go to trial on this, with what we’ve got, you’ll be convicted of three counts of murder one, two of them of witnesses, and in New Mexico that makes the death penalty a certainty. But that doesn’t have to happen. I mean, I don’t think you planned this thing. Hell, it could happen to anybody. If I walked into a room and found my wife in bed with my partner and another guy, I’m not sure I could answer for myself. I might do just what you did. It’s obvious to me that this was done while you were in a state of sudden and intense anger, brought on by the worst kind of provocation. And I’m willing to stand up in a courtroom and tell a judge just that, put my whole professional reputation on the line to back you up.”

  “That’s good of you, Sam,” Wolf said, by this time grateful for any kind word.

  “I’m willing to call up the D.A. right now and re
commend that he accept a plea of diminished responsibility and agree to, say, twenty-five to life—no, I’ll go further than that; I’ll recommend five-to-fifteen—I mean, shit, you were out of your mind with rage that night. That would mean you’d be eligible for parole in two and a half years, Wolf. That’s nothing, believe me. You’d do it standing on your head, and when you’re a free man again, you can make a movie about the experience. That’d do big business, wouldn’t it?”

  Suddenly two and a half years in prison looked good to Wolf. If it would bring an end to all this, if it would get the pressure off, it might be worth it. He stopped himself. “This is awfully nice of you, Sam, but I think I’d better talk to my lawyer.”

  “Sure, Wolf, you can do that,” Warren said reasonably, “but you’re a lawyer; you’re capable of handling yourself.” He paused. “I’ve got a serious problem here,” he confided.

  “What’s that?”

  “Well, don’t tell Carreras I told you this, but he’s hot to trot. He didn’t even want me to have this conversation; I had to talk him into it. If he comes back in here and we haven’t come to an arrangement, I don’t know if I can hold him off.”

  Wolf was silent.

  “You’re a lawyer. If you had a client in this position, what would you advise him to do?”

  Wolf still didn’t speak.

  “I have to tell you, Wolf,” Warren continued, “I can’t contain Carreras. This is his case, really; I’m just a state observer, and if he won’t go along with me, well, I can’t go to the D.A. on my own. I’ve got to have something to give Carreras when he comes back in this room.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Come on, Wolf, what’s it going to be? Two and a half years—and I think I can get you into a minimum-security joint, a country club—or a trial and a sentence of death, and a year or two down the road, you watch them slip that needle into your arm? What’s it going to be?”

  Wolf placed his hands on the table to keep them from trembling and looked down at them. “Sam, get Carreras back in here. I’ve got something to get off my chest.”

  Warren nearly knocked over his chair getting up. “Sure, Wolf. I’ll be right back.” He left the room. When he came back, Carreras was with him, looking expectant. They sat down. “All right, Wolf, tell us,” Warren said.