The Ed Eagle Novels Page 7

  “Because I was in my home office all afternoon, and I could see him out the window, working on my car in the driveway.”

  “Your witness,” he said to Martinez.

  Martinez stood up. “Mr. Cartwright, you said you didn’t know Mr. Big Bear before that day?”

  “That’s right; never set eyes on him before, until he came to my house that day.”

  “Are you related to Mr. Big Bear by blood or marriage?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Were you acquainted with Mr. Big Bear’s girlfriend?”

  “Didn’t know he had one, until I read it in the New Mexican.”

  “No further questions.” Martinez sat down.

  “Mr. Eagle, you have a motion?”

  “Yes, your honor.” He reached into his briefcase and removed the coroner’s report. “Judge, the coroner has established that the murders in Mr. Big Bear’s trailer occurred between two and four in the afternoon. Every minute of Mr. Big Bear’s day has been accounted for—I’m sure the district attorney’s investigators can confirm that—and, in particular, Mr. Cartwright’s testimony has confirmed that Mr. Big Bear could not possibly have committed these murders. Therefore I move for dismissal of all charges and the immediate release of Mr. Big Bear.”

  “Mr. Martinez?” the judge said.

  “No objection, your honor.”

  “The charges are dismissed for lack of evidence. Mr. Big Bear, you’ll be returned to the Santa Fe County Correctional Center and processed out today.”

  Joe Big Bear pumped Eagle’s hand. “Thank you, Mr. Eagle!” he said.

  Eagle took him to one side of the courtroom and spoke to him quietly. “Joe, let’s talk about my fee.”

  “I’d like to work it off, or pay you overtime,” Big Bear said.

  “There’s an easier way,” Eagle said. “Do you own a gun?”

  “Yessir, I’ve got a shotgun—or at least the police have it—and I’ve got a handgun under the seat of my truck.”

  “This hired killer you told me about is getting out of jail at ten o’clock tomorrow morning, right?”

  “That’s what he said.”

  “And he’s going to meet this woman in the parking lot who’s going to give him some money?”

  “That’s right.”

  “After that’s done, I’d like you to meet this gentleman and persuade him not to carry out his contract. You think you can do that?”

  “One way or another.”

  “Joe, I don’t want you to commit any crimes in the process; we just got you out. Now let’s keep you out, all right?”

  “I got you, Mr. Eagle.”

  “I wanted to know if you had the gun only for purposes of self-defense.”

  “I understand.”

  “Then I want you to ask this fellow who it was who hired him and when he’s getting out, and when he does, I want you to have a similar conversation with him. Tell him he can keep the money, because my wife isn’t coming back to Santa Fe. In both cases, you can use the threat of calling the police on them, since you overheard their conversation.”

  “I understand.”

  Eagle pressed five one-hundred-dollar bills into Big Bear’s hand. “This will cover your expenses, including cab fare back to your truck. Keep me posted on your progress, will you?”

  “Yessir.”

  “When this is done, you won’t owe me a dime.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Eagle.”

  Eagle shook his hand and left the courthouse, relieved that the situation had been taken care of.

  Eighteen

  CUPIE AND VITTORIO LANDED AT ACAPULCO AND WENT to the airport car rental counter. The only thing available was a huge Toyota 4Runner.

  “I hate cars this big,” Cupie said, hoisting himself into the front passenger seat.

  “Truck,” Vittorio replied.

  “Whatever. How do we know Barbara is really on her way to Acapulco?” Cupie was flexing his left shoulder.

  “The woman knows nothing about Mexico,” Vittorio said, “just the hot spots. Eagle said Puerto Vallarta was the only place here she’d ever been, but she’s heard of Acapulco, and since we’ve got her clothes, she needs a place with fancy shops. I think this is where we’ll find her.”

  “Good point. Let’s make the rounds of a few hotels and buy some desk clerks, so we’ll get a call when she checks in.” Cupie took off his sling and flexed his shoulder some more.

  “How’s the shoulder?” Vittorio asked.

  “Better,” Cupie replied. “I need to stretch it some, so I’m ditching the sling. I also need a suit without a bullet hole in it. The hotel in Mexico city sent it to the cleaners, but they didn’t fix the hole.”

  Their first stop was the Acapulco Princess, in one of whose shops Cupie found a seersucker suit and waited while the trouser bottoms were hemmed. Then they continued to another few likely hotels, leaving a trail of Ed Eagle’s hundred-dollar bills.

  “I just thought of something,” Cupie said.

  “What?”

  “If somebody at Barbara’s bank made a call to the kidnappers about her three hundred grand, I’ll bet the same party has already made another call. I mean, she’s still got the three hundred grand, and she doesn’t even have to get it out of the bank; all she has to do is countersign the traveler’s checks, and the kidnappers can probably persuade her to do that.”

  “She’ll probably sign them Minnie Mouse,” Vittorio said drily. “And they don’t know where she is.”

  “If you figured out where she went, so can the kidnappers. Three hundred grand is a great incentive not to give up.”

  “In that case,” Vittorio said, “they’re probably only an hour or two behind her, maybe less.”

  “A scary thought,” Cupie said. “Maybe it will scare her when we tell her.” He studied the map the rental car agent had given them. “You know,” he said, “the main road from Puerto Vallarta is only a couple of blocks from where we are right now. Why don’t we just drive over there, park, and wait for her to show up?”

  “Good idea.”

  “You said she rented a Cherokee?”

  “A Grand Cherokee is what the agent said. Red.”

  “What a nice color; pops right out.”

  Cupie directed Vittorio to the highway, and they found a spot a little way up a hill that gave them a view for half a mile up the road. They parked and settled in to wait.

  “You an Angelino?” Vittorio asked.

  “Grew up out in the San Fernando Valley,” Cupie replied. “Roy Rogers used to sing a song about it. Made me proud.”

  “College?”

  “Two years of night school. Wish I’d gotten a degree; I might have made lieutenant or even captain. You?”

  “Grew up on the reservation, got a degree at Santa Fe State, did four years with the tribal police. Boring. Found out I was good at tracking people. I guess it’s a genetic thing; Apaches are great trackers. The signs you follow these days are different, of course. Instead of going rock to rock, you go cheap motel to cheap motel. If I had a hundred bucks for every cheap motel door I’ve kicked in, I could retire.”

  “Me, too. Family?”

  “Nah, I like single.”

  “Girl?”

  “I go from woman to woman; best not to get tied down. When I get to where I need somebody to cut my meat and wipe my chin, I’ll settle down. You?”

  “Wife died six years ago—cancer. I’ve got a daughter graduating from UCLA next year. She wants to join the LAPD. Can’t seem to talk her out of it.”

  “UCLA sounds expensive.”

  “I live on my pension; the P.I. work pays for UCLA. Maybe when she’s out on her own I’ll just play golf all the time.”

  “I play golf,” Vittorio said.

  “Yeah? I never saw an Indian on a golf course.”

  “Maybe not in L.A.”

  “Something red,” Cupie said.

  “Indians aren’t red.”

  Cupie nodded. “Up the road, something red.
”

  Vittorio squinted, then produced a small pair of binoculars from a pocket. “Grand Cherokee,” he said.

  “Check out four cars back.”

  Vittorio moved the binoculars slightly. “Black Suburban,” he said, “with black windows. Trying to get around the traffic.”

  Cupie sighed. “Here we go again.”

  Nineteen

  VITTORIO STARTED THE CAR, AND AS SOON AS THE BLACK Suburban passed, he gunned the V-8 engine and forced his way into the line of traffic, nearly causing a multicar accident.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Cupie demanded, struggling to get his seat belt on.

  “Is it the same Suburban?”

  “Don’t you see the bullet hole in the rear window?”

  “Right. Hang on; big curve coming up.”

  “What’s your plan, Vittorio? If we chase these guys, they’re eventually going to get out of their car and shoot at us. You want to get shot at again?”

  “Nope, I want to avoid getting shot at.”

  They entered a sharp curve to the left, and Vittorio stomped on the accelerator again.

  “Slow down!” Cupie yelled. “You want to hit them?”

  “Yeah,” Vittorio said, his face screwed up with concentration.

  “You’re tailgating!”

  “Shut up, Cupie.” Well into the curve Vittorio pulled to the left, brought his front bumper in line with the Suburban’s rear bumper and jerked the wheel hard to the right. The bumpers connected, and the rear end of the Suburban began sliding to the right. It continued sliding until the big vehicle had rotated about a hundred and fifty degrees, then its rear wheels left the road and the Suburban began to travel, backward, down a steep, dirt embankment and toward a big copse of thick brush.

  “Holy shit!” Cupie yelled.

  They passed the Suburban when it had already reached the brush and was tearing, backward, into it.

  “Where the hell did you learn to do that?”

  “I used to drive in demolition derbies when I was a kid,” Vittorio said, permitting himself a rare, small smile. “Look back. Did they turn over?”

  “No, but they’re still going backward.”

  “Shit! I wanted to roll them over. I guess I’m a little rusty.”

  “They’re going to be busy for a while, getting out of those brambles and back on the road.”

  “Barbara is still three cars ahead of us,” Vittorio said, pointing.

  “Good. Let’s hang back until she parks the car, then reintroduce ourselves.”

  They followed the red Grand Cherokee into the shopping district of the village and watched Barbara park in front of a restaurant and go inside. They jumped down from the big Toyota and followed her.

  The headwaiter was seating Barbara in a booth at the rear of the restaurant, and when he returned, Cupie waved him off. “We’re with the lady,” he said, brushing past the man.

  Barbara didn’t see them coming until Cupie slid into the booth beside her and Vittorio sat opposite.

  “Good afternoon,” Cupie said. “I missed lunch, too. What kind of food they got here?” He looked over her shoulder at the menu.

  “Mexican,” she said acidly, glaring at him. “Why don’t you two guys just leave me alone?”

  “Because if we do that, you’ll be kidnapped,” Cupie replied. “Didn’t you see the big black Suburban following you as you drove into Acapulco?”

  “Liar.”

  “No lie, sweetheart. Vittorio, here, managed to run them off the road in a way that must have been very embarrassing for them, but they’ll be back. This is the second time your bank gave them a call.”

  “I’m having the combination plate,” she said, handing Cupie the menu.

  A waitress came over, and she ordered.

  “Whatever she’s having,” Cupie said.

  Vittorio nodded. “Same here.”

  “And three Carta Blancas,” Cupie added.

  “Well, this is very cozy,” Barbara said. “How about if I cause a big scene, and they call the cops. Would you like that?”

  “Okay by me,” Cupie said. “But you should know that I paid the cops in Puerto Vallarta a visit and swore out a complaint against you for shooting me, so they’re looking for you all over the country right now.”

  “Lying again.”

  “Would you like me to ask the headwaiter to call them?” Cupie asked, waving at the man, who started over.

  “No!” she said.

  Cupie waved off the man as their beers arrived, then he took a big swig. “Ahhhh,” he said, “that hits the spot.” He turned back to Barbara. “So let’s recap,” he said. “You’ve got three parties who insist on your company: the cops, the kidnappers and us. The cops will lock you away in a jail that will not meet your housekeeping standards and make you eat beans and rice with people you wouldn’t ordinarily see at dinner; on the other hand, the kidnappers will hurt you until you countersign all the travelers’ checks in your purse—they won’t take kindly to Minnie Mouse—then they’ll gang-rape you and leave you in an arroyo with a bullet in your brain; but all Vittorio and I want is for you to sign six blank sheets of paper, and then we’ll leave you alone. Who do you choose?”

  Barbara took a pull on her beer. “I’m thinking it over,” she said.

  “Any one of the options will meet our client’s wishes,” Cupie said, helpfully.

  “And you…What’s your name?”

  “Cupie Dalton, at your service.”

  “And what do you and the grim savage, here, really want?”

  “Only to be of service to our client, your very concerned husband.”

  “Could you use ten thousand dollars each, in cash?”

  “Why madam, are you trying to bribe us?”

  “Because that’s what I’ll give you to get me out of this country, without being arrested or kidnapped, and back into the United States.”

  Vittorio placed a file on the table, opened it and produced a pen. “Sign six sheets of paper with your proper name, and we’ll accept your offer.”

  Cupie spoke up again. “Just sign the papers, take the three hundred grand and we’ll head to El Norte.”

  Barbara picked up the pen, signed each of the papers, then put down the pen.

  Vittorio examined the signatures, closed the file and put it away.

  “Now,” she said, “do we have a deal?”

  “Sure, why not?” Cupie asked.

  “Well, I want to finish my lunch and get some sleep before we head out.”

  “I guess we could use some lunch and some sleep, too.”

  As if on cue, lunch arrived.

  “I wouldn’t drink the water,” Cupie said. “Stick to beer for everything but showering.”

  They dug in.

  “Oh, I forgot,” Cupie said. “Your husband told us to tell you that your plan to have him murdered didn’t work. The guy you hired and his accomplice are in jail.”

  They finished lunch, Cupie paid the check and they got up to leave. “Let me just remind you,” he said. “We already have what we want, so in effect, we’re now working for you. However, we do wish to be paid in advance; so we’d better go to a bank, so you can cash some traveler’s checks.”

  “All right,” she said. “I have to turn in my rental car and get my deposit back, too.”

  A few minutes later, Cupie and Vittorio were tucking cash into their pockets.

  “Remember,” Cupie said, “if you want to scamper now, go right ahead, but you won’t have our protection any more, and bad people will be looking for you.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Barbara said. “I’m tired; let’s find a hotel.”

  Twenty

  JOE BIG BEAR SAT IN HIS TRUCK OUTSIDE THE SANTA FE County Corrections Center and waited, eyeing the woman in the car across the lot, wearing a red bandanna on her head. She was better looking than he had expected.

  A few minutes after ten, the side door of the building was opened by a guard, and a dozen or fifteen men walked o
ut of the building, blinking in the bright sunlight. Big Bear knew two of them by name, though not personally. The one called Bobby walked directly over to the car of the woman in the bandanna and got in. A short conversation ensued, then she handed him an envelope. He inspected the contents carefully, then some sort of argument ensued. After a moment of this, Bobby got out of the car, looking out of sorts, and the woman drove away. Bobby began to hoof it down the street toward the bus stop.

  Big Bear drove out of the parking lot and pulled alongside the man. “Hey, Bobby, you need a lift?”

  Bobby eyed him suspiciously. “Do I know you?”

  “I got out yesterday. Come on, hop in.”

  Bobby got into the car. “Oh yeah, I seen you in the yard. How come you’re giving me a lift?”

  “Just passing by, and I saw you.”

  “You wasn’t passing by; you was parked in the lot back there. You haven’t asked me where I’m going.”

  “Oh, I know where you’re going,” Big Bear said. He reached down and pressed the switch that locked the doors. “Fasten your seat belt,” he said. “It’s the law.”

  Bobby reluctantly put on his seat belt. “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “I’m saving your life,” Big Bear replied.

  “How’s that?”

  “It’s like this: if you’d gone on your way and tried to kill Mr. Eagle, you’d end up with a bullet in your head.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I’m talking about the grand in your pocket and eleven more that what’s-his-name promised you.”

  “Harold?”

  “Yeah, Harold. What’s his last name? I forget.”

  “Fuentes.”

  “Yeah, Harold Fuentes. He the big guy with the bald head?”

  “No, he’s the medium-size guy with the gray hair and the ponytail.”

  “Right. Got it.”

  “How do you know about this, anyway?”

  “Word gets around,” Big Bear said. “It’s like this: Harold hired you to kill Mr. Eagle because he isn’t getting out for a couple of weeks. So he hires you, and that way, when Mr. Eagle dies, he’s in jail. Pretty good alibi, huh?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “And then, when Harold gets out, he meets you to give you the other eleven grand he promised you, and instead, he gives you a bullet. You’re gone, and he keeps all the money. The cops don’t much care who killed you, at least not the way they’d care who killed Mr. Eagle. Get the picture?”