54
CUPIE AND VITTORIO were still making phone calls when there was a knock on the door of their motel room. Cupie answered the door. A tall, handsome man stood there.
“Ron! How are you? Come on in.” Cupie introduced him to Vittorio.
“I’m great, Cupie.” Gillette found a chair and settled down, looking way too good for his plain surroundings. “We all set to go?”
“We are. You have to take your girlfriend to dinner at a place called La Reserve at eight thirty. Give me her address, and a car will pick you up shortly before that.” Cupie made a note of it.
“What do I do there, just eat?”
Cupie showed him a photograph. “This woman will be having dinner there at the same time, probably alone. Her name is Eleanor Keeler, but she sometimes goes by the name of Barbara Eagle. I want you to see her, and above all, I want her to see you. Vittorio has arranged through a friend for you to be seated near her, and if possible I want you to chat her up. If that doesn’t work, follow her when she leaves and introduce yourself. You can use your real name; it won’t matter. That’s all you have to do, until tomorrow night.”
“Okay, got it.”
“Sorry, there’s also the postcard. Did you bring the photos I asked you to?”
Gillette took an envelope from his pocket and handed it to Cupie.
“They came out great.”
Cupie looked at the postcard prints, selected one and handed it to Gillette. “I want you to write what I tell you to on the back of the photo.”
Gillette took a handsome fountain pen from his pocket, uncapped it and took Cupie’s dictation.
“Keep the postcard, then tonight, when you leave La Reserve, leave it in an envelope with Barbara’s name on it at the front desk. Then wait for her call.”
“What do I do tomorrow night?” Gillette asked.
“She’ll accept your invitation, so welcome her, make her comfortable, give her a drink, then tell her it’s just going to be the two of you. Fuck her, if you can; it won’t be hard. Vittorio and I will be at hand, but she won’t see us. After that, just go along with the play. That’s all there is to it.”
“And what’s the play?”
“It’s better you don’t know.” Cupie gave him a few more instructions, then sent him on his way.
JACK CATO FINISHED his cerveza, then left the cantina, looking for a hotel. He nearly threw the gun and the plastic bag into a Dumpster but thought better of it. He wasn’t out of this alive yet, and he wasn’t going to take any chances. By the weekend, he should be free and clear; he’d collect his truck from Tijuana and vanish into Mexico. He had a couple of ideas about where he might settle, and the money Wells was bringing him would move him into a better real estate bracket. He was beginning to feel good about his new country of residence.
He found a hotel and was delighted to find a whore working the bar who looked a lot like Tina López. He hadn’t had a chance to fuck her before the end, so he made up for it with the girl from the bar.
RON GILLETTE AND his girl, Lauren Knight, arrived at La Reserve on time. Eleanor Keeler wasn’t in the restaurant yet, so they had a drink at the bar and caught up.
“You’re looking gorgeous, Lauren,” Gillette said.
“You, too, Ron. What have you been up to?”
“A little picture work, a little of this and that; you know my drill.”
“I do. How long can you stay?”
“Only tonight, I’m afraid. I’ll have to leave you tomorrow afternoon.” He looked up to see Eleanor Keeler being shown to her table. “Finish your drink,” he said to Lauren. “I’m starving.”
Eleanor Keeler was sitting on the banquette at one side of the dining room, and the headwaiter seated them next to her, at a corner table. Gillette slipped the headwaiter a fifty. “Good evening,” he said to Barbara as he slipped into his seat.
“Good evening,” she said, giving him a smile. Women always gave him a smile. He ordered another round of drinks and asked for a menu, then watched as a waiter poured Barbara a glass of champagne from a bottle of Veuve Cliquot Grand Dame.
“That’s my favorite champagne,” he said to her.
“Mine, too,” she said.
“I’m Ron Gillette, and this is Lauren Knight,” he said, offering his hand.
“Eleanor Keeler,” she said, squeezing his hand. “Do you two live in La Jolla?”
“Lauren does. I’m in town on my yacht, cruising.”
“Where are you cruising?”
"Oh, back up the coast,” he said. "I’m based in L.A. most of the time.”
“Is it Gillette, as in razor blades?” she asked.
The woman didn’t waste any time, he thought. “Yes, but I sold the company after I inherited some years back. Now I’m free as a bird.” He could see her becoming more interested.
He turned back to give Lauren some attention, since he wanted to get laid that night, but from time to time, they both talked more with Ms. Keeler. She finished dinner first.
“It was such a pleasure meeting you both,” she said, shaking their hands, then she said, more pointedly, to him, “I hope I’ll see you again sometime.”
“I hope so, too,” he said.
“What was that all about?” Lauren asked. “That stuff about the yacht?”
“I didn’t want her to think I lived here,” he replied. “She might have been hurt when I didn’t call her. Excuse me a minute, I have to go to the men’s room.”
“Don’t you dare follow her,” Lauren said.
“I’m headed in the opposite direction,” he replied, and did so.
He stopped at the front desk and asked for an envelope, then he inserted the postcard into it, wrote Eleanor Keeler’s name on it, sealed it and asked that it be delivered to her room. Then he returned to the dining room and collected Lauren.
The car was waiting for them and delivered them back to her La Jolla beach house, where they spent a very pleasant night together.
Barbara was getting ready for bed when an envelope was slid under her door. She opened it, read it and smiled broadly. What a nice invitation, she thought. She called the cell number and left a voice-mail message, accepting. “And I’m looking forward to it,” she said.
55
ALEX REESE WALKED around his hotel’s neighborhood with his cell phone in his pocket, waiting for the call. He walked all morning, had some lunch, then walked most of the afternoon. He didn’t know what else to do.
Finally, he called Captain Ferraro. “Afternoon, Captain. I’ve heard nothing from the CHP; how long should I wait?”
“I don’t know, Alex. You’d think they’d have him by now. Tell you what, give it until tomorrow morning, and if nothing happens, come on home. You can always go back for Cato. By the way, I took a call from a Lieutenant Dino Bacchetti of the NYPD. He says they’ve cracked Donald Wells’s alibi for the time of his wife’s former husband’s murder, and the case is wide open again. They’re reviewing all the work that was done in the original investigation, and he hopes they’ll have enough for an arrest.”
“I hope not,” Reese said. “I want to get my hands on Cato and get him to implicate Wells in his family’s murder before New York shows up and snatches him away.”
“You’ve got a point. Keep in touch.” The captain hung up.
Reese switched on the TV in his room and searched for something to watch that would take his mind off Jack Cato.
JACK CATO WAS at the FBO at the Acapulco airport half an hour early. He read an aviation magazine and waited nervously for Don Wells to show. He checked inside his overnight bag for the position of the gun inside.
At five minutes past three a Cessna CitationJet taxied up to the space in front of the terminal, and the door opened. A car pulled up to the airplane, and a crew member got off with some luggage and loaded it into the car. Then Don Wells stepped into the sunshine, a briefcase in his hand, and walked down the stairs and onto the tarmac. He said something to the crew member, then headed toward the FBO.