Eagle and Susannah exchanged a glance. “Oh,” Eagle said.

“I hope I did the correct thing,” Wilen said. “You didn’t ask that I keep it confidential.”

“You’re quite right, Joe, I didn’t, and nothing you did was incorrect.”

“Are you in your new house, yet?” Susannah asked Sandi Wilen.

“In would be too strong a word, but we’re got all the basic furniture, and before I go back to Palo Alto I expect to have it in pretty good shape. We’ll be sleeping there from tomorrow night.”

“I bought Walter Keeler’s home furnishings from his Palo Alto house,” Wilen said. “Had everything valued, then bought it from the estate, including two cars. The moving van will be here tomorrow.”

“That should save a lot of time,” Eagle said.

“Walter and I had similar taste,” Sandi said, “so it’s a good fit. It will remind us of him, too. We’re going to miss him.”

“I’m sure,” Eagle replied.

“I’ve joined the golf club at Las Campanas,” Wilen said, “so Ed, you and I will have to play before I start my jet training.”

“I’d like that,” Eagle said. “Joe, you said that Mrs. Keeler got occupancy of an apartment. Where?”

“In San Francisco. Walter bought it a week before he died, paid seven million dollars for it.”

“Whew!” Susannah said. “She’ll be well housed.”

“She can’t sell it, though?” Eagle asked.

“Nope, and she can’t rent it, either.”

“Well, Mrs. Keeler is going to be a very angry woman,” Eagle said, half under his breath.

“What?”

“Nothing, Joe. Tell us about the house.”

BARBARA/ELEANOR EAGLE/KEELER GOT off an airplane in Los Angeles and took a cab to Jimmy Long’s house. Jimmy greeted her with a big hug.

“Hey, baby,” he said. “I’m glad to see you.”

“Oh, Jimmy, I’m glad to see you, too,” she said.

He took her bags upstairs and had a drink waiting for her when she came down.

“God, I’m glad to be out of San Francisco,” she said, sinking into a chair.

“I guess the memories are not good.”

“Right, but not for the reason you think.”

“I don’t understand. The town made you a billionaire; why wouldn’t you love it?”

She told him about Eagle’s letter and Walter’s change of heart. “I got fifty grand a month and the use-the use, mind you-of the apartment, and that’s all.”

“That’s horrible, sweetheart,” Jimmy said. “Still, you did all right for the work of a week or two.”

“I guess so,” she said, “but it’s depressing.” She took a long draw of her drink. “Jimmy, darling, can I ask you a question in confidence?”

“Of course.”

“I mean it. This is just between you and me.”

“Of course.”

“You know a lot of people, a lot of different sorts of people, right?”

“Yes, I suppose I do.”

“Did you ever run across anyone in your travels through life who would do anything for money?”

“Boy, have I! That pretty much describes everybody in this town!”

“I mean this quite literally, Jimmy.”

“What, specifically, did you have in mind that somebody might do for money?”

“I suppose what I’m talking about is a hit man.”

Jimmy looked at her for a moment. “Are you quite serious?”

“Quite.”

Jimmy took a sip of his drink and looked thoughtful. “There have been rumors around town for years about a guy named Al who owns a gun shop on Melrose, but I’m not even sure he’s still alive. And if he is, he’s probably too old for that sort of work.”

“Who else?”

Jimmy thought some more. “You know, I produced a western over at Centurion a couple of years ago. Remember The Long Ride?”

“Sure, I do. I loved it.”

“There was a stuntman on that picture that I heard a rumor about. Somebody told me that he had arranged a car ‘accident’ some years back. Out on the Pacific Coast Highway, I think.”

“What was his name.”

“Jack… Cass. No, Cato. Jack Cato.”

“I’d like to meet him,” she said.

ALEX REESE MADE a call to Tijuana, to a cop he knew on the federal police force there.

“This is Captain Rios,” the voice said.

“Juan, this is Alex Reese, in Santa Fe. How are you?”

“Very well, Alejandro! And you?”

“I’m just fine. I’m working a case that requires some information from Tijuana, and I hope you can help me.”

“Of course, if I can.”

“There is a hotel near the bullring called Parador.”

“Yes, I know it. It is one step up from a flea farm.”

Reese gave him the dates. “I need to know if two men stayed there. Their names are Cato and Edwards. Could you find out for me?”

“I will do so immediately,” Rios said. “Can you hold?”

Reese waited for three or four minutes, then Rios came back on the line.

“Alex? There were two American couples at the hotel on those dates, registered under those two names.”

“Couples?”

“As in a man and a woman? Mr. and Mrs. Jack Cato and Mr. and Mrs. Griffen Edwards. The clerk remembered that they paid in cash.”

“Thank you, Juan, and it’s good to talk to you again. Let me know if I can ever do anything for you in Santa Fe.”

“I will do so, Alex. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye.” Reese hung up and pondered this information. Why did neither Cato nor Edwards mention women? He picked up the phone and called Jeff Bender at Centurion.

“Bender.”

“Jeff, it’s Alex Reese. I need some more information, and I wonder if you could get it for me?”

“If I can.”

“I checked out the Parador Hotel in Tijuana, and there were two American couples registered under the names of Cato and Edwards on the relevant dates. Could you ask the two guys who the women were? I’d like to know if they have the names ready for the question, and, of course, who they were, so I can talk to them. I need phone numbers, too.”

“Sure, Alex, I’ll talk to them after lunch; I’m tied up until then.”

“You’ve got my number.” Reese hung up and went to work on airline reservations between L.A. and Albuquerque the weekend of the murders.

JACK CATO HAD a letter delivered by the studio mailman, an unusual event, since he got his mail at home. There was no return address, but the postmark was Los Angeles. He opened it and found a single sheet of paper.

Mr. Cato,

You come very well recommended. I have a highly paid job open that might interest you. If you’d like to know more, please be at the Seaside Café near the Santa Monica Pier at noon tomorrow. Take a table outside, sit facingthe sea, and when I’m sure you’ve come alone, I’ll join you. If you don’t show, I won’t contact you again.

Cato’s first thought was that this was a setup, maybe by that cop from Santa Fe. His phone rang, and he picked it up. “Jack Cato.”

“Hi, Jack. It’s Jeff Bender. The Santa Fe cop called and asked me to check something with you.”

“What’s that?”

“Were you and Grif Edwards with anybody in Tijuana?”

“Yeah, there were a couple of girls.”

“I need their names and phone numbers.”

Cato gave him the names. “They’re both in the L.A. phone book; they room together.”

“Okay, Jack. Thanks. I don’t think you’ll hear any more from Detective Reese. He’s already back in Santa Fe.”

Cato hung up and read the letter again. What the hell, there was nothing incriminating about checking this out.

BARBARA AND JIMMY LONG arrived at the Seaside Café at eleven thirty and took a table that allowed them to view the outside tables. At one minute past twelve a pickup truck pulled up to the curb, and a man got out.

“That’s Cato,” Jimmy said.

They watched as he chose a table and took a seat facing the Pacific Ocean.

“Order me the lobster salad,” Barbara said. “I’ll be right back.” She got up, took her handbag and walked outside.

CATO ORDERED A beer and began reading the menu.

“Sit still and close your eyes,” a woman’s voice said from behind him. She removed his sunglasses and put another pair on him. “All right,” she said a moment later, “you can open your eyes, but keep the glasses on.”