EAGLE GOT A call from the LAPD a couple of days after his request to the chief.

“Mr. Eagle, this is Detective Barnes; the chief asked me to call you.”

“Yes, Detective.”

“We’ve had a team on Barbara Eagle for two days now, and all we’re seeing is shopping trips in the daytime and restaurants in the evening. Mr. Long seems to work at home as much as he does at the studio. I don’t know how much longer the chief will let us keep this up.”

“Has she met anybody on her shopping trips or in the restaurants?”

“Hasn’t spoken a word to anybody but store clerks and waiters and the diners, but we don’t have the phone tapped, so who knows? Oh, I don’t know if this is important, but she stopped in the Beverly Hills Post Office and mailed a package.”

“What sort of package?”

“Just a manila envelope.”

“She mailed a payoff to the hit man. Were you able to see an address?”

“No, sir, we couldn’t get close enough.”

“Okay, thanks very much, and thank the chief for me. Be sure and tell him about the envelope.” Eagle hung up. The weekend was coming, and he had an idea the hit man was coming, too.

He called Susannah, who was at her house, dealing with a washing-machine repairman. “Hello, there.”

“Hi, what’s happening?”

“Barbara is still in L.A., and the cops are keeping an eye on her.”

“That’s reassuring.”

“Don’t let it be. She was seen at the post office, mailing a package. That has to be the payment for killing Joe Wilen. I have a feeling we’re going to hear from her hit man this weekend, and I’d like you to stay at your house.”

“Not going to happen,” she said. “If the hit man shows up, you’re going to need another gun. You already know I can shoot.”

“Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ll have help. I want you out of harm’s way. Barbara saw you at the trial, and she may have recognized you from your movies. I hope you understand.”

“I understand, but I don’t like it.”

“After the weekend, you can come home to me.”

“Ed, I don’t think you’ve thought this through.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, suppose you catch the guy, or kill him. Do you think that’s going to stop Barbara?”

“Probably not,” he admitted.

“I think what you’re going to have to do is stop her before she gets to you.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“I think you should take whatever steps are necessary.”

“I’m not sure I like the sound of that.”

“I don’t like saying it, but you have to protect yourself. If you don’t, she’s going to keep trying until she wins.”

“Right now, we have to think about this weekend, so let’s talk about this another time,” Eagle said. “I’ll call you tomorrow. Bye-bye.”

Eagle called the district attorney.

“Bob Martínez.”

“It’s Ed Eagle, Bob.”

“Hello, Ed.”

“I need your help.”

Martínez chuckled. “In court?”

“Thanks, no. That I can handle by myself.”

“What, then?”

“I think Barbara is going to send a hit man to Santa Fe-the same guy who killed Joe Wilen in Palo Alto-probably this weekend.”

“Why do you think that?”

“You know her history. What would you expect her to do?”

“You have any idea who he is? A description would help.”

“No, no idea.”

Martínez didn’t speak for a moment. “You want some protection, is that it?”

“A couple of men will do, just for the weekend.”

“Let me call the chief. I’ll get back to you.”

“Thanks, Bob.”

DETECTIVE ALEX REESE was driving to Centurion Studios on Friday afternoon for his meeting when his cell phone buzzed.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Alex. It’s Raoul Hernández.”

“Hi, Raoul.” Hernández was a New Mexico state trooper who was also a pilot and who often flew state officials.

“Are you still in L.A.?”

"Yep, I’ve got one more interview, then I’ll get a plane home later this afternoon.”

"I’m in L.A., too, and I’ll give you a lift back to Santa Fe, if you can be at Santa Monica Airport in a couple of hours.”

“That would be great, Raoul. I’ll be there.”

“The airplane’s at Supermarine.”

“See you there.” Reese hung up. This was a nice break; now he wouldn’t have to fly to Albuquerque and take the shuttle bus to Santa Fe. He could be home for dinner.

At Centurion he went directly to Jeff Bender’s office. Soledad Rivera was sitting in Bender’s waiting room, and she glared at him as he passed through to Bender’s office. He had summoned her there from the costume department, where she worked with Tina López.

“Hi, Alex. She’s outside.”

“Yeah, I saw her.”

“Let’s get her in here, then,” Bender said, picking up his phone.

Soledad was more composed than she had been at their last meeting, Reese thought. “Good afternoon, Soledad,” he said.

“What do you want?” she asked, sounding hostile.

“I wanted to give you a chance to talk to me without Tina being here,” he said. “I think you’re about to get into a lot of trouble, and I want to help you, if I can.”

“You don’t want to help me,” she said, “and anyway, I don’t need your help. I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“Think about that, Soledad. If you testify in court that you were in Tijuana with Cato and Edwards, you’ll be in more trouble than you can imagine. Right at this moment, if you don’t talk to me, you’re obstructing justice.”

“I don’t have anything to say,” she said.

“Soledad, you have a good job and a nice life. Why would you want to throw that away, risk going to prison for the rest of your life?”

“I haven’t done anything wrong, and I don’t have anything to say.”

Reese and Bender exchanged a glance, and Bender shrugged.

Reese gave her his card. “If you change your mind, here’s my number. I can keep you out of jail, Soledad.”

She took the card but said nothing else, just walked out of the office.

“That didn’t go too well,” Reese said. “She was very emotional at our last meeting, and I thought she might break if I got her away from Tina, who is obviously in charge.”

“That reminds me,” Bender said. “A lot of gossip comes my way around here, and I heard something that might interest you.”

“What’s that?”

“This is just a rumor, mind you, and I can’t prove it, but I heard that Don Wells has been fucking Tina López for a while.”

“Before his wife’s murder?”

“That’s what I hear. I wish I could back it up, but I can’t.”

“That’s very interesting, Jeff.” He thanked the security chief for his help and left, headed for Santa Monica Airport.

AS DARKNESS APPROACHED, Jack Cato drove his car to the Compton airport, a small field southeast of Los Angeles International, then to the Compton Flying Club, where he had learned to fly fifteen years before and where he sometimes rented airplanes.

He parked his car and walked over to where the Beech Bonanza had been left parked for him. He opened the fuel caps and checked to be sure the airplane had been refueled, then he performed a preflight check and kicked away the chocks securing the wheels, finding the airplane’s key under the nosewheel chock.

He tossed his duffel and hat and the briefcase containing the sniper’s rifle into the rear seat, got the airplane started and taxied to the end of the runway. He called Socal Approach and gave them his tail number. “Departing Compton VFR, bound for Palmdale,” he said into the headset. “Request a squawk code and vectors to the Palmdale VOR.”

“Bonanza, squawk four-seven/four-seven cleared for takeoff. Fly runway heading and maintain VFR,” the controller said.

Cato taxied onto the runway and shoved the throttle forward. A moment later he lifted off just in time to see the upper limb of the sun sink into the Pacific. Twenty minutes later, after a number of vectored turns, he was at the Palmdale VOR, a navigation beacon. He thanked the Socal controller, was authorized to change frequencies, then switched off the transponder and turned the radio volume all the way down. Now he didn’t exist for the controllers, except as a primary radar target, so his tail number did not appear on their screens.