41 

CHITA ROMERO HAD just stepped out of the shower when her phone rang. Who would call this early? “Hello?”

“This is Dax. Got a pencil?”

“Just a moment.” She found one.

“I want you to call my pilot and tell him to get weather and fuel and file for Santa Fe, departure in ninety minutes.”

She thought he sounded a little shaky. “Got it. Are you all right, Dax?”

“Yes. Call the Santa Fe caretaker and tell him to get the housekeeper over there and clean, then leave my car at Signature Aviation at the airport.”

“Got it. Anything else?”

“Call Cupie Dalton and tell him I want the four toughest security men he can find, two of them to fly with me, the other two tomorrow, at the latest, in Santa Fe.”

“Got it.”

“I want my phones answered at Standard and routed to Santa Fe. Nobody is to know I’ve left town.”

“Got it.”

“I’ll call you for messages when I get there.” He hung up.

Chita made the calls, then was getting dressed when the phone rang; she was expecting Dax again. “Yes?”

“It’s Carlos. How about dinner tonight?”

“You’re on. Say, something has spooked Dax. He’s leaving for Santa Fe this morning, and he doesn’t want anybody to know he’s gone.”

“Interesting,” Carlos replied. “Seven o’clock?”

“See you then.”

•   •   •

AT EIGHT AM the contract cleaning lady let herself into Dax’s Hollywood Hills house. She had been there for an hour before she went into the garage for some bleach. She switched on the lights and stood stock-still while she tried to figure out what she was looking at.

•   •   •

SHORTLY AFTER NINE AM, a 911 operator answered a call. The woman gave her name and address. “There’s a woman in the house next door screaming bloody murder,” she said.

“Who lives there?”

“Nobody, I think. It used to belong to some movie guy. She’s still screaming—you better get somebody over there.”

“They’re on their way,” the operator said.

•   •   •

A PATROL CAR pulled into the Hollywood Hills driveway, and the cop got out and rang the bell. He heard a scream from inside, so he drew his weapon, backed up a step, and launched a kick at the door. The jamb splintered and the door flew open, revealing a woman sitting on the floor, screaming hoarsely.

He got her calmed down a little. “Are you alone in the house?” She nodded, then thought better of it and shook her head. “In the garage,” she said, pointing.

The cop found the door open; he stuck his head inside and yelled, “LAPD! Show yourselves!” Then he saw the heap beside the Ping-Pong table. He moved cautiously into the garage, cleared the area, then stood looking at the two corpses.

His body radio sputtered. “Bravo Three, come back.”

He keyed the mike. “This is Bravo Three. I’m on-site at the nine-one-one. I need homicide detectives, a crime-scene unit, and the ME. I’ve got two corpses, male, naked. One of them is . . . incomplete.”

In minutes, everybody was there. The detectives did their work, then turned the garage over to the ME and the crime-scene people. Then they went into the kitchen, where the maid was sitting, drinking tea.

“You feeling better, ma’am?” one of them asked her.

She nodded. “I can’t talk very good,” she said.

He sat down and produced his notebook. “Who owns the house?”

“I don’t know. I never see anybody here.” She gave him a card with her service’s number, and he called.

“I don’t know who owns it,” her manager said. “We’ve had the contract for five, six years, and we get a check from a bank out of town.”

His partner came into the room. “Tax records say the place is owned by a Delaware corporation.”

“Let’s talk to the neighbors,” the senior man said. They split up and he went to the house where the 911 call had originated. The woman there offered him coffee, which he accepted.

“Do you know who owns the house?” he asked the woman.

“It used to be owned by some Hollywood big shot, but he left several years ago. I never saw a real estate sign there, so maybe he still owns it.”

“Let’s try again for a name.”

“It had an X in it, that’s all I remember.” She picked up a copy of the L.A. Times and opened it to the arts section. “There,” she said, pointing at a full-page movie ad. “That’s it.”

The ad began: “A DAX BAXTER PRODUCTION.”

•   •   •

CHITA LOOKED UP to see two obvious cops approaching her desk. Her first thought was, something’s happened to Carlos, but she was wrong.

The two men showed badges and introduced themselves. “We’d like to see Mr. Dax Baxter,” the taller one said.

“I’m sorry, he’s not in.”

“What time do you expect him?”

“I’m not sure,” she lied. Dax had told her he didn’t want anyone to know he was out of town.

“Can you tell me if Mr. Baxter owns a house in the Hollywood Hills?” He gave her the address.

“No, he lives up on Mulholland Drive,” she replied.

“Has he ever owned the Hollywood Hills house?”

“I’ve worked here for two years, and I’ve never heard that address mentioned.”

“Miss, where can we find Mr. Baxter?”

She thought it over for a minute. “He’s out of town,” she said finally.

“Where?”

“In New Mexico.”

“Where in New Mexico?”

“Santa Fe.” She looked at her watch. “He should be there by now.”

“He left this morning?”

“Yes, from Burbank, in a private jet. About eight o’clock.”

“I’m going to need an address and a phone number.”

She checked her computer and wrote down both for them.

“Right,” the detective said. “And, miss?”

“Yes?”

“I’m going to have to ask you not to let him know we’re coming.”

She looked surprised.

“I know he pays your salary, but this is a very serious matter, and we wouldn’t want him to change locations again. Do you understand?”

Chita nodded, and they left.

Grace, who had heard everything from her adjoining desk, said, “I’m certainly not going to call him, and I don’t think you should either.”

“I’m with you on that,” Chita said.

•   •   •

THE TWO DETECTIVES got into their car. “I’d better call the boss and see if he’ll authorize the King Air.”

“You think we should call the Santa Fe cops?” his partner asked.

“Not just yet,” the senior man replied.