42 

CARLOS RIVERA FINISHED his day at half past five and got into his jacket. As he passed the Violent Crimes squad, the lieutenant flagged him down.

“You still interested in Dax Baxter?” he asked.

“Sure,” Carlos replied. “You got something?”

“I was just having a chat with a buddy at LAPD Homicide, and they’ve got something.”

“Is Baxter dead?”

“No, but there was a double homicide last night at a house he owns in the Hollywood Hills.”

“I thought he lived on Mulholland.”

“He used to live in the subject house, but it’s been empty for some years.”

“Who are the victims?”

“I didn’t get that far in our conversation before he had to hang up.”

“What’s the detective’s name?”

“Bob Jensen, with an e.”

“Thanks, Lieutenant, I’ll check it out.” On the way to his car he called the detective, whose shift had ended. He checked his watch. What the hell, he had time to get to the morgue before he had to pick up Chita. He drove over there, parked, went inside, and asked for the ME.

“He’s doing a couple of autopsies,” the woman at the desk said. “You can go in room one, if you’re not squeamish.”

“Thanks,” he said. He knew where room one was, and he went there. He looked through the round windows in the swinging door and saw a large man hunched over a table. He could see the soles of two pairs of feet facing him. He opened the door a foot. “Hey, Doc, it’s Carlos Rivera from Beverly Hills PD. May I join you?”

“If you’re not squeamish. I don’t want you vomiting in here.”

“No problem,” Carlos replied, and walked over to him, between the two tables. He got a good look at both corpses, and for a moment he thought he was going to embarrass himself, but he got over it. “You got IDs yet?”

The ME pointed at a clipboard hanging at the end of the table. “One of ’em has a Russian name,” he said.

Carlos picked up the clipboard, looked at the two mug shots, and read the sheets on both men. “The Russian doesn’t have any convictions, but he’s a well-known hit man.”

“Well,” the ME said, “he ran into a better hit man. That incision looks a lot like one of mine.” He pointed with the large scalpel in his hand.

“Very impressive,” Carlos said. “The other guy seems to be missing something.”

“Yeah. Over there on the desk, in a steel pan. Take a look.”

Carlos walked over to the desk and viewed the object. “Holy shit,” he muttered.

“That’s pretty much what everybody who’s seen it said,” the ME replied.

Carlos walked back to where the ME stood.

“How did he die?”

“Are you kidding? From blood loss, of course. He also had two knife wounds in the heart. Short blade, razor sharp. Both of these guys bled out, and they didn’t have very long to think about it.”

Carlos looked at his watch. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’m running late for dinner.”

“Good luck with that,” the ME replied.

“Yeah, I think I’ll need a drink first.” Carlos left and headed for Chita’s apartment.

•   •   •

CARLOS NEEDED TWO drinks before he could think about food.

“Anything wrong?” Chita asked.

“You don’t want to know,” he replied.

“If you say so. Two cops showed up at the office around noon, looking for Dax,” she said.

“LAPD Homicide?”

“How’d you know?”

“There was a double homicide at a house Dax owns in the Hollywood Hills.”

“They mentioned the house. They didn’t mention a double homicide, just said it was serious.”

“Did they talk to Dax?”

“Dax called me at the crack of dawn this morning and started issuing orders—get his jet ready, fuel for Santa Fe, don’t tell anybody where he is.”

“Did you tell the two detectives?”

“Damned right I did. I’m not covering for Dax, not with the cops.”

“Good girl.”

“Dax sounded funny,” she said, “rattled, maybe.”

“I expect he had just come from his old house.”

“You think he murdered two people?”

“No, I think he had occasion to view the bodies. So did I—that was what ruined my appetite.”

Chita raised a hand. “No further details, please.”

“Agreed.”

“Do you think the cops went to Santa Fe, looking for Dax?”

“I expect so,” he replied.

“You think Dax is in jail?”

“If he was, who would he call?”

“His lawyer, I guess. He’d call me if he wanted anything done in his absence, and he didn’t do that.”

“My guess is, he hasn’t been arrested. For that, they’d have to be able to put him at the house. Is Dax the kind of guy who’d pull a knife on somebody?”

“I think Dax Baxter is the biggest coward I’ve ever met. He’s a bully, but he backs down in a hurry.”

“He didn’t kill the two guys. One of them was a cold-blooded hit man, and the other—well, he worked for the hit man.”

“That sounds like the sort of men he might hire to do his dirty work,” she said.

“You think he’s capable of having somebody murdered?”

“In a fit of anger, yes. And he’s capable of staying angry for long periods—days, sometimes.”

They ordered dinner, and Carlos pulled out his cell phone. “Excuse me, I want to check something.” He pulled up the surveillance app. “The Porsche is still in his garage,” he said. “Did he have another car?”

“Yes, a Bentley sedan. I’ve had it serviced for him.”

“Might he drive it to the airport?”

“More likely, he would call a car service. I could check, if you like.” Her cell phone rang, and she got it out of her bag. “It’s Dax,” she said. “Hello?” She listened for a moment. “First thing,” she said, then hung up. “He left his briefcase in his office, and he wants me to FedEx it to him tomorrow morning.”

“Chita,” Carlos said, “do you think I could have a look in that briefcase before you send it?”

She shrugged. “Right after dessert,” she said.