W
hen Ed Eagle awoke the following morning in his room at the Pierre, he found that his mind had been at work during the night, something that often happened, and he felt uneasy about his interview with Barbara Kennerly, née Hannah Schlemmer. He picked up the phone and dialed a friend in the office of the district attorney of New York County.
“Brian, this is Ed Eagle. How are you?”
“I’m good, Ed. You in town?”
“Yeah. I’m flying back this afternoon, and I need some information from your office.”
“What sort of information?”
“I’d like to see the prosecutor’s notes on a case your office tried.”
“How long ago?”
“A couple of years.”
“Those files would be stored in County Records. We
only keep that stuff until there’s a disposition of the case. You’re talking about a week or ten days to unearth it; they’re always backed up over there.”
“I see. Maybe I could talk to the prosecutor.”
“What was the case?”
“A diamond merchant named Murray Rifkind murdered by his wife’s lover during a robbery attempt.”
“Hang on a minute. I’ll ask around.”
Eagle toyed with a piece of toast from the remnants of his breakfast while he waited.
“Okay, the case was tried by a guy named Herbert Stein, a senior prosecutor. I’ll transfer you. You still leading the bachelor life out West?”
“You bet.”
“Lucky bastard. Hang on.”
There was a series of clicks on the line, followed by a ringing.
“This is Herbert Stein.”
“Mr. Stein, this is Ed Eagle.”
“Hi. What can I do for you?”
“You tried the Murray Rifkind case?”
“That’s right.”
“Can you tell me in general about it?”
“Rifkind’s wife had a lover with an armed robbery record. He got her to let him into Rifkind’s office, where he blew the guy away. The two of them decamped with a couple of pounds of diamonds. They were arrested in Miami, but the guy had already fenced the goods.”
“What was the disposition?”
“The killer—his name was, let me see—Grafton, James Grafton—got life; Rifkind’s wife cooperated, copped to involuntary manslaughter, got a five-to-eight.”
“You remember the woman?”
“Do I! She was a knockout!”
“How much help was she?”
“Gave me everything I asked for. Got up and said her piece in court. A stand-up lady. Grafton was a nasty piece of work, too, a slick guy, con man, but with a violent streak.”
“He’s out, I hear.”
“Out? No way. He’ll do twenty years before he comes up for parole, and since we never recovered the diamonds or any money, he’s not likely to get it.”
“I saw…Mrs. Rifkind yesterday. She says he broke jail.”
“News to me. I wouldn’t put it past him, though; he was a piece of work, that guy.”
“Do you remember a sister of Mrs. Rifkind being around the case at all?”
“Nah. She didn’t seem to have anybody. A public defender, some kid, handled her plea.”
“Do you remember what Grafton looked like?”
“Yeah. Medium height, slim, late forties, dark hair going gray, good dresser.”
“Thanks very much, Mr. Stein, I appreciate your help.”
“Anytime.”
Eagle hung up, then dialed the district attorney’s office in Santa Fe.
“This is Martinez.”
“Bob, it’s Ed Eagle. How are you?”
“Okay, Ed.”
“Bob, did you run the prints on the John Doe you thought was Wolf Willett?”
“Sure, Ed. You think we’re slack around here?”
“Yes. You didn’t bother until Wolf turned up alive. Did you make him?”
“Maybe.”
“Don’t be coy, Bob. Who was the guy?” He could hear Martinez shuffling papers.
“I don’t know that I’m required to give you that information, Ed.”
“Mind if I take a wild guess?”
“Suit yourself.”
“Grafton, James. A record of armed robbery. Escaped from a New York state prison.”
There was a stunned silence. “How the fuck did you know that?”
“I don’t know that I’m required to give you that information, Bob.”
Eagle was laughing as he hung up the phone.
W
olf sat and stared at the two containers on the kitchen table—all that remained of the two people he had loved most. Or had he? He thought about it.
Jack was easiest. He’d loved Jack. Nobody could have put up with what he had endured from the man without loving him; Jack had been like an alternately errant and repentant child. The money they’d made together wouldn’t have been enough to hold together the relationship. Wolf knew that his partner hadn’t had an evil bone in his body, and if he’d needed proof, then Jack’s will was the final evidence. Wolf missed him.
Julia was another matter. He thought about what she had given him for the past year, and he knew it wouldn’t seem like much to an objective observer; it boiled down to sex, one way or another. Certainly Julia had been a responsive and inventive lover, but there was more to it than that. She had come into his life when it was gray and empty,
except for his work, at a time when he thought he would never sleep with another woman. She’d made him love sex again, and crave it, and he’d loved taking her places where other men could envy him. But love? Too strong a word.
The personal effects were spare—of Julia’s, only her wedding and engagement rings; of Jack’s, some money, a wristwatch, a wallet, keys, a large silver ring.
He made himself move. He got into a coat, gathered up the two urns, and put them into the Porsche. He drove aimlessly for a while, then started up the mountain road to the Santa Fe Ski Basin, tall evergreens rising around him. He stopped at an overlook and got out of the car. The ground fell away sharply into a forest of winter-bare, silverskinned aspens; beyond lay Santa Fe to the northwest, and far to the north, visible in the clear mountain air, a peak he had been told was in Colorado, more than a hundred miles away. The wind gusted, tearing at his coat. He buttoned it and shoved his hands into its pockets to protect them.
Finally he took an urn—he didn’t know if it was Julia’s or Jack’s—unscrewed the top, and when another gust came, tossed the ashes into the air. He repeated the task with the other urn and watched the remains lift and spread, disappear into the trees. Then, with all his strength, he threw the urns after them. He got back into the car with a feeling of completion, as if an era of his life had ended.
On the way back down the mountain, he thought about Jane Deering, now back in L.A. That wasn’t over, not by a long shot—not if he could stay out of prison.
There was a car—a four-wheeler of some sort—in the rearview mirror. It had been there on the way up the mountain, too, he thought. He put it out of his mind.
Wolf took the slow way home, turning toward the plaza at the heart of Santa Fe. The streets were crowded with
Christmas shoppers, the Indians selling silver jewelry on the sidewalk in front of the eighteenth-century Palace of the Governors huddled down into their blankets to defeat the gusty wind. If Julia were alive, they’d be there shopping; she had a gift for picking out the best stuff from among the run-of-the-mill pieces the Indians brought to town. He missed Christmas shopping. He had no one to shop for.
The short day was ending when he got back to the house. Ed Eagle was standing on the back steps writing a note.
“Hello, Ed,” he called, getting out of the car.
“Hello, Wolf. I thought I had missed you.”
“Come on in.” Wolf led him into the study, took his coat, and offered him a drink. “You like single-malt Scotches, as I recall. I’ve got some Laphroaig.”
“That would be very good.”
Wolf poured them both a drink, lit the fire, and sat down.
“I’m just back from New York,” Eagle said.
“Did you see Julia’s sister?”
Eagle took a sip and nodded. “Quite a striking girl.”
“Well, she’s Julia’s sister,” Wolf said. “Did she help out at all?”
“She was very cooperative, but I’m not sure how much she helped. Do you know somebody named Grafton? James Grafton?”
Wolf put down his drink. His hand was trembling.
Eagle leaned forward. “Wolf, are you all right?”
“Yes, I think so,” he replied. “It’s just…” he stopped.
“You do know Grafton, then?”
“No. At least, I don’t think so. But the name just did something to me. It was like being kicked in the stomach.”
“Can you remember him at all?”
Wolf calmed himself and tried to remember. “No, I can’t. I’m sure I don’t know anybody by that name.” Sweat
was leaking from his armpits now. “I don’t understand this. Who is James Grafton?”
“He’s the man in the morgue; the one they thought was you.”
“How did you find out?”
“Julia’s sister told me, sort of; at least, she gave me enough to go on, and I figured it out.” He explained the relationship between the sister and Grafton.
“And he came here after breaking out of jail? Why?”
“I don’t know exactly, but I think Julia’s sister must have told him about Julia’s marrying you. He might have thought Julia was a good target for blackmail.”
“But how would he have ended up in bed with Julia and Jack? This doesn’t make any sense at all.”
“No, it doesn’t. We’ll have to know a lot more before it does.”
“Do the police know about this guy?”
“They know who he is; they don’t know about the connection to Julia. I’ll have to tell them, though. I don’t want Bob Martinez yelling about obstruction of justice; it’s better to be aboveboard with them. The relationship between Julia’s sister and Grafton can’t reflect on you, since you didn’t know either of them existed.”
“I can’t prove that, though.”
“They can’t prove otherwise. That’s what’s important.”
Wolf stood up. “I need another drink; let me get you one.”
Eagle handed him the glass and waited for him to return. “When was the last time you saw Julia? Alive, I mean.”
Wolf thought back. “In L.A. The editing on the new film wasn’t going all that well, and I wanted a break—a few days in Santa Fe. Julia didn’t want to come with me; she didn’t like the airplane much. I was supposed to be back there for Thanksgiving dinner with some friends, the Carmichaels.”
“Did you see Jack around the same time?”
“No. Jack had a way of disappearing right after shooting on a picture was completed, while I worked with the editor.”
“You have no idea where Jack went after shooting was completed?”
“Mexico, probably. He had a place in Puerto Vallarta; he could go down there and drink and screw without my being on his back about it. He’d come back sober, though—usually, anyway.”
They drank in silence for a few minutes.
“Christ, I don’t know,” Eagle said finally. “I’ve never had anything like this to deal with.”
Wolf made them both another drink. When he came back he asked, “Is it unusual for you to go to interview somebody like Julia’s sister?”
“Not really. I often interview potential witnesses myself. I don’t have that big a staff—just two associates and some office workers. It is unusual for me to go as far as New York, but I had an idea that the sister might have some answers. Turns out she didn’t even know she had the one answer she had—the one about Grafton.”
“You think she told you the truth?”
Eagle sipped his Scotch and nodded. “She seems to be a truthful person; the prosecutor who handled her case thought so, anyway.”
“I’m going to fix myself a steak. Will you join me?”
“Sure, why not?”
Wolf got up. “Let’s move into the kitchen.”
“Sure.” Eagle got up.
“You know,” Wolf said, “Julia seemed to be a truthful person, too.”
T
hey were in the living room now, each stretched out on one of the facing sofas before the fire, a bottle of cognac on the coffee table between them.
“That was a very fine burgundy,” Ed Eagle said. His speech was even slower and more deliberate than usual.
“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” Wolf said, trying hard to pronounce the words clearly. They had drunk two bottles of it with their steaks.
“What was it again?” Eagle asked.
“Uh…La Tache, Domaine de la Romanée Conti, ’78.”
“Right. La Tache.”
“Right.”
Wolf reached for the brandy bottle and nearly fell off his sofa. “I think we have to keep the cognac just a little bit closer to me than to you,” he puffed, rearranging himself on the sofa. “You have a great advantage in reach.”
“Right.”
Long pause while both men sipped.
“You ever play any basketball, Ed?”
“Yup. Arizona State, four years. On a scholarship.”
“Were you any good?”
“Good enough to keep the scholarship. I never made All-American or anything, and I wasn’t good enough for the pros. I was better on defense than offense.” He chortled to himself. “Harbinger of things to come.”
Wolf found this wildly funny. “Jesus,” he said when he had brought his laughter under control, “you’re a sketch, Ed.”
“I am,” Eagle solemnly agreed.
“I always thought of Indians as being a little short on humor. What tribe are you from?”
“Ashkenazi,” Eagle said.
“You mean Anasazie.” The Anasazies—which meant “the old people”—had occupied the area a thousand years before, leaving hundreds of elaborate ruins before they inexplicably died out.
“Nope, I mean Ashkenazi.”
“They’re not from around here, are they?”
“Promise to keep this to yourself, Wolf?”
“Keep what to myself?”
“This.”
“Oh. Sure.”
“Scout’s honor?”
“And cross my heart.”
“I’m from the Ashkenazi tribe.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“It’s one of the twelve tribes of Israel. Ashkenazi.”
“You’re drunker than I thought.”
“That’s true, but I’m still Ashkenazi.”
“You’re not making any sense.”