He gave Eagle the address.
“One more thing, Mr. Wells: How would your wife and son be traveling from L.A. to Santa Fe?”
“I’m in a fractional jet program call NetJets, and we fly out of Santa Monica.”
“Have you called them?”
“Not yet; I’d like to hear your report first.”
“Can you give me a physical description of your wife and son?”
“My wife—her name is Donna—is forty-nine years old, five-seven, a hundred and forty pounds, blonde hair; my son is fourteen, about the same height as his mother, dark hair, a hundred and thirty pounds. His name is Eric. He’s autistic.”
“Is he in school somewhere?”
“No, his mother has home-tutored him, with the help of various teachers, since he was nine.”
“How functional is he?”
“He doesn’t talk much, but most people wouldn’t know he was autistic on meeting him in our home, but he becomes anxious, if he’s away from his mother or me, and then he can be difficult to deal with.”
“I’ll call you back when I know more,” Eagle said. “Good-bye.”
“Good-bye.”
Eagle hung up and called Cupie Dalton’s cell number.
“This is Dalton.”
“Cupie, this is Ed Eagle. Are you still in L.A.?”
“Vittorio and I are on the way to the airport for a flight to San Francisco.”
“I’ve got a detour for you,” Eagle said, then explained what he wanted.
“Okay, we’ll get a later flight to San Francisco.” Cupie hung up.
Eagle looked at his watch, then got his coat and hat and walked out of his office. “I have to run an errand,” he said to his secretary. “I’ll be back in an hour or so.”
14
CUPIE CLOSED HIS cell phone and turned to Vittorio, who was driving. "U-turn, pal.”
“What’s going on?”
“That was Eagle on the phone. He got a call from Rome from some guy named Wells, who says his wife and son may have been kidnapped. We have to go and check out his Malibu house for any evidence of same.”
Vittorio shrugged. “Okay.” He whipped the car around and gunned it.
“And let’s not get arrested on the way.”
“Aren’t you carrying tin?”
“Yeah, but I don’t like to use it with a cop for something as light as a speeding ticket.”
Traffic was easy for L.A., and soon they were on the Pacific Coast Highway, heading north.
“You ever been out here?” Cupie asked, as they came to the long string of cheek-by-jowl beach houses that composed most of Malibu.
“No,” Vittorio said. “With these houses jammed together like this, how does anybody get to the beach?”
“That’s the idea,” Cupie replied. “Nobody does, unless he has the keys to a house. Keeps out the riffraff. It’s a long walk from the nearest public beach to out here.”
“I thought all the beaches in California were public.”
“There’s public, and there’s public.”
They passed the turnoff for the little shopping center that passed for Downtown Malibu and soon turned off the highway into a driveway blocked by a guard shack and a bar across the drive. A uniformed guard stepped out of the shack and waited for them to come to a halt. For a moment he eyed the odd pair: a cherubic man in a seersucker suit and an Indian dressed in black. “Can I help you?” he asked.
Cupie flashed his LAPD badge, the slightly smaller version that retired cops toted. “We’re here at Mr. Don Wells’s request to inspect his property. The password is Featherweight.”
The guard went back into the shack, checked something on a clipboard and pressed the button that raised the bar. He waved them on.
Vittorio followed Cupie’s directions. “You been out to this place before?”
“A few times. These are some of the most expensive houses in the United States. Over there,” he said, pointing at a large house that backed up onto the beach. “See the sign? Wells.”
Vittorio pulled into the driveway. Cupie’s car was a gray Ford Crown Victoria, chosen because it looked like an unmarked police car, just for occasions like this.
“One more thing, Mr. Wells: How would your wife and son be traveling from L.A. to Santa Fe?”
“I’m in a fractional jet program call NetJets, and we fly out of Santa Monica.”
“Have you called them?”
“Not yet; I’d like to hear your report first.”
“Can you give me a physical description of your wife and son?”
“My wife—her name is Donna—is forty-nine years old, five-seven, a hundred and forty pounds, blonde hair; my son is fourteen, about the same height as his mother, dark hair, a hundred and thirty pounds. His name is Eric. He’s autistic.”
“Is he in school somewhere?”
“No, his mother has home-tutored him, with the help of various teachers, since he was nine.”
“How functional is he?”
“He doesn’t talk much, but most people wouldn’t know he was autistic on meeting him in our home, but he becomes anxious, if he’s away from his mother or me, and then he can be difficult to deal with.”
“I’ll call you back when I know more,” Eagle said. “Good-bye.”
“Good-bye.”
Eagle hung up and called Cupie Dalton’s cell number.
“This is Dalton.”
“Cupie, this is Ed Eagle. Are you still in L.A.?”
“Vittorio and I are on the way to the airport for a flight to San Francisco.”
“I’ve got a detour for you,” Eagle said, then explained what he wanted.
“Okay, we’ll get a later flight to San Francisco.” Cupie hung up.
Eagle looked at his watch, then got his coat and hat and walked out of his office. “I have to run an errand,” he said to his secretary. “I’ll be back in an hour or so.”
14
CUPIE CLOSED HIS cell phone and turned to Vittorio, who was driving. "U-turn, pal.”
“What’s going on?”
“That was Eagle on the phone. He got a call from Rome from some guy named Wells, who says his wife and son may have been kidnapped. We have to go and check out his Malibu house for any evidence of same.”
Vittorio shrugged. “Okay.” He whipped the car around and gunned it.
“And let’s not get arrested on the way.”
“Aren’t you carrying tin?”
“Yeah, but I don’t like to use it with a cop for something as light as a speeding ticket.”
Traffic was easy for L.A., and soon they were on the Pacific Coast Highway, heading north.
“You ever been out here?” Cupie asked, as they came to the long string of cheek-by-jowl beach houses that composed most of Malibu.
“No,” Vittorio said. “With these houses jammed together like this, how does anybody get to the beach?”
“That’s the idea,” Cupie replied. “Nobody does, unless he has the keys to a house. Keeps out the riffraff. It’s a long walk from the nearest public beach to out here.”
“I thought all the beaches in California were public.”
“There’s public, and there’s public.”
They passed the turnoff for the little shopping center that passed for Downtown Malibu and soon turned off the highway into a driveway blocked by a guard shack and a bar across the drive. A uniformed guard stepped out of the shack and waited for them to come to a halt. For a moment he eyed the odd pair: a cherubic man in a seersucker suit and an Indian dressed in black. “Can I help you?” he asked.
Cupie flashed his LAPD badge, the slightly smaller version that retired cops toted. “We’re here at Mr. Don Wells’s request to inspect his property. The password is Featherweight.”
The guard went back into the shack, checked something on a clipboard and pressed the button that raised the bar. He waved them on.
Vittorio followed Cupie’s directions. “You been out to this place before?”
“A few times. These are some of the most expensive houses in the United States. Over there,” he said, pointing at a large house that backed up onto the beach. “See the sign? Wells.”
Vittorio pulled into the driveway. Cupie’s car was a gray Ford Crown Victoria, chosen because it looked like an unmarked police car, just for occasions like this.
Similar Books
