Short Straw

Stuart Woods

Short Straw

The second book in the Ed Eagle series

One

ED EAGLE DIDN'T WANT TO GET OUT OF BED. USUALLY HE woke at the stroke of seven, put his feet on the floor and was up and ru

He sat up and checked his wristwatch on the bedside table: 10:03. What the hell was going on? He had a hundred people coming to lunch at the grand opening of his new offices at noon, and there was much to do. Why hadn't Barbara woken him? He stood up. "Barbara?" he yelled. Silence. He looked at the other side of the bed: still made up.

He staggered into the bathroom and splashed water on his face, then he walked across the hall to his wife's bathroom. Not there. On the marble shelf under the mirror was a small plastic bottle from the pharmacy, lid off. He picked it up and read the label. AMBIEN. Sleeping pill. He never took them. He looked inside: empty.

He replayed the evening before: steaks for the two of them, grilled on the big Viking range, Caesar salad, bourbon before, bottle of red with. Half a bottle of red wine would not cause him to oversleep. Not unless it contained an Ambien or two. He had an uncomfortable feeling in his gut.

He walked downstairs in his bare feet and checked every room, then he went to the garage. Barbara's Range Rover was gone. Could she have gone to the office without him to get ready for the gathering, letting him sleep late? She must have.

Ed went back upstairs, shaved and stood in a shower until he felt human again, then he blew dry his longish black hair, dressed in a new shirt, recently arrived from his shirtmaker in London, then a new suit, recently arrived from his tailor in the same city. He pulled on a pair of black alligator western boots, which added a couple of inches to his six-feet, seven-inch height-or altitude, as he liked to think of it-chose a tie and a silk pocket square, grabbed his Stetson and headed for town.

He parked in his reserved space in the basement garage of the newly constructed, five-story office building, just off Santa Fe's Plaza, then took the private elevator to the penthouse. His new offices were swarming with people: painters touching up here and there, janitors cleaning up after the painters, secretaries, caterers, people hanging pictures. Most of these things should have been done by the day before, but everything always ran a little late. He grabbed a passing secretary.

"Where's Barbara?" he asked.

"Haven't seen her," the woman replied, then continued on her way.

He walked across the open flagstone area just inside the glass doors and into his new office, tossing his Stetson onto a bentwood hat rack. A painter was daubing at a place on the wall next to the windows. He picked up the phone and pressed the Page button.

"Barbara?" he said, hearing his voice echo across the whole floor.

His secretary picked up the phone. "Ed? Barbara's not here yet. I thought she would come with you."

"She left the house before I did, Betty, and I overslept."

"I didn't know you slept at all," she replied drily.

"Not after seven a.m., I don't."

"Tie one on last night?"

"I tied on two ounces of bourbon and half a bottle of wine, and that's all."

"She'll turn up," Betty said. "Excuse me, I've got things to do." She hung up.

Ed opened the French doors and walked out onto his newly planted, private terrace. He strolled over to the parapet and viewed the action in the plaza. Everything was as usual: the Indians selling their jewelry on the sidewalk in front of the Governor's Palace, old folks taking the spring sun on the benches in the little park, shopkeepers sweeping their sidewalks. Santa Fe had been up for hours, but, like him, it was just waking. Ed went back inside and walked slowly around the offices, inspecting everything carefully. It was all finally coming together. He walked out onto the larger terrace. The caterers had set up a bar and a long lunch table, and they were hand-trucking in dishes, silverware and serving pieces.

He went back to his office and sat down, not knowing what to do next. He was still fuzzy around the edges. Coffee, that's what. He walked over to the built-in cabinets on one wall of his office and opened a pair of doors, revealing a little kitchenette. Betty had already made the coffee, and he poured himself a mug and took a Danish from the plate she had left there. Special occasion. He went back to his desk and stood by it, sipping his coffee.

It was his fiftieth birthday. Moreover, with the opening of his new offices, this day was the culmination of everything he had worked for over the past twenty-five years. He had long been Santa Fe's top trial attorney, but he had finally and firmly established himself as one of the half-dozen best trial lawyers west of the Mississippi, and that included Denver, Dallas, Los Angeles and San Francisco. When people were accused of bad things, they thought of Ed Eagle.

One case had done more than any other to help him achieve that status: the Wolf Willett murders, a couple of years earlier. Wolf was a Hollywood producer, and three people had been murdered in his Santa Fe home: himself and his wife, Julia, among them, or so it had first seemed. Wolf had been astonished to learn of his own death when he had read about it, and he had come to Ed Eagle for help. Ed's clearing of Wolf Willett had made headlines all over the country and had revealed the sordid background of Julia Willett. Ed was now married to Julia's sister, and he believed he knew everything about her background.

And where the hell was she? It was past eleven o'clock, and their guests were due at noon.

Betty came into his office with a sheet of paper in her hand, closed the door behind her and leaned against it. "You're going to want to sit down," she said.

"That sounds ominous," he replied.

"It was meant to. Sit down."

Ed obediently sat down.

Betty took a deep breath, walked over to his desk and laid the sheet of paper on it. "I just found this in the fax machine," she said. "I'm sorry I didn't see it sooner, but I've been busy."

Ed picked up the sheet of paper, which was a letter from his bank. He read aloud: "This is to confirm the wire transfer of $930,000 from your firm account and $170,000 from your personal account to…" He stopped reading aloud. "To an account in the Cayman Islands? What the hell is this?"

"It sounds very much like all the cash you have," Betty said. "Unless you've got something in your sock."

Ed bared his teeth. "Look in my mouth," he said to Betty. "Do I still have my eyeteeth?"

"Figuratively speaking," Betty replied, "no."