INTO THE DARK : A TOM DEATON NOVEL

by Richard B. Schwartz

  “Will do.”

  “He made his move,” Hector said. “He’s pulling into the South Coast Plaza.”

  “Don’t lose him,” Tom said. “He could be trying to elude anyone who might be following him.”

  “My sister Elena loves this place,” Hector said. “The garden of Eden for shoppers. And believe me, she knows how to shop.”

  “Nearly 130 acres,” Tom said. “Maybe he’s staying at a nearby hotel, using that as his base.”

  “It would be a lot cheaper than the Ritz,” Hector said. “Plus it would give him 20 or 25 miles of distance and anonymity. Right by the freeway for easy ingress and egress.”

  “I wonder if the imitation maid is there too.”

  “We’ll find out,” Hector said.

  “What’s he driving?”

  “An Audi.”

  “That’s interesting. May be a personal car.”

  “Right. He’s tall; I don’t know how comfortable he is in it, but I’m sure he likes the speed and acceleration, especially when a hot-tempered, heavily armed officer of the law is following him.”

  “Hopefully he doesn’t know that. By the way, I’m almost there,” Tom said.

  “You want me to still keep my distance?”

  “Yes. We can’t touch him because he hasn’t broken any laws; let’s see what he does.”

  “Where are you, Tom?”

  “Just pulling into the mall.”

  “He parked in the north parking structure and he’s headed into Nordstrom’s.”

  “I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

  “He went into the Men’s room about two minutes ago,” Hector said. “I’m not surprised. Wait . . . here he comes. He’s looking at shoes, probably just killing time. Where are you?”

  “I just found a place. I’ll be there in a minute or two.”

  “He’s looking at ties now. So far two salesclerks have volunteered to help him and he blew both of them off.”

  “Any sign of the woman?”

  “Not yet. It’s almost 1:30. Maybe that’s the time for their meet.”

  “If she shows you can take one of them and I can take the other.”

  “Right,” Hector said. “Wait a sec. This looks promising.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Men’s leather jackets. Those nice lambskin jobs. The ones that go for eight or nine hundred bucks. He’s looking at them but he’s also looking around, maybe for her.”

  “Where are you?” Tom asked.

  “Back in the Façonnable section, the one with the pricey shirts. I’m about 15 feet from him.”

  “I’ve got you,” Tom said. “And I’ve got him. He’s tall.”

  “Yes, six-three or four.”

  “Don’t look for me. I’ll try to get a good picture of him with my cell phone and I don’t want to draw any unnecessary attention.”

  “Not to worry. I’m looking at $165 shirts. I don’t think I’ll be buying any though.”

  “Got him. Two good angles.”

  “Here she comes, Tom . . . on his right.”

  She walked past him and began looking at sweaters on a nearby table. He checked the price on one of the leather jackets, took out his handkerchief, blew his nose, and then nonchalantly walked toward the sweater table. Both of their heads were down.

  “That looks like a wig,” Tom said.

  “Yes. She was wearing it before. Maybe she thought the dark color would make her look more working class than like a member of the Newport Beach set.”

  “The way the sides hang down . . . it’s hard to see her lips move. Fortunately I got a good shot of her before she started to look down. Wait . . . he’s leaving. Which one do you want?”

  “I’ll take him,” Hector said. “I know where he’s parked in case I lose him in one of the stores.”

  “Good. Stay in touch.”

  She left Nordstrom’s and went in Tiffany, Dior and Chanel, then came back through Valentino and back into Nordstrom’s.

  Perfunctory, Tom thought. She mustn’t believe she’s being followed. Her car was parked close enough to Tom’s that he could identify it and get back to his before she got too far ahead of him in the line of traffic exiting the lot.

  The car was a Jaguar XJR. About eighty thousand bucks, Tom thought, not your standard maid’s car.

  A few minutes later he called Hector. “Where are you?”

  “Heading back toward Laguna,” he said. “How about you?”

  “Me too.”

  “I wonder why they didn’t just meet at the beach and have an ice cream.”

  “Trying to be more cautious than that.”

  “Right. I’ll call you as soon as he stops.”

  “Good,” Tom said.

  Twenty minutes later Tom’s cell rang. “He’s back at the Ritz,” Hector said. “He spent some time rooting around in the trunk before he went into the hotel. I couldn’t see what it was that he was looking for. How about the girl?”

  “She just stopped and parked. In the Hills. Three doors down the street from my house.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Avenida Malaga, Laguna Hills

  Monday, 3:00 p.m.

  Tom called Dietrich’s cell number.

  “Chief, it’s Tom, don’t say my name.”

  “Hi.”

  “I’m afraid the office landline may be bugged. Just listen to me and give me one- or two-word answers.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “I moved the subject out of her hotel room and asked my colleague to keep an eye out. A person came to the room, impersonating a maid.”

  “How so?”

  “She was wearing a wig; she didn’t have a maid’s cart and she didn’t recognize words in elementary Spanish.”

  “Go on.”

  “Later my colleague saw a colleague of her’s, watching an exit at the hotel. A few minutes later he received a call. He drove to Costa Mesa where he met with the woman. He then returned to the hotel, followed by my colleague. I followed the woman and she is now parked outside of my home.”

  “Say again.”

  “My home. My dad’s place; in the Hills.”

  “Very interesting.”

  “They probably located the subject through her credit card transactions.”

  “Yes.”

  “That means we’re not dealing with amateurs or people without means.”

  “True.”

  “It also means that David Bennett was murdered.”

  “Probably so.”

  “If they know that I’m on the case they either have your office bugged or they’ve been following you.”

  “That’s true.”

  “I wanted you to be aware of the fact that you could be under surveillance.”

  “Thanks very much.”

  “When I know more I’ll be back in touch.”

  “I look forward to talking to you. Bye.”

  Diana secured the sliding door that closed off the boat’s cabin, locked it, and returned to the table. She spread her notes and her brother’s photos across it and took out a pad and pen.

  It had taken her hours to accumulate and then sort through her own xeroxes and notes taken on the library materials and compare them with the materials left by David. The UCLA library had been crowded when she got there and half of her time was devoted to finding maps and pictures and then locating a copier that wasn’t broken or already taken. Finally, she could think through what she had found and what she believed she had learned.

  She looked at the human timeline she had scribbled in pencil on a lined sheet of notebook paper: tentative dates for the origin of the universe, the appearance of life, the division of cells, the emergence of hominids, homo erectus, elementary tools, Achulean tools, brain expansion, language
, art, agriculture, religion, war. She made more notes: Stonehenge, Troy, Sinai, Athens, Bethlehem, Rome, Mecca, Paris, Oxford, Florence, Pisa, London, Edinburgh, the Galapagos, Gettysburg, Versailles, Berlin, Washington.

  She drew a graph with x and y axes, charting time points, then a spectrum line: the journey from point a to point b. The whole trip as hunters and gatherers with hunter and gatherer brains and gene pools, with a thin segment at the end, marked c for civilization and, after a moment’s thought, encased in quotation marks. Then she added David’s name above the line and underlined it twice.

  She compared photographs, the ones left by David with the ones she had photocopied from UCLA. The Xerox machine took out the color and blurred the shadows, but the outlines were clear. He had been able to do it. She could even see how he had been able to do it. The only remaining question was why.

  She needed to sit down with Tom Deaton, show him these things, get him engaged and motivated to help. Where would they start? How much time would he need to make preparations and secure his authorizations before they could leave? Would they be followed? Were there people waiting for them there, waiting to kill them as they had killed David? Again the question: Why? David had completed his work and it had been brilliant, stunning, even transcendent in its simplicity. And now it was gone, with him. Work that no one else could have done, work that resulted in his death. She had to find it and she had to find whoever had taken it. Find them before they found her. She liked Deaton. He was alert and smart, even after major surgery. But what of the jurisdictional lines and the limits of his authority? Perhaps he would not be permitted to accompany her. If not him, who then? And how? Meanwhile they were watching her, or trying to. There was no time to sit and wring hands; they had to act. She had to act, even if she had to act alone.

  “We have lost her.”

  “What do you mean you’ve lost her?”

  “She registered at the Ritz-Carlton Hotel in Laguna Niguel, using a personal VISA card. We accessed their registration system, found her room, and Helena went in dressed as a maid.”

  “And?”

  “There was no one there except a Mexican. It was a trick.”

  “What do you mean, a trick?”

  “He spoke to her in Spanish, trying to trip her up.”

  “And?”

  “She left immediately. I was outside, watching the rear exit, but no one appeared.”

  “They must think they are very clever.”

  “Yes.”

  “We shall see. Do you think that the Mexican is a policeman?”

  “Probably. Helena returned to the room later and took some prints from the bathroom. There was not a great deal of time; she did what she could. Our contact in Washington is checking on them now.”

  “The Mexican may help lead us to her. Are you outside, ready to follow him?”

  “Of course.”

  “Where is Helena?”

  “She is at the home of the policeman assigned to the case.”

  “So they are still pursuing it.”

  “For now.”

  “I am not pleased by these developments.”

  “As I expected. We will eliminate them as soon as we can.”

  “See that you do.”

  Tom watched the woman in the Jaguar for forty minutes before making any moves. When she bent over momentarily he slipped out of the side of his car, closed the door gently, and made his way through some yards and foliage until he could position himself to record her license number. He had caught glimpses of it on the freeway, but wanted to be sure.

  Now that she had removed the wig her neck and shoulders were fully visible beneath her bright blonde hair. There were earpods in her ears. Either she was listening to music or she had bugged his house and was trying to detect any sounds of movement or voice communications.

  She wouldn’t know about the boat, he thought to himself. At least we have that. Her accomplice was staking out the hotel, so they must have assumed that someone would return there. If it was Diana, they could take her. If it was Hector they could follow him in hopes of finding her.

  He wondered what else they knew . . . and how much time he and Diana had before they would find them and attempt to kill them.

  Chapter Twelve

  The Harbor at Dana Point

  Monday 5:15 p.m.

  “It’s me,” Tom said as he knocked gently on the sliding door that enclosed the cabin.

  “Are you OK?” Diana asked, as she released the dead bolt and slid open the panel.

  “I’m fine,” he said. “It took me a little while to get back. First we had to track down the people who were watching the hotel, then I had to go by the station. I took the full tour of Laguna after that, so no one would be able to follow me here.”

  “Did you find out who they are?”

  “No. We’ve got pictures of each of them that we’re checking on. We’ve also got license numbers for each of their cars, but their vehicles were registered to a dummy corporation. We’ll try to trace them back to an actual individual, but so far every piece of skin we peel back reveals a new layer beyond it.”

  “Have you talked to Chief Dietrich?”

  “Yes, I have. Twice. He’s persuaded that the case is not as straightforward as they first believed. He’ll be speaking to the D.A. We’re going to proceed with the investigation, but lowkey it. We don’t want to draw any unnecessary attention at this point. The press is already making enquiries. Their patience will start to fray in a day or two and they’ll demand more detailed answers to their questions.”

  “We’ve got to go to France,” Diana said.

  “France?” Tom said, surprised.

  “Yes. David was making a copy of a famous work of art. His copy’s now gone. The original is in France.”

  “I don’t understand,” Tom said.

  “Neither do I,” Diana answered, “but we’ve got to find out why he did it and our only choice is to start in France.”

  “Why would he make a copy of a unique, known work?” Tom asked. “Forgers usually make copies of prints or other forms that are produced in numbers. I can understand somebody passing off a previously unknown work as the work of a master, but the only reason to make a copy of an original, familiar work would be to substitute it after you’ve stolen the original.”

  “I know. I agree,” Diana said. “But this work is special. It’s one of a kind and I can’t imagine how it could be stolen.”

  “Why is it special?”

  “It’s a prehistoric cave painting, Tom.”

  “A cave painting, you mean like a Lascaux cave painting?”

  “Yes, exactly.”

  “Do you have all of the information on it?”

  “Yes, I do, and time is of the essence. Whatever is happening, the murderers must be involved. They’ve eliminated David. That clears the way for their next move. We’ve got to get to France before they make it.”

  “Then we’ll have to meet with the Chief. We’re way out of our jurisdiction, to say the least. We’ll need help with the French authorities and that means we’ll first need help with the agencies in Washington. I can’t do that. The Chief speaks for the Department. He’ll need to secure the kind of help that this will require.”

  “Maybe the governor could help. He owns four of David’s paintings. He bought them long before he was elected; he met with David and later maintained a correspondence with him.”

  “That sounds promising.”

  “And don’t worry about the expenses; I’ll cover those,” Diana said.

  “I’m not sure about the legalities in that case.”

  “I’m sure they can be worked out,” Diana said.

  “We’ve got to meet with the Chief and show him what you have. He’ll be pitching on our behalf; he’ll have to be convinced.”

  “I can conv
ince him,” Diana said.

  “We’ll need a secure place in which to meet. He’ll be under surveillance now that they know we’re proceeding with the investigation and that you and I have suddenly disappeared.”

  “I know a good place,” Diana said. “Let me check . . .”

  “We can meet in the private dining room of a winery in Temecula. David and I toured the region several years ago; the owner of this winery was particularly nice. His name is Mike Angioni. I just talked to him. He’ll make the room available after the tasting room is closed and the tourists have all left for dinner and bed.”

  “It’ll take a little over an hour to get there, probably closer to an hour and a half with the initial backstreet driving to shake anyone who might be following us,” Tom said. “I’ll check with the Chief and see if he’s available.”

  Tom and Diana were the first to arrive. She began immediately to arrange her materials. Chris Dietrich arrived fifteen minutes later, apologized for being late, and greeted each of them.

  “I haven’t had the opportunity to meet you yet, Dr. Bennett,” he said.

  “Please, call me Diana.”

  “Chris Dietrich.”

  “Do you like art, Chief?”

  “I don’t know very much about it, but I know how important it is to the city and I know how great a painter your brother was.”

  “My brother completed a work just before he died. That work has disappeared. The original is in France and it is quite special. I do not believe that we can proceed with the investigation without going to France and learning whatever we can there. I’m prepared to cover the costs for myself and Tom and help you in any way that I can to make this possible with the powers that be. The governor owns four of David’s paintings and he and David corresponded. I think he could be of help in clearing the way for us at the federal level.”

  “I could use as much help as you and he could provide,” Dietrich said. “The French have a reputation for being . . . proprietary.”

  “I understand,” Diana said, “but they also love art and they loved David’s in particular, especially considering the fact that he was an American.”