The Night Cafe

by Taylor Smith

  “No—although just because I know you’re not responsible for those murders, don’t think for a second I won’t ask a judge to impound your passport or haul your ass in on a material witness warrant if you try to skip town.”

  “You know I have to get that painting back.”

  “Let somebody else do it. I mean it.”

  She poured herself a coffee. If it was Gladding who’d left that cryptic message on her machine last night, she was probably as safe or safer in Mexico than she was here in L.A. No need to tell Russo that, however, or he really would lock her up. She didn’t have time for that.

  “Okay, so work on your stone face, Detective. She’s a tough one, that Lindsay. Gonna be your boss one day, so you’d better not tick her off.”

  “Not my boss. She’s FBI-bound.”

  “Like her brother?”

  “And their old man, too. She’d be there already, but the Bureau doesn’t like to take people right out of school. They prefer their agents have military or police experience under their belts first. Lindsay’s made it pretty clear we’re just a way station on her way to the Hoover Building.”

  “Well, all the more reason for her to be holier than the Pope on procedure,” Hannah said. “Can’t argue with that.”

  He nodded. “This case could be her ticket into the Bureau, too. Now that the LAPD’s involved because of the Koon murder, not to mention federal interest in Moises Gladding and the stolen van Gogh, it’s looking more and more like we’re going to have a big interagency task force on this one. And that,” he said, glancing at his watch and downing the dregs of his cup, “is why I’ve gotta run.”

  He came around, put his cup in the sink, then wrapped her up and kissed her. Moving away, he groaned. “Aw, now look what you’ve gone and done.”

  “What?”

  “Put this stupid grin back on my face.”

  She smacked his butt. “Get outta here.”

  After he left, she headed for the shower, running through the game plan in her mind. The last thing she wanted to do was run down to the border today, but it was a matter of pride that she get the painting back and try to salvage what was left of her credibility. Not only that, but if Gladding was responsible for Rebecca’s murder and he needed that painting as collateral for some big deal, then she would be delighted to throw a wrench into his plans and put the picture in Teagarden’s and Yale’s hands. Small enough payback for the havoc he’d wreaked.

  She regretted sneaking around behind Russo’s back, but what the man didn’t know couldn’t hurt him. He’d be so tied up with his interagency task force for the next couple of days that she’d be back before he realized she was gone. Meantime, she wasn’t going to quiver in fear behind her locked steel door.

  She’d considered flying out of LAX, but there was no guarantee someone wouldn’t be watching area airports for her passport. Driving down to the border and then catching a flight from Tijuana was her best bet. She wouldn’t drive her car across the line, because it was a bottleneck, especially on Fridays, with weekend travelers heading for the white sand beaches of Baja California and legals of Mexican origin going home for weddings, birthdays or inexpensive medical care. Parking on the U.S. side and walking across was a cinch, however. As much as the border into the U.S. was becoming a new Berlin Wall, absolutely nobody looked twice at people walking in the other direction. There weren’t even passport checks. Once across, she’d grab one of the infamous Tijuana taxis, hotfoot it to the airport, and grab a same-day return ticket to Puerto Vallarta, an hour each way. With any luck at all, she could be easily back before the late-night news.

  Who knew? Maybe Russo would show up again. Now there was something worth hurrying for.

  She rubbed a towel through her hair, then looked at herself in the mirror—a refugee from a revival of Hair, the Musical. On a domestic Mexican flight, she wouldn’t have to go through Customs at Puerto Vallarta airport, but what if someone else was watching for her? A subtle disguise might be in order.

  She dried and straightened her hair, then rolled it into a tight twist anchored with every hairpin she could find. Then, she sprayed the bejesus out of it. Hurricane Katrina wouldn’t have budged this do. Makeup heavily applied felt unfamiliar, and with dark eyeliner and red lipstick, she worried she might be straying into streetwalker territory. She found a hardly worn pearl-gray linen pantsuit at the back of her closet and put that on over a silk camisole and a single strand of pearls, with matching drop earrings for her lobes. An oversize Coach handbag, a Christmas gift from Nora, and matching black shoes finished the outfit—flats, however, just in case she had to run for it.

  When she checked her reflection, she was stunned to see Nora peering back from the mirror, ready for one of her Newport Beach charity events. She’d be so proud, Hannah thought, grinning.

  She was out the door and just locking the dead bolt when Russo called. “Hiya,” she said.

  “Hello.”

  Whoops. Very stiff. Lindsay Gonna-be-a-G-Man-like-My-Dad must be standing close by, she decided.

  “I thought I should let you know that your prints were found on the murder weapon at August Koon’s studio,” Russo said.

  “Well, I told you they would be.”

  “Yes, you did. They were also at the Sandpiper Gallery.”

  “Did you guys manage to track down Rebecca’s ex-husband?”

  “Yes, but it turns out he was attending a family funeral in Seattle. Flew up Saturday and just got back last night. His alibi looks solid. We’re still checking out his financials for evidence that he might have hired someone to kill his ex-wife.”

  Hannah shook her head. “I’d be surprised. It’s got to be connected to Moises Gladding and Teagarden’s missing painting. It’s the only thing that makes sense, with Koon dead, too.”

  “I think so. So we’re going to need you to come in to give a formal statement.”

  “Why? I already told you everything I know.”

  “It’s a multiagency investigation now,” Russo said, curtly. No question there were other people in the room. “LAPD Robbery/Homicide has come late to the party, and since you’re a prime witness—the only significant witness—they obviously want some time with you. I think the FBI may want to sit in again, too.”

  “Do I need to bring an attorney?”

  “I can’t advise you about that. You know the drill. I can send a car for you, or you can come in under your own steam, but this has got to be done.”

  He was in an awkward position, she knew, especially after last night. He knew she hadn’t done anything wrong, but no one else knew that. If she lawyered up, the LAPD might see it as a sign of guilt. She didn’t see how this could possibly go well then. “All right,” she said. “When do you want me to come in?”

  “As soon as possible. Come into the West Hollywood patrol station. We’re basing the operation there—convenient for all the players.”

  And Sheriff’s Department turf, Hannah thought. Dollars to doughnuts the FBI guys had argued for running it out of their field office in West L.A., but neither Russo nor the LAPD detectives would have liked that option. Once the Bureau got control, they would edge everyone else out. Nobody had pointier elbows.

  “Okay,” Hannah said. “I’m on my way.”

  Moments later, Ruben flagged her down as she was backing out of the garage. He’d been out running. Sweat glistened on his muscular body as he pushed Mellie’s stroller up alongside Hannah’s car. Chucky jumped up on the Prius, panting dog breath in her face as his tongue stretched to give her a pooch-smooch.

  “Chucky, down!” Ruben ordered. “Hey, neighbor! Welcome back.”

  “Hi, Rube. Hiya, Mellie!”

  The tot responded with the happy smile she always had ready for family and friends, which meant everyone. Like Chucky, she didn’t discriminate. She loved the whole world.

  “You look hot today, girlfriend. Dressed to kill.”

  Yeah, right. “Going to a meeting.”

  “So no tim
e for coffee?”

  She shook her head regretfully, even though she’d much rather take refuge in his kitchen over one of his giant mugs of café con leche than face the Inquisition forces massing at the WeHo sheriff’s substation.

  He frowned. “You okay, sweetie?”

  “Surviving.” Which was saying something, Hannah thought. “I got your message, by the way. Kittens?” She laughed. “You do have a flair for the dramatic, buddy.”

  “But of course. So, did you go? Because Travis really, really wanted to talk to you.”

  “I didn’t get it in time, but I’m still interested to hear what he found out. Maybe later?”

  “Mellie and I are meeting him at Tommy’s burger at noon. Want to meet us there?”

  “Sounds good. I’ll try. If not, I’ll call you guys later.” They have phones in jail, right?

  “Okay! See ya, doll!”

  She waved, backed out the driveway and sped down the hill.

  Teagarden had woken with a headache and a creeping sense of dread. The longer The Night Café was missing, the better the odds it would be damaged or lost forever.

  He stood in the bathroom, feeling his years as he hooked his razor strop onto the towel hook. He was hunting in his kit for his razor when the hotel room phone rang.

  “Señor Teagarden, it is Rolando Peña calling from Puerto Vallarta. Good morning.”

  “Captain Peña, good morning. How are you?”

  “I am well. And how is Los Angeles? Are you having any luck in your search for the van Gogh painting?”

  “Not really. I’ve met the courier and she confirms she didn’t leave it at the villa, so we know we didn’t miss it in our search.”

  “What has she done with it?”

  “Ah, well, that’s the sixty-million-dollar question, I’m afraid. Any news at your end?”

  “Some bad news, I’m afraid. There has been another body found.”

  “Gladding?”

  “No, another American, however. A man by the name of Donald Ackerman. He owned a tourist café and bar here called The Blue Gecko. I have known him for many years. He has been found shot dead in the trunk of his car.”

  Teagarden’s mind raced back to Hannah Nicks, and her account of commandeering an American barkeep to drive her to the airport and then leaving him in the trunk of his car while she made her escape. He would have to check with his colleague, Agent Towle, but this sounded like the same man. “Shot, you say?”

  “Sí. I believe this may be connected to the shooting at Señor Gladding’s villa.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I have learned that this painting you were looking for was to have been delivered by a female courier.”

  “How do you know this?” Teagarden asked. He hadn’t shown the fax he found to Peña.

  “A confidential source,” Peña said. “According to witnesses, a very attractive, dark-haired woman carrying a portfolio of the sort that might hold a painting was seen at The Blue Gecko earlier in the day. A waiter says the same woman showed up later that night, after the bar was closed, looking for Señor Ackerman. The waiter left them together. That was the last time Ackerman was seen alive.”

  “I see.”

  “I called you first, Señor Teagarden, because of the strong possibility these things are linked. If you have any further information about the whereabouts of this painting, it might tell us something about the Ackerman murder—and also, perhaps, those at the villa.”

  “Yes, I can see that it might. Well, leave it with me, Captain. Let me see if there is anything further to be learned here in Los Angeles that might help you.”

  “I would be most grateful, señor.”

  “Of course,”

  Teagarden hung up and sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing the stubble on his chin. Hannah Nicks said she had left Ackerman alive in his trunk with his helper on the way to rescue him. Was she lying? And if not, who had murdered the man? And why were they so interested in seeing her take the blame?

  Hannah parked in the parking lot of the West Hollywood substation on San Vicente Boulevard. She had worked patrol out of this station during her first year as a sheriff’s deputy. It was great territory with plenty of nighttime action, between the gay bars of Santa Monica Boulevard and the hot clubs of Sunset frequented by young Hollywood royalty like Johnny Depp and Drew Barrymore. Vanity Fair held their annual Oscars party at Morton’s up the street, the rubbernecking matched only by Elton John’s competing bash at The Factory. Eye-opening stuff for a girl from the Midwest.

  At the reception desk inside, a uniformed deputy greeted her, all smiles. “Hey, stranger!” The woman had been a rookie the year Hannah’s house got blown up and she had retired from the department. “You look great. Private sector must be treating you well.”

  “Oh, yeah. Easy street,” Hannah said wryly.

  The deputy got on the phone. “Detective Russo said you were coming. Let me call him out.”

  When Russo emerged from the squad room, he seemed taken aback. “Um…hello.” He actually shook her hand.

  Was it the interagency, this-is-a-formal-inquiry thing that had him off base? Or the Hannah-does-Nora look?

  Russo led her back through the locked door and down the hall to the squad room. Lindsay Towle was there, perched on the edge of a desk, drinking coffee with three or four plainclothes detectives and a couple of uniforms, who seemed happy to put their work aside for a few minutes of shooting the breeze with her.

  Lindsay’s blond hair gleamed under the overhead lights. Her camel-colored slacks, ivory silk blouse and gold earrings completely outclassed the frayed cuffs and rumpled sport coats of the other detectives. There could be little doubt that this was a woman on her way up—and out, from what Russo had said about her hopes for an FBI career. But was even the Bureau big enough to contain the ambition of Lindsay Towle? Who knew? She was sharp, no doubt about it.

  When she spotted Hannah, Lindsay got to her feet and followed her and Russo down the hall, the other detectives close behind. Russo led Hannah into an interview room and one of the older men joined them. The rest of the group continued on down the hall to what Hannah knew was a darkened observation room next door. So, they weren’t going to jump her en masse. That was something, anyway.

  FBI Agents Towle and Ito were nowhere to be seen, Hannah realized. But then, why would they bother wasting time while this bunch interviewed her? They knew where to find her, and obviously had no qualms about showing up uninvited at her door at any ungodly hour.

  Russo indicated that she should take a chair on the side of the table facing the mirror.

  “This is Detective Tim Walker of LAPD Robbery/ Homicide,” Russo said. “Detective, Hannah Nicks. Formerly one of ours.”

  The LAPD detective shook her hand. How would he interpret that “formerly one of ours” business? Hannah wondered. One of us, so go easy? Or she’s gone over to the dark side—do your worst?

  Twenty-Four

  In his tenth-floor Beverly Hills hotel room, Gladding dialed a number on one of his many throwaway cell phones.

  “Yes.” The Israeli-accented voice at the other end gave no indication who he was or where he might be. Gladding didn’t care. He had dialed a Zurich-based cell, but the satellites could be bouncing the signal halfway around the globe and back. As long as the former Mossad assassin was available when Gladding needed him, the rest was irrelevant.

  “I have work for you,” Gladding said. No need to identify himself. Not after all these years.

  “You know my price. When?”

  “Next week. Monday.”

  “Fine. Wire the advance, e-mail the details.”

  “Done.” Gladding disconnected, then booted up his laptop. There was much about modern life he found aggravating, but the ability to communicate safely using encryption algorithms that not even the American National Security Agency could crack was very convenient.

  He wrote a short e-mail and attached photos and other identifiers for Kyle Liggett, as w
ell as a copy of the boy’s Indiana driver’s license. His instructions included the coordinates where Liggett expected to receive final payment for the San Onofre job. He told the contractor to leave Liggett in an open area with a facsimile of the license in a pocket. When the body was found, Gladding wanted there to be no doubt about its identity.

  After sending the e-mail, he transferred twenty-five thousand dollars from one of his Cayman Island accounts into another account—also in the Caymans—belonging to the contractor. He could have hired someone cheaper, but reliability was paramount. Liggett could be crafty.

  He shut down the system, then glanced at his watch. Time for his meds. He freshened his coffee at the breakfast cart a waiter had rolled in a while earlier and threw back a handful of pills. Then he dialed yet another number, this one local.