The Night Cafe

by Taylor Smith

  “No Foster’s,” the waiter said brusquely.

  “Well, whatever, then. Just make it cold and wet.”

  Before he could get away, Gladding stopped the waiter with a peremptorily raised finger. “We’ll order now, too. The roast of lamb and a salad for me. Roquefort dressing.”

  The Aussie tried to scan the long menu, then gave up and glanced around. “Smell’s like steak. Works for me. Make it a rib eye, rare.”

  “No rib eye,” the waiter said. He pointed at the steak section on the menu.

  The P.I. exhaled heavily. “Fine. Porterhouse, then. Same salad as the gentleman, and don’t forget that beer.”

  The waiter sniffed, took the menus and left.

  Gladding got right down to business. “You have a tail on her?”

  “Put someone on it as soon as you called. Matter of fact, you’ll get a kick out of this. She’d already left her place by the time my guy went around, but then we caught a break. Got information that she was at the West Hollywood Sheriff’s station. Found her car in the lot there. I talked to a confidential source of mine. Turns out she’s a material witness on a couple of murder beefs—maybe even a suspect.”

  Gladding raised an eyebrow. “Really? You’re certain about this?”

  “Absolutely. I’m plugged in. That’s why I get the big bucks. After she left the cop shop, she had lunch at a burger joint with a couple of poofters, my guy said.” He slid the manila file across the table. “It sounds like neighbors who live in the same condo complex as her. They’ve got an adopted daughter who’s handicapped. My watcher said the poofters had a little kid who looked like something was wrong with her.”

  Gladding leafed through the pages, nodding. There was extensive biographical info on the Nicks woman—background, work history, even a few press clippings. “You might want to add a second tail on her,” he said, scanning the clippings. “She seems wily, this one.”

  The P.I. nodded. “We put a GPS tag on her car, but I can add a second man, if you like.”

  “Do it.”

  She was divorced, Gladding read, her ex-husband remarried. She had a son who lived with the ex and the second wife. The file also contained information on an extended family who lived in Orange County—a mother and a sister and her family. There were also details on her neighbors at her Silver Lake condominium.

  All good to know, Gladding thought, particularly the fact that she was friendly with the neighbors with the crippled child. He wouldn’t use it unless he had to but he didn’t have time to waste, so every bit of ammunition helped.

  Gladding didn’t like to exploit a target’s family if it could be avoided. On the other hand, the American government had set the ground rules here when they’d roughed up his wife and son at his daughter’s graduation, using his family for leverage after they turned against him.

  Now, his own family was safely out of the country, and all bets were off.

  Twenty-Six

  When her cell rang, Hannah glanced at the screen. She sighed. She knew Cal had phoned while she was in Puerto Vallarta, but she’d decided to put off calling him back to see if they could take Mrs. Jennings’s advice to bury the hatchet for Gabe’s sake. Well, she thought, no time like the present.

  “Hi, Cal.”

  “So, Hannah, in yet another mess, are you?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Two murders, and whose name pops up as a material witness—dare I say a suspect?”

  “Now, wait a minute—”

  “You’ll have to keep away from Gabe until this is resolved.”

  “What?”

  “You can resume visitation if and when you’re cleared.”

  “Cal, you know damn well I didn’t kill anyone.”

  “Maybe, but I have to insist, at least until this is cleared up. I’m just protecting my son.”

  “Our son.” But she was talking to dead air.

  She slammed her hand against the steering wheel. How the hell would he even know about this? But of course, he’d been a prosecutor in this city. He was still plugged in to sources in the D.A.’s office and on all the local police forces. Even if he now worked the other side of the aisle as a defense attorney, Calvin Nicks was very good at keeping the wheels greased.

  What were the chances, she worried, that Gabe might one day start believing his father’s version of things?

  She’d made up her mind to track down Teagarden and take him up on his offer to have the painting picked up in Puerto Vallarta, but when she put in a call to Agent Towle at the FBI field office, he was in a meeting. She left her cell number for him to call back.

  Once back home, she decided to go for a run to try to clear her head. After the call from Gladding, she wasn’t going anywhere without her Beretta, even though it was a pain—literally—to carry the thing while she ran. But she had a concealed-carry permit and better to have it than be caught in the open with her ballistic pants down, so to speak.

  Although, come to think of it, how exactly was the “concealed” part managed in a tank top and shorts?

  Sweats and a brisk walk, then. She changed out of her fancy duds and into sweats and a T-shirt, flopping onto the couch to pull on her socks and sneakers. She stopped by the mirror at the front door, trying to see if the holster under her shirt made her look like the Hunch-back of Notre Dame. Not bad. Slipping her keys into her pocket, she pulled open the door to find a man standing there. She let out a startled gasp, dropping back into defensive position.

  “You were expecting me, I see,” Teagarden said wryly. Hands in his pockets, he leaned casually against the doorjamb, looking very Bond—James Bond, while she gathered her wits. At least he wasn’t looking very Gladding—Moises Gladding.

  She waved him in, double-locking the door behind him.

  “Am I your prisoner, my dear? How delightful.”

  Was he flirting with her? The rascal. She smiled in spite of herself.

  “Just feeling a little paranoid,” she said. “Did you see anyone suspicious outside?”

  “Other than myself?”

  “Touché. Anyway, speak of the devil, I was just trying to reach Agent Towle to find out if you were still in town. Have a seat. Can I offer you something—coffee? Water? Soda? Oh, no, wait, is it tea time?”

  “Not yet. Nothing, thanks. I take it you’ve heard from our friend Mr. Gladding?”

  “How did you know?”

  “Elementary, my dear Ms. Watson. You weren’t nervous yesterday despite having every reason to be. Today, you’re as jumpy as a cricket on a hotplate.”

  “Well, I did spend the morning being grilled by L.A.’s finest. As for Gladding, I think so.” She told him about the cryptic message on her machine the night before.

  “You know this will never be put right until that painting is recovered, don’t you?” Teagarden asked.

  “I’m beginning to realize that.”

  “Well, I have that friend with the Puerto Vallarta police.”

  “So you said. But can you trust him?”

  Teagarden exhaled heavily. “Actually, he called this morning. That American fellow you left in the boot of his car? The CIA chap?”

  She nodded.

  “He’s been found dead. Tortured and shot.”

  “What? Where?”

  “In the boot of his car. Captain Peña said he’d been last seen with a dark-haired American woman. He sent up some fingerprints they pulled off his car and the FBI has already run them.”

  “And of course they’re mine. Oh, Lord…” She sank down into a chair. “Ackerman told me that Gladding would kill to get the painting. He also said he had a guy working for him who wasn’t above torture.”

  “Did you tell Ackerman where the painting was?”

  She shook her head.

  “You didn’t trust him?”

  “Not really. I still don’t know who I can trust. But if he’d been able to hand it over, they might not have killed him.”

  “So you can see the painting needs to be re
covered.”

  “How do you know your police captain friend isn’t Gladding’s creature?”

  Teagarden shook his head. “Not Peña.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Would your Detective Russo take a bribe?”

  “My Detective Russo?”

  He smiled. “Hannah, these eyes are old, but they don’t miss much. So, Russo—would he?”

  “No way.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I just do.” She slumped. “Okay, fine, I get it. As it was, I was trying to reach you anyway. I really can’t leave town, it seems, thanks to my Detective Russo and the LAPD. And now, I suppose I’m a wanted felon in Mexico, too.”

  “You do seem to be well in it, love.”

  She got up and poured them cold water from the fridge. “When the van Gogh was stolen, people were killed at the museum, weren’t they? To eliminate witnesses?” He nodded. “So Rebecca Powell and August Koon—same reason.”

  He took the glass from her. “Cheers. I should think so.”

  “So their murders come down to Gladding, too. But I don’t see him shooting up his own villa, do you?”

  “That is curious, isn’t it?”

  “And now Ackerman.”

  “It’s worse than that, I’m afraid. Peña called again about an hour ago. A man and his family have been found dead, the fellow showing many of the same signs as Ackerman.” He pulled a notebook out of his pocket and flipped it open. “Sergio Chavez was his name.”

  “Oh, my God. Gladding’s driver. The one who tried to steal the Koon from me.”

  “The one you left tied to a tree? You must see it now, Hannah.”

  “Yeah. This much bloodshed—it has to be your van Gogh. Okay, I give up. Call your police captain and let him go get the damn thing.”

  “First thing tomorrow. Peña said he’d be unavailable for the rest of today. All hell has broken loose in Puerto Vallarta. Four murders in twenty-four hours in a town that lives on tourism—and one of the victims a well-known local American, to boot. Poor fellow will be lucky to keep his job. Meantime,” Teagarden added, “I think we need to ensure your safety, my dear. I came over to suggest you pack a few things and come back to my hotel with me.”

  “Why William Teagarden, you devil.”

  “My intentions are completely honorable, I assure you. However, aside from the fact that you are a charming lady, I have rather a strong vested interest in keeping you alive.”

  “Well, thank you, I’m sure, but nobody’s running me out of my home.”

  “Has anyone ever noted how obstinate you are?”

  “All the time.”

  “Well, so am I, lass, so am I. I’ll be spending the night here, then.”

  “I don’t really have room for guests.”

  Teagarden glanced around. “Not a problem. That looks like a perfectly comfortable sofa.”

  Twenty-Seven

  Saturday, April 22

  She hadn’t heard from Russo since she’d left the interview at the West Hollywood station, but Hannah wasn’t all that surprised. No doubt he was insanely busy, coordinating the interagency case with the LAPD, the FBI and God only knows who else. There was also a good chance he was feeling the need to distance himself from her at the moment. She couldn’t blame him, but it was a bummer just the same.

  She showered, dressed and tiptoed out to the kitchen to switch on the coffeemaker she’d set up the night before. Teagarden was snoring rather loudly in the living room, but after she’d slipped out to pick up the paper from the driveway, she returned to find him peering at her over the back of the sofa.

  “Good morning,” she said. “Coffee?”

  “Mind if I shower, first?” He rolled off the sofa, gathered the blanket around himself toga-style, picked up his shirt and pants, and shuffled off down the hall. She poured herself a cup of coffee and settled in to look at the paper. The Los Angeles Times had August Koon’s murder on the front page and another piece inside the Arts section. Rebecca’s death, on the other hand, merited scarcely a couple of paragraphs on page eleven.

  The shower was running in the bathroom when her phone rang. Reading the puff piece on Koon, she answered distractedly. “Hello?”

  “Hannah Nicks? You have something that belongs to me, Ms. Nicks.”

  “Mr. Gladding? Is that you?” She faked a note of relief. “I was so worried. I thought you’d been killed.”

  “I’m quite alive.”

  “I arrived at the villa and found—everything. Everyone…it was awful.”

  “Did you see who did it? See anyone leave?”

  “No. Nobody was there. Nobody alive, at least. I was terrified. I just jumped on a plane and came back to Los Angeles. Have you heard what happened here? Rebecca Powell has been killed, too.”

  “I heard. I was shocked.”

  In a pig’s eye, Hannah thought.

  “But I’m a little confused, Ms. Nicks. You ran away, and yet I understand from sources of mine that you didn’t take the painting back with you.”

  “I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to get it back into the country. But I left it somewhere safe.”

  “I believe you were paid to deliver it. I would like my painting.”

  “You want it delivered in Puerto Vallarta?” She decided to go for broke, just to see how he’d react. “There’s an American down there, Donald Ackerman. I think I could get him to pick it up.”

  Gladding said nothing for a moment. “Did you enjoy your lunch yesterday, Ms. Nicks?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Those two friends of yours—and that sweet little child they have. Pity about her health problems, though. It would be a shame if anything were to happen to her caretakers.”

  “Wait a minute—”

  “You have until nine p.m. tonight to deliver my painting. I’ll call again later with instructions on where and how. Are we clear?” He didn’t wait for a reply.

  Staring at the phone in her hand, dial tone buzzing, she didn’t notice that Teagarden’s shower had long since ended. She turned as he stepped into the kitchen and took the receiver from her hand and hung it back up.

  “Gladding?”

  She nodded. “He wants the painting, he wants it yesterday, and he’s made a threat against some close friends of mind.”

  “Tell me.”

  She recounted Gladding’s message, including the threat against Travis and Ruben. “How could he know I met them yesterday?”

  “He must have you under surveillance. He might even have a bug on your car—and on your phone, for that matter.”

  “Well, if he wants to tap my phone, he’s probably had to stand in line, given how many people want a piece of me at the moment.”

  She glanced around. What were the odds her house wasn’t bugged, too? She grabbed the remote and turned on the TV, cranking the volume up loud. She moved in close to Teagarden.

  “I need to go and warn my neighbors,” she murmured. “I can get to their place through the garages without going outside. There’s a connecting double door and we each have keys to the other’s side.”

  Teagarden nodded. “Be careful. And take that gun of yours, will you? While you do that, I’ll make some quiet phone calls.”

  Hannah grabbed her gun and keys, slipped through the kitchen entrance into her garage, and from there into Ruben and Travis’s bay. Ruben’s Mustang was there, but his partner’s Jeep was gone. She tried the door to their kitchen. Unlocked. Dammit, Ruben. She tiptoed inside, dreading the silence.

  Suddenly, Chucky-the-dog came padding out to greet her and she breathed a sigh of relief. Ruben was on the patio, reading the paper. He looked up and grinned.

  “Well, hi, girlfriend! Mellie’s—”

  Hannah held a finger to her lips, then waved him into the kitchen, where she found a grocery pad and pen stuck on the side of the fridge. She pulled it down and wrote: Danger + House may be bugged. Where’s Trav?

  Work, Ruben mouthed.

  She po
inted at the radio on the counter, but he cocked a thumb upstairs toward Mellie’s room and mimed sleeping.

  You have to get out of here, she wrote. I’m so sorry. My fault.

  He patted her shoulder, then took the pen. You sure???

  She nodded fiercely.

  We can go to cabin.