The Night Cafe

by Taylor Smith

  Then, the FBI men stood aside as the Cessna resumed its scheduled course.

  Hannah and Teagarden were waiting in the arrivals lounge at Tijuana’s main airport. They’d flown down on a private Learjet owned by a government proprietary company that was fronted by a Marina del Rey man famous for the chain of seafood restaurants he owned up and down the California coast. Although he had served in the air force during the first Gulf War, nothing about the man’s legend hinted that he was anything other than the silver-spoon playboy his friends, neighbors and business associates all believed him to be.

  Hannah’s eye kept scanning the lounge, but if Gladding had a watcher there, she couldn’t spot him. Not surprising. The man’s network was a little scary.

  “The thing that niggles at the back of my mind,” Teagarden said quietly, “is that the Koon you’ll hand over isn’t framed. He may know the other one was.”

  “Well, there was no time to frame the stupid thing. Anyway, I don’t have any problem explaining what happened to the frame and why. He knows I was spooked by the mess at his villa. He’ll buy it.”

  “I hope so.”

  Her hip vibrated with the buzz of her cell phone. She glanced at the screen—a text message from Russo. Your friends ok. Call them when you can. Me, too. She nudged Teagarden and showed him the screen.

  “That’s very good news. You should call once we’re airborne again.” He pulled himself to his feet. “Showtime.” He stepped forward, smiling broadly. “Captain Peña! Good to see you again!”

  “And you, my friend!” As they shook hands, Peña eyed Hannah curiously. Teagarden introduced them. “I think you have recently been in Puerto Vallarta, have you not?” Peña asked her.

  “I’ve been a couple of times.”

  “Yet I would wager you had more adventures on your last visit than any previous time.”

  Teagarden touched his arm. “My friend, no one knows better than I the kind of terrible week it’s been in your town.”

  “More than you know.”

  “I know about the other cases, too,” Teagarden said quietly. “I give you my word, Captain, Ms. Nicks is not your suspect. When this is over, I promise that you will know everything I know. In the meantime, the person responsible for those deaths is about to be brought to justice as the direct result of the help you’re giving us here today.”

  “You swear this, Señor Teagarden?”

  “On my honor.”

  “It is good enough for me, then. I look forward to our next meeting.” He handed over the battered portfolio.

  Hannah unzipped it, glanced inside and saw the too-blue canvas she’d selected at Koon’s studio a few hours earlier. With a look of dismay, Teagarden picked out a couple of pieces of the frame she’d destroyed and turned them over in his hand.

  “Museum quality,” he said with a sigh.

  She winced. “Sorry.”

  “Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer the limo again, Mr. Dunning?” the concierge asked.

  “Not this evening,” Gladding said. “I’m in the mood to drive. Something not too small, with all this traffic. An SUV, I think.”

  “I can get you a Toyota Highlander.”

  “That’ll do nicely.”

  “Very good, sir. We’ll have it waiting downstairs whenever you’re ready.”

  Perfect, Gladding thought. Los Angeles was a car-loving city, and nothing was more anonymous here than a Toyota or an SUV. Plenty of cargo space for everything they would have to carry, including the painting and the dirty bomb. By the end of the night, he would have possession of both. When dawn broke on Liggett’s and the Libyan bomb maker’s bodies tomorrow, identifying them would be the least of the region’s worries. Southern Californians would be too busy trying to get out of the way of the lethal radiation carried on the wind. Eventually, of course, the pieces of the puzzle would start to come together, but Gladding himself would be long gone, sitting halfway around the world, enjoying the chaos and fear he had unleashed.

  Hannah spoke to her neighbor as the Learjet flew from Tijuana back to Los Angeles. She caught Travis as he was leaving Glendale Memorial Hospital to take Mellie back to their friends’ house in Studio City. “Are you sure Ruben’s all right?” she asked after he recounted how his partner had tried to sneak back home to collect the toddler’s favorite stuffed elephant.

  “He was almost out the door when he heard a noise in the kitchen. The minute he went in, this guy jumped him. I don’t know who was more surprised, Ruben or the other guy. I really don’t think he expected a gay man to put up the kind of fight he got.”

  “Detective Russo said the kitchen was trashed.”

  “Yeah, it was quite the battle royal, from the sounds of it.”

  “Poor Ruben! He could have been killed.”

  “He went in there with a knife. In fact, he feels a little sheepish about it, but that’s actually how he got hurt. Our spice rack went down in the mayhem, and he thinks he tripped on the oregano or something. He landed on the knife. He lost quite a bit of blood—barely made it to the gas station up the street before he passed out. They’re keeping him in the hospital overnight for observation, but he should be fine.”

  “What about the other guy?” Hannah asked.

  “Oh, well, Rube’s feeling pretty pumped about that. Scary dude, he said, but he managed to clock the guy with our wooden knife rack. Thought he might have killed him, but when he saw him move, he beat it out of there. That’s when he tripped and fell on the knife.”

  “Russo said the intruder was long gone by the time he got there.”

  “Yeah, but he told me they’ve got an idea who it was. Hopefully they’ll find the bastard.”

  Dollars to doughnuts it was Kyle Liggett, Hannah thought. “I’m just glad Ruben’s okay. You give him a big smooch for me, okay. And one for you and Mellie, too. And Trav? I’m so sorry.”

  “Not your fault. You just take care of yourself.”

  Shadows were long by the time they got back to the FBI field office. Somebody sent out for food and most of the team ate when it arrived. There was no telling when the next communication from Gladding would come in, giving Hannah details for the drop. When it did, everyone would be in scramble mode to get surveillance and backup laid in. Cases like this, people ate when they could, not when they were hungry.

  But the sun went down, the supper hour stretched into evening, and the evening began to get late. Hannah was beginning to wonder if Gladding had decided things were too hot to try for a handover. How could he possibly think he would walk away from this?

  And then, a little after ten, her cell phone rang. They’d hooked up a recording device to the cell, so while Hannah talked to him, Towle and others listened in on headsets.

  “I understand you have my painting.”

  “Hello, Mr. Gladding.”

  “The man from Marina del Rey whose Lear you took to Tijuana—a friend of yours?”

  “We have mutual friends.”

  “How fortunate for you. And the tall older man who went with you?”

  “A private investigator. I thought I could use some help on this. So, now that I’ve got the painting back, where would you like it delivered?”

  He described an all-night diner in San Juan Capistrano. “One-thirty a.m. Come alone.” As usual, he didn’t repeat himself, and he didn’t wait for confirmation.

  “It can’t be this easy,” Agent Ito said afterward. “He’s gotta know we’ll have it covered.”

  “I don’t think it would be advisable to underestimate Gladding,” Teagarden said. Although Towle had hinted that the Brit’s part was over now that the painting had been recovered, Teagarden had no intention of leaving the piece unattended or—apparently—of standing back while Hannah walked into the lion’s den on her own.

  “He told me to come alone,” she pointed out.

  Towle agreed. “It’s not going to happen at the diner. I think it’s a safe bet that once she’s there, she’ll get additional instructions.”
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br />   “All the more reason why I should stick with her,” Teagarden said. “I can conceal myself in the back of her car.”

  They all looked at him skeptically. The idea of the older gent folding his six-foot-four frame into the back seat of her puddle jumper hardly bore thinking about.

  “You’re welcome to ride down there with me,” Towle said. “In any event, we’ve already put a tracking device under the dash of your Prius.”

  What was it with people bugging her car today? Hannah wondered.

  Thirty-One

  San Juan Capistrano

  Sunday, April 23

  When the witching hour arrived, she found a parking spot easily enough near the old Spanish mission in San Juan Capistrano. At this hour, about the only people around besides the night owls in the diner up the road were homeless people and the drunks beginning to spill out of the Swallows Inn.

  The battered portfolio bumped awkwardly against her leg as she crossed the road toward the diner. Looking through its plate-glass window, she did a double take when she recognized one of the prepositioned watchers inside—none other than L.A. Sheriff’s Detective Lindsay Towle. So had Russo convinced the feds to play nice again? Or was it true what they said, that hell hath no fury like a kid sister scorned?

  The tiny two-way radio she wore was well hidden by her hair, she knew, but it still felt conspicuous and awkward.

  “You reading me?” Agent Towle’s voice murmured in her earpiece.

  “Yeah,” she said, lips hardly moving. The mike embedded in the radio unit was so sensitive that Towle could probably hear her heartbeat.

  Just as she arrived at the threshold of the all-night diner, a rambunctious group of giggling girls spilled out the door. Hannah held the door as they flounced past, oblivious. “You’re welcome, I’m sure,” she said.

  Her cell rang the second she stepped inside. A voice—not Gladding’s—instructed, “Fourth booth on the right.”

  Liggett? she wondered.

  About half a dozen tables were occupied by people who looked like students or night owls, plus at least one sleepy homeless guy nursing the world’s slowest cup of coffee. Aside from Lindsay, Hannah recognized a couple of other faces, but she had no idea how many might be cops or FBI agents—and how many might be working for Moises Gladding.

  She pushed the leather portfolio across the bench of the fourth booth. Sliding in after it, she spotted a manila folder tucked behind the condiments, her name scrawled on the outside.

  “Coffee?” the waitress called from behind the counter.

  “Not sure. Let me check the menu. By the way,” Hannah added, “who sat here last?”

  The waitress grimaced at the door. “The ditzes who just left. Why?”

  Hannah shrugged, picked up the sugar dispenser and feigned tightening its top. “I just noticed that the lid’s loose.”

  “Great. Comedians.”

  In her ear Hannah heard Towle’s voice. “Okay, thanks for the heads-up. We’ll haul them in, see what they know.”

  She opened the envelope so Lindsay and the other watchers would see that she’d received further instructions. When she tipped it, a throwaway cell phone and a note spilled out. Blood drained from her face as she read the note.

  You did not come alone. If you so much as move your lips, your mother, your sister Nora and the entire Quinn family will die—including Nolan up at Stanford. Then we will move on to your son, Gabriel. Not today, not tomorrow, but soon.

  After what had happened at Travis and Ruben’s place, Agent Towle had put watchers on her entire family, including Gabe, plus the house in Studio City where her neighbors were staying until it was safe to go home. It didn’t matter worth a damn, Hannah realized. Gladding could circle back at any time and take them out at his leisure.

  Leave your own cell phone in the envelope, along with the wire I’m sure you’re wearing. Order coffee and leave payment on the table. Be ready to walk out with the painting as soon as you get the signal. It will be unmistakable. Head south on the 5 Freeway. There is no doubt a tracking device on your car. If you want your family to survive, you will get rid of it.

  “What does it say?” Towle murmured in her ear.

  She picked up the menu, glanced at it briefly, then called to the waitress. “You know, I can’t say what I want. Just a coffee, I guess.”

  “Okay, can’t talk, right?” Towle said.

  The waitress brought over a coffee and set it down. Hannah blew across the top and took a sip. “Uh-huh,” she hummed softly.

  Fishing her cell phone out of her bag, she dropped it and the note in the envelope. Removing the earpiece, she added that, then reclosed the envelope and laid it on the bench. After that, she put a couple of dollars on the table to cover the coffee.

  Then she waited.

  William Teagarden and Agent Towle were in a black Ford Explorer up the road, both men watching Hannah through high-powered binoculars. Towle cursed when they saw her take the receiver out of her ear.

  “Something is afoot,” Teagarden said.

  “Ya think?” Towle growled, switching the radio over to the frequency his watchers were on. “Keep an eye on that envelope. If she leaves it behind, see if anyone retrieves it. Otherwise, grab the damn thing. I want to know what it says.”

  The Bureau Explorer was parked deep in shadow on a side street where they could observe without being easily observed themselves. Towle scanned the area, looking for Gladding or Liggett. He flicked the radio talk button again. “Lindsay, you there?”

  His sister radioed back an affirmative.

  Towle pressed the talk button again. “See if—”

  The blinding flash was the first sign of trouble. They heard the explosion, felt its concussive force a split second later. If the watchers had been undercover until then, the jig was up now. Half a dozen night owls in the diner and drunks by the Swallows Inn cried with pain, yanking out earpieces. Across the road, a car in flames rolled and careened through the window of a souvenir shop.

  Towle grabbed the shotgun racked behind him and leapt out of the SUV. “Stay here!” he shouted at Teagarden.

  The souvenir store was burning now and two other cars had also caught fire. As Towle approached, the gas tank on one exploded, liquid flame spewing in every direction.

  Teagarden, meantime, saw Hannah fly out the door of the diner, racing for her car. Agent Towle had left the keys in the SUV’s ignition. By the time Teagarden had scrambled behind the wheel, Hannah’s Prius had already made a U-turn on a shriek of rubber and was barreling away from the commotion. Teagarden threw the Explorer into gear and tore out after her. As the Prius approached the freeway, he saw her fist emerge from the driver’s side window. She opened her hand, palm up, and held it there for a moment before tossing something away. Teagarden saw a flash of metal bounce on the pavement before coming to land in front of an oncoming car. Teagarden peered at the crushed device as he passed it in the road—the GPS tracker the FBI had planted on her car. Gladding’s instructions had obviously been specific and thorough.

  Towle had dropped the portable radio on the floor, and now the Brit heard the agent’s voice bellowing, “Teagarden! Get your ass back here!”

  He couldn’t reach the radio to respond. With both hands gripping the wheel, it was all he could do to remember to stay on the right-hand side of the road. The FBI had vehicles aplenty. His best bet was to keep going and hope Hannah realized that at least one set of headlights behind her was friendly.

  Liggett beamed. Nothing like a nice explosion to lift a guy’s spirits. He’d been furious when Gladding had ordered him to create a diversion in the midst of a street crawling with feds and undercover cops. If he got his ass arrested here, who was going to set off the device at San Onofre? What about the mission then?

  But then he’d found a car parked nearby in a lot by the Swallows Inn, where surrounding cars afforded him some cover, and he’d rigged it to blow. Unfortunately, the car’s driver had come out before Gladding gave the g
o-ahead, so by the time Liggett hit the detonator, the car had pulled out of the lot. He saw the blast in his rearview mirror. A couple of seconds later he watched the collateral damage as a store and a couple of other cars caught fire. A moment later one of those cars, too, blew up.

  Liggett threw his head back and laughed. “Kaboom!”

  But the sudden movement shot a spear of pain through his head. He winced and fingered the lump on the back of his skull. It hurt like a bitch. That damn faggot had been surprisingly quick, and the next thing Liggett knew, the bastard had brought a knife block down on him. By the time Liggett had stumbled out of the condo, the guy had been gone. When this was all over, he was going to track the bugger down and cut his throat.