The Night Cafe (22 page)

Los Angeles

B
y the time Hannah had given Russo, his partner, the FBI agents and William Teagarden an abbreviated account of her adventures in Mexico—leaving out the part about how she might have left a priceless van Gogh in the closet of a fleabag hotel—they were all champing at the bit to get their hooks into August Koon, the missing link between Rebecca Powell and Moises Gladding. Russo’s partner wandered off to call Sheriff’s Department headquarters and have them run a check on Koon.

Nobody was ruling out the possibility that Rebecca’s murder might be unrelated to machinations of the arms dealer. But as the erudite Brit pointed out, “Ockham’s razor still applies.” When brows furrowed, Teagarden shrugged. “A fourteenth century countryman of mine, William of Ockham. He said, ‘all things being equal, the simplest answer is the best.’”

“Hang on, guys,” Hannah said. “Simpler still would be to put your hands on Gladding. Rebecca told me he has a home in Malibu. Maybe he snuck back into the country after his place in Mexico was shot up.”

Agent Towle shook his head. “We checked it out after we spoke to you the other night. There’s no evidence of a property in Malibu or anywhere else in California.”

“So he lied to Rebecca,” Hannah said. “All he wanted was an intermediary between himself and August Koon.”

Towle nodded. “Gladding doesn’t like to dirty his hands. Even in his arms deals, he mostly acts as banker and facilitator. He leaves the heavy lifting to others.”

“So Koon’s our man for now,” Russo said.

“I made some inquiries about the man,” Teagarden said. “I thought his name rang a bell. He spent his twenties in Paris. At the time, a gallery owner on the Champs Élysées was on the fiddle, passing off forgeries as the work of high-priced artists. Koon was one of the people suspected of painting the forgeries, but he did a bunk when things got hot. Now that he’s a success in his own right, his misspent youth would make him very susceptible to blackmail.”

“And Moises Gladding’s said to have an extensive private intelligence network,” Towle noted. “Blackmail would be well within his capability.”

Russo’s young partner returned. “No luck. There’s no phone in Koon’s name. No tax records in L.A. listing him as owner, either.”

“A lot of celebrities in this town set up dummy corporations to keep the fans and paparazzi away,” Russo said.

“That describes August Koon to a T,” Hannah said. “A superstar in his own mind. It’s not a problem, though. I don’t know the address, but I’m pretty sure I could find the place again. Frankly, I wouldn’t mind hearing myself what he has to say about that butt-ugly piece of canvas I risked my neck over.”

Russo nodded reluctantly. “I guess. You can ride with me.”

“No, I’ll take my own car.”

Detective Towle shook her head. “Forensics will need to examine your car.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m sure we all appreciate your help,” Lindsay said, “but you’re still a suspect here.”

“Well, in that case, do you have a warrant to search my car?”

“You know it’s just routine, Hannah,” Russo said, ever the peacemaker. “We need to rule you out, that’s all.”

“What exactly do you think my car is going to tell you? That I broke Rebecca’s neck by driving over her? Give me a break. I’ve already admitted I was here. I might even concede that I was the last person to see her alive—barring her killer.”

“Look, you know how this works,” Lindsay said. “You’re a suspect until you’re not.”

“Guilty till proven innocent, is that it? Do you seriously think I snapped the neck of my sister’s best friend?”

“Do you have martial arts training?”

“Yes. So?”

“Well, then…” Lindsay shrugged, as if it was self-evident.

“Look, if you intend to impound my car, you’re going to have to get a warrant, and while you’re doing that, I’m going to lawyer up.
That’s
how this works, Detective. In the meantime, while you’re standing around playing dimwit games, Rebecca’s murderer is slipping further away.”

“She was in business with a known arms dealer. So were you. You had opportunity and means.”

“But not motive. How many times do I have to say this? I was working for Rebecca, not Gladding, and the only reason I took the job was as a favor to my sister. So I repeat, if you want my car, get yourself a bloody warrant.”

“No. Not necessary,” Russo said.

Lindsay started to protest, but he silenced her with a look. He turned back to Hannah. “Just come with me, show us where Koon lives, and I’ll have someone bring you back for your car.”

Hannah shook her head. “Not gonna happen. Unless you’re planning to arrest me, I would like to go home sometime today. In fact, I’ll need to drive down to Orange County to see my sister. She and Rebecca have been friends forever. She’s going to be devastated when she finds out.”

“She already knows,” Russo said.

“What?”

“I found her number in Ms. Powell’s cell phone.”

“And you called her?”

“I told you, I was trying to track you down. I also wanted to know if she’d heard from her friend after you were here.”

“Dammit, Russo.” Hannah’s heart sank, knowing Nora had found out like that—a phone call from a homicide detective. Nora didn’t know Russo from Adam. Hannah hadn’t even mentioned that she was kinda-sorta-maybe dating anyone, so it wasn’t like it would have come easier because it was him relaying the news.

Her sister would be crushed. In addition to being college roommates, she and Rebecca had backpacked through Europe together, had been each other’s maids of honor. Rebecca was Natalie’s godmother. Given the difference in their ages, Hannah often felt Nora was closer to Rebecca than her own sister.

“Well, thanks so much,” she told Russo. “All the more reason why I’ll drive myself. I’m not wasting time coming all the way back here.”

The tall Brit stepped forward. “In that case, would you mind awfully if I rode along with you, Ms. Nicks? I came over here with Agents Towle and Ito, but I’d love the chance to ask you some questions about that painting. That way, I won’t ask you to delay getting to see your sister afterward.”

Russo pulled his car keys out of his pocket and tossed them to his partner. “I’ll come with you, too.”

Oh, no, he wouldn’t, Hannah thought. She was still ticked off that he’d discussed her business with Little Miss Bright-Eyed-And-Bushy-Tailed Lindsay Towle, who then proceeded to run tattling to her big brother the FBI Agent. And now, to find out Russo had dropped that bombshell on Nora, too?

“I don’t think so,” she said. “My little car is too small to take any more passengers. Mr. Teagarden, you’re welcome to ride with me. I’m sure you’ll have me well surrounded, Detectives. You’ll want to be sure I don’t kidnap our visiting friend and hold him hostage while I make my escape.”

His face flushed, Russo took his car keys back.

Hannah held out an arm toward the highway. “I’m parked up the road a little way, Mr. Teagarden. Shall we?”

“By all means,” he said. “Delighted, I’m sure.”

It felt like a parade. Russo’s unmarked car, the feds, and a Sheriff’s Department cruiser followed Hannah’s Prius down Pacific Coast Highway. Another black-and-white was ahead of her, and all of the other cars were flashing their lights and sounding sirens when necessary to plow ahead of traffic. The deputy driving the squad car ahead of her had been told Hannah was guiding them to Koon’s studio in the Hollywood Hills, and he assured Hannah that if she signaled in advance where she wanted to turn, he’d spot it in his rearview mirror.

“Well, this is lovely, Ms. Nicks.” Teagarden said, settled back in her passenger seat, enjoying the scenery. “I do love this city, and there’s nothing like a police escort to move things along briskly.”

Hannah smiled. The accent and deep, mellow voice were so appealing she could listen to the man read his grocery list and be fascinated. He was old enough to be her father, but William Teagarden could turn any red-blooded American woman into an Anglophile.

“By the way,” she said, “feel free to call me Hannah.”

“And I’m Will—or more often just Teagarden to my friends. Whatever you like. As my old mom used to say, ‘Call me what you like, just don’t call me late for dinner.’”

“So tell me, Will, do you really think that painting I took to Mexico was this—what was it called, the van Gogh?”

“
The Night Café.
I think it could have been. It’ll be simple enough to find out using X-rays when we get it back. In fact, given how thickly van Gogh laid the pigment down on his canvases, we’ll probably be able to see brushstrokes beneath Koon’s overlayer. Although first, of course, we have to find Gladding and get the painting back.”

She winced. “Actually, that’s something I didn’t mention before. I never saw Gladding to deliver the painting.”

“Excuse me?”

“You said you found a fax from Rebecca Powell at Gladding’s villa?”

“That’s right.”

“So that means you were there after the bloodbath?” She glanced over in time to see him nod. “Well, me, too. I was delayed getting there, as I mentioned earlier. When I did, all I found were bodies and blood.”

“Aha,” he said. “Well, there’s a mystery cleared up.”

“What do you mean?”

“You turned off the oven in the kitchen.”

She was dumbfounded. How the hell did he know that?

As if he’d read her mind, Teagarden said, “The footprints at the scene. They were all large, men’s trainers, except for one pair of smaller boots. Those boots,” he said, pointing to her feet. “You were very careful not to step into the tracks left by the invaders, so I couldn’t be sure when your prints were laid down. But I did see one in the kitchen, so I wondered if it belonged to the same person who had turned off the oven. But I thought, that’s something a woman would do, turning off the flame.”

“It could have been the cook, or one of the killers.”

“The cook would have taken the bread out of the oven before it burned, and the killers wouldn’t have cared. In fact, I’m sure they couldn’t have given a toss if the whole house went up in smoke. No, I was quite certain it was someone who’d come in after the killers, and after the bread was already burned. Otherwise she would have taken it out of the oven. Just something a woman would do.”

“That’s not very politically correct of you, Will.”

He chuckled. “Oh, I know, but there it is. I’m just a foolish old fellow, stuck in my antediluvian ways.”

“Not so foolish. So is it safe to presume you don’t suspect me of being a mass murderer? Because I’m sure Detective Towle back there would think so.”

“Quite the little bossy boots, isn’t she? No, I didn’t think that massacre looked like woman’s work. Mind you, it’s getting bloody hard to tell these days.”

“So how did you end up at Gladding’s villa?”

“I was in Puerto Vallarta following up on some intelligence I’d received. I was with a police captain, asking about Gladding, when a shots-fired call came into the station. He invited me along with them to investigate.”

She nodded. “When you rounded that last curve just before the entrance to the villa, I thought you guys would hit me for sure.”

“Aha! The gardener’s truck. Big straw hat.”

“Why, Mr. Teagarden,” she said, grinning over at him, “you are a wonder. So tell me, are you sure the police didn’t find Gladding’s body?”

“No, but he’d been there, I think. One of the officers found a hidden tunnel in the office floor. Led to a vehicle parked on the far side of the property.”

“Well, don’t I feel stupid. Not only did I not notice the fax from Rebecca that you found, I didn’t see any tunnel, either.”

He patted her shoulder. “Don’t fret, dear. I didn’t see the tunnel, either. One of the young Mexican officers found it under a carpet. In any case, Gladding was long gone. There were fresh tracks, two men. They left in a hurry.”

“So he could be anywhere by now. I guess you don’t deal with the kind of people he does without having escape plans laid in at all times.”

“All the more reason to see what August Koon has to say for himself.”

Their little parade was speeding up Sunset Boulevard now, tourists on the strip craning to see who could be driving a Prius that warranted a major police escort. Hannah felt more than a little silly.

“So, how long has it been since you worked at Scotland Yard?” she asked Teagarden.

“Four years.”

“And art recovery? Is that a good business?”

“I keep busy. Art theft is a five-billion-dollar-a-year industry. Not far behind the arms trade and drugs.”

She whistled.

“Unfortunately,” Teagarden added, “less than ten percent of what’s stolen is ever recovered. Art is easily transported. Even if a customs officer sees a piece, a clever thief will convince them it’s just a copy. Who’s to say different, absent an expert—who, let’s face it, is not exactly a common commodity. Once a piece leaves their jurisdiction, the police lose interest. That’s why owners turn to someone like me.”

“Maybe the van Gogh was just transported in plain sight, like you say.”

“I’d be surprised,” Teagarden said. “Van Gogh isn’t just any old obscure artist. And the theft of
The Night Café
was recent. It got so much press that moving it undisguised would be risky. That’s why the Koon overpaint theory makes the most sense.”

Hannah nodded.

“How about you?” he asked. “Working private security is odd work for a woman—pardon my old, un-PC notions. It’s not dangerous?”

“Not half as dangerous as my mother worries it is. She thinks I’m dodging bullets on a daily basis, but I get ten boring gigs for every death-defying job.”

“Ah, well, moms—it’s their job to worry, isn’t it?”

“Mine thinks I’m doomed to an early death, like your buddy Vincent there. When I feel the urge to chop off my ear, I’ll start to worry. Meantime, it’s just a paycheck.”

“Did you know that after that incident when van Gogh cut off his ear and presented it to a prostitute, the villagers in Arles, where he was living at the time, petitioned the mayor and the police to have him committed or driven out of town? They were terrified of him.”