The Night Cafe (26 page)
Authors: Taylor Smith
Tags: #Politics, #USA, #Mystery, #Suspense, #Thriller, #Spy, #Contemporary
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?
I
n 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 well 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.
“G’day!” a cheerful voice answered.
“It’s me.” Another longtime associate with no need for names. “I need some information.”
“Information’s my middle name, mate.”
The private investigator’s Australian accent was still pronounced, although the man had been living in Los Angeles for something like twenty years. “The sheilas dig it,” he’d once told Gladding with a wink. The man could come across as a good-time Charlie, but it masked impressive efficiency. Like the man in Zurich, the Aussie gave good value for his steep fee.
Gladding gave him what he had on Hannah Nicks, which amounted to little more than an address and phone number. In the background, he heard a keypad tapping. “I want everything you can get on her by noon,” he said.
The tapping stopped. “Today?”
“Yes, of course, today. Meet me at Musso & Frank.”
“Can you give me an extra hour at least, mate?”
“One o’clock then. Sharp.”
Gladding called down to the hotel concierge to have him book a table—a
quiet
table—at Musso & Frank Grill in Hollywood for one o’clock.
“You bet, Mr. Dunning. Number in your party?”
“Two.”
Gladding rang off and settled in to read the
New York Times
. He had made it through world news and the business pages when a knock sounded at the door. He padded over the thick carpets, glanced through the peephole, then opened the door.
He shut the door behind Kyle Liggett. “Did anyone see you?”
Liggett pushed his sunglasses on top of his head. “Nope.”
“You came in the side door?”
“Just like you said.”
Gladding’s instructions had been explicit. Within hours of the bombing, Liggett’s picture would be splattered across the media. It had been risky allowing the boy to come to the hotel, but he wanted to see him and judge the steadiness of his resolve. This was Gladding’s final hurrah, his goodbye message to a country that had answered his long service with betrayal. Liggett would be the instrument of his revenge.
“You look like you slept in the street,” Gladding said. He’d ordered the boy to find a room in another part of L.A. No hookers, nothing to bring attention to himself.
“Stayed in a hotel by the Hollywood Walk of Fame. You know, that place is not as fancy as you might expect.”
Gladding took an armchair and gestured to the sofa. Instead, Liggett walked over to the breakfast cart, poured himself a glass of orange juice, then proceeded to butter some toast and spread jam on it. Gladding swallowed his irritation. “I want you to drive down to San Onofre for a final survey of the target. Make sure nothing’s changed.”
Liggett slumped on the couch, legs sprawling, chewing noisily. “I been over it six ways to Sunday already.”
“I’m not asking.”
“You’re the boss.”
“Yes, I am. Call me before you start back here in case I have additional instructions. Now, go. Take the stairs down.”
Kyle downed the last of his juice and set the glass on the cart, then pulled on his shades and left.
He steamed all the way to the ground floor and out the side door of the fancy Beverly Hills hotel. He wasn’t the fool the old man seemed to think he was. And if the bugger didn’t want Liggett to be seen, he should have stayed in a bigger place.
“Boutique hotel, my ass.”
The hell with it. After this, he’d never have to deal with Gladding again—and never was too soon. But it pissed him off royally to have the man ordering him off on some wild-goose chase today. Wasn’t necessary. Things were set. Gladding had never micromanaged him before, so why start now?
There could only be one reason. He wanted him out of the way.
Since the old man obviously still didn’t have the painting, which was payment for the damn bomb, what was he even doing in L.A.? If he thought the courier had brought it back here, then why not send Liggett around to take it off the bitch?
He’d left his rental Ford in a parking lot across from the hotel entrance. Damned if he was driving to San Onofre, Liggett fumed. He was staying right here to keep an eye on Gladding.
Russo took the lead during the interview with Hannah, having her recount yet again how Rebecca Powell had approached her about transporting an August Koon painting to a client in Puerto Vallarta, and how events had subsequently unfolded.
Walker, the LAPD Robbery/Homicide detective heading up their side of the joint investigation, injected the occasional question or request for clarification, but Russo was thorough—not least, Hannah suspected, to waylay the misgivings of his young partner in the next room about whether he could be objective where this witness was concerned.
Predictably, Walker was very interested in Hannah’s visit to Koon’s studio with Rebecca. He took her over that part of the story three times before he seemed satisfied. Yes, Hannah confirmed, she’d been in the studio. Yes, she’d handled the murder weapon. She saw no reason to hold anything back.
When it came to the FBI agents’ visit the night before her departure, she was on shakier ground. She had no idea what Towle and Ito had told Russo about what they’d asked her to do, and she didn’t see it as her place to volunteer, since it did seem to be a matter of some sensitivity. She was in enough hot water without getting caught up on some national security beef.
Russo, unfortunately, wasn’t making this part easy for her. “Why, exactly, did the FBI want to talk to you that night?”
“Gee, Detective, I’m not sure. Seems they heard through the grapevine I was hand-delivering a painting to Moises Gladding.”
At least he had the grace to look chagrined.
“But what was their interest in your trip?” Walker asked.
“It’s no secret that Moises Gladding is an arms dealer. You guys know there are federal warrants out on him. Makes sense the feds would be keeping an eye on him, I suppose.”
“Yeah. So what did they want you to do?”
“Well, this is where it gets dicey for me, guys. I think you need to ask them about that.” She cocked a thumb at the two-way mirror and the invisible watchers on the other side. “Maybe Detective Russo’s partner could tell you something more,” she suggested. Well, all right, maybe she wasn’t over being annoyed about that.
“Let’s just get back to what happened when you tried to deliver Koon’s painting,” Russo said. “There were complications.”
“Yeah, big-time,” Hannah said. Since William Teagarden, a civilian and a foreigner, to boot, knew all about the shootings at Gladding’s villa, she saw no reason to withhold details. She ran through sordid chapter and verse of her eighteen-hour Mexican misadventure, neglecting only to say what she’d done with the painting.
Walker sat back and crossed his arms, frowning. “Let me get this straight. You found five people shot to death at this estate Gladding had down there and you failed to call the police?”
“I think it was five bodies, yes.”
“You wanna tell me why you didn’t call the cops?”
“Because I had no idea what I’d walked into, who was responsible, or who was on the take. Call me paranoid, but I really didn’t want to risk landing up in a Mexican jail—or dead—because I talked to the wrong people.”
“I think we can agree that she had good reason to be afraid,” Russo said, “especially knowing what happened to the other parties to this deal here in L.A.”
“Maybe,” Walker said, “but her story would be more credible if she could produce this alleged painting.”
“I’m working to recover it,” Hannah said. “I’m not sure how it’s connected to your murder cases, but given that Rebecca Powell was an old friend of my family, I’ve got as much reason as anyone to find out if there’s a link. Once I have it again, you guys, the feds, Yale University—hell, the Pope, for all I care—can examine it to see if it’s a missing masterpiece. Otherwise, if it’s not, it belongs to Moises Gladding.”
“You’d give it to him?” Walker asked, incredulous.
“That’s what I was hired to do. If he ends up in federal prison, it could be problematic but I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.”
Walker and Russo exchanged looks. The LAPD detective sighed and shook his head. “Don’t even
think
about leaving town, Ms. Nicks,” Walker said sternly.
“My advice exactly,” Russo added.
H
annah sat in her car outside the Sheriff’s Department West Hollywood station. The clock on the dash said eleven-forty. Obviously, driving down to the border, catching a flight out of Tijuana and getting back before anyone noticed she was gone was no longer looking doable—even assuming Russo or LAPD Detective Walker didn’t haul her in the second she tried to cross the L.A. County line.
That left Plan B—take Teagarden up on his offer to have his policeman buddy in Puerto Vallarta pick up the painting. Did she trust Teagarden, charming accent notwithstanding? And what about the Puerto Vallarta police? How was she going to go about finding Teagarden, anyway? A call to Special Agent Towle was probably her best bet, but did she want to deal with him, either?
Her head hurt, and her empty stomach had apparently decided to hold her brain for ransom until she paid up with something other than the coffee she’d had that morning before Russo left her place. Ruben had said he was meeting Travis for lunch at Tommy’s burger. Only a guy as fit as Rube could love a cholesterol camp like Tommy’s, but she was just a hop, skip and a jump from there now. If Travis had anything useful to add to the mystery of Moises Gladding, a bustling place like Tommy’s was the place to pick his brain.
She shot out of the parking lot and headed toward Beverly Boulevard. When she got to the drive-in burger shack, the place was packed with the lunchtime crowd. She lucked out when an SUV pulled out of a parking spot just as she pulled in. A pickup truck that had just rolled past the slot spotted the opening, too, and its backup light lit up, but the SUV was in its way and Hannah zipped into the spot.
“Sorry, bud. You snooze, you lose.” The pickup driver grimaced and drove on.
Trav and Ruben were already in line for food, Mellie riding piggyback on Ruben in her sporty red carrier. Nobody in line complained when Hannah joined them. Tommy’s was a laid-back kind of joint. She tickled Mellie and hugged the guys, and then they all studied the menu on the overhead placards.
Travis, she noticed, seemed nervous. Trouble between the two guys? Trouble at work? Or had Ruben blindsided him by inviting Hannah along for lunch? Why would that be a problem?
They got their food, trays loaded with burgers and fries, then paid up, grabbed their sodas from the honor system cooler, and moved along until they found an open spot at one of the stand-up bars liberally supplied with much needed napkin dispensers. Consuming Tommy’s grub seated wasn’t advised unless a person wanted a lap full of chili, cheese and burger juice, but what it lacked in finesse, it made up for in flavor.
Ruben skinned a plain hot dog for Mellie, making it easier for her to chew. He reached over his shoulder and wrapped her fist around it. She proceeded to do a pretty good job of getting it to her mouth, only occasionally defeated by her uncooperative little body. The guys were always there to help her when she showed signs of frustration, but they encouraged her to manage what she could. She was a lucky little kid to have scored adoptive parents who would do their best to help her become as independent as possible. The guys, in fact, were in the process of trying for a brother or sister for Mellie.
“How’s the new adoption coming along?” Hannah asked.
Travis nodded. “Good.” He was far less verbal than his outgoing partner.
“We’re going through the home visits now,” Ruben said. “There’s always a little hesitation with a gay couple, but I think we have a good shot.”
Hannah smiled and rubbed Mellie’s arm. “They only have to see how this little dolly’s thriving to know what great parents you are.”
She worked her way through the messy burger. Travis looked askance as Ruben piled more hot chili peppers onto his. “I swear to God, I don’t know how you have any stomach lining left,” he said.
“So I got Ruben’s message from ‘Monica.’ Does that mean you found something interesting about our friend?” she asked.
Travis looked around nervously. If the earth had opened up right then and swallowed him, she suspected, he wouldn’t have minded. Instead, he just shrugged and took a bite of his burger. Was that it? she wondered. The spook community was utterly ruthless about security breaches. Was Travis feeling heat?
“I don’t want to get you in trouble,” she said. Maybe that was all the anxious calls were about, a warning to back off and not mention his name if anyone asked what she was up to with Gladding. “I shouldn’t have asked you to look into it for me, Trav. It was out of line. Probably not important now, anyway. Don’t worry.”
He finally looked directly at her. She wasn’t sure if his expression was more grateful or relieved. “I’m just glad you’re home safe and sound,” he said.
She punched him lightly in the shoulder. “Hey, I’m a tough cookie.”
He nodded at her outfit. “Looking pretty hot today.”
She glanced down, then grimaced. “Yeah, right, especially with mustard on my lapel.” She grabbed a napkin, poured a little of her water over it and went to work on the spot.
Travis finished his food, dumped his trash and kissed Mellie. He gave Hannah a quick hug. “Be careful,” he said quietly. After a quick hand-squeeze from Ruben, he strode off to his Jeep.
“He was worried about you,” Ruben said, as Travis pulled out of the lot. “We both were, when we didn’t hear back from you.”
“Thanks, Rube. It means a lot to me that you guys have my back.”
He grinned and turned back to his daughter. “Well, of course we watch out for our Hannah, don’t we, Mellie? ’Cause we love her.”
Hannah crumpled up her trash. “Thanks. And right back at ya, too. I’ve got to go.”
“Hot date?”
“Oh, please. All my hot dates are with you guys and a ten-year-old.”
“Well, no wonder,” Ruben said, flicking her pearls, “the way you overdress just for lunch at a burger joint.”
The green neon sign overhead proclaimed Musso & Frank Grill the “oldest restaurant in Hollywood—
Since 1919.
”
Kyle Liggett hunched down in his rental car and watched Gladding emerge from the back of a black Rolls-Royce limo. The old man was wearing a silk ascot under an open-necked yellow shirt, a checked sport coat and, of all things, a tan Panama hat. So much for keeping a low profile. Who did the guy think he was, Liggett fumed, friggin’ Cecil B. DeMille? Meanwhile, he himself was staying in a fleabag hotel and driving a goddamn Ford Focus.
As the Rolls pulled away to wait up the block, the old man paused. He took a cell phone from his pocket, pushing up his sunglasses to read the screen. Then, he walked to a solitary spot in an alley a little way up the street and spoke briefly on the phone. After a glance around, he dropped the cell and ground it into the pavement with his heel. Picking up the pieces, he tossed them into a Dumpster, then walked back to the restaurant and went inside.
Smoke rose from back of the place, grill exhaust, by the mouthwatering smell of meat drifting across the road. Liggett was starving. The place looked pretty big, but not big enough that the boss’s watchful eye wouldn’t spot him inside. Probably wasn’t dressed fancy enough for the joint, either. He watched the door a few minutes more to be sure there was no doubt Gladding was there for the duration. There was a taco stand up the block. He sprinted over, got himself some grub, then took the paper sack back to the Focus and settled in to wait.
Walking into Musso & Frank was like stepping back into a more elegant time, with its padded red leather booths, crisp white linens and ruby-jacketed waiters. The menu was traditional, the service curt but efficient—none of that vacuous “I’m Tiffany and I’ll be your server” nonsense here. For a generous tip, the concierge had reserved a quiet corner table for “Mr. Dunning.” For another generous tip, the maître d’ had Gladding in his seat and a dry martini in front of him before he’d even tucked away his sunglasses.
He sipped his drink and studied the menu while he waited for the private investigator to arrive. Finally, ten minutes late, the long-legged Aussie slid into the banquette across from him and laid a manila envelope on the white tablecloth.
A waiter materialized to take his drink order. “I’ll take a Foster’s lager, thanks, mate,” the P.I. said.
“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.