The Night Cafe (9 page)

Mazatlán, Mexico
Tuesday, April 18

W
ith a tall glass of iced coffee in hand, Kyle Liggett parked himself in a dockside café to watch the first passengers disembark from a Carnival Cruise ship that had glided into port sometime before dawn.

After taking care of loose ends in Los Angeles last night, he’d had to scramble to catch a late-night flight to Mazatlán. He’d rather have flown directly into Puerto Vallarta, but unexpected circumstances had delayed him, and Mazatlán had been the closest destination available that would get him down here in reasonable time.

Liggett hated last-minute changes, rushed situations where he had to improvise. They were a recipe for mistakes and he hated mistakes—his and others.

He’d been down here before. He liked the scenery well enough, although after a while, the slow pace of things made him so antsy he had to get the hell out before he started shooting things up just to see people get a goddamn move on. Fancy resort destinations especially irritated him, with their persistent souvenir hawkers and fat tourists in gaudy clothes and stupid hats.

Passengers began to stream like ants from the luxury cruise ship, pouring down the gangplank and spreading out across the tropical town. He spotted a handful of Asians in the mix, a few Hispanic-looking types, but most of the crowd off the Long Beach-based liner were white Americans who looked they could have been his corn-fed relatives. Too bad they’d just arrived, because he could easily have blended in with this group. But he had to be in Puerto Vallarta by mid-afternoon, when this ship would just be starting to round up passengers for an evening castoff.

A second liner, the
Galaxy Star
, had dropped anchor the previous morning and was scheduled to depart at 7:30 a.m. It was smaller, cozy by cruise liner standards with only a thousand passengers, and that fit his needs better. Mammoth ships like the Carnival liner offered safety in numbers but they were less concerned about empty berths, whose costs they could swallow with relative ease. A smaller ship had to make every fare count and could usually be counted on to welcome a short-haul passenger with few questions asked.

Over the years, he’d learned that small liners offered an easy way to slip in and out of ports, staying well under the radar, allowing him to move money, goods and himself from place to place without official notice. Guns were occasionally a problem. These days, most ports had metal detectors, and even if one didn’t, most ships had installed them. That wasn’t a problem on this trip, however. Any weapons he needed would be available down there, while delivery of another package was already arranged. He needed only to get himself to Puerto Vallarta.

Liggett looked over the laminated, bilingual breakfast menu the waiter had left him, big color pictures showing what was on offer just in case English or Spanish descriptions weren’t enough. As a steak-and-potatoes Midwesterner, he viewed with suspicion all that mishmash—burritos, shredded meat, vegetables, eggs, God only knows what else. When the waiter returned, Liggett pushed the menu aside. He’d eat on the boat. He liked simplicity. Liked order and structure. His work was messy enough.

When the small cruise line’s office opened, he headed inside to arrange passage on the
Galaxy Star
. An hour later, just before it set sail, he joined a few stragglers who’d spent the night ashore—a couple of them doing a little more partying than could be healthy, by the smell of them. He carried a small duffel bag and, like a couple of others, sported two colorful bags that suggested he’d done some souvenir shopping in Mazatlán—a nice last-minute touch, he thought.

His quarters were located in the bowels of the ship and near the bow, where people complained of seasickness. But tight quarters and motion never bothered him. Except to observe, he had never been much influenced by his environment or by people around him. He slipped through crowds unnoticed. In his line of work, it was an advantage to be common looking—neither tall nor short, dishwater hair, average in every respect. Nothing about Liggett was exceptional, aside from an utter lack of the stupid fears that made lesser folk dare to take risks—and it wasn’t like there was any external mark of that.

Los Angeles

Hannah stood by her bedroom window, examining the ammo clip on her weapon, smacking it in place, double-checking the Beretta’s safety. She slipped the gun into the holster at the small of her back, then pulled on a lightweight linen jacket over her tank top to conceal it.

She patted the jacket. Her passport was in an inner pocket, while her wallet and the import permit for the Koon painting were stowed in a couple of the many zippered pockets on her cargo pants. Handbags, even her handy-dandy messenger bag, were a no-go. On the job meant remaining hands-free. Of course, she’d be encumbered this morning by the leather case holding the painting, but keeping a secure grip on that was the whole point of the exercise.

As security jobs went, this one had to be one of her easiest gigs. Ferrying a painting to a gorgeous Mexican resort town involved nowhere near the pressure of dodging insurgent fire in Iraq or keeping screaming fans off overpaid celebrities. She might actually have been looking forward to the jaunt to Puerto Vallarta had it not been for that late-night visit from the feds.

Nobody was paying her to bug Moises Gladding’s house, so why had she agreed carry in their gadgets? Patriotism? Maybe. A more compelling reason might be too many memories of innocent victims of Gladding’s bloody trade. Of course, her own government was the world’s biggest arms dealer, bar none. And just because Gladding was apparently playing for the opposition these days didn’t mean Washington always teamed with angels. She had agreed to try to plant the listening devices, though, and it was too late to back out now.

She gave herself one last glance in the mirror. Then, reaching for her backpack, she spotted the framed school photo of Gabe that sat on her bedside table. She touched the image of his dark curls (hers) and gorgeous cobalt-blue eyes (his father’s). The tunnel vision she got when working was a blessing. It was the only thing that distracted from the daily ache of his absence.

She killed the bedroom lights, then did a quick walk around the condo to make sure the stove was off and the exterior windows and patio doors barred. She was outside, just locking the front door, when her cell phone bleeped. She fished it out of a pants pocket and glanced at the caller ID. Her stomach dropped. It was her worst nightmare—odd-hours calls about Gabe.

She flipped open the phone. “What’s wrong, Cal?”

“Good morning to you, too.” Her ex-husband’s voice was well modulated, the voice of a schemer sure of his entitlement to live at the top of the food chain.

“Is Gabe all right?”

“Why would you think he wasn’t?”

Hannah grimaced. “Why else would you be calling me at this ungodly hour?”

“Did I wake you?”

“No, I’m on my way to the airport. What’s up?”

“Sorry to bother you. I just thought you might want to know that the assistant headmaster has called us in for a meeting.”

“A meeting? When?”

“This morning.”

“Are you serious?”

“Utterly.”

Hannah glanced at her watch. It was just past seven. Gabe didn’t start school for another two hours and was probably still asleep. “What does he want to see us about?”

“She. Mrs. Jennings.”

“Whatever. And while we’re on the subject, how long have you known about this?”

“She called yesterday.”

“And you’re just getting around to telling me now? You couldn’t have called sooner? I’ve got an international flight at nine forty-five. You know what that means—a two-hour advance check-in.”

“Right. Well, if you’re too busy to be involved in your son’s life, that’s fine. I’ll go in and deal with this mess myself.”

“What mess?”

“I’ll give her your regrets.”

“Calvin? What mess, dammit?”

But she was talking to dead air. Typical. When he wasn’t being passive-aggressive, he was pulling hotshot legal tactics, looking for ways to further undercut her access to their son. What a schmuck. What had she ever seen in that man? And how the hell could his DNA have gone into making a kid as awesome as Gabe?

And what “mess” was the school calling about?

“Dammit to hell.” She fumbled to get the key back in the door lock. Inside, she threw her pack on a chair, set the portfolio aside, then sat down at the kitchen table, pulling out her paperwork to start dialing. First, the airline. No problem. There was another flight to Puerto Vallarta at one, and exchanging her reservation was no problem. Nor was there any concern about the arrangements that had been made for her to stow the painting in the first-class cabin. Money talks, and a first-class fare gets first-class service all the way.

Now, what about her other unofficial mission at Gladding’s estate? She rummaged in her wallet for the business card Agent Towle had given her the night before, but when she called his number, she got voice mail. Not surprising. He and Ito had looked like eager beavers, but arriving at the office by seven was probably above and beyond the call of duty. She left a message.

“This is Hannah Nicks. Something’s come up and I have to take a later flight today. Unless I hear from you, I’m going to presume that our arrangement is off.”

She left her cell number so he could call back and let her know if she could still expect a walk-through at airport security. No way she was she sneaking around Gladding’s house unarmed while she played Johnny Appleseed with their electronics. People in his line of work tended to be both paranoid and ruthless, and the more successful the arms dealer, the more that was true. If Towle didn’t call back, no skin off her nose. She’d be just as happy to leave their toys behind in L.A., along with her gun.

Her last call was to Rebecca Powell, but she was no more an early bird than Agent Towle. She left a message there, too, hoping that whoever was meant to meet her in Puerto Vallarta would find out about the later flight.

That done, she went to her bedroom to change into something more appropriate for meeting the assistant headmaster at Dahlby Hall. Cal would no doubt show up in one of his Armani suits. She wasn’t about to arrive looking like Gabe’s poor backwoods relation.

Dahlby Hall’s student register listed some of the most famous names in Los Angeles. The private academy, an L.A. landmark, occupied a sprawling hundred-acre campus high on a hill overlooking Mulholland Drive. Its tiered glass-and-redwood buildings had been designed to blend harmoniously with the wooded surroundings. The visual impression on driving through the main gates was of a serene Japanese Buddhist monastery, a notion only slightly undercut by the childish laughter and playful shouts of uniformed kids in the playground awaiting the first bell.

The city’s wealthiest families signed their children up for Dahlby Hall almost from conception and the academy’s waiting list was said to be backlogged into the next generation. Gabe had attended public school kindergarten in Los Feliz when he lived with Hannah, but after her house there was destroyed and he moved in with his father, Cal and Christie were able to use their media and business connections to leapfrog the wait list and register Gabe for first grade. Christie was now on the school’s board of governors, and she and Cal apparently made substantial annual bequests over and above the academy’s $50,000 tuition. It was a safe bet that the next little Nicks, due to arrive in a couple of months, would also be a Dahlby scholar.

Walking from the parking lot to the main building, she scanned the crowd of students, looking for her son, but the playground closest to the offices seemed to be occupied exclusively by lower-school youngsters. She entered the building and reported to the reception desk.

“My son, Gabriel Nicks, is a student,” she told the girl behind the desk. “His dad and I have an eight-thirty appointment with the assistant headmaster. I’m a little early.”

“Ah, yes, Mrs. Nicks. Or, Ms. Nicks, I guess?” the young woman amended.

No doubt she was remembering the
other
Mrs. Nicks. Not only was Christie on the board of governors, but she’d been a high-profile local television news anchor before marrying Cal. Her career had shifted into lower gear after she took on the raising of his son. Instead of the evening news, she anchored the early morning program now, though she’d recently left on maternity leave as her pregnancy entered its third trimester.

The receptionist pointed down the hall. “Actually, Mr. Nicks is already with Mrs. Jennings. You can go right on in. Her office is the third door on the left.”

Hannah followed the direction indicated by the receptionist’s red acrylic fingernail. As she approached the office door, she found it slightly ajar, and Cal’s mellifluous voice drifted out into the hall.

“She’s always been a bit of a maverick. My ex-wife likes to blaze her own trail.” He chuckled. “A natural adventurer, I guess you might say. All well and good, I suppose, but maybe not the best influence on an impressionable little boy.”

“Maybe not. Is there nothing—” The woman paused as Hannah pushed open the door. “Can I help you?”

“I’m Gabriel’s mother.” Hannah crossed the room and held out her hand. “I don’t think we’ve met.”

Whenever humanly possible, she made a point of attending parent activities and getting to know Gabe’s teachers. She’d also spoken to the headmaster on a couple of occasions, but this Mrs. Jennings was a recent hire, lured away, apparently, from one of the big prep schools back East. The new assistant headmaster might have been in her late forties or early fifties, although her dark hair, scraped back into a severe bun, showed not a wisp of gray. The woman got to her feet and reached across her broad desk. She was painfully thin, dressed in a nubbly, hot-pink suit trimmed with black braid and jet buttons, the kind of ensemble supposedly favored by Coco Chanel and ladies who lunch.

“How do you do? I’m Enid Jennings. I’m glad you could make it. I’m sorry we started without you, but Mr. Nicks said you were unavailable.”