The Night Cafe (17 page)

Puerto Vallarta
Wednesday, April 19

A
t a minute or two before six in the morning, Hannah stood up and stretched her kinked muscles, catching the phone alarm she’d set before it could ring. Ackerman didn’t stir. He’d given up trying to talk his way out of the chair to which he was Velcro-taped. Leaning his head against the filing cabinet, he’d dozed off a couple of hours ago—the best revenge, as it turned out, since his jackhammer snore thwarted any hope of rest for her. Lucky she’d caught some shut-eye at that fleabag hotel.

She’d spent the time thinking about possible explanations for events at Gladding’s villa and trying to decide what to do about the painting. Taking it to dump back in Rebecca Powell’s lap was one option. If asked, she could always explain to U.S. Customs about being unable to connect with the buyer, and she had both Rebecca and the feds to corroborate her story. Worst case scenario—Customs would seize the painting and hold it until Rebecca untangled things.

But did she want to carry it back with her? Not really. It could be years or never before anyone removed the closet ceiling tiles in that hotel and stumbled across the thing. The painting was safe where it was. When the time was right, she could come back and retrieve it or tell someone else where to find it.

In the meantime, the thing was burdensome, hampering her movements at a time when trouble might pop up anywhere. She had no idea who might be watching for a woman carrying a painting. It wasn’t like she could stick it down her pants to hide it.

She felt a glimmer of guilt about Rebecca. The woman had problems aplenty without getting caught up in a business dispute with a character like Moises Gladding. Hannah would happily do what she could to straighten things out once she was back in L.A., but first, she had to get out in one piece.

A cardboard box stood open in a corner of Ackerman’s office, a pile of new black baseball caps spilling out of plastic bags. The Blue Gecko’s sombrero-clad lizard danced across the crown over letters spelling out the bar’s name. She slipped the covered elastic off her wrist and bound her hair up with it, then grabbed one of the hats and put it on, pulling her ponytail through the hole. Not a brilliant disguise, but better than nothing.

She glanced over at Ackerman, but he was still snoring. She took the tank top and Indian cotton skirt out of her pack, turned her back on him, pulled off the T-shirt she’d been wearing for the past twenty-four hours and slipped on the tank. Slipping out of her boots and jeans, she pulled on the skirt, then put a clean loose linen shirt over everything, leaving it untucked to conceal the holster at the small of her back.

When she turned around again for the sandals in her pack, Ackerman was watching her. She frowned. “Enjoy the show?”

“Hey, you want privacy, get a room. So, what’s the plan?”

“Where’s your car?”

“Out back.”

She thought about the cars she’d seen in the alley while she waited for the bar to close. “That old green Barracuda?”

“Vintage, not ‘old,’ if you don’t mind. Yeah, that’s mine.”

Good, Hannah thought, stuffing her dirty clothes into the backpack. If he’d had a newer car, she might have had to rethink the plan, but this could work. “You’re going to drive me to the airport.”

“What about the painting?”

“What about it?”

“Where’s it at?”

“Why do you care?”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass about it, but if you think Gladding’s going to take kindly to being ripped off, you’re dumber than you look, girl. I wouldn’t cross Moises over a doughnut, you hear me? Not a damn toothpick.”

“I really appreciate the concern for my welfare. Now, about those car keys…”

“Right there on the desk. Untie me, then take the car. Just leave it in the airport parking lot and I’ll have my man Juan run me over to pick it up later.”

“Juan? That’s the guy who locked up last night, right? What time does he come in?”

“Not till four. Bar opens at noon but he works the evening shift.”

“And your other employees, when do they come in?”

“First two clock in at eleven.”

“Okay, good. You’re going to come with me.”

“I told you, untie me and you can take the car.”

“Not gonna happen. I’m not leaving you free to call for reinforcements.”

“What part of ‘we’re working for the same side here’ don’t you understand, lady?”

“Everyone has a price, Don. Not only don’t I know who’s on which side, I don’t even know what the damn game is. I intend to get out of here in one piece, so that means keeping an eye on you for now. Where’s your cell phone?”

“Um, I think it’s on the desk there.”

She moved papers until she found it, then paged through his contact list. If Gladding’s name was there, he’d filed it under something else. “Your man Juan have a cell phone?”

“Yeah, I’ve got him on the same plan as me. He’s there in the phone list under
Juan J
.”

Hannah found the name. “Okay, good.” She shoved the phone in an outside pocket of her backpack, next to her passport and wallet. “Now, I’m going to free one of your arms and let you do the rest, but no games, all right? Then we’re out of here.”

“Fine,” he grumbled. “I’ll drive you to the damn airport. You’re welcome, I’m sure.”

Moises Gladding passed a similarly uneasy night on one of the sofas at his in-town apartment, also trying to come up with a plan of action. Suddenly, he leapt to his feet and smacked Liggett on the shoulder. “Get up. We’re going.”

Liggett had been dozing on the other living room sofa, but he was instantly awake. “Where to?”

“To see the man who recommended Sergio Chavez. He’s a clever guy. Too clever. He could be the brains behind that stupid little man’s idiotic plot to steal the painting.”

Fifteen minutes later, Gladding and Liggett were at the door of a bougainvillea-covered cottage in the area nicknamed Gringo Gulch, home to many of the expatriate artists, writers and retirees who called Puerto Vallarta home. Gladding had never been to Donald Ackerman’s house before, but he’d long ago found out the address and filed it away for future reference. He liked to know who he was dealing with. Ackerman, he’d learned, was ex-CIA and still freelanced for the Agency. That was fine when Gladding was doing business on their behalf, but not so convenient when he had his own private affairs to attend to.

He waited in the car while Liggett quietly broke into Ackerman’s place. There were no other cars in the driveway, and Liggett’s return was so quick that Gladding knew Ackerman wasn’t home.

“We’ll try his bar,” he said.

It was hardly surprising that Ackerman had taken up running a bar in his old age. Gladding was reasonably certain the man was a closet alcoholic. The place had probably even been purchased with Agency cash to provide plausible cover for Ackerman’s ongoing activities on their behalf. If taxpayers ever got the full story on the myriad ways the spies found to squander their money, Gladding mused, there would be another American revolution.

His wait outside The Blue Gecko was even shorter than the one at the cottage in Gringo Gulch. Ackerman’s green muscle car was nowhere to be seen. Liggett broke a window, reached in to unlock the back door and let himself inside, but Gladding was convinced now that Ackerman was gone. Spending the night with one of his lady friends, perhaps? Maybe, but it was entirely too coincidental that the man was proving so elusive at this particular moment. Gladding didn’t believe in coincidences.

Liggett returned and got behind the wheel once more. “What now, boss?”

“He’ll be back sooner or later and then we will definitely have a little chat,” Gladding said. He stared at The Blue Gecko’s scuffed blue door. All he had were questions and no answers. He hated unknowns, and right now, the biggest unknown was, where was his damn painting?

And then, he realized that he’d overlooked the obvious. “Ah.”

Liggett glanced over. “What?”

“The courier. She’s booked to fly back to Los Angeles later today. We’ll watch the airport in case she decides on an earlier flight. She’ll show up there sooner or later. Let’s go.”

The northbound road out of town ran parallel to Banderas Bay, and the airport runways ran east-west, right to the water’s edge. When Hannah spotted a 747 coming in for a landing, she told Ackerman to slow down. The terminal was tiny, with a parking lot outside to match, as she recalled. Too exposed for what she had in mind.

“What’s up?” Ackerman muttered. He was grumpy. Not unreasonable, Hannah supposed, after passing the night in an uncomfortable plastic chair, but it couldn’t be helped.

She waved the gun to her left. “Turn down this side road.”

He did as directed. She had him pull into the weed-choked lot of an abandoned warehouse of some sort. The doors and main-floor windows of the building were boarded up, but most of the second-floor windows had been smashed by vandals. The corrugated roof was more rust than metal. There wasn’t a soul in sight.

Ackerman parked the car, turned off the ignition, then sat waiting, sulking. Hannah pulled the keys from the ignition, then waved him out with the barrel of her gun. She directed him to the back of the Barracuda, where she popped the trunk.

“Oh, no. No way.”

“Sorry, buddy, but it’s the only option. Get in.”

He sat on the rim of the trunk. “I can’t get out of here without outside help.”

She pulled his phone out of her pack. “I’ll call Juan and tell him to come get you.”

“He’ll ruin the car, prying the trunk open.”

She rolled her eyes. Just like a guy to worry about the paint job. She might have mentioned that if he’d sprung for a later model car instead of trying to relive his misspent youth in this old muscle job, there would have been an emergency release built into the inside of the trunk. Every American car built since 2002 had one by law. Reminding him of that seemed unkind.

“I’ll tell Juan where he can find the keys,” she said.

“What if he doesn’t have his phone on?”

“You’d better hope he does.”

“Do you have any idea how hot it gets in this place?”

“I’m running late. We can do this the easy way or the hard way, but one way or another, you’re getting in there right now.” She aimed the gun for his kneecap.

He scowled and rolled back, wedging himself into the cramped space.

“Would you be more comfortable without your shoes?” she asked.

“Oh, no, you don’t. You’re not taking my boots.”

“Suit yourself.” She closed the lid. “The keys are on the rear driver’s-side tire, Don. I’ll be sure to tell Juan.”

She heard his muffled cry. “Screw you, Nicks.”

“Don’t be a poor sport, Donny. This could have gone a lot worse.”

She left the keys on the tire and grabbed her pack out of the backseat. As she jogged toward the terminal, she hit the autodial on his cell phone and roused Juan, the waiter. The man was drowsy, so it took a few strong words before she could impress upon him the need to hustle his butt over to a warehouse near the airport lot to free his boss. After telling him where to find the car keys, she rang off and tossed the phone away into some bushes as she cut across a vacant lot to reach the terminal.

Approaching the building, she shifted into hyper-vigilant mode, scanning every face, looking for anyone who might be looking for her. The ball cap from Ackerman’s office and the change of clothing was as poor a disguise as there was, but she’d planned her arrival so close to departure time for her flight that she could only hope that she’d be on the plane before anyone was the wiser.

Inside the terminal, she found an automated kiosk and printed her boarding card. Then, spotting a manager behind the Alaska Air counter, she flashed the air marshal security pass Agent Towle had given her. He was clearly irritated.

“The doors are about to close,” he grumbled. “There is no time for you to check your bag.”

“Not a problem. I’ll stow it in the cabin.”

He sniffed, then got on his radio to alert the gate crew. He grabbed her by the elbow and they started to sprint. At the security check, he pulled her past the long line of tourists and around the metal detector, pausing only long enough to point to her air marshal’s pass. Faced with a long line of overheated passengers, several crying babies, and a group of college kids who smelled like a distillery after apparently partying all night, the low-paid security guards happily deferred to the manager’s authority and waved her past.

Just before turning the corner for the gates, Hannah risked one last glance back at the crowd waiting outside the secure area. Her heart skipped. There. A man she recognized. Or did she?

He had nothing with him—no carry-on bag, no duty-free booze, Mexican blankets or contraband Cuban cigars. The tanned and sunburned tourists in the airport all wore skimpy vacation wear, the men in tees or cotton polos. Her guy looked young enough to be one of the college kids on spring break, but something about his stance said he was no holidaymaker. His jacket was loose fitting, not unlike the one she herself used to conceal the gun she was packing. His eyes behind pitch-black shades were impossible to see, but every fiber of her being said he was checking departing passengers—especially the American women. Ogling babes in general? Or hunting for one in particular?

“
Señora
, please!” the airline manager shouted. “We are delaying the flight. We must run.”

Fine by her. They flew, dodging waiting passengers and the souvenir kiosks making a last-ditch bid for tourist dollars. The attendant at the gate ripped her boarding pass and threw the stub back at her. Hannah stormed down the jetway.

By the time she dropped into her seat, the doors were closed and the plane’s engines were revving. She stuffed her backpack under the seat ahead of her, buckled herself in, and only allowed herself to breathe when the plane began to roll backward. Even then, she wasn’t sure she’d made it until the engines roared and the plane lifted off, bound for Los Angeles. For home.

Kyle Liggett’s face was a grim mask as he walked back to the car. On the runway beyond the terminal, Gladding saw an Alaska Air Boeing 737 lift off the ground, engines roaring. He knew what his man would say as he climbed behind the wheel.