The Night Cafe (28 page)

T
ravis Spielman arrived at the pediatrician’s office just as Ruben was checking out.

“Same song, twentieth verse,” Ruben said wearily. “Doc prescribed an antibiotic.” He handed Travis the scrip. “Do you mind going downstairs to the pharmacy while we check out here?”

“No problem,” Travis said. He rushed down the stairs, relieved to be doing something useful. Relieved, too, that at least they’d caught this now, before inflicting a sleepless night with a crying child on the friends in Studio City who were taking them in.

He was pacing by the pharmacist’s counter when Ruben and Mellie arrived. “We have another problem,” Ruben said. The look on his face said he dreaded delivering more bad news. “I left in such a hurry I forgot Saggy-Bag.”

“Damn.” Mellie loved the loose-skinned stuffed elephant named after an ancient storybook that Travis had had since
he
was a toddler. Without her Saggy-Bag, she wouldn’t sleep. “We can’t go back,” Travis said.

“We have to.”

“Maybe the meds will make her sleepy.”

“It’s an antibiotic, not a sedative.”

Travis was working up to an argument when the pharmacist called Melanie’s name. He paid for the meds and met Ruben and Mellie by the door.

“I have a plan,” Ruben said.

“Like pretending to be Monica and offering Hannah a kitten?”

“Okay, so that wasn’t so great. Give it a rest already.”

“What’s your plan?”

“We go together. Leave the Mustang parked here. It’s too full for a passenger anyway. We’ll run by the condo, you stay in the Jeep with Mellie and Chucky and leave the motor running. I dash into the house—”

“I’ll go inside.”

Ruben snorted. “Sweetie, don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m bigger and also in better shape.”

He had a point. Together, they transferred their things and Chucky to the Jeep and got Mellie buckled into her car seat in back. Travis jumped behind the wheel. Ruben was just getting in the passenger side when he snapped his fingers.

“Oops! I forgot to lock the Mustang. Be right back.” He slammed the door and dashed across the lot to his car.

Travis was trying to get Chucky to stop kissing Mellie when the Mustang roared out of the lot. As Travis cursed and turned the key in the Jeep’s ignition, his phone rang.

“What the hell are you doing?” Travis bellowed. Mellie started to cry.

“I’m going alone. Do not follow me, Trav, I mean it. I’ll meet you guys in Studio City.”

“I’m coming.”

“No. Look, it’ll be fine. I love you and I love Mellie, but we can’t risk taking her back to the house.”

Travis could see the logic, but he didn’t have to like it.

“Besides,” Ruben added, “worst-case scenario, if anything were to happen, you’re the breadwinner, cup-cake. You have a better shot at getting Mellie the care she needs.”

“Crap.” Nobody could offer a child like Mellie—hell, any child—the care and attention she got from Ruben Hernandez.

“Hey, don’t worry. I’ll just run in and out,” Ruben said. “Anyway, that Jeep of yours is such a rattletrap, me and my beautiful Mustang will be there hours ahead of you. Later, gator!”

There was a crowd milling around the sixteenth-floor boardroom of the FBI’s Los Angeles field office. Several of the people there were wearing visitor badges clipped to their lapels, but it was a safe bet, Hannah thought, that she and Teagarden were the only civilians in the bunch. She couldn’t begin to guess which agencies all of these people came from. From the sideways glances she and the Brit were getting, though, most of them had no idea what earthly reason might exist for the two of
them
to be included in what seemed to be some frenetic goings-on.

“Included,” in fact, was a stretch. Agent Towle seemed to have convinced his superiors that there was a legitimate reason for them to be focusing on the recovery of the van Gogh, at the very least as a stalling tactic while they tried to work out what Gladding and Liggett might be up to. The quickest way to do that seemed to be to make use of Hannah, and of Teagarden’s local contact in Puerto Vallarta—especially since the two of them didn’t trust anyone else not to destroy the painting and possibly get Hannah killed in the bargain.

Hannah and Teagarden were in a small, bare office off to one side. “Make the call quick, before I change my mind,” she told him.

It seemed to take an eternity for Teagarden to get an answer. “I’m sorry to disturb you at home on a Saturday, Captain Peña,” he said at last. “Ah, working, too. Well, yes, of course. You’ve had a dreadful week. I have to ask you, though, for that favor you offered. But it’s imperative that no one—and I mean no one—know what you’re doing. I believe that Gladding has sources in your department.”

He listened.

“I don’t doubt you, but Gladding has a small fortune invested in this painting, and he’ll pay well to get his hands on it now. And probably kill anyone who gets in his way. We believe it’s going to be used to finance an imminent act of terrorism. The only way to prevent it might be to keep Gladding on tenterhooks as to the painting’s whereabouts.”

He listened again.

“No, my friend, I’m afraid it has to be today. Not only is there a severe time constraint, but if you try to travel via the usual means, word will leak out and both you and the painting may be lost…. Yes, that serious, I’m afraid.”

With every objection the man at the other end seemed to make, Hannah felt time and her life slipping away.

But then, Teagarden sat up straighter. “Would your friend do it? Yes, yes. He can name his price—within reason.”

Hannah smiled. A frugal man, William Teagarden.

“That would be excellent. Thank you, my friend. I’ll be waiting to hear from you.”

Teagarden disconnected and smiled at Hannah. “He has an acquaintance with a small plane. If he’s able, he’ll fly Peña to Tijuana. We can meet him at the border and bring the painting across.”

“When will we know?”

“Soon, I hope.”

Moises Gladding had cabin fever and a fever of the usual sort, as well. Used to well-orchestrated operations, everything about this one seemed sluggish. He wondered if his rage and declining health had conspired to cloud his judgment. Having to depend so heavily on Liggett at this critical juncture was galling, especially since his instinct was to have left the little monster in the same car trunk in which Liggett had dispatched Donald Ackerman. But time was running out, and Gladding was determined to have his revenge on those who had humiliated him. Then, he would go home to his wife and live out whatever weeks or months were left to him.

He opened his pill dispenser and poured out the next dosage of the powerful meds keeping his symptoms at bay. As if she had sensed that something was wrong, his private phone rang, and his wife’s voice was in his ear.

“What’s the matter, Moises?”

“Nothing, Sylvia.” How did she always know when he was troubled? It was uncanny.

“Nonsense,” she said. “You sound dreadful. You said you were going to take some downtime when you were in Puerto Vallarta. I should have told my sister this wasn’t a good time for a visit. If I’m not there to insist, you just will not relax, will you?”

Gladding massaged the knots in his neck. “You’re right. But I’m coming home in a couple of days, and then I’ll do nothing but put my feet up, read books, and enjoy your cooking.” He hadn’t told her about the last round of tests that showed a recurrence of the cancer, or about the abysmal prognosis.

“I’m going to insist,” she said. “I’m going to hide your phones and that infernal computer. You’re going to make yourself sick again. When are you getting back?”

“A couple of days. I’ll call and let you know.” A wave of intense nausea passed through him and he felt faint. “But I have to run now, dear. I’m right in the middle of something. I’ll see you in a couple of days.”

He disconnected. Poor Sylvia. She had accepted early on that his business would be a closed book to her, and that he would be gone for weeks and sometimes months at a time. She knew, too, the way women did, that he took companions when he was away. But he had never lied to her about anything really important. On most counts, he had been a good husband and father.

Now, he simply couldn’t see what it served to have her worry about his health, especially since there was nothing to be done about it. She would only have wanted him to come home sooner, and that he couldn’t do. Not until he had seen this last thing through. Then, he would go to her and she would know the truth. Sylvia would immediately perceive the change in him, even if it wasn’t yet obvious to others.

He shuddered as another wave of pain passed through him. It had been getting worse with each passing day. Today, he’d been feeling especially low. If this logjam didn’t break soon…

One of his infernal disposable phones rang—something else that needed his attention. But when he saw the number, his hopes began to rise at last. It was his contact in the Puerto Vallarta police.

“Captain Peña has been on the telephone a great deal today. His private cell phone, not the office line. He has been very secretive, too. He seems to be packing up his desk to leave, now, but he will not say where.”

“Stick with him,” Gladding said. “I want to know what he’s up to.”

Ruben was right about his sleek little Mustang. He made great time back to the condo. He circled the block a couple of times, looking for signs of trouble, but he had no idea what he was looking for. Their building seemed completely deserted.

He couldn’t help wondering if this wasn’t some great overreaction. It was so hard to believe they could really be in danger. Like something out of a novel.

On the other hand, much as he loved her, Hannah did have a knack for trouble. Sometimes, he had to shush the nagging voice in his head that whispered maybe her ex was right to have taken away their son. Ruben felt disloyal even to be thinking like that, but now that he had a child of his own, he knew he would do anything to keep her safe.

He pulled up in front of the garage, steeled himself and decided to make a run for it. In and out, easy peasy.

In the front entryway, however, he paused, listening.
Nothing.
Tiptoeing into the kitchen, he slid a razor-sharp boning blade out of the wooden knife rack. Holding it ahead of him, he crept up the stairs to Mellie’s room and peeked inside. There was Saggy-Bag, right where they’d left him on the change table when he’d gotten Mellie up and dressed.

With the toy under one arm, Ruben looked around the pretty coral room for anything else he might have forgotten in his rush. He spotted his daughter’s favorite blanket on the floor next to the crib. Folding the little pink afghan his mother had crocheted, he stuffed it, the elephant and a couple more toys into a carry-all from her closet. Then, breathing a sigh of relief, he padded down the stairs again.

His hand was on the front doorknob when he heard something, a soft snick from the kitchen. His imagination.

Had to be.

Puerto Vallarta

Tracking down a painting for that nice Señor Teagarden, Captain Peña had to admit, beat the paperwork he’d left on his desk. The politicians were screaming for his head and the newspapers clamoring for information on the murders—not to mention the chores his wife had waiting for him at home.

When Peña had called Teagarden back to say that his friend’s plane would be available to fly him and the painting north this afternoon, Teagarden had put a woman on the phone to explain exactly where to find it. Peña knew the hotel she spoke of. Not an upscale place. Hiding Señor Gladding’s picture there was either brilliant or very stupid. He would soon know which.

He had told Teagarden that it would cost one thousand dollars to have his friend drop everything and fly to Tijuana. It was spring planting season, after all, and the crop duster was very busy. Teagarden had been unfazed, however, so as soon as he left his office, Peña called his childhood friend to tell him the good news—he had negotiated a payment of five hundred dollars for the flight. The pilot had been thrilled.

Peña drove directly to the two-story hotel near the Malecón and went inside. Teagarden had told him to be very careful, but he was a captain of the police and not to be trifled with. He flashed his badge at the reception desk.

When he heard which room Peña wanted, the clerk shook his head. “Not available. Another, perhaps?”

Peña frowned and looked around the threadbare lobby. “I hear rumors that illegal drugs are being sold out of this hotel. Perhaps my people will have to close it down while we conduct a thorough search.”

“The room is in use,
Capitán
,” the clerk protested. “The poor woman must make a living.”

“She will have to do it in a different room.”

Head shaking, the clerk shuffled up the stairs. Peña stood aside in the hall while the man convinced the couple, not without some vague threats, to change love nests.

After they came out and scurried down the hall, Peña let himself into the room and shut the door. It was stuffy and a little rank-smelling. He threw open the window and took a deep breath, then dragged a rickety chair over to the closet and climbed up on it, balancing carefully so as not to step through the caning. He lifted aside one of the ceiling tiles.

Peña had seen everything and feared little, but he hated spiders. Bracing himself, he reached through the opening, patting lightly about in the dark with about as much enthusiasm as if he had exploring a pile of dog turds.
Nada.
He stretched further, with the same result.

Turning himself on the chair, he steadied himself as it wobbled, then extended his hand to explore the space on that side. Something sharp pricked his palm. He yanked back his hand, examining the palm in the dim light. Nothing he could see, but something had definitely bit him.

Was there a reward for the recovery of this wretched painting? If so, he certainly deserved to claim it.

He moved another tile aside and smacked his hand around, determined to kill whatever was up there before it bit him again. He moved as little as possible on the flimsy chair, trying to ignore visions of the chair collapsing beneath him. His probing fingers still found nothing. He was going to have to call Señor Teagarden back with the disappointing news that it had been a waste of time.