The Night Cafe (30 page)

Airborne, 18,000 feet
Sixty miles south of Tijuana

A
fter leaving Sanchez and the other three men in the mud at the Puerto Vallarta airstrip, Captain Peña and his old friend had settled in for an uneventful flight to the main airport at Tijuana to rendezvous with his new friend, William Teagarden. Peña was looking forward to introducing the two fine men. Perhaps a drink, exchanging some adventure stories.

But then, the Cessna began to buck, and Peña and the pilot shared a nervous glance. Suddenly, out the pilot-side window, an astonishing sight appeared. Peña nudged his friend and pointed. The pilot leapt, startled, at the sight of a fighter jet off his starboard side, dipping its wing in salute. The plane was gunmetal gray, the wings painted with the star-on-a-striped-flag insignia of the USAF.

Through their headsets, the two men heard the Cessna’s call letters. “Good afternoon, gentlemen. The United States Air Force is here to provide you with an escort.” They could see the fighter pilot’s face almost as clearly as they saw one another’s. He directed their attention to the Cessna’s port-side wing, where a second fighter had appeared.

“F-16s,” Peña’s friend breathed.

“You are to proceed north-northwest,” the fighter pilot added. Although English was the language of international aviation, he repeated the instructions in unaccented Spanish to be sure they were understood.

“Sir, this is Mexican airspace,” the Cessna pilot radioed back.

“For the love of the Blessed Virgin,” Peña hissed at him, “don’t argue!”

“Your government has cleared our mission,” the fighter pilot replied. “You will set down on an airstrip just south of Tijuana. The delay there will be brief. Then, you’ll resume your current heading and flight plan.”

His friend’s panic-stricken face turned to Peña. “What shall I do? What shall I do?”

“Are you crazy? Do you see the bombs under their wings? Do what you’re told!”

The Cessna pilot nodded. “Roger,” he radioed.

The F-16s dropped back and rose up a few thousand feet, holding position there. The turbulence settled.

Peña’s friend nodded at the leather portfolio. “What are you carrying?”

“An ugly painting, nothing more.”

“Are you sure?”

“I examined it myself.”

Five minutes later, the F-16s directed their attention to a well maintained oceanside landing strip. The Cessna pilot banked his craft, putting the small plane on the ground a few minutes later, where it rolled to the end of the strip and pulled off onto a taxiway. When they looked skyward, the F-16s were circling overhead, silver eagles soaring on the updraft.

The men on the ground waited. As the seconds ticked by, the pilot slid his rifle out of the scabbard in the door. “Just in case,” he said.

Peña felt sure Teagarden would not have betrayed him, but he unbuckled his holster and rested his hand on the butt of his revolver just in case.

And then, they heard a low hum, soft at first, then louder. As they craned to see, a helicopter appeared out of the northern sky. The air force jets backed off, and the chopper set down a short way from the Cessna. Two men emerged, a young Asian-looking man and one with blond hair, both clean-cut and wearing suits.

As they approached, they withdrew leather folders and held them up to let the Mexicans to see their shields and identity cards. The younger man was also carrying a leather portfolio not unlike the one Peña had recovered from the ceiling of the hotel on the Malecón, except this one was intact.

“FBI agents?” Peña said, surprised.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?”

Peña opened his door. “Only one way to find out.”

He stepped out and approached the men, who tucked their credentials away. “Captain Peña,” the older of the two said, “William Teagarden, formerly of Scotland Yard, sends his regards. My name is Special Agent Joseph Towle, and this is Special Agent Ito.”

“Where is Señor Teagarden?” Peña asked.

“You’ll see him when you land in Tijuana.”

“How do I know this is the truth?”

“Well, Teagarden said you play a mean Frank Sinatra. Apparently you know all the words to all the verses of ‘My Way.’”

Peña smiled and shrugged modestly. “I am very fond of the music of Ol’Blue Eyes. So, what can I do for you gentlemen?”

“We need your help with a small ruse. You’re familiar with a Moises Gladding, I think?”

Peña nodded.

“He’s very anxious to have what you collected in Puerto Vallarta. We’d like to exchange your painting for a different piece. When you meet Teagarden and the lady with him, they’ll know the paintings have been switched but they won’t let on in case Gladding’s agents are watching.”

“Gladding has eyes everywhere,” Peña muttered. “Yes, fine. If Teagarden wishes this, I am happy to comply. I will get the case.”

He brought out the battered portfolio and made to hand it over, but Ito opened his. “Actually, we think it’s better if you hold on to that case and deliver our picture in it. It’s a long story, but it will add to the ruse’s credibility.”

They pulled out their paintings and compared them side to side. “They look the same,” Peña said.

“This one has more blue,” Ito said, “but otherwise, they’re pretty close.”

“And both very ugly,” Peña said. He zipped the new painting into the battered case.

Then, the FBI men stood aside as the Cessna resumed its scheduled course.

Hannah and Teagarden were waiting in the arrivals lounge at Tijuana’s main airport. They’d flown down on a private Learjet owned by a government proprietary company that was fronted by a Marina del Rey man famous for the chain of seafood restaurants he owned up and down the California coast. Although he had served in the air force during the first Gulf War, nothing about the man’s legend hinted that he was anything other than the silver-spoon playboy his friends, neighbors and business associates all believed him to be.

Hannah’s eye kept scanning the lounge, but if Gladding had a watcher there, she couldn’t spot him. Not surprising. The man’s network was a little scary.

“The thing that niggles at the back of my mind,” Teagarden said quietly, “is that the Koon you’ll hand over isn’t framed. He may know the other one was.”

“Well, there was no time to frame the stupid thing. Anyway, I don’t have any problem explaining what happened to the frame and why. He knows I was spooked by the mess at his villa. He’ll buy it.”

“I hope so.”

Her hip vibrated with the buzz of her cell phone. She glanced at the screen—a text message from Russo. Your friends ok. Call them when you can. Me, too. She nudged Teagarden and showed him the screen.

“That’s very good news. You should call once we’re airborne again.” He pulled himself to his feet. “Showtime.” He stepped forward, smiling broadly. “Captain Peña! Good to see you again!”

“And you, my friend!” As they shook hands, Peña eyed Hannah curiously. Teagarden introduced them. “I think you have recently been in Puerto Vallarta, have you not?” Peña asked her.

“I’ve been a couple of times.”

“Yet I would wager you had more adventures on your last visit than any previous time.”

Teagarden touched his arm. “My friend, no one knows better than I the kind of terrible week it’s been in your town.”

“More than you know.”

“I know about the other cases, too,” Teagarden said quietly. “I give you my word, Captain, Ms. Nicks is not your suspect. When this is over, I promise that you will know everything I know. In the meantime, the person responsible for those deaths is about to be brought to justice as the direct result of the help you’re giving us here today.”

“You swear this, Señor Teagarden?”

“On my honor.”

“It is good enough for me, then. I look forward to our next meeting.” He handed over the battered portfolio.

Hannah unzipped it, glanced inside and saw the too-blue canvas she’d selected at Koon’s studio a few hours earlier. With a look of dismay, Teagarden picked out a couple of pieces of the frame she’d destroyed and turned them over in his hand.

“Museum quality,” he said with a sigh.

She winced. “Sorry.”

“Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer the limo again, Mr. Dunning?” the concierge asked.

“Not this evening,” Gladding said. “I’m in the mood to drive. Something not too small, with all this traffic. An SUV, I think.”

“I can get you a Toyota Highlander.”

“That’ll do nicely.”

“Very good, sir. We’ll have it waiting downstairs whenever you’re ready.”

Perfect, Gladding thought. Los Angeles was a car-loving city, and nothing was more anonymous here than a Toyota or an SUV. Plenty of cargo space for everything they would have to carry, including the painting and the dirty bomb. By the end of the night, he would have possession of both. When dawn broke on Liggett’s and the Libyan bomb maker’s bodies tomorrow, identifying them would be the least of the region’s worries. Southern Californians would be too busy trying to get out of the way of the lethal radiation carried on the wind. Eventually, of course, the pieces of the puzzle would start to come together, but Gladding himself would be long gone, sitting halfway around the world, enjoying the chaos and fear he had unleashed.

Hannah spoke to her neighbor as the Learjet flew from Tijuana back to Los Angeles. She caught Travis as he was leaving Glendale Memorial Hospital to take Mellie back to their friends’ house in Studio City. “Are you sure Ruben’s all right?” she asked after he recounted how his partner had tried to sneak back home to collect the toddler’s favorite stuffed elephant.

“He was almost out the door when he heard a noise in the kitchen. The minute he went in, this guy jumped him. I don’t know who was more surprised, Ruben or the other guy. I really don’t think he expected a gay man to put up the kind of fight he got.”

“Detective Russo said the kitchen was trashed.”

“Yeah, it was quite the battle royal, from the sounds of it.”

“Poor Ruben! He could have been killed.”

“He went in there with a knife. In fact, he feels a little sheepish about it, but that’s actually how he got hurt. Our spice rack went down in the mayhem, and he thinks he tripped on the oregano or something. He landed on the knife. He lost quite a bit of blood—barely made it to the gas station up the street before he passed out. They’re keeping him in the hospital overnight for observation, but he should be fine.”

“What about the other guy?” Hannah asked.

“Oh, well, Rube’s feeling pretty pumped about that. Scary dude, he said, but he managed to clock the guy with our wooden knife rack. Thought he might have killed him, but when he saw him move, he beat it out of there. That’s when he tripped and fell on the knife.”

“Russo said the intruder was long gone by the time he got there.”

“Yeah, but he told me they’ve got an idea who it was. Hopefully they’ll find the bastard.”

Dollars to doughnuts it was Kyle Liggett, Hannah thought. “I’m just glad Ruben’s okay. You give him a big smooch for me, okay. And one for you and Mellie, too. And Trav? I’m so sorry.”

“Not your fault. You just take care of yourself.”

Shadows were long by the time they got back to the FBI field office. Somebody sent out for food and most of the team ate when it arrived. There was no telling when the next communication from Gladding would come in, giving Hannah details for the drop. When it did, everyone would be in scramble mode to get surveillance and backup laid in. Cases like this, people ate when they could, not when they were hungry.

But the sun went down, the supper hour stretched into evening, and the evening began to get late. Hannah was beginning to wonder if Gladding had decided things were too hot to try for a handover. How could he possibly think he would walk away from this?

And then, a little after ten, her cell phone rang. They’d hooked up a recording device to the cell, so while Hannah talked to him, Towle and others listened in on headsets.

“I understand you have my painting.”

“Hello, Mr. Gladding.”

“The man from Marina del Rey whose Lear you took to Tijuana—a friend of yours?”

“We have mutual friends.”

“How fortunate for you. And the tall older man who went with you?”

“A private investigator. I thought I could use some help on this. So, now that I’ve got the painting back, where would you like it delivered?”

He described an all-night diner in San Juan Capistrano. “One-thirty a.m. Come alone.” As usual, he didn’t repeat himself, and he didn’t wait for confirmation.

“It can’t be this easy,” Agent Ito said afterward. “He’s gotta know we’ll have it covered.”

“I don’t think it would be advisable to underestimate Gladding,” Teagarden said. Although Towle had hinted that the Brit’s part was over now that the painting had been recovered, Teagarden had no intention of leaving the piece unattended or—apparently—of standing back while Hannah walked into the lion’s den on her own.

“He told me to come alone,” she pointed out.

Towle agreed. “It’s not going to happen at the diner. I think it’s a safe bet that once she’s there, she’ll get additional instructions.”

“All the more reason why I should stick with her,” Teagarden said. “I can conceal myself in the back of her car.”

They all looked at him skeptically. The idea of the older gent folding his six-foot-four frame into the back seat of her puddle jumper hardly bore thinking about.

“You’re welcome to ride down there with me,” Towle said. “In any event, we’ve already put a tracking device under the dash of your Prius.”

What was it with people bugging her car today? Hannah wondered.