'Well, yeah.' Warren takes a couple of drags and then jabs his cigarette at Koop. 'Are you saying I'm not good enough?'
'Stop worrying.'
Warren picks up a laminated folder that lists local amenities and attractions.
'Look at this,' he says. 'Here's another thing.' He puts his cigarette in his mouth and points a thick finger the colour of earwax at a photo of a bland apartment building. 'Scene of the 1986 quadruple homicide,' he reads. 'The Packham Apartments, just fifty yards south, were the scene of 1986's most talked about killings.' He puts down the folder. 'They're fucking proud of it!'
Koop leaves Warren smoking on the balcony and goes inside to get some air. The TV's on with the sound down showing some news show. Warren's got a habit – Koop's discovered – of having the TV on at all times. Onscreen a tall man in his sixties with a grim expression is facing a barrage of microphones. Some congressional hearing. Iraq or Afghanistan. Koop recognises the guy as a politician but can't remember his name. One of the bad ones, he thinks.
On the coffee table are the fruits of their trip to the shopping mall that afternoon: three prepaid mobiles, two short-wave walkie-talkies, a camera, several cardboard files, a couple of clipboards, two utility tool belts, two plain khaki shirts, two pairs of olive-coloured cargo pants, two green baseball caps, two pairs of workboots and the remains of a Chinese meal.
The meal was the one they'd just eaten but everything else, including the plain white panel van they'd rented, was for tomorrow. The prepaids and vehicle were Frank's suggestion but the other stuff had come from Koop. All you needed for successful stalking.
He and Warren had flown in this morning on a Qantas flight from Sydney. Frank was on his way to New York and would fly on to Los Angeles in two days' time, once he'd finished digging through the CCTV.
He wouldn't be staying with Koop and Warren. Instead Frank had booked a room at a hotel a few blocks north. Why they needed the cloak and dagger stuff, Koop didn't know. It didn't matter, really. What did matter was that tomorrow they'd take a look at the guy they'd travelled halfway round the planet to see.
For the first time in a long while, Koop is looking forward to waking up.
He takes one of the cardboard folders, sits down on the couch and reads the contents one more time.
Seven
'Gloria Lopez.' Frank's getting sick of saying the name.
He's been in the immigration interview room for an hour, sitting across the desk from the Hispanic officer. A badge on the guy's ample left tit says 'Muno-Cappiea'. Frank doesn't know if that's his name or the name of some sort of contract company.
'We haven't got anything about Agent Lopez on file,' the man says. He taps a chubby finger on the file in front of him. 'What we do have is your name on a Homeland Security watch list.'
'And I'm telling you, again, that I am a police officer with Merseyside Police in the UK and I'm here to meet with Agent Lopez. I've had an MLAT application approved by your government.' Frank looks at the badge again. 'Is that your name?'
The white officer, leaning his vast behind against a filing cabinet, taps his colleague on the shoulder and whispers something. He turns back to Frank and glares at him.
'Does that ever work?' says Frank. 'The stare? Christ.' He leans back and rubs his face. His eyes feel sandy and he's starting to feel nauseated.
'You're going to have to answer some questions.'
'Fuck off.' Frank's had it. 'Get me someone wearing a suit. Not one of you desk monkeys. Do it now before there's a diplomatic incident.' Frank leans forward and taps the file. 'What do you think is the more likely explanation? That I'm on your list and making up some bullshit story that could be disproved with a phone call, or that there's been some sort of bureaucratic mix-up? If you can't find the number for the FBI, call my office in Liverpool and they'll find it for you. Then, once they've done that, they can talk you through some more simple tasks, like tying your own shoelaces, or finding your fucking face with your fucking fork. No, wait, I can see that neither of you has the slightest difficulty performing that function.'
Muno-Cappiea flushes and moves in his seat.
'Careful, big boy,' says Frank. 'You might bust an artery.'
He doesn't know what will happen next but before anyone can do anything the door to the office opens and two people enter. A man and a woman. Both are wearing business clothes and both look to be in their mid-thirties. The woman shows a badge to the immigration officers.
'FBI Agent Lopez,' she says. She turns to her partner. 'This is Agent Monroe. Apologies for this, DCI Keane. I should have been here to greet you but I got held up.'
'His name's on our list,' says the white immigration officer. 'He's ours.'
'Your list is obviously wrong,' says Lopez. 'DCI Frank Keane is here legitimately to apply for evidence from the US Justices Department under an approved MLAT. This falls under Federal jurisdiction. You two can go before I issue an obstruction of justice notice. Go on, get going.'
The immigration officers make a show of moving slowly but eventually they make the door.
'Bye,' says Frank. He makes a phone signal with one hand up to his ear. 'Let's do lunch? Call me.'
'Fuck you,' says Muno-Cappiea. He closes the door to the office with force.
'Let's get you over to your hotel,' says Lopez. 'We can go over tomorrow's details on the way.'
'No,' says Frank. 'Let's see the footage now.'
An image of the guy from Bean flashes into his head. The longer he leaves the CCTV footage, the less chance there is of getting what he needs.
'I'd rather do it straight away, Agent Lopez.'
'Whatever you want.'
MIT had emailed a list of required footage through several days ago, but no one at JFK seems to have seen it. After the clowns at immigration Frank's not surprised. He hands a new copy of the list to Lopez and they wait while Monroe tracks down the right people.
Two hours and two bad coffees later they get word that what Frank's after is in the security control room.
'This is what you asked for,' says an officer wearing a Port Authority Police uniform. He's sitting at a desk with a large computer monitor in front of him. Frank's sketchy on the details of jurisdiction but there's no disguising the cop's distaste for handing over his CCTV tapes to a couple of Feds and a foreigner.
Frank checks his notes.
'The text came through at 2.01 am UK time. We've already established that Noone was booked on the 9.30 pm flight to LA with Delta. We can assume he was at or near the gate when the call was made. He came into JFK on a Virgin Atlantic flight from Manchester, arriving at 6.27 pm.'
'There're thirty-three cameras across the terminal,' says the Port Authority cop. 'Six of them are in the area you're looking at.' He brings up six windows onscreen and clicks on one to make it bigger. 'This first one is the security gates coming through immigration. Your guy's here.'
The cop fast-forwards to a point in the digital recording. It shows the camera on the immigration desk. Ben Noone, dressed in dark clothes, looks calm and relaxed. The cop freezes the camera as Noone stares directly at the lens.
'Benjamin Noone. This is him, right?'
'That's him.'
'OK. Next time I got him is getting his bag and coming through customs.'
Another window appears and Frank watches Noone waiting for his luggage to come off a carousel. He doesn't use a phone.
'No phones permitted before clearing customs,' says the cop operating the computer. 'So he's unlikely to have used it then. Next time I can find him is just down from his onward departure gate.' An image flicks up.
Noone's sitting on a bench seat. Frank leans in close. There's something about his movements here that make Frank think this might be the likeliest place for him to have called. He watches the screen as the Port Authority cop fast-forwards through the recording. The screen jerks and suddenly there's an Asian family sitting in Noone's place.
'What happened?' Frank stands back from the scree
n and looks at the cop behind the keyboard. The cop rewinds and Noone reappears. He stops at the point of the jump. There's Noone and then there's a flash of white noise, electronic, and he's replaced by the family.
'Uh,' says the cop. He checks the timing and rolls back once more. He points at the timer. 'We lost some.'
Frank turns to Lopez. You seeing this? Lopez and Monroe are more alert now.
'What does that mean, "We lost some"?' Frank's trying hard to stay diplomatic but he's struggling.
'I'm just saying that's what's happened.' The cop's New York accent has hardened. 'There's been a glitch.'
'Someone's wiped a section. That's what's happened.' Frank turns to Lopez. 'What's the jurisdiction on this? Can you find out what's going on here? You're the liaison.'
Lopez sucks her lower lip. 'I'll have to check. But without a crime being committed . . .'
'Tampering with fucking evidence. That's a crime here, right?'
'If that's what's happened.' Lopez looks at the cop. 'Can you tell?'
The cop shrugs. 'I ain't an expert. You'd hafta get that kind of thing examined properly. Even then I don't know what's going to come out of it. Digital, man. Sometimes that stuff happens. A power surge, a bug, I don't know.'
'Fucking bullshit,' says Frank. He gathers his bags and turns to the door. 'I'm going to get some sleep and see if I can free up some money for a forensic examination of this.' He looks at Lopez. 'Can you at least get me a copy of what's there?'
Lopez nods. 'Leave it with me.'
'Yeah,' says Frank. He pushes through the door into the service corridor. Lopez follows him and puts an arm on his sleeve.
'Listen,' she says. 'I'll try and get something for you. Get some sleep and we'll be over in the morning.'
'You know where I'm staying?'
'We're the FBI. Yeah, we know.'
'Tell you what,' says Frank, 'give me your card and I'll call you tomorrow. How about that?'
'Whatever you like.' Lopez finds a card and hands it to Frank. 'We're on the same side.'
Frank nods and walks towards the exit to the airport terminal thinking, are we?
Eight
It's just after ten on a perfect Santa Monica morning. Noone, wearing a white shirt, black jeans and aviators, parks his jeep in a lot off Lincoln and walks around the corner to Montana, checking his reflection in the angled windows of the boutiques. He finds an outdoor table in the shade at a cafe called Grind and orders an espresso. He checks his watch, annoyed he's there before Angie and Leon. Much more stylish to be the last to arrive. He considers leaving and coming back but discards the idea in case anyone sees him doing it.
Having known Noone just over a week, Angie and Leon are now old friends in LA terms. Angie's a model on the very edge of the down slope – twenty-four – and Leon's a coming actor. He likes them both well enough and has slept with Angie – and Leon, as it happened, although that side of things didn't work out so hot. Since the thing with Terry and Nicky, Noone's gone a little cool on the bisexual thing.
Angie and Leon talk shit all the time but Noone needs company the same way he needs clothes and food and cars. The last thing he's going to be is one of those sad-assed motherfuckers sailing solo around town. The more normal Noone can appear, the easier it'll be to keep things cool until he's ready to make his play. Any investigation will not reveal a drooling loner with uncertain bathroom habits.
Besides, he needs Angie. Via his new agent Noone had gone to great lengths to engineer a meeting with her and, if he can't get what he wants through charm, is quite prepared to kill her.
As it's turning out, there should be no need for that. Angie's proving easy to manipulate.
Angie and Leon arrive just as Noone's espresso is brought out by a slim-hipped chick he hasn't seen working here before. She's cute and Noone would'ye liked to get her number but even Angie wouldn't stand for that so that will have to wait.
'Leon was running late,' says Angie, kissing Noone on the mouth. 'Not me.'
Angie's got her hair skinhead short and is wearing a less than opaque short dress. She's got big sunglasses pushed up on her head and some sort of retro thing going on with her shoes.
'That's OK,' says Leon, holding up his hands. 'Blame the Jew. Like always.'
'Are you Jewish?' says Noone. 'I wish you'd told me, you fucking kike.'
Leon laughs and the three of them start talking about nothing much in particular.
'They look like something off an ad,' says Menno Koopman.
He's sitting across the street at a table outside a Starbucks. He's got a laptop open in front of him and a decent view of Noone.
'Well, he is an actor,' says Eckhardt. Warren's voice sounds wheezier than ever over the tinny little speaker on the cheap phone.
'You see him too?'
'Copy. Affirmative. Subject in view,' says Warren in a terrible American accent. He lets out a wet chuckle that sounds like a reluctant throttle on a motorbike. 'Always wanted to say that. Sounds better in American, doesn't it?'
'That was American? I thought you'd had a stroke.'
Koop hangs up and looks up the street to where Eckhardt's parked the van, about eighty metres back from Grind. They've separated in case Noone continues on foot. The grid layout of Santa Monica is easy enough but until they've got their US driving heads right this is how they're playing it.
They'd picked Noone up shortly after he emerged from his house in Pacific Palisades. That had been the trickiest part: Noone's street is a winding, narrow affair with houses spaced wide apart. Not many vehicles were parked on the road and Koop and Warren felt more conspicuous than they'd like so were happy to see Noone emerge after less than an hour. It felt like a little slice of luck. Operating a two-man surveillance successfully requires as much luck as you can get. It's an inexact science, especially when conducted in a foreign country with no backup and jet lag.
From Starbucks Koop studies Noone properly for the first time.
Since Frank's phone call, he's been wondering about the man who'd got under Frank's skin enough to bring Koop and Warren from Australia as backup. Koop gives weight to Frank's policing instincts but he also knows that instinct alone can be fatal to a good copper. Koop's been guilty of coming up short a couple of times himself when he 'knew'.
That said, there's still the time line evidence and the phone, which all fits. Frank had emailed a detailed case file compiled by DC Magsi to Koop.
The killings of Terry and Alicia Peters don't feel like a murder-suicide to Koop. And if someone killed Terry then maybe Frank is on to something with Noone. The phone call from JFK is the most damning piece of evidence but it's not much without corroboration. In the absence of any forensics, or conclusive witnesses, or CCTV, there's not a lot a prosecutor could do except drop the case. With Noone being affluent – and Koop's just beginning to see how affluent – then good lawyers will shred the case as it stands. Koop doesn't attach much importance to the report from the psychologist. It's probably accurate and it might help them predict a few things, but it will only come into its own if and when Noone is caught.
From what Koop's seen of the man so far he doesn't look like someone who's particularly worried about anything. Which is why Koop is leaning towards Frank's view. Noone's behaviour this morning is a display of nonchalance. If, Koop reasons, it had been himself under suspicion of multiple murder – even a multiple murder he'd left behind in Liverpool – he's sure he'd have been more nervous than Noone appears to be.
Ten minutes pass. The area of the cafe that Koop's sitting in is set back, giving him a view through the windows of part of the cross-street. There's a dark blue Toyota half-hidden behind a shop sidewalk display board, a man in the driver's seat, his head a silhouette. Although it's the first time he's noticed him – consciously at least – Koop gets the feeling he might have been there a while. It's probably nothing.
Twenty minutes later Noone's little party is dispersing. Koop watches Noone head towards Lincoln and the other two dow
n Montana in the direction from which they'd arrived.
'You think he's going for his car?' asks Warren over the phone.
'Looks that way.'
Koop's just about to move when he notices the blue Toyota pull out. It swings a U and heads in the direction taken by Noone.
'Wait,' says Koop into the phone. He watches the Toyota turn into Lincoln.
Once the car is out of sight Koop hurries towards their van. He slides into the passenger seat.
'There's someone else following our boy,' says Koop. As Eckhardt moves the van towards the intersection Koop points the vehicle out. 'There.'
He doesn't have to tell Eckhardt what to do. Warren waits and then makes a left onto Lincoln as the Toyota tails Noone's silver jeep. Koop and Eckhardt hang back.
'Who do you think it is?' says Eckhardt. 'FBI?'
'Could be. Frank's had the MLAT application in for a few weeks. Maybe they think Noone's worth some examination.' Koop points to the right. 'He's turning.'
Noone pulls the jeep left and the Toyota follows. It's tricky, keeping them both in view, so Eckhardt just stays with the Toyota.
Koop's looking at the sat nav.
'I think he's headed home. The Pacific Coast Highway's this way.'
'Maybe we should drop back more? Play it safe.'
'No, stick with them.'
Koop's glad they do. A minute later and Noone's on the Santa Monica Freeway heading east. The traffic's heavy but that helps Eckhardt. He keeps the van tucked out of sight using a truck about a hundred metres behind the blue Toyota as a shield. In the traffic, everything's moving the same pace.
'Just make sure we don't follow the wrong Toyota,' says Eckhardt. 'There's a fucking lot of the bastards.'
Eckhardt's right, Los Angeles seems to be full of blue Toyotas, but Koop keeps it in sight. The only worry is not doing something dumb that draws attention to the white van. Koop's pretty sure whoever's tailing Noone is an expert. Anything untoward in the rear-view will be noticeable.
'You done much driving on this side of the road?' Koop asks.
Down Among the Dead Men Page 27