The Night Cafe

by Taylor Smith

  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.

  And then, his fingers connected with leather.

  Not a tall man, Peña had to strain to grasp the edge of the case and inch it out from its hiding place. He did not bother to replace the tiles, but carried the tattered case gingerly to the stained and rumpled bed, where he unzipped it and peered inside. Pieces of a once-beautiful carving—a frame, it seemed—spilled out.

  He withdrew a stretched canvas and stared at it in amazement. It looked like something the cat had coughed up. This is what Teagarden was so desperate to find? What Gladding had been willing to kill for? Surely not.

  On the other hand, he had found it where the woman said it would be, Peña thought. A deal is a deal. He would deliver this case and its contents as promised. He called his friend and told him to gas up the Cessna. Then, he called back William Teagarden, who sounded delighted.

  “But be very careful, my friend. Now is not the time to let down your guard.”

  Outside, Peña slid the leather case across the front seat and climbed behind the wheel. He pulled a U-turn and headed for the main road. As he approached the corner, his eye caught a movement in the front of a familiar, battered old Ford Cortina. The driver ducked down, but not before Peña recognized Mario Sanchez—one of his own men. Peña himself had recruited and promoted him.

  Peña let loose with a string of expletives. Teagarden had told him to expect a tail, that Gladding’s deep pockets held men in his own department. But the last man he would have suspected as a traitor, Peña thought, was that little weasel Sanchez.

  Los Angeles

  “Why didn’t you take it from him at the hotel?” Gladding demanded.

  “Capitán Peña knows me, señor. I could not let him see me.”

  Pain roiled Gladding’s body. This was what happened when you sent a fool to do a man’s job. A year ago, it would never have happened. His strength was slipping, and his judgment along with it.

  “Do you still have him in sight?” he demanded.

  “Sí. I am behind him,” Sanchez said. “What should I do?”

  “Stay on him and do not, I repeat not, lose him. I’m going to send someone else after you. Keep your phone line open. He’ll be calling to find out where Peña is.”

  “I think I know where he’s going, señor.”

  “Where?”

  “A private airfield, about ten kilometers out of town. Capitán Peña has an old friend who flies a Cessna airplane from this field.”

  “How do you know?”

  “He is my brother-in-law.”

  “Your brother-in-law? The man with the Cessna?”

  “No, señor. Capitán Peña.”

  Twenty-Nine

  Once she had finished telling Captain Peña where to find the painting, Hannah felt like some useless drone in this busy little federal hive. They all had their well-groomed heads together, working out the logistics of collecting the painting, arranging for her to deliver it to Gladding by his deadline—making sure he didn’t actually get his grubby hands on a masterpiece—and set the net and haul the man in before whatever he had planned could be carried out.

  Since her going back to her condo seemed to be a nonstarter, she was left twiddling her thumbs in the dreary little side office in which Towle had parked her. Even Teagarden seemed to have been temporarily initiated into their fraternity—or had stormed the gates, maybe, since his primary concern in all this was the safe recovery of Yale’s van Gogh.

  She tried calling Ruben and Travis, but her calls kept going to voice mail. Chances were they were still tied up at the doctor’s office with Mellie. She hoped they weren’t avoiding her calls—although who could blame them if they were? She asked them to call and let her know they were okay.

  Somebody dropped by with a copy of the newspaper she hadn’t finished that morning. She read that, drank some really bad coffee, leafed through a copy of The Congressional Record and memorized every gray hair and wrinkle on the presidential portrait on the wall. Finally, it occurred to her that there might be a way to check on Ruben and, as a bonus, hear a friendly voice—at least, she hoped it would still be friendly.

  “Hey there, stranger,” she said when Russo picked up his cell.

  “Hi. I was just looking for you. Where are you?”

  “Wilshire Boulevard, the Federal Building.” She told him about the flurry of activity going on around her.

  “Son of a bitch,” he said. “What happened to interagency cooperation? Last I checked, we were supposed to have a joint task force between them, us and the LAPD. Suddenly the feds are nowhere to be found and we and the LAPD guys are wondering who moved the party. I’m only surprised it took them twenty-four hours to elbow us out. But hey, at least they’re letting you play.”

  “Not hardly. All they’ve needed me for was to say where I hid the painting. Now they’re just keeping me on ice until they can decide what to do about Gladding. I think I’m going to be the minnow on the hook when they’re ready to reel him in. Is there anything new on Rebecca’s murder?”

  “Lindsay’s just heading back from the crime lab now. We found some surfers who said they saw a car parked next to her red BMW on Monday night. Saw the driver toss a Coke can in the bushes. We recovered it and the lab is trying to pull prints and DNA.”

  “That’d be a break. Listen, I know you’re probably swamped, but I wondered if you might be able to do me a favor.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Any chance you could swing by my place, check on my neighbors?”

  “I just did, actually—drop by your place, I mean. Quiet as a tomb over there.”

  “That’s because my neighbors had to go into hiding, thanks to me.” She told him about the threats Gladding had made. “I left ahead of Ruben this morning, but I’d like to know he and the baby are okay.”

  “I’m just pulling into the office to meet Lindsay,” Russo said. “We have some other calls to make. We’ll swing back over to your place while we’re out.” />
  “There’s an extra key to the guys’ place hidden outside. Do you think you could go in, take a look around?”

  “Sure. Where’s the key?”

  “Under the ficus pot on the patio.”

  “Under a flower pot? Are you kidding?”

  “Ruben’s a big guy. He worries less about intruders than he does about getting locked out with the baby.”

  “Good grief. Okay, we’ll check it out.” Russo chuckled. “You know, annoying as I find it that the Bureau has taken the ball and gone home, I know someone who’s going to be really ticked off with her big brother. You’re getting payback, kid.”