‘Myers could be more efficient but I can push him only so far before he gets all petulant. Then he’ll dig his heels in and become deliberately obstructive. To be blunt, he’s a jerk.’
‘Say it how you feel,’ Stratton said.
Vicky grinned, then averted her gaze as if embarrassed.
She suddenly looked like a girl and not an officious bureaucrat, albeit one with a warm and generous heart.
‘I shouldn’t talk about him like that. It’s not professional.’
‘Sometimes it’s good to express how you feel.’
‘But not to strangers,’ Vicky said, turning serious again as she remembered something. ‘The one area where Myers has been efficient was in locating a temporary foster home for Josh. That’s because one of his main tasks is moving kids out of here as soon as possible. It’s pretty quiet around here right now but it can turn into a zoo overnight, believe me. Four months ago we had over a hundred children crammed in here and we’re only officially equipped for fifty. They don’t just come from disrupted families. We get a lot of young illegal immigrants and you’d be surprised at the number of kids we have to take back from foster parents.’
‘How do you get to qualify as a foster parent?’
‘Horrifyingly easily, unfortunately. The state pays good money to foster parents but with a lot of them that’s all they’re in it for. There’ve been cases where we’ve inadvertently placed children in worse places than we originally got them from. You wouldn’t qualify so don’t go down that road if you’re thinking about it. For one, you have to be a resident citizen.’
‘How soon could he be relocated?’
‘A week maybe. I won’t know exactly until we’re closer to a date.’
‘Will you know who’ll be fostering him or where he’ll be living?’
‘Yes. But that information is confidential. Look, I’m on your side, John. Or, to be precise, I’m on Josh’s. I can see how much he loves you and how much you care for him. There’s no greater qualification than that in my view. I’ll fight for that any day of the week, but I don’t make the rules.’
Stratton nodded his appreciation. ‘I wish you did,’ he said checking his watch and aiming towards the door. ‘Well, thanks again, Miss Whitaker.’
‘You can call me Vicky if you want. I’m not quite the stuffed shirt I look – okay, I am, but I don’t like to be.’
Her comment brought smiles to both their faces.
‘I don’t see a stuffed shirt,’ Stratton said, looking her in the eye.
At face value the comment seemed open to interpretation. But Stratton’s sincere expression ensured that it conveyed only the most respectful appreciation.
‘See you soon,’ he said, offering his hand. Vicky took it and he held hers for a second before shaking it. It was small and soft, and the touch felt good, immedi ately demonstrating to Stratton his need for female company. But he quickly pushed all thought of that aside, this being neither the time nor the place for a romance.
Vicky watched him walk away until he was through the door. Then, as she turned to head for her office, she caught Dorothy looking at her from behind her reception desk and wearing a broad, suggestive smile. Vicky immediately adopted an air of prim decorum, marched to her office, and let its door close behind her.
12
Stratton passed through the electronic security check at the entrance of the Santa Monica Court Admin istration building that was in the same block as the police department. After being thoroughly checked by a security officer he headed into the lobby and consulted a room directory on the wall. The place was bustling, thanks to a broad spectrum of Santa Monica life milling in and out: police, lawyers, plaintiffs, defendants, the underprivileged and the well-heeled.
The district attorney’s office was on the second floor. Stratton walked to the stairs halfway along the corridor from the front door and paused on the first step, wondering what he actually expected to achieve with this visit. His intentions were to speak to the DA personally and lobby to have the two thugs responsible for Sally’s death investigated. Though he did not know the procedures for making such a request he could guess at some of the problems he would encounter. The DA would inevitably ask him to reveal how he came to know the identities of the two men and for obvious reasons he could not tell them the source. Nor could he involve the Korean shopkeeper since that would place a death sentence on the man’s head.
Ideally, Stratton needed a prosecutor who’d be interested in an FBI cover-up. But that was too much to hope for and would be impossibly complicated, requiring all kinds of proof that he could not offer. But he had at least to try. Between one step and the next another problem popped into his head: his own exposure. If, for argument’s sake, he did decide to take action against the thugs himself, showing his face in the public prosecutor’s office would not be the wisest thing to do.
Stratton stayed where he was for a moment to think his strategy through once again. Then a commotion at the building entrance took him out of his thoughts. He looked up to see half a dozen uniformed policemen, several openly carrying Heckler & Koch MP5K sub-machine guns held across their chests, and a couple of plain-clothes officers march in. They were escorting a middle-aged Latino man with intense features and wild black hair whose hands were cuffed behind his back.
‘Stand aside, please,’ the lead officers called out as they pushed their way none too gently through the jostling crowd.
At the same time the stairwell above Stratton was suddenly packed with half a dozen Slavic-looking men in a range of dress from colourful Hawaiian shirts and jeans to expensive suits. They were heading down from the floor above. The two groups were on a collision course.
The men on the stairs stopped, mainly because their passage was suddenly blocked by a couple of armed policemen but also due to the reaction of the Latino prisoner whose demeanour suddenly became violent as he saw them. He started to shout in a mixture of Spanish and English, directing his vituperation at the group on the stairs.
‘You pindeho piece a’ shit, Skender!’ he yelled. ‘I’m gonna tear your fucken’ heart out, you muher! You hear me? Skender!’
The police immediately grabbed him. At the mention of Skender’s name Stratton’s stare flashed to the group on the stairs.
The cops divided their attentions between the Latino prisoner and the Slavic-looking bunch, clearly threatening instant violence should either side try anything.
‘Rot in jail, Colombo,’ one of the men on the stairs called out. ‘You won’t have a living relative left by the time you get out – if you ever do, you spic fuck.’
Stratton recognised the man in the smart suit as Ivor Vleshek who, as Seaton had explained the CIA suspected, was really Dren Cano, Ardian’s brother. He looked exactly like his photograph: his murderous eyes were unmistakable.
The abuse enraged the Latino prisoner who made a violent attempt to break through his police cordon to get at the Slavic group. They automatically shifted their weight forward in response. But the police held both sides apart and dragged Colombo past the stairs and along the hallway.
Stratton scanned the faces above him and identified Skender at the back. The man was dressed in an immaculate coat and had a cravat around his neck tucked into a silk shirt. He looked like a warlike Visigoth stuffed into expensive modern clothes. He also looked as old as he was, in his early sixties, his complexion rugged. But his long dark hair and the fire in his eyes indicated a strength that was a long way from fading away into age.
Skender stared unblinkingly at the still-yelling prisoner, his eyes filled with malice, until Colombo dis appeared out of sight and earshot along with his dark blue shield of law enforcers.
Stratton could not see Ardian among the group and his stare focused on Skender again as if he was compelled to look at him. The group exuded an unmistakable malevolence as tangible as the drab, solid walls of the stairway.
As the corridor emptied, Skender’s lead bodyguards, large and fearsome-looking, co
ntinued on their way down the stairs. Stratton moved to the wall to let them pass. This was not enough for the lead bodyguard who reached out a hand to push him down.
‘Get outta the way,’ the thug said as he took hold of Stratton’s jacket at the shoulder.
The blood quickly rose in Stratton and he held his position. The bodyguard grimaced at the insolence and responded by putting more weight behind his shove. But he was unprepared for the reaction that this provoked. Stratton stepped back to make the bodyguard straighten his arm while at the same time taking hold of the bruiser’s wrist. As the bodyguard overreached, Stratton twisted his wrist with sudden force, jerking the arm forward and then slamming the palm of his other hand up against the elbow joint, almost breaking it. The bodyguard yelped as his knees automatically gave out and he dropped the last step, his two hundred and fifty pounds flattening his face against the concrete floor. His lips split open.
Two more bodyguards instantly grabbed Stratton who released the first one’s wrist and went limp as the others slammed him back against the wall, their hands reaching inside his jacket to frisk him. He could not take them all on and had no intention of trying. Though it had not been the wisest course of action to take down the first bodyguard he had been unable to help himself. The sight of these men, knowing of their callous contempt for others as well as their brutal history, had filled him with hatred.
‘He’s clean,’ one of the thugs said. Cano stepped close, their noses inches apart as the rest of the group headed down the corridor.
‘Cano!’ a man’s voice called out from the hall. ‘Take your wolves and join the rest of your pack.’ The man spoke with some authority. He was in plain clothes and was one of the party escorting the Latino prisoner. Judging by his age, bearing and authoritative voice, he was a senior officer of some kind.
Cano ignored the man who closed in, not intimidated by the group.
‘Move on,’ the man said, a more threatening tone entering his voice ‘Now – or I’ll personally charge you with disturbing the peace,’ he added.
‘How you doing, Agent Hobart?’ Cano said.
‘I won’t ask again,’ Hobart said. He was an intelligent-looking Anglo-Saxon with greying hair. In his late forties, he had a degree of refinement about him.
‘He assaulted one of my men,’ Cano growled coldly as the bodyguard got painfully to his feet, holding his sore elbow, blood trickling down his chin.
‘Looked like self-defence to me,’ Hobart said. ‘What do you think, Hendrickson?’
A younger man, also in plain clothes, stepped in behind his boss. ‘That’s exactly how it was, sir.’
Cano’s face broke into a thin smile. Then he stepped back and nodded to his men. They released Stratton. ‘One a’ these days, Hobart …’
‘Cano,’ a strange-sounding, gravelly voice interrupted. It was Skender, who was standing with the rest of his people at the entrance. His gaze moved from Cano to Hobart, and he smiled slightly and nodded. Hobart did not respond.
Cano stared into Stratton’s eyes long enough to relay an instant hatred. Then, like a well-trained Rottweiler, he turned around and joined the rest of the group as they left the building.
Seconds later the hall was practically empty.
‘Who are you?’ Hobart asked Stratton none too politely.
‘I was on my way to see the DA—’
‘Then get going,’ Hobart said, interrupting Stratton. The lawman walked away with Hendrickson. ‘Damn it! Why wasn’t I told that Skender was going to be here today?’ he demanded.
Stratton remained on the steps for a moment to adjust his clothes and loosen the tension in his neck. So that was Cano and Skender, he mused. They were indeed a fearsome group and he was confident that had the incident taken place in a less public place it might have had a different ending for him. It served as a warning to respect the dangers they represented.
He headed up the steps to the next floor where the DA’s office was signposted at the end of the corridor. After waiting half an hour he was eventually told by a secretary who showed little interest in what he had to say to come back the following day. She added that he should bring a lawyer with him.
Stratton walked back down the stairs feeling sure that he would achieve nothing unless he could fund some massive legal representation privately. He stepped out into the bright sunlight and headed away from the court buildings.
As he tried to think of other peaceful ways of resolving the situation he found himself leaning more and more towards walking away from the whole thing. But as soon as he contemplated the possibility voices in his head hounded him, accusing him of deserting his friends. He fought back by telling himself that he was not yet abandoning them. Stratton felt he was going mad as his mind was dragged first one way then the other, loyalty pitted against common sense, duty towards friends against self-preservation.
As he crossed the road he knew that he was on the verge of turning his back on Jack and Sally. He was unaware of the black Mercedes stretch limousine with dark-tinted windows that drove slowly out of the police department parking lot and pulled onto the main road behind him.
Stratton cut down Second Street, passing a McDonald’s on his left. Feeling hungry, he decided that right then junk food seemed okay to him. The famous fast-food establishment was quiet inside and after ordering a hamburger, some fries and a soda he considered eating the meal in the restaurant. But after a quick scan of the other customers, namely two overweight families and their children on one side scarfing down a feast that would sustain a small village in the Sudan for several days and a filthy bum eating like a pig on the other, he elected to eat while he walked. A stroll along the front might help to clear his head, he thought, and he headed for the entrance.
As Stratton walked outside two large men in Hawaiian shirts stepped from either side of the door and followed him. He glanced over his shoulder and slowed to face them, recognising them as two of Skender’s bodyguards from the courthouse. He prepared himself for an attack.
But instead of moving in on him they stopped at a safe distance, eyeing him warily. They had seen the ease with which he had taken down their friend and although they felt confident in their ability to crush him they were cautious.
‘The boss vants to speak to you,’ one of them grunted in a heavy accent, jutting his chin past Stratton.
Stratton looked over his shoulder at the black stretch limousine, the only vehicle on the far side of the large car park. His mind raced as he considered various evasive-action options. This was obviously to do with the bodyguard he had felled since Skender and his men could not possibly know of his interest in Sally’s killers.
‘What does he want?’ Stratton asked.
‘You should ask him,’ the thug said, taking a step forward.
‘Maybe some other time,’ Stratton said as he stepped back and headed off across the car park. Another thug appeared in front of him and he stopped to look around. Another goon was behind him and a fifth, a fat one, climbed out of the limousine and put his hand inside his jacket as if he had a weapon concealed there. Stratton reviewed his options which were limited to making a run for it.
The original pair closed in and halted a yard away from him. ‘You can do this the easy way or the hard way,’ the first thug said, pulling back his jacket to reveal a semi-automatic pistol in his belt. ‘Don’t matter to me. Boss didn’t say you had to walk to the car yourself.’
Stratton wondered if these people were genuinely fearless of using guns in public but he was not curious enough to find out.
‘You can eat your lunch in the car,’ the thug said.
Stratton accepted that the situation was out of his hands, for the time being at least. He faced the limousine and walked towards it.
He reached the vehicle where the fat thug standing outside it looked him up and down before beckoning him closer. Stratton took another step forward.
‘Raise your arms,’ the man ordered.
Stratton obeyed, holding his m
eal in one hand and the drink in the other while the man frisked the length of his body, including his ankles. When he stood up he held out his hand. ‘I’ll take the meal.’
‘That’s what this is all about? You want my lunch?’
The man smiled thinly. ‘The meal,’ he said.
Stratton handed it to him.
‘Get in the car,’ the fat man said as he shuffled aside.
Stratton glanced around at the others who had closed in. He leaned down and stepped inside the limousine.
The fat thug holding his food tossed it to an even fatter one who looked inside the paper bag while following the others towards a white sedan parked on the street.
The limo interior was spacious, with seats on three sides and a drinks cabinet by the door. Stratton chose the back seat where he faced Cano who sat leaning forward, his fingers clasped together, looking at him solemnly. A glass partition behind Cano separated the passenger cabin from the driver’s compartment where a man sat in the passenger seat beside the driver. The fat thug who had greeted Stratton outside climbed in, closed the door behind him, and sat on the long seat between the two other men. Stratton had for some reason expected to find Skender inside but with his absence and the demonic Cano in his place the situation seemed even darker.
‘This is very nice,’ Stratton said, looking around. ‘My first limousine.’
‘You search him well, Klodi?’ Cano asked his ape.
‘Yeah, I did, Mr Vleshek.’
Cano turned around to tap on the glass partition. A few seconds later the vehicle pulled smoothly out of the car park and headed south in the direction of Venice Beach.
‘You look like a confident guy,’ Cano said in precise English though the Slav accent was strong. His voice was slow and calculating as if Cano was trying to sound as articulate as possible.
Stratton studied the man who, despite the expensive suit and finely trimmed black hair and goatee, was typical of the Albanian KLA types he had known in Kosovo. Stratton had spent several months, on and off, in various parts of the province, mainly in Pristina, its capital, and in the town of Podujevo in the northeast on the main route out of Kosovo for the retreating Serbian army and refugees. Like most of the other operatives with whom he had served in Kosovo, he had initially considered the Albanians borderline okay, understanding their hatred for the Serbs. During the early days it had seemed that all they wanted was to be rid of a people who had tried to wipe them off the face of the Earth, although throughout history it had been a two-way, see-saw fight, one side as bad as the other.
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