The Night Café

“Yeah, I had to go up to San Francisco. I got back on Friday, but I didn’t get your message until a few minutes ago. The kid’s in big trouble.” Russo sounded annoyed. That was gratifying. “She misses another message like that and she’ll be back on a beat before she knows it.”

“Don’t be too hard on her. She doesn’t know me from Adam. Probably thought I was one of your groupies.”

Russo made a dismissive noise, but cops did tend to attract a fan base. It wasn’t just the man-in-uniform phenomenon. Plainclothes detectives held just as much fascination for civilians. It was the illusion of invincibility, maybe, that knight-in-shining-armor thing. As a former cop herself, Hannah knew the badge was no guarantee of valor or integrity, much less infallibility. Russo had certainly suffered his own share of personal and professional problems, but he seemed to deserve his rep for decency.

“Believe me, Lindsay knows now she’d better tell me right away if you call,” he growled. “When I didn’t hear back from you, I was beginning to think you were avoiding me. I was thinking about taking up stalking. Anyway, why did you call the desk instead of my cell?”

Hannah hesitated. Why indeed? Because she’d been hoping to get a recording and put the ball back in his court? Because the thought of seeming desperate, or of putting herself out there and getting hurt again was scarier than anything she could imagine? She’d walked into booby-trapped buildings with less trepidation than she felt at the idea of letting this guy get close. She’d been on her own nearly five years now. There’d been a couple of so-called relationships in that time, but she’d had no problem keeping them compartmentalized, tucked away in a little offside place that came nowhere near threatening her peace of mind. But when John Russo had walked into her life, she’d realized fast that she was in big trouble.

“How come I didn’t call your cell?” she repeated. “I don’t know. Because the office number was the one I called, I guess. How are you doing?”

“Okay. Working too much, as usual. You know that murder I caught in WeHo the night you and I went to the beach?”

“I remember.” Boy, did she. Hannah’s face went warm, thinking about them necking on the beach like a couple of teenagers. “The paper said you arrested some movie writer. The guy who did that NASCAR picture—what was it called?”

“Speed Demons.”

“That’s right. He crashed a race car while he was researching that, I read.”

“Yeah, what a bozo. You’ve heard of method acting? Looks like this guy invented method writing. He nearly bought it when he flamed out that car. Told me he wanted to get a sense of what a race driver feels when he’s going around a curve at a hundred and twenty miles an hour. Another time, apparently, he climbed Mount McKinley to learn about life and death at high altitudes and nearly got his guide killed.”

Hannah rolled her eyes. “Not a rocket scientist, it would seem.”

“No kidding. So, this time he’s writing a murder mystery about working girls, and the next thing you know, there’s one dead hooker in his bed and another one running screaming down La Cienega Boulevard wearing nothing but rope burns.”

“Yikes.”

“He’d gagged and hogtied both girls—ankles and wrists linked to nooses around their necks. Left them that way while he went to the liquor store, if you can believe it. First girl passes out, strangles herself. Second girl manages to get free just as she hears the writer’s car pull up. She slips out the front door as he’s coming in the back. When he realizes there’s a dead girl in his bed and the other one’s gotten away, he hightails it out of town. We finally tracked him down to an old girlfriend’s place in the Bay Area.”

“So that’s what sent you up there.”

“Yeah. San Francisco PD picked him up for us. I flew back with him last night and he was arraigned this afternoon. I was hoping the bastard would be remanded over until the trial, but he made bail.”

“Well, way to go. Guess his next script will be Jailbird City.”

“What are you up to?”

“Getting ready to head out on a job.”

“Again? A real job this time?”

“What do you mean, real? I work.”

“Yeah, sorry. I know that. I meant a permanent job, I guess. With regular hours.”

“Like yours, you mean?”

“Point taken.” He sighed. “We’re a pair, aren’t we?”

A pair? If only. In the three months since they’d met, they’d had exactly two lunches, several dinner dates that ended up canceled either because Hannah got last-minute calls for jobs she couldn’t afford to turn down or he had to work overtime. At this rate, Hannah thought, she’d be on Social Security before they ever got to second base. And by then Russo, a decade older than she was, would be dead or too pathetic to do her frustrated libido much good.

On the other hand, he was still calling. Points to him for persistence.

“I was hoping we could go for dinner or catch a movie or something one night this week,” Russo said. “How’s your schedule looking.”

“I’m going to be out of town for a couple of days.”

“Oh, well…I just thought—”

“But you know what? We should celebrate you closing this crazy writer case.” God forbid he should think she was making excuses.

“Yeah?”

“For sure. I’m flying out tomorrow but I’ll be back the day after.”

“What’s the job?”

Hannah told him about Nora’s old college roommate and Moises Gladding’s sudden desire to own a painting by August Koon.

“Moises Gladding? I’ve heard of him, I think. Didn’t he get called up on some terrorism beef?”

Hannah nodded. She’d done her research since talking to Rebecca at Nora’s Sunday dinner. “He testified before Congress last year about arms sales to Al Qaeda, but he was on the side of the angels on that one, it seems. He’s not always, mind you.”

“You’re sure it’s a painting you’re taking down there?”

“Yeah, I’ve examined it thoroughly, believe me. I don’t even know why I’m doing it, except it’s good money and a quick turnaround. Safeguarding a few square feet of canvas beats dodging insurgents in Iraq. Can I call you when I get back into town?”

“Absolutely. But call me on this number, okay? It’s my cell. You need to write it down?”

Hannah smiled. “No, it’ll be in my phone now. I’ll store it and use it, I promise.”

“I’m holding you to it.”

Hannah allowed herself a pleasant mental picture. John Russo could hold her anytime he wanted.

Six

After a shower, Hannah ran her fingers through her dark curls, leaving them to air dry, then pulled on the Garfield flannel pajamas Gabe had given her for Christmas. It was early yet, not quite seven o’clock, but it was always nice to nest the night before a job. After rummaging through her kitchen, however, she realized that she might have to change back into street clothes. Either that or change her name to Mother Hubbard, her cupboards were that bare. She had meant to go grocery shopping after picking up the painting but then postponed the trip, not willing to leave the Koon in her car while she ducked into Whole Foods. With a guilty sigh, she pulled a box out of the cupboard and put a pot of water on the stove to boil. Processed mac and cheese. Pathetic. Why did she even have this stuff in the house? Easy. Because Gabe liked it and his stepmother, to her credit, refused to buy it.

When he was little, Hannah had conscientiously made his mac and cheese from scratch. Then, one day when he was around four, he’d come home from a playdate singing ecstatic praises for the orange noodles he’d had at his friend’s house. On their next trip to the grocery store, he’d spotted the Kraft Dinner box on a shelf and nearly had a meltdown when Hannah resisted buying it. It was about the time his father had left to move in with his latest squeeze, soon to be the second Mrs. Calvin Nicks, and Hannah hadn’t had the heart or strength to battle their little boy over a stupid box of noodles. That had been the end of butter roux and hand-shredded cheese, however. Now, although Gabe took infrequent meals at her house, she still found herself buying the boxed quick dinner because he inevitably asked for it.

After her meal was cooked, she ate it standing up at the kitchen sink. This was not the kind of meal that deserved to be eaten sitting down with a nice glass of wine. She watched the dew gather on a web outside her kitchen window, sparkling drops on the precise loops and gossamer lines woven by some sure-footed spider. Must be nice, Hannah thought, to be so certain of what your job in life was and how to go about doing it.

She downed a glass of milk, then cleaned up the kitchen and headed for her bedroom, selecting a backpack for the trip that would allow her to bypass the airline baggage check and get quickly out of the airport after landing in Puerto Vallarta and going through Customs. She packed just enough for an overnight stay, but then, on impulse, tossed a bathing suit into the pack as well. Remembering Rebecca in her gauzy dress that morning, Hannah also went to her closet and slid hangers until she found a flowing skirt. Fancy resort, why not? She could head to the hotel after the painting was delivered, lounge on the beach, and then have a nice dinner on Moises Gladding’s tab.

Unhooking the skirt and a matching tank top, she spotted the safe in the back of her closet where she kept her Beretta locked away. She would feel naked going out on a job without it, but since she wasn’t checking bags, there was no way to carry it through airport security. The nature of the assignment hardly warranted it anyway, no matter how much of a genius August Koon might be in his own mind.

Three hours later, she was curled up on her living room couch, flipping channels, when the doorbell rang. Her eyelids had been getting heavy and she’d been thinking about packing it in for the night, but at the thought that Russo might have decided to drop by, she perked right up. Glancing down, she briefly considered a dash for the bedroom to change, but then the bell rang again. No matter. If Russo was going to pursue her, he might as well know the ugly truth—she was a woman who wore Garfield pajamas.