The Night Café. Taylor Smith

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ