Crashers (25 page)

So now the three of them were in Covina, waiting for . . . what? Daria didn't know and didn't ask. At the kiosk, she wondered how O'Meara would play it. He'd obviously enjoyed the sex back at the mansion and probably wouldn't mind some more time alone with her. But he also didn't trust her and, Daria sensed, he was beginning to lose his trust in himself. He should have killed her some time ago and they both knew it. But he hadn't and he didn't know why and it bothered him.

She picked a pair of tiny round sunglasses with blue lenses; they were either very 1960s or very 1880s, she wasn't sure which. She had found plenty of money stashed in the porn czar's home, and each of them was carrying close to five hundred dollars. She paid for the glasses and returned to the men, as O'Meara took a deep puff of his cigarette, exhaling slowly.

“All right, then. Johnser, you and the girl take that one.” O'Meara pointed to a little mom-and-pop hotel at the southern end of the block.
He covertly handed Johnser the handcuffs and the key. “Here. Use these if you don't trust her.”

Johnser grinned. “That's a bit of all right.”

O'Meara stepped up to the bigger man, nose to nose. Johnser took a hesitant half step back. “You don't fucking touch her, do you, boy. No, you don't. That's right.”

Johnser nodded. There was absolutely no question who the alpha male was here. Daria tried hard not to grin, although she was enjoying the testosterone fest.

“Right.” O'Meara checked his watch. “Two hours. I'll meet you right here.” And he stalked off to find another motel.

Johnser glowered down at Daria. “Come on, you.”

The FBI's liaison with the Los Angeles Police Department and the California Highway Patrol reported back to Lucas Bell, saying he had nothing to report back. No one had seen a sign of the four Irishmen or the Israeli woman who could pass for Lebanese.

Lucas took the news stoically but he could feel his stomach acids working their way up to a lovely ulcer.

He called FBI headquarters in Washington, D.C. and it took him five transfers, five
can-you-holds
before he got his opposite number.

“About damn time,” he said. “We're on a clock here.”

“Yeah, and we've got a low-pressure storm hitting the coast like the Packers' front line. No power from Florida to the Carolinas, and we're next.”

“Okay,” Lucas cut in. “I understand. Have you heard anything on the Ireland-watch front?”

Four more transfers. Four more
can-you-holds
. Nothing.

 

Next, Lucas called the various Ireland watchers again, both in the United States and Europe, to see if anything had broken.

MI5—British Military Intelligence, domestic side—was the only agency with a nibble. “The IRA and Ulster types are quiet,” the soft, Eatonian voice over the phone assured Lucas. “However, did you know we had an American lawmaker in Dublin and, briefly, in Belfast?”

“Who?” Lucas reached for a notepad and a pen.

“Let's see. A, ah, Representative Dan Riordan. Californian, so it says. Republican, which I take to be the equivalent of a Tory.”

“Right. What's he doing in Belfast? Business or pleasure?”

“Business. Met with some of the delegates from both sides. While in Dublin, your congressman stayed to himself. Rarely surfaced. Even turned down an invitation to lunch with the Taoiseach.”

Lucas chose not to ask what the hell a
tea-sack
was. “Do you have a checkout date for the congressman?”

“Yes. Leaving this evening. Dublin to Heathrow, Heathrow to Washington, D.C., Washington to Los Angeles.” He pronounced it with a long “e” in the last syllable. “He should be off the ground by nine, GMT.”

Lucas did the math: leaving Dublin at 4
P.M.
, Pacific Standard Time. He asked about a flight number and jotted that down, too. “All right. I'll do a check on the congressman, see if he's had any strong ties to The Troubles. Thanks.”

He hung up and called Assistant Director Henry Deits. “This is a pretty weak lead, sir, but Representative Riordan of California is in Dublin. He's flying back to L.A. this afternoon. Should I run a check on him?”

Deits said, “Sounds like warm beer to me, but what the hell. Do it. Also, alert the state police. I'll call the field office in Sacramento, fill them in.”

Lucas said, “Got it,” and hung up. He looked up an extension in the building directory and called a friend in the politics-watch section, asking for a standard backgrounder on a Representative Dan Riordan, Republican from California. He hung up.

Within ten minutes, the collective eyes and ears of the FBI began turning to Sacramento and Los Angeles International Airport.

Neither of which is anywhere near Covina.

SUSAN TANAKA.”

“Susan?” It was John Roby's even-keeled voice, coming over her satellite-linked headset. “John here. There's a bit of a complication you should know about.”

Susan had just arrived at the staging area and was standing in the rain, under an umbrella, watching the cranes lift the tail section of the Vermeer 111 slowly off the now-muddy ground. She wore a long, belted raincoat, the collar turned up, and a beret. “Now what?”

“I just heard from Kiki. The swap-out's here, but it came with a passenger, didn't it. FBI agent. Says he wants to speak to Tommy.”

Susan's radar for trouble snapped on. “FBI. And not local. Oh, hell.”

“There's more. I found the Bureau volunteering to help interview survivors at the Salem Hospital. Kiki found the same at the hospital in Portland.” His voice was heavy with sarcasm when he said “volunteering.” “Kiki and Isaiah sent this new lad on to see Tommy. Thought you should know.”

Susan was no longer watching the cranes. She was climbing into her rented Nissan Sentra. “I'm on my way, John. Thanks.”

The hotel room was an exact replica of ten thousand other rooms up and down the West Coast. Windows facing the San Gabriel Mountains and a fine layer of air pollution the color of a manila folder. There was a couch and a bed and two chairs and the small table. The TV was chained down and came with a complimentary HBO monthly guide.

Johnser Riley opened the door with the swipe key he'd gotten from the office. He shrugged out of his suit coat, revealing the Glock he wore in a shoulder holster with no chest strap.

“Sit,” he growled and slipped the chain lock on the door. He pulled a chair up to the TV, turned it on, and started scanning channels.

Daria said, “I have to use the bathroom.”

Grumbling, Johnser rose and led the way into the bathroom. He checked the window, which couldn't be opened without shattering it. The bathroom would have been tight with only one of them in there; with both, it was very snug. Johnser sidled past her to get out, their bodies touching. Daria made a point of looking up at him, over the tops of her tiny sunglasses and through her long, black lashes. Johnser paused, turned a little bit pink, but kept on going.

Daria stripped to the waist and washed her face, neck, and shoulders in the sink. She studied her reflection. She'd availed herself of a hot shower at the mansion, after having sex with O'Meara, but she didn't have on any makeup. Her hair was short enough that she could get away with toweling it dry and brushing it.

Daria had picked up a Furla purse at the mansion and, rummaging through the half-dozen bathrooms, managed to find a lip gloss that would suit her skin color, a used eyeliner, and a little tube of balm. She applied the lipstick, the eyeliner, and shrugged at the just-okay eff ect. She opened the tube of lip balm. She climbed up onto the bathroom counter, on her knees. She held the balm to the mirror and wrote her name at the very top of the mirror. She climbed down, walked back and forth, checking to see if it was visible. The distortion was there if you were looking for it, but tough to see if you weren't. And she'd written it up high, higher than either Johnser Riley or Donal O'Meara would naturally look.

The balm letters were invisible now. But take a shower and steam up the room, and everything on the mirror—starting at the top—would turn misty. Everything except her name, which would stand out in sharp relief. It was a trick she'd learned in Israeli intel.

Climbing back up onto the counter, she wrote, “Emergency. Call FBI,” along the top of the mirror, followed by “Calabrese” and Ray's L.A. telephone number.

It was a message in a bottle, with lots of opportunities to never be seen. What if nobody rented this room for the next two or three nights? What if they didn't shower? What if the maid cleaned the mirror first? It was a long shot, but that was okay. Daria was enjoying playing cloak and dagger with these Irishmen until Ray caught up to them. She didn't mind dragging it out a bit.

She wondered idly what the Irishmen had done or were planning to do. What had drawn the wrath of the FBI?
Bank robbery,
she thought. They were a bit too thuglike to be terrorists. In the Middle East, criminal types and terrorist types were vastly different creatures. She assumed it was the same everywhere.

She ran a hand through her hair, then returned to the other room, waiting to button the black and charcoal sweater until Johnser Riley could see. Playing head games with the big man seemed like a fine diversion. She found Johnser planted in front of the television, arms folded over his barrel chest.

Something was amiss, although it took Daria a minute or two to realize what it was. The TV. It wasn't turned to sports. Instead, the big man with the penchant for betting on athletics was watching CNN. Daria pivoted around the bed to see what the story was. They were covering the ongoing investigation of a jetliner crash on the West Coast somewhere. She watched for a couple of seconds. The footage had been taken from a news helicopter, the scene showing monstrous flatbed trucks and daisy-yellow cranes lifting the tail section. Words scrolled across the screen: 111
DEAD
; 35
INJURED
.

Daria watched the news clip, then turned to Johnser. He sat back, arms folded, a look of smug contentment on his square face.

He looked at her and winked.

Her fingers froze on a shiny black button. The blood rushed out of her head, leaving her feeling wobbly. “Oh, God.”

Johnser's smile turned predatory. “Shut it, woman.”

“You did it,” she whispered. “You brought down that jet.”

He sneered. “You think we're a bunch of useless wankers, don't you. You know shite, you do. Now I said shut it and go sit on that fucking bed, or so help me I'll shut your mouth for you.”

Daria turned back to the TV set just as the story ended. She caught one last glimpse of the words on the screen: 111
DEAD
; 35
INJURED
.

She looked back at Johnser and thought about the long-shot message scripted in lip balm on the bathroom mirror.

The fun in her grand little adventure turned sour in her stomach.

Tommy washed his hands and arms with unscented soap, then changed from scrubs to his comfortable street clothes. He stepped out of the changing room just as a big, athletically built man with a solid tan and short-chopped hair flashed a badge at the receptionist. Behind the newcomer, the exterior door opened and Susan Tanaka entered, folding an umbrella.

Tommy glanced into the ME's private office and caught a glimpse of his deputized Goth girl, Laura, poring over her geographic information system. Gothic affectations notwithstanding, the girl had proven to be a gem and had made easy work of mapping the shrapnel patterns in the cadavers.

Tommy circled the receptionist's counter. “You're FBI?”

The newcomer produced his ID. “Ray Calabrese, L.A. field office. You are . . . ?”

“Dr. Leonard Tomzak,” said Susan, stepping up beside Ray. “He's our IIC. I'm Susan Tanaka, intergovernmental liaison with Washington. To what do we owe—”

Tommy held up a hand. “Wait a minute. I've been cutting for hours. I'd kill for some coffee and a sandwich.”

The receptionist overheard and suggested a place half a block away.

 

The diner, called the Deco Penguin, had been carved out of an old warehouse. The walls were stone, thick enough to make a fine bomb shelter, and the floor was badly poured concrete, uneven and rippling. The teak bar was massive and the tables were honed from thick, knotty timbers. Ray stared at the menu behind the bar and whistled. “What the hell's this?”

The menu featured no fewer than eighty-five varieties of independent-label beer from scores of microbreweries. Ray recognized about five of them.

“Yeah,” Tommy said. “These people take their beer a little too seriously. Also their coffee. Plus, near as I can tell, every third person has one of them Mini Coopers. It's kind of a weird town.”

Ray looked at him. “You're from the South?”

“Texas, yeah. You're from New York?”

Ray said, “Queens.” Ray ordered a corned beef sandwich and a Diet Coke. Tommy got a large bowl of clam chowder with a thick slab of fresh-baked oat bread, plus a cup of coffee. Susan ordered a glass of water.

They made with the small talk until the food arrived. “Here's the situation,” Ray said, taking a mouthful of sandwich and swigging his cola. He was used to lunch meetings and didn't bother separating the business from the food. “Four known, anti-Catholic Irish terrorists popped up this week in Los Angeles. We traced them to an abandoned apartment building but they booked, maybe thirty seconds before we took down the door.”

He didn't feel any particular need to mention Lucas Bell's boneheaded play of entering solo. “What we found in their bivouac were clippings from every single newspaper sold in the city, each an article about your downed CascadeAir flight.”