“You did. They in a house or an office building?”
“About to dine at La Pasta.”
“That place,” said Fosburgh. “Overblown reputation but always busy, Eurotrash and rich tourists. They carrying? Maybe you should wait until they’re finished and get ’em where there’re fewer people.”
“They valet-parked, no jackets, all-white clothes, can’t see anywhere to put a weapon except maybe her purse. But I don’t think they have a clue and you don’t want an auto pursuit.”
“No-o, that would be uncool. Canon’s the new Restaurant Row, except for the occasional drunks, it’s mellow. A few years ago we did bust some Mafia-wannabes from the Valley doing a loan-shark thing in a patio right across the street. You don’t think you’ll need any backup?”
“There’s four of us. I’m aiming for a nice quiet walk-up.”
“That’s how I’d do it,” said Fosburgh. “All right, appreciate you giving me the one-up. Here’s my direct number. You need anything, use it. And let me know once the situation’s over.”
“Will do. Thanks, L.T.”
“You too, L.T. You can call me Eric.”
Chapter 50
Milo parked the Impala in a one-hour zone on the 500 North block of Canon Drive, residential, just north of Santa Monica Boulevard. We continued on foot.
Restaurant Row was concentrated on the east side of the street. The west had some eateries but also boutiques and other retail businesses, all closed. Plenty of pedestrians window-shopping. Milo said, “Let’s join them.”
La Pasta was one of the largest establishments, outfitted with a double-wide outdoor area girded by waist-high iron. A gate in the center was slightly ajar. We looked for Moe Reed and spotted him across the street half a block away.
I said, “The gate’s a good thing. You can get them out without going through the interior.”
“I’ll interpret that as God loves me.”
We took our time, blending in with the foot traffic but keeping our eyes on the two people in white. As the crowd thinned and thickened, Reed flickered in and out of view. Leaning against the front of a store and pretending to study his phone.
He wore a gray sport coat in the slightly too-short Italian style, a black T-shirt, and jeans. Every seam working hard to contain his muscles.
Milo said, “He looks like a personal trainer. For other personal trainers.”
A couple of wiggly young brunettes in halter tops, black tights, and impossible heels clickety-clacked past us and toward Reed. When they saw him, they smiled, and one woman finger-waved near her hip.
Reed pretended not to notice. The women stared at each other as they walked on. When they were five yards up, Reed made eye contact with us and cocked his head toward La Pasta.
The Kiersteads had scored a choice curbside table just south of the gate. Glasses of white wine in both their hands, the bottle between them.
Stefan “Sig” Kierstead sipped and studied the menu. Sitting high; a tall, broad man with a long torso. His hair was pewter-colored, brushed back and worn full at the sides. Too far to make out his features but his skin tone was blatant: intense tan.
Candace Kierstead, brown hair streaming down her back, glints of gold at her earlobes and wrists, was positioned to her husband’s left. She fanned herself with the menu, put it down, fanned again, looked around at her fellow diners as if searching for something.
But not someone. Smallish table for two, there’d be no guests tonight. Another bit of luck. I said so. “God definitely loves you.”
“Compassionate deity that He is.”
We watched. Sig read; Candace drank. No interplay. She said something; he nodded.
Putting her glass down, she checked out her surroundings again.
I said, “She’s jumpy and she’s met both of us. Maybe the kids should do the frontal and you come up from behind.”
“No, if there’s gonna be a problem, the front’s where it’s gonna be and I need to be responsible.”
“At the least, you might want to approach from his side.”
“That I can work with.” His hands flexed and shut and opened. He dropped them to his side. Looked at the Timex and lengthened his stride. We were three storefronts from Reed when a break in the retail array appeared: open passageway leading to an outdoor area.
Milo said, “What’s good for the Mafia is okay by me,” and ducked in. I followed, and the two of us positioned ourselves just out of eyeshot from other pedestrians.
Behind us was a small patio filled with potted plants not in their prime. The surrounding shops — watch repair, jewelry, chocolatier, hairdresser — were dark.
Milo took a quick look at the Kiersteads. “We’re in the alcove, c’mon over, Moses. Sean and Alicia, what’re your ETAs?”
Sean Binchy, his voice strained, said, “I’m stuck. Some kind of emergency drain deal on Santa Monica just past San Vicente. Water’s flowing, manholes are off, hard hats with Slow and Stop signs are running the show. I’d go past ’em but every lane’s closed off and there are sawhorses all over the place. Sorry, Loot.”
“Don’t worry about it. Alicia?”
“It’s monster traffic all over this damn city,” said Bogomil. “I hit an incredible clog near the Beverly Center but fortunately nothing like what he’s going through. I’m making the turn at Palm Drive, should be there in five.”
“Good for you,” said Binchy, sounding anything but pleased.
Milo said, “Alicia, park as close as you can, even a red zone. Sean, text me when you’re five away.”
Reed entered the patio, swinging his arms. The movement caused the front of his jacket to flap against his massive chest. The bulge of his shoulder holster was visible for an instant; then he rolled his neck and stood up straight and it was gone.
“Anything to be aware of, kid?”
“They got seated right away and served wine without asking for it so I’m figuring regulars.”
“The good life,” said Milo. “As soon as Alicia gets here, we go. Candace knows me so I’ll approach from the north. Alicia will be with me and you’ll come from the back. Go to the bar, order a soda, look cool, and come out behind them. Try to get closer to her because she’s edgy. Sean makes it in time, he’ll be with you.”
“What about Doc?”
“Observing from a safe distance. On the way over, he worked up ideas about how to approach them. Everyone take a listen.”
I said, “With so many people around, the key is to avoid disruption and any sort of collateral damage. Cuff them as soon as possible and once they’re restrained, try to ease them up and out through that little gate in front. Obviously, they’ll be put in separate cars. Read them their rights and switch your phones to Record.”
Milo said, “Book ’em immediately but don’t get ’em into interview rooms as soon as possible. Alex?”
“Once they’re in the rooms, no pressure, go the soft route, try to give them the illusion of control. But the truth is, none of this may matter. These are sophisticated people. They’re bound to lawyer up.”
Milo said, “The key will be finding evidence at their houses and the gallery. They lawyer up, they’re locked up.”
His phone beeped and a second later so did Reed’s. A brief little electronic duet.
Alicia said, “Driving south on Canon. Can’t see you.”
Milo stuck his head out.
“Okay, now I can — got a nice little red zone right... here.”
Moments later she’d joined us, hair in a tight bun, wearing a black leather jacket, black crewneck, gray skinny jeans, black running shoes. As if she and Reed had color-coordinated. Or the assignment had inspired somber tones in both of them.