knowing he’d be responsible for whatever happened?
He gave her a faint smile, then started walking again.
Quinn’s main concern was being set up. He was looking for any sign that this might be the case. Perhaps a couple of men waiting in a parked car around the perimeter of the museum, or maybe some tourist who didn’t look the part.
He first walked by the Ahmanson Building and the old main entrance to the museum. LACMA was actually a collection of several buildings: the Ahmanson Building, the Bing Center, the Hammer Building, the Pavilion for Japanese Art, the old May Company building known now as LACMA West, and the newest building, the Broad Contemporary Art Museum.
The first four were clustered together near the center point of the museum grounds. In the middle of this group, beyond the entrance, was the central court where Nate would be sitting at one of the tables, reading the paper. There, in addition to a dozen or so tables and chairs, visitors would find the ticket booth, a cafe, and the museum store.
Quinn continued north along the sidewalk. Traffic on Wilshire was its usual midday busy, not bumper-to- bumper, but constant. Since rush hour was over, cars were again allowed to park along the street. Keeping his movements natural, Quinn checked each of the cars on either side of the street, making sure they were empty. So far, so good.
Past the last of the museum’s buildings, the grounds continued for another whole block up to Curson Avenue. Here it was more of a park. Grass, trees, pathways, kids running around, people walking dogs, and, of course, four life-size mammoths and a small lake of black tar.
It was the centerpiece of the famous La Brea Tar Pits, a tar lake about the size of a football field. The mammoths had been added sometime in the past, no doubt to provide visitors an idea of what could happen at the pits—a single mammoth at that west end looked out over the lake, while at the east end a family of three was caught in a life-or-death struggle. One of the mammoths from the family was half-submerged in the black sticky grip of the tar as its mate and child looked on in horror from the shore several feet away.
Quinn turned north on Curson. Here no cars were allowed to park along the street, but there were several school buses. That explained all the children. Field trips.
He kept up a steady pace, assessing everyone he saw, and marking those in his mind that he felt might deserve a second look. Five minutes later he met up with Orlando on Sixth Street along the back side of the museum grounds.
“All clear?” he asked.
“As far as I can tell,” she said.
“Nate. Anything?” Quinn asked.
There was a pause, then the rattle of paper before his apprentice’s hushed voice came over his receiver. “Quiet over here. The museum doesn’t open until noon. Most of the people I’ve seen probably work here.”
“No one paying attention to you?”
“I know how to do the job,” Nate snapped.
“So that’s a no?”
“That’s a no.”
“Orlando and I are going to walk around the grounds, then I’ll come over there and we’ll switch.”
“Copy that,” Nate said. Then, after a slight pause, “Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Quinn said, conceding without actually saying it that he might have pushed too much. He looked at Orlando. “Let’s go into the park, but switch. You take the east, and I’ll go west.”
She was giving him her patented you’re-an-idiot look, no doubt about the exchange with Nate, but she only said, “Okay.”
After wandering through the park that surrounded the museums for another thirty minutes, noticing nothing unusual, Quinn decided it was time to get into position.
He’d almost reached the central court when Orlando said, “I got something.”
Quinn stopped, instinctively turning east toward the part of the park she’d been in.
“Is it him?” he asked.
“Might be. I’m down near the east end of the lake, along that small walkway between the tar and the fence near Wilshire Boulevard. I have a good view here of the Curson gate.”
Quinn pictured the spot in his mind. “All right.”
“Two men just entered. Not tourists. Casual suits. Looking very serious.”
Quinn thought about all the office buildings that were within a few blocks of the park. “Could be a couple of businessmen trying to get some air.”
“Could be,” she said, “but they have the look.”
He knew what she meant. Tough, focused, not letting anything escape their gaze. Quinn looked at his watch: 11:15, still forty-five minutes until the meeting was to occur. Advance men, maybe? Doing the same thing Quinn and his team were doing? Or another assassination team, like the one in Ireland, getting into place?
“This
Quinn was about to tell Nate to knock it off, but he stopped himself.
“Keep an eye on them,” Quinn said. “Could be nothing.”
“Copy that,” Orlando said.
Instead of continuing toward the central court, Quinn headed down the path that ran along the back side of the
