Stratton had thought about calling someone in British military intelligence. But he had a feeling that trying to light a fire under the Californian social and welfare services would not be any easier for someone from that organisation if it did not involve oper -ational necessity. He decided to leave that particular avenue alone unless he ran into a serious problem. ‘Will it really take very long?’ he asked.
‘Myers could be more efficient but I can push him only so far before he gets all petulant. Then he’ll dig his heels in and become deliberately obstructive. To be blunt, he’s a jerk.’
‘Say it how you feel,’ Stratton said.
Vicky grinned, then averted her gaze as if embarrassed.
She suddenly looked like a girl and not an officious bureaucrat, albeit one with a warm and generous heart.
‘I shouldn’t talk about him like that. It’s not professional.’
‘Sometimes it’s good to express how you feel.’
‘But not to strangers,’ Vicky said, turning serious again as she remembered something. ‘The one area where Myers has been efficient was in locating a temporary foster home for Josh. That’s because one of his main tasks is moving kids out of here as soon as possible. It’s pretty quiet around here right now but it can turn into a zoo overnight, believe me. Four months ago we had over a hundred children crammed in here and we’re only officially equipped for fifty. They don’t just come from disrupted families. We get a lot of young illegal immigrants and you’d be surprised at the number of kids we have to take back from foster parents.’
‘How do you get to qualify as a foster parent?’
‘Horrifyingly easily, unfortunately. The state pays good money to foster parents but with a lot of them that’s all they’re in it for. There’ve been cases where we’ve inadvertently placed children in worse places than we originally got them from. You wouldn’t qualify so don’t go down that road if you’re thinking about it. For one, you have to be a resident citizen.’
‘How soon could he be relocated?’
‘A week maybe. I won’t know exactly until we’re closer to a date.’
‘Will you know who’ll be fostering him or where he’ll be living?’
‘Yes. But that information is confidential. Look, I’m on your side, John. Or, to be precise, I’m on Josh’s. I can see how much he loves you and how much you care for him. There’s no greater qualification than that in my view. I’ll fight for that any day of the week, but I don’t make the rules.’
Stratton nodded his appreciation. ‘I wish you did,’ he said checking his watch and aiming towards the door. ‘Well, thanks again, Miss Whitaker.’
‘You can call me Vicky if you want. I’m not quite the stuffed shirt I look – okay, I am, but I don’t like to be.’
Her comment brought smiles to both their faces.
‘I don’t see a stuffed shirt,’ Stratton said, looking her in the eye.
At face value the comment seemed open to interpretation. But Stratton’s sincere expression ensured that it conveyed only the most respectful appreciation.
‘See you soon,’ he said, offering his hand. Vicky took it and he held hers for a second before shaking it. It was small and soft, and the touch felt good, immedi ately demonstrating to Stratton his need for female company. But he quickly pushed all thought of that aside, this being neither the time nor the place for a romance.
Vicky watched him walk away until he was through the door. Then, as she turned to head for her office, she caught Dorothy looking at her from behind her reception desk and wearing a broad, suggestive smile. Vicky immediately adopted an air of prim decorum, marched to her office, and let its door close behind her.
12
Stratton passed through the electronic security check at the entrance of the Santa Monica Court Admin istration building that was in the same block as the police department. After being thoroughly checked by a security officer he headed into the lobby and consulted a room directory on the wall. The place was bustling, thanks to a broad spectrum of Santa Monica life milling in and out: police, lawyers, plaintiffs, defendants, the underprivileged and the well-heeled.
The district attorney’s office was on the second floor. Stratton walked to the stairs halfway along the corridor from the front door and paused on the first step, wondering what he actually expected to achieve with this visit. His intentions were to speak to the DA personally and lobby to have the two thugs responsible for Sally’s death investigated. Though he did not know the procedures for making such a request he could guess at some of the problems he would encounter. The DA would inevitably ask him to reveal how he came to know the identities of the two men and for obvious reasons he could not tell them the source. Nor could he involve the Korean shopkeeper since that would place a death sentence on the man’s head.
Ideally, Stratton needed a prosecutor who’d be interested in an FBI cover-up. But that was too much to hope for and would be impossibly complicated, requiring all kinds of proof that he could not offer. But he had at least to try. Between one step and the next another problem popped into his head: his own exposure. If, for argument’s sake, he did decide to take action against the thugs himself, showing his face in the public prosecutor’s office would not be the wisest thing to do.
Stratton stayed where he was for a moment to think his strategy through once again. Then a commotion at the building entrance took him out of his thoughts. He looked up to see half a dozen uniformed policemen, several openly carrying Heckler & Koch MP5K sub-machine guns held across their chests, and a couple of plain-clothes officers march in. They were escorting a middle-aged Latino man with intense features and wild black hair whose hands were cuffed behind his back.
‘Stand aside, please,’ the lead officers called out as they pushed their way none too gently through the jostling crowd.
At the same time the stairwell above Stratton was suddenly packed with half a dozen Slavic-looking men in a range of dress from colourful Hawaiian shirts and jeans to expensive suits. They were heading down from the floor above. The two groups were on a collision course.
The men on the stairs stopped, mainly because their passage was suddenly blocked by a couple of armed policemen but also due to the reaction of the Latino prisoner whose demeanour suddenly became violent as he saw them. He started to shout in a mixture of Spanish and English, directing his vituperation at the group on the stairs.
‘You
The police immediately grabbed him. At the mention of Skender’s name Stratton’s stare flashed to the group on the stairs.
The cops divided their attentions between the Latino prisoner and the Slavic-looking bunch, clearly threatening instant violence should either side try anything.
‘Rot in jail, Colombo,’ one of the men on the stairs called out. ‘You won’t have a living relative left by the time you get out – if you ever do, you spic fuck.’
Stratton recognised the man in the smart suit as Ivor Vleshek who, as Seaton had explained the CIA suspected, was really Dren Cano, Ardian’s brother. He looked exactly like his photograph: his murderous eyes were unmistakable.
The abuse enraged the Latino prisoner who made a violent attempt to break through his police cordon to get at the Slavic group. They automatically shifted their weight forward in response. But the police held both sides apart and dragged Colombo past the stairs and along the hallway.
Stratton scanned the faces above him and identified Skender at the back. The man was dressed in an immaculate coat and had a cravat around his neck tucked into a silk shirt. He looked like a warlike Visigoth stuffed into expensive modern clothes. He also looked as old as he was, in his early sixties, his complexion rugged. But his long dark hair and the fire in his eyes indicated a strength that was a long way from fading away into age.
Skender stared unblinkingly at the still-yelling prisoner, his eyes filled with malice, until Colombo dis appeared out of sight and earshot along with his dark blue shield of law enforcers.
