restaurant another couple of days before reviewing the matter since it was too convenient for his apartment – and also for visiting Josh who was little more than a mile away. The boy continued to weigh heavily on Stratton’s mind since the child’s immediate future remained unclear. Still, according to Vicky there were signs of stirrings from the UK side.
Vicky and Josh had been visibly shocked by Stratton’s bruised face, which looked even worse two days later. But he managed to satisfy their curiosity with a tall story of a bar brawl between him and two short but stocky Irishmen who had taken a dislike to him for being English, though it had to be said that they’d been a little drunk at the time and Stratton had not been very polite on first meeting them, distracted by all that had happened.
Vicky was sceptical at first. But by the time Stratton had added the finishing touches to his elaborate tale, colouring it with historical ‘facts’ to help explain the Irishmen’s ill feeling, she was so absorbed in the stories that went back as far as the Roman Conquest that she couldn’t begin to imagine what else could have happened to him. He created a happy ending by explaining how, being typical, big-hearted Irishmen, after the fight was over with no clear winner they’d returned to the bar and bought each other a couple of rounds. All Josh wanted was to be reassured that the other guys had come off worse than Stratton. He was not disappointed with the descriptions of their injuries – out of earshot of Vicky, of course.
The one bit of bad news concerning Josh, which Vicky asked Stratton not to share with the boy, was that even though it looked as if he would be flown back to the UK sometime soon, possibly in the next two weeks, he might have to move to a temporary foster home until that day because of the child-protection centre being overcrowded. The trouble with that was that it would be more difficult for Stratton to see Josh since the visits were essentially a privilege bestowed upon him by Vicky and because he was not a relative that privilege would not transfer with Josh to the foster family. Stratton decided to deal with that when the time came but at least for the time being things seemed to be moving ahead.
Another problem was Sally’s body. The FBI were dragging their feet – deliberately, it would appear – in processing the paperwork needed to release it to be shipped back to England. But still Stratton remained optimistic, hoping it could all be sorted out around the same time and sooner rather than later.
Then, as if the gods had heard Stratton’s other plea, a sedan pulled up outside the restaurant and a man who matched the file’s photograph and description of Ardian lifted his large frame out of the passenger seat and onto the sidewalk. He had a brief exchange with the Mexican valet as if they knew each other. Then he walked up the short flight of steps with the driver and in through the restaurant entrance.
Stratton was certain enough that it was Ardian to carry on until he could confirm it, leaving himself ample scope to abort if it was not. He folded the newspaper as he headed across the park to the intersection and then along the sidewalk to his apartment building.
As Stratton entered the elevator he checked his watch. Three minutes had passed since Ardian’s arrival. He pushed all the what-if scenarios he had gone through out of his mind as he stepped inside his apartment, pulling off his sweatshirt and heading for the bathroom where his disguise was waiting. For this little operation he had selected a ginger goatee, dark glasses, and a colourful tie to go with his white business shirt. He opened a jar of hair gel, scooped out a liberal amount and rubbed it into his hair, pushing it back to give himself a slick look, washed his hands and tied his tie. A small amount of glue applied to the goatee stuck it neatly to his chin and after a quick check in the mirror he went to the living-room table to collect a small Gucci shopping bag that he had picked up in the mall.
A moment later Stratton opened his apartment door a crack to check that no one was about. Then he hurried along the corridor to the emergency exit, down the stairs and onto the street. It took less than a minute to reach the front of the restaurant and eleven minutes after leaving the park he stood in front of the little reception desk where a sign asked patrons to wait to be seated.
The restaurant was quite large and tastefully decorated in a classic Italian country style with a patio and seating for around sixty people. There was no sign of Ardian at the two occupied tables that Stratton could see from the entrance. He stepped further into the restaurant to look around a large pillar draped in an imitation grapevine. He saw the back of a man seated at the end of a table tucked into a corner. He took another step forward to see two other men, then stepped back as he sensed a figure walking towards him from the kitchens. It was a pretty young woman, colourfully dressed and wearing a broad smile which Stratton returned as she approached.
‘Are you here for lunch, sir?’ she asked sweetly.
‘Are you still serving?’ he asked in a Scottish accent. After the struggle he’d had trying to sound American he had decided to go for something more manageable. The city of Santa Monica had one of the largest single populations of expatriate Brits in the world: few Americans who lived and worked there were surprised to hear any of the multitude of UK accents.
‘We serve all day,’ she assured him. ‘Is there just one?’
‘I’m alone, yes,’ he said.
‘Inside or outside?’ she asked.
‘Outside would be nice.’
The girl picked up a menu. ‘This way,’ she said as she walked into the restaurant. Stratton followed, glancing at the table in the corner where four men were seated, all Slav-looking, the one at the end facing him being the one whom he thought was Ardian. Stratton stared at him and just as he moved out of sight the man looked up at him. All the file pictures of Ardian were full-face and they matched what Stratton now saw in the flesh. He even detected a resemblance to the Albanian’s younger brother that was not so obvious in the photographs.
The hostess breezed onto the patio that was surrounded by several sizes of clay pot brimming with a variety of plants – a slice of Tuscany in California – and led Stratton to a table under a white sunshade at the back. He chose to sit with his back to the sea and from where he could see the edge of Ardian’s table though none of the men at it.
‘Can I get you anything to drink?’ the hostess asked, her indelible smile sparkling even more brightly in the sunshine.
‘A bottle of water would be nice,’ Stratton replied.
‘Still or sparkling?’
‘Sparkling.’
‘We have Pellegrino if that’s okay?’
‘Fine,’ he said.
The young woman handed him the menu. ‘Some one will be along in a moment to take your order,’ she said as she turned and walked away back into the relative darkness of the restaurant. A minute later a Latino boy arrived with a small basket of fresh bread and breadsticks with a knob of butter and a spoonful of blended olives in two small porcelain jars. He laid them quietly on the table and walked back to his station in a corner where he continued to clean a large espresso machine.
There were only two other people sharing the patio with Stratton, a couple at a table on the far side who were deep in conversation. Stratton placed his Gucci carrier bag on the seat beside him and picked up the menu, glancing occasionally at the Albanian’s table.
Stratton had checked the place over the evening before his first stake-out, taking a drink at the bar while watching people at the tables. He’d come up with a simple enough idea for killing Ardian – though it was perhaps a bit gruesome. It did, however, rely heavily on an unwitting character to play a major role, someone whom he had not yet met. But as the double doors from the restaurant opened he looked up to see that very person walking towards him. She was wearing a classic interpretation of the uniform of an Italian waiter: black trousers, a crisp, white shirt and colourful tie, and a white apron, tied at her waist, that reached almost to her shoes. She was short and ample in build with a busy head of dyed red hair and her practised smile appeared as she closed in, holding a small green bottle and a glass.
‘Hi, there,’ she exclaimed, her eyes wide as if he had just magically appeared. ‘And how is your day going so far?’
‘Fine,’ Stratton replied with equal enthusiasm, as if they knew each other. ‘How’s yours been?’
‘Great,’ she said a pitch higher while displaying two perfect rows of large white teeth. ‘Have you had a chance to look at the menu?’ she asked as she unscrewed the bottle-top and half filled the glass that already had ice and a wedge of lime in it with the fizzy water.
‘Yes. I’d like a bowl of spaghetti bolognese.’
‘Sure,’ she beamed. ‘Not a problem. Anything else?’
