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  “I noticed that last night,” Herbie said. “I didn’t have time to be charming.”

  She smiled. “You were more charming than you realized. Honesty is charming. Beats bullshit every time.”

  —

  Not far away, Dino Bacchetti and Vivian DeCarlo were sitting up in bed, naked, eating toast and drinking coffee.

  “Viv,” Dino said, “how many nights have you spent here in the past three months?”

  She smiled. “Most of them, I guess.”

  “Just about all of them, and yet you haven’t moved any clothes here. Not to speak of.”

  Viv brushed crumbs off her breasts. “I’ve got a little problem, Dino.”

  “Let me help you solve it.”

  “There’s something I can’t figure out.”

  “Cough it up, you’ll feel better.”

  “I’ve always thought you were an honest cop, and I admired that. But this apartment—how can you afford the rent on a lieutenant’s salary? It’s gotta be ten grand a month.”

  “I don’t rent, I own. The maintenance is two grand a month. I can afford that.”

  “Your father ran a candy store. Where’d you get the money to buy it?”

  “Honestly,” he replied.

  “Honestly, how? Come on, help me out here.”

  “Here’s the short version: I was married to a rich woman who had a rich father. She also made a lot of money in investments while we were married. When she walked, her old man insisted that she make a settlement, and I got a very nice check. Everybody was happy, and since it was a division of marital property, there was no tax. I spent a chunk of it on this apartment.”

  She heaved a sigh of relief. “I’m so glad to hear that.”

  “Good, now why don’t you move in with me?”

  “Well, Rosie couldn’t pay our rent all by herself. She’d need time to get another roommate.”

  “Tell you what: I’ll pay your share until she finds somebody,” Dino suggested.

  Viv brightened. “Yeah, that would work.”

  Dino dug in his bedside drawer and came up with a card. “This is a guy from my old neighborhood who has a carting business. Pack up your stuff and call him. Tell him to send me the bill.”

  Viv leaned over and kissed him on the ear. “I’ll do it this weekend.”

  “Then we’ll both feel better,” Dino said. He set down his coffee cup and got a leg over. “Let’s celebrate,” he said.

  So they celebrated.

  8

  Mike arrived at The Arrington’s front gate, where a security guard checked his driver’s license photo and gave him directions to the executive offices.

  “Don’t stop anywhere along the way,” the guard told him. “They expect you at the office in three minutes.”

  Mike nodded, then put his car in gear and drove up the hill. He found a parking space next to a dumpster overflowing with building material scrap and went inside. A woman at a makeshift desk in the hallway pointed at a door. “In there,” she said, checking his name off a list and noting the time.

  There was a Sharpie-lettered sign on the door: “Director of Food and Beverages.” Mike knocked and walked into an unfurnished reception room.

  “Back here!” a voice called out.

  Mike walked through the room to an office and found a man in a work shirt sitting behind a desk. “Mike Gennaro?”

  “Yes, sir,” Mike replied.

  “Take a seat.”

  Mike took the only option, a paint-stained wooden chair with some of the caning missing from the seat.

  “Sorry for the mess here,” the man said. “It’ll look more like a real office in a couple of weeks. The emphasis here is on finishing the cottages and suites first. I’m Tim Duggan, the food and service director for the hotel.”

  “How do you do,” Mike said, crossing his legs and folding his hands in his lap. He was wearing his best suit.

  “I expect you’ve heard about this place,” Duggan said.

  “Hasn’t everybody? I think every hotel manager in L.A. is convinced it’s going to cost him half his business.”

  “We should be so lucky,” Duggan said. He picked up a sheet of paper and glanced at it. “I liked your résumé,” he said. “Only two jobs in your whole life.”

  “I’m nothing if not loyal,” Mike said.

  “I’ve had dinner a couple of times at Franco’s, in Studio City. That’s your dad’s place, is it?”

  “It is.”

  “Tell me about your experience there.”

  “I started as a dishwasher when I was twelve,” Mike said, “and over the next ten years I worked just about every job in the place, up to and including sous-chef. On my twenty-first birthday, I started tending bar.”

  “So why didn’t you make a career of the family business?”

  “I have two older brothers who had that idea, and they’re still there. When the time came for them to take over, I’d still be tending bar.”

  “And how long at the Beverly Hills Hotel?”

  “Six years. The tips are better than at Franco’s.”

  “I would imagine. So you want to make a move here as a bartender? You think the tips would be better here than at the Beverly Hills?”

  “I understand you’re going to have four bars here,” Mike said. “What I’d like is to be your head bartender, to manage all four and to fill in when somebody’s out or the traffic is heavy.”

  “We haven’t budgeted for a head bartender,” Duggan said.

  “So, you’re going to run four bars yourself, in addition to all the restaurants? The bartenders will steal you blind.”

  Duggan sat back and regarded the applicant with an appraising eye. “We’re instituting a computer system to regulate that.”

  “Yeah? And every time a guest pays cash, half of it will go into the bartender’s pocket.”

  “And how would you stop that? What’s your system?”

  Mike tapped his temple with a finger. “It’s right in here. I can look at the empties and tell you what a bar took in that night and what the bartender got in tips. Remember, I’m one of them, not one of you.”

  “How many bartenders should I hire?” Duggan asked.

  “For three restaurants and the pool? Fourteen, plus me. That will cover all the bars for a five-day week and the occasional sick day. Remember, I can always fill in.”

  “I had reckoned on sixteen,” Duggan said.

  “Count me as two,” Mike said, “and I’d expect to be paid both salaries. I’ll divvy up the tips, and I’ll make up the booze orders every week, saving you the trouble. I’ll deal with the wholesalers, too, if you like. I already know all the salespeople and most of the managers.”

  “You’re an ambitious guy,” Duggan said.

  “I am. By the time you retire and move on, I’ll want your job. I know the restaurant side, too, and I’m good on wine.”

  “Double a bartender’s wages sounds low for all of that,” Duggan said.

  “I’d rather be a bargain at first. Pretty soon, you’ll know what I’m worth to you.”

  Duggan was impressed. His source at the Beverly Hills had already told him that Mike Gennaro was highly regarded there; the man had an outstanding work record, plenty of charm, and a good ear for a customer’s story. Duggan handed him a sheet of paper. “Here’s the rundown on benefits: health insurance, retirement package, etcetera. This will be the kind of place that will repay loyalty and hard work over the long run. I’m aiming for a very low turnover among employees.”

  Mike looked it over. “This is good. Have you hired any bartenders yet?”

  “This is the first day I’ve interviewed.”

  “If you’ll let me hire them, I’ll have you half a dozen by the end of the day and all of them by the end of the week.”

  “I like your style, Mike, but I’ll want to meet your choices.”

  “Of course.”

  “How soon can you start?”

  “I’ll go to work today on the
hiring, but I’ll need to work my shift at the Beverly Hills for the next two weeks. They’ve been good to me, and I don’t want to stiff them, especially since I’ll be taking a couple of their guys with me—assuming you approve.”

  “All right,” Duggan said, “you’ll go on salary as of today. You can work days here and nights at the Beverly Hills until your time is up there.” He handed Mike a file folder. “Here are all the personnel and tax forms you need to fill out. I’ll have a written contract for you to sign in a day or two.” Duggan stood up and offered his hand. “Welcome aboard, Mike.”

  Mike stood and took the hand. “I’m looking forward to it, Mr. Duggan.”

  “Call me Tim. We’re going to be working together closely.”

  “Tim it is. If I can have a fruit crate for a desk and a phone, I’ll start calling bartenders.”

  Duggan handed him another file folder. “Here’s the list of those who answered the ad, along with their résumés.” He led Mike to the office next door. “Use this for a while,” he said.

  Mike took off his jacket and tossed it onto a file cabinet. He loosened his tie, sat down, and looked at the list in the folder. His first call was on his new cell phone, a text to the e-mail address he had been given in Leipzig: “All is well. I am fine,” it read. He signed it “Nod.”

  9

  Mike Freeman arrived in Los Angeles aboard Strategic Services’ Cessna Citation jet 4, which he piloted himself. He landed the light jet at Santa Monica, then left the airplane in the care of his copilot and got into the waiting Mercedes.

  “To the hotel, sir?” the young driver asked.

  “No, to the office. I’ll do some business before I go to the hotel.”

  The Los Angeles offices of Strategic Services were located in a five-story, wholly owned office building on Santa Monica Boulevard. In addition to the five stories of the building, two of which were rented out pending expansion plans, there were two underground levels, and Mike went directly there. His operations manager received Mike in his office.

  “Good morning, Mr. Freeman,” he said.

  “Good morning, Harvey,” Mike replied.

  “I thought you’d be going to the hotel today. I didn’t expect to see you until tomorrow.”

  “It’s not the first time I’ve caught you off guard, is it?”

  Harvey laughed. “I know to be ready for you at any time, sir.”

  “What have you got for me?”

  “I think it won’t be necessary to hire a supervisor for the watch room at The Arrington. One of our better people here has applied for the job, and he’s qualified.”

  “Tell me about him.”

  “His name is Richard Indrisie—we call him Rick. Rick is young but smart. He’s a tech-school graduate with a broad and firm grounding in computer science, and he’s been with us for a little over two years. We’ve trained him for design and repair work, and he’s as good as guys who’ve been here a lot longer.”

  “You said young—how young?”

  “Twenty-eight.”

  “Would you describe him as mature?”

  “More than that, he’s a very cool customer, quick to grasp a situation and quick to deal with it.”

  “Let’s talk to him.”

  Harvey picked up a phone. “Send Rick in.”

  Rick Indrisie knocked on the door and entered.

  “Rick,” Harvey said, “this is our CEO, Michael Freeman.” The two shook hands.

  “Sit down, Rick, and tell me something about yourself.”

  Rick sat down, looking very much at ease. “I was born out in the valley,” he said. “Public schools and technical college. I’ve loved computers since the first time I saw one. I built my first one when I was fourteen, and I’ve never seen a broken one I couldn’t fix.”

  “What do you do in your spare time?”

  “I’ve got a little business on the side,” Rick said. “I buy vintage small appliances, restore them to perfect working order, make them look new, and sell them, mostly on eBay.”

  “That’s enterprising,” Mike said.

  Harvey interrupted. “I should tell you that Rick has a gift for catching anomalies on-screen,” he said. “He seems to know when a movement or a gesture picked up by a surveillance camera is a threat. He’s nipped crimes in the bud more than a dozen times since we put him on monitoring a year ago. And he can repair any piece of equipment in the watch room. He’s great with software, too.”

  “Thank you, Rick,” Mike said. “We’ll let you know later.”

  Rick shook hands and left.

  “I like him,” Mike said. “Hire him when you’re ready.”

  “That will be today,” Harvey said. “All of the wiring at The Arrington is complete, and equipment installation starts tomorrow. I’d like Rick to be there to supervise as everything is connected and tested.”

  “Go right ahead,” Mike said. “I’ll be in my office if you need me.” He left the lower level and took the elevator to the top floor, then walked to his corner office. It was smaller and less luxurious than his New York office, but it had everything he needed. He spent a few minutes returning phone calls, then met with the engineers who were working on the fire plan for The Arrington.

  “We’re up and running,” said the team leader. “All the automatic fire extinguishers are installed, sixty-one of them, and we have video hookups to every area where fire could be a problem.”

  “What about explosions?” Mike asked.

  “I don’t have to tell you that all bets are off if we get a significant explosion,” the man said. “What we get is complete chaos while we marshal forces and get them to the scene. We’re likely to lose our cameras in such a scenario. Everything is in the hands of the response team. The local fire department will be there in five minutes or less, of course.”

  Mike nodded. “Are you satisfied that our response teams are trained and ready?”

  The team leader nodded. “They’re assigned sectors, and the plan is for them to be on scene in no more than ninety seconds, usually less.”

  “Have the Secret Service people vetted the plan for the presidential cottages?”

  “Yes, sir, and they were pleased. They’re also relieved that they won’t have to be the first responders to an event, allowing them to concentrate on body protection.”

  “Very good,” Mike said. He dismissed the men, made a few more phone calls, then called his car for the trip to The Arrington.

  —

  From the front gate he noted the drill of every one of his people. He found them businesslike, but polite. His site commander was waiting outside his suite, and another man dealt with his luggage.

  “Welcome to The Arrington,” the commander said. “You’ll be the first overnight guest.”

  “Your people looked good at every point,” Mike said. “Spread the word that I want more smiling when guests start arriving. A smile doesn’t make a man any less alert, and it puts the guest at ease. I want to give an impression of a welcoming committee, rather than a private police force.”

  “I agree, sir. Smiling will start immediately.”

  Mike laughed. “I appreciate your confidence in your men,” he said. “As you know, installation of the watch room starts tomorrow. We’ve appointed a supervisor for the room, and he will appoint deputies. His name is Richard Indrisie, known as Rick. Young guy, late twenties, but very good.”

  “I’ll look forward to meeting him,” the commander said.

  “The fire and explosion plan is well set up. I had a briefing an hour ago. As soon as the watch room is up and running, start the drills.”

  “Will do.”

  “And tell your people that when an alarm goes off, they’re not to look alarmed.”

  “Shall I tell them to smile?”

  “That and not to knock any guests down when they’re rushing to a scene.”

  “Yes, sir. You’re having dinner with the Secret Service detail commander at seven, as requested.”

  “Where?
”

  “Here in your suite’s dining room. I’m afraid you’re the first guinea pigs for the room service kitchen.”

  Mike laughed. “I brought Alka-Seltzer.”

  —

  Rick Indrisie left work at six that evening. As soon as he had cleared the indoor parking lot, he pulled into the drive-by line at a McDonald’s, and while waiting his turn he dug out his throwaway cell phone and sent an e-mail. “All is well. I am fine.” He signed it “Wynken.”

  10

  Hans was replacing a defective alternator on an elderly Porsche 911 when his supervisor tapped him on the shoulder. Hans looked up at him.

  “There’s a visitor to see you in the showroom.”

  “Can you send him here?” Hans asked.

  The supervisor looked around the shop, then turned back to Hans. “All right, we are not so busy. Next time, meet your friends in the showroom on your break.”

  Hans nodded and went back to work, tightening the last bolts. When he looked up again, a man in a sports jacket, no tie, was watching him closely. “Yes?” Hans said, straightening from his work.

  “My name is Carl Webber,” the man said, offering his hand. “From The Arrington.”

  Hans shook the hand. “I thought you might like to see the shop.”

  “Yes,” Webber said, looking around. “It’s very clean, isn’t it?”

  “Always the mark of a well-run shop—any kind of shop.”

  “Is there somewhere we can talk?”

  “The break room,” Hans said. “This way.” He led Webber off the shop floor and into a room containing food-and-drink dispensing machines and a few tables and chairs. It was after eleven, between coffee break and lunch. “I don’t think we’ll be disturbed here,” Hans said.

  They took seats. “Your résumé is very interesting,” Webber said. “You had Mercedes training?”

  “Right out of gymnasium—that’s German high school,” Hans replied. “Then I worked in a dealership for four years, while I raced sports cars on weekends.”

  “Why did you change to Porsche?”