was the youngest member of a smash-and-grab gang in London. He ran his mouth too much and the London cops busted him. They gave him the old ‘Don’t drop the soap in the showers’ talk, being a nice-looking young kid looking at five years or so. He cut a deal to serve no time and ratted out the rest of the gang.”
“Should have taken his chances with the soap,” Rae said.
“Maybe. The guys he ratted out are a rough bunch. It gets better. The leader of the gang, whose name was George Wilks, and who had a lot of experience, was responsible for fencing the stuff they stole, and he parceled out the money to the gang in weekly payments. He told them he didn’t want them buying Series 7s or anything else that would catch the eyes of the cops. They had enough to live well, buy decent cars and dope, go to Italy or Portugal in the winter, and so on. Anyway, Wilks and the others all went to prison. Not long after they went away, somebody kicked in the door of Wilks’s house while his wife was out, pulled a dummy wall out from behind a toilet, and took out the two hundred thousand pounds that Wilks had stashed there. Haar knew about the stash. That’s just a rumor, but the London cops think it’s probably true. In the meantime, the Brits let Haar keep his passport—wink wink, nudge nudge—and he hasn’t been seen in England since Wilks’s bathroom got robbed.”
“What a bad boy Oliver is,” Bob said.
“That’s what everybody thinks,” Lucas said. “That was twelve years ago. All the gang members got out of prison since then, although two are back in again. The others are still involved in various kinds of crime, according to the London cops. If Oliver were discovered by U.S. Immigration to have come here with an undisclosed criminal record, and to be involved in criminal activity here, he’d be deported. Back to England. Where he probably doesn’t want to go.”
Rae: “Oh-oh.”
“Yup.”
“That’s an excellent jack you got there,” Bob said.
“I thought so,” Lucas said.
A young couple walked past. The guy was wearing a T-shirt, shorts, and flip-flops, and the woman was wearing a brief strapless top, tiny shorts, and sandals. Rae said, after they passed, “Here we are, walking down the street wearing long pants and jackets. You think anybody in LA hasn’t made us as cops? We need to revise our dress code if we have to work here.”
“What are you thinking?” Bob asked.
“What that guy was wearing: shorts, T-shirts, but maybe running shoes. We carry some weight, so maybe cargo shorts. We need to go shopping.”
“Tomorrow,” Lucas said. “Though I’m feeling a little moist right now. And I can tell you up front, the Davenport doesn’t wear cargo shorts.”
* * *
—
FLOWER CHILD’S was nowhere near crowded. As Lucas remembered the waitress saying during their first visit, it was pretty much a middle-aged meat market, gold chains and all, though no leisure suits were in sight. Or any suits at all, for that matter—too hot.
Oliver Haar was standing at a podium-style reception desk, talking to a woman who looked like a customer, a friendly chat. Lucas recognized him from mug shots sent by the London cops. Haar was a decade older, but he’d aged well, with wavy blond hair over a high forehead, blue eyes, a long nose over perfect teeth, and a mild tan. He also looked like he’d been hit by a Tommy Bahama truck, wearing an open-necked Hawaiian shirt, pale cotton slacks, and canvas shoes without socks.
Even as he was talking to the customer, his eyes clicked to Lucas, Bob, and Rae, and Lucas picked up the crook’s involuntary flinch, the impulse to run, though it was quickly smothered.
Lucas stepped up to the desk and said, “Oliver. Would you have a minute to run upstairs to the office and chat?”
He nodded. “I suppose so.” To the woman he’d been talking to, he said, “Back in a minute, darling.”
As they followed him through the back, he turned to Lucas and asked, “Who are you?”
“U.S. Marshals,” Lucas said.
“I haven’t done anything at all, except work hard,” Haar said. “I do have a green card.”
“We’re not interested in your immigration status, though we could be,” Lucas said. “Why don’t we talk upstairs.”
* * *
—
THE OUTER OFFICE occupied by Heather, Tommy Saito’s assistant, was empty, and there were enough chairs to accommodate all four of them. Haar laid back in one of