He kept his hands in sight on the steering wheel, clearly used to dealing with cops, and remained very still as two of L.A.’s finest loomed in front of the window.
“License and registration. Slowly.”
He leaned over, past her, towards the glove compartment, and for a moment she was terrified that he was going to pull out a pistol. But there was nothing inside the space but papers, and he drew them out, handing them to the cop, who flashed a bright flashlight into the interior of the car, illuminating her face.
She must have looked like a deer caught in the headlights, she thought, trying to gather her scattered thoughts. Here was rescue, safety, and she opened her mouth to speak.
Takashi took her hand in his, in a gesture that would have looked reassuring to the police. Only she knew the warning implicit in his touch.
“You all right, miss?” one of them asked, as the other went to call in the license and registration. “You look upset.”
Taka couldn’t stop her from saying something, couldn’t stop them from helping her if she asked for it. She shouldn’t hesitate—she knew nothing about the man beside her except that he was very dangerous.
She opened her mouth. “I’m…I’m fine,” she said, stumbling a bit beneath the warning pressure of his hand on hers. “My boyfriend was just taking me out for a drive and he goes a little too fast.”
Jesus Fucking Christ, why had she said that? Why in God’s name had she called him her boyfriend, of all things, as if they were high school students? Why had she claimed any kind of relationship with him at all? She looked at Taka, but his expression was still determinedly neutral, and then the other cop was back.
“He’s clean,” he told his partner, ignoring them. “Diplomatic immunity. Cut ’em loose. We gotta get up to the Sansone Museum—there’s been a break-in and a couple of guards have been killed.”
They’d taken the flashlight off her face, so they didn’t see her jerk in shock, didn’t hear the noise of protest that escaped her before Taka’s hand tightened again on hers.
“Drive slower, Mr. Ortiz,” one of the officers said sternly. “You’re a guest in this country, and you wouldn’t want to wear out your welcome.”
“I’ll do my best. Thank you, Officer.” His voice was smooth, liquid, tinged with a Spanish accent, and in the light Taka almost looked Hispanic. She stared at him in shock as the blue and red lights flashed across his face, then vanished as the police car pulled out into the road, lights still pulsing as it headed up toward the hills.
He released her hand, and she flexed her fingers instinctively. “Why didn’t you ask them for help?”
“You didn’t want me to, did you? I thought that death grip on my hand was telling me to keep quiet.”
“I didn’t necessarily think that would stop you.”
“It wouldn’t have.” She wasn’t quite sure why she said that. “Mr. Ortiz?”
“People see what they want to see,” he replied. “Your boyfriend?”
She wasn’t cold anymore, she was hot, embarrassed, which seemed a ridiculously banal emotion, given the last twenty-four hours. “I just said the first thing that came into my mind. What was that they said about the museum?”
“It’s been broken into,” Taka said. “I got word earlier.”
“Do you know what they took?” The forged bowl was the least of her worries. The exquisite treasures that filled the halls of the Sansone were almost like her children; if anything happened to them she’d be heartbroken.
“Nothing.”
“But…”
“The forged urn was smashed on the floor. Clearly that was all they were after, since the rest of the collection was untouched.”
“Thank God,” she breathed. “Then that must mean they’ve given up. They dropped the bowl and now they’ll have to forget about it.”
“Maybe,” he said. “Or maybe they realized it was a fake the moment they got their hands on it. Which would make them more determined than ever to get their hands on you or anyone who could make you give them what you want.”
“What do you mean by that?”
He glanced over at her. “Never underestimate a religious fanatic.” And he pulled back onto the rain-wet street before she could say another word.
10
The hours passed in a blur as he drove north out of the city. She paid little attention to the road signs, little attention to anything. The warmth from the heater was sinking into her bones, the hum of the tires, the soft purr of the powerful engine all combined to lull her into a state of half-sleep. Anything was better than the sense of complete powerlessness that came with total waking. She had nothing but the clothes she was wearing—no cell phone, no money, no driver’s license or credit cards. Even if she could get away from the man beside her, who could she call? Micah had already paid the price of being her friend, and now two guards were dead at the museum. Because of her? She knew most of the guards; they were good men, with families. Which of them had been murdered by this group of fanatics in search of some stupid piece of ceramic art?