The Hypnotist

FIFTY

At midnight, with Hypnos in its belly, the courier jet was cleared for takeoff. As the plane ascended, Lucian watched the city below change from recognizable shapes into dots of yellow lights decorating a black canvas. Pulling out his sketchbook, in only a few minutes, he managed to draw Shabaz’s face. “His fame’s going to work against him getting away, but his fortune will work for him,” Lucian told his partner as the pilot turned off the seat belt sign.

“I’m getting a drink,” Richmond said as he stood up. “You want one? We’re officially off duty for the next six hours.”

Ten minutes later, halfway though his vodka on the rocks, Lucian got a call from Gary Fulton in the L.A. Bureau office. “It looks like Shabaz vanished into thin air,” Fulton said.

“Impossible.”

“No, I’m being literal. I just got confirmation that his pilot filed a flight plan to Mexico City and that his plane took off an hour ago from the Santa Barbara airport.”

“Have you been in touch with Mexico City?”

“Sure have, and according to the plan they should be landing in an hour and a half. We’re working with the authorities there to detain Mr. Shabaz when he gets off the plane.”

“If he gets off the plane, you mean. How much do you want to bet that plane flies right over Benito Juarez International Airport with no plans of landing.”

“We’d both be on the same side of that bet. There’s something else, Lucian,” Fulton said, and filled him in on what he’d discovered.

“We lost him,” Lucian said to Richmond after he hung up with Fulton.

“Not yet.”

“Fuck your optimism.”

“Ditto to your pessimism. We just started, and you’re giving up?”

“This guy has more money than Midas. He’s got his own plane. And he’s French.”

“Shabaz is French?”

Lucian nodded. “Fulton just told me.”

“We are so screwed.” Richmond stared down into the amber liquid then took a big swallow.

“That’s what I was saying,” Lucian said, then turned and stared out the window into the blackness. A few moments passed without either of them speaking.

“France won’t extradite their own citizens once they return home if the crimes were committed on foreign soil, but this is a crime that involves five paintings, four of which were created by French masters of Impressionism,” Lucian finally said. “Do you think that will move them?”

“All of them were stolen from American collectors. I don’t think they’ll give a rat’s ass.”

Lucian was surprised by his partner’s response. “Now who’s being pessimistic?”

“There’s a difference between pessimism and realism.”

“Not that I can see.”

“Screw that. I still say we’re going to get him.” Richmond was back on the upswing. “You’ll see.”

“You have a plan?”

“Not yet, but we’ll come up with one. And we do have the paintings.”

“You’re right. We have the paintings. But I’m never going to be satisfied till we get the guy and find out who he was working with,” Lucian insisted as he picked up his pencil and started sketching again.