She always sat facing the door. She always came as soon as they opened at 11 so she could get her café con leche and Cuban toast before he arrived. This time was no different. It was early, before the lunch rush at El Tinajon. Otherwise they wouldn’t make the Cuban toast. It wasn’t on the menu — you had to ask for it.
In her peripheral vision she saw a woman come from the kitchen and she thought it was Marta with her toast. But it wasn’t. The woman sat down across from her, and there was a familiarity about her.
“Batman’s not coming,” she said.
Now Cava recognized her.
“You lived,” she said.
Ballard nodded.
“He gave me up, didn’t he?” Cava said.
“No,” Ballard said. “Batman’s not talking. It was Michaelson.”
“Michaelson...”
She seemed genuinely surprised.
“Grand Cayman was the nexus,” Ballard said. “He was headed there when they grabbed him. Then we found your offshore account there — thanks to Harry Bosch. That led to the feds finding his at the same bank. Once the feds got to his money, the game was over. He gave everybody up just so he could keep enough to take care of his family.”
“Family first,” Cava said.
“And he told us how to find you.”
“The only mistakes I have ever made came from trusting men.”
“They can let you down. Some of them.”
Cava nodded. Ballard watched her hands.
“Don’t move your hands,” she said. “You’re under arrest.”
Those last three words were the cue. Soon, members of the task force — FBI, Vegas Metro, LAPD — came down the back hallway and through the kitchen and the front door, weapons drawn, no chances taken with the Black Widow.
Ballard stood up and backed away from the table. Men moved in on Cava, took her by the arms, held her tightly, and searched her. They found the curved knife in the homemade forearm scabbard that Ballard had missed that day four weeks earlier. They found a pistol in the purse she had put down on the floor.
As she was being cuffed, Cava kept her eyes on Ballard. She smiled slightly when she was led away from the table and toward the front door. There was a van waiting to transport her to the bureau’s Las Vegas field office. It took off as soon as the side door was slammed shut.
“Way to go, Renée.”
It was Kenworth from Vegas Metro. He moved behind her and took the recorder off her belt as she detached the mini-microphone from inside the opening of her blouse. She pulled the wire up and out and handed it to him.
“She didn’t really give up anything,” Ballard said.
“She exhibited knowledge of the conspiracy and crimes,” Kenworth said. “That’s what the prosecutor will say. And I say: good job.”
“I have to make a call now.”
She pulled her phone and hit one of the names on her list of favorites as she stepped into the rear hall for privacy.
“Harry, we got her.”
“No hitches?”
“No hitches. She even had the knife. It was in this elastic strap on her forearm. I just missed it that day.”
“Anybody would have.”
“Maybe.”
“So, she talk to you? Say anything?”
“She said you can never trust men.”
“Word to the wise, I guess. How do you feel?”
“I feel good. But she sort of smiled at me when they were taking her out of here. Like she was saying this isn’t over.”
“What else could she do? Anyway, she gave me that smile too.”
“It was weird, though.”
“Vegas is weird. When are you coming back?”
“I’ll go to the bureau’s field office and see what they need from me. Then I’ll head back as soon as I’m clear.”
“Good. Let me know.”
“You working on Freelander?”
“Yeah, and I found the guy. The one she said no to. He’s still around.”
“Don’t do anything until I get back.”
“Roger that.”