Stratton was certain enough that it was Ardian to carry on until he could confirm it, leaving himself ample scope to abort if it was not. He folded the newspaper as he headed across the park to the intersection and then along the sidewalk to his apartment building.
As Stratton entered the elevator he checked his watch. Three minutes had passed since Ardian’s arrival. He pushed all the what-if scenarios he had gone through out of his mind as he stepped inside his apartment, pulling off his sweatshirt and heading for the bathroom where his disguise was waiting. For this little operation he had selected a ginger goatee, dark glasses, and a colourful tie to go with his white business shirt. He opened a jar of hair gel, scooped out a liberal amount and rubbed it into his hair, pushing it back to give himself a slick look, washed his hands and tied his tie. A small amount of glue applied to the goatee stuck it neatly to his chin and after a quick check in the mirror he went to the living-room table to collect a small Gucci shopping bag that he had picked up in the mall.
A moment later Stratton opened his apartment door a crack to check that no one was about. Then he hurried along the corridor to the emergency exit, down the stairs and onto the street. It took less than a minute to reach the front of the restaurant and eleven minutes after leaving the park he stood in front of the little reception desk where a sign asked patrons to wait to be seated.
The restaurant was quite large and tastefully decorated in a classic Italian country style with a patio and seating for around sixty people. There was no sign of Ardian at the two occupied tables that Stratton could see from the entrance. He stepped further into the restaurant to look around a large pillar draped in an imitation grapevine. He saw the back of a man seated at the end of a table tucked into a corner. He took another step forward to see two other men, then stepped back as he sensed a figure walking towards him from the kitchens. It was a pretty young woman, colourfully dressed and wearing a broad smile which Stratton returned as she approached.
‘Are you here for lunch, sir?’ she asked sweetly.
‘Are you still serving?’ he asked in a Scottish accent. After the struggle he’d had trying to sound American he had decided to go for something more manageable. The city of Santa Monica had one of the largest single populations of expatriate Brits in the world: few Americans who lived and worked there were surprised to hear any of the multitude of UK accents.
‘We serve all day,’ she assured him. ‘Is there just one?’
‘I’m alone, yes,’ he said.
‘Inside or outside?’ she asked.
‘Outside would be nice.’
The girl picked up a menu. ‘This way,’ she said as she walked into the restaurant. Stratton followed, glancing at the table in the corner where four men were seated, all Slav-looking, the one at the end facing him being the one whom he thought was Ardian. Stratton stared at him and just as he moved out of sight the man looked up at him. All the file pictures of Ardian were full-face and they matched what Stratton now saw in the flesh. He even detected a resemblance to the Albanian’s younger brother that was not so obvious in the photographs.
The hostess breezed onto the patio that was surrounded by several sizes of clay pot brimming with a variety of plants – a slice of Tuscany in California – and led Stratton to a table under a white sunshade at the back. He chose to sit with his back to the sea and from where he could see the edge of Ardian’s table though none of the men at it.
‘Can I get you anything to drink?’ the hostess asked, her indelible smile sparkling even more brightly in the sunshine.
‘A bottle of water would be nice,’ Stratton replied.
‘Still or sparkling?’
‘Sparkling.’
‘We have Pellegrino if that’s okay?’
‘Fine,’ he said.
The young woman handed him the menu. ‘Some one will be along in a moment to take your order,’ she said as she turned and walked away back into the relative darkness of the restaurant. A minute later a Latino boy arrived with a small basket of fresh bread and breadsticks with a knob of butter and a spoonful of blended olives in two small porcelain jars. He laid them quietly on the table and walked back to his station in a corner where he continued to clean a large espresso machine.
There were only two other people sharing the patio with Stratton, a couple at a table on the far side who were deep in conversation. Stratton placed his Gucci carrier bag on the seat beside him and picked up the menu, glancing occasionally at the Albanian’s table.
Stratton had checked the place over the evening before his first stake-out, taking a drink at the bar while watching people at the tables. He’d come up with a simple enough idea for killing Ardian – though it was perhaps a bit gruesome. It did, however, rely heavily on an unwitting character to play a major role, someone whom he had not yet met. But as the double doors from the restaurant opened he looked up to see that very person walking towards him. She was wearing a classic interpretation of the uniform of an Italian waiter: black trousers, a crisp, white shirt and colourful tie, and a white apron, tied at her waist, that reached almost to her shoes. She was short and ample in build with a busy head of dyed red hair and her practised smile appeared as she closed in, holding a small green bottle and a glass.
‘Hi, there,’ she exclaimed, her eyes wide as if he had just magically appeared. ‘And how is your day going so far?’
‘Fine,’ Stratton replied with equal enthusiasm, as if they knew each other. ‘How’s yours been?’
‘Great,’ she said a pitch higher while displaying two perfect rows of large white teeth. ‘Have you had a chance to look at the menu?’ she asked as she unscrewed the bottle-top and half filled the glass that already had ice and a wedge of lime in it with the fizzy water.
‘Yes. I’d like a bowl of spaghetti bolognese.’
‘Sure,’ she beamed. ‘Not a problem. Anything else?’
‘That’ll be fine, thanks. Have you worked here long?’ he asked.
‘I’ve been here about a month. I’m from out of town – Oklahoma. I came here six weeks ago, got a great apartment only twenty blocks from the beach and this is the first place I applied for a job and they asked me to start the next day. I was so jazzed. It’s so perfect here.’
‘You’re an actress, right?’
‘Yes! How’d you guess?’
‘You look like one,’ Stratton said, radiating flattery. You could throw a stone anywhere in Los Angeles and hit a wannabe thespian. They arrived in Tinsel Town by the thousands every year from all over America and the world, looking for stardom, but only a handful ever succeeded in scraping even a meagre living from it.
‘Thanks,’ the waitress said, practically bursting with joy at having her talents recognised. ‘Are you in the business?’ she asked.
‘No. Nothing as glamorous, I’m afraid. I’m an accountant – for the company that owns this restaurant, actually.’ The night of his reconnaissance Stratton had read the blurb at the front door that described the chain of restaurants dotted around the city, all owned by one corporation. ‘I’m quite new, too. I’m gradually doing the rounds of the restaurants, you know, getting to know them.’
‘Oh. Shall I tell the manager you’re here?’
‘Do me a favour and keep it to yourself until I’ve finished my meal,’ Stratton said, lowering his voice. ‘I’ll pop into the office once I’m done. I want a quiet lunch.’
‘Gotcha,’ she said, tapping the side of her nose and winking. ‘I’ll go put your order in.’
As the waitress walked away back into the restaurant she was beckoned by someone at Ardian’s table. Stratton watched as she walked over to them, replying to whatever she’d been asked. A hand reached out to pat her bottom but she sidestepped to avoid it and from that point on appeared to have difficulty maintaining her smile. A moment later she nodded and, looking flushed, walked over to a computer console where she typed in her orders, pausing a moment to compose herself as if she had been through a small trauma.