The Night Café

“It’s not really necessary. We’ll wrap it, of course, although not too tightly, since it’s going to have to pass through Security at LAX. Hannah will be hand-carrying it and the painting will be carefully stowed with her in the first-class cabin. It’ll be just fine, I can assure you. Shall we see it now?”

Koon hesitated, then nodded toward a walkway between the house and the garage. “Studio’s this way,” he grunted, heading off the porch.

Rebecca followed his rapid stride, but her platform espadrilles were having so much difficulty negotiating the uneven tile pavers that Hannah jogged ahead and took the bulky portfolio case from her. Rebecca smiled gratefully and then put her full concentration into trying to keep up with Koon. Dropping back behind her once more, Hannah noticed a small unraveling of fabric at the collar of her gauzy peach dress where it had gone tissue thin from much wearing. Like the strain in her face, it was a sign of the stress she was under. Hannah could empathize.

Koon’s studio was a freestanding structure at the back of the property, better maintained than either the house or the garage, with what looked like a brand-new air-conditioning unit humming away in one of the large windows. Koon opened the screen door and propped it with one of his paint-splattered Birkenstocks while he fished a set of keys from the pocket of his chinos. When the inner door was unlocked, he stepped in, then backtracked at the last moment in time to catch the swinging screen door before it slammed shut on Rebecca. He held it until only she reached it, then turned abruptly and headed inside, leaving her to scramble to catch the swinging door. What a gentleman.

The studio was long and narrow, a large open space with windows all along the front and on the western side wall. Overhead were three skylights, although they were on a side of the roof that sloped away from direct sunlight. It was all designed, Hannah realized, to allow maximum natural light into the room without harsh shadow or exposure to harmful UV rays that might damage delicate painted surfaces.

Along one window stood a banquet-sized table laden with rolls of canvas, T-squares, rulers and a yardstick, as well as bins of tiny nails, a staple gun, shears and a variety of sharp blades and knives. Stacked against the opposite wall were frames and mounted canvases of various sizes. It took a moment for Hannah to realize from the splotches of paint on their edges that the multiple canvases propped face to the wall were probably finished paintings. On the wall above them were displayed still more paintings, large expanses covered with wide swaths of color. Maybe they were drying, she thought, or maybe he liked these better than the ones hidden from view. Most of them still reminded her of Gabe’s finger-paint accident.

At the far end of the studio stood three separate easels, two of which held large canvases that may or may not have been works in progress. It raised the question—how did an abstract artist know when a work was done? Koon walked over to a framed canvas that had been propped against the long worktable and placed it on the empty easel. It was about two-foot by three, smallish compared to some of the mega works lining the walls.

“Here it is.”

Rebecca moved forward, smiling. “Yes, I recognize it from the photographs Mr. Gladding sent me. I can see why he liked it. It’s very vibrant.”

Vibrant? Well, maybe, Hannah thought, in a dog’s breakfast kind of way. It was nothing like anything Rebecca herself carried in the gallery and her enthusiasm seemed a little forced. On the other hand, a twenty percent commission on the painting’s quarter-million-dollar price tag might turn anyone into an ardent fan.

Koon seemed to buy it, however, and proceeded to pull out several other canvases to show, his raspy voice rambling on about influences and innovations. Nothing more was required of them than noises of appreciation and these Rebecca offered with a frequency that Koon apparently found gratifying.

As the two of them made the rounds of his studio, Hannah moved aside to examine the tools of his trade arrayed on the table. Anything was better than to risk being asked her opinion of the paintings. Among the brushes and blades were putty knives crusted with paint, suggesting he used these to apply color as often as he used the brushes. There was also a well-used whetstone, its surface worn to a concave groove. Next to the sharpening stone sat a curve-bladed knife, its ebony handle smooth from use.

Hannah picked it up. Now, knives she knew something about, and this one was a beauty—well balanced, lightweight, yet sturdy at the same time. She ran a finger gingerly along the honed inner curve of the blade. It was wickedly sharp. What would he use a blade like this for? She studied the rolls of canvas and the wooden stretchers waiting for mounting and imagined the knife slashing through the tough cloth. It would do the trick. Like butter.

“Put that down,” Koon snapped.

Hannah turned, frowning at the man’s tone. Taking the blade by the point, she flipped it high in the air and watched it complete three perfect end-over-end circles before she caught it neatly by the ebony handle. Rebecca gasped.

“Nice knife,” Hannah said blandly, setting it back down on the table.

Koon glared, clearly unimpressed. Well, all right, she was showboating, but the man was such a pompous pill. Maybe she shouldn’t have been playing with his toys, but was the attitude really necessary?

She went over and retrieved the leather portfolio from the corner where she’d left it and handed it to Rebecca. Time to get this show on the road. Rebecca seemed to agree, because she opened the portfolio, withdrew a length of soft cloth and carefully wrapped the small picture before sliding it into the case.

After she handed over a check for payment and had Koon sign a receipt, they said their hasty goodbyes and the two women were on their way, leaving Koon to his studio, his paintings and precious knives and brushes.

As much as Hannah might worry about taking on a job involving Moises Gladding, nothing about this painting said it was the kind of masterpiece usually associated with illegal arms deals. This was a simple transport for easy cash. If Gladding had more money than taste, who was she to quibble?

Five

It was nearly five by the time Hannah got back to her condo. She and Rebecca had gone for lunch after the trip to Koon’s studio, a meal that had dragged on uncomfortably as Rebecca offered chapter and verse of her husband’s betrayal, their broken marriage and ruinous divorce. Hannah could sympathize, having been there herself—although Cal, to his credit, had not added insult to injury by trying to ruin her financially after stomping on her heart. If taking this courier job could help Rebecca in a small way, Hannah was glad of it, although she could have lived without all the sordid details.

One they’d gotten back to the gallery in Malibu, Hannah had turned around and fought her way through traffic to Silver Lake. By the time she arrived at home, the day was shot and she was beat. She loved Los Angeles. but getting anywhere in the city was a joke. It had turned into another spring scorcher, and she was hot, grimy and thirsty. Time to kick back and relax before her early-morning trip to the airport and the flight to Puerto Vallarta.

She opened the fridge, grabbed the water filter pitcher and took a glass from the cupboard. Her kitchen was tiny, just wide enough to open the doors on the double wall ovens, but it had been well equipped by the yuppie developers who’d converted the old building, making it both functional and attractive—especially given that her only regular visitor was Gabe and that her culinary activities generally revolved around the microwave, the rice cooker and her fridge’s vegetable bin. She was no gourmet cook, but she ate healthy. It was the only way to survive—literally—in a profession where the ability to move fast was the number-one requirement for long-term success.

After downing an entire glass of cold water, Hannah refilled it, then set the pitcher on the granite-topped breakfast bar separating the kitchen from the large, open living area beyond. The living space was on the second floor, over the garage, with bright, airy windows front and back and a small balcony at the front overlooking the street. It was a nice place to live—at least, when she made an effort to control the clutter and dust. Touches of Nora were everywhere.

As much as she sometimes chafed under her sister’s overprotective watch, Nora could always be counted on to come through in a crisis. When Hannah’s marriage and then her home had collapsed in rapid succession, it was Nora who’d found the condo, then served as informal decorator after Hannah bought it. As a result, Hannah lived in a colorful refuge of teals, tans and corals, the wall colors warm and welcoming next to the unit’s exposed brick. Her mother had also passed on a number of textiles and curios from the art and antique shop in Beirut where Hannah had spent many a summer with her Greek-born grandparents. Her sister had artfully hung some of the woven pieces on the walls and made others into pillows and runners, which added yet another shot of bright color. It was thanks to Nora that she had a place that felt good to come home to, even if the daily absence of Gabe remained an open wound.

Moving around the breakfast bar, she paused to pick out a leaf that had fallen from the big ficus tree that anchored one end of the island. Her plants, too, were a contribution from Nora, appearing out of the blue one day when Hannah returned from an overseas security job.

“I was buying new plants for my house and decided you could use some up here,” Nora had said, refusing to take payment for them. “They soften things and help clean the air. You need that, living in this city.”

The care and feeding of the greenery came down to Trevor’s partner, Ruben. At first, he’d just come in to water the plants when Hannah was out of town on a job, but after nursing one too many spindly specimens back to health, only to see it wilt again under Hannah’s negligent ministrations, Ruben had clucked despairingly and taken over the job full-time. Hannah repaid him by babysitting little Mellie from time to time and by taking the guys’ dog along whenever she went running. Chucky—part border collie, part God-knows-what—could never get too much exercise, and Hannah liked the rescue mutt’s goofy, slobbering company.

Spotting Rebecca’s carrying case where she’d left it on her overstuffed sofa, Hannah went to take another look at August Koon’s work. Her condo faced west and the late afternoon sun, filtered through the gauzy sheers over the open patio doors, set the space aglow. Warm as the day had been, nights in L.A. remained cool until late June or early July, when the ocean finally had a chance to warm up. The temperature now was dropping fast. A soft breeze wafted the sheers. The low, steady hum of traffic on Sunset Boulevard was underscored by the distant wail of a police siren.

Setting her glass on the coffee table, she zipped open the leather portfolio and pulled out the painting. She examined it front to back, inside and out. If it weren’t for a wire hanger on the frame and the artist’s signature at the bottom right, there’d be no telling right from left, up from down on this “masterpiece.” The canvas was a thickly painted mass of blues, greens and violets.

Flipping the picture over, Hannah examined the reverse side. Heavy kraft paper was stapled to the wooden frame. She shook her head and went to the kitchen for a sharp knife. No way would she not check under the paper. Lifting out half of the staples, she rolled the paper back, taking care not to crease it. The back of the canvas was grimy, but the paint-splattered pine stretchers and staples holding the canvas in place seemed relatively new. Nothing remotely untoward here.

After stapling the paper back in place, she propped the painting on the sofa. Then, she had another thought. She pulled the portfolio toward her and examined it closely. Rebecca had provided it, so if the case concealed something illegal, then Nora’s friend was implicated. Hard to believe, but who knew? She wouldn’t be the first person driven to crime out of desperation.

The case was padded and reinforced to reduce the risk of crushing. And maybe conceal contraband? Hannah took her Swiss Army knife from her messenger bag and used it to make a small slit in the lining. All she found inside was high-density foam wrapped around sturdy cardboard.

Setting the case aside, she took up her water glass again and settled into her favorite rocker to study the painting. Why would anyone want to own a piece like this? And pay a quarter million dollars for it, plus commission and shipping? It wasn’t so much that it was ugly. Compared to other “high concept” art pieces she’d seen in the past, hideous things that left her head shaking, this one was okay. The longer she looked at it, in fact, the more she found herself picking out images, reading emotions into the dusky, gladelike colors. Maybe that was the idea.

Since this was the first time she’d ever acted as an art courier, Hannah had raised with Rebecca the legal ramifications of importing and exporting paintings.

“It’s not a problem with modern work like this, as long as the paperwork’s in order,” Rebecca had said. “August Koon’s work is hardly a national treasure.”

She’d handed over an envelope. When Hannah had opened it, she’d found the bill of sale and an authentification certificate signed by Koon, as well as an import permit from Mexican Customs and her Los Angeles/Puerto Vallarta return air ticket—AlaskaAir, 10:10 a.m. Tuesday morning, first class as promised. Rebecca said the airline had been given a heads-up that Hannah would be hand-carrying a painting and had affixed an amendment to her file noting that the portfolio was to be safely stowed alongside her in the first-class cabin.

Hannah examined the Mexican import permit that had apparently been arranged by Moises Gladding. It all looked very official. She suspected money may have changed hands under a table somewhere but, although she studied the paperwork closely for irregularities, everything seemed in order. No matter how much she might fret about dealing with Gladding, sometimes a cigar was just a cigar and a courier job was just that. All she had to do was carry the painting to LAX, board the plane, tuck the portfolio into its closet, then sit back with a glass of champagne and enjoy the two-hour flight. She’d be met in Puerto Vallarta, she’d deliver the picture, and then her work would be done. Easy money.

She rewrapped the painting in the soft cloth Rebecca had provided and slipped it back into the leather portfolio. In her bedroom, she propped it behind her bureau, then kicked off her sandals and pulled her T-shirt over her head. She was just heading to the bathroom to turn on the shower when the bleep of her cell phone stopped her in her tracks. It was in her messenger bag in the living room. She ran back into the other room, plucked it up and glanced at the screen. Her stomach did a backflip. The number was familiar enough that she recognized it, but not such a habit that she’d assigned it a permanent place in her phone list. That would be too much like asking for trouble.

She opened the phone. “Hi, there.”

“Hey, stranger.” John Russo’s voice reminded her of bittersweet chocolate—deep, dark, rich but never cloying. It was like everything else about him, a balance of weirdly Zen calm and edgy tension that made him intriguing, unpredictable and just a little bit scary. He was unremarkable in appearance, not overly large or menacing, but the bad guys he encountered in his line of work would underestimate him at their peril. Russo was one of the best homicide detectives in the city. It would be easy enough, she imagined, for a suspect to be lulled by his easygoing demeanor, only to be stung by that laser intelligence and pit bull tenacity.

Hannah counted herself among the good guys, but Russo kept her feeling a little off balance, too. She wasn’t sure what she was going to do about that. The two of them had been tap-dancing around each other for a couple of months now. If the irregular hours they both kept made it tough for them to find time to see one another, Russo had made it clear he wasn’t about to let a few scheduling problems get in his way. The guy was determined, she’d give him that. And a damn good kisser, Hannah had discovered. Her stomach cart-wheeled as she recalled their one and only real date. It was about ten days ago, dinner followed by a walk on the beach. Yes, a cliché right out of the classifieds, maybe, but it had worked. Unfortunately, it had come to a breathless but abrupt end when he’d been called out to a murder scene in West Hollywood. He wasn’t supposed to be on call that night, but as luck would have it, a gang war had erupted in Compton and all of Russo’s colleagues had been out picking up the pieces of carnage there when the dead sheet call came in.

“You’re a tough lady to get hold of,” Russo said now.

“I wouldn’t want to seem easy.” Hannah winced. Damn, was she flirting? She hated flirting. “Anyway, I called your office. You have a new partner.”

“Yeah, she’s a newbie. She’ll be riding with me for the next couple of months. I’m her T.O.” Her training officer. “Name’s Lindsay. She just transferred in from the Twin Towers.”

The Los Angeles Sheriff’s Department, in addition to policing vast swaths of Southern California, also ran the detention facilities that housed men and women arrested anywhere in the county. It was impossible to climb through LASD ranks without sooner or later doing a stint as a corrections officer in one of the jails. Hannah herself had worked in the Twin Towers correctional unit for a year after graduating from police academy, and she’d hated every minute of it. The relationship between jailed and jailer was made up of equal parts suspicion, contempt and gamesmanship, bored inmates having little else to occupy them besides looking for ways to end-run the guards. The day her transfer to a patrol beat had come through, Hannah had danced a jig right there in the control tower.

“I’ll bet she’s glad to be out of there. I assume she’s been on the street already?” Hannah asked. You didn’t make detective in the Sheriff’s Department until you’d put in your time on patrol.

“Yeah, she worked the Valley and Compton. She only just told me you’d called. When exactly was that?”

“Thursday or Friday, I think.” Actually, Hannah knew precisely when she’d called, but there was no mileage in looking too eager. “She said you were out of town.”