The Night Café. Taylor Smith

to be trading a painting, not him. The IRA, for example, was once suspected of stealing a Rembrandt which they gave to a middleman who then financed the purchase of guns the IRA wanted. Terrorists have also been known to buy rocket launchers with stolen Picassos.”

      Rebecca nodded. “We get Interpol and FBI lookout notices about stolen art all the time. I always thought it was shady billionaires or Arab sheikhs or something who were buying them.”

      “Ah yes, the Doctor No scenario—the recluse with a private vault of old masters that he keeps for his personal enjoyment,” Hannah said. “Apparently that’s not how it works. Art, like drugs and diamonds, is just another form of currency—a Rembrandt traded for AK47s, cocaine for rocket launchers. Your basic commercial marketplace at work.”

      “And that’s the business Mr. Gladding is in?”

      “That’s exactly the business he’s in.”

      Rebecca’s sunglasses had slipped a little way down her nose and she peered over them now at Hannah. “My, my. Nora’s little sister. You look so young, and then you open your mouth and the things that come out of it. No wonder Nora wasn’t sure you’d be interested in my little delivery job. Pretty small potatoes next to your world of rocket launchers and Rembrandts.”

      “Oh, yeah, my life is nonstop glamour. Believe me, most of this is just theory to me, too. Just like the Koons of this world mostly deal with big-time New York art agents, the world of Moises Gladding is far removed from anything I usually get hired for. I’m just a girl with a gun who likes to travel and gets paid for it.”

      Sunset Boulevard was far behind them now. They were heading uphill into canyon country.

      “Anyway, it doesn’t sound like this August Koon’s a big enough name to factor into that world either. Although,” Hannah added, looking around, “these are pretty fancy digs up here. He must be fairly successful.”

      Rebecca shrugged. “He does all right. But the man’s in his fifties, I’d guess, and his prices only started to climb in the past five years or so. As far as I know, this has always been his home base. Property around here would have been affordable when he was starting out.”

      “So he lucked out in the real estate lottery, too.” Hannah consulted the Mapquest printout that Rebecca had given her. “It should be the next left, I think, and then the first place on the right.”

      Rebecca took the left at the intersection and then a quick right at a tree-shaded gateway with an elaborately painted wooden signboard announcing the studio of August Koon. The crunch of the BMW’s tires on the gravel driveway startled a klatch of doves. They followed a winding lane through a grove of scrub oak.

      “I should warn you, he’s not exactly Mr. Personality,” Rebecca said.

      “I stand warned.”

      As they emerged from the tree-bowered driveway, the roadway widened into a circular gravel parking area before a two-story white clapboard house. A rickety-looking garage stood next to the house, its double doors swung wide on loose hinges to reveal an aged yellow VW bus inside. Shades of the sixties, Hannah thought. The bus was only missing a paint job of psychedelic flowers.

      Rebecca parked the car and they climbed out. Eucalyptus and pine trees intermingled with the scrub oak around the house, and the air smelled intoxicatingly fresh. The paint on the house was peeling and the perennials in the flower beds were fighting for survival against an onslaught of creeping kudzu vines and milkweed, but there was still something magical about the place, one of the many little woodland glades that existed practically in the heart of Los Angeles. Rebecca was probably right, that Koon had bought it back when properties like this were affordable. Nowadays, if you weren’t a Hollywood studio honcho or a trust fund brat, there was no hope.

      The weather-worn screen door at the front of the house opened and a man stepped out. His severely receded hair was lank and mostly gray, curling over his ears. He wore a brown and yellow plaid cotton shirt that strained over a considerable paunch. His chinos were paint stained, the frayed hems puddling over equally paint spattered Birkenstocks. His thick brows nearly met at the deep frown creases over his nose, and matching creases ran down either side of a fleshy, unhappy-looking mouth. A portrait of the artist as a crotchety old man, Hannah thought.

      “Good morning, Mr. Koon,” Rebecca chirped as he clumped down the front steps. She held out a hand. “I’m Rebecca Powell. It’s so good to finally meet you.”

      Koon ignored her outstretched hand, glanced dismissively at Hannah, then back at Rebecca. “Come for the painting, I suppose?” His voice was a deep, pack-a-day rasp.

      “That’s right. This is Hannah Nicks. She’s a security consultant and she’s going to be delivering the piece to the buyer.”

      “Humph.” Koon turned his narrow gaze back to Hannah. She couldn’t help feeling that he was finding her sub-par as security for his treasure.

      Rebecca went around to the trunk of her car, her platform soles a little precarious on the rock-lined driveway. She withdrew a rectangular, padded black case from the trunk. “I brought a portfolio to carry the painting.”

      “You’re not crating it?” Koon asked.

      “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