The Night Café. Taylor Smith

up on Gladding, see what he’s been up to lately?” Travis was a data wonk in the Los Angeles office of the federal Homeland Security department. His job was to manage the computer systems intended to help the feds track and identify suspected terrorists.

      There had been a time, Hannah mused, when a gay man like Travis, no matter how brilliant, hardworking or honest, would have been barred from any kind of government work requiring a security clearance. In recent years, however, the feds had finally figured out that a person couldn’t be blackmailed into betraying secrets if he were out of the closet before the whole world, including his own blessed grandmother.

      “If you get a minute,” Hannah said. “Just see if anything jumps out at you. I only told Nora’s friend that I’d think about taking the job. I can still back out, but if it’s just a matter of carrying canvas down to Puerto Vallarta and coming right back, I’m not about to sneer at easy cash.”

      Travis nodded, but he looked unconvinced. “I’ll see what I can find out first thing tomorrow. Don’t leave town till you hear from me, promise?”

      “Yeah, yeah.” Hannah turned and headed up the walk to her condo. Just what she needed—one more bossy older sibling.

      Puerto Vallarta, Mexico

      Moises Gladding stood on the broad, red-tiled terrace of his seaside villa. The last indigo light of day was slipping down to the horizon. Out over the ocean, a gilded moon was hanging over the sea like some splendid god casting shimmering coins across the water. The night was hot and humid, but an onshore breeze had arisen, clacking the stiff fronds of the rows of palms that traced lazy lines in the sand. Gladding’s prize blue peacock, roused from slumber, cried out to the moon, its plaintive, two-tone wail a counterpoint to the low, steady drone of Pacific waves breaking on the shore.

      Cell phone snug to his ear, Gladding welcomed the acoustic cover of the night. Indoors, it was far too easy for planted listening devices to overhear a conversation. Years of habits learned in the military, in the secret services of two nations, and then as a private entrepreneur had taught him to sweep his homes and vehicles for surveillance, but technology changed rapidly, and Gladding knew that no countermeasures were foolproof. Low-tech eavesdropping of the human kind was even more problematic. However well he paid his household staff, any one of them might be tempted by an enemy’s bribes—and Moises Gladding had enemies in abundance.

      To minimize the risk of bugging, Gladding used a succession of cheap, throwaway cell phones that he ran through a private encryption network. When the stakes were high, the wise international businessman avoided unnecessary risks.

      Tonight, the international businessman was not happy. “This is not acceptable. You were meant to deliver on Tuesday. Now you tell me you can’t do it?”

      “No, no, not at all,” the voice on the other end said soothingly. “We will deliver as promised. It will just take a little longer. Three days, no more.”

      The pitch of Gladding’s voice dropped low. “I don’t like delays.”

      It was a simple enough statement, but the uncomfortable silence on the other end told him that, as usual, the soft-spoken threat had had the desired intent. Gladding had not worked with this particular supplier before, but he had vetted him thoroughly. He could only presume that the supplier had vetted him, as well. If so, he would know that Gladding was not a man to cross.

      “The device will be delivered on Friday, complete, compact and ready to go, as promised.”

      “I expect nothing less,” Gladding said.

      A shadow passed across the light spilling onto the terrace. Gladding turned. Gauzy white curtains hung across the open doorway and they moved with the breeze like a sultry dance of veils. His mistress, whom he had left in the shower a short time earlier, had come into the lounge. She stood facing him, holding a stemmed glass and a bottle, her sleek body silhouetted against the glow of the lamps at either end of a rattan sofa. The light of the lamps outlined the shapely figure and long legs under the creamy, diaphanous robe she wore. Her dark hair, still wet from the shower, spilled around her shoulders. Backlit as she was, her face was indistinct, but the way she raised the bottle and glass to him telegraphed the question.

      Gladding nodded and she poured him a glass of something bubbly. A celebration, then. She set his glass on the low table by the sofa and reached for another to fill for herself. She wouldn’t come out onto the terrace while he was in the midst of a business conversation. Even mistresses knew better than to run the risk of suspected eavesdropping.

      “And the package that you promised me?” the voice on the other end of the line wheedled. “It will also be ready for the exchange on Friday?”

      Scowling, Gladding turned back toward the ocean. The moon was high over the water now, a huge orb. “Are you suggesting I would not keep my end of the bargain?”

      “No, no, of course not. I would never—”

      “Good. So, Friday then.”

      “Yes, yes, Friday. You have my word. And I hope—”

      Gladding disconnected. The word of a villain, he thought. How reassuring.

      Three

      Los Angeles

       Monday, April 17

      Hannah threaded her way westward through Monday morning traffic on the snarled Santa Monica Freeway. When it slowed to a dead stop, she used one hand to open the car windows while the other rummaged in her shoulder bag for a covered elastic. Gathering her dark gypsy curls into a knot, she inhaled the bright spring morning. Despite the normal heavy commute, an onshore wind had swept away all visible traces of smog, leaving the sky a pristine, aquatic blue. Not even being stuck in an endless line of cars could get a person down on a morning this pretty, the kind that made her fall in love all over again with her adopted city.

      She was on her way to Rebecca Powell’s gallery in Malibu. From there, the two would head over to the Hollywood Hills studio of the painter whose work Rebecca had been commissioned to buy on behalf of Moises Gladding. At the thought of the client, Hannah’s head made a rueful shake.

      Moises Gladding. Girl, you need your head examined.

      When Rebecca had mentioned last night that she was picking up the painting today, Hannah had insisted on going along. For a job involving a character like Gladding, she intended to be involved in every step of the operation, starting with taking possession of the consignment. Not only would she examine the piece closely, she’d also handle the packing. She was damned if she was going to get on a plane carrying anything she hadn’t perused from stem to stern. Listening to her gut was the only thing that had kept her alive this far and she had no intention of abandoning the policy now. Her gut was adamant that having anything to do with the arms dealer could be a can of worms. Travis Spielman’s reaction only served to underscore her own uncertainty.

      Before going to bed last night, Hannah had done an Internet search on both Gladding and August Koon to see what she could learn about them. Both the arms dealer and the artist had mixed press. One investigative piece on Moises Gladding mentioned off-the-record reports that the man sometimes served as go-between when Washington wanted contact with certain people it couldn’t speak to officially—forces opposing the shaky Saudi royals, say, or a Colombian drug lord with useful information about a troublesome trade partner’s bad habits. But if he served as a sometime cutout for the spooks, Gladding was nobody’s creature but his own, capable of ruthless pragmatism when it came to supplying arms to global hot spots regardless of official Washington’s position on a dispute.

      In the art world, meantime, August Koon also had his supporters and detractors. After studying some of his paintings online, Hannah decided she was in the naysayers’ camp. Like the man said, she might not know much about art but she knew what she liked. Koon’s work looked like nothing so much as the time Gabe had accidentally kicked over a tray of finger paints. According to the articles she’d read, some of his larger pieces commanded high six figure prices. Go figure.

      She would have been