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
