bare. She had meant to go grocery shopping after picking up the painting but then postponed the trip, not willing to leave the Koon in her car while she ducked into Whole Foods. With a guilty sigh, she pulled a box out of the cupboard and put a pot of water on the stove to boil. Processed mac and cheese. Pathetic. Why did she even have this stuff in the house? Easy. Because Gabe liked it and his stepmother, to her credit, refused to buy it.
When he was little, Hannah had conscientiously made his mac and cheese from scratch. Then, one day when he was around four, he’d come home from a playdate singing ecstatic praises for the orange noodles he’d had at his friend’s house. On their next trip to the grocery store, he’d spotted the Kraft Dinner box on a shelf and nearly had a meltdown when Hannah resisted buying it. It was about the time his father had left to move in with his latest squeeze, soon to be the second Mrs. Calvin Nicks, and Hannah hadn’t had the heart or strength to battle their little boy over a stupid box of noodles. That had been the end of butter roux and hand-shredded cheese, however. Now, although Gabe took infrequent meals at her house, she still found herself buying the boxed quick dinner because he inevitably asked for it.
After her meal was cooked, she ate it standing up at the kitchen sink. This was not the kind of meal that deserved to be eaten sitting down with a nice glass of wine. She watched the dew gather on a web outside her kitchen window, sparkling drops on the precise loops and gossamer lines woven by some sure-footed spider. Must be nice, Hannah thought, to be so certain of what your job in life was and how to go about doing it.
She downed a glass of milk, then cleaned up the kitchen and headed for her bedroom, selecting a backpack for the trip that would allow her to bypass the airline baggage check and get quickly out of the airport after landing in Puerto Vallarta and going through Customs. She packed just enough for an overnight stay, but then, on impulse, tossed a bathing suit into the pack as well. Remembering Rebecca in her gauzy dress that morning, Hannah also went to her closet and slid hangers until she found a flowing skirt. Fancy resort, why not? She could head to the hotel after the painting was delivered, lounge on the beach, and then have a nice dinner on Moises Gladding’s tab.
Unhooking the skirt and a matching tank top, she spotted the safe in the back of her closet where she kept her Beretta locked away. She would feel naked going out on a job without it, but since she wasn’t checking bags, there was no way to carry it through airport security. The nature of the assignment hardly warranted it anyway, no matter how much of a genius August Koon might be in his own mind.
Three hours later, she was curled up on her living room couch, flipping channels, when the doorbell rang. Her eyelids had been getting heavy and she’d been thinking about packing it in for the night, but at the thought that Russo might have decided to drop by, she perked right up. Glancing down, she briefly considered a dash for the bedroom to change, but then the bell rang again. No matter. If Russo was going to pursue her, he might as well know the ugly truth—she was a woman who wore Garfield pajamas.
She flipped on the front porch light and glanced through the peephole, then paused, taken aback. It wasn’t Russo on the other side of the door. Two clean-cut men in almost identical dark gray suits stood on her front porch. It was a little late for Mormon missionaries or Jehovah’s Witnesses, so her money was on cops. And not just any cops. Feds.
“Who is it?” she asked through the door.
“Federal agents, Mrs. Nicks,” one of them said.
Bingo. Through the peephole’s convex lens, Hannah saw both men raise black leather folders with gold-colored shields on the top half and ID badges boldly emblazoned with the letters FBI on the bottom.
She frowned and opened the door a few inches, keeping herself and her Garfield pajamas mostly hidden. “Can I help you?”
They lowered their badges in unison and put them away. One was Asian-American, the other Anglo, but they were otherwise so alike as to be almost indistinguishable, with haircuts that were neither long enough nor short enough to be fashionable.
“I’m Special Agent Bruce Ito, ma’am, and this is Special Agent Joseph Towle,” the Asian-looking man said.
“We’d like to have a word, if that’s all right,” Towle added.
“What’s this about?”
“Can we come in?”
“Depends. Can you tell me what this is about?” Hannah asked again.
Ito and Towle glanced at each other, then back at her. “It’s about your trip to Mexico, Mrs. Nicks,” Towle said.
“How do you know about that?”
“Maybe we should discuss this inside?”
Hannah sighed, then opened the door wide and stood back to let them in. They seemed a little taken aback when they saw what she was wearing, but came in. She closed the door behind them.
“We’re sorry to come by so late,” Ito said, “but we wanted to be sure to catch you before you left.”
“I’ll ask again, how do you know about that?”
“We understand you’re doing some work for Moises Gladding,” Towle said.
Hannah studied them for a minute, then extended her arm toward the sofa. “I guess you’d better sit down and tell me what exactly it is you want.”
The two agents nodded. “After you,” Towle said.
Hannah led the way into the living room, took the rocker and left them the couch. She grabbed the remote and flipped off the television as they settled in. Ito was carrying a briefcase and he set that on the floor beside his feet. The two agents leaned forward, elbows on knees, and looked at her expectantly.
“What?” Hannah asked.
“You were going to tell us about this work you’re doing for Moises Gladding,” Ito said.
“You were going to tell me how you know about that.”
Towle shrugged. “Information came our way. So, about the work…?”
“I don’t know what ‘information’ has come your way, but I’m not working for Gladding.”
“We know you’re transporting some merchandise for him. What’s your relationship to Gladding?”
“Relationship? There is no relationship. I repeat, I am not working for him. What I’m transporting is a painting, if you must know. I was hired by a gallery owner who purchased the painting on Gladding’s behalf. Gladding wants the painting at his vacation home in Mexico. End of story.”
“This is the first we’ve heard of Gladding’s international dealings having anything to do with art,” Ito said. “And from what we know of you, Mrs. Nicks, art’s not your usual line, either.”
Hannah shifted back in her chair. “In the first place, please don’t call me Mrs. Nicks. I’m nobody’s missus. And in the second, if you know about my work, you know that I’m a freelance security specialist. I usually do personal security or private ops—”
Towle grimaced. “You’ve had some interesting press.”
She waved a hand. “A couple of jobs ended up high-profile because of the players involved. Most of what I do is pretty routine. Getting a painting
