Free The Night Cafe by Taylor Smith Page A

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