arrangements that had been made for her to stow the painting in the first-class cabin. Money talks, and a first-class fare gets first-class service all the way.
Now, what about her other unofficial mission at Gladding’s estate? She rummaged in her wallet for the business card Agent Towle had given her the night before, but when she called his number, she got voice mail. Not surprising. He and Ito had looked like eager beavers, but arriving at the office by seven was probably above and beyond the call of duty. She left a message.
“This is Hannah Nicks. Something’s come up and I have to take a later flight today. Unless I hear from you, I’m going to presume that our arrangement is off.”
She left her cell number so he could call back and let her know if she could still expect a walk-through at airport security. No way she was she sneaking around Gladding’s house unarmed while she played Johnny Appleseed with their electronics. People in his line of work tended to be both paranoid and ruthless, and the more successful the arms dealer, the more that was true. If Towle didn’t call back, no skin off her nose. She’d be just as happy to leave their toys behind in L.A., along with her gun.
Her last call was to Rebecca Powell, but she was no more an early bird than Agent Towle. She left a message there, too, hoping that whoever was meant to meet her in Puerto Vallarta would find out about the later flight.
That done, she went to her bedroom to change into something more appropriate for meeting the assistant headmaster at Dahlby Hall. Cal would no doubt show up in one of his Armani suits. She wasn’t about to arrive looking like Gabe’s poor backwoods relation.
Dahlby Hall’s student register listed some of the most famous names in Los Angeles. The private academy, an L.A. landmark, occupied a sprawling hundred-acre campus high on a hill overlooking Mulholland Drive. Its tiered glass-and-redwood buildings had been designed to blend harmoniously with the wooded surroundings. The visual impression on driving through the main gates was of a serene Japanese Buddhist monastery, a notion only slightly undercut by the childish laughter and playful shouts of uniformed kids in the playground awaiting the first bell.
The city’s wealthiest families signed their children up for Dahlby Hall almost from conception and the academy’s waiting list was said to be backlogged into the next generation. Gabe had attended public school kindergarten in Los Feliz when he lived with Hannah, but after her house there was destroyed and he moved in with his father, Cal and Christie were able to use their media and business connections to leapfrog the wait list and register Gabe for first grade. Christie was now on the school’s board of governors, and she and Cal apparently made substantial annual bequests over and above the academy’s $50,000 tuition. It was a safe bet that the next little Nicks, due to arrive in a couple of months, would also be a Dahlby scholar.
Walking from the parking lot to the main building, she scanned the crowd of students, looking for her son, but the playground closest to the offices seemed to be occupied exclusively by lower-school youngsters. She entered the building and reported to the reception desk.
“My son, Gabriel Nicks, is a student,” she told the girl behind the desk. “His dad and I have an eight-thirty appointment with the assistant headmaster. I’m a little early.”
“Ah, yes, Mrs. Nicks. Or, Ms. Nicks, I guess?” the young woman amended.
No doubt she was remembering the other Mrs. Nicks. Not only was Christie on the board of governors, but she’d been a high-profile local television news anchor before marrying Cal. Her career had shifted into lower gear after she took on the raising of his son. Instead of the evening news, she anchored the early morning program now, though she’d recently left on maternity leave as her pregnancy entered its third trimester.
The
Now, what about her other unofficial mission at Gladding’s estate? She rummaged in her wallet for the business card Agent Towle had given her the night before, but when she called his number, she got voice mail. Not surprising. He and Ito had looked like eager beavers, but arriving at the office by seven was probably above and beyond the call of duty. She left a message.
“This is Hannah Nicks. Something’s come up and I have to take a later flight today. Unless I hear from you, I’m going to presume that our arrangement is off.”
She left her cell number so he could call back and let her know if she could still expect a walk-through at airport security. No way she was she sneaking around Gladding’s house unarmed while she played Johnny Appleseed with their electronics. People in his line of work tended to be both paranoid and ruthless, and the more successful the arms dealer, the more that was true. If Towle didn’t call back, no skin off her nose. She’d be just as happy to leave their toys behind in L.A., along with her gun.
Her last call was to Rebecca Powell, but she was no more an early bird than Agent Towle. She left a message there, too, hoping that whoever was meant to meet her in Puerto Vallarta would find out about the later flight.
That done, she went to her bedroom to change into something more appropriate for meeting the assistant headmaster at Dahlby Hall. Cal would no doubt show up in one of his Armani suits. She wasn’t about to arrive looking like Gabe’s poor backwoods relation.
Dahlby Hall’s student register listed some of the most famous names in Los Angeles. The private academy, an L.A. landmark, occupied a sprawling hundred-acre campus high on a hill overlooking Mulholland Drive. Its tiered glass-and-redwood buildings had been designed to blend harmoniously with the wooded surroundings. The visual impression on driving through the main gates was of a serene Japanese Buddhist monastery, a notion only slightly undercut by the childish laughter and playful shouts of uniformed kids in the playground awaiting the first bell.
The city’s wealthiest families signed their children up for Dahlby Hall almost from conception and the academy’s waiting list was said to be backlogged into the next generation. Gabe had attended public school kindergarten in Los Feliz when he lived with Hannah, but after her house there was destroyed and he moved in with his father, Cal and Christie were able to use their media and business connections to leapfrog the wait list and register Gabe for first grade. Christie was now on the school’s board of governors, and she and Cal apparently made substantial annual bequests over and above the academy’s $50,000 tuition. It was a safe bet that the next little Nicks, due to arrive in a couple of months, would also be a Dahlby scholar.
Walking from the parking lot to the main building, she scanned the crowd of students, looking for her son, but the playground closest to the offices seemed to be occupied exclusively by lower-school youngsters. She entered the building and reported to the reception desk.
“My son, Gabriel Nicks, is a student,” she told the girl behind the desk. “His dad and I have an eight-thirty appointment with the assistant headmaster. I’m a little early.”
“Ah, yes, Mrs. Nicks. Or, Ms. Nicks, I guess?” the young woman amended.
No doubt she was remembering the other Mrs. Nicks. Not only was Christie on the board of governors, but she’d been a high-profile local television news anchor before marrying Cal. Her career had shifted into lower gear after she took on the raising of his son. Instead of the evening news, she anchored the early morning program now, though she’d recently left on maternity leave as her pregnancy entered its third trimester.
The
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