Dark Angel Before the Dawn

around here. Actually, I don't have

any

kind of money around here… but I know several buyers who do.”

A pulse of excitement jumped in her stomach. “So— what's our next move?”

Somewhere under that beard, Sherwood had worked up a half smirk. “I suppose you trusting me, for a few days, is out of the question.”

“I like you, Woody,” she said. “But not that much.”

“I can hardly blame you. Well, then, here's the situation. If we want to sell this beautiful painting for anywhere near its value, people are going to want to test it. To

see

it tested… For that to happen, I need to have it here.”

Max didn't like where this was going. “What's to keep you from screwing me?”

“Besides my age, and the price of Viagra?” He shrugged. “All I have is my word. Didn't Mr. Vogelsang vouch for me?”

“Oh, sure… but who'd vouch for

that

sleazebag?”

“True, true… but I assure you, I'm honest.”

“Woody, you deal in stolen property.”

“That's true, but I do it honestly.”

She laughed in spite of herself. “Okay, Woody, you call me, and I'll bring the painting, and whoever wants to see it tested, can see it tested.”

“That would be a workable plan,” he said, “but for two things.”

“Go on.”

“First, my function is to buffer you from the buyers and the buyers from you— I provide insulation of sorts, should— for example— you or my client turn out to be participating in what used to be called, quaintly, a sting… is

that

pre-Pulse term familiar to you?”

“That one is,” she admitted.

“Second, rain's coming down like a veritable son of a bitch, and you should not risk taking that painting out into it, even with that zippered pouch of yours.”

Max shrugged with a knowingness beyond her years. “Maybe so, but I'm still not leaving the painting here. You have a nice line of bull, Woody, but I just met you… and you may be an honest crook, but you're still a crook.”

He made a clicking sound in his cheek. “That is a fact… and this is a commission I could dearly use right now.”

“Fine. Well?”

The fence let out a big sigh. “All right, little lady. Let me make a phone call. There is a client I know who would be perfect for this acquisition.”

“Excellent. Tell me about him… or is it a her?”

For the first time, a frown creased the fence's brow. “I can't give you a name or any background— you're compromising my professional ethics enough as it is.”

She said nothing; she was frowning, too.

Sherwood removed a cell phone from his suit-coat pocket. “Do I make the call? I'll do my best to get the buyer to come down right, now.”

“… Make the call.”

“But you can't be here.”

Now she was getting pissed. “Woody, I can't

not

be here.”

Sherwood was ahead of her. “No, dear… What I mean to say is, you go into the office next door, you can use that hole in the wall to watch and listen.” He pointed to the head-sized hole she'd noted coming in; the aperture was a foot or so behind Sherwood and would give Max the perfect place from which to monitor the transaction.

“I'd still feel better knowing who the buyer is.”

“That is not negotiable, dear. I would protect you, likewise.”

She rose, picked up the metal folding chair on her side of the desk, and there was a loud crack as she snapped the back off it with her two small leather-gloved hands.

Sherwood's eyes flared. “I do like an assertive female… Mr. Glickman is his name, and that's all I know. He's actually another layer of insulation, the agent for a consortium of buyers. What I do know… and this should please you… is that Mr. Glickman pays top dollar, in untraceable cash… tens, twenties, twenty-fives… and he never haggles much about the price. For quality such as this, he'd expect to pay a quality price… Shall I make the call?”

A tiny smile formed on her full lips as she said, “Go ahead and drop the dime.”

Sherwood's smile was a delighted one. “You

do

know some pre-Pulse slang, don't you, you little vixen?”

Twenty minutes later, the rain still beating its staccato rhythm on windows, echoing down the hall like gunfire, Max and her Ninja were safely snugged in the office next door when she heard a car door slam outside. She crept to the hole in the wall and assumed a position that would conceal her and reveal the mysterious Glickman.

For his part, Sherwood didn't seem the least bit nervous, and Max realized she was no doubt not the first person to witness a transaction from this hiding place. She did wonder if the porthole had been formed by a dissatisfied client shoving the fence's head through the wall…

Tucked into the shadows, Max could see through the broken-glass door frames of her private office as two men walked down the hall, passed her without looking in, and strode into Sherwood's office. The two men stayed near the door, and Max couldn't make out anything more than their shapes.

“What happened to the chair?” one of them asked, his voice sounding nasal and somehow muffled.

“Vandals,” Sherwood said distastefully, as he rose, and then his tone warmed up. “Mr. Glickman, I apologize for bringing you out in such vile weather… ” The painting was on the desk, like a colorful blotter. “… but, as I told you on the phone, this is a major Grant Wood.”

The fence, smiling proudly, held up the Masonite board.

“It certainly is,” a rather refined voice replied.

“I, uh… haven't met your associate. This is a breach of etiquette.”

“Breach of etiquette?” another, rougher voice responded. “I can think of something worse.”

An icy shiver spiked through Max:

she had heard that voice before

… in the foyer at Jared Sterling's mansion. One of his security team! Maurer, the black, clean-cut guard…

“Something worse?” Sherwood said, clearly off-balance.

The pair stepped forward into the fluorescent's path and Max's view. In a black rain-dripping raincoat, Maurer stood on the right, his nose heavily bandaged, while on the left, the other “insulation,” Mr. Glickman, stood in a London Fog, and Max recognized him, as well— his hair in the same iron-gray crew cut, the scars still on his cheeks, each about the size of a dime.

Sterling's security chief.

“I mean,” Glickman said, “trying to sell back a painting stolen from my boss.”

Sherwood's whole body seemed to go slack. “I… I… I had no idea… ”

“It was heavily covered in the media. You work in the art field. Certainly you knew this painting was Mr.