Shooting Gallery

Table of Contents

 

 

According to my source at the museum, someone had disabled the Brock's security system and taken the Chagall in the confusion surrounding the Stendhal faintings. To stroll out of a museum in broad daylight with a painting tucked inside one's bomber jacket took a cool head and an abundance of self-confidence.

The very qualities possessed by a certain art thief I knew only too well. An art thief who once told me that a criminal's cardinal rule was to keep things simple. An art thief who habitually wore a brown leather bomber jacket.

Along with half the men in San Francisco,
I chided myself. Besides, the missing Chagall was small potatoes. Michael X. Johnson hunted bigger game.

Not that he needed the money after the Caravaggio heist last spring. Most likely Michael was lounging by the sea in Saint-Tropez, tanning himself in an indecent swimsuit. Or gambling his ill-gotten gains at the craps table in Monte Carlo. Or ensconced in a Prague penthouse, rolling around naked on satin sheets with a Czech chorus girl.

Not that I cared.

“Delightfully different.”—New Mystery Reader Magazine

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First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

 

First Printing, October 2006

eISBN : 978-1-101-04362-2

Copyright © Julie Goodson-Lawes and Carolyn Lawes, 2006

All rights reserved.

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Acknowledgments

Many thanks are due, as always, to the wonderful agent Kristin Lindstrom and our editors, Martha Bushko and Kerry Donovan.

Muchísimas gracias a Irma Herrera y Mark Levine for throwing such a fabulous release party! Merci beaucoup à Marie et François—pour le français, l'amitié, et la camaraderie. Thanks also to Bee Enos, whose voice and music inspire; and to Pamela, Jan, Charlotte, and all Cuba-loving, wine-drinking, salsa-dancing fools. Thanks to Beth Bruggeman and Kim Sullivan for the running commentary and fan mail; to Mrs. Chan for the insights of a native San Franciscan and for keeping tabs on the aliens; and to the other Mrs. Chan for her insights, pep talks, and steadfastness. To Steve Lofgren, Scott Casper, Anita Fellman, and Karen Smyers for going above and beyond the call of friendship. Thank you as well to our aunts Mem and Suzy, wonderful examples of perseverance and love. Finally, to Susan, Bob, and Jane Lawes, for their completely unbiased support and encouragement . . . and as always, a deep-felt thanks to Jace. How would any of it get done without her?

Prologue

May 10

Why haven't you returned my calls? I've tried Paris, Amsterdam, Rome, Jakarta. . . .
Please
call me, if only to say you're all right. Has the Spanish Minister of the Interior dropped the felony charges yet?

I imagine you've heard that Interpol obtained the first three chapters of your book and the proverbial
merde
has hit the fan. I don't suppose you had anything to do with sending them an advance copy, did you? I
hope
you don't think this is a joke, old man. You'll be lucky if you don't end up dead on the streets of Barcelona, or suspended by your fingers from the Arc de Triomphe like your old fence, Herzog. Remember him? Keep that image in mind the next time you're tempted, will you, please?

I know you are enjoying your new project, Grandfather, but surely you can see that writing a book about your career in art forgery is one thing—the worst that can happen is that you'll spend your declining years in a prison cell—but publishing trade secrets for how to commit fraud, offering advice on how to sell art forgeries, and listing all of the fakes in the world's top art museums . . . was that really such a great idea? You're making some dangerous enemies. Even my father—your son-in-law, remember?—is concerned, and we both know how he feels about you.

And this book hasn't exactly made my life easier. San Francisco isn't that far from Europe, you know. I have a legitimate faux-finishing business now, and even though you think I'm wasting my life, believe me when I say that I like what I do and I don't appreciate the incessant questions about my past. Remember, you promised not to write about me! If you break that promise,
Grandpapa
, I'll come after you myself. I swear I will.

Anyway, I love you and—so help me—I miss you like crazy.
Please
keep yourself out of legal trouble long enough to visit me soon, will you? You promised.

June 15

So wonderful to receive from you this letter! There are few who appreciate your rare humor so much as I.

Rest assured,
ma petite
, the tome is coming along famously and shall be released October 1st to rave reviews, I have no doubt. Just the other day I was writing a few words on the economic ramifications of the traffic in
truquage
and forgeries. I adore the economists. So pragmatic.

Those old fellows at Interpol are so droll. Thank you for reminding me. I shall send them a fruit basket.

I was touched, my darling girl, by your invitation to visit sunny San Francisco. I shall see what I can do, but alas! My arthritis troubles me much in my dotage. Often do I wish for the companionship of my beloved granddaughter to ease my pains. But do not worry. I understand that your work takes priority in your heart.

Remember,
chérie
, stay strong against the naysayers!

—Georges LeFleur, in an interview with
Mother Jones
magazine

 

“Anthony, that body is
not
part of the exhibit,” I said for the third time, my voice rising in desperation. “
Look
at it: there's a
dead man
hanging from your
oak tree
!”

At just that moment, the San Francisco Conservatory of Music's string quartet reached the end of a lilting Mozart air, and my words rang out across Anthony Brazil's bucolic walled sculpture garden. Lighthearted conversation skidded to a halt and the well-coiffed crowd of art lovers, snooty socialites, and local celebrities gaped at me for a second before shifting their gazes to the majestic oak tree in the northeast corner. There, nestled amongst the angel-hair ferns and silvery blue hydrangeas, as though it were one of artist Seamus McGraw's more macabre sculptural installations, dangled the body of a man.

For one long, surreal moment quiet blanketed the posh scene.

Then a scream split the silence.

“Call the police!” someone yelled. “Call 411!”

“It's
911
, you fool!” another shouted in reply. “It's
911
!”

Shrieks and cries and the sound of shattering wine-glasses filled the air as the overflow crowd of Anthony Brazil's A-list clients forgot their finishing-school manners and surged toward the garden's narrow gated exit, where they formed a noisy, upper-crust traffic jam.