Shooting Gallery (13 page)

Michael shoved his hands into the pockets of his perfectly faded Levi's 401 jeans and rocked back on the heels of his scuffed brown leather boots. His blue work shirt gaped open at the neck, revealing smooth, tanned skin and a few curly black chest hairs peeking over the collar of his white T-shirt. He looked good enough to eat, and I was pretty sure he knew it.

“Annie, darling, I don't have the Chagall,” he began smoothly. “Had you read this morning's
Chronicle
you would know that the Brock Museum received a ransom note for it yesterday.”

“Yeah, can you believe it?” He chuckled and shook his head.

“The painting was
kidnapped
? Not stolen?”

“I'm not sure you can kidnap a painting. Don't you need a kid for that?”

Poor Agnes Brock, I thought, ignoring his banter. The Brock enjoyed a healthy endowment, but like most museums it didn't have a lot of spare cash. Having a painting stolen was bad enough, but paying a ransom for its return added insult to injury.

“How much is the ransom?” I asked, curious.

“Now, that's the complicated part,” Michael said. “You might say its value is beyond mere money.”

“Just tell me, please.” I hated riddles. I even got stumped by knock-knock jokes, to the eternal delight of my young nephews. “What do the kidnappers want?”

“Peace in the Middle East.”

“I'm sure we can agree it's a laudable goal,” Michael said, sounding pious. “Don't you want peace in the Middle East?”

“Of course, but the Brock Museum doesn't have any influence over the situation there,” I protested. “That's crazy.”

“So was stealing the Chagall. It's not especially valuable, after all. Doesn't it make you wonder, Annie, why a thief would go to the trouble of turning off the security system
and
engineering a diversion just to steal that particular painting?”

I stared at him. He was right. The Brock had any number of paintings with far greater market value than the Chagall, especially if ransom were the thief's objective. So why had that painting been taken?

Michael strolled over to the window, just your average world-class art thief passing a Sunday morning philosophizing with a friend. Sitting on the sill, he crossed his arms over his chest and continued. “The Gérôme—now, that's what I would have taken. Jean-Léon Gérôme's Orientalist realism has been greatly underrated. Mark my words: It's just a matter of time until he comes into his own, and when that happens, the value of his paintings will go through the roof.”

“You're telling me the truth, aren't you?” I said slowly. “You really
didn't
take the Chagall.”

A frown marred Michael's handsome face. “This isn't very complicated, Annie. I've been saying that from the beginning.”

His gaze fell on the Picasso clutched in my arms.

“Whoa there, cowboy. Don't go getting any ideas about
this
painting. I could still finger you for the Caravaggio, you know.”

“You could. But you won't.”

“Are you so sure?”

“Reasonably sure, yes.”

“And why is that?”

“Because you have a touch of larceny in your heart.”

“You don't know that,” I retorted. It was true, though. I was constantly fighting it.

He pushed away from the windowsill, sauntered over, and gazed into my eyes. “But mostly because . . .” He paused for better effect.
What a ham,
I thought. My heart told me to shut up, and beat a little faster. “Because against your better judgment you have a soft spot in your heart for me.”

“Not soft enough to cushion the blow of a stolen Picasso, you big fake.”

Michael staggered backwards, a hand clutching his chest. “You wound me, Annie.”

“You'll get over it,” I replied. “I ain't jokin' here, big guy.”

Michael straightened up. “In that case, let me remind you that should you finger me for the Caravaggio—which, for the record, I do not for a second believe you would actually do—I might, albeit only under torture or threat of indictment, be forced to spill the beans about your dear grandpapa's role in that little affair. It would break my heart, of course. And you? Could you do that to such a wonderful old man?”

“Just for your own damned record,
I
don't believe for a second that you would rat out Georges,” I said with a glare. “Wouldn't that violate the code of honor among thieves?”

“You watch too many trashy movies, sweetheart.”

This was true. “Was there a reason you came here today, Michael, or were you just bored?”

“You underestimate your charms.”

“And you
overestimate
yours,” I shot back.

He smiled. “I need a date.”

I snorted. “Yeah, right.”

“Seriously.” He picked up a paintbrush from the worktable and caressed its sable bristles with his long, tanned fingers. I wondered if it was possible to envy a paintbrush. “I have been invited to an exceedingly formal and exceptionally dull cocktail party in Hillsborough next Tuesday, for which I need a date. A
respectable
date. You are the most respectable woman I know.” He paused and grinned. “And I happen to enjoy your company.”

Oh, please,
I thought. San Francisco was full of lovely, well-educated, and eminently respectable women who would be delighted to accompany Michael to a barbeque in hell, much less to a cocktail party in Hillsborough, an exclusive enclave on the peninsula south of San Francisco. So why was he asking me?

“You're up to something,” I said.

“Annie, my love, we really must work on your trust issues.”

In the Bay Area we did not have disagreements, fights, hatreds, or to-the-death blood feuds; we had
issues.
I was beginning to have issues with people who had issues.

“Still ain't interested.”

“Tell you what,” he said, flipping the lucky brush into the air, where it rotated several times before landing, bristles up, with a clink in a glass jar. He strolled over and stood so close that I could feel the heat of his body. I wished he didn't smell so damned good. “If you come to the party with me on Tuesday, I'll make sure the Brock gets the Chagall back.”

“I thought you said you didn't have it.”

“I don't, but I might be able to locate it.
If
you will do me this one small favor.”

Could he find the Chagall? Probably. Would he give it to me? Good question.

His green eyes wandered down my overalls and up to my face, gazing into my eyes with a soulfulness that communicated in a thousand ways that I was the most supremely desirable woman on the planet. Better than a supermodel lounging in the sun on a deserted tropical island. In a thong. Topless.

“Annie, my love,” he said, his voice husky, and leaned in as if to kiss me.

I had no false modesty. I knew I was an attractive woman, especially when I made a little effort. I also knew it was highly unlikely that wars would be fought in my honor, that a king would give up his throne for me, or that my overalled and sleep-haired charms were sufficient to distract a professional art thief from thieving.

“Cut the crap, Michael,” I barked. “I'm onto you.”

The seduction routine came to an abrupt halt. “I'll pay you the money from last spring.”

“You'll pay that anyway. You want my company? It'll cost you.”

“All right. How much?”

“You get the Chagall back
and
Bryan off the hook, and quickly. And my going rate is a hundred fifty an hour.”

Michael's eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Is that what faux finishers charge these days? That's almost as much as a first-class call girl.”

I gasped.

“It's a deal,” he said.

“Fine,” I replied, surprised—and a little worried—that he had agreed so readily. Note to self: consider raising your price. “But I want the money you owe me
and
I want the cash in advance. And FYI: Your money buys my scintillating conversation. That's
all
.”

Michael reached into his jeans pocket and extracted a thick roll of Benjamins. I gaped at it, though I supposed in his line of work Michael had to be prepared to hightail it out of town at a moment's notice without leaving a paper trail. The most I usually had on me was a twenty, and maybe sixty-eight cents on the floor of my truck.

Michael peeled off four of the hundred-dollar bills. “That's for last spring,” he said and looked at me with an arched brow. “How long does a date take? Four or five hours? I pick you up, say sevenish, and have you tucked in by the stroke of midnight?” He counted off seven more bills.

“I need a new dress, too,” I piped up. What the hell.

Michael sighed. “Make it sexy. But classy.”

“And shoes,” I said, going for broke. “Don't forget the shoes.”

He handed me several more hundreds. “There. Shoes
and
a bag
and
silk stockings and whatever else you think you need. Just come through for me, Annie.”

“Why, Michael, have I ever failed you?” I purred, batting my eyelashes and tucking the wad of cash into the bib of my paint-splattered overalls. Helen of Troy had nothing on me.

Michael smiled and headed for the window. “I'll pick you up on Tuesday. Seven o'clock sharp.”

“Wait a minute,” I called after him. “Where are we going?”

“To a private home. Our charming host made a fortune in the high-tech industry. There will be a number of businessmen from Hong Kong.”

“I don't speak computer,” I warned.

“Anton said you speak a little Mandarin.”

“Emphasis on
little
, there, sport.” When I was a child my grandfather had taught me how to say
Please
,
Thank you
,
Where is the bathroom
? and
How dare you accuse me of something so outrageous?
in seven different languages. Georges LeFleur was a practical man.

“
Hello
and
good-bye
will suffice. No one will expect you to do anything except look pretty anyway.”

I scowled at him. He smiled at me.

“One more thing,” I said. “Have you ever heard of Robert Pascal?”

“Sure. His stuff is too heavy to steal, too hard to fence, and too ugly to boot. Why?”

“Just curious.”

“Don't be. There are some nasty rumors about him.”

“Like what?”

“Stay away from him, Annie,” he said soberly. “I mean it. Oh, and about that Picasso.” I hugged the painting like a mother hugs a child threatened by a bully. “Didn't the Nazis steal that from the Steinbergen family during World War II?”

“No.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because Frank would never be involved in something like that.”

“Frank DeBenton?” Michael queried, his eyebrows raised. “As in DeBenton Secure Transport? How much do you know about your landlord, Annie?”

“Enough to be sure he wouldn't traffic in stolen art. Unlike
some
people I could mention.”

“No fair! You know I have rules.”

“No group jobs?” I said, referring to his oft-repeated preference for solo thievery.

“No group jobs,” he repeated. “And no looted art.”

“Oh, that's right,” I said sarcastically. “When it comes to stealing what's already been stolen, you're a veritable Eagle Scout.”

“I should hope so,” he said, not at all perturbed. “ 'Til Tuesday, then.” And with that he climbed out the window and silently slipped down the fire escape.

I gazed after him. What had he been implying about Frank? Why was he paying me a boatload of money to go to a cocktail party? And what were my chances the evening would end in a bail hearing?

The hundred-dollar bills in my pocket rustled as I locked the window against further intrusions and hung a
Do Not Disturb, Artist in Session, And Yes I'm Talking to You, Pal
sign on the door. I placed the Picasso face-up on a worktable and began testing various absorbent cloths and heat settings on the sample canvas I'd made. When I put wax-absorbent paper over the crayon mark and applied a medium-heat iron, the colored wax lifted out of the sample canvas without leaving a residue. A quick call to Anton confirmed my approach was sound. I was sitting on the couch, taking some cleansing breaths and screwing up my courage to attempt the process on the Picasso, when the telephone rang.

“
Chérie!
So you have some good news for your old grandpapa, no?” It was my beloved grandfather, Georges Francois LeFleur, world-class art forger and all-around scoundrel.

“News? What news? Where are you calling from, Grandfather?”

“Ah, my darling, you air zo modest.
Quelle charmante!
Ze dashing Monsieur Brooks has set hees cap for you, eh?”

Georges LeFleur had been born in Brooklyn and spent the first fifteen years of his life speaking Brooklynese. As an adult he had reinvented himself—several times, in fact—and now spoke English with a nearly impenetrable French accent.

I adored my grandfather and understood him as few others could, but at times he drove me crazy. He would not call me when I needed information, but burned up the international telephone wires when he thought I had hooked up with a dashing, larcenous art thief.

A man much like himself, in other words.

“Grandfather,” I said with as much patience as I could muster. “‘Colin Brooks' isn't even his real name. I know him as Michael. And he doesn't want
me
. He wants something
from
me.”