Shooting Gallery (33 page)

“Send him away,” Michael ordered when I returned to the phone.

“I will not. My shoulders are killing me after last night. I need a massage.”

“And I need your help. I'm serious, Annie. You have to get everyone out of the house long enough for me to escape.”

“I don't get it, Michael. You got in there, why can't you get out?”

“I
can
get out,” he said, sounding as if his teeth were grinding. “I need you to make sure that I'm not spotted on my way out.”

“Uh-huh,” I said, eyeing Clint, who was remarkably well built. “What about that guy?”

“What guy?”

“Last night, when I asked who was going to pick up my truck, you said you had a guy. Where is my truck, by the way?”

There was a pause. “I'm sorry, we don't seem to be communicating very well. Wasn't I the one who rescued you from a fall to certain death last night? Wasn't I the one who set you up at a fancy hotel for the night?”

“Weren't you the one who abandoned me here?”

“Is
that
it? You're pissed off because I wasn't there when you woke up? Or is Mr. Muscles-for-Brains there entertaining you?”

“No,
Mr. Muscles-for-Brains
is not here,” I protested, and rolled my eyes at the masseur. He smiled.

“Your truck's in the hotel garage. The valet stub is on the dresser. Annie, I swear to God, I need you. Please.”

It was the
please
that did it. My body ached and I was loath to give up an indulgent afternoon watching movies in bed, but Michael
had
gotten me off the hook last night, literally. And apart from laughing at me and extorting information from me, he had done so with surprising good grace.

“Hold on,” I said again. I apologized to Clint, signed the tab, tipped him well, and sent him on his way. “Okay, so why don't you trigger a fire alarm or something?”

“Too risky. This whole place is monitored by remote cameras. I disabled the ones along the route I was taking, but can't get to the others from here. I'd be spotted along any other route, and Nathan is in his study, right outside the panic room. Diane's somewhere in the house, as well. They arrived unexpectedly.”

“Can't Nathan hear you talking on the phone?”

“The room's soundproof. I can watch him on remote, though. He and Kevin are working at his desk. They've been there an hour. I have no idea how long this could go on, but I have to get out of here.”

“Why don't you just wait until they leave?”

“I can't.”

“Why not?”

“I'm claustrophobic.”

“You're
claustrophobic
?”

“Yes, goddammit, I'm claustrophobic.”

“Doesn't that get in the way of being an art thief?”

“You mean like now? Yes, yes it does.”

Well, what did you know? A chink in the mighty Michael's armor.

“What can I do?” I sighed.

“Come here and make up something, anything you can think of to get everyone out of the house. All I need is ten minutes.”

“All right. I'll be there as soon as I can. How do I get there?”

Sounding relieved, he gave me the directions. My fancy dress and dingy overalls hung limply in the closet, offering me a choice of extremely formal and wrinkled or extremely informal and wrinkled. Then I realized my only footwear was my old running shoes. Maybe if I showed up at the Haggertys' wearing last night's sexy dress and smelly running shoes they would be so stunned Michael could slip out unnoticed.

I needed a plan. At this hour on the day before Thanksgiving the freeways and bridges heading out of town were going to be clogged, so zipping home to Oakland to change was out. I didn't have the time or inclination to buy a new pair of uncomfortable high heels. Who might be able to help? Sam and Reggie were at her sister's home in San Diego, and Bryan and Ron were visiting Ron's parents in Petaluma. I knew a few women in the City well enough to ask a footwear favor, but everyone I could think of had already left town for the holidays.

That left Mary. I threw on my overalls, grabbed my dress and evening bag, and ran out the door. I retrieved my truck from the garage, made it across town in record time, and flew past Frank's office with a quick wave. I found Mary in the studio working on the Kwanzaa candelabra. “Hey, Mare—”

“What the hell happened to
you
?” she gasped, getting up from the floor and gently touching my face.

“It's a long story, and I'm in a rush. I have to make a trip to Hillsborough to see a client, but can't go like this. Do you have any of that liquid makeup goop that covers things up?”

“You mean foundation? No way is it gonna cover up that shiner. Were you in a
fight
?”

“I'm fine. Don't worry. Do you have any clothes I could borrow?”

“Sure. But don't give me any of that
walked into a door
or
you should see the other guy
crap, all right?” Mary handed me a well-worn black leather makeup bag and started pulling clothes from the oak armoire, flinging them across the sofa and chairs. Black web netting and ripped black silk abounded.

I applied Mary's makeup with a generous hand to hide my rapidly developing black eye. Foundation, powder, mascara, and lipstick helped me look slightly more respectable, and I combed my hair out and gathered it on top of my head again. After considering the limited clothing options I settled on a short black skirt, a black teddy, a silky black scoop-neck T-shirt, a pair of black tights that bagged a bit at the knees and ankles, and a black velvet cropped jacket.

I inspected myself in the armoire's mirror. Funky. In a slutty kind of way.

“Shoes?”

Mary handed me two pairs: mid-calf black leather boots with silver buckles and clunky black Doc Martens.

“Nothing a little more establishment?”

Mary looked hurt. “These are my most normal shoes. I thought you liked them.”

“I do,” I assured her. “It's just that this is a pretty straight client.”

The Doc Martens made me look like a kid playing dress-up in mommy's hooker clothes and daddy's prison brogans, so I went with the boots. The overall effect was a tad on the dominatrix side, but judging from my interaction with Nathan last night I thought that might work in my favor.

“Wow, Annie,” Mary said, appreciatively. “That's a great look for you. A couple of well-placed rips and you could sing with the band.”

“Um, thanks.”

I grabbed the evening bag, wished Mary a happy holiday, and ran out the door. As I clomped down the stairs I appraised my truck with a critical eye. What would the Haggertys think if I drove up in a dusty pickup truck? The shiny Jaguar parked next to it, on the other hand, would be right at home in Hillsborough.
Don't even consider it
, I told myself.
There's no way in hell.

“Heya, Frank,” I said, opening his office door.

“Annie,” Frank replied with a nod. His cool glance flickered over my ensemble, paused a moment on the boots, and returned to my face. “Interesting outfit. What happened to your eye?”

“Well, you know how it is—you should see the other guy. Hey: remember when you said you would return the Picasso favor sometime?”

“You mean the rent reduction wasn't enough?”

“No. I mean, yes. I mean, it's great. Anyway, I was wondering—”

“Annie, could we speed this up? I'm working on a report that's going to take me several hours, and I'd like to finish before the holiday.”

“Sure, sure. I just need to borrow your Jaguar.”

“Excuse me?”

“For heaven's sake, Frank, it's a car, not a holy relic. May I borrow it, please?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because.”

“That's not an answer.”

“Okay: no, Annie, you cannot borrow the Jaguar.”

“You mean to tell me you would ruin our budding friendship by denying me the use of your car for a very short period of time when you're not even using it?”

“If we are indeed friends, Annie,” he intoned, “then I hardly think my not lending you my car would ruin our friendship.”

“If we are indeed friends, Frank,” I replied, “then I hardly think you'd balk at lending me your car. I'm not going to hurt it. What can I do to get you to trust me?”

“Be a different person.”

Well, dang. That kind of hurt my feelings.

“Forget it,” I said with uncharacteristic dignity and headed for the door. “I'm sorry I put you on the spot. And you're right—we aren't good enough friends to trust each other with something of value.”

I left
like an irreplaceable Picasso
unsaid, hanging in the air between us.

I heard a loud exhalation of breath. “Annie—wait. Come back here. Why do you need the Jaguar? Is something wrong with the truck?”

“The truck is old and battered and while I love it for precisely those reasons, I have an important meeting with a wealthy client who is very status conscious, and I have to pick him up at the airport. I tried to rent a nice car, but they gave away my reservation and offered me a pink Geo Metro, and I can hardly pick him up in a pink Geo Metro, now, can I? And now his plane's due in twenty minutes and I'm late, and I thought maybe you would be willing to lend me your car for a couple of hours. I mean, what could possibly happen?”

I winced slightly as I said the last sentence.

“Take it,” he said tossing me a set of keys. “But you had better be back here, with the vehicle intact, by four o'clock. Do you hear me?”

“Loud and clear.” I fumbled the catch, retrieved the keys from the floor, and added, “Four o'clock, yessiree, no problem.”

“That's four o'clock
today
. And bring it back clean, if at all possible.”

“As a whistle. And Frank?” I tossed him my keys. “No joy rides in the truck, wild man. You hear me?”

What in the world is an
autograph masterpiece,
I
ask you? As if an autograph cannot be replicated!
As early as the sixteenth century, printmakers
learned the power of adding a signature to forged
Albrecht Dürer prints, thus tripling their value.

—Georges LeFleur, in an interview in
Die Zietung

 

Traffic out of the City on the eve of a four-day holiday was a nightmare. It took me nearly forty-five minutes to get to the Hillsborough exit, a distance of roughly fifteen miles. As I wound my way through the hills I wondered how to get the Haggertys out of the house. Had Nathan been alone, I would have lured him out with the promise of a frolic in the sunshine, but with Kevin and Diane and possibly others, as well? I supposed I could try for an orgy, but my loyalty to Michael only went so far.

In the light of day the Haggerty estate's massive gates and the fountain's frolicking cherubim looked even more glaringly Pots o' New Money with Lots o' Bad Taste. I drove the Jaguar up the semicircular driveway, parked in front of the door, and tried to think of something clever to tell them.

Nothing, absolutely nothing.

Annie
, I lectured myself sternly as I clomped up the front steps,
do not hyperventilate
. As hard as it is now, it will be even harder if Nathan comes to the door and you have a paper bag over your head. You will just have to lie like a shag rug. And what do we do when we are fresh out of lies? We call on our grandfather, that's what we do.

Ah, but zat is easy, chérie
, Georges replied.
Tell your dear new friends Monsieur et Madame Haggerty zat zere was somezing zey simply had to see at ze end of ze drive, and would zey be so kind as to indulge you? And zey will say, but of course, my leetle friend.

C'mon, Grandfather
, I prayed.
Don't fail me now.

The door opened and a harried-looking woman with mousy brown hair glared at me.

“Hello,” I said with an ingratiating smile. “I'm here to see Nathan Haggerty, please.”

The mouse looked me over and frowned. “Is Mr. Haggerty expecting you?”

“Not really, but this is important. Vitally important. In fact, I wouldn't stay in the house if I were you. I regret to inform you that we've received a tip that a radical antiapartheid group has placed a bomb in the house and that it is set to go off at”—oh, lord, what time was it? I never wore a watch—“soon.
Very
soon.”

“An antiapartheid group?”

“That's right, ma'am. Please, we must hurry.”

“But apartheid ended years ago.”

“Not everyone agrees.”

“Like who?”

I had to hand it to Ms. Mouse. She was standing her ground.

“Please, ma'am, I was a guest at a party here last night and I feel responsible for the well-being of the household. Perhaps you could tell the Haggertys that I'm here, and that I need to speak with them?”

She looked at me. I looked at her. Our optical duel lasted for several seconds, until she stepped aside and waved me in.

“Thank you, ma'am, but I'd rather not. I've called the bomb squad, so I'll just wait here, thanks, where I probably won't be killed by the initial blast and might even stand a chance of surviving my disfiguring wounds. Best tell the Haggertys to hurry.”