Brush With Death (10 page)

“Because I don't have any
official
contacts. Nor do I have the time or money to hop a plane to Rome to check it out for myself. I was hoping you might give your buddies on the FBI art squad a call.”

The art squad was the FBI's answer to Interpol. Over the years the European law enforcement agency had worked to foil international art crime. In the U.S. of A., stolen art had traditionally been the jurisdiction of local law enforcement agencies, which meant that if the Guggenheim lost a priceless work of art it called in the NYPD. But urban police departments, overwhelmed with street crime, drugs, and random violence, rarely had the time, interest, or expertise to track down stolen masterpieces. A few years ago the FBI launched a specialized unit dedicated to tracking art and art criminals. Not only did the formation of the new squad recognize the historical and cultural value of art, but it was also a response to trends in crime in the new millennia. Stolen and forged art were now the third most profitable international crime, and were often used to launder drug money and as collateral for arms deals.

Frank was on good terms with the FBI art squad. I feared I was on file with the FBI art squad.

“I'll make a few inquiries,” he said.

“Thank you.”

“You're welcome.”

“One more thing. Have you ever heard of Donato Sandino?”

“Of course. He's a fake buster. Probably
the
fake buster. For the last decade or so he's been the director of the Dietrich Labs in Germany. I'm surprised you've never run into him.”

“Well, you know me. I keep my nose out of fakes and into faux.” I repeated the phrase to myself. I liked it.

“Smart woman. Why the sudden interest in Sandino?”

“I was just wondering what he's been up to lately.”

“He's rumored to be chasing a forger he calls ‘the Bandit. ' I don't suppose you know him?”

“Who?”

“The Bandit.”

“The Bandit?”

“Because if you did happen to know the Bandit,” Frank said with a ghost of a smile, “you might want to warn said Bandit he'd better beat it out of Bavaria.”

“'Fraid I don't know who you're talking about, Frank, but thanks for the heads-up.” I kept my face straight while my mind raced. Had straight-and-narrow Frank DeBenton just tipped me off to warn my grandfather about Sandino? Maybe I should make a phone call or twenty to Bavaria. I rose to leave.

“Now I have a question for you,” Frank said.

I sat back down. “Shoot.”

“How well do you know a man who goes by the alias Michael X. Johnson?”

“Doesn't, um, ring a bell. . . .”

“Johnson came by yesterday to discuss what he calls the ‘discreet retrieval' of stolen art and artifacts. As I suspect you know, he is uniquely qualified for the position.”

“Oh?”

“Indeed.”

“What makes you think—”

“Annie, please.”

I looked away. Frank's scorn was harder to deal with than it used to be.

“Remember my friend Kevin, the FBI agent? If I'm not mistaken, you met Kevin last fall at a cocktail party in Hills-borough. Your escort that evening was a man who called himself ‘Raphael,' aka Michael X. Johnson. Ring a bell now?”

Damn. “How's Kevin doing?”

“He's recovered nicely from the bullet wound,” Frank said. “His ego took more of a beating. Answer my question.”

“Now that you mention it,” I said, “Michael's an old family friend. I had no idea what he was up to that night.”

“Are you telling me your father, the eminent art scholar Dr. Harold Kincaid, consorts with art thieves?”

“The family's tie to Michael sort of skipped a generation,” I said. “But, Frank, Michael has nothing to do with—”

“Annie,” Frank said, a hint of sadness in his voice. “I doubt you can appreciate how much I regret having to say this, but . . .”

My heart sped up.

“. . . if you continue your relationship with this man I will not be able to employ you. In any capacity. In fact, if you continue your relationship with this man, it would be better if we did not associate. At all.”

A few months ago Frank and I had worked out our mutual difficulties regarding the studio rent—I had trouble paying, he had trouble collecting—by striking a deal: I functioned as his on-call art restorer and expert, and he reduced the rent. Since Frank not only owned the building but also ran an art transportation service, it seemed like the perfect fit. I had not counted on Michael X. Johnson complicating my life.

Yet again.

“What are you saying?” My voice caught in my throat.

“I cannot have a tenant—much less a friend—who is in cahoots with an art thief, even one who claims to have gone straight.”

“But I'm not in cahoots with anyone! I'm one hundred percent cahoots-free!”

“Be that as it may,” Frank said as he opened a manila folder on the desk in front of him. He continued without looking up. “I can't afford even the appearance of impropriety. My clients would pull their accounts so fast I'd be bankrupt in six months.”

“Surely you're exaggerating. It's none of your clients' business with whom one of your tenants ‘consorts'—and may I add that Michael X. Johnson has never been convicted of art theft?” I did not mention that I knew for a fact Michael was guilty as sin.

“I can't take that chance.”

“Are you throwing me out of the building?” I rasped. I loved my studio. I
needed
my studio.

“Of course not,” Frank said, his face softening. “I'm not an ogre, remember? But please—for both our sakes, do not continue your relationship with Johnson. He's bad news, Annie.
Very
bad news.”

He closed the folder, picked up the telephone, and started dialing.

I had been dismissed.
Guess I better tell Mom to cancel the caterer,
I grumbled as I shuffled out to my truck. On the way home I rewrote the conversation with Frank in my head and dazzled my landlord with my biting, clever replies. I stopped at the Safeway on Grand Avenue to pick up something for dinner and found myself vacillating between buying a fifth of Stoli and splurging on a pint of New York Super Fudge Chunk.

I got both.

The next morning I awoke with an upset stomach and a pounding head. Rats. Time to lay off the booze and chocolate. If I weren't careful I'd turn into a fat, drunken, studio-less artist.

I glanced at the clock: ten thirty. Double rats. I had intended to get up early and accomplish a million and one things, but working the swing shift had played havoc with my biorhythms. Make that a fat, drunken, studio-less,
unemployed
artist.

My late rising wasn't entirely the fault of the Stoli ice cream floats and strange work schedule. I had spent almost an hour on a fruitless round of international phone calls, and wound up leaving a trail of messages for Grandfather from Sussex to Sicily. After that, Frank's assumption that my past associations would drive away his current clients had kept me tossing and turning half the night. I hadn't been arrested since my seventeenth birthday—I didn't count the two brief detainments for civil disobedience because, after all, protest marches were one of my few regular forms of exercise—but that one teensy accusation of forgery had made me an outcast. And as much as I denied it, the rejection of the legitimate art world rankled. I was happy with my faux-finishing business, but I missed the world of rarified galleries and fine museums. If nothing else, it would be nice to be able to take in an exhibit without feeling as though I had to avoid the security cameras.

On the other hand, if the preposterous story about
La Fornarina
was true, and I could help to return the masterpiece to the Barberini Palace, I might be able to redeem myself. It was a long shot, but what would it hurt to nose around a little? As my friends liked to remind me, I was the queen of long shots. Invigorated, I pulled on my overalls and a long-sleeved black T-shirt, made a thermos of Peet's coffee, and packed a lunch of Sukhi's samosas from the local farmers' market. First stop: Roy Cogswell's office. At the very least, he might be able to enlighten me as to why the Chapel of the Chimes displayed a computerized reproduction of
La Fornarina
labeled a nineteenth-century copy by Crispin Engels. Genuine Raphael or no, that was strange.

One thought occurred to me: if the original had been hanging in the columbarium all these years, its very anonymity had been its safekeeping. Just in case the staff had unknowingly replaced the real
La Fornarina
with a digital copy while they sent the precious masterpiece out to be cleaned, for example, it was best to be circumspect when asking around. The last thing I wanted to do was give someone the idea of selling the painting to the highest bidder on the black market.

I entered the columbarium through the front door, but halted in my tracks when I spied Cogswell near the conference room chatting with Billy Mudd, a contractor I knew only too well. In this land of crunchy granola environmentalists, Mudd's business cards introduced him as BILLY THE EVIL DEVELOPER. I had to give the man points for honesty.

Last year Mudd and I had squared off at a town meeting over his plans to replace the Fox Theater, an aging art deco palace, with a concrete parking garage. The forces of historical preservation and all-around righteousness—bolstered by Aaron Garner's deep pockets—had prevailed, and Mudd had held it against me ever since. A few months ago he had driven me off a posh Alamo job site by hinting to the owner that I'd had a few run-ins with the law.

If only he knew.

Hoping the men were too engrossed in conversation to notice me, I backed into a narrow apse and glanced out a leaded window overlooking the vast graveyard. Frederick Law Olmsted, the famous landscape architect who created New York City's Central Park, had also designed the beautiful Bayview Cemetery, its rolling hills offering a serene venue with breathtaking views of downtown Oakland, the bay, San Francisco, and the Golden Gate Bridge. A handful of dog walkers, several joggers, and a gaggle of young moms pushing strollers took advantage of the cemetery's willingness to act as a de facto park.

The view reminded me of a new friend who ate lunch in the cemetery most days, and who might be a source of information about the goings-on at the columbarium. Breezing past the reception counter, I nodded at Miss Ivy, ignored her glower, and poked my head into Manny Ramirez's office.

“Hey, Manny. How's tricks?”

“Annie! The murals are looking great!” he said with a big smile. Manny's ergonomic desk chair protested as he leaned back, one outsized hand fiddling with a marble pen set he'd received for being chosen Alameda County's Accountant of the Year two years running. In his early thirties, Manny wore his shock of shiny black hair combed forward across his broad forehead in a style originated by Julius Caesar and revived by George Clooney. Thick-rimmed, retro-style glasses perched on a large nose that presided over a wide mouth. Manny wasn't fat, just extralarge, as if his parents had ordered him from the Super-Sized Infants menu. “Looks like you're making excellent progress.”

“We are. We reattached the canvases to the walls last week,” I said. “Now it's time for the fun part—painting and gilding.”

“That's super. I can't wait to see how everything turns out.”

“You and me both. Listen, I wanted to pick your brain about something. Join me for lunch on the hill?”

He glanced at a grease-stained brown paper bag sitting atop a utilitarian metal bookshelf. “Let me see . . . lunch alfresco with a lovely, talented artist? Does this mean I have to split the bologna-on-rye that I fixed this morning with my own two hands?”

“I'll trade you half a bologna-on-rye for some samosas from the farmers' market,” I offered. “I'll even spring for a soda to wash 'em down.”

“Best offer I've had all week,” Manny said as he pulled on a light blue windbreaker.

I retrieved my shoulder bag from my truck, bought Manny a can of orange soda from the vending machine in the employee lunch room, and found him waiting for me at the cemetery gates. Making up for yesterday's rain, today was sunny and mild, the sky a brilliant, cloudless blue. We chatted about the plans for Manny's upcoming wedding as we climbed the winding road, passing the memorial to Civil War veterans, with its stack of real cannonballs that the National Park Service replenished whenever vandals made off with a few. A large tan Buick crept past us, the faces of its elderly occupants marked by age and loss. Two men in dark blue jumpsuits operated a machine that dug a grave for an interment. The muted roar of lawn mowers and whine of weed whackers revealed the presence of the fleet of gardeners at work in the distance.

At last we arrived, slightly winded, at the Locklear Family Memorial, which had been built on a scale commonly reserved for public monuments. In addition to the twenty-foot-tall central cylinder bearing the bas-relief likenesses of assorted Locklear kin—a homely bunch, judging by their squinty eyes and drooping jowls—the memorial boasted a circular stone bench that was a favorite graveyard haunt for locals in the know. It was Manny's favorite lunch spot.

From our hillside perch we enjoyed a crystal clear view of downtown Oakland and, across the bay, San Francisco's distinctive skyline marked by the pyramidal Transamerica Building. My gaze drifted down the hill to the bobbing helium balloons that indicated Louis Spencer's crypt below us. I still hadn't heard from Cindy Tanaka. Probably just busy at school, I told myself. I wondered what the police had learned about the grave robbery, and decided to inquire at the cemetery office after lunch.