Brush With Death (19 page)

So I fell back on a familiar response and danced around the cop's questions. Without out-and-out lying I managed to leave the young, inexperienced police officer with the impression that I had seen and heard nothing. After fifteen minutes of this the officer seemed satisfied with my apparent cluelessness and thanked me for my help. I wondered if he was being sarcastic.

I hurried upstairs to the Chapel of the Madonna to find my red plastic storage tub upended, and the paints, brushes, and other supplies scattered across the floor. The brown paper bag containing Cindy's photographs was gone, but a quick inventory of my shoulder bag revealed that my wallet and valuables were still there—all five dollars and thirty-eight cents of it. I packed my things into the bin and cleaned up the spilled mineral spirits, wondering if I could retrieve the metal box from behind the ceiling molding without attracting attention. It might be hard to be inconspicuous while pushing squeaky scaffolding down the hall.

“Why did you lie to the police?” Manny demanded.

I jumped in surprise, hugged the red plastic bin to my chest, and sloshed mineral spirits on my shirt.

“Manny, you scared me to death!” I put down the bin, grabbed a paper towel, and dabbed ineffectually at the solvent. No decent lie came to mind, so I channeled Georges.
When in doubt, chérie, remember ze three magic words. Deny, deny, deny.
“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“I overheard you saying you didn't know what a thief might be after. Did you forget the miniatures collection?”

“Was it taken?”

“No.”

“Then what—”

“There are plenty of things a thief might want, such as the artifacts you were asking me about yesterday. It seems strange that you didn't mention any of that.”

Manny looked at me with suspicion, and I realized his loyalty to the columbarium might be stronger than our two-week friendship. Had the samosas meant nothing to him?

“I just didn't . . .”

Suddenly the faint but distinct sound of Mistah F.A.B. rang out, singing “Super Sic Wit It.” Sure, years of letting my cell phone battery run down and the one time I wanted it to die a quick death, it was alive and chirping from somewhere in the ceiling of the columbarium. The hip-hop tune seemed to go on forever, echoing through the chambers.

Manny gazed up at the ceiling, then back at me. “I think you should get your things together and go,” he said softly.

“Manny, please, I assure you—” He pivoted on his heel and marched down the hall with me hot on his heels. “Manny, wait. Is the suitcase still in your office?”

“I thought you took it yesterday.”

“I put it back.”

“It's not there now. Guess that's one more thing you forgot to mention to the police.”

He walked away.

It was after eleven, and I needed to get those faux-finished curtain rods to the Design Center. After lugging my tub of painting supplies to the truck, I drove into the City, pulled into the parking lot of the DeBenton Building, and parked next to Frank's shiny Jaguar.

As I started up the stairs, my landlord was coming down, a sheaf of yellow legal-sized papers in one hand and a large black umbrella in the other. Despite the wind and rain, his hair was perfect. He halted on the step above me.

“Hiya, Frank.”

“Annie.” He smiled.

Dammit!

He stepped aside as an architect started up the stairs. “Come to my office for a minute. I want to talk to you.”

“No time, Frank. I'm late.”

“You want to hear this.”

“I do?”

“Trust me.”

I had paid this month's rent, hadn't dented anyone's car or set off the fire alarm. So why did I feel as if I were ten years old and had been busted for painting the caricature of Principal Eisenstein on the fence of Asco Elementary? I had been so proud of the likeness until I realized its very artistry had fingered me. Talent was a two-way street.

I tagged along to Frank's office, whose door was emblazoned with the roaring lion of DeBenton Enterprises. The emblem was on his stationery as well as his fleet of armored cars, but not on the two unmarked trucks in the corner of the parking lot. It was better that people assume the nondescript trucks were hauling sacks of potatoes or plastic lawn furniture than valuable artwork.

“A cargo plane's taking a valuable painting to LAX at two o'clock,” Frank said as he hitched one hip on the side of the desk. “I want you on it.”

“What for? I'm not a security guard, Frank, remember? Isn't that why you hired Bubba?” I gestured at an imposing man chatting with a woman near one of the unmarked trucks, visible through the large front window.

Frank smiled. “I'm not asking you to strap on an Uzi, Annie. The Getty Foundation is developing a program to train law enforcement personnel to spot forgeries, and several members of the FBI art squad will be there. You should meet them.”

“But I have work to do!” I shuddered at the thought of what my grandfather would do to me if he learned I'd been training fake busters. Evisceration without benefit of anesthetic would be only the first step.

Frank laughed. “This is worth a lot of goodwill for you, Annie. You never know when a contact in the FBI might come in handy.”

His gaze spoke volumes. I supposed it wouldn't hurt to get some intel on what the FBI's new art squad was up to.

“We'll be back tonight,” Frank said. “It's just a quick in-and-out.”

“We?”

“I'm personally escorting a valuable piece. I'll be the one strapping on the Uzi.”

“All right. When do we leave?”

“Be downstairs in an hour. Oh, and, Annie? It wouldn't hurt to dress more, shall we say, professionally?”

“See you in an hour. With bells on.”

As I charged upstairs to my studio I ran through today's To Do list. First, call Grandfather and beseech him to lie low. Second, call the Design Center and reschedule the delivery of the curtain rods. Third, e-mail Josh a status report on the Garner renovation. Fourth, dump Josh. . . .

I left a message for Grandfather at Gallerie des Beaux Arts de Paris. Monsieur Luc Olivier, the director of the gallery, was a snotty little man in a city famous for its snottiness. But I'd known Olivier since I was a tot and was not buffaloed when he tried to pull that attitude with me. After some mutual sniping, he agreed to get word to Georges, as I knew he would. Olivier needed Grandfather much more than Grandfather needed Olivier.

My second call was to the people at the Design Center who—surprise, surprise—weren't ready for the curtain rods anyway. I arranged to bring them in next week. I e-mailed Josh an update on the Garner job but said nothing about breaking up. I wasn't looking forward to a heart-to-heart chat with him but he deserved better than a Dear Josh e-mail.

I scrubbed my hands and face in the kitchen sink and rummaged through the old oak armoire for a change of clothes. I tried to keep a spare outfit or two in the studio for those occasions when paint-spattered overalls and smelly running shoes just weren't “right.” I skipped over a short green skirt and low-cut cream sweater (too revealing), an assortment of Mary's favorite things (too Goth), and a tight red cocktail dress (too flirty). That exhausted the options. Frustrated, I poked around some more. At the bottom of the armoire I spied a plastic bag from The Gap, a store I never shopped at. What was that doing here? Was Mary leading a secret yuppie life?

Then I remembered: a few months ago I'd been painting a mural of Pompeii in a client's master bathroom. While I waited for the lava from Mount Vesuvius to dry I amused myself with a copy of
Dress for Success!
I had noticed on the bedside table. Inspired by the thought of “improving my financial outlook,” I stopped at The Gap on the way home and bought a pair of sharp khaki pants, a crisp white oxford shirt, a navy blue cardigan sweater, and brown leather loafers. When I got back to the studio I came to my senses. Khakis and cardigans were not what my clients expected from their artist. I had a reputation to uphold. I'd tossed the bag into the armoire with the intention of returning the clothes and getting my money back but had, predictably enough, forgotten about it. I slipped the clothes on now, twisted my damp hair into a knot on top of my head, and applied a little makeup with a light hand.

I looked at myself in the mirror. All I needed was a gold FBI crest on the sweater to pass as Special Agent Annie Kincaid. J. Edgar Hoover would be proud.

I ran downstairs and met Frank under the overhang in front of his office.

“Why, Annie,” he said, his eyes lighting up. “You look very nice.”

“I'm in disguise. Don't get used to it.”

He laughed, and when he leaned over to pick up his briefcase I realized he hadn't been kidding earlier: he was packing a pistol in a shoulder strap under his jacket. We hopped into the cab of a truck with Bubba the security guard—he didn't offer his name and I was too intimidated to ask—and drove to Mayfield's Auction House to pick up a remarkable Goya. I watched, intrigued, as Frank explained the packing process that would protect the painting during transit.

The Goya had been acclimated to a perfect fifty-five percent humidity and placed in a box within a box, the first lined with Tyvek—a moisture barrier used in home construction—the second with acid-free foam. Bubba snapped photographs of each step while Frank supervised. Once the painting was crated, the workers loaded it into the unmarked truck and strapped it to a wall. It looked as if we were in Boxcar Willie's living room.

“Why don't you use one of your armored cars?” I asked.

“It's better to keep a low profile,” Frank said. “I have an unmarked follow car with two ex-cops waiting outside. They'll tag along to the airport for backup. But theft is not my top concern. Damage to the painting—from rapid environmental changes, clumsiness, that sort of thing—is a much bigger risk. It's not going to happen on my watch.”

After an uneventful trip to the San Francisco Airport south of the City, I watched Frank process paperwork and chat with the warehouse workers. Wincing as a forklift operator headed for the crate with more speed than skill, Frank intervened and insisted the warehouse manager take the controls. The workers laughed at something he said, and I noticed that despite Frank's expensive suit and shiny shoes, he fit right in.

Trotting back to my side, Frank sighed. “Those forklift drivers make me crazy,” he muttered. “They've got too much to do, and too little time. And they're used to loading bananas, not art. I'm always afraid they'll skewer a priceless canvas.”

Half an hour later, Frank and I were strapped into the jump seats of a cargo plane with an excellent view of the crated painting alongside boxes of sourdough bread, strawberries, and tomatoes. Riding in a jump seat had sounded like fun. The reality was cold, loud, and really, really, boring. There was more legroom than on a passenger plane, but there wasn't so much as a window to look out, much less peanuts or a crappy in-flight movie.

My landlord's thigh kept touching mine as we rumbled through the air. I tried to ignore it, but the more I tried, the more I thought about it. I glanced at Frank, but he didn't seem to notice anything except the BlackBerry device that he typed into furiously, using his thumbs.

“What are you doing?” I shouted over the roar of the engines.

“Working.”

“On what?”

“You wouldn't be interested.”

He kept typing. I looked at the strawberries. According to the crates, they were FARM FRESH FROM MILPITAS! I hadn't realized food still grew in the South Bay. I thought it was all semiconductors and Starbucks.

There wasn't anything else to see. I was bored and worried about what I would find in Los Angeles—or what would find me. The combination made me chatty.

“You enjoy your work, don't you?” I yelled over the roar of the engines.

“Love it.”

“Tell me something exciting.”

Frank's thumbs ceased their frenetic hopscotch over the BlackBerry's tiny keypad. “You mean this thrill ride isn't exciting enough?”

“It's pretty exhilarating,” I shouted. “But tell me something juicy about the art security business.”

“I'm actually pretty excited about a new global tracking system developed in the Netherlands. It meets international air regulations,
and
has total GPS and satellite line-of-sight signal penetration. The best part is we can get global coverage with a remote-monitored base station. All we need to do is adapt it for mobility and we're good to go.”

The engine roared and I waited.

“That's
it
? That's the juiciest thing you could come up with?” I asked finally. Give me the rank odors of turpentine and horsehide glue any day. So long as the phrase “satellite line-of-sight signal penetration” never came up in my work, I would die happy.

“I'm pretty excited about it,” he said, and I could have sworn I heard a petulant note in his voice.

“Frank, you transport art and valuables. What about intrigue, adventure, the good stuff?”

“It's not exactly
The Thomas Crown Affair,
Annie. Other than the rare instances I'm around you, I rely more on technology and intelligence than guns and bravado.”

“Sounds boring.”

“Sounds safe.”

“Why are you so concerned with safety?”

“Most people are.” Frank gave up on the BlackBerry and slipped it into his pocket. I smiled in triumph.

“Have you always been so focused on safety?”