Shooting Gallery (29 page)

“What do you mean?” he asked, casting nervous glances my way.

“I mean that I have no intention of getting involved in your little scheme. I can't
believe
you had me accompany you while you cased the joint—and now you expect me to tell you which paintings to steal? Didn't your mother ever tell you that stealing is
wrong
? Do you have any idea how long and hard I've worked to establish myself as a legitimate artist? How could you possibly think to involve me?”

“Annie, you're exaggerating. Now, listen. A lot of time, money, and planning have gone into this project. All I need to know is which paintings are real. You're not involved at all.”

“The hell I'm not!” I was yelling now. “I could be prosecuted as an accessory and you damn well know it!”

“Oh, please. Could we have a little less hysteria here?”

It was my turn to clench my jaw and whistle.

“Here's a plan,” I offered. “Steal them all and figure it out later.”

“Annie . . .” Michael growled.

“No, really. Just cut them out of their frames and have done with it.” This was a grave insult to a professional art thief. A thief who would cut a painting out of its frame—thereby destroying at least a part of the artwork—was not someone Michael would care to share his vocation with.

“What
is
it with you, Annie?” he demanded.

“What is it with
me
?”

“Yeah,
you
. What's the matter? Did you and Mr. Muscles take a vow to work at your boring, meaningless little jobs for the rest of your boring, meaningless little lives, scrimping and saving so that one day you could afford some crappy little tract house in Pinole and raise your 1.9 children? Is that it?”

“What are you saying? That I can't live a normal life and be happy? Is
that
what you're saying?”

By now we had both worked ourselves up and were hitting shrill, rather pathetic notes. Worst of all, I was no longer sure what we were arguing about.

“Why the hell would you want to be
normal
, Annie? I thought you wanted something more from life.”

“What's wrong with being normal? Lots of people do it.”

“You're
not
‘lots of people.' Face it.”

“Maybe I could be if I didn't hang around lowlife scoundrels like you.”

Michael snorted. “You couldn't be normal if you parachuted into the middle of Normalville, USA. Not even if you were elected the mayor of Normalville.” His voice softened. “You're just not, Annie. You're special. It's a burden you'll simply have to bear.”

I had no idea how to respond to that, so I punched the buttons on the CD player and the strains of
The Marriage of Figaro
poured out once more. Sitting back with a huff, I considered what Michael was asking of me. I had no love for Nathan, that wascally wabbit, but stealing was wrong.

That sounded pretty good, I thought. Highly principled.

Too bad that wasn't why.

The real reason I didn't want to get involved in Michael's scheme was because I was afraid to put even one toe on that slippery slope. I didn't need an international art thief to tell me I had larceny in my heart. The straight and narrow was a confusing place for someone who had inherited her grandfather's talent and been indoctrinated by his flexible ethics. Some of the best moments of my life, the ones I would recall with fondness when I was a very old woman, had been spent on the wrong side of the law.

And on top of everything else, Nathan Haggerty knew Frank DeBenton. My relationship with my landlord was already strained by errant burglar alarms. I could only imagine how he would react to my involvement in the theft of his client's art collection.

We crossed the Bay Bridge and Michael switched off the Mozart. “Are you going to tell me which of Haggerty's paintings are genuine?”

“No.”

“What about the Vermeer?”

I shrugged.

“Dammit!” He slammed the steering wheel with the palm of his hand.

“Michael, you should have told me what you wanted in the first place! I would have refused then and saved us both this aggravation.”

There was a long pause.

“But then I wouldn't have seen you in that dress,” he grumbled, and I felt my face flush. “You were dazzling tonight. Magnificent with Kevin the Nazi. I was in awe.”

I warmed under his compliments, even though I realized he was just trying a new approach. “I'm not going to tell you about the paintings, Michael.”

“I know.”

We exited the freeway and skirted Lake Merritt, beautiful in the clear night air.

“So . . . Are you going to invite me up to your apartment?” he asked.

“No.”

“Yes, you are.”

“
No
, I'm
not
.”

“Don't be mad, Annie,” Michael cajoled. He swung into the parking area behind my building and pulled up next to my truck. Shifting into park, he set the brake but left the engine running.

We sat there, in a warm, luxurious cocoon. Michael's strong hand cupped the back of my head and my heart started pounding.

He leaned in.

I leaned back.

“Gotta go,” I said, reaching for the door handle. It was locked. I fumbled with the controls, this time sending the window up and down.

“Annie,” Michael purred as he urged my head towards his, desire blazing in his green eyes.

For a split second I almost fell for it. But the seduction routine was too blatantly connected to my refusal to tell him what I'd learned about Haggerty's collection. Even I wasn't that desperate. Yet.

“Michael? If you don't open this door I'm going to start screaming. And you know how well I scream.”

He sat back and sighed. “What am I going to do with you, Annie?”

“You're going to let me out of this damned car, that's what. And you're never going to call me again, or break into my studio again, or ask me for help stealing art again.”

“You're breaking my heart.”

“It's not your heart I want to break.”

“Ouch!” Michael said, shifting his hips.

“Are you going to open the door?”

He hesitated. “Just tell me about the Vermeer, that's all. Is it worth stealing? None of the others are worth the risk. Just a simple yes or a no. Please, Annie.”

I took a deep breath and exhaled. “I'll think about it.”

“Annie, I—”

“No. I have to think about it, Michael.”

“Fair enough. But thinking is easier with two heads. Why don't we go upstairs and I'll give you a relaxing massage? You seem a little tense.”

“Your concern is touching,” I said sarcastically. “I'll relax as soon as I'm in bed with Ben & Jerry.”

“What about Mr. Muscles? Or isn't he into kinky foursomes?”

“Why? You interested?”

Michael looked shocked.

“Open the door, Michael.
Now
.”

He pushed a button and the lock popped open. As I started to climb out, he leaned across the seat and grabbed my elbow. Our eyes met, his expression serious.

“This is important, Annie. Please. I need your help.”

I wrenched my arm away. “What is it with you? Do you have a gambling problem or something? What happened to all the money from the Caravaggio you stole last spring? You really should think about saving some of your ill-gotten gain for a rainy day so you don't end up in the Old Felons' Home. And I want that Chagall by this weekend. You promised.”

I slammed the car door. Michael waited until I had the front door open before pulling out of the parking lot and roaring off into the night. He did not look back.

 

I muttered under my breath as I stomped upstairs, let myself into my apartment, and trudged down the hall to the bedroom to change. Tonight's sole triumph was that I had not ruined my fancy new dress. No wine or food stains, no tears; purse and jacket were accounted for; not even a run in my stockings. Even my high heels felt okay. I'd been so pissed off all evening I'd scarcely noticed how uncomfortable they were.

I kicked the shoes off with satisfying spite anyway, shrugged off the jacket, and reached over my shoulders to unzip the dress. I managed to lower the zipper about an inch before my arms were stretched as far as they would go. I tried curling one arm behind my back and snaking it between my shoulder blades, but the zipper's tongue was just out of my reach.

I hopped up and down. Nothing. Lying flat on my stomach on the bed, I reached behind me. That was even worse. I tried pulling the dress off, but my shoulders were too wide in one direction, and my hips were too wide in the other. No matter how I contorted myself, I could not reach the bloody zipper.

This makes no sense, I raged. I had been in and out of this dress before. How had I managed it? Then I remembered: I hadn't. Samantha had helped me at the store and Michael had zipped me up earlier this evening. Apparently it takes a village to unzip a dress.

I sank onto the side of the bed and cradled my head in my hands, tears of frustration stinging my eyes. What an incredibly maddening ending to an extraordinarily stupid evening.
This is all Michael's fault
, I thought. Had he not been a criminal and a schmuck he would be here with me now, and not only would I be naked but I would probably be having the first of ten orgasms. Shit.

The phone rang. I snatched it up. “Michael?” What the hell, if he was within the sound of my voice I was inviting him over.

“It's Derek. From Marble World?”

“Oh. Hi, Derek,” I said, my heart sinking. “What's up?”

“We got a shipment in today, right after you left.”

“It's kind of late. . . .”

“I know. But the truckers are supposed to pick it up first thing in the morning. We're working late seeing as how these containers all came in this afternoon. Gloria's here too.”

I heard a shuffling of the phone, and Gloria came on the line.

“Hey, girl. Derek mentioned you wanted to check it out, and now's your chance.”

“You made everybody work late, huh? You're a tyrant.”

“Just Derek and my brother. I lured them with a couple of six packs.”

“Which brother is this?”

“We call him Big Boy. He was at the last barbecue.”

“I don't think we met.” I glanced at the bedside clock. 10:07. At this hour I should be able to buzz over there and back, no problem. And Gloria could help me out of my dress! “I can be there in, say, twenty minutes?”

“Yeah? Okay. We'll stick around. Bye.”

But wait. If I wore the dress to the stone warehouse it would get covered in marble dust and I wouldn't be able to return it to Neiman Marcus and get my money back. I spied my trusty overalls slumped dejectedly at the end of the bed. The dress was short enough and tight enough that if I hitched it up a little I could wear it under the baggy overalls. It would be wrinkled, but it would not be ruined.

I slid into the overalls and pulled on a loose white T-shirt to cover the top of the dress. The ensemble was pretty lumpy, but whom was I trying to impress? Pulling on a pair of old running shoes, which were in pretty good shape since I never actually ran in them, I slung my black evening bag over my shoulder and ran out the door. Construction on the Bay Bridge slowed me down, but I got through the City and down the Bayshore to Burlingame in just under half an hour.

Once I exited the freeway, my enthusiasm waned. It was desolate here at night. A cold breeze blew off the water, distant foghorns blared, and the lights of the East Bay winked through the wisps of fog. What had possessed me to come, alone, to a warehouse in the middle of the night, dressed in my evening finery and armed with nothing more dangerous than a plastic comb and a few bobby pins? What would I do if someone accosted me? Threaten him with a good grooming?

I had never understood movie heroines who repeatedly put themselves in harm's way until rescued by their heroes, who inexplicably fell in love, ensuring that their hare-brains would further contaminate the gene pool.

Apparently I was now one of those women.

I pulled up in front of Marble World, relieved to see a couple of vehicles in the parking lot and the lights blazing in the front office. I laughed off my fear. My good buddy Gloria was waiting for me with Derek and a brother reassuringly named Big Boy.

“Hello?” I called out. “Anybody here?”

No answer. I stuck my head in her office. “Gloria?”

No sign of Gloria, but I did catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror. Yikes. My full makeup, dangling earrings, and the beaded neck of the dress playing peek-a-boo above the collar of the T-shirt made quite a statement. Paint-splattered overalls and sparkly evening bag completed The Look. Haute Grunge? More like Haute Homeless.

I pushed through the swinging doors into the warehouse.

The empty warehouse. No friendly Gloria awaiting me, no strapping Big Boy eager to watch our backs. Nothing but row upon row of cold, silent stone.

“Hello?” My voice echoed in the cavernous space as I crept down an aisle toward the loading docks. I had a case of the willies by now and jumped at imagined noises.

“Gloria!” I shouted, my fear making me angry. “Where
are
you guys?”

“May I help you?” an accented voice said.

I jumped about three feet in the air, yelped, and spun around. The man was four inches shorter than I and maybe 130 pounds.
Gloria's family must be into irony
, I thought.

“Hi, Big Boy,” I said, smiling with relief.