Shooting Gallery (35 page)

I thought that was a little harsh. Frank couldn't help it if he was from Topeka.

“And what kind of people would that be, Michael?”

“He's in the security business, Annie. The
art
security business.”

“I know, but he's a transportation guy.”

Michael snorted. “When do you think a lot of art gets taken?”

“Leave Frank alone, Michael.”

“I intend to. And I'd prefer that he left me alone as well. The fact is, Annie, the guy's good. His testimony helped put Curt Dodson away for ten to twenty last year, and Curt was a pretty cautious guy.”

“Don't be absurd. Frank's my landlord; he's not a threat.”

“All I'm saying,” Michael continued, “is that someday somebody will let something slip, and your landlord is going to put two and two together. When he realizes you're Georges LeFleur's granddaughter, it might get uncomfortable. He has a reputation to protect, after all.”

“Yes, but I'm not a crook, Michael. I don't have to be afraid of Frank.”

Michael shook his head. “I can't believe you're falling for this guy. If your grandfather were dead he'd be rolling over in his grave.”

“Let's get something straight, my thieving friend. I'm not falling for anybody. Least of all you, in case you were wondering.”

He ignored that. “Tell me, Annie. What do you suppose ol' Frank would think if he knew you were using his Jag to aid and abet the theft of valuable artwork?”

“I have no idea”—actually, I had a damn good idea, which is why I didn't want to think about it—“but it doesn't matter since he'll never find out, will he?”

“He won't hear it from me. But I'm serious, Annie. You can't mix the two worlds and expect to remain unscathed.”

I looked at those green eyes framed by sooty lashes, at the sensual lips and thick dark hair. It seemed wrong that he should look like an angel but be such a devil.

“
I'm
not mixing the two worlds, Michael.
I
live in Frank's world, in Josh's world, in Samantha's world.” Better leave Mary off the list. “
You
are the one intruding on
my
world. I helped you today because I owed you for last night. But no more. And if you bring up the tract home in the burbs again, I'll hit you. That's not the only option for a normal, legal life, you know. And having 1.9 kids offers its own rewards, I'm sure. At least I won't grow old as a lonely criminal who can't even remember his real name.”

Michael gazed out the window, his mouth tight, and if I didn't know better I would have sworn I'd hurt his feelings. He reached into a pocket and handed me some coins. “Make your phone call,” he said, his voice flat.

I had a sudden visual of him tearing down the road in the Jaguar while I punched buttons in the phone booth. “I'll, um, wait. I can call him from the City.”

“Annie, I'm hardly going to steal your boyfriend's car and have you put an APB out while I'm hauling stolen paintings. I may be sad and lonely, but I'm not stupid.”

I took the keys with me for good measure, even though I was pretty sure Michael knew how to hotwire a car. He seemed the type.

Nathan answered on the first ring, and I told him we'd apprehended one of the leaders of the cell who had admitted the bomb threat was a hoax. He was beginning to sound skeptical, and I prayed our paths would never cross in front of Frank's office. I marched back to the Jaguar and slid behind the wheel. Michael had switched to the passenger's seat, making me feel a little less like I was driving a getaway car.

“So, Mr. Big Time Art Thief,” I said as I maneuvered onto the freeway on-ramp. “Enlighten me. I identified the genuine paintings just last night, right?”

“Right.”

“How did you happen to have first-class forgeries on hand for the switch? Wait a minute. It was my grandfather, wasn't it?” I demanded, exasperated. “He's an old man. Surely he'll slow down one day?”

“Your grandfather's a genius, Annie. Never doubt that. But he knew the collection. He stayed with the Haggertys while he painted the Massys, as well as a few others. Georges and Nathan had a bit of a falling out, and Nathan brought in someone else to paint the other forgeries.”

“Who?”

“No idea. Anyway, there was no love lost there, and when I told your grandfather Nathan had gotten his hands on a Vermeer, Georges suggested we liberate the genuine paintings. He had already forged most of Nathan's collection from memory. We just needed you to tell us which were the new forgeries. I'm sure your grandfather will find a use for the fakes we didn't use.”

Yeah, like selling them on the black market
, I thought.

“What am I supposed to do with you, Michael?” I asked. Traffic moved along at a good clip as we headed into the City, though it was at a standstill in the southbound lanes.

“I can think of several possibilities, each more delightful than the next,” he purred, his fingers caressing the back of my neck and giving me goose bumps.

“I meant, where should I drop you off?”

“I left my car at the Fairmont.”

“Don't you have a hideout?”

“You mean like the Hole-in-the-Wall Gang?”

“You know—some warehouse where you stash your stuff. Where we pull in and the switch is made.”

“It's clear you were trained on the forgery end of this business, sweetheart, not the taking end.”

“I'm not
in
the business at all, Michael, as I keep telling you. So where do you live?”

“Nowhere.”

“You have to live
somewhere
.”

“No, I don't. I'm just a lonely man with no home and no name,” he said with a forlorn smile. “Just an old, rambling, bag o' bones . . .”

“Shut up.”

“Anything for you, my love.”

I exited at Ninth, crossed Market to Larkin, took a right on California and a left on Mason.

“So you think I'd be better off with you than with Frank, huh?” I could not leave this topic well enough alone.

“I never said you'd be better off with me. I said you should stay away from Frank. Those are two different things.”

We pulled up in front of the Fairmont and a valet rushed over. Michael got out and spoke to him for a moment, the young man nodded, slipped the bill Michael handed him into his pocket, and waved us into the garage. Michael told me to drive to the second level, where the Lexus was parked near the elevators. I pulled the Jaguar up behind it and popped the trunk. While Michael moved his ill-gotten cargo from Frank's car to the Lexus, I rested my forehead on the steering wheel and squeezed my eyes shut in the vain hope that if I didn't see it happening, I wasn't aiding and abetting. The switch completed, Michael squatted on his haunches next to the open driver's-side window, his face level with mine. We gazed at each other for a moment.

“It occurs to me that we have some, shall we say, unfinished business,” he said, his voice low and sexy. “Maybe I should escort you back to the room.”

I couldn't bring myself to agree. I had to return the Jaguar to Frank, which was going to be uncomfortable since I was pretty sure it was past four o'clock. Plus, my entire body still ached. But the real problem was that I needed a gesture of faith from Michael before I was prepared to finish up our unfinished business in bed.

“No to the Fairmont, Michael. Take me to your place.”

“What?” he said, surprised but pleased.

“Take me to your place. Then have your way with me.”

“That's quite an offer.”

“The offer's contingent.”

“I realize that. All right. Follow me.”

Wait a minute. That had been too easy.

“You have to prove it's your place, though.”

“Annie . . .”

“You're planning on taking me somewhere else, aren't you?”

“Like where?”

“How should I know? A girlfriend's, who works nights. A client's, who's out of town. A colleague's, who—”

“Okay, okay. I get the point. You don't trust me, is that it?”

“I've never trusted you; you know that. That's not the issue here.”

“It isn't?”

“No, it isn't. The issue is whether
you
trust
me
enough to show me where you live.”

“Let me get this straight,” Michael said slowly. “Taking you to my place is a prerequisite for getting you in my bed. Is that right?”

“Getting me in
your
bed is a prerequisite to getting me in your bed, yes.”

Michael pushed away from the car, let out an exasperated sigh, and ran his hand through his hair. He leaned back through the car window and caressed my face. “You're a real pain in the ass, you know that? Happy Thanksgiving, Annie. Oh, and by the way, the Chagall has been found at the St. Louis Post Office. The Brock will have it back soon enough.”

“
The
Chagall, or
a
Chagall? Did my grandfather paint it?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes, it matters.”

“Who deserves the painting more, Annie: a rich old lady who was planning on selling it cheap to spite her sister, or a humble working man trying to honor his cultural heritage and his hometown museum?”

Words failed me.

“Agnes Brock will never know the difference,” he said. “Trust me.”

And with that he climbed into the Lexus, fired up the engine, and drove off, his tires squealing in the silence and the gloom of the underground parking garage.

Well, shit.

—Georges LeFleur, on his personal mantra,
Yoga
magazine

 

“Something wrong with your watch?” Frank demanded, his gaze glued to his computer screen.

“Funny you should ask,” I replied in what I hoped was a jovial tone. “I have one of those weird body chemistries, you know, the kind with an electromagnetic field or something, that breaks watches? Seriously. Every watch I've ever worn stopped running. I had a watch repair guy explain it to me once, and at first it sounded like a load of baloney, and then I thought maybe he was just coming onto me, you know, saying I had a magnetic personality and all that, but I don't think that was the case because he seemed very married, and he swore he was telling the truth. Of course, he also gave palm readings.”

I waited, but Frank said nothing. So after a brief pause, I continued.

“I do have a clock, you know, on my cell phone? But I just can't seem to remember to charge the damned battery, so it's not working, either. Good thing you are, though, huh? Working, I mean, so you probably hardly even missed the Jag, which I would have washed for you, of course, except that it's the night before Thanksgiving, so no one's open. I know, 'cause I drove by several places, but they were all closed up. Shut and shuttered. Tight as a drum. I did fill it with gas, though. The good stuff, too. High test. High octane. Practically rocket fuel, they sure charged enough—”

“The issue is not your alleged magnetic field or the fact that you never remember to charge your cell phone,” Frank barked as he leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands over his flat stomach. “The issue is whether you can be bothered to keep a promise. Did it ever occur to you that I had to be somewhere shortly after four o'clock? That I am only still here, working, because you failed to return as promised?”

As a matter of fact, it had not. I felt like a jerk. “Oh, Frank, how late is it? I'm so sorry, really. I didn't dawdle or anything, but traffic was insane and, well . . . You're right. It was thoughtless of me. I'm so sorry.”

What kind of loser was I, anyway? Frank had been very generous and I couldn't even manage to return his car on time. I was alienating all the men in my life. First Michael, now Frank. I hadn't spoken with Josh, so maybe he was okay with being stood up. Otherwise, at the rate I was going I might never have sex again in my life. Fifty or so long years of celibacy stretched out before me. . . .

“—Annie?” Frank's voice broke into my unhappy reverie. He was standing in front of his desk now, hands in his pockets.

“Hmm?”

“I said, are—you—all—right,” he repeated slowly.

“Yeah, sure, Frank. I just feel terrible for letting you down like that.”

“You didn't,” he said, and for a second I perked up. “I rather expected you to be late.”

Stung, I stared at him. That was kind of mean, even if it was true.

Frank's tone softened. “What happened to your eye, Annie? Are you in trouble?”

“Me? Trouble?” I was aiming for bewilderment but hit squeaky guilt instead.

“Tell me what's going on. Does it have anything to do with the Picasso?”

I flashed on the abstract painting I'd seen in Haggerty's collection and wondered if Frank knew about it. Or had Michael nabbed it along with the others? “I gave the Picasso to you, Frank. I'm not responsible for it anymore, remember?”

“I didn't suggest that you were,” he replied, his dark eyes searching mine. “If you're in trouble, Annie, I might be able to help. Come on,” he cajoled. “You can tell your Uncle Frank.”

Uncle? I'd thought of Frank in many ways, but never in the avuncular. My unruly mind flashed on an image of Frank in the buff. Either I didn't think of him as an uncle, or I'd suddenly developed a tolerance for incest. Did I need therapy?

No, what I needed was to relax. Sitting in more traffic and going home to an empty apartment did not fit the bill. The room at the Fairmont was still mine, and along the way were stores aplenty dispensing junk food all night long, holidays included. As I knew from my time in Europe, one of America's great contributions to human comfort was the twenty-four-hour convenience store. So that's what I'd do. I would eat ice cream and watch movies in my luxury hotel room. My spirits lifted and I was infused with energy.