Shooting Gallery (26 page)

The work went well, and by the time I looked at the clock it was after five. I felt a stab of panic. I had to get home, shower, and dress—with stockings, no less—by seven. Mary offered to clean up, insisted I take her illegal can of Mace “just in case,” and shooed me out the door. I rushed down the hall to Samantha's studio, where she handed me a pair of gorgeous asymmetrical chandelier earrings of naturally misshapen dove gray pearls and jet-black beads. I thanked her effusively and thundered down the outdoor staircase just as a sleek maroon Jaguar drove out of the parking lot.

“Careful, Frank,” I called out to my landlord, who was standing in the doorway of his office. “That looks like a newer Jag than yours. You wouldn't want anyone to show you up.”

Frank tucked his hands in the pockets of his charcoal gray pinstriped suit. “Thanks for the warning. Oh, about the intruder this morning? Clive in 212 said he saw a man on your fire escape. Brown hair, nice build, good-looking. Ring any bells?”

“Let's see . . . Brown hair, nice build, good-looking. Gee, Frank,
you
weren't on my fire escape this morning by any chance, were you?”

“So you're saying I've got a nice build?”

“It'll pass muster. Not that I notice that kind of thing. I mean, you
are
my landlord.”

“True,” Frank said, his eyes flickering over me. “Samantha tells me you bought a sexy new frock. Have fun tonight. Don't do anything I wouldn't do.”

“Why, Frank,” I said, jumping into my truck. “You know me. I'm the soul of propriety.”

 

The soul of propriety was running late. Traffic on the eastward span of the Bay Bridge had congealed as the result of a minor fender bender, and we all got to share in the joy while a couple of Type-As vying for lane position decided whether to exchange insurance information or law-suits.

I finally squeezed past the holdup, crossed the bridge, zipped off the freeway at Grand Avenue, tooled up the street to my apartment, parked in the gravel lot out back, took the stairs two at a time, and flew in the door. I checked the clock on the mantle of my nonfunctioning fireplace: Michael was due at seven and it was now a little before six.

I hustled into the bedroom, hung my new “frock” in the closet, and headed for the shower, tugging off my clothes as I went. By the time I finished washing and drying my hair it was twenty minutes to seven and I still had to get dressed and do my makeup. I hurried down the hall to the kitchen and poured a glass of wine to calm my nerves. Ten minutes later I knocked the glass over reaching for a tissue and speared myself in the eye with the mascara wand, smearing black goop everywhere.

The front door buzzer rang. I ran into the kitchen in my underwear, mascara-smeared eye squeezed shut, and threw open the window. “Go away!”

“I'm your date,” came a muffled reply.

“You're early!”

“No, I'm not.”

“I'm not ready.”

“I'll help you dress.”

“In your dreams,” I hollered into space, hoping my words fell in the direction of the front door. “You wait there like a good boy until I'm ready for you.”

I slammed the window, darted into the bedroom, and wriggled into my dress. The short black velvet sheath with peekaboo back felt tighter now than it had in the store. The Chinese dumplings I'd eaten for lunch may have been a bad idea. I left it unzipped as I returned to the bathroom and cleaned up the wine-and-mascara mess, wishing I were crawling into bed with a pint of ice cream instead of rendezvousing with a suspicious character like Michael X. Johnson.

“Almost ready?” a deep voice queried.

“Michael!” I jumped, narrowly avoiding another mascara mishap, and glared at his handsome reflection in the mirror. I grabbed more tissues. “How did you get in here?”

“I do this sort of thing for a living, remember?”

“I could have shot you.” Mascara in place, I reached for the tin of face powder.

“You don't have a gun.”

“You don't know that I don't—”

Warm fingers caressed my bare skin and zipped up my dress. A shiver ran up my spine.

“That is one
fabulous
dress,” he growled.

Our eyes met in the mirror. His lean body was dressed in formal black tie, his wavy brown hair was combed and styled, and his green eyes glowed beneath dark eyebrows.

“Get out of here, Michael,” I ordered. “There's wine on the kitchen counter; help yourself. I need a few minutes. No joke.”

“Your wish is my command.”

“Since when? And by the way—did you set off the alarm in my studio this morning?”

His reply drifted down the hall. “I'm shocked,
shocked
that you would accuse me.”

“Some thief you are,” I muttered, finishing up my toilette with deep red lipstick, a color that was too dramatic for daytime but perfect for tonight. I hoped.

Now for the hair.

“How was I to know your studio had an alarm? It didn't the last time I went in the window.” Michael leaned against the bathroom doorframe, wineglass in hand.

“You might have been tipped off by the fluorescent green
Premises Protected by Evergreen Alarms
stickers on the windows,” I mumbled through a mouthful of bobby pins.

“Those stickers are everywhere. They don't mean anything.” He took a sip of wine and grimaced. “Remind me in the future not to let you pick the wine.”

“You're just spoiled. Now go away so I can finish. You're making me nervous.”

“I don't know why,” he said silkily. “You look stunning.”

“Just
go
, Michael, or whatever your name is. And by the way—what
is
your name? Your
real
one, I mean.”

“Sylvester. Or maybe Wolfgang. I never could keep it straight.”

He had not moved an inch, so I set my comb on the porcelain sink, shoved him into the hall, slammed the bathroom door, and flipped the flimsy lock. Even I could pick that lock with a paperclip, but I thought the symbolism was important.

I piled my hair on top of my head, softened the effect with a few loose curls around my face and neck, and secured the mess with bobby pins. Testing it with a shake of my head, I decided it would hold unless Michael had a convertible.

“Hey!” I cracked the door and called down the hall as I mulled over my small collection of perfumes. Mary's escapade at the perfume counter had ruined me for anything dramatic. “Do you have a convertible?”

“Would you like me to have one?”

“Just answer the question, please.” I spritzed myself with a light floral scent.

“I'll get you one if you'd like. Foreign or domestic?”

“It's a yes or no question, Michael. I'm not asking you to
steal
one.”

I heard him rummaging around in the living room. The thought was annoying, but I didn't have anything to hide that he didn't already know about. I struggled into black stockings and slipped on my black high heels. They felt okay for the moment but would become uncomfortable after about an hour and a half. I had timed it once. I donned my sparkly jacket, grabbed my black evening bag, and stuffed it with my ID, a handful of cash, lipstick, comb, and my cell phone. I considered bringing Mary's can of Mace, but decided against it. At some point in the evening I might try to use it on Michael and get a snootful myself instead.

Ready at last, I found Michael lounging near a bookshelf and leafing through a photo album. And I thought
I
was nosy. “Find anything interesting?”

“You were a cute kid,” he said, snapping the album shut. His eyes roamed up, down, and over my hips and legs, lingered at my exposed cleavage, and finally met my gaze. “And just look at you now.”

He was close enough that I could smell his heady mixture of soap and shampoo with just a hint of maleness.

“Shall we?” I asked.

“But of course.”

As we emerged into the cold night air, I looked for the red Jeep he'd been driving last spring. Instead, Michael escorted me to a late-model champagne Lexus.

“New car?”

“Different persona, different car.”

“Don't you ever get tired of it all?” I asked as he expertly maneuvered the luxurious vehicle out of the tight lot and onto the street. “I mean, who
is
Seymour, anyway?”

“I don't know. Who's Seymour?”

“You are. You said so earlier.”

He merged onto the freeway and headed for the Bay Bridge. “I said Sylvester, not Seymour,” he corrected. “Please, Annie. Allow me some dignity.”

“I'm serious. Don't you ever get tired of that kind of life? The lies, the deception . . .”

“The travel, the excitement, the meeting new people and having new adventures?
That
kind of life? Most people's lives are fundamentally dishonest, Annie. The difference is that I only deceive those who deserve it. I love my life, just as it is.”

I started to reply when Michael pushed a button on the dashboard and the lilting strains of
The Marriage of Figaro
filled the car's plush interior. If he had intended to shut me up he had miscalculated. My grandfather was a Mozart fanatic, and I'd learned every word to
The Marriage of Figaro
. I proceeded to prove it. Loudly.

I had to give Michael points for endurance. He lasted a good half hour, conceding defeat only when we reached the Hillsborough exit off I-280.

“Tell me, Annie,” he said. “What's new in your life these days?”

“Work.” Suddenly I didn't feel like chatting.

“Anything interesting?”

“Nope.”

“How's that Picasso coming along?”

“Fine.”

“Plan to finish it up soon?”

“Did. Don't have it anymore.”

Wait a minute.

“Is
that
why you tried to break into my studio this morning, you thieving scumbag?”

“Whoa!” Michael said and turned toward me, his handsome face the picture of outraged honor. “I wanted to see you, that's all.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“Annie, had I wanted the Picasso, I would have taken it. But I would not have taken it from you. What kind of person do you think I am?”

“A liar and a cheat.”

“I suppose you've got me there,” he said with a slight incline of his head.

“And what's with engineering the Stendhal fainting at the Brock so that Carlos Jimenez could steal the Chagall?”

“Ah, so you figured that out.”

“Answer the question.”

“Which question was that?”

“How were you involved? And why?”

“I owed Carlos a favor from last spring's Caravaggio fiasco. When I realized the guys in Bryan's group were enthralled with the idea of the Stendhal Syndrome, it seemed like the perfect diversion. I planted the idea that the most sensitive among them might be overtaken with emotion in the presence of the Gauguin. I never imagined they would
all
hit the floor.”

“I guess they're a sensitive bunch,” I mused. “Why did Carlos want the Chagall?”

“I have no idea.”

“And if you did, you wouldn't tell me?”

He shrugged.

“You are going to get the Chagall for me, though, right? That's our deal. I act nice tonight, and you get the painting back so Bryan's off the hook.
Right?
”

“A promise is a promise, Annie. It should be ready in the next day or two.”

“What do you mean, ‘ready'?”

“I mean I should have it for you in a day or two. Trust me.”

I peered out the window, but darkness had fallen and the wooded landscape did not offer much in the way of night vistas.

“I'll bet being self-employed makes it hard to find a love life,” Michael said as the Lexus snaked along the rural road.

“Not really. It just so happens I'm seeing someone.”

“Oh, please,” he scoffed.

“It's true!”

“Since when?”

“For a little while.” Emphasis on
little.

“I see. So who is this guy?”

“His name's Josh.”

“Does Josh have a last name?”

“Reynolds.” What the hell. Josh didn't have anything worth stealing that I knew of.

“Never heard of him.”

“Why would you have heard of him? This isn't high school.”

“Is he in the business?”

“What business would that be?”

Michael gave me A Look.

“It just so happens he's not currently wanted by the police, if that's what you mean,” I retorted.

“Already done his time, has he?” Michael chuckled. “What line of work is good ol' Josh Reynolds in these days?”

“He owns his own business.”

“What kind of business?”

“Construction business.”

“Oh brother . . . So that's it, is it?”

“What's it?” I bristled.

“You want some, bad.”

“
What?
I do n—” Of course I did. But it wasn't any concern of his. “You are such a
jerk
!”

“Annie. You should have called me,” he continued, unfazed. “I would've been happy to help you.”

“Help me into jail, more like.”

“Not on purpose,” Michael mused. “Those construction guys have some muscles, huh?”

I rolled my eyes. “You're not my girlfriend, Michael. I'm not going to tell you about my lover's manly body.”