Shooting Gallery (32 page)

Still, there were a number of things I needed to do, beginning with figuring out who had nearly killed me—and murdered Derek—last night. And finding out what my mother knew. And locating Evangeline. And making sure the Chagall was returned to the Brock. Oh, and running a faux-finishing business. Mary and I had made a lot of progress on the holiday display but we still had to paint fifty glass ornaments and assemble Kwanzaa decorations, including a giant red, green, and black candleholder known as a kinara.

Just thinking about it exhausted me. How much work would anyone do on the day before Thanksgiving, anyway? State offices were closed, and regular folks were either gassing up the SUV for the trip to Sacramento to visit Grandma, or were deep in the poultry section of the local grocery store squaring off against a determined Fremont homemaker for the last fresh turkey.

Realizing I wasn't going to be capable of any rational decisions until I took a long hot shower, I inched back the covers and discovered that except for a skimpy pair of underwear I was nude under my T-shirt.

Michael had seen me naked. He owed me. That clinched it.

I picked up the phone and dialed the front desk. “I'm calling from Room”—I glanced at the center of the phone dial—“1208. I wanted to verify the credit card we put the room on?”

“Certainly, ma'am. One moment, please.” I heard some clicking sounds as the clerk checked her computer. “The room is registered to Dr. and Mrs. Patrick Collins, and is charged to Dr. Collins' American Express card. I have you down for one night's stay, checking out at noon today.”

“Actually, the doctor and I have been
so
looking forward to touring Alcatraz—
such
a touristy thing to do, I know, but what can I say? We get to the City so rarely, and we're hoping to extend our stay another night.”

“Certainly, ma'am. Shall I charge it to the same account, Mrs. Collins?”

“Please do. Oh, one more thing—I want to be sure we're charging this to our
personal
AmEx account, not the doctor's corporate card. It wouldn't do to be unethical, now would it?” I laughed gaily, hoping I wasn't overdoing it. She read me the account number, which I jotted on the memo pad next to the phone. “Thank you
so
much; that is correct. Now, would you be a dear and transfer me to room service?”

I ordered a Caesar salad, garlic bread, and linguine with clams in a butter, garlic, and white wine sauce. In deference to the hour, I added a side of bacon and a carafe of coffee. Reckless with Michael's credit card, I dialed the concierge and ordered a manicure and an in-room massage. My shoulders were killing me.

Stumbling into the marble-lined bathroom, I made the mistake of looking in the mirror. My eye was swollen, the skin beneath it dark purple and sickly yellow, there was a small round burn on my cheekbone, and dried blood from a scratch along my hairline. I was encrusted in stone dust. Adding to the horror show were the smeared remnants of last night's makeup. My hair looked—well, it looked the way it always did in the morning. No two ways about it, Mrs. Patrick Collins was a fright.

And I wondered why Michael had abandoned me.

I showered with care, cleansed my wounds as best I could, wrapped myself in a white Fairmont bathrobe, held a cold washcloth to my eye, and settled in at the desk near the window. Gazing out at a picture postcard view of the Bay, Alcatraz, Angel Island, and the Golden Gate Bridge, I dialed my answering machine. Pedro and Annette had each left a message to call them back. Mom had phoned to urge me once more to join the family for Thanksgiving. Grandfather had called to ask how things had gone in Hillsborough and to tell me that my present was in the dead letter section of the main St. Louis post office. I had no idea what he was talking about, but this was the kind of cryptic message I had come to expect from him. Lastly, Josh had called “just to say hi.” Hearing his warm, deep voice reminded me why I wanted to see him. Josh was a nice, normal, steady-as-a-rock kind of man who would never, under any circumstances, ask for someone's help in casing a client's house and leave her half naked at the Fairmont.

Good ol' Josh.

On the other hand, I did seem to have a talent for attracting trouble, as Frank had remarked on more than one occasion. Maybe Josh was also an international art thief. Maybe he was an undercover agent from Interpol, sent to check on my connections to wanted art forgers and thieves. Maybe his beefy nice-guy-construction-worker persona was a façade—had I ever actually seen him build anything besides that wheelchair ramp for Community Builders?

As I dialed Pedro's number, I debated asking him to run a background check on Josh, but decided I was being pathetic.

“
Hola
, Annie. Where you been?”

“I spent the night at the Fairmont—”

“Yo,
chica
, good for you. I knew you had a wild side. Elena and I were just talking about you. So who sprang for the room? Some rich dude, huh?”

“You wouldn't believe it if I told you. Were you able to track down Evangeline?”

“Have I ever failed you? Full name's Evangeline Simpson, she lettered in high school wrestling in Utica, New York, and dropped out of art school at NYU two months ago. Moved to 1849 Tennessee Street last May.”

“That's Pascal's studio.”

“It's listed as her residence. Is it a live/work space?”

“Yeah, but I thought Pascal lived there. There's only a tiny bedroom with an army cot.”

“Maybe they're a real close family.”

“Very funny. Any idea where she might be right now?”

“ 'Fraid not, but I left a voice mail on her cell phone, and with the clerks at the video store where she's a regular. She's partial to Clint Eastwood spaghetti Westerns.”

“I don't suppose you found anything more on Carlos? Anything on the drug angle?”

“Last time we spoke you dismissed the idea!”

“Just curious.”

“Nope, nothing like that. Hey, here's something: did you know Carlos is Jewish?”

“He is?”

“According to the Internet, there was a small but significant Jewish immigration to Mexico in the mid-twentieth century. You know, I've been thinkin' about what you said. Maybe I should visit. Seems like an interesting place. Anyway, Carlos Jimenez gets nothing but stellar references from his neighbors. And if he's a drug dealer he sure ain't livin' like one. He may be a big shot in his hometown, but around here he and his wife lead a pretty humble life.”

“What do you mean he's a
big shot
?”

“According to the
Cerrito Lindo Courier
, the mayor gave Carlos the key to the town at the harvest festival last weekend in recognition for—hold on, let me call it up—oh, yeah:
In heartfelt appreciation and gratitude for the many munificent donations to the Cerrito Lindo Museum by one of the town's most golden native sons.
Who
writes
that kind of crap? Anyway, according to the paper, Carlos helped to design the town's museum.”

“Were these financial contributions?”

“Nah, from what I can tell it was mostly time and energy, like some pro-bono consulting, though he did hook the museum up with some pre-Columbian artifacts on the cheap. But no paintings of note, at least not that I could find.”

Not surprising
, I thought. The missing Chagall would be kept under wraps until things died down. The more I thought about it, the more it seemed entirely out of character for Carlos to have stolen the painting for personal profit, but entirely in character to have taken it for his hometown. The choice of the Chagall made sense now that I knew he was Jewish and that Agnes had been planning on dumping the painting.

“Did you find out anything else about his son Juan?” I asked.

“Looks like he's doing okay. He moved to Cerrito Lindo last spring and—get this—is in charge of the new museum. This article says Juan Jimenez
brings a wealth of hands-on museum experience to our fair town.
”

Can't get more hands-on than scrubbing the museum floor, which was the only experience Juan had gained at the Brock. I thanked Pedro, left him my room extension in case he found anything else, and hung up.

Next on my list was Annette.

“Inspector Crawford,” she said in her rich alto.

“Annette. It's Annie. What's up?”

“Where've you been? I need you to come down to the station to answer a few questions about this Pascal character. By the time we got to his studio he'd cleared out. The place was a wreck, smashed sculptures everywhere. No body parts, but one hell of a lot of dust, and evidence that someone had burned a fire in a portable barbecue pit.”

“Did you find any notebooks?”

“There were fragments of scorched paper in the barbecue, but three or four cardboard boxes were full of them. All had Seamus McGraw's name on them.”

“Did you read any?”

“Not yet. There's quite a lot there. Why?”

“I was wondering why McGraw's notebooks were at Pascal's studio.”

“I wondered that myself. Anyway, I also wanted to tell you we found Evangeline. Live and kicking, with one heck of a New York honk. She came in to file a missing persons report on Pascal. You know, the guy you tried to convince me had killed her?”

Cancel my subscription to
True Detective
.

“When can you come in? I want to get a formal statement from you.”

“Gee, I'm out of town for Thanksgiving,” I lied. “How about Monday?”

“Make it Friday,” she said. “And, Annie? If you don't come to me, I'll come to you.”

“Sounds like a threat, Inspector.”

“Just so we're on the same page. So where are you headed for Thanksgiving?”

“To a friend's family's house.”

“Friend as in boyfriend?”

“Sort of.”

“What about that landlord of yours? I saw him this morning when I dropped by your studio. You two made a cute couple at the Brock gala last spring.”

“No, we didn't. Besides, Frank hates me.”

“I rather doubt that,” she said. “And don't even
try
to tell me you've never thought about him. It's a felony to lie to a police inspector.”

“Really?”

“No. But it should be.”

We signed off and I braced myself to tell Josh I was bailing on our date tomorrow. Fate cut me a break for once, and his voice mail picked up. I left a vaguely plausible excuse about feeling guilty for not being with my family on Thanksgiving, and as a sop to my conscience gave him my cell number. Not that it would do him any good, since its battery had long since run out of juice.

I looked out at the glorious blue sky and started to relax. Mom was out of harm's way. Evangeline was alive and honking. I'd figured out where the Chagall was, and I was willing to bet Michael had known from the start. Poor Derek's death was best left in the hands of the police, though when I saw Annette Friday I should probably mention the little I knew about
that
.

But for now I was in a bathrobe at the Fairmont, a long holiday weekend stretching out ahead of me, and I had Michael's American Express card number.

A discreet knock announced room service had arrived. A nice young man set the meal on a little café table, laying out silverware and china on a linen tablecloth. I signed for the meal, added a huge tip, switched on the TV, poured myself some coffee, and dove into the clams.

The phone shrilled. I ignored it. After five insistent rings I caved.

“Your cell phone's turned off,” came Michael's sexy growl.

“Thanks for the tip, scumbag. I just ordered a massage, on your tab. Plus a manicure. I'm thinking of an in-room movie later. And I—”

“I need your help, Annie,” he interrupted.

“What is it?” I asked, mentally reviewing how much money I would be willing or able to post as bail. If Michael had done more than run a stop sign he was on his own.

“There's a, um, kind of situation.”

“What kind of situation?”

“A sort of stuck kind of situation.”

I slurped up some linguine and thought that over. “Like in a drain pipe?”

“What would I be doing in a drain pipe?”

“That was my next question.”

“No, not like in a drain pipe. Like at the Haggertys'.”

“The Haggertys'?”

“Yes.”

“You're stuck at the Haggertys'?”

“Is this a difficult concept?”

“What do you mean?”

“Annie, will you please be quiet for a moment and listen? I need help. I'm trapped in their panic room.”

“What are you doing in their panic room?”

“Panicking.”

“Makes sense.” I had been introduced to panic rooms while overseeing a remodeling project for a neurotic client from Blackhawk, an upscale East Bay community. Panic rooms were reinforced structures with their own ventilation system and phone lines, stocked with food, water, medicine, contact lens solution, and whatever else one needed to survive for a few hours or days. The house could burn down or be ransacked by evildoers, and those inside the room would be safe. The project's architect had proudly shown his plans to the entire construction and design crews until I pointed out that panic rooms were supposed to be a secret.

“Annie, I'll be happy to tell you the whole story later. Right now I need you to get your pampered ass over here and help me.”

There was a loud knock.

“Hold on. That's my massage.” I opened the door for Clint the masseur, who started setting up his table.