Shooting Gallery (34 page)

“Yes, all right.” Ms. Mouse was beginning to look a little nervous.

I hummed while I waited. It occurred to me that Michael might be able to see me on camera in the panic room, so I slapped on a winsome smile. Was he still panicking? Who would've figured him for a claustrophobe? And since my cell phone was dead, how would I know if he'd gotten out? I'd just have to trust he was on the ball enough to escape when he had the chance.

“Annie! What a delightful surprise!” Nathan said, as he scurried down the sweeping staircase. “Good lord, what happened to your face?”

“Nathan! Thank heavens! Listen to me! A bomb has been planted in the house. I've called the bomb squad, and—”

“But, Annie, what nonsense is this?”

“Everyone must leave immediately, Nathan. We must all gather at the end of the drive until the bomb squad has declared the property safe.”

“But I don't understand. Why . . . ? How . . . ? Who . . . ?”

“Nathan, I lied to you last night. Yes, I did. I am not a struggling artist, that's just my cover. That's why I'm dressed like this. No, I am in reality, um, part of a crack SFPD undercover squad tracking radical antiapartheid cells working in the Bay Area and targeting, um, wealthy South Africans such as yourself.”

Nathan looked dumbfounded. “But apartheid ended years ago.”

“Try telling that to these guys. They're fanatical. Take Ken, for example.”

“Who?”

“Kevin, right. Sorry. Ken's his code name. How well do you really know Kevin, Nathan?”

“Why, he's worked for me over a year.”

“Has he? Has he
really
? Didn't you find his racist comments last night a little, shall we say, overstated? Didn't you ever wonder what he might be hiding by being so extreme? Kevin's not what he appears to be, Nathan. That's all I can say right now.” I dropped my voice to a whisper and Nathan leaned in close. “It would cost me my badge if anyone found out I told you this. We're not supposed to get personally involved in our cases. But after our very special time together last night I couldn't stand by and let this happen, and I knew I was closer than the bomb squad, who, frankly, seem to be taking their own sweet time getting here. But I can't stay any longer. Nathan, I beg of you, for the love of God, get everyone out of the house,
now
!”

I was afraid that last bit might have stretched credulity to the breaking point, but Nathan started shouting, “Everyone out of the house! Diane! Sweetheart! Janice! Everyone!”

He did not go inside to rescue his beloved Diane, but joined me on the front porch. He did keep shouting, though, I had to give him that. Ms. Mouse emerged with a longhaired cat clamped under one arm and a purse under the other; Diane appeared wearing a white tennis outfit with a short flouncy skirt; and a thin man in his seventies limped toward the door with the help of a cane. Last to arrive was Kevin the Nazi, who swept past me with a glare. I noticed Nathan looked at his employee askance.

“What about the household staff?” I asked.

“Servants' day off,” he replied. “Let's go.”

I herded them down the driveway, wondering how much time Michael needed to get out of the house. Nathan whipped out his cell phone and I froze, afraid he was calling the cops, but relaxed when I heard him trying to explain the situation to his insurance agent. He gave the agent his cell number, and I made a mental note of it so I could call him after I left. It seemed mean to leave them standing in the chill November air on the day before Thanksgiving, worried there was a bomb in their house and awaiting the mythical bomb squad.

As soon as they were all chatting by the side of the road, I figured it was time to make my escape. I held up one hand like a school crossing guard, and they fell silent.

“On behalf of the SFPD undercover squad, I'd like to thank you for your cooperation in these trying circumstances. So. Here's what we're going to do. I'm going back in. No—don't try to stop me.”

No one did.

“No matter what happens, even if I get called away, it is imperative that you remain here, away from the house, until you're given the official all clear. Got that?”

Five heads bobbed up and down in mute assent, though Kevin frowned. The cat hissed.

I continued in my take-charge voice. “Let's hope it's a false alarm, but one never knows with these crazy leftists. Thank you and Godspeed.”

As I hurried back up the drive I heard Diane say, “I thought she was rather a leftist herself, didn't you, darling?”

“It was all a façade, my dear. I saw right through it,” Nathan replied. “She's a crack undercover agent. Damn good, too.”

“Nice car for an undercover agent,” Kevin muttered.

I crunched up the driveway, jumped in the Jaguar, and gunned it. Granite chips spurted as I zoomed past the astonished Haggertys and their entourage. Deciding to call Nathan from the nearest pay phone, I scribbled his cell number on a scratch pad my uptight landlord used to keep track of his gas mileage. I approached a stop sign and debated which way to go.

“Take a right,” came a voice from the backseat.

I swerved and sent the Jaguar careening across the road, regaining control only after a close shave with a gold BMW.

“Michael! Dammit! You're going to get us killed, you backseat-driving thief! How did you get in here?” I yelled, my heart racing.

“Why, the door, of course. It's the easiest way. Nice shiner. How are you feeling?”

“It's not enough that I perjure myself in front of the Haggertys, now I'm to be scared to death in my own car?”

“It's not your car,” he retorted, caressing the buttery leather upholstery. “It is very nice, though. Whose is it? You didn't tell anyone our little secret, did you, Annie?”

“Of course I did. I called my investigative reporter buddy at the
Chronicle
and told him I was on my way to rescue an art thief who'd gotten stuck in some wealthy sucker's panic room after exchanging his valuable paintings for my grandfather's worthless fakes. You mean I wasn't supposed to?”

“Annie,” he tsk-tsk'd. “Why are you so dismissive of your grandfather's work? The forgeries are quite wonderful. As Georges so often says, if a fake is as beautiful as the original, why is it less valuable?”

“Because it is.”

“But why? Are you really so devoid of feeling—”

“Cut the philosophical crappola, Michael,” I snorted as the Jaguar hummed around the twists and turns. As furious as I was, I had half a mind to follow Skyline Boulevard along the crest of the Santa Cruz mountain range. When would I get another chance to drive such an amazing car? “Tell me something, you big art-stealing fake: if the forgery's as good as the original, then why do you bother to steal the real ones? Why not just enjoy the fakes and be done with it? Answer me that.”

He shrugged. “Everybody's got to make a living.”

“Give me a break. And your cell phone,” I said, holding my hand out.

“Why?”

“I want to call Nathan.”

“Why?”

“To give him the all clear.”

“Why? Or are you enjoying being Secret Agent Annie Kincaid, part of a crack SFPD undercover squad investigating radical antiapartheid groups in the Bay Area?”

“You heard that, huh?” I squirmed.

“I heard it all, sweetheart. The entire astonishing performance, from soup to nuts.”

“It was nuts, all right,” I muttered. I glanced in the rearview mirror to see if he was laughing at me. His handsome features were arranged in such an innocent expression I was immediately suspicious.

“I don't know what I admire most: that you could come up with such a preposterous story, or that you could make it sound so plausible. You are a gifted liar, Annie.”

Great. Being admired by a sexy art thief for my ability to tell a first-class whopper wasn't exactly one of my life's goals.

“It's in the blood,” I said, gritting my teeth. “Now, give me your phone. I can't leave them there, standing in the cold the day before Thanksgiving.”

“I don't see why not.”

“Because it would be mean,” I snapped. “Give me your damned phone.”

“No.”

“I don't believe this! I interrupt my spa day, come all the way out here, lie through my teeth so you can make a clean getaway, and you won't lend me your stupid phone!” I was shouting now. “Why not?”

“Because Nathan will capture my cell phone number on his caller ID, and then we'll both have some explaining to do. Nathan knows some important people, Annie. I'd just as soon we didn't all get acquainted.”

“Oh.” I deflated a little. “So. Shame about Nathan's paintings, huh?” I asked as we zipped along.

“In what sense?”

“Well, you set up this elaborate scheme and got me to go to that stupid cocktail party, and paid me lots of money, and forced me to tell you which paintings were worth stealing, and then got trapped in the panic room and, well, here you are.”

“Yes, here I am.”

I gritted my teeth. “Best-laid plans, I mean.”

“I don't know about that—I think all in all it was a pretty good plan.”

In the rearview mirror I saw Michael nonchalantly watching the scenery. Here was my chance to lord it over him for failing to steal the paintings, and he was being obtuse. “So too bad your plan didn't work, huh?”

“How do you figure that?”

“Duh, Mr. Big Time Art Thief—maybe because you don't
have
any paintings?”

Michael's eyes met mine in the mirror. “Oh, I got the paintings all right.”

“No, you didn't.”

“Annie. Of course I did.”

“So where are they?”

“In the trunk.”

I slammed on the brakes and we screeched to a halt by the side of the road. Michael wasn't wearing a seat belt, and the momentum propelled him forward until his forehead thumped against the back of my seat.

“Jesus Christ, Annie! Are you trying to kill me? That's the second time you've given me a head wound.”

Last spring Michael and I had had a bit of an adventure during which I'd inadvertently bashed him in the head. He'd forgotten that I'd saved his butt that time, too.

“You'll live,” I said. “Are you telling me there are stolen paintings in the trunk of this very expensive, very
borrowed
car, thereby implicating in your crime not only me but the car's owner, as well?”

“Must you be so dramatic? The paintings are in the trunk. No one knows they're there—
you
didn't know they were there—and no one ever will know they're there unless, of course, you insist upon attracting attention with your wretched driving.”

Swearing under my breath, I put the car in gear and pulled onto the road. A click from the backseat indicated Michael had decided to buckle up.

“So, tell me,
Dr. Collins
, just how were you planning to make your getaway if the Jaguar hadn't been parked in front of the house?”

“The secret to great thievery, my dear
Mrs. Collins
, is to keep your options open,” he replied. “That way if Plan A doesn't work out, you move on to Plan B.”

“I see. So I guess that explains how you got trapped in the panic room, huh?”

“No plan is foolproof.”

Michael reached forward and started to give me a neck rub. It felt so good it was hard to keep my attention on the road.

“Oh! Look! A gas station,” I said with relief. The station was closed on this Thanksgiving Eve, but there was a phone booth near the office. I pulled up next to it, grabbed the sheet of scratch paper with Nathan's cell number, realized I had no change, and began searching Frank's Jaguar. There was only paperwork in the orderly glove compartment, so I started rooting around between the front seats.

“What in the world are you doing?” Michael asked after a moment.

“Looking for change.” I perched on the passenger's seat and stuck my head into the driver's footwell to search under the seat.

“Is that where your friend keeps his change?”

“What friend?” I pulled up the floor mats.

“Mr. Boring Fat Cat. Your date for the Brock Gala.”

“Frank is not boring, he's not a fat cat, and he wasn't my date. He's—How did you know this was his car?” I switched sides and started searching the passenger's seat.

“Let me get this straight. You're seeing Mr. Muscles
and
Mr. Boring Fat Cat, both at the same time? Plus hanging out with me? My my, you
are
a busy girl, aren't you?”

I sat upright in the seat, frustrated, and realized that with my short skirt I had been giving Michael quite a show. Yet another reason why I seldom left the house without my overalls. I yanked the skirt down and glanced at Michael. The international art thief was relaxing in leather-lined luxury, arms crossed over his muscled chest, watching me with amusement.

I crossed my arms over my scantily clad chest and raised an eyebrow. “Tell me something. How can you be claustrophobic if you're a thief? Don't you get into a lot of tight situations?”

“I overcome my fear through force of will.”

“I guess that would explain your tone of voice when you called for help, huh?” I replied. “And Mr. Boring Fat Cat is my landlord, nothing more.”

“You know, Annie, you might not want to get too close to that landlord of yours.”

“Is that right? Too bad I see him every day.”

“I'm serious. He's not our kind of people.”