Feint of Art: (24 page)

“Baby doll, I
know
you aren’t involved in what’s going on at the Brock, right? It sounds like something dangerous happening with that crowd. Did you hear about that poor janitor who was killed the other night?”

I assured Bryan I would be careful, then hurried to my truck and navigated the lunchtime traffic over to the Brock, parked on a side street, and started rummaging through the mishmash of junk behind my seat. Beneath a layer of trash and miscellaneous art supplies, I unearthed a clipboard with a number of invoices on it, some pink reading glasses decorated with rhinestones that I’d bought at the drugstore because I thought they looked campy, and a large faux-tortoiseshell hair clip.

Piling my hair atop my head as best I could and fastening it with the hair clip, I put on the glasses, applied some lipstick I kept in the glove box for emergencies, and buttoned my black coat over my Indian skirt. I was regretting my casual dress, especially the Birkenstocks. They were clunky and ugly, and a bit of a local joke, but were also supremely comfortable if you were on your feet a lot, as I was. Oh, well. Maybe no one would notice the shoes.

Clutching the clipboard to my chest officiously, I strode up to the museum entrance. “Good afternoon,” I said in my most professional voice. “I am here to see Mr. Edward Brock.”

An elderly docent with a pleasant smile hurriedly stashed a crossword puzzle below the counter. “Do you have an appointment?” she asked.

“Is that the
New York Times
Sunday crossword?” I gushed in a conspiratorial whisper as I leaned closer. “I am a
fiend
for the Sunday crossword.”

She laughed. “Me too, but I’m not supposed to be doing it while on duty.”

I rolled my eyes in commiseration. “Great-aunt Agnes has quite a hawk eye, hasn’t she?”

“Ah—Great-aunt Agnes? Mrs. Brock is your aunt?” The docent looked at me with respect tinged with worry.

I rolled my eyes again and added a little shoulder hike, hoping I wasn’t overdoing it. I was counting heavily on the widely shared dislike of the old bat to work in my favor. “Yeah, can you believe we’re related?” I said. “Anyway, I promise I won’t mention the crossword puzzle if you’ll tell me what you got for thirty-two across.”

“Meringue,” she said, glancing down at the half-hidden puzzle. She waved me through with a hesitant smile, even offering to call ahead for me. I told her not to bother—I wanted to surprise dear Cousin Edward. I winked at her and she winked back.

I hurried down the Brock’s lushly detailed hallway for the second time that week, keeping my head down in case I passed someone who might recognize me. The museum’s offices didn’t see a lot of Indian skirts and Birkenstocks.

While pondering the most effective means of attack, I searched for Edward’s discreet brass doorplate and finally found it at the end of the hall that led to the conference room. I raised my hand to knock, then reconsidered. Maybe a frontal assault would make more sense. Pushing the door open, I was relieved to see that the outer office was devoid of a secretary.

“Edward?” I called, wading through the thick red pile carpet to the inner office door.

No response.

I felt a tingle on the back of my neck and spun around. Nothing. I needed to calm down. But what if Edward were in there, lying in a pool of blood like poor Joanne? What if the Hulk were lurking inside, waiting for me? What if . . .

Hearing Edward’s voice from down the hall, I ducked into the inner office. Rats, he was with someone. Either that, or he had gone off his meds and was talking agitatedly to himself. The surge of confidence I’d gained from my interaction with the woman at the door had yielded to the realization that I might be out of my league here. Tricking a kindly docent was one thing; conning a con man like Edward was quite another. I spied a carved black lacquer chinoiserie screen in the far corner of the office, gave in to cowardice, and hid behind it. I’d just wait here for him to finish up his business, then slip out and try to talk my way through the embarrassment if caught. Anyway, it was too late now—Edward and his guest were coming into the inner office.

“For God’s sake, Edward, calm down,” his companion said.

Well, well. The X-man must have caught a fictional red-eye from the fictional conference in New York. Now we were getting somewhere.

“That’s easy for you to say,” Edward snapped. “She just called Naomi to ask about me. And about you, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“She didn’t ask about me, she asked about Colin Brooks. She knows me by a different name entirely,” Michael said in that calm, patronizing tone he so often used with me. “Now, here’s what we need to do—”

“I’m sick of you deciding what ‘we’ need to do,” Edward told him. They were standing close to me now, just on the other side of the screen. I held my breath. “I need to find Harlan, that’s what
I
need to do! He had you put the wrong painting back in the vault, damn it! My ass is hanging out in the wind and you tell me to calm down?!”

“Listen to me, Edward, and listen carefully,” Michael replied soothingly. “You need to get hold of yourself. All you’ve done is borrow family property for a little while, right? That’s not a crime.”

What a load of bullpucky. Yeah, Edward had “borrowed”
The Magi
—to have it replaced with a forgery. If Edward bought what Michael was selling, he was dumber than I thought.

“So here’s what we need to do,” Michael said again in that ever-so-reasonable voice. “You stay here and act like you’re doing something useful. I’ll find Harlan and the other painting. It stands to reason that if the one in the vault is a fake, and the one Harlan sold to the New Yorker is a fake, too, then the real painting is still out there. Harlan probably has it or sold it, so at the very least, I can steal it back.
If
you don’t blow it for us in the meantime.”

“I need the money, Colin, and I need it soon,” Edward whined. “The people I owe are breathing down my neck. Plus, there are those goons from New York. I sent them to see that Kincaid chick, but they’ll be back—”

“You sent them
where
?”

“I had to give them something. I told them she knew where Anton and Harlan were.”

Hearing a muffled scuffling, a thud, and a gagging sound, I peeked around a corner of the screen and saw Michael was holding Edward by the collar, up against the wall.

“You sniveling little shit,” Michael spat. “That woman is
my
concern, do you understand? They better not have hurt her, or I’ll take it out of your worthless hide—you got me?”

Edward gagged and whimpered as Michael tossed him into the desk chair like a discarded doll.

“Try to act like you belong here, will you?” Michael said with angry disdain, turning on his heel and stalking out of the office.

I was ashamed to admit that I’d felt a little thrill when Michael had Edward by the throat. For a pacifist, I seemed to be responding rather readily to violence these days. And what was that about “That woman is
my
concern”? At the moment, though, more urgent worries took precedence.

Number One: I had to get out of my hiding place and follow Michael somehow. Number Two: I had to find a bathroom. The lemonade was making itself known in a big way.

I soon caught a break. Edward sat at his desk, no doubt licking his wounded pride and trying to figure out how to pin the blame on someone else. After a few moments, he picked up the phone and dialed.

“We have to talk.
Now.
No, in person. Meet me at the diner. Mm-hmm. Twenty minutes.” Edward stood, smoothed his shirt, and left the office at a trot.

Priority Number Two moved into the Number One spot. But first I wanted to try something. I walked over to the desk and saw that Edward’s phone had a tiny digital display screen. When I hit the REDIAL button a telephone number popped up on the display.

Just call me Super Sleuth, I bragged to myself as I wrote the number down and waited to see who answered. Although the phone rang and rang, no one picked up. No problem, I thought smugly. Now that I had a friend in the SFPD this would be simple. I’d give Annette the number and ask her to find out to whom it belonged. Pleased with myself, I turned to leave and find a bathroom.

Unfortunately, the man standing in the doorway seemed to have another plan in mind.

The inclusion of an animal always enlivens a scene. A dog or a cat in the foreground is especially coveted in today’s art market
.

—Georges LeFleur, “How to Market Your
Forgery,” unfinished manuscript,
Reflections of a World-Class Art Forger

 

I let out a little screech.

The X-man rolled his eyes.

Michael was standing in the doorway to the outer office, much as he had been when I first met him at Anton’s: shoulder against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. He was wearing his brown leather bomber jacket, a bright white T-shirt, and well-worn Levi’s.

He did not look surprised to see me.

“If you’re going to continue in this line of work, Annie, you will have to learn to stifle your scream impulse.” He gave me a leisurely once-over. “Love the hair. But what in the hell happened to your face?”

My hand darted up to soothe my wild curls. “
I
am not in ‘this line of work.’ I am a legitimate small-business owner who gets a little jumpy around you criminal types.”

“That so? What about those stunts you and your dear grandpapa pulled off in your younger days?”

Maybe I could bluff. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Michael snorted.

Maybe not.

“Who told you?”

Crossing over to Edward’s desk, he began searching for something, cool as a cucumber. “Well, let’s see,” he said. “There was Ernst Pettigrew. And Anton. And Harlan Coombs. Plus Joanne Nash. And let’s not forget Naomi. She mentioned it several times, I believe. Then there was Agnes Brock. And Sebastian Pitts. No love lost there, eh? Oh, and your grandfather, of course. He’s very proud of you, you know.”

My grandfather? He’d spoken with my
grandfather
? I couldn’t get Georges to return my calls, but he was happy to chat with Michael the art thief?

“I think maybe your Slovak friend said something about it as well,” he added.

“Bosnian.” I sighed. “He’s Bosnian.”

Seems the whole world was in on my little secret. I could move to Chicago, I thought. I liked Chicago. Except for the weather. Sometimes I wondered why I was working so hard to be a legitimate artist.

Michael paused in his methodical search and looked at me. “You seem a little jumpy today, Annie.”

“Two people have been killed, Michael—Colin—whatever your name is.
Two.
And Ernst is still unaccounted for. Not to mention that someone torched my studio, put my friend in the hospital, and kidnapped me. And for all I know, the man responsible is standing across the room from me. On top of everything else, I have to pee like nobody’s business.”

“Oh,
please.
You don’t really think I had anything to do with the murders, do you? I’m a thief, Annie. A
non-violent
thief. I swear, though, this is the last time I do a group job.” Michael spoke in the melancholy tone normally reserved for those lamenting the decline of morals in our modern society.

“So—you admit you’re a thief!” I said, feeling triumphant.

Michael looked at me disdainfully. “Usually I’m a solo act,” he said, “but I thought it would be good for me to work with people. Annie, please stop twitching like that—there’s a bathroom over there.” He nodded toward an intricately carved door next to the black-lacquer screen. Well, what do you know.

I used the facilities and afterward was able to think more clearly. I had no reason to believe Michael, but I did. He had been as shocked as I to find Joanne’s body, and, so far at least, he had been violent only in self-defense. Plus, he owed me money, so I thought I would give him the benefit of the doubt.

“So what’s the deal with Edward?” I asked as I emerged from the bathroom.

Michael was engrossed in opening a wall safe.

“Don’t you need a stethoscope or something to hear the tumblers fall?” I whispered, drawing upon my vast knowledge of
Mission: Impossible.

“Not if you find the combination in the Rolodex.”

“You’re kidding. Edward filed the combination in his
Rolodex
?”

Michael looked at me. “Does Edward seem like he could keep a long series of numbers in his head? I found it under ‘C’ for ‘Combination.’ He’d also programmed Harlan’s and Anton’s numbers into his speed dial until I pointed out the error of his ways. What a moron.”

So much for the brotherhood of thieves.

“Why did you get involved with him if he’s such a moron?”

“Anton’s an old friend,” Michael answered while riffling through the safe’s contents. “Harlan Coombs got Anton into this Internet trading thing. When tech stocks crashed last year, they lost most of their money, but Harlan convinced our dear naïve Anton to invest more, thinking the market would turn around.”

“But Anton doesn’t know squat about anything except art,” I said.

“Which may be why he lost almost all his life savings. He’d been wanting to buy a condo in Boca and retire, and Harlan assured him he’d make a bundle, fast. Anyway, Harlan started borrowing against drawings that didn’t belong to him and had Anton make forgeries. The plan was for Harlan to sell the originals and he and Anton would share the proceeds. But Harlan put most of the money back into Internet trading, leaving Anton high and dry. Now Harlan owes big bucks to some real bad guys—loan sharks as well as the art dealers he and Anton were duping. Some of those dealers are mean SOBs, too. Don’t let the bow ties fool you.”

“But where does
The Magi
fit in? And Edward?”