Feint of Art: (28 page)

Emily was turning an unattractive shade of green, which I assumed meant she was not used to this sort of treatment. She nodded.

Letting her go, I stepped back, rearranged my disheveled clothing, and continued the conversation as if nothing had happened. “I can see now that this painting is not the original. That’s fine. I’m not about to tell anybody. What I
do
need is information.”

“What kind of information?” she asked weakly, rubbing her arm.

“Where’s Harlan Coombs?”

Emily shook her expensively coiffed head. “I can’t help you.”

“Protecting him, are you? You do realize, Emily, that the last woman who tried to protect poor Harlan wound up dead?” So I stretched the facts a bit. Something about this woman got me in touch with my inner bitch. “Plus, a janitor who got in the way ended up dead, too,” I added. “And a curator disappeared that same night.”

“You’re wrong,” Emily said shakily. “The curator shot the janitor.”

“Who told you that? Harlan? Oh, yeah, he’s to be trusted. You need to get a better class of friends, Emily. Because on top of everything else, no one on this job,
no one,
has gotten any money from dear old Harlan for those fakes he’s been peddling.” I pictured myself in an old
Perry Mason
episode. Just what did the defendant have to say about
that,
ladies and gentlemen? “Oh, and by the way,” I said, “did you know about Harlan’s affair with Quiana?”

Emily reached out a trembling hand to grab the arm of an upholstered chair and eased herself into it. She was even worse at this cloak-and-dagger stuff than I was.

On the other hand,
she
hadn’t screamed when she’d found me.

“He’s not with Quiana!” she gasped.

“Are you sure?” I asked her. “Because that’s not what I hear. She’s about ready to spill everything, too. I’ve already met with her. Twice.”

I decided the bad cop had done her job. Maybe it was time for the good cop to come out and play. Hitching my right hip on the desk, I planted my left foot on the floor and leaned forward to project sincerity. “Look, you’re not in too deep yet, Emily,” I said soothingly. “The Culpeppers don’t know that their painting isn’t genuine, and as far as I’m concerned there’s no reason for them to find out.” Why should I care if people willing to buy stolen masterpieces were ripped off? Served them right.

“Harlan has put a lot of people in danger and stolen a lot of money,” I continued, assuming an air of confidentiality. “He might very well be a murderer. Believe me, you don’t want to be associated with him. Tell me how I can find Harlan, Emily, and then you can step out of this mess entirely.”

I wasn’t sure what Emily was focusing on, but it wasn’t me. Suddenly, she drew herself up, looked me in the eye, and snapped, “I don’t know where he is. All I have is a phone number that he e-mailed me. It’s probably a pay phone or something.”

“Give it to me anyway,” I said, handing her a pad of paper and a pen. “You say he e-mails you? Better add his e-mail address. Now, tell me this: weren’t you supposed to meet him somewhere to get your money?”

The greenish hue washed over her again as she handed me the notepad. “I was just supposed to arrange to switch the Culpeppers’ Caravaggio for a fake. But—”

“You think they once had the real one? Harlan made a change?”

“That Polish guy came and switched it. He’s been working with Harlan. But now Harlan needs help, because he left some drawings at the Brock.”

I stared at her. “Why would he have left them there? How’s he going to get them back?”

“They’re having some big event on Saturday and he’s going to be there. He wants me there, too.”

“That’s crazy,” I replied without thinking.

“That’s what I said,” she whined. First Edward, now Emily. I had to wonder about Harlan’s taste in coconspirators. “He said he had a disguise and that with the party and all, everyone would be distracted and he’d be able to retrieve them. He wanted to make sure I’d be there with Mrs. Culpepper, although I’m not sure why.”

I wasn’t sure why either, unless he needed someone to fall apart under pressure and start spewing her guts.

And speaking of guts, it would take a lot of them for Harlan to return to the Brock, disguise or no, and mingle with the best and the brightest of the City’s art scene, a significant percentage of whom he had recently ripped off.

“So what happened to the real Carav—” I began.

“Emily?”

I recognized Camilla Culpepper’s voice. Emily and I froze.

For once I was ready. “Oh, Mrs.
Cul
pepper! You know, I simply
adore
dogs,” I gushed as she appeared. I scooped Miss Mopsy up and gave her a squeeze. She burped. “And my poor Snookie went to live with the puppy angels just last month, boo-hoo. I got to talking about him with Emily here and I started to cry, I felt so sad. Then Emily said, did I want to see the cutest dog alive, and I said, did I
ever,
so we came up here and I have to say that Mopsy Wopsy is just
adorable
! I mean, could you just
die
?”

Camilla didn’t look convinced, so I continued.

“And then I wanted to show Emily some acupressure points as a way of saying thank you, so I did, but I forgot to check for medical conditions first—I’m still learning, you know—and it turns out that the poor girl is prone to migraines, so the last thing I should have tried was the ching-li zone, because that could bring up bad chi, and then she began to feel a little faint.”

I ended.

Camilla looked at Miss Mopsy, who was staring up at me adoringly, and at Emily, who was still rather green, and must have decided that at least part of my ridiculous saga was true, because she laid a hand on Emily’s forehead and said, “Yes, dear, you do look terrible. Perhaps you should lie down for a few minutes. And you,” she said, turning her beady, makeup-encrusted eyes on me and reaching for her dog, “should not practice until you’re fully trained. I’m sure Bruno will be quite upset when he hears about this. And widdle Miss Mopsy Popsy Poo here would not wike it if her Emiwee was feewing sickle wickie, would she, Mopsy Popsy mumsy’s widdle wuzzie?”

Emily looked nauseated, and even I was given pause. I was as quick to indulge in doggie talk as the next fatuous dog lover, but I usually made sure there weren’t any witnesses.

Time to go.

Muttering something about seeing myself out, I hurried down two flights of stairs—and found the ground-floor exercise room empty. “Michael?” I called.

“I mean, Bruno?”

For one terrible moment I thought he had stranded me again. Then I reminded myself that he needed to know if I had found the Caravaggio.

“Bruno!”

“Dahling, do keep it down,” Camilla called from the top of the stairs. “Poor Emily is trying to rest. Bruno came up to the study earlier to tell you that he was leaving and that you should catch a ride with someone named Angela. Didn’t he see you?”

Michael had come up to the study? Had he, by any chance, overheard my little chat with Emily?

He had done it. He had gone and done it. He had stranded me.

Again.

I was going to murder the X-man the very next time I saw him.

Swear to God.

—Georges LeFleur, “What’s in a Name?” unfinished manuscript,
Reflections of a World-Class Art Forger

 

An hour and a half later I stood on the deck of the Larkspur ferry, watching the island of Belvedere slide by. The ocean wind blew still more knots into my already snarled hair, which seemed a fitting metaphor for the day.

When I realized that the despicable Michael-Colin-Paddy-Bruno had stranded me yet again, I used the Culpeppers’ phone to call my friend Elizabeth. A writer and a former client, Elizabeth lived with her attorney husband, two adorable kids, and a sweet golden retriever in nearby Larkspur Landing. A small town on a finger of the bay, it had fabulous views, a ferry landing, and San Quentin Prison, an imposing structure that housed some of California’s worst felons on some of California’s best real estate.

Elizabeth picked me up in her gold Volvo station wagon, no questions asked, genuinely apologetic that she couldn’t drive me all the way into the city because Jason had a Little League game and Sarah had to eat by six in order to get to her violin recital on time. Not for the first time, I wondered what it would be like to live such a normal existence. It didn’t seem to be in the cards for me anytime soon.

From Larkspur Landing it was a straight shot across San Francisco Bay to Pier 41, from which I could catch a bus to the Brock, retrieve my truck, and head back to my ruined studio. With luck, I’d be there in an hour.

It was a gorgeous afternoon, sunny and mild, so I bought a cup of coffee at the canteen and climbed up to the forward deck, taking a seat on a bench. During commute hours the ferry was always packed, but at the moment it was just me and a few tourists murmuring among themselves as they gazed at the sights of San Francisco, Oakland and the East Bay hills, Marin, and Alcatraz. I used the time to reflect and to decompress.

What exactly had I thought I was doing, poking about a stranger’s home? Not to mention hiding under her desk with her dog and intimidating her secretary?
The Magi
wasn’t even my concern—I was supposed to be looking for Anthony Brazil’s and Albert Mason’s stolen drawings. I didn’t know what on earth had come over me. I seemed to make such lousy choices whenever Michael was around.

What I should be doing was salvaging what I could from my studio, assuming I still had a business to go back to. I had spent the past three years working my fingers to the bone trying to get True/Faux Studios off the ground, and just when I seemed to be on solid footing what did I do? I ignored it for days on end in favor of galloping around with an admitted art thief, breaking and entering, snooping, hitting a Hulk, being stranded, getting kidnapped, being hit by a Hulk, and having my studio torched. It would be the ultimate irony if I lost my business and had to fall back on a life of crime after all.

The thought made me want to cry.

I fought the urge, breathing in great gulps of fresh sea air, and watching the seagulls dive and dance in our wake. I wasn’t sure if they were looking for fish churned up by the ferry or if they just liked to play in the breeze. Seagulls were obnoxious birds, in a beak-and-beak tie with pigeons for the title “rats with wings,” but I had a soft spot for them. Their distinctive
caw
reminded me that I was near the ocean, which always seemed like a good thing. If life got too tough on the mainland, I could build myself a raft and sail off into the sunset for a grand adventure. Or certain death. One of the two.

By the time the ferry docked at Pier 41 and disgorged its passengers, I had made a few resolutions. First, I would stop worrying about
The Magi.
It wasn’t my concern. Second, I would take my grandfather’s word for it that Anton was safe, since he wasn’t my problem either. Third, I would clean up my studio, get back to work, and make some money, like a grown-up. While I was running around playing junior detective, people were getting killed. This was a job for the police, not a faux finisher.

I straightened my shoulders, held my head high, and marched down the gangway.

And I would do it all first thing tomorrow morning. All I wanted to do tonight was to hole up in my apartment.

After reclaiming my truck from where I’d left it near the Brock—I hadn’t even gotten a parking ticket, which I took to mean that fate was smiling on my new resolutions—I drove back to Oakland, where I swung by Andronico’s for some gourmet deli takeout, splurged on a twelve-dollar California Merlot, and stopped by my local video store for a couple of trashy movies. Parking behind my house, I hurried upstairs, turned off the phone, and made a beeline for my bedroom, where I changed into a pair of ratty old shorts and a torn T-shirt. Then I pulled my hair back with an elastic hair band and proceeded to scrub the apartment from floor to ceiling until every surface glowed.

By the time night fell, I was exhausted but content with my home-sweet-and-clean-home. I’d take this place over a Belvedere mausoleum any day. I curled up on my living room futon sofa with a plate of takeout and a glass of the smooth Merlot. I thought about Michael, wondered what he was doing now, and wished him ill.

 

“C’mon, Naomi. Be a pal. Surely with all
your
influence you could get me an invitation to the gala on Saturday?”

Notwithstanding last night’s resolutions to concentrate more on work and less on criminals, I had awakened this morning with a plan for laying my hands on the drawings. According to Emily, Harlan was going to retrieve the drawings on the night of the Brock gala. So that was where I needed to be, as well.

I’d been on the phone with Naomi Gregorian for twenty minutes trying to wangle an invitation, firing every weapon in my arsenal. I appealed to her professionalism (a long shot), to our many years of friendship (a real wild card), and, finally, to her ego (much better odds). But for once Naomi was adamant.

“No, Ann. Absolutely not. The Brock is devoted to keeping its Diamond Circle exclusive. Besides, you wouldn’t feel comfortable with these people.”

What the hell was a “Diamond Circle” anyway? I grumbled to myself. Sounded like a cattle brand.

I sighed. Appeals to Naomi’s better nature having failed to produce the desired invitation, she’d left me no choice. It was time to drop the Bomb.

“Listen, Naomi,” I said, choosing my words carefully, “I didn’t want to bring this up, but out of respect for our friendship, I feel I must tell you something.”