Shooting Gallery (14 page)

“Are you sure, my dahling?”

“Positive.”

“Quel dommage.”
He sighed. “Zo, what does zis man want from you?”

“I don't know. He invited me to some cocktail party in Hillsborough, at the home of a computer billionaire.”

“ 'Illsborough, you say? Do you know ze 'ost's nehm?”

“No, I don't know the host's name,” I replied, suddenly suspicious. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason,
ma petite. Ce n'est pas grave
.” Grandfather's accent thickened in direct proportion to his guilt and his desire to conceal it. When he was flat-out lying he reverted almost exclusively to French, which was an excellent language to fib in.

“What's going on,
Grand-père
?”

“I must go,
chérie
! Bye-bye!”

“Wait! Grandfather, I have to ask you about Mom . . .”

“We air lozing ze connection!
Au revoir!
” Georges was a great believer in losing the phone connection whenever he found it inconvenient to keep talking.

Frustrated, I hung up. I knew Michael was up to something because Michael was always up to something. That he wanted me to play some role in whatever he was planning was annoying, and quite possibly unlawful, but not unexpected. What bothered me was that my grandfather, who apparently suspected what Michael was up to, would not tell me. Wasn't blood supposed to be thicker than thieves?

I sighed and shrugged off these thoughts. If I'd learned one thing about my grandfather it was that he was a stubborn old coot who would tell me in his own way and on his own time.

I turned up the radio and painstakingly removed the stray red mark from the Picasso. Anton had given me a few tips to avoid lifting the legitimate paint as well as the crayon wax, and on the whole it was a tedious job. But artists were accustomed to tedium. Not even the Old Masters stood in front of a blank canvas and dashed off a masterpiece. Come to think of it, Pablo Picasso might have been the exception, at least at the end of his long life. No wonder other artists admired him so.

By the time I'd finished it was nearly two o'clock. I examined the painting from all angles, held it up to a harsh light, looked at it under the magnifier, and double-checked it against the photograph on the Internet. It was perfect. I had done my job so well, in fact, that no one would ever know what I had accomplished. As a former art forger, I had long ago made my peace with anonymity.

Now that Michael knew I had the Picasso it seemed wise to return it to Frank as soon as possible. I packed it carefully in its crate, switched off the radio, and shut down the computer. Then I grabbed my backpack and keys, set the alarm, hoisted the crate in my arms, locked the door, and cautiously negotiated the outside wooden staircase. I found my landlord in his office, his dark head bent low over paperwork.

“Knock knock,” I called out.

He jumped up to take the crate. “You should have called. I would have come to get it.”

“I'm perfectly capable of carrying a painting, Frank. You've seen some of the things I've toted up and down those stairs—furniture and garden statuary and the like. Which reminds me—when are you going to put in an elevator?”

“If I put in an elevator I'll have to raise the rent. So, all done? Already?”

“Good as new,” I said. “You're not going to try to back out of our deal now that you know how efficient I am, are you?”

“Of course not,” he said, looking surprised. “I'm just impressed.”

“I'm kidding, Frank. You're one of the most trustworthy guys I know.”

The moment I said it, I realized it was true. Frank was as worthy of trust as Michael was of suspicion. Why was I entertaining even for a moment Michael's hint that Frank trafficked in stolen paintings? Still, I had to ask.

“So-o-o, funny thing, Frank,” I said. “I couldn't help but notice that the Picasso looks a lot like the one the Steinbergen family says was stolen by the Nazis.”

“Do you think I would transport stolen art?”

Talk about an awkward moment. I wished I'd kept my yap shut. “Maybe not knowingly . . .”

“There are online databases that track lost and stolen art from around the world, Annie. There's even a software program to send pictures from a camera phone to an image-processing server connected to the database. Whenever I take possession of a painting I access up-to-the minute information on its origin and provenance. If it's flagged, I report it to the appropriate authorities.”

“Really?” I said, impressed.
How does Michael manage to fence his purloined art?
I wondered. I filed that away as a conversation starter for our “date” on Tuesday.

“This Picasso is similar to the one the Nazis took from the Steinbergens, but rest assured they are two different paintings.”

“That's a relief,” I said. “I'd have hated to see you hauled off to San Quentin on my say-so alone. My next landlord might not be as reasonable as you.”

“What a touching tribute,” he said dryly. “I must say, though, I'm pleased to learn that your ethics are as strong as my own.”

Dear, naïve man
, I thought. “Since you're so knowledgeable about art theft, could I ask you something? Why would someone steal an unimportant painting from a museum?”

“Is this a hypothetical question?”

“More or less,” I dissembled.

“Well, that depends. Most art theft these days is connected to drug dealers and gun runners, but those folks want the big-ticket, high-profile pieces.”

“What do drug dealers and gun runners want with fine art?”

“They use it as collateral for their deals, or else to launder money.”

“I had no idea,” I said, appalled. A spot of art forgery was one thing—it could be rationalized as a victimless crime if one's ethics were sufficiently flexible—but drug dealing and gun running left broken bodies in their wake.

“Art theft is the third most lucrative international crime, behind drugs and arms dealing,” Frank said. “But that wasn't your question, was it? When a stolen piece of art is relatively unimportant or inexpensive the motive tends to be personal. I'd start with the museum's employees.”

“An employee?”

“You worked at the Brock, Annie, so you know that most museum workers are underpaid and overworked. They're often art lovers themselves, and a few will yield to temptation. But since they're not motivated by profit their choice is usually a minor piece that's a personal favorite. Most of the time they take items from the storage areas and the theft isn't discovered for months or years, if at all. What's with this newfound interest in art theft?”

“Just idle curiosity.”

“That right?”

“Don't you want to see the Picasso?” I said to distract him.

Frank opened the crate and examined the painting. When he looked at me, I saw relief in his eyes. “Amazing. You're a miracle worker, Annie, truly. I owe you one.”

In the past six months Frank had rescued me from a goon holding a knife to my throat, escorted me to a gala I desperately wanted to attend, and reduced my rent so I wouldn't have to relocate my studio. All in all, I figured we were probably even. But I wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“Oh, one more thing, Frank,” I said as I started for the door.

“What's that?”

“Be careful.
Really
careful. Maybe return the Picasso to its owner right away.”

“What's going on?”

“Nothing. Nosirree. But you might want to lock it in one of your trucks and drive away.”

“Why?”

“I've got to run. Bye, Frank!” I waved gaily, raced out the door, and told myself I had done what I could.

After all, wasn't Frank the one who said I was a trouble magnet?

—George LeFleur, letter to the editor,
Bulletin of the Society of Museum Curators

 

Flowers are amazing things. They inspire artists, lift flagging spirits, and seal romantic deals. They can even unlock doors.

I'd learned the secret of flower power from Sherri the process server, who once described how she used flower deliveries to gain access to her quarry and to soften the blow of being served distressing legal papers. The best source for flowers was the San Francisco Flower Mart at Sixth and Brannan, which opened at the crack of dawn and was jammed with Vietnamese flower vendors, Jewish florists, and mothers of every ethnicity looking to save a buck or twenty on wedding arrangements. I had once dragged my butt out of bed at four-thirty a.m. to witness the lily-scented free-for-all, but on the whole I preferred sleep to really fresh flowers.

After leaving the restored Picasso in Frank's tender care, I zipped over to the flower mart to pick up a nice mixed bouquet before heading over to Pascal's studio. Weaving through the Sunday traffic, I pondered how best to handle the wily old sculptor. My mother had confirmed a stronger connection to Seamus McGraw than Pascal had admitted to, and I wondered what he'd been hiding. If the two artists were old friends, why had he denied it? Worried, I sped up. Something was amiss in the world of Bay Area sculptors. Seamus McGraw had been murdered, Robert Pascal was lying his fool head off, and my mother's recent behavior suggested she was somehow in the thick of it. I was determined that Beverly LeFleur Kincaid would not be found dangling from an old oak tree.

I braked quickly to avoid plowing into a gaggle of bewildered tourists attempting to cross the street. Burdened by cameras and tote bags, sweating in heavy fall clothing, and clutching mangled street maps, they were out of place in this industrial area of the City. San Francisco's economy was heavily dependent on tourist dollars, so I muffled my impatience, plastered a welcoming Tourist Bureau smile on my face, and waved them across. Had I more time I might have directed them to the attractions they were undoubtedly seeking: the cable car station on California, Chinatown, Fisherman's Wharf, the Embarcadero, and the Depression-era murals at Coit Tower.

In contrast to those vibrant scenes, the old building housing Pascal's third-floor studio appeared grim and uninhabited. A light breeze blew trash across the cracked tarmac of the empty parking lot, and a seagull screamed overhead. I hesitated and wished someone were here to keep me company.

“Ecoutes-moi bien, chérie,”
my grandfather had said when, as a child, I'd hesitated to attempt a challenging design. “To be an artist is to embrace the courage of your soul. Without courage, an artist has no vision, and without vision an artist does not exist.
Tu comprends?
”

“Oui, Grandpapa,”
I'd dutifully replied.

“Alors, aux armes!”
he'd cried, and burst into the Marseillaise. As an adult I came to realize my grandfather didn't actually know the lyrics to France's national anthem, but it hardly mattered. His words had given me courage then as they did now.

Armed with the bouquet and humming the Marseillaise, I pulled open the front door and literally bumped into a young Latina I had passed on the stairs yesterday.

“Hello,” I said with a friendly smile. “I think I saw you here yesterday. Do you happen to know if the sculptor, Robert Pascal, is in?”

“Jess.” She said, shaking her head. “No.”

“Yes?”

“No.”

“No?”

“Jess.” She nodded.

“Okay, well, thanks.” I really had to sign up for an Adult Ed Spanish class, and soon. “Do you know him?”

“I go . . .” she said, turning away and hastening down the street.

I shrugged and, on the pretext of needing exercise, opted for the gloomy stairwell over the creaky old elevator. In truth, I was afraid of getting trapped all night in that iron cage, with nothing to keep me company except my thoughts and a bouquet of flowers. Were flowers edible? I had a sudden visual of being discovered on Monday morning, caught between floors and stone-cold dead from acute flower poisoning.

A few minutes later, puffing a little from the exercise, I knocked on his metal door and waited, holding the bouquet in front of my face.

No response. I banged on the door again, yelled “Delivery!” and heard footsteps approaching. This was going to be easy, I thought smugly. I waited, poised to spring the trap.

And waited.

The flowers dripped on my foot.

Rats. Okay. Time to launch Plan B.

I set the flowers on the floor, clomped loudly down the hall, and hit the elevator call button, then tiptoed back and pressed myself flat against the wall to one side of Pascal's door. The elevator arrived with a ping; the doors slid open, paused, and closed. I held my breath. Sure enough, I heard a shuffling and a scratching, and the door slowly swung open. I leaped out and slammed one arm against the door, calculating that with the element of surprise on my side I would be able to out arm-wrestle Pascal.

This might or might not have been true. I never found out because it was not the old man, it was a large, very muscular young woman. Nearly six feet tall, with short, spiky, light brown hair and mild blue eyes, she looked a lot like one of the East German Olympic shot-putters we used to accuse of taking steroids during the days of the Cold War.