Shooting Gallery (31 page)

“I'll find a way in,” he said confidently, and I did not doubt it for a second.

A few minutes later I heard some banging and slid the cell phone into my overalls pocket. The double doors to the warehouse flew open and there he was, my very own knight in shining armor. I gazed down at Michael soulfully. He gazed up at me and burst out laughing.

Asshole.

“I've got to hand it to you, Annie Kincaid. You are hands down the most unpredictable woman I've ever known.”

“Michael, will you
please
shut up and get me down!” I had the mother of all wedgies.

He saluted, sprang into the control booth, and fiddled around until the winch engaged and the hook started to lower. I held on tightly and watched the floor rise up to meet me, experiencing an overwhelming rush of relief tinged with nausea. I was a good eight feet from the ground when the cable stopped and Michael climbed out of the control booth. He stood below me, his arms crossed.

“Is the cable stuck?” I asked anxiously.

“No.”

“Then what—”

“Tell me what's going on.”

“
What?
Get me
down
, Michael!” I judged the distance to the floor—not far enough to be lethal, but I could break an ankle. And that would make it harder to catch Michael in order to kill him.

“What's wrong with your face? Did somebody
hit
you?”

“The guys who hung me on this hook weren't exactly gentlemen,” I said. “Dammit, Michael, let me down!”

“No can do.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Because I have a few questions for you, and as soon as you're on terra firma you'll start lying and tap dancing your way around them.”

“I don't tap dance!”

“Oh, please. You are the Queen of the Tap.”

“No, I'm not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I'm—”

“Annie? Tell me what happened here. Then tell me why you went ballistic at the Haggertys'. Then tell me which of Nathan's paintings are genuine.”

“I did not go
ballistic
!” I said this with as much dignity as I could muster, which under the circumstances was not a lot. “I had every right to be angry that you would use me like that, and I didn't want to be involved in a felony. Is that so hard to believe?”

Michael shrugged. “Fine. So what happened here? Why do you have what promises to be a very impressive black eye, and why are you hanging from a hook?”

“I was trying to get some information about a sculptor and things got, um, out of hand.”

“Would that be Robert Pascal by any chance? Didn't I tell you to stay away from him?”

“Maybe.” One thing about hanging from a hook—it was hard to squirm.

“Why don't you ever do what you're told like a good girl?”

“Maybe because I'm not seven years old?” I said, losing what remained of my patience. “If you don't let me down immediately, Michael, I will go straight to Interpol. Don't think I won't!”

“Calm down, sweetheart. Just tell me which of Nathan's paintings are genuine.”

“If I tell you, will you let me down?”

“Scout's honor,” he pledged, holding up three fingers.

Looked like Michael had been an even worse Scout than I. He was saluting with the wrong hand.

I thought about what he was asking of me. As long as I did not help him steal the paintings how could the district attorney prove I had played a role? Sure, I had a few opinions about some paintings. Who didn't? And just think of the character witnesses I could call. Agnes Brock and her lapdog “art expert,” Dr. Sebastian Pitts, would be delighted to testify that I was a no-talent hack.

Reassured by the art world's low opinion of me, I decided Nathan could take care of himself and told Michael which of Haggerty's paintings were real and which were fakes.

“Really?” he said, surprised. “Both of the Jan Steens? And the Rembrandt?” He shook his head and grinned. “That grandfather of yours is a busy boy. Who did the other forgeries?”

“Don't know and don't care. By the way, my esteemed grandfather wouldn't like how you've kept me dangling up here.”

“And the Vermeer?”

“I told you, that's real. Why don't you steal it from Nathan and return it to its rightful owners? It might help redeem your soul.
Now
will you let me down?”

“Any idea if there's a reward?”

“Probably. Vermeers are few and far between. Here's some career advice: Steal art
for
museums and collect the reward money. Now
let me down
!”

“Are you going to stay out of trouble? No more sneaking around abandoned warehouses like an idiot?”

“No more.”

“I'm serious, Annie. That would have been quite a fall. And your face looks like hell.” He powered up the winch and lowered me to the ground. When my feet touched mother earth, my spirit failed and I crumpled into a heap on the floor.

“You sure you're okay?” Michael crouched beside me. “Shall I carry you?”

“No, you
shan't
carry me,” I spat and sat up.

Michael wrapped his arms around me. “Give yourself a minute there, tiger. It's not a crime to lean on someone once in a while, you know.”

I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and relaxed. I heard Michael's heart beating and felt his strength and warmth. It was nice. Too nice. I pushed him away and got to my feet, teetering a bit but upright. “How did you know how to operate the stone winch?”

“A misspent youth. Maybe I'll tell you about it sometime.”

“You're a very strange man, Michael.”

“Need I point out that
I
was not the one dangling from a hook?”

“I just had a terrible thought. I was supposed to meet Gloria and her brother here. Where do you suppose they are?”

“Probably took off already.”

“What if they're hurt, or hanging somewhere? We have to look for them.”

Michael gave me a long-suffering look. “This isn't my sort of thing, Annie. I'm not in the rescue business.”

“C'mon, Michael. Be a mensch.”

We scoured the building but found no one. Then I remembered the shipping container supposedly filled with Pascal's sculptures. We located what seemed to be the right one, but it was sealed shut. We banged on it and yelled for Gloria, but got no response.

I nodded to Michael. “Okay, go ahead.”

“Go ahead and do what?'

“Break in.”

“How would you suggest I do that?”

“Use your magic thieving stuff.”

“My
what
?”

“The stuff you use to thieve with. I mean, to steal with.”

“I don't carry around my
magic thieving stuff
, Annie. Especially when I'm going to a cocktail party where my car will be searched.”

I gaped at him. “Haggerty searches his guests' cars?”

“He does when he's afraid they'll try to steal his paintings.”

“Still seems rude, though.”

“True.”

“So what about this container? Is there any way in?”

“None that I can see, except by brute force. It looks like there are some pry marks on it, but look here, Annie: It still has the customs seal. I don't think it's been opened.”

I hesitated. My cheek throbbed, my head hurt, my knees ached, and I was dying to get home and crawl into bed. But how could I leave if Gloria and her brother needed help?

“Why don't you try calling your friend?” Michael suggested.

“I don't know her number,” I said, defeated. Being beaten and suspended in the air had taxed my internal resources. And that had been only
part
of my day.

“I'll bet it's in the office.”

We went to Gloria's office, where Michael quickly located the personnel files. I sat at Gloria's desk and called the number listed on her employment form. She answered on the third ring, sounding wide-awake, and I heard the
Late Show
playing in the background.

“Gloria?”

“Annie?”

“I thought you were going to meet me at the warehouse.”

I heard a muffled sound, as if she had covered the receiver for a moment. “Um, yeah. We couldn't wait. I didn't think you were coming.”

“But I told you . . .” I trailed off. “Anyway, I wanted to make sure you were all right.”

“Yeah, okay, thanks. You're all right, too?”

“Uh-huh. Okay, talk to you later.”

Hanging up, my eyes fell on Gloria's employment form. Gloria Cabrera, 5701 Elwood Street, South San Francisco. Not far from here. Next of kin: Irma Rodriguez Cabrera. That name sounded familiar. . . .

“Let me guess,” Michael said, interrupting my thoughts. “Gloria wasn't here when you arrived, and instead you were met by some bad guys. Does that sound about right?”

I nodded.

“Let's get out of here.”

“I thought she was my friend.”

“Betrayal's a hard one to stomach, Annie,” he said as he put the file away. “I know. But remember, you don't have the full story. She may have been threatened, or promised you wouldn't be hurt. People do what they have to do to survive.”

We turned off the lights, crossed the lobby, and walked into the cold night.

And tripped over a body. At least I did. Michael maintained his balance.

It was the young warehouse worker Derek, and his throat had been cut. Michael checked for a pulse, and shook his head. I watched as if through a fog. The alabaster skin on Derek's hands was torn and bloodied, as though he had tried to defend himself. Those long fingers would never again brush his long hair from his forehead or lay chisel to stone.

Michael grabbed my arm and hustled me toward the Lexus. “Let's get the hell out of here.” He unlocked the passenger door. “Get in.”

“But we can't just leave him here,” I cried.

“You can't help him, Annie,” Michael said as he shoved me into his car. “No one can.”

“My truck—”

“You're in no shape to drive, Annie,” he said. “It's the adrenaline crash.”

“But . . .”

Michael started the engine, and drove quickly out of the parking lot. “I know a guy. I'll have him take the truck—where? Your studio or your apartment?”

Ensconced in the luxurious Lexus, my mind was unable to grapple with his questions. My eyelids felt heavy, and my last conscious thought before succumbing to sleep was that my dates with Michael so often ended in death.

It is a burden,
ma chérie,
to be an A+ student in a
C- world.

 

I awoke facedown in a pillow so soft it felt like a cloud. Too bad the throbbing of my eye and the pounding of my head made it difficult to enjoy. My shoulders and neck were killing me, my knees stung, and my thigh ached. I nearly cried out in pain when I moved.

Along with the hurt came the memories: of vicious, laughing men; of my own panic and sense of impotence; of the shock and horror of finding a dead body. Would the young man with the pale hands be alive if not for my questions? What role had Gloria played? Would Neiman Marcus still take back the dress?

I rolled gingerly onto my back and looked around. I remembered nothing after leaving the warehouse, and it finally registered that I was in a hotel room. An expensive hotel room, where the furniture was what a person might have at home if that person were stinking rich.

“Michael?” I croaked. “Hello?”

It was the second time I had spent the night with Michael, the sexy international art thief, but I had no memory of either occasion. Did that say something about me? About Michael? About the quality of our relationship? At least I'd awakened in more luxurious surroundings this time. In a weird kind of way, things were looking up between Michael and me. On the other hand, it didn't say much for our budding romance that he had taken off rather than linger in this soft bed, waiting breathlessly for me to wake up.

An unwelcome thought pushed its way to the forefront of my bruised mind. Now that I'd told Michael about the Haggerty collection he had no further use for me. He had wined me, flattered me, kissed me, rescued me, and abandoned me. Again.

Well, shit.

“Remember the LeFleur motto,
chérie
,” I heard my grandfather whisper. “Anger is the food of fools. Revenge is the food of gods.” He'd said it in French, but I remembered it in English. I had a sneaking suspicion Georges had made it up, armed with a vivid imagination and a good French-English dictionary. But it was a hell of a motto, and it rather suited me at the moment. First I would heal; then I would gorge on revenge.

On the bedside table was a clock that read 10:47 a.m., along with a black leather folder with the hotel's name embossed in gold:
The Fairmont
. I'd been here before, as a child, to visit my grandfather on one of his rare visits. The Fairmont was one of Georges' favorites. All things considered, I could handle being abandoned at one of the City's finest hotels.

Unless Michael had stuck with me the bill again.

I sank into my cozy nest of down pillows. Tomorrow was Thanksgiving, and I was reconsidering the wisdom of going with Josh to his sister's house. Since I could scarcely open my left eye, the odds were good I was not looking my best. Plus, after the violence last night I felt more like wrapping myself in one of the hotel's fluffy white terry-cloth robes, ordering room service, and vegetating in the Jacuzzi. The Fairmont seemed like a good place to lie low for a few days.