by Lind, Hailey
I knew one thing: I was going to disobey my mommy and talk to Pascal again. He might be a despicable human being, but I was betting I could break him more easily than I could break my dear sweet mother. I wanted—needed—some answers.
As I put my teacup in the sink and headed to bed I spied the Evil Elf, an ugly bronze garden ornament I’d accidentally stolen last spring when Michael and I were set upon by a bad guy who resembled the Incredible Hulk. I had used it to save Michael’s hide, not that he had appreciated it.
And speaking of whom . . . I had been so distracted by my mother’s antics this evening that I’d forgotten to grill Michael about the stolen Chagall. Tomorrow I would ask Anton to relay another message to him.
But for now I needed to sleep. Early Sunday morning was the only time I could be sure to have the studio to myself in order to work on Frank’s Picasso. I hated to leave my mother without a chaperone, but one could hardly ride herd on one’s mother.
Not tomorrow, anyway.
In the half-light of dawn I slipped on a long-sleeved, black cotton T-shirt, wool socks, Birkenstocks, and my denim painting overalls. I caught a glimpse of myself in the bedroom mirror and sighed. Most days I tried to convince myself that I dressed like an artist, though in reality I dressed more like a drudge. Since I was usually cloistered in the studio covered in paint or faux-finishing goop, it hardly mattered. And anyway, it wasn’t as if small children screamed when they saw me.
My mother, however, nearly did.
Beverly Kincaid looked beautiful in the early-morning light, her artfully tinted blond hair forming a soft halo that highlighted her delicate features and expressive blue eyes. She sat in a beam of sunshine, like a movie star in one of those soft-focused films from the forties, wrapped in a light blue silk kimono, sipping coffee. I made her promise to call me as soon as the funeral was over, and we agreed to meet for dinner at Le Cheval in downtown Oakland so we could have A Talk. Mom kissed me and told me not to worry so much.
I pulled up in front of the DeBenton Building just as Frank emerged from his office accompanied by a blond, Aryan-looking fellow and a graying man with a pronounced overbite. Both wore dark blue suits and aviator sunglasses, the reflecting kind favored by the California Highway Patrol for their intimidation value. They hurried past me and climbed into a beautiful maroon Jaguar without so much as a nod to me, which I attributed to the early hour. Or to my scruffy overalls. Frank, by contrast, was dressed in gray wool slacks, a starched white shirt with tiny black pinstripes, a burgundy tie, and glossy black Ox-fords. His handsome face was freshly shaved and his dark brown hair was perfectly arranged. Seven fifteen on a Sunday morning and Frank looked as if he were ready for a summit meeting of the oil cartel.
“Heya, Frank,” I said cheerily, trying to remember if I’d combed my hair yet. “Did the Secret Service call?”
“What do you mean?”
“I thought maybe you and the Giggle Twins were working on something dealing with national security.”
“Nope, just an early business meeting. I’m glad you’re here, though. I was hoping you’d found out something more about that project you’re working on for me.”
“Yes, well, there’s a little problem with that.”
“Oh?”
“I’m afraid the ultraviolet analysis showed some disturbing results.” I wondered if, like Pinocchio, my nose would grow from all the lies I was telling, but feared that if Frank knew how simple the Picasso repair was he might renege on our deal. “I was hoping to find a cadmium base, because with cadmium there is a fairly standard mode of correction involving a series of metabolic solvents.”
“I take it you didn’t find cadmium.”
“Afraid not. I found scarlet lake,” I said, improvising.
“I thought that was a ballet.”
“That’s Swan Lake.”
“Right. So what do we do about the scarlet lake?”
“It’s a little complicated.”
“Is that so?” he asked, sounding skeptical.
“Nothing I can’t handle, though,” I added as I headed for the stairs. “You can count on me. That’s why I’m here so early. I wanted to work on it without being interrupted.”
“Right. By the way, I hired a security guard,” Frank said. “He’s making his rounds, so you may meet him soon. I’ll be around as well, in case there’s any problem.”
I peered over the railing. “What kind of problem?”
Frank let out an exasperated breath. “I don’t know, Annie. But this is a very important project and you tend to attract trouble. Or haven’t you noticed?”
“Is that why you didn’t show up yesterday?” I asked, wondering why Frank was acting so oddly. Maybe Michael was right: maybe Frank was boring. “Or do you just hate parties?”
“I don’t hate parties.”
“You didn’t come to the party.”
“If you must know, I didn’t feel up to dealing with your boyfriend.”
“What boyfriend?”
This was the second time in twelve hours that I’d been accused of having a boyfriend. Did I have blackout periods when I dated up a storm but could not remember anything in the morning? Would I end up on television one day, begging a sleazy talk show host to run a DNA test to determine which of ten men was my baby’s daddy?
“That guy you hang out with,” he replied. “Peter.”
Who the hell was Peter?
“The stained-glass guy.”
“Pete?” I said with a bark of laughter. “Why would you think Pete was my boyfriend?”
Frank shifted uncomfortably. “He calls you honey and puts his arm around you, and looks as though he wants to take the head off any man who comes near you. I’m convinced the only reason I survived taking you to that Brock fiasco was because he was in a coma at the time.”
“It did slow him down,” I conceded. “But Pete is not my boyfriend.”
Frank thought that over. “What does that mean?”
“What do you think ‘not my boyfriend’ means?” I replied impatiently, the entertainment value of this conversation having waned. “Let me put it another way: It means he’s not my boyfriend.”
“Does that mean he’s really not your boyfriend? Or does it mean that you sleep with him but don’t want to call him your boyfriend for some obscure female reason?”
I had to laugh. “You are too much, Frank. It means that the thought of my sleeping with Pete is ridiculous. It would be like sleeping with my own brother. And speaking of romance, Frankie, why aren’t you at home doing the Times Sunday crossword with Elke?”
Frank’s girlfriend was named Ingrid, though I referred to her by any name that sounded even vaguely Scandinavian. None of Frank’s tenants had ever met Ingrid and a rumor was circulating—okay, I started it—that she did not actually exist. A few months ago the gang began a “Where’s Ingrid?” pool, each of us pitching in ten dollars and choosing the day, time, and circumstances closest to the first verified Ingrid sighting. I was secretly rooting for Mary, who had chosen next Saturday, at three thirty a.m., being booked for drunk and disorderly at the Valencia Street police station.
“Ingrid’s fine, thank you,” he said with a slow smile. “She’s very busy.”
“I’ll bet. Bring her by sometime. Everyone’s dying to meet her. Anyway, I’d love to stand here and gab the day away, but I have work to do.” I waggled my fingers at him and sashayed up the stairs to my sunny studio.
Once inside I bolted the door, punched in the alarm code I’d written on a piece of paper and taped to the wall next to the keypad—where any half-witted thief could find it—and dumped my jacket and backpack on my cluttered desk. Crossing over to a worktable, I unearthed the crate with the Picasso and carefully unwrapped it. I had to stifle a mental image of tripping and putting my foot through the canvas, or spilling dark French roast coffee on it, or in some other way destroying a multimillion-dollar masterpiece.
I took a deep breath and lifted the painting onto a workt
able. In addition to being a talented art forger, Anton Woznikowicz was a gifted art restorer, so when I called to ask him about Michael I would also verify the proper restoration technique. But first I wanted to confirm my initial assessment. I switched on the lighted magnifier and peered at the Picasso, Sherlock Holmes-fashion. Yup, the red line still looked like a crayon mark.
Inspecting the painting further, I found a small, flat tab tucked between the canvas and the frame. A lot of valuable art these days was outfitted with locator devices such as this, which not only helped authorities track a piece if it was stolen but also set off alarms if the art was tampered with or taken beyond the boundaries of its acceptable zone, such as the perimeter of a museum or gallery. I assumed Frank was monitoring the Picasso and would not bring the FBI down upon my head if I unwittingly set off the alarm. Still, it made me nervous. If anyone could trigger an alarm, it would be me.
Rummaging around in a brightly colored storage bin full of miscellaneous art junk, I found a box of crayons, chose a deep red one, and pulled out a primed canvas. With a quick flick of my wrist, I drew a mark similar to the one on the Picasso and studied the two canvases side by side under the magnifier.
There was no doubt in my mind. The mark on the Picasso had been made by a crayon.
I tuned the radio to NPR, brewed a cup of coffee, and powered up the computer to check the Internet. My computer-savvy friend Pedro Schumacher had book-marked an art search engine when he upgraded my equipment last spring. Within seconds a color photograph of the painting popped up and with a click of the mouse I retrieved data on the paint and the varnish Pablo Picasso had used, as well as the composition of the linen canvas and the wooden supports.
Armed with this information, I returned to the worktable and placed the Picasso facedown on a clean, soft cotton cloth. I was checking for any bleed-through from the crayon to the canvas when a figure materialized on the other side of the table.
I yelped and jumped a foot in the air.
“It’s nice to see some things don’t change,” Michael said as he rounded the table, standing too close for my peace of mind.
“How did you get in here?” I demanded.
“The window.”
So much for Frank’s new steel locks and the crack security guard.
“I was, um, a little preoccupied,” I said, blocking his view of the worktable and breathing a sigh of relief that the Picasso was facedown.
“What are you working on?” he asked.
“Oh, nothing much.” I shrugged. “Just a restoration project.”
“Is that right? Anton said you no longer did restoration, creative or otherwise.”
Creative restoration was the disingenuous phrase art criminals such as Anton and my grandfather used in lieu of forgery.
“My work is none of your business,” I snapped. “Why are you here?”
“I didn’t get a chance to ask you something last night. How is your mother, by the way?”
“She’s fine, thanks. Good ol’ Mom.”
“I’m so pleased to hear it. She’s a lovely woman.”
“So you keep saying.”
“Of course, she can’t hold a candle to her daughter,” he whispered. I tried to ignore him, which wasn’t easy when every nerve ending in my body was standing tall and screaming howdy. “There’s a fire in you, lassie.”
“And there’s a liar in you, laddie.”
“Ouch!” he cried, the big fake.
“Listen, sport, I want that Chagall.”
“I don’t have a Chagall.”
“Yes, you do.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Yes, you do.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Why do we always go through this?” I groaned.
“It’s one of the many things I enjoy about you, Annie,” Michael said, reaching out a hand and touching my face lightly.
“Listen, Michael-Colin-David-Patrick-Bruno,” I said, chanting a few of the aliases I knew him by. “I thought we were talking about a Chagall.”
“We were.”
“So where is it?”
“Annie, I don’t have a Chagall. I do have a nice little Monet if you’re interested—”
“You sold it already?”
“The Monet? No, that’s why I’m offering it to you.”
“No, the Chagall.”
“What Chagall?”
“Stop it!” I yelled in frustration. “A dear friend of mine was on that damned museum tour you led, and he’s taking the fall for your having stolen the Chagall. So stop denying that you have it!”
Michael looked puzzled. “But I don’t have it. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I like Bryan. I wouldn’t hang him out to dry. Annie, think: If I’d stolen the Chagall, why would I be here talking to you?”
“I don’t know, but I’m sure you’d have some sneaky, ethically challenged reason. And how did you know I was referring to Bryan, eh?” The phone shrilled and I snatched it up. “What?”
“What’s going on up there?” It was Frank. “We did agree on absolute secrecy while you worked on this project, did we not?”
“Yes, of course. It’s the radio. Don’t worry. Everything’s under control.” I hung up and turned back to Michael.
My good buddy, the professional art thief, held the Picasso in both hands.
“Beautiful, Annie. Just beautiful,” he said, shaking his head. “But what’s with the kid’s crayon mark?”
Chapter 7
How is anyone to tell frauds from originals in modern art? Take, for instance, the discovery of a number of supposed Jackson Pollock paintings in a storage locker last year. The art experts and Pollock’s heirs are arguing over the “behavior” of paint splatters!
—Georges LeFleur, in Frontline: “The Mysterious World of Modern Art”
“Put that down,” I commanded.
“Why, Annie.” Michael cocked his head and a smile played upon his sensuous lips. “It’s almost as if you don’t trust me.”
“Trust you? Why on earth would I trust you? You’d steal your grandmother’s silver if you could get a good price for it. And may I remind you that you still owe me four hundred dollars from our little jaunt to Napa last spring?” I yanked the Picasso from his grasp and held it protectively against my chest. “Let’s get one thing straight: I want that Chagall and I want it now.”
Michael shoved his hands into the pockets of his perfectly faded Levi’s 401 jeans and rocked back on the heels of his scuffed brown leather boots. His blue work shirt gaped open at the neck, revealing smooth, tanned skin and a few curly black chest hairs peeking over the collar of his white T-shirt. He looked good enough to eat, and I was pretty sure he knew it.
“Annie, darling, I don’t have the Chagall,” he began smoothly. “Had you read this morning’s Chronicle you would know that the Brock Museum received a ransom note for it yesterday.”
“What?”
“Yeah, can you believe it?” He chuckled and shook his head.
“The painting was kidnapped? Not stolen?”
“I’m not sure you can kidnap a painting. Don’t you need a kid for that?”
Poor Agnes Brock, I thought, ignoring his banter. The Brock enjoyed a healthy endowment, but like most museums it didn’t have a lot of spare cash. Having a painting stolen was bad enough, but paying a ransom for its return added insult to injury.
“How much is the ransom?” I asked, curious.
“Now, that’s the complicated part,” Michael said. “You might say its value is beyond mere money.”
“Just tell me, please.” I hated riddles. I even got stumped by knock-knock jokes, to the eternal delight of my young nephews. “What do the kidnappers want?”
“Peace in the Middle East.”
“What?”
“I’m sure we can agree it’s a laudable goal,” Michael said, sounding pious. “Don’t you want peace in the Middle East?”
“Of course, but the Brock Museum doesn’t have any influence ove
r the situation there,” I protested. “That’s crazy.”
“So was stealing the Chagall. It’s not especially valuable, after all. Doesn’t it make you wonder, Annie, why a thief would go to the trouble of turning off the security system and engineering a diversion just to steal that particular painting?”
I stared at him. He was right. The Brock had any number of paintings with far greater market value than the Chagall, especially if ransom were the thief’s objective. So why had that painting been taken?
Michael strolled over to the window, just your average world-class art thief passing a Sunday morning philosophizing with a friend. Sitting on the sill, he crossed his arms over his chest and continued. “The Gérôme—now, that’s what I would have taken. Jean-Léon Gérôme’s Orientalist realism has been greatly underrated. Mark my words: It’s just a matter of time until he comes into his own, and when that happens, the value of his paintings will go through the roof.”
“You’re telling me the truth, aren’t you?” I said slowly. “You really didn’t take the Chagall.”
A frown marred Michael’s handsome face. “This isn’t very complicated, Annie. I’ve been saying that from the beginning.”
His gaze fell on the Picasso clutched in my arms.
“Whoa there, cowboy. Don’t go getting any ideas about this painting. I could still finger you for the Caravaggio, you know.”
“You could. But you won’t.”
“Are you so sure?”
“Reasonably sure, yes.”
“And why is that?”
“Because you have a touch of larceny in your heart.”
“You don’t know that,” I retorted. It was true, though. I was constantly fighting it.
He pushed away from the windowsill, sauntered over, and gazed into my eyes. “But mostly because . . .” He paused for better effect. What a ham, I thought. My heart told me to shut up, and beat a little faster. “Because against your better judgment you have a soft spot in your heart for me.”
“Not soft enough to cushion the blow of a stolen Picasso, you big fake.”
Michael staggered backwards, a hand clutching his chest. “You wound me, Annie.”
