Feint of Art: (22 page)

“I’d just left the office—everything was so damned wet and I wasn’t accomplishing much except getting myself steamed—and was sitting in my car listening to my cell phone messages when I saw a Lincoln Town Car pull up and some really big guy go into the warehouse. I know Pete’s not open for business on Sundays, so I was curious. Next thing I knew, this guy was shoving you into the car, and it seemed pretty clear you weren’t happy about it. I figured Pete must have been badly hurt because otherwise he would never have let them take you. So I called nine-one-one on the cell phone. Then I followed you here.”

He spoke casually, but I was stunned.

“And what about the goons? How’d you take them down?”

“I didn’t exactly ‘take them down,’ ” Frank said. “I knocked the first one out with the help of an abandoned muffler, then made some noise to coax the others out of the building. I hid inside and managed to lock the two men out of the building when they went to investigate.”

I gaped at him.

“Don’t let the three-piece suit fool you,” he added. “I did a stint in the military.”

I leaned my head back against the wall. Pete and I owed Frank our lives.

Kind of put that rent hike in perspective.

“Frank?”

“Yes, Annie?”

“Thank you.” That didn’t seem to cover it, but I didn’t know what else to say.

“No problem.”

We sat in silence for a few minutes.

“I really am sorry for going off on you earlier. When I’m scared I say the first thing that comes to mind. I’ve been told it’s not my best quality,” I said.

“No problem.”

We were silent for a few more minutes, and I strained to listen for either the cops or the bad guys.

“Annie?”

“Yes, Frank?”

“I’m sorry, too. I was pretty rough on you today. I guess you weren’t the only one who was scared.”

“No problem.”

The sirens were getting closer, but we were far from out of danger. To distract myself I searched for a topic of conversation and noticed he was still holding the knife and the pocket flashlight. “So, you came prepared, huh? Just like a Boy Scout.”

As conversation went, it wasn’t first-rate. But it was a start, and I figured Frank would follow up.

“Yep. I’ve even got a condom in my wallet.”

Well, I sure hadn’t expected
that.
Mr. Uptight had made a joke. A risqué joke, too.

“I thought you were gay,” I blurted out.

Frank looked amused, his brown eyes black in the dim light. “What, gay men don’t carry condoms?”

“Well, now that you mention it, I guess maybe they do.

I mean, they should, shouldn’t they? I mean if they want to be . . . prepared. Safe. You know.” I was kind of wishing I’d kept my mouth shut. Conversation was severely overrated. At least, mine was. “So, where are the cops?”

“Relax. They’re on their way. Just because I didn’t respond to the overtures from your assistant and her friend doesn’t mean I’m gay, Annie.”

Uh-oh. “What did they do?” I asked, not really wanting to know.

Frank’s lips twitched. “I’ll spare you the details. Suffice it to say they made a valiant effort.”

“Not your type, huh?”

Frank raised his eyebrows. “Just because I’m not gay doesn’t mean I want to sleep with girls young enough to be my daughters. I prefer women, Annie. Grown women.”

Well, what did you know. I hated to admit it—I
really
hated to admit it—but it looked like I had misjudged ol’ Fender Bender here. Not only had he displayed bravery and ingenuity above and beyond the call of a landlord’s duty, but he might just have good taste as well.

“So how do you feel about supermodels?”

“Too skinny.”

“
Playboy
centerfolds?”

“Too fake.”

“Actresses?”

“Too vapid.”

“Artists?”

He gave me a slow smile. “Too unpredictable.”

—Georges LeFleur, “Art and Artifact,” unfinished manuscript,
Reflections of a World-Class Forger

 

“SFPD! Freeze! Down on the ground! Down on the ground!”

We heard a commotion in the factory below, doors banging, voices yelling, footsteps pounding. Sounded like the good guys had arrived.

“We’re up here!” Frank shouted. He turned to me. “Get up slowly, Annie, and raise your hands over your head. They’ll be a little jumpy until they sort everything out.”

I shot my hands high over my head, and we stood there, waiting. My arms started getting tired and wavered a little. When the cops arrived they would think we either were law-abiding citizens or had just been moved by the Holy Spirit.

While we waited to be rescued, I glanced at Frank. His hair was mussed, his clothes were rumpled, and he had a smudge on one cheek. Some people, like me, cleaned up well. After an hour or so in the bathroom, I was reasonably presentable. On the right day I even turned a head or two. Mr. Slick here, though, was the kind of guy who messed up real good.

Interesting.

The door to the shop floor flew open, and in poured a dozen cops dressed in bulletproof vests and headgear and pointing some serious hardware at us. They ordered us out of the room and down the stairs, where we were searched and hustled off separately for questioning. I was interrogated by a series of officers, checked over by paramedics, and taken outside to a waiting squad car.

A handsome young officer named Chris listened to my concerns about Pete and kindly agreed to make a few calls. He returned with the news that Pete had been admitted to UCSF Medical Center in serious but stable condition. He had sustained a concussion and several lacerations that required stitches, but the doctors expected him to make a complete recovery. Visitors would be allowed at ten o’clock tomorrow morning.

I sagged with relief. Chris-the-Cop handed me a Styrofoam cup of coffee poured from his private thermos and settled me in the back of the squad car, a blanket around my shoulders, my legs and feet dangling out the open door. I inhaled the rich aroma, thinking that with good coffee all things were possible. That was when I saw the African Princess walking toward me, her shoulders back and head held high, looking impressive, as always, in a starched white shirt and burgundy wool pants suit. Strangely enough, I suddenly felt safe.

“Annie Kincaid,” she said with a warm smile.

“Inspector Crawford,” I replied.

“Call me Annette,” she told me. “I’m getting the feeling that I’ve missed something here. Got time to answer a few questions?”

“Yeah,” I replied wearily. “Listen, could we do this at my place? I’d really like to go home.”

Annette agreed, so I tracked down Frank, who was chatting with the lieutenant, and gave him the update on Pete’s condition. He nodded and flashed me a brief but beautiful smile.

Twenty minutes later I waved Annette into a chair at the pine kitchen table in my apartment, pulled a cheap bottle of Cabernet from my meager wine rack, and arranged smoked Gouda, salami, and a sourdough baguette on a wooden cutting board.

“Hey, where’s Ichabod tonight?” I asked.

“Who?”

“Icha—Sorry. Inspector Wilson.”

“What did you call him?”

“Um, Ichabod? No offense intended.”

“As in Ichabod Crane, from the
Legend of Sleepy Hollow
?”

“That’d be the one.”

Annette laughed and accepted a glass of the ruby red wine. “You know, he’s always reminded me of someone, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. I think you may have nailed it.”

“So how’d you know what happened?” I asked as I settled down at the table.

“I was passing by your studio earlier and saw the patrol cars,” she said, cutting a wedge of the Gouda. “I’ve been a little worried about you. The patrol officer told me about the call and where you could be found.”

“You were worried about me? Why?” I asked as I sawed off pieces of the sourdough baguette. Nothing like being kidnapped and held at knifepoint to pique a woman’s appetite.

Annette’s eyes shone with amusement. “Let’s just call it policewoman’s intuition. Seems like I was right, huh?”

“Yeah, I guess things have been a little exciting lately. It’s not my fault, though, honest.”

I chewed my dry-salami-and-smoked-Gouda-on-baguette sandwich, took a sip of the Cabernet, and decided to come clean. It didn’t look like I was going to get Brazil’s reward for recovering the drawings anyway, and I was
not
willing to go up against any more murderous goons. I was occasionally heedless, but I wasn’t stupid. So I told Annette an abridged version of my search for the drawings that Harlan Coombs had taken and how I thought Coombs might be connected to the
Magi
forgeries. I did not tell her about Anton, although I did mention Michael X. Johnson, figuring the X-man could take care of himself.

“Michael X. Johnson?” Annette repeated.

“You know him?”

“I’ve heard the name.” Her cop face was back. “Listen, Annie, you ought to get some rest. Thanks for the wine and conversation.”

“Wait a minute!” I protested. “Who’s Michael X. Johnson?”

“I’ve got to go,” she said firmly. “I promise I’ll get in touch just as soon as I can. Go to bed.” And with that, she was gone.

Why did a homicide inspector know Michael X. Johnson? Why did the well-dressed goon know Michael X. Johnson? Why did
I
know Michael X. Johnson? I tried to sort it all out, but my mind seemed to be shutting down now that it had been wined and dined. I managed to put the food away, brush my teeth, and kick off my shoes before falling into bed with my clothes on.

Ten hours later I awoke, my mind clearer, my body aching. I had studiously avoided the mirror last night, figuring the odds of my having nightmares were bad enough as it was, but this morning I girded my loins and sneaked a peek. Hmm. Could have been worse. I had some light bruises on my cheek and lower jaw, a cut at the corner of my mouth, and a scab on my neck from where the Hulk’s knife had pricked my skin. My muscles were sore, but whether it was from being tied up or from the unaccustomed running around, I wasn’t sure. As for the rest of me, my hair was snarled and frizzy, and I smelled pretty funky. Day Three in the same set of clothes.

I stripped and tried to brush out my hair. Usually I was ruthless with it, but today my scalp ached so much from the Hulk’s manhandling that I tried to be gentle. Unfortunately, gentle was not effective, so I decided to leave the worst of the snarls until my scalp was less tender. I shampooed and stood under the hot spray until the water ran tepid, and did my best with the conditioner, but it was going to be a really bad hair day no matter what I did.

Wrapping my newly clean self in a mint green terry-cloth robe, I wandered down the hall into the kitchen. I rooted around in the refrigerator until I found a container of leftover hot-and-sour soup that appeared to still be edible. I ate at the kitchen table, staring out the window and thinking about yesterday. My humdrum life had become rather more interesting lately, and I wasn’t at all sure that was a good thing. My friend had been attacked, my studio was trashed, and I had been kidnapped and threatened by goons. Worst of all, since I wasn’t sure why, I had no idea how to make it stop. On the plus side, I’d have some ripping good yarns to tell at the old folks’ home—if I lived that long.

Rinsing my bowl and spoon in the kitchen sink, I scuffed back into the bedroom, changed into an Indian wrap skirt and a black T-shirt, slipped on my Birkenstocks, snagged my leather jacket, and hurried downstairs. I was anxious to get back to my studio, assess the damage, and track down my insurance agent. But first things first. I headed to the UCSF Medical Center to visit my Bosnian hero.

Pete looked awful. His usual hale and hearty self had a number of tubes stuck in it, his skin had a grayish pallor, a large white bandage swathed his head, and his face was swollen. My heart sank into my shoes. A pretty nurse caught my stricken look and assured me he was on the mend. I wanted to believe her, but he sure didn’t look like it.

“Pete?” I said gently.

His eyes flickered open, then focused. “Annie, thank the goodness you’re all right. But what happened to your face?”

That was Pete for you, more concerned with my safety than his own. I felt tears start in my eyes and my throat constricted. “I’m fine, just a few scratches. How are
you
?”

“I am itching where they make the stitches. But I am not too aggrieved.”

“Oh, Pete, I’m so sor—”