by Hailey Lind
“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.”
Chapter 10
How fickle is the world of art! For decades the works of Vermeer were sold under the name of Pieter de Hooch, a far more popular artist throughout the nineteenth century. Now those holding de Hooch’s works scrape off the signature, hoping to find Vermeer’s name beneath!
—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—”
“Annie. Please.” He reached a large hand out, and I grabbed it. His touch was as warm and comforting as ever.
“But Pete—”
“Annie. No sorrows. Please. We are friends, yes?”
“Yes, yes. Good friends.”
“Good friends,” he echoed, with a smile. “So, no more.”
I smiled, a bit unsteadily, trying to get my emotions under control. “What happened?” I asked him.
“They hit me with a sheet of beautiful glass. Cobalt blue. Can you believe? Thank God she was not the handmade.”
Pete was well known for pinching a penny, but I thought being grateful for being coshed on the head by the cheap glass instead of the expensive stuff was taking thriftiness too far.
“I can’t believe you’re worried about cost at a time like this,” I told him.
Pete’s heavy eyebrows arched. “The machine-made, she is thinner than the handmade. With the thicker glass, I might have had deeper cuts and bleeded more.”
Oh.
“Can I call your mother or anything?” I offered.
Pete’s extended family lived in Hayward, just south of Oakland. I’d never met them, but I knew from Pete’s stories that they were a boisterous, loving bunch.
He winced. “Please, Annie, no. My mama, she worry. She would make me go home with her. This would be bad. The doctors say I will be fine soon. So no mama. I will tell her when I am stronger.”
The sight of big, tough Pete shrinking from a confrontation with his mother made me smile. We chatted and
I told him the rest of the story, downplaying the more dangerous aspects so as not to upset him. Then for the heck of it I asked, “Have you ever heard of a Colin Brooks?”
“He was watching for you yesterday.”
I sat up straight. “What? Where? What did you tell him?”
“He was at your studio when I went to make coffee. I told him to watch for you at your apartment.”
“Did you tell him where my apartment was, Pete?” I said, trying to keep the outrage at Michael’s effrontery out of my voice.
“He said he knew. He is Egyptologist at the Brock. He told me he is dating your friend . . . Nancy? No . . . Naomi!”
“An Egyptologist? An Egyptologist?”
Pete’s bloodshot eyes widened. “What is wrong?”
Immediately, I felt contrite. Get a grip, Annie, I scolded myself. This man is in the hospital because of you.
“I’m just surprised, that’s all,” I told him. “You go back to sleep and get well soon, okay? Maybe there’s a nurse around here you could marry. I just saw one who seems awfully nice. Probably just waiting for a chance to talk with you alone.” I gave him a kiss and headed out the door.
Since I had, once again, neglected to recharge my cell phone battery, I stopped at the bank of pay phones in the lobby, dug through my leather fanny pack, and finally unearthed two slightly fuzzy quarters. As I dialed the Brock Museum I felt assaulted by the hospital’s medicinal sounds and smells and broadsided by what I’d learned about Colin Brooks.
“Naomi Chadwick Gregorian.”
I wondered if she practiced sounding so snooty or whether it came naturally. I suspected it was a bit of both.
“Naomi,” I said. “It’s Annie.”
There was a pause. When she spoke again, the cheery tone rang false. “Annie, how nice to hear from you. What can I do for you?”
“I need information. Do you know someone named Colin Brooks?” No use beating around the bush. It had been my experience that social amenities were wasted on Nancy Fancy Pants.
“Of course. He’s the new Egyptologist here at the Brock.”
As if I didn’t know what the “here” referred to. Naomi loved reminding me that she worked at “the Brock”—and I didn’t.
“Really? Do you know him well?”
“Actually . . . I’ve been seeing Colin socially. Annie, he’s sooo cute!”
“So, where did this Brooks fellow come from? You’ve never mentioned him,” I said, keeping my tone light. As if Naomi and I had ever traded girlish secrets. Even when we were girls we never traded girlish secrets.
Naomi giggled. I gagged.
“Edward Brock—do you know him? Dull Dick and Fabulous Phoebe’s son? Well, he’s started to take a real interest in the museum, and old lady Brock couldn’t be more pleased. So anyway, Edward started studying Egyptology, and he met Colin on a buying trip last fall. And since the Brock didn’t have much representation in the Egyptian field, Edward convinced his grandmother to hire Colin.”
“So Edward has the museum board’s ear, does he?”
“I’ll say. He’s next in line to the Throne of Power.”
During my ill-fated internship at the Brock, I’d taken to calling Agnes Brock’s antique burgundy-and-brass-studded leather desk chair, which had been her husband’s and his father’s before him, the Throne of
Power, and the name had stuck. Agnes revered the Throne with a love that was surely unholy, and one of Housekeeping’s jobs was to wipe it down with saddle soap and oil the springs once a week. The year I was there, Carlos Jimenez had finally succeeded in convincing the museum to hire his son, Juan, as a housekeeper trainee. On his first day on the job Juan had been so eager to please the Brocks and his father that he’d polished the marble foyer within an inch of its life, but, unfortunately, he forgot to bathe the Throne. The next day Agnes called Juan into her office and fired him on the spot. Carlos had been devastated.
That night I had snuck into the Throne Room and slid a whoopee cushion behind Agnes’s lumbar pillow. As a result, the next morning, when Agnes sat down to meet with the mayor, the Throne of Power emitted a very loud and extremely vulgar noise. We’d heard the repercussions all the way down in the basement, and Carlos had smiled for a week.
“Edward’s got the big corner office,” Naomi continued, “the mahogany-lined one with the great windows, remember? God, what I wouldn’t give to have an office like that. I had to smile when Mrs. Brock took away access to the vault from everyone but herself—including her family. I thought Edward would have an apoplectic fit when she announced it. Anyway, if they want to keep the Throne in the family, who else is there?”
“Hmm. Listen, Naomi. Funny thing. It’s just such a coincidence. I have a few things I need to discuss with an Egyptologist. Is this Colin guy around today? Where’s his office?”
“He’s out of town.” Naomi sounded suspicious. “At a conference in New York.”
Did she think I would make a play for her lying, cheating, conniving fake of a boyfriend? Better check those airline ticket stubs, Naomi, I thought, and got off the phone before I said something I might have to apologize for one day.
Egyptologist, my ass. Not a bad cover, though. Not even the other curators would have asked detailed questions. Everybody in the business thought ancient Egyptian art was fascinating, but nobody except the specialists knew squat about it, and certainly nobody at the Brock, which had a very small Egyptian collection and, up until now, no specialist curator. The position would give Michael access to just about everything at the museum. Except the vault. He was too new to have been given access to that. Agnes Brock was a mean old cuss, but she wasn’t stupid.