by Lind, Hailey
“You don’t have a job.”
“Come on. You’re coming to my place.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.”
“Not to your place, I’m not. You’ll take me to someone else’s place.”
“God save me from women with good memories.” He grabbed my shoulder bag. “What’s that you’re wearing? You look like a reject from a luau. And you smell a little funky, pardon me for noticing.”
“Turn around while I change.”
“I’ve seen you in your undergarments before, remember? And a very pretty sight it was, too.”
“Michael, if you don’t turn around this minute, I swear I’ll—”
“You’ll what?”
“Tell my grandfather you’ve been a cad.”
Michael turned his back with a put-upon sigh. I scrambled into my decrepit overalls and running shoes, which were, thankfully, dry.
“Let’s go.”
The night air was chilly and wet and smelled of the brine of the bay. Jazz played softly on the CD player in Michael’s truck as we drove across town to North Beach.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“A little place I stay when I’m in the City.”
He pulled over and expertly maneuvered the large truck into a minuscule parking space on Green Street, just a block off Columbus. It was nearly two in the morning, and with the bars about to close raucous partiers streamed onto the sidewalks shouting jovially at the top of their lungs.
“Lively neighborhood,” I said.
“I like it.”
Michael nodded toward a stucco duplex, and we climbed a flight of interior stairs carpeted with an ornate oriental runner. At the top of the stairs he unlocked a glossy, deep red door, which opened onto a decent-sized room lined with bookcases groaning under the weight of art tomes and artifacts. The rosy wood floors and creamy walls glowed in the warmth of the light cast by old-fashioned brass floor lamps with fringed shades. A faded brocade love seat and two soft burgundy leather chairs sat before a huge window with floor-sweeping burgundy velvet curtains that framed a view of the lights of Columbus Avenue. To the left of the living room, a black-and-white-tiled kitchen sported a stainless steel refrigerator-freezer and a Wolfe range, and gourmet copper cookware hung from an iron pot rack. White wood cabinets with glass doors revealed a collection of charming French crockery and crystal stemware. A tall wood wine rack made up one wall of a cozy breakfast nook outfitted with a café table and black wrought-iron chairs. Somebody—Michael? —had spent a lot of time and money to make this a home.
“Wow. Nice place,” I said. “Whose is it?”
“You’ve got trust issues, Annie,” Michael said, tossing his keys into a Moroccan brass bowl on the kitchen’s cobalt-blue Italian mosaic counter.
“I can’t imagine why. Now tell me what’s going on with Grandfather.”
“Let’s have a drink first. This is a fine Bordeaux that I’ve been saving for a special occasion. I think you’ll like it.” He poured the deep red wine into crystal water glasses, in the manner of Italians. “To the future.”
One could hardly refuse a toast to the future. We clinked glasses.
“The Galleria Nazionale in Rome has confirmed that its La Fornarina is a fake.”
I spewed my wine on Michael’s white shirt. “Are you serious ? Where did you hear that?”
“No more wine for you.” Michael crossed to the kitchen sink and dabbed at his shirt with a washcloth. “It’s official, but the Ministry of Culture is keeping it under wraps for the time being.”
“Please tell me it’s not Georges’ work.”
“You’re the best person to determine that, but Georges swore up and down he only painted the one that Donato Sandino showed you at the Getty. No, it looks as if it might have been an innocent mix-up. During World War One a top-notch copy of La Fornarina was stored at the same facility as Raphael’s original.”
“And this ‘top-notch copy’ was so brilliant that the romantic symbols in the background had been painted over just like the original?”
“That remains to be seen.”
“I suppose Crispin Engels, the British painter, might have done so as a tribute to the legend of Raphael and his mistress,” I mused.
“Maybe so.” Michael gave up on his shirt and leaned against the sink. The wet fabric clung to his flat stomach and muscular chest.
I averted my eyes. “It really was an honest mix-up?”
“I was skeptical, myself. But from what I’ve been able to piece together, it seems Julia Morgan went to Europe after World War One to buy art and artifacts for the newly built Chapel of the Chimes Columbarium. Among her purchases was a nineteenth-century copy of La Fornarina by Crispin Engels. Apparently what she brought home was not the copy, but Raphael’s original. Both paintings have authentic provenances, but they were applied to the wrong pieces.”
“Who’s your source at the Barberini?”
“Ask your buddy Frank.”
“My Frank? Frank DeBenton?”
“As you say.” He cocked his head. “Your Frank.”
“But—”
“He’s running this op. With his pals at the FBI and Interpol, of course.”
“How did you get involved?”
“Two separate inquiries about La Fornarina came in to my Web site over the past few weeks. I became curious and contacted DeBenton.”
“Why didn’t he say anything to me?”
“I believe he’s trying to protect you. He’s the gallant type, isn’t he?”
“I can’t believe him,” I snapped, anger at Frank’s patronizing ways surging through me.
“You’re in over your head with DeBenton, Annie. If you’re not careful he’ll bust you one of these days.”
“Frank can’t bust me, because I haven’t done anything wrong.” This was my mantra, which I recited whenever I needed to be reassured about my precarious perch on the path of righteousness. It usually didn’t work.
“Ah, but you will,” Michael said, reaching out and tucking an errant curl behind my ear. His large hand lingered on my face, caressing it gently.
I swallowed hard. “Listen, Michael, I can’t have you putting the moves on me tonight.”
“Why not? We’re all one big, happy family, aren’t we? You’re sleeping with Frank while Josh is out of town, Frank’s sleeping with you while Ingrid’s out of town. . . .”
“First of all, I’m not convinced Ingrid even exists,” I said, swatting his hand away. “I think Samantha said she met her just to win the bet.”
“Oh, no doubt. Sam sounds like the type to lie about such things.”
“Second,” I said, ignoring him because he was, of course, right. Sam’s perch on the straight and narrow was as solid as a rock. The wonder was that she still associated with me. “I did not sleep with Frank. I slept over. Big difference.”
“Josh appreciates such distinctions, does he?”
My stomach fluttered. It would be best not to mention to Josh where I’d spent last night. Or where I was spending tonight, for that matter. Aw, geez. Josh and I had better have The Talk before I started refusing to consort with the likes of me.
“You know, Annie,” Michael said as he refilled his glass of wine and, after a slight hesitation, poured a dollop into my glass. “If you were mine, the distinction wouldn’t matter. You spend the night with another man and somebody’s head is going to roll.”
My mouth opened and closed, guppylike. If you were mine?
Michael smiled his devastating smile, the one that made his eyes crinkle and my knees wobble. “Relax. I brought you here tonight for two reasons. Number one, to keep you safe. Number two, to talk business.”
“Number one, thank you. Number two, what business?”
“As you know, I’ve gone legit.”
I snorted.
“Don’t be so cynical. It was your idea in the first place. Last fall you suggested I steal artwork from thieves and return the piece
s to their rightful owners, remember?”
I did. But I’d been mocking him.
“So I looked into it. Do you know what the reward is for the Vermeer stolen from the Isabella Stuart Gardner Museum?”
“A lot?”
“More than it’s worth on the black market, that’s for sure. And no unpleasant encounters with the authorities. I’m getting too old to run from the cops.”
“How old are you?”
“None of your beeswax.”
I smiled and took a sip of excellent Bordeaux. “I inspired your change of heart, eh?”
“You and my probation officer.”
“You’re on probation?”
“The FBI nabbed me at Anthony Brazil’s gallery, remember? We worked out a mutually beneficial arrangement. Seems the FBI was looking for a missing Monet that I happened to have access to.”
“That was fortunate.”
“Always good to have a chip in the game.”
I thought about La Fornarina, the chip I needed to ensure that Grandfather remained safe from the clutches of Donato Sandino.
Michael continued. “So I set up the Web site to locate more stolen art. I must say, these amateur art thieves are none too bright. You wouldn’t believe how gullible many of them are. Makes me ashamed to call myself a thief.”
“Well, every profession’s got a few bad apples.”
“Their lack of sophistication is my gain, however. I’ve found a valuable Remington and a set of Piranesi drawings, and I’m hot on the trail of some Iraqi antiquities.”
“How does it work, exactly?”
“Thieves contact the Web site to get an estimate on the artwork’s market value. I compare the description and photograph they send me against the registries of stolen art, and if something turns up I notify the FBI. I collect the reward money, the FBI returns the art to its owners and prosecutes the crooks. It’s a win-win situation. Meanwhile, I spread the word through other channels that I’m an art authenticator willing to turn a blind eye to the occasional shady deal. As you know, fencing art for a decent price can be more difficult than stealing it.”
“What if the art’s not stolen?”
“Then I give them an estimate of how much it’s worth and cash their check.”
“Clever.”
“Except I have to be careful not to ruin my reputation in the art underworld. If anyone suspects what I’m up to, I’m out of business.”
“You could continue with legitimate art authentication.”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
Good point. For lifelong felons such as Michael or my grandfather, the thrill was in the chase.
Michael leaned back against the counter and crossed his legs. “No, a straight-up business arrangement has never been my cup of tea. I prefer to profit from hunting stolen art. At the moment the only people who know what I’m really doing are some insurance adjusters, a handful of FBI agents, and you. Which brings me to my next question.”
Uh-oh. “Yes?”
“I don’t know jack-all about authenticating art.”
“True.”
“I need a front person to evaluate the paintings.”
“Don’t look at me.”
“Why not? You’re Georges LeFleur’s granddaughter. That means something in this world, whether you like it or not.”
Don’t I know it? I thought. “I’ve worked for years to be accepted as a legitimate artist, Michael. Can you imagine what would happen if I set up shop with a known art thief?”
“But, Annie, I’ve got the FBI’s stamp of approval. Frank DeBenton, your personal pillar of rectitude, didn’t hesitate to call on me when he needed help.”
“He’s not my ‘personal pillar of rectitude.’ ”
“Frank has proprietary feelings for you. He didn’t tell you what I said on the phone last night, did he?”
“What are you talking about?”
Michael sipped his wine and gazed out the kitchen window. “I asked Frank to tell you that Italy’s Ministry of Culture had conceded the Raphael forgery, and your deal with Sandino was on.”
“What?” Frank knew the forgery had been confirmed and that I had a deal with Donato Sandino—and hadn’t said anything to me? Had his kisses been an attempt to distract me? If so, the ploy had worked.
“Still sure you have nothing to worry about from DeBenton?”
“The man’s dead to me.”
“So will you think about our working together?”
“You’re a liar and a thief.”
“I’ve never lied about being a thief. At least you know what you’re dealing with.”
“Not to mention my grandfather will keep you in line.”
Michael chuckled and glanced at his watch. “It’s three in the morning, Annie. Nothing good ever happens at three in the morning. Except in bed, of course. Why don’t you see how you feel after a good night’s rest? My room’s down the hall,” he said, standing and stretching. His muscles rippled, and I couldn’t help sneaking a peek. “You, my dear, may sleep anywhere you choose.”
“Is that an invitation?”
“It would be,” he said. “But I suspect that if you came to me now it would be to spite DeBenton, and I’d rather he not be in bed with us. I’ve never been into threesomes.”
Our eyes held for a long moment. Sleeping with Michael would clarify my relationship with Frank, no two ways about it, but would complicate just about everything else and probably not in a good way. Still, my libido was running high and Michael was sexiness on a stick.
Then I remembered Josh. Good ol’ Josh. We had to talk before anything, with anyone, went any further. I owed him—and myself—that much. “I’ll take the couch, thanks.”
“As you wish.”
“You know, Michael, in your own twisted way, you’re an ethical man.”
“Is that a challenge?” he said silkily, his green eyes intense.
“Just a comment.”
“Don’t tempt me. I’m still new to the ethics biz,” he said, and switched off the lights. “Night, sweetheart.”
“Good night.” I felt like giving Michael a hug, but instead went into the living room and lay down on the couch. I pulled a soft quilt over me and drifted off to sleep.
When I awoke it took a moment to remember where I was. Raindrops splattered against the living room window, and I thought I heard the rumble of thunder in the distance. More rain. It was abnormal. If I’d wanted Seattle weather I would have moved there years ago. Yawning and stretching, I looked around the pleasant room and studied the titles on the crowded bookshelves. Victor Hugo’s Les Contemplations sat alongside Les Misérables, and Diderot’s Encyclopédie slouched against Baudelaire’s Les Fleurs du Mal and Rimbaud’s Le Bateau Ivre. I smiled at the sight of a well-thumbed, unabridged Larousse French-English dictionary. I knew Michael spoke French, but hadn’t realized he had such a literary bent. The taller bottom shelves were crammed with oversized art books similar to the ones I kept in my studio for research. Michael was apparently devoted to his new avocation. Maybe a leopard could change its spots.
My eyes came to rest on a corner of a gold gilt picture frame peeking out from behind a walnut corner cabinet. Was Michael still absconding with stolen paintings? Or was this one to be returned to its owner? Surely Michael knew how to hide art more cleverly than that.
I pulled the painting from its hiding place. It was a charming and surprisingly good rendering of the Mona Lisa signed Annie Jane Kincaid, Age 10. Years ago I had given it to my grandfather for his birthday, and his eyes had grown misty at this evidence of burgeoning criminality. I’d last seen the painting in Paris, hanging in Grandfather’s atelier in the Place des Vosges. How had Michael gotten his hands on it?
I looked around again. The apartment was too cozy, too individual. Michael held his cards so close to his chest that I had imagined his home would be more impersonal. Unless . . .
I stormed down the hall and threw open the bedroom door, snatched a hairbrush from
the top of the bureau, and flung it as hard as I could at Michael’s sleeping form. He sprang out of bed wearing only black silk boxers, and landed on the floor in a jujitsu stance. If I hadn’t been so angry I would have laughed.
“Jesus, Annie! What the hell’s wrong with you?”
“Why is my Mona Lisa here?”
“Your what?”
“Don’t play coy. It doesn’t suit you.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“My forgery of Mona Lisa. It won an award when I was ten and I gave it to Georges.”
“Ah, that one.” Michael crawled back into bed, folded one arm behind his head, and scratched his flat stomach. “He asked me to hold it for safekeeping.”
“Liar!”
“Annie, please. You’re screeching.”
“This is Grandfather’s apartment, isn’t it?”
“Don’t be absurd.”
“Liar!”
“Well, my pants do seem to be on fire.” He winked and patted the covers. “I’m regretting my self-control last night. Come here.”
I grabbed a fingernail clipper from the bureau and hurled it at him. He swatted it away. “Hey! Be careful! For someone who’s not very athletic you’ve got a hell of a pitching arm.”
“You brought me to Grandfather’s apartment? Georges has an apartment? I’ve been spending the night on friends’ couches and all along he had this place in North Beach?”
Michael ran a hand through his tousled hair and yawned, making a squeaking sound. Furious, I looked around for possible projectiles.
“Annie, are you pissed because I said it was my apartment, or because Georges didn’t tell you he had a pied-à-terre?”
I launched a stick of deodorant at him, but my aim was off and it bounced off a forgery of Velasquez’ The Water Seller of Seville and landed in the laundry hamper. “You and Georges were made for each other! You can both go to hell!”
Grabbing my shoulder bag, I stomped out of the apartment and into the pouring rain. I hurried down the street to Café Trieste, ordered a double espresso and a chocolate croissant, gazed at the dreary weather, and pondered my equally dreary state of affairs.
At the moment I loathed Frank, Michael, and my grandfather. In fact, at the moment the only man in my life whom I did not loathe was the one I was planning to break up with.