by Hailey Lind
Jarrah shrugged.
“And then you said Anton left you a voicemail message, but he never leaves voicemail messages.” How could I have been so stupid? “Are you the one who poisoned him?”
“Of course not, I’m the one who saved him. Cathy Yeltsin did it. It was so pointless, she was just angry because she thought Anton had double-crossed them with regard to the Gauguin. I’ve never hurt anybody.”
“Why start now?” I asked. “I hear it gets real easy. Easier each time, and pretty soon you’re nothing but a killing machine.”
“That’s a terrible thing to say,” Jarrah said, in a surprised, hurt tone as though I had hurled insults about his mother.
“It’s the truth,” I said. “Happens all the time. You could do one of us maybe, but by the time you kill Michael, too, that makes you a serial killer.”
I read doubt in his eyes. He started swallowing convulsively, looking at the door that led to the wine cellar. Jarrah Preston was no fool, but he was under a whole heck of a lot of stress. You don’t go from being an upstanding international insurance guy to a cold-blooded killer without passing through stages of serious self-doubt. I hoped.
“I mean, do Kiwis even kill people?” I pressed on. “Do you know how to use that gun, for example?
“How hard could it be? You just squeeze. American children kill each other all the time by accident.”
Words to warm a mother’s heart.
“Okay, so enough talk,” said Jarrah. “Do whatever you need to before I...you know.”
“What do you mean?”
“Say the Lord’s Prayer, or whatever works for you.”
“You mean that ‘Shadow of the Valley of Death’ thing?” I asked. “I’m not sure I remember all the words. Isn’t that a heck of a thing, given the situation?”
Jarrah gave me a nervous little smile.
“Say it with me?” I asked.
“All right.”
“Our father, who art in...” we recited together.
My mind was racing. I was reasonably sure I could jump fast enough, and that Jarrah would be a bad enough shot, that I might well survive. But then what? What if he regrouped while I was still sprawled in the sewer, and shot again? And again? He was right, at this distance even a child could manage it. Gun control was seeming like a really good idea at the moment.
“...hallowed be thy name, thy...”
There was no other choice. As I was screwing up my courage to jump, I saw a pale visage poke around the bend in the tunnel behind us, barely discernible in the reflected light from our flashlights. Frank! And behind him...the two homeless men, known to me only as Harvard and Jumpsuit. When this was over, I pledged to myself, I was going to find out their names, and rent them a damned apartment. Who needed a new truck, after all?
Luckily Preston had his back to them. He still looked nervously to the door where he expected Michael to appear momentarily. In any case, he was probably too intent on the direction of his soul to take note of what was happening in the dark tunnel behind him.
“...kingdom come, thy will be done...”
Frank seemed to catch on that things were not going According to Plan.
“Okay, now this second part I never remember,” I said in a desperate bid to keep Jarrah from turning around and noticing Frank, who was creeping down the damp rat rail, clutching his own gun. “Is it ‘forgive those who trespass against us,’ or ‘who sin against us’—that would be you in this instance, Jarrah, by the way—or ‘those who are indebted to us’?”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Jarrah. His eyes were getting a little wild. “You—”
Frank held the muzzle of his gun to Jarrah’s head. “Don’t move.”
Jarrah moved. In fact, he jumped about three feet in the air, then spun around to run. Frank leapt onto Jarrah’s shoulders, knocking the gun out of Jarrah’s hand; the weapon skittered along the rat rail without discharging.
The two men struggled briefly. They were well-matched physically, but Frank had the element of surprise and with a right clip followed by a knee to the stomach, soon overpowered Preston, who splashed into several inches of stagnant runoff in the bottom of the sewer.
I scooped up the gun. The safety was still on. I clicked it off, pointed it at Jarrah, and held it with a steadiness that surprised me.
“Jarrah!” I yelled. “I’ve got the gun, and I’m an American, damn it. Just give me a reason, any reason, to go all Dirty Harry on your ass.”
He stayed down.
Harvard passed Frank a length of rope, which Frank used to tie Preston, tightly, to an iron pipe protruding from the sewer wall.
“Dirty Harry?” Frank said, his lip curling up slightly.
“People still get that reference, don’t they?” I was a little out of touch, media-wise. “You know, ‘make my day’ and all that?”
“Yes, I believe they do get that reference, Dirty Harriette.”
“We’ll stay with him,” said Harvard.
“Stay with ‘im,” echoed Jumpsuit with a firm nod.
“Thanks guys,” I said. “A million thanks. We’ll be back for you.”
We left them our flashlights and ran up the stairs toward the wine cellar.
“Why don’t you let me have the gun?” Frank said.
I swung the muzzle toward him. “Don’t even get me started on you.”
The door was open and swung in with a push. We snuck up the stone stairs and entered a back hallway. Muffled laughter and voices drew us down the hall. Through the open doors we could see the party in full swing.
By gosh if the painting of the evening wasn’t The Dance of the Bee in the Harem, by Vincenzo Marinelli. Oriental rugs had been laid out at odd angles, a few young men played stringed instruments, and half-naked women in belly-dancing costumes lolled about, drinking wine or dancing before the appreciative audience.
I had to give the F-U boys credit: I applauded their obvious efforts. This was prostitution at its finest. I mean, how many people would think of such a thing? It took some real creativity, research, and knowledge. And there was Mary, doing her utmost in her harem costume, dancing with the other women. I spied Wesley sitting to the side in the audience, slack-jawed, glasses fogged up again. Between the visit to the Power Play, his new gay friend Bryan, and now this, I imagined good old Wes would never be quite the same.
Still, I hoped Mary wasn’t planning on joining the after-party.
I paused, wondering where to start, when I saw Michael at the top of the main stairs, gesturing for us to come up.
Luckily the security guard was avidly taking in the scene through the open double doors off the foyer, and his gaze did not waver.
At the top of the stairs we could hear the muffled sounds of a man’s voice, and then a woman’s.
Michael eased the door open. The couple didn’t notice us at first, but it appeared for all the world as though they were having their own private art re-creation. Both dressed in togas, the woman was feeding the man grapes rolled in sugar. They looked like purple frosted jewels.
“Good Lord,” Balthazar said when he spotted us. He tried to sit up, but his efforts were hampered by a scantily clad Catrina Yeltsin draped over his chest.
“Hold it right there,” I said. Among other things, I really did not want to see more of Balthazar than was strictly necessary. I still had Jarrah’s gun, and I was still channeling a young, macho Clint Eastwood. “But don’t let me dissuade you from your meal. Dig in, by all means. Has your girlfriend mentioned how proficient she is with arsenic?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Are you feeling woozy at all lately, Balthazar? Headaches, stomach problems...? Because Cathy seems adept at finding the killing combination. First Elijah—did you know he would eventually be poisoned by the wallpaper? The paper you kept damp and moldy from the leak in the roof? That’s one way to get rid of a business liability.”
Odibajian looked horrified. His gaze went first to Cathy, than back to me.<
br />
“He was ill, but surely no one hastened his...” Balthazar trailed off, nonplussed.
“And then Anton, of course. That was an easy one, just mixing the acid in with the powdered pigment you got from the fireworks distributor. Are you moving on to Balthazar now, Cathy? Are those grapes rolled in plain sugar, or do they include some special secret ingredient?”
Cathy just laughed.
“This is utterly insane.” Odibajian finally found his tongue. “To what are you referring?”
“Did Cathy here forget to mention she’s a chem grad from UC Berkeley? Surely you and she worked up the plan for Elijah together?”
“What plan?” put in Balthazar. “Cathy is a good woman. She convinced me to show my brother sympathy, for the sake of the family. I let him stay here.”
“In a room full of arsine gas released from the wallpaper. Are you saying you weren’t the one who set him up to look like a painting, in retribution for his spiriting the Gauguin out of the club?”
“He was dead anyway. Of natural causes. I had to set an example for the others.”
“We’ll wait until the medical examiner runs a couple of easy tests to see what he died of, exactly. But then you realized the Gauguin had been a forgery all the time, and that Victor must have been holding out on you. He brought it back, you know. Victor must be around here somewhere. You’ll never guess where the painting’s been: hanging in a dive bar, just as open as you please.”
“Balthazar, sweetie,” said Cathy with a smile, “don’t mind her, she’s talking crazy.”
Odibajian just shook his head in disbelief.
“Cathy, Bal-Balthazar,” Victor stammered as he crashed through the door, his own gun trained on his wife and Odibajian. He dropped the Gauguin, all his concentration on the tableau in front of his eyes. “How could you?”
“Victor, sweetie!”
“You’ve never...I mean, without me...” Victor wore the countenance of a man betrayed. As Mary had explained to me on the way to the Power Play, even swingers had rules and limits. More than most people, even. Apparently Cathy wasn’t supposed to go off on her own. “You...whore.”
“Victor! That’s enough!” bellowed Balthazar.
“Sweetie!”
The three started yelling. Frank took my arm and started backing us out of the room. Michael followed, grabbing the Gauguin on the way out the door.
Behind us we heard more shouting, and then the sound of gunfire.
“A little help in here,” Frank yelled. Two Fleming-Union security guards finally wrested their eyes from the living art exhibit and realized they were hearing gunshots. They hurried toward the door.
Frank, Michael, and I ran the opposite way.
* * *
Michael disappeared before the cops showed up, though he gave me the Gauguin to turn over to the authories. Ambulances arrived on the heels of the patrol cars, but we weren’t given any information as to the fate of Catrina, Balthazar, or Victor. I led a pair of police officers down to the sewer, where they took Jarrah into custody. I gave Harvard and Jumpsuit money to get a room for the night—though given their high spirits I thought they might be planning a night of celebration instead. I made arrangements to meet them in Huntington Park the next day; somehow I was going to think of a way to pay them back.
Frank and I gave our statements to Annette and other officials for what felt like hours. But we hadn’t spoken a single word to each other since being in the tunnel.
It was a cold night. The air carried the briny, damp scent of a foggy San Francisco evening. In the bay a foghorn sounded its mournful cry. I put the key in the truck door.
“Annie,” Frank said, standing close behind me.
“Swear to God, Frank, if I still had that gun in my hand...”
“We need to talk.”
I swung around to face him. “We needed to talk before we spent the night together.”
“You’re absolutely right. I apologize. I’m scum. But I’m scum that is very nearly divorced. And I’m scum that loves you. That’s got to count for something.”
I swallowed, hard. “Scum that loves me?”
He gave a mirthless laugh. “You think I go through this sort of thing for just anyone? In case it escapes your notice, I go out of my way to support you as best I can. Even to the point of having to rescue you in tunnels and sabotage my own professional reputation. You know putting yourself in danger drives me insane, but I’ve been biting my tongue, trying not to tell you what to do. And right now I’m trying not to say I told you so.”
“Told me what?”
“Not to get involved with Odibajian.”
He had me there.
“Why don’t you come back to my place with me, you can take a shower, we’ll order a pizza—with anchovies, if you insist—and you can ask me all the questions you want about Ingrid and anything else you want to know.”
“I...uh...I’m not sure. I don’t know what to think right now, Frank. Between Anton and you and Michael...”
“What about Michael?”
“I don’t know how...I mean, the man is my business partner after all, and you’re sort of his brother-in-law, and—”
“And he’s in love with you. Are you in love with him?”
“I don’t...I mean I think I’m...” I took a deep breath. “I think I’m in love with you. But I do love him.”
“I suppose it’s too much to hope that this is a sisterly sort of love?”
I gave him a grudging smile. “All I want to do right now is go back to my studio and paint something. I have to think, or maybe not think for a while.”
“Fine, if that’s what you need. I’m putting a man on you, though.”
“I thought that was exactly what you didn’t want.”
“Funny. I’m going to have Thomas trail you, and please, I beg of you, don’t try to lose him. He’s there for your own good until this thing settles down completely. We still don’t know exactly where Odibajian stands in all of this.”
“Presuming he’s still alive.”
Frank nodded. “Presuming Victor’s got terrible aim.”
“Hey, I know something you can do for me, by way of apology. Those two homeless guys, the ones who led you into the tunnels...”
“The ones who saved your life.”
I nodded. “We have to do something for them. Find them a place to live, a rehab program, job training maybe?”
“I’m already on it. I made a few phone calls while we were waiting.”
“Thanks.” I turned to open the door of my truck.
“And Annie? Call me.”
“I will.”
21
Dear Georges: What is the greatest single piece of advice you could give an aspiring forger?
Dear Reader: Settle out of court.
—Georges LeFleur, “Craquelure”
I was hoping for some solitude to get my head straight, but my business partner was waiting for me at the studio, a bottle of fine cabernet in hand. When solitude is impossible, wine is a good alternative. I took a glass gratefully.
“I was thinking,” Michael began. “Maybe I should drop out of sight for a time.”
“Oh no you don’t, not again. Besides, I don’t think this whole stolen-paintings thing is resolved. If you leave they’ll pin it on you for sure.”
“That’s the point.”
I looked at him for a full ten seconds. “Why would you want them to do that?”
He took a long pull on his wine and looked around the studio. “Those paintings won’t ever be found. Either that, or Odibajian or McAdams or whoever else ‘disappeared’ them will simply put them back quietly without bothering to inform the police. In the meantime, somebody’s going to take the fall.”
“Okay, I’m following you so far. I’m just not getting the whole ‘blame me’ angle.”
“They’ll never be able to catch me and even if they did, somehow, they don’t have a case. No fingerprints, no footage, no anything.”
“Since you’re actually innocent.”
“Precisely.”
“Okay...but how does this work to our advantage?”
“If I don’t take the fall, Frank’s going to get smeared. They can’t prove anything against him, either, but as the guy who designed the security system, even if he doesn’t get accused of out-and-out theft his name’s going to be associated with failure. Meanwhile, they’ll probably accuse you of the theft. The Fleming-Union’s bigger than just Balthazar Odibajian, you know. Even if he’s dead, someone else will pick up the mantle.” Michael got up and moved to the window, looking out.
“I figure it will go something like this: these two are lovers, Frank designs the alarm and tells Annie how to disarm the thing, she gets a job there with his recommendation, all the boys are out of town, no one else had access, she disarms the alarm and snatches the paintings, and by the way did we mention her grandfather is a renowned international art criminal and she herself was once brought up on forgery charges?”
“Yeah, that scenario had occurred to me, too. Not in such stark terms, but still.”
“It’s a tough world out there.”
“I guess I’m slow, but the part I’m still not getting, partner, is how your disappearing would help matters.”
“They put the blame on me: here’s an international art thief better than any security system, no one could possibly defend themselves from—”
“Yeah, yeah. You’ve got super-thief skills. Go on. What then?”
Pause. Another drink of wine.
“Then I do what I do best. I lead them on a merry chase for a while, ’til they get tired and drop it.”
“Where will you go?”
“Maybe Vienna. I hear they have a whole new therapy for claustrophobia. I think I need to get that handled.”
“And then?”
He gave a very French sort of shrug, sticking out his chin slightly and raising his eyebrows.
“No. Freaking. Way.”
“No?”
“That’s the worst idea I’ve ever heard! Are you listening to yourself? What are you talking about, going on the lam for something you didn’t do?”