Feint of Art: Read online

  I swung around in my chair and stared out the dormer window. Then again . . . If I could get Anton to tell me who had commissioned the forgery of The Magi, I could be of real assistance to the police. This would be harder to do if I were, say, in police custody.

  I also wanted to ask Anton about Anthony Brazil’s and Albert Mason’s missing drawings. If Anton had some of them, I might be able to collect at least part of the reward and I wouldn’t have to deal with the scary No Neck guy again.

  So that’s what I’d do today. I would attempt to track down my grandfather’s old buddy Anton, who was larcenous but not scary, and I would do it first thing, before something came up to delay me. And when I got back I would call the cops. Really.

  I had heard my downstairs neighbor’s door slam half an hour ago, so I knew hot water was available. I showered with confidence, toweled off briskly, calmed my disheveled chestnut hair with plenty of hair goop, and pulled on a pair of worn jeans, a black tank top, and an oversized blue cotton shirt from the Gap that an old boyfriend had left behind. It had been one of the best things about that relationship.

  One of the perks of being an artist was that people expected me to dress like one, which meant that just about anything was acceptable. A light swipe of lipstick and mascara was about as far as I usually went with the whole makeup thing. Black socks, black leather clogs, a pair of my designer friend Samantha’s asymmetrical, arty earrings, and I was good to go.

  On the way out the door, I grabbed my black leather jacket for good measure. Although it was February, and therefore normally sunny in the City, one never knew for sure. San Francisco’s climate, like most everything about the place, was unique. The City was at its foggy coldest in the summer, and the local joke was that one could always spot the summer tourists because they were the only ones dressed in shorts and T-shirts. The ubiquitous sidewalk vendors made a killing selling sweatshirts emblazoned I LEFT MY ♥ IN SF AND GOT GOOSE BUMPS INSTEAD and THE COLDEST WINTER I EVER SPENT WAS THE SUMMER I SPENT IN SAN FRANCISCO—MARK TWAIN.

  Pulling out of my apartment’s parking lot, I glanced at the cheap digital clock I’d superglued to the dashboard and realized I still had time to pick up someone from the casual car pool, which ended at ten. When the 1989 Loma Prieta earthquake temporarily shut down the Bay Area’s subway system and disrupted other commute options, perfect strangers were brought together by a mutual need to get into San Francisco, and the casual car pool was born. Those seeking transportation across the Bay Bridge waited on designated street corners, where they were picked up by drivers seeking passengers in order to qualify as a car pool. During rush hours, car pools zipped through the toll plaza, avoiding both the miles-long traffic snarl and the three-dollar toll.

  Today I picked up a middle-aged Guatemalan woman and we enjoyed a speedy trip across the bridge. I had no idea who she was or where she was going, but that didn’t matter. Casual carpooling etiquette did not encourage the exchange of personal information. Goodwill and mutual benefit were all that were necessary. I dropped her off at Harrison and Ninth and continued on my way.

  Armed with the address Albert Mason had given me yesterday, I located Anton’s place easily enough, but parking proved harder to find. There were two approaches to parking in San Francisco: the superstitious and the scientific. A lucky few had serious parking karma, but I was stuck with the scientific, grid approach. I circled the block twice, then broadened the search perimeter to a two-block radius. After circling for another fifteen minutes, I finally squeezed into a space at a green-curbed, twenty-minute loading zone, tossed my CONSTRUCTION CREW PERMIT on the dash, and locked up. This was not strictly kosher, since I was supposed to use the coveted permit only when actually on a job site, but I was running out of time. I promised the universe I would not do it again, at least not anytime soon, and hiked up the block to Anton’s studio.

  It had been a very long time since I’d been here. The last time Anton and I had spoken, years ago, he told me I was wasting my talents by refusing to produce quality forgeries. He also insisted that I wasn’t sufficiently devoted to my grandfather, which I thought was rather cheeky of him given their long-standing rift.

  I let myself through the exterior gate in the tall redwood privacy fence. Inside was a courtyard formed by the fence at the front, the main house on the right, the neighbor’s house on the left, and a sagging carriage-house-turned-garage at the rear. Anton’s studio was above the garage. I crossed the weedy, neglected lawn and skirted a scummed-over birdbath. A broken flagstone terrace boasted a motley assortment of leggy potted plants, several of which looked suspiciously like marijuana. I climbed the steep, narrow exterior staircase on the right side of the garage and knocked on the workshop door, which Anton had long ago painted a bright red.

  There was no response.

  I knocked again and called out, “Anton! It’s Annie. Georges’ Annie.”

  Still no response.

  I pressed my ear against the door.

  Nothing.

  Frustrated, I tried the doorknob, just in case, though I assumed a criminal would be more careful than to provide job opportunities for others of his ilk. To my surprise, the knob turned, and I pushed the door open.

  “Anton?” I was whispering now, a response to the decidedly creepy feeling caused by trespassing in someone else’s home. I might have executed a few forgeries in the past, but I was no burglar, and I usually respected other people’s privacy.

  I prowled around as best I could, hindered by the junk that was piled everywhere. The studio was one big, airy room that held a double bed, a hot plate and mini-fridge, a sink and a curtained-off toilet, in addition to the heaps of paintings, drawings, canvases, easels, art supplies, and frames. I did notice one unexpected item—a computer. I guess even old guard art forgers were giving in to technology.

  I spied some brushes standing in a jar of dirty turpentine, picked them up, and studied their ruined bristles. Pigment had settled to the bottom of the glass jar and formed a sludge, which meant the solvent was at least a few days old. These were good—read: expensive—brushes, made of sable and badger hair. No working artist would spoil fine brushes like these unless he was in a very big hurry.

  What now? Look for an appointment book? Surely Anton was too experienced a felon to write down anything incriminating. Or not. I stumbled over to a large desk and riffled halfheartedly through a few piles. Honestly, Anton was even worse than I was when it came to organization. Looking through a couple of drawers jammed with odds and ends, the assorted detritus of a messy life, I noticed a dog-eared brochure for an upcoming “Fabulous Fakes” art show in Chicago. Idly I wondered if there was a purse offered for the best in show and whether I had a shot. It might be an easier way to make the rent than my current line of work.

  Nothing provided any insight into Anton’s whereabouts, so I sat in the desk chair and waited for inspiration.

  Aha! A portfolio perched on a worktable across the room looked suspiciously similar to the one Anthony Brazil had carried yesterday. I’d noticed it at the time because it was not the standard-issue black portfolio sold in most art stores. This one was marbleized, like the endplates found in expensive leather-bound books, and had a European-style gold crest in one corner and a gilt border along the top edge. I went over to the table and opened it.

  As a former Old Master drawings forger myself, I immediately recognized what I’d found. Inside were numerous drawings, in the same league as the ones Brazil had shown me. Criminal mastermind that Anton was, he had left these forgeries lying right out in the open. The possibilities of what this meant were flooding my mind when a voice split the silence.

  Chapter 5

  Richard Parkes Bonington died at the age of twenty-six, yet since 1850, more than three thousand paintings have been attributed to him. Either Bonington produced a painting a day for ten straight years—or there is rampant fraud afoot.

  —Georges LeFleur, “Fakes and Forgers,” unfinished manuscript, Reflections of a Worl
d-Class Art Forger

  “I take it you’re an art lover?”

  I jumped about three feet, dropped the drawings, and knocked over a half-empty cup of tea, splashing its contents on the cluttered worktable.

  A figure was silhouetted in the doorway, leaning against a shelf crammed with art supplies. I could barely make out his face, but it was clear that this was not Anton. On the positive side, he appeared to have a neck and he was not holding a weapon trained on me.

  “I was just . . . uh . . . looking for Anton,” I stammered, surreptitiously shoving the incriminating drawings under a pile of painting rags before grabbing the rag on top and mopping up the tea.

  “And you thought he might be under those drawings?” the stranger asked, not budging from his post at the studio’s only exit.

  “Certainly not,” I snapped, adrenaline coursing through my body in response to the fight-or-flight instinct. Not presently being criminally inclined and never, under any circumstance, cool under fire, my preference was to flee. However, since the stranger did not appear to be ready to move, and shimmying down the rickety lattice outside the second-story window seemed ill advised, I tried my best to adopt a menacing stance. At five feet three inches, it was a stretch. “Who the hell are you?” I demanded.

  “Michael Johnson, at your service,” the stranger said, bowing his head and stepping into the studio. He was wearing a dark brown leather bomber jacket, pressed khaki pants, and a snowy white shirt, open at the collar. A slightly lopsided smile showed straight white teeth and made endearing little wrinkles around sea green eyes. Not that I noticed.

  “Unghh,” I said suavely. “What are you doing here?”

  “I was about to ask you the same thing.”

  “Well, I, uh . . . I have good reason to be here. Anton’s practically my uncle.”

  Michael Johnson studied me for a long moment, the smile not leaving his face. Even though he didn’t give off a police vibe, that was the thing about the cops. Sometimes they were devious. Sometimes they were smart. Sometimes they were undercover. I felt my heart speed up, swallowed hard, and tried to remember what the innocent folk do.

  “I’m not a cop,” Johnson said, apparently reading my mind. “Calm down, sweetheart.”

  “I’m not your sweetheart,” I snarled. In my experience, men who called women they didn’t know “sweetheart” could not be trusted.

  “Then what should I call you?” Johnson encouraged me patiently, as if I were somewhat slow.

  “Annie,” I said and stuck out my hand, unsure of the social conventions that applied during an unlawful breaking and entering. He enfolded it in his much larger one. Maybe my imagination was running amok, but I could have sworn his thumb was gently caressing the back of my hand.

  “Annie. What a lovely name. So, you’re Anton’s niece, Annie?”

  “Mm,” I murmured, a bit flustered by the hand-caressing thing.

  “Would you happen to know where he is?”

  “If I did I wouldn’t tell you.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know who you are.”

  “I told you. I’m Michael Johnson.”

  “So what are you doing here?”

  “You mean in a metaphysical sense?”

  “What?” I was starting to get confused, which pissed me off. Why couldn’t the man answer a simple question?

  “I’m a private investigator. I’m working on a case.” He pulled a business card from his jacket pocket and handed it to me. Good card stock, I noticed.

  MICHAEL X. JOHNSON

  DISCREET INVESTIGATIONS

  LICENSED, BONDED, AND INSURED

  “What’s the X stand for?” I asked.

  “Xerxes.”

  Well, of course. So I asked the obvious question. “How come that’s not spelled with a Z?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, a genuinely amused smile replacing the condescending one. “That’s just the way it’s spelled.”

  “Fine, then,” I said brusquely, as if I’d made my point. I slipped his card into my jeans pocket. “What kind of case?”

  He hesitated. “Does the name Harlan Coombs mean anything to you?’

  At last my brain engaged, and it dawned on me that we were having an odd discussion in an odd location. Plus, if he was after the drawings, too, we were working at cross-purposes. “What does his name mean to you?” I shot back.

  “Did you know he was involved with Ernst Pettigrew?”

  “What? How?”

  “So you do know Harlan, then?”

  Oops. Looked like the X-man was better at this game than I was. No surprise there; my strengths were visual, not verbal. I pursed my lips to keep from saying anything incriminating.

  The smarmy smile returned, and he rocked back on his heels before speaking. “I think we may be looking for the same man. Why don’t we—”

  He stopped suddenly, glanced toward the door, and put his fingers to his lips in the international shushing sign. In the silence I heard footsteps clacking on the stairs outside. Johnson nodded toward a large unfinished canvas leaning against the wall in a dark corner, which we crawled behind and hunkered down.

  “Annn-tooon,” a woman’s voice cooed. “Anton? Are you here, darling?”

  Johnson and I looked at each other in our shadowy hidey-hole, then peeked cautiously around one side of the painting. The new arrival’s willowy frame was wrapped in a gauzy flowered dress more appropriate to summer picnics than to February in San Francisco. Her ash blond hair was pulled back tightly from a lovely, delicate face and coiled upon her head in a sleek modern style. I held my breath as she crossed straight to the portfolio and tucked it confidently under one arm, then paused to write a note that she left on top of the clutter on the desk. Her heels clattered as she went down the stairs.

  Johnson looked at me and raised his eyebrows. “Well, well. The old dog Anton still has a few tricks up his sleeve, eh?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I snapped. I hated mixed metaphors.

  “Well, you have to admit, she’s pretty attractive. And Anton’s what, mid-sixties?”

  I rolled my eyes. I was lurking behind a painting with a pig. A good-looking pig, but still a pig. On top of that, my knees were starting to ache. I did not squat well.

  “Let me up.”

  “First tell me what you were looking for,” he said.

  “I will not,” I said. “You’re the one who’s trespassing.”

  “And you’re not?” Johnson scoffed.

  “I told you. Anton’s a courtesy uncle.” I was lying through my teeth. Anton was more a marked-lack-of-courtesy uncle.

  “Is that why you’re hiding here with me, rather than greeting Anton’s guests in his absence?”

  The good-looking pig was displaying quite a flair for the snide comment, and a part of me rather admired him for it. I tried to keep focused, but those eyes were even greener up close, and in such tight quarters I noticed how nice he smelled. I caught myself sniffing. How embarrassing. My nonexistent love life was obscuring my logic.

  “If you will kindly move aside, I’ll do just that,” I said, adding, “Xerxes” for good measure.

  He leaned against the wall, but otherwise did not budge. “Tell me what you know about Harlan Coombs.”

  “First let me up.”

  “First tell me what you know.”

  “Are you saying you won’t let me up?”

  Before he could answer, a cell phone trilled and Johnson and I patted ourselves down. It was mine, and the number on the caller ID was extremely long, indicating an international call. Grandfather. Despite the circumstances, I had to answer.

  “Allô oui?” I spoke in French, hoping to throw ol’ Xerxes off the track.

  “Annie my darling! How wonderful to hear from you!” My grandfather’s voice echoed and the line was full of static, but his charmingly accented English was unmistakable. Georges François LeFleur had been born and raised in Brooklyn but insisted he was to the Eiffel Tow
er born.

  “Georges—I need to speak with you, but this isn’t a good time,” I said, continuing in French.

  “Annie? What is wrong? Why do you speak such horrible French?” Grandfather exclaimed.

  So it had been a few years. I was struggling to dredge up the French equivalent for “Work with me, please, will you?” when Johnson interjected.

  “Ça m’est égal,” he said with a shrug, in perfect Parisian-accented French.

  In my experience American men who spoke French were of a certain type. This man was not that type. It didn’t seem fair, somehow. I glared at Monsieur Big Ears, who smiled sweetly. I had no idea who Michael X. Johnson really was or what he really wanted, but I was pretty sure he was not who he said he was and that what he wanted was probably not on the up-and-up. In short, I didn’t trust him. I didn’t trust my grandfather to call me back, either, but I was going to have to take that chance.

  “Quel dommage! I don’t know when I’ll have ze chance to call again, ma cherie, you know how it is,” Grandfather said blithely.

  I knew how he was. I glanced at Johnson, who was examining his fingernails and humming Edith Piaf’s “Je Ne Regrette Rien” slightly off-key. With le chat out of the bag, I switched back to English and tucked my head into my jacket, trying for a semblance of privacy. “Grandfather, please, just tell me if you know where Anton is.”

  “Anton? Anton Woznikowicz?” Grandfather shouted in reply. “Why do you want to speak with him?”

  “Because I do, Grandfather,” I replied, grinding my teeth. “He’s not at his studio. Where else would he be?”

  “Darling! Don’t tell me you are resuming your true calling? Mais ça, c’est super! Forget Anton! Viens! Come to Paris! Your old grandpapa will tutor you as before! Come today!”

  “I don’t want to go to Paris, I want to talk to Anton about something he’s involved with. Something bad. I’m worried about him.”

  “Ask him about Coombs,” Johnson broke in.