Shooting Gallery (28 page)

“I disarmed the sensors,” he said, waving me into his study. “This is a
most
valuable collection. I don't allow
anyone
in here unescorted. I even dust the room myself!”

“Nathan, you are the
zaniest
!” I quipped, before the sheer beauty of the fifteenth- and sixteenth-century paintings lining the walls struck me dumb. The northern European masters were famous for their meticulous detail, use of dramatic light, and discerning portrayals of everyday life. I recognized two Marinus van Reymerswaele, another Massys, one Rembrandt van Rijn, two Jan Steen, and one each by Cornelius Bega and Adriaan van Ostade. There were three others in the same genre, but these were of lesser quality and I was not familiar with the artists.

I circled the room examining each. Both of the Jan Steen and the Rembrandt were forgeries, though I did not recognize the forger. The Rembrandt was not even particularly well done, I thought with a sniff, which surprised me because Rembrandt was not hard to forge. To my chagrin one of the Reymerswaeles and the van Ostade had been forged by my grandfather.

Not for the first time, I cursed the old man. I kept thinking Grandfather would become less prolific with age, but the opposite seemed to be true. But why did Nathan have so many of Georges' forgeries?

“This is quite a collection, Nathan,” I said. “I see you have an affinity for the northern Europeans.”

“Ah yes.” He beamed with delight. “Yes, I have built the collection over many years, taking great care to acquire only the best.”

Georges LeFleur is certainly the best
, I thought.

“Would you like to see the brightest jewel in my crown?” Nathan crossed the room to an easel, where a painting was covered with a black cloth. He grabbed one end of the cloth, paused for effect, and whipped it off.

It was incredible. A beautiful, intricately detailed Vermeer. A young woman peered over one shoulder, as if the artist had caught her by surprise, her animated eyes and tentative smile so perfectly rendered it appeared she might at any moment spring to life. I approached the painting with reverence, losing myself in the shimmering colors and dramatic shadows and tingling to beat the band. It was genuine.

But what was Haggerty doing with it? Vermeer was a painstakingly slow painter in part because, unlike his contemporaries, he worked without the assistance of apprentices. One of the reasons Rembrandt was easy to forge was because his apprentices did so much of the actual work that many signed Rembrandts should more rightly have been attributed to them. But because Vermeer insisted on working solo he created far fewer paintings, and as far as I knew they were all accounted for in museums and well-known private collections.

Unless some of those Vermeers were fakes, and wealthy collectors such as Nathan Haggerty had been buying the real ones on the black market.

“It is amazing, is it not?” Nathan asked.

“Amazing.”

“Would you say this one is fake or genuine?”

“Oh, genuine,” I said without thinking. I met his eyes. “Why do you ask?”

He smiled his rodent smile. “I think, my dear, that you know rather a great deal about art. And the one in the library
is
a fake, but I imagine you know that already.”

Did Haggerty know about my grandfather? Why hadn't Michael warned me? Okay, another item for the To Do list. First kill Grandfather, then kill Michael.

“And here is my newest acquisition,” Nathan said, leading me to a canvas laid out on a walnut side table. “I haven't had her framed yet, and she doesn't quite go with the rest of the collection, but I absolutely fell in love with her.”

“She” was a Picasso. And not just any Picasso,
the
Picasso—the one I had restored for Frank.

Nathan opened a mirrored liquor cabinet and poured two snifters of an amber wine from a crystal decanter. He handed me one, and I took a sip of a very fine Armagnac, my favorite brandy.

I forgot about my host for a moment while gazing in awe at the exquisite Vermeer.

“You are speechless,” Nathan said with evident satisfaction. “I myself become this way around great art.”

Great art might silence Nathan's organs of speech but it had no effect on his other organs. Rabbity Haggerty kept sneaking lascivious peeks at my cleavage.

“Thank you for showing me your collection. We should rejoin the party.”

“Why, Anna, what's the hurry?” he asked, coming up behind me and brushing his hips against my rear. “Why don't we relax and enjoy ourselves?”

My temper flared. Bad move, pal. I had ridden public transit. In Rome.

I slumped a little and leaned back, then lifted my foot and stomped down hard, my pointy high heel drilling into the vulnerable bones at the top of his foot. Nathan let out a screech, and as he bent forward in pain I shot up to my full height, ramming the top of my head into his chin's soft underbelly. His teeth made a satisfying clacking sound. I spun around and tossed my Armagnac on his snowy white shirt.

“Ooo, Nathan! I'm so sorry! I didn't see you standing there! Are you all right?”

My not-so-genial host was hopping about on one foot, reeking of brandy, his eyes brimming with tears.
He must have taken one hell of a bite out of his tongue
, I thought, suppressing a grin. The crown of my head smarted, but the pain was well worth it. “I'll just go call someone,” I said and hurried out of the room.

At the bottom of the stairs I paused to hitch up my halter top and take a deep breath. I was about to march into the library and demand Michael take me home when I had a better idea. Tiptoeing down the hall, I retrieved my jacket from the closet and slipped out the front door.

The valets were lounging against a maroon Jaguar, smoking and chatting. When they saw me they came to attention and tossed their cigarettes on the crushed granite driveway.

“The champagne Lexus, please,” I said in a throaty voice. “The babysitter called. Poor little Timmy has a tooth coming in and is crying for his mommy. You know how it is.”

A pimply faced valet, who looked to be all of seventeen, did not know how it was and did not really care. He ran off to get the car. I rummaged in my evening bag for a couple of crumpled bills, traded them for the car keys, and hopped into the driver's seat. The dashboard looked like a jet-liner's, but I managed to adjust the seat, shift the car into drive, and release the brake. As I reached the wrought-iron gates at the end of the driveway I glanced in the rearview mirror in time to see the front door fling open and Michael run out.

I floored it.

—Georges LeFleur, “Art for Arms Deals:
The Secret World of the International Arms Market,”
ABC News
Nightline

 

Revenge is sweet,
I chortled. I still didn't know what Michael's plan was, but I was sure it somehow involved me. True, abandoning Michael at the Haggertys nixed my chances of having sex tonight, but I was so pissed at him for using me I wouldn't have gone for it anyway.

Unless he did that neck rubbing thing again.

My problem now was finding the freeway. The area was densely wooded, with the twisty roads and lack of street signs common to snooty neighborhoods, and my initial surge of confidence waned. I
was
supposed to turn right out of the Haggertys' driveway, wasn't I? If not, I was headed further into the hills.

I pulled over at a wide spot on the road, fumbled around until I found the car's interior light, and rummaged through the glove box and door pockets for a map. Nothing. No map, not a scrap of paper, not even a tire pressure gauge or a stick of gum. Michael had probably rented the Lexus, the big fake.

Frustrated, I sat up and glared at the instrument panel. Aha! A little box glowed with the letters LOLA, a global positioning system that my friend, Miranda, swore by. Miranda was a realtor who could sell an igloo to the pope, but got lost in an empty room. Now all I had to do was figure out how LOLA worked. I pressed the button marked
power
and tried to read the small print on the screen.

I was hunched over, singing, “Whatever Lola wants, Lola gets,” and poking buttons with abandon, when flashing blue lights filled the car's interior. I squinted out the rear window and saw a police car pull up behind me. For once I was glad to see a cop. The nice officer would know how to get to the freeway. Best of all, I was well dressed and nowhere near a crime scene.

The cop tapped on the window with his flashlight. I searched for the button to lower the window but succeeded only in locking and unlocking the doors. I hated power controls. Finally I just opened the door.

He jumped back, his hand going to his gun.

I held my hands up, an ingratiating smile on my face. “Good evening, Officer. I'm afraid I'm a little lost. Could you tell me how to get to the freeway?”

“Step out of the car, please, ma'am.”

Officer Strong Jaw seemed less than friendly. Didn't he realize I was driving a Lexus?

“Is there a problem, Officer?” I asked as I climbed out.

“Not anymore,” growled a deep voice I knew only too well. I'd heard it in my dreams, after all.

“How did you—?”

“LOLA ratted you out,” Michael snapped. “GPS works two ways, sweetheart.”

Michael thanked Officer Strong Jaw for his help and said he would make sure the doctor adjusted my meds. The cop nodded, got into his cruiser, and roared off.

So much for hearing my side of the story,
I thought. Then again, I did kind of steal the car.

Michael stalked past me and climbed into the driver's seat. “Get in. Now. Or I'll leave you here,” he said, his voice tight.

I hustled around to the passenger's side and jumped in. He peeled out, made a U-turn, and raced down the road without saying a word. I had a feeling I was witnessing Michael's anger for the first time, and it was not a pretty sight. I was silent as well, figuring it behooved me to be discreet for once. It was also the one surefire way to drive Michael nuts.

He held out until we reached the freeway. “What in the
hell
did you think you were doing back there?” he snarled.

“Let's see,” I snarled back. “I believe it's called the
very same thing
you did to
me
. Twice, if I'm not mistaken.”

“That was different.”

“Really? How so? Oh, yes, that's right—it was different because it was
you
doing the leaving and
me
getting stranded. High and dry. All alone. No money, no friends, no—”

“All right, Annie. All right. You've made your point.” He sounded a little abashed. Not much, but probably as much as an international art thief and general no-goodnik was capable of being. “Your little disappearing act put Haggerty on edge. He thinks you're working for someone.”

“That's ridiculous. Who would I be working for?”

“Could be a lot of people. The FBI, maybe.”

“The FBI?” I had been accused of many things in my life, but never of being on the right side of the law. “Why would he think that?”

“He's a bit paranoid, though not without reason. He's been under scrutiny for a while.” Michael shook his head. “I can't
believe
you took off like that.”

We rode along in silence.

“So what did you see?” Michael asked, having recovered from his snit fit.

“See where?” I, on the other hand, had not.

Michael let out a breath, making a whistling sound. I saw a muscle in his jaw clench and smiled to myself.

“In his private collection, Annie. I couldn't believe how quickly Haggerty took you there. He took a real shine to you.” Michael glanced at me. “Must have been the dress.”

“Oh, of course. What else? Couldn't have been my obvious intelligence, my witty conversation, or my magnetic personality. No, sir. Must've been my—”

“Well?” he interrupted.

“Well what?”

More whistling.

“His collection. What does he have? Are the paintings genuine?”

I looked out the window.

“The guy's scum, Annie,” Michael said. “Your grandfather did some work for him until he realized what Haggerty was up to.”

“And what might that be?”

“He's been insuring the originals and replacing them with fakes. He then claims the paintings were stolen, collects the insurance money, and sells the originals on the black market. Turns quite a profit that way.”

“Nothing new about that,” I said, wondering why my grandfather had been so outraged at a spot of insurance fraud. Half of Georges' business came from people who wanted to sell the family heirlooms and replace them with fakes.

“Except Haggerty doesn't stop there. He uses the paperwork on the originals to convince buyers the forgeries are genuine, then uses the originals as collateral to finance arms deals. He does business with some very nasty characters.”

I recalled Frank's telling me about similar art-for-arms deals. No wonder Georges had been upset. “And you're helping him?”

“Of course not,” he said, surprised. “I want a couple of his pieces, that's all. But I need to know which ones are real. No point in stealing worthless fakes. No offense to your grandfather.”

“None taken.”

“So that's where you come in.”

“No, actually, that's where I step out.”