Shooting Gallery (40 page)

“Stop asking questions!” Jose yelled and slapped me. My mother flew to my defense, whacking Jose under his chin with her fist. He staggered backwards, banged his head on the sculpture of the homicidal
Postman
, and lost hold of his gun.

It skittered towards us, I lunged for it, and all hell broke loose. Kevin the Nazi pulled out a gun and as I swung toward him, he fired at Jose. Someone else shot Kevin, who went down, but not before wounding several others. Nathan aimed his pistol at my mother and me, and just as suddenly collapsed.

Agnes was behind him, a stun gun in one hand. She looked pleased, and we shared a fleeting grin.

“Get down!” someone shouted.

I shoved Mom behind a sculpture of a flayed corpse, draping myself over her, while Agnes ducked behind the bronze rendering of a maniacal nursery school teacher. Gunfire erupted and bullets zinged around the room, ricocheting off McGraw's metal sculptures and pulverizing a marble bust of Caesar. A bile yellow abstract painting entitled
Lips
took a bullet right in the kisser, and what sounded like automatic-weapons fire laid waste to a ceramic toilet seat decorated with American flags.

Gloria started screaming and bolted for the front door, flinging it open as a stream of cops in helmets and bullet-proof vests rushed in, each leaping over Michael's unconscious body. More cops swarmed into the sculpture garden and poured in through the French doors.

“Put your weapons down! Hands over your heads! Over your heads!
Nobody move a fucking inch!
”

There was a moment of silence as we remained hidden behind our sculptures. Then Jose threw out his weapon and emerged, his hands in the air. Barrel Chest followed his example, along with the scarred-face man and several others. At least three men had been shot in the exchange, including Kevin.

The police started cuffing and frisking people in the gallery while out in the garden two officers watched as a paramedic checked out Pascal and loaded him, handcuffed, onto a stretcher. The still-unconscious Nathan was carried from the gallery.

Kevin sat slumped on the floor, his back against a wall. Holding one hand over the wound on his thigh, he reached slowly into his breast pocket and pulled out an FBI badge. Either the FBI was recruiting neo-Nazis or I had been doing my level best to interfere with a federal investigation.

“Annie?” a voice called out. “Are you okay?”

“Frank?” I croaked. I pried myself off of my mother and crawled out from behind the flayed corpse. “What are you doing here?”

“Funny, I was going to ask you the same thing,” he said, his dark eyes worried. He scooped me into his arms and held me tight for several seconds. Then he shook me. “Are you all right? Answer me.”

“I'd be fine if you'd stop shaking me. I'm a little bruised, that's all.”

“You look like hell,” he said, holding me by the shoulders. “Mrs. Kincaid, is that you? Are you hurt, Beverly?”

He released me and helped her to her feet.

“I'm fine, just a little”—she took a deep breath—“just a little shaky.”

From somewhere outside I heard Agnes Brock barking orders to the police and wondered how they were taking it.
The smart money's on her,
I thought, regretting the many, many nasty things I'd said about Agnes over the years. Her quick thinking when Nathan was about to shoot my mother and me meant I owed her, big time. Maybe I could square things a bit by returning the Chagall.

Frank escorted us out to the street, where I saw Michael perched on the bumper of an ambulance, talking to a middle-aged man in a brown rumpled suit, the kind favored by police inspectors. Michael held my gaze for a moment before turning his attention back to the cop.

If anyone could talk his way out of a complicated situation, it was Michael. I hoped.

“Frank, wait—that man was trying to protect us,” I said, pointing at Michael. “He didn't have anything to do with Jose or Nathan.”

“I'm sure the police will sort it all out.”

“But—”

“I have no authority here, Annie,” Frank said. “I was helping the FBI set up a sting operation, that's all.”

An inspector drew my mother away for questioning, and I sat down on a low wall to wait my turn at interrogation. I looked again for Michael, but didn't see him anywhere.

Frank sank down next to me and we observed the scene. Uniformed officers were cordoning off the area, interviewing participants, holding back a growing crowd of onlookers, and taking measurements. Poor Anthony Brazil would go ballistic when he returned, stuffed with turkey and dressing and pumpkin pie, to find his gallery shot up. I doubted I'd be invited to another of his art shows anytime soon.

“Frank,” I said, “was the Picasso part of the FBI sting?”

He nodded. “You can imagine how pleased I was that Georges LeFleur's granddaughter had neither absconded with it nor forged it.”

“You know about Georges?” I asked, my voice scaling upward.

“Annie, I'm a security guy, remember?”

“How long have you known?”

“Long enough.”

“Yeah, well, Mr. Security Guy, just so you know: I found the sensor on the Picasso right away.”

“You found a decoy. I've been working with a Swiss company to develop an undetectable microchip that's virtually impossible to remove. That's why the FBI contacted me in the first place. Someday, Annie, technology is going to put your grandfather out of business.”

Wanna bet?
I thought. “Still, it seems like an awfully big risk to take with such a valuable piece of art.”

“You're right. Except the Picasso's a fake.”

“You didn't know? I was sure you did.”

Well, wasn't
that
embarrassing? So much for my reputation for spotting forgeries. “I guess I'm not very good with abstracts. Maybe if it had been from Picasso's Blue Period . . .”

“Maybe so.”

I thought he might be humoring me, but was too exhausted to call him on it. “Frank, did you really think I would steal the Picasso?”

“No, not really. I thought I had a pretty good read on your character, and I've noticed that although you may be prone to an occasional lapse in ethics, you're fiercely loyal to your friends, and I flattered myself that I was in that category. But your mother had been spotted with Jose, so suspicion arose. We—I—had to be sure.”

As if on cue, Beverly Kincaid walked up. “How are you feeling, honey?” she said, checking me over. “Were you hurt? Are you all right?”

“I'm fine. Not a scratch on me. Mom, how did you know Jose?”

“Who, dear?”

I thought I heard Frank stifle a chuckle. “Mom, don't even start.”

She sighed, and sat on the wall next to me. “When Seamus . . . passed away, I was surprised at how hard it hit me. I was reading some old letters and was reminded of the notebooks he used to keep. It occurred to me that one thing I could do to memorialize my old friend was to have his notebooks published. He had shown me portions of them over the years, and they offer amazing insight into the artistic process. But then, Seamus was an amazing, insightful man.”

She paused, and Frank and I waited for her to continue. “The thing is, the notebooks were also his personal diary, and contained passages that I didn't want anyone else to read. I'm not proud of everything I've done, but I've always loved my husband and I value our marriage, and if the notebooks were published unedited, your father might get the wrong idea. So I decided to retrieve them.”

“Were these the notebooks at Pascal's studio?” I asked, recalling the stack of composition notebooks I had dislodged on one of my visits to Pascal's studio.

She nodded. “When I heard Seamus had died, I drove to his studio in the City as fast as I could, but Pascal had already been there. You see, Seamus told me once that he suspected Forrester had sculpted
Head and Torso
, though he couldn't prove it. I imagine the notebooks discuss those suspicions in some detail. So I went to Pascal's studio to confront him, but he wasn't in. That's where I met Jose. He agreed to help me recover the notebooks if I kept you away from Pascal.”

“Why didn't you just tell me?”

“Because you would have tried to get the notebooks yourself. Don't you think I know my own daughter?”

“So that's why you nearly got killed? For a bunch of old
love
notes?”

“Not love notes exactly, but references to an emotional attachment that would have been very hurtful to your father. Obviously I didn't realize Jose was involved in drug smuggling, nor that Pascal was a murderer,” she said, her expression prim. “I also wanted to publish an edited version of the notebooks, Annie. I may not be an artist in the same league as my father and my daughter, but I do understand the inherent beauty of the artistic process. I hoped to make it possible for others to understand it, too.”

I felt tears in my eyes and hugged my mother, hard.
Art's a funny thing,
I thought. It can inspire great joy, but also great pain.

Mom, Frank, and I sat on the little stone wall, watching the commotion and lost in our thoughts.

I noticed Kevin being loaded into an ambulance. “Is he going to be all right?”

“It was a flesh wound,” Frank answered. “He should be fine.”

“I think I owe him an apology.”

“He was surprised to see you at Nathan Haggerty's the other evening. He says you have quite a way with words.”

“Um . . .”

“Kevin's a very progressive guy in real life,” Frank said with a smile. “He's also an old friend of mine.”

But of course
, I thought. My best friends were thieves and forgers; Frank's best friends were FBI agents. Could this relationship be saved?

“How did you spot my mother with Jose?” I asked. “Were you following him?”

“Not me, personally. The FBI's had a surveillance team on Nathan Haggerty and his associates for over a year. He's been orchestrating a drug and arms smuggling operation, using stolen paintings as collateral. It looks like Jose and his men were bringing in the product with the help of the stone importer. Apparently Pascal skimmed off part of a cocaine shipment. From what I've gathered, he panicked and hid several kilos in McGraw's sculptures before they were picked up for the art show. But what I don't understand is why you two came to the gallery today.”

He looked at me, and I looked at my mother.

She pulled a thick bundle of letters from her handbag and smiled sadly at them.

“Love letters?” asked Frank in a sympathetic voice.

“Of a sort,” replied my mother. “A deep friendship, really, not what most people would have considered an affair. But they might have been misconstrued had they been found. Jose told me they were in the leather mailbag of Seamus'
Postman
sculpture.”

“The letters are probably evidence, Beverly,” Frank said. “I suggest you keep them under wraps.”

“Speaking of letters,” Agnes Brock said as she joined us. “I received a very interesting call yesterday from a man at the St. Louis Post Office. He claims he found my Chagall.”

“Really?” I said. “How did he know to call you?”

Her lips pressed into a thin line. “There was a note on the back of the painting, saying,
If found, please return to the Brock Museum, San Francisco, for a reward.
It included my private telephone number.”

“That's wonderful, Mrs. Brock. Are we square, then? Bryan's off the hook?”

“Dr. Sebastian Pitts must authenticate it, of course,” she said, sizing me up. “But it seems as though you and I are, as you say, square. My dear.”

My mouth fell open as Agnes Brock swept majestically towards the Brock. “Did she just say what I think she just said?”

“Looks like the start of a beautiful friendship, Annie,” Frank said.

Mom whispered, “That
If found
note is a trademark, if you know what I mean.”

I did. Georges LeFleur had struck again. The real Chagall was no doubt squirreled away in Carlos Jimenez's hometown until the fuss died down and it could be hung in Cerrito Lindo's new museum. I silently wished Carlos well. “Listen, Mom, I have to stick around to answer a lot of questions, especially since what happened here ties into last night's fiasco. Why don't you go to my apartment and get some rest?”

“Thank you, dear, but I think not. I'm going to wait for you right here and then I'm taking you home to Asco for a delayed Thanksgiving dinner. And, Frank, I insist that you join us. I have a house full of food, and I believe none of us has done justice to a turkey yet.”

“Mom, I don't think Frank wants to—”

“Me? I'm starved,” Frank said. “You look like you could use a little sustenance yourself, Annie. Beverly, you have a deal.”

My mother went to stash her purloined letters in the car.

“You don't know what you're getting yourself into, Frank,” I muttered. “You really don't. This isn't some walk in the park with gun-toting drug dealers and homicidal sculptors, you know. There are an ex-fiancé and Julio Iglesias albums involved.”

“Annie, I'm a security guy,” Frank said, his dark eyes dancing. “I don't scare easy.”

I snorted. “You told me once that
I
scared you.”

“You? You're scary as hell. But somehow I'm feeling up to the challenge.”

Gold gilding requires patience, concentration, and practice. Once mastered, however, it is a simple and wonderfully dramatic way to enhance trim, decorative objects, frames, furniture . . . just about anything.