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the other; Diane appeared wearing a white tennis outfit
with a short flouncy skirt; and a thin man in his seventies
limped toward the door with the help of a cane. Last to ar-
rive was Kevin the Nazi, who swept past me with a glare.
I noticed Nathan looked at his employee askance.
What about the household staff? I asked.
Servants day off, he replied. Let s go.
I herded them down the driveway, wondering how much
time Michael needed to get out of the house. Nathan
whipped out his cell phone and I froze, afraid he was call-
ing the cops, but relaxed when I heard him trying to ex-
plain the situation to his insurance agent. He gave the agent
his cell number, and I made a mental note of it so I could
call him after I left. It seemed mean to leave them standing
in the chill November air on the day before Thanksgiving,
worried there was a bomb in their house and awaiting the
mythical bomb squad.
As soon as they were all chatting by the side of the road,
I figured it was time to make my escape. I held up one hand
like a school crossing guard, and they fell silent.
On behalf of the SFPD undercover squad, I d like to
thank you for your cooperation in these trying circum-
stances. So. Here s what we re going to do. I m going back
in. No don t try to stop me.
No one did.
No matter what happens, even if I get called away, it is
imperative that you remain here, away from the house,
until you re given the official all clear. Got that?
SHOOTING GALLERY 281
Five heads bobbed up and down in mute assent, though
Kevin frowned. The cat hissed.
I continued in my take-charge voice. Let s hope it s a
false alarm, but one never knows with these crazy leftists.
Thank you and Godspeed.
As I hurried back up the drive I heard Diane say, I
thought she was rather a leftist herself, didn t you, dar-
ling?
It was all a faade, my dear. I saw right through it,
Nathan replied. She s a crack undercover agent. Damn
good, too.
Nice car for an undercover agent, Kevin muttered.
I crunched up the driveway, jumped in the Jaguar, and
gunned it. Granite chips spurted as I zoomed past the as-
tonished Haggertys and their entourage. Deciding to call
Nathan from the nearest pay phone, I scribbled his cell
number on a scratch pad my uptight landlord used to keep
track of his gas mileage. I approached a stop sign and de-
bated which way to go.
Take a right, came a voice from the backseat.
I swerved and sent the Jaguar careening across the road,
regaining control only after a close shave with a gold
BMW.
Michael! Dammit! You re going to get us killed, you
backseat-driving thief! How did you get in here? I yelled,
my heart racing.
Why, the door, of course. It s the easiest way. Nice
shiner. How are you feeling?
It s not enough that I perjure myself in front of the
Haggertys, now I m to be scared to death in my own car?
It s not your car, he retorted, caressing the buttery
leather upholstery. It is very nice, though. Whose is it?
You didn t tell anyone our little secret, did you, Annie?
Of course I did. I called my investigative reporter
282 Hailey Lind
buddy at the Chronicle and told him I was on my way to
rescue an art thief who d gotten stuck in some wealthy
sucker s panic room after exchanging his valuable paint-
ings for my grandfather s worthless fakes. You mean I
wasn t supposed to?
Annie, he tsk-tsk d. Why are you so dismissive of
your grandfather s work? The forgeries are quite wonder-
ful. As Georges so often says, if a fake is as beautiful as the
original, why is it less valuable?
Because it is.
But why? Are you really so devoid of feeling
Cut the philosophical crappola, Michael, I snorted as
the Jaguar hummed around the twists and turns. As furious
as I was, I had half a mind to follow Skyline Boulevard
along the crest of the Santa Cruz mountain range. When
would I get another chance to drive such an amazing car?
Tell me something, you big art-stealing fake: if the
forgery s as good as the original, then why do you bother
to steal the real ones? Why not just enjoy the fakes and be
done with it? Answer me that.
He shrugged. Everybody s got to make a living.
Give me a break. And your cell phone, I said, holding
my hand out.
Why?
I want to call Nathan.
Why?
To give him the all clear.
Why? Or are you enjoying being Secret Agent Annie
Kincaid, part of a crack SFPD undercover squad investi-
gating radical antiapartheid groups in the Bay Area?
You heard that, huh? I squirmed.
I heard it all, sweetheart. The entire astonishing perfor-
mance, from soup to nuts.
It was nuts, all right, I muttered. I glanced in the
SHOOTING GALLERY 283
rearview mirror to see if he was laughing at me. His hand-
some features were arranged in such an innocent expres-
sion I was immediately suspicious.
I don t know what I admire most: that you could come
up with such a preposterous story, or that you could make
it sound so plausible. You are a gifted liar, Annie.
Great. Being admired by a sexy art thief for my ability
to tell a first-class whopper wasn t exactly one of my life s
goals.
It s in the blood, I said, gritting my teeth. Now, give
me your phone. I can t leave them there, standing in the
cold the day before Thanksgiving.
I don t see why not.
Because it would be mean, I snapped. Give me your
damned phone.
No.
I don t believe this! I interrupt my spa day, come all
the way out here, lie through my teeth so you can make a
clean getaway, and you won t lend me your stupid phone!
I was shouting now. Why not?
Because Nathan will capture my cell phone number on
his caller ID, and then we ll both have some explaining to
do. Nathan knows some important people, Annie. I d just
as soon we didn t all get acquainted.
Oh. I deflated a little. So. Shame about Nathan s
paintings, huh? I asked as we zipped along.
In what sense?
Well, you set up this elaborate scheme and got me to
go to that stupid cocktail party, and paid me lots of money,
and forced me to tell you which paintings were worth
stealing, and then got trapped in the panic room and, well,
here you are.
Yes, here I am.
I gritted my teeth. Best-laid plans, I mean.
284 Hailey Lind
I don t know about that I think all in all it was a
pretty good plan.
In the rearview mirror I saw Michael nonchalantly
watching the scenery. Here was my chance to lord it over
him for failing to steal the paintings, and he was being ob-
tuse. So too bad your plan didn t work, huh?
How do you figure that?
Duh, Mr. Big Time Art Thief maybe because you
don t have any paintings?
Michael s eyes met mine in the mirror. Oh, I got the
paintings all right.
No, you didn t.
Annie. Of course I did.
So where are they?
In the trunk.
I slammed on the brakes and we screeched to a halt by
the side of the road. Michael wasn t wearing a seat belt,
and the momentum propelled him forward until his fore-
head thumped against the back of my seat.
Jesus Christ, Annie! Are you trying to kill me? That s
the second time you ve given me a head wound.
Last spring Michael and I had had a bit of an adventure
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