Feint of Art: by Hailey Lind Page B

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