Free Feint of Art: by Hailey Lind Page B

gilding before leaving around ten for a night on the town. I stayed another hour, touching up the sample boards and faxing supply orders, then turned to the paperwork I’d been avoiding. When the words swam on the page, I worried that I had a brain tumor until I remembered that I was operating on about three hours’ sleep. Cancel the call to the neurosurgeon. Looked like it was past time to pack it in. I left the studio windows open a crack to release any lingering toxic fumes, switched off the overhead fans, grabbed my stuff, flicked off the lights, locked the door, and headed downstairs.
    When I got to the outside stair landing, I peeked over the railing. Sure enough, the lights still blazed in Fender Bender’s office. What was wrong with that guy? Didn’t he have a private life? He glanced up from some blueprints as I passed, and I waved, climbed into my truck, and roared off into the night.
     
    The next morning, I hauled my lazy carcass out of bed, heated water, ground a coneful of Peet’s French roast coffee beans that I had remembered to bring home from the studio last night, and inhaled as the aroma filled the kitchen. I plopped down at my “rustic country breakfast ensemble”—a cheap pine table and two chairs that I’d bought on clearance with the idea, not yet realized, of refinishing it as “French Country”—and stared intently into my mug.
    I could no longer put off an encounter with the police. I hated the idea of trying to explain why I’d been at the Brock, from which I’d been banished years ago, for a secret midnight rendezvous. But a man had been murdered, and as far as I knew, Ernst was still missing. I might well know something that would help the police with their investigation.
    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