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told me that a criminal’s cardinal rule was to keep things simple. An art thief who habitually wore a brown leather bomber jacket.
    Along with half the men in San Francisco, I chided myself. Besides, the missing Chagall was small potatoes. Michael X. Johnson hunted bigger game.
    Not that he needed to worry about money after the Caravaggio heist last spring. Most likely Michael was lounging by the sea in Saint-Tropez, tanning himself in an indecent swimsuit. Or gambling his ill-gotten gains at the craps table in Monte Carlo. Or ensconced in a Prague penthouse, rolling around naked on satin sheets with a Czech chorus girl.
    Not that I cared.
    Still not a peep from Pascal’s studio.
    My stomach growled.
    I gazed in vain at the elevator, hoping Mary and Sherri were on their way up. I banged on Pascal’s door. Nothing.
    Stretching my arms over my head, I tried some isometric exercises that a ridiculously fit friend had shown me. I closed my eyes, took a deep cleansing breath, found my center, started flexing, felt something pull, and quit.
    One thing was clear: I would not be applying to the Police Academy anytime soon. I was not cut out for the stakeout kind of life.
    Might as well delve into the Chagall theft a little more. I flipped open my cell phone and dialed Anton Woznikowicz, an aging art forger and my grandfather’s protégé. Anton had a studio in the City and knew Michael X. Johnson. I would feel better if I could cross Michael off my list of suspects.
    â€œWhy, Annie! How nice to hear from you!” Anton answered. “How is your dear old grandpapa these days?”
    â€œLast I heard, he’s enjoying his book tour.” My grandfather, Georges LeFleur, had recently published a book detailing his long and illustrious career as an art forger—and naming names. Interpol salivated and the art world was furious, forcing the old reprobate farther underground than usual. He was having a high old time being interviewed for the BBC while in silhouette and using a voice-altering machine like a Mafia don, wearing elaborate disguises for impromptu book readings in Berlin, and granting interviews to Reuters reporters, Deep Throat style, from behind the Doric columns of the Parthenon. Part of me admired his panache, while another part wondered if it was possible to disown one’s grandfather.
    â€œOh, such a time we had in Chicago!” Anton said. Last spring, he and my grandfather had renewed their friendship and swept first place at the “Fabulous Fakes” art show with what turned out to be a genuine Caravaggio. Immediately afterward Michael had absconded with the masterpiece.
    â€œThe reason I’m calling is sort of related to that. You know that guy, Michael Johnson?”
    â€œI don’t know a Michael Johnson, Annie. Let me think . . .”
    â€œHow about David? Or Patrick? Colin Brooks? Bruno, maybe?” These were but a few of Michael’s aliases.
    â€œColin Brooks! Well, of course! A fine fellow, fine fellow indeed. Oh! The meals we had, the tales we told,” he chuckled. “A randy young man, that one. Reminded me of myself at his age. Excellent businessman, too. We shared the proceeds from the sale of . . . Well, you know.”
    I knew. I did not want to officially know, though, because that might make me an accessory to fraud and grand theft. This was a problem I encountered frequently in my life, which was one reason I was trying to learn yoga. “Would you happen to know where I might find Brooks?”
    â€œYou have something lined up, do you?” Anton’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “If your uncle Anton can be of service, you just give the word. Anything, anything at all—Oh, your grandfather will be so proud!”
    â€œ No , Anton, I don’t have anything lined up.” Old folks today—where are their morals? “I need to talk with Brooks, that’s all. Just a quick little