Always a Thief (8 page)

“See who?” Morgan hugged her clipboard and tried to look innocent. It wasn't her best expression.

Storm pursed her lips slightly, and her green eyes danced. “Alex Brandon.”

“Dammit, was I that obvious?”

“Afraid so. The way you keep staring at tall blond men is a little hard to miss. I picked it up on my monitor, as a matter of fact.”

Morgan sighed and said
dammit
again without heat and without self-consciousness. “Well, in that case—why wouldn't you expect to see him for at least another hour?”

Storm glanced casually around to make certain they couldn't be overheard before she replied. “He has to sleep sometime, doesn't he? I imagine he's on watch or on the move most of the night, and since the collection is safest during the day with the museum filled with people, that'd be a good time to sleep.”

“I knew that.” Morgan frowned at herself.

Storm chuckled. “He probably wasn't in bed before seven or eight this morning, so he likely hasn't been up more than an hour, if that long. I'd give him time for a shave and shower, as well as breakfast, if I were you.”

“You've made your point.” Morgan sighed. “If this keeps up, I'm never going to see him in the daylight. I mean, he was at my apartment for a couple of days when he was healing, but we didn't go outside, so I haven't actually
seen
him in the sunshine.”

“One of your ambitions?”

“Don't laugh, but yes.”

“Why on earth would I laugh? It seems a reasonable enough aim to me. Especially if you've the suspicion he's a vampire.”

Morgan looked at her friend seriously. “No, because I've seen his reflection in a mirror.”

“Oh. Well, that does seem to prove he isn't a creature of the night. Not that kind of creature, anyway. I don't suppose he could be another kind?”

“Only vampires are famous for their seductive but deadly charm,” Morgan reminded her, still solemn.

Storm nodded gravely. “That's what I thought. You could wear a cross, I guess, and find out for sure.”

Silently, Morgan hooked a finger inside the open collar of her blouse and held out a fine golden chain from which dangled a polished gold cross. Storm studied the cross seriously, then met Morgan's earnest gaze. Then they both burst out laughing.

A bit unsteadily, Storm said, “Lord, this man must have quite an effect on you if he's got you half-seriously contemplating the undead.”

“Let's put it this way. I wouldn't be surprised to find he's three parts sorcerer at the very least.” Morgan got hold of herself. She looked at her clipboard and tried to remember that she was being paid to do a job. “Umm . . . I have to go do another walk-through of the exhibit and make sure everything's going all right. If anyone should ask—”

“I'll tell him right where you are,” Storm assured her.

“If you were a true friend, you'd lash me to the nearest mast before I make an utter fool of myself,” Morgan said somewhat mournfully. “All that crafty devil has to do is smile and say something—anything—and I forget all my good intentions.”

With a faint smile, Storm said, “I'd be glad to lash you to a mast
if
I thought that was what you really wanted.”

“I'm not fooling anybody today, am I?”

“No. But don't let that worry you. We're all entitled to at least one bit of reckless folly in our lives, Morgan. My daddy taught me that. It's something to remember.”

“Have you had yours?” Morgan asked curiously.

The small blonde smiled. “Of course I have. I fell for Wolfe in the middle of a very tricky situation when I couldn't tell him the truth about myself. It was reckless and foolish—but it turned out all right in the end. Something else for you to remember: Often the definition of a foolish act is just . . . bad timing.”

Morgan nodded thoughtfully and left her friend, beginning to make her way through the crowded museum toward the
Mysteries Past
exhibit, housed on the second floor and in the west wing of the huge building.

Reckless folly
. A good description, Morgan thought. After all, nobody in their right mind would consider this fascination with an internationally notorious cat burglar anything
but
reckless folly. Bad timing? Oh, yes, it was that too.

And knowing all that did absolutely nothing to knock some sense into her normally sensible head, she reflected wryly.

“It's impressive as hell,” Keane Tyler commented to his partner as they wandered through the exhibit.

“I'll say,” Gillian Newman agreed. “Whoever designed these display cases is a real artist; all the pieces look wonderful. And if we ever have time, I want to go through and read all the information cards on each piece. Looks like most of this stuff has a very colorful history.”

“I'm a bit more worried about its future than its past.”

“Still no valid connection to our Jane Doe,” Gillian reminded him. “So I'm still wondering why we're here.”

“I told you. I don't like it when a killer points me in a specific direction with a very obvious
clue
. Bugs the hell out of me.”

“Uh-huh. And so we're here. Again.”

Keane shrugged irritably. “I want to eliminate this place from our line of investigation.”

“I thought we pretty much had. Been here, done this. We haven't been able to find a soul who recognizes our Jane Doe, or any evidence that she was ever here.”

“I know. So why the hell did her killer want us looking in this direction?”

“Maybe sleight of hand,” Max offered as he joined them, accompanied by a thin, rather mousy-looking young woman with huge black-rimmed glasses and a solemn expression. “He could want you looking away from his real target.”

Sighing, Keane said, “With your collection out of the vaults and on exhibit, Max, it is the prime target for any thief in the city. Hell, maybe in the world. But, yeah, it could also be a distraction from something else.”

“Anything you need from us, just ask. Speaking of which, I wanted to introduce the museum's new assistant curator. Chloe Webster—Inspector Keane Tyler and Inspector Gillian Newman. Chloe just started today.”

They all made happy-to-meet-you noises, and then Chloe said, “Inspector Tyler, Mr. Dugan asked me to tell you that we'll have that list of contributors to the museum for you by the end of the day.”

“Thanks, Ms. Webster.”

Max said, “Reaching a bit, aren't you, Keane?”

“I'm reaching a mile. But until we I.D. our Jane Doe or eliminate any connection to the museum or this exhibit, we'll be checking every possibility.” Keane smiled wryly. “You have powerful friends, Max, and they all want to make absolutely certain everything possible is being done to protect your collection.”

“Sorry to make your job harder.”

“You aren't making it harder.” The words were barely out of his mouth when the alarms were set off for the third time that afternoon. Keane winced. “But this fancy security system Storm designed is giving me a hell of a headache.”

The alarms were swiftly silenced, and they all heard a nearby guard's walkie-talkie mutter, “Clear. All clear.”

“We're still making adjustments,” Max admitted, smiling faintly.

“I better go check on . . . Excuse me—” Chloe left them rather hurriedly.

“She's more nervous than you are,” Keane observed to Max.

“She's young and it's her first important job.” Max paused before adding, “She may quit when she finds out about our latest . . . wrinkle.”

Keane was immediately alert. “What is it?”

“I know we agreed that searching the storage areas in a building this size and complexity was a fairly useless exercise and that you pulled your people out of the basement, but I asked Wolfe and some of the extra guards to take a look around anyway. A few minutes ago they found something.”

“What?” Gillian asked.

“A message,” Max said.

CHAPTER

SEVEN

M
organ strolled through the exhibit wing, casual
but watchful, studying visitor reactions to the various displays as well as noting potential traffic bottlenecks as particular pieces of the Bannister collection drew more interest than others. The display cases had been designed specifically for the individual pieces or groups of similarly themed pieces and were very carefully lighted, so each case showed off its contents beautifully.

The exhibit was actually made up of four connected rooms within the wing, with the display cases—freestanding and lining the walls—helping to direct the flow of people smoothly through the expansive space. There were a few benches scattered about, but the idea was to keep people moving, and the careful design appeared to be doing its job well.

Morgan jotted several notes to herself, reminders to see about more lighting for one corner; an extra velvet rope to redirect traffic through a particular room; and to have an inconveniently placed bench moved from its present location.

She answered a few questions from people who knew she was the director of the exhibit, returned a few lost children to their parents, and coped with a couple more accidentally triggered alarms.

Earlier in the day she had spoken to Max and Wolfe, but both seemed to have disappeared by late afternoon. She hadn't seen any sign of Jared, which didn't surprise her. Jared, like Quinn, would undoubtedly spend more nights than days in the vicinity of the museum, since the thief they were intent on luring was virtually guaranteed to make his move during the dark hours.

Morgan had thought about that only fleetingly during the day, partly because she kept herself busy and partly because the deadly danger Nightshade was famous for was something she didn't like to think about. She did her job briskly and professionally and tried to avoid looking for tall blond cat burglars.

It wasn't until nearly six o'clock, when the museum's visitors were beginning to make their way toward the exits and she was doing a final walk-through of the exhibit for the day, that she saw Quinn.

He was standing alone at the central and most elaborate display case the exhibit could boast, the one holding the clear star of the show, the spectacular Bolling diamond. He was dressed casually in dark slacks and a cream-colored turtleneck sweater, with a black leather jacket worn open. Hands in his pockets, head bent, he stood gazing intently at the priceless seventy-five-carat teardrop canary diamond in the display case. And maybe it was the special lighting of the case that made his face look shadowed, as if it were hollowed with hunger—or avarice.

Then again, maybe the lighting had nothing to do with it.

Morgan paused in the doorway of the room and watched him silently, uneasy. The last few visitors in this area wandered past her, talking, and she nodded automatically at one of the guards who was following his usual patrol past the room, but she could hardly take her eyes off Quinn.

Max Bannister, certainly nobody's fool and a notable judge of character, believed this man saw his unique collection only as bait set out to lure a far more deadly thief. Wolfe was risking his job and sterling reputation because he believed the same thing—or, at least, because he trusted Max's judgment. Even Jared, despite the bitter anger he'd shown about his brother's life of crime, seemed to have no doubt that Quinn had no designs on the Bannister collection.

But now, watching him as he stared at the Bolling diamond, Morgan felt her throat close up and her hands were suddenly cold. His face was so still, his eyes oddly intent, and she couldn't help wondering . . .

Was the enigmatic Quinn making fools of them all?

Drawing a deep breath and then holding her clipboard rather like a shield, she moved slowly toward him. And it was obvious he knew he'd been under observation, because he spoke rather absentmindedly as soon as she reached him.

“Hello, Morgana. Do you know the history?”

“Of the Bolling?” She was pleased by her own calm voice. “No, not really, other than that it's supposed to be cursed. As director of the exhibit, my responsibilities are all administrative. I know, of course, all the facts about the pieces—carat weight and the grades of each stone, for instance—but I don't believe in curses, and gems were never my favorite subject.”

“You don't believe in curses?”

“Of course not. Myth and legend.”

“It's all just myth and legend,” Quinn said. “Until it isn't.” With barely a pause, he went on. “So, as an archaeologist you prefer relics? Bits of pottery and fossils?”

“Something like that.”

He turned his head suddenly and smiled at her. “I thought diamonds were a girl's best friend.”

“Not this girl. To be honest, I don't even like diamonds. Rubies, yes; sapphires and emeralds, definitely—but not diamonds, even the colored ones.”

“Too hard? Too cold?” He seemed honestly curious.

“I don't know why; I've never thought about it.” She shrugged off the subject, wondering irritably if he even remembered that she had rather publicly rejected him hardly forty-eight hours before.

He looked at the room around them, his expression critically assessing. “The design of the exhibit is excellent; my compliments.”

“Being a connoisseur of such things?”

“I have closely studied a number of gem exhibits over the years,” he reminded her modestly.

He had skillfully plundered a few as well. Morgan sighed. “Yeah. Well, I can't take all the credit for this one. Max and I designed the layout, but Wolfe and Storm had input because of security considerations and we had additional professional help with the lighting and display angles.”

“A very efficient team. What's going on in the basement?”

Morgan blinked. “The basement?”

“There were two police inspectors here earlier talking to Max, and all three headed toward the basement with rather grim looks on their faces. I believe there are several guards down there as well. And Wolfe.”

“How long have you been here?”

“An hour or so. What's going on in the basement, Morgana?”

“I have no idea,” she replied frankly. “Shall we go and find out?”

Before he could answer, a serene and polite recording announced over the public-address system that the museum would be closing in fifteen minutes. Quinn waited for the end of the announcement, then said, “I'd rather not make myself memorable to the police, if it's all the same to you.”

“But you have this blameless daytime persona,” she said innocently. “Why would Alexander Brandon hide his face from the police?”

“Not his face. But the police are hardly idiots, and excessive interest from me in the basement of a museum might strike even the casual observer as odd.” He sighed. “Why don't I wait for you in the lobby, Morgana? I'm sure you can think of some way of updating me as to what's happening without giving the guards the mistaken impression that you have any personal interest in me whatsoever.”

“I think I can manage that,” she said coolly.

“Then I'll wait for you in the lobby.”

It wasn't until they parted company in one of the corridors, Quinn headed for the lobby, and Morgan toward the basement, that she allowed herself to smile, if a bit wryly. Her annoying thief didn't seem all that dismayed by her public rejection and cool attitude.

Dammit.

Once in the cavernous basement of the huge museum, Morgan had to ask one of the guards she saw to tell her where the others were. Even with directions it took her several minutes to reach the central storage room and another few to wind her way through the maze of crates and shelves before she located Max, Wolfe, and the two police inspectors.

“What's up?” she asked Max.

It was Wolfe who answered, his tone grim. “We found a little token, apparently from the killer of that unidentified woman.”

“We don't know that,” Keane Tyler objected. “The forensics team isn't here yet, Wolfe.”

“And I'll bet my reputation they'll find that the blood is hers and the knife is the murder weapon.”

“Blood? Knife?” Morgan looked again to Max.

He pointed to a rather roughly carved marble statue a few feet away, and Morgan studied it warily. It was in a line of several life-size statues, all down here in storage because they were damaged or had been rotated out of exhibit to make way for other displays. The indicated figure dated from the Middle Ages and depicted a warrior.

Morgan took a couple of steps toward the statue and looked more closely. The figure's raised fist, she realized, had once held a marble knife or dagger that had at some point been broken off or removed. Now it held a dully gleaming hammered-brass hunting knife with a carved wooden handle.

The knife was stained a rusty brown for more than half its length.

“Jesus,” Morgan said. She turned back to the others. “What's the point? I mean, you don't think she was killed down here, do you?”

“No signs so far,” Keane said, adding disgustedly, “but now, of course, we'll have to search the entire goddamned building, at least on this level, for forensic evidence. No more wandering around with flashlights; this time we get serious.” He stared around at the confusion of crates and shelves. “Everything dusty as hell, packed away God only knows how long. And this is just the central storage room; Wolfe tells me there are dozens of rooms nearly as large as this one, all of them crammed with more shit like this.”

“Thirty-two rooms, according to the plans.” Morgan was frowning. “And that doesn't count what's probably miles of corridor. So either he killed her down here, or else he's trying to make you waste time looking to find out if he killed her down here?”

Wolfe said, “If he killed her down here—whenever he got down here—it had to be before the new security system went on-line.” He was staring at Keane.

The inspector hesitated, then said, “She could have been killed weeks ago. The M.E. believes the body was refrigerated almost to the point of being frozen.”

“So he could have planted the knife weeks ago,” Max said. “Got down here long before there was decent electronic security protecting this area.”

“At least we can hope it was that long ago,” Wolfe muttered.

“But why?” Morgan shook her head. “Just so you'd have to search the place now? That doesn't make sense. Pointing the investigation in this direction, so specifically—why?”

“Trying to divert our attention,” Wolfe said. “Keep us and the police from looking wherever it is we need to be looking.”

“Or make us look so hard we don't see the forest for the trees,” Gillian suggested.

Keane looked once more at the forest of storage surrounding them and sighed. “Both viable theories.”

Morgan said, “Well, all I can contribute to the investigation is the fact that he had to have time down here, and he had to have at least some equipment.”

“Why?” Keane asked.

“Because drilling a round hole through marble takes time and a drill,” Morgan replied. “And cutting marble takes a saw or chisel. Guys, I know that piece, and the knife it originally held was part of the fist, carved from the same slab of marble. I can check to make sure, but I think the knife was undamaged when the figure was brought down here for storage. So that means somebody cut away the original marble knife and then drilled a round hole through the fist so the handle of that hunting knife would slide right in but be held tightly enough not to drop out again.”

“How much time are we talking?” Keane asked.

“An hour at least, probably longer.”

“And a noisy hour at that,” Max said.

Morgan nodded. “Yeah. Problem is, you could be standing on the floor above this room and never hear a thing, especially during the day with visitors wandering around. And we never had guards really patrol down here, just do routine checks of the exterior doors and main corridors.”

“Great,” Gillian said. “That's just great. So we have no way of even establishing a window of opportunity—except the one we already have.
Sometime
in the last few weeks.”

“And we're still working from a couple of giant assumptions,” Keane said. “That this is the knife that killed Jane Doe, and that she or her murder is really connected to the museum or the exhibit.”

“Assumptions somebody obviously wants us to make,” Wolfe said. “I don't believe in coincidence.”

“No,” Morgan said, unknowingly echoing the cat burglar awaiting her upstairs, “that all this is connected is a lot more likely than not. Somebody has gone to a great deal of trouble to give us some nice, clear clues—and a whole bunch of puzzle pieces. Anybody else getting the feeling we're being led around by our noses?”

She found Quinn waiting patiently for her in the lobby, standing several feet from the watchful guard. The last of the day's visitors had gone, and the huge room had that hollow, stark feeling of too much cold marble and stone and too few warm bodies.

It was hardly an ideal place to talk, so when she reached him Morgan wasn't surprised to find that he didn't even bring up the subject of what was going on in the basement.

“Morgana, I'm in the mood for Italian food, I think, and I know of a great restaurant near the bay with the best cook this side of Naples. Will you join me?”

Bluntly, she asked, “Business or pleasure?”

He answered that readily and with a smile. “Your company is always a pleasure, sweet.” Then he lowered his voice. “However, I'll admit there is a possibility that someone I'd like to keep an eye on will also be at the restaurant.”

“Who?”

“That, I'd rather not say.” When she frowned at him, Quinn added, “Suspicions are not facts, Morgana, and they're a long way from evidence. I'd prefer not to name names—to anyone—until I'm sure.”

“You mean not even Max or Jared—or Wolfe—knows that you have an idea who Nightshade really is?” She kept her own voice very low.

“They know I have an idea,” Quinn conceded, “but they don't know who I'm watching.”

There were a number of questions Morgan wanted to ask, but she knew this was not the time or place for a long discussion.