Homeport (13 page)

He needed tending.

That she could do, Annie decided, pushing up her sleeves. If nothing else, she could bully him into finding his feet again.

Friends, she told herself, stood by friends.

The kitchen was full of homey scents when he came back. If it had been anyone but Annie, he might have locked himself in his room. The shower had helped, and the pills had shoved the worst of the hangover away. The edges of it were still churning in his stomach and rolling in his head, but he thought he could manage now.

He cleared his throat, worked up a smile. “Smells great.”

“Sit down,” she told him without turning.

“Okay. I'm sorry, Annie.”

“No need to apologize to me. You should apologize to yourself. That's who's being hurt here.”

“I'm sorry anyway.” He looked down at the bowl she put in front of him. “Oatmeal?”

“It'll stick to you, coat your stomach.”

“Mrs. Patch used to make me eat oatmeal,” he said, thinking of the sharp stick of a woman who'd cooked for them when he was a boy. “Every day before school, fall, winter, and spring.”

“Mrs. Patch knew what was good for you.”

“She used to put a little maple syrup in it.”

Feeling her lips twitch, Annie reached into a cupboard. She knew his kitchen as well as her own. She set the bottle of syrup in front of him, and added a plate of hot toasted bread. “Eat.”

“Yes, ma'am.” He took the first bite cautiously, uncertain anything would stay down. “It's good. Thanks.”

When she saw he was making headway, and his color was no longer sickly gray, she sat across from him. Friends stood by friends, she thought again. And they were honest with each other.

“Andrew, you've got to stop doing this to yourself.”

“I know. I shouldn't have had so much to drink.”

She reached out, touched his hand. “If you take one drink, you're going to take the next, and the next.”

Annoyed, he jerked his shoulders. “Nothing wrong with a drink now and then. Nothing wrong with getting drunk now and then.”

“There is when you're an alcoholic.”

“I'm not.”

She sat back. “I run a bar and I was married to a drunk. I know the signs. There's a difference between someone who has a couple too many and someone who can't stop.”

“I can stop.” He picked up the coffee she'd poured him. “I'm not drinking now, am I? I don't drink at work—and I don't let it affect my work. I don't get drunk every night.”

“But you drink every night.”

“So does half the goddamn world. What's the difference between a couple glasses of wine with dinner and a shot or two in the evening?”

“You'll have to figure that out for yourself. The way I did. We were both half drunk the night we . . .” It hurt to say it. She thought she'd been ready, but it hurt and she couldn't say it after all.

“Christ, Annie.” Remembering had him raking a hand through his hair, wishing the ball of shame and guilt hadn't just dropped into his gut. “We were just kids.”

“We were old enough to make a baby between us. Temporarily.” She pressed her lips together. No matter what it
cost she would get at least part of it out. “We were stupid, and we were innocent, and we were irresponsible. I've accepted that.” Oh God, she tried to accept that. “But it taught me what you can lose, what it can do if you don't stay in control. You're not in control, Andrew.”

“One night fifteen years ago doesn't have anything to do with now.” The minute the words were out, the minute he saw the way her body jerked back, he regretted it. “I didn't mean it like that, Annie. Not that it didn't matter. I just—”

“Don't.” Her voice was cool now and distant. “Just don't. We're better off when we pretend it never happened. I only brought it up because you can't seem to see the difference. You were only seventeen, but you already had a drinking problem. I didn't. I don't. You've managed to get through most of your life without letting it take over. Now you've crossed the line. It's starting to rule you, Andrew, and you have to take back the controls. I'm telling you this as a friend.” She rose, cupped his face in her hands. “Don't come in my place anymore. I won't serve you.”

“Come on, Annie—”

“You can come for conversation, but don't come for a drink because I won't give it to you.”

She turned, picked up her coat, and hurried out.

seven

R
yan wandered the
south gallery, admiring the use of light, the flow of space. The Joneses knew their business, he mused. The displays were elegantly arranged, the educational plaques discreet and informative.

He listened with half an ear as a blue-haired woman with a sharp Down East accent led a small tour to one of Raphael's magnificent Madonnas.

Another tour, a bit larger and quite a bit noisier, was composed of schoolchildren and led by a perky brunette. They were heading off to the Impressionists, much to Ryan's relief.

Not that he didn't like children. The fact was his nieces and nephews were a great source of delight and amusement for him. He took pleasure in spoiling them outrageously as often as possible. But children tended to be a distraction during work hours. Ryan was very much at work.

The guards were unobtrusive, but there were plenty of them. He noted their stations, and judged by one uniform's surreptitious glance at his watch that they were nearing change of shift.

He appeared to wander aimlessly, stopping here and there
to study a painting, a sculpture, or a display of artifacts. In his mind he counted off paces. From the doorway to the camera in the southwest corner, from the camera to the archway, from the archway to the next camera, and from there to his goal.

He lingered no longer in front of the display case than any art lover might when studying the rare beauty of a fifteenth-century bronze. The bronze
David
was a small jewel, young, cocky, slender, his sling whipped back at that historic moment of truth.

Though the artist was unknown, the style was Leonardo's. And as the plaque indicated, it was assumed to be the work of one of his students.

Ryan's client was a particular fan of Leonardo's, and had commissioned for this particular piece after seeing it in the Institute six months before.

Ryan thought his client would be very happy, and sooner rather than later. He'd decided to move up his own schedule. It was, he thought, wiser to move along, and away before he made a mistake with Miranda. He was already feeling a little sorry that he would cause her some inconvenience and annoyance.

But, after all, she was insured. And the bronze was hardly the best piece the Institute possessed.

If he was choosing for himself, he'd have taken the Cellini, or perhaps the Titian woman who reminded him of Miranda. But the pocket-sized bronze was his client's choice. And it would be an easier job than either the Cellini or the Titian.

Due to his own unplanned reaction to Miranda, he'd spent a productive hour or two, after taking her home and changing out of his dinner suit, in the tube-sized crawl space beneath the Institute. There, as he'd already known, was the wiring for the building's security system. Alarms, cameras, sensors.

All he'd needed was his laptop and a little time to reset the main to his personal specifications. He hadn't diddled with much. Most of the work would be done in a few hours,
but a few judicious changes would make his job easier in the long run.

He completed his measurements, then, following his schedule, executed the first test. He smiled at the blue-haired lady, edging just past her group. With his hands in his pockets, he studied a shadowy painting of the Annunciation. Once he had the small mechanism in hand, he ran his thumb over the controls until he felt the proper button. The camera was directly to his right.

He smiled at the Virgin when he saw, out of the corner of his eye, the tiny red light on the camera blink out.

God, he loved technology.

In his other pocket, he depressed the stem of a stopwatch. And waited.

He judged nearly two minutes passed before the nearest guard's walkie-talkie beeped. Ryan clicked the stopwatch again, unjammed the camera with his other hand, and strolled over to study the sad and baffled face of Saint Sebastian.

More than satisfied, Ryan walked out of the gallery and stepped outside to use his cell phone.

“Dr. Jones's office. May I help you?”

“I hope you can.” The wifty little voice of Miranda's assistant made him grin. “Is Dr. Jones available? Ryan Boldari calling.”

“One moment, Mr. Boldari.”

Ryan stepped back out of the wind while he waited. He liked the look of downtown, he decided, the variety of architecture, the granite and the brick. He'd passed a dignified statue of Longfellow in his wanderings, and found that it and the other statues and monuments added to an interesting city.

Perhaps he preferred New York, the pace and the demand there. But he didn't think he'd mind spending a bit more time right here. Some other time, of course. It was never wise to linger long after a job was completed.

“Ryan?” Her voice sounded slightly breathless. “Sorry I kept you waiting.”

“I don't mind. I've just taken a busman's holiday and
wandered through your galleries.” Best that she know, as it was likely they'd be reviewing tapes the following day.

“Oh. I wish you'd told me you were coming. I'd have taken you around myself.”

“I didn't want to keep you from your work. But I wanted to tell you I believe my Vasaris are going to have a wonderful temporary home. You should come to New York and see where your Cellini will be staying.”

He hadn't meant to say that. Damn it. He shifted the phone to his other hand, reminding himself some distance would be required for a time.

“I might do that. Would you like to come up? I can have you cleared.”

“I would but I have some appointments I couldn't reschedule. I'd hoped to take you to lunch, but I can't blow these meetings off. I'm going to be tied up the rest of the day, but wondered if you'd have lunch with me tomorrow.”

“I'm sure I can schedule it in. What time works for you?”

“The sooner the better. I want to see you, Miranda.” He could imagine her sitting in her office, perhaps wearing a lab coat over some bulky sweater. Oh yes, he wanted to see her, a great deal of her. “How about noon?”

He heard papers rustle. Checking her calendar, he thought, and for some reason found that delightful. “Yes, noon's fine. Um, the documentation on your Vasaris just came across my desk. You work quickly.”

“Beautiful women shouldn't have to wait. I'll see you tomorrow. I'll think of you tonight.”

He broke the connection and suffered a very rare sensation. He recognized it as guilt only because he couldn't actually recall experiencing it before. Certainly not when it came to women or work.

“Can't be helped,” he said softly, and replaced his cell phone. As he strode toward the parking lot, he took out his stopwatch. One hundred and ten seconds.

Time enough. More than time enough.

He glanced up toward the window where he knew Miranda's office to be. There'd be time for that too. Eventually.
But professional obligations came first. He was sure a woman of her practical nature would agree.

 

Ryan spent the next several hours locked in his suite. He'd ordered up a quick lunch, turned the stereo on to a classical station, and spread out his notes for review.

He had the blueprints for the Institute anchored on the conference table with the salt and pepper shakers and the tiny bottles of mustard and ketchup that had come on his room service tray.

The schematics of the security system were on the screen of his laptop. He nibbled on a french fry, sipped Evian, and studied.

The blueprints had been easy enough to access. Contacts and cash could access nearly everything. He was also very handy with a computer. It was a skill he'd developed and honed while still in high school.

His mother had insisted he learn how to type—because you just never knew—but he'd had more interesting things to do with a keyboard than hammer out correspondence.

He'd built the laptop he carried with him himself, and had added a number of bonuses that weren't strictly legal. Then again, neither was his profession.

The Boldari Galleries were completely aboveboard, and were now self-financed and earned a nice, comfortable profit. But they had been built on funds he'd accumulated over the years, beginning as a nimble-fingered, fast-thinking boy on the streets of New York.

Some people were born artists, others were born accountants. Ryan had been born a thief.

Initially he'd picked pockets and lifted trinkets because money was tight. After all, art teachers weren't raking in dough, and there were a lot of mouths to feed in the Boldari household.

Later, he shifted into second-story work because, well, he was good at it, and it was exciting. He could still remember his first foray into a dark, sleeping home. The quiet, the tension, the thrill of being somewhere he had no business being, the initial edginess that swam up with the
possibility of being caught had added to the kick of it all.

Like having sex in some odd public place, in broad daylight. With another man's wife.

Since he had a strict code against adultery, he limited that wired sensation to stealing.

Nearly twenty years later, he would feel that same thrill each time he lifted a lock and slipped into a secured building.

He fined his craft down and for more than a decade had specialized in art. He had a feel for art, a love of it, and in his heart considered it public domain. If he slipped a painting out of the Smithsonian—and he had—he was simply providing a service to an individual for which he was well paid.

And with his fee he acquired more art to put on display at his galleries for public view and enjoyment.

It seemed to balance things out nicely.

Since he had a flair for electronics and gadgets, why shouldn't he put them to use along with his God-given gift for larceny?

Turning to his laptop, he logged in the measurements he'd taken in the South Gallery, and brought up the three-dimensional floor plan on-screen. Camera positions were highlighted in red. With a few keystrokes, he requested the machine to calculate the angles, the distance and best approach.

He was, he thought, a long way from his cat burglar days when he would case a home, climb through a window, and creep around stuffing glitters in a bag. That aspect of the profession was for the young, the reckless, or the foolish. And in these unsettled times, too many people had guns in their homes and shot at anything that moved in the night.

He preferred avoiding trigger-happy homeowners.

Better to put the age of technology to use, do the job quick, clean, and tidy, and move on.

As a matter of habit, he checked the batteries in his pocket jammer. It was of his own design, and fashioned of parts cannibalized from a TV remote control, a cell phone, and a pager.

Once he studied the security system of a mark—which Andrew had been kind enough to show him—he could easily adjust the range and frequency to apply after he'd jury-rigged the system at its source. His test late that morning had proven he'd been successful in that area.

Gaining entrance had been more problematic. If he worked with a partner, one could work the computer in the crawl space to bypass locks. He worked alone, and needed the jammer for the cameras.

Locks were a relatively simple matter. He'd accessed the schematics of the security system weeks ago, and had finally cracked it. After spending two nights on the scene, he'd earmarked the side door and had forged a key card.

The security code itself had again come courtesy of Andrew. It was amazing to Ryan what information people carried around in their wallets. The numbers and sequence had been written neatly on a folded piece of paper tucked behind Andrew's driver's license. It had taken Ryan seconds to lift the wallet, moments to flip through, find the numbers and memorize them, and nothing more than a friendly pat on the back to slide the wallet back into Andrew's pocket.

Ryan figured the job had taken him approximately seventy-two hours of work to prep; adding the hour it would take to execute, and deducting his outlay and expenses, he would see a profit of eighty-five thousand.

Nice work if you can get it, he thought, and tried not to regret that this was his last adventure. He'd given his word on that, and he never went back on a promise. Not to family.

He checked the time, noted he had eight hours before curtain. He spent the first of them dealing with any evidence, burning the blueprints in the cheerful fireplace his suite provided, locking all of his electronics in a reinforced case, then adding additional paths and passwords to his computer work to tuck it away safely.

That left him time for a workout, a steam, a swim, and a short nap. He believed in being alert in mind and body before breaking and entering.

• • •

Just past six, Miranda sat alone in her office to compose a letter she preferred typing herself. Though she and Andrew essentially ran the Institute, it was still standard procedure for both of their parents to be informed of, and to approve, any loan or transfer of art.

She intended to make the letter crisp and businesslike and was willing to work on it word by word until it was as stringent as vinegar, just as unfriendly, but viciously professional.