Always a Thief Part 11

"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 a.s.sessing. "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 bas.e.m.e.nt?"

Morgan blinked. "The bas.e.m.e.nt?"

"There were two police inspectors here earlier talking to Max, and all three headed toward the bas.e.m.e.nt 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 bas.e.m.e.nt, 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 bas.e.m.e.nt 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 bas.e.m.e.nt, 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 att.i.tude.

Dammit.

Once in the cavernous bas.e.m.e.nt 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-bra.s.s 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 G.o.dd.a.m.ned 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 h.e.l.l, packed away G.o.d 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 s.h.i.+t 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 establis.h.i.+ng a window of opportunity-except the one we already have. Sometime Sometime in the last few weeks." in the last few weeks."

"And we're still working from a couple of giant a.s.sumptions," 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."

"a.s.sumptions 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 bas.e.m.e.nt.

"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.

"Italian food sounds great," she said. "I'll just go check on a couple of things and get my jacket."

"I'll wait here for you."

Since she was a responsible and efficient woman, Morgan made two brief stops before reaching her office, checking with the guards in the security room and then with Storm in the computer room to make certain all was well as the museum went into a night-security mode. One of the guards watching the security monitors asked her if the blond man in the lobby was supposed to be on his "sheet"-meaning the list of persons with special clearance to enter the museum at will-and Morgan had to pause for thought before answering.

"No," she said finally out of a sense of caution, but then qualified the reply by adding, "Not unless Max or Wolfe says so. But he'll probably be around most days. His name is Alex Brandon, and he's a collector. Ask Wolfe what his clearance is, will you?"

"Gotcha," the guard replied, writing himself a note.

When Morgan stopped at the computer room where Storm spent her working hours, it was to find the pet.i.te blonde leaning back in her chair, booted feet propped on her desk and her little cat asleep in her lap as she studied a video monitor hanging in the corner of the crowded room. She could use the computer console on her desk to direct the museum's security program to show her any part of the museum under video surveillance, and at the moment she was looking at the lobby. At, specifically, a tall, blond man waiting patiently.

"Hi," Morgan said, deciding not to comment. "Any problems before I go?"

"Nah, nothing to speak of. I've fixed that glitch in the system, so I doubt we'll have any more accidental alarms." Storm's bright green eyes returned to their study of the monitor, and she smiled when Quinn turned his own gaze to look directly into the video pickup he wasn't supposed to be able to see. "Look at that. When he got here a couple of hours ago, I watched him all through the museum, and he always knew where the cameras were-even the ones we've so cleverly hidden. Wolfe says he has a sixth sense when it comes to any kind of a camera being pointed at him, that he feels it somehow. No wonder the police have never been able to capture him on tape or film."

Morgan followed her friend's gaze, and though she couldn't help a rueful smile when Quinn winked cheerily at the camera, her voice held a certain amount of frustration. "d.a.m.n him. Just when I think I've got him figured out, I start having second thoughts. Is he on the right side of the law this time, or isn't he?"

Storm looked at her, one brow on the rise. "Maybe the operative phrase in that question is this time this time. Even if you give him the benefit of the doubt and a.s.sume Max, Wolfe, and Jared are all right to trust him to keep his hands off the collection-and none of them is a fool, we both know that-then what's he going to do afterward? Let's say our little trap works and Nightshade winds up behind bars-what then? Does Quinn slip Interpol's leash and fade back into the misty night? Does he go to prison for past crimes? Or is the plan for him to be a . . . consultant or something like that for the cops?"

Remembering an earlier discussion with Quinn, Morgan said, "He told me he was too effective to go public-which would mean a trial and possibly prison-and more or less said he enjoyed dancing to Interpol's tune. Which is probably the only answer I'll get."

Storm pursed her lips thoughtfully and stroked the sleeping Bear with a light touch. "Shrewd of Interpol if they plan to make good use of his talents."

"Yeah. He's sure to be worth more to them outside a jail than in. Even if they never recover a thing he stole, I'll bet they'd rather use him than prosecute." Morgan sighed. "Which only tells me one thing. Interpol operates mostly in Paris and other parts of Europe-and so would he."

"How's your French?" Storm asked solemnly.

"Better than my Latin."

"I could give you lessons," the blonde offered.

Morgan eyed her. "Do you speak French with a Southern accent?"

"According to Jared I do, but I've never had any trouble being understood."

"Well, I may take you up on the offer," Morgan said. "Then again-the only French word I'm likely to need to know is the one for good-bye. And I already know that one." She shook her head before her friend could respond. "Never mind. I'm going to eat Italian food and try my best to remember all the logical, rational, sensible reasons why I shouldn't lose my head."

"Good luck," Storm murmured.

Morgan went on to her office, where she deposited her clipboard on her desk and put on the stylish gold blazer she had worn that morning. Then she locked up her office and returned to where Quinn waited in the lobby.

Wolfe was there and talking to him as she approached; she couldn't hear what the security expert was saying, but he was frowning a bit. Quinn was wearing a pleasant but noncommittal half smile; that seemed his only response to whatever he was being told. When he caught sight of Morgan, Quinn looked past Wolfe to watch her coming toward them, and Wolfe turned to address her rather abruptly.

"Will you be here tomorrow?"

"With the exhibit open? Sure. From now until we close up shop, I work six days a week."

Wolfe lifted an eyebrow at her. "Does Max know about that?"

"We've discussed the matter." Morgan smiled. "He wasn't happy, but when I pointed out that I'd be here whether I was getting paid or not, he gave in. I'm under orders to take long lunches and knock off early whenever possible, and I'm forbidden to darken the doors on Sunday. Why, do you need me for something tomorrow?"

"I'll let you know."

"Okay," she murmured, wondering if Wolfe felt uncomfortable discussing security business with her in the presence of Quinn. If so, it was certainly understandable.

Wolfe glanced at Quinn, then at Morgan, seemed about to say something, but finally shook his head in the gesture of a man who was acknowledging that a situation was out of his hands. "Have a nice evening," he said, and left them to head for the hall of offices.

Gazing after the darker man, Quinn said meditatively, "Do you get the feeling Wolfe isn't entirely happy with any of us?"

"Yes, and I can't blame him. Anything happens to the Bannister collection and Lloyd's is on the hook for more millions than I even want to think about."

Quinn took her arm and began guiding her toward the front doors. "True. Have I mentioned, by the way, that you look like a few million yourself today?"