Always a Thief

by Kay Hooper

  “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.

  “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 petite 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. “Damn 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. Even if you give him the benefit of the doubt and assume 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?”

  It caught her off guard—damn the man for sounding unnervingly sincere without warning—but Morgan recovered quickly and was able to reply with commendable calm as they walked across the pavement outside the museum. “No, you haven't mentioned that.”

  “Well, you certainly do. You look ravishing in jeans, mind you, but this is very elegant.” He guided her toward the low-slung black sports car waiting at the curb.

  “Thank you.” Wondering if he did this kind of thing deliberately just to keep her off balance, Morgan remained silent while he installed her in the passenger side. She waited for him to join her and spoke only when the little car pulled away from the curb with a muted roar.

  “Answer a question for me?”

  He sent her a quick smile. “I'll have to hear it first.”

  “Umm . . . Do you know the security layout of the museum—and the exhibit?” She had wondered about that only after Storm had made the observation that he “sensed”—or knew—the placement of all the security video cameras.

  “Do you really think Jared would be so trusting?”

  “That,” she commented thoughtfully, “is not an answer.”

  Quinn chuckled softly. “Morgana, I get the distinct feeling I've somehow roused your suspicions.”

  “That isn't an answer either. Look, Alex, we've agreed that the truth seems to be a slippery commodity between the two of us.” She half turned on the seat to study his profile. It was a good profile, which was inspiring—but not as regards clarity of thought. “So I'd appreciate it if you give me a direct answer whenever possible. If you'd rather not say, then tell me so—this habit you have of neatly evading various subjects is not calculated to persuade me to trust you.”

  “Yeah, I was afraid of that.” Stopping the car at a traffic light, he glanced at her a bit more seriously. “I'll try not to do that so often.”

  She noticed he didn't promise to stop doing it. “So . . . do you or don't you know the security setup of the exhibit?”

  “I don't. I probably could have gotten it from Max—who does trust me, by the way—but I decided not to. I have a better chance of anticipating Nightshade if I have to study the museum and exhibit just the way he does. The only advantage I have is that I know there's a weakness in the defenses.”

  “The trap? Is it Storm's security program?”

  “You
don't know?”

  Morgan sighed. “I'm ashamed to admit it, but I haven't even asked.”

  In an understanding tone, Quinn said, “The situation is a bit complicated.”

  “Never mind. Do you know where the trap is?”

  “Yes, I do. I told Wolfe in the lobby just before you joined us, and he confirmed my deductions.”

  “No wonder he was frowning.”

  “As I said, he isn't very happy with any of us. I did point out to him that the trap only looks like a hole in the defenses, expressly designed to lure Nightshade in and snare him before he can get anywhere near the collection.”

  “And was he mollified by this reminder?”

  Quinn smiled. “No. He seemed to feel that Nightshade might be suspicious enough to avoid the trap and find his own way in.”

  “Why would he be suspicious?”

  “Because of me, I'm afraid.” He sighed. “Morgana, thieves don't normally follow one another in the dead of night. But I followed him the night he was casing the museum, the night he shot me. He has to wonder about that. He knows he didn't kill me, because no unexplained shootings have been reported in the city, so he knows I may still be a potential problem.”

  “But he doesn't know who you are,” Morgan said slowly.

  “I'm an unanswered question all the way around—and a man like Nightshade hates unanswered questions.”

  She frowned a little as she studied his face. “You know, every time you talk about Nightshade, I get the feeling there's more to this. You say you don't know much about him . . . but I think you do.”

  “Morgana, you are full of questions today.”

  “Is that a warning?”

  “It's an observation.”

  It may have been only that, but Morgan decided to drop the subject anyway. Quinn had already been more forthcoming than she had expected, and she preferred to quit while she was ahead. In any case, they arrived at the restaurant just then, and a number of speculations filled her mind.