by Nora Roberts
It came as a demand, but that was to be expected. More, it was outlined as a fait accompli. Her leave was to be terminated, immediately, and she was to contact the Boldari Gallery and make arrangements to proceed. Her schedule was to be adjusted, this was to be priority, and the display would be conceived, planned, erected, and completed the second weekend in May.
“That’s barely a month. How—”
“I realize it’s a short amount of time for something of this scope, but Mr. Boldari has other commitments and conflicts. He’ll work with Andrew of the publicity for the gala, with Vincente pitching in. Your only concern for the next four weeks is the display. He expects a great deal from you, Miranda, and so do I. Is that understood?”
“Of course.” Absently she slipped off her glasses, hung them by the earpiece in her pocket. “I’ll start right away. Giovanni—”
“The service was very lovely. His family appreciated the flowers. I’ll be in close touch with you on this matter, Miranda, and expect to arrange my schedule to come in the first week of May, if possible, to supervise the final touches. Be sure to send me the proper reports.”
“You’ll get everything. Goodbye. . . . It’s done,” Miranda murmured as she replaced the receiver. “Just like that.”
“I didn’t mention Giovanni,” Ryan told her. “That can’t come from me. You’ll have the idea for this tomorrow, and after running it by me and securing my agreement, you’ll send her a memo.”
He set his plate on the counter, chose a cracker for her and topped it with cheese. “Out of that will come the notion that all key staff members from all Jones organizations will attend the event in a show of unity, support, and respect.”
“They’ll come,” she murmured. “My mother will see to it. But I don’t see what good this does.”
“Logistics. Everyone connected in one place, at one time.” He smiled and ate another cube of cheese. “I’m looking forward to it.”
“I have to get to work.” She pushed both hands through her hair. “I have an exhibit to design.”
“I’ll be flying in from New York tomorrow.”
She paused at the doorway and glanced back. “Oh, will you?”
“Yes. Morning flight. It’s going to be a pleasure to see you again, Dr. Jones.”
twenty-three
“I t’s good to have you back.” Lori set a steaming cup of coffee on Miranda’s desk.
“I hope you feel that way by the end of the week. I’m about to run you ragged.”
“I can handle it.” Lori touched a hand to Miranda’s arm. “I’m so sorry about Giovanni. I know you were friends. We all liked him so much.”
“I know.” His blood’s on your hands. “He’ll be missed. I need to work, Lori, to dive in.”
“All right.” She walked to a chair, poised her pencil over her notebook. “Where do we start?”
Deal with what needs to be done, Miranda told herself. One step at a time. “Set up meetings with carpentry—get Drubeck. He did good work on the Flemish display a couple of years ago. I need to talk to legal, to contracts, and we’ll need to pull someone out of research. I want someone who can check data quickly. I’ll need ninety minutes with Andrew, and I want to be notified the moment Mr. Boldari arrives. Arrange for lunch to be set up in the VIP lounge—make it for one o’clock and see if Andrew can join us. Check with restoration. I want to know when works in progress of our era will be completed. And invite Mrs. Collingsforth to be my guest any day this week for tea—again we’ll use the VIP lounge.”
“Going after her collection?”
The avaricious look sharpened Miranda’s eyes. “I think I can convince her she’d enjoy seeing her paintings in this showing, with a nice, tasteful brass plaque saying ‘on loan from the collection of.’ ”
And if she couldn’t convince Mrs. Collingsforth, Miranda thought, she’d sic Ryan on her.
“I’ll need measurements of the South Gallery. If they aren’t on record here, get me a tape measure. I want them today. Oh, and I want to see a decorator.”
Lori’s busy pencil paused. “A decorator?”
“I have an idea for . . . atmosphere. I need someone inventive, efficient, and who knows how to take orders instead of giving them.” Miranda drummed her fingers. Oh yes, she knew what she wanted, right down to the last inch of fringe. “I’ll need a drawing board in here, and one delivered to my home. Send a memo to Andrew, requesting that I be copied on all steps of the publicity and all conceptions for the fund-raiser. Mr. Boldari is to be put through at any time and is to be accommodated in his wishes whenever possible.”
“Of course.”
“I’ll need to talk to security.”
“Check.”
“In four weeks, ask me for a raise.”
Lori’s lips curved. “Double check.”
“Let’s get started.”
“One thing.” Lori flipped her book closed. “You had a message on your machine. I left it on. It was in Italian, so most of it was lost on me.”
She rose, moved over to click back the counter on Miranda’s machine, punched it in. Immediately there was a flood of excited, emotional Italian. Mildly irritated, Miranda stopped the recording and began again with her mind adjusted to translate.
Dr. Jones, I must speak with you. I try to reach you here. There is no one else who will believe me. I am Rinaldi, Carlo Rinaldi. I found the lady. I held her. I know she is real. You know this is true. The papers, they said you believed in her. No one will listen to me. No one pays attention to a man like me. But you, you are important. You are a scientist. They will listen to you. Please, you will call me. We will talk. We know what we know. It must be proven. No one listens. Your mother, she tosses me out of her office. Tosses me out like a beggar or a thief. The government, they think I help make a fraud. This is a lie. A terrible lie. You know this is a lie. Please, we will tell everyone the truth.
He recited a phone number, twice, and repeated his plea.
And now he was dead, Miranda thought as the message ended. He’d asked her for help, but she hadn’t been there. Now he was dead.
“What was it?” Concerned by the devastated look on Miranda’s face, Lori reached out to touch her arm. “My Italian’s limited to pasta orders. Is it bad news?”
“No,” Miranda murmured. “It’s old news, and I was too late.”
She clicked the delete button but she knew the message from the dead would play in her mind for a long time.
It was good to be back in the saddle, to have specific tasks and goals. Ryan had been right about that, she decided. She’d needed action.
She was in restoration, checking out the progress of the Bronzino personally, when John Carter came in.
“Miranda. I’ve been trying to track you down. Welcome back.”
“Thanks, John, it’s good to be back.”
He removed his glasses, polished them on his lab coat. “It’s terrible about Giovanni. I can’t take it in.”
She had a flash, the sprawled body, the staring eyes, blood. “I know. He had a lot of friends here.”
“I had to make the announcement yesterday. The lab’s like a morgue.” He puffed out his cheeks, blew out a breath. “I’m going to miss the way he’d perk things up whenever he came in for a few days. Anyway, we all wanted to do something. We came up with a few ideas, but the one everyone liked best was having a tree planted in the park. A lot of us take our lunch break there in good weather, and we thought it would make a nice memorial.”
“I think that’s lovely, John. Something he would have liked very much.”
“I wanted to clear it with you first. You’re still lab director.”
“Consider it cleared. I hope the fact that I’m management doesn’t mean I can’t contribute to the fund.”
“Everybody knows you were friends—that comes first.”
“You, ah, spent time with him when he came here, and whenever you went over to Standjo.”
“Yeah, he used to say I was a branch
in the mud.” Carter smiled wistfully. “He meant stick, but I got such a kick out of it, I never corrected him. He’d talk me into going out and sharing a bottle of wine or a meal. He’d say how he was getting me out of my rut, how he’d teach me to flirt with the pretty girls. Then he’d ask to see the latest pictures of my kids.”
His voice thickened, his eyes glistened with moisture before he turned away and cleared his throat. “So I’ll, ah, arrange for the tree.”
“Yes, thank you, John.” She turned away herself, ashamed that she’d let Ryan’s suspicions lure her into probing into the man’s grief.
“Meanwhile, um, I hope you’ll get back to the lab soon. You’re missed.”
“I’ll be swinging through, but I’ve got a priority project for the next few weeks.”
“New Renaissance display.” He managed a smile again when she looked back at him. “If you could tap the grapevine around here, you’d have a hell of a potent wine. A major exhibit like that’s just what we need after the bad taste we’ve got in our mouths over the break-in. Nice thinking.”
“Yes, we’ll . . .” She trailed off, spotting Detective Cook as he wandered in. “Sorry, John, I’d better deal with this.”
“Yeah. . . . I don’t know why.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “He makes me nervous. Looks like he suspects everybody of doing something.”
With barely a nod for Cook, he scurried out, his dusty shoes scarcely making a sound.
“Detective? What can I do for you?”
“This is some setup you’ve got here, Dr. Jones.” Rather than take out what he thought of as his close-up glasses, he squinted at the painting. “That’s the real thing, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it’s a Bronzino. Sixteenth-century Italian Renaissance artist. The Institute is very pleased to have it. The owners have agreed to lend it to us for display.”
“Mind if I ask what she’s doing there?”
The restorer barely glanced at him, giving him one flick of a look from behind her magnifying goggles. “The painting was part of a collection, long neglected, of a recluse in Georgia,” Miranda said. “This piece, as well as several others, suffered some damage—dirt, damp, direct sunlight for an unfortunate period of time. It’s been cleaned. In itself that’s a slow, careful process. We can’t risk damaging the work, so it takes a great deal of time and skill. Now we’re attempting to repair some damage to the paint. We use only ingredients which would have been available when the painting was created, so as to preserve its integrity. This takes research, talent, and patience. If we’ve done our job, the painting will be as it was when the artist finished it.”
“A lot like police work,” he commented.
“Is it?”
“It’s a slow, careful process—you can’t risk damaging the case. You only use information that comes through it. It takes research, a kind of talent,” he said with a ghost of a smile. “And a hell of a lot of patience. You do it right, you got the whole picture when you’re done.”
“A very interesting analogy, Detective.” And one that made her incredibly nervous. “And are you getting the whole picture?”
“Just bits and pieces, Dr. Jones. Just bits and pieces.” He dug around in his pocket and came up with an open pack of Juicy Fruit. “Gum?”
“No, thank you.”
“Quit smoking.” He took out a piece, carefully unwrapped it and put the paper and the foil into his pocket again. “Still driving me nuts. Got this patch on, but it’s not all it’s cracked up to be, let me tell you. You smoke?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Smart girl. Me, I used to suck down two packs a day. Then it got to be you can’t smoke here, you can’t smoke there. You’re catching a couple drags in some closet or going outside in the rain. Makes you feel like a criminal.” He smiled again.
Miranda barely resisted shifting her feet, and instead imagined herself tapping her foot, snapping her fingers. “I’m sure it’s a difficult habit to break.”
“An addiction’s what it is. It’s a hard thing to face up to, an addiction. It can take over your life, make you do things you wouldn’t do otherwise.”
He knew about Andrew’s drinking. She could see it in his eyes, and thought he wanted her to see it. “I never smoked,” she said flatly. “Would you like to go to my office?”
“No, no, I won’t keep you long.” He drew a breath of air that smelled of paint and turpentine and commercial cleaner. “Didn’t think I’d run into you at all, since I’d been told you were out on leave. Took a little vacation?”
She started to agree. She wasn’t sure if it was instinct or simple fear that stopped her. “I’m sure you’re aware that I was told to take leave, Detective, due to the break-in here, and some difficulties that came out of my trip to Florence last month.”
She was quick, he thought, and not easily tripped. “I heard something about it. Another bronze piece, right? You had some trouble authenticating it.”
“I don’t think so. Others do.” She moved away from the painting, well aware ears were pricked.
“It caused you some trouble anyway. Two bronzes. Funny, don’t you think?”
“There’s nothing funny to me about having my reputation on the line.”
“I can understand that. Still, you only had to stay out a few days.”
This time she didn’t even hesitate. “It would have been longer, but we’re beginning an important project that falls into my specific field of knowledge.”
“Somebody mentioned that to me. And I heard about your man in Italy. The murder. That’s a rough one.”
Distress came into her eyes, made her look away. “He was a friend. A good one.”
“Got any idea who’d take him out that way?”
She looked back now, coldly. “Detective Cook, if I knew who had crushed my friend’s skull, I’d be in Florence, talking to the police.”
Cook moved the gum to the other side of his mouth with his tongue. “I didn’t know they’d released the fractured skull.”
“My mother was informed,” she said in the same chilly voice, “as was Giovanni’s family.” She could only pray that was true. “Are you investigating his murder, or our burglary?”
“Just curious. Cops are curious.” He spread his hands. “I came in because your brother’s got a theory on how maybe the two incidents are connected.”
“Yes, he told me. Do you see a connection?”
“Sometimes you don’t see it until you’re on top of it. You also authenticated the, ah . . .” He took out his notebook, flipped through as if to refresh his memory. “Bronze David, sixteenth century, in the style of Leonardo.”
Though she felt her palms go damp, she resisted rubbing them on her trousers. “That’s correct.”
“Nobody can seem to lay their hands on the paperwork for that, the reports, documents, pictures.”
“Andrew told me that as well. I can only assume the thief took the authenticating documents as well as the bronze.”
“That makes sense, but he’d have to know just where to look, wouldn’t he? Camera blips only put him inside for . . .” He flipped pages again. “About ten minutes. He’d have to be fast as greased lightning to have added a trip to the lab for records. I did the route at a fast walk myself. Takes a full minute. That doesn’t seem like much, but when you put it into an eight-to-ten-minute time span, it’s a chunk.”
She couldn’t afford to allow her gaze to waver, her voice to weaken. “All I can tell you is the records were filed, and now they’re missing, as is the bronze.”
“You have many people work alone here at night, after hours? Like your friend in Florence.”
“Occasionally, though it would only be senior staff. Security wouldn’t allow anyone else entrance once the building was closed.”
“Like you and your brother coming in the week after the burglary.”
“Excuse me?”
“I got a statement here from your night security. He says that on March twenty-three, about
two-thirty A.M., you called in and informed him you and Dr. Andrew Jones were coming in to do some lab work. Would that be accurate?”
“I wouldn’t argue with it.”
“That’s late hours you keep.”
“Not habitually.” Her heart was stampeding in her chest, but her hands were steady enough as she realigned a loosened pin in her hair. “We decided to come in and get some work done while it was quiet. Is that a problem, Detective?”
“Not for me. Just keeping it tidy.” He tucked his notebook away, scanned the room again. “You know, it’s hard to find a paper clip out of place here. You and your brother run a tidy, organized place.”
“At home he leaves his socks on the living room floor and never puts his keys in the same place twice.” Was she getting too good at this? she wondered. Was she, in some nasty little way, actually starting to enjoy dancing with a cop?
“I bet you do—keep everything in its place, I mean. I bet you put everything in the same place every time. A routine, a habit.”
“You could call it an addiction.” Yes, she realized, in some small way she was enjoying it. Enjoying the fact that she was holding her own. “Detective, I have an appointment very soon, and I’m pressed for time.”
“Didn’t mean to keep you so long. Appreciate the time, and the explanation,” he added, gesturing toward the painting. “Looks like an awful lot of work. Almost be easier to paint the whole thing over again.”
“Then it wouldn’t be a Bronzino.”
“A lot of people wouldn’t know the difference. You would.” He nodded at her. “I bet you could spot a forgery just by eyeballing it.”
She wondered if the blood had drained from her face or if it merely seemed that way. He’d gotten so close, and so quickly, while she’d been smugly congratulating herself on playing her part to perfection.
“Not always. A visual study isn’t, can’t be conclusive if the fake is well executed. It takes laboratory tests.”
“Like the ones you run here, the ones you were doing in Florence last month.”
“Yes, exactly like those.” The sweat that ran in a thin trail down her back was ice cold. “If you have an interest, I can arrange a demonstration. But not at the moment,” she said with a glance at her watch. “I really—” She broke off, swamped by a war of relief and nerves when Ryan came through the door.
