Homeport

by Nora Roberts

  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. W
ith 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.

  She thought the vinegar would go very well with the crow her mother would soon be sampling.

  She’d completed the first draft and was beginning the refinements when the phone rang.

  “New England Institute, Dr. Jones.”

  “Miranda, thank God I caught you.”

  “Excuse me.” Annoyed at the clicking, she shifted the phone and tugged off her earring. “Who’s calling?”

  “It’s Giovanni.”

  “Giovanni?” She scanned her desk clock, calculated time. “It’s after midnight there. Is something wrong?”

  “Everything’s wrong. It’s a disaster. I didn’t dare call you earlier, but I felt you had to know, as soon as possible, before . . . before morning.”

  Her heart jerked once, brutally hard, and the earring she’d removed fell to bounce musically on her desk. “My mother? Has something happened to my mother?”

  “Yes—no. She’s well, she’s not hurt. I’m sorry. I’m upset.”

  “It’s all right.” To calm herself she closed her eyes, took deep, quiet breaths. “Just tell me what’s happened.”

  “The bronze, the Fiesole bronze. It’s a fake.”

  “That’s ridiculous.” She sat straight up, her voice snapping out. “Of course it’s not a fake. Who says so?”

  “The results came back earlier today from the tests taken in Rome. Arcana-Jasper Laboratories. Dr. Ponti oversaw the testing. You know his work?”

  “Yes, of course. You have bad information, Giovanni.”

  “I tell you, I saw the results myself. Dr. Standford-Jones called me in, along with Richard and Elise, as we were on the original team. She even raked Vincente. She’s furious, Miranda, and humiliated and not a little sick. The bronze is fake. It was probably cast no more than months ago, if that. The formula was right for the metal, even the patina was perfect, and could have been mistaken.”

  “I didn’t mistake anything,” she insisted, but could feel crab claws of panic crawling up her spine.

  “The corrosion levels were wrong, all wrong. I don’t know how we missed it, Miranda, but they were wrong. Some attempt had been made to create them in the metal, but it wasn’t successful.”

  “You saw the results, the computer photos, the X rays.”

  “I know it. I told your mother this, but . . .”

  “But what, Giovanni?”

  “She asked me who took the X rays, who programmed the computer. Who ran the radiation tests. Cara, I’m sorry.”

  “I understand.” She was numb now, her mind clouding. “It’s my responsibility. I took the tests, I wrote the reports.”

  “If it hadn’t been for the leak to the press, we could have swept this under the rug, at least part of it.”

  “Ponti could be wrong.” She rubbed her hand over her mouth. “He could be wrong. I didn’t miss something as basic as corrosion levels. I need to think about this, Giovanni. I appreciate you telling me.”

  “I hate to ask, Miranda, but I must if I hope to keep my position. Your mother can’t know I spoke with you about this, spoke with you at all. I believe she intends to contact you in the morning herself.”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t mention your name. I can’t talk now. I need to think.”

  “All right. I’m sorry, so sorry.”

  Slowly, deliberately, she replaced the receiver and sat, still as a stone, staring at nothing. She struggled to bring all the data back into her mind, to make order of it, to see it again as clearly as she had in Florence. But there was nothing but a buzzing that made her give in and drop her head between her knees.

  A fake? It couldn’t be. It wasn’t possible. Her breath came short, making it impossible to fill her lungs. Then her fingertips began to tingle as the numbness passed and the shaking began.

  She’d been careful, she assured herself.
She’d been thorough. She’d been accurate. Her heart thudded so painfully she pressed the heel of her hand against her sternum.

  Oh God, she hadn’t been careful enough, thorough enough, accurate enough.

  Had her mother been right? Despite all her claims to the contrary, had she made up her mind about the bronze the moment she’d seen it?

  Wanted it, she admitted, and lifted her head to lean back in the chair in the slow, deliberate movement of the aged or ill. She’d wanted it to be real, wanted to know that she’d held something that important, that precious and rare in her hands.

  Arrogance, Elizabeth had called it. Her arrogance and her