Homeport

by Nora Roberts

  ambition. Had she let that cockiness, that wanting, that thirst for approval cloud her judgment and affect her work?

  No, no, no. She fisted her hands, pressed them against her eyes. She’d seen the pictures, the radiation results, the chemical tests. Studied them. They were fact, and fact didn’t lie. Every test had proven her belief. There had to be a mistake, but she hadn’t made it.

  Because if she had, she thought, and lowered her fists to the desk, it was worse than failure. No one would trust her again. She wouldn’t even trust herself.

  She closed her eyes, laid her head back.

  That was how Andrew found her twenty minutes later.

  “I saw your light. I was working late myself, and . . .” He trailed off, pausing at the doorway. She was pale as water, and when she opened her eyes they were too dark, too bright, and too blank. “Hey, are you sick?”

  Though illness made him nervous, he crossed the room to lay a palm to her brow. “You’re cold.” Instinctively he took her hands between his and began to rub. “You’ve got a chill or something. I’ll take you home. You should lie down.”

  “Andrew . . .” She was going to have to say it, say it out loud. And her throat was raw on the words. “The Dark Lady. It’s fake.”

  “What?” He’d begun to pat her head. Now his hand froze there. “The bronze? In Florence?”

  “The retesting. The results are in. The corrosion growth is wrong, the radiation figures are wrong. Ponti, in Rome. He supervised the tests himself.”

  He sat on the edge of the desk, knowing brotherly head pats were not going to soothe this sickness away. “How do you know?”

  “Giovanni—he just called. He wasn’t supposed to. If Mother finds out she could fire him for it.”

  “Okay.” Giovanni wasn’t his concern at the moment. “Are you sure his information’s accurate?”

  “I don’t want to think so.” She crossed her arms over her chest, digging her fingers into her biceps. Squeezing, releasing, squeezing, releasing. “He wouldn’t have contacted me otherwise. Mother called him and Elise and Richard Hawthorne in to tell them. Vincente too. I imagine she blasted them. They’re going to say I screwed up.” Her voice broke, causing her to shake her head fiercely as if to deny the emotion. “Just as she predicted.”

  “Did you?”

  She opened her mouth to deny that too, just as fiercely. But closed it again, pressing her lips together. Control, she ordered herself. At the very least she needed control. “I don’t see how. I ran the tests. I followed procedure. I documented the results. But I wanted it, Andrew, maybe I wanted it too much.”

  “I’ve never known you to let what you want get in the way of what is.” He couldn’t stand to see her look so stricken. Of the two of them, she’d always been the stronger. Both of them had counted on it. “Could there have been some technical glitch, faulty equipment?”

  She nearly laughed. “We’re talking about Elizabeth’s pride and joy here, Andrew.”

  “Machines break down.”

  “Or the people inputting data into those machines make mistakes. Ponti’s team could have made one.” She pushed away from the desk now, and though her legs trembled, began to pace. “It’s no more far-fetched than my making one. I need to see my data again, and the results. I need to see his. I need to see The Dark Lady.”

  “You’ll need to talk to her.”

  “I know.” She stopped, turned to the window, but saw only the dark. “I’d call her now if it wouldn’t damage Giovanni’s confidence. I’d rather get it over with than wait until she contacts me.”

  “You were always one to take your medicine in one gulp. I’m a big believer in putting off forever what you don’t want to face today.”

  “There’s no avoiding it. When the results are made public, it’s going to ripple down. I’ll be either a fool or a fraud, and one’s as bad as the other. Vincente will find some spin to put on it, but it won’t stop the press. She was right about that. It’ll affect Standjo, her, me.” She turned back to face him. “It’s going to affect the Institute.”

  “We can handle it.”

  “This is my mess, Andrew. Not yours.”

  He walked over, put his hands on her shoulder. “No.” He said it simply, and had tears burning the backs of her eyes. “We’ll stand together, just like always.”

  She let out a breath, leaned into him and let herself be comforted. But she thought their mother might give her no choice. If it came down to the Institute or her daughter, there was no doubt in Miranda’s mind which would take precedence.

  eight

  T he midnight wind was bitter as a scorned woman and just as bad-tempered. Ryan didn’t mind it. He found it invigorating as he walked the three crosstown blocks from where he’d parked his car.

  Everything he needed was under his coat in pouches and pockets or in the small briefcase he carried. If the cops stopped him for some reason, and took a look, he’d be in a cage before he could exercise his civil right for a phone call. But that was just part of the thrill.

  God, he would miss it, he thought, and strode along with the eager step of a man hurrying to meet a lover. The planning stage was over, and so was that aspect of his life. Now the execution was approaching, his last. He wanted to file every detail in his mind so that when he was a very old man with grandchildren at his feet, he could bring back this young and vital feeling of power.

  He scanned the streets. The trees were bare and shivering in the wind, the traffic was spotty, the moon faded to a hint of shape by the city lights and the drifting clouds. He passed a bar where a blue neon martini glass winked in the window, and smiled. He might just slip in for a drink after work. A small toast to the end of an era seemed appropriate.

  He crossed the street at the light, a law-abiding citizen who wouldn’t dream of jaywalking. At least not when he was in possession of burglary tools.

  He saw the Institute up ahead, a majestic silhouette of good Yankee granite. It pleased him that his last job would be to break into such a proud and dignified old building.

  The windows were dark but for the glow of security lights in the lobby. He thought it was odd, and really rather sweet, that people left on lights to keep thieves at bay. A good one could steal in broad daylight as easily as under the cover of dark.

  And he was very good.

  His gaze swept up and down the street before he checked his watch. His stakeouts had given him the pattern of police cruisers in the area. Unless there was a call for one, he had a good fifteen minutes before a black-and-white would pass this way.

  He crossed to the south side of the building, keeping his gait brisk but unhurried. His long coat gave him the illusion of bulk, the snappy fedora shadowed his face, and the hair beneath it was now a dignified and rather dapper steel gray.

  Anyone taking notice of him would see a middle-aged businessman, slightly overweight.

  He was still two yards from the door, and out of range of the camera, when he took his jammer out of his pocket and aimed it. He saw the red light blink off, and moved quickly.

  His forged key card took some finesse, but the slot accepted and read it on the third try. Recalling the code from memory, he logged it in, and was inside the anteroom within forty-five seconds. He reset the camera—there was no use having some gung-ho guard come out to check—then closed the door, relocked it.

  He took off his coat and hung it neatly beside the staff’s soft-drink and snack machines. His black doeskin gloves went into the pocket. Beneath them he wore thin surgical gloves any honest man could buy by the box from a medical supply store. He covered his silver hair with a black cap.

  Efficiently, he checked his tools one last time.

  It was only then that he let himself pause, just for a moment, and enjoy.

  He stood in the dark listening to the silence that wasn’t really silence at all. Buildings had their language, and this one hummed and creaked. He could hear the whirl of the heat through the vents, the sighs of the wind
pressing at the door behind him.

  The guard and security rooms were a level above, and the floors were thick. He heard nothing from them, and they, he knew, heard nothing from him. With his eyes adjusted to the dark, he moved to the next door. It had a good police lock that required his picks, his penlight, which he clamped between his teeth, and approximately thirty seconds of his time to deal with.

  He smiled at the music of tumblers clicking, then slipped through and into the hallway.

  The first camera was at the end of the corridor where it split left and right. It didn’t overly concern him. He was a shadow among shadows here, and the camera was aimed toward the gallery. He slid along the wall beneath it, out of range, and took the left fork.

  Aladdin’s Cave, he thought when he crouched just outside the South Gallery. The Tower of London, Blackbeard’s Treasure, Wonderland. Such a place was all the fairy tales he’d read and been read as a child.

  Glorious anticipation shimmered along his skin, tightened his muscles, churned like desire in his gut. His for the taking. It made him think how easily a professional could succumb to greed—and disaster.

  Once more he checked his watch. The Yankee sensibility in such a place would mean guards still did rounds, though the cameras and sensors should have sufficed. Of course, he was proof they didn’t, and if he was in charge of security, he’d have employed twice as many guards and doubled their rounds.

  But that wasn’t his job.

  He didn’t use his light now, and didn’t need it. Even the pinhole glow would set off the sensors. Using his measurements and excellent night vision, he moved to the corner of the gallery, aimed his jammer, and shut down the bothersome camera.

  In one part of his brain he counted off seconds. The rest of him moved fast. By the time he crouched in front of the display, his glass cutter was in hand. He made a neat circle, slightly larger than his fist, suctioned it off with barely a tickle of sound, and set it neatly on the top of the cabinet.

  He worked quickly, but with a smooth economy of motion that was as innate as the color of his eyes. He wasted no time in admiring his take, or considering the delight of taking more than what he’d come for. That was for amateurs. He simply reached in, picked up the bronze, and tucked it into the pouch on his belt.

  Because he appreciated order, and irony, he fitted the circle of glass back into place, then cat-footed it back to the corner. He turned the camera on again, and started back the way he came.

  By his count it had taken him seventy-five seconds.

  When he reached the anteroom, he transferred the bronze to the briefcase, snuggling it between two thick slabs of foam. He switched hats, stripped off the surgical gloves and rolled them neatly into his pocket.

  He bundled into his coat, keyed himself out, locked up tidily behind him, and was a block away in less than ten minutes from the time he’d entered the building.

  Smooth, slick, and neat, he thought. A good way to end a career. He eyed the bar again, nearly went inside. At the last minute he decided he’d go back to the hotel and order up a bottle of champagne instead.

  Some toasts were private matters.

  At six A.M., after a sleepless night, Miranda was shocked out of her first real doze by the ringing of the phone. Headachy, disoriented, she fumbled for the receiver.

  “Dr. Jones. Pronto.” No, not Italy. Maine. Home. “Hello?”

  “Dr. Jones, this is Ken Scutter, security.”

  “Mr. Scutter.” She got no image from the name and was too bleary to try for one. “What is it?”

  “We’ve had an incident.”

  “An incident?” As her mind began to clear she pushed herself up in bed. The sheets and blankets were tangled around her like wrappings on a mummy, and she cursed under her breath as she fought her way free. “What sort of incident?”

  “It wasn’t noticed until the change of shifts, moments ago, but I wanted to contact you immediately. We’ve had a break-in.”

  “A break-in.” She bolted up fully awake, the blood rushing into her head in a flood. “At the Institute?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I thought you’d want to come right over.”

  “Was there damage? Was something stolen?”

  “No real damage, Dr. Jones. One item is missing from the South Gallery display. Cataloguing indicates it’s a fifteenth-century bronze, artist unknown, of David.”

  A bronze, she thought. She was suddenly plagued by bronzes. “I’m on my way.”

  She bolted out of bed, and without bothering with her robe, raced in her blue flannel pajamas to Andrew’s room. She burst in, shot toward the mound in the bed, and shook viciously.

  “Andrew, wake up. There’s been a break-in.”

  “Huh? What?” He shoved at her hand, ran a tongue around his teeth, started to yawn. His jaw cracked as he shot up in bed. “What? Where? When?”

  “At the Institute. There’s a bronze missing from the South Gallery. Get dressed, let’s move.”

  “A bronze?” He rubbed a hand over his face. “Miranda, were you dreaming?”

  “Scutter from security just phoned,” she snapped out. “I don’t dream. Ten minutes, Andrew,” she said over her shoulder as she hurried out.

  Within forty, she was standing beside her brother in the South Gallery, staring down at the perfect circle in the glass, and the empty space behind it. Miranda’s stomach rolled once, then dropped to her knees.

  “Call the police, Mr. Scutter.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He signaled to one of his men. “I ordered a sweep of the building—it’s still under way—but so far we’ve found nothing out of place, and nothing else missing.”

  Andrew nodded. “I’ll want to review the security tapes for the last twenty-four hours.”

  “Yes, sir.” Scutter heaved a sigh. “Dr. Jones, the night chief reported a small problem with two of the cameras.”

  “Problem.” Miranda turned. She remembered Scutter now. He was a short, barrel-shaped man, a former cop who’d decided to trade the streets for private security. His record was spotless. Andrew had interviewed and hired him personally.

  “This camera.” Scutter shifted, gestured up. “It blanked for about ninety seconds yesterday morning. No one thought much of it, though the standard diagnostic was run. Last night, at about midnight, the exterior camera on the south entrance failed for just under a minute. There were high winds, and the glitch was attributed to weather. This interior camera also went off, for about eighty seconds between midnight and one. The exact times will be stamped on the tapes.”

  “I see.” Andrew stuck his hands in his pockets and balled them into fists. “Opinion, Mr. Scutter?”

  “My take would be the burglar’s a pro, with a knowledge of security and electronics. He got in through the south side, bypassed the alarm, and the camera. He knew what he was after, didn’t piss around—excuse me, Dr. Jones,” he muttered with an apologetic nod toward Miranda. “It tells me he knows the museum, the setup.”

  “And he waltzes in,” Miranda said with barely suppressed fury, “takes what he wants, then waltzes out—despite a complex and expensive security system, and half a dozen armed guards.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Scutter’s lips thinned as he pressed them together. “That pretty much sums it up.”

  “Thank you. Will you go out in the lobby and wait for the police, please?” She waited until his footsteps receded; then because she was alone with Andrew, she allowed the steam to show.

  “Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch, Andrew.” She stalked in a straight line to the camera in question, scowled at it, then stalked back. “That man wants us to believe that someone can override the security, slide in here, and steal one specific piece of art in less than ten minutes.”

  “That’s the most likely theory, unless you think the guards have a conspiracy going, and the lot of them suddenly developed an obsession for small, naked Italian boys cast in bronze.”

  He was sick inside. He’d loved that piece, the vitality and the pu
re arrogance of it. “It could have been a hell of a lot worse, Miranda.”

  “Our security failed, our property was taken. How could it be worse?”

  “From the looks of it, this guy could have loaded up a Santa sack and cleaned out half this area.”

  “One piece or a dozen, we’ve still been violated. God.” She covered her face with her hands. “Nothing’s been taken from the Institute since the six paintings in the fifties, and four of them were recovered.”

  “Then maybe we were due,” he said wearily.

  “Bullshit.” She spun on her heel. “We protected our property,