Homeport

by Nora Roberts

  sparing no expense with security.”

  “No motion detectors,” he murmured.

  “You wanted them.”

  “The system I wanted would have meant taking up the floor.” He looked down at the thick and lovely marble. “The brass wouldn’t go for it.”

  By brass he meant their parents. His father had been appalled at the idea of destroying the floor, and nearly as appalled by the estimated cost of the proposed system.

  “Probably wouldn’t have mattered,” he said with a shrug. “Just as likely he’d have found a way to get past that too. Damn it, Miranda, security’s my responsibility.”

  “This is not your fault.”

  He sighed and desperately, viciously, wanted a drink. “It’s always somebody’s fault. I’ll have to tell them. I don’t even know how to contact the old man in Utah.”

  “She’ll know, but let’s not move too fast. Let me think a minute.” She closed her eyes and stood still. “As you said, it could have been much worse. We only lost one piece—and we may very well recover it. Meanwhile, it’s insured and the police are on their way. Everything’s being done. We have to let the police do their job.”

  “I have to do mine, Miranda. I have to call Florence.” He worked up a weak smile. “Look at it this way—our little incident might push your problem with her to the back burner for a while.”

  She snorted. “If I thought that would happen, I might have stolen the damn thing myself.”

  “Dr. Jones.” A man stepped into the room, his cheeks red with cold, his eyes of pale green narrowly focused under heavy graying brows. “And Dr. Jones. Detective Cook.” He held up a gold shield. “Word is you’ve lost something.”

  By nine, Miranda’s head was pounding violently enough for her to give in and lay it down on her desk. She had her door closed, had barely resisted the urge to lock it, and was allowing herself ten minutes to indulge in despair and self-pity.

  She’d only managed five when her intercom buzzed. “Miranda, I’m sorry.” There was both concern and hesitation in Lori’s voice. “Dr. Standford-Jones in on line one. Do you want me to tell her you’re unavailable?”

  Oh, it was tempting. But she drew a deep breath, straightened her spine. “No, I’ll take it. Thank you, Lori.” Because her voice sounded rusty, she cleared it, then punched line one. “Hello, Mother.”

  “The testing on the Fiesole Bronze has been completed,” Elizabeth said without preamble.

  “I see.”

  “Your findings were inaccurate.”

  “I don’t believe they were.”

  “Whatever you insist on believing, they have been disproved. The bronze is nothing more than a clever and well-executed attempt to mimic Renaissance style and materials. The authorities are investigating Carlo Rinaldi, the man who claimed to have found the piece.”

  “I want to see the results of the second test.”

  “That is not an option.”

  “You can arrange it. I’m entitled to—”

  “You’re entitled to nothing, Miranda. Let’s understand each other. My priority at this point is to prevent this damage from spreading. We’ve already had two government projects canceled. Your reputation, and as a result, my own, is under attack. There are some who believe you purposely doctored tests and results in order to take credit for a find.”

  With slow care, Miranda wiped away the ring of moisture that a teacup had left on her desk. “Is that what you believe?”

  The hesitation spoke more clearly than the words that followed it. “I believe you allowed ambition, haste, and enthusiasm to cloud judgment, logic, and efficiency. I take the responsibility, as I involved you.”

  “I’m responsible for myself. Thank you for your support.”

  “Sarcasm is unbecoming. I’m sure the media will attempt to contact you over the next few days. You’ll be unavailable for comment.”

  “I have plenty of comments.”

  “Which you’ll keep to yourself. It would be best if you took a leave of absence.”

  “Would it?” Her hand was starting to tremble, so she balled it into a fist. “That’s a passive admission of guilt, and I won’t do it. I want to see those results. If I made a mistake, at least I need to know where and how.”

  “It’s out of my hands.”

  “Fine. I’ll find a way around you.” She glanced over in irritation as her fax rang and whined. “I’ll contact Ponti myself.”

  “I’ve already spoken to him. He has no interest in you. The matter is closed. Transfer me to Andrew’s office.”

  “Oh, I’ll be delighted to. He has some news for you.” Furious, she jabbed the hold button and buzzed Lori. “Transfer this call to Andrew,” she ordered, then shoved away from her desk.

  She took a deep breath first. She would give Andrew a few moments, then go in to him. She would be calm when she did. Calm and supportive. To manage that, she had to push her own problem aside for a while, and concentrate on the break-in.

  To distract herself, she walked over and snagged the page from the fax tray.

  And her blood iced over.

  You were so sure, weren’t you? It appears you were wrong. How will you explain it?

  What’s left for you now, Miranda, now that your reputation is in tatters? Nothing. That’s all you were, a reputation, a name, a chestful of degrees.

  Now you’re just pitiful. Now you have nothing.

  Now I have everything.

  How does it feel, Miranda, to be exposed as a fraud, to be found incompetent? To be a failure?

  She clutched one hand between her breasts as she read it through. Her ragged, rapid breathing made her head go light so that she staggered back, leaned heavily on the desk to steady herself.

  “Who are you?” Anger leaked through, balancing her again. “Who the hell are you?”

  It doesn’t matter, she told herself. She wouldn’t let these mean, petty messages affect her. They meant nothing.

  But she slipped the fax into the drawer with the other, and locked it.

  She’d find out eventually. There was always a way to find out. Putting her hands to her cheeks, she pressed to bring the blood back into her face. And when she found out, she promised herself, she would deal with it.

  Now wasn’t the time to concern herself with nasty little taunts. She drew in air, exhaled, rubbed her hands together until they were warm again.

  Andrew needed her. The Institute needed her. Her eyes squeezed tightly shut as the pressure in her chest built into pain. She wasn’t just a name, a collection of degrees.

  She was more than that. She intended to prove it.

  Squaring her shoulders, she marched out of her office with the intention of marching into Andrew’s.

  At least two members of the family would stand by each other.

  Detective Cook stood by Lori’s desk. “Another moment of your time, Dr. Jones.”

  “Of course.” Even as her stomach dipped, she composed her features and gestured. “Please come in and sit down. Lori, hold my calls please. Can I get you coffee, Detective?”

  “No, thanks. I’m cutting back. Caffeine and tobacco, they’re real killers.” He settled into a chair, took out his notebook. “Dr. Jones—Dr. Andrew Jones tells me that the piece that was taken was insured.”

  “The Institute is fully insured against theft, and fire.”

  “Five hundred thousand dollars. Isn’t that a lot for a little piece like that? It wasn’t signed or anything either, is that right?”

  “The artist was unknown, but believed to be a student of Leonardo da Vinci.” She longed to nurse the nagging ache in her temple, but kept her hands still. “It was an excellent study of David, circa 1524.”

  She’d tested it herself, she thought sourly. And no one had questioned her findings.

  “Five hundred thousand is well within the range should the piece have been auctioned or sold to a collector,” she added.

  “You do that kind of thing here?” Cook pursed his lips. “S
ell off?”

  “Occasionally. We also acquire. It’s part of our purpose.”

  He let his gaze skim around her office. Efficient, neat, with high-end equipment and a desk that was probably worth a small fortune as well. “It takes a lot of money to run a place like this.”

  “Yes, it does. The fees we generate for classes, consulting work, and admissions cover a large part of it. There’s also a trust fund set up by my grandfather. In addition patrons often donate funds or collections.” Though it flickered through her mind that it might be wise to call their lawyer, she leaned forward. “Detective Cook, we don’t need five hundred thousand dollars in insurance money to run the Institute.”

  “I guess it’s a drop in the bucket. Of course, for some people it’s a nice chunk of change. Especially if they gamble or have debts, or just want to buy a fancy car.”

  However tight her neck and shoulders were now, she met his gaze levelly. “I don’t gamble, I don’t have any difficult debts, and I have a car.”

  “If you’ll excuse me saying so, Dr. Jones, you don’t seem particularly upset about this loss.”

  “Is my being upset going to help you recover the bronze?”

  He clucked his tongue. “You got a point. Your brother now, he’s pretty shaken up.”

  Because her eyes clouded, she dropped her gaze and stared into the remains of her tea. “He feels responsible. He takes things to heart.”

  “And you don’t?”

  “Feel responsible, or take things to heart?” she countered, then lifted her hands a few inches off the desk. “In this case, neither.”

  “Just for my notes, would you mind going over your evening for me?”

  “All right.” Her muscles had bunched up again, but she spoke calmly. “Andrew and I both worked until around seven. I sent my assistant home just after six. I had a long-distance call shortly after.”

  “From?”

  “Florence, Italy. An associate of mine.” Distress burned under her breastbone like an ulcer. “I imagine we were on the phone for ten minutes, maybe a little less. Andrew dropped by here a bit after that. We had a discussion, and left together right around seven.”

  “Do you usually come and go to work together?”

  “No, we don’t. Our hours don’t always coincide. I wasn’t feeling well last night, so he took me home. We share the house our grandmother left us. We had a little dinner. I went upstairs around nine.”

  “And stayed in the rest of the night?”

  “Yes, as I said, I wasn’t feeling very well.”

  “And your brother was at home all night.”

  She had no idea. “Yes, he was. I woke him right after I got the call from Mr. Scutter in security, just after six this morning. We came in together, assessed the situation, and ordered Mr. Scutter to call the police.”

  “That little bronze . . .” Cook rested his pad on his knee. “You’ve got pieces in that gallery worth a lot more, I’d guess. Funny he only took that piece—only one piece after he’d gone to all the trouble to get inside.”

  “Yes,” she said evenly. “I thought the same myself. How would you explain that, Detective?”

  He had to smile. It was a good comeback. “I’d have to say he wanted it. There’s nothing else missing?”

  “The gallery spaces are being checked thoroughly. Nothing else appears to be missing. I don’t know what else I can tell you.”

  “That should do it for now.” He rose, tucked his notebook away. “We’ll be interviewing your staff, and it’s likely I’ll need to talk to you again.”

  “We’re more than willing to cooperate.” She rose as well. She wanted him out. “You can contact me here, or at home,” she continued as she walked to the door. When she opened it, she saw Ryan pacing the outer office.

  “Miranda.” He came straight to her, took both of her hands. “I just heard.”

  For some reason tears swam close again, and were battled back. “Bad day,” she managed.

  “I’m so sorry. How much was taken? Do the police have any leads?”

  “I—Ryan, this is Detective Cook. He’s in charge. Detective, this is Ryan Boldari, an associate.”

  “Detective.” Ryan could have spotted him as a cop from six blocks at a dead run in the opposite direction.

  “Mr. Boldari. You work here?”

  “No, I own galleries in New York and San Francisco. I’m here on business for a few days. Miranda, what can I do to help?”

  “There’s nothing. I don’t know.” It hit her again, like a wave, and made her hands tremble in his.

  “You should sit down, you’re upset.”

  “Mr. Boldari?” Cook held up a finger as Ryan turned to nudge Miranda back into her office. “What are the names of your galleries?”

  “Boldari,” he said with an arch of brow. “The Boldari Gallery.” He slipped out a hammered-silver case and removed a business card. “The addresses for both are there. Excuse me, Detective. Dr. Jones needs a moment.”

  It gave him a quiet satisfaction to shut the door in Cook’s face. “Sit down, Miranda. Tell me what happened.”

  She did as he asked, grateful now for the firm grip of his hand on hers.

  “Only one piece,” Ryan said when she’d finished. “Odd.”

  “He had to be a stupid thief,” she said with some spirit. “He could have cleaned out that display without much more time and no more effort.”

  Ryan tucked his tongue in his cheek and reminded himself not to be offended. “Apparently he was selective, but stupid? Difficult to believe a stupid man—or woman for that matter—could get past your security with such apparent ease and speed.”

  “Well, he might know electronics, but he doesn’t know art.” Unable to sit, she rose and flipped on her coffeepot. “The David was a lovely little piece, but hardly the best we have. Oh it doesn’t matter,” she muttered, dragging a hand through her hair. “I sound as though I’m annoyed he didn’t take more or choose better. I’m just so angry that he got in at all.”

  “As I would be.” He walked over to kiss the top of her head. “I’m sure the police will find him, and David. Cook struck me as an efficient type.”

  “I suppose—once he eliminates Andrew and me from his list of suspects and can concentrate on finding the real thief.”

  “That would be typical, I’d imagine.” The little worm of guilt wriggled again as he turned her to face him. “You’re not worried about that part, are you?”

  “No, not really. Annoyed, but not worried. I appreciate you coming by, Ryan, I—Oh, lunch,” she remembered. “I’m not going to be able to make it.”

  “Don’t give it a thought. We’ll reschedule when I make my next trip in.”

  “Next trip?”

  “I have to leave this evening. I’d hoped to stay another day or two . . . for personal reasons. But I need to get back tonight.”

  “Oh.” She hadn’t thought it possible to be any more unhappy.

  He lifted her hands to his lips. Sad eyes, he thought, were so compelling. “It wouldn’t hurt to miss me. It might help take your mind off all this.”

  “I have a feeling I’m going to be busy for the next few days. But I’m sorry you can’t stay longer. This won’t—This problem isn’t going to change your mind about the exchange, is it?”

  “Miranda.” He enjoyed the moment, playing the stalwart and supporting hero. “Don’t be foolish. The Vasaris will be in your hands within the month.”

  “Thank you. After the morning I’ve had, I appreciate the confidence more than I can tell you.”

  “And you’ll miss me.”