“I just wanted to fix this glitch before Monday. Now tell me why you're still pissed at Jared.”
Jared had left the room only moments before, and though a security problem had been ironed out successfully, neither man had been happy with the other.
“He nearly got you killed,” Wolfe muttered, reaching up to absently scratch Bear under his chin. “Besides that, I don't like being lied to.”
Eyeing him shrewdly, Storm said, “You haven't been snapping at Max—or me. Neither of us was especially truthful there for a while. Give Jared a break, will you, please?”
“I am giving him a break. I'm still speaking to him.”
Storm laughed softly, shaking her head. If she had learned anything since meeting him, she had learned that Wolfe's stubbornness equaled her own. “Well, just try to remember that he is on our side, after all. He's not the enemy.”
“All right.”
She sat back in her chair as the computer digested her commands, and smiled up at him. “Besides, there are better ways to focus your energy. Do you realize you haven't thrown me to the floor and had your way with me even once today?”
He frowned. “Wasn't that you this morning? Among all the boxes in the living room?”
“Yes, but that was before breakfast.”
He leaned across the desk, meeting her halfway as she straightened in her chair, and kissed her. “And wasn't that you I had lunch with today?” he murmured.
“Yes, but that was in a bed.”
Wolfe glanced aside at the minuscule floor space of the computer room, then eyed her rather cluttered desk. “Well, there's no room in here.”
Storm sighed mournfully. “I knew it. Engaged just a few weeks, and already you're getting bored with me.”
“If I get any more bored with you, they're going to have to put me in traction.”
She laughed. “Complaining?”
“Hell, no.” He smiled, and his eyes were like the glowing blue at the base of a flame. “In fact, I'm a bit anxious to get back to that new house of ours and have another go at christening the bed.”
They had found and rented a terrific house with an enclosed garden, where Bear could sun himself and chase bugs, and had moved their things there days ago. But with their working hours—and tendency to forget practical matters whenever they were alone—they were still in the process of settling in.
Though they hadn't yet decided where “home” would be in the future, the Mysteries Past exhibit would demand that both of them remain in San Francisco for at least the coming months.
“We need to finish unpacking,” she pointed out mildly.
“A minute ago you were hot for my body,” he said in a wounded tone.
“I still am, but when it comes to love among the boxes—once is enough.” Storm grinned at him and began typing in the commands that would get her out of the computer system for the day. “By the way—even though neither of you has said much about it, it's pretty obvious you and Jared have known each other a long time. Not so surprising, I suppose, given your jobs. Him with Interpol and you with Lloyd's.”
“Our paths have crossed in the last ten years,” Wolfe admitted.
“So you've learned to respect each other's authority.”
Her voice had been placid, but Wolfe realized she wasn't yet prepared to drop the subject.
“Yes,” he said, “we respect each other's authority—and ability to do our jobs. That hasn't changed. But Jared crossed a line, Storm. He might not have hung you out like bait on a hook, but he didn't give you information you had every right to know, information that would at least have put you on guard. You deserved better. You know it, I know it, and he knows it.”
“I'm an Interpol agent. Risk comes with the job.”
“You're a technical specialist for Interpol, not a field agent. It was your own sense and savvy that kept you alive, not any training from Interpol. And Jared had no right to put you in that position without so much as a warning to watch your back.”
“What's done is done.”
Wolfe drew a breath and released it slowly. “Look, I know he's your boss. I respect that. You want to defend him, I understand; your loyalty is one of the reasons I love you. But if you expect me to forgive him anytime soon for unnecessarily endangering your life, forget it.”
“It's not going to do me any good to argue, huh?”
“No. Not about this.”
Whatever response Storm might have made became unimportant when the subject of their discussion rapped on the door and pushed it open without waiting for a response.
“We've got trouble,” Jared said.
It was early Saturday evening when Morgan's phone rang, and she picked it up hastily since Quinn was sleeping in the next room. “Hello?”
“How is he?” Max asked.
“Getting restless. I had to threaten to tie him to the bed, but he finally agreed to at least try to sleep. He's already been up a couple of times, Max. The doc was right—he does heal fast.”
“Probably a necessity for a man in his line of work.”
Morgan hesitated, then said, “You don't sound very disapproving of his line of work.”
“It isn't my place to judge. Besides, do you honestly think my approval or disapproval would change anything?”
“No. No, it wouldn't. I guess I'm just surprised at how calmly you're taking all this. And how helpful you've been to Quinn.”
“Did you expect me to say no when you called?”
Morgan had to laugh. “To be honest, it never crossed my mind that you might. All I was thinking was that you could get a doctor here quietly without the police having to know. But it would probably have been better for both of us if you—or I—had called the police that night.”
“Better for the exhibit, you mean?”
“Yeah. Of course that's what I meant. Better for the exhibit.” Morgan cleared her throat. “It would be a dandy way to get at your collection, we both know that. Pretend to be after another thief, pretend to be helping the good guys, and—hey, presto—you're on the inside, where all the goodies are. A Trojan horse.”
“Do you think that's what Alex is doing?”
“I don't know. And neither do you.”
Max sighed. “So far, he's done nothing to threaten the collection. He's at least nominally under Interpol's control, here to work on the right side of the law. I have to believe that. Because the thief he's trying to help Interpol put behind bars is far, far worse than Quinn has ever been.”
“I forgot to ask about that the other night. Who is this thief you're risking your collection to trap?”
“Well, unlike Quinn, this one hasn't caught the fancy of the press or public, so there's been almost no publicity about his activities. You probably haven't heard of him. At Interpol, his code name is Nightshade.”
Briefly distracted by the name, she said, “Isn't that another name for some plants—like belladonna?”
“Pure poison. And he—or she, I suppose—is definitely that. A far more violent and dangerous personality than Quinn, that much everyone is certain of. There have been eight murders committed during Nightshade's robberies in the past six years, all of them because someone got in his way.”
“You're right, I haven't heard of him. Does he work in Europe, or—”
“All over, but the majority of the robberies were committed here in the States. Every law-enforcement agency in the world has tried to identify him, and no one has even come up with a name. No living witnesses, no fingerprints or other forensic evidence conveniently left behind, and the computers can't even find a pattern in the robberies, except that he favors gems and tends toward the more old-fashioned scaling-the-wall-and-breaking-a-window sort of burglaries.”
“Low-tech rather than high-tech.”
“As far as Interpol can determine, yeah. It's one reason we picked an older museum in which to display the collection. Any thief worth his salt is going to know we're installing better electronic security, but he or she
could also be at least reasonably certain that in this huge old building there are bound to be a few chinks in the defenses.”
Morgan thought about that for a moment, then asked curiously, “If there's no pattern, then how do you know all the robberies were committed by the same person?”
Max's sigh was a breath of sound. “Because the bastard always leaves a calling card. Which you don't know about, by the way, because Interpol and other police agencies keep it quiet in order to I.D. his crimes. He always leaves a dead rose. On the body if he kills someone in the commission of the robbery, and in place of whatever gem he took if there was no murder.”
She shivered. “That's a morbid touch.”
“No kidding. You should hear some of the theories advanced by police, FBI, and Interpol behavioral experts. The general consensus is that, aside from his love of gems and his tendency to kill anyone who gets in his way, Nightshade probably has a few more kinks in his nature.”
“Sounds like. And since he's been so elusive, you guys decided to stack the deck in your favor. It's likely that a collection as priceless as yours going on public display for the first time in more than thirty years would lure Nightshade here to San Francisco. And if you know he's here and what he's after, you can set a trap to catch him.”
“That's the idea.”
“Won't he suspect a trap?”
“If he's as smart as everyone agrees he is, he will. But greed tends to undermine common sense, or at least that's the hope in this case. That plus the edge we hope we have: Quinn. Setting a thief to catch a thief. The bait has to be something big, something very tempting to someone like Nightshade, to encourage him to perhaps act more recklessly than is normal for him.”
“I'd say the Bannister collection is probably making him drool,” Morgan said.
“Alex and Jared expect so. It's the only shot they've had at getting their hands on Nightshade, Morgan. In eight years, he hasn't put a foot wrong, and the odds are against him making a serious enough mistake in the future to let the police catch him. And even if he does, God knows how many people will have to die first. So . . . luring him to a trap designed just for him is worth all the risks we're taking.”
“Even the risk that the true danger to the collection is Quinn?”
“Even that.”
“Okay, if we assume Quinn really is doing what he says he's doing, then what's his motive for putting his own life on the line? Is it like Jared said, just a way to stay out of prison himself?”
“That's not my story, Morgan. You'll have to ask Alex about it.”
“And of course he'll tell me the truth.”
“You never know.”
“Yeah. Well, maybe I'll ask him.”
“In the meantime,” Max said, “aside from checking on Alex, I also called to warn you.”
“Oh, Christ, what now?”
“I got a call earlier from Keane Tyler. The body of a murdered woman was found a few miles from the museum. They haven't gotten an I.D. yet, but apparently there's some evidence she's connected to the museum.”
“Connected how?”
“We don't know. Whatever the evidence is, the police intend to keep it quiet.”
“Even from you?”
“Even from me.” Unemotionally, Max added, “Ken Dugan and I were called in to take a look at the body. Neither of us knows her.” Dugan was the head curator of the Museum of Historical Art.
Morgan swallowed. “Maybe I should—”
“Not yet. Keane and his people are talking to museum employees, but I've told him you won't be available until Monday or Tuesday.”
“And he's okay with that?”
“Let's say I called in a favor. He's okay with it. But he will want to speak to you when you get in. Maybe show you a photo of the woman.”
“Max, does this have anything to do with the exhibit?”
“I don't know.”
“They still haven't found out who murdered that poor Ace employee a few weeks ago—”
“We don't know there's a connection between the two murders. As far as the police have been able to determine, this woman is not and never has been an Ace employee.” Ace Security was the company ostensibly handling the installation of the new security system in the museum; Storm was posing as one of their security specialists.
“But she's somehow connected to the museum?”
“That's what Keane says. And because of the exhibit, the police are investigating the possibilities of a connection very thoroughly. In any case, until we know more, it's fairly useless to speculate.”
“Yeah. Yeah, I guess so.”
“I just wanted to let you know what was going on and warn you to expect the police activity when you go back to the museum.”
“Should I tell Alex about this?”
“You can, or Jared will when Alex is back on his feet. I'd wait a couple of days, though. There's nothing he could do about it now anyway. That's assuming there is a connection with the museum.”
“I don't really believe in coincidence, Max.”
“No. No, neither do I. Take care, Morgan.”
“I will. You too.”
In the next room, Quinn listened to two soft clicks and then the dial tone.
“Shit,” he muttered half under his breath.
He put the bedroom phone back on its base and stared down at his left hand as he flexed it slowly. His shoulder throbbed a protest, and he grimaced. But he didn't stop the slow, deliberate movements.
He had to get back on his feet.
Time was running out.
She moved through the darkness as though it were a part of her, slipping between the shadows of the buildings with nothing more than a whisper of sound. Even with the heavier-than-usual pack she carried, she was able to be silent. A distant siren caused her to freeze momentarily, but it faded even farther away and she continued on.
It was a familiar path she walked, one she had walked countless times in recent weeks, but even so she didn't let her guard down. Planning and practice, she had discovered, were the keys to success.
She was very successful, very good at what she did.
Less than ten minutes later, she was moving silently through the dungeonlike corridors of the museum's huge basement. Patrols down here were almost nonexistent, but she was forced to avoid one bored guard moving through the main corridor methodically checking doors.
After he'd gone, she looked at her watch, mentally reminded herself she'd have just enough time before his next pass through the corridor, then continued on.
She had to pass through two more doors, both locked and both easily opened with the aid of tools she carried, before she reached her goal. It was dark down here, with no more than dim safety lights burning, but with the aid of the small but powerful flashlight she carried, there was enough light for her to do her work.
She shrugged off the backpack and knelt to open it. The first thing she lifted from the bag was a canvas-wrapped bundle. She placed it on the floor beside her pack and carefully turned back the canvas to reveal a knife. It was about twelve inches long, with a hammered brass blade and carved wooden handle.
It looked old. It was old.
It was also stained with dried blood.
She smiled and got busy.
By Sunday morning Quinn felt well enough to get dressed and move around Morgan's apartment under his own steam. Slowly at first, but steadily gaining strength.
Max had come by with the doctor to check on his progress early in the day, but other than those visitors Quinn and Morgan were alone together. True to his word, Quinn shelved his Don Juan persona, and she wasn't very surprised to find him an excellent companion.
He was a lively and amusing conversationalist, which she had known, never seemed to lose his sense of humor, could talk intelligently on any number of subjects, had seen a respectable chunk of the world, and played a mean game of poker. He even helped her in the kitchen. Skillfully yet.
Morgan didn't mention the murdered wo
man Max had told her about. She didn't bring up the subject of why Quinn was in San Francisco, ask him exactly what he'd been doing to get himself shot, or castigate him for not telling her the truth—ostensible truth, anyway—about his involvement with the Mysteries Past trap.
Quinn also didn't mention anything potentially touchy. She thought both of them avoided the more dangerous subjects, and though she didn't know his reasons she certainly knew hers.
Quite simply, she didn't want him to lie to her—and she was reasonably sure he would.
They were casual with each other, and aside from one heated argument when Quinn wanted to give up her bed and sleep on the couch instead (Morgan won), they got along fine. But there was a growing awareness between them, a building tension that was difficult to ignore. Perhaps it was the inevitable result of spending so much time together, or perhaps something much more complicated, and by Monday night Morgan was clinging to her resolve with both hands.
She was afraid she was on the verge of doing something incredibly stupid, and she had the unnerved feeling he knew it too.
After they'd eaten dinner and cleaned up the kitchen, Morgan left him watching an old movie on television while she went to take a shower. She had gone out of her way to be conservative in her clothes, wearing mostly oversize sweaters and shirts with jeans and, at night, a pair of oriental-style black pajamas and robe that covered her decently by anybody's standards.
It didn't seem to help.
When she returned to the living room, clad in her oriental pajamas and a robe, the television was turned down low, only one lamp burned, and Quinn was standing by the front window—the same one through which he'd entered wounded—gazing out at a chilly, foggy San Francisco night. He was wearing jeans with a button-up white shirt, the collar open and cuffs turned back loosely on his tanned forearms. The bandage on his shoulder didn't show, and he didn't look as if he'd ever been wounded.
“Is something wrong?” she asked immediately, wondering if he'd been alerted by anything he heard or saw.