“But?”
“If he never gets near anything of value, then you won't be able to get him for anything except breaking and entering, will you?”
Quinn smiled. “Morgana, all we want is enough probable cause to search this place—something we couldn't get before, because he hadn't put a foot wrong. Breaking into the museum tonight will make the police rather anxious to find out if he might have a few secrets hidden here—which he certainly has. In addition to the safe behind that painting over there, he's got a concealed vault below our feet, and it's stuffed with priceless things, virtually all of which were stolen.”
“You know this because you've seen it?”
“Yes. He doesn't know I have, mind you. I checked out the house thoroughly one night while he was . . . otherwise occupied.”
“Something else the police will never know?”
“I certainly hope so. Leo's also still using the same gun that killed at least two of his previous victims, something a ballistics test should easily prove. Plus he has a few other guns on the premises that will have to be tested. And, if that isn't enough, the police will also find the Carstairs diamonds here.”
Morgan found herself smiling back at him. “You were going to get him one way or another, weren't you?”
“One way or another,” he agreed. Then his smile faded. “He killed a lot of people, Morgana. And what he meant to do tonight is going to deeply hurt someone who called him friend.”
“Max.”
Quinn nodded and got off the desk. “Max. Now—why don't we get going? We don't want to miss the final curtain.”
They didn't, but as the virtual end of a rather famous career, Nightshade's final curtain was rather tame—and peculiarly apt. The “welcome mat” Storm had cleverly designed had turned a short and unassuming corridor on the first floor of the museum into a literal cage. Perfectly ordinary and innocent whenever the primary security system was in operation, the activation of the secondary system meant that the slightest weight on pressure plates triggered steel grates to drop from the ceiling at either end of the corridor.
Morgan was astonished; she had no idea that Storm had taken old equipment meant to close off various corridors and had wired in sophisticated electronics to create a cage.
And in that cage, Leo Cassady had no choice but to drop his gun and surrender to the police and guards waiting for him. He was very calm about it, obviously thinking they couldn't hang much of a charge on him. Until he caught a glimpse of Quinn, that is, when he was being led through the lobby. Then it must have occurred to him that there was much more to this than he had thought, because he went white.
Quinn, the black costume and bullet-proof vest having been swiftly exchanged for dark slacks and a casual denim shirt he'd had in his car, gazed at Leo with the cool satisfaction of a man who has seen a difficult job completed smoothly.
Leo didn't comment to or about Quinn, perhaps already considering how best to structure his defense in the coming courtroom battle and saving his knowledge of the other man's activities for that. But when the police led him past Max, he paused to look up at the other man.
Leo's hard mouth twisted just a bit, but his voice was steady and without much expression when he said, “If you'd only left the collection in the vaults, everything would have been fine. But you had to display it.” Then, calmly, he added, “It wasn't personal, Max.”
“You're wrong, Leo.” Max's deep, soft voice held both pain and loathing. “It was—and is—very personal.”
Leo glanced at the other faces around Max. Quinn was calm; Wolfe grimly pleased; Jared expressionless. Storm was obviously satisfied that her trap had worked. Even Ken Dugan and his assistant, Chloe, were there, both clearly shocked and Chloe more than a little bewildered.
And Morgan, who had thought she had known Leo, stood in front of Quinn. Both his arms were around her, and she leaned back against him as she met Leo's gaze with all the steadiness she could muster. She thought she probably looked as unhappy as Max obviously was; her intellect told her this man was evil, but she couldn't help remembering all the times he had made her laugh. She didn't understand how it was possible for him to be the man she had known—and a ruthless thief and murderer.
Then, in a moment that clearly revealed the streak of cruelty in his nature, Leo glanced at Quinn, then said softly to Morgan, “You don't know what he is.”
She felt Quinn stiffen behind her, but Morgan never took her eyes off the handcuffed man. Just as softly, she said, “No, Leo.
You
don't know what he is.”
Keane Tyler gestured slightly to the police officers on either side of Leo, and said, “Get him out of here.” When the handcuffed thief was led away, Keane said, “I'm sorry, Max.”
“So am I,” Max responded.
“I won't need any of you at the station tonight. Paperwork should keep us up until dawn, but there's no reason the rest of you need to lose any more sleep.”
“Paperwork,” his partner, Gillian, said with a sigh. “Great. Not that it won't be a pleasure to book that slimy bastard.”
They followed their fellow officers from the museum.
And Chloe, sounding as bewildered as she looked, said, “I hope nobody expects me to go back to bed!”
Since Max had managed to get a reliable electrician to come to the museum in the middle of the night and reestablish power to the security system, they didn't have to remain there for long, but it was still after three
A.M.
when the museum was finally locked up again, regular guards in place. Ken and Chloe left for home, with the young woman still murmuring something about how it would be impossible for her to sleep.
None of the others was particularly sleepy either, and most had questions, so Max suggested they return to his and Dinah's apartment for coffee and explanations.
However, the first explanation, the one Morgan had figured out on her own, was waiting for them at the apartment, clearly and justly incensed at having been persuaded by her eldest son to wait tamely for their return.
“As if I couldn't be trusted,” she said in annoyance.
“Mother, we've been over this,” Max said patiently. “And I explained all the reasons.”
“The principal reason being that you didn't want me seen,” Elizabeth Sabin sniffed, unconvinced. She was a delicate woman, still incredibly beautiful in her sixties, with a figure many a much younger woman would have envied and gleaming fair hair a lovely shade between gold and silver. She also bore a striking resemblance to Quinn—which was explained when he caught her up in an enthusiastic bear hug.
“Mother, how long have you been here?”
“Since yesterday,” she replied, returning the hug and kissing him. “I saw Max, of course, and Wolfe last night, but they thought I shouldn't call you or Jared until this thing you're all involved in was over. I gather it is? Alex, have you lost weight?”
“Pounds,” he confirmed cheerfully, and caught Morgan's hand to draw her forward. “Meet the reason.”
He followed that blithe comment with a more reasonable introduction, and Morgan found herself gazing into the warmly sparkling green eyes of the mother of four of the most remarkable men she'd ever known. Since that was what Morgan had finally realized earlier in the night, she wasn't surprised—but she was still a bit dazed.
“Half brothers, all of you,” she murmured to Quinn a couple of minutes later when they gave way for Jared to greet his mother. “Different fathers, different last names, different lives. But the same mother. The same blood.”
Leading her to a comfortable chair in the huge sunken living room, Quinn said, “How did you figure that out, by the way? You hadn't met Mother, according to Max.”
“No, but I'd seen her picture; he has it here in his study.” She shook her head and settled onto the arm of the chair when he would have put her somewhere else, adding in a murmur, “I won't be able to think if I sit on your lap.”
His eyes gleamed at her. “That's one of the nicest things you've ever said to me, sweet.”
“Mmm. Anyway, in the museum today—I mean yesterday—I was looking at the four of you, and I realized it was the first time I'd seen you all together in the same room. I think I knew then, subconsciously, but it didn't really hit me until later.”
“That I looked more like Max's mother than he did?”
“Something like that. You were talking to Max, and Jared was talking to Wolfe . . . and there was something about the way you all stood, or the way the light was hitting you. . . . A bell went off in my mind. Later, when I realized, I remembered seeing Elizabeth's picture here, and I thought either Leo or Ken might have too; they've both been here. I knew Max and Wolfe were half brothers, and I knew their mother had been married several times, so it was at least possible. Nightshade, he might think of it, might have even seen her photograph here. It scared the hell out of me.”
“When did you know Leo was Nightshade?”
“When I went out looking for you. I did—used—tapped into—that thing between us. That connection. And it was really strong this time. I could almost
see
Leo, and I knew without a doubt that's where you were.”
Quinn didn't comment on her use of the connection between them, though he did smile a bit wryly. But all he said was, “Which is why you came creeping through Leo's garden?”
Sighing, she said, “Well, it occurred to me that if Max didn't know it was
Leo
you were after, and he didn't know that Quinn and Nightshade were supposedly in cahoots, then he probably also didn't know that it would be important to make sure Leo didn't find out you guys were brothers. Because if he knew that, he'd be certain that Max's brother would never steal from him. I mean, you just wouldn't. And he'd know that. So he'd know it was a trap.”
Before Quinn could respond to that tangled explanation, Max said rather bitterly, “Obviously, there was too damned much that Max didn't know.”
Morgan glanced around the room, finding the others beginning to settle into chairs and couches. Dinah and Storm, both having spent the previous evening here getting to know Elizabeth, were handing out coffee to the others. There were a number of expectant faces in the room, and more than one frown directed at Quinn.
Somewhat hastily, Quinn said, “Jared, why don't you start the ball rolling?”
With a faint shrug, Jared did, setting up the situation very briefly by explaining how he and Alex had believed they could construct a trap to catch Nightshade.
“We know that,” Max told him, very patient. “What we don't know is at what point Alex identified Leo as Nightshade.”
“Ask him,” Jared advised dryly.
Quinn sent him a glance, and murmured, “Traitor.”
Max, unamused by the byplay, said, “Alex?”
“It was . . . fairly recently.” Quinn hurried on, hoping Max wouldn't demand too many specifics. “I thought I might have some luck if I approached him directly and proposed a partnership. After all, I was a virtual stranger here with no professional contacts, and it was well known—within the trade—that Nightshade tended to avoid sophisticated electronic security systems, while I specialized in them. It seemed obvious a partnership would be mutually beneficial.”
Quinn shrugged. “Of course, from his viewpoint it was even simpler and far more attractive a proposition, since he always intended for me to take the blame. He was too close to Max, too close to the art world here in San Francisco, to take the chance of pulling off the robbery unless he could pin it on someone else. Someone the police could be counted on to believe was capable of pulling it off.”
“Someone who would seemingly vanish in a puff of smoke afterward,” Wolfe said. “Quinn.”
“Exactly,” Quinn confirmed.
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
O
f course, the reason he gave me was simply that he
was too close to Max and the museum to take any chances, plus that he wasn't particularly adept with cutting-edge electronic security systems. Since I had never hesitated to take the credit—or blame, rather—for past robberies, it was understood I wouldn't mind taking it for stealing the Bannister collection, even if all I actually walked off with was one piece of it.”
“I guess he never mentioned that he intended to kill you to make certain you could never be a threat against him in the future,” Wolfe commented.
“Well, no,” Quinn said. “I naturally assumed it was a risk and took sensible precautions.”
“And you never let the rest of us in on this because . . .” Wolfe's voice was dangerously quiet.
Quinn cleared his throat. “I thought the fewer of us who knew, the less likely there could be a slip. A problem.”
“Jesus Christ, Alex. Teaming up with a vicious killer? One
slip
and you end up with your throat cut.”
“Look, I thought it was worth the risk. Just setting a trap in the museum and waiting to see if he decided to rob the place seemed to me awfully chancy, especially given his avoidance of sophisticated electronic security. Besides which, he could have waited weeks to make his move, and I didn't think any of us wanted to wait and pace the floor that long.”
“So you decided to push him,” Max said.
“Well, more or less. After I made contact with him, I assured him I could find a way into the museum, and he wanted the collection badly enough to let me try. And it worked,” he added lightly. “He was caught breaking into the museum, and the police will certainly find plenty of evidence they can use against him when they search his house.”
Morgan frowned. “But Leo also knows a few things that could hurt you. He knows that Alex Brandon is Quinn.” She sent a quick glance toward Elizabeth, marveling that the older woman hadn't seemed upset by any of this, but Elizabeth smiled at her with utter calm.
“Does he?” Quinn smiled up at her. “He
says
Alex Brandon is Quinn. But all he really knows is that I told him I was Quinn, and he can't prove that; there hasn't been a single robbery attributed to Quinn here in San Francisco. So it's my word against his. If he tries to implicate me in any way, my sterling reputation should protect me. Besides, Interpol will report that the man they strongly suspect of being Quinn never left Europe. And since, also thanks to Interpol, there have been a couple of robberies on that side of the Atlantic publicly attributed to Quinn during the past week or
so—while Alex Brandon was blamelessly over here—well, who would you believe?”
Mildly, Max said, “Lucky for you the Carstairs family decided not to go public about losing their necklace.”
In a tone of great innocence, Quinn said, “No, it's just lucky that the police will find that necklace in Leo's safe. Obviously, Nightshade stole the thing.”
“Obviously,” Wolfe grunted.
Storm giggled suddenly and, to Quinn, said, “I'll say this for you, Alex—you keep your balance on a high wire.”
“Practice,” he told her.
“So what now?” It was Max who asked, his steady gaze on his younger brother.
Quinn shrugged. “Well, there are lots more thieves in the world, some of them pretty good at eluding the police. I imagine Interpol can use someone of my . . . talents.”
Max looked at Jared, who nodded. “Probably. This little adventure, with its highly successful outcome, will look good to my superiors—since they don't know what went on behind the scenes. He's more valuable to us outside a prison cell than in.”
“On the road to redemption,” Quinn murmured.
“Don't push it, Alex,” Jared warned.
“I was being serious.” Quinn realized he was being stared at and cleared his throat. “Well, reasonably serious.”
Eyeing him, Wolfe said, “Sounds to me like you'll be in indentured servitude to Interpol. And that was never your style, Alex.”
“People change.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Look, I'm not saying I'm going to always enjoy playing on Interpol's team, but I can do it.”
“Can. But how long will you?”
“As long as . . . necessary.”
“How long will that be?” It was Max who asked now.
Quinn sighed. “If you want to know whether I intend to return to thieving, the answer is no. Been there, done that.”
“And earned the infamous reputation as a master thief,” Storm murmured.
“Exactly,” Quinn said. “I have nothing to prove. And, truth to tell, I enjoyed these last months.”
“Even getting shot?” Wolfe demanded.
“Alex!” Elizabeth scolded, for all the world as if a small son had come home with a black eye.
Her youngest, though far from small, looked a bit sheepish, contritely accepting the blame for having gotten himself shot. “Sorry, Mother,” he murmured.
“It could continue to be an occupational hazard,” Max pointed out. “Getting shot at. A dangerous life, Alex.”
“Maybe. But a life I enjoy, Max. A life I'm good at.”
Morgan very deliberately didn't enter the discussion, her gaze moving among the brothers as they talked about the future of Alex—and Quinn.
“You broke the law,” Wolfe said.
“And now I'm being punished.”
“Punished, hell. You're enjoying yourself too much to call it punishment.”
“All right, then say I'm working to redeem myself.”
“And all the loot you stole over the years?”
“What about it?”
“Goddammit, Alex, you know what about it.”
“You surely don't expect me to give it back?” Quinn shook his head, smiling faintly. “Even Interpol didn't expect that.”
“Well, we tried,” Jared said.
Max lifted a brow at him. “And?”
“And . . . it was decided that his willing cooperation was worth more than reclaiming whatever valuables it was even possible to track down after all these years.”
“I never hoarded,” Quinn explained. “Unlike Leo Cassady, it was never about having a vault somewhere stuffed with pretties only I could look upon. It was never about the money.”
“What was it about?” Max asked.
Quinn flicked a glance at Morgan but answered readily. “The thrill, I suppose. Pitting my skills and smarts against the best security systems in existence.”
“Which he can still do,” Jared murmured. “In a manner of speaking.”
“It's certainly a far better life than one inside a prison cell,” Quinn said. “And I'm willing.”
Max looked at Jared. “Can you control him?”
“God knows. But I'm willing too. To try.”
Wolfe sighed explosively. “Am I the only one who's still hung up over the idea that Alex broke the law? Repeatedly?”
“Yes,” Quinn said. “Get over it.”
Max said, “Nobody's happy about that, Wolfe. But it was Interpol's decision, and they made it. I'm sure even you would rather see Alex working to help them rather than the alternative.”
“If you think I'm buying this whole redemption thing, think again.” Staring at Quinn, Wolfe said, “The next time
I
catch you with your hand in a safe, I won't stop to ask if you're still playing on Interpol's team. Got it?”
“Got it.” Quinn paused, then grinned. “Assuming you ever do catch me again.”
Since they were all still up at dawn, it was tacitly decided that they might as well remain up. They did go home for showers and fresh clothing, to say nothing of breakfast, but by eight-thirty they were back at the museum.
Morgan had continued to deliberately avoid any discussion of the future—Quinn's or theirs—and he hadn't said anything about that beyond what was said in the discussion with his brothers. She didn't know if he would stay or go. She thought he wanted to stay, at least for a while, which was probably as much of a commitment as Quinn could make.
She didn't know if that would be enough for her, honestly didn't know. She knew she wasn't looking for an ivy-covered cottage with a white picket fence and happily-ever-after, at least not right now.
But she hadn't been looking for a fling either.
Clearly, her relationship with Quinn fell somewhere in between.
In the meantime, she tried not to think too much about it. She'd burned her bridges, and whatever was meant to happen would. She'd deal with it.
“So even with Nightshade safely out of action,” she said as she stood near the guards' station with Storm, Quinn, and Wolfe, watching the first of the day's visitors beginning to trickle in, “the exhibit will continue to run.”
“Yeah, Max considers that a given,” Wolfe said, more resigned than anything else. “Which means we can't let down our guard.”
“Still a lot of thieves out there,” Quinn said. “Trust me on that.”
“And unanswered questions,” Morgan reminded them. “The Jane Doe, the knife in the basement—we still don't know what that was all about.”
“Maybe we do,” Keane Tyler said as he reached them. “Where's Max? And Jared?”
Morgan didn't like the look on his face. “What do you— Never mind. Steve?” she called out to one of the guards. “Page Mr. Bannister, will you, please? Private page. Tell him we need him and Mr. Chavalier in the lobby.”
“Yes, ma'am.” He immediately picked up the phone to call Max's pager.
Morgan looked back at the other men in time to intercept a glance between the police inspector and Quinn, and she abruptly realized something. “You weren't surprised to find Alex here last night,” she said slowly. “You know, don't you, Keane?”
The men exchanged glances again, and Keane said in a lowered voice, “Max wanted at least one cop to know exactly what was going on. Two, actually. The commissioner and me. So, yes, I know who Alex is. And who Quinn is.”
“Jesus, I'm surrounded by actors,” she muttered. “I never guessed you had a clue about Quinn. You hunted down all the information for me, and—”
“Information?” Quinn said curiously.
“Never mind.” Somewhat dryly, she added, “An awful lot of people seem to know your secret identity. I'd watch that if I were you.”
“You might have a point.”
“We could all wear decoder rings,” Wolfe suggested, deadpan. “Or have a secret handshake just so he can keep up with who knows.”
To Morgan, Quinn said, “Thanks so much for helping him to take me even less seriously.”
“Happy to oblige.”
“I couldn't possibly take you less seriously,” Wolfe told his brother.
Keane said, “I thought it was Jared who was mad as hell at you. Do you piss everybody off?”
“He tries,” Morgan said.
“I have a host of friends,” Quinn murmured.
Jared and Max arrived then, and Max lifted inquiring brows at Keane. “You have the look of a man who's having a very bad day,” he noted.
“The worst.” Keane had at least smiled faintly at the byplay between Morgan, Wolfe, and Quinn, but now he was serious again. His face was strained. “The forensics people finally pulled a usable print from Jane Doe. We ran it against the criminal and police databases and got a match. She is—was—Gillian Newman.”
It was Morgan who spoke up first, saying, “Wait a minute.
Inspector
Gillian Newman?”
“Yes.”
“Then who was that with you all this time?”
He shook his head. “Whoever she was, she left her desk to get coffee about four this morning and vanished. After the I.D. came in, we checked her apartment. Empty. Boxes everywhere, which means the real Gillian at least had time to move her stuff in. But not to unpack. And there was no sign anybody ever lived there.”
Quinn took a step toward him. “A cop. She impersonated a cop.”
“Looks like,” Keane agreed grimly. “Did a pretty goddamned good job too. Presumably to get inside the department. And inside this museum, on the pretext of investigating the very murder she committed. She killed the real Gillian and then left us all those nice, clear signposts pointing here. Ever since we found that body, she's been cleared to come and go here as she pleased. We rolled out the fucking welcome mat for her.”
“Jesus Christ,” Quinn said. “The collection.”
Ten minutes later, with the
Mysteries Past
exhibit closed to the public and guards stationed at the doors, Keane and the others watched Max and Quinn, the two most familiar with the Bannister collection, move from display to display, studying the individual pieces.
Not surprisingly, it was Quinn who found it.
“Here,” he said. “Shit.”
The others joined him immediately.
“The Talisman emerald?” Morgan said. “But it's here. It looks—”
“It looks real. It isn't. Storm, the display alarms?”
“Off. Just a second.” She opened a concealed access panel in the display's base and punched in a code. There was a soft click, and the case opened. “Okay, that kills all internal alarms as well. You can pick it up.”
Quinn reached inside, using his handkerchief in lieu of gloves. “I guarantee there are no prints,” he said. “Still . . .” Carefully, he lifted the wide gold bangle with its oval emerald and held it up so they could all examine it.
“Are you sure?” Morgan asked. “It looks real.”
“It's a good copy. A damned good copy.” He turned the bangle slightly to see the underside of the setting. “The workmanship is too new; the genuine piece showed faint hammer marks in the gold.” He turned it back so that the “emerald” flashed green fire. “And the stone is just one shade too pale.”
“How did she get into the case?” Storm demanded. “None of the alarms has been tripped.”
“I don't know. Christ, Max, I'm sorry.”
“It isn't your fault, Alex.”
“No? I asked you to risk the collection. I told you I'd keep it safe.”
“You did keep it safe—from the threat we knew about. None of us saw this coming.”
“I should have,” Quinn said. “I should have.”
It was after midnight when Morgan woke to see Quinn standing at the window gazing out on a chilly, foggy San Francisco night.
“Alex?”
He stirred slightly and then returned to the bed, sliding in beside her and drawing her into his arms. “Go back to sleep, sweet.”
“Alex, stop blaming yourself. You did everything you could to safeguard the collection.”