“Italian food sounds great,” she said. “I'll just go check on a couple of things and get my jacket.”
“I'll wait here for you.”
Since she was a responsible and efficient woman, Morgan made two brief stops before reaching her office, checking with the guards in the security room and then with Storm in the computer room to make certain all was well as the museum went into a night-security mode. One of the guards watching the security monitors asked her if the blond man in the lobby was supposed to be on his “sheet”—meaning the list of persons with special clearance to enter the museum at will—and Morgan had to pause for thought before answering.
“No,” she said finally out of a sense of caution, but then qualified the reply by adding, “Not unless Max or Wolfe says so. But he'll probably be around most days. His name is Alex Brandon, and he's a collector. Ask Wolfe what his clearance is, will you?”
“Gotcha,” the guard replied, writing himself a note.
When Morgan stopped at the computer room where Storm spent her working hours, it was to find the petite blonde leaning back in her chair, booted feet propped on her desk and her little cat asleep in her lap as she studied a video monitor hanging in the corner of the crowded room. She could use the computer console on her desk to direct the museum's security program to show her any part of the museum under video surveillance, and at the moment she was looking at the lobby. At, specifically, a tall, blond man waiting patiently.
“Hi,” Morgan said, deciding not to comment. “Any problems before I go?”
“Nah, nothing to speak of. I've fixed that glitch in the system, so I doubt we'll have any more accidental alarms.” Storm's bright green eyes returned to their study of the monitor, and she smiled when Quinn turned his own gaze to look directly into the video pickup he wasn't supposed to be able to see. “Look at that. When he got here a couple of hours ago, I watched him all through the museum, and he always knew where the cameras were—even the ones we've so cleverly hidden. Wolfe says he has a sixth sense when it comes to any kind of a camera being pointed at him, that he feels it somehow. No wonder the police have never been able to capture him on tape or film.”
Morgan followed her friend's gaze, and though she couldn't help a rueful smile when Quinn winked cheerily at the camera, her voice held a certain amount of frustration. “Damn him. Just when I think I've got him figured out, I start having second thoughts. Is he on the right side of the law this time, or isn't he?”
Storm looked at her, one brow on the rise. “Maybe the operative phrase in that question is
this time
. Even if you give him the benefit of the doubt and assume Max, Wolfe, and Jared are all right to trust him to keep his hands off the collection—and none of them is a fool, we both know that—then what's he going to do afterward? Let's say our little trap works and Nightshade winds up behind bars—what then? Does Quinn slip Interpol's leash and fade back into the misty night? Does he go to prison for past crimes? Or is the plan for him to be a . . . consultant or something like that for the cops?”
Remembering an earlier discussion with Quinn, Morgan said, “He told me he was too effective to go public—which would mean a trial and possibly prison—and more or less said he enjoyed dancing to Interpol's tune. Which is probably the only answer I'll get.”
Storm pursed her lips thoughtfully and stroked the sleeping Bear with a light touch. “Shrewd of Interpol if they plan to make good use of his talents.”
“Yeah. He's sure to be worth more to them outside a jail than in. Even if they never recover a thing he stole, I'll bet they'd rather use him than prosecute.” Morgan sighed. “Which only tells me one thing. Interpol operates mostly in Paris and other parts of Europe—and so would he.”
“How's your French?” Storm asked solemnly.
“Better than my Latin.”
“I could give you lessons,” the blonde offered.
Morgan eyed her. “Do you speak French with a Southern accent?”
“According to Jared I do, but I've never had any trouble being understood.”
“Well, I may take you up on the offer,” Morgan said. “Then again—the only French word I'm likely to need to know is the one for good-bye. And I already know that one.” She shook her head before her friend could respond. “Never mind. I'm going to eat Italian food and try my best to remember all the logical, rational, sensible reasons why I shouldn't lose my head.”
“Good luck,” Storm murmured.
Morgan went on to her office, where she deposited her clipboard on her desk and put on the stylish gold blazer she had worn that morning. Then she locked up her office and returned to where Quinn waited in the lobby.
Wolfe was there and talking to him as she approached; she couldn't hear what the security expert was saying, but he was frowning a bit. Quinn was wearing a pleasant but noncommittal half smile; that seemed his only response to whatever he was being told. When he caught sight of Morgan, Quinn looked past Wolfe to watch her coming toward them, and Wolfe turned to address her rather abruptly.
“Will you be here tomorrow?”
“With the exhibit open? Sure. From now until we close up shop, I work six days a week.”
Wolfe lifted an eyebrow at her. “Does Max know about that?”
“We've discussed the matter.” Morgan smiled. “He wasn't happy, but when I pointed out that I'd be here whether I was getting paid or not, he gave in. I'm under orders to take long lunches and knock off early whenever possible, and I'm forbidden to darken the doors on Sunday. Why, do you need me for something tomorrow?”
“I'll let you know.”
“Okay,” she murmured, wondering if Wolfe felt uncomfortable discussing security business with her in the presence of Quinn. If so, it was certainly understandable.
Wolfe glanced at Quinn, then at Morgan, seemed about to say something, but finally shook his head in the gesture of a man who was acknowledging that a situation was out of his hands. “Have a nice evening,” he said, and left them to head for the hall of offices.
Gazing after the darker man, Quinn said meditatively, “Do you get the feeling Wolfe isn't entirely happy with any of us?”
“Yes, and I can't blame him. Anything happens to the Bannister collection and Lloyd's is on the hook for more millions than I even want to think about.”
Quinn took her arm and began guiding her toward the front doors. “True. Have I mentioned, by the way, that you look like a few million yourself today?”
It caught her off guard—
damn
the man for sounding unnervingly sincere without warning—but Morgan recovered quickly and was able to reply with commendable calm as they walked across the pavement outside the museum. “No, you haven't mentioned that.”
“Well, you certainly do. You look ravishing in jeans, mind you, but this is very elegant.” He guided her toward the low-slung black sports car waiting at the curb.
“Thank you.” Wondering if he did this kind of thing deliberately just to keep her off balance, Morgan remained silent while he installed her in the passenger side. She waited for him to join her and spoke only when the little car pulled away from the curb with a muted roar.
“Answer a question for me?”
He sent her a quick smile. “I'll have to hear it first.”
“Umm . . . Do you know the security layout of the museum—and the exhibit?” She had wondered about that only after Storm had made the observation that he “sensed”—or knew—the placement of all the security video cameras.
“Do you really think Jared would be so trusting?”
“That,” she commented thoughtfully, “is not an answer.”
Quinn chuckled softly. “Morgana, I get the distinct feeling I've somehow roused your suspicions.”
“That isn't an answer either. Look, Alex, we've agreed that the truth seems to be a slippery commodity between the two of us.” She half turned on the seat to study his profile. It was a good profile, which was inspiring—but not as regards clarity of thought. “So I'd appreciate it if you give me a direct answer whenever possible. If you'd rather not say, then tell me so—this habit you have of neatly evading various subjects is not calculated to persuade me to trust you.”
“Yeah, I was afraid of that.” Stopping the car at a traffic light, he glanced at her a bit more seriously. “I'll try not to do that so often.”
She noticed he didn't promise to stop doing it. “So . . . do you or don't you know the security setup of the exhibit?”
“I don't. I probably could have gotten it from Max—who does trust me, by the way—but I decided not to. I have a better chance of anticipating Nightshade if I have to study the museum and exhibit just the way he does. The only advantage I have is that I
know
there's a weakness in the defenses.”
“The trap? Is it Storm's security program?”
“You don't know?”
Morgan sighed. “I'm ashamed to admit it, but I haven't even asked.”
In an understanding tone, Quinn said, “The situation
is
a bit complicated.”
“Never mind. Do you know where the trap is?”
“Yes, I do. I told Wolfe in the lobby just before you joined us, and he confirmed my deductions.”
“No wonder he was frowning.”
“As I said, he isn't very happy with any of us. I did point out to him that the trap only
looks
like a hole in the defenses, expressly designed to lure Nightshade in and snare him before he can get anywhere near the collection.”
“And was he mollified by this reminder?”
Quinn smiled. “No. He seemed to feel that Nightshade might be suspicious enough to avoid the trap and find his own way in.”
“Why would he be suspicious?”
“Because of me, I'm afraid.” He sighed. “Morgana, thieves don't normally follow one another in the dead of night. But I followed him the night he was casing the museum, the night he shot me. He has to wonder about that. He knows he didn't kill me, because no unexplained shootings have been reported in the city, so he knows I may still be a potential problem.”
“But he doesn't know who you are,” Morgan said slowly.
“I'm an unanswered question all the way around—and a man like Nightshade hates unanswered questions.”
She frowned a little as she studied his face. “You know, every time you talk about Nightshade, I get the feeling there's more to this. You say you don't know much about him . . . but I think you do.”
“Morgana, you are full of questions today.”
“Is that a warning?”
“It's an observation.”
It may have been only that, but Morgan decided to drop the subject anyway. Quinn had already been more forthcoming than she had expected, and she preferred to quit while she was ahead. In any case, they arrived at the restaurant just then, and a number of speculations filled her mind.
She didn't comment until he had parked the car and come around to open her door. “So Tony's is the best restaurant this side of Naples, huh?”
“I think so,” Quinn replied innocently as he closed her car door and took her arm.
“And I suppose the fact that it tends to be a kind of hangout for art collectors and dealers as well as museum people is a coincidence?”
He sent her a glance, amusement in his green eyes. “No, is it? Fancy that.”
“You can be maddening, you know that?”
“Watch your step, Morgana,” he murmured, probably referring to the uneven flagstone steps leading up to the restaurant's front door.
Though it was just after seven in the evening, the place was already three-quarters full; many of the museums in the area closed at six, and this was, as Morgan had said, a favorite place to unwind as well as dine. The food was not only excellent, it was also served generously and priced reasonably, and the casual but efficient waitresses knew your name by the third visit.
Or, in Quinn's case, the second.
“I ate lunch here Saturday,” he told Morgan, after the friendly waitress had conducted them to a window booth and asked “Mr. Brandon” if he wanted coffee as usual.
Morgan—who was also known to the waitress and who had ordered coffee as well—accepted that somewhat ruefully with a nod and then glanced around casually, curious to see if she could spot whoever it was that Quinn wanted to keep an eye on.
The one glance told her it would be impossible. There were more than a dozen people scattered about the room who were in some way involved in the art world either as collectors, patrons, or employees of the various museums, galleries, and shops in the area. Even Leo Cassady, their host for the party the other night, and Ken Dugan, head curator of the museum housing the
Mysteries Past
exhibit, were present, both with attractive female companions.
“Give up?” Quinn murmured.
Morgan unfolded her napkin and placed it over her lap, making a production out of it. “I don't know what you're talking about,” she told him politely.
“You mean you weren't trying to guess who it is I'm keeping an eye on?” He smiled wickedly. “Nice try, sweet, but you should never try to play poker with a cardsharp.”
CHAPTER
EIGHT
S
he scowled at him. “Thanks for yet another
warning. Obviously, you could look as innocent as a lamb with both sleeves full of aces.”
Leaning back to allow the waitress to place his coffee before him, Quinn said, “I didn't know lambs had sleeves.”
“You know what I mean.
Your
sleeves full of aces.” Morgan reached for the sugar and poured a liberal amount into her coffee, then added a generous measure of cream.
Quinn watched her with a slightly pained expression on his handsome face. “American coffee is filled with flavor; why do you want to turn it into dessert?”
Since he'd stayed at her apartment, Morgan knew how he took his coffee. “Look, just because you macho types think drinking something incredibly bitter is a gourmet experience doesn't make it so.”
“Is the coffee bitter?” the waitress asked anxiously. “I'm so sorry.”
Morgan looked up at her rather blankly, then realized the attractive redhead was hovering, pad in hand and pencil poised, to take their orders for the meal.
“I can make a fresh pot—”
“No, it's fine.” Morgan glanced at Quinn, who was studying the menu with one of those maddening little smiles of his, then returned her gaze to the distressed waitress. “Really, it is. I was just . . . trying to make a point.” She hastily picked up her menu.
A couple of minutes later, their meal ordered and the waitress departed for the kitchen, Morgan frowned at her companion. “It didn't work.”
“What didn't work?”
“Trying to lead me off on a tangent. Maybe I should start guessing who it is you're watching.”
“So I can tell you if you're hot or cold?” Quinn shook his head. “Sorry, Morgana—no deal.”
She felt frustrated but not terribly surprised, and since he
was
a much better poker player than she was, she knew there was no use in hoping he'd tell her anything he didn't want her to know. “Well, hell,” she said in disgust.
Quinn smiled, but his eyes were suddenly grave. “Suppose you found out that I believed someone you knew was an international thief and murderer. Could you look at them, speak to them, with the ease you had yesterday? Could you be sure that you wouldn't inadvertently give away your knowledge or somehow put them on their guard—which would certainly ruin our plans and likely put you in danger? Could you, Morgana?”
After a moment, she sighed. “No, I don't think I could. I'm not that good an actress.”
“If it makes you feel any better, that's the major reason I haven't told any of the others. Because it takes a certain kind of nerve—or a devious nature, I suppose—to lie convincingly even under the stress of facing a killer. I know myself; I know that I
can
do that. And since I can't be so sure of anyone else, I prefer not to take the risk.”
“But it is someone I know? Nightshade is?”
“Someone you know—if I'm right.”
Morgan gazed at him soberly. “I get the feeling that no matter what you say—you don't have any doubts.”
Quinn's humorous mouth quirked in an oddly self-mocking little smile. “Which ought to teach me a lesson. I'm obviously not the poker player I thought I was.”
“Your face didn't give it away. Or even what you said,” Morgan answered absently. “Just something I felt. But you are sure, aren't you? You know who Nightshade is.”
“I can't answer that.”
“You mean you won't.”
“All right, I won't.”
“Well, that's clear enough.” Morgan sighed.
“You're better off not knowing, believe me.”
“If you say so.”
Quinn didn't comment on her reservations; he merely nodded, still grave. “Good. Then why don't we enjoy the meal, and you can fill me in on whatever was going on in the museum's basement.”
“Ah.” Morgan nodded. “Then tonight is definitely more business than pleasure.”
“I thought that was the way you wanted it.”
“Oh, stop pretending. You know exactly why I walked off that dance floor.”
He didn't hesitate. “Because I was an idiot and you decided to teach me a lesson.”
“Did it work?” Her tone was rueful.
Quinn smiled slowly. “It worked. Probably even better than you could have hoped.”
“Meaning?”
“Let's just say I've reconsidered my options.”
Morgan wasn't at all sure she liked the sound of that. “And?”
“And I need you on my side, Morgan. So whichever way you want to play it is fine with me.”
“
Play
it?” She could have sworn there was a gleam in his eye at her tart response. It made her even more wary.
“Well . . . our public relationship. If showing little or no interest in me publicly is the way you'd rather go, that's fine. I can play the lovelorn swain.”
“Did you have the powder room at Leo's bugged?” she demanded.
“Excuse me?” He appeared honestly baffled.
“Never mind.” Morgan got a grip on herself. “So your plan is to hang around the museum looking wistful while I play hard to get?”
“It seems to be your plan.”
Morgan trusted his solemn tone about as much as she trusted her own ability to fly without a plane. “Uh-huh. So if that takes care of the public show, what about the private one?”
“Morgana, I'm surprised at you. As if I would put on any kind of
show
with you in private.”
“So you're going to be completely honest with me in private?”
“I'm going to be . . . completely Alex.”
Morgan stared at him for a long moment, silently admitting just which of them was the master manipulator. Then she said mildly, “Well, it ought to be interesting. I guess I get you until midnight, huh? Until you turn into Quinn?”
“Actually, that's pretty literal,” he admitted. “Jared and I split the duty. I go on at midnight.”
“Back into the darkness. Skulking.”
“It could be much worse, you know,” he said in a soothing tone. “I could be dull.” He reached across the table and touched the back of her hand very lightly, his index finger tracing an intricate pattern.
Morgan watched what he was doing for a moment, using every ounce of her self-control to preserve a detached expression even though she had the suspicion all her bones were melting. She had to slide her hand away from him before she dared to meet his eyes, and she was rather proud when her voice emerged dryly.
“Alex, do you know the definition of
scoundrel
?”
His green eyes were brightly amused. “A villain with a smile?”
“Close enough,” Morgan replied with a sigh, and leaned back to allow the waitress to deliver their meal.
It was nearly two in the morning when Quinn moved ghostlike along the dark, silent building until he reached a side door. There was no lock to bar his way, and within seconds he was passing along a dim hallway, still making no more noise than a shadow. He paused outside a heavily carved set of doors and studied the faint strip of light visible at the floor, then smiled to himself and entered the room.
The faint light came from only two sources: a cheerful fire burning in the rock fireplace and a reading lamp on the opposite side of the study. Still, it was easy for Quinn to see the room's waiting occupant.
“You're late.” His host turned away from a tall window to frown at him.
Quinn removed his black ski mask and the supple black gloves he wore and tucked them into his belt. “There's quite a bit of security in this neighborhood, so I had to be careful,” he responded calmly.
The other man didn't cross the room or even move away from the window; he merely stood there, one hand on the back of the chair beside him, and looked at Quinn. “Did you get it?”
Silently, Quinn opened a chamois pouch at his belt and removed a smaller velvet bag, which he tossed to his host. “As you Yanks say—it was a piece of cake.” Subtly different from what Morgan was accustomed to hearing from him, his voice was more rapid than lazy, the words a bit more clipped, the pronunciation more British than American.
A brilliant cascade of diamonds flowed into the other man's hand as he upended the velvet bag, and he stared down at the necklace without blinking for a long moment. Then, softly, he said, “The Carstairs diamonds.”
“Get out your loupe and satisfy yourself the necklace is genuine,” Quinn advised him. “I don't want there to be any question.”
His host left the window finally to cross the room to an antique desk, and he removed a jeweler's loupe from the center drawer. He turned on the desk lamp to provide more light, and under that studied the necklace thoroughly.
“Well?” Quinn asked when the other man straightened.
“It's genuine.”
“Terrific.” Quinn's deep voice held a faint trace of mockery, as if the other man's taciturnity amused him. “So, are we ready to talk about the Bannister collection now?”
“I told you, I don't like the setup.”
“Neither do I.” Quinn sat casually on the arm of a leather wingback chair and gave his host a very direct look. “The exhibit has the best security money can buy—which shouldn't surprise either one of us. But we both know that even the best security is little more than an illusion to help owners and insurance companies sleep at night. No system is foolproof.”
The other man's eyes were suddenly hard and bright. “Have you found a way in?”
Quinn smiled. “I've found two ways in.”
“. . . and then he took me home,” Morgan told Storm, finishing a rather lengthy description of her date the previous night. “And he didn't even ask to come in for coffee.”
“That cad,” Storm said solemnly.
Morgan stared at her friend for a moment, then giggled. “Did I sound aggrieved?”
“Just a little bit.”
“Well, I guess I am a little bit.” Sitting on the edge of Storm's desk, Morgan frowned as she absently scratched Bear under his lifted chin. “After I'd finally come to the conclusion that I really would be stupid to trust him, he was a perfect gentleman all evening. I mean . . . we talked business. We talked about what Wolfe and the guards found in the basement and debated possibilities, but it was all very casual—as casual as it can be when you're discussing a murder.”
“Did either one of you come up with a theory or possibility we haven't considered?” Storm was in her usual pose, leaning back in her chair with her boots propped up on the desk.
“I didn't. If he did, he kept it to himself.” Morgan sighed. “That's the thing about Alex. Everything's under the surface, hidden, guarded.”
“Do you think he doesn't trust you? Or is it that he knows you don't trust him?”
“Either. Both. Hell, I don't know. But I do trust him. Sort of. Part of him. Up to a point.”
Storm began to laugh. “You want to qualify that a bit more?”
“You begin to see my problem.”
“I saw your problem a long time ago,” Storm replied, sobering. “Did he ask you out again?”
Morgan nodded. “For tonight, as a matter of fact. When I told him I'd decided weeks ago not to go to that fund-raiser Ken's organized, he asked if I'd change my mind and go with him. I heard myself saying yes before I had a chance to think it through.” She shook her head. “You know, for someone who's officially been in San Francisco only a little while, he sure has all the hot tickets.”
“A man who plans ahead, obviously.”
“Yeah—and it makes me very nervous.” Morgan sighed and got off the desk. She went to the door but paused there to look at her friend somewhat bemusedly. “It really is like he's two different men.”
“And you feel ambivalent about one of them?”
“Oh, no, that isn't the problem.” Morgan's voice was certain. “I find both of them too fascinating for my peace of mind. What really bothers me is that the one I trust the most . . . is the man who wears a ski mask.”
“That,” Storm said, “is very interesting.”
“It's unnerving, that's what it is.” Sighing, Morgan added, “I've got to go and check on the exhibit. See you later.”
The remainder of that morning was fairly calm, with no unexpected crises and only one minor problem—which was easily solved by another slight adjustment of the flow of traffic through the exhibit. After that, Morgan had little to do except be on hand and answer the occasional question from a visitor.
She returned to her office and left her clipboard there just before noon, planning to take a long lunch as she'd promised Max she would. She stopped at the door of the computer room when she went back down the hall, finding Wolfe there talking to Storm.
“Hi.” Morgan frowned slightly at Wolfe. “Did you want to talk to me about something? Yesterday in the lobby, I thought maybe you did.”
Wolfe shook his head. “No, I was just going to suggest that we post a few more signs about touching the glass of the display cases, but when you redirected the traffic flow this morning that seemed to put a little extra space between the people and the cases.”
Morgan nodded, but her gaze went from his face to Storm's and then back again. “Okay—so what else is wrong? You two look a bit grim.”
“I never look grim,” Storm objected. “Just . . . concerned.”
“Why?” Morgan repeated.
It was Wolfe who answered. “Keane Tyler just called. The Carstairs diamonds were stolen last night.”
Morgan leaned against the doorjamb and crossed her arms beneath her breasts. She was still frowning at Wolfe. “That's a shame, but why did he call you?”
“He thought we should know, and the theft won't be made public because that's the way the Carstairs family wants it. The necklace was in a safe at the family home, but the security system was top of the line, maybe better than what we have here around the exhibit—and the thief waltzed through without tripping a single alarm. There were even guard dogs patrolling outside, and they never let out a whimper.”
“Sound familiar?” Storm murmured.
“You don't think it was Quinn?” Morgan said.
“No,” Wolfe responded immediately. But he wasn't looking at her when he said it, and he was frowning.
In a dispassionate tone, Storm said, “We all know there are plenty of thieves in San Francisco. Especially right now. Just because this particular thief beat a dandy security system doesn't mean it was Quinn.”