In a theatrical tone that would have shamed one of those old radio thrillers, Morgan said, “She’s obviously following you. Slinking along on your trail, bitter and heartbroken because you lured Wolfe from her bed. She’s probably sharpening her knife even as we speak, her serial-killer eyes glittering with insane rage and jealousy while she plots how best to slay you and get away with it.”
Storm blinked and then giggled. “Yeah, right.”
Morgan grinned at her. “Hey, don’t scoff. I read a book just last week where that was the killer’s motive. She got away with it too. Better watch your back.”
Storm shook her head and tapped the newspaper still lying open on her desk. “This is the kind of crime I’m more concerned with at the moment. Did you hear about it?”
“The robbery? Yeah, I heard about it.”
“Wolfe thinks it might have been Quinn,” Storm ventured, watching the other woman carefully because she sensed more than saw Morgan tense. “How about you?”
Morgan peered into her coffee cup and pursed her lips slightly, the picture of frowning concentration. “No, I don’t think it was him.”
“Why not?”
Amber eyes flicked toward Storm, then away again, and instead of answering, Morgan said, “I met him, you know. Quinn. A few weeks ago.”
“Did you?” Storm waited a moment, then added quietly, “I’m a good listener. And I don’t tell tales out of school.”
“I always liked that phrase,” Morgan said with a brief smile. “Telling tales out of school . . . It makes secrets sound like innocent things.”
“But sometimes they aren’t,” Storm murmured. “Sometimes they’re dangerous.”
It really was a pity he’d lost Carla. He always felt much more in control when his tools knew what the stakes were, even though it was riskier. Having someone on the inside who was completely unaware of being used lacked something, he’d always thought.
Still, there were benefits to using an oblivious tool, and he was fully aware of them. There were also drawbacks, of which he was just as aware; it was a far less direct approach, and he had to be careful how he asked his questions.
But during this pleasant brunch meeting, he didn’t have to ask much of anything at all. He just had to listen.
“I don’t know about his new security system being installed at the museum. The programmer is supposed to be one of the best, but . . . she doesn’t look the part, for one thing. And I’m not at all sure it’s even possible to use the old hardware with all this new software. Bannister is providing some new hardware, of course, but it’s still bound to be a patchwork, don’t you think?”
“Sounds like it.”
“And there are all these thieves in the city. That gang the police can’t seem to get close to, for one. I also heard a rumor that Quinn might be here. Have you heard that?”
“As a matter of fact, I have.”
“Christ, I hope not. That’s all I need.”
“Perhaps he’s after something besides the Bannister collection.”
“Are you kidding? That collection is every thief’s wet dream.”
“Still, there are plenty of other valuables in the city.” As host, he offered more wine.
“Oh, I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t have had any, really. It’s so early, and I have to get back.”
He smiled. “If I’ve learned anything, it’s that life is all too short. We never know what might be waiting just around the next corner.”
His companion laughed. “Live today, for tomorrow we may die?”
“Exactly.” He filled both glasses, still smiling. “Tomorrow we may die.”
“Yeah. Secrets can be dangerous.” Morgan sighed and set her coffee cup down on the desk. Then, quickly and somewhat tersely, she told Storm about her first late-night meeting with an infamous cat burglar named Quinn several weeks before. About him stealing her ruby necklace right off her neck—though she didn’t go into detail about
that.
And, finally, about what had happened on Saturday night. Everything except for what Morgan had overheard here in the museum and those final few minutes with Quinn.
Storm drew a deep breath and murmured, “Wow. You’re a braver man than I am, Gunga Din.”
“Actually, I was terrified. I don’t know what possessed me to do such a ridiculous, dangerous thing.” Morgan frowned down at her coffee cup, one hand toying with the handle. “So, anyway, I know it wasn’t him that robbed that particular museum Saturday night. I mean, he was obviously
going
to, but that gang got in his way . . . or whatever.”
Storm leaned back in her chair and folded her hands over her stomach as she watched the other woman. “Sort of reminds me of something I once read about Byron,” she said.
Her lazy drawl made the name sound curiously exotic, and it took a moment or so for Morgan to realize her friend was referring to the English poet. “Byron? You’re comparing Quinn to Lord Byron?”
Storm smiled. “It’s something somebody once said about Byron. Don’t remember who, but it must’ve been a woman. She said Byron was ‘mad, bad, and dangerous to know.’ That sounds a lot like your Quinn.”
“He isn’t mine,” Morgan denied automatically. But then she remembered his last words, and a little shiver went through her. Absurd, of course. It had just been another of his Don Juan lines designed to throw her off balance. She’d need her head examined if she took anything that despicable thief said seriously.
She was the director of a forthcoming exhibit of priceless art and antiquities, and that was the only reason Quinn kept turning up in her life.
The only reason.
“If you say so,” Storm murmured.
Morgan felt a bit startled, until she realized that Storm was remarking on her own statement that the infamous cat burglar was definitely not hers.
She eyed the other woman, then sighed. “The point is, Quinn’s definitely in San Francisco. That’s really what I came in here to tell you. I know Wolfe probably told you, but I just wanted to make sure you knew.” What she wanted to do was ask Storm if her computer system was being geared toward capturing Quinn, but she didn’t dare. Having discovered the plan by eavesdropping, Morgan was very hesitant to betray knowledge of what was going on. Besides that, she couldn’t be sure who else—aside from Max and the Interpol agent—was really involved in this.
If Wolfe was involved, he must have decided to take his orders solely from Max rather than Lloyd’s of London, because the insurance company would certainly be wild if they found out the priceless collection they insured was being used as bait. But that was possible, because Max and Wolfe were half brothers and blood was thicker than employment.
However, if
Storm
knew, then that must mean that Ace Security was also involved, which seemed unlikely.
The problem was, Morgan decided, she couldn’t really ask anybody except Max what was going on. And that meant she’d have to confess her eavesdropping to him. It also meant that, somewhere along the way, she would have to confess to Max that she’d warned Quinn about the trap.
But maybe she could put that off for a while. . . .
“Since he’s in town,” Storm was saying calmly, “he’s bound to be interested in the collection. Is that why you told me? So I’d keep it in mind while I’m writing the program?”
Morgan shrugged. “I figured it couldn’t hurt.” She picked up her coffee cup and sipped the cooling liquid. “By the way, Max is back from his honeymoon. He stopped by here after hours on Friday to look over the exhibit wing. I haven’t talked to him.”
“Then I better get busy,” Storm said, “and earn my pay.”
Removing herself from the desk, Morgan said, “You and me both. See you later.”
“You bet.” Storm sat there for a long moment after the brunette had gone, then got up and went to shut the door. When she returned to her desk, she paused only to feed another disk into the computer before drawing the phone toward her and picking up the receiver.
He answered on the first ring, and his “Yeah” was impatient.
“It’s me,” she said.
“We have to meet,” he said. “Today.”
Storm sighed. “That’s not going to be easy. It’ll be impossible before lunchtime, I know that.”
“How about during lunch?”
She felt her face get hot as she remembered her aroused suggestion that they return to her suite for lunch and Wolfe’s prompt agreement. Despite the passionate shower that had followed, Storm had a strong feeling they’d still go back to her hotel for something other than lunch. Food would be an afterthought.
“Storm?”
She cleared her throat. “I don’t think so. Look, Wolfe said he’d probably go talk to the police sometime after lunch about the robbery Saturday night. Maybe then. But I didn’t drive my Jeep this morning, so I’d have to take a cab.”
He swore softly. “I don’t know how much time we’ve got.”
Just as softly, Storm said, “I wish I had a little more.”
After a moment, he said, “The longer this goes on, the worse it’s going to be. You know that.”
She knew that. “I’ll call you when Wolfe leaves the museum, and we can arrange to meet. All right?”
“Yeah, all right.”
She cradled the receiver gently and sat staring across the room blindly. Hurdles—God. They were walls, giant stone walls she couldn’t get over or around. She was lying to the man she loved, and she was terrified he’d never forgive her for it.
CHAPTER
FIFTEEN
M
organ returned from lunch to find a messenger
waiting for her, with a large envelope sent by Inspector Keane Tyler. She opened the outer envelope, looked at the folder inside, then picked up the phone and called him.
“You got this stuff quicker than I’d expected,” she told him.
“Well, it’s not like he’s anonymous. I mean, we may not know who he really is, but Quinn the master thief is well known to every police force in the West—and a few in the East.”
“The East?”
“You haven’t read the file yet?”
“No, I just got it. Quinn’s committed robberies in the East? As in the eastern part of the world?”
“Definitely in Hong Kong. Possibly Tokyo, though evidence there pointing specifically to him is iffy. Singapore’s a maybe too.” Keane sighed. “What can I tell you, the guy gets around.”
“I guess so. Um . . . but this
is
the first time he’s hit the States, right?”
“Far as we know, yeah. We don’t think it was him Saturday night, if you were wondering.”
“You think it was that gang?”
“Pretty sure, just from what was taken. Unless Quinn has started working with a partner, the missing items are too damned heavy for one man to have carted out of there. Even him.”
Morgan stared down at the still-closed file lying before her on the desk, wondering at her own reluctance to open it. Because she didn’t really want to see the black-and-white facts of the crimes he had committed?
“Morgan? Still there?”
“Yeah. Listen, do I need to get this file back to you?”
“No, everything is copies of what I could get, so keep it. I have another set of copies ready for Wolfe when he gets here. He’s been asking about Quinn too.”
“I’m surprised Lloyd’s wouldn’t know at least as much about Quinn as the San Francisco P.D. does,” she said slowly.
“Oh, they probably do, at least as far as his history goes. I gather Wolfe is more interested in whether we have any information on Quinn’s movements since he arrived here in the city.”
“And do you?”
Keane chuckled. “Well, like I told you before, he isn’t exactly at the top of our most wanted list at the moment. I’m not saying we aren’t concerned with robberies, but we’ve got half a dozen murders on our plate right now, never mind the assorted other crimes of violence. What you know about Quinn and his activities here is pretty much all we know.”
Morgan felt a jab of guilt, but all she said was, “Okay. Well, if you do learn anything new, I’d appreciate it if you could pass it on. And thanks for the file.”
“Welcome. See you, Morgan.”
“Bye, Keane.” She cradled the receiver and drew a deep breath, then opened the file.
Keane Tyler was a good cop, and he had been thorough; Quinn had been a highly successful thief for the better part of a decade, so the file filled with copies of police reports and newspaper clippings was a thick one.
“Jesus,” Morgan heard herself murmur at one point as she read an account of an incredibly daring robbery in the penthouse of a Hong Kong high-rise. That report was followed by other equally daring, seemingly impossible robberies in various parts of the world. Time after time, sophisticated security systems were breached with almost laughable ease. Time after time, Quinn got in and out without leaving so much as a hair of his blond head behind.
And with literally hundreds of millions of dollars worth of jewelry, gems, and artworks. Maybe even billions.
As she slowly absorbed the enormity of Quinn’s career, Morgan understood what Keane had meant about unusually brilliant, talented men needing to push themselves. Because it couldn’t possibly have been the money: Quinn had stolen enough long, long ago to live in luxurious style on a tropical island somewhere for the rest of his natural life.
It was the rush.
That had to be it, had to be why he was still active. Still pushing himself, challenging himself with more-difficult robberies, with more-advanced security systems. Taller buildings, tougher safes, riskier goals. Constantly testing his own limits as well as the skills and intelligence of police forces around the world.
And, along with all that, running the almost inevitable risk of being caught, possibly even injured. Or killed.
Morgan closed the file at last and put it away in her desk drawer. She sat there for a long time, elbows on her blotter, chin resting on her raised, clasped hands. She thought, and she did her level best to think logically. Rationally.
Quinn was a criminal. Worse, he was a criminal who was also a danger junkie. He loved the rush, loved the risk, loved pitting his intelligence and skills against the smartest cops and the toughest security systems in existence. And he was going to go on testing their limits and his own until he ran headlong into a brick wall.
Or a bullet.
He’d retire from robbery only that way. Either he would get caught or he would get dead. It was highly unlikely he’d live to be a roguish old man chasing after nurses in the Retired Thieves Home.
That was the first point. But there were other, equally important points. Robbing only the rich didn’t make him Robin Hood, it made him a thief—period. The fact that he had never hurt anyone in the course of a robbery didn’t make him a good man, it was just more evidence he was a smart man: Simple robbery carried a lesser penalty than either armed robbery or murder.
The fact that he had saved her from possible death or at least likely injury on two separate occasions didn’t change anything.
He was here in San Francisco because he had his eye on Max Bannister’s priceless collection. And in a city seemingly filled with thieves, he probably had the best chance of actually getting what he had come here to get.
The fact that he was charming didn’t change anything.
The fact that he had kissed her didn’t change anything.
The fact that she was already half in love with him didn’t change anything.
Anything at all.
When Wolfe finally left the museum to talk to the police, it was much later than he’d planned, largely because his lunchtime meeting with Storm had run well into the afternoon. And also because he had used one excuse after another to avoid leaving the museum. All day he’d gotten the feeling that Storm was, in some subtle way he sensed more than saw, drawing away from him.
It seemed absurd when he thought about her complete physical response to him, but Wolfe had learned to trust his instincts, and his instincts were telling him something was wrong.
Worried but unwilling to take the chance of pushing her for an answer, he finally decided to occupy himself by going and talking to Keane Tyler as he’d planned. He invited her to come along with him, but she said she had at least another hour’s work ahead of her and she really wanted to get it out of the way—why not get it done while he was busy with the police? It was nearly six by then; she said if he didn’t return to the museum by the time she finished, she and Bear would take a cab back to her hotel.
Wolfe had another uneasy feeling, this one that she wanted him to go away for a while, but chalked it up to paranoia. And he didn’t leave before making definite plans with her to go out to dinner as soon as he finished with the police.
But by the time he got out to his car, he was having second thoughts. He pulled out of the side parking lot and over to the curb, gazing toward the museum, trying to gain control over his growing sense of worry. A heavy overcast and creeping fog made it darker than usual for the time of day, which meant he couldn’t see a great deal clearly beyond the lighted backdrop of the lobby. Nobody was going into the museum because it was so late, but visitors were beginning to stream out as closing time neared.
When a cab pulled up to the steps, Wolfe didn’t think very much about it. He watched idly, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel while he told himself repeatedly that it was probably quite normal for a man in his condition to be filled with the most ridiculous thoughts and worries. He’d have to ask Max one day if it had been this way with him.
When she came out of the museum and went toward the cab, Wolfe felt a moment of simple surprise. A glance at his watch told him he’d been sitting out here no more than ten minutes, which meant Storm shouldn’t have been able to finish the work so quickly. He started to lean on his horn to get her attention, but something, some vague suspicion, made him change his mind.
He waited to make certain the cab was moving in the opposite direction—away from Storm’s hotel—and then pulled his car away from the curb and began following at a discreet distance. It wasn’t a very long trip; less than fifteen minutes later, Storm’s cab stopped at a small park that was currently undergoing a renovation.
Wolfe pulled to the curb the moment the cab did and instantly killed his lights and engine. He watched, feeling peculiarly cold, as Storm got out and began walking down a narrow sidewalk that led toward a silent carousel in the distance; Wolfe knew it was there because he knew this park, but he couldn’t see it because of the growing darkness and fog. He watched the cab pull away, waited a few seconds, then got out of his car and followed the same path Storm had taken.
In nearly fifteen years in the security business, Wolfe had picked up quite a number of useful things, one of which was the ability to follow someone on foot without betraying his presence. He used that ability now. As silent as a shadow, he glided along after Storm. The building that temporarily housed the huge, silent carousel while it was being renovated was normally locked; Wolfe was close enough to see that Storm entered through a door standing open invitingly.
He hesitated, but the dim light he could see was coming from deeper in the building, so he felt safe in slipping inside after her. He moved instantly into the shadows cast by the carousel, his gaze fixed past the colorful animals to the two people standing on the other side.
“Where is he?” Storm asked quietly after a quick look around.
“On his way. You didn’t give either of us much time to get here.” Jared Chavalier shrugged and dug his hands into the pockets of his dark raincoat. There was a battery lantern sitting on the carousel near him, providing decent light for that section of the building.
“I don’t have much time,” Storm said. “Wolfe’s supposed to pick me up in another hour or two for dinner. You have to make a decision about this.”
“I know, I know.” Jared sighed. “He’s asking questions, good ones, and I can’t stall him forever.”
As he walked slowly around the carousel toward them, Wolfe said coldly, “Then why not try the truth?” His gaze was fixed on Storm, and even in the low light he saw her go deathly pale at the first sound of his voice. She turned slowly toward him, and he could see that the only color in her face was in the darkened green eyes. Bear was on her shoulder, his face as still as hers, and for the first time the sight of the little blond cat riding on the shoulder of the delicate blonde woman had no power to soften anything inside Wolfe.
“Take it easy—” Jared began, but Wolfe ignored him and spoke directly to Storm.
“You lied to me.” His voice grated, like a steel file over stone.
She didn’t flinch, but though her chin lifted a bit it wasn’t with the fearless spirit he’d come to know and appreciate. And her voice held an alien note of hopelessness. Of defeat. “Yes, I lied to you. About the job. About what I came here to do.”
Wolfe waited, but she offered no reasons, no excuses. She just gazed up at him with that remote face and those blank eyes. All he could think of was how honest those eyes had seemed to him, and he thought the pain and rage would tear him apart.
“What else did you lie about?” he demanded bitterly. And when she remained silent, he jerked his head toward Jared. “Was it his idea or yours to make the ultimate sacrifice, Storm? Tell me, I’m curious. Did you at least get a bonus out of it?”
Jared’s voice dropped deliberately into the awful silence, every word like a stone. “If you say one more word, I swear to God I’ll deck you.”
But it was Storm who ended the confrontation, walking past Wolfe silently, the remoteness of her face shattered by pain. She didn’t look back.
Wolfe swung around and took a hasty step after her but brought himself up short. His heart was thudding sickly in his chest as he watched her vanish out the door, and he couldn’t seem to draw a breath without feeling a stabbing agony. The rage had gone, draining away so quickly it left him empty.
Dear God, what have I done?
The silence behind him was so thick it practically touched him. When he turned slowly, he found Jared standing with his arms crossed over his chest, the strange, pale aqua eyes glittering with anger.
“Nice going, pal,” he said bleakly.
Before Wolfe could respond, Jared looked past him as a movement caught his attention, and Max walked quietly out of the shadows to join them. His hard face gave little away, but it was clear he was very disturbed.
To Wolfe, he said, “If you want to hit somebody, it better be me. I’m to blame for this.”
“Too late,” Jared muttered. “He’s already beaten up his victim.”
Storm wasn’t thinking at all when she walked away from the carousel. She’d known it would be bad, but she hadn’t expected it to hurt this much. Dimly, she wondered how it was possible to function, to walk and flag down a cab and get inside and give the address of her hotel, all the time filled with this terrible grief. It was like she’d received some mortal wound but her body hadn’t recognized it yet because it was in shock.
At her hotel, she walked through the big, quiet lobby and got on the elevator, more or less blind and deaf. Bear murmured nervously in her ear, but she didn’t really hear him. When she got off the elevator on her floor and walked to the door of her suite, she was vaguely aware of claws digging into her shoulder, but she still didn’t heed her cat.
It wasn’t until she unlocked the door and opened it that Storm was literally jarred from her misery. A hard shove in the middle of her back propelled her into the suite so roughly that she nearly fell. Bear jumped off her shoulder and fled underneath the couch with a hiss of fear, and Storm caught her balance just in time to keep from sprawling out on the carpet.