Once a Thief (5 page)

“As I said—curiosity.” In an apologetic tone, he said, “I’m afraid I leaped to a conclusion. Hope springs eternal, you know. However, since you’ve made your feelings quite plain, I’ll retreat to lick my wounds in private.”

Morgan found herself hesitating and swore inwardly when she realized it. Keeping her voice dry, she said, “I told you to cut the act. In the first place, you’re a thief, which is something I’m not at all in sympathy with. In the second place, I happen to be the director of an exhibit that must be calling to you like a siren song. And in the third place, any woman would need her head examined, by an expert, if she for one single minute believed anything you said.”

He was smiling again. “Suppose I were to say it wasn’t an act, Morgana. Suppose I denied any interest in
Mysteries Past
and assured you I am to be trusted completely.”

“I wouldn’t believe you,” she said stolidly.

White teeth flashed again as Quinn smiled at her. “Very wise of you, Morgana. Very wise indeed.”

Morgan eyed him with more uneasiness than she wanted him to see. “So you are after the Bannister collection.”

“I didn’t say that, sweet.”

“Oh, yeah, like you’d really come right out and tell me the truth about it. Me, the director of the exhibit.”

“That wouldn’t be at all wise of me, would it?” Quinn said, in a tone of surprised realization. He folded his arms across his chest and made a considering sound. “You’re probably right, Morgana. Why don’t we pretend the subject never came up?”

“Why don’t we pretend it did? Quinn, if you think I’m going to just stand by and let you get your thieving hands on Max’s collection, you’re nuts.”

“Well, actually, Morgana, you wouldn’t be there at the time. Hypothetically speaking, of course.”

“I mean—you
know
what I mean.” She shook her head. “Why am I even standing here talking to you?”

“My question would be—why did you come
out
to talk to me?”

Morgan stared at him, conscious of a different uneasiness now. “I just . . . I thought I heard something.”

“No,” Quinn said.

“I did. I thought I heard a noise out here. That’s why I came back outside.”

“You didn’t hear anything, sweet. I was standing here not making a sound.”

“I didn’t say it was you I heard,” she snapped.

Quinn laughed softly. “You aren’t going to admit it, are you, Morgana?”

“Admit what?”

“Admit that you feel it when I’m nearby. That you can sense my presence.”

“That’s ridiculous. I don’t—” Morgan stared at him, suddenly remembering her feelings of anxiety at different times in the museum. “Wait a minute. You haven’t already found a way into the museum. Have you?”

“Do you really expect me to answer that?” he asked in mild surprise. But before she could respond, he did answer her question, his voice unusually serious. “I’ve been inside the museum during hours, like any other visitor. As for the night . . . let’s just say I’ve been keeping an eye on most of the museums in this city.”

“Picking your next target?”

“Trying to size up my competition. That gang we both encountered the other night.”

“You know who’s behind them?”

“No. Not yet.”

“And if you find out? What then? You’ll tip the police to get them out of your way?”

He chuckled. “That would be the smart thing to do, wouldn’t it?”

“Is that what you’re planning, Quinn?”

“That,” he answered, “depends on who’s behind them, sweet.”

“Stop calling me that,” she said, more or less automatically. “Do you think that gang has targeted the Bannister collection?”

“I think it would be astonishing if they haven’t. But it will be weeks yet before you need worry about them, sweet. Or about me, for that matter. The Bannister collection is still safely hidden away in the vaults that have protected it for decades.”

“Somehow, that doesn’t make me feel better,” Morgan said slowly. “I guess it would be . . . naive of me to expect you to stay away from the collection just because I’m asking you to.”

“Can you sense it when I’m near, Morgana?”

She stared up at him, caught by those vivid green eyes, by that half smile that was more beguiling than it had any right to be.

“Can you?” His voice was soft but insistent.

“I . . . think I can. I don’t know how or why, but—but I think I can,” she answered finally.

Unexpectedly, Quinn caught one of her hands and lifted it, bending quickly and gracefully so that his lips brushed across her knuckles. Then he released her and stepped back, already blending back into the shadows of the building.

But that white smile flashed again, and he chuckled. “Not naive, sweet. But impractical. Stay away from one of the most priceless collections the world has ever known? What self-respecting thief could do that?”

“Quinn—” But he was gone. She knew it.

She felt it.

Looking down at the hand he had kissed with such elegant charm, Morgan drew a deep breath and then muttered, “Oh, shit.”

Carla could have kicked herself for having given in to the blackmailer that first time. Why hadn’t she just said no? Why hadn’t she said yes and then gone to her employers and confessed all? At that point, she’d only have been fired; the past crime was one she’d already paid for, after all.

She knew why she hadn’t done the smart thing. Because she was scared.

By giving in to the blackmailer, however, she had now committed a whole new set of crimes. And once she had started, there really was no going back.

So she was even more scared now. Scared and trapped. One thing growing up on the streets taught you was what a villain really was. And her blackmailer was a villain, a man with so little conscience that he would cut her throat without a second thought.

Carla knew that.

She also knew that it would go on, that he’d demand more and more information from her until he could no longer use her. After that, she probably had the life expectancy of a fruit fly.

She wasn’t yet thirty, and Carla Reeves wasn’t ready to die.

So she did as she was ordered to do, went to work and did her job and collected information on the security systems designed to protect homes and valuables all across the city, waiting for him to call her to arrange another meeting. She behaved exactly as she should have at work, and all the time, behind her smiling face, her mind was working frantically.

No way to fight him. She didn’t know who he was. In fact, he’d made certain that his face was largely in shadow when they met, so she couldn’t even have provided a decent description of his face. Just a man of medium height with a chillingly calm voice—and a lethal gun.

She supposed she could go to the police, even now, but with no proof to offer, she doubted they could or would do anything, including protect her from the blackmailer’s wrath.

Could she run? It was possible, but if she tried that Carla knew better than to make any obvious preparations to leave. Which meant she’d be able to take only what she could carry with her. Pretty much just pick up her purse, get in her car, and go. Far away.

She decided that the best time to run would be just after she had given him a disk with information, so that he could expect at least several more days to pass before their next meeting. That made sense, she thought. And just as long as she made damned sure he
expected
another meeting and didn’t get the idea he no longer needed her, then it should work.

At least, she hoped so.

He called on Saturday night.

“Carla, add one more security system to the list.”

“Which one?” She didn’t have to try to make her voice sound shaky, fearful.

“The Museum of Historical Art. Specifically, the schematics for the security system protecting the upcoming
Mysteries Past
exhibit.”

Carla hesitated, her mind working. “That system isn’t even on line yet.”

“I know that. I also know that the system has been designed, and that the design is on file with Ace. I want it.”

She swallowed. “I’ve told you—museum security systems are harder to get at. There are trapdoors, firewalls, every security precaution possible to protect that information. I don’t have the access codes—”

“Then get them.”

“Look, I’ll try. But only the office supervisor and the manager have those codes, and it’s not like they’re written down in a Rolodex on somebody’s desk.”

“I’m not interested in your problems,” he said pleasantly. “Just get the design schematics. And do it without getting caught. I wouldn’t be pleased if you got yourself caught, Carla. Remember that.”

Carla swallowed again, the lump in her throat bigger this time. “All right. I—I understand.”

“Good. Now, since I’ve given you a rather difficult assignment, I’m prepared to offer a bit more time. We’ll meet on Tuesday night. Have the disk then.”

“But—”

“Don’t disappoint me, Carla. Oh—and if you were thinking of running, I’d advise against it. I will be watching you.”

There was a soft click, and then the buzz of the dial tone.

And an overwhelming sense of finality.

CHAPTER

FIVE

M
organ, in Wolfe’s office this time, leaned back
in his visitor’s chair and swore for the third time. “Well, at least now we know how badly Jonathan screwed up.”

“Blowing the hard drive,” Wolfe agreed, “is definitely what I’d call a screw-up. It might have taken his supervisor a few days to admit the thing was a total loss, but at least he finally did.”

“Well, maybe it’s a good thing,” Morgan said. “As uneasy as we’ve both felt, maybe starting over with an entirely new security system is the way to go. We are doing that, right?”

“We are. Plus the drive will have to be replaced, and all the basic programming installed again. Which won’t be cheap, but Ace
insists
on footing the bill.”

“Yeah, Ken Dugan told me he overheard you talking to Ace this morning. Or roaring at them, rather. According to Ken, you used words that were completely original.”

“I was upset,” the security expert said mildly. “I wanted them to know I was upset.”

“Which they undoubtedly do,” Morgan murmured. “Along with Ken, all the guards, and the first half dozen museum visitors here this morning.”

“Then everybody understands my position,” Wolfe retorted.

“I’ll say.” Morgan grinned, then said, “But the point is—can we stay with Ace?”

Wolfe shrugged. “They’re supposed to be the best, in spite of their very red faces at the moment. And their CEO called me about half an hour ago swearing on all he holds dear that there won’t be another screw-up. He’s even pulling their top computer specialist off a job in Europe to take over for the kid who made a royal mess of things Friday. The replacement should be here by next week.”

“And we’ll get a brand-new security system?”

“That’s the promise. A system designed specifically for us and the exhibit, one that won’t be on record anywhere except here in this building. Max and I will have the opportunity to see and approve the entire system and all the schematics before the changeover; only the two of us, you, and the programmer will see the final plans for the exhibit security, and only Ken Dugan will see the security changes for the rest of the building.”

“That sounds safe enough.”

Wolfe grimaced. “I’m beginning to think nothing’s going to be safe enough. But this is the best we can do as long as Max insists on sticking with Ace Security.”

“And he does? Even now?”

“Even now.”

Morgan frowned, but said, “Still, we have weeks to make sure everything’s okay before we bring in the collection. If this new programmer Ace is sending doesn’t live up to everybody’s expectations, then we can always postpone the exhibit as long as we have to. Or cancel, as a last resort.”

“Max won’t cancel,” Wolfe said definitely.

“Even if you pull your trump card and say Lloyd’s won’t insure the collection because of inadequate security?”

“I’d have a hard time playing that card as long as Max is using a reputable security company and making every effort to protect the collection.”

“But if we keep having these . . . anomalies? Would you play the card then?”

“Maybe.”

“Say you did play it. Would Max cancel?”

“I don’t know,” Wolfe said. “I honestly don’t know. He gave his word the collection would go on display, and he’s hidebound about keeping his word. If I were a betting man, I’d bet the collection will go on display sooner or later.”

Morgan sighed. “Then that’s what we’d better assume.”

“Yeah. The
Mysteries Past
exhibit will open. Maybe not on time, but it will open.”

Quinn was a thief. Morgan knew that. And stealing was wrong, she knew that too. A part of her even knew he was certainly a dangerous man, entirely capable of ruthlessness and quite probably capable of much worse.

She knew.

But there was something else she knew—and he knew, damn his eyes. Morgan knew there was, somehow, a connection between the two of them. She didn’t want to call it affinity, though it probably was, of a certain kind: an affinity of mind and wit, of humor, of swift understanding. Whatever it was, in a single night in a darkened, tense museum, it had very quickly created a bond, and that bond had left behind it an awareness that, try as she would, she couldn’t deny existed.

He had made her admit she could sense his presence, and once that admission was out in the open, Morgan found herself trying to do just that. The scary thing was that at least once on Monday morning, she was absolutely positive Quinn was in the museum—and watching her. But it was a very busy morning, and with so many people around, she couldn’t pick him out of the crowd.

Not, she thought irritably, that he’d
let
her pick him out of the crowd.

“Morgan, can you—Hey, sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.”

She hugged her clipboard and stared up at Wolfe. “It’s okay. I was just . . . woolgathering.”

Eyeing her, he said, “Seemed to me you were looking for somebody.”

“No. No, I was just lost in thought. Did you need me for something?”

“Yeah, I need that list you have of all the workmen we have building the display cases.”

“Why? They’ve all been approved by you and Max.”

“I know, but I want to run another security check.” He shrugged. “Better safe than sorry.”

Morgan searched through the thick stack of papers her clipboard held, then produced the list he wanted. “Here you go. I have another copy in my files, so you can keep this one.”

“Great, thanks.”

She knew she shouldn’t ask, shouldn’t even bring up the subject, but heard herself saying, “Wolfe . . . do you think Quinn really is planning to steal part of the collection?”

“With his nerve, he may well be planning to steal all of it.”

“One man couldn’t
carry
all of it.” She thought about it and felt uneasy. “At least, not without absolutely no guards to worry about and an entire night with the doors wide open. And a big truck.”

“Yeah, well, I wouldn’t put it past him. We’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we?”

“I guess so.” Morgan watched him head back toward the offices, adding under her breath, “We’ll just have to wait and see.”

The meeting took place on Monday night and fairly late, as Quinn’s meetings tended to do, and if he was something less than his usual cheerful self, the man he was meeting either didn’t notice or else simply made no mention of it.

“The new technician arrives next week?” Quinn asked in lieu of a greeting.

“That’s the plan.”

“All set to design and implement a brand-new security system in the museum.”

“Anything less would look suspicious.”

“It won’t make my job any easier.”

“You knew it wouldn’t be easy when you signed on. Correct me if I’m wrong, but wasn’t that the point?”

“Challenging I bargained for; untenable wasn’t part of the deal.”

“We have weeks yet to put all the pieces in place. For you, that’s an absolute luxury of time.”

“Time for too much to go wrong,” Quinn said. “There’ve already been too many surprises.”

“Are you saying you want to pull out?”

Quinn shook his head. “I’m saying there have been too many surprises. What good is intelligence if it isn’t intelligent?”

“All right. I’ll see what I can do about that.”

“I’d appreciate it.”

“And in the meantime, what do you plan to do?”

“I,” Quinn said, “plan to . . . cultivate my own sources.”

“Yeah? What’s her name?”

The only answer Quinn gave to that was a laugh, and it sounded cheerful. It sounded very cheerful.

By Tuesday night, Carla had once again talked herself out of running. He was watching, he’d said so. She called herself ten kinds of coward, but it didn’t help the fear.

So she had obeyed him, and somehow managed to get the information he demanded.

“Well?” He appeared out of the shadows, and suddenly, as usual.

Carla handed over the disk. “This has all the stuff you asked for.”

“Including the security system for the museum and the
Mysteries Past
exhibit?”

“Everything I could find.”

“You didn’t leave any evidence behind, did you, Carla?”

“No. No, I’m sure I didn’t. I was careful.”

“I hope so.”

She drew a breath. “You have everything you asked for. But I thought I should warn you that—that some of the security systems will be updated in the next few weeks. I mean, they always are. To keep the technology current and—and anybody trying to break in off balance. Just so you know.”

He laughed softly. “Don’t worry, Carla. I’m not quite finished with you yet. As long as you can provide useful information for me, that is.”

“I can. I will.”

“I know you will, Carla. I know you will.”

Morgan sometimes walked to and from work since she lived within four blocks of the museum; it was a relatively safe neighborhood, the street was quiet and well-lit at night, and she liked to think the exercise did her good. Plus, it gave her time and peace to think about things.

Still, she hadn’t survived ten years on her own without learning not to take chances: she habitually carried both an earsplitting police whistle (on her key ring) and a purse-sized can of pepper spray.

On this Wednesday night as she walked along briskly, she kept one hand in her purse and the other holding the whistle ready. The precautions were routine; she felt neither nervous nor threatened by her surroundings. Her mind was occupied with speculation about the thieves still at large.

One in particular.

Quite suddenly, she stopped dead in her tracks, all her senses warning her. That uneasy feeling, the building awareness of not being alone, of being watched.

He was here.

The sidewalk leading to her apartment building’s front entrance was just a few yards away; on her left was a patch of shadows at the corner of the building where a grouping of several trees provided elegant landscaping.

Morgan turned slowly, searching the shadows. A piece of the darkness moved, stepping toward her but remaining curiously insubstantial. Without thinking about it, she left the sidewalk and crossed the corner of the lawn toward him. As she neared and her eyes adjusted to the dimness, she saw that he was once again wearing a ski mask that was rolled up from the bottom to reveal the lower portion of his face.

“Good evening, Morgana.”

He had quite a jaw, she noted. Probably stubborn as hell. And he was smiling.

One more time, Morgan reminded herself of an undoubted, unquestionable truth. The man was a
thief,
for Christ’s sake. She really needed to remember that. Reaching him, she said somewhat fiercely, “I have a can of pepper spray in my hand, and I’m not afraid to use it.”

Quinn lifted both his hands—ungloved—in a placating gesture and chuckled. “Believe me, Morgana, I have no doubt of that. The last thing I have any intention of doing is to rouse your quite impressive temper.” His voice was the one she remembered so vividly—light, insouciant, and somewhat mocking.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“Just stopped by to say hello, sweet.”

“Oh, funny.”

“On the contrary, I’m being quite truthful.”

“Then I’ll go get my ice skates, shall I? Hell must have frozen over.”

He laughed.

Not very amused herself, Morgan said, “Just in case you’re still planning to rob the exhibit, I thought I’d warn you that we’ll have an even better security program than originally planned.” Even as the words emerged, she wondered why on earth she was throwing the gauntlet down before him.

Dumb. So dumb. What was wrong with her?

“So I should cross the Bannister collection off my must-have list, is that the idea?”

“If you value that hide of yours—and I hear you do.”

“As a matter of fact, sweet, I do.”

“Then leave. Get out of San Francisco.”

“Now, we both know you don’t really want me to do that. Do you, Morgana?”

She should have backed away when he took a step toward her. Or blown her whistle. Or removed the pepper spray from her purse and aimed it at him. However, to her later fury, she did none of those things. What she
did
was to lift her face in the most natural way and melt into his arms as if she belonged there.

She felt his hand at her throat, warm and hard, felt the strength of his arm holding her against him. She saw his eyes gleam down at her with green fire even the darkness couldn’t diminish. And then his mouth closed over hers.

It was a peculiarly teasing kiss, without force, yet there was an underlying desire he didn’t even try to hide. She was barely conscious of letting go of the pepper spray so she could put her arms around his lean waist, and she only dimly heard the jingle of the keys still dangling from the fingers of her other hand. All she was really aware of was the hard heat of his body against hers and the seduction of that kiss.

She felt ridiculously dazed when he raised his head, and could only stare up at his shadowy, half-masked face in silence. Her heart was pounding and her breathing was unsteady, and she couldn’t think at all. He gently removed her arms from his waist and stepped back, releasing her completely. If he was feeling some effect from the embrace, it wasn’t at all obvious; when he spoke, his voice sounded, if anything, amused.

“Don’t forget me, Morgana.”

It sounded like a rather final good-bye, and that impression intensified when he faded back into the shadows. Before she could regain command of her voice or her wits, he was gone.

Just as she had that night in the museum, Morgan felt bereft, as acutely conscious of his absence as she had been of his presence. She wanted to call out his name, and it cost her a severe struggle not to.

Dammit, she didn’t even
know
his name! All she knew was the infamous nickname of a conniving thief.

Standing alone in the darkness, Morgan spent a good five minutes cussing herself silently, furious and somewhat chagrined at how easily—how maddeningly easily—he had managed to fascinate her mind and affect her body. It was a typically chilly San Francisco night, but she felt hot, and told herself firmly it was sheer embarrassment. She lifted a hand to tug at the high collar of her sweater, and then froze.