Part 14 (1/2)
Looking into those vibrant green eyes, Morgan heard herself sigh and then heard herself say, ”Sure.”
She wasn't surprised. Neither was Quinn.
d.a.m.n him.
Since Storm had to deal with a worried call from Ken Dugan-who was understandably anxious about museum security since the discovery in the bas.e.m.e.nt-Wolfe took the opportunity to go down and check on the progress of the police forensics team. They had slipped into the museum as quietly and anonymously as possible, working under an official order not to disturb the museum or the Mysteries Past Mysteries Past exhibit, and Wolfe doubted that any of today's visitors had even noticed. exhibit, and Wolfe doubted that any of today's visitors had even noticed.
He found Inspector Gillian Newman supervising the removal of the knife from the statue's marble fist.
”Keane isn't back yet?”
”Our boss wanted him to check out the Carstairs house,” she replied readily. ”Everybody's getting paranoid, looking for connections to this museum or the exhibit, and since Keane is the expert on thieves in this town . . .”
”They want his take.”
”Exactly.”
Wolfe frowned as he watched technicians easing the knife from the statue's grip. ”Do we know anything else about that?”
”Not much more. It's blood on the blade, we know that, but it'll take a while to compare it to Jane Doe's. No fingerprints on the handle, which figures. Forensics found some marble dust, but whoever did this cleaned up after himself.”
”So Morgan was right about the statue being undamaged when it was brought down here for storage.”
”According to the museum records, yeah. Sean, drill marks?”
The technician, who was on a stepladder peering down into the warrior's fist with a flashlight and a magnifying gla.s.s, nodded. ”Definitely. And saw marks where the original marble knife was.”
”Morgan was right about that too,” Wolfe said.
”Looks like. He brought a nice little bag of tools with him. Which, to my mind, says he didn't kill anybody down here. He just planted that knife.”
”How do you figure? Because he came prepared?”
”It makes sense. He had what looks like a murder weapon he wanted to plant, and he wanted to be . . . really creative about it.”
Still frowning, Wolfe said, ”The only thing I don't get is, why here? You cops had no reason to do a more thorough search down here, it just wasn't practical. If Max hadn't asked some of the guards and me to look around, this might not have been found for months. If ever.”
”There has to be a reason,” Gillian said. ”A piece of the puzzle we don't yet have.”
”You mean another one?”
Reasonably, she said, ”It's a picture we're meant to see-sooner or later. Otherwise, there wouldn't be so many blatant clues left for us to find. We're following a trail.”
”Or maybe Morgan was right about something else. Maybe we're all being led around by the nose.”
In the past, Morgan had found that the fund-raisers she'd attended were either pleasant or incredibly boring; since the entire purpose was to raise money for some worthy cause (in this case to help out one of the private museums that had been burgled during the past weeks), a logical aim was to keep costs down. Ergo, the food tended to be banquet-bland and the entertainment adequate rather than inspiring. So to have a pleasant evening was to consider the event a success.
This particular fund-raiser had been organized by several museum curators-gentlemen not known for their adventurous spirits or love of the absurd-and their choice of entertainment was, to say the least, singular.
”It has a certain something,” Quinn commented, leaning close to Morgan so she could hear him over the noise filling the large room. His expression was grave.
She winced at a discordant clash of notes from a band that seemed to have come from some twilight zone of amateur nights. ”Oh, yeah, it has something. It has a beat and you can dance to it. But please don't ask me to.”
He chuckled. ”Well, we've done our duty. We listened to the speeches, ate the meal, and conversed intelligently with our table companions.” He glanced around their table, which, like all the others in the room, seated twelve people-and was now deserted except for them and a very young couple on the other side who were totally wrapped up in each other.
”Most of whom bailed half an hour ago,” Morgan pointed out, half closing her eyes as the enthusiastic drummer showed off his talents.
Quinn leaned even closer to her and, his breath warm against her neck, said, ”I think they all showed good sense. Why don't we follow suit? It's a beautiful night, and I happen to know of a coffee shop about two blocks from here; what do you say? We can walk off that mystery chicken dish and get some fresh air-and a decent cup of coffee.”
Morgan was in complete agreement, though she did feel a bit guilty in joining the exodus from the building. ”I should find Ken and tell him he did a good job,” she said to Quinn.
”Tell him tomorrow at the museum,” he suggested. ”It'll give you time to construct a really sincere face.”
She couldn't help laughing as they got up. ”Is nothing sacred to you?”
Guiding her through the jungle of pushed-back chairs and the occasional-and inexplicable-dancers, Quinn said, ”In the area of manners and mores, you mean? Sure. I just happen to believe we should all be completely honest with ourselves-especially when we have to lie to be polite to others.”
Morgan thought about that while they made their way from the hotel that was hosting the fund-raiser. She thought about lies. And she wondered which man had told her the most lies, Alex or Quinn.
As long as she followed her instincts and emotions, she had little hesitation in trusting Quinn. She wasn't so sure about Alex Brandon, partly, she suspected, because she hadn't quite convinced herself he was a real person. A psychologist would no doubt have found that as interesting as Storm had, but the truth was that after hearing about him for years and having several rather dramatic nighttime encounters with him, Quinn was the most real man she had ever known.
CHAPTER NINE.
”You're very quiet, Morgana. Something wrong?”
She looked at her hand resting lightly on his arm, then drew in a breath of the clear night air and turned her gaze ahead of them again as they strolled along the sidewalk toward the coffee shop. ”No. I was just thinking. Are you always honest with yourself, Alex?”
”Anyone who plays . . . ident.i.ty games has to be.”
”Ident.i.ty games,” she repeated slowly. ”Is that what you do?”
He was silent for a moment, then spoke in an unusually serious tone. ”I could say that when I was a boy I could never decide what I wanted to be when I grew up, but that wouldn't be true. What is true is that I had certain . . . talents that were not exactly suitable for your average career.”
”Such as?” She thought he would say something about opening locks or blending into the night, but his answer was far more complex.
”The ability to reinvent myself whenever I had to. The ability to function well under . . . unusual kinds of pressure. The ability to work completely alone-and a liking for it.” He shrugged. ”I don't know what I might have done, but in college a friend dared me to . . . liberate something from the dean's house one night. I did it. And I liked it.”
Morgan looked up at him curiously. ”A college prank is a long way from professional burglary.”
He smiled. ”True.”
”Was there any one thing that . . . bridged that distance? Something that happened to you, I mean.”
”A tragedy that propelled me into a life of crime?”