Page 48 of Homeport

He stopped with his hand on the doorknob. “Goodbye?”

“He had to get back to New York tonight.”

“He was here? Damn it. He knows about this mess already? The Vasaris?”

“He’s completely supportive. He assured me this problem wouldn’t affect the trade. I’m, ah, thinking about going down to New York in a couple of weeks.” In fact, she’d just thought of it. “To . . . expedite the loan.”

Distracted, he nodded. “Good, that’s fine. We’ll talk about that later. A new exhibit’s just what we need to offset this mess.”

He started downstairs, glancing at his watch. It amazed him it was barely ten. It felt as if he’d been running on this particular wheel for days.

Cops, both uniformed and plainclothes, swarmed the main floor. What he assumed was fingerprint powder was smeared over the display cabinet. The little circle of glass was gone. Tucked away in some evidence bag, he figured.

Andrew questioned one of the uniformed officers and was told he’d find Detective Cook at the south entrance.

Andrew traveled the route, trying to imagine the thief doing the same. Dressed in black, he imagined, a man with a hard face. Maybe a scar sliced down the cheek. Had he carried a gun? A knife? A knife, Andrew decided. He would have wanted to kill quietly and quickly should it become necessary.

He thought of how many nights Miranda worked late in the lab or her office, and cursed violently.

Fresh fury was bubbling under his skin as he pushed into the anteroom and found Cook perusing the offerings of the snack machine.

“Is this how you find this son of a bitch?” Andrew demanded. “By munching on potato chips?”

“Actually, I’m going for the pretzels.” Calmly, Cook pushed the proper buttons. “I’m cutting down on fat grams.” The bag thunked against the metal tray. Cook pushed through the slot, nipped it out.

“Great. A health-conscious cop.”

“You got your health,” Cook claimed as he ripped open the bag, “you got everything.”

“I want to know what you’re doing to find the bastard who broke into my building.”

“My job, Dr. Jones. Why don’t we sit down here?” He gestured to one of the little cafe tables. “You look like you could use some coffee.”

Andrew’s eyes flashed, the sudden brilliant blue of temper that turned his aesthetic face into something tough and potentially mean. The quick change had Cook reconsidering the man.

“I don’t want to sit down,” Andrew shot back, “and I don’t want any coffee.” He would have killed for some. “My sister works late, Detective. She often works late, alone, in this building. If she hadn’t been ill last night, she might have been here when he broke in. I might have lost something a great deal more valuable to me than a bronze.”

“I understand your concern.”

“No, you couldn’t possibly.”

“I got family myself.” Despite Andrew’s refusal, Cook counted out coins and turned to the coffee machine. “How do you take it?”

“I said—Black,” Andrew muttered. “Just black.”

“I used to drink it the same way. Still miss it.” Cook breathed in deep as the coffee began to spurt into the insulated cup. “Let me relieve your mind a bit, Dr. Jones. Typically a B-and-E man—especially a smart one—isn’t looking to hurt anyone. Fact is he’ll back off a job before he’ll get into that kind of tangle. He won’t even carry a weapon, because if he does that adds years onto his time if he’s caught.”

He set the coffee on the table, sat, waited. After a moment Andrew relented and joined him. As the hot edge of temper faded from his eyes, his narrow face smoothed out, his shoulders slipped back into their slight hunch. “Maybe this guy wasn’t typical.”

“I’d say he wasn’t—but if he’s as smart as I think, he’d have followed that rule. No weapons, no contact with people. In and out. If your sister had been here, he’d have avoided her.”

“You don’t know my sister.” The coffee made him feel slightly more human.

“A strong lady, your sister?”

“She’s had to be. But she was mugged recently, right in front of our house. The guy had a knife—she’s terrified of knives. There was nothing she could do.”

Cook pursed his lips. “When was this?”

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