Page 49 of Homeport

“A couple of weeks ago, I guess.” He dug fingers through his hair. “He knocked her down, took her purse, her briefcase.” He trailed off, took another breath, another sip of coffee. “It shook her, shook us both. And thinking that she might have been here when this guy broke in—”

“This type of thief, it’s not his style to knock women around and grab their purses.”

“Maybe not. But they never caught him. He terrified her, took her things, then he walked. Miranda’s had enough—between that and the problems in Florence.” Andrew caught himself, realizing he was relaxing, and chatting about Miranda, for God’s sake. “This isn’t what you wanted to talk to me about.”

“Actually, it’s helpful, Dr. Jones.” A mugging and a burglary in less than a month. Same victim? It was, Cook decided, interesting. “You say your sister wasn’t well last night. What was wrong with her?”

“A problem in Florence,” he said briefly. “Some difficulty with our mother. It upset her.”

“Your mother’s in Italy?”

“She lives there. She works there. She heads Standjo. It’s a laboratory for testing art and artifacts. It’s part of the family business. An offshoot of the Institute.”

“So there’s some friction between your mother and your sister?”

Andrew took another sip of coffee to steady himself and watched Cook over the rim. His eyes went hard again. “My family relationships aren’t police business.”

“Just trying to get the whole picture. This is a family organization, after all. There’s no sign of forced entry.”

Andrew’s hand jerked, nearly spilling his coffee as he tried to make the sharp turn. “Excuse me?”

“There’s no overt sign of forced entry on either of these doors.” Cook wagged a finger to the exterior and interior doors. “Both were locked. Outside, you need a key card and a code, correct?”

“Yes. Only department heads can use this entrance. This area is used as a staff lounge. There’s another lounge for general staff on level three.”

“I’ll need a list of department heads.”

“Of course. You think it’s someone who works here?”

“I don’t think anything. Biggest mistake is to come onto a scene with an idea.” He smiled a little. “It’s just procedure.”

• • •

The break-in at the Institute was the lead story on the local eleven o’clock news. In New York, it earned thirty seconds in the lower half of the hour. Stretched out on the sofa in his apartment on Central Park South, Ryan sipped a brandy, enjoyed the tang of a slim Cuban cigar, and noted the details.

There weren’t many. Then New York had plenty of its own crime and scandals to fill the time. If the Institute hadn’t been a landmark and the Joneses quite such a prominent New England family, the burglary wouldn’t have merited so much as a blip outside of Maine.

Police were investigating. Ryan grinned around the cigar as he thought of Cook. He knew the type. Dogged, thorough, with a solid record of closing cases. It was satisfying to have a good cop investigating his last job. Rounded off his career nicely.

Pursuing several leads. Well, that was bullshit. There were no leads, but they would have to say there were and save face.

He sat up as he caught a glimpse of Miranda leaving the building. Her hair was smoothed back in a twist. She’d done that for the cameras, he thought, remembering how it had been loose and tangled when he’d kissed her goodbye. Her face was calm, composed. Cold, he decided. The lady had quite a cold streak, which inspired him to melt her. Which he would have done, he thought, if there’d been a bit more time.

Still, he was pleased to see she was handling the situation well. She was a tough one. Even with those pockets of shyness and sadness, she was tough. Another day or two, he calculated, and her life would slip back into routine. The little bump he’d put into it would smooth out, the insurance would kick in, and the cops would file the case and forget it.

And he, Ryan thought as he blew cheerful smoke rings at the ceiling, had a satisfied client, a perfect record, and some leisure time coming.

Maybe, just maybe, he’d bend the rules in this case and take Miranda to the West Indies for a couple of weeks. Sun, sand, and sex. It would do her good, he decided. And it sure as hell wouldn’t hurt him any.

Annie McLean’s apartment would have fit into Ryan’s living room, but she did have a view of the park. If she leaned far enough out her bedroom window, twisted her neck until it ached, and strained her eyes. But that was good enough for her.

Maybe the furniture was secondhand, but she had bright colors. The rug might have come from a garage sale, but it had shampooed up just fine. And she liked the overblown cabbage roses around the border.

She’d put the shelves together herself, painted them a deep dark green, and crammed them with books she bought when the library held its annual sale.

Classics for the most part. Books she’d neglected to read in school and longed to explore now. She did so whenever she had a free hour or two, bundling under the cheerful blue-and-green-striped throw her mother had crocheted and diving into Hemingway or Steinbeck or Fitzgerald.

Her CD player had been an indulgent Christmas present to herself two years before. Deliberately, she’d collected a wide range of music—eclectic, she liked to think of it.

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