Page 100 of Homeport

“Where did you call him?”

“At the lab. I knew I could catch him before the end of the workday. I took the bronzes, and I went down the stairs, out the back courtyard while you were at the desk. He came right away. It couldn’t have been more than fifteen minutes.”

Enough time, Ryan mused, for him to have told someone of the call. The wrong someone. “What did you tell him?”

“Almost everything. I explained that I had the bronze that Ponti had tested, that it wasn’t the same one we’d worked on. I told him as much as I could about the David. I don’t think he believed me. But he listened.”

She stopped pushing her steak around on her plate. Pretending to eat was too much effort. “I asked him to take the bronzes into the lab, to run tests, to do a comparison. I said I’d contact him tomorrow. I didn’t give him the hotel because I didn’t want him to call or come over. I didn’t want you to know what I’d done with the bronzes.”

Ryan sat back, deciding neither of them was going to do the meal justice. Instead he took out a cigar. “That may very well be why we’re sitting here, enjoying the moonlight.”

“What do you mean?”

“Put your brain to work, Dr. Jones. Your friend had the bronzes, and now he’s dead. The murder weapon and the David were left on the scene. What connects the two? You do.”

He lighted the cigar to give her time to absorb the thought. “If the cops had found those statues on the crime scene, they’d have gone hunting for you. Whoever did it knows you’ve put enough together to look for answers, and that you’re skirting the law enough to prevent you from bringing in the police.”

“Killing Giovanni to implicate me.” It was too cold, too hideous to be contemplated. And too logical to ignore.

“An added benefit. If he was straight, he’d have begun to wonder himself after the tests. He’d take another look at your notes, your results.”

“That’s why the lab was trashed,” she murmured. “We’ll never find my documentation now.”

“Taken or destroyed,” Ryan agreed. “Your friend was in the way. And Miranda, so are you.”

“Yes, I see.” Somehow it was better that way, easier. “It’s more important than ever to find the original. Whoever replaced it killed Giovanni.”

“You know what they say about killing? The first one’s tough. After that, it’s just business.”

She ignored the chill that danced over her skin. “If that means you want to end our deal here and now, I won’t blame you.”

“Wouldn’t you?” He leaned back again, drawing idly on the cigar. He wondered how much the fact that she would think him a coward played into it. And how much the need to protect her weighed on the decision he’d already made. “I finish what I start.”

Relief spread like a river, but she picked up her wineglass, raised it in a half-salute. “So do I.”

eighteen

It was still shy of midnight when Carlo left the trattoria and began to walk home. He’d promised his wife he wouldn’t be out late. The boundaries of their marriage included one evening a week for him to sit and drink and tell lies with his friends. Sofia had her evening as well, a gossipfest at her sister’s, which he supposed amounted to the same thing.

Habitually he stayed till twelve, or a bit after, drawing the male oasis out, but just lately he’d been cutting it short. He’d been the butt of jokes since the papers had announced his Dark Lady was a hoax.

He didn’t believe it, not for a minute. He’d held the statue in his hands, he’d felt the whisper of breath on his cheeks. An artist recognized art. But whenever he said so, his friends laughed.

The authorities had grilled him like a criminal. Dio mio, he’d done nothing but what was right. Perhaps he’d made a small error of judgment by taking the statue out of the villa.

But he had found her, after all. He had held her in his hands, looked at her face, felt her beauty and her power like wine in his blood. She had transfixed him, he thought now. Bewitched him. And still, in the end he’d done the right thing and given her up.

Now they tried to say she was nothing. A clever scheme to dupe the art world. He knew, in his heart, in his bones, that was a lie.

Sofia said she believed him, but he knew she didn’t. She said it because she was loyal and loving, and because it caused less arguing in front of the children. The reporters he’d talked to had taken down all his statements, and had made him sound like a fool.

He’d tried to talk to the American woman, the one who ran the big laboratory where his lady had been taken. But she wouldn’t listen. He’d lost his temper with her, demanded to speak to the Dr. Miranda Jones who had proven his lady was real.

The direttrice had called security and had him tossed out. It had been humiliating.

He should never have listened to Sofia, he thought now as he made his way down the quiet road outside the city toward home, stumbling a bit as the wine brooded in his head. He should have kept the lady for himself as he’d wanted to. He had found her, he had taken her out of the damp, dark cellar and brought her into the light. She belonged to him.

Now, even though they claimed she was worthless, they wouldn’t give her back to him.

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