Page 137 of Homeport

The restorer barely glanced at him, giving him one flick of a look from behind her magnifying goggles. “The painting was part of a collection, long neglected, of a recluse in Georgia,” Miranda said. “This piece, as well as several others, suffered some damage—dirt, damp, direct sunlight for an unfortunate period of time. It’s been cleaned. In itself that’s a slow, careful process. We can’t risk damaging the work, so it takes a great deal of time and skill. Now we’re attempting to repair some damage to the paint. We use only ingredients which would have been available when the painting was created, so as to preserve its integrity. This takes research, talent, and patience. If we’ve done our job, the painting will be as it was when the artist finished it.”

“A lot like police work,” he commented.

“Is it?”

“It’s a slow, careful process—you can’t risk damaging the case. You only use information that comes through it. It takes research, a kind of talent,” he said with a ghost of a smile. “And a hell of a lot of patience. You do it right, you got the whole picture when you’re done.”

“A very interesting analogy, Detective.” And one that made her incredibly nervous. “And are you getting the whole picture?”

“Just bits and pieces, Dr. Jones. Just bits and pieces.” He dug around in his pocket and came up with an open pack of Juicy Fruit. “Gum?”

“No, thank you.”

“Quit smoking.” He took out a piece, carefully unwrapped it and put the paper and the foil into his pocket again. “Still driving me nuts. Got this patch on, but it’s not all it’s cracked up to be, let me tell you. You smoke?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Smart girl. Me, I used to suck down two packs a day. Then it got to be you can’t smoke here, you can’t smoke there. You’re catching a couple drags in some closet or going outside in the rain. Makes you feel like a criminal.” He smiled again.

Miranda barely resisted shifting her feet, and instead imagined herself tapping her foot, snapping her fingers. “I’m sure it’s a difficult habit to break.”

“An addiction’s what it is. It’s a hard thing to face up to, an addiction. It can take over your life, make you do things you wouldn’t do otherwise.”

He knew about Andrew’s drinking. She could see it in his eyes, and thought he wanted her to see it. “I never smoked,” she said flatly. “Would you like to go to my office?”

“No, no, I won’t keep you long.” He drew a breath of air that smelled of paint and turpentine and commercial cleaner. “Didn’t think I’d run into you at all, since I’d been told you were out on leave. Took a little vacation?”

She started to agree. She wasn’t sure if it was instinct or simple fear that stopped her. “I’m sure you’re aware that I was told to take leave, Detective, due to the break-in here, and some difficulties that came out of my trip to Florence last month.”

She was quick, he thought, and not easily tripped. “I heard something about it. Another bronze piece, right? You had some trouble authenticating it.”

“I don’t think so. Others do.” She moved away from the painting, well aware ears were pricked.

“It caused you some trouble anyway. Two bronzes. Funny, don’t you think?”

“There’s nothing funny to me about having my reputation on the line.”

“I can understand that. Still, you only had to stay out a few days.”

This time she didn’t even hesitate. “It would have been longer, but we’re beginning an important project that falls into my specific field of knowledge.”

“Somebody mentioned that to me. And I heard about your man in Italy. The murder. That’s a rough one.”

Distress came into her eyes, made her look away. “He was a friend. A good one.”

“Got any idea who’d take him out that way?”

She looked back now, coldly. “Detective Cook, if I knew who had crushed my friend’s skull, I’d be in Florence, talking to the police.”

Cook moved the gum to the other side of his mouth with his tongue. “I didn’t know they’d released the fractured skull.”

“My mother was informed,” she said in the same chilly voice, “as was Giovanni’s family.” She could only pray that was true. “Are you investigating his murder, or our burglary?”

“Just curious. Cops are curious.” He spread his hands. “I came in because your brother’s got a theory on how maybe the two incidents are connected.”

“Yes, he told me. Do you see a connection?”

“Sometimes you don’t see it until you’re on top of it. You also authenticated the, ah . . .” He took out his notebook, flipped through as if to refresh his memory. “Bronze David, sixteenth century, in the style of Leonardo.”

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