Page 139 of Homeport

“Yes, ma’am. I’m glad to hear you’re not put off by the theft here, Mr. Boldari. Not everyone would loan a gallery all that art after its security was breached.”

“I have every confidence in Dr. Jones, and the Institute. I’m sure my property will be well protected.”

“Still, it wouldn’t hurt to add on a few men.”

“It’s being done,” Miranda told Cook.

“I could give you the names of a couple of good cops who moonlight in private security.”

“That’s very kind of you. You could give the names to my assistant.”

“No problem, Dr. Jones. Mr. Boldari.” There was something between those two, Cook thought as he headed out the door. Maybe it was just sex. And maybe it was something else.

And there was something, a definite something, about Boldari. Maybe everything about him checked out neat as pins in a cushion, but there was something.

“Ryan—”

He cut Miranda off with an almost undetectable shake of the head. “I’m sorry you haven’t recovered your property.”

“We, ah, haven’t given up on it. I’ve arranged for lunch in our VIP lounge. I thought that would give us time to go over some of the plans for the exhibit.”

“Perfect.” He offered her his arm. “I’m anxious to hear your plans in more detail.” He walked her down the hall, up the stairs, keeping up inane chatter until they were safely alone in the small, elegant lounge. “Had he been grilling you for long?”

“It seemed like all my life. He talked about forgeries, wanted to know if I could detect one by just looking.”

“Really.” The table was already set for three, with appetizers of crackers and black olive pâté on hand. He spread one. “He’s a sharp cop, though the Columbo routine wears a little thin.”

“Columbo?”

“Lieutenant Columbo.” Ryan bit into the cracker. “Peter Falk, cheap cigar, rumpled trench coat.” When she only looked blank, he shook his head. “Your education in popular culture is sadly lacking. Doesn’t matter.” He waved it away. “He may actually be some help in all this before it’s over.”

“Ryan, if he makes the connection, if he pursues that angle, it could lead him to you. You’ve got the forgeries.”

“It won’t lead him to me, or to you. And in a month, give or take a few days, I won’t have the forgeries. I’ll have the originals. And we’ll both polish the smear off our reputations.”

She pressed her fingers to her eyes and tried to bring back that momentary sense of satisfaction she’d experienced. It just wasn’t there. “I don’t see how this is going to work.”

“You have to trust me, Dr. Jones. This is my particular field of expertise.” He gestured toward the place settings. “Who’s joining us?”

“Andrew.”

“You can’t tell him, Miranda.”

“I know.” She linked her hands together and came perilously close to wringing them. “He’s trying to get his life back. I’m not going to add to his stress by telling him I’m involved in planning a robbery.”

“If things go according to plan, it’ll be a burglary, and,” he added, taking her hands to soothe her nerves, “all we’re doing is taking back what was stolen. So why don’t we say you’re involved in planning a recovery?”

“That doesn’t make it less of a crime. That doesn’t make me feel less guilty when Cook gives me that hound-on-the-scent look and asks me about forgeries.”

“You handled him.”

“And I was starting to enjoy it,” she muttered. “I don’t know what’s happening to me. Every step I’m taking or planning to take is outside the law.”

“Inside, outside.” He gave a slight shrug. “The line shifts more often than you might think.”

“Not my line, Ryan. My line’s always been firmly dug in one place.” She turned away. “There was a message on my phone machine here. From Carlo Rinaldi.”

“Rinaldi?” He set down the cracker he’d just spread. “What did he want?”

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