Page 162 of Homeport

“Why die for a cause? Better to live for it.”

While she pondered his philosophy and searched for the flaws in it, he strolled over to study a table artfully crowded with religious artifacts. Silver crucifixes, chalices, relics.

“You’ve done an amazing job here, Dr. Jones.”

“I think it works very well. The Titians will be the major focal point of this room, along with your Raphael. It’s a magnificent piece, Ryan.”

“Yes, I like it quite a lot. Want to buy it?” He turned to grin at her. “The beauty of my business, Dr. Jones, is that everything has a price. Meet it, and it’s yours.”

“If you’re serious about selling the Raphael, I’ll work up a proposal. A great many of our pieces, however, are donated or on permanent loan.”

“Not even for you, darling.”

She only moved her shoulders. She hadn’t expected anything else. “I’d put The Dark Lady there,” she said suddenly. “Every time I imagined this room, worked on the angles, the flow, the theme, I’d see it standing on a white column with grapevines twining down. Right here.” She stepped forward. “Under the light here. Where everyone could see it. Where I could see it.”

“We’ll get it back, Miranda.”

She said nothing, annoyed with herself for daydreaming. “Do you want to see the next room? We have your Vasaris up.”

“Later.” He stepped to her. It had to be done. He’d intended to tell her immediately, but he hadn’t been able to face putting that haunted look back into her eyes. “Miranda, I got a call from my brother in San Francisco. From Michael. A body was pulled out of the bay last night. It was Harry Mathers.”

She only stared, her eyes locked on his for a long silent moment before she simply closed them and turned away. “It wasn’t an accident. It wasn’t random.”

“The news reports my brother’s heard don’t give many details. Just that he was killed before he was dumped in the water.”

His throat had been slit, Ryan thought, but there was no reason to add that detail. She already knew the who and why. What good would it do for her to know the how?

“Three people now. Three people dead. And for what?” With her back still to him she stared up at the glorious face of the Madonna. “For money, for art, for ego? Maybe all three.”

“Or maybe none of those, not really. Maybe it’s you.”

The quick stabbing pain in her heart had her shuddering once before she turned back. He saw the fear in her eyes, and knew that fear wasn’t for herself. “Because of me? Someone could hate me that much? Why? I can’t think of anyone I’ve had that kind of impact on, anyone I’ve hurt so deeply they would murder to protect a lie that ruins my professional reputation. For God’s sake, Ryan, Harry was only a boy.”

Her voice was grim now, sharp with the fury that rolled in behind the fear. “Just a boy,” she repeated, “and he was snipped off like a loose thread. Just as carelessly as that. Who could I matter to so much they would have a boy killed that way? I’ve never mattered to anyone.”

That, he thought, was the saddest thing he’d ever heard anyone say. Sadder still was the fact that she believed it. “You make more of an impact than you realize, Miranda. You’re strong, you’re successful. You’re focused on what you want and where you want to go. And you get there.”

“I haven’t stepped over anyone on the way.”

“Maybe you didn’t see them. Patrick’s been working on tracing that e-mail you received.”

“Yes.” She pushed a hand through her hair. Didn’t see them? she wondered. Could she be that self-absorbed, that remote, that cold? “Did he manage it? It’s been more than a week now. I thought he must have given up.”

“He never does when he has his teeth into a computer puzzle.”

“What is it? What are you trying not to tell me?”

“The user name was attached very briefly to an account. Put on and taken off, and buried under a great deal of computer jargon.”

She felt the cold ball form in her stomach. It would be bad, she knew. Very bad. “What was the account?”

He laid his hands on her shoulders. “It was your mother’s.”

“That’s not possible.”

“The message was routed out of Florence, on that area code, and under the account registered to Elizabeth Standford-Jones, and under her password. I’m sorry.”

“It can’t be.” She pulled away from him. “No matter how much—how little—no matter what,” she managed. “She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t hate me this much. I can’t accept that.”

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