Page 42 of Homeport

“That’s the most likely theory, unless you think the guards have a conspiracy going, and the lot of them suddenly developed an obsession for small, naked Italian boys cast in bronze.”

He was sick inside. He’d loved that piece, the vitality and the pure arrogance of it. “It could have been a hell of a lot worse, Miranda.”

“Our security failed, our property was taken. How could it be worse?”

“From the looks of it, this guy could have loaded up a Santa sack and cleaned out half this area.”

“One piece or a dozen, we’ve still been violated. God.” She covered her face with her hands. “Nothing’s been taken from the Institute since the six paintings in the fifties, and four of them were recovered.”

“Then maybe we were due,” he said wearily.

“Bullshit.” She spun on her heel. “We protected our property, sparing no expense with security.”

“No motion detectors,” he murmured.

“You wanted them.”

“The system I wanted would have meant taking up the floor.” He looked down at the thick and lovely marble. “The brass wouldn’t go for it.”

By brass he meant their parents. His father had been appalled at the idea of destroying the floor, and nearly as appalled by the estimated cost of the proposed system.

“Probably wouldn’t have mattered,” he said with a shrug. “Just as likely he’d have found a way to get past that too. Damn it, Miranda, security’s my responsibility.”

“This is not your fault.”

He sighed and desperately, viciously, wanted a drink. “It’s always somebody’s fault. I’ll have to tell them. I don’t even know how to contact the old man in Utah.”

“She’ll know, but let’s not move too fast. Let me think a minute.” She closed her eyes and stood still. “As you said, it could have been much worse. We only lost one piece—and we may very well recover it. Meanwhile, it’s insured and the police are on their way. Everything’s being done. We have to let the police do their job.”

“I have to do mine, Miranda. I have to call Florence.” He worked up a weak smile. “Look at it this way—our little incident might push your problem with her to the back burner for a while.”

She snorted. “If I thought that would happen, I might have stolen the damn thing myself.”

“Dr. Jones.” A man stepped into the room, his cheeks red with cold, his eyes of pale green narrowly focused under heavy graying brows. “And Dr. Jones. Detective Cook.” He held up a gold shield. “Word is you’ve lost something.”

By nine, Miranda’s head was pounding violently enough for her to give in and lay it down on her desk. She had her door closed, had barely resisted the urge to lock it, and was allowing herself ten minutes to indulge in despair and self-pity.

She’d only managed five when her intercom buzzed. “Miranda, I’m sorry.” There was both concern and hesitation in Lori’s voice. “Dr. Standford-Jones in on line one. Do you want me to tell her you’re unavailable?”

Oh, it was tempting. But she drew a deep breath, straightened her spine. “No, I’ll take it. Thank you, Lori.” Because her voice sounded rusty, she cleared it, then punched line one. “Hello, Mother.”

“The testing on the Fiesole Bronze has been completed,” Elizabeth said without preamble.

“I see.”

“Your findings were inaccurate.”

“I don’t believe they were.”

“Whatever you insist on believing, they have been disproved. The bronze is nothing more than a clever and well-executed attempt to mimic Renaissance style and materials. The authorities are investigating Carlo Rinaldi, the man who claimed to have found the piece.”

“I want to see the results of the second test.”

“That is not an option.”

“You can arrange it. I’m entitled to—”

“You’re entitled to nothing, Miranda. Let’s understand each other. My priority at this point is to prevent this damage from spreading. We’ve already had two government projects canceled. Your reputation, and as a result, my own, is under attack. There are some who believe you purposely doctored tests and results in order to take credit for a find.”

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