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The angry flush died out of her cheeks. Her eyes unfocused, went glassy. For a moment he thought she'd slip through his hold like water. If she was feigning distress, he realized he'd underestimated her.

“I didn't make a mistake,” she repeated, but now her voice shook. “I can prove it. I have the records, my notes, the X rays and results for the tests on the original bronze.”

The vulnerability got to him, enough for him to let her go as she twisted. He shook his head and followed her into a room lined with file cabinets.

“The weight was wrong,” she said quickly, as she fumbled with keys to unlock a drawer. “The scraping I took didn't jibe, but the weight—I knew it was wrong as soon as I picked it up. It was too heavy but— Where the hell is the file?”

“Miranda—”

“It was too heavy, just slightly too heavy, and the patina, it's close but it's not right. It's just not right. Even if you'd miss that, you couldn't possibly mistake the corrosion levels. You can't mistake them.”

Babbling now, she slammed the drawer shut, unlocked another, then another.

“It's not here. The files aren't here. They're missing.” Fighting for calm, she closed the drawer. “The pictures, the notes, the reports, everything on the bronze David is missing. You took them.”

“To what purpose?” he asked, with what he considered saintly patience. “Look, if I could get in here and take a fake, I could have taken anything I wanted. What would be the point in going through this routine, Miranda?”

“I have to think. Just be quiet. I have to think.” She pressed her hands to her mouth and paced. Logical, be logical, she ordered herself. Deal with the facts.

He'd stolen the bronze, and the bronze was fake. What was the point in stealing a fake, then bringing it back? None, none at all. If it had been genuine, why would he be here? He wouldn't. Therefore, the story he'd told her, however absurd, was true.

She'd tested it, and agreed with his conclusions.

Had she made a mistake? Oh God, had she made a mistake?

No. Logic, not emotion, she reminded herself. She made herself stop her erratic movements and stand perfectly still.

Logic, when properly applied, was amazingly simple.

“Someone beat you to it,” she said quietly. “Someone beat you to it and replaced it with a forgery.”

She turned to him, seeing by the considering look on his face that he was likely reaching the same conclusion.

“Well, Dr. Jones, it looks like we've both gotten that kick in the ass.” He angled his head to study her. “What are we going to do about it?”

twelve

M
iranda decided to
accept that it was a day for abnormal behavior when she found herself sitting in a truck stop off Route 1 at six
A.M.

Their waitress brought them a pot of coffee, two thick brown mugs, and a pair of laminated menus.

“What are we doing here?”

Ryan poured, sniffed, sipped, then sighed. “Now that's coffee.”

“Boldari, what are we doing here?”

“Having breakfast.” He kicked back and studied the menu.

She took a deep breath. “It's six o'clock in the morning. I've had a difficult night, and I'm tired. I have some serious thinking to do and I don't have time to sit in some truck stop trading witticisms with a thief.”

“So far you haven't been that witty. But as you said, you've had a difficult night. Are you going to run into anyone you know here?”

“Of course not.”

“Exactly. We need to eat, and we need to talk.” He set his menu down and shot a smile at their waitress when she
came over, pad in hand. “I'll go for the half-stack of hot-cakes, eggs over easy, and side of bacon, please.”

“You got it, cap'n. How 'bout you, honey?”

“I. . .” Resigned, Miranda squinted and scanned the menu in search of something nonlethal. “Just the, um, oatmeal. Do you have skim milk for that?”

“I'll see what I can do, and be back to you in a jiff.”

“Okay, let's outline our situation,” Ryan continued. “Three years ago you acquired a small bronze statue of David. My research indicates this came through your father, from a private dig outside of Rome.”

“Your research is correct. The majority of the finds were donated to the National Museum in Rome. He brought the David home for the Institute. For study and authentication, and display.”

“And you studied it, you authenticated it.”

“Yes.”

“Who worked with you?”

“Without my notes I can't be sure.”

“Just try to picture it.”

“It was three years ago.” Because her mind was fuzzy, she tried the coffee. It was like sipping lightning. “Andrew, of course,” she began. “He was very fond of that piece. It appealed to him. I think he might have done sketches of it. My father was in and out of the lab, checking the progress of the testing. He was pleased with the results. John Carter,” she added, rubbing an ache in the center of her forehead. “He's lab manager.”

“So he'd have had access to it. Who else?”

“Almost anyone working in the lab during that period. It wasn't a priority project.”

“How many work in the lab?”

“Anywhere from twelve to fifteen, depending.”

“All of them have access to the files?”

“No.” She paused as their breakfasts were served. “Not all the assistants and techs would have keys.”

“Trust me, Miranda. Keys are overrated.” He flashed that smile again as he topped off their coffee. “We'll assume that anyone who worked in the lab had access to the
files. You'll need to get a list of names from personnel.”

“Will I really?”

“You want to find it? You've got a three-year time span,” he explained. “From the time you authenticated the piece until I relieved you of the forgery. Whoever replaced it had to have access to the original to make the copy. The smartest, simplest way to do that would be to make a silicon mold, a wax reproduction from that.”

“I imagine you know all about forgeries,” she said with a sniff, as she spooned up oatmeal.

“Only what a man in my field—fields—needs to know. You'd need the original to make the mold,” he continued, so obviously unoffended she wondered why she bothered to snipe at him. “The most efficient way to do that would be to make it while the bronze was still in the lab. Once it's displayed, you've got to get around security—and yours is pretty good.”

“Thank you so much. This isn't skim milk,” she complained, frowning at the little pitcher the waitress had brought with the oatmeal.

“Live dangerously.” He dashed salt on his eggs. “Here's how I see it. Someone in the lab at that time saw the way your tests were leaning. It's a nice little piece, one a collector would pay a fair price for. So this person, maybe he has debts or he's pissed off at you or your family, maybe he's just decided to try his luck. He makes the mold some night. It's not a complicated process, and he's already in a lab. Nothing easier. If he doesn't know how to cast it himself, he certainly knows someone who does. More, he knows how to make the bronze appear to be, on the surface, several centuries old. When it's done, he switches the pieces—likely just before it's moved to display. Nobody's the wiser.”

“It couldn't have been done on impulse. It takes time, it takes planning.”

“I'm not saying it was impulse. But it wouldn't have taken that much time, either. How long was the bronze in the lab?”

“I don't know for sure. Two weeks, maybe three.”

“More than enough.” Ryan gestured with a slice of bacon before biting it. “If I were you, I'd run tests on some of my other pieces.”

“Others?” She didn't know why it hadn't occurred to her, not when it hit her now with such force. “Oh God.”

“He did it once, and did it well enough to pull it off. Why not do it again? Don't look so devastated, darling. I'm going to help you.”

“Help me.” She pressed her fingers to her gritty eyes. “Why?”

“Because I want that bronze. After all, I guaranteed it to my client.”

She dropped her hands. “You're going to help me get it back so you can steal it again?”

“I've got a vested interest. Finish your breakfast. We've got work to do.” He picked up his coffee and grinned at her. “Partner.”

 

Partner. The word made her shudder. Perhaps she was too tired to think clearly, but at the moment she couldn't see her way to recovering her property without him.

He'd used her, she remembered as she unlocked the front door of her house. Now, she would use him. Then she would see that he spent the next twenty years of his life taking group showers in a federal installation.

“You expecting anyone today? Housekeeper, cable guy, appliance repairman?”

“No. The cleaning company comes on Tuesdays and Fridays.”

“Cleaning company.” He took off his jacket. “You won't get homey casseroles and sage advice from cleaning companies. You need a housekeeper named Mabel who wears a white bib apron and sensible shoes.”

“The cleaning company is efficient, and unobtrusive.”

“Too bad. Andrew's left for work by now.” He noted by his watch it was eight-fifteen. “What time does your assistant get in?”

“Lori gets in by nine, usually a bit before.”

“You'll need to call her—got her home number?”

“Yes, but—”

“Give her a call, tell her you're not going to make it in today.”

“Of course I'm going in. I have meetings.”

“She'll cancel them.” He moved into the parlor and made himself at home by stacking kindling for a fire. “Tell her to get copies of personnel records for the lab, going back three years. It's the best place to start. Have her shoot them to your computer here.”

He lighted the starter and within seconds the kindling was crackling. She said nothing as he chose two logs from the woodbox, and placed them on the flaming kindling with the efficiency of an Eagle Scout.

When he rose, turned, her smile was as sharp and unfriendly as an unsheathed blade. “Is there anything else I can do?”

“Honey, you're going to have to take orders a bit more cheerfully. Somebody's got to be in charge, you know.”

“And you're in charge.”

“That's right.” He crossed over to her, took her by the shoulders. “I know a lot more about larceny than you do.”

“Most people wouldn't consider that an attribute for leadership.”

“Most people aren't trying to catch a thief.” His gaze roamed down, lingered on her mouth.

“Don't even think about it.”

“I never censor my thoughts. It gives you ulcers. We could enjoy this . . . association a lot more if you were a little friendlier.”

“Friendlier?”

“More flexible.” He drew her closer. “In certain areas.”

She let her body bump lightly against his, allowed her lashes to flutter. “Such as?”

“Well, for starters . . .” He lowered his head, drew in her scent, anticipated that first taste. And his breath whooshed out in a pained rush as her fist plowed into his stomach.

“I told you to keep your hands off of me.”

“So you did.” With a slow nod, he rubbed his gut.
Another few inches to the south, he thought, and her fist would have unmanned him. “You've got a good, solid punch, Dr. Jones.”

“Be grateful I pulled it, Boldari.” Though she hadn't, not by an inch. “Or you'd be on your hands and knees whistling for air. I take it we understand each other on this point.”

“Perfectly. Make the call, Miranda. And let's get to work.”

She did what he asked because it made sense. The only way to proceed was to begin, and to begin you needed a starting point.

By nine-thirty, she was in her home office, calling up data on her desktop.

The room was as efficient as her office at the Institute, if slightly cozier. Ryan had lighted a fire there as well, though she didn't consider it cold enough to indulge in one. Flames crackled cheerfully in the stone hearth; the late-winter sun beamed through the curtains he'd swept back.

They sat hip to hip at her desk, scanning names.

“Looks like you had an unusually large turnover about eighteen months ago,” he pointed out.

“Yes. My mother revamped her lab in Florence. Several staff members transferred there, or moved from there to the Institute.”

“I'm surprised you didn't jump at it.”

“At what?”

“A move to Florence.”

She shot the file to the printer. A hard copy would mean she didn't have to sit next to him. “It wasn't an option. Andrew and I run the Institute. My mother runs Standjo.”

“I see.” And he thought he did. “Some friction between you and Mama?”

“My family relationships are none of your concern.”

“More than some friction, I'd say. How about your father?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Are you Daddy's little girl?”

She laughed before she could stop herself, then rose to
retrieve the printout. “I've never been anyone's little girl.”

“That's too bad,” he said, and meant it.

“My family isn't the issue here.” She sat on the raspberry-colored love seat and tried to concentrate on the names that kept blurring in front of her tired eyes.

“They could be. Yours is a family-run business. Maybe someone took a shot at your family by taking the bronze.”

“Your Italian's showing,” she said dryly, and made him smile.

“The Irish are every bit as interested in revenge, darling. Tell me about the people on the list.”

“John Carter. Lab manager. Got his doctorate from Duke. He's worked at the Institute for sixteen years. Oriental art is his primary interest.”

“No, get personal. Is he married? Does he pay alimony? Gamble, drink his lunch, dress in women's clothes on Saturday night?”

“Don't be ridiculous.” She tried to sit up straight, then gave in and curled up her legs. “He's married, no divorces. Two children. I think the oldest just started college.”

“Takes a lot of money to raise kids, send them to college.” He scanned across, noted the annual salary. “He makes a decent living, but decent doesn't satisfy everyone.”

“His wife's a lawyer, and likely makes more than he does. Money isn't a problem for them.”

“Money's always a problem. What kind of car does he drive?”

“I don't have any idea.”

“How does he dress?”

She started to sigh, but thought she saw what he was getting at. “Old jackets and silly ties,” she began, closing her eyes to try to bring her lab manager into focus. “No flash—though his wife bought him a Rolex for their twentieth anniversary.” She stifled a yawn and snuggled down a little farther into the cushions. “He wears the same shoes every day. Hush Puppies. When they're ready to fall off his feet, he buys another pair.”

“Take a nap, Miranda.”

“I'm all right. Who's next?” She forced her eyes open. “Oh, Elise. My brother's ex-wife.”

“Ugly divorce?”

“I don't imagine they're ever pretty, but she was very gentle with him. She was John's assistant here, then transferred to Florence. She's lab manager for my mother. She and Andrew met at the Institute—in fact, I introduced them. He fell like a tree. They were married six months later.” She yawned again, and didn't bother to stifle it.