Quinn didn't comment on her use of the connection between them, though he did smile a bit wryly. But all he said was, “Which is why you came creeping through Leo's garden?”
Sighing, she said, “Well, it occurred to me that if Max didn't know it was Leo you were after, and he didn't know that Quinn and Nightshade were supposedly in cahoots, then he probably also didn't know that it would be important to make sure Leo didn't find out you guys were brothers. Because if he knew that, he'd be certain that Max's brother would never steal from him. I mean, you just wouldn't. And he'd know that. So he'd know it was a trap.”
Before Quinn could respond to that tangled explanation, Max said rather bitterly, “Obviously, there was too damned much that Max didn't know.”
Morgan glanced around the room, finding the others beginning to settle into chairs and couches. Dinah and Storm, both having spent the previous evening here getting to know Elizabeth, were handing out coffee to the others. There were a number of expectant faces in the room, and more than one frown directed at Quinn.
Somewhat hastily, Quinn said, “Jared, why don't you start the ball rolling?”
With a faint shrug, Jared did, setting up the situation very briefly by explaining how he and Alex had believed they could construct a trap to catch Nightshade.
“We know that,” Max told him, very patient. “What we don't know is at what point Alex identified Leo as Nightshade.”
“Ask him,” Jared advised dryly.
Quinn sent him a glance, and murmured, “Traitor.”
Max, unamused by the byplay, said, “Alex?”
“It was . . . fairly recently.” Quinn hurried on, hoping Max wouldn't demand too many specifics. “I thought I might have some luck if I approached him directly and proposed a partnership. After all, I was a virtual stranger here with no professional contacts, and it was well known—within the trade—that Nightshade tended to avoid sophisticated electronic security systems, while I specialized in them. It seemed obvious a partnership would be mutually beneficial.”
Quinn shrugged. “Of course, from his viewpoint it was even simpler and far more attractive a proposition, since he always intended for me to take the blame. He was too close to Max, too close to the art world here in San Francisco, to take the chance of pulling off the robbery unless he could pin it on someone else. Someone the police could be counted on to believe was capable of pulling it off.”
“Someone who would seemingly vanish in a puff of smoke afterward,” Wolfe said. “Quinn.”
“Exactly,” Quinn confirmed.
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
Of course, the reason he gave me was simply that he was too close to Max and the museum to take any chances, plus that he wasn't particularly adept with cutting-edge electronic security systems. Since I had never hesitated to take the credit—or blame, rather—for past robberies, it was understood I wouldn't mind taking it for stealing the Bannister collection, even if all I actually walked off with was one piece of it.”
“I guess he never mentioned that he intended to kill you to make certain you could never be a threat against him in the future,” Wolfe commented.
“Well, no,” Quinn said. “I naturally assumed it was a risk and took sensible precautions.”
“And you never let the rest of us in on this because . . .” Wolfe's voice was dangerously quiet.
Quinn cleared his throat. “I thought the fewer of us who knew, the less likely there could be a slip. A problem.”
“Jesus Christ, Alex. Teaming up with a vicious killer? One slip and you end up with your throat cut.”
“Look, I thought it was worth the risk. Just setting a trap in the museum and waiting to see if he decided to rob the place seemed to me awfully chancy, especially given his avoidance of sophisticated electronic security. Besides which, he could have waited weeks to make his move, and I didn't think any of us wanted to wait and pace the floor that long.”
“So you decided to push him,” Max said.
“Well, more or less. After I made contact with him, I assured him I could find a way into the museum, and he wanted the collection badly enough to let me try. And it worked,” he added lightly. “He was caught breaking into the museum, and the police will certainly find plenty of evidence they can use against him when they search his house.”
Morgan frowned. “But Leo also knows a few things that could hurt you. He knows that Alex Brandon is Quinn.” She sent a quick glance toward Elizabeth, marveling that the older woman hadn't seemed upset by any of this, but Elizabeth smiled at her with utter calm.
“Does he?” Quinn smiled up at her. “He says Alex Brandon is Quinn. But all he really knows is that I told him I was Quinn, and he can't prove that; there hasn't been a single robbery attributed to Quinn here in San Francisco. So it's my word against his. If he tries to implicate me in any way, my sterling reputation should protect me. Besides, Interpol will report that the man they strongly suspect of being Quinn never left Europe. And since, also thanks to Interpol, there have been a couple of robberies on that side of the Atlantic publicly attributed to Quinn during the past week or so—while Alex Brandon was blamelessly over here—well, who would you believe?”
Mildly, Max said, “Lucky for you the Carstairs family decided not to go public about losing their necklace.”
In a tone of great innocence, Quinn said, “No, it's just lucky that the police will find that necklace in Leo's safe. Obviously, Nightshade stole the thing.”
“Obviously,” Wolfe grunted.
Storm giggled suddenly and, to Quinn, said, “I'll say this for you, Alex—you keep your balance on a high wire.”
“Practice,” he told her.
“So what now?” It was Max who asked, his steady gaze on his younger brother.
Quinn shrugged. “Well, there are lots more thieves in the world, some of them pretty good at eluding the police. I imagine Interpol can use someone of my . . . talents.”
Max looked at Jared, who nodded. “Probably. This little adventure, with its highly successful outcome, will look good to my superiors—since they don't know what went on behind the scenes. He's more valuable to us outside a prison cell than in.”
“On the road to redemption,” Quinn murmured.
“Don't push it, Alex,” Jared warned.
“I was being serious.” Quinn realized he was being stared at and cleared his throat. “Well, reasonably serious.”
Eyeing him, Wolfe said, “Sounds to me like you'll be in indentured servitude to Interpol. And that was never your style, Alex.”
“People change.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Look, I'm not saying I'm going to always enjoy playing on Interpol's team, but I can do it.”
“Can. But how long will you?”
“As long as . . . necessary.”
“How long will that be?” It was Max who asked now.
Quinn sighed. “If you want to know whether I intend to return to thieving, the answer is no. Been there, done that.”
“And earned the infamous reputation as a master thief,” Storm murmured.
“Exactly,” Quinn said. “I have nothing to prove. And, truth to tell, I enjoyed these last months.”
“Even getting shot?” Wolfe demanded.
“Alex!” Elizabeth scolded, for all the world as if a small son had come home with a black eye.
Her youngest, though far from small, looked a bit sheepish, contritely accepting the blame for having gotten himself shot. “Sorry, Mother,” he murmured.
“It could continue to be an occupational hazard,” Max pointed out. “Getting shot at. A dangerous life, Alex.”
“Maybe. But a life I enjoy, Max. A life I'm good at.”
Morgan very deliberately didn't enter the discussion, her gaze moving among the brothers as they talked about the future of Alex—and Quinn.
“You broke the law,” Wolfe said.
“And now I'm being punished.”
“Punished, hell. You're enjoying
yourself too much to call it punishment.”
“All right, then say I'm working to redeem myself.”
“And all the loot you stole over the years?”
“What about it?”
“Goddammit, Alex, you know what about it.”
“You surely don't expect me to give it back?” Quinn shook his head, smiling faintly. “Even Interpol didn't expect that.”
“Well, we tried,” Jared said.
Max lifted a brow at him. “And?”
“And . . . it was decided that his willing cooperation was worth more than reclaiming whatever valuables it was even possible to track down after all these years.”
“I never hoarded,” Quinn explained. “Unlike Leo Cassady, it was never about having a vault somewhere stuffed with pretties only I could look upon. It was never about the money.”
“What was it about?” Max asked.
Quinn flicked a glance at Morgan but answered readily. “The thrill, I suppose. Pitting my skills and smarts against the best security systems in existence.”
“Which he can still do,” Jared murmured. “In a manner of speaking.”
“It's certainly a far better life than one inside a prison cell,” Quinn said. “And I'm willing.”
Max looked at Jared. “Can you control him?”
“God knows. But I'm willing too. To try.”
Wolfe sighed explosively. “Am I the only one who's still hung up over the idea that Alex broke the law? Repeatedly?”
“Yes,” Quinn said. “Get over it.”
Max said, “Nobody's happy about that, Wolfe. But it was Interpol's decision, and they made it. I'm sure even you would rather see Alex working to help them rather than the alternative.”
“If you think I'm buying this whole redemption thing, think again.” Staring at Quinn, Wolfe said, “The next time I catch you with your hand in a safe, I won't stop to ask if you're still playing on Interpol's team. Got it?”
“Got it.” Quinn paused, then grinned. “Assuming you ever do catch me again.”
Since they were all still up at dawn, it was tacitly decided that they might as well remain up. They did go home for showers and fresh clothing, to say nothing of breakfast, but by eight-thirty they were back at the museum.
Morgan had continued to deliberately avoid any discussion of the future—Quinn's or theirs—and he hadn't said anything about that beyond what was said in the discussion with his brothers. She didn't know if he would stay or go. She thought he wanted to stay, at least for a while, which was probably as much of a commitment as Quinn could make.
She didn't know if that would be enough for her, honestly didn't know. She knew she wasn't looking for an ivy-covered cottage with a white picket fence and happily-ever-after, at least not right now.
But she hadn't been looking for a fling either.
Clearly, her relationship with Quinn fell somewhere in between.
In the meantime, she tried not to think too much about it. She'd burned her bridges, and whatever was meant to happen would. She'd deal with it.
“So even with Nightshade safely out of action,” she said as she stood near the guards' station with Storm, Quinn, and Wolfe, watching the first of the day's visitors beginning to trickle in, “the exhibit will continue to run.”
“Yeah, Max considers that a given,” Wolfe said, more resigned than anything else. “Which means we can't let down our guard.”
“Still a lot of thieves out there,” Quinn said. “Trust me on that.”
“And unanswered questions,” Morgan reminded them. “The Jane Doe, the knife in the basement—we still don't know what that was all about.”
“Maybe we do,” Keane Tyler said as he reached them. “Where's Max? And Jared?”
Morgan didn't like the look on his face. “What do you— Never mind. Steve?” she called out to one of the guards. “Page Mr. Bannister, will you, please? Private page. Tell him we need him and Mr. Chavalier in the lobby.”
“Yes, ma'am.” He immediately picked up the phone to call Max's pager.
Morgan looked back at the other men in time to intercept a glance between the police inspector and Quinn, and she abruptly realized something. “You weren't surprised to find Alex here last night,” she said slowly. “You know, don't you, Keane?”
The men exchanged glances again, and Keane said in a lowered voice, “Max wanted at least one cop to know exactly what was going on. Two, actually. The commissioner and me. So, yes, I know who Alex is. And who Quinn is.”
“Jesus, I'm surrounded by actors,” she muttered. “I never guessed you had a clue about Quinn. You hunted down all the information for me, and—”
“Information?” Quinn said curiously.
“Never mind.” Somewhat dryly, she added, “An awful lot of people seem to know your secret identity. I'd watch that if I were you.”
“You might have a point.”
“We could all wear decoder rings,” Wolfe suggested, deadpan. “Or have a secret handshake just so he can keep up with who knows.”
To Morgan, Quinn said, “Thanks so much for helping him to take me even less seriously.”
“Happy to oblige.”
“I couldn't possibly take you less seriously,” Wolfe told his brother.
Keane said, “I thought it was Jared who was mad as hell at you. Do you piss everybody off?”
“He tries,” Morgan said.
“I have a host of friends,” Quinn murmured.
Jared and Max arrived then, and Max lifted inquiring brows at Keane. “You have the look of a man who's having a very bad day,” he noted.
“The worst.” Keane had at least smiled faintly at the byplay between Morgan, Wolfe, and Quinn, but now he was serious again. His face was strained. “The forensics people finally pulled a usable print from Jane Doe. We ran it against the criminal and police databases and got a match. She is—was—Gillian Newman.”
It was Morgan who spoke up first, saying, “Wait a minute. Inspector Gillian Newman?”
“Yes.”
“Then who was that with you all this time?”
He shook his head. “Whoever she was, she left her desk to get coffee about four this morning and vanished. After the I.D. came in, we checked her apartment. Empty. Boxes everywhere, which means the real Gillian at least had time to move her stuff in. But not to unpack. And there was no sign anybody ever lived there.”
Quinn took a step toward him. “A cop. She impersonated a cop.”
“Looks like,” Keane agreed grimly. “Did a pretty goddamned good job too. Presumably to get inside the department. And inside this museum, on the pretext of investigating the very murder she committed. She killed the real Gillian and then left us all those nice, clear signposts pointing here. Ever since we found that body, she's been cleared to come and go here as she pleased. We rolled out the fucking welcome mat for her.”
“Jesus Christ,” Quinn said. “The collection.”
Ten minutes later, with the Mysteries Past exhibit closed to the public and guards stationed at the doors, Keane and the others watched Max and Quinn, the two most familiar with the Bannister collection, move from display to display, studying the individual pieces.
Not surprisingly, it was Quinn who found it.
“Here,” he said. “Shit.”
The others joined him immediately.
“The Talisman emerald?” Morgan said. “But it's here. It looks—”
“It looks real. It isn't. Storm, the display alarms?”
“Off. Just a second.” She opened a concealed access panel in the display's base and punched in a code. There was a soft click, and the case opened. “Okay, that kills all internal alarms as well. You can pick it up.”
Quinn reached inside, using his handkerchief in lieu of gloves. “I guarantee there are no prints,” he said. “Still . . .” Carefully, he lifted the wide gold bangle with its oval emerald and held it up so they could all examine it.
“Are you sure?” Morgan asked. “It looks real.” r />
“It's a good copy. A damned good copy.” He turned the bangle slightly to see the underside of the setting. “The workmanship is too new; the genuine piece showed faint hammer marks in the gold.” He turned it back so that the “emerald” flashed green fire. “And the stone is just one shade too pale.”
“How did she get into the case?” Storm demanded. “None of the alarms has been tripped.”
“I don't know. Christ, Max, I'm sorry.”
“It isn't your fault, Alex.”
“No? I asked you to risk the collection. I told you I'd keep it safe.”
“You did keep it safe—from the threat we knew about. None of us saw this coming.”
“I should have,” Quinn said. “I should have.”
It was after midnight when Morgan woke to see Quinn standing at the window gazing out on a chilly, foggy San Francisco night.
“Alex?”
He stirred slightly and then returned to the bed, sliding in beside her and drawing her into his arms. “Go back to sleep, sweet.”
“Alex, stop blaming yourself. You did everything you could to safeguard the collection.”
“Everything except keep it safe.”
“The only piece missing is the Talisman emerald. It's valuable, sure, but look at what the thief didn't get.”
“I knew there was someone working behind the scenes after the police found that body. I knew, Morgana. But all I could think about was trapping Nightshade.”
“Which you did.”
“And cost Max the emerald.”
“And saved lives, Alex. We'll never know how many lives you saved. If the price was the emerald, then so be it. You heard Max. He doesn't care.”
“Maybe not, but—”
“He doesn't care.”
After a long moment, the tension seemed to leave Quinn and he pulled her even closer. “Yes. I know.”
Feeling the effects of the previous night without sleep, Morgan yawned and snuggled closer. “Besides, you'll be able to find that other thief and the emerald. Set a thief to catch a thief, remember?”
“I remember. Go to sleep, love.”
Halfway there, Morgan chuckled drowsily. “That's the first time you've ever called me that. I like it.”