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would be?”
    “I’ve done a lot of thinking about that. There’s the bronze, the one from here, the one that got lifted out of a display case very slick, very professional. I tracked a number of burglaries with that pattern. Somebody knows what they’re doing, somebody’s damn good at their job, somebody has connections.”
    “So now Miranda’s a thief—an expert art burglar?”
    “Or she knows one, is friendly enough with one,” he added with a thin smile. “Funny how the paperwork on that piece went away too. Even funnier how I did some checking with a foundry this place uses, found out somebody else was doing some checking there. Somebody who claimed he was a student here at the Institute, gave a song and dance about checking on a bronze figure that was cast there about three years ago.”
    “And that would have exactly what to do with this?”
    “The name he gave at the foundry doesn’t check with the records here. And the bronze he was so interested in was a statue of David with sling. Seems he even had a sketch of it.”
    “Then that might have something to do with your burglary.” Ryan inclined his head. “I’m delighted to know you’re making some progress there.”
    “Oh, I plod right along. Seems Dr. Jones—Miranda Jones taught a class on Renaissance bronze figures.”
    “Being an expert in the field, I’m sure she’s taught several on the subject, or related ones.”
    “One of her students used the foundry to cast a bronze David long after the missing bronze arrived for her to test.”

    “That’s fascinating.”
    Cook ignored the mild sarcasm in Ryan’s tone. “Yeah, it means there’s lots of little dangles wanting to be tied up. The student, he dropped out right after that bronze was cast. And you know, somebody checked with his mother, said they were from here, wanted to get in touch with him. Kid moved to San Francisco. A couple nights ago, they fished him out of the bay.”
    “I’m sorry to hear that.”
    “You’ve got family in San Francisco.”
    This time Ryan’s eyes narrowed and sparked. “Be careful, Detective.”
    “Just making a comment. Kid was an artist, you got an art gallery out there. I figured you might have known him. Name was Mathers, Harrison Mathers.”
    “No, I don’t know a Harrison Mathers, but I can check easily enough to see if we display any of his work.”
    “Might not be a bad idea.”
    “Is this Mathers what you’d call another dangle?”
    “Oh yeah, just one of those things that make you scratch your head. Then I start thinking about that big-deal bronze in Florence, the one that turned out not to be such a big deal. I’d think Dr. Jones would be pretty upset about that, pretty pissed off at her mother too, for kicking her off the project. I found out somebody stole that piece, went right into the storage area at the National Museum over there and took it, slick as spit. Now why would somebody want to take something, risk that kind of theft for something that isn’t worth more than the price of the metal?”
    “Art’s a subjective mystery, Detective. Maybe someone took a liking to it.”
    “Could be, but whoever did was a pro, not some half-ass thief. Pros don’t waste their time, unless they’ve got good reason. You’d agree with that, wouldn’t you, Mr. Boldari? Being a professional yourself.”
    “Certainly.” Damned if he didn’t like this cop, Ryan mused. “I detest wasting time.”
    “Exactly. Makes me wonder what that bronze is worth to somebody.”

    “If I see it, Detective, I’ll do an appraisal and let you know. But I can tell you, if that bronze was real, if it was worth millions, Miranda wouldn’t kill for it. And I think you agree,” Ryan added. “Being a professional yourself.”
    Cook chuckled. Something wasn’t square about the guy, he thought. But you had to like him. “No, I don’t think she killed anybody, and I can’t picture her dancing all over the world pinching pictures and statues. Woman’s got integrity pasted on her forehead. That’s why I know, in my gut, she’s hiding something. She knows more than she’s saying. And if you’re friendly enough with her, Boldari, you’ll convince her to tell me just what that is before somebody decides she’s expendable.”
     
    She was asking herself just how much she could tell, how much she could risk telling. In the South Gallery, surrounded by the art of the masters, she sat with her hands over her face. And suffered.
    She knew Cook