Homeport

public view and enjoyment.
    It seemed to balance things out nicely.
    Since he had a flair for electronics and gadgets, why shouldn’t he put them to use along with his God-given gift for larceny?
    Turning to his laptop, he logged in the measurements he’d taken in the South Gallery, and brought up the three-dimensional floor plan on-screen. Camera positions were highlighted in red. With a few keystrokes, he requested the machine to calculate the angles, the distance and best approach.
    He was, he thought, a long way from his cat burglar days when he would case a home, climb through a window, and creep around stuffing glitters in a bag. That aspect of the profession was for the young, the reckless, or the foolish. And in these unsettled times, too many people had guns in their homes and shot at anything that moved in the night.
    He preferred avoiding trigger-happy homeowners.
    Better to put the age of technology to use, do the job quick, clean, and tidy, and move on.
    As a matter of habit, he checked the batteries in his pocket jammer. It was of his own design, and fashioned of parts cannibalized from a TV remote control, a cell phone, and a pager.

    Once he studied the security system of a mark—which Andrew had been kind enough to show him—he could easily adjust the range and frequency to apply after he’d jury-rigged the system at its source. His test late that morning had proven he’d been successful in that area.
    Gaining entrance had been more problematic. If he worked with a partner, one could work the computer in the crawl space to bypass locks. He worked alone, and needed the jammer for the cameras.
    Locks were a relatively simple matter. He’d accessed the schematics of the security system weeks ago, and had finally cracked it. After spending two nights on the scene, he’d earmarked the side door and had forged a key card.
    The security code itself had again come courtesy of Andrew. It was amazing to Ryan what information people carried around in their wallets. The numbers and sequence had been written neatly on a folded piece of paper tucked behind Andrew’s driver’s license. It had taken Ryan seconds to lift the wallet, moments to flip through, find the numbers and memorize them, and nothing more than a friendly pat on the back to slide the wallet back into Andrew’s pocket.
    Ryan figured the job had taken him approximately seventy-two hours of work to prep; adding the hour it would take to execute, and deducting his outlay and expenses, he would see a profit of eighty-five thousand.
    Nice work if you can get it, he thought, and tried not to regret that this was his last adventure. He’d given his word on that, and he never went back on a promise. Not to family.
    He checked the time, noted he had eight hours before curtain. He spent the first of them dealing with any evidence, burning the blueprints in the cheerful fireplace his suite provided, locking all of his electronics in a reinforced case, then adding additional paths and passwords to his computer work to tuck it away safely.
    That left him time for a workout, a steam, a swim, and a short nap. He believed in being alert in mind and body before breaking and entering.
    • • •

    Just past six, Miranda sat alone in her office to compose a letter she preferred typing herself. Though she and Andrew essentially ran the Institute, it was still standard procedure for both of their parents to be informed of, and to approve, any loan or transfer of art.
    She intended to make the letter crisp and businesslike and was willing to work on it word by word until it was as stringent as vinegar, just as unfriendly, but viciously professional.
    She thought the vinegar would go very well with the crow her mother would soon be sampling.
    She’d completed the first draft and was beginning the refinements when the phone rang.
    “New England Institute, Dr. Jones.”
    “Miranda, thank God I caught you.”
    “Excuse me.” Annoyed at the clicking, she shifted the phone and tugged off her earring. “Who’s calling?”
    “It’s Giovanni.”
    “Giovanni?” She scanned her desk clock, calculated time. “It’s after midnight there. Is something wrong?”
    “Everything’s wrong. It’s a disaster. I didn’t dare call you earlier, but I felt you had to know, as soon as possible, before . . . before morning.”
    Her heart jerked once, brutally hard, and the earring she’d removed fell to bounce musically on her desk. “My mother? Has something