Homeport

and shut down the bothersome camera.
    In one part of his brain he counted off seconds. The rest of him moved fast. By the time he crouched in front of the display, his glass cutter was in hand. He made a neat circle, slightly larger than his fist, suctioned it off with barely a tickle of sound, and set it neatly on the top of the cabinet.
    He worked quickly, but with a smooth economy of motion that was as innate as the color of his eyes. He wasted no time in admiring his take, or considering the delight of taking more than what he’d come for. That was for amateurs. He simply reached in, picked up the bronze, and tucked it into the pouch on his belt.
    Because he appreciated order, and irony, he fitted the circle of glass back into place, then cat-footed it back to the corner. He turned the camera on again, and started back the way he came.
    By his count it had taken him seventy-five seconds.
    When he reached the anteroom, he transferred the bronze to the briefcase, snuggling it between two thick slabs of foam. He switched hats, stripped off the surgical gloves and rolled them neatly into his pocket.
    He bundled into his coat, keyed himself out, locked up tidily behind him, and was a block away in less than ten minutes from the time he’d entered the building.
    Smooth, slick, and neat, he thought. A good way to end a career. He eyed the bar again, nearly went inside. At the last minute he decided he’d go back to the hotel and order up a bottle of champagne instead.
    Some toasts were private matters.
     
    At six A.M. , after a sleepless night, Miranda was shocked out of her first real doze by the ringing of the phone. Headachy, disoriented, she fumbled for the receiver.
    “Dr. Jones. Pronto .” No, not Italy. Maine. Home. “Hello?”
    “Dr. Jones, this is Ken Scutter, security.”

    “Mr. Scutter.” She got no image from the name and was too bleary to try for one. “What is it?”
    “We’ve had an incident.”
    “An incident?” As her mind began to clear she pushed herself up in bed. The sheets and blankets were tangled around her like wrappings on a mummy, and she cursed under her breath as she fought her way free. “What sort of incident?”
    “It wasn’t noticed until the change of shifts, moments ago, but I wanted to contact you immediately. We’ve had a break-in.”
    “A break-in.” She bolted up fully awake, the blood rushing into her head in a flood. “At the Institute?”
    “Yes, ma’am. I thought you’d want to come right over.”
    “Was there damage? Was something stolen?”
    “No real damage, Dr. Jones. One item is missing from the South Gallery display. Cataloguing indicates it’s a fifteenth-century bronze, artist unknown, of David.”
    A bronze, she thought. She was suddenly plagued by bronzes. “I’m on my way.”
    She bolted out of bed, and without bothering with her robe, raced in her blue flannel pajamas to Andrew’s room. She burst in, shot toward the mound in the bed, and shook viciously.
    “Andrew, wake up. There’s been a break-in.”
    “Huh? What?” He shoved at her hand, ran a tongue around his teeth, started to yawn. His jaw cracked as he shot up in bed. “What? Where? When?”
    “At the Institute. There’s a bronze missing from the South Gallery. Get dressed, let’s move.”
    “A bronze?” He rubbed a hand over his face. “Miranda, were you dreaming?”
    “Scutter from security just phoned,” she snapped out. “I don’t dream. Ten minutes, Andrew,” she said over her shoulder as she hurried out.
     
    Within forty, she was standing beside her brother in the South Gallery, staring down at the perfect circle in the glass, and the empty space behind it. Miranda’s stomach rolled once, then dropped to her knees.
    “Call the police, Mr. Scutter.”
    “Yes, ma’am.” He signaled to one of his men. “I ordered a sweep of the building—it’s still under way—but so far we’ve found nothing out of place, and nothing else missing.”
    Andrew nodded. “I’ll want to review the security tapes for the last twenty-four hours.”
    “Yes, sir.” Scutter heaved a sigh. “Dr. Jones, the night chief reported a small problem with two of the cameras.”
    “Problem.” Miranda turned. She remembered Scutter now. He was a short, barrel-shaped man, a former cop who’d decided to trade the streets for private security. His record was spotless. Andrew had interviewed and hired him personally.
    “This camera.” Scutter shifted, gestured up. “It blanked