Homeport

I’ll set up the staff meeting, Dr. Jones.”
    “Department heads,” Andrew told Miranda when the door closed again. “One o’clock.”
    “All right. Andrew, about Cook. He’s going to want to know about last night. Where you were, what you were doing, who you were with. I told him we left here together about seven, and that both of us were home all night.”
    “Fine.”
    Her fingers twisted. “Were you?”
    “What? Home? Yes.” He angled his head, eyes narrowing. “Why?”
    “I didn’t know if you’d gone out or not.” Unlinking her fingers, she rubbed her hands over her face. “I just thought it best to say you hadn’t.”
    “You don’t have to protect me, Miranda. I haven’t done anything—which according to our mother is the problem.”
    “I know you haven’t. I didn’t mean that.” She reached out, touched a hand to his arm. “It just seemed less complicated to say you’d been home all night. Then I started thinking, what if you had gone out, and you’d been seen . . .”
    “Bellied up to a bar?” Bitter resentment coated his voice. “Or skulking around the building?”
    “Oh, Andrew.” Miserable, she lowered herself to the arm of a chair. “Let’s not snipe at each other. It’s just that Cook makes me nervous, and I started to worry that if he caught me in a lie, however harmless, it would just make it all worse.”
    With a sigh, he dropped into the chair. “Looks like we’re in shit up to our knees.”
    “I’m up to my waist,” she muttered. “She ordered me to take a leave of absence. I refused.”
    “Are you standing up for yourself, or just kicking at her?”
    Miranda frowned and studied her nails. How does it feel to be a failure? No, she wouldn’t give in to that. “I can do both.”
    “Be careful you don’t fall on your butt. Last night I would have agreed with her—not for the same reason, but I’d have agreed. Today changes things. I need you here.”
    “I’m not going anywhere.”
    He patted her knee before he rose. “I’ll go talk to Cook. Send me a copy of the press release, and the letter. Oh, she gave me Father’s address in Utah.” He tore a piece of notepaper from the pad on his desk and handed it to her. “Overnight the letters. The sooner they have it in writing, the better.”
    “I’ll see you at one, then. Oh, Andrew, Ryan said to tell you goodbye.”
    He stopped with his hand on the doorknob. “Goodbye?”
    “He had to get back to New York tonight.”
    “He was here? Damn it. He knows about this mess already? The Vasaris?”
    “He’s completely supportive. He assured me this problem wouldn’t affect the trade. I’m, ah, thinking about going down to New York in a couple of weeks.” In fact, she’d just thought of it. “To . . . expedite the loan.”
    Distracted, he nodded. “Good, that’s fine. We’ll talk about that later. A new exhibit’s just what we need to offset this mess.”
    He started downstairs, glancing at his watch. It amazed him it was barely ten. It felt as if he’d been running on this particular wheel for days.

    Cops, both uniformed and plainclothes, swarmed the main floor. What he assumed was fingerprint powder was smeared over the display cabinet. The little circle of glass was gone. Tucked away in some evidence bag, he figured.
    Andrew questioned one of the uniformed officers and was told he’d find Detective Cook at the south entrance.
    Andrew traveled the route, trying to imagine the thief doing the same. Dressed in black, he imagined, a man with a hard face. Maybe a scar sliced down the cheek. Had he carried a gun? A knife? A knife, Andrew decided. He would have wanted to kill quietly and quickly should it become necessary.
    He thought of how many nights Miranda worked late in the lab or her office, and cursed violently.
    Fresh fury was bubbling under his skin as he pushed into the anteroom and found Cook perusing the offerings of the snack machine.
    “Is this how you find this son of a bitch?” Andrew demanded. “By munching on potato chips?”
    “Actually, I’m going for the pretzels.” Calmly, Cook pushed the proper buttons. “I’m cutting down on fat grams.” The bag thunked against the metal tray. Cook pushed through the slot, nipped it out.
    “Great. A health-conscious cop.”
    “You got your health,” Cook claimed as he ripped open the bag, “you got everything.”
    “I want to know what you’re doing to find the bastard who broke into my building.”
    “My job, Dr.