Homeport

You’re going to have to face it.”
    “This is not the bronze,” she repeated, and her spine snapped straight as she pushed off the stool. “I don’t know what you thought you could prove, bringing me this forgery, taking us through this ridiculous charade.”
    “That’s the bronze I took from the South Gallery,” he said evenly, “and one I took on your reputation, Doctor. So let’s cut the bullshit, and deal.”
    “I’m not dealing with you.” She snatched up the bronze and shoved it at him. “You think you can break in my home, then try to pass this obvious fake off as my property so that I’ll give you something else? You’re a lunatic.”
    “I stole this bronze in good faith.”
    “Oh for God’s sake—I’m calling security.”
    He grabbed her arm, shoved her roughly against the counter. “Look, sweetheart. I went through this little game against my better judgment. Now it’s done. Maybe you weren’t trying to pass anything off. Maybe it was an honest mistake, but—”
    “I didn’t make a mistake. I don’t make mistakes.”
    “Does the name Fiesole ring a bell?”
    The angry flush died out of her cheeks. Her eyes unfocused, went glassy. For a moment he thought she’d slip through his hold like water. If she was feigning distress, he realized he’d underestimated her.
    “I didn’t make a mistake,” she repeated, but now her voice shook. “I can prove it. I have the records, my notes, the X rays and results for the tests on the original bronze.”
    The vulnerability got to him, enough for him to let her go as she twisted. He shook his head and followed her into a room lined with file cabinets.
    “The weight was wrong,” she said quickly, as she fumbled with keys to unlock a drawer. “The scraping I took didn’t jibe, but the weight—I knew it was wrong as soon as I picked it up. It was too heavy but— Where the hell is the file?”
    “Miranda—”
    “It was too heavy, just slightly too heavy, and the patina, it’s close but it’s not right. It’s just not right. Even if you’d miss that, you couldn’t possibly mistake the corrosion levels. You can’t mistake them.”
    Babbling now, she slammed the drawer shut, unlocked another, then another.
    “It’s not here. The files aren’t here. They’re missing.” Fighting for calm, she closed the drawer. “The pictures, the notes, the reports, everything on the bronze David is missing. You took them.”
    “To what purpose?” he asked, with what he considered saintly patience. “Look, if I could get in here and take a fake, I could have taken anything I wanted. What would be the point in going through this routine, Miranda?”
    “I have to think. Just be quiet. I have to think.” She pressed her hands to her mouth and paced. Logical, be logical, she ordered herself. Deal with the facts.

    He’d stolen the bronze, and the bronze was fake. What was the point in stealing a fake, then bringing it back? None, none at all. If it had been genuine, why would he be here? He wouldn’t. Therefore, the story he’d told her, however absurd, was true.
    She’d tested it, and agreed with his conclusions.
    Had she made a mistake? Oh God, had she made a mistake?
    No. Logic, not emotion, she reminded herself. She made herself stop her erratic movements and stand perfectly still.
    Logic, when properly applied, was amazingly simple.
    “Someone beat you to it,” she said quietly. “Someone beat you to it and replaced it with a forgery.”
    She turned to him, seeing by the considering look on his face that he was likely reaching the same conclusion.
    “Well, Dr. Jones, it looks like we’ve both gotten that kick in the ass.” He angled his head to study her. “What are we going to do about it?”

twelve
    M iranda decided to accept that it was a day for abnormal behavior when she found herself sitting in a truck stop off Route 1 at six A.M.
    Their waitress brought them a pot of coffee, two thick brown mugs, and a pair of laminated menus.
    “What are we doing here?”
    Ryan poured, sniffed, sipped, then sighed. “Now that’s coffee.”
    “Boldari, what are we doing here?”
    “Having breakfast.” He kicked back and studied the menu.
    She took a deep breath. “It’s six o’clock in the morning. I’ve had a difficult night, and I’m tired. I have some serious thinking to do and I don’t have time to sit in some truck stop trading witticisms with a thief.”
    “So far you haven’t been that witty. But as you said,