License to Thrill

skin.
    He snorted in dismay, then retrieved the prized humidor and quietly took his leave.

    *****

    "There, now, Katherine, what's all this nonsense about?"
    At the sound of Valmer Getty's voice, Kat pushed the metal folding chair away from a wobbly wooden table and rushed into his arms. "Val! Thank God you're here."
    The rotund trial lawyer hugged her hard, then held her at arm's length and gave her a wry smile. "My dear, when I said to call me sometime, I didn't mean from jail."
    She tried to return the smile, but seeing her father's old friend brought back vivid memories of the last time she'd seen him—her father's funeral. Suddenly the full weight of the situation fell onto her shoulders. "I'm in trouble, Val."
    He looked behind him to make sure the door to the small room was closed, then patted her hand. "Start from the beginning," he said, then placed his briefcase on the table and removed his sport coat.
    Kat wet her lips. "This started before Daddy died, Val."
    The man frowned, pulling his lower lip into his mouth, then pulled a rickety chair next to hers. "I'm a good listener."

    *****

    "Ah, Agent Donovan." Detective Tenner, now in his shirtsleeves, acknowledged James's return to the gallery, escorted by Ronald Beaman. Apparently Tenner had passed some of the time delving into James's credentials. The inspector smirked. "And did Ms. McKray make it 'in one piece'?"
    James nodded pleasantly, realizing it was in Kat's best interests to get along with the man. Looking haggard, Guy Trent was seated in the aisle of a small cubicle nursing a cup of coffee. A digital clock on one of the desks read five thirty-five a.m . Tenner pulled two extra chairs to form a loose group around Guy and gestured for James to sit.
    "Want some coffee?"
    He had also assumed the role of gallant host, James noted. "No, thank you." Turning toward Guy Trent, James asked, "Have you contacted Lady Mercer?"
    Guy shook his head. "Thought I'd wait until we had a few more details." His anger was clear with each perfectly enunciated word.
    Tenner cleared his voice. "Plus Mr. Trent and Mr. Wharton discovered a few more pieces are missing."
    "Where is Mr. Wharton?" James asked, looking around. He wanted to talk to him too.
    Guy waved vaguely toward the door. "Making arrangements to close the museum today, calling our ticket takers and guides. Plus it looks as if we'll have to cancel the showing of the King's letter." Guy threw up his hands and glanced heavenward. "How could she do this to me?"
    "What else is missing?" James asked, turning the chair around to straddle it.
    Guy waved a sheet of ruled paper, then read, "A beaded Inca bracelet, two miniature Victorian oils, a ruby ring, and a gold compass." His entire head reddened, his eyes bulging. "They were probably taken because they're small pieces in larger collections spread out in the gallery—they wouldn't be easily missed."
    James angled his head. "The tape didn't show the thief traipsing around the gallery picking up odds and ends."
    Guy nodded, his lip curling. "I know. Katherine probably took them sometime during the last few weeks. She could have smuggled them out in a pocket, a purse, anything."
    "As could have anyone else," James pointed out.
    "They're all pieces from Katherine's exhibits," Guy said nastily. "It's her job to inventory the collections on a regular basis."
    "Mr. Trent," James said carefully. "It's quite obvious to me that you and Ms. McKray have running disagreements. Are you sure you're not a little too anxious to pin these burglaries on her?"
    Guy's mouth flattened. "Mr. Donovan, if I'm guilty of anything where Katherine is concerned, it's leniency. Several pieces have been stolen from the gallery this year, all of them small, all of them in Katherine's care."
    James's heart twisted in alarm.
    Tenner was writing furiously on a small pad. "Did you report the crimes, Mr. Trent?"
    The little round man shifted in his seat. "No."
    Tenner's pen stopped. "Why not?"
    Guy scrubbed his hand over his face and sighed wearily. "You have to understand our business, Detective. Many galleries and art museums don't report stolen items because it's bad for their reputation. Many of our collections are on loan. If word got out that our security was compromised, we'd be blacklisted."
    "Why then," James asked, "if you suspected Ms. McKray of stealing, did you not simply let her go?"
    "Because at the time we thought it was a security guard, a man by the name of Jack Tomlin. I caught