Once a Thief by Kay Hooper Page B

deal.”
    “We have weeks yet to put all the pieces in place. For you, that’s an absolute luxury of time.”
    “Time for too much to go wrong,” Quinn said. “There’ve already been too many surprises.”
    “Are you saying you want to pull out?”
    Quinn shook his head. “I’m saying there have been too many surprises. What good is intelligence if it isn’t intelligent?”
    “All right. I’ll see what I can do about that.”
    “I’d appreciate it.”
    “And in the meantime, what do you plan to do?”
    “I,” Quinn said, “plan to . . . cultivate my own sources.”
    “Yeah? What’s her name?”
    The only answer Quinn gave to that was a laugh, and it sounded cheerful. It sounded very cheerful.
     
    By Tuesday night, Carla had once again talked herself out of running. He was watching, he’d said so. She called herself ten kinds of coward, but it didn’t help the fear.
    So she had obeyed him, and somehow managed to get the information he demanded.
    “Well?” He appeared out of the shadows, and suddenly, as usual.
    Carla handed over the disk. “This has all the stuff you asked for.”
    “Including the security system for the museum and the
Mysteries Past
exhibit?”
    “Everything I could find.”
    “You didn’t leave any evidence behind, did you, Carla?”
    “No. No, I’m sure I didn’t. I was careful.”
    “I hope so.”
    She drew a breath. “You have everything you asked for. But I thought I should warn you that—that some of the security systems will be updated in the next few weeks. I mean, they always are. To keep the technology current and—and anybody trying to break in off balance. Just so you know.”
    He laughed softly. “Don’t worry, Carla. I’m not quite finished with you yet. As long as you can provide useful information for me, that is.”
    “I can. I will.”
    “I know you will, Carla. I know you will.”
     
    Morgan sometimes walked to and from work since she lived within four blocks of the museum; it was a relatively safe neighborhood, the street was quiet and well-lit at night, and she liked to think the exercise did her good. Plus, it gave her time and peace to think about things.
    Still, she hadn’t survived ten years on her own without learning not to take chances: she habitually carried both an earsplitting police whistle (on her key ring) and a purse-sized can of pepper spray.
    On this Wednesday night as she walked along briskly, she kept one hand in her purse and the other holding the whistle ready. The precautions were routine; she felt neither nervous nor threatened by her surroundings. Her mind was occupied with speculation about the thieves still at large.
    One in particular.
    Quite suddenly, she stopped dead in her tracks, all her senses warning her. That uneasy feeling, the building awareness of not being alone, of being watched.
    He was here.
    The sidewalk leading to her apartment building’s front entrance was just a few yards away; on her left was a patch of shadows at the corner of the building where a grouping of several trees provided elegant landscaping.
    Morgan turned slowly, searching the shadows. A piece of the darkness moved, stepping toward her but remaining curiously insubstantial. Without thinking about it, she left the sidewalk and crossed the corner of the lawn toward him. As she neared and her eyes adjusted to the dimness, she saw that he was once again wearing a ski mask that was rolled up from the bottom to reveal the lower portion of his face.
    “Good evening, Morgana.”
    He had quite a jaw, she noted. Probably stubborn as hell. And he was smiling.
    One more time, Morgan reminded herself of an undoubted, unquestionable truth. The man was a
thief,
for Christ’s sake. She really needed to remember that. Reaching him, she said somewhat fiercely, “I have a can of pepper spray in my hand, and I’m not afraid to use it.”
    Quinn lifted both his hands—ungloved—in a placating gesture and chuckled. “Believe me, Morgana, I have no