Stay the Night by Lynn Viehl

from France as well as all of his investors’ money. The Australian police had agreed to suppress news of his capture and extradition back to the States, which allowed the bureau the time and means to take over operating the gallery and set up Chris as its new curator/ director.
    â€œThis informant who contacted you in Chicago and told you about this shipment of Nazi art,” Hutch said as he worked his way through a snarl of downtown traffic. “How did he know that the Magician was the one who smuggled it into the U.S.?”
    â€œHe’s a private collector,” Chris said. “The Magician contacted him to offer him bidding rights. When he found out that the art had been stolen from the original owners by the Nazis during World War Two, he had a crisis of conscience.”
    He eyed her in the rearview mirror. “And you believed him?”
    â€œNormally I wouldn’t,” she admitted, “but this collector is a Jew who had grandparents murdered in Auschwitz.”
    Hutch nodded. “That’ll do it.”
    Heavy damask curtains covered the glassed-in front of the gallery, effectively concealing the hive of activity behind them. Hutch parked in the side lot and ushered Chris inside the building. Once out of sight, he removed his hat and jacket and accompanied her to the manager’s office, which was being used as their command center.
    â€œAgent Renshaw, Agent Hutchins.” Dennis Engleman, the A/V technician, didn’t look up from his laptop but gestured vaguely toward a pair of microphones set up on the cluttered desk. “We’ll be ready for you in five or so.”
    Another agent carrying a small aluminum case stuck his head in the door. “Hutch, you got the keys for this?”
    Hutch reached into his pocket, rummaged, and produced a pair of keys, which he tossed to the other agent. “Bring it in here for a minute.” He turned to Chris. “You haven’t seen the book yet, have you?”
    â€œNo, but I’m hoping they did a good job on it.” In the past Chris had handled a number of copied artworks produced by the bureau’s resource division, and all of them had been good enough to pass visual inspection.
    â€œWe’re not using a copy,” Hutch said, and nodded to the other agent, who unlocked the case and popped the lid. “This is the actual book.”
    The sight of the ancient manuscript, carefully packed in a nest of protective foam strips, made Chris’s heart skip a beat. Recovered during a raid on a Chicago mob boss’s home, The Maiden’s Book of Hours had somehow survived the ravages of time intact, as perfect as it had been when it was created by Brother Thomas de Crewes. Brother Thomas, who had spent most of his life working as master of the scriptorium in a Benedictine monastery, had been one of the greatest illuminators of the Middle Ages. The Maiden’s Book of Hours , which he had filled with obscure prayers, fables, and portraits of famous personages of his time, was the only example of his work still in existence.
    â€œI know what you’re thinking,” Hutch said as he handed her a pair of latex gloves. “Using the real book is risky.”
    â€œUsing an irreplaceable, priceless artifact that men have been killing one another to possess for the last seven hundred years,” Chris said as she pulled on the gloves, “is insanity.”
    Hutch gloved and removed the manuscript from the case. “A fake won’t fool the Magician. He’d take one look and walk on by.”
    Chris knew her partner had a point. During several jobs the Magician had pulled, he’d left behind at least a dozen paintings assumed to be worth millions. They were all later discovered to be forgeries.
    â€œHard to believe they had to make all the books back then by hand.” Hutch lifted the manuscript out of the case and carefully placed it on the desk. “It weighs a