Always a Thief - Kay Hooper [16]
“Should I tell Alex about this?”
“You can, or Jared will when Alex is back on his feet. I'd wait a couple of days, though. There's nothing he could do about it now anyway. That's assuming there is a connection with the museum.”
“I don't really believe in coincidence, Max.”
“No. No, neither do I. Take care, Morgan.”
“I will. You too.”
In the next room, Quinn listened to two soft clicks and then the dial tone.
“Shit,” he muttered half under his breath.
He put the bedroom phone back on its base and stared down at his left hand as he flexed it slowly. His shoulder throbbed a protest, and he grimaced. But he didn't stop the slow, deliberate movements.
He had to get back on his feet.
Time was running out.
She moved through the darkness as though it were a part of her, slipping between the shadows of the buildings with nothing more than a whisper of sound. Even with the heavier-than-usual pack she carried, she was able to be silent. A distant siren caused her to freeze momentarily, but it faded even farther away and she continued on.
It was a familiar path she walked, one she had walked countless times in recent weeks, but even so she didn't let her guard down. Planning and practice, she had discovered, were the keys to success.
She was very successful, very good at what she did.
Less than ten minutes later, she was moving silently through the dungeonlike corridors of the museum's huge basement. Patrols down here were almost nonexistent, but she was forced to avoid one bored guard moving through the main corridor methodically checking doors.
After he'd gone, she looked at her watch, mentally reminded herself she'd have just enough time before his next pass through the corridor, then continued on.
She had to pass through two more doors, both locked and both easily opened with the aid of tools she carried, before she reached her goal. It was dark down here, with no more than dim safety lights burning, but with the aid of the small but powerful flashlight she carried, there was enough light for her to do her work.
She shrugged off the backpack and knelt to open it. The first thing she lifted from the bag was a canvas-wrapped bundle. She placed it on the floor beside her pack and carefully turned back the canvas to reveal a knife. It was about twelve inches long, with a hammered brass blade and carved wooden handle.
It looked old. It was old.
It was also stained with dried blood.
She smiled and got busy.
By Sunday morning Quinn felt well enough to get dressed and move around Morgan's apartment under his own steam. Slowly at first, but steadily gaining strength.
Max had come by with the doctor to check on his progress early in the day, but other than those visitors Quinn and Morgan were alone together. True to his word, Quinn shelved his Don Juan persona, and she wasn't very surprised to find him an excellent companion.
He was a lively and amusing conversationalist, which she had known, never seemed to lose his sense of humor, could talk intelligently on any number of subjects, had seen a respectable chunk of the world, and played a mean game of poker. He even helped her in the kitchen. Skillfully yet.
Morgan didn't mention the murdered woman Max had told her about. She didn't bring up the subject of why Quinn was in San Francisco, ask him exactly what he'd been doing to get himself shot, or castigate him for not telling her the truth—ostensible truth, anyway—about his involvement with the Mysteries Past trap.
Quinn also didn't mention anything potentially touchy. She thought both of them avoided the more dangerous subjects, and though she didn't know his reasons she certainly knew hers.
Quite simply, she didn't want him to lie to her—and she was reasonably sure he would.
They were casual with each other, and aside from one heated argument when Quinn wanted to give up her bed and sleep on the couch instead (Morgan won), they got along fine. But there was a growing awareness between them, a