Always a Thief - Kay Hooper [41]
“Hi,” Morgan said, deciding not to comment. “Any problems before I go?”
“Nah, nothing to speak of. I've fixed that glitch in the system, so I doubt we'll have any more accidental alarms.” Storm's bright green eyes returned to their study of the monitor, and she smiled when Quinn turned his own gaze to look directly into the video pickup he wasn't supposed to be able to see. “Look at that. When he got here a couple of hours ago, I watched him all through the museum, and he always knew where the cameras were—even the ones we've so cleverly hidden. Wolfe says he has a sixth sense when it comes to any kind of a camera being pointed at him, that he feels it somehow. No wonder the police have never been able to capture him on tape or film.”
Morgan followed her friend's gaze, and though she couldn't help a rueful smile when Quinn winked cheerily at the camera, her voice held a certain amount of frustration. “Damn him. Just when I think I've got him figured out, I start having second thoughts. Is he on the right side of the law this time, or isn't he?”
Storm looked at her, one brow on the rise. “Maybe the operative phrase in that question is this time. Even if you give him the benefit of the doubt and assume Max, Wolfe, and Jared are all right to trust him to keep his hands off the collection—and none of them is a fool, we both know that—then what's he going to do afterward? Let's say our little trap works and Nightshade winds up behind bars—what then? Does Quinn slip Interpol's leash and fade back into the misty night? Does he go to prison for past crimes? Or is the plan for him to be a . . . consultant or something like that for the cops?”
Remembering an earlier discussion with Quinn, Morgan said, “He told me he was too effective to go public—which would mean a trial and possibly prison—and more or less said he enjoyed dancing to Interpol's tune. Which is probably the only answer I'll get.”
Storm pursed her lips thoughtfully and stroked the sleeping Bear with a light touch. “Shrewd of Interpol if they plan to make good use of his talents.”
“Yeah. He's sure to be worth more to them outside a jail than in. Even if they never recover a thing he stole, I'll bet they'd rather use him than prosecute.” Morgan sighed. “Which only tells me one thing. Interpol operates mostly in Paris and other parts of Europe—and so would he.”
“How's your French?” Storm asked solemnly.
“Better than my Latin.”
“I could give you lessons,” the blonde offered.
Morgan eyed her. “Do you speak French with a Southern accent?”
“According to Jared I do, but I've never had any trouble being understood.”
“Well, I may take you up on the offer,” Morgan said. “Then again—the only French word I'm likely to need to know is the one for good-bye. And I already know that one.” She shook her head before her friend could respond. “Never mind. I'm going to eat Italian food and try my best to remember all the logical, rational, sensible reasons why I shouldn't lose my head.”
“Good luck,” Storm murmured.
Morgan went on to her office, where she deposited her clipboard on her desk and put on the stylish gold blazer she had worn that morning. Then she locked up her office and returned to where Quinn waited in the lobby.
Wolfe was there and talking to him as she approached; she couldn't hear what the security expert was saying, but he was frowning a bit. Quinn was wearing a pleasant but noncommittal half smile; that seemed his only response to whatever he was being told. When he caught sight of Morgan, Quinn looked past Wolfe to watch her coming toward them, and Wolfe turned to address her rather abruptly.
“Will you be here tomorrow?”
“With the exhibit open? Sure. From now until we close up shop, I work six days a week.”
Wolfe lifted