Always a Thief - Kay Hooper [89]
“He thinks.”
“Right. In reality, he'll never get near anything of value, because of a number of very conscious guards and a rather clever little welcome mat Storm designed into an internal security system that Leo knows nothing about.”
“But, if he cuts the power—”
“The secondary system has its own power supply; it's ingeniously hidden in the subbasement, and he couldn't find it even with a map.”
Morgan drew a breath. “Then you've got him. But . . .”
“But?”
“If he never gets near anything of value, then you won't be able to get him for anything except breaking and entering, will you?”
Quinn smiled. “Morgana, all we want is enough probable cause to search this place—something we couldn't get before, because he hadn't put a foot wrong. Breaking into the museum tonight will make the police rather anxious to find out if he might have a few secrets hidden here—which he certainly has. In addition to the safe behind that painting over there, he's got a concealed vault below our feet, and it's stuffed with priceless things, virtually all of which were stolen.”
“You know this because you've seen it?”
“Yes. He doesn't know I have, mind you. I checked out the house thoroughly one night while he was . . . otherwise occupied.”
“Something else the police will never know?”
“I certainly hope so. Leo's also still using the same gun that killed at least two of his previous victims, something a ballistics test should easily prove. Plus he has a few other guns on the premises that will have to be tested. And, if that isn't enough, the police will also find the Carstairs diamonds here.”
Morgan found herself smiling back at him. “You were going to get him one way or another, weren't you?”
“One way or another,” he agreed. Then his smile faded. “He killed a lot of people, Morgana. And what he meant to do tonight is going to deeply hurt someone who called him friend.”
“Max.”
Quinn nodded and got off the desk. “Max. Now—why don't we get going? We don't want to miss the final curtain.”
They didn't, but as the virtual end of a rather famous career, Nightshade's final curtain was rather tame—and peculiarly apt. The “welcome mat” Storm had cleverly designed had turned a short and unassuming corridor on the first floor of the museum into a literal cage. Perfectly ordinary and innocent whenever the primary security system was in operation, the activation of the secondary system meant that the slightest weight on pressure plates triggered steel grates to drop from the ceiling at either end of the corridor.
Morgan was astonished; she had no idea that Storm had taken old equipment meant to close off various corridors and had wired in sophisticated electronics to create a cage.
And in that cage, Leo Cassady had no choice but to drop his gun and surrender to the police and guards waiting for him. He was very calm about it, obviously thinking they couldn't hang much of a charge on him. Until he caught a glimpse of Quinn, that is, when he was being led through the lobby. Then it must have occurred to him that there was much more to this than he had thought, because he went white.
Quinn, the black costume and bullet-proof vest having been swiftly exchanged for dark slacks and a casual denim shirt he'd had in his car, gazed at Leo with the cool satisfaction of a man who has seen a difficult job completed smoothly.
Leo didn't comment to or about Quinn, perhaps already considering how best to structure his defense in the coming courtroom battle and saving his knowledge of the other man's activities for that. But when the police led him past Max, he paused to look up at the other man.
Leo's hard mouth twisted just a bit, but his voice was steady and without much expression when he said, “If you'd only left the collection in the vaults, everything would have been fine. But you had to display it.” Then, calmly, he added, “It wasn't personal, Max.”
“You're wrong, Leo.” Max's deep, soft voice held both pain and loathing. “It was—and is—very personal.”
Leo glanced