Once a Thief

by Kay Hooper

  Storm rose from the bed and went to the bathroom. She could see him moving behind the frosted-glass shower door. She paused for only a moment, enjoying watching him, then slipped into the stall with him.

  “Hi.”

  “Hi, yourself.”

  “I’ll wash your back if you’ll wash mine,”she offered.

  “Deal,” Wolfe said, and pulled her into his arms.

  After spending most of Friday night parked outside one museum and two jewelry stores, Morgan was feeling more than a little discouraged. She hadn’t felt Quinn and she certainly didn’t see him. She worked only a few hours on Saturday, then went home and took a nap.

  By nine o’clock Saturday night she was back on watch, this time parked on a street where two jewelry stores occupied space across from each other.

  By ten o’clock, she caught herself drumming her fingers against the steering wheel and realized she was listening intently.

  Listening? Or feeling?

  Morgan hesitated, then started her car and began driving. She didn’t consciously choose a direction, yet at the same time she felt no hesitation in taking specific roads and turns until she found herself parked about half a block from the rear side of one of the smaller museums in the city. A museum not even on her watch list.

  Baffled, she asked herself why Quinn would even bother with a museum containing artifacts that, however valuable, were too large for a single man to roll out with a wheelbarrow, far less tuck into a pouch attached to his belt.

  That thought had barely occurred to her when Morgan stiffened, her eyes fixed on a service door of the museum. She couldn’t see clearly because of the wispy fog, but it looked like at least three men coming out—and they were carrying a fourth between them.

  Quinn.

  All the men were wearing dark clothing, and she was too far away to be able to spot any identifying feature. But she knew it was him, just as she knew he had been in her museum more than once watching her. She knew it.

  Felt it.

  Frozen, she watched a dark van pull up near the men. They tossed the apparently unconscious Quinn into the back of the van, making Morgan wince because of the rough way they treated that limp body.

  God, he couldn’t be dead?

  She pushed that thought away instantly, refusing to consider the possibility. He wasn’t dead. She wouldn’t be able to feel him if he was dead.

  Would she?

  No, of course not. In fact, she could probably only feel him now because he was unconscious and so unable to shut her out—or whatever he’d been doing to make sure she couldn’t show up inconveniently wherever he meant to burgle.

  So he wasn’t dead. But he was obviously out cold. And what she should do, she thought as she watched the three other men get into the van, was call somebody. That was what she should do.

  “911,” she muttered to herself. “That’s who I ought to call. Or Max. I could call Max, and tell him to get his Interpol agent out here and rescue—I mean catch—Quinn.” She automatically put her car in gear as the van pulled away from the museum, and murmured somewhat helplessly, “Why am I not doing that?”

  An hour later, Morgan felt the question more intensely. What on earth was she doing? She was being an idiot, that’s what she was doing. Cautiously, her knowledge purely a matter of cops-and-robbers on television, she was following a van containing three probable bad guys and an internationally famous cat burglar who was either unconscious or dead.

  She didn’t know where they were going except for the vague notion that it was south, and she was swearing at herself in a monotone for a host of sins beginning with stupidity.

  Tailing the van was relatively easy at first; the streets were busy even this late, Morgan had no trouble keeping a car or two between her and the van, and she wasn’t stopped once by an inconvenient traffic light. But then traffic thinned, the fog thickened, and she had to get closer than she liked to the van or risk losing it.

  It was less than twenty minutes later that it pulled over to the curb, and Morgan barely had the presence of mind to continue on past the van for a full block before turning into a side street. Until then, she’d paid very little attention to her surroundings, and when she did look she reached immediately for her cell phone to call 911.

  No signal.

  “Shit,” she muttered, not at all cheered by the silent reminder to herself that this sort of thing happened to Scully and Mulder all the time. On TV, it was purely a question of cutting off the protagonists from easily accessed help, she knew that. Increased dramatic tension.

  In real life, it was the universe giving her a hard time. Probably as payback for this absurd and undoubtedly wrong interest in a thief.

  Chewing on her bottom lip, she looked at her surroundings. It hadn’t been what anyone would have called a good neighborhood to begin with, and the last big earthquake had made a shambles of most of the buildings Morgan could see. Obviously, rebuilding wasn’t high on any landlord’s priority list. A dog barked somewhere off in the distance, but other than that there seemed to be no signs of life.

  Swallowing, Morgan found her can of pepper spray in her purse, left the bag on the floorboard of the car, and got out. Her cell phone went into a back pocket of her jeans, just in case she was able to get a signal at some point. She locked up the car, then put her keys in a front pocket, reasoning that the police whistle would do nothing except draw unwelcome attention to her here.

  The damned thing hadn’t been helpful at all.

  There were a few scattered streetlights casting a weird glow down through the fog, but they provided enough light for Morgan to find her way back to the van. It loomed up suddenly before her, freezing her in her tracks for a long moment until she realized there was no one in it. She checked just to make sure, but it was empty.

  It was parked before a building that looked to be ten or twelve stories high, maybe an old office building, she thought. Most of the doors and windows were boarded up, and though she couldn’t see it clearly, Morgan had the feeling this building had been condemned for a long time, even before the earthquake had rattled it. There was a smell about it, musty and disused, that said no one had lived here in a long time.

  She checked her cell phone, and again the backlit display informed her the device was worse than useless. Unless, of course, she wanted to calculate a tip or play a game.

  “Technology,” she said under her breath. “Yeah, right.”

  She nonetheless made her way around the building with the utmost caution, looking for a way in. She found it in the rear—a warped door pulled half off its hinges—and about seven or eight stories up she saw a dim light coming from a boarded-up window. She paused for several minutes, her ears straining for any sound. She thought she heard a couple of dull thuds from up there, and once a ghostly laugh, but mostly what she heard was the frightened pounding of her heart.

  She had to take several deep breaths before she could gather the courage to enter the building. It was awfully dark, even after her eyes adjusted a bit, and she had to use her free hand to feel gingerly along the wall.

  The floor seemed fairly solid under her feet, and there didn’t seem to be any obstructions of old furniture and the like to hinder her, but there were squeaks and rustles in the darkness that made Morgan grit her teeth and move a bit faster. She located a stairwell almost totally by touch, and her relief turned to wariness when she realized that there was dim light spilling down from somewhere above.

  She moved with even more caution, her can of pepper spray held ready. Although she couldn’t help but wonder how the small can would fare against three large and probably armed ruffians. Telling herself fiercely not to borrow trouble, she continued, always up. By the time she reached the fourth floor, she could see fairly well, and by the sixth she knew the light was only a couple of floors above her.

  On the eighth-floor landing, she found a rusted old fire door hanging open, and just inside the hallway a battery lantern sat innocently on the floor. Morgan w
as tempted but didn’t pick it up. Instead, she peered carefully through the doorway. She could see more light coming from a half-closed door at the end of the hallway and, when she strained, hear the indistinguishable sounds of voices.

  Morgan checked her cell phone again, hoping she was high enough now, but there was still no signal. Jeez, here she was trying to be a Superfriend, and you’d think the bad guys had put a bubble of kryptonite around her.

  It was almost funny. Not quite, but almost.

  Now what? she mouthed to herself. After a slight hesitation, she slipped through the door and into the hall. Pressing herself tightly to the wall, she made her way slowly, her eyes fixed on that partially opened door. She was over halfway there when one voice rose harshly above the others and froze her—because it was so vicious and because she recognized it.

  “It won’t take us long to find out who you are. I’d kill you now, but you might come in handy for something later on. There might even be a price on your head.”

  And then, almost inaudible but reaching Morgan’s straining ears like the sound of sweet, insouciant music, came Quinn’s dry reply.

  “No honor among thieves? I’m saddened, gentlemen, deeply saddened. To say nothing of being disillusioned.”

  “Shut up,” the harsh voice ordered. “There’s no way you’re going to get loose, so don’t bother trying. You can yell all you want; there’s nobody to hear you. I’ll be back in the morning when I decide what to do with you.”

  Morgan remained frozen for an instant longer, then gasped and slid along the wall to the nearest door. Not only was it not locked, it didn’t even have a doorknob. She pushed it open and slipped into the room, then closed it again and pressed herself against the wall, trying to control her breathing. Within minutes, she heard footsteps passing the room where she was hiding, the heavy steps of large men.

  She counted to ten slowly, then very cautiously opened her door and peered down the hall toward the stairwell. They had left the lantern, which rather surprised her, but she supposed they had flashlights. She debated for a moment but decided she could go back and get the lantern once she found out what Quinn’s situation was. She was too impatient to wait any longer, hurrying down the hall toward the now-closed door.

  When she neared it, she noticed a large, shiny metal hasp instead of a knob on the door; it was open since there was no padlock or pin with which to lock the hasp in place over the staple. And the door itself was a metal one, set with what looked to be very solid hinges.

  Morgan wondered briefly what these very new bits of hardware were doing in this decrepit building—and a few possibilities garnered from thrillers on the late show made her shudder.

  She was just reaching for the hasp when she heard the distant thuds of returning footsteps. Morgan looked toward the other end of the hallway, saw the flickering light of someone climbing up the stairs holding a flashlight, and felt a rush of panic. If she tried to move away from this door, she knew she would be seen; he’d be in this hallway within seconds, and the next nearest door was too far away for her to reach in time.

  There was nothing else to do.

  Swiftly, she opened the door to Quinn’s prison and nipped inside, closing it gently behind her.

  It was pitch dark and utterly silent in there. Morgan, pressed against the wall by the door, held her can of pepper spray ready as the heavy footsteps neared the door. Then, while she waited tensely, she heard several metallic noises, the faint squeak of a hinge, and then a solid click.

  The footsteps went away, leaving Morgan sagged against the wall and filled with a horrible realization. Somebody had come back with a padlock, dammit.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTEEN

  * * *

  Wonderful. She and Quinn were on the eighth floor of a condemned building, in a room with a very businesslike locked door barring their way, and even if they could pry the boards off the windows it was doubtful there was a fire escape.

  While Morgan leaned there, silently cussing herself and Quinn, she heard a faint rustle and then a conversational voice.

  “I seem to be saying this far too often lately, but—Morgana, what the hell are you doing here?”

  She took a deep breath, relaxed her death grip on the can of pepper spray, and shoved it in an unoccupied pocket. “I happened to be in the neighborhood,” she said, proud of her careless tone. It almost matched his.

  “I see. Well, leaving the absurdity of that aside for the moment, do you happen to have a trusty penknife or pair of sewing scissors?”

  “Not on me. I have a cell phone, but no signal. A police whistle—and no friendlies near enough to hear it. My trusty can of pepper spray. And my car keys have a compass on them.” She paused and sighed. “The universe hates me. I take it you’re tied up?”

  “Afraid so. And they took all my tools.” He sighed as well, then spoke briskly. “This room is about twenty feet square, and my wretched cot is located about eight feet away from the door. If you could make your way over here and try your hand at untying these ropes, I would greatly appreciate it.”

  Morgan was surprised at her own calm. The only thing she could figure out was that she was in shock. So she was able to slowly cross the room, estimating the distance, until she felt the cot against her legs, and then kneel down on the hard floor beside it. Now, in which direction lay his head?

  Querulously, he said, “What on earth is taking so long? All you have to do is—” He broke off with a peculiar sound.

  Morgan hastily withdrew her hands, which had landed rather off target, so to speak. “Um—sorry,” she murmured.

  Quinn cleared his throat. “Not at all,” he disclaimed politely, with only a trace of hoarseness in his voice. “I’ve always wondered what the attraction was in being held immobile by various bindings and . . . uh . . . caressed. There is a certain appeal, I must admit. Though I would, I believe, prefer to have my own hands free should you choose to—”

  “Shut up,” she ordered fiercely. “It’s dark in here, that’s why. I can’t see what I’m doing.”

  He sighed. “Yes, of course. Foolish of me to think otherwise.”

  Morgan reached out again, this time with extreme caution, and encountered the bulky shape of his tool belt. She hoped. With more confidence, she felt the hard flatness of his stomach, and inched upward warily.

  In a conversational tone, Quinn said, “You’re repaying me for having stolen your necklace, aren’t you, Morgana?”

  Startled, she allowed her hands to lie flat over the steady rise and fall of his chest. “What?” She’d forgotten the necklace until he mentioned it.

  “This torture. Here I lie, helpless and at your mercy, while you amuse yourself with me. If it’s ravishment you have in mind, I shall bear it like a man, but please take care how you fondle my poor abused body. Those cretins were not kind.”

  Morgan grasped the salient fact among absurdities, and leaned closer as she demanded, “What did they do to you?”

  “I would rather not discuss it,” Quinn replied affably. “I would suggest, however, that you refrain from—Is that . . . ? Yes, I believe so. Even in the dark, quite obvious. Rather prominent, aren’t they?”

  She straightened hastily. “Quinn, do you want to get out of here alive?” she asked irately.

  “I—”

  “Yes or no, dammit.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then stop making crude remarks.”

  He cleared his throat. “Admiring remarks, Morgana. Always admiring.”

  The wistfulness in his too-expressive voice made her want to giggle, but she overcame the ridiculous impulse. “Just shut up about my anatomy, or I’ll leave you here to rot. Which is just what you deserve.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he murmured, not bothering to point out that both of them could rot here in the locked room, tied or not.

  Morgan let her fingers resume their progress but stopped when they encountered the warmth of his throat. She swallowed as she realized he wasn’t masked, b
ut managed to say lightly, “My kingdom for a match.”

  He sighed. “Sorry I can’t oblige. The ropes, Morgana, please. My fingers are going numb.”

  She couldn’t resist the temptation to glide her fingertips over his face first, feeling smooth skin over his stubborn jaw and high cheekbones, an aristocratic nose, unbelievably long lashes, a high forehead, and thick, soft hair. She tried to be quick, hoping he’d think she was merely feeling her way in sheer indifference, but then he cleared his throat again and spoke in a slightly husky but wry tone.

  “If I solemnly promise never to steal anything from you ever again, will you stop doing that, Morgana? At least while I’m bound and helpless?”

  She bit her lip to hold back a sudden giggle. “As if I’d believe your promise. Ah—here we are.”

  His wrists were tied to the very sturdy posts of the cot, and Morgan’s amusement faded when she felt how the ropes were digging into his wrists. It was difficult to untie ropes she couldn’t see, but she worked at the knots fiercely, sacrificing her fingernails and even a bit of skin from her knuckles.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked finally while she struggled with the ropes. “I didn’t see much of it, but I believe this neighborhood is a long way from yours.”

  Morgan didn’t want to tell him the truth, but she couldn’t think of a convincing lie. All she could do was make it sound more casual than it had been. “I was driving by that museum—the one with all the sculpture and statuary—and saw three men throw you into a van.”

  He didn’t ask how she had known it was him. They both knew the answer to that. Instead, he said, “So you followed them here?”

  “It seemed like a good idea at the time,” she said, then made a little sound of triumph when the rope around his right wrist finally gave way.