Stay the Night

Robin nodded. "Valentin is an old ally of mine."

"I am happy to hear it. You see, because of their connections, my people would feel safer if we were to settle in his territory," Salva said. "I have never met Jaus, however, and I am reluctant to approach him without someone he knows well to vouch for me and mine. I would not trespass any further on your kindness, my lord, but would you consider assuming that responsibility and performing the appropriate introductions between myself and Suzerain Jaus?"

"I cannot guarantee that Valentin will grant you permission to settle in his territory," Robin warned her. "But I shall do my level best to persuade him."

Salva began to thank him, but was interrupted by a knock on the door and the appearance of Locksley's seneschal.

"I beg your pardon, my lord, my lady." Will Scarlet bowed to them both. "I would not intrude, my lord, but an urgent matter has arisen in regard to last night's business with the mortal female that I must relate to you at once." He glanced at Salva.

"The contessa is an old and trusted friend," Locksley said. "You may speak in front of her."

"I went to the auction office as you directed, and obtained the information you desired," Scarlet said. "The female listed a Chicago address that I verified with our friends in the north. If it existed—which it does not—it would occupy the middle of Lake Michigan."

Locksley shrugged. "Someone must have noted it wrong."

"I had thought so as well at first," Scarlet agreed, "but the driver's license she provided was not registered with the Chicago department of transportation. Also, her credit card was issued by a government-managed credit union in Washington, D.C., but one week ago."

That got Locksley's attention. "What else?"

"I felt I should go to the gallery to question her employer," Scarlet said. "It is closed until the night of the show, but I intercepted one of the humans exiting from the back door—a man named Dennis. Under my influence, he admitted that he did not work for the gallery or any art dealer. He is an electronics expert who specializes in covert monitoring devices. He said that he, the woman, and everyone associated with this show are special agents of the Federal Bureau of Investigation."

Oh, dear. Salva suppressed a smile. Someone hasn't been telling the truth.

"She is an FBI agent." Locksley appeared stunned.

"Aye, my lord, and that is not all that the man told me," Scarlet said. "Agent Renshaw came to Atlanta to work undercover as an art dealer and set up what they refer to as a 'sting operation.' The FBI wishes to identify and arrest those responsible for transporting to the States the stolen art recovered by the Kyn in France."

Robin said nothing for several moments. "I am the one responsible for that."

"Yes, my lord." Scarlet shuffled his feet. "According to the man Dennis, the FBI has been interested in your, ah, activities in the art world for some time. The agents have not yet identified you by name or appearance, and they have no witnesses, but they know a great many details about your most, ah, daring exploits. They call you 'the Magician.' "

Salva chuckled. "Most appropriate, my lord, given your skills at making things disappear."

"I do not believe that the female knows that you and the Magician are one and the same," the seneschal continued. "If she did, she surely would have tried to arrest you last night. But she and her cohorts are staging the gallery show specifically as a trap for you. The Maiden's Book of Hours is being used as the bait."

"How could she know that I wanted that manuscript?" Locksley demanded. "For that matter, how did they know I live here, in Atlanta?"

Scarlet shrugged. "I cannot say, my lord, but their information is very good."

"Too good." Robin began pacing up and down the length of the room. "You are certain that she does not know who I am?"

"My lord, given that your activities date back several decades, the FBI believes you to be an elderly mortal," Scarlet replied. "Even if Agent Renshaw did suspect, you appear too young and affluent to fit what Dennis called their 'profile.' "

"I cannot believe it." Robin shook his head slowly. "First this mortal treats me like a discarded garment, and now she means to entrap and imprison me."

Salva finally understood Locksley's anger, and the odd smell of human female lingering about him. He has been with her, while she deceived him about her identity.

"If I may be so bold as to make a suggestion, my lord?" When Robin turned to her, she continued; "As I have told you, my talent is persuasion. I could attend this gallery show with you, and easily convince this mortal female to surrender the manuscript to you voluntarily. Would that not be fitting revenge for what she has taken from you?"

Locksley made a curt gesture. "She took nothing from me."

She saw that he was tempted. "Perhaps nothing material, my lord. But your trust has obviously been violated, and by a woman who would gladly do much more harm to you. You are a suzerain, she is but a mortal. If word of this were to spread among our kind…" Delicately she trailed off.

"No one need know anything about this," his seneschal said, frowning at Salva. "I'm sure such an old and trusted friend as you, my lady, will keep my lord's confidence."

"You can depend on me to be as silent as a mute," Salva said. "But what will you do about this mortal who dares to hunt you, my lord?"

"I will teach her a lesson," Robin said. "One she will not soon forget."

Chapter Six

Chris adjusted the small gold brooch the A/V tech had pinned to her jacket lapel. The cluster of crystals covering the ornate pin disguised a tiny camera lens, which would transmit everything she saw in the gallery.

"How's the picture on your end, Dennis?" she asked.

"Great," he said over her earpiece. "The mikes around the gallery are picking up every sound you make, so you don't need to wear the wire. Video transmission's good, too. At this moment I can see every pore on your partner's big black ugly nose."

"If you're talking about my nose again, Dennis, I'm going to come back there and kick your tiny white ass." Hutch checked his watch. "We've got thirty minutes to go. Let's walk through it one more time."

As they went through the gallery, Chris examined everything with a critical eye. The carpets had been professionally cleaned, the furnishings polished, the paintings—all excellent forgeries that Chris had brought with her from the Chicago art and antiquities task force's collection—properly hung and lighted, and the display cases wiped down. What didn't glitter, gleamed.

"Childers and Barclay are covering the entrance," Hutch said. "Alpert and I will have both ends of the alley, and Wardell and Anderson are on the roof."

Despite the many precautions they'd taken, Chris still felt uneasy. "Is there any other way in or out of the building?"

"All the windows have been wired, so Dennis will sound the alarm if he tries to climb his way in." He stopped in front of the case containing the illuminated manuscript. "Don't mother-hen it, but watch this thing. If one of the guests bumps it the right way, it'll set off the net. I still think we should have used agents to play the attendees."

"Then we couldn't have advertised it, and how many guys in the bureau do you know who would look like patrons of a gallery?" Chris asked, amused. "If the Magician is familiar with the local fine-arts scene, which we have to assume he is, he's not going to be fooled by a bunch of feds in off-the-rack suits pretending to be fascinated by medieval treasures."

"Yeah, well, if things get hairy, you pull the plug and protect the citizens." He inspected her. "You should wear your hair down more often. You look good."

"Thank you." Chris never wore her hair down if she could help it; it made her look too young and frivolous. "It covers my earpiece."

"You should know that Hutch's wife is a six-foot-two ex-hurdle jumper who looks like she could stomp John Cena into dust," Dennis said over her earpiece. "Just in case you're feeling a little partner love there, Agent Renshaw."

"I appreciate the advice, Dennis," Chris said smoothly. "I'll pass it along to Agent Hutchins. I'm sure he'll remember it the next time we need someone to search an overflowing Dumpster."

"Okay, okay," Dennis said. "Geez."

Chris straightened her jacket carefully to avoid jogging the brooch. She was more accustomed to wearing a wire underneath her clothes, but Dennis had assured her that they'd planted so many bugs around the gallery that no one would even hiccup without him getting it on tape.

"Did I tell you we got the report today from forensics on that weird slug from the bank job? Turns out it wasn't a slug at all. They identified it as a copper arrowhead."

"An arrowhead? From someone's pendant?"

"From a real live arrow. They found some splinters of wood from the shaft embedded in the metal." Hutch bent to pick up a piece of snipped electrical wire caught in the carpet pile. "All handmade, so it couldn't be traced to a manufacturer."

During her years in the bureau, Chris had heard plenty of stories about the strange weapons some bank robbers employed. They ranged from open jars of hydrochloric acid to homemade flamethrowers. But this? "Hutch, they're not seriously suggesting that the Magician held up the bank with a bow and arrow? The guards would have shot him."

"Yeah, once they stopped laughing," Dennis put in.

Hutch shrugged. "They found traces of blood and black leather on it."

Chris remembered the odd cut the medical examiner found on the back of DeLuca's hand, and the blood he'd dripped all over the hotel room before shooting himself. "Have they run the blood?"

"Yeah. It was DeLuca's." ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">