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“Well, it’s upstate,” Randall said. “And when I say auction, I mean, you know. Boxes of farm tools and old encyclopedias. And the occasional moose head.”
“Is that really a reason not to come in to the museum today?” she said, frowning again. “We don’t actually need a moose head. And my God, Randall, there’s just so much—” She broke off and shook her head.
“So much damage control,” Randall said. “Smoothing ruffled feathers and so on. Your brother Tim is much better than I am at that sort of thing.”
“I suppose I should go in, too,” she said. “But even so . . .”
“It will be a huge feather in the museum’s cap if this trip pays off,” Randall said. “Old Mr. Busby thinks they’ve uncovered a Masaccio.”
“Is that a painting or an automobile?”
“Normally a painting,” he said. “There are very few surviving automobiles from the fifteenth century.”
“And this Mr. Bisbo can tell the difference?”
“Busby,” Randall corrected her. “And as unlikely as it may be that it’s the real deal, I would be remiss in my duty if I didn’t check it out. And,” he said, standing and clearing away the plates, “Mr. Busby assures me that if I get there today, I am a step ahead of the competition. The Met is apparently still filling out the proper forms to get a tank of gas for the trip.” He put the dirty dishes in the sink. “So if you think you can spare me for the day, I’m off to upstate.” He bent and kissed her. “And even if the painting is a fake, I promise to bring you something wonderful—”
“Please,” she interrupted, “not a moose head.”
“Of course not, not for you,” he said. “You deserve something far more elegant—maybe a 1964 set of Encyclopaedia Britannica, missing volume fourteen.”
“That sounds fabulous,” she said. “I never liked volume fourteen.”
“So I may be back late,” he said.
She reached up and pulled his face down for a longer kiss. “Mmm,” she said. “Not too late . . . ?”
* * *
—
Hey, Lieutenant?” Tremaine stuck his head into the exhibit hall and Szabo looked up. “Some FBI guy here. Wants to talk to you.”
Szabo blinked. Chief Bledsoe’s death—his murder; Szabo was sure it was no accident, no matter what the dumb-ass local cops said—was something he took personally. He had been here at the museum, without sleep, for over twenty-four hours, and he was tired. His SEAL training included going without sleep, and he could easily stay on watch and alert for another twenty-four—or forty-eight, if he had to. Even so, he was tired, and his eyes were dry and filled with sandy gunk. “What does he want to talk about?” Szabo asked, rubbing at his left eye.
Tremaine shrugged. “He didn’t say. Just, he wants to talk to whoever’s in charge of security. That’s all. I mean, he’s a Fed,” he added, like that explained everything.
And maybe it did. Whatever the guy wanted, you didn’t say no to talking to an agent of the FBI. So Szabo took a deep breath, nodded at Taylor to stay with the security control panel, and followed Tremaine into the lobby.
The morning light was blasting in through the front doors of the museum, and Szabo paused in the doorway, blinking against the unaccustomed glare. “Over there,” Tremaine said, nudging Szabo toward the alcove where the bar had been set up at last night’s gala. Szabo looked and saw a gray-suited figure waiting, back turned toward him. He held a pair of glasses in one hand and, with the other, rubbed his forehead, as if massaging a headache.
The suit turned as Szabo approached, fumbling the glasses back into place on his face. For just a second, Szabo could see last night’s bar through the lenses of the glasses as he put them on. The distortion was incredible—the lenses were so thick Szabo wondered how the guy could possibly see anything at all.
But this FBI agent apparently could see. He straightened up and faced Szabo. “Lieutenant . . . Zharbo?” the man said.
“Szabo,” he corrected, looking the FBI man over. He was a man of average height and build, with receding reddish-brown hair, a large and bushy mustache, and glasses. And he was looking unblinkingly at Szabo, waiting for more. So Szabo shrugged and added, “They only call me Lieutenant because they’re used to it. I’m a civilian now—I’m with Black Hat.”
“So I understand,” the Fed said. “I am Special Agent Shurgin, FBI.” He held up his credentials. He didn’t offer to shake hands, so Szabo simply glanced at the badge and waited.
Shurgin blinked, an enormous gesture seen through the thick lenses of his glasses. “I understand you have updated the museum’s security?”
“Not personally,” Szabo said. At the last second, he stopped himself from saying “sir.” Something about this guy bothered him. “But I’m running it now. It’s unprecedented technology. First-rate.”
Shurgin nodded. “Who has access to the system?”
“I do,” Szabo said. “A couple of the guys from Tiburon—”
“Tiburon?” Shurgin demanded.
