You can see the nicks the tools made.”
“A professional.”
“Yes.” She shrugged, moving into the room. “And…sometimes thieves do carry guns, even grenades, in case they get cornered or caught.”
“You don’t.”
Samantha flashed a smile. “I don’t get caught. I’m just trying to figure out what this was—a robbery or an assassination attempt.”
“And you can determine that by looking at tool marks?”
Slowly she nodded. “There were no signs of forced entry but mine anywhere on the estate, you said, but this is pretty obvious.”
“And?”
“And so he didn’t have to be careful here, because he knew he was going to blow up any evidence.”
She walked the edge of the room back to the video camera, but Richard stayed where he was. No signs of forced entry, but an obviously cut lock here in the middle of the house. Nothing on the video according to the police, though he’d had copies of the tape made and would go over it himself.
The number of people with access to the estate in his absence was almost endless; gardeners, security, housekeeping staff, pool maintenance, estate management, plus a select number of friends who were welcome to use the house whenever they chose. Though keys to the secured areas were harder to come by, they did exist—but not for the thief, apparently.
Finally she stopped at the fallen pedestal that had cradled the tablet. “This fell with a lot of force. The tablet would have broken.”
“You’re leaning toward the bomb being planted to cover the theft, aren’t you?”
Samantha glanced up at him. “Maybe. At the least, someone knew the value of what was in this room and didn’t want it ruined in the process of whatever the hell he was doing.”
That was the third time she’d referred to the thief as a “he.” Normally he wouldn’t have found the masculinization odd—except that she was a thief, herself, and definitely female. “Does an assassin make an effort to preserve antiquities?” he pursued.
“I don’t know—I’m not an assassin.” With a quick grin she moved back into the gallery. “On the other hand, he didn’t give a damn about anything sitting out here, or the rest of the stuff in the house if your fire sprinklers hadn’t worked.” Samantha frowned, then cleared her expression as she glanced at him again. “How much is a good suit of sixteenth-century armor worth these days?”
“Half a million, give or take.”
“Ouch.”
“How did you know? About the bomb, I mean.”
She moved back to the large hole blown in the gallery wall, crouching to look at it more closely. “I didn’t. I mean I almost stepped into the wire, but then saw it at the last second. It pissed me off, actually.”
“Why?” Richard studied her expression, trying to ignore the abrupt tightness across his chest at the thought of her stepping into the middle of that bomb. She’d broken into his house, violated his sanctuary. But now he apparently worried about her.
“You had fairly top-line security everywhere, ineffective as most of it is, then a damned wire across the hall. It was just stupid. Guards, guests, would trip on it all the time and set off the alarm, or get hurt. And then I noticed that it wasn’t quite parallel to the floor, and that…bothered me.”
He crouched beside her. “Asymmetry bothered you. In the middle of a robbery.”
“It bothered me that everything else in this house is tasteful and meticulous and well thought out. It didn’t fit, and it obviously hadn’t been approved by you. It wouldn’t have been there for one thing, and for another, it wouldn’t have been crooked. I wasn’t completely sure, though, until I saw Prentiss marching toward me and not even glancing down.”
And he’d thought himself reasonably observant. “I would have walked right into it,” he muttered. In the dark, distracted and annoyed by the idiotic fax call, thinking about two meetings, a contract, and next week’s scheduled trip to
“A professional.”
“Yes.” She shrugged, moving into the room. “And…sometimes thieves do carry guns, even grenades, in case they get cornered or caught.”
“You don’t.”
Samantha flashed a smile. “I don’t get caught. I’m just trying to figure out what this was—a robbery or an assassination attempt.”
“And you can determine that by looking at tool marks?”
Slowly she nodded. “There were no signs of forced entry but mine anywhere on the estate, you said, but this is pretty obvious.”
“And?”
“And so he didn’t have to be careful here, because he knew he was going to blow up any evidence.”
She walked the edge of the room back to the video camera, but Richard stayed where he was. No signs of forced entry, but an obviously cut lock here in the middle of the house. Nothing on the video according to the police, though he’d had copies of the tape made and would go over it himself.
The number of people with access to the estate in his absence was almost endless; gardeners, security, housekeeping staff, pool maintenance, estate management, plus a select number of friends who were welcome to use the house whenever they chose. Though keys to the secured areas were harder to come by, they did exist—but not for the thief, apparently.
Finally she stopped at the fallen pedestal that had cradled the tablet. “This fell with a lot of force. The tablet would have broken.”
“You’re leaning toward the bomb being planted to cover the theft, aren’t you?”
Samantha glanced up at him. “Maybe. At the least, someone knew the value of what was in this room and didn’t want it ruined in the process of whatever the hell he was doing.”
That was the third time she’d referred to the thief as a “he.” Normally he wouldn’t have found the masculinization odd—except that she was a thief, herself, and definitely female. “Does an assassin make an effort to preserve antiquities?” he pursued.
“I don’t know—I’m not an assassin.” With a quick grin she moved back into the gallery. “On the other hand, he didn’t give a damn about anything sitting out here, or the rest of the stuff in the house if your fire sprinklers hadn’t worked.” Samantha frowned, then cleared her expression as she glanced at him again. “How much is a good suit of sixteenth-century armor worth these days?”
“Half a million, give or take.”
“Ouch.”
“How did you know? About the bomb, I mean.”
She moved back to the large hole blown in the gallery wall, crouching to look at it more closely. “I didn’t. I mean I almost stepped into the wire, but then saw it at the last second. It pissed me off, actually.”
“Why?” Richard studied her expression, trying to ignore the abrupt tightness across his chest at the thought of her stepping into the middle of that bomb. She’d broken into his house, violated his sanctuary. But now he apparently worried about her.
“You had fairly top-line security everywhere, ineffective as most of it is, then a damned wire across the hall. It was just stupid. Guards, guests, would trip on it all the time and set off the alarm, or get hurt. And then I noticed that it wasn’t quite parallel to the floor, and that…bothered me.”
He crouched beside her. “Asymmetry bothered you. In the middle of a robbery.”
“It bothered me that everything else in this house is tasteful and meticulous and well thought out. It didn’t fit, and it obviously hadn’t been approved by you. It wouldn’t have been there for one thing, and for another, it wouldn’t have been crooked. I wasn’t completely sure, though, until I saw Prentiss marching toward me and not even glancing down.”
And he’d thought himself reasonably observant. “I would have walked right into it,” he muttered. In the dark, distracted and annoyed by the idiotic fax call, thinking about two meetings, a contract, and next week’s scheduled trip to
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