Morgan’s plan had worked perfectly. Three weeks after Morgan’s first face-to-face with his partner, Joseph hand delivered the locket to Diana Sinclair as she rushed from her apartment building toward a waiting cab. Joseph made a rather convincing bicycle courier, Morgan thought. He looked and acted the part: smart enough to write down a street address and buckle a bike helmet on front ways, but not much more than that.
Morgan gave him his lines, and Joseph hadn’t varied them by a syllable.
“Delivery for Diana Sinclair. Are you Miss Sinclair?”
When she’d been reluctant to take it, he’d delivered the zinger, and it had worked as well as Turoc had promised.
“A gift from Tracy West, Miss Sinclair.”
Then she had taken it, her face pale with shock, her eyes wide and staring. Morgan, wh
