The Final Cut by Catherine Coulter
“It’s no problem. Do you have luggage?”
He looked down at a soft-as-butter dark brown leather carry-on bag that looked like it cost one of her paychecks.
“Only this overnight bag. I took the first flight from London practically the minute I heard.”
She nodded, saying only, “My car’s this way,” since she couldn’t very well lead off with Hey, Mr. Aren’t I Great, I hear you are a super-spy. He stepped ahead of her to open the door, and she saw Mr. Super-Spy had a very nice butt. So did James Bond. Well, since he was going to horn in, it balanced the scales a bit that he wasn’t hard to look at.
As they walked to the car, Nicholas noticed Agent Caine had a long stride that matched his own quite well. Her blond ponytail swung back and forth like a metronome as she walked. She wore black leather motorcycle boots, low-heeled, dark jeans, and a scoop-neck black sweater over a white button-down. The black leather jacket completed the biker-chic look.
She didn’t look like any FBI agent he’d met before, not that he’d met all that many. Actually, he thought she looked like a motorbike-riding librarian. She looked like she’d shush him if he made any noise, then maybe smack him with her riding gloves.
When they reached the escalator, he gestured for her to go first. A brow shot up, and she said, “Thank you. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. I worked for your uncle Bo for years. He was always bragging about you, not that any of us believed a single word he said or even listened much, for that matter. I do know he takes full credit for influencing you to become a cop.”
Her voice was nice, like honey, smooth and deep, no discernible accent. Midwest, then. She was young, too, late twenties, maybe thirty. Since he wasn’t deaf, he’d heard the edge, loud and clear. She didn’t trust him, didn’t want him here, but she was being forced to let him in. Well, too bad, because he was in, all the way in.
He said, his voice so upper-class Brit-sharp it could cut glass, “My Uncle only partially exaggerates, Special Agent Caine. My father was all for me joining Scotland Yard, though he didn’t say it out loud. My grandfather, though, he’d just as soon my most dangerous activity would be climbing trees.”
She couldn’t help herself, she grinned, because her own mom felt exactly the same way about her, and the serious librarian transformed into a sweet girl with dimples. Nicholas doubted that impression would last for more than a couple seconds. But it broke the ice, finally.
She said, “We’ve got a long slog ahead of us. Call me Mike.”
“I’m Nicholas.”
“Very well, then, Nicholas. I’m sorry about the circumstances that brought you here. I’ve heard Elaine York was a good cop, a lovely woman. We’re all sick about her death.”
While the words were rote, he’d spoken them himself too many times to know otherwise, there was genuine feeling behind them. No cop wanted to see another go down; it hit too close to home.
He nodded. “She meant a great deal to me, to all of us. She will be sorely missed. I want to get to the bottom of what she got herself into, and why she was killed.”
When they stepped out of the terminal into the freezing New York winter, Nicholas hoped Nigel hadn’t forgotten to add his gloves to the bag.
• • •
When the Crown Vic slid away from the curb, the man pulled out his disposable cell, punched a single button. The call was answered on the first ring.
“Yes?”
“He’s here. Nicholas Drummond.”
“Give me your impression of him.”
“He’s a big guy, looks hard, tough, but he’s a pretty boy. Like all Brit cops, he’s not carrying. I can take him.”
“You know your job here. Follow him and the FBI agent, and report back to me everything they do. Do not engage them. Do not let them see you. If we need to take strong action, I will tell you.”
“Yes, sir.”
He hung up the phone and revved the engine of the Harley. Such a sweet ride. It took him only a minute to catch up to the cop car. The chick was driving, and she wasn’t all that bad. They were talking. He liked the blond hair. Was it natural? He wouldn’t mind verifying that himself. Even though she was an FBI agent, he didn’t think she’d be much of a problem. She looked like the girl next door playing tough grown-up. But the big guy? He’d see.
His boss’s voice rang loud in his head. Stay away from her, you goon.
He felt a quick spurt of rage—he wasn’t a goon. If the guy wasn’t paying so well, there were a lot of things he wouldn’t mind doing to the pretty blond, and to him, but he was paying him really big bucks. And he knew in the deepest part of him, the part that recognized blackness and brutal violence, this was a man you didn’t cross. Ever.
13
Before the passenger door of Mike’s black Crown Vic was even closed, Nicholas got right to it. “Has the autopsy on Inspector York been completed?”
“Yes. The ME called while I was waiting for your plane to land. Her initial cause of death is drowning.”
He felt a punch of surprise. Drowning? “I was led to believe she’d been shot.”
“She was, but it wasn’t a fatal wound. The ME said he’d heard from Toxicology. She’d also been injected with a small amount of potassium cyanide. Just like Sherlock said—you’ll meet her and Agent Dillon Savich later, at the gala tonight.”
“My uncle is always talking about Agent Savich this, Agent Sherlock that.”
She shot him a look. A bit of resentment there, maybe? Fascinating, coming from Super-Spy James Bond. Well, maybe not; now he was smiling.
Mike said, “The gunshot and the cyanide incapacitated her to the point that she was probably unconscious when she went in the water. We found a videotape from her neighborhood bodega; it shows her stumbling out of her apartment building and heading toward the river. We think she was following her regular running route out of habit. She was clearly not in her right mind, staggering and weaving toward the water. The fence there is about waist-high, and she went right over the top of it.
“Another camera near the dock shows her eyes are closed as she goes over the edge. I think it’s entirely possible she passed out and fell in.”
All he heard was probably unconscious and prayed it was true.
Mike jockeyed around three cabs that honked and threw her the finger, smoothly slid out into the Van Wyck. She said, “There was a Russian found dead at her apartment, a Vladimir Kochen, a foot soldier for the Anatoly crime family. Agent Sherlock thinks he was shot with a tranquilizer gun when he opened the door, then the killer injected him with a massive dose of potassium cyanide as well. The ME hasn’t verified it yet, but he thinks Sherlock’s right.”
“Excuse me? A Russian? Why was a Russian Mob guy at Elaine’s apartment?”
Mike glanced over at him. “Don’t know yet. Savich and Sherlock looked over the scene last night. She has a gift, could tell immediately what happened. I was impressed.” And she told him everything Sherlock had said.
Her cell rang. The ME, Dr. Janovich, was calling. “Caine here. What have you got for me?”
She listened, then punched off. “Sherlock was right on the money. The ME found traces of a tranquilizer called fentanyl in the Russian’s blood; it’s an anesthetic that acts immediately. Answers that question. Tell me, do you know if Inspector York carried personal protection?”
Nicholas thought for a moment. “Yes. A SIG Sauer P226. But she didn’t bring it with her to New York.”
Mike said, “Did she mention buying a .22? A Taurus PT-22, to be exact?”
“Not to me, no. Why?”
“We found a .22 in her apartment under the Russian’s body. The gun was bought off the street, illegally, a week ago. We think the killer put it under the body to cover his tracks, make it look like Elaine and Kochen killed one another.”
“This was a well-orchestrated crime scene, then.”
“Yes. We know the .22 was Elaine’s because she’d written herself a receipt, stashed it in her wallet. The ballistics match the bullet the ME took out of Elaine’s chest. The prints on the weapon are smudged, so the killer was wearing gloves. Her fingerprints are on the bullets.
“As for her cell phone, the only recent calls were back and forth between the staff at the Met and several calls to her mother in England. We have a warrant in for the full records, cell and home, but her complete cell records will take a few days because she was using an international phone. Lots of red tape.”
“The gun purchase receipt could have been planted, then, and her signature forged.”
“I suppose so,” but he knew she didn’t believe it. He really didn’t, either. But what did that prove?
He asked, “What about her laptop? Have you started the examination yet? Elaine was a compulsive journaler. Surely there’s some indication of what was happening in them.”
“There wasn’t a laptop, and we assumed the killer took it. Either he was covering all the bases, or there was something on it he wanted.”
Nicholas tapped his fingertips on the dash, tap, tap, tap, then said, “In addition to journaling, she kept most of her work in an online cloud because she disliked carrying a laptop everywhere. She’d devised a system where she could access her files on the fly from any computer, tablet, or smartphone. Once upon a time she shared her password to the account with me. With any luck, she hasn’t changed it. If she has, I have a few tricks up my sleeve that won’t leave a trace. I should be able to break into her account remotely.”
“You’re a hacker?”
“One of my many skills,” he said without expression, and Mike shot him a look that almost made him laugh. She wasn’t happy about that, but then again, he didn’t expect her to be. Working with the American FBI was going to be an experience, for both sides.
“Good to know, but I have some of the best computer minds in the Bureau on my staff. I want one of them to try to access Inspector York’s files. We wouldn’t want the case against her murderer to be thrown out on a technicality.” Even though her tone was pleasant, he heard the warning loud and clear.
Touché. He said easily, “Certainly. Of course. I understand completely,” and thought jurisdiction and justice be damned, this was Elaine. No way was he going to sit back and wait for some FBI hack to do the job for him.
14
The New York skyline peeked above the concrete barriers, cold and forbidding. Traffic was backing up, and Mike took out her flasher and put it on the dash. “Sorry for the noise, but we need to get uptown, fast.” The slower cars moved to the side of the road, and she gunned it.
He said, “If my uncle sent you to pick me up, can I assume you’re in the loop on the other small issue?”
And of course he was involved up to his eyebrows, too, and she didn’t like it. On the other hand, maybe his brain was as fine as his butt and she could use him. Maybe. She saw herself as a trainer and him as a stubborn, bullheaded Rottweiler.
“The diamond being stolen, you mean? Yes, I’m well aware of the situation, through SAC Horsley, ugh, I can’t stop calling him that. He keeps insisting I call him Bo, but it’s tough, since he was my SAC for years—anyway, he told me you would fill me in. We’re headed directly for the Met right now to meet with your uncle Bo and the curator of the exhibit. Find out exactly what everyone knows.”
“I’ll tell you everything Uncle Bo told me,” and he did.
She listened, never said a word until he’d finished. She was quiet, and he sensed she wanted to say something, not about the theft but about something else, but she didn’t really want to. Why? Because it would be an acknowledgment that he was already in the thick of things? He had to get past her distrust of him, her gut-negative reaction at a foreigner horning in on her investigation. He needed her on his side, at least for the time being.
“Am I to assume you’ve made a connection between Elaine and the missing diamond that I don’t know about?”
Mike spoke carefully. She didn’t want to alienate the man, at least not yet. “Is she capable of such a thing? To betray everyone like this?”
He turned to face her, his arm stretched out along the back of his seat. “I’m not saying this because she was my friend, my colleague. But for her to steal the diamond—like I told Uncle Bo and Savich and Sherlock, it would be entirely out of character. I can’t envision her breaking the law for personal gain, and what other reason would someone want the diamond, if not to benefit from it financially? She fought on the right side. Crime sickened her, if you can understand the sentiment.”
Mike nodded. “I do. Everyone in the FBI feels the same way, which is why we’re the best in the world at what we do—no offense to New Scotland Yard, of course.”
“Of course not. Why would you ever want to offend Scotland Yard?” That shut her up. Oh, he wouldn’t mind going head-to-head with the FBI. Give them a run for their money. But he had no problem with trying to stay on their good side, so he said, “We’re all on the same side,” and shut up.
There was more coming; he could feel the pressure building in the car. Three, two, one, and yes, there she went, her head turning slightly toward him in that way he’d already started to recognize.
She said, “You’ve got to know that everything is pointing toward one logical conclusion.” She paused for a moment. “I have to tell you, if Inspector York is involved, this situation is bigger than our personal feelings toward our teammates. All right?”
There it was. She was worried his personal feelings would affect his judgment. He’d be suspicious of an outsider coming into his team as well, especially under these circumstances.
“Fair enough.”
“Good.”
Nicholas said, “Now that we’re best friends, tell me how in the world a priceless diamond goes missing from an exhibit pretty much everyone is aware of and is surrounded by the best security the art world has to offer?”
Mike shot him a look and accepted the sarcasm, since it was merited. “I think all of us agree it had to be an inside job. Had to be. The person who did it was the same person who caused the power outage, someone really close, someone who’d gotten ahold of one of Peter Grisley’s fakes and switched them out in that five-minute window of opportunity.”
15
Nicholas said, “Tell me what your forensics are showing. How exactly was the diamond taken and replaced?”
Mike started to answer, and yawned instead.
“Been at it for a while, have you?”
“Sorry. I was up all night. I managed four hours of sleep, but I’ve got to admit, I’m dragging. My bloodstream needs coffee; that will perk me right up.
“Okay, once Mr. Horsley—Bo—briefs us, and everyone’s in agreement with the plan, my best forensic people are standing by to process the room. We’ll fingerprint everything carefully, including the fake Koh-i-Noor, of course, and see exactly how the case was opened.”
Nicholas said, “Uncle Bo told me the biometrics reports show only he and Elaine accessed the room during the past three days—that doesn’t count the five-minute power outage, of course. I don’t think Elaine did this. And assuming that’s the truth, the thief is most likely already on a plane out of the country. I agree with Uncle Bo, I think we’ve got a real pro involved here, and a pro isn’t going to stick around and glory in his kill.
“Uncle Bo is the first to say that none of the staff close to the Koh-i-Noor have the background to suggest a pro of this magnitude. I’m thinking the background checks on all those people who got within twenty feet of the exhibit room need to go much deeper. We’re talking what—maybe a dozen people, on the outside?”
“Sounds about right.”
“There must be a great deal of money involved, and we need to be looking at who may be behind a theft of this nature, as well as who the thief m
She grinned. “Remember I mentioned the dead Russian in Inspector York’s apartment was a foot soldier for the Anatoly crime family? Well, guess what? Andrei Anatoly also deals in stolen jewels, not to mention other criminal enterprises, and we have our local office who deals with them looking deep into their past few weeks as we speak. Another thing: Andrei Anatoly is also an art lover and is on the guest list for tonight’s event. I thought we might have a chat with him.”
Nicholas said, “I assume you’ve already heard Savich and Sherlock are here to speak to him as well?”
Mike nodded. “Hearing Dillon’s grandmother is Sarah Elliott—that blew my mind. They believe Anatoly is the one behind the theft and switch of one of his grandmother’s paintings in the Prado Museum. The crimes echo one another, and I don’t believe in coincidence.”
“I don’t, either. I’ll cross-check my list of thieves with Anatoly and his people, see if there’s any indication of a match. Maybe Anatoly wants to score one of the most famous diamonds in the world.”
“I wouldn’t doubt it,” Mike said. “We also need to find out if Bo is one hundred percent certain the stone was real when it arrived. It could have been a fake the whole time and no one knew, right?”
“I already asked him. The Koh-i-Noor and all the other jewels were tested before they left England and again when they arrived on American soil. And yet again at the museum, following the indemnity requirements for the gigantic insurance policy covering the exhibit.”
“The crown jewels are encased in specially made vitrine display cases with two-inch-thick bulletproof glass, which is impossible to break into. Having the power off is the only untraceable way to get into the case.”
“Yep, it was definitely an insider,” she said, and unspoken was Elaine York.
Mike whipped the Crown Vic across four lanes of traffic and merged onto the Robert F. Kennedy Bridge, which would take them to the East Side. “We’re ten minutes out now, if the angels are on our side and traffic doesn’t get worse.”