The Final Cut (A Brit in the FBI 1)

Training? When Elaine was dead? Was the old bugger nuts?

“Look, take the day. I must call her mother now. The good Lord knows if she’ll even be able to understand me, what with the Alzheimer’s. For heaven’s sake, stand down.”

Penderley marched toward his ancient green Jaguar; the car was so old that Penderley’s own son had learned to drive with it. Nicholas slid behind the wheel of his car, closed his eyes.

Elaine, dead. Maybe they’d misidentified the body. Surely that was possible. She was a foreigner, maybe—but when was the last time that had happened?

He put the car in gear and whipped it around, gravel spitting out from under the tires, glad he hadn’t mentioned his uncle Bo, recently retired FBI special agent in charge of the New York Field Office, now the head of security for the Jewel of the Lion exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum. Bo liked Elaine. He would be happy for Nicholas’s help. Especially if Nicholas talked to him before Penderley could shut him down.

The drive from the Peel Center, where Hendon Police College was housed, to Nicholas’s home, Drummond House in Westminster, London, took twenty-five minutes. He left his BMW on the street, double-stepped the stairs, and was at the point of sticking his key in the door when his butler, Nigel, opened it and, seeing his master coming through the door like a Pamplona bull, quickly stepped aside.

“Sir? I wasn’t expecting you home so soon. Is everything all right?”

Nicholas shouted over his shoulder as he ran up the stairs to change, “Everything is completely wrong, Nigel. Grab my go bag. I’m going to New York.”

5

New York, New York

West Bank of the East River

Wednesday, midnight

Special Agent Michaela Caine watched the crime scene techs zip Inspector Elaine York’s body in its black cocoon and line it up on the stretcher. She’d been called to the scene because York, a foreign national and therefore under the FBI’s purview, had been found shot in the chest, washed up on the shore of the East River. She was an inspector with New Scotland Yard, and now she was dead on American soil. This was about as bad as it got.

Mike was freezing, the winter sunset a memory. The crime scene, now lit by four portable klieg lights, cast an unearthly glow and added exactly zero heat. More crime scene techs moved back and forth along the shoreline, searching for anything to explain how and why Inspector York’s body had washed up on shore in this particular spot.

“This is a hell of a thing,” said her boss Milo Zachery, the brand-new SAC of the New York Field Office Criminal Division. He looked miserable, and she couldn’t blame him. He was right, this was a humongous mess, which was why she’d called to alert him as soon as she’d gotten a firm confirmation on the ID, and now he was here to assess the situation. Zachery was in his late forties, trim and fit, the quintessential FBI SAC. Looking at him made Mike stand up straighter.

“Everyone’s going to be bloodied before this is over,” he said. “Our Brit counterparts will go on the warpath if we don’t handle this perfectly.” He waved his hand toward the medical examiner’s van. “York came over from Scotland Yard as a special attaché for the Jewel of the Lion exhibit at the Met before I was made SAC, so I’m not familiar with everything she was doing. An inspector with Scotland Yard, killed on our turf? Our butts are going to be shining in the spotlight. Run me through it; I’ll need to be prepared when the wolves descend, and descend they will, big-time.”

Mike said, “She was partnered up with Ben Houston, from Art Crimes; I called him right after I called you. He should be here any minute. He can give us all the details. He was really upset. He liked her, said she was sharper than his daddy’s stiletto, and pretty as a Viking sunset, whatever that means.” But she’s not pretty now, and for a moment, Mike was so pissed she couldn’t speak.

She continued, her voice steady. “We don’t have much, sir. She was shot in the upper-left chest, small caliber, no exit. Might not be the actual cause of death. Outside of her badge clipped to her skirt, no personal effects have been found. I’d say she hasn’t been in the water long, but with the temperatures, the water preserves the body, so it could be longer. We’re going to have to wait for the autopsy to get the full story. We’ll have to see who saw her last, figure up a timeline from there.”

“Who found her?”

“Two kids sneaking some pot. They saw her tangled in garbage near the shore and called it in. We’ve got impressions of the footprints around the water’s edge, but I’m willing to bet this week’s salary they belong to the kids who found the body. I’ve seen no other viable impressions outside of theirs.”

Special Agent Ben Houston appeared at her right elbow and shook hands with both Mike and Zachery. He looked shocked and angry, and hurting, she thought, and Mike wondered how close he’d been to Inspector York.

Zachery said, “Ben, give me your input on her, anything that could help us figure this out.”

Mike saw he was trying to get it together, trying to clamp down on his anger, his grief. “Ben, yes, please,” Mike said, “can you tell me about her? I need everything so I can start looking into her world.”

Ben swallowed hard. “She’s been with the Metropolitan Police in London her whole career. The people she was working with at the Met will have her personal details. I do know she thought her people were absolutely crazy for bringing the jewels out of the Tower of London.”

Zachery said, “Was she doing anything hinky, anything to draw unwanted attention or make herself a victim? Any affairs? Pissed-off lovers?”

Ben shook his head. “She liked her job, did it to the best of her ability. Lovers, no, none I’ve heard about. She is—was—a really pretty girl, but very focused, very determined. She’s a runner; she ran the upstate marathon with me last November when the New York Marathon was canceled. I got a calf cramp, and she insisted on staying with me. I ruined her time.” He swallowed, turning to see the proof of her death in the medical examiner’s van, idling quietly ten yards away. “She didn’t drink, smoke, nothing to harm her innards, although she loved our American coffee. We had lunch and dinner a few times. She was a vegetarian. She was—well, fun to be with, and kind. Yes, she was kind. I can’t imagine why anyone would kill her, it doesn’t make sense. I mean, why? This—this is bad.”

Zachery said, “So she was responsible for the safety of the crown jewels for the exhibit that’s starting at the Met?”

Ben nodded. “She was sent here as a legal attaché to oversee the arrival, display, and departure of the Jewel of the Lion exhibit from London. She’s been here about four months now. She’s got a place over in Murray Hill, a rental.” He stared at the rocky shoreline, and his jaw tightened. “Did you know the Brits are so protective of their crown jewels it took an act of Parliament to allow this exhibit to happen?”

> Mike said, “An act of Parliament? So this exhibit is a pretty big deal. Ben, do you think whoever shot her could be an over-the-top Brit, really upset at the idea of the crown jewels coming to the U.S.?”

“Anything’s possible, but murdering the minder to stop the exhibit, which it wouldn’t? She had no say about the exhibit itself. Those issues were between the Met and the Brits and the insurance companies.”