The Final Cut (A Brit in the FBI 1)

“Uncle Bo, you can tell the Met staff and your people that you’ve been surprised with a new foreign dignitary coming to the gala tonight. That will explain the FBI’s presence. You can explain my presence with the truth: I’m here to find out who murdered my inspector.”

Bo rubbed his square jaw for a moment. “That will work. The key to this is to watch everyone close to the exhibit who shows tonight at the gala. If anyone doesn’t show, then we’ll know they’re involved, and can take immediate action. I’ll tell you, I’m ready to track the guy to the ends of the earth.”

Sherlock said, “Either our thief is also a murderer or he isn’t. Either he’s long gone and doesn’t show for work or he thinks we’re idiots and wants to come see the show.”

Bo no longer looked like he wanted to shoot himself. He was rubbing his hands together. “We can do this. Nick, I’ll have someone at the airport to meet you and bring you directly to the Met.”

Nicholas closed down the call and shut his eyes. How much time could they buy? Things like this got out even when you’d swear they wouldn’t.

One of his uncle’s phrases stuck in his mind, replaying itself on a loop. It was a master thief.

A master thief who’d managed to get through Uncle Bo’s security checks. Elaine as a suspect was ridiculous. He’d never believe it, never, but a master thief, someone either hired to pull off a theft of this magnitude or acting of their own accord to try and sell the diamond on the black market, yes, that made more sense. No run-of-the-mill sort of thief, either. This was the work of a pro. A legend.

He had a place to start. Find the thief, clear Elaine. It became his mantra.

He was due to land at JFK at 11:10 a.m. He reset his vintage Breitling to eastern time, calculated that the flight had a bit more than two hours left. Plenty of time to develop a list of the top thieves in the world.

10

New York, New York

201 East 36th Street

Inspector Elaine York’s apartment

Thursday, 2:00 a.m.

Mike pulled her Glock from its holster and flipped on the light switch beside the door. She cleared the corners, Glock swinging in a careful arc, as she made her way through the entry hall and right into the living room.

Paulie said from behind her, “Oh, not good.?

?

Mike edged farther into the room, gun still at the ready, saw a dead man, face congested with blood, his body half on, half off the couch. She didn’t see any blood, or wounds. What happened, Elaine? Did you and this guy fight and you both lost? But how did you get in the East River?

“Dude is seriously dead,” Paulie said, coming forward to look at the body with the detached curiosity Mike had become accustomed to from crime scene techs. “Check it out. There’s a syringe in his thigh.”

“Stay with the dead guy. I need to make sure there’s no one here.” She cleared the small dining room, the modern efficiency kitchen, down the hall into the one bedroom, her breathing steady, her Glock at the ready. She took only a quick look. The bedroom seemed undisturbed, nothing messy lying around. Nothing obvious had happened in here. She walked into the decent-size single bathroom—it was wrecked.

A lacquer painting of brilliant red poppies hung drunkenly on the wall, and the contents of York’s makeup bag were spilled on the countertop. Bottles were tipped over on the vanity. The blue bathroom rug was shoved into a corner, and a bottle of room spray was on the floor. The shower curtain was open wide. This was clearly where the struggle with her murderer began.

She called the ME and more CSU people. They were in for a long night.

Mike remembered Elaine had been dressed in business clothes but no shoes. She tried to work up the scene in her head: Elaine returning home from a long day’s work, leaving the man in the living room to take it easy, slipping off her shoes, rubbing her feet a bit, then heading for the shower. Or the man was hiding in the bathroom, leaping out at her. She fought for her life; they struggled back into the living room. She somehow turned the needle back on him, and he got her gun from her and shot her with it. That didn’t work. The dead guy was big, didn’t look at all helpless. Elaine was only five-foot-six or so; he would have overpowered her in a second.

There had to have been a third person involved. A person who murdered them both. She was sure of it.

Mike walked backward from the bathroom to the living room, eyeing the overturned chair, sofa pillows on the floor, a broken glass near the ottoman. The struggle ended here, with the body. So the man had fought the murderer. He’d died, and Elaine had ended up in the river. Whatever the actual scenario, the murderer had been smart and strong and fast. He’d murdered both a big man and a trained cop. He must have left believing Elaine York dead, only she hadn’t been dead, not yet, not until she’d wandered into the East River.

Paulie stood over the victim. “Find anything?”

“A trail of broken and overturned stuff. Bathroom’s totaled.”

“Come look at this, Mike.”

“What do you have?”

“Initially I thought his face was just congested, but look at how red his skin is. And look at the corners of his mouth, that black stuff.” Paulie bent close to the body and sniffed. “Hmm. You try.”