The Final Cut (A Brit in the FBI 1)

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?”