The Final Cut (A Brit in the FBI 1)

“Believe it or not, your uncle gave me this fancy nonlinear junction detector for Christmas last year.”

She watched him go from phone to lamps to vents. Just in case, Mike flipped on her stereo as she walked past, low, and Diana Krall’s mellow voice filled the room.

Nicholas appeared in the kitchen doorway. “We’re clear. No bugs.” He handed her back the equipment. “I wish my uncle had given me something like that for Christmas, but my aunt Emily knitted me a sweater instead. It was purple.”

She leaned back against the counter. “I’m glad you came home with me. I’m glad you realized someone was waiting for us in the garage. I’d be dead if not for your gut, so thanks again, Nicholas.” She pulled two boxes from the fridge and faced Nicholas. “To be honest, at this moment in time I really don’t care about anything other than food—here’s pepperoni with mushroom, or plain cheese.”

He pointed toward the pepperoni. “May I help?”

“Yes, talk to me. Keep me awake.” She slid the pizza into a convection oven, set the timer.

He was rubbing his shoulder. At her raised eyebrow, he said, “For a while there I thought something was broken.”

She took a tube of muscle relaxant out of her junk drawer. “Sit down. This and some ice, it should help.”

Without a word, he pulled off his torn, bloodstained tux coat and shirt, stripping to the waist.

He was ripped, of course. She admired the work of art, then started rubbing in the muscle cream, slowly, in circles, then pressing deeper. He groaned.

She realized even though she was exhausted, half dead, really, she still needed to distract herself. “Do you know when your uncle Bo told me about his sister, your mom, the actress? I called my dad and I thought he’d explode on the phone. He was in love with your mother when she starred in that TV comedy A Fish out of Water. He watches the reruns whenever he can find them. I’ll have to call him, tell him his goddess’s son is in our midst.”

“Mom will get a kick out of that. But as she’s always saying, she’s more than a pretty face.” He groaned again, rested his head on his hands on the kitchen table while she smoothed and rubbed and dug in.

“Well, sure, but what do you mean?”

He said, voice muffled, “I get my detective genes from her. She’s solved I don’t know how many mysteries in our village, a regular Jane Marple. When I was a kid, she’d take me with her, explain all the facts to me, and tell me it was up to the two of us to deduce what happened.”

“Like what? Who stole laundry drying on a clothesline?”

“Yeah, and who took three guineas out of the collection plate and who got Millie Hightower pregnant. There was even a murder that confounded the constabulary. She solved it.” He straightened, moved his shoulders around. “That’s much better. Thank you.” He sounded surprised. “Mind if I use your loo?”

“Of course not.”

He picked up his ruined clothes, his bottomless leather bag, and left her. When he returned, he was wearing a black T-shirt over his black trousers, back to business as usual.

He said, “If Anatoly didn’t hire the Fox to steal the Koh-i-Noor, and I don’t think he did, that leaves about half a dozen very wealthy gem collectors in Europe. Which means—”

Mike’s cell phone buzzed. She frowned, looked down, then sighed deeply. “Sorry, Nicholas. I have to take this. Hello, Timmy. It’s very late, what’s wrong?”

He watched her face, the flickers of annoyance and bemusement. Timmy?

She nodded to him and left him in the kitchen. She was back in under three minutes to see him standing there, arms crossed over his chest, cuts and bruises on his face, a drop of blood dried on his mouth, but he was looking easier, more relaxed. “Who’s Timmy?”

She gave him a long look. “Ah, the pizza’s done.”

“Want to tell me about Timmy?”

She gave him another long look. “Timmy’s sort of like my Afghanistan. Come on, Nicholas, time to chow down. We’re only going to get maybe three hours of sleep, max, and I want every minute.”

43

Naples, Italy

Twenty-two years ago

The day was fine, blue skies and bright yellow sun, the weather tourists to the Amalfi Coast prayed for. She’d hopped the cruise ship in Valencia, Spain, posing as a Taiwanese banker’s daughter, taken up quarters in a small, empty cabin, and sailed across the Mediterranean without a care in the world. Cruise ships were full of wealthy women and their jewels, and she was getting good practice befriending them, then lifting their valuables. Coming into dock in Naples, the crew knew there was a thief on board, but no one looked twice at the beautiful teenager.

And then she made a mistake and nearly landed herself in a Naples jail cell, known locally as the ninth circle of hell.