The Lost Key (A Brit in the FBI 2)

“Pearce: ‘I hope this is the good kind of nine-one-one. On my way.’”

—

THERE WAS a fifteen-minute gap in time, then another outgoing message from 8:15 a.m. Only thirty minutes earlier.

‘I’m here, where are you?’

Both Mike and Nicholas could imagine Pearce walking quickly, distracted, worrying about what this EP and his 911 alert were all about, wondering what was so important it couldn’t wait.

The good kind of 911? What did that mean? And who was EP?

“Evidently,” Mike said, “EP didn’t show up. Do you think it was a ploy to draw Pearce here to kill him?”

“Or maybe EP did show up and it wasn’t a good kind of nine-one-one. They argued first, then EP killed him. Whatever, Mr. Pearce knew his killer. Maybe.”

Janovich began his prep to take the body back to the OCME. Nicholas went down on his knees next to Mr. Jonathan Pearce. He said quietly, “We’ll find who did this, sir. Mark my words.”

Mike said, “You know, we’ve had a lot of trouble with gangs recently. Committing a murder in broad daylight is a surefire way through initiation.”

“Anything is possible. But it seems rather unlikely that a New York gang would congregate on Wall Street and send text messages to their victims.”

“No, generally not. Unless it was a gang of stockbrokers.”

He grinned at her. “I know what you mean. They’re a deadly bunch in London.”

“Here, too.”

“Well, then,” Nicholas said, “let’s get out of Dr

. Janovich’s way and see what the witnesses have to tell us.”

They made their way to the group of witnesses huddled on the corner. There was another crowd gathered across the street, gaping and pointing, shooting more video with their phones, probably calling all their friends. He didn’t think there was a single crime scene in the world today that wasn’t recorded down to the blood on the sidewalk.

Most of the witnesses were clearly upset, but a few were annoyed at having to stick around to talk to the police and be late to work. But most were eager to tell what they’d seen.

Mike took the lead. “I’m Special Agent Caine, and this is Special Agent Drummond, FBI. We’d appreciate your telling us exactly what you saw.” A furious babble erupted, and Mike put up her hands. “One at a time, please. Sir?”

He was the eldest of the group, a businessman in a gray wool suit. “I was walking across the street and heard the two men arguing. I looked over to see the older man fall.” He swallowed. “The dead man.”

Nicholas asked, “How much older was he than the man who stabbed him?”

“Twenty years, maybe. The guy, the killer, he looked about twenty-five, thirty. No more.”

Mike was taking notes in her small spiral-bound reporter’s notebook. “Could you hear what they were arguing about?”

“Not really, but they were fighting over something, I don’t know what.”

“It was the phone,” said an older woman dressed in head-to-toe white cashmere, holding a small Chihuahua. “The guy wanted his phone. After he stabbed the older man, he grabbed the phone and used it. I had the most absurd thought—that he was calling nine-one-one. But who would stab someone, then call nine-one-one? But then people started yelling at the man and he dropped the phone and took off running.”

She’d clearly been crying, her eyes were red and bloodshot. “I’ll never forget the way he looked right at me, before he ran away—” She shuddered and broke off. Mike watched her frown, then she yelled, pointing, “That’s him! He’s come back. Right over there—he’s standing in that crowd of people across the street!” People around them were shuffling to get a better look, and the Chihuahua was barking his head off.

4

Nicholas jerked around to see the man looking straight at him. The man didn’t hesitate. He shoved his way through the crowd, pushing people down, then he was free, running full out. He disappeared around the corner.

The crowd was shouting, an NYPD officer who was nearby hesitated a moment, then took off after him. Nicholas shouted to Mike, “Come on, come on, after him.”

The streets were packed with people at the start of the workday. Nicholas passed the cop, his long runner’s legs eating up the sidewalk. He saw the suspect half a block away, darting in and out of the crowds. He was in good shape, strong, fast as an Olympic sprinter, the bastard, pouring on the speed.