The Final Cut

A wardrobe was purchased, muted grays and browns with some elegant dresses, lots of leather and suede and trendy heels, some old, battered sleep things from a secondhand shop, creased jeans, University of Edinburgh sweatshirts from ten years ago, and the like.

Then she flew to New York, to start a new life.

The Met hired her on—she knew they would. Her qualifications screamed at them. They considered themselves lucky she was even interested. An apartment was next, something she could stage, something not too ostentatious. She searched for a week before she settled on the Archstone, then found the garret hidey-hole in Hell’s Kitchen for actual day-to-day living.

And then it was simply a matter of making herself indispensable to the Met staff.

Within a few months, her excellent mind realized and valued, she moved up to the position of assistant curator. But time was ru

The curator had to go.

An illness, then, one that incapacitated but wouldn’t kill. Something a man of his age would be forced to deal with and, with a sorry shrug, retire.

And then she was in the clear. She applied for the curator’s spot, was given the position, and all was right in the world.

47

New York, New York

26 Federal Plaza, FBI Headquarters, twentieth floor

Friday, 8:00 a.m.

The conference room was full of people, drinking coffee, talking, eating the Danish stacked on several plates.

Then Paulie came in looking rather worse for wear, a stu

Mike gave him a hug. “Paulie, it’s good to see you back among the living. How are you feeling?”

He touched the bandage. “I’ve got a headache the size of Manhattan, but the vampires were good to me. I’ll live. Louisa is in the lab ru

Better than nothing.

Paulie continued. “Everyone came out unscathed, and it could have been so much worse. She could have blown that bomb, but she didn’t. So it seems Browning is only a thief, not a murderer.”

Nicholas said, “Or she didn’t see the point in destroying countless treasures from all over the world.”

Agent Gray Wharton patted Paulie’s shoulder, and the two of them argued a moment about a Danish versus a bear claw. Gray did indeed look like a computer geek, Nicholas thought, thin, bespectacled, in his early forties, and clearly not at all concerned that he was rumpled and creased, beard stubble on his chin. He nodded at Nicholas. “Gotta love a meeting this early in the morning.”

Nicholas smiled. “You Yanks clearly feel sleep is overrated.”

Mike saw Savich and Sherlock huddled with Bo. What was that all about?

Zachery tapped a pen against the rim of his coffee cup. “All right, everyone take your seats, let’s get started.”

She sat beside Nicholas, feeling like something the cat dragged in, whereas he looked sharp this morning, dressed in a charcoal suit that looked straight from a presser, a blue tie, and a fine blue shirt. Something he’d pulled out of a magic compartment in his little leather bag, she supposed.

What she needed was a gallon of coffee and a big fat dose of adrenaline. She saw him slowly rotate his shoulder. Well, he hadn’t gotten off scot-free from their short war. When she’d lain in her bed last night, thinking about the battle before she went to sleep, it hit her that the whole attack had lasted less than five minutes. It had seemed much, much longer.

Zachery got things started, meeting each person’s eyes as he told them about the attack in Mike’s garage six hours before, ending with, “So that’s why Nicholas has some bruising on his face and Mike has a lump on her head the size of our missing diamond. One bad guy is dead and as yet no legitimate ID on him. He’s not in AFIS. We’re spreading out the net to Interpol.”

Mike knew to her boot heels there wouldn’t be any ID coming from anywhere. She said, “Nicholas, tell them about the Kicker.”

“Where’d that moniker come from?” Ben asked.

Nicholas said, “He’s the one who kicked Mike in the head. I was chasing him down an alley. I saw some white hair had slipped down out of his black ski mask. The thing is, though, he didn’t move like he was old. He was fast and smooth, and when he kicked Mike in the head, his leg swept up and his follow-through was perfect. He was in charge, no question in my mind. I’m thinking he has to be working for Victoria Browning, aka the Fox.”

Zachery said, “We’ll find out. Now, because Mike and Nicholas are both skilled and fast—”

“And lucky,” Mike said.

“And lucky,” Zachery repeated, “both of them are fine. People, we had a hard night. But everyone’s alive, and we know who the thief is. We’ve started bigger cases with a lot less.

“Everyone’s been hammered with the media reports on every TV station, and all over the Internet. Not a surprise this theft is the biggest, splashiest news all over the world.

“But we’re being crucified, along with anyone even remotely co

“Unfortunately, there’s nothing we can do to stem the tide, no excuses to make. We’re in the spotlight until there’s a worse catastrophe somewhere in the world. There’s only one thing we can do: we have to find the Koh-i-Noor, and fast. Now, Gray, where are we with finding Browning?”

Gray Wharton stood up. “Here’s what we know.” He dimmed the lights with a remote. A slide came up on the screen, and Dr. Victoria Browning stared out at them, studious, elegant, understated, and wearing a complacent Mona Lisa smile Mike wanted to slap right off her pretty face.

“This is not Victoria Browning. We don’t believe there ever was a Victoria Browning. We believe we have fact and fiction expertly mixed to create this identity. It’s very possible this woman is indeed a British citizen, thirty-eight years old, who grew up in Scotland and attended school there. According to her passport records, she entered the United States in April of last year on a work visa.

“We believe she created this identity specifically for this job. In other words, she’s legit up to a point. The best lies are based in truth, and according to everyone who worked with her at the Met, she was an expert on the crown jewels, and had contacts in the archaeology world that couldn’t be faked, which means she might have indeed gained her doctorate from the University of Edinburgh. We will verify once we upload the university’s records.

“However, to our everlasting despair, they’re having a snowstorm over in Scotland, and there’s no one at the school to transmit the records. It will be a day at a minimum before we can access that information.”

Ben said, “Sometimes I hate that we have to play by the rules and can’t hack into the university records.”

Nicholas smiled, threaded his pen through his fingers.

Sherlock said, “When did Browning cross paths with Elaine York?”

Ben said, “Last year. Elaine worked with Victoria long-distance on the exhibit until she moved to New York four months ago.”

“Were they friendly?”

Ben nodded. “They worked closely together and seemed to be friends. I know they occasionally went out after work for drinks and di