The Final Cut

She was whistling “Born to Be Wild” as she strolled into the museum café to order a cappuccino. She turned her face to the camera for a good look. She waved to the half-dozen staff she recognized, smiled, chatted, even nodded at a couple of museum visitors seated at the small tables.

Once she had her cappuccino in hand, she was careful to give the camera an excellent profile, establishing her whereabouts in the café. Once she paid for the drink, she continued toward the first-floor restrooms and walked directly through to the co

At the back of the hallway was a staircase to the basement. She set down her cappuccino, pulled on gloves, and slipped through the unlatched door to the basement. She ran down the three flights to the outer room of the museum’s electrical grid. She paused a moment, listening. No one was about, not a single sound coming from anywhere.

She pulled a lovely bit of technology she’d borrowed from an IRA bomber out of her jacket pocket, a time-delayed electromagnetic pulse that coursed through a relay capacitor. She hummed as she placed the small device behind the bank of computers and set the timer. No permanent damage, but when it blew, the computers would shut down, the cameras would go blank, and the alarm systems would go offline. For five minutes, the entire museum would be off the grid—and that would be enough.

She went back to the fifth floor. And waited.

Three minutes to go.

Two.

One.

There was a small grinding noise, boom, boom, boom, and out went the lights.

Now the fun would begin.

4

London

Thursday morning

Nicholas no longer felt the cold. Memories flooded through him: Elaine’s infectious laugh, her excellent mind, the touch of whimsy that colored her view of the world, and that need of hers to search out what hovered beyond what couldn’t be seen, and of course there was more, much more. He thought of her lying against him in the night, her head nestling against his shoulder, her breathing soft and slow, the occasional whisper about her mother, who’d been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, her ex-husband’s latest antics. But that was before she’d come to work for him. They hadn’t lost each other, though. The gentler memories morphed smoothly into the Elaine he knew now, a smart, focused cop striding beside him, doing whatever was asked and some that wasn’t. But no more whispers in the night, no more confidences.

He’d cared for her deeply, and now she was gone, simply gone in the blink of an eye. He remembered the night before she’d left for New York four months ago. A dozen coppers crowded at a table at The Feathers, all toasting her, wishing her luck with the queen mum’s crown, warning her about horny Yanks.

This was impossible. A searing pain began in his chest.

“How?”

Penderley said, “Shot and dumped. Her body was found by two schoolchildren on the bank of the East River. We are waiting to hear from the New York FBI for the autopsy results. They will be heading the investigation into her death.”

Nicholas was silent, and Penderley gave him a moment to absorb the reality. He knew the two worked very well together, knew they’d been closer before Elaine York had joined his unit last year. He rubbed his hand across his face, feeling very old. It shouldn’t have happened, and it made no sense that it had happened. She was in New York as a minder for the crown jewels, not a bodyguard or a copper. Penderley felt the loss of her like a fist to the gut.

Nicholas was still trying to wrap his head around the impossible reality. “I don’t understand. She was shot? Murdered? But that’s impossible, isn’t it? How could she have made enemies in New York working with the Metropolitan Museum of Art? I must go to New York. Immediately.” He turned back to the car, and Penderley grabbed his arm.

“Slow down. It’s a terrible thing, but you know she wanted this assignment, practically begged me to send her to New York with the crown jewels. Imagine, our precious jewels leaving England, what a bloody mistake they’re making—”

Nicholas interrupted him. “I must go to New York, sir. Right now. I can catch the first flight.”

Penderley dropped Nicholas’s arm. “You think you can somehow get the FBI to accept you enough to fold you into their ranks, let you be involved in solving her murder? This is the Americans we’re talking about here, Nicholas. Believe me, the FBI in New York have this well in hand. They don’t want or need you.”

Nicholas couldn’t stand here, his breath making clouds in the morning mist, knowing someone had shot Elaine, killed her, and wasn’t already being punished for the crime. He had to act. One more try. “Sir, she was valuable—as a cop, as a person. I owe it to her. I’d owe it to any member of my team.”

“You will stay right here. That’s a direct order, Detective Chief Inspector Drummond. Don’t forget, you have training in the morning back here.”

Training? When Elaine was dead? Was the old bugger nuts?

“Look, take the day. I must call her mother now. The good Lord knows if she’ll even be able to understand me, what with the Alzheimer’s. For heaven’s sake, stand down.”

Penderley marched toward his ancient green Jaguar; the car was so old that Penderley’s own son had learned to drive with it. Nicholas slid behind the wheel of his car, closed his eyes.

Elaine, dead. Maybe they’d misidentified the body. Surely that was possible. She was a foreigner, maybe—but when was the last time that had happened?

He put the car in gear and whipped it around, gravel spitting out from under the tires, glad he hadn’t mentioned his uncle Bo, recently retired FBI special agent in charge of the New York Field Office, now the head of security for the Jewel of the Lion exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum. Bo liked Elaine. He would be happy for Nicholas’s help. Especially if Nicholas talked to him before Penderley could shut him down.

The drive from the Peel Center, where Hendon Police College was housed, to Nicholas’s home, Drummond House in Westminster, London, took twenty-five minutes. He left his BMW on the street, double-stepped the stairs, and was at the point of sticking his key in the door when his butler, Nigel, opened it and, seeing his master coming through the door like a Pamplona bull, quickly stepped aside.

“Sir? I wasn’t expecting you home so soon. Is everything all right?”

Nicholas shouted over his shoulder as he ran up the stairs to change, “Everything is completely wrong, Nigel. Grab my go bag. I’m going to New York.”

5

New York, New York

West Bank of the East River

Wednesday, midnight

Special Agent Michaela Caine watched the crime scene techs zip Inspector Elaine York’s body in its black cocoon and line it up on the stretcher. She’d been called to the scene because York, a foreign national and therefore under the FBI’s purview, had been found shot in the chest, washed up on the shore of the East River. She was an inspector with New Scotland Yard, and now she was dead on American soil. This was about as bad as it got.

Mike was freezing, the winter sunset a memory. The crime scene, now lit by four portable klieg lights, cast an unearthly glow and added exactly zero heat. More crime scene techs moved back and forth along the shoreline, searching for anything to explain how and why Inspector York’s body had washed up on shore in this particular spot.

“This is a hell of a thing,” said her boss Milo Zachery, the brand-new SAC of the New York Field Office Criminal Division. He looked miserable, and she couldn’t blame him. He was right, this was a humongous mess, which was why she’d called to alert him as soon as she’d gotten a firm confirmation on the ID, and now he was here to assess the situation. Zachery was in his late forties, trim and fit, the quintessential FBI SAC. Looking at him made Mike stand up straighter.