“What’s his name again, sir?”

“I thought you’d remember, Mike. Well, no matter, his name is Nicholas Drummond. Detective Chief Inspector Drummond of New Scotland Yard.”

Detective chief inspector—it figured. She glanced at her watch. It was nearly 3:00 a.m. So much for getting some sleep.

“Okay, I’ll fetch him.”

“Thanks, Mike.” Bo’s voice was jazzed, full of manic energy, and she frowned into her cell.

“All right, sir. I know you. You haven’t told me everything. Why’d you really call?”

“Always so sharp. Mike, I need your absolute discretion.”

“Certainly, sir. What’s wrong?”

He lowered his voice and dropped a bombshell.

“The Koh-i-Noor’s been stolen.”

11

Savich and Sherlock arrived at Elaine York’s apartment building twenty minutes later. In the elevator, Savich pulled Sherlock close. “You sure you’re up for this, sweetheart? It’s late, we’re both pretty wiped.”

She leaned up and laid her hand on his cheek. “I’ve got a call in for my second wind. It should be here momentarily. Believe me, Dillon, we’ll sleep late tomorrow. And this is important.”

The doors opened, and there was a beehive of activity at the end of the hall. They walked through the door to Elaine York’s apartment and were met by a young woman who looked pissed, impatient, and bone tired.

Savich said, “Agent Caine? It’s good to see you again.”

“Agent Savich.” A smile bloomed and she grabbed his hand, pumped it up and down. “We’ve got ourselves a real puzzle here. I can’t believe you guys came out in the middle of the night. Thanks for coming by to take a look.”

“It’s a strange night, all the way around,” he said, and introduced her to Sherlock.

Sherlock found herself at Mike Caine’s eye level. “Let’s get to it, then maybe we can all get some sleep.”

“I don’t know about this,” Mike said, after she’d released Sherlock’s hand. “It’s so bizarre, the whole deal. I mean, there’s a dead guy on the sofa with a needle in his thigh and Elaine York was in the East River—”

Savich cut her off. “Bo told us about everything, Agent Caine—”

“Please call me Mike.”

He nodded. “Mike. Call me Dillon.”

“And you can call me Sherlock.”

“I always wanted to meet Sherlock,” Mike said. “I do hope you don’t smoke a pipe. Oh, dear, sorry for that. I’m punchy.”

They all paused in the small entryway to see four people watching them. More introductions, then Mike said, “Everyone, take a break, okay? Five minutes.”

Savich said, “Let’s let Sherlock walk through the scene, see what she thinks. Have you identified the dead guy?”

“Yeah, his name’s Vladimir Kochen, a Russian from Brighton Beach. That’s Mob territory.”

Savich helped Sherlock out of her coat. “Go to it, and I’ll see what MAX can find out about Kochen.”

When the apartment was quiet, Sherlock walked into the living room. She said nothing at all, simply looked at the dead man, at the needle sticking out of his leg. She studied the living room, studied him again, then walked down the hall to the bathroom.

Sherlock came back in a few minutes, smiled at Mike. “Please understand, Mike, what I think isn’t necessarily what happened, okay?”

“Yes, of course I understand.”

Sherlock sighed. “It’s all so sad and so very brutal.”

Mike said, “I agree, Sherlock, and I appreciate your coming out in the middle of the night to give it a try, but it’s okay. I’m sorry you’ve gone to so much trouble—”

“No, you misunderstand me.” Sherlock walked to stand over the dead Russian. “He’s a soldier, a big man, muscular, hard. He wasn’t taken by force, but by cunning.”

Mike said, “A soldier? He’s not military that we know of, but we’re still running his records.”

Savich looked up from where he sat with MAX open on his legs. “That isn’t what Sherlock meant. Vladimir Kochen is a foot soldier for a Russian Mob boss. Do you know the Anatoly crime family?”

Sherlock whirled around so fast she nearly fell over. “You’ve got to be kidding me, Dillon. Anatoly, really?”

Savich laughed. “Yep, and that makes it one very small world.”

Mike said, “I do know Anatoly, and his less-than-savory connections. Anatoly’s an art lover and collector, a big supporter of the Met. He’s got to be in this somehow. I have no idea how all this ties together, but it must, somehow. Is that what you mean by it being a small world?” Mike cocked her head to the side.

“Sherlock and I are up here not only to see the Jewel of the Lion exhibit, but also to speak to Andrei Anatoly about one of my grandmother’s paintings. An expert on her work was visiting the Prado Museum and spotted the fake, told the director and called me. We don’t think it had been switched that long ago, because one of our art-crimes agents told me he’d heard buzz about Anatoly bragging about a new acquisition, The Night Tower.”

Mike was astounded. “The Night Tower? The world just got microscopic. The Night Tower, it’s one of my favorite paintings. I’ve never been to Europe, but I always wanted my first trip to be to Madrid, to see that painting at the Prado. Your grandmother is really Sarah Elliott?”

He nodded. “So back to our small world. What the devil is one of Anatoly’s men doing here with the minder of the Koh-i-Noor diamond?”

No answer to that question. Savich said to Sherlock, “Tell us what happened here.”

Sherlock looked like her second wind had finally arrived. She walked over to the dead man and spoke quickly, moving around the room to illustrate her thoughts. “The killer, and I’ll bet it is a man, knocked on the door; Kochen answered it and got shot immediately with a tranquilizer.” She picked up his arm. “Look at the stain on his jacket, right here. I’ll bet that’s where the killer shot him—in the arm. You wouldn’t want to go one-on-one with this guy, he’s too big, too strong, probably well trained and vicious. Too many variables, particularly with another trained cop in the apartment. The killer probably expected her to be in the living room as well, and planned to shoot them both with the tranquilizers, but she was in the bathroom, getting ready to take a shower.

“Once Kochen was stunned, the murderer dragged him to the sofa, then shot him full of cyanide before he had a chance to recover. And it is cyanide. I can smell it.”

She gestured toward the hall. “York heard the scuffle and grabbed her gun. The killer attacked her, wrestled the gun from her, and shot her with it. The autopsy will probably show she had cyanide in her system, too; the killer would have had another plunger full to use on her. Whether he got a full load into her or not, we’ll have to see. She fought him, though, hard. And he left her for dead, a bullet in the chest. That’s my best guess.”

Mike was staring at her. “Yes,” she said, “yes, I can see that now. It’s very clear. Thank you.”

Sherlock said, “Are her things still here, Mike?”

“Her computer is missing; the power cord is on the desk. Her bag was rifled through, though her money and cards are still there. It’s impossible to know if anything else was taken. We’ve even got her cell phone. So why did the murderer take her computer? Something was on it that either worried him or—or what? We’ll find out. You know, Sherlock, the tranquilizer—that hadn’t occurred to me—”

Savich said, “Your ME would have found traces in their systems, seen the injection sites. Sherlock just found it a bit faster.”

Mike didn’t say another word. It was odd, but she felt both punchy with fatigue and buzzed. She hugged Sherlock right there with the dead Russian on the sofa and Dr. Janovich now back in the living room, pulling off the man’s coat to see if he could visually identify an injection site for the tranquilizer. He found it and gave Sherlock a puzzled look.