Sherlock yawned. “Oh, sorry about that. It’s been a long day. If that’s all, Mike, we’ll see you—well, tonight I guess, at the gala. I know this is tough, but we’ll figure it all out. Try to catch some sleep, okay?”

“And keep us posted,” Savich said, and shook her hand, nodded to Dr. Janovich, and they left. The taxi they’d asked to wait downstairs thankfully hadn’t taken off, and they were back to Chelsea in twenty minutes.

Savich never thought a bed could feel like heaven, but this one did.

12

New York, New York

JFK Airport

Thursday, 11:10 a.m.

Nicholas hadn’t been to New York in a couple of years, since a visit with his mother to see Uncle Bo, Aunt Emily, and his four female cousins, all of whom worshipped his mother. Regardless of the circumstances, the energy of the place gave him an instant buzz. If only he could share this with Elaine, instead of bringing her home in a box.

When they landed, he turned on his phone, saw a text from Uncle Bo.

Agent Mike Caine will meet you at the gate. See you soon.

He gathered his bag and left the plane. His eyes scanned the crowd—Mike Caine—that was the agent’s real name? Wouldn’t it be a hoot if the actor strolled up and said hullo?

He entered the main terminal and immediately noticed a tall, lean blonde with her hair in a ponytail and dark glasses tucked into her shirt alter course to intercept him, no hesitation, a guided missile. He took note of the bulge under the left corner of her black leather jacket; she had a gun strapped to her hip. She stopped two feet short, ignored all the travelers parting to flow around them, and said, “I’m Special Agent Michaela Caine with the New York Field Office. Glad to meet you,” and she opened a black leather case to show him a blue-and-white card stamped “FBI.” She stuck out her hand. “You must be Bo’s nephew.”

He shook her hand. “Yes. I was expecting someone older. And more male.”

“Ah, yes. People do. And trust me, I’ve heard all the jokes.”

“I daresay. I’m Drummond. Nicholas Drummond. Thank you for coming to gather me.”

Her idiot mind said, Bond, James Bond. So this was Bo’s super-spy nephew. And didn’t Drummond look the part, dark hair and eyes and, Lord above, was that a cleft in his chin? He’d probably shaved long before he boarded the plane to come to New York, and he had a five-o’clock shadow, or whatever o’clock it was in England. It made him look dangerous. She bet he was stubborn as a mule, and a player. The way he eyed her, sizing her up, yes, definitely a player.

“It’s no problem. Do you have luggage?”

He looked down at a soft-as-butter dark brown leather carry-on bag that looked like it cost one of her paychecks.

“Only this overnight bag. I took the first flight from London practically the minute I heard.”

She nodded, saying only, “My car’s this way,” since she couldn’t very well lead off with Hey, Mr. Aren’t I Great, I hear you are a super-spy. He stepped ahead of her to open the door, and she saw Mr. Super-Spy had a very nice butt. So did James Bond. Well, since he was going to horn in, it balanced the scales a bit that he wasn’t hard to look at.

As they walked to the car, Nicholas noticed Agent Caine had a long stride that matched his own quite well. Her blond ponytail swung back and forth like a metronome as she walked. She wore black leather motorcycle boots, low-heeled, dark jeans, and a scoop-neck black sweater over a white button-down. The black leather jacket completed the biker-chic look.

She didn’t look like any FBI agent he’d met before, not that he’d met all that many. Actually, he thought she looked like a motorbike-riding librarian. She looked like she’d shush him if he made any noise, then maybe smack him with her riding gloves.

When they reached the escalator, he gestured for her to go first. A brow shot up, and she said, “Thank you. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. I worked for your uncle Bo for years. He was always bragging about you, not that any of us believed a single word he said or even listened much, for that matter. I do know he takes full credit for influencing you to become a cop.”

Her voice was nice, like honey, smooth and deep, no discernible accent. Midwest, then. She was young, too, late twenties, maybe thirty. Since he wasn’t deaf, he’d heard the edge, loud and clear. She didn’t trust him, didn’t want him here, but she was being forced to let him in. Well, too bad, because he was in, all the way in.

He said, his voice so upper-class Brit-sharp it could cut glass, “My Uncle only partially exaggerates, Special Agent Caine. My father was all for me joining Scotland Yard, though he didn’t say it out loud. My grandfather, though, he’d just as soon my most dangerous activity would be climbing trees.”

She couldn’t help herself, she grinned, because her own mom felt exactly the same way about her, and the serious librarian transformed into a sweet girl with dimples. Nicholas doubted that impression would last for more than a couple seconds. But it broke the ice, finally.

She said, “We’ve got a long slog ahead of us. Call me Mike.”

“I’m Nicholas.”

“Very well, then, Nicholas. I’m sorry about the circumstances that brought you here. I’ve heard Elaine York was a good cop, a lovely woman. We’re all sick about her death.”

While the words were rote, he’d spoken them himself too many times to know otherwise, there was genuine feeling behind them. No cop wanted to see another go down; it hit too close to home.

He nodded. “She meant a great deal to me, to all of us. She will be sorely missed. I want to get to the bottom of what she got herself into, and why she was killed.”

When they stepped out of the terminal into the freezing New York winter, Nicholas hoped Nigel hadn’t forgotten to add his gloves to the bag.

• • •

When the Crown Vic slid away from the curb, the man pulled out his disposable cell, punched a single button. The call was answered on the first ring.

“Yes?”

“He’s here. Nicholas Drummond.”

“Give me your impression of him.”

“He’s a big guy, looks hard, tough, but he’s a pretty boy. Like all Brit cops, he’s not carrying. I can take him.”

“You know your job here. Follow him and the FBI agent, and report back to me everything they do. Do not engage them. Do not let them see you. If we need to take strong action, I will tell you.”

“Yes, sir.”

He hung up the phone and revved the engine of the Harley. Such a sweet ride. It took him only a minute to catch up to the cop car. The chick was driving, and she wasn’t all that bad. They were talking. He liked the blond hair. Was it natural? He wouldn’t mind verifying that himself. Even though she was an FBI agent, he didn’t think she’d be much of a problem. She looked like the girl next door playing tough grown-up. But the big guy? He’d see.

His boss’s voice rang loud in his head. Stay away from her, you goon.

He felt a quick spurt of rage—he wasn’t a goon. If the guy wasn’t paying so well, there were a lot of things he wouldn’t mind doing to the pretty blond, and to him, but he was paying him really big bucks. And he knew in the deepest part of him, the part that recognized blackness and brutal violence, this was a man you didn’t cross. Ever.

13

Before the passenger door of Mike’s black Crown Vic was even closed, Nicholas got right to it. “Has the autopsy on Inspector York been completed?”

“Yes. The ME called while I was waiting for your plane to land. Her initial cause of death is drowning.”