“I don’t think it’s about a pissed-off nationalist, not with Anatoly involved. I suppose it could be about cutting the diamond into pieces for quick sale, but that doesn’t play for me. The Koh-i-Noor is far more valuable left intact.”

“Then we’re talking about a private collector. Like Anatoly.”

Nicholas said, “If he has unlimited funds, then yes. If not Anatoly, there are at least a dozen more I can think of to fit the bill.”

16

1000 Fifth Avenue, Manhattan

The Metropolitan Museum of Art

Thursday, noon

The Metropolitan Museum of Art sat squarely on Fifth Avenue at Eighty-second Street, with Central Park its lovely backdrop. Three huge banners advertising the Jewel of the Lion exhibit hung from the parapets between the huge columns—purple, red, and gold—each with story-high silk-screened portraits of the crown that housed the Koh-i-Noor diamond.

Mike turned off the flasher and siren a few blocks away so they wouldn’t announce themselves and make people wonder. She edged the car into a small space a block east of the Met. In front of the museum, people scurried about, and the American flag snapped in the chilly breeze as they walked past.

Nicholas looked up and couldn’t help himself: he saw the perfect angles for an attack sniper, counted five possible eagle’s nests for shooters, watched the traffic barreling by and the dozens of people walking the streets.

Nothing would happen, but the thought of it made the hair rise on the back of his neck. He pictured Elaine, carefree and alive, walking up the steps, on this same path daily for the past four months. All her energy, all her time, focused on this one place.

Nicholas knew to his gut that Mike and his uncle were right. Someone intimate with the exhibit was the thief, someone who’d covered his tracks perfectly. And it wasn’t Elaine. He knew exactly who and what she was. So he had to solve the theft, and he’d solve Elaine’s murder. And absolve her.

When they reached the Met’s steps, Nicholas said, “I see the museum staff is setting up for the Jewel of the Lion gala. It’s going to be quite a spectacle.”

Mike nodded and pointed. “Those blue crowd barriers are meant to funnel the attendees into the appropriate doors. Nineteenth Precinct will help man the streets tonight. Even with six hundred people on staff, the Met security won’t be enough. Look at that huge red carpet they’re spreading on the steps. This is a show unto itself. There’ll be more paparazzi here, more reps from all the media swarming all over everyone who looks remotely important, than there are political fund-raisers in an election year.”

Nicholas looked to the top of the stairs, where a woman with brown hair in a sleek ponytail was watching for them, tap-tap-tapping her boot. When he met her eye and nodded, her smile was clearly relieved. She gave him a tiny wave and a beckoning finger.

He said, “There’s our curator, Dr. Victoria Browning. I looked her up online after Uncle Bo told me about her. He said she’d be waiting for us.”

Nicholas made seven guards, plainclothes and uniformed, as they followed her into the cavernous entrance gallery. He assumed there were more guards he didn’t see; the space was nearly bursting with people. The grand stairs were already covered in flashy red carpet, a vermillion trail upward to the exhibit, and the beehive of activity simply enfolded them as they walked.

Dr. Browning stopped next to the stairs and waited for them to catch up. Despite being smartly dressed in a gray wool sheath with a wide black belt, black tights, and high-heeled black leather boots, she looked exhausted, dark shadows beneath her eyes.

Nicholas shook her hand. “Nicholas Drummond, Metropolitan Police. This is Special Agent Mike Caine, FBI. You’re Dr. Victoria Browning.”

“Yes, I’m Dr. Browning. Mr. Horsley is waiting for you upstairs. Shall we?”

Browning had a Scottish accent, and Nicholas recalled reading that she was born and raised in Roslin, though he hardly wanted her to know he’d been checking up on her. As they started toward the north elevators he said, “It’s very nice to hear a familiar voice. Edinburgh, is it?”

Browning smiled, showing nice straight white teeth and dimples, which made her look very young. “Well done, Detective Chief Inspector. And I grew up near Roslin.”

He said easily, “A charming village. Overrun with tourists headed to the chapel, I suppose?”

“After The Da Vinci Code made us famous, yes, but you know, I wanted out badly, before the movie, and so I read archaeology at the University of Edinburgh, then did my postdoc research fellowship in art crimes and cultural heritages. Before curating the Jewel of the Lion exhibit, my responsibilities here at the Met included verifying the provenance of everything that comes in from the Middle East and India, my specific areas of expertise. You would be amazed at how many fakes and stolen goods we find.”

Mike said, “How horribly ironic.”

Dr. Browning gave an exhausted laugh. “Agent Caine, you have no idea. Now, before I start screaming at these hordes of people, let’s take this conversation elsewhere.”

She led them to the oversized service elevator. She used a key and swiped a white plastic pass through the black card reader before she hit the button. As the door slid shut, she collapsed back against the wall, letting it hold her weight, and crossed her arms over her chest. “Forgive me. I’m devastated, haven’t slept much worrying about all this. First Elaine, now the Koh-i-Noor. It has not been a good week. And now we’re going to have the fake Koh-i-Noor in place tonight for the gala.”

Nicholas said, “No one will realize it’s a fake, Dr. Browning, you know that.”

She gave him a tired smile. “But that’s not the point, is it?”

Mike asked her, “So you deal with all kinds of stolen art? I heard the Prado in Madrid found a good quarter of their paintings were forgeries, including a recent Sarah Elliott painting.”

“Yes, The Night Tower, I heard. It’s still hard to believe, isn’t it? On the positive side, I also work with both the Museum Security Network and the Association for Research into Crimes Against Art to identify illegal pieces that make their way to our doors, make sure they’re returned to their rightful owners.”

Nicholas said, “It’s been my experience there’s a huge market not only for stolen art, but all sorts of artifacts as well. Correct?”

Dr. Browning nodded. “Yes. That’s why I work directly with the FBI Art Crimes team as well. I’m not accustomed to seeing our pieces leave the premises without permission.”

Mike said, “I’m new to all this. Please tell us more about your security measures.”

Browning waved her hand at the card reader mounted by the floor numbers. “This is part of the standard security protocol we have in place. Doors won’t close without the pass. This elevator goes only to the secure floors; you have to have both a key and a pass, as you saw, to access them. It’s also on camera twenty-four/seven, and so far there is nothing to indicate they were tampered with.” She sighed. “Except, of course, for that five-minute power outage.”

17

Browning pulled a folder out of the slim black briefcase she’d set on the floor beside her. “Here’s the duty roster for the past three days, including tonight’s staffing for the ball. We have a huge security team in place.” She shook her head and Nicholas noticed the small gold hoops in her ears. “This theft doesn’t make any sense at all. I know everyone who works here. They work here because they love art and love our museum. They’d never do anything to hurt us.”