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The Metropolitan Museum of Art

Jewel of the Lion gala

Thursday evening

The streets around the Met glittered under the lightly falling snow and the abundance of jewels and fabulous dresses lighting up the place. Limousines and taxis crowded Fifth Avenue. Some brave souls had defied the elements and were walking in. The paparazzi’s flashbulbs were going a mile a minute, making it look like a disco ball spinning outside the doors.

Mike watched the guests drift in, a steady line of Manhattan’s elite, plus celebrities and their acolytes, and several flamboyant arty-looking types—models, most likely—showing highlights from the latest fashion lines.

Nicholas said behind her left shoulder, “Your dress is quite lovely.”

She turned, nearly cocked a hip, and almost said, “This old thing?” but stopped, since it was too close to the truth.

“Satin keeps well in closets, thankfully. You’re quite dapper in your tux as well.” Understatement of the century. His tux fit him perfectly. Fact was, he looked hot and dangerous and very 007. She wanted him to shoot his cuffs and order a dry martini. She said, “At least we don’t look like Feds on the hunt.”

“Speak for yourself, Agent Caine.”

“And there’s really nothing for us to hunt, just keep our eyes open. Not that I’m whining—we don’t get to attend hoity-toity events like this very often. Nicholas, there’s my boss, Milo Zachery, over by the stairs. In the red bow tie, with sandy hair? You need to meet him.” She clicked her comms unit in her ear and said, “Sir, I’m sending Nicholas Drummond to you right now.”

Mike watched him thread his way through the crowds, all smooth grace and focus, and saw women double-take as they saw him, and she couldn’t say she blamed them.

Nicholas came to a halt beside Zachery and his red bow tie. “I’m Drummond, sir. It’s good to meet you.”

“Ah, Drummond, excellent,” Zachery said, and shook hands. “I’m so sorry about Inspector York.” He bent his head closer and said quietly, “I heard Andrei Anatoly had an absolute fit when you asked him about having planned to steal the diamond. Ben told me he thought the old buzzard was clear of this crime. You agree?”

Nicholas nodded. “As Mike said, it doesn’t mean he didn’t want to run the race, he simply didn’t make it out of the starting gate in time.”

“Your uncle’s in the comm center. Ah, there’s Agent Sherlock by the bar. I bet Agent Savich isn’t far away. Bo tells me you’ve already met them online.”

Sherlock’s gorgeous red hair was done up on top of her head with curls hanging down over her ears. Along with dangling black earrings and a nicely fitting black dress, she presented a picture that made her stand out in the crowd. Nicholas thought she looked more dramatic in person, more vibrant.

As for Savich, Nicholas thought he was simply more in person, a big, tough man who looked hard as nails, a man he’d want at his back in a dark alley. He looked like he could brawl with the best of them.

Sherlock caught them watching and waved. He nodded in return. Zachery said, “Go fill them in.”

Nicholas nodded. “I wanted to thank you, sir, for letting me help.”

“If I’d said no, Bo would have grilled me like a steak,” Zachery said, “and I’m scared of your uncle.”

Nicholas said, “I am, too.” He went back to Mike and held out an arm. “Come on, let’s go talk to the computer king of the universe.”

“I want to worship at Sherlock’s feet. I still can’t get over how she nailed the crime scene.”

Savich saw them coming and held up his hand to the bartender for two more Pellegrino with lime.

Sherlock greeted Mike with a hug. “Mike Caine, lovely to see you, again, after what—sixteen hours. The red gown suits you.” She held her back. “I got a solid eight hours sleep, but you didn’t, I know. How are you feeling?”

“Jazzed, really. So much is happening and so quickly. What will the next minute bring?” Her eyes went to Savich. “I gotta say, Dillon in a tux is something else.”

She heard Nicholas say to Savich, “Whenever Uncle Bo talks about your laptop MAX, he lowers his voice to a reverent whisper. I swear he thinks there’s magic involved.”

Savich said, “Truth is, your uncle’s right. MAX gets a daily dose of fairy dust.”

Nicholas laughed. “If you swear by it, send me some.”

Mike said to Sherlock, “I’ve never heard of two married agents working together. However does that work?”

Savich settled an arm around Sherlock’s waist. “So long as she calls me sir every once in a while, we get away with it.”

“He likes to spread this fiction,” Sherlock said, and poked him in the ribs.

Nicholas said, “Uncle Bo tells me you have a little boy.”

Mike said, “Not just any little boy, Nicholas. Sean is currently the most famous kid in the world—his marriage proposal to Emma Hunt in San Francisco is all over YouTube. When this is all over and done with, I’ll show you.”

Sherlock said, “He’s given us a new challenge. Sean is madly in love with three girls, and a fourth is hovering. I fear he wants to marry all of them, not the thing for a mother’s peace of mind.”

Nicholas raised a black eyebrow. “Don’t tell me all of them are at your breakfast table? Shall I speak to him?”

Sherlock laughed. “Dillon might call you for reinforcements. I hear your uncle Bo and his dad were longtime friends and partners.”

Savich nodded. “Bo and my dad used to whoop it up. They’d throw barbecues and invite all the agents over to their houses. I remember all of us kids having a ball. I understand your dad works for the Home Office, which is like our FBI, but you bucked the familial trend and went to work for the spooks in the Foreign Office instead. What made you leave spook world to join New Scotland Yard?”

Nicholas’s expression didn’t change, but Mike felt it—he’d stepped back, withdrawn. He didn’t want to talk about it. What had happened? But he said easily, “For a while all the traveling was fun—shutting down bad spooks, brokering compromises—but to be honest, the constant upheaval, trying to thwart terrorist attacks, got to be brutal. In the end, I wanted to come home, be closer to my family, get my hands dirty on the streets. And London, well, it’s quite a challenging environment.”

That wasn’t the whole truth, Mike could tell. Interesting. She looked down at her watch. “Nicholas and I need to get up to the exhibit room before the crowds are allowed up. Two of our top techs are there with Dr. Browning, collecting evidence. I’m hoping our forensic team has turned up something concrete.”

Savich said, “Why don’t we join you? I want to visit the heart of the museum, see if Bo and his people have spotted any more bad guys.”

The four of them headed toward the elevator, weaving through the crowd, the buzz of their voices droning like bees in a hive. Hundreds of beautiful people were tipping back flutes of champagne, accepting hors d’oeuvres from the dozens of caterers who glided smoothly through them, silver platters held high. The cocktail party was well under way, everyone seemed happy and excited, looking for British royalty, not Prince William and Kate, who’d canceled because of a family obligation that hadn’t been explained, but perhaps a stray duke or foreign minister accompanying the British ambassador, Sir Peter Westmacott. Wisely, no media or paparazzi with their cameras had been allowed in.

Mike glanced back over her shoulder to see a tall, elegantly thin woman in a form-fitting black gown making a beeline toward Nicholas. What was this about?

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