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Smelling a dead guy’s breath didn’t rank high on her list of fun things to do, but she leaned down and breathed in. Patchouli. Garlic, maybe onions. And death, the smell of death.
“Am I supposed to smell something special?”
“Almonds.”
Her head jerked up. “You’re thinking cyanide?”
“Yeah. Whatever, I’d still steer clear if I were you. I’ve seen a cyanide poisoning before; it looked like this.”
Mike said, “Rigor has passed. I’d say he’s been dead awhile, maybe a day.” She slipped on nitrile gloves and pulled the dead man’s wallet out of his back pocket. “According to the driver’s license, this is Vladimir Kochen, and he lives in Brighton Beach.”
Paulie scratched his neck. “Not to make assumptions, but you know a lot of the Russians out there are mobbed up.”
“Tell me, then, what would a Scotland Yard inspector be doing with a Russian mobster in her apartment? Maybe he’s a friend who showed up at the wrong time?” Yeah, like she believed that for a second. Mike rubbed her hand over her forehead where a headache was beginning to brew. “Zachery’s going to love this. No choice, time to wake him up.” She dialed his cell phone. He answered on the first ring, sounding wide awake.
“Hey, boss. We’ve got another body in York’s apartment. Russian from Brighton. There’s no sign of a break-in, no sign someone tossed the place, but there was a struggle. The dead Russian has a syringe sticking out of his leg. Paulie thinks it’s cyanide. We’ll process the scene and let you know if we find anything else.”
Zachery groaned. “What did this woman get herself into? Don’t mind me, rhetorical question. Do what you need to. Thanks for the heads-up. Call Captain Slaughter from NYPD, let him know what’s going on, see if he wants to send some people, or not, since the FBI’s dealing with it.”
She called Captain Slaughter, woke him from a dead sleep, told him what they’d found. Slaughter told her to keep him in the loop and volunteered to send over a couple of officers to interview neighbors, check out the neighborhood. He sounded relieved it was her problem.
They heard sirens. Their crew was here. And weren’t the neighbors going to love this disturbance in the middle of the night.
Five minutes later, the new medical examiner lumbered into the apartment. Janovich was heavyset and tired, with hangdog eyes and a graying beard. Another dragged from the warmth of his bed.
“Special Agent Mike Caine,” she said, and held out her hand. “We met—”
“At the Kirkland crime scene. I remember. Those crazies ever get caught?”
“We got them, yes.”
“So why are we here?”
“Inspector Elaine York from Scotland Yard was murdered; this is her place. I got here and found a dead Russian.”
“She’s the one pulled from the river earlier?”
Mike nodded. “That’s her. I think you’re going to find this guy interesting, too.” She pointed to the body. “There’s a needle sticking out of his right thigh.”
Janovich stroked long fingers through his graying beard. “Gotta admit, don’t see that every day.”
“I’ll let you get to it. Please let me know if you find anything of interest.”
Mike walked through the apartment again, going over different scenarios this time, trying to figure out how it had all gone down. She said aloud, “It doesn’t make sense.”
“What doesn’t?”
She jumped. Ben had snuck up on her.
“What are you doing here?”
“Couldn’t sleep, so when Zachery texted me and asked me to come over and help you, I already had one foot out the door.”
“Okay, I’m glad you’re here. Would you check nine-one-one, see if York made any distress calls? I’m going to scope out the rest of the building, go across the street to fetch the feed from a video camera I saw. York might be on it. Maybe our Russian, too. And the killer.”
She’d pressed the elevator button for the lobby when her cell rang. She hadn’t received a middle-of-the-night call from her former SAC Bo Horsley in several weeks, not since he’d retired. She knew immediately something was very wrong.
“Sir? What’s happened?”
