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“Or Inspector York found out about a plan to steal the jewel, tried to put a stop to it, and got herself killed.”
“As my uncle Bo rightly pointed out, she’d have come to him immediately if she suspected something. That won’t wash.”
She swerved around a manic bicycle messenger. “Whoa. Idiot. All right. Putting Inspector York aside, is there a market for the Koh-i-Noor out there?”
“There are private collectors who would literally pay anything to get their hands on something this unique. Not to mention the leaders of the countries who think the Koh-i-Noor belongs to them. India asks for it back annually. Pakistan lays claim to it, as does Iran. All three had the Koh-i-Noor in their possession at one time or another, though India held it the longest. Queen Victoria was simply the last to get her hands on it.”
“Iran and Pakistan? Could we be dealing with a nationalist with a major grudge?”
“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.”
