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An illness, then, one that incapacitated but wouldn’t kill. Something a man of his age would be forced to deal with and, with a sorry shrug, retire.
And then she was in the clear. She applied for the curator’s spot, was given the position, and all was right in the world.
47
New York, New York
26 Federal Plaza, FBI Headquarters, twentieth floor
Friday, 8:00 a.m.
The conference room was full of people, drinking coffee, talking, eating the Danish stacked on several plates.
Then Paulie came in looking rather worse for wear, a stunning black eye peeking out from his forehead bandage.
Mike gave him a hug. “Paulie, it’s good to see you back among the living. How are you feeling?”
He touched the bandage. “I’ve got a headache the size of Manhattan, but the vampires were good to me. I’ll live. Louisa is in the lab running the evidence from the Met. We didn’t get any prints; the whole room had been wiped clean. It wasn’t a total waste, though. Louisa had a brainstorm, went back early this morning and took samples from Victoria Browning’s office. No prints, but she might have left some DNA.”
Better than nothing.
Paulie continued. “Everyone came out unscathed, and it could have been so much worse. She could have blown that bomb, but she didn’t. So it seems Browning is only a thief, not a murderer.”
Nicholas said, “Or she didn’t see the point in destroying countless treasures from all over the world.”
Agent Gray Wharton patted Paulie’s shoulder, and the two of them argued a moment about a Danish versus a bear claw. Gray did indeed look like a computer geek, Nicholas thought, thin, bespectacled, in his early forties, and clearly not at all concerned that he was rumpled and creased, beard stubble on his chin. He nodded at Nicholas. “Gotta love a meeting this early in the morning.”
Nicholas smiled. “You Yanks clearly feel sleep is overrated.”
Mike saw Savich and Sherlock huddled with Bo. What was that all about?
Zachery tapped a pen against the rim of his coffee cup. “All right, everyone take your seats, let’s get started.”
She sat beside Nicholas, feeling like something the cat dragged in, whereas he looked sharp this morning, dressed in a charcoal suit that looked straight from a presser, a blue tie, and a fine blue shirt. Something he’d pulled out of a magic compartment in his little leather bag, she supposed.
What she needed was a gallon of coffee and a big fat dose of adrenaline. She saw him slowly rotate his shoulder. Well, he hadn’t gotten off scot-free from their short war. When she’d lain in her bed last night, thinking about the battle before she went to sleep, it hit her that the whole attack had lasted less than five minutes. It had seemed much, much longer.
Zachery got things started, meeting each person’s eyes as he told them about the attack in Mike’s garage six hours before, ending with, “So that’s why Nicholas has some bruising on his face and Mike has a lump on her head the size of our missing diamond. One bad guy is dead and as yet no legitimate ID on him. He’s not in AFIS. We’re spreading out the net to Interpol.”
Mike knew to her boot heels there wouldn’t be any ID coming from anywhere. She said, “Nicholas, tell them about the Kicker.”
“Where’d that moniker come from?” Ben asked.
Nicholas said, “He’s the one who kicked Mike in the head. I was chasing him down an alley. I saw some white hair had slipped down out of his black ski mask. The thing is, though, he didn’t move like he was old. He was fast and smooth, and when he ki
cked Mike in the head, his leg swept up and his follow-through was perfect. He was in charge, no question in my mind. I’m thinking he has to be working for Victoria Browning, aka the Fox.”
Zachery said, “We’ll find out. Now, because Mike and Nicholas are both skilled and fast—”
“And lucky,” Mike said.
“And lucky,” Zachery repeated, “both of them are fine. People, we had a hard night. But everyone’s alive, and we know who the thief is. We’ve started bigger cases with a lot less.
“Everyone’s been hammered with the media reports on every TV station, and all over the Internet. Not a surprise this theft is the biggest, splashiest news all over the world.
“But we’re being crucified, along with anyone even remotely connected to the Met and Dr. Victoria Browning. Needless to say, Director Mueller isn’t happy, nor is the president of the United States. Not to mention the insurance people, who are trying to shift blame to get out from under some of the upcoming crushing payout if we don’t get the diamond back.
“Unfortunately, there’s nothing we can do to stem the tide, no excuses to make. We’re in the spotlight until there’s a worse catastrophe somewhere in the world. There’s only one thing we can do: we have to find the Koh-i-Noor, and fast. Now, Gray, where are we with finding Browning?”
