“Speaking of which, I’ve gotta run. I’ll be on my cell. If you need anything, text me. Keep me updated, Mike.” He nodded to Ben and strode off into the darkness, his shoulders not so straight now since the weight of Inspector York’s vicious murder was his responsibility to carry.
Mike huddled deeper in her jacket as a sudden blast of winter air whipped off the river. She wondered, yet again, What did you find out, Elaine, that scared someone so badly they had to murder you?
6
Over the Atlantic Ocean
British Airways Flight 117
Thursday, 9:00 a.m.
Nicholas barely made the 8:30 a.m. nonstop to New York. Flashing his Metropolitan Police credentials helped him jump the ridiculously long security line. Now he was on board and the plane was hurtling westward, the rows around him eerily empty.
The moment the flight attendants announced electronic devices were allowed, Nicholas had his laptop open and hooked into the plane’s wireless system. First stop was his email. There were three messages from Penderley, subject lines increasingly angry. Nicholas had hoped for more time before Penderley found out where he was headed. He deleted the messages; they could duke it out later, after Nicholas was up to speed on Elaine’s murder. Maybe.
An icon began flashing on his screen, a private instant message from his uncle, Bo Horsley, the American cowboy FBI agent Nicholas had spent his childhood idolizing. Now, as a man, and a law enforcement officer in his own right, Nicholas’s respect for his uncle had only grown. Bo was one of the smartest men he knew, one of the best men he knew. He also excelled at bowling, a particular American pastime he’d tried to teach Nicholas as a boy. Nicholas remembered his bowling balls usually ended up in the gutter. Was that the right word? He shook his head. He felt relief seeing the instant message. Bo would understand his motive for coming, and would help.
Nicholas clicked on the instant message.
Dear Nick,
I’m so sorry about Elaine. As soon as you can, Skype me at this number. Try for secure, too, because we have a problem.
Love, Uncle Bo
More problems. Elaine’s death wasn’t enough? He felt the now familiar punch of grief, the hard emptiness of it, and turned it off. He’d never see her down another Guinness, leaving a foam mustache on her upper lip, never tease her again about her tarot card readings, a weekly mainstay in her life. All he could do was find out who’d killed her, and why. Since Penderley had told him, he’d sworn to her over and over he would. But it wouldn’t bring her back.
He asked for a cup of tea from a redheaded flight attendant. His uncle Bo would smooth things between him and the FBI in New York so they’d let him work with them. He wondered when he got back to London if he’d still have a job with New Scotland Yard. He saw Penderley in his mind’s eye demanding his execution. The way he felt right now, he simply didn’t care.
He broke out his headphones, opened Skype, and dialed up Bo, who answered on the first ring. His face filled the screen, so similar to Nicholas’s mother’s. Bo looked tired. No, more than that, he looked beaten down.
“Nick, it’s good to see your face. I’m very sorry about your friend Elaine. She was smart and kind and worked well with all of us savage Americans. I remember she was wide-eyed at my office view of the city and the East River. I sent her right over to the Empire State Building to see the whole city. Everyone at the Met misses her.”
“Thank you, Uncle Bo. Elaine always wanted to travel to New York. She even spoke a couple of times of making a permanent move. She loved her time working there.” He paused, got hold of himself. “I can’t believe she’s really gone. Uncle Bo, do you know what she got herself into over there?”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t know anything about her murder yet, Nick. Unfortunately, this isn’t only about Elaine anymore. Like I messaged you, we got another problem. Are you secure?”