“He’s not the only incredible one. Sherlock has this gift. She walks into a crime scene and can tell you exactly what happened. Both Savich and Sherlock are here with me. And we’re all still wide awake. You want me to send them to you? Sherlock’s up for it, if you are.”
I must really be stupid tired to need help on a crime scene like this, Mike thought, but she agreed instantly. Why should other agents sleep when she couldn’t? “Send them over.”
“Okay,” Bo said, “they’re on their way. Now, Mike, I need a favor. Milo said that since you were the lead on this case, you were the one to do it. My nephew, who is also Elaine’s boss, is on a plane from London as we speak. He lands at eleven ten a.m., British Airways coming into JFK. Can you pick him up and fill him in on what’s happening?”
Bo’s nephew? Great, just wonderful. She knew all about Bo’s nephew, the only offspring of Bo’s sister and a Brit father who was some damned aristocrat. She knew more about him than she wanted to know, since Bo spoke of him as often as he did his own four girls. He was supposed to be this frigging super-spy who’d given it all up for a reason Bo had never mentioned and joined Scotland Yard. And now he was coming to stick his nose under the tent, probably stick in his whole big foot. No, that was wrong. He’d want to barge right into the tent and take charge. She could see this guy throwing his weight around. She didn’t need this, she really didn’t.
“What’s his name again, sir?”
“I thought you’d remember, Mike. Well, no matter, his name is Nicholas Drummond. Detective Chief Inspector Drummond of New Scotland Yard.”
Detective chief inspector—it figured. She glanced at her watch. It was nearly 3:00 a.m. So much for getting some sleep.
“Okay, I’ll fetch him.”
“Thanks, Mike.” Bo’s voice was jazzed, full of manic energy, and she frowned into her cell.
“All right, sir. I know you. You haven’t told me everything. Why’d you really call?”
“Always so sharp. Mike, I need your absolute discretion.”
“Certainly, sir. What’s wrong?”
He lowered his voice and dropped a bombshell.
“The Koh-i-Noor’s been stolen.”
11
Savich and Sherlock arrived at Elaine York’s apartment building twenty minutes later. In the elevator, Savich pulled Sherlock close. “You sure you’re up for this, sweetheart? It’s late, we’re both pretty wiped.”
She leaned up and laid her hand on his cheek. “I’ve got a call in for my second wind. It should be here momentarily. Believe me, Dillon, we’ll sleep late tomorrow. And this is important.”
The doors opened, and there was a beehive of activity at the end of the hall. They walked through the door to Elaine York’s apartment and were met by a young woman who looked pissed, impatient, and bone tired.
Savich said, “Agent Caine? It’s good to see you again.”
“Agent Savich.” A smile bloomed and she grabbed his hand, pumped it up and down. “We’ve got ourselves a real puzzle here. I can’t believe you guys came out in the middle of the night. Thanks for coming by to take a look.”
“It’s a strange night, all the way around,” he said, and introduced her to Sherlock.
Sherlock found herself at Mike Caine’s eye level. “Let’s get to it, then maybe we can all get some sleep.”
“I don’t know about this,” Mike said, after she’d released Sherlock’s hand. “It’s so bizarre, the whole deal. I mean, there’s a dead guy on the sofa with a needle in his thigh and Elaine York was in the East River—”
Savich cut her off. “Bo told us about everything, Agent Caine—”
“Please call me Mike.”
He nodded. “Mike. Call me Dillon.”
“And you can call me Sherlock.”
“I always wanted to meet Sherlock,” Mike said. “I do hope you don’t smoke a pipe. Oh, dear, sorry for that. I’m punchy.”
They all paused in the small entryway to see four people watching them. More introductions, then Mike said, “Everyone, take a break, okay? Five minutes.”
Savich said, “Let’s let Sherlock walk through the scene, see what she thinks. Have you identified the dead guy?”