“Yeah, his name’s Vladimir Kochen, a Russian from Brighton Beach. That’s Mob territory.”
Savich helped Sherlock out of her coat. “Go to it, and I’ll see what MAX can find out about Kochen.”
When the apartment was quiet, Sherlock walked into the living room. She said nothing at all, simply looked at the dead man, at the needle sticking out of his leg. She studied the living room, studied him again, then walked down the hall to the bathroom.
Sherlock came back in a few minutes, smiled at Mike. “Please understand, Mike, what I think isn’t necessarily what happened, okay?”
“Yes, of course I understand.”
Sherlock sighed. “It’s all so sad and so very brutal.”
Mike said, “I agree, Sherlock, and I appreciate your coming out in the middle of the night to give it a try, but it’s okay. I’m sorry you’ve gone to so much trouble—”
“No, you misunderstand me.” Sherlock walked to stand over the dead Russian. “He’s a soldier, a big man, muscular, hard. He wasn’t taken by force, but by cunning.”
Mike said, “A soldier? He’s not military that we know of, but we’re still running his records.”
Savich looked up from where he sat with MAX open on his legs. “That isn’t what Sherlock meant. Vladimir Kochen is a foot soldier for a Russian Mob boss. Do you know the Anatoly crime family?”
Sherlock whirled around so fast she nearly fell over. “You’ve got to be kidding me, Dillon. Anatoly, really?”
Savich laughed. “Yep, and that makes it one very small world.”
Mike said, “I do know Anatoly, and his less-than-savory connections. Anatoly’s an art lover and collector, a big supporter of the Met. He’s got to be in this somehow. I have no idea how all this ties together, but it must, somehow. Is that what you mean by it being a small world?” Mike cocked her head to the side.
“Sherlock and I are up here not only to see the Jewel of the Lion exhibit, but also to speak to Andrei Anatoly about one of my grandmother’s paintings. An expert on her work was visiting the Prado Museum and spotted the fake, told the director and called me. We don’t think it had been switched that long ago, because one of our art-crimes agents told me he’d heard buzz about Anatoly bragging about a new acquisition, The Night Tower.”
Mike was astounded. “The Night Tower? The world just got microscopic. The Night Tower, it’s one of my favorite paintings. I’ve never been to Europe, but I always wanted my first trip to be to Madrid, to see that painting at the Prado. Your grandmother is really Sarah Elliott?”
He nodded. “So back to our small world. What the devil is one of Anatoly’s men doing here with the minder of the Koh-i-Noor diamond?”
No answer to that question. Savich said to Sherlock, “Tell us what happened here.”
Sherlock looked like her second wind had finally arrived. She walked over to the dead man and spoke quickly, moving around the room to illustrate her thoughts. “The killer, and I’ll bet it is a man, knocked on the door; Kochen answered it and got shot immediately with a tranquilizer.” She picked up his arm. “Look at the stain on his jacket, right here. I’ll bet that’s where the killer shot him—in the arm. You wouldn’t want to go one-on-one with this guy, he’s too big, too strong, probably well trained and vicious. Too many variables, particularly with another trained cop in the apartment. The killer probably expected her to be in the living room as well, and planned to shoot them both with the tranquilizers, but she was in the bathroom, getting ready to take a shower.