“Once Kochen was stunned, the murderer dragged him to the sofa, then shot him full of cyanide before he had a chance to recover. And it is cyanide. I can smell it.”
She gestured toward the hall. “York heard the scuffle and grabbed her gun. The killer attacked her, wrestled the gun from her, and shot her with it. The autopsy will probably show she had cyanide in her system, too; the killer would have had another plunger full to use on her. Whether he got a full load into her or not, we’ll have to see. She fought him, though, hard. And he left her for dead, a bullet in the chest. That’s my best guess.”
Mike was staring at her. “Yes,” she said, “yes, I can see that now. It’s very clear. Thank you.”
Sherlock said, “Are her things still here, Mike?”
“Her computer is missing; the power cord is on the desk. Her bag was rifled through, though her money and cards are still there. It’s impossible to know if anything else was taken. We’ve even got her cell phone. So why did the murderer take her computer? Something was on it that either worried him or—or what? We’ll find out. You know, Sherlock, the tranquilizer—that hadn’t occurred to me—”
Savich said, “Your ME would have found traces in their systems, seen the injection sites. Sherlock just found it a bit faster.”
Mike didn’t say another word. It was odd, but she felt both punchy with fatigue and buzzed. She hugged Sherlock right there with the dead Russian on the sofa and Dr. Janovich now back in the living room, pulling off the man’s coat to see if he could visually identify an injection site for the tranquilizer. He found it and gave Sherlock a puzzled look.
Sherlock yawned. “Oh, sorry about that. It’s been a long day. If that’s all, Mike, we’ll see you—well, tonight I guess, at the gala. I know this is tough, but we’ll figure it all out. Try to catch some sleep, okay?”
“And keep us posted,” Savich said, and shook her hand, nodded to Dr. Janovich, and they left. The taxi they’d asked to wait downstairs thankfully hadn’t taken off, and they were back to Chelsea in twenty minutes.
Savich never thought a bed could feel like heaven, but this one did.
12
New York, New York
JFK Airport
Thursday, 11:10 a.m.
Nicholas hadn’t been to New York in a couple of years, since a visit with his mother to see Uncle Bo, Aunt Emily, and his four female cousins, all of whom worshipped his mother. Regardless of the circumstances, the energy of the place gave him an instant buzz. If only he could share this with Elaine, instead of bringing her home in a box.
When they landed, he turned on his phone, saw a text from Uncle Bo.
Agent Mike Caine will meet you at the gate. See you soon.
He gathered his bag and left the plane. His eyes scanned the crowd—Mike Caine—that was the agent’s real name? Wouldn’t it be a hoot if the actor strolled up and said hullo?
He entered the main terminal and immediately noticed a tall, lean blonde with her hair in a ponytail and dark glasses tucked into her shirt alter course to intercept him, no hesitation, a guided missile. He took note of the bulge under the left corner of her black leather jacket; she had a gun strapped to her hip. She stopped two feet short, ignored all the travelers parting to flow around them, and said, “I’m Special Agent Michaela Caine with the New York Field Office. Glad to meet you,” and she opened a black leather case to show him a blue-and-white card stamped “FBI.” She stuck out her hand. “You must be Bo’s nephew.”
He shook her hand. “Yes. I was expecting someone older. And more male.”
“Ah, yes. People do. And trust me, I’ve heard all the jokes.”