Ben introduced himself, thanked the men for coming, then said, “Let’s get started. As you know—”
The lawyer interrupted him. “Agent Houston, my name is Lawrence Campbell, and I represent Mr. Anatoly. I want it on the record that Mr. Anatoly is here voluntarily, as a courtesy to the FBI. However, he is a very busy man and tonight is the gala at the Met. As you know, Mr. Anatoly is not only a lover of the arts, he is also one of the museum’s benefactors. He is naturally very involved in tonight’s gala unveiling England’s crown jewels. We hope you will not keep him or me long.”
Ben said smoothly, “We certainly appreciate Mr. Anatoly’s cooperation. Let me hurry right along, then. Mr. Anatoly, would you please tell the whereabouts of one of your men, Vladimir Kochen?”
Campbell said agreeably, “This sort of question is a waste of Mr. Anatoly’s time, Agent Houston. We know as well as you do that Mr. Kochen was found murdered yesterday, in, I believe, an English police officer’s apartment.”
Anatoly nodded. “I was very saddened to hear of Vlad’s unfortunate death. He was a valued employee until a year ago, when he left my employ. I have not seen him since.”
“May I ask why, then, sir, Mr. Kochen’s cell phone records show”—Ben glanced down at several sheets of paper at his elbow—“ah, yes, here it is, at least a half-dozen calls to both your home phone and your cell in the past week?”
Anatoly put a hand on Campbell’s arm to quiet him and said easily, “I said I had not seen him for a year, Agent Houston, not that I hadn’t spoken to him. If you would know, Vlad wished to return to my employ. We were conducting negotiations, I suppose you could say.”
Nicholas said, “Anatoly’s accent is vaguely European, certainly not Russian. I suppose he’s been able to smooth it out living in the States—how long?”
Mike cocked her head, “He came with his parents, at the tender age of twenty-two. It’s important to him to fit in, and that means getting rid of his Russian accent. He wants to be viewed as a pillar of the community.”
On the screen, Anatoly leaned forward, put his hands on the table. “I assure you, Agent Houston, I had nothing whatsoever to do with poor Vlad’s death. I am as mystified as you seem to be.”
“Tell me, why did Mr. Kochen quit, Mr. Anatoly? Or was he fired?”
“An unfortunate incident. He was not respectful to one of my sons. Yuri told me of it, and I had no choice but to fire him. Our negotiations involved Vlad apologizing to my son and asking his forgiveness. This would have happened if not—” He stopped, gave a creditable Gallic shrug.
Nicholas said to Mike, “This is going nowhere, and Anatoly knows it. He’s hardly going to walk in and admit to murdering Kochen and Elaine.”
As if Anatoly could hear through the video feed, he said, “If we are finished here, the gala will be starting soon, and I don’t wish to be late. Like every other guest tonight, I wish to see the crown jewels, especially the Koh-i-Noor.” And both Anatoly and his lawyer started to rise. Ben shook his head. “A few more questions, Mr. Anatoly.”
Mr. Campbell grunted in impatience. “What other questions would you possibly have to ask my client?”
“Be seated,” Ben said, steel in his voice. They looked a bit surprised but complied, the lawyer tapping his pen on the tabletop and Anatoly examining his nails in apparent boredom.
Ben placed a picture of Inspector York on the table.
“Do you know this woman?”
Anatoly merely glanced at the photo, and he sounded a little more Russian when he said, “I have never seen this woman in my life. I will say a prayer for her soul.”
Ben laid three more pictures beside it, and Nicholas realized they were from Elaine’s crime scene. He hadn’t seen any of the photos, and the images hit him like a fist to the gut. It was hard, but he tried to focus on Anatoly’s reaction, not his own.