Mike said, “Now, that would be a show worth watching.”
“You lied to her, too.”
“It was trained into me.”
“You obviously were at the head of your class.”
Three minutes later they were on the elevator to the twenty-third floor. Browning’s apartment was halfway down the hall.
When they were at the door, Nicholas whispered, “Careful. Like Ben reminded us, she isn’t all that predictable, plus she’s already set one bomb today.”
37
Mike nodded, listened at the door, heard nothing. She drew her Glock, and Docherty gasped.
Nicholas said smoothly, “Perhaps you should wait downstairs, Ms. Docherty, for your safety. We may have some more agents arriving, and we’ll need you to greet them and escort them upstairs. Would you do mind handling it for us?”
“But shouldn’t I, well, my goodness, what has she done? I mean, she’s a doctor, right?”
“It’s very important you bring them to us immediately.” Nicholas took her firmly by the elbow and walked her back to the glass-paneled elevator, and took the leasing file from her as he hit the down button.
Mike had to admire Mr. Aren’t I Great. He was beginning to live up to his reputation.
She inserted the door key to Browning’s apartment and slowly turned the knob. When Nicholas was back by her side, she gave a quiet three count and opened the door.
Empty. Strangely empty. There was furniture, but nothing personal. No books on the bookshelves, no afghans or magazines, nothing homey at all. Nothing of Victoria Browning.
He said, “No bomb, so that’s something.”
Mike waved her hand around. “It’s like everything was staged for a showing. Like she’d already moved out.”
“Or she never moved in.” Nicholas walked to the big windows, undid the blinds. The view wasn’t spectacular, there was a building blocking much of it, but a sliver looked north to Central Park. He could see the dusting of snow, the blinking of lights from the occasional car driving toward them down Broadway.
Mike was thumbing through the file. “According to the rental agency, she leased the flat in June of last year, moved in July first. She was paying five thousand two hundred dollars a month.”
“What’s that—three thousand three hundred pounds, give or take.” He took another look around. “Seems underpriced.”
“You’re used to London prices. This is New York. For the size and location, it’s about right.” Mike shivered. The heat wasn’t on in the apartment, and it didn’t have double-paned windows. Cold night air seeped through, finding her neck under the collar of her leather jacket.
Nicholas said, “Isn’t five thousand two hundred dollars a month a lot of money in rent on a museum docent’s salary?”
“According to her personnel file, even once she was bumped up to curator, her annual take-home was sixty-two thousand dollars. So her salary didn’t even cover her rent, much less anything else.”
“It’s very possible the person who hired her is paying her way.” He leaned against the window. “And paying her a bucketload, you can be sure of that.”
“At least we know Anatoly isn’t the buyer.”
Mike joined him at the window, took a last glance at the city, cold and silent beneath her. She handed him a pair of nitrile gloves. “All right. Let’s take it apart.”
Mike started in the bedroom. She pulled out empty drawers and checked underneath. Nothing. No clothes in either the dresser or the closet. The bathroom cabinets and shower were empty, too. She tossed the rooms carefully and found exactly zip.
“Nicholas, are you finding anything?”
“No,” he called from the second bedroom. “This place is clean as a whistle.”
They met in the kitchen. Nicholas opened the refrigerator door. Cold inside, still running at maximum capacity, but empty, wiped clean.