“She knew she was taking off. Cleared everything out. The drawers are empty, bathroom’s spotless. Heat’s off. She thought of everything.”
Nicholas stood quietly, thinking. What would I do if I were Victoria Browning? If I needed to be completely undercover, off the grid? He said, “She never lived here.”
“But this was the address on her application; the leasing agent remembered getting her the place. And it matches the fake driver’s license she gave Tanya Hill.”
“She rented it, sure. But she never moved in. No one can keep a place this clean, not if they’re living here. It’s more proof the Fox is no zebra. She arranged a very precise identity, a full complete background—the works. We can run DNA in here, but we won’t find anything, at least that belongs to her. We know Victoria Browning is a false name. Why shouldn’t everything attached to her identity be false as well?”
Mike thought about it. “Do you think there’s a real Victoria Browning out there who’s an archaeologist? Who has no idea someone stole her name?”
“I’ll start running the name through all the databases while your team does a forensic sweep.”
“Knock, knock! Yoo-hoo!” Gillian Docherty was back, with three FBI crime scene techs. “I found them for you, Inspector Drummond.”
“Ah, Ms. Docherty. Brilliant. Thank you.”
Mike took her techs aside. “Find me something. This woman has already put two of our people in the hospital. If there’s DNA, fingerprints, anything, you pull it and call for me immediately.”
“Roger that, Mike. If there’s anything here, we’ll get it.”
“Thank you.”
She stepped back and watched them get to work. Nicholas was asking more questions of Gillian Docherty, but it was like trying to get blood from a stone. She didn’t know anything, was only playing along so she could flirt with the hot Brit.
Mike tuned everyone out, stood in the living room, looking out over the city, and ran through it again.
No zebra, Dad. What’s more, I’m missing something, something really big. If I were a master thief, how would I pull all this off?
A small tingle started in her back, at the base of her spine.
A big job like this, I’d plan it down to the very last detail, then I’d befriend someone who would help me. Someone on the inside I could use, then discard when the time was right.
Someone like Inspector Elaine York.
Surely sometimes zebras could be as devious as lions, too.
38
The Metropolitan Museum of Art
Friday, 1:00 a.m.
Savich had called for some late-night pizzas to be brought in, a veggie delight for him and any other vegetarians, and plenty of pepperonis and sausages for the carnivores. Sherlock was chowing on a piece of pepperoni, happy as a clam. He joined her at a small computer desk.
“Careful. You don’t want to spill any of that on your gorgeous dress.”
“My gorgeous dress already smells like tear gas, and I doubt that’ll come out. And, to be honest here, I’m too hungry to care.”
Springsteen’s “Born in the USA” wailed from his pocket. “Good timing. There’s Nicholas now.” He answered the call, put it on speaker. “Before you say anything, Nicholas, a sweep of the Met security offices upstairs showed several cleverly placed bugs. Browning was able to monitor everything we did tonight. We’ve dismantled them all, but you might think to tell the techs to check her place for bugs as well. She is a very thorough woman.”
Mike said, “So she could be listening now? Well, if you are, Victoria, we’re coming for you. Savich, give us a minute, we’ll step outside the apartment.”
There was a brief delay, then Mike came back on the line. “We’re clear.”
“Did you find anything at her apartment?”