“It’s a fake,” Mike said. “See, it’s missing the three-color holograph. More false identities, Nicholas. He must be connected to Browning. She must have sent the men after us.”
He took the license and turned it over in his hands. “Or Anatoly did. The kicker had white hair hanging down from beneath his mask. I couldn’t believe it. He moved like a much younger man. He was fast and well trained, but they came prepared with their MP5s.
“I’m sure the kicker was the one in charge, not the dead guy. If the idiot had been as talented as he is, I’m afraid guns wouldn’t have been necessary.” He looked toward the dead man now surrounded by techs, a detective from the 7th Precinct, and saw the ME striding up, obviously pulled from sleep, his gray hair a rooster tail on top of his head.
Mike said, “A shootout in the garage in the middle of the West Village. The neighbors must be loving this.” She walked away to examine the open door beside the garage barrier. She called out, “Well, how they got in is easily answered. They jimmied the lock. Maybe we can see them on the security video tape.”
It was 3:30 a.m. before they were cleared for the night. Nicholas fetched his leather carry-on from the backseat of the wrecked Crown Vic. Mike said at his elbow, “I really liked this car. I put in a call to maintenance, got the night guy. He swore when I come down tomorrow morning, there’ll be a new ride here in my spot. Well, not new, you know what I mean.”
“So long as it runs and has glass in all the windows, that’s fine.”
As they took the elevator to the lobby, Nicholas said, “Even though your doorman didn’t see anyone out of place, the crime scene techs checked through your flat; they say nothing was disturbed. You need to check, too.”
Mike nodded to the doorman, who looked as though he was bursting with excitement and questions, but they didn’t slow.
The third-floor halls were as quiet as the garage had been, everyone back in bed after the excitement. Consummate New Yorkers in her building, even the yelling, the bullets flying, the sirens out in front of the building didn’t bother them for long.
Mike’s neighbor Frank Pressfield opened his door. “Are you okay? Snot-nosed kid controlling the crime scene wouldn’t let me talk to you.”
“We’re fine. No respect these days, Frank, and here you were, ready and able to tell them what to do. Two guys ambushed us in the garage. One’s dead, the other got away.” She gestured to Nicholas. “Nicholas Drummond, New Scotland Yard, meet Frank Pressfield, formerly of the Sixty-eighth.”
The two men shook hands, and Frank said, “You’ve had quite the reception, haven’t you?”
“Yes, I have.” And he thought of Elaine.
Anger, grief, questions, all three welled up in him, and a bone-deep tiredness he knew hours of sleep wouldn’t fix. Elaine was gone. She’d died a stranger in a strange land, and it made him sick to think of it. And now whoever had killed her was clearly after him and Mike. But why? They were only two individuals; there were hundreds more FBI agents to take their places.
Rage began to build, at Victoria Browning and Andrei Anatoly, at the man with his white hair, but he tamped it down into his belly, knowing he’d need it later.
“We’re going to crash,” he heard Mike saying to Frank. “We’ve been at it all day. Thanks for checking on me.”
Nicholas nodded to him and followed Mike into her flat across the hall. She switched on the lights and shrugged out of her coat, and he saw how beat up she was. Her leather jacket was ripped, her jeans covered with grease stains. As for him, the bespoke tux was ready for the trash bin.