Her hair was next. She preferred it short—again, wigs were easier to manage without excess hair to cover—but for this, she wanted excellent extensions. With the help of a talented stylist near Hyde Park, she ended up with Princess Catherine–styled dark hair that tumbled past her shoulders and was a few shades lighter than her own hair.
A wardrobe was purchased, muted grays and browns with some elegant dresses, lots of leather and suede and trendy heels, some old, battered sleep things from a secondhand shop, creased jeans, University of Edinburgh sweatshirts from ten years ago, and the like.
Then she flew to New York, to start a new life.
The Met hired her on—she knew they would. Her qualifications screamed at them. They considered themselves lucky she was even interested. An apartment was next, something she could stage, something not too ostentatious. She searched for a week before she settled on the Archstone, then found the garret hidey-hole in Hell’s Kitchen for actual day-to-day living.
And then it was simply a matter of making herself indispensable to the Met staff.
Within a few months, her excellent mind realized and valued, she moved up to the position of assistant curator. But time was running out. The exhibit was due in New York in only a matter of months, and she was not in the proper position to execute her plan.
The curator had to go.
An illness, then, one that incapacitated but wouldn’t kill. Something a man of his age would be forced to deal with and, with a sorry shrug, retire.
And then she was in the clear. She applied for the curator’s spot, was given the position, and all was right in the world.
47
New York, New York
26 Federal Plaza, FBI Headquarters, twentieth floor
Friday, 8:00 a.m.
The conference room was full of people, drinking coffee, talking, eating the Danish stacked on several plates.
Then Paulie came in looking rather worse for wear, a stunning black eye peeking out from his forehead bandage.
Mike gave him a hug. “Paulie, it’s good to see you back among the living. How are you feeling?”
He touched the bandage. “I’ve got a headache the size of Manhattan, but the vampires were good to me. I’ll live. Louisa is in the lab running the evidence from the Met. We didn’t get any prints; the whole room had been wiped clean. It wasn’t a total waste, though. Louisa had a brainstorm, went back early this morning and took samples from Victoria Browning’s office. No prints, but she might have left some DNA.”
Better than nothing.
Paulie continued. “Everyone came out unscathed, and it could have been so much worse. She could have blown that bomb, but she didn’t. So it seems Browning is only a thief, not a murderer.”
Nicholas said, “Or she didn’t see the point in destroying countless treasures from all over the world.”
Agent Gray Wharton patted Paulie’s shoulder, and the two of them argued a moment about a Danish versus a bear claw. Gray did indeed look like a computer geek, Nicholas thought, thin, bespectacled, in his early forties, and clearly not at all concerned that he was rumpled and creased, beard stubble on his chin. He nodded at Nicholas. “Gotta love a meeting this early in the morning.”
Nicholas smiled. “You Yanks clearly feel sleep is overrated.”
Mike saw Savich and Sherlock huddled with Bo. What was that all about?
Zachery tapped a pen against the rim of his coffee cup. “All right, everyone take your seats, let’s get started.”
She sat beside Nicholas, feeling like something the cat dragged in, whereas he looked sharp this morning, dressed in a charcoal suit that looked straight from a presser, a blue tie, and a fine blue shirt. Something he’d pulled out of a magic compartment in his little leather bag, she supposed.