“I told you, it’s been missing for years, anyone—”
“Did you panic, Mr. Hart, run before you could get yourself together to search Peter’s apartment?”
“My wife and I were here last night together! And Friday night as well. Ask her!”
Hart looked at his wife, standing beside Sherlock, looking vague and stupid to him from all her drugs. She was his only chance, and he knew it.
Mrs. Hart said slowly and precisely, “He could easily have slipped out Friday night; last night as well. We have separate bedrooms, you see.” She looked at him appraisingly, as if they both knew something Savich didn’t, as if challenging Hart to say what he would.
Savich saw Hart’s face go slack, saw defeat in his eyes.
“Of course, Mr. Hart,” Savich said, “it could be you are telling the truth about Peter. Melissa Ivy saw someone leaving Peter’s apartment building, not well, but well enough to think it wasn’t you she saw, but someone shorter.
“So let me paint another scenario. Since Mrs. Hart can’t vouch for your being home that night, you can’t vouch for her. It could have been Mrs. Hart who drove to Peter’s apartment last night, Mrs. Hart Peter let in, not realizing she knew and guessed enough to blame him for Stony’s death, for Tommy’s death, too. Peter would have pleaded for his life when he saw the gun, told Mrs. Hart everything about the video, about Tommy’s blackmailing you, that it was you who had killed Tommy. But she knew Peter well enough to know he’d put Tommy up to it, that he would never have done such a thing by himself.
“That’s when she realized if she shot Peter, you would be blamed for it, that all the evidence would point to you, particularly if she left your gun next to Peter’s body. All she had to do was to vouch for your being with her that night, as any good wife would. All she had to do was wait, knowing the FBI would find a copy of the video, and that we would arrest you, not her, Mr. Hart.”
Another long look passed between husband and wife. Carolyn Hart said to him, her voice low and despairing, “Our son, our precious Stony, he did nothing wrong. And now we have only our two daughters. Would you leave them out in the world without a parent? Do the right thing finally for one time in your miserable life.”
Hart looked at her again, then said very quietly, “I did kill Tommy and Peter. I killed both of them.”
• • •
THEY WEREN’T HOME UNTIL DAWN. Sherlock lay on her back in the dull gray light, exhausted and sad. Had Wakefield Hart really killed Peter, and dropped his own gun there beside Peter’s body? And did it even matter, since Hart was willing to swear to it now? At least the two Hart daughters would have a parent to raise and nurture them. And there was closure.
Maestro, Virginia
Wednesday morning
Gabrielle DuBois was packing. They could see her suitcase open, impossible to hide it even with her standing in the doorway, blocking them.
She eyed the three of them, then said, her accent thick, “What is it you are doing here? What do you want?”
Griffin said, “You seem to be in a big hurry, Ms. DuBois. Where are you going?”
“Not that it is any of your business, but I am going home.” She shrugged, and crossed her arms over her chest, not moving. She wore loose black sweats and thick white socks on her feet. Her hair was in a ponytail, and she was wearing bright red lipstick. “I do not approve of Stanislaus any longer. I had such high hopes, but I was deceived. Look at what has happened here in your countryside—a cave filled with cocaine, a murder, Professor Salazar shot. Even you, Agent Hammersmith, shot in the leg. Thank you, no, I will return to France, to civilization. I am afraid to remain here.”
“That’s not very nice of you to say,” Griffin said. “What about Professor Salazar? He’s hurt very badly. Doesn’t he need you? I thought you were in love with him and he with you. Why aren’t you at his bedside at the hospital?”
There was no explosion of French expletives, only a lovely Gallic shrug. “I was deceived by Professor Salazar as well. He toyed with my affections. He prefers your sister, I think. It seems he is nothing more than a common criminal, in any case. I no longer care what happens to him.”
“Interesting that you are the only student with urgent plans to leave the country, don’t you think?” Griffin asked. He stepped forward, but she didn’t oblige him and back up. Instead, she leaned into him. “I do not invite you into my apartment.”
Anna pulled her creds out of her pocket. “We haven’t actually met properly, Gabrielle. As you can see, my real name is Agent Anna Parrish, DEA, and I’ve been working undercover here at Stanislaus. And your own name is not Gabrielle DuBois, but Claudine Renard.”
Griffin was pleased to see Gabrielle flinch and her face go pale, but she recovered quickly, even managed a sneer. “I do not know this Renard person.”
Griffin said, “Sure you do, Gabrielle—excuse me, it’s Claudine—isn’t it? Claudine Renard, longtime student of Madame Maria Rosa Salazar of Madrid? That will make it impossible for you to leave the country, since you entered illegally under an assumed identity.” Anna simply shoved her back and moved in, Griffin behind her. He shut the door.
Gabrielle stumbled, managed to right herself. She shot Anna a venomous look. “All right, so you have forced your way in, and you are the law. They are rude and pushy everywhere. But I am not impressed, Anna. I don’t care who you are. I want you to get out.”
Griffin said, “I’m afraid that’s no longer up to you, Ms. Renard. A gang member we’ve identified as a José Ramirez was shot last night at the Bonhomie Club in Washington, D.C., while lying in wait for my sister, Delsey. I have his picture on my cell phone. He is the same man Delsey and I saw running away after the attack on her at the B&B here in Maestro. Unfortunately for you, he was carrying a disposable cell with your number on it. Careless of him not to toss it, but he was like that, wasn’t he? I guess he didn’t think it would be necessary. He was one of the men who called you for instructions from Delsey’s apartment, too, wasn’t he?”
“Vous est dingue! Vous avez perdu la raison! C’est completement fou!” She waved her hand in his face. “This is lunacy, it is madness, do you hear me?”
Anna pulled a sheaf of pictures from her jacket pocket. “I appreciate your fluent French and your dramatic gestures, Claudine, but they won’t fly now. Take a look at these.” Anna handed her the pictures. “Once we knew who to ask about, we sent a photo of you to the Spanish police, asked them if they could identify you, match your photo with anyone in their files of the Lozano and Salazar family contacts. There you are at a recital at about age eighteen, I’d say, standing next to Maria Rosa Salazar, accompanying you on the piano. You seem quite happy. She taught you voice, and no doubt brought you into the Lozano family business. Odd you never mentioned her. Did you even study with Professor Salazar here at Stanislaus at all, or spend all your time on the drug business?”
Gabrielle looked wildly toward her luggage.
Anna said, “Forget the gun you have tucked inside that luggage, Claudine. You’re not getting anywhere near it. Now, you were at Salazar’s party last Friday night. It was you, wasn’t it, who ordered two of your thugs to take Agent Racker out of there and find out what he knew?”
Gabrielle kicked out fast and hard against Griffin’s wounded leg. She made a mad dive for her luggage as he went down. Anna grabbed her ponytail and jerked her back against her. She held her Glock against her temple. “After you’re tried and sentenced here in Virginia, Claudine, I doubt you’ll ever get to see France again at all.”
Griffin stood slowly, his leg thrumming like a metal drum. He looked down at his cane, in two jagged pieces on the floor. “Now, Agent Parrish, don’t you think you’re being overly harsh? Maybe Ms. Renard can cut a deal with the Justice Department, tell them all about the Lozano family and about Maria Rosa.”
Savich home
Georgetown, Washington, D
.C.
Two days later, Friday evening
Anna accepted a slice of pizza from Griffin and bit in. There were half a dozen pizza boxes scattered on every available surface in the Savich living room for the dozen people—DEA, FBI, and the sheriff of Maestro—and most of them Griffin hadn’t even known a week before and now they were his friends.
Sherlock patted her mouth with a napkin and sat back in her chair. “Let me ask you, Agent Brannon, who gets the credit here, the DEA or the FBI?”
Mac Brannon looked from Anna to Griffin, took a swig of beer, and grinned. “I guess with what’s probably going to happen between these two”—he nodded toward Griffin and Anna—“we’ll have to consider it a joint success.” He raised his beer bottle and toasted Savich. “Now that I think of it, though, Savich here did some of the prep work, but the DEA did all the heavy lifting. I don’t remember any FBI dweebs, or you, Sheriff Noble, out there hauling away the guns and drugs.”
“We dweebs are glad we could help you get there, Mac,” Savich said, and picked up another slice of his vegetarian delight.
Dix said, “I hate even smelling that stuff. Believe me, I was glad to leave it to you.” He turned to Anna. “I’m going to miss you pouring me coffee every morning at Maurie’s Diner.”
Anna patted his arm. “I’m going to miss you, too, Sheriff, and Maurie, of course. He was a great boss. I was afraid he was going to cry when he found out who I really was and that I was leaving, but I distracted him by telling him to give my best to his beloved mama. Dix, you’ve got a lot of great folk in Maestro. Please tell everyone I enjoyed spending time with them.”
Sherlock slipped a sleepy Astro a bit of sausage from one of the pizzas. “I’m glad Salazar made it. Maybe between him and Gabrielle—Claudine Renard, I mean—you can get enough information together on Maria Rosa to make the Spanish police happy.”
“She buried their identities as deep as she could, but not deep enough,” Anna said. “I feel sorry for Dr. Hayman, though. He’s already resigned from Stanislaus.”
Delsey said, “I, on the other hand, can’t wait to get back to Maestro and Stanislaus. What, you thought I wouldn’t want to go back there to school, Griffin? Of course I do. I want to finish my degree. The only thing I can’t see doing is going back to live in my apartment next to Henry. Ruth is going to help me find a nice, safe apartment close to campus.”
Anna sat back in her chair and announced, “Sorry, Delsey, no more school for me. Nope, it’s time for a vacation. I was undercover for a long time, and waitressin’ is hard work. I’ve got to admit, though, that all the tips from Maurie’s really supplemented my income. Mr. Brannon said I’ve earned a long break.”
Griffin was thinking how sexy her voice sounded laced with her syrupy slow Southern drawl when Savich said to him, “And you’re officially off duty, Griffin, until your leg heals. Are you planning a vacation, too?”
Griffin nodded. “Actually, Ms. Parrish and I have decided to take our vacation together. Rome, the Colosseum, playing Christians and lions, and all that. It will be out of season, maybe a bit on the chilly side, but there shouldn’t be any fighting with hordes of other tourists at the gelato stand.”
Anna looked at his impossibly beautiful face, with his nose just a little bit off kilter. “I’ll just have to figure out if he’s going to be a gimpy Christian or a gimpy lion.”
Or maybe, she thought, as everyone laughed, she could take him to Maui instead. She could only imagine how good he’d look in swim trunks and lots of sunscreen she would apply herself. She gave a little shudder and turned down the last slice of pizza, thinking of her little polka-dot bikini.
Georgetown, Washington, D.C.
One week later
Savich slipped his cell phone back into his pocket and watched Sherlock toss a piece of popcorn in a high arc to their manic dog, Astro. Astro took a flying leap off the living room carpet, caught the popcorn two feet in the air, dropped back down, chewed for a millisecond, and raced back to Sherlock, barking for more. It was a game that had no end until the popcorn was gone and they’d proved to him that it was gone, usually by letting him carry the empty bowl around in his teeth.
Savich picked up The Washington Post, pointed to a photo of the Koh-i-Noor diamond in its setting in the Queen Mother’s crown. “You and I haven’t had a chance to talk about the Jewel of the Lion exhibit at the Met next week. I spoke with Bo Horsley, you remember, my dad’s old partner?”
“Oh, yes. Did he congratulate you on saving the world?”
“I spoke to him before there was any saving, but he did email me with a ‘well done’ this morning. I think I told you he’s heading up the private security for the Jewel of the Lion exhibit at the Met. Not only has he got us a town house in Chelsea, he wants us to go to the opening gala as his guests, eyeball the Crown Jewels and the Koh-i-Noor diamond, and rub elbows with the rich and famous. He’s trying to talk his nephew, Nicholas Drummond—Bo called him the youngest muckety-muck at Scotland Yard—to come over. His added inducement was Detective Inspector Elaine York, a colleague of his nephew’s who’s the official ‘minder’ for the exhibit. He really likes her. Also, she’s a vegetarian.”
Sherlock rolled her eyes. “He have any more perks to offer?”
Savich grinned at her. “That’s about it. He did add in his email that Nicholas is not only a chief detective inspector with Scotland Yard, he’s also a computer expert, probably better than me. He says it’s about time we met. Maybe we could duke it out. I could hear him laughing with that shot.”
Sherlock said, “Wait a minute. We’ve got Nicholas Drummond, a Brit who’s with Scotland Yard, and yet his uncle is American FBI. How does that work?”
“Bo told me Drummond’s mother, Bo’s sister, is American, starred in a TV sitcom here in the late seventies, early eighties. She met his father, a Brit, in L.A., they married, Nicholas was born here, and then they went back to England, where they stayed. Drummond’s grandfather is a viscount. An English peer—isn’t that a kick?”
“I wonder if Drummond’s as cute as you are.”
“No,” Savich said. “No way.”
Sherlock grinned up at him. She nodded to the open copy of The Washington Post. “I wouldn’t mind seeing the Crown Jewels, and the idea of having our own house—sure, let’s go. Take MAX. I want to see if he recognizes this Nicholas Drummond as a kindred spirit or kicks his royal butt to the curb.”
A SPECIAL ANNOUNCEMENT
FROM CATHERINE COULTER
I’ve got a surprise for you—a new series of crime thrillers featuring American-born, UK-raised Nicholas Drummond, a tough, focused chief detective inspector with Scotland Yard. Think James Bond—dark and dangerous, with a quirky sense of humor and a no-nonsense view of the world. A Brit in the FBI series kicks off with The Final Cut, an international crime thriller.
Everything changes for Drummond when the Koh-i-Noor diamond is stolen from the Queen Mother’s crown while on display in a special exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum in New York City and his former lover, in charge of the jewel’s security, is found murdered.
Drummond teams up with the FBI in New York, as well as Savich and Sherlock, to solve the murder, find the thief, and recover the missing diamond.
What follows will blow your socks off.
Welcome to my new series, written with renowned author J. T. Ellison. The Final Cut will catapult you into a reading adventure that will keep you turning pages so fast you won’t even stop for ice cream.
For a first look, turn the page.
—CATHERINE COULTER
A BRIT IN THE FBI
The Final Cut
CHAPTER
1
London
January 2013
Very early Thursday morning
Nicholas Drummond lived for these moments. His hands were loose, warm, and ready inside thin leather gloves. He could feel his
heart beat a slow, steady cadence in his chest, feel the adrenaline shooting so high he could fly. His breath puffed white in the frigid morning air, not unexpected on an early January morning in London. There was nothing like a hostage situation to get one’s blood pumping, and he was ready.
He took in the scene, as he’d been trained to do, complemented by years of experience: shooters positioned on the roofs in a three-block triangular radius, sirens wailing behind shouts and screams, and a single semiautomatic weapon bursting out an occasional staccato drumbeat. The streets were shut down in all directions. A helicopter’s rotors whumped overhead. His team was lined up behind him, waiting for the go signal.
His suspect was thirty yards away, tucked out of sight, ten feet from the left of the entrance to the Victoria Street Underground, and not being shy about letting them know his position. He’d been told the guy was a nutter, not a surprise, given he’d been wild-eyed in his demands for money from a second-rate kiosk at dawn. Instead of making a run for it, he’d grabbed a woman and was now holed up, shooting away. Where he had found a semiautomatic weapon, plus enough ammunition to take out Khartoum, Nicholas didn’t know.
At least he hadn’t killed his hostage yet. She was a middle-aged woman, now lying on her side maybe six feet from him, trussed up with duct tape. They could see her face, leached of color and terrified. He could imagine her screams of terror if her mouth weren’t taped.
No, she wasn’t dead. Yet. That presented a problem—one wrong move and a bullet would go into her head.
Nicholas glanced over his shoulder at his second, Detective Inspector Gareth Scott, tucked against the curb, his expression edgy, a flash of excitement in his eyes. He clutched his Heckler & Koch MP5 against his chest. His Glock 17 was in its shoulder holster.