The Lost Key (3 page)

N
icholas looked up at a sharp whistle to see a tall, beefy older man heading their way, people getting out of his way. He looked like a guided missile, ready to clear the scene and move on to his next case.

“Here's the ME, and good news for us, he's the best,” Mike said. “You'll like him.”

The man reached them and stuck out his hand. Nicholas thought he meant to shake, but he was handing them both nitrile gloves.

“You're not allowed anywhere near my body without proper protection. See to it, now.”

Mike snapped the gloves over the ones she was already wearing. She never argued with Janovich. “Good morning, Dr. Janovich. Now we're double protected. I'd like you to meet my new partner, Special Agent Nicholas Drummond. We worked together on the Koh-i-Noor diamond case. Today's his first day.”

They shook hands. Janovich immediately pulled off his gloves and put on a fresh pair. “If I remember correctly, you knew the woman who died during that case. I'm sorry, that was tough.”

Nicholas felt a familiar stab of pain. “Thank you, it was. I was Inspector Elaine York's superior at New Scotland Yard. But now I'm here in America, working for the FBI.”

“Welcome, welcome. I don't know why we have a foreigner working for us, but in the long scheme of things, it doesn't matter, does it? We shook hands, change your gloves.”

Mike said, “This particular foreigner was born in L.A. Do you remember the sitcom
A Fish out of Water,
with Mitzie Manders? She's Bo Horsley's sister, and Nicholas's mom.”

Janovich blinked, his mouth widened in a huge smile. “You're kidding. I loved that show. She is a beautiful lady, and she had wonderful comic timing. Tell your mother she has a fan in the New York OCME, will you?” He gave Nicholas a closer look and smiled. “Since you're a foreigner, that stands for Office of the Chief Medical Examiner.”

“I'll tell her, and thank you,” Nicholas said, amused, but Janovich had already begun examining Mr. Pearce's body, talking as he worked. Nicholas crouched down so he could listen in.

“Stab wound to the right kidney. Took him down fast and hard from behind. Created quite a mess. I'd say this poor man bled out within three or four minutes. The blade would need to be at least five inches long to make a gash that deep. Not much of a cut in the shirt, I'm betting a stiletto of some sort.”

“Who's our killer, then?” Nicholas asked.

Dr. Janovich glanced up at Nicholas and started, as if surprised to see him there at face level. He flashed a rare smile. “I guess I'll have to let you figure that out.”

Nicholas stood, groaning a little as his knees popped. Louisa hurried over to them. She handed Nicholas Pearce's cell phone. “I got in, no problem. You'll see Mr. Pearce received several texts
recently. He was supposed to meet someone with the initials
EP
here this morning.”

Nicholas said, “There was a short conversation between Pearce and EP. Listen to this:
‘I have news. Meet me at the Pine Street entrance of Fed Hall.'

“And Pearce wrote back:
‘Can't get downtown this a.m. Meet me at store instead?'

“EP:
‘Nine-one-one
.
'

“Pearce:
‘I hope this is the good kind of nine-one-one. On my way.'”

—

THERE WAS
a fifteen-minute gap in time, then another outgoing message from 8:15 a.m. Only thirty minutes earlier.

‘I'm here, where are you?'

Both Mike and Nicholas could imagine Pearce walking quickly, distracted, worrying about what this EP and his 911 alert were all about, wondering what was so important it couldn't wait.

The good kind of 911?
What did that mean? And who was EP?

“Evidently,” Mike said, “EP didn't show up. Do you think it was a ploy to draw Pearce here to kill him?”

“Or maybe EP did show up and it wasn't a good kind of nine-one-one. They argued first, then EP killed him. Whatever, Mr. Pearce knew his killer. Maybe.”

Janovich began his prep to take the body back to the OCME. Nicholas went down on his knees next to Mr. Jonathan Pearce. He said quietly, “We'll find who did this, sir. Mark my words.”

Mike said, “You know, we've had a lot of trouble with gangs recently. Committing a murder in broad daylight is a surefire way through initiation.”

“Anything is possible. But it seems rather unlikely that a New
York gang would congregate on Wall Street and send text messages to their victims.”

“No, generally not. Unless it was a gang of stockbrokers.”

He grinned at her. “I know what you mean. They're a deadly bunch in London.”

“Here, too.”

“Well, then,” Nicholas said, “let's get out of Dr. Janovich's way and see what the witnesses have to tell us.”

They made their way to the group of witnesses huddled on the corner. There was another crowd gathered across the street, gaping and pointing, shooting more video with their phones, probably calling all their friends. He didn't think there was a single crime scene in the world today that wasn't recorded down to the blood on the sidewalk.

Most of the witnesses were clearly upset, but a few were annoyed at having to stick around to talk to the police and be late to work. But most were eager to tell what they'd seen.

Mike took the lead. “I'm Special Agent Caine, and this is Special Agent Drummond, FBI. We'd appreciate your telling us exactly what you saw.” A furious babble erupted, and Mike put up her hands. “One at a time, please. Sir?”

He was the eldest of the group, a businessman in a gray wool suit. “I was walking across the street and heard the two men arguing. I looked over to see the older man fall.” He swallowed. “The dead man.”

Nicholas asked, “How much older was he than the man who stabbed him?”

“Twenty years, maybe. The guy, the killer, he looked about twenty-five, thirty. No more.”

Mike was taking notes in her small spiral-bound reporter's notebook. “Could you hear what they were arguing about?”

“Not really, but they were fighting over something, I don't know what.”

“It was the phone,” said an older woman dressed in head-to-toe white cashmere, holding a small Chihuahua. “The guy wanted his phone. After he stabbed the older man, he grabbed the phone and used it. I had the most absurd thought—that he was calling nine-one-one. But who would stab someone, then call nine-one-one? But then people started yelling at the man and he dropped the phone and took off running.”

She'd clearly been crying, her eyes were red and bloodshot. “I'll never forget the way he looked right at me, before he ran away—” She shuddered and broke off. Mike watched her frown, then she yelled, pointing, “That's him! He's come back. Right over there—he's standing in that crowd of people across the street!” People around them were shuffling to get a better look, and the Chihuahua was barking his head off.

N
icholas jerked around to see the man looking straight at him. The man didn't hesitate. He shoved his way through the crowd, pushing people down, then he was free, running full out. He disappeared around the corner.

The crowd was shouting, an NYPD officer who was nearby hesitated a moment, then took off after him. Nicholas shouted to Mike, “Come on, come on, after him.”

The streets were packed with people at the start of the workday. Nicholas passed the cop, his long runner's legs eating up the sidewalk. He saw the suspect half a block away, darting in and out of the crowds. He was in good shape, strong, fast as an Olympic sprinter, the bastard, pouring on the speed.

A woman fell in front of Nicholas, and he yanked her to her feet as he passed, shouting to the man, “Stop, FBI. Stop running now!”

Of course the man ignored him, continued running south. Where did he think he could go? Battery Park at the end of Manhattan? If he tried to jump on the Staten Island Ferry, Nicholas had him, no way he'd be able to speed through the throngs of people. But if he caught the tube—
no, the subway—
then he'd be gone.

Mike, where was Mike? He glanced over his shoulder, she was
two yards behind him, her stride smooth and fast. His mobile rang, but he ignored it. The man turned a corner, and Mike shouted, “Turn right, turn right now, there's a street across to Broadway, Exchange Place, cut him off. I'm going straight, we'll box him in.”

Nicholas was nearly hit by a wildly honking cab, heard the driver cursing him, but he never slowed. He burst out onto Broadway, nearly behind Mr. Olympic. Ten yards, five—Nicholas could smell his sweat—yes, now he had him. Nicholas reached out an arm to snag the man's shoulder when he turned, something in his hand, and he pointed it at Nicholas—

And Nicholas was on the ground, doubled over, pain shooting through his body. His muscles jerked and jittered, his teeth clenched, his entire body cramped in on itself until he was sure it was all over for him. He couldn't breathe—then the pain stopped.

His breath came in short gasps. He shook his head to clear his brain. Slowly, he rolled onto his hands and knees.

Mr. Olympic was long gone. Nicholas saw a small rectangular black box on the ground five feet away. It was a Taser. Frigging Mr. Olympic had Tasered him.

Then Mike was on the ground with him, hands running over his body. “Where are you hit, where are you hit?”

“I'm all right, really, I'm all right.”

“Then what happened? Where's our guy?”

Nicholas pointed at the Taser.

Mike couldn't believe it. She stared at the small black Taser, her heart still kettledrumming, pumping blood and fear through her. “I saw you go down. I thought he'd shot you, the way you were jerking around on the ground, but I didn't hear a shot. Thank heaven it was only a Taser.”

“Yes, o
nly
a Taser,” he said as he ripped the Taser barbs out of
his side. At least it was getting easier to think and put words together.

“Can you walk, or do I need to carry you?”

He wanted to laugh at that visual but couldn't get any spit in his mouth. He slowly got to his feet.

Agent Ben Houston's voice crackled from the walkie-talkie Mike carried in her jacket pocket.

“We're here to back you up. We've spotted the suspect. He's on foot heading north on Trinity Place. Mike, Nicholas, he's parallel to your position. We're moving to intercept. Cut across Rector and stop him.”

Nicholas was rolling his shoulders. “What? Did Mr. Olympic hang around to see what would happen next?”

“Come on, come on,” Mike shouted, pulled on Nicholas's arm and took off again. “Can you do it?”

“I can. Bloody hell.” Nicholas shook off the last of the Taser effects, felt his adrenaline kick in, and triangulated the area in his head, grateful his brain was back in working order. If they cut up to Rector they could intercept, especially if Ben could drive the man toward the box. Then a phalanx of agents could converge on the target from four sides.

He rushed after Mike, slower than before, but found the more he moved, the better his body parts worked. One block gone, now two. Shouts from the walkie as they closed in on three sides.

They turned the corner onto Trinity and there he was. Nicholas wanted him badly and pushed to his limit, shoving people out of the way, ignoring shouts, cries, curses. Mr. Olympic ran into the street to get away from the hordes of people and took off, one fast disbelieving look at Nicholas. Nicholas followed, heard Mike shouting, “Push him south, push him south.” He glanced back, saw her
coming fast, knew how determined she could be. He signaled for her to duck to the left and he'd turn Mr. Olympic right into her waiting arms. He hoped she'd deck him.

This time it went right. Mike flanked him, ignoring the shouts and screams, the honking cars and taxis, and Nicholas pushed on the last of his speed, launched himself and tackled the man hard.

They were locked together, pummeling each other, as they rolled into the street right in front of an oncoming NYPD patrol car. Nicholas saw the bumper coming and shoved Mr. Olympic to the curb. He rolled as the patrol car slammed on its brakes and came to a stop an inch from Nicholas's leg.

N
icholas lay there for a heartbeat, not believing the car hadn't hit him. He sat up slowly, sent a prayer of thanks heavenward. But there was no time to rejoice that he hadn't been smeared across the street. He grabbed Mr. Olympic's leg and landed on top of him. No way was he getting away again.

The idiot tried to twist around to hit him, but Nicholas clipped Mr. Olympic in the jaw with his elbow, stunning him.
Perfect.
Nicholas jumped to his feet and pulled the man up with him. He thought of the Taser and how he'd been sure he was dying and slammed Mr. Olympic hard against a parked Audi, face-first.

Mike grabbed his arms behind him while Nicholas frisked him. He found an H&K MK23 pistol, a mobile phone, and two long-bladed stilettos, one of them still stained with Mr. Pearce's blood.

Nicholas jerked the man's head back. “Listen to me, we're federal agents. What in bloody hell are you up to, mate? Why did you kill Mr. Pearce?”

A sneer, nothing more.

Mike got in his face. “You assaulted a federal agent with your Taser, you idiot, and that means no one's going to play with you
anymore. Tell me your name, now. Tell us why you murdered Mr. Pearce. What were you arguing about with him?”

Mr. Olympic bared his teeth, meant to be a grin, but wasn't.

Mike said, “No wallet, no ID, but you'll be in the system. We'll know who you are within the hour, so you might as well tell us now.”

“Come on, mate, don't be daft. Who are you?”

The man opened his mouth, but no words came out. They saw a look of horror in his eyes, then panic, sharp, cold panic—Mr. Olympic's eyes rolled back in his head. He seized, a bubbling white froth spewed out of his mouth, then he slumped against Nicholas.

Mike screamed into the walkie, “We need a medic, right now.” Nicholas let him slide down to the sidewalk. Mike felt for his pulse, started a CPR checklist, but Nicholas pulled her back.

“Let me go, we need him alive.”

“It's too late,” he said. They looked at the man's face, gone blue now, dark eyes staring blankly up at them. A few more muscle twitches and he stopped moving.

Bystanders were in a circle around them, excited and horrified, knowing death when they saw it. The NYPD officer who'd nearly hit Nicholas rushed to help. He saw the man lying on the sidewalk. “What happened? I didn't think I hit you. What happened to him?”

“No, you didn't hit me, it's something else,” Nicholas said, and turned to Mike. “Stay with him.” He stood, raised his creds high, told the crowd he was FBI and they needed to move back, this was now a crime scene and there was nothing to see, it was all over. He heard Mike say to the officer, “I don't know what happened. We were chasing him—he killed a man on Wall Street, but he went down; why, I don't know. We were trying to help.”

Special Agent Ben Houston pulled up in a Crown Vic beside him, hopped out of the car. He took one look at the dead man and said, “What happened to him? What'd you do to him?”

Nicholas said to Ben, aware the crowd was pressing in again, “I didn't do anything to him. I'd finally managed to bring him down. He started seizing and foaming at the mouth. Whatever happened, Mr. Olympic did it to himself.”

“Mr. Olympic? You mean, like he had cyanide in his tooth?”

“Maybe, not necessarily cyanide, but a bloody fast poison of sorts in his mouth.” He frowned at the blue face. “But why would he kill himself? What the devil is going on here?”

No answer to that. Mike said to Ben, “We need an ID on this guy, pronto. Nicholas is right, something's not kosher here, and it's possible the Devil does have something to do with it.”

Nicholas said, “I wonder why he stayed around.” He looked down at Mr. Olympic. “Why?”