“Cyanide?” Becca asked.
She watched as two officers unstrapped the suspect from the chair and dragged him out of the interrogation room.
Agent Dane paced a trench across the hallway, pounding the opposite wall each time he made a pass. “I shouldn’t have left him alone.”
“We were right in the next room. And there was a guard! There’s nothing you could have done even if you’d been standing directly over him.”
Dane stared daggers at her.
She didn’t back down. “They can hide those damn pills in a popped-out filling. They’re very small. Undetectable.”
Coming to a standstill, Dane cocked his head to one side, then the other, snapping his neck in frustration. “Right.”
Spreading an arm across her shoulders, he led her back to the adjoining room. “Didn’t need the suss, anyway. We’ve got the rock.” He smoothed that beringed thumb down the front of his suit jacket. “So you claim to have seen something in that diamond?”
A little disturbed at his abrupt personality change, Becca picked up the diamond and her light disk. One more scan with the white light proved what she’d realized before the suspect had committed suicide.
“I thought I did. But now the markings are gone. Something was on the crown. I know it.” She tilted the light, then rotated the diamond and looked at it through the side of the pavilion and back through the crown. “I don’t understand.”
“Would you tell me if you saw something?”
Snapping her gaze up to Dane, she searched his face. All business, signaled by the tight corners of his mouth. His smile was long gone.
“Are you accusing me of something?”
He shrugged. “Accusation is a harsh word.”
“So is asshole.”
He whistled and snatched for the diamond. “Watch it, Miss Whitmore. You want to play tough guy, I can match you punch for punch.”
“I thought you didn’t mind strong women?”
“Right. Strong, but not bitchy.”
Resisting a snappy riposte, Becca compressed her lips. Why were strong women always labeled “bitch”?
Moving the diamond like a magician manipulating a coin, Dane finally clasped it between his first and second fingers so the crown of the stone sat like a ring. “Maybe I should have forensics check it out.”
“I’m here for a reason, Agent Dane. Forensics won’t know the first thing about gemstones.”
Becca nabbed the rock, redirecting her rising ire with a heavy exhalation. How easily she’d assumed the agent’s peevishness, merely by breathing the same air as Austin Powers here. She wasn’t sure her sanity was safe.
“I think I need some breakfast,” she decided. She packaged the diamond in its plastic evidence bag. “I’m going to need to do some more work with the diamond.”
“So many needs,” he said, with a dramatic gesture of his arms. “I need answers.”
“Which you will have. But not right now. I don’t have the advanced equipment to view the stone.”
Instantly, Becca knew who could assist her. She had worked with Lester Price a year ago on a case that had tracked a dirty gems dealer from New York to the seedy back alleys of London. Rubies and sapphires were being transferred in live geese by an Irish cartel. Extracting the gems? Not a pretty picture.
“May I take this with me?”
Agent Dane gave a wry chuckle, which soon segued to straight-faced disbelief. “You want to tote a ten-carat diamond out of here, just like a bit of all right?”
She nodded.
He swiped long fingers over his clean-shaven chin. Glee glittered in his eyes. “You are bold, Miss Whitmore. Now I do like a bold woman, but they have protocols here at Scotland Yard. As well, I’m taking that hunk of carbon into evidence on behalf of MI-6.”
Becca countered with an authoritative stance, arms crossed and feet spread. “I need to borrow it for a few hours. If you can’t approve such a loan, Agent Dane, you’ll have to let me speak to your superior.”
“No need to get all ballsy on me, love.”
“One of us had better use them.”
“Oh ho?” He made a grab for the plastic evidence bag, but Becca was quicker. “Fine. I’ll see what I can arrange. I’m sure you are trustworthy?”
“I am, Agent—”
“Could we make it Dane? And I’ll call you Becca.”
She was about to correct with a “Ms. Whitmore” to his retreating back, but she held her tongue.
He’d gone to see if she could borrow the stone? Not a likely outcome. That gave her just enough time to get the hell out of Dodge.
There was a goodly amount of paperwork involved in borrowing a priceless diamond from evidence. Exactly what was required to dissuade the woman.
Dane smiled to himself as he shuffled the stack of forms and carbons. Cheeky woman. To ask such a favor? Pretty bit of New York, that one.
He liked New York, the skyscrapers flashing like steel robots stalking through a kitschy sci-fi movie, the raucous nightlife that mixed all levels of human society, the models on virtually every corner. Or were they prostitutes? Either way, a bit of all right, that.
But Becca Whitmore had class. Soft, pretty-smelling wavy hair that looked like the sun had streaked it— Dane knew better—it was an expensive salon treatment, likely. Ferragamos, tweed and Burberry. Stuffy class—a one-eighty change from the women he was accustomed to keeping on his arm.
As far as female agents partnering on the job, he preferred them in the past tense. Went. Gone. It was too difficult to work with a woman, especially one who fancied herself so professional and able to do anything the big boys could do. Doubtful New York could manage a foot chase in those heels.
Though an expert in gemstones wouldn’t hurt this investigation. He’d meant it when he’d said he couldn’t recognize the real thing from a fake. Who could without the proper training? He’d keep her around for a bit of all right.
British military intelligence wanted what was inside the diamond. And MI-6 had been charged to get it—at any price, and before the U.S. snatched it. Intel had been intercepted during a routine tap of SVR communications. Of course, objectives could be…embellished. And if the trail of bread crumbs led where he hoped, the end result would see Dane supremely satisfied.
He thought of the chunk of carbon the woman had handled like a toy. Something inside and then…nothing? What game was she playing?
Dane paused in the open doorway to the interrogation room where he’d left Miss Whitmore. The table had been cleared of her tools and fancy leather valise. New York had left the room.
And so had the diamond.
Cell phone pressed to her ear, Becca walked swiftly down the block, the blue oval Scotland Yard sign fading behind her. The morning had not gotten any warmer. Her breath condensed before her and she swore she could almost hear it crackle.
Ten steps to her right a boy sat on a city bench, his head buried in a book.
She wondered which direction it was to Liverpool, and if there was a place along the way that served tea and raspberry scones like the delicious ones she used to get at the Plaza in New York. She missed Jake’s poached eggs and caviar. Her butler-cum-chauffeur pampered her. She deserved it.
She waited on hold as Zeek checked her files. The GIA report on the diamond should have been obtained from MaryEllen Sommerfield’s shop by now.
She’d worked closely with Zeek on the African conflict case last year, but had never met her in person. She didn’t even know the CIA handler’s last name, or if Zeek was her real name, for that matter. But it wasn’t important. The Gotham Roses were assigned to various contacts at the CIA, FBI, Homeland Security, or whatever authority the Governess had them working with on a particular case.
“Becca?”
“I’m here, Zeek. What did you find? Did you get the GIA report?”
“Negative.” A loud snap cracked the phone line. “I can’t imagine what the report would provide beyond—what is it?—cut, color, clarity?”
“Yes, those things. Plus original seller’s name, possibly. I’ve got the diamond in hand, by the way.”
“Excellent. I’ll arrange for a pickup.”
“Hold off, will you? I’m taking it to a friend who has the proper equipment so I can really get a good look at it. It’s either incredibly flawed or, well… I’m not sure.” Becca toed the curb, where a black rubber skid mark curled high.
“Cool. I’ll give you a few hours.” Snaps crackled across the phone lines— Zeek had a serious gum habit. Becca assumed Zeek was her age, maybe even younger. Zeek must have been a child genius to have been recruited by the CIA and assigned such high-profile cases. “I do have a tag on the second stone. It’s been traced to a Parisian dealer who is holding an auction this evening. I’ll want you on a flight to Paris as soon as possible.”
“Three countries in one day? Why not.”
“You meet the MI-6 agent?”
“Yes. And you neglected to tell me I’d have a partner.”
“Couldn’t be prevented. It was arranged while you were flying across the ocean, after a bit of to-do, of course, with MI-5. The U.S. and the Brits tend to graciously accept each other’s interference. It’s goodwill, Becca. Play along for now.”
“Right.”
“I’ll be in contact soon.”
“Thanks.” She clicked off.
Goodwill? Joy.
Becca had learned over the four years she’d been working covertly for the Roses that people in the government and justice system could be bought for a price. And while she’d had the pleasure of busting some high-ranking law enforcement officials and rich old corporate bastards, the biggest thrill was in knowing she had busted the men who considered her a piece of arm candy. Oh yeah, she could spread around the goodwill.
She and her sister agents often joked how they should be called the Gotham Thorns, for they were a real thorn in the sides for the big boys of high-society crime. Specialized agents, they were as comfortable handling a semiautomatic as they were sashaying through Saks in their Jimmy Choos and Fred Leighton jewels.
Becca touched the thin gold choker about her neck. It didn’t hook in the back, which made it easy to remove. Despite her social status, she wasn’t much for flashy accessories. An inch-long heart dangled from the band.
Shuffling her feet to fight off the chill, she cursed the need to wear the calfskin sling-backs. They weren’t at all warm, but the heels were chunky, good for movement.
To her right sat the boy reading the comic book. Looking about thirteen years old, he huddled on a stone bench. His legs were covered with a tartan blanket and he was bundled against the cold with earmuffs, mittens, scarf, you name it.
Odd place to sit and relax with a book. Was he waiting for someone inside the station? Was he homeless? The blanket seemed in nice shape, as was his clothing.
Becca inched to the side, keeping one eye peeled for a taxi and the other for Agent Dane.
“Oh, Batman,” she said, glancing down at the comic book the boy clutched in his hands.
He didn’t look up.
“Is that the issue where Batman gets berated by the women of Gotham City for not treating the opposite sex fairly?”
The boy’s head spun around. “How’d you know stuff like that, lady?”
She shrugged. “I’m a big fan of Batman. I’ve read them all.”
“Really? Fancy-looking lady like you?”
“I guess so. I feel as if we’ve led the same lives.”
“You and Batman?”
“Uh-huh.”
The boy made a chuffing sound. Freckles danced on his wrinkling nose. “You know Bruce Wayne is a millionaire, don’t you, lady?”
“I do. So are you here alone?”
“Me mum’s inside paying her parking tickets.” He peered through strands of long dark hair. “So you’re saying you’re like Bruce Wayne. A man so rich he could buy all of the British Isles if he wanted. A man who wears a bat costume and fights crime?” His chuckle dismissed Becca to the rank of fool.
All she could think was…exactly. She related so much with Bruce Wayne, living the high life in the eyes of the public, concealing his dark secret from friends and family. Chasing bad guys under the guise of secrecy, fearing discovery would bring danger to her family. She even had an Alfred who looked after her secret and kept her home: Jake.
“You’re a loony, lady.”
“Maybe. Oh!”
She was grabbed from behind, gently, but it was a surprise all the same. Then the metallic bite of cold steel encircled her left wrist.
“What are you—?” She lifted the valise, now attached to her arm with chain links. “Handcuffs?”
The boy’s attention was suddenly keen. “Mister, did you put the cuffs to the lady?”
“Safety precaution,” he whispered in her ear. “Shouldn’t have let you vacate the building without it.” To the boy he announced, “Indeed I did, kiddywink. And now I’ve plans to take the lady home with me and make her my naughty sex slave.”
“Wicked!” the boy said.
“No, I’m—” Becca was utterly horrified the man would say such a thing to a kid. Becca was prepared to tell the truth. She carried a valuable gemstone in a mere combination-dial-locked valise, which could be easily accessed by even the stupidest of thieves.
On the other hand…
With a surrendering sigh, she offered to the boy, “What he said.”
The boy giggled, then became engrossed in his comic book again.
“Have something you were going to tell me?” Dane asked.
“I should ask you the same.”
“Need to know, love. Need to know.”
“Of all the… Look, Agent Dane, if we’re going to work together on this case I’ll need access to all your intel.”
“I’ll ask for the same.”
“Very well, there are two diamonds.”
“Do you also know the second has been placed up for auction this evening in Paris?”
“So, off to Paris?”
“Yes, but only after I’ve made a stop by a friend’s. I want him to take a look at this diamond. After which I will return it to evidence here at Scotland Yard.”
“From your lips, love. I’ll believe it when I see it.” He paused, thinking. “Come along, my pampered American pretty, I’ll not let you out of my sight. My car is right across the street. I wouldn’t dream of allowing you to endure the tortures of London cab drivers.”
“Now he’s suddenly dashing,” she muttered.
With a wave to the boy on the bench, Becca followed Dane across the cobbled street. While the man had the remarkable ability to say the wrong thing, his breezy manner and gregarious posture tempted like the Pied Piper.
He didn’t drive a fancy sports car. In fact, Becca wasn’t sure what model or make the tiny white-and-black vehicle was, only that it was half the size of a Volkswagen. It wasn’t so much parked as placed at the curb, as if a toy in an oversize children’s play scene.
“What the hell is it?”
“A fortwo.” He gave the back wheel a kick. “You don’t like it?”
“It’s only half a car!”
“This is a proper car. Not a lumbering behemoth like your Yank tanks. What do they call them? Humvees?”
“Hummers.”
“No thanks, I hardly know you.” His wink neutralized her sudden urge to slap British face. “But I wager a guess you are accustomed to limousines filled with champagne and caviar. Tough bit of luck, Becky.”
Enough. Becca gripped Dane’s collar and tugged him into her space. “Becca. Or better yet, Miss Whitmore, if you please.”
“Sure thing, love.” He liked to wink at her. “Buck up. It’ll be an adventure.”
The silver iPod attached to Dane’s car radio pumped American pop music from the eighties through the speakers. Becca winced as each tune reminded her of her childhood. She was so glad to be finished with boarding school. Conformity had never been her forte.
“Here it is— Price’s shop,” Dane announced. “This is one of the nicer neighborhoods, I must admit. But still a dive. This your suss?”
“He’s not a suss—er, suspect. Lester Price is a technical wizard. And he owns practically every electronic device known to man, one of which should be a high-powered microscope.”
“So let’s go in.”
Becca eyed the doughnut store across the street from Lester’s place. “Still haven’t had breakfast,” she murmured longingly.
Dane saw her glance at the shop. “Is that a hint?”
She batted her eyelashes.
“Ah, sign language. Very good, love. What do you want?”
Biting back an “I am not your love,” Becca reminded herself that playing nice was key to accessing this agent’s secrets. “A scone, please. No sugar, no frosting. Just plain.”
“I don’t do sugar.”
“Ah. I bet you’re a joy over dinner. Are you as high maintenance as I suspect?”
She swung her legs out to the slushy pavement and retorted, “I am.”
“Scone, no sugar, ban the frosting. Coming right up!”
She dismissed him with a wave of her hand and crossed the street to the glass-fronted shop. As Dane entered the doughnut store, she called, “Take your time!”
“Haste, my love,” Dane replied. “I cannot part from the pretty stone for too long.”
After placing his order, Dane stepped to the store window and peered across the street.
He trusted Lester Price. The über-geek had once assisted on a racketeering case that had resulted in bringing down a minor betting scam, which had then led to information on one of London’s most notorious gambling dens.
No, it wasn’t Price Dane was worried about.
He pulled out his mobile phone and called headquarters. “Silver Fox. Location— London. Got a name I want you to check out.”
“Go ahead, Agent Dane.”
“Becca Whitmore of New York City. CIA…maybe. Get back to me with everything you can find.”