“Yes, of course,” Mike said in the background. “Überassassin, arguably the most deadly in the world. He’s a really bad dude, on everyone’s most-wanted list. Why, what’s up, Dillon?”
“We found out a couple of hours ago that he’s here in the United States. The Mossad believes he’s going to try to assassinate the vice president. Maybe others, still unverified. Probably Iran and Hezbollah behind it. Yes, yes, I know, the peace talks.”
Stunned silence, then Mike’s voice in the background: “And I thought our problems topped the list. You’re not putting us on, are you, Dillon?”
“Wish I were. Let me tell you all of it.” After Savich had briefed them, he said, “Sherlock says not to worry, that I’ll be a great coordinator, and look at the bright side, it’s only a day or two before we get this wrapped up. Now tell me about the fire in Brooklyn, your witness, and whatever else I need to know.”
Once they’d told him about the shooting, the fire, and the black Suburban that carried away an unconscious woman lying beside the burning building, Savich said, “It’s all coming together; we simply need more and we need it fast. I fear there’s another terrorist attack coming and we have to stop it. Find that Suburban and find that woman. We’ve got to know who pulled her out of the fire.”
“She’s the key, I know it,” Mike said.
“Could be. Keep me posted. Nicholas, give me the description your witness gave you of the Middle Eastern man, then send me the sketch the moment you get it.”
41
KING TO G1
West 30th Street, Chelsea
New York City
The black Suburban was registered to an address in the middle of the block of 30th Street. It was a brown brick high-rise, recently redone. The long, narrow lobby was clearly visible through the big front windows. They saw a doorman inside, another man behind a counter. Tenant mailboxes filled the wall opposite the doors.
Mike pulled the Crown Vic up in a no-parking zone, put her FBI card in the window.
“Gray said fifteenth floor,” Nicholas said. “At the very end of the east hallway, 1507.”
They breezed by the doorman and the young guy behind the counter, their creds held high. “FBI, we’ll talk to you later,” Mike said. The elevator was fast, with no tenants getting on to slow them down. Mike knocked on the bright red door of 1507, waited, knocked again.
Then, “Coming!”
They knew they were being studied through the peephole, so Mike held up her creds.
“FBI. We’d like to talk to you.”
They heard chains falling, a dead bolt twisting, and then the door was pulled open
by a pretty young woman sitting squarely in her mid-twenties. She had long, straight black hair and wore stylish black glasses, a short plaid skirt, and Doc Martens on her small feet. A perfect advertisement for Ms. New York Hip.
“Goodness, FBI?” She splayed her hands in front of her. “Listen, I haven’t done anything, I mean, I couldn’t have even if I wanted to since I’ve been here all morning. Oh, I’m sorry, come in, come in.”
She waved them toward the living room, but Mike shook her head. “Agents Caine and Drummond, FBI. And you are?”
“Melody Finder.”
“Ms. Finder, do you own a black Suburban?”
Ms. Hip laughed. “Not a chance. I’m a lifelong New Yorker. I have a driver’s license only for ID.”
Nicholas showed her the screen of his phone. “Ms. Finder, we show a black 2009 Chevy Suburban registered to this address. In the name Melody Finder and that’s you.”
“Well, yes, you already know I’m Melody Finder, but I think I’d know if I had a car.” A gray tabby poked its head from beneath a green-and-white-striped sofa, then ambled over to ribbon between Melody’s feet. “Tigger, not now, you’re going to make me fall on my face. Oh, dear, get back, no, you can’t run out!” She grabbed the cat. “Sorry about that, I really need to close the door or my critters will make a break for it. Please, come in and tell me why you think I own this car. There’s got to be a mistake.”
The space was a small loft with floor-to-ceiling windows and lots of natural light. Not much furniture, only the sofa and three chairs, all in shades of green and white, a couple end tables loaded with magazines. A big silver tabby lay on its back in the middle of the sofa, smack in the center of a shaft of sunlight.
“That’s Pooh.”
At the sound of his name, the cat cracked an eye, gave them a stare, then promptly fell back to sleep.