She knew better than to ask that, though.
“We were married for six years and met at a mall on Christmas Eve.”
She laughed. “Who goes to the mall on Christmas Eve?”
“Guys.” He grinned at her. “I was with my brother Gabe and my cousin Zach.”
“The Army Ranger and the spy?”
“I like a woman who listens,” he said with a wink. “They are, but not in that order. Gabe’s the spy; Zach’s the soldier.”
“And… at the mall… you met…,” she coaxed.
“Laura,” he said quickly. “Was there with a friend.”
Laura. His ex-wife. She filed that, but her brain had already gone back to his impressive family. “You must have had great family Christmases.”
He frowned at her non sequitur, probably expecting questions about his wife. She was interested, but more riveted by the big family. “Christmases in my family are great, once we get back from the mall and have the feast.”
“What’s the feast?” she asked.
“The Feast of the Seven Fishes is a big Italian tradition on Christmas Eve. My grandfather goes nuts and cooks for days, and we eat for hours until it’s time to go outside and…” He laughed self-consciously. “I know it sounds preposterous to an outsider, but we go out and play in the snow until, you know, Santa comes.”
For a minute, she couldn’t speak, choked by emotion.
“I know, ridiculous,” he said, still chuckling. “But it’s a holdover from when we were kids and my parents needed to get us out and get the stuff under the tree so we could open presents all night long and sleep late.”
She had to work hard not to cry. “That sounds wonderful.”
He glanced at her, his mirth fading a little as he realized he’d struck a chord. “It’s tradition now. We still go out and have a snowball…” His voice faded. “Are you okay?”
No. She wasn’t okay. She was envious and empty and emotional. “You have no idea how lucky you are,” she said softly. “I’ve always wondered what the big, happy families were like.”
“They’re great,” he said, splitting his attention between her and the road. “I know I’m lucky.”
“And…” She had to ask. Had to. “You want a family of your own, don’t you?”
He swallowed, his expression shifting. “I take it your childhood wasn’t so happy. Tell me.”
Of course he wouldn’t share his dreams about creating a family of his own. Not with a woman who obviously could never qualify for that job. Her bloodline would have no place in a family like his. That’s what Joshua had said, over and over again.
“My childhood was… cold.” She gave her arms a rub, the chill of the subject all too familiar. “We should be there soon. Where to first? The Pug families?”
He tapped the brakes and slowed at an intersection. “You should talk about it,” he said. “My sister, Nicki, is a shrink. She’d tell you to talk about that childhood to make it go away.”
“My childhood was fine,” she said coolly, turning from him. “Now let’s just focus on finding Dr. Greenberg, okay? The sooner I can close this chapter of my life, the better chance I have for starting a new one.”
And she couldn’t forget that, not for one minute.
CHAPTER 11
When I’m on a job like this,” Marc told her as they reached the outskirts of a small but thriving coastal city centered around a horseshoe-shaped marina, “I like to sniff around. We’ll keep a low profile, just a couple of quiet American tourists.”
“Looking for a bioterrorist.”
He shot her a look. “You believe that now?”
“I don’t know what I believe.” She dropped back on the seat rest, letting out a heavy sigh.
“There’s plenty of time to turn back, get on a plane, and go home. Or Paris, if that sounds like a better plan.”
A smile lifted her lips. “You could do me a favor and not be so damn sweet.”
“Sorry.”
“I don’t want to like you,” she chided.
That made him laugh. “That makes two of us.”
“I know,” she said softly. “I don’t blame you.”
He didn’t understand the comment, so he gestured toward the town.
“Looks a lot like Marblehead and Gloucester,” he said, taking in the waterfront atmosphere as they meandered closer to the heart of the city.
“Or Bangor, Maine,” she added, indicating the pastel walk-up Victorian houses with bowed windows that lined each road, the first levels all shops and restaurants catering to tourists and, more likely, day-trippers from Belfast or even up from Dublin.
“Don’t think we’re going to run into any pharmaceutical companies up here or international conferences on botulism,” he said. “So don’t get your hopes up that there’s a simple explanation.”
“My hopes aren’t up.”
He pulled into a parking lot near the heart of the harbor, squinting into the sun to look around and memorize their location. “Let’s see what we can find out.”
They got out and started down a narrow main street, the salt air much more intense here than it was in Belfast, and warmer, thanks to the sun. The weather brought out lots of locals and tourists, and the shops had opened their doors and put items for sale in the street.
They passed a few cafés and food vendors, the smell of coffee and pastries mixing with the brine in the air.
“Have you heard of the needle and the haystack?” she asked.
“Have some faith and patience, Dev,” he said, sliding an arm around her and tucking her neatly into his side. “She isn’t going to walk out the door of one of these stores and magically appear.”
Sea breeze and sunshine made a picture-perfect day for touring a seaside resort, but not, it seemed, for finding missing persons. After a few hours of walking every cobblestone and brick, they’d stopped in multiple eateries to quietly chat up the locals and tracked down every lead Chessie could send their way. They even visited a small kennel where they saw some cute dogs, but they met no one who might have contacted a microbiologist in North Carolina and arranged for her to fly to Belfast.
They finally ate a late lunch in a pub, where they ordered a pint they both deserved and asked the waitress for a local phone book so Marc could peruse it while they ate.
“We’ve been to the three Pug name families,” Devyn said, shaking her head at the phone book like it was a lost cause. “And the breeders. What are you looking for?”
“Boxing.”
She lowered her sandwich to her plate, frowning. “Boxing as in…” She made a fist and punched the air.
“Yep. We’re thinking ‘pug’ not ‘puge.’ ” He pronounced it with a long vowel and soft g. “Like pugilist.”
“A boxer,” she said, her eyes bright. “See what you can find.”
He did, skimming through the business section looking for anything related to boxing. “Here’s a trainer, Padraig Fallon. Not too far from here, on the outskirts of Bangor. Other than that, there are some boxing rings in gyms but nothing specific.”
“We can try,” she agreed. “Nothing to lose.”
“Look.” Marc turned the book and pointed to the address. “He’s in building number seventeen.”
“And the e-mail address was puggaree17.” She lifted her mug in a mock toast. “Well done, Sherlock.”
When they each sipped, he held her gaze, something tightening in his gut. Lower.
Of course lower. Devyn Sterling was a gorgeous woman, as perfect as he liked his women to be, but perfection usually went hand in hand with misery and heartache, and he’d had enough of that in this lifetime.
He looked away, paid the bill, and hustled her out, ignoring the little flash of disappointment in her eyes.
A few minutes later, they met Padraig Fallon, a fireplug of an Irishman with clear eyes and spare words. Marc pretended to be an amateur boxer on holiday, looking for a possible place to work out, and while he talked to Padraig and tried to unde
rstand an incomprehensibly thick brogue, Devyn looked at his trophies and pictures, then spent a few minutes in the back office talking to Mrs. Fallon.
When she came out, she gave Marc a little head shake, a silent “nothing here.”
He was already feeling the same way after a conversation with the former professional boxer, and the frustration at the futile investigation of the day made him skip further questions. Instead he joined Devyn as she studied some yellowed photographs of a much younger Padraig in shorts and boxing gloves.
“I think we’re wasting our time here,” she said. “We should get back to the Europa to see if Sharon’s checked in. Maybe she came back a day early.” But he could tell from her voice that she doubted it as much as he did.
“Don’t be frustrated. This has been a purposely low-key search. If she doesn’t show up, we can come back and start asking more specific questions.”
They left and headed back to the car, taking a different route through the more residential area, turning a corner, and smelling curry. This street held all businesses, doors open to retailers selling glittery jewelry, brass art, and porcelain pieces with a heavy Indian influence.
The strings of a sitar and bells played from speakers placed over the door of one storefront, and at another, a woman in full Indian garb set small tables for lunch, smiling up at them as they passed.
In his pocket, his phone vibrated. “Maybe another lead from Chessie,” he said, taking it out and trying to decipher the caller ID in the sunshine.
“Who is it?”
“Not sure. Hello?” They slowed down in front of an empty table at a café.
“Mr. Rossi? Thomas from the Europa here.” The concierge who’d let him check out the bags.
He gave Devyn’s arm a squeeze and nodded. Maybe Sharon had come back a day earlier. They needed something to break in their favor. “What’ve you got?”
“The bags you had under watch? They’re gone.”
“Really.” Marc held up a finger to her and stepped away, not wanting to relay anything to Devyn until he had the full story, but she was already drawn to a rack of colorful scarves at a shop door.
When he was out of her hearing range, he asked, “Did Dr. Greenberg check in, then?”
“On the contrary. We had a bit of a fluffle here trying to figure out what to do with the note.”
“The note?”
“The doctor left a note for a guest, but there is no guest by that name.”
“What’s the name?”
“Devyn Sterling. The front desk brought it to me, or I suspect it would’ve just been tossed as so much rubbish. Since you’d asked about Dr. Greenberg, I kept the note for you, figuring you could tell the doctor that the note wasn’t delivered.”
Marc was quiet for a second, processing this.
“You are interested, aren’t you? ’Cause it might get lost.”
Extortionist. “I’m very interested,” Marc assured him. “Please don’t let it get lost.”
“Will do, sir.”
“As far as Dr. Greenberg, you’re absolutely sure she hasn’t checked in?”
“She?” The concierge gave a dry laugh. “Dr. Greenberg was as much a man as you and me.”
A man? “Did you see his ID? You’re certain it was the right person you gave the bags to?”
“He had the ticket—I had to give him the bags.”
He glanced over at Devyn, who was already in a conversation with the shop owner, animatedly discussing a long piece of black and yellow material. “Okay, thank you, Thomas.”
“Cheers.”
He signed off and turned to Devyn. The shopkeeper stepped inside, so he came up behind her, possessive hands on her waist, but before he could tell her his news, she held a small sign up to his face.
“I found another needle.”
Puggaree—any color—£5.
He held on to his bad news while they chatted with the shop owner, and all they came away with was a pretty black and gold silk scarf that Marc bought for Devyn after the owner informed her it was a classic Indian design symbolic of good fortune.
Well, they’d need a little of that.
Devyn fingered the creamy silk around her neck and shoulders as they left, her shoulders slumping as though weighed down by defeat.
“At least tomorrow’s Thursday,” she said as they walked to the car. “And I know she’s coming back to the hotel.”
“Maybe not.” He hated to break this news, even more when she looked up with concern in her eyes.
“What do you mean?”
“The call I got before you started sleuthing around the shop? It was from the concierge.” As he told her what he’d learned, the sun slipped behind a cloud, and Devyn’s eyes grew as gray as the sky.
“A man took her bags and left a note for me?”
He nodded. “It could be a trap just to get you again.”
But she stood rooted to the spot, her eyes searching his face, her expression stricken. “What if both my biological parents are criminals?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
“Isn’t that what you’re so determined to find out?”
“What does that make me?”
“Come on,” he said, attempting to guide her across the street to the lot where he’d parked, a strong arm over her shoulders, but her legs moved like they were leaden.
“They’re my biological parents,” she said. “They are who I am. They have everything to do with me.”
“It’s just genes and DNA, not your character, not your soul,” he told her, the words sounding hollow as he said them.
Family is who you are; he knew it, and she did, too.
He unlocked her door, his gaze hard on her as she folded into the passenger seat. He jogged around to the right side, opened the door and slid in, key poised to start the ignition.
“Really, Dev—”
“Neither one of you should move.”
Devyn let out a shriek at the man’s voice, while the only muscles Marc moved were his eyes as he gazed into the rearview mirror.
The boxer had followed them here.
“Hello, Padraig,” he said calmly, lifting both hands to show he wasn’t armed.
The older man didn’t have a weapon, at least not aimed at them, but his hands were deadly enough, and they rested like huge slabs on the backs of their seats, ready to attack.
“I have information you want.”
Marc stole a glance at Devyn, who sat stone still, eyes wide.
“No need to break into a car to give it to us,” Marc said.
“I didn’t want to be seen talking to you,” he said, his words running together like brisk Irish breezes.
“Why not?” Marc asked.
“Because it would be very dangerous for… someone,” he said, drawing out the word “dangerous” with a guttural inflection.
“Who?” Marc inched around, burning the man with a look.
But Padraig’s attention was on Devyn. “She wants your phone number.”
Devyn visibly paled but didn’t respond.
“Dr. Greenberg,” he said in response to a question she didn’t have to ask. “She wants to get in touch with you.”
“Okay,” Devyn said quietly, reaching for her bag. “I’ll write it—”
“No, just tell me. I’ll remember.”
Devyn glanced at Marc, uncertainty in her eyes. He gave a nod, sensing she needed a little coaxing.
She said the phone number once, slowly, and Padraig nodded. “Now I have a message for you from her,” he said.
Devyn leaned forward. “You do?”
Marc put his hand on the seat, looking hard at Padraig. “It better be an explanation about where she is and what she’s doing, and why someone attacked Devyn in an alley last night and mentioned her name.”
“I can tell you where she is,” the man replied. “Finding out the rest will require you to go there.”
Marc blew out a breath, but Devyn quieted him with a wave. “Please tell us
.”
“Enniskillen,” he said.
“Who are you?” Marc demanded. “How do you know her?”
“Where is Enniskillen?” Devyn asked, as though Marc hadn’t spoken.
“Devyn, we’re not going anywhere until we find out who sent us and why.”
Padraig lifted a shoulder as if he expected this, then reached into his pocket. Marc braced to get his own gun. But all Padraig pulled out was a photograph, an older picture, taken before color printers and digital cameras.
Devyn turned and took the picture, the little bit of color left in her cheeks draining away. “Oh, God.”
“Your graduation day?” Padraig asked.
She nodded.
“I guess she was there, then.”
Devyn brought a shaky hand to her mouth, looking at him, her eyes filling. “How did you get this?”
“She gave it to me as a way to convince you to go.”
Devyn studied the picture, then the man who’d given it to her. “What is this all about? Marc’s right—we need to know something before we go.”
The collar of a beat-up peacoat brushed against the few hairs he had left as he leaned forward, the thick fingers tightening on the seat. “You’ll find your mother in Enniskillen,” he repeated. “I’ve a sense she’d like to meet you before she dies.”
Devyn responded with a gasp.
There was no way he’d convince her to ignore this lead, that much Marc knew. “Where do we go when we get there?”
“Someone will meet you when you find the notes.”
Jesus, this was getting ridiculous. “What notes?” Marc demanded, leaning forward and itching to get his weapon. “Just spell it out and quit the cloak-and-dagger business. Devyn’s traveled across the ocean to find Dr. Greenberg, so just tell us where, when, and why.”
Padraig ignored the order. “Just go there. It’ll be clear to ya.” He inched to the side door and started to climb out. Halfway, he paused, dipped his head back down, and stared at Devyn.
“You know, miss, you favor your mother much more’n your dad. At least, on the outside.”
That was it, Marc knew. She’d go anywhere he said now, no questions asked. And Padraig Fallon was gone before Marc could ask anything at all.
Shiver of Fear Page 13
