“Hey, Damian,” she said. “I was just watching an Irish rainbow and thought I’d call. Taryn’s on her way, and Mom and Dad will be here in time for dinner and Irish music. We’ll miss you.”
“I’ll be in Ireland in two weeks.”
“I’ll be in Boston then. I leave tomorrow. It’s not as spur-of-the-moment as it sounds. I’m staying in Taryn’s apartment on Beacon Hill. Doesn’t that sound cozy?”
“What’s going on, Sophie?”
“They teach you that in FBI school—how to turn someone saying ‘cozy’ into something suspicious? Never mind. I was just out on the Beara Peninsula where that serial killer struck. Would you know if he was involved in smuggling and selling stolen artifacts?”
Silence.
Sophie knew she’d struck a nerve but pretended to be oblivious. “Damian? Are you there? Are we still connected?”
“We’re still connected. Any kind of stolen artifacts in mind?”
“Pagan Celtic.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s my area of expertise. Keira Sullivan’s stone angel was Early Medieval Celtic from the sounds of it. I’m just curious if this Augustine character was into Celtic works in general.”
“He was interested in killing people, Sophie.”
She looked out at the pier, tourists gathering for a boat tour of the coast. “I get your point, Damian, but you know what I mean.”
“You’re the archaeologist. I’m the FBI agent. You tell me. Do you know anything about Celtic artifacts showing up on the black market?”
This time, she was the one who didn’t answer.
“Sophie?”
“My battery’s dying. I’ll call you later.”
She disconnected and dropped her phone back in her jacket pocket. As if putting herself on the radar of one law enforcement officer today wasn’t good enough, she’d had to call her FBI agent brother. She started her car and let herself off the hook. Calling Damian made sense. He was assigned to FBI headquarters in Washington. He could find out just about anything.
She wondered if she’d have a better chance if she told him about her experience last year.
“Probably not,” she whispered as she drove back down the quiet street. The Irish authorities already knew about the incident. If she told Damian, he’d look into it, and she didn’t want to send him and the FBI off on some wild-goose chase if she were totally off target.
More to the point, he’d tell their parents, and why get them all worked up over what could be nothing?
She had a few hours before they arrived. Her sister would get there sooner. Sophie decided to forget missing Celtic artifacts and jailed serial killers for the moment and head to the house and cook, clean and do what she could to make her life look as if her family didn’t need to worry about her.
3
Beara Peninsula, Southwest Ireland
A wild hurling match was on the small television in the sole village pub. Scoop sat on a stool at the five-foot polished wood bar. He’d had soup and brown bread, then settled in with a Guinness during an afternoon shower. The peat fire was lit. The bartender’s brown-and-white springer spaniel was asleep on the hearth.
Life could be worse.
“I miss my garden,” he said to Eddie O’Shea, the wiry, energetic barman. In late June, Eddie had helped identify Jay Augustine as the man responsible for the sheep’s blood up at Keira’s ruin.
Eddie busied himself at the sink behind the bar. “Time to go home, is it?”
“Past time, probably. I might have some butternut squash I can save. The firefighters and paramedics trampled the hell out of my tomatoes and cauliflower. Of course,” Scoop added with a grin, “they also saved my sorry life.”
“And you saved Bob’s daughter,” Eddie said. He’d met Bob O’Reilly on Bob’s trip to Ireland earlier in the summer. Bob’d had to see Keira’s ruin, too. “A few tomatoes are a small price, don’t you think?”
“No price at all.” Scoop stared into his Guinness, but he was back in Boston on that hot summer afternoon, minutes before the bomb went off. Fiona O’Reilly, Bob’s nineteen-year-old daughter, had dropped by to see her father. She was a harp player, as smart and as pretty as her cousin Keira and as stubborn as her father. “This wasn’t Fiona’s fight. She was an innocent bystander.”
“Was it your fight?”
“Doesn’t matter. It’s my fight now.” He thought of the special investigation back in Boston. Had his bomber been staring him in the face? Had he missed something? “I want to know who planted that bomb, Eddie. It could have been anyone. The meter-reader, the plumber, the mailman, a cab driver. Pigeons. Who knows?”
Eddie reached for Scoop’s empty glass. “You go after police officers suspected of wrongdoing. Do you suspect it’s a cop you’re after?”
Scoop didn’t respond, and Eddie didn’t push him for an answer. Few of the handful of people in the pub seemed to be paying attention to the game on the television. Most were locals, but Scoop picked out a young couple who undoubtedly had come in on the bicycles he’d seen outside the pub. He could hear the pair chatting in German. They looked happy and carefree, but probably they weren’t. There’d be issues back home—jobs, relatives, health issues. Something.
No one’s life was simple.
Definitely time to go home. Maybe being back in Boston would jog his memory about the minutes, hours and even days before the bomb blast. After three weeks recuperating on the other side of the Atlantic, he hadn’t produced a face, a name, an incident—a shred of a memory that would take him from the shadows of uncertainty to the identity of the person who had assembled the bomb and delivered it to the home of three detectives.
He’d have to face finding temporary housing when he returned to Boston. The triple-decker was badly burned and under repair. Bob O’Reilly was from Southie and knew carpenters, electricians and plumbers and was overseeing the work, but it’d be a while before any of them could move back in.
Scoop eased off the stool, left enough euros to cover the tab and headed back outside. The village was quiet, the sun shining again, glistening on the rain-soaked sidewalk. Brightly painted houses lined both sides of the street. He half expected Sophie Malone to walk up from the harbor.
It was eerie, that certainty that he hadn’t seen the last of her.
He shook off his strange mood and turned onto a narrow lane that ran parallel to the bay, at the foot of the steep hills that formed the spine of the peninsula. A half-dozen brown cows meandered down the middle of the lane toward him. City cop though he was, Scoop had grown up in the country and didn’t mind cows. He stepped close to an ancient stone wall and let them pass. As he continued down the lane, he tried to pay attention to the details around him and not get lost in his own thoughts. He noticed a half-dozen sheep in a pen and heard more sheep baaing up in the hills.
He came to the traditional stone cottage Keira had rented back in June and let him use the past two weeks. She’d come to Ireland to paint, walk, research her old story and delve into her Irish roots, but her summer hadn’t worked out the way she’d meant it to. The cottage was just the sort of place he’d have expected her to stay. Getting blown against his compost bin and almost bleeding to death had helped him realize he could have fallen in love with her, but being here in Ireland had convinced him that he hadn’t—that it wasn’t meant to be.
Keira was meant for Simon Cahill, the bull of an FBI agent who’d come here to search for her when she’d gone missing in the Irish hills.
It’d been a hell of a summer, Scoop thought.
A massive rosebush dominated the otherwise prosaic front yard, its pink blossoms perking up in the sunshine. He noticed the kitchen door was partially open and immediately tensed, although more out of force of habit than any real alarm. He wasn’t expecting company, and his rental car was the only vehicle in the gravel driveway. Most likely he simply hadn’t shut the door properly when he’d left for the ruin that morning.
Wrong on all accoun
ts, he observed as a man with medium brown hair eyed him from the small pine table where Keira had left an array of art supplies. He had several days’ growth of beard and looked exhausted, if also intense and alert. He wore canvas pants and a lightweight leather jacket. “I never could draw worth a bloody damn.” He spoke with a British accent. He leaned back in his chair and held up a sheet of paper with a crude pencil drawing. “What do you think?”
“Is it a sheep?”
“There you go. No. It’s an Irish wolfhound.”
“I was just kidding. I knew it was a dog.” Scoop pulled off his jacket and set his backpack on the floor. “Myles Fletcher, right?”
“Right you are,” Fletcher said matter-of-factly, setting his sketch back on the table. “Did you ever want to be an artist when you were a boy, Detective Wisdom?”
“Nope. Always wanted to be a cop. I bet you always wanted to be a spy.”
The Brit grinned. “Simon Cahill warned me you were no-nonsense.”
“You’re SAS and British SIS. Secret Intelligence Service—MI6. James Bond’s outfit.”
“All right, then.” Fletcher yawned, his gray eyes red-rimmed. Wherever he’d come from, he hadn’t had much sleep. “You’ll want to know why I’m here. I’ll get straight to the point. I have information that a Boston police officer was involved in making and planting the explosive device that gave you those scars.”
Scoop remained on his feet, silent, still.
“This police officer worked with the men who engineered the kidnapping of Abigail Browning. Smart businessman that he was, Norman Estabrook delegated the job. He wanted Abigail. He didn’t care how he got her.”
Scoop leaned against a counter. During Abigail’s three-day ordeal, he had been in the hospital, out of commission. Fletcher’s role in helping her wasn’t common knowledge even in the police department, but Scoop had managed to piece together various tidbits and drag more out of his friends and colleagues in law enforcement. The Brit had latched on to a connection between drug traffickers and a terrorist cell and following their trail had taken him to American billionaire Norman Estabrook. For at least two years, no one, including Fletcher’s own people back in London, knew Fletcher was even alive.
In the meantime, the FBI was onto Estabrook’s association with the drug traffickers and had him under surveillance in the form of Simon Cahill. They arrested the hedge-fund billionaire in June. By late August, he was free again. He disappeared, and Myles Fletcher, still deep undercover, still on the trail of his terrorists, found himself in the middle of the angry, entitled billionaire’s elaborate scheme to exact revenge on the FBI for his downfall. Estabrook’s scheme included setting off a bomb as a diversion to kidnap Abigail, FBI Director John March’s daughter, a Boston homicide detective and Scoop’s friend.
Caught between a rock and a hard place, Fletcher had done what he could to help Abigail. Once she was safe, he took off again.
Now he was sitting in an Irish cottage kitchen drawing pictures of dogs.
What a day, Scoop thought. First Sophie Malone, now Myles Fletcher.
A coincidence? Not a chance. “You wouldn’t be here if the main thrust of your mission wasn’t completed,” Scoop said.
Fletcher shrugged. “I suspect your bad cop is someone you know,” he said. “Someone you wouldn’t think twice to have over for a pint or two.”
“Any names?”
“No. Sorry.” Fletcher stretched out his legs, looking, if possible, even more tired. “I’ve done no research on my own. My focus has been on other matters. This is your fight. You were injured in the blast, and you work in internal affairs. Even if you don’t know this particular officer yourself, you’ll have instincts about those who go bad.”
“Where did you get this information?”
“Here and there,” Fletcher said vaguely as he rose, visibly stiff. “It’s my guess that these thugs, including your bad cop, were involved in other illegal activities in Boston, and that’s how they hooked up with Norman Estabrook.”
Scoop stood up from the counter but said nothing. The Brit was the one doing the talking.
Fletcher picked up a rust-colored pencil from the table. “But you were onto a connection between these thugs and a member of the department before Estabrook snatched Abigail, weren’t you, Detective?”
Scoop thought a moment before he responded. “I had a few whispers. Nothing more.”
“I imagine that’s the truth, as far as it goes. Frustrating, when you know some but not enough…” Fletcher let it go at that. “I expect that you’re very good at your job.”
“So are you. You’re more adept than most at lies and deception.”
“That’s why I’m alive, here, trying my hand at a sketch. Let’s spare each other, then, shall we?” He ran his thumb over the sharp tip of the pencil. “I’m impressed with what Keira can do with colored pencils. I’d always thought they were for children, not working artists.” He set the pencil back on the table and flipped through a stack of sketches Keira had started of various bucolic Irish scenes, pausing at one of a shovel laid across an old, muddy wheelbarrow in a garden. “I wouldn’t mind living inside one of these pictures. A green pasture, a stream, prancing lambs. A beautiful fairy princess. What about you, Detective?”
“I grew up on a farm. I liked it, but I’m not nostalgic about that life. What else can you tell me?”
“There’s a woman. An American archaeologist. She’s been doing scholarly work in Ireland and Great Britain for the past several years.”
“Sophie Malone,” Scoop said.
Fletcher glanced at him, then continued, “You ran into her when she was here in the village earlier today, didn’t you?”
“Yep. I did. Red hair, blue jacket. Had a big black dog with her and talked about the wee folk.” Scoop picked up the pencil Fletcher had used and realized it was nearly the same shade as Sophie’s hair. A deliberate choice on the Brit’s part? “The dog wasn’t hers. Want to tell me what’s going on, Fletcher?”
“I wish I knew. I strongly suspect the men our dead billionaire hired were also involved with Jay Augustine. I don’t know in what capacity.”
Nothing legal, Scoop thought, but he said, “Augustine’s a serial killer. Serial killers tend to be solitary.”
“I’m not talking about his violence. Augustine was also a respected dealer in fine art and antiques.”
“What’s that got to do with Sophie Malone?”
Fletcher grinned suddenly. “I’ve no idea. As I said, I haven’t done any research of my own. I suppose Augustine could have consulted her as an expert in his role as a legitimate dealer.”
“Are you linking her to this bad cop?”
“I’m saying her name came up at the same time as the likelihood that a police officer constructed and planted the bomb that exploded at your house last month.” Fletcher walked over to the front window, determined and focused but also obviously past being dead tired. “I wish I could be more helpful.”
“Funny, you and Sophie Malone turning up here within a few hours of each other.”
“Isn’t it, though?” He nodded out the window. “Here we go. Just what we need.”
For all Scoop knew, the big black dog was back with a troop of fairies.
Instead, FBI Special Agent Simon Cahill and Will Davenport—a British lord and another James Bond type—entered through the kitchen door. Casual, irreverent, black-haired Simon and wealthy, regal, fair-haired Will, both around Scoop’s age, in their mid-thirties, were as different in appearance as they were in temperament and background, but they were close friends.
Right behind them was Josie Goodwin. She had on a sleek belted raincoat, her chin-length brown hair pulled back and her mouth set firmly as she shut the door behind her. She pretended to be Will’s able assistant but was undoubtedly SIS herself. Scoop had met Josie and Will at Abigail’s wedding at Davenport’s country house in the Scottish Highlands. Josie, who was in her late thirties, had muttered over hors d’oeuvres at t
he reception that if she ever saw Myles Fletcher again, she would smother him with a pillow.
As far as Scoop knew, this was their first meeting since Fletcher had slipped undercover two years ago, leaving everyone he knew—including Josie Goodwin and Will Davenport—to think he was dead.
She entered the kitchen without a word and leaned against a counter. Strongly built and obviously well trained, she looked as if she’d have no problem dispatching even a hard-assed spy like Myles Fletcher.
Fletcher ignored her and directed his attention at the two men. “Simon. Will. It’s good to see you.” Finally he turned to Josie and winked at her. “Hello, love.”
“Bastard,” she said, then beamed a friendly smile at Scoop. “You’re looking well, Detective. Much better than at Abigail’s wedding. Some of your scars seem to be fading already.”
“I feel fine,” Scoop said. “I’m ready to get back to work.”
Simon stood by the kitchen door, near Josie’s position at the counter. “Moneypenny here wouldn’t listen to good advice and stay in London. She had to follow us to Ireland.”
She gave Simon a good-natured roll of her eyes.
Across the tiny cottage, Fletcher was at the front window again. “More company.”
Scoop noticed Simon’s expectant, troubled expression, but Will Davenport was more difficult to read. The kitchen door opened on a gust of wind, and flaxen-haired Keira Sullivan entered the cottage, followed in another half second by black-haired Lizzie Rush. They were both thirty, both coming to terms with the dramatic changes in their lives over the past summer. Lizzie was Will Davenport’s new love, and however she and Keira had gotten to the little Irish village, it hadn’t, obviously, been with either him or Simon. Scoop was trained in reading body language, but it didn’t take an expert to detect the tension between the two pairs of lovers.
With a curt nod at Davenport, Keira swept past Simon and greeted Scoop with a kiss on the cheek. “This place agrees with you,” she said, then, without waiting for an answer, turned to Josie. “Lizzie and I were in Dublin. It took a bit of doing on our part to figure out what was going on. I’m glad you could get here.”
The Whisper Page 3
