“It is in Ireland. Wish you were there after today?”
“Being there wouldn’t erase what I saw this morning.” She looked away from O’Reilly. The musicians were chatting among themselves, more people had crowded together at the bar. She heard glasses clinking, a shriek of laughter. Finally she said, “I worked here as a student. I assume you know that. I’d see John March every once in a while. Not often. My older brother stopped by one day. He was in law school at the time.”
“Now he’s an FBI agent,” Bob said.
“Jeremiah Rush told you, too?”
“Scoop. You should have known he’d find out. He’s a bulldog.”
“And he has his sources—in Ireland as well as here. By the way, Lizzie Rush will probably remember Damian.”
“She’s more of a pit bull than a bulldog.”
Sophie smiled but said nothing. Lieutenant O’Reilly couldn’t drop the subject of her brother fast enough to suit her.
He was watching his daughter as he continued. “Scoop doesn’t let his heart get involved in his work. He keeps a tight rein on himself, but something about you has gotten to him.”
That worked both ways, she thought. “We’ve only known each other a few days.” Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Fiona O’Reilly give her a wary look. Sophie wasn’t offended. Scoop had saved Fiona’s life. It stood to reason she’d be protective of him. “I wish I knew more.”
“You know what happened to you in that cave.”
“Yes, I do, and I’ve told the truth about my experience.”
“I like this place,” O’Reilly said, deceptively casual. “I never even stepped foot in here until a few weeks ago. Turns out my daughter and her friends had been playing here for a few months. John March has been coming here for thirty years. He knew Lizzie Rush’s mother before she died. How’d you end up working here?”
She knew it wasn’t an idle question. “I needed a job and I discovered the Whitcomb had an Irish pub.”
“You were born in Ireland, right?”
“That’s right. In Cork.”
“Scoop’s from the sticks. He always wanted to be a big-city cop. He’s poised for rapid advancement in the department.”
“You don’t want me to get him into trouble.”
“If he gets in trouble, it’ll be his fault not yours.” O’Reilly paused, listening as his daughter played a few warm-up notes on her small lap harp. “Fiona’s in music school. She’s taking violin and conducting class this semester. She’s not as good at violin as she is the harp. She’s all excited about our trip to Ireland this Christmas. I don’t need more places for her to drag me to, but feel free to give her tips.”
“You’re not sure about me, are you, Detective?”
“These days I’m not sure about anyone.”
FBI Director John March arrived with an entourage of agents, who stayed near the door. He was a tall, straight-backed man with iron-gray hair and a temperament to match. Scoop was right behind him. The two men joined Sophie and Bob O’Reilly at their square table, sitting across from each other, March to her right, Scoop to her left.
“Hello, Sophie,” March said. “Long time.”
“Director March. It’s good to see you. It has been a long time.”
“You’re Dr. Malone now. Good for you.” He pushed back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other, but not, she thought, even slightly off his guard. “Lizzie told me you were in town. She asked me if I remembered you. Of course I do. You were the bright student interested in Ireland and archaeology. I remember your twin sister, too. Taryn, the budding actress.”
Sophie didn’t flinch from his unrelenting gaze. “And my brother you encouraged to pursue a career with the FBI.”
“Yes. I remember Damian, too.”
She was very glad she hadn’t ordered alcohol. “Does he know—”
“That I came to Boston specifically to see you? No, not yet. I haven’t been in touch with him. From all I’ve heard, he’s a fine agent.”
“I haven’t told him about this morning,” she said.
“I did,” Scoop said, his bluntness a contrast to March’s smooth tone. “I just got off the phone with him. We had a professional conversation, except for the part about him flying up here and kicking our asses if we let anything happen to you.”
Sophie couldn’t resist a smile. “Damian’s protective of Taryn and me. He can’t get over that we’re not six anymore.”
“Yep. He said you two gave him fits as little kids in Ireland.”
She laughed suddenly. “We ‘ruined his life.’”
March’s dark eyes narrowed on her for longer than she found comfortable, but it was Bob O’Reilly who spoke. “Does your brother know Percy Carlisle?”
“I doubt it,” Sophie said, the question taking her by surprise. “The Carlisles and the Malones live in two different worlds.”
“You and the father, Percy Sr., shared an interest in archaeology,” March said. “I don’t recall from my time in Boston, Sophie. Did any of his adventures take him to Ireland?”
She fought an urge to look away—to jump up and run. How far would she get if she did? With March, O’Reilly and Scoop within inches of her? With the FBI agents by the exits?
Not far, she thought, and answered March’s question. “I know of one, yes.”
Scoop eyed her. “There’s more.”
It wasn’t a question or even a challenge to her. It was a statement of fact. Obviously he and the other two law enforcement officers at the table already had their answer. Sophie collected her thoughts as a waiter arrived with a tray of coffee. She hadn’t ordered any, but didn’t refuse when he put a mug in front of her.
“I have a feeling I know where you’re going with this. Percy Sr. was never particularly drawn to Ireland. I know of only one excursion he took there. It was late in his life.” She felt the heat rise from her ultra-hot coffee. “He had a bit of a misadventure.”
“Anything like yours last September?” March asked quietly.
Of course Scoop would have filled March in. He’d probably written a report already for his superiors. Even as she’d told him her story, Sophie had warned herself not to think they were having an intimate, private talk.
“No, Percy Sr.’s experience was quite different.” Which, of course, March would know. She kept her tone even as she continued. “He was briefly arrested in Dublin for attempting to smuggle artifacts out of Ireland. It was a mix-up—a misunderstanding between his staff and Irish authorities. He was released almost immediately. He was furious, though, and fired his entire staff the minute he got back to Boston.”
“You weren’t on his staff?” Bob O’Reilly asked.
She shook her head. “I was working here. This was seven years ago. I was a student. I did research at the Carlisle Museum.”
“There was a break-in at the museum not long after the firings,” O’Reilly said. “The old man’s office was trashed, and a painting disappeared—a Winslow Homer seascape from the Carlisles’ private collection.”
Sophie realized her heart was racing, as if she were under attack when she knew, in fact, she had nothing to hide from these men. Why hadn’t she stayed in Kenmare, or grabbed her sleeping bag and gone hiking with her parents? She pulled herself out of her regrets—her fears—and grabbed the cream pitcher. “I suppose you all are watching your cholesterol. I will another day. Right now, I want real cream in my coffee. And I’m guessing where you’re going with this. Cliff Rafferty was the first officer on the scene after the break-in, wasn’t he?”
It was O’Reilly who answered. “Were you at the museum at the time?”
“No. The break-in occurred—or at least was discovered—late at night by a security guard.” She dumped cream into her mug and set down the pitcher. “I was here washing dishes and mopping floors. I didn’t find out anything until the next day.”
“No one called you?” March asked. “The Carlisles, any of the fired staff?”
“No, and
I thought nothing of it at the time—nor does it bother me now, in retrospect. I was just another student. I never heard there were any indications of Celtic rituals or any Celtic symbols at the scene. No blood,” she added pointedly, her throat dry as she lifted her mug, “no skulls, broken weapons or torcs.”
“Were you already specializing in Celtic archaeology?” Scoop asked.
“Yes, I was.” She glanced at March, whose expression was impossible to read. “I remember you were here at Morrigan’s when I came into work the night after the break-in. I’d been at the museum most of the day, in the library. I told you what happened and how shocked I was.”
“I remember,” March said. He leaned closer to her, less tense and confrontational. “I remember you said you didn’t know much about nineteenth-century American painters.”
She relaxed slightly. “I still don’t.”
“It bothered you. You like knowing things.”
She smiled. “Are you suggesting I’m a bit of a know-it-all, Director March?”
“You’re curious.” He didn’t smile back at her. “You have an investigative mind. You like to tackle a problem and take it to its conclusion.”
Damn, she thought. She’d stepped right into that one. Damian knew John March better than she did and had warned her March was the master—not a man to be underestimated on any level. He’d been a street cop, a homicide detective, a lawyer and an FBI agent, and now he was the FBI director, with huge responsibilities on his shoulders.
“I stayed out of anything to do with the break-in,” she said.
“Did you sympathize with the fired staff?” O’Reilly asked.
She faced him. “Of course, but I wasn’t friends with any of them.”
O’Reilly ran a thick finger along the handle of his coffee mug. “Did you think Percy Sr. was an SOB for what he did?”
“Sure. Who wouldn’t?”
“His son,” March said. “What did he think?”
“We didn’t discuss it,” Sophie said, raising her eyes to Scoop. “As I told Detective Wisdom, Percy and I weren’t and aren’t that close.”
Scoop’s expression was unreadable. “I checked the file. You weren’t questioned by police.”
“That’s right,” she said.
O’Reilly reached for the cream pitcher. “Hell, I’m game. It’s been a bad day, and my doctor’s not here.” He poured the cream into his coffee but his cornflower-blue eyes were on Sophie. “Percy Sr. and Percy Jr. were both in Boston at the time of the break-in. The mother—Isabel Carlisle, Percy Sr.’s wife—had died the previous year. Cancer.”
Sophie nodded. “I remember. It was a sad time.”
O’Reilly set the pitcher back down. “The old man showed up at the museum right when Cliff pulled in. The son was in London at the time.”
“Rafferty said he met Percy this summer after Jay Augustine’s arrest….” She trailed off, recognizing that the law enforcement officers at the table would already have thought of that.
“Ripple effects, Lizzie calls them,” March said. “How one thing can unexpectedly lead to and impact another. We have no idea it’s coming, or how bad it’ll be. You remind me of Shauna Morrigan, Lizzie’s mother. She was fearless, and she had great instincts.” He sighed grimly at the two Boston detectives. “Bad cops. Bombs. Ritualistic murder or whatever the hell it was. We can’t have any of it.”
“No, we can’t,” O’Reilly said, looking straight at Sophie.
March rose. “Good night, gentlemen.” He nodded to Sophie. “Sophie, take care of yourself. I hope next time we see each other it’s under better circumstances. Good luck with your career in archaeology.” His dark eyes narrowed slightly on her. “Stay in touch.”
Once he and his hulking agents started up the bottom of the stairs, O’Reilly blew out a heavy breath. “Damn. I love it when the FBI comes in and tells me my job. March was like that when he was on the force.” He picked up his mug. “I’m taking two sips and then ordering a beer. In the meantime, Dr. Malone, we have two choices where you’re concerned. One, you’re trouble. Two, you’re not trouble. Which is it?”
“Life’s not that black-and-white,” she said.
“My life is.”
His daughter and her friends were playing “O’Sullivan’s March.” The tune put Sophie back in Kenmare, in a cozy pub on a dark, rainy night, with Tim O’Donovan transfixing her with his tale of treasure, adventure, triumph and tragedy.
She pulled herself back to the present. “Does your niece know about Cliff Rafferty’s death?” she asked O’Reilly.
He nodded. “Yeah. I told her.”
“Did she know—”
“I talked to Keira this morning,” he said, obviously not wanting to discuss his daughter. “She’s in Ireland. I don’t know if your FBI brother knows Simon Cahill. He’s the man in Keira’s life.” The homicide detective’s gaze bored into Sophie. “Simon’s FBI. You know that, right?”
Her heart was racing again, but she tried to maintain an outward calm. “Yes, I do.”
“Good. You look like you’re going to slide under the table, Doc. Buy you a burger?”
“I think I’ll just grab a few nuts and go.”
“Sit a while, Sophie,” Scoop said, touching her hand. “Have a Guinness and a bite to eat. Talk to us.”
She told herself to get up and get out of there, but the prospect of Taryn’s quiet apartment suddenly was less appealing than staying here with the lively music, the crowd—even these two suspicious, intense police officers. Scoop and O’Reilly were on her side, she told herself, even if they believed she’d been holding back on them.
Damian would remind her that law enforcement officers always had their own agenda. Probably good advice, she thought, and decided to skip the Guinness and just take Bob O’Reilly up on his offer of a burger.
16
Dublin, Ireland
Keira and Lizzie departed for London after breakfast. Josie tried to slip out of the hotel by herself, but Myles, who both excelled at following people and had nothing else to do, caught up with her before the door had swung shut behind her.
He handed her a compact umbrella. “I thought you could use this.”
“Listen to the weather forecast, did you?”
He pointed upward. “I looked at the sky.”
She tightened the belt on her coat and tucked the umbrella under one arm. It was a bleak morning, gray, windy with brief outbreaks of showers that undoubtedly would turn to a steady rain as the day wore on. The sidewalk was already wet. Dubliners were getting on with their day, cars and buses speeding past, pedestrians rushing. A family—obviously tourists—on the corner unfurled a map that immediately folded in on itself in a wind gust.
Josie walked down the busy street, Myles ambling alongside her as if they were off for a romantic stroll. They headed in the general direction of Trinity College. Well before they reached the historic campus, Josie, following directions that Justin Rush had provided her, turned off onto a narrow side street, right into a wind gust that blew cold rain into her face. She didn’t bother pulling up her hood, and the umbrella would be useless in the wind. Myles seemed equally unperturbed by the conditions.
They came to an unprepossessing brick building where Wendell Sharpe managed the Dublin office of Fine Art Recovery, a small, discreet company that specialized in providing expertise to private businesses and government agencies on the investigation and recovery of stolen art and cultural properties. His grandson had an office in the U.S. Josie didn’t know in which city. Not Boston, she hoped.
Myles was so sexy she could hardly stand being near him. He seemed oblivious to the effect he was having on her—or was pretending to be. He could know and take secret delight in having starchy Josie Goodwin all aquiver and afire. Spending the night in an adjoining room had brought back memories of their time together before Afghanistan—and of the pain and anguish of the past two years. As she’d lain in her plush, five-star hotel bed, she’d envisioned him in the next r
oom, an arm thrown over his forehead as he slept. For the past month, she’d alternated between relief that he was alive and anger that the bloody bastard had left her twisting in the wind—mourning him, hating him—for so many months.
How could he not have found a way to get word to her that he was alive? That he wasn’t a traitor?
Will had taken Myles’s reemergence into their world in stride, but Josie had made the incomparable mistake of having slept with him.
Having fallen in love with him.
She thrust the umbrella back to him. He dropped it into his jacket pocket. “You can stay out here while I speak with our Mr. Sharpe,” she said crisply.
“As you wish.”
She debated saying something else but didn’t know what. His eyes were unreadable, the gloomy weather deepening their gray, their mystery and sexiness.
Either that or she needed more sunlight, Josie thought as she ran for the entrance to the small building. She’d lost her mind, obviously. Best simply to focus on her mission in Dublin. Scoop Wisdom had called late last night and filled her in on the latest developments in Boston.
Sharpe’s offices were located on the third floor in an unexpectedly contemporary corner suite overlooking the street. He himself didn’t look a minute over sixty. He was expecting her and rose from his cluttered desk to greet her. “Welcome, Mrs. Goodwin,” he said, his accent a mix of Dublin and Boston. He was white-haired and lean, around her height, and wore a bow tie and plaid suspenders. “How is Lord Davenport?”
“Alive, last I checked.”
He chuckled. “I was warned you can be irreverent. I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting Will yet, of course, but I’ve done a bit of work with his father from time to time. The marquess is one of your great admirers.”
“He’s quite a character himself.”
“I haven’t spoken to him in several months. I hope he’s well.” Sharpe gestured to a small sofa. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”
“I’m fine, thanks,” Josie said. “I’m restless this morning.”
“All right, then. What can I do for you, Mrs. Goodwin? You want to talk to me about Sophie Malone. What’s she up to?”
The Whisper Page 17
