Declan's Cross
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Sean didn’t respond at once. He looked in the bookshop window and saw a small boy sitting on the floor in front of a shelf of books. He’d done the same as a boy, always interested in biographies and comics. Superheroes. Finally he told Ronan, “No reason. There’s nothing new on the art theft at the O’Byrne house, is there?”
“You’d know before I would,” Ronan said.
Probably true, if more because he lived in Declan’s Cross than because of his garda position. “You haven’t by chance run across an accident report on Lindsey Hargreaves?”
“The woman who wants to start this field station down there? I haven’t seen anything, no. I’ll have a look if you’d like.”
“I’d owe you one, thanks.”
“What’s going on, Sean?”
He told his friend what he knew.
Ronan listened without interruption, then said, “I’ll let you know if I find anything. When can we expect you back in Dublin?”
“For a pint? Soon, my friend. Thanks for your help.”
If Lindsey Hargreaves had driven off a road, Ronan Carrick would know it within the hour. He was famously dogged, as well as quick-witted and good-humored. Sean had relied on him many times during tricky investigations. They’d joined the gardai at the same time, fifteen years ago. Ronan was a few years older, redheaded, in good shape and the happily married father of three.
Sean turned from the bookshop and started up the hill toward his farm. He wasn’t always good at dodging disaster, but he’d managed to the one time he’d set his mind to propose to a woman. That had been four years ago. She’d said yes but then decided she wanted to try her hand in New York. Last he heard she was a makeup artist in the theater district.
He couldn’t see his lovely ex-fiancée spraying a sheep’s hoof to prevent a highly contagious fungal disease. Strangely enough, he could see Kitty doing it, if only because it had to be done.
Thinking about Kitty O’Byrne was the road to ruin.
Sean picked up his pace, glad he felt no pain—at least none caused by his smugglers.
7
EMMA STOOD IN front of the marble fireplace in the reading room at the top of the curving stairs. She could hear the wind and a passing shower, the light fading with November’s early dusk. By all accounts, it had been an even wetter, chillier night a decade ago when a thief had slipped into this very room. Later in the evening—no one could pinpoint the exact time but it had been after midnight, at least.
“A fire would be nice,” Colin said from the doorway.
She turned. She didn’t know how long he’d been standing there, or how long she’d been staring at the fireplace, lost in her thoughts. “It would be. I’m sure Kitty would arrange for one if we wanted to stay up here for a bit. There aren’t many guests.”
“Quiet time of year in Ireland. I like it.”
He crossed to the fireplace, making no sound on the thick Persian carpet. The shadows accentuated the hard lines of his face, but Emma knew it wasn’t always possible to read him. He was adept at burying his real emotions. In his undercover work, his life often depended on his ability to convince people he wasn’t feeling what he was feeling.
He stood next to her and glanced around the room. “No alarm system in this place ten years ago?”
Emma smiled. Colin—his pragmatism—helped keep her from disappearing into her thoughts. “No, no alarm system. John O’Byrne was lucky to keep the lights on.”
“Where was he that night?”
“He was on vacation in Portugal, staying with friends. A local farmer was looking after the place. He was asleep in the kitchen. The thief was in and out before anyone knew it.”
“Local farmer as in—”
“Padraig Murphy. Paddy Murphy. Sean Murphy’s uncle.”
“Ah.”
“He says he slept through the whole thing.”
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