Harbor Island

6

Dublin, Ireland

Matt Yankowski parked in front of what he hoped was Aoife O’Byrne’s building on the Liffey River in Dublin. Somehow, he’d managed to navigate Dublin’s maze of streets without veering into the wrong lane or the wrong direction down a one-way street. It was a bleak November evening, early by Irish standards. He turned off the engine and wipers, wondering if he should have stayed at Wendell Sharpe’s place and left Aoife O’Byrne to the Irish police. An Garda Síochána. Guardians of the Peace. The garda, or gardai—or just the guards.

A popular Irish artist in the middle of a homicide investigation in Boston.

The gardai wouldn’t like it.

Hell, he didn’t like it, either.

He got out of his little rental car and buttoned his overcoat against the cold mist. So far, the only positive of his day was that his red Micra hadn’t fallen to pieces on the drive from the southwest Irish coast to Dublin that morning. In fact, it was growing on him. It did a decent job handling any size Irish road—including roads he didn’t consider roads—and, given its size, made his occasional lapse about driving on the left slightly less terrifying.

Since arriving in Ireland earlier in the week, he’d imagined exploring back roads with Lucy, no agenda, no idea where they would have their next meal or spend the night. It’d been a long time since they’d left room for that kind of spontaneity in their lives.

“A long time,” he said under his breath.

After Colin’s report earlier that day, Yank had called Lucy’s sister, who lived in Georgetown. The two sisters had gone to Paris together in October. Yank had suspected Sherry had been stoking Lucy’s fears and resentments about moving to Boston, but she’d been pleasant on the phone. “I don’t need to check your house for Lucy, Matt. She’s gone to Boston. She wanted to surprise you. I take it you’re not there?”

“I’m in Ireland.”

Sherry had sighed. “Did you tell her you were going to Ireland?”

“That’s why I’ve been trying to reach her. I didn’t expect to stay this long.”

“And you wonder—” Sherry had broken off. “Never mind.”

“She’s in a snit, you think?”

“Wouldn’t you be?”

He’d disconnected without answering. He’d tried Lucy’s cell phone again and left another voice mail. “It’s me, Luce. At least let me know you’re okay. Call, text, send a carrier pigeon. Whatever works for you.”

That had been four hours ago.

Still no response.

She was carrying her snit too far. He wouldn’t give her much longer before he sounded the alarm. It wasn’t easy to be objective, but if one of his agents came to him with the same story, he wouldn’t care if the wife was sticking it to the husband for being a jerk. He would want to find her.

A man approached him on the sidewalk. Wavy black hair, blue eyes, a mix of Colin Farrell and Liam Neeson about him. He had to be Sean Murphy, a garda detective with a family farm in tiny Declan’s Cross. He’d been in the thick of the events there last week, and he’d agreed to meet Yank at Aoife O’Byrne’s studio.

“Matt Yankowski,” Yank said. “Thanks for coming, Detective.”

The two men shook hands. “I’m sorry about this woman’s death in Boston,” Murphy said. “It’s good to hear Emma wasn’t hurt. How is she?”

“Annoying the Boston police. That’s not hard to do right now. I’ve already had a chat with an irate lieutenant in homicide.”

“Ah, yes. So have I. The lieutenant was reluctant to share information but delighted to have me talk. I suppose I’d have done the same in his position.” Murphy nodded toward the unprepossessing stone building behind them. “Shall we?”

It was an informal meeting—a senior garda detective and a senior FBI agent having a look at the art studio and apartment of a prominent Irish painter, sculptor and jeweler who had found herself in the middle of a Boston homicide investigation. Yank hadn’t met Aoife O’Byrne, but Sean Murphy knew her from her and her sister’s visits to their uncle’s country house in Declan’s Cross. According to Emma and Colin, though, it was Aoife’s sister, Kitty, who’d caught the Irishman’s eye as a teenager. The two had had something of a star-crossed relationship ever since. Kitty had gone on to marry another man, but they divorced and she eventually moved to Declan’s Cross to transform her uncle’s house into a thriving boutique hotel. Sean had devoted himself to his career, rising up through the garda ranks. Then early this past summer, he’d landed at his family farm in Declan’s Cross for a long recuperation from injuries he’d sustained in an ambush. Kitty was there with her teenage son and her newly opened hotel.

“I gather you’re back on the job?” Yank asked.

The garda detective shrugged. “It was time. Declan’s Cross isn’t that far from Dublin, and it isn’t going anywhere.” He winked at Yank. “Neither is Kitty O’Byrne.”

A way of saying this time he and Kitty would make things work.

Hope for Lucy and me, too, maybe, Yank thought irritably as he followed Murphy into the building. There was no doorman or security guard. “I know Ireland has a low crime rate,” Yank said, “but Dublin is still a big city, and Aoife is well-known.”

“She doesn’t like to change her ways based on her fame.”

“Might come a time when she doesn’t have a choice.”

Murphy glanced back. “That time might already have come. I have a key,” he added. “Kitty gave me one before I left Declan’s Cross.”

They went up wide stairs to the second floor. No one else seemed to be around late on a dreary Saturday. Murphy explained that the building had a half-dozen studios owned or rented by artists. Each studio included an efficiency apartment—kitchen facilities, bathroom, place to sleep—but only Aoife actually lived in hers.

Her cop almost-brother-in-law clearly didn’t approve. “Aoife’s doing well financially,” he said as they came to the top of the stairs. “She can afford to live anywhere she likes. She doesn’t have to live in her studio. She says the other artists in the building come and go at all hours, but you see what it’s like now. Quiet as a church. I don’t like her being here on her own.”

“Does she appreciate your concern?”

“Not a bit. She tells me I know nothing of the art world. It’s true. I remember her as a girl tinkering with paints and brushes, hammers and chisels—she was always working on something. Kitty’s visual but not in the same way. You’ll see her talents when you come to Declan’s Cross one day.” Murphy gave a small, unreadable smile. “I’ll buy you a drink at her hotel.”

“Did Aoife tell you she’d received the cross that’s now missing from her hotel room and presumably is the one in Rachel Bristol’s hand in Boston this morning?”

The Irishman’s mood palpably darkened. “No.”

“Wendell Sharpe says she didn’t tell him, either,” Yank said, feeling a draft in the dimly lit hall. “What about her sister?”

“Aoife told Kitty she was going to Boston but didn’t mention the cross.”

“What did she give Kitty as her reasons for going?”

“Impulse,” Murphy said, as if that made sense where Aoife O’Byrne was concerned.

Yank said nothing. Sean Murphy had to be worried and annoyed at the situation in which Aoife had found herself—put herself—but he obviously wasn’t letting his emotions affect his actions and concentration. He looked like any other senior detective on the job as he approached a door at the front of the building. Yank could appreciate the difficulties when the professional and the personal collided in their line of work.

Murphy got out a set of keys, then went still. He held up a hand, and Yank came to a halt behind him. He saw immediately what had caught the Irishman’s attention. The heavy door to Aoife’s studio was shut now, but had clearly been pried open, the brass lock popped, with gouges and scratches on the door itself.

Murphy looked back at Yank. “Stay close. I don’t need a dead FBI agent on my hands.”

They entered a large room with high ceilings, exposed brick and stark, white-painted walls. Industrial-style windows were splattered with rain, reflecting the city lights and casting eerie shadows. A scarred-wood worktable occupied the center of the room. Utilitarian wood-and-metal bookcases that lined the interior wall had been cleared of their contents and one section upended, as if whoever had tossed the place had reacted in frustration.

Murphy dipped into an adjoining room—presumably the living quarters—and came back out again, nodding to Yank. “Clear.”

While the Irishman switched on lights, Yank walked over to the bookcases. Most of the contents appeared to be art supplies and photographic equipment. A few books and sketchpads. As he leaned forward, he saw a hand extending from under the upended bookcase and its spilled contents. At first he thought it might be a work of art. Some sculpture.

It wasn’t. It was a woman’s hand.

“Murphy.”

The Irish detective stood next to him and cursed under his breath. They moved in unison, dropping down to the bookcase and the woman pinned under its heavy metal-and-wood frame.

Yank saw dark hair. Fabric—dark red fleece. A jacket.

Murphy checked the exposed hand for a pulse. “She’s alive,” he said.

He and Yank lifted the heavy bookcase off the woman and shoved it aside. It had landed on top of her, trapping her but not crushing her. Murphy knelt next to her upper body, checking her breathing. Yank pulled sketchpads, a camera case and a tripod off her. He couldn’t see her face, but she was a small woman, dressed in jeans, walking shoes, the fleece jacket. She must have come in from the street. Had she surprised whoever had broken into the place? Or was this their perpetrator?

Murphy moved back slightly, exposing her other hand.

Yank’s gaze fixed on the simple gold wedding band.

He touched the Irishman’s shoulder. “Murphy. Move back a bit. I need to see her face.”

The detective gave him a sharp look. “Do you recognize her?”

Yank stared down at the pixie haircut and pixie face. The smooth, milky skin of her throat and her small body as she lay on her side, crumpled into a fetal position. His throat tightened. He couldn’t speak.

“Agent Yankowski,” Murphy said, cutting through Yank’s shock. “Who is this woman?”

Lucy.

Yank sank onto his knees next to her. “She’s my wife.”

7

“I played dead,” Lucy said, trembling under the blanket a paramedic had given her. Yank had placed the blanket around her shoulders himself. She was sitting on the floor, leaning back against the exposed brick wall of Aoife O’Byrne’s studio. She licked her chapped lips. “I heard you and Detective Garda Murphy come in, but I didn’t know who you were.”

Yank knew he had to contain his emotions, but it was damn hard. Lucy. His wife. In Dublin, trapped under a bookcase for at least thirty hours. Likely left for dead. She’d managed to protect her head and vital organs when the bookcase had come down on top of her, and she’d had access to her water bottle, although it had been nearly empty when she was attacked. She was bruised, but she had no broken bones, lacerations or other internal injuries. And she was shaken. More shaken than she would want to admit. She’d martialed her limited water supply and was mildly dehydrated, but she’d been lucky. They both knew it.

The gardai were doing their work. Sean Murphy was definitely the guy in charge. The living quarters had been tossed, too. Murphy had been firm but not a jackass when he’d reminded Yank this was now a criminal investigation. Yank knew he had no choice and had to stand back and let Irish law enforcement do their jobs. He had no authority in Ireland.

“What are you doing here, Lucy?” he asked finally, sitting next to her on the wood floor.

She attempted a weak smile. “I wanted to surprise you.”

“Consider me surprised.”

“Because you found me in Dublin or under a bookcase?”

“Take your pick.”

Her dark eyes leveled on him. The same dark eyes he’d fallen in love with at twenty-three at the University of Virginia. He’d been getting his master’s in criminal justice. She’d been a senior majoring in psychology. Ten years they’d been married, and yet some days—like today—he wasn’t sure he would ever know her.

“I’m sorry, Matt,” she whispered.

“Did you break in here and pull the bookcase on top of yourself?”

“No, of course not.”

“Then nothing to be sorry about.”

“Cut-to-the-chase Matt Yankowski. There’s a reason you’re in law enforcement.” She sighed, again licking her chapped lips. He noticed a small cut at the corner of her mouth, probably from dehydration and biting down as the hours had dragged on. She eased a hand out from under her blanket and placed it on his thigh. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I was coming to Dublin.”

“Water over the dam.”

She gave a tight shake of her head. “We have too much water over the dam and not enough real talking. Real listening. I flew to Boston on Thursday morning and went to your apartment, and you weren’t there. I saw a printout of your flight information. I had my passport with me. I booked a flight on Aer Lingus for that night, then turned around and went straight back to the airport.”

“Did you have any idea where I was?”

“Ireland,” she said, and this time her smile revealed more of the ultraconfident Lucy Yankowski he knew so well.

“Were you mad?” Yank asked.

“Incensed.”

A Lucy word. He covered her hand with his. Hers was cool, and he could feel its slight tremble. “I’m glad you’re okay. There was a moment...” He breathed. “Lucy. Damn.”

“It’s been a long two days.” She glanced at the studio, as if seeing the mess for the first time. “Does whatever happened here have anything to do with why you’re in Ireland?”

“Probably.”

“Aoife O’Byrne is a well-known artist. Where is she? I thought she’d come back. Then I realized it was the weekend, and maybe she was away.”

“She’s in Boston,” Yank said.

“Boston? Why—”

“We’ll get to that. Why did you come here?”

“I was curious. I arrived in Dublin at the crack of dawn. You know those overnight flights. I’d booked a room while I was at the airport in Boston, but it wasn’t ready. I dropped off my bags, took myself to breakfast and read about the murder in Declan’s Cross early last week. That’s what brought you to Ireland, isn’t it?”

“Sort of.”

“Aoife O’Byrne was mentioned in the article. I checked out her website. It lists her address. I decided to kill time by coming by to have a look. I guess I expected a public gallery. I didn’t think too much about it. It was a spur-of-the-moment thing.”

“You’ve told all this to the Irish police?”

She nodded. “I figured you would want to know, too.”

“I do, Lucy. I want to know everything. When you’re ready. You’ve come through a hell of an ordeal. Aoife flew to Boston yesterday. Someone could have wanted to take advantage of her absence and see what was in here.”

“An ordinary burglar, you mean. Then I walk in and startle them.” She swallowed, sinking back against the wall. “I don’t know why I walked in. I didn’t see that the door had been jimmied. I can’t explain. My mind didn’t grasp it. Lack of sleep, being in a foreign country, irritation with you. I just don’t know.”

“It’s okay. You don’t need to make sense of it.”

“Maybe not yet, anyway. I remember being in here, wondering where Aoife was. I heard someone in the other room. I called Aoife—except I mangled the pronunciation of her name. Sean Murphy’s already set me straight. Anyway, next thing I was falling, things were crashing around me, and I was trapped under a bookcase. I thought I could push it off me, but I couldn’t. It’s heavy, and I was afraid I’d dislodge something and do real damage to myself.”

“Did you yell for help?”

“Some. Once I was certain whoever had pushed the bookcase on top of me wouldn’t hear me. I wanted to preserve my energy—I didn’t want to waste it screaming if no one was around to hear me—but I also didn’t want...” She broke off with a small shake of her head. “Never mind. You know what I’m saying.”

He did. His wife—trapped, scared and in pain—hadn’t wanted whoever had broken into Aoife’s studio to come back and kill her. He wanted to scoop her up and carry her to his little car and disappear into the Irish hills with her. Protect her, keep her safe. A little late, he thought bitterly as he saw the bruise on her forearm where she’d fended off a falling object from the bookcase.

“I thought you were in a snit and that’s why you didn’t call me back.”

“I was in a snit,” she said. “I wanted to strangle you when I realized you’d gone to Ireland without telling me. Then I thought...I’d surprise you. I’d get you off to a cute Irish hotel and we’d talk, finally. And if you couldn’t come—if your work wouldn’t allow it—then I’d see the sights on my own. It wasn’t a well-thought-out plan, but it was a plan.”

“It would have been fun to see Dublin with you, Lucy,” Yank said softly.

“I have my list of sights I want to see. The Book of Kells, the Long Room, Temple Bar, Grafton Street, Saint Stephen’s Green, Georgian Dublin.” Lucy sank her head against his shoulder. “Then I wanted to find a cozy Irish cottage and get you to take a few days off.”

“I know just the one,” Yank said. “I stayed there this week. It’s in the Kerry hills. It’s owned by an Irish priest, one of Emma and Colin’s friends. I’m here because of work, but it’s not the only reason. I needed some time on my own.”

“To think about us,” she said.

He put his arm around her. “Every time I saw rainbows and sheep, I thought of how much you love them.”

“You never see rainbows.”

“I did this past week. Gorgeous rainbows. They made me wish you were with me. I saw one this morning when I left the cottage...” He heard his voice crack. “And you were here, trapped...”

He glanced around the room. Sean Murphy was in close conversation with two other gardai. Yank knew he had to update his team back in Boston. Someone needed to talk to Aoife O’Byrne, keep an eye on her. Could she have faked the break-in for reasons of her own? Could someone have broken in looking for the stone cross that had ended up in Rachel Bristol’s hand on Bristol Island?

If Rachel stole the cross from Aoife last night, why call an FBI agent? Had she figured she had information so important that Emma would overlook the theft?

What if Rachel hadn’t stolen the cross? What if that was a story Aoife O’Byrne had made up?

Those were the first questions off the top of his head. Sean Murphy would have the same questions, as well as ones of his own. Despite their personal connections to the events of the day, Yank knew he and Murphy would do their jobs. They wouldn’t go off half-cocked. They wouldn’t leap to conclusions based on emotion or urgency.

Lucy’s trembling eased. She seemed ready to fall asleep. “Do your thing, Matt. I’m fine.”

“Are you hungry?”

She stirred, smiling suddenly. “Starving.” Her eyes sparked with mischief. This was the Lucy he’d known and loved for so long, and had seen too little of the past year. “And my first Guinness on Irish soil sounds damn good about now.”

8

Boston, Massachusetts

Maisie Bristol sank onto a frayed leather sofa in the front room of the classic nineteenth-century bow-front house her family owned on a tree-lined section of West Cedar Street on Beacon Hill. To maintain eye contact with her, Emma sat across from her on an equally frayed wingback chair. Colin stayed on his feet by the foyer door. As they’d arrived on West Cedar, Yank had called them about the attack on his wife at Aoife O’Byrne’s studio in Dublin. It wasn’t something they planned to bring up with the Bristols, at least not right now.

Danny Palladino had led them inside, explaining the place was getting a much-needed face-lift. Maisie, he’d said, was more Southern California than Beacon Hill and didn’t want the house to feel like a museum. He’d seemed out of place, not sure what he should do with himself, but finally settled on standing behind the sofa where Maisie was sitting. Travis Bristol, Maisie’s father and Rachel’s ex-husband, was pacing in front of the windows overlooking the tree-lined street. He and Maisie were both clearly struggling to come to terms with the news of Rachel’s death.

“I saw Rachel just this morning,” Maisie said, half to herself. “She was looking forward to our brunch at the marina. She was excited, she said.”

Maisie grabbed a set of rolled-up architect’s drawings on the coffee table and stood them on the floor. She looked younger than thirty, with her unkempt reddish-blond hair and spray of freckles across her nose and upper cheeks. She wore an unassuming outfit of a green-plaid flannel shirt untucked over boyfriend jeans and dark orange suede ankle boots.

“Rachel didn’t do anything if she wasn’t excited about it,” Travis said, taking a seat next to Maisie on the sofa. His eyes were the same shade of pale blue as hers, but his hair was gray and he had no freckles. He wore a navy sweater that had to be too warm for the room and wide-wale corduroys a tone lighter than the sofa’s cognac leather. Hours after his ex-wife’s death, he still looked gut-punched, ashen and in shock. “The Rachel I knew could fire up a room with her excitement and passion for whatever she was doing.”

“That was Rachel,” Maisie echoed with a small smile. “Pushy, intense, generous, formidable, especially when she was convinced she was right.”

Travis nodded sadly. “She had clarity of vision but she was also tenacious.”

“She could be exhausting, though. She’d wear you out to get her way. There wasn’t one thing wishy-washy about her.” Maisie leaned her head against her father’s shoulder. “We’re going to miss her.”

“You didn’t go to the marina together?” Emma asked.

Maisie sat up straight, shaking her head. “We all had things to do later and went on our own. Rachel left early and said she would meet us there. I didn’t think twice about it.” She raised her chin at Emma. “I told the detectives all of this.”

“Rachel loved the island and this place,” Travis said. “I invited her to stay here whenever she was in town. Last week was her first time back since we split. I put her in a guest room upstairs. I’ve been back and forth between here and L.A. more often than usual because of the renovations. I used to tease Rachel that she married me because I came with an island and a Beacon Hill house.”

Maisie nodded to the blueprints. “She wanted to know about the work we’re doing. She’d had her own ideas about renovations when she and Dad were together.”

Travis glared up at Danny Palladino. “How could you have let this happen?”

“I didn’t let anything happen,” Danny said, his voice even. “Rachel wasn’t my responsibility. Neither are you. Technically, neither is Maisie. I’m not here in a protective capacity.”

Maisie sprang to her feet, her freckles standing out against her pale skin. “You’re here snooping on me. You never liked Rachel.”

“I barely knew her,” Danny said, matter-of-fact.

Travis slumped back against the couch. “Are you sure you didn’t kill her yourself, Danny?”

Maisie spun around at him. “Dad!”

Danny didn’t seem surprised at Travis’s outburst, but the older man winced and immediately waved a hand in apology. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for. I didn’t mean it. Truly. It was raw emotion. Nothing more. Danny, please. Have a seat. Rachel’s death is a shock for all of us.”