In this vivid and suspenseful addition to her widely acclaimed Sharpe & Donovan series, New York Times bestselling author Carla Neggers takes readers on a heart-stopping journey from Boston to Ireland to the rocky coast of Maine

Emma Sharpe, granddaughter of world-renowned art detective Wendell Sharpe, is a handpicked member of a small Boston-based FBI team. For the past decade Emma and her grandfather have been trailing an elusive serial art thief. The first heist was in Ireland, where an ancient Celtic cross was stolen. Now the Sharpes receive a replica of the cross after every new theft—reminding them of their continued failure to capture their prey.

When Emma receives a message that leads her to the body of a woman on a small island in Boston Harbor, she finds the victim holding a small, cross-inscribed stone—one she recognizes all too well. Emma’s fiancé, FBI deep-cover agent Colin Donovan, is troubled that she’s gone off to the island alone, especially given the deadly turn the thief has taken. But as they dig deeper they are certain there is more to this murder than meets the eye.

As the danger escalates, Emma and Colin must also face do-or-die questions about their relationship. While there’s no doubt they are in love, can they give their hearts and souls to their work and have anything left for each other? There’s one thing Emma and Colin definitely agree on: before they can focus on their future, they must outwit one of the smartest, most ruthless killers they’ve ever encountered.

Also by Carla Neggers

Sharpe & Donovan Series

DECLAN’S CROSS

ROCK POINT (novella)

HERON’S COVE

SAINT’S GATE

Swift River Valley Series

CIDER BROOK

THAT NIGHT ON THISTLE LANE

SECRETS OF THE LOST SUMMER

BPD/FBI Series

THE WHISPER

THE MIST

THE ANGEL

THE WIDOW

Black Falls Series

COLD DAWN

COLD RIVER

COLD PURSUIT

Cold Ridge/U.S. Marshals Series

ABANDON

BREAKWATER

DARK SKY

THE RAPIDS

NIGHT’S LANDING

COLD RIDGE

Carriage House Series

THE HARBOR

STONEBROOK COTTAGE

THE CABIN

THE CARRIAGE HOUSE

Stand-Alone Novels

THE WATERFALL

ON FIRE

KISS THE MOON

TEMPTING FATE

CUT AND RUN

BETRAYALS

CLAIM THE CROWN

Look for Carla Neggers’ next novel in the Swift River Valley series

ECHO LAKE

available soon from Harlequin MIRA

Harbor Island
Carla Neggers

www.mirabooks.co.uk

To Uncle John and Aunt Martha

Table of Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Booklist

Title Page

Dedication

Table of Contents

Harbor Island

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Author Note

Rock Point

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Extract

Copyright

Harbor Island

1

Boston, Massachusetts

As she wound down her run on the Boston waterfront, Emma Sharpe could feel the effects of jet lag in every stride. Three days home from Dublin, she was still partly on Irish time and had awakened early on the cool November Saturday. She’d strapped her snub-nosed .38 onto her hip, slipped into her worn-out running shoes and was off. With less than a half mile left in her five-mile route, she was confident she hadn’t been followed. Not that as an art-crimes specialist she was an expert at spotting a tail, but she was an FBI agent and knew the basics.

Matt Yankowski, the special agent in charge of the small Boston-based unit Emma had joined in March, hadn’t minced words when he’d addressed his agents yesterday on a video conference call. “This Sharpe thief knows who we are. He knows where we work. It’s also possible he knows where we live. If he doesn’t, he could be trying to find out. Be extra vigilant.” Yank had looked straight at Emma. “Especially you, Emma.”

Yes. Especially her.

This Sharpe thief.

Well, it was true. She was, after all, the granddaughter of Wendell Sharpe, the octogenarian private art detective who had been on the trail of this particular serial art thief for a decade. Her brother, Lucas, now at the helm of Sharpe Fine Art Recovery, was also deeply involved in the stepped-up search for their thief, a clever, brazen individual—probably a man—who had managed to elude capture since his first heist in a small village on the south Irish coast.

Emma slowed her pace and turned onto the wharf where she had a small, ground-level apartment in a three-story brick building that had once been a produce warehouse. Her front windows looked out on a marina that shared the wharf. A nice view, but people passing by to get to their boats would often stop outside her windows for a chat, a cigarette, a phone call. Although she’d grown up on the water in southern Maine, she hadn’t expected her Boston apartment to be such a fishbowl when she’d snapped it up in March, weeks before the boating season.

Had the thief peeked in her windows one day?

She ducked into her apartment, expecting to find Colin still in bed or on the sofa drinking coffee. Special Agent Colin Donovan. A deep-cover agent, another Mainer and her fiancé as of four days ago. He’d proposed to her in a Dublin pub. “Emma Sharpe, I’m madly in love with you, and I want to be with you forever.”

She smiled at the memory as she checked the cozy living area, bedroom and bathroom. Colin wasn’t anywhere in the 300-square-foot apartment they now more or less shared. Then she found the note he’d scrawled on the back of an envelope and left on the counter next to the coffee press in the galley kitchen. “Back soon.”

Not a man to waste words.

He’d filled the kettle and scooped coffee into the press, and he’d taken her favorite Maine wild-blueberry jam out of the refrigerator.

Still smiling, Emma headed for the shower. She was wide awake after her run, early even by her standards. After three weeks in Ireland, she and Colin had thoroughly adapted to the five-hour time difference. Their stay started with a blissful couple of weeks in an isolated cottage, getting to know each other better. Then they got caught up in the disappearance and murder of an American diver and dolphin-and-whale enthusiast named Lindsey Hargreaves. Now, back home in Boston, Emma was reacquainting herself with Eastern Standard Time.

Making love with Colin last night had helped keep her from falling asleep at eight o’clock—one in the morning in Ireland. He seemed impervious to jet lag. His undercover work with its constant dangers and frequent time-zone changes no doubt had helped, but Emma also suspected he was just like that.

Colin would know if someone tried to follow him. No question.

She pulled on a bathrobe and headed back to the kitchen. She made coffee and toast and took them to her inexpensive downsize couch, which was pushed up against an exposed-brick wall and perpendicular to the windows overlooking the marina. She collected up a stack of photographs she and Colin had pulled out last night, including one of herself as a novice at twenty-one. Colin had put it under the light and commented on her short hair and “sensible” shoes. She wore her hair longer now, and although she would never be one for four-inch heels, her shoes and boots were more fashionable than the ones she’d worn at the convent.

Colin had peered closer at the photo. “Ah, but look at that cute smile and the spark in your green eyes.” He’d grinned at her. “Sister Brigid was just waiting for a rugged lobsterman to wander into her convent.”

Emma had gone by the name Brigid during her short time as a novice with the Sisters of the Joyful Heart, a small order on a quiet peninsula not far from her hometown on the southern Maine coast. In September, a longtime member of the convent and Emma’s former mentor, an expert in art conservation, was murdered. Yank had dispatched Colin to keep an eye on her. He’d tried to pass himself off as a lobsterman—he’d been one before joining the Maine marine patrol and then the FBI—but Emma had quickly realized what he was up to.

“I bet you were wearing red lace undies,” he’d said as he’d set the photo back on the table.

Emma had felt herself flush. “I don’t wear red undies now.”

He’d given her one of his sexy, blue-eyed winks. “Wait until Valentine’s Day.”

They’d abandoned the photos and had ended up in bed, making love until she’d finally collapsed in his arms. He was dark-haired, broad-shouldered and scarred, a man who relied on his natural instincts and experience to size up a situation instantly. He didn’t ruminate, and he wasn’t one to sit at a desk for more than twenty minutes at a time. She was more analytical, more likely to see all the ins and outs and possibilities—and she was a ruminator.

As different as they were, Emma thought, she and Colin also had similarities. The FBI, their Maine upbringings, their strong families, their love of Ireland. Their whirlwind romance wasn’t all an “opposites attract” phenomenon, a case of forbidden love that had come on fast and hard. They hadn’t told anyone yet of their engagement. On Monday night in Dublin, Colin had presented her with a beautiful diamond ring, handmade by a jeweler on the southwest Irish coast. She’d reluctantly slipped the ring off her finger when they’d arrived at Boston’s Logan Airport from Dublin late Tuesday.

Emma was so lost in thought, she jumped when her cell phone vibrated on the table. She scooped it up, expecting to see Colin’s name on the screen. Instead, it was a number she didn’t recognize. A wrong number? She clicked to answer, but before she could say anything, a woman spoke. “Is this Emma Sharpe? Agent Sharpe with the FBI?”

“Yes, it is. Who are you?”

“What? Oh. My name’s Rachel Bristol. I need to talk to you. It’s important.”

“All right. Please go ahead.”

“Not on the phone. In person. Meet me on Bristol Island. It’s in Boston Harbor. There’s a bridge. You don’t have to take a boat.”

“Ms. Bristol, what’s this about?”

“It’s about your art thief. Bristol Island, Agent Sharpe. Be at the white cottage in thirty minutes or less. There’s a trail by the marina.” She paused. “Come alone. Please. I will talk only to you.”

Rachel Bristol—or whoever she was—disconnected.

Emma sprang to her feet. Thirty minutes didn’t give her much time.

She ran to her bedroom and dressed in dark jeans, a dark blue sweater, a leather jacket and boots. She grabbed her credentials and strapped on her service pistol. She didn’t leave a note for Colin. She would text him on the way.

Meeting confidential informants was a tricky business even with protocols, training and experience. But it didn’t matter. Not this time.

Her thief.

Her problem.

2

“Check the bathroom,” Matt Yankowski said, making an obvious effort to hide his mix of urgency and irritation over the whereabouts of his wife, Lucy.

Colin Donovan frowned as he stood on the uneven wood floor in the sole bedroom of the senior FBI agent’s hovel of an apartment near Boston’s South Station. It was bigger than Emma’s, but it had roaches and rusted appliances and a shower out of Psycho. He’d had a quick peek into the bathroom. He hadn’t gone in and checked for signs of Lucy’s presence. What was the point? If he’d been Lucy Yankowski, he’d have gone running from this place, too.

But this was Yank, technically Colin’s boss and a man on his own in Ireland, worried about his wife and his marriage. Colin didn’t want Yank to have to explain. Easier, smoother and more tactful just to check the damn bathroom.

Colin pushed the bathroom door open the rest of the way and stepped onto the cracked black-and-white hexagon tile, so old and worn that the black tiles by the shower stall were now gray. With his cell phone pressed to his ear, he glanced at the pedestal sink and the towel rack. “Yank, do you know your towel rack is on crooked?”

“Yeah, and I don’t care. It does the job. See anything?”

“Guy stuff. Shaving brush, shaving soap, razor. Nothing remotely feminine.”

“Check the shower. See if she left her shampoo in there.”

“I guarantee you she didn’t use the shower. She’d have gone to a hotel before she used your shower, Yank. Damn.”

“Just check, will you?”

“That means I have to touch the shower curtain.”

“It’s clean. It’s just stained. It came with the place. I didn’t want to spring for a new one.”

“You can get a new shower curtain for next to nothing.”

Yank made no comment. Colin pulled open the curtain. He figured he could wash his hands when he was done. Yank was tidy and clean despite his rathole apartment, but the shower and shower curtain were disgusting. Only word for it.

“No shampoo at all in here,” Colin said, stepping back from the shower. “Just a bar of orange soap.”

“My coal-tar soap. I didn’t bring it to Ireland with me.”

“I could have gone my whole life without knowing you use coal-tar soap, Yank.”

“Think I like having you search my place?”

Colin sighed and went back into the bedroom. “Lucy wasn’t here, or if she was, she didn’t stay long. Your bed’s made. Your fridge is empty. Your bathroom and kitchen sinks are clean. The roaches—”

“I don’t need to hear about the roaches,” Yank said. “I’ve been living there almost a year. I know all about the damn roaches. I got a cheap place and rent month-to-month because I thought Lucy would move with me. We would sell our house in northern Virginia and buy a place in Boston. Made sense to rough it a little.”

He’d roughed it more than a little, but Colin let it go. He returned to the kitchen. A roach was parading across the floor. Where there was one cockroach, there were a hundred cockroaches. Often like that in their line of work, too. But Yank didn’t need to hear that right now.

“Where do you think she is?” Colin asked.

“Off stewing.”

“Where?”

“Paris. Prague. Tahiti. How the hell do I know? I’m just her husband.”

Colin could hear the strain in Yank’s voice. He was in his early forties, a classic, square-jawed, buttoned-down FBI agent with hardly ever a wrinkle in his suit. He and Colin had met four years ago when Colin had volunteered for his first undercover mission. Matt Yankowski, a legendary field agent, had been his contact agent through two years of grueling, dangerous, isolating work. Then the director of the FBI had called in Colin for another mission—one even more grueling, dangerous and isolating. It had ended in October with the arrest of the last of a network of ruthless illegal arms traffickers. They’d almost killed his family. A friend. Emma.

“When was the last time you were in contact with Lucy?” Colin asked.

“Sunday. Before I left for Ireland. It wasn’t a good conversation. Leave it at that. I called her on Thursday and left her a message. She didn’t call back. I texted and emailed her yesterday and again this morning. Zip.”

“Did you tell her you were going to Ireland?”

“No, I did not.” Yank grunted, as if he was already regretting having called Colin. “All right, thanks for taking a look. I just wanted to be sure she wasn’t in Boston passed out in my apartment.”

“What about passed out at home in Virginia?”

“Not your problem.”

“Yank, I don’t have to tell you that you need her back in touch soon. With all that’s going on, we can’t have your wife AWOL.”

“That’s right, Donovan. You don’t have to tell me.”

“Yank...” Colin hesitated a half beat. “Have you talked to the director lately?”

“Yeah. He says he’s retiring.” Yank sounded relieved at the change in subject. “He’s moving to Mount Desert Island to be a grandfather and write his memoirs. That’s why you two bonded, you know. He loves Maine.”

“Maybe he and I could do puffin tours together.”

“I could see that, but I don’t know who’d scare tourists more, you or him. I’ve heard some rumors about his replacement. All the names give me hives, but it’ll be what it’ll be. Hey, you wouldn’t want to spray for roaches before you leave my place, would you? There’s a can of Raid under the sink.”

A can of Raid and a million roaches. Colin debated, then said, “I’ll spray for roaches if you stop at the Celtic Whiskey Shop on Dawson Street in Dublin before you leave and pick me up a good bottle of Irish whiskey.”

“Done.”

“Let me know when Lucy is back in touch.”

Colin disconnected. He sprayed for roaches—and sprayed actual roaches—and then got the hell out of Yank’s walk-up as fast as he could. The only reason the place didn’t have rats was because it was on the third floor. Needless to say, there was no security in the building. There was barely a front door.

Colin welcomed the bright, cool November air. He had woken up to Yank’s email asking him to check his apartment for Lucy and telling him where to find a spare key in his office a few blocks from Emma’s place. She’d already left on her run. Bemused by Yank’s request, Colin had walked over to the highly secure, unassuming waterfront building that housed HIT, short for “high impact target” and the name Yank had chosen for his handpicked team. Yank had shoehorned Colin into HIT in October. Colin had packed his bags for Ireland a few weeks later to decompress. He’d expected to hike the Irish hills and drink Irish whiskey and Guinness alone, but Emma had joined him in his little cottage in the Kerry hills. She hadn’t waited for an invitation, but that was Emma Sharpe. His ex-nun, art historian, art conservationist, art-crimes expert—the love of his life—was the bravest woman he knew. Which had its downside, since she’d do anything regardless of the risk.

He saw he had a text message from her.

Meeting CI on Bristol Island. Back soon. Had a good run.

A confidential informant? Emma? Bristol Island? Where the hell was Bristol Island? Colin texted back.

Are you alone?

He buttoned his coat and continued toward the HIT offices and her apartment, looking up Bristol Island on his phone. It was one of more than thirty Boston Harbor islands, unusual in that it was privately owned and not part of the Boston Harbor National Recreational Area. He waited but Emma didn’t respond to his text. He didn’t want to call her in the middle of a delicate meeting. As with Lucy Yankowski, Emma’s silence didn’t necessarily mean anything.

It didn’t necessarily not mean anything, either.

3

Emma picked her way across the cold, hard sand beach at the far end of Bristol Island, which was connected to a mainland peninsula by a short, private bridge. It barely qualified as an island. She’d parked at a marina—the upscale Bristol Island Marina, quiet on a Saturday morning in late November—and found the trail her caller had mentioned. She’d followed it through a tangle of mostly stunted, mostly bare-branched trees and brush, a few rust-colored leaves hanging from the occasional gray branch. The trail ended at a crescent-shaped beach dotted with a half-dozen run-down cottages that looked as if they were one good nor’easter from being swept into the harbor.

The only white cottage was the second one, tucked between a gray-shingled cottage that had all but collapsed into the sand and a tiny brown cottage, the only one with its windows boarded up. Water, sand, trees and brush had encroached on what yards the cottages had once had. They looked to be about a hundred years old, probably a former summer colony of families who had once enjoyed sea breezes and clam-digs on this refuge in the shadows of the city.

Emma didn’t see any footprints in the mix of sand and sea grass between her and the white cottage. Her caller could have come by a different route, perhaps an offshoot of the trail she had taken. It was low tide. A few scrappy-looking seagulls were investigating the offerings in the lapping waves. The biggest of the lot flew onto a rickety pier and watched her as if it knew something she didn’t.

She was aware of the city just across the water, but it seemed as if it should be farther away. In early July, she had taken the inter-island shuttle and explored a few of the islands in the outer harbor. She’d enjoyed a solo picnic with a panoramic view of the Boston skyline. She’d been glad to be back in New England and a member of Matt Yankowski’s team, and she’d just played a vital role in the arrest of Viktor Bulgov, Colin’s notorious arms trafficker and a Picasso enthusiast. She hadn’t known Colin then. She’d only surmised that a deep-cover agent had been tracking Bulgov, gathering evidence on him and his network and their illegal activities.

She stepped over broken beer bottles next to a fire circle piled with charred logs and came to the white cottage, its sagging porch no more than six inches off the sand. Its front door was ajar, but sand that had blown onto the worn floorboards of the porch appeared to be undisturbed.

“Rachel Bristol? It’s Emma Sharpe.”

A seagull cried behind her, and a breeze stirred in the snarl of bare brush between the white cottage and the ones on either side of it. As she stepped onto the porch, she noticed a red smear and splatters, wet, oozing into the peeling gray paint and cracks of the floorboards to the left of the front door.

Blood.

And pale, slender fingers—a woman’s hand, limp and unmoving, on the edge of the porch.

Emma pulled back her jacket and placed a hand on the butt of her nine-millimeter. As she drew her weapon and moved to her left, she saw a woman sprawled on her back in the grass and sand next to the cottage, her left hand flopped onto the porch floor.

Emma responded instantly, leaping off the side of the porch, squatting next to the woman. There was more blood. A lot of it, seeping into the sand, soaking the woman’s sweater. Emma checked for a pulse but already knew there was nothing anyone could do. The woman was dead.

Rachel Bristol? Or someone else? Someone her caller had wanted Emma to find?

The dead woman had short, spiked, white-blond hair and wore black toothpick jeans, an unzipped black wool jacket and a light blue sweater, the chest area now red with blood. Her black flats and thin black socks were muddy, unsuited to the conditions on the island.

Emma took a closer look at the wound.

Not a knife wound. Not a wound from an unfortunate fall onto a sharp object. It was, without a doubt, a gunshot wound.

Emma quickly stepped behind a clump of scrawny gray birches, but an active shooter who wanted to target her could have done so by now. She dug out her cell phone and dialed 911, identifying herself as an FBI agent. She related the situation as succinctly as possible. The dispatcher offered to stay on the line with her. She declined.

She disconnected and called Colin. “The woman who wanted to meet me. She’s dead, Colin.”

“Where are you?”

“I told you. Bristol Island.” But she realized what he meant. “I took cover. I’m safe. I’ve never seen this woman before. I’m sure I’d remember. If it’s the same woman who called me, her name is Rachel Bristol. At least that’s what she said her name was.”

“We’ll figure that out later. You’re alone out there. No one else is in danger. Right now, your only job is to stay safe. That’s it, Emma. Nothing else.”

That would be the case for anyone in her situation. She knew that. “I’m in a good spot.”

“I’m on my way,” Colin said. “I’ll stay on the phone with you until the police get there.”

She heard the gulls, their cries sharper, louder, as if they sensed the tragedy that had unfolded up by the white cottage. She leaned forward, without exposing herself as a target, and peered down at the dead woman, seeing now that her right arm was flopped at her side with the palm up.

Emma edged a bit closer, noticing something in the woman’s palm.

A small, black stone, polished smooth.

There was some kind of etching that she couldn’t make out—but she didn’t need to. The stone would be inscribed with a simple Celtic cross and a sketch of Saint Declan, an early medieval Irish saint.

The cross was the signature of an international art thief who had first surfaced ten years ago in the tiny village of Declan’s Cross on the south Irish coast.

Her thief, as Yank had put it.

Eight times over the past decade, the thief had laid claim to a recent art heist by sending a small cross-inscribed stone to Wendell Sharpe, Emma’s grandfather. Then last week, that pattern changed. Out of the blue—unrelated to any recent art theft—she and her grandfather had both received cross-inscribed stones in Ireland. So had her brother in Maine, and Matt Yankowski, her boss, in Boston.

“Emma?”

The sound of Colin’s deep, intense voice brought her out of her thoughts. “I’m here.”

“You’re sitting tight, right?”

She heard the urgency in his voice—the fear for her safety—and tried to reassure him. “I am.” She ducked back within the branches of the birches. “I’m the patient one, remember?”

* * *

By the time the Boston homicide detectives finished up with Emma, the rest of the HIT team had gathered at their waterfront offices. She and Colin were in her car, on their way. He’d taken a cab to Bristol Island and flashed his credentials at the police officers securing the scene, and that was that. No one had stopped him. When he and Emma walked back to the marina, he’d had her toss him her keys. She hadn’t argued. She ached from tension, jet lag, her run—from the searing reality that she had come upon a woman who had just been shot to death.

“You didn’t charm the detectives,” Colin said when they were almost to HIT’s building. “I thought you might.”

“I’m not in a charming mood.”

“As in a mood to charm or a mood that charms?”

“Both. Either.”

“I never charm anyone.”

He’d conducted more than a few death investigations during his three years with the Maine marine patrol. She didn’t have that experience. Didn’t want it. But she knew what to do in an active shooter situation, and she’d done it.

“You’re right, though,” she said. “The detectives aren’t happy with me.”

“Can’t blame them. A woman shot as she’s about to meet an FBI agent about an international art thief they didn’t know about. An FBI agent with a unit based in their city they didn’t know about.”

Emma sank into the passenger seat of her small car. “I told them HIT is discreet, not secret. I was being honest, but they took it wrong—said I was being cheeky.”

Colin glanced over at her. “Did they really say cheeky?”

“Maybe they just rolled their eyes.”

The police had cordoned off the small island while they searched for evidence, but there were no additional victims and no signs yet of the shooter, who could have exited the scene by boat, on foot or by car, truck, van or—as one of the detectives had put it—stork. Emma had nothing concrete to offer beyond a description of the call and her reasons for going to the island. She had stuck to the broad brushstrokes of her history with the thief. Details could wait for more information on the dead woman.

She glanced out the passenger window at the harbor, eerily still under the clear sky. “We don’t know if the dead woman is Rachel Bristol or if either one—the dead woman or Rachel Bristol—is the one who called me.”

“Odds are, Emma.”

She nodded, turning back to him. “Yes. Odds are.”

“She had a stone cross on her exactly like the crosses your thief has sent to your grandfather after every theft for the past ten years. Add in the crosses sent to you, Lucas and Yank last week, and I don’t blame the Boston homicide detectives for being pissed that we didn’t bring them up to speed on this thief. I told them to calm down but they have a point.”

“None of the thefts occurred in Boston,” Emma said. “We can’t get tunnel vision. That won’t help.”

“We also have to look at the evidence right in front of us.”

She took a quick breath as she pictured the woman’s face. Her dead eyes. The stone cross in her palm. “I’ve heard of suicidal people manipulating someone to find their body, but that’s not what happened here. This wasn’t a suicide. I didn’t see a weapon, and the police haven’t found one, at least not yet.”

“She wasn’t shot by aliens, either.”

Emma ignored his muttered comment. “The police said the area is sometimes used for illicit target practice. I suppose this could have been an accidental shooting. I didn’t hear gunfire. Planes were landing and taking off at Logan but I didn’t notice any close overhead. I was focused on the island and what I was doing, though, not on the sky.”

The police were in the process of interviewing everyone at the marina. People at a busy harbor marina presumably were accustomed to frequent comings and goings. Even at a quiet time of year, they wouldn’t necessarily pay attention to someone wandering off onto an island trail. As far as Emma knew, no one had paid attention to her when she’d arrived.

Colin slowed, downshifting as they came to their building. “Emma, did you tell the police everything?”

“What do you mean by everything?” His eyes held her for a fraction of a second, but it was enough. “Colin, are you mad at me?”

She saw him tighten his grip on the wheel. “We can talk later.”

She sat up straight. “You are mad.”

“It’s your nature to hold back, Emma. You don’t want to do that now, with this killer at large.”

“I’m not holding back. I’m doing my job.”

“If I’d been with you when this woman called, would you have told me?”

“I did tell you. I texted you.”

“That was one hell of a cryptic message you sent,” he said.

“You don’t think I should have gone out there alone.”

“To a deserted island to meet a stranger who called you about a thief who could be escalating to violence? Damn right I don’t think you should have gone out there alone.”

Emma didn’t answer immediately. She appreciated his intensity and his honesty, if not his conclusion. But he thought she kept secrets. He thought she had layers that he would never be able to peel back to her core. Love and sex were one thing. Knowing her was another. She got that and attributed it to their different natures—his hot to her cool—and not to anything fundamentally wrong with their relationship, or with her.

Finally, she said, “I made a judgment call.”

“So you did.”

“What about you? The note you left on the kitchen counter wasn’t exactly packed with details. You went off on your own.” She gave him a cool look. “You weren’t at Starbucks, were you?”

“I didn’t find a dead body.”

Not one to back down, her Colin. “I was careful. I was aware of my surroundings. If the shooter had wanted me dead—”

“Then you’d be dead right now, and I’d be explaining to the homicide detectives that I didn’t know what the hell you were up to out on that island.”

“I wouldn’t have thought twice if it’d been you going to meet a CI.”

“For good reason.”

“Because you have field experience that I don’t. Okay. Fair enough. That doesn’t mean I didn’t know what I was doing.”

Colin sighed through clenched teeth. “I’m not saying you didn’t know what you were doing. I’m saying you shouldn’t have gone alone.” He turned onto the gated entrance at their building. “And if you want to see mad, wait until you talk to Yank.”

“Does he know?”

“Not unless someone else told him.”

“I thought you might have called him while I was with the detectives,” Emma said with a grimace.

“Ha. Not a chance, sweetheart.” He glanced at her, his eyes that deep, sexy blue that made her spine tingle. They were uncompromising now, certain and if not annoyed, at least frustrated. Then, without warning, he reached across the small car and touched her cheek with one curved finger. “I’m glad you’re safe.”

“It was good to hear your voice when I was out there hiding behind a tree. Are you going to tell me where you took off to while I was on my run?”

“It involved cockroaches.”

“The six-legged kind or the two-legged kind?”

“Six.”

Emma shuddered. “Gross.”

Colin winked at her, any hint of irritation gone. “There’s something we have in common. We both hate cockroaches.”

4

Sam Padgett had organized the conference room and gathered the team at the big table. He’d joined HIT in August—late compared to the other members. He was one of the hard-asses, struggling to understand the role of art and art crimes in their mission. Emma knew little about him. Mid-thirties. Single. Native Texan. Extensive field experience in Texas and the southwest. Ultrafit with short-cropped medium brown hair, brown eyes and what he knew—clearly—was a sexy smile. He liked to gripe about Boston’s high cost of living, and he got along well with Colin, also new to HIT, also a hard-ass.

Padgett had put on a trim, dark suit with a tie before coming into the office unexpectedly on a Saturday. He’d placed the stone cross that Matt Yankowski had received a week ago on the table. He’d also set up a monitor in the middle of the table for Yank to talk to them from Ireland. Specifically, from Dublin. Even more specifically, from Wendell Sharpe’s Dublin apartment. Emma recognized the unlit fireplace in her grandfather’s living room. She said nothing, preferring to let Yank explain his whereabouts if he so chose.

He didn’t so choose. He led off the meeting with a nod to his gathered team, agents with expertise in everything from hostage rescue to finance, cybersecurity, forensics and art crimes. Officially on duty, he wore a charcoal-colored suit, but his gray-streaked hair looked as if he’d been trying to tear it out, without success. That was unusual for Matt Yankowski, a senior agent with supreme emotional control.

“I just got off the phone with an irate lieutenant in BPD homicide,” Yank said. “He thinks I should have invited him to coffee and explained what we were up to when I decided to set up this unit in his city. Probably would have wanted me to bring my crystal ball, too.”

No one said anything. Colin stayed on his feet, leaning against the door as if he didn’t consider himself a true member of HIT. Everyone else was at the conference table. Only a few were missing. Emma sat on the chair Padgett had directed her to, one that gave Yank a good view of her. She’d taken a few deep breaths, centering herself, wishing color back into her cheeks.

“The lieutenant brought me up to speed,” Yank continued. “The victim is positively identified as Rachel Bristol, forty, of Brentwood, California. Beverly Hills, basically. She was an independent movie producer, divorced eighteen months ago from Travis Bristol, fifty-three, also a producer. Travis has an apartment in Hollywood and a house here in Boston. Beacon Hill. His daughter, Maisie, thirty, is one of the hottest producers in Hollywood. The three of them planned to meet for a catered brunch at the Bristol Island Marina. The Bristols own the island. There’s talk—according to the lieutenant—of expanding the marina and developing the outer part of the island where Rachel was killed. The cottages are owned by individual families but most of them are condemned. The Bristols own the land they’re built on. They’ve bought out a few of the families, but basically the cottages are rotting while the Bristols figure out what to do with the island. Meaning Maisie. She’s the one with the money and the vision.”

“Was that what brunch was about?” Padgett asked. “The future of the island?”

“The detectives hadn’t gotten that far when I talked to the lieutenant,” Yank said. “It looks as if Rachel got out there early and called Emma to come meet her. BPD doesn’t have any information on where Rachel got the cross or if it has anything to do with why she was shot. It obviously has something to do with why she called Emma. I told the lieutenant to expect us to work this thing. We agreed to keep each other informed.”

Yank’s gray eyes settled on Emma. She cleared her throat, knowing she was expected to say something. “Did the police recover Rachel’s phone?” she asked.

Yank nodded. “It was in wet sand not far from her body. She probably dropped it when she was shot. It’s in bad shape. They’ll see what they can get off it. Someone else could have used it, but there are no other footprints near the body besides yours and hers.” His gaze bored into her. “How did this woman get your number, Emma?”

Colin and the BPD detectives had asked her the same question. She gave Yank the same answer. “I don’t know. It was one of the things I planned to ask her. I don’t hand out my number to everyone, but it’s not top secret.”

“Who all has it besides us?” Padgett asked.

Emma knew it was a loaded question but answered, anyway. “My family. A few friends.”

Yank hadn’t shifted his gaze away from her. “Declan’s Cross has been in the news recently with the murder of Lindsey Hargreaves.”

It had been almost two weeks since Lindsey had been found dead on cliffs near the village of Declan’s Cross. Emma leaned forward, trying to relax the tensed muscles in her lower back and legs. “A few of the news accounts mentioned Declan’s Cross is the site of a celebrated unsolved theft of three landscape paintings—two of them by Jack Butler Yeats, arguably Ireland’s greatest painter.”

“And a fifteenth-century Celtic cross like the one found on Rachel Bristol this morning,” Padgett added in a combative tone.

“Somewhat like it,” Emma said, matter-of-fact. She didn’t want Padgett to succeed in getting under her skin. “The stolen cross is a rare silver wall cross inscribed with Celtic knots and spirals and the figure of Saint Declan, one of the Irish saints who helped Christianize Ireland in the fifth century. Some scholars believe he could even predate Saint Patrick.”

Padgett stretched out his long legs. “How do we know it’s Declan on the cross and not some other Irish saint?”

Emma reined in any irritation with Padgett. He was testing her, she decided. Letting her know that he was going to ask any and every question he had if he thought it would help get to the bottom of what had happened on Bristol Island that morning. “We know it’s Saint Declan because the figure is holding a small bell,” she said. “Tradition holds that the bell was given to Declan by God and led him across the Celtic Sea to Ardmore, on the south coast of Ireland, where he established a monastery.”

“I didn’t find any photographs of the stolen cross in the files,” Padgett said.

“We don’t have one, only a detailed description by its owner, who died five years ago, and copies made by his niece, Aoife O’Byrne, an artist.”

Emma was aware of Yank eyeing her from Dublin, and Colin from his position by the door. No one else in the room spoke.

Finally, Padgett scratched the side of his mouth. “Got it,” he said.

“It’s a lot to remember.” Emma kept any sarcasm out of her voice. “The third painting stolen that night is the work of an unknown artist, an oil landscape that depicts a scene in Declan’s Cross—three nineteenth-century Celtic Revival crosses on a hill next to the ruin of a church dedicated to Saint Declan. The largest of the crosses is a copy of the stolen wall cross.”

“No picture of the unsigned painting, either,” Padgett said. “We only have photographs of the two Yeats paintings. Jack Butler Yeats was related to William Butler Yeats?”

“His younger brother.”

“Good to know.”

Emma heard a slight edge of sarcasm and even belligerence creep into her colleague’s tone. Sam Padgett hadn’t signed on to HIT to chase art thieves. She doubted he’d ever read William Butler Yeats and was certain he’d never heard of Jack Butler Yeats until the stone cross had shown up for Yank. It was a much smaller, modified version of the wall cross, minus the knots and spirals and inscribed onto a polished stone rather than carved out of silver.

Yank settled back in his chair next to Wendell Sharpe’s fireplace. “It’s not common knowledge that the thief who hit Declan’s Cross ten years ago has been active since then, striking in eight cities around the world, or that he’s the nemesis of a renowned octogenarian art detective. Maybe our murdered Hollywood producer figured it out.”

“And wanted to make a movie?” Emma asked.

“It’s possible. Did she sound scared on the phone?”

Emma shook her head. “Breathless. Excited. Definitely not scared.”

“Okay. Keep me informed. Watch your backs.” Yank shifted his gaze from her to take in his entire team. “I want this Sharpe thief.”

* * *

Emma stayed behind in the conference room as the rest of the team filed out once the monitor went blank and Yank left them. Colin ducked out, saying nothing. He didn’t have his own desk yet. He would go down to her office or park himself at one of the cluster of desks in the open workroom. Yank had designed the space so that his agents could work quietly, alone, behind closed doors or in small or big groups.

“Yank was at your grandfather’s place in Dublin, wasn’t he?”

The question came from Sam Padgett. He hadn’t gone anywhere. Emma nodded. “I recognized the fireplace. How did you know?”

“I recognized the fireplace, too. It’s pictured on the Sharpe Fine Art Recovery website. I did my homework.” He walked over to the large casement window that looked out on to the harbor. The sky had turned overcast. “I should have taken a picture of the sun while it was out.”

“Making a joke, Sam?”

“Nope. Serious. Might not see the sun again until April.”

“Winter days can be bright and sunny in Boston. Those are often the frigid-cold days, too.”

“Something to look forward to. I like you, Emma. You’re smart, and you’re good at what you do, but it bothers me that you didn’t tell us you’d been a nun.”

Not what she’d expected, given the circumstances. “Yank knew.” She kept her tone even, without any defensiveness. “It wasn’t a secret. It’s just not something I talk about that often. Do I know everything about your past?”

Padgett turned from the window. He seemed almost to smile. “I wasn’t a monk for three years in my early twenties, that’s for damn sure.”

“What were you?” Emma asked him.

The almost-smile broadened into a genuine one. “Trouble.” He returned to the table and pointed at the small stone cross. “Where did Rachel Bristol get her cross?”

“I don’t know.”

“Could it be one of the ones this thief sent to your grandfather?”

“Possibly. I haven’t talked to him yet. I don’t know if any are missing.”

“He didn’t turn them over to law enforcement?”

“No.”

“Interesting guy, your granddad. Has he told us all he knows about this thief?”

“I can’t say for sure,” Emma said, noticing beach sand on her boots. Her stomach lurched, but she tried not to show any emotion or discomfort as she continued. “It’s been ten years. There’s a lot of information. Blind alleys he’s gone down, people he’s talked to and leads he’s followed that haven’t worked out. He doesn’t write everything down. It’s hard to know what he’s forgotten, what he’s deliberately left out that he thinks doesn’t matter.”

Padgett grimaced. “An honest answer, I guess. Have you told us all you know?”

“Yes.”

He pulled out a chair and sat down, nodded again to the stone. “What’s the significance of the bell? Besides it leading Declan to Ireland. Does it have any special powers?”

“Declan and his followers were at sea, returning to Ireland, when they realized they had left the bell behind on their stop in Wales. They prayed for its return, and it appeared on a large boulder that they followed to Ardmore.”

“Right.”

Emma ignored Padgett’s skeptical tone. “The bell is gone now, but a boulder on the harbor beach is said to be the one that carried the bell to Ireland.”

“More than fifteen hundred years ago.”

“It’s called Saint Declan’s Stone. On Declan’s feast day in July, the faithful crawl under it with the hope it will bring them good health, or restore them to good health. Saint Declan was a healer credited with many miracles.”

Padgett ran one finger over the small cross-inscribed stone in the center of the table. “Think our thief is hoping for a miracle?”

“It’s one theory. We have very little to go on, unfortunately. Even the artwork he’s stolen over the past ten years doesn’t tell us much. We can speculate but not much more than that.”

“Well, our long-departed Irish saint and his little bell must have meaning for our thief or he wouldn’t copy them onto a rock every damn time he makes off with a work of art.”

“I’m glad you said our thief.”

Sam’s dark eyes hardened. “Yeah. I don’t like that he sent Yank this cross. I don’t like that he could have followed any one of us here. He’s out there taunting us. And if he—or she—killed that woman this morning, then we’ve got a violent perpetrator on our hands. This scumbag’s in Boston, Emma. Mark my words.”

“He could be in Maine by now.”

“Heron’s Cove?” Padgett got to his feet. “Home of the Sharpes. I haven’t been up there yet. I hear it’s pretty.”

“It is. Not that pretty matters to a rugged guy like you.”

“Making a joke, Emma?”

She managed a smile. “Nope. Serious.”

He gave a short laugh and again looked out the windows toward the harbor. “Did the shooter know you were on the way this morning? Who would have discovered Rachel Bristol’s body if you hadn’t?”

“Her ex-husband or stepdaughter, I imagine.”

“The cops said that Travis and Maisie didn’t know Rachel had gone onto the island. She didn’t have her own car in Boston. She had to have hired a car, taken a cab or the subway or walked.” Padgett shifted back to Emma. “Was Rachel Bristol killed to keep her from talking to you? That’s the question of the hour, isn’t it, Emma?”

“Right behind who shot her.”

He shrugged. “That’s a given. You okay? I’ve been in the situation you were in this morning a few times.”

“I’m okay, Sam. Thanks for asking.”

“Once the adrenaline wears off, you think—hell, I could have been shot dead myself out there.” He grinned as he started toward the door. “But I’m not an ex-nun.” He paused in the doorway and looked back at her. “Were you thinking as a federal agent this morning, or a Sharpe?”

“I’m a federal agent at all times.”

“I know that. Do you? Deep down? Or does part of you think you still work for your family?”

He left without waiting for the answer. Emma knew the entire team would be sifting through her files on the Declan’s Cross thief. Her grandfather hadn’t investigated that first theft in the small Irish village until six months later, after two Dutch landscapes were stolen from a small museum in Amsterdam. He received the first of the crosses, along with a museum brochure, and recognized the image of Saint Declan and his bell. That and subsequent crosses not only allowed the thief to take credit for his heists but also to keep Wendell Sharpe on the case—and to taunt one of the world’s great art detectives.

Her cell phone vibrated in her jacket pocket. She fished it out and answered without looking at the screen. “Emma Sharpe.”

“Emma...Agent Sharpe...it’s Aoife O’Byrne.”

Emma sat on the edge of the conference table. She hadn’t expected the Irish accent and cool voice of the Dublin artist, the younger niece of John O’Byrne, the man who had owned the artwork stolen ten years ago from his home in tiny Declan’s Cross. “What can I do for you, Aoife?”

“I need to see you. I’m in Boston,” she added quickly. “I’m staying at the Taj Hotel. Can you meet me here? Now? It’s important.”

Emma eased to her feet. “I’ll be right there. Are you in your room?”

“I am, yes.”

“Wait there. I’ll come to you.”

Emma got Aoife’s room number and disconnected, aware of Colin watching her from the doorway.

“Are you going to tell me who that was?” he asked.

“Aoife O’Byrne.”

“The Irish artist who threw you out of her studio in Dublin a few days ago?”

“She didn’t throw me out. She almost threw me out. She threw Granddad out. Well, she slammed the door in his face. But that was ten years ago.” Emma pushed a hand through her hair. “She’s in Boston.”

“Boston,” Colin repeated. “Old Wendell told me she’s one of the most beautiful women he’s ever met.”

“She is very attractive,” Emma said.

“Good.” Colin handed her a sandwich in a small plastic bag. “I stole it out of the fridge in the break room. I think it’s Padgett’s. He won’t miss it. He probably has a stash of MREs in his desk. You need to eat something.”

“You and Sam Padgett are going to give Yank a headache, aren’t you?”

“Lots of headaches, I imagine,” Colin said lightly.

The sandwich looked good. She noted crisp-looking oak-leaf lettuce poking out of the edges of the soft marble rye. She didn’t care whether it was ham, cheese, roast beef or some weird concoction Sam had come up with. She was suddenly starving.

Colin grinned at her. “You eat. I’ll drive.”

5

Colin followed Emma through a revolving glass door into the Taj, located in an iconic 1927 building on Arlington and Newbury Street in Boston’s Back Bay. “Mike and I slipped in here when we were in town for a Red Sox game,” he said as he and Emma entered a gleaming elevator in the lobby. “He was thirteen. I was eleven. It was the Ritz-Carlton then. Doorman made us in two seconds flat.”

“Did your parents know what you were up to?”

“They still don’t. They were doing a swan boat ride with Kevin and Andy. We said we’d stay in the Public Garden.” He stood back as Emma hit the button for Aoife’s floor. “Mike gets bored easily.”

She smiled. “And you don’t,” she said, openly skeptical. “Did the Red Sox win?”

“You bet. Against the Yankees, too. Ever attend a Red Sox game, Emma?”

“Not yet, no.”

“But you’ve done high tea here, haven’t you?”

The elevator rose smoothly up into the five-star hotel. She leveled her green eyes on him. They were the best green eyes. “I have,” she said.

“Alone? With your family? With the good sisters?”

“With my family. My Sharpe grandmother was still alive. We all came down for a December weekend in Boston. Granddad, Gran, Lucas, my folks and me. We went to the Nutcracker and the Museum of Fine Arts and did high tea. I was nine. Gran bought me a maroon-colored coat with a matching dress with white lace.” Emma smiled again, some color returning to her face. “It’s a special memory.”

Colin could picture the Sharpes trooping into the elegant hotel. From what he’d seen of them so far, they were the sort of people who were comfortable anywhere—high tea, a gallery opening, an Irish pub or a struggling Maine fishing village. Emma’s great-grandparents had moved from their native Ireland to Boston when Wendell, their only son, was two. They’d ended up in the pretty village of Heron’s Cove in southern Maine, where Wendell had launched Sharpe Fine Art Recovery from his front room sixty years ago. Fifteen years ago, a widower, he’d moved to Ireland and opened an office in Dublin, although he insisted Maine was still home.

Emma could take over the Dublin office now that her grandfather was semiretired, Colin thought, but here she was, an FBI agent who had just come upon a shooting death.

Then again, Rachel Bristol could have called Emma that morning because she was a Sharpe, not because she was an FBI agent.

The elevator eased to a stop, and the doors opened. Emma led the way down the carpeted hall. Halfway down on the left, a slender woman with long, almost-black hair stood in the open doorway to one of the rooms. She was addressing a man—shaved head, denim jacket, cargo pants, late thirties—in the hall. “I don’t understand,” she said. “Who are you? What do you want with me?”

“Rachel is dead.” The man’s voice was raised and intense, but he wasn’t shouting. “That’s what I’m telling you.”

The woman seemed to have trouble digesting his words. “Rachel Bristol? She’s dead? But how can that be? What happened? You must tell me.”

Colin heard the woman’s accent now. Irish. Without a doubt.

Aoife O’Byrne. Pronounced Ee-fa.

He’d met her older sister, Kitty, almost two weeks ago, when he and Emma had ventured to Declan’s Cross and ended up in the middle of a murder investigation. Kitty was attractive, but Aoife was drop-dead gorgeous—in her mid-thirties, with shiny black hair that hung to her waist, porcelain skin, vivid blue eyes and angular features. Wendell Sharpe hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d said she was one of the most beautiful women he’d ever met.

“Rachel was shot this morning.” The man with the shaved head lowered his voice. “That’s the word, anyway. I wasn’t given an official report.”

“Shot? But I— We—” Aoife broke off, then took in two quick, audible breaths. She placed a hand on the doorjamb as if to steady herself. “I don’t know who you are or what you want with me, but you need to leave now, before I call hotel security.”

The man didn’t budge. “Rachel came to see you here last night. Why? What did you two talk about? I’m not leaving until I get some answers.” He gave a quick glance at Emma and Colin, then turned back to Aoife. “Believe me, the police are going to want answers, too.”

Colin stepped past Emma and reached the man a half step ahead of her. “Easy, my friend. What’s your name?”

The man cast him a cold look. “None of your damn business.”

“Think not.” Colin produced his credentials from inside his jacket. “I’m Special Agent Colin Donovan, and this is Special Agent Emma Sharpe. FBI.”

“FBI? No kidding.” He put up both palms, as if he knew to keep his hands where the two law enforcement officers could see them. “Name’s Palladino. Danny Palladino. I don’t have a beef with the FBI. I’m private security. The Bristols are a client.”

“Are you carrying?” Colin asked.

Palladino nodded. “Right hip. Glock. It’s legal. I’m out of Las Vegas. I got into town last night. I went to Bristol Island for a Bristol family meeting and it was crawling with cops. What’s the FBI doing here? You guys don’t investigate local homicides.”

“I called Emma—Agent Sharpe,” Aoife said, her voice less combative.

“Wait.” Palladino pointed at Aoife, then Emma. “You two know each other?”

“We met in Ireland because of Agent Sharpe’s work in art crime,” Aoife said without elaboration. “When I called her just now, I didn’t know...” She took in a deep breath. “I didn’t know about Rachel. She was a friend of yours, Mr. Palladino? I’m so sorry.”

“She wasn’t a friend,” Palladino said. “Why did you—”

Colin held up a hand, cutting him off. “One thing at a time.” He turned to Aoife. “Okay if we talk in your room?”

“Yes, of course.” She pushed open the door behind her and motioned into the room. “Please, come in.”

It was a one-bedroom suite, complete with a fireplace and view of the Boston Public Garden, spectacular even in November. Palladino went in first, then Emma and Aoife. Colin stayed by the door. He would let Emma handle the situation and jump in if needed. Right now, Palladino looked more shocked, confused and frustrated than menacing.

Aoife walked over to the fire. Although she was dressed warmly in a black sweater, leggings and socks, she was shivering, hugging herself tightly as if she was cold. She wore no jewelry or makeup. A pair of black ankle boots was cast off on the rug in front of the couch. If she’d been out of the hotel that morning, she’d had enough time to warm up. There was no sign in her pale skin of rosy cheeks from the November cold.

Palladino walked over to the windows and looked out at the Public Garden. “I still can’t figure out why a well-known Irish painter would call two FBI agents—or even one FBI agent.”

Emma ignored him and sat on a chair across from Aoife. “When did you arrive in Boston?” she asked the artist quietly.

Aoife tucked her feet under her. “Yesterday afternoon. I flew in from Dublin.”

“You must be jet-lagged,” Emma said. “I’m still waking up at the crack of dawn, and I’ve been home for several days.”

“I was very tired last night. I managed to sleep until six this morning. Not too bad.”

Palladino nodded to several small sheets of plain paper spaced out on a small, elegant desk. “What are these?”

“Random sketches,” Aoife said. “I did them this morning when I realized I wouldn’t be going back to sleep. They’re Celtic crosses.”

“So I see,” Palladino said. “Any particular reason?”

“Many particular reasons.”

Her cool, prickly response didn’t seem to affect Palladino. “Have you left your room today, Miss O’Byrne?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I haven’t gone out of here since last night. I had breakfast in.”

Emma sat forward in her chair. “I overheard you tell Mr. Palladino that Rachel Bristol was here last night.”

“That’s right,” Aoife said. “She met me here around eight o’clock. I ordered wine and cheese, and we chatted for perhaps a half hour. Here—by the fire. She’d just arrived from Los Angeles and had dropped off her things at her ex-husband’s house and walked over. We were both tired from our trips and agreed to meet again today. She said she would phone me this morning and we could set up a time.”

“Travis Bristol,” Palladino interjected, glancing at Emma. “That’s the ex-husband.”

“Is he the Bristol who hired you?” Emma asked him.

“No. Ann Bristol, Travis Bristol’s first wife. She lives in Las Vegas. I’m here to check on Maisie, their daughter—not for any particular reason, except that Maisie is rich, naive and stubborn.” Palladino lifted one of the sketches as if he wasn’t paying close attention to the conversation. “Maisie got in from L.A. late yesterday, too.”

“I don’t know her,” Aoife said. “Rachel came here on her own last night.”

Colin leaned against the door, shifting his gaze from Palladino to Emma. She seemed more centered than when he’d found her on Bristol Island, pacing, cold, tight with contained anger and the shock of having found a woman dead.

“Aoife,” Emma said, “why are you in Boston?”

She hesitated. “Rachel phoned me at my studio in Dublin a few days ago. She wanted to talk to me about a film project she was working on, and I agreed to let her interview me. I’ve been wanting to come to Boston. This was an excuse. I booked my flight, and now here I am.”

Palladino frowned. “What project?”

“She said she was working on an independent movie inspired by the theft of artwork from my uncle’s house ten years ago. The stolen art has never been recovered, and the identity of the thief remains unknown. Rachel made the distinction between inspired by and based on. I’m not sure what she meant.”

“I don’t know anything about this,” Palladino said.

“Rachel was going to get into more detail when we saw each other today, but now...” Aoife gulped in air, sliding her feet out from under her and letting them drop to the carpeted floor as she addressed Emma. “Was she murdered? Her death wasn’t an accident, was it?”

“That’s not for me to say.” Emma rose, no sign of stiffness. “The investigating detectives are going to want to talk to both you and Mr. Palladino.”

“I understand,” Aoife said, subdued. “Thank you for coming under such terrible circumstances. I didn’t know about Rachel’s death when I called you. Emma...” The artist glanced at Palladino, then shifted back to Emma. “Might we have a private word?”

“Of course.”

Palladino frowned, but Colin nodded to him. “Let’s go, Danny. We’ll wait downstairs for the detectives. They’re going to want to talk to you, too.”

“I think I should stay and hear what Miss O’Byrne has to say.”

“You can think what you want, but you’re not staying. Come on. I’ll let you push the buttons in the elevator. I thought that was the best thing when I was a kid.”

Palladino glowered. “An FBI agent who thinks he’s funny. Just what I need.”

But he walked past Aoife and Emma. He had one of the cross sketches in his hand and started to tuck it into his jacket. Colin snatched it from him and set it on a small table. Palladino shrugged and went out into the hall without a word.

Colin glanced at Emma. He didn’t like leaving her alone. He wanted to tell her that he had his phone, but she knew that—knew that she could call if she needed to. Reminding her might not undermine her in any real way, but it would sure as hell annoy her.

He went into the hall and walked down to the elevators with Palladino.

“I’m from Las Vegas,” Palladino said. “We have lots of elevators. You go ahead and push the button, Agent Donovan. Give that inner seven-year-old of yours a thrill.”

Colin grinned at him. “Will do.”

* * *

When they reached the hotel lobby, Palladino looked less cocky and argumentative—more as if he’d just realized someone had beamed him to another galaxy without his permission. “I want to finish up here and catch the next flight back to Las Vegas.”

Colin shook his head. “That probably won’t be tonight.”

“Not unless we catch this killer.”

“We?”

“Figure of speech.”

“Right.”

“You said you and Rachel weren’t friends. How well did you know her?”

Palladino shrugged. “Not well. I’ve only been working for the Bristols a year. Rachel and Travis were divorced by then.”

“You’re a bodyguard?”

“I provide personal security. Whatever it takes to keep a client safe. Sometimes that means being a bodyguard, or contracting one. Depends on the client and the situation.”

“When you say ‘the Bristols—’”

“I mean Ann Bristol. She’s my client.”

“She sent you here to check on her daughter?”

“It’s part of the package,” Palladino said vaguely.

“Does the daughter know? Maisie?”

“She knows I’m in town.”

His answers left a lot of room for interpretation. Colin didn’t push him. “Come on,” he said. “I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”

They went into the Taj restaurant and were seated at a table overlooking busy, upscale Newbury Street. Colin called the lead detective on the shooting. Not a happy man. He asked Colin twice to spell Aoife and mispronounced it both times. Hadn’t appreciated Colin correcting him. He instructed Colin to wait with Palladino at the Taj and to tell Emma and Aoife to wait, too. Back in his state marine patrol days, Colin had dealt with his share of federal agents. He didn’t blame the detective for his attitude.

He ordered coffee. Palladino ordered iced tea and grinned across the table. “I’m not violating an FBI order by not having coffee, am I?” He didn’t wait for an answer as he glanced out the window at Newbury Street. “Day’s turned gray. If I lived out here, I’d have to go on Saint John’s Wort or some kind of happy pills this time of year.”

“It’s still hot in Las Vegas?”

“Cooling down. Ninety degrees when I left yesterday. Ninety doesn’t feel as hot there as it would here. It’s a desert. Dry air. I could feel the humidity today out on that island. Smelled like dead fish. I hate the ocean.”

“Do you like lobster?”

“I’ve never had it.”

“It’s good. One of my brothers is a lobsterman.”

“Ah. I don’t eat much shellfish, but I bet I’d love lobster. If it’s good enough for a G-man’s brother to haul out of the ocean, it’s got to be good, right? Where do you catch lobster around here?”

“The ocean.”

“Yeah. I know that. Funny.”

“We’re from Maine,” Colin said. “My brother Andy just got back from Ireland. He spent some time in a little village on the south coast. Declan’s Cross. Ever hear of it?”

Palladino shook his head. “I’ve never been to Ireland. I don’t know how Rachel got interested in Aoife O’Byrne, if that’s what you’re getting at.” His iced tea arrived. He gulped a third of it before he continued. “Rachel’s death doesn’t have anything to do with your brother, does it?”

“There was a murder in Declan’s Cross last week. Andy’s girlfriend was there. It was in the papers.”

“I don’t read Irish papers.”

“It was in the papers here, too. The victim was an American diver, Lindsey Hargreaves. Her killer is dead.”

“Case solved then,” Palladino said.

Colin ignored him. “The uncle Aoife mentioned whose house was burglarized ten years ago is in Declan’s Cross. Several valuable works of Irish art were stolen. Aoife’s sister, Kitty, converted the house into a boutique hotel after their uncle’s death a few years ago.”

Palladino yawned. “Okay. One of those small-world things. Or not?” Palladino watched in silence as their waiter delivered Colin’s coffee in a silver pot. When the waiter withdrew, Palladino leaned over the table, speaking in a conspiratorial whisper. “You think Rachel saw news reports of the murder and this unsolved theft and that’s how she got interested in Aoife and this movie idea of hers?”

“I’m just asking questions.” Colin drank some of his coffee. It was ultrastrong. Perfect. He kept his gaze on the man across the table. “This is all news to you?”

“Totally.” Palladino sat back. “No wonder you and Agent Sharpe have your knickers in a twist. What I know about art, Irish or otherwise, could keep us talking for thirty seconds. Emma Sharpe—did she investigate this Declan’s Cross theft? She seems young to have been a fed ten years ago.”

“Her grandfather investigated. Wendell Sharpe.”

“Don’t know him. Obviously, I came out here not knowing a whole hell of a lot about what’s going on. Could this have been a random shooting—some yahoo target practicing who pops Rachel by mistake? Where was she hit?” He waved a hand. “Never mind. I know you won’t tell me. Did Rachel call Agent Sharpe? Is that what happened?”

“The detectives can fill you in as they see fit,” Colin said, drinking more of his coffee.

“Yeah, yeah. I know the drill.” Palladino grinned, clearly not a man easily intimidated. “Don’t get excited. I’m not an ex-cop. I’m ex-military. Navy. I was on fast-attack submarines for twelve years. See why I hate the ocean? The only thing worse than being on the ocean is being under it. I grew up in Las Vegas, and I signed up for the navy. Go figure.” He polished off the last of his iced tea. “You and Agent Emma?”

“We’re both with the FBI. It stands for the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Colin knew it wasn’t. “What about you? How did you start working for Ann Bristol?”

“She’s a client. I don’t work for her. I’m an independent operator. She called my office one bright, hot, sunny Las Vegas day. A mutual friend had referred her to me. Nothing out of the ordinary. She was worried about her daughter more than about herself. I’ve done work for high-profile people. I know what I’m doing.”

“The daughter—Maisie—is okay with her mother sticking her nose in her business?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Are you married, Mr. Palladino?”

“Nope. Never. I might get a dog, preferably one who likes the desert.” He glanced out the tall windows at the street. “I rented a room near Mass. General Hospital. I can walk from here. Can I wait there for the detectives?”

Colin shook his head. “I’ll order you more iced tea.”

“Won’t the detectives be pissed that you and Sharpe are talking to Aoife O’Byrne and me first?”

“We did them a favor.”

“Bet they won’t see it that way.”

* * *

Danny Palladino was right. The homicide detectives didn’t appreciate that two FBI agents had talked to him and Aoife O’Byrne before they could. Not a surprise, Colin thought as he followed Emma out of the Taj onto Newbury Street. The detectives also hadn’t appreciated his point that without said two FBI agents—particularly Emma—they wouldn’t have found out about Danny and Aoife as soon as they did.

Emma had been more diplomatic.

She buttoned up her jacket as two women in high-heeled boots breezed past them. “I’ve never been much of a shopper, but I could go for a Burberry coat.”

“Our friends in the BPD would love for us to go shopping.” Colin resisted the temptation to put his arm around her. They were in public, working. “I’ll start saving now and buy you a Burberry coat on our fifth anniversary.”

She grinned at him. “I’m going to hold you to that, Agent Donovan.”

He could see the strain in her eyes. “The police aren’t going to like what Aoife has to tell them, are they?”

Emma started walking up Newbury. “Aoife is in Boston as much to see me as Rachel Bristol. A stone cross arrived at her studio in Dublin on Thursday—by mail, just like the ones Granddad, Lucas, Yank and I received late last week.”

“That’s a couple days after you stopped to see her at her studio on Monday,” Colin said.

“It’s impossible to know if my visit and the cross are connected. I was careful when I went to see her. I don’t think I was followed.”

“The thief could have been watching her.”

Emma nodded. “She’s done similar crosses herself, designs inspired by the one stolen from her uncle’s house.”

Colin slowed his pace. “Emma, where is the cross Aoife received?”

“She debated calling the police in Dublin, and even my grandfather, but she had Rachel’s invitation to come to Boston and decided it would be more efficient—her exact word—to bring the cross to me herself.” Emma pulled her hands out of her pockets. “Aoife had the cross out on the desk in her suite last night when Rachel stopped by. When she went to look for it this morning, it was gone. She says she searched every inch of her suite.”

“That’s why she called you when she did.”

Emma nodded. They approached the intersection at Arlington Street. The wind picked up, blowing a few stray, brown fallen leaves on the sidewalk. Colin pictured Emma on windswept Bristol Island, alone with a dead woman with a cross in her hand identical to the ones a serial art thief had been sending to Wendell Sharpe for ten years.

“You’re not having a great day, Agent Sharpe,” he said.

She almost smiled. “You could say that. Rachel must have helped herself to Aoife’s cross last night and then called me this morning. Aoife has my number. She says she had it out on her desk last night, too. Rachel could have jotted it down or memorized it when she swiped the cross.”

“Did whoever shot her know she had the cross and didn’t care?” Colin stopped on the wide sidewalk. “Or know but didn’t have time to grab it without shooting you, too?” He gritted his teeth, not liking any of the possibilities. “Why did Rachel steal this cross? Only a handful of people know it’s the signature of a serial art thief. She wasn’t one of them.”

“Neither is Aoife. She knows only that it is similar to her uncle’s stolen cross.”

“Could Rachel have thought it was Aoife’s work?”

“Maybe, but I don’t think so.”

They walked to a light and crossed Arlington to the Public Garden. Colin wasn’t one for a lot of pondering and analyzing, but he also wasn’t one for jumping to conclusions ahead of the facts. Rachel’s killer needed to be identified and apprehended. The role of the Declan’s Cross thief—if any—in her death needed to be sorted out. The lines were blurred between the jobs of the Boston Police Department, the FBI and the Sharpes.

Not that blurred, Colin thought.

The BPD had the lead in the homicide investigation. The FBI had the lead in the investigation into the thief. They would coordinate their efforts as appropriate.

The Sharpes of Sharpe Fine Art Recovery were private citizens.

More fallen leaves blew alongside the Public Garden’s Victorian black-iron fence.

“Rachel stole the cross and called you,” Colin said. “Why?”

“My guess? She believed she knew who sent it.”

“Our thief.”

“That’s right,” Emma said quietly. “Our thief.”

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.”

Danny shrugged but made no move to sit. “Let’s just hope the cops find her killer soon. Even if it was an accident, someone is responsible for her death.” He settled his steady gaze on Emma. “That’s not why you and Agent Donovan are here, though, is it, Agent Sharpe?”

Emma didn’t answer, instead keeping her focus on Maisie. “What do you know about Rachel’s relationship with Aoife O’Byrne?”

Maisie frowned. “Why don’t you ask Aoife? Why ask me?”

Despite her unpretentious appearance, Maisie Bristol was clearly used to being in charge. Her father leaned forward, fingering one of the decorating magazines on the table. “We’ll be happy to answer any questions you have, Agent Sharpe. I’ve never met Miss O’Byrne. I only learned of her last night when Rachel told us she had invited her to Boston, and she had just arrived. I understand that she’s a remarkable artist.”

Emma glanced at Colin, his expression unreadable, then shifted back to the Bristols. “Rachel told Aoife she was working on an independent film inspired by an Irish art theft. Were you involved, Maisie?”

“It’s complicated,” she said, her voice almost inaudible.

“It’s Maisie’s project,” Travis said. “Rachel knew that. I’m sure she’d say the same thing if she were with us right now.”

Maisie seemed hardly to hear him. “Rachel had her ideas about the direction we should take. We were going to talk about everything this morning at the marina. I have so many ideas. It’s easy for me to get ahead of myself. I wanted to get more details on what Rachel had in mind and get Dad’s take. We were also going to talk about plans for the island.” She blinked back tears. “It was supposed to be a good get-together. Fun. Stimulating.”

“We all love the island,” her father said. “Rachel as well as Maisie and me.”

Maisie nodded. “Mom, too. Some of my fondest memories are of the three of us digging clams on the beach. She’d like us to let the island become part of the national park system along with most of the other islands. That’s an option, but I’ve been exploring the idea of launching a film school and production company on the island. It would be nonprofit. Who knows, maybe it could be part of the Boston Harbor Island Recreational Area, too.” She waved a hand. “None of that matters right now.”

“What time did you arrive on the island?” Colin asked from the foyer door.

Maisie looked startled, as if she’d forgotten he was there, but recovered quickly. “Just before the police did. I knew something terrible had happened. I threw up.”

“I arrived a few minutes later,” Travis said.

“It’s been a long day. I know you understand.” Maisie pointed vaguely toward the back of the house. “Why don’t I show you my workroom? It’s just downstairs. I don’t like sharing the details of a project too soon, but...” She tried to smile. “But you’re the FBI, and you want to know. And I have nothing to hide.”

“I’ll go with you,” Danny said.

Maisie bristled visibly. “You don’t have to stay, Danny. You can go anytime. Dad and I will be fine.”

He shifted his impassive gaze to Emma. “Maisie is independent. That’s cool, but it doesn’t occur to her that someone might not wish her well.”

“That’s not what today is about, Danny,” she interjected, clearly annoyed with him. “I’m not the one who was in danger, obviously, and we don’t know that Rachel’s death has anything to do with me. In fact, I can’t imagine how it could.”

“Rachel had her own life apart from Maisie and me,” Travis said.

Maisie nodded. “She could have had her own enemies, too. More likely, what happened this morning was just a stupid accident. With the cottages falling into disrepair, vagrants and people out for a good time have been using that side of the island. Developing it would end all that. But we don’t know what happened today, except that Rachel is gone.”

Travis eased in next to his daughter. “Danny, you’re welcome to move in here. If we’d known you were coming, we’d have had a room ready for you.”

“I’m good with my rental,” Danny said. “No rats or roaches.”

Maisie gave him a cool look before turning to Emma. “Shall we go downstairs?”

Danny made a move to join them, but Colin shook his head. “You sit tight, Danny. We’ll be back.”

“Feds,” he said, good-naturedly. “Love you guys. Go do your thing.”

* * *

Maisie Bristol’s workroom was down a half flight of stairs at street or “garden” level. French doors opened onto a brick courtyard with a stone fountain, statues and pots now mostly empty with the cooler weather. In the fading afternoon light, Emma noticed chips and cracks in the fountain. Moss and crabgrass covered patches of the brick. A six-foot stepladder leaned up against the back wall, reminding her that the Bristols were having work done on the place.

Maisie grabbed a book off a worktable pushed up against multipaned windows. “I’m sorry, I don’t have many chairs in here, and the few I have are stacked with books. I’ve been collecting them like a madwoman. I don’t know when I’ll get to read even half of them.”

“We don’t mind standing,” Emma said.

Colin walked over to the window. He’d said little since arriving at the Bristols’ house, but she had no doubt he was paying close attention. That she’d found a dead woman and Yank had found his wife trapped in Aoife O’Byrne’s Dublin studio hadn’t sat well with him—as an FBI agent or as Emma’s fiancé and Yank’s friend.

Maisie set her book back on the table. Emma saw it was on Jack B. Yeats. “I wasn’t familiar with his work until recently,” Maisie said, brushing her fingertips across the cover, one of his western Irish landscapes. “Rachel told me about him, as a matter of fact. I didn’t realize at first that her interest in Yeats cuts to our different approaches to the film we were working on together. She wanted flash and dazzle. I want...” Her eyes shone with fresh tears. “Well, I don’t know what I want.”

“When did Rachel introduce you to Yeats’s work?” Emma asked.

“About a week ago. She’d done some research and thought she’d found the perfect hook for our movie.”

“And you weren’t sure?”

“I wasn’t, no. I’m interested in the intersection of pagan Celtic Ireland and Christianity and the integration of those two worlds. I’ve been gobbling up everything I can.” Maisie gave a broad gesture to more books stacked on the worktable. “It’s fascinating.”

Maisie—or someone—had turned the end wall into a collage of color printouts of photographs of Irish Celtic scenes. Emma recognized ogham stones, Celtic crosses, beehive huts and church ruins, pages from the Book of Kells.

“I wasn’t upset by Rachel’s ideas,” Maisie added quickly. “Differences are to be expected in a creative endeavor. I like to throw everything out onto the table—without self-censorship—and see what develops. Let things simmer and percolate until what’s meant to be emerges. It’s not always a neat and tidy process, but it works, at least for me.”

“You’ve had a great deal of success,” Emma said.

“I support good people and get out of their way and let them do their work.”

“That takes a certain vision, doesn’t it?”

Maisie smiled, brushing at her tears with the heel of one hand. “And luck.”

“Did Rachel—”

“All my successes were flukes according to Rachel. She said it was a positive viewpoint. If they were flukes, I wouldn’t expect to duplicate them in the future. I wouldn’t be disappointed.”

“She was lowering your expectations?”

“Helping me to a soft landing,” Maisie said. “She and my dad started seeing each other when I was fifteen. I was even more awkward than the average awkward fifteen-year-old. Living in Las Vegas with my erratic but loving mother. Traveling back and forth to Los Angeles and Boston to see my father. It’s not like not knowing where your next meal is coming from or going to bed hungry, but I coped by watching movies, talking movies, eating and sleeping movies. Rachel was very kind to me in her own way, and she taught me a lot.”

“But part of her still thought of you as that awkward fifteen-year-old,” Emma said.

“She admitted as much.”

Colin turned from the window. “Was she hijacking your movie, Maisie?”

“She knew I wouldn’t let that happen. She told me last night that she realized I wasn’t the insecure girl breathless for whatever words of wisdom she had for me—that just because I’m open to ideas doesn’t mean I don’t have ideas of my own, or a strong vision of my own. That I...I...” Maisie gulped in air, her face crumpling as she sobbed, tears streaming down her pale cheeks. “I can’t believe she’s gone. I can’t believe someone killed her.”

Emma pulled out the one chair that was pushed under the table and lifted a stack of books from the seat. Colin eased Maisie onto the chair. “Try not to hyperventilate,” he said. “It won’t help.”

She nodded, still gulping in air. “I know. I’m sorry. I’ve been in such a state of shock that I’ve hardly cried at all. I don’t know what all Rachel was up to—I think she was trying to manipulate me or bully me into doing the movie her way. I’m sure that’s why she invited Aoife O’Byrne here. How awful it must be for her to arrive in Boston and not twenty-four hours later, the woman who got her here is shot to death in cold blood. I can’t believe—” She clutched her shirt at her solar plexus. “I’m going to be sick.”

Colin placed a hand on her shoulder. “Easy, Maisie. Just breathe normally.”

She squeezed her eyes shut, tears leaking out of the corners. Her nose was running. She sniffled, letting go of her shirt and wiping her nose on the sleeve. She opened her eyes and sniffled again. “Sorry. I never seem to have a tissue. I’ll change in a few minutes. God, what an awful day.” She raised her gaze to Emma. “I know you’re the one who found Rachel this morning. The police asked us—Dad and me—if we knew that she’d called you. We didn’t. We’ve no idea what she wanted. Did she tell you? When Rachel called—” Maisie stopped abruptly and shook her head. “Never mind. I know you can’t tell me things.”

“How long had you and Rachel been working on the movie?” Emma asked.

“Since October. In the last week or so I could see it was turning into two different movies. Hers and mine. Rachel wanted to take my interest and knowledge of the Irish Celtic pagan and Irish Celtic Christian worlds and use them as the backdrop for a movie about an art thief and the private art detective chasing him.”

Emma kept her expression neutral. “What prompted Rachel to go in that direction?”

“She read a news story about the murder of an American in a little Irish village. Declan’s Cross. It mentioned an unsolved art theft of two Jack B. Yeats paintings, and she was off and running. Obsessed. She looked into this art detective and Aoife O’Byrne. The art detective is in his eighties now. She said ours would have to be younger.”

“Did she give you his name?” Colin asked.

Maisie shrugged her slender shoulders. “I don’t know. Maybe. I wouldn’t remember. I’m terrible with names.”

Emma narrowed her gaze on her. “Wendell Sharpe,” she said.

“Yeah, that’s it.” Maisie straightened, gaping at Emma. “Wait. Sharpe? You two are related?”

“He’s my grandfather.”

“Oh. Oh. No wonder Rachel called you this morning, then. Now it makes perfect sense.”

Emma picked up the book on Yeats. “How so?”

“You’re an FBI agent and the granddaughter of a renowned art detective. Rachel could have been shifting and thinking of making you the art detective in her version of our movie. Maybe doing a composite of you and your grandfather. It’d all be fiction, of course—as Rachel said, inspired by but not based on real events. Anyway, with Aoife O’Byrne arriving yesterday, I can see that Rachel would want to talk to you. Pick your brain. With my scheduling a meeting at the marina this morning, it makes sense she asked to meet you on the island. Pure convenience.”

“Did she tell anyone she was going out there?” Emma asked.

“She didn’t tell me. She died before she could go into much detail about what she’d learned so far about the thief and her art detective—your grandfather—but I know she was excited. I was resistant to letting her take over this project, but I was willing to hear her out with as open a mind as I could.”

Colin walked over to a closed door. “What’s in here?”

“A guest studio apartment. It has its own entrance onto West Cedar. A friend of mine is staying there.”

He cocked a brow at her. “What friend?”

Color rose in Maisie’s tear-stained cheeks. “His name’s Oliver Fairbairn. He’s a mythologist. He worked as a consultant on one of my films. We got to talking on the set one day—he inspired my interest in Celtic Ireland.”

“He’s Irish?”

“English, actually. His expertise isn’t restricted to Ireland or even to Celtic myths and legends. They’re what I latched on to.”

“Where is he now?” Emma asked.

“He went out for a walk. He doesn’t live here—he stays here when he’s in town. Most of the time that’s when I’m in town, too. I’m mobile, but I’ve been in Boston a lot this fall, mostly to pull together plans for the island. Oliver’s latest movie-consulting job ended in October, and he took the opportunity to do some research in Boston. He comes and goes. As Dad mentioned, he’s been back and forth a lot, too. He lives in Malibu. He grew up here, though.”

“Got it,” Colin said. “Have the police talked to Mr. Fairbairn?”

“I don’t know. Not that I know of.”

“Was he at your brunch at the marina this morning?”

“He was invited,” Maisie said. “Of course, there was no brunch. We were about to get started when the police descended and we found out about Rachel.”

She looked out the window at the courtyard. Darkness was descending fast now. She seemed more tired and preoccupied now than in shock and disbelief.

Emma moved from the table and stood next to her. “Have you settled anything for your movie—time period, location, theme, characters?”

“I was still casting a wide net when Rachel told me about Declan’s Cross. I did some cursory research. I could see why the theft caught her interest, but I was captivated by Saint Declan. I’d love to visit Ardmore, where he established his monastery.” Maisie smiled sadly, her energy clearly fading. “The photos I’ve seen on the internet are intriguing. Is it as beautiful as it seems?”

“As far as I’m concerned, it is,” Emma said.

“It seems like such a leap to get from a theft in a small Irish village ten years ago to Rachel’s death this morning. It must be hard to take things step by step in a criminal investigation and not get ahead of yourself.” Maisie’s eyes narrowed, her gaze again turning cool. “Does your grandfather’s involvement complicate your role, Agent Sharpe?”

Emma had no intention of answering the question. Maisie Bristol might look as if she cut her own hair and had just flunked high school algebra, but Emma could see her tackling Hollywood and coming out on top.

She drew a business card from her jacket and placed it on the table. “Call me if you think of anything else, or if you want to talk more.”

Maisie had gone pale again. She didn’t pick up the card. She bit down on her lower lip as she touched the black lettering. “The FBI. My God.” She seemed to force herself to breathe. “I get sick to my stomach and maybe a little bitchy—maybe a lot bitchy—when I think that something I did could have led to Rachel’s death. Rachel said the murder in Declan’s Cross last week has been solved and the killer is dead. That investigation is all wrapped up, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is.”

“You say that with such certainty.”

“Call anytime, Maisie,” Emma said. “Day or night.”

Her shoulders slumped but she gave a small nod. “Thank you.”

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