Harbor Island

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.