He didn’t bug her, but he kept an eye on her while he read a book and drank the water she’d bought him. It was a long, skin-crawling seven hours across the Atlantic. He had smart, pretty Sophie Malone a few rows in front of him, a four-year-old kicking his seat behind him and, directly across the aisle, two old women who talked for all but about six seconds of the flight. Sitting still had never been his long suit, and almost getting blown up in his own backyard hadn’t helped his patience.
His conversations with Myles Fletcher and Josie Goodwin hadn’t helped, either. Was Sophie onto something—deliberately or inadvertently—that would interest British intelligence? A professional, or even a personal, interest in Keira’s ruin was one thing. Keeping secrets was another.
When the plane landed, Sophie jumped up and squeezed past a young couple with a toddler. If Scoop tried the same maneuver, he’d knock someone over, but she was slim, agile and much faster than anyone would expect just looking at her. She also had a big, friendly smile. Scoop was faster than he looked, but that was it. He wasn’t slim or agile, and he certainly didn’t have a big, friendly smile.
He wondered if being back on American soil would help him lose that fairy-spell, love-at-first-sight feeling. So far, not so good.
He caught up with her again at baggage claim. “Share a cab?” he asked as she lifted a backpack off the belt.
She hooked its strap onto one shoulder. “Oh—no, thanks.” She motioned vaguely toward the exit. “Someone’s picking me up.”
Scoop didn’t even have to be good at detecting lies to see through that one. Not that she was trying hard to hide that she wasn’t telling the truth.
He could have taken the subway, too, but he went ahead and grabbed a cab.
He’d be seeing Sophie Malone again. It wasn’t a question of if. It was a question of when and under what circumstances.
Scoop had the cab drop him off in Jamaica Plain. He stood in front of the triple-decker he owned with Bob O’Reilly and Abigail Browning. It was a freestanding, solid house, one of thousands of triple-deckers built in the early 1900s for immigrant workers. It had character. Abigail and Owen were due back soon from their honeymoon. Bob was working. He and some of the guys from the department had boarded up the windows with fresh plywood and strung yellow caution tape across the front porch.
Scoop had never figured his second-floor apartment would be the last place he owned, but he’d had no immediate plans to move. He, Bob and Abigail all hated that three police detectives had brought violence to their own neighborhood. Their street was semi-gentrified, with mature trees and well-kept gardens. There were young families with kids on bicycles, teenagers playing street hockey, professionals, old people.
Scoop unlocked the side gate, left his carry-on and duffel bag on the walk and headed to the postage-stamp of a backyard. The bomb had set off a fire on Abigail’s first-floor back porch that burned straight through to her dining room. His porch, directly above hers, had also burned. The firefighters had gotten there fast and stopped the fire from spreading, but with the extensive smoke and water damage, the entire three-story house had to be gutted. Bob was in charge of figuring out what came next. It’d be a while before they could move back in.
Abigail planned to sell her place and move with Owen into a loft in the renovated waterfront building where the new headquarters of Fast Rescue, Owen’s international search-and-rescue outfit, were being relocated from Austin. Bob had mentioned maybe he could take the top two floors and Scoop could move to Abigail’s place. Sounded good to Scoop, but it’d involve redesigning and probably more money.
He squinted up at his boarded-up apartment. He’d done his mourning for any stuff he’d miss. Photographs, mostly, but his family had copies of a lot of them—nieces, nephews, birthday parties, holidays.
The air still tasted and smelled of charred wood and metal. He walked over to the edge of his vegetable garden. He’d been weeding when Fiona O’Reilly had arrived that day and offered to help him pick tomatoes.
That was what they’d been doing when the bomb went off. Picking tomatoes.
“Hell,” he breathed, remembering.
The bomb had to have already been in place under Abigail’s grill when they’d all gotten up that morning.
It was constructed with C4. Nasty stuff.
He, Bob, Abigail, Owen and Fiona had made lists of people they’d seen at the house in the days before the bomb. Everyone. Cops included.
Maybe especially cops, Scoop thought, sighing at the weeds that had taken over his garden. He could still see where firefighters and paramedics had trampled his neat rows in the rush to save his life and keep the fire from spreading to neighboring homes. He’d trampled a few gardens in his years as a police officer. He noticed a couple of ripe tomatoes and squatted down, pulling back the vines, but the tomatoes had sat in the dirt too long. The bottoms were rotted.
“What the hell,” he said, “they’ll make good compost.”
He yanked up a few weeds, aware of the scars on his back, his shoulders, his arms. He’d grabbed Fiona, protecting her as best he could from the shards of metal and wood as he’d leaped with her for cover—the compost bin Bob and Abigail had moaned and groaned about when Scoop had been building it.
He got to his feet and looked up at the sky, as gray and drizzly as any he’d seen in Scotland and Ireland. He had no regrets about being back home.
He had a lot of work to do.
He headed back out to the gate, picked up his stuff and unlocked his car, sinking into the driver’s seat. He’d have no problem readjusting to driving on the right. He glanced at himself in the rearview mirror. He looked as if he’d flown on the wing of the plane instead of in an aisle seat. He needed a good night’s sleep.
Where? Should he take Lizzie Rush up on her offer to put him up at her family’s five-star Boston hotel—the one where Sophie Malone used to work?
“Might as well,” he said aloud, and started the car.
7
Boston, Massachusetts
Sophie’s iPhone jingled, signaling an incoming text message. She’d texted Damian when she’d landed in Boston. She checked her screen as she emerged from her subway stop onto Boston Common. Her brother’s response was about what she’d expected:
Nothing new. Go dig in the dirt.
She smiled. The Malones were known for not mincing words, Damian especially.
After the long flight, she welcomed the walk up to Beacon Hill. The narrow, familiar streets and black-shuttered town houses helped her to shake off the odd feeling that she was out of her element, on strange and unpredictable ground. She’d gone to college in Boston. She had friends there. It wasn’t as if she’d just landed in a foreign country or a city where she didn’t know anyone.
She descended steep, uneven stone steps to a black iron gate between two town houses. Since giving up her apartment in Cork, she’d felt uprooted, but unlike Scoop Wisdom and his detective friends, her homelessness was by choice and finances.
No one had blown up her house.
Using the keys Taryn had given her, Sophie unlocked the gate and went through a tunnel-like archway that opened into a small, secluded brick courtyard, one of Beacon Hill’s many nooks and crannies. Passersby would never guess it was there. The owners of a graceful brick town house had converted part of their walk-out basement into an apartment, with its own entrance onto the courtyard. Taryn had rented it when she was performing Shakespeare in Boston and hadn’t let go of it.
Sophie unlocked the door, painted a rich, dark green, and set her backpack on the floor of the small entry. The tiny apartment, with its cozy Beacon Hill atmosphere, suited Taryn’s personality and unpredictable lifestyle. She’d sublet it to an actress friend for the summer, but she’d departed in early September for a role in Chattanooga.
Taryn had placed a round table by the full-size paned windows that looked onto the charming courtyard, where neighbors had set out pots of flowers. A perfunctory kitchen, with downsized applian
ces, occupied one windowless wall. On the opposite wall a low sectional anchored the seating area in front of a nonworking fireplace.
No cockroaches scurried on the hardwood floor, which Sophie took as a hopeful sign. She’d forgotten just how low the ceilings were. She wasn’t claustrophobic, but she hadn’t been wild about small, cramped spaces even before her brush with death in an Irish cave. Her experience at archaeological sites had forced her to learn how to deal with them.
She dragged her backpack into the bedroom, its sole window level with the street. She unpacked and, restless after her hours with a suspicious Boston detective behind her, dived into cleaning the apartment from top to bottom. She mopped, scrubbed, vacuumed, put fresh sheets on the bed, dug out clean towels and debated walking to the grocery for a few provisions. Taryn’s actress friend had left mustard, salsa and carrots in the fridge and an unopened pint of vanilla ice cream in the freezer. Not terribly promising.
Sophie abandoned thoughts of food and instead changed into leggings and an oversize T-shirt and set out on a run, winding her way over to the Charles River Esplanade. It was early evening, gray but not raining. She didn’t push hard. After three miles, she felt less jet-lagged, less a stranger in a strange land and slowed to an easy jog back up Beacon Hill.
She took a shower, slipped into a skirt, a sweater and flats and headed out again. She didn’t feel like cooking. She wasn’t even sure she felt like eating, but she walked down to Charles Street to the Whitcomb, the Rush family’s Boston hotel.
Good-looking, tawny-haired Jeremiah Rush stood up from the antique reception desk in the lobby. “Sophie Malone!”
“Hey, Jeremiah. Long time.”
He stepped out from behind the desk, his dark gray suit clearly expensive and fitting his lean frame perfectly. “I thought you might turn up. Lizzie called this morning and said you were on your way back to Boston.”
“Lizzie? How did she know?”
“A Boston cop she ran into in Ireland,” Jeremiah said, no sign he considered the call from his cousin odd. “She didn’t go into detail.”
“What’s Lizzie doing in Ireland anyway?”
He grinned. “Who knows?”
“Did she ask you to report back should I turn up?”
“She did, indeed.”
Sophie supposed she shouldn’t be surprised to undergo a certain amount of scrutiny after she’d encountered Scoop Wisdom yesterday, but she hadn’t expected Lizzie Rush to be on her case. Had the call he’d taken at the airport that morning been from her?
“It’s great to see you, Sophie,” Jeremiah said. “I hear it’s Dr. Malone now. Congratulations.”
“Thanks.” She relaxed some. “It’s good to see you, Jeremiah. I just got in.”
“Guinness beckons, does it? It’s on the house. I remember when you’d be doing homework on your break. You had more drive than I ever did in school. Have to celebrate your milestone, right?”
“Definitely. Thank you. Join me if you can get away from the desk.”
“I will. Oh, and I should warn you.” He lowered his voice, as if he were telling her something he shouldn’t. “The cop who told Lizzie about you is staying here. Detective Wisdom. I just checked him in.”
Sophie glanced at the stairs down to Morrigan’s, the hotel’s upscale Irish bar named for Lizzie’s Irish mother. “Is he down there now?”
“Not at the moment. I thought since you’re both just back from Ireland…” Jeremiah didn’t finish. “I should know better than to try to figure out what all Lizzie’s up to. Enjoy your drink.”
Sophie thanked him again and trotted down the stairs. She sat at a high stool at the bar and ordered a glass of Guinness, watching the bartender, new since she’d worked there, go through the proper two-part process to pour it.
She’d taken just two sips when Scoop Wisdom descended the stairs, eased over to her and pointed to a table. He had on a dark sweater and dark khakis and looked as if he weren’t struggling with jet lag at all. “Come sit with me.”
Sophie set down her glass. “As in, you’ll arrest me if I don’t?”
“As in, we need to talk.”
She wondered if Jeremiah had tipped Scoop off that she was on the premises, or if the man’s cop instincts were just on over-drive where she was concerned. He walked over to a small table under a window that looked out on Charles Street, quiet on the dreary late-September night. Sophie took another quick sip of her Guinness, welcoming its strong, distinctive flavor. She left her glass behind when she went over to Scoop’s table.
“Amazing,” she said, sitting across from him. “Yesterday we met unexpectedly in an Irish ruin, this morning we run into each other at the airport and now here we are in a Boston pub. What’re the odds?”
“Pretty good, I’d say.”
She ignored his dry sarcasm. “It’s after midnight in Ireland. Can you feel the time change?”
Scoop settled back in his chair. “What’s your game, Sophie?”
He knew something. She could see it in his dark eyes as she decided on a response. He was an internal affairs detective, presumably especially good at telling when someone was dissembling. She wasn’t good at spotting liars. She was good at doing the painstaking, detailed work of an archaeologist and curious by nature, but, as Damian had reminded her, a good education and a curious nature didn’t make her a detective.
Which at least gave her an angle to try on Scoop. “No game,” she said. “I’m just a curious person with a love for Ireland, archaeology and history. I’m borrowing my sister’s apartment. I have a few odds and ends lined up to put food on the table, and I’m teaching a couple of college classes next semester while I set up interviews for a tenure-track position. I have a good lead on one here in Boston.”
“Will your work with the Boston-Cork folklore help?”
“Sure. I’m looking forward to it. I have several people in mind already for my panel, but I’ll be putting out a call for papers in the next day or two. It’s an honor to work with Colm Dermott. He’s brilliant. Everyone I know loves him.” Sophie paused as a waiter placed what appeared to be a frosty glass of soda in front of Scoop. “Smart man, Detective Wisdom, staying away from alcohol in the middle of an interrogation.”
“It’s not an interrogation. If it were, you’d know.”
“Hot lights? Thumbscrews?”
He gave her just the glimmer of a smile. “Tape recorder.” He didn’t touch his drink. “What else, Sophie?”
“A friend here in Boston offered me a job tutoring student athletes a few hours a week. Hockey players, mostly. Ever play hockey, Detective?”
“Yeah, I played hockey. Still do. You take the job?”
“I did. I can start as soon as I’m able.”
“Good. Start tomorrow.”
“You know, Scoop,” Sophie said, “I don’t take to being bossed around. Even my parents had a hard time telling me what to do when I was a kid. My sister, too. We’re twins.”
“Noncompliant personalities?”
“I think of us as independent. When we were kids, we’d go off on our own and explore the little Irish village outside Cork where we lived.”
“Sounds to me as if your folks didn’t watch you. Why were you living in Ireland?”
“My father was sent there by his company. My mother taught school.”
He raised his glass. “You used to work here at Morrigan’s as a student.”
Sophie resisted the temptation to jump up and run. His scrutiny—his knowledge of her—was unsettling. “You’ve been checking me out. Has Lizzie Rush been helping? I’d run into her from time to time when I worked here. She was always very nice. All the Rushes are.”
“She was a part of what went on in Boston this summer.”
“That’s what I hear.”
He sipped his drink and set the glass back down, his gaze leveled on her. “A lot’s gone on lately that involves Ireland and Boston.”
Sophie nodded, trying not to stare at a thick, obviously
fresh scar that started just above his collarbone and continued around to the back of his neck. She’d noticed it yesterday at the ruin. As scarred as he was, Scoop struck her as solid and competent—and impossible to kill. Yet if he’d been standing in the wrong place or hadn’t reacted as he had, the bomb could have killed him instantly. The shrapnel that no doubt had caused the scar she saw now could have nicked an artery instead. He could have bled to death in his own backyard.
She didn’t have visible scars from her night in the cave. She remembered Tim O’Donovan waving to her as he sailed off, leaving her on the island for the sixth time in as many weeks. This time, she wasn’t just there for a day hike. She was staying overnight.
It hadn’t occurred to her anyone would follow her out there.
She became aware that Scoop was watching her closely. “What’s on your mind, Sophie?”
She made herself smile. “Dinner, actually. I didn’t eat a bite on the plane.”
“I cleaned my plate.” She noticed a flicker of amusement in his eyes, but it didn’t last. “You might just ease back from whatever you’re up to and stick to your job hunting.”
“You look for bad cops. Do you think one was involved in what happened to you?”
“Anyone in mind?”
“I don’t know any police officers. Other than you.” Technically, her statement was true. Her brother was an FBI agent, not a police officer. She leaned back in her chair and did her best to come across as casual, friendly and open, with nothing to hide. Telling him about the cave would only invite even more suspicion and difficult questions. “I figure we’ve bonded now that we’ve both encountered a mysterious big black dog in the Irish hills.”
“Sophie, if you’re meddling in a police investigation—”
“I’m not.”
“If you have your own agenda, it amounts to the same thing.”
“I don’t have an agenda. At the moment I’m thinking I should have known better than to have alcohol when I’m jet-lagged and hungry.”
The Whisper Page 7