The Whisper

by Carla Neggers

  “She’s returned to Boston. I believe she’s trying to figure out whether something that happened to her last year was part of the violence this summer involving Will and his friends in Boston.”

  The old man sighed. “I’ve been following events there as best I can. Sophie’s studied and worked with Colm Dermott, the Irish anthropologist—”

  “Yes, I know,” Josie said.

  “She’s a dedicated scholar. She’s certainly no art thief, if that’s what’s on your mind.”

  Josie wasn’t put off by his defensiveness. Everything she’d learned about Sophie Malone suggested she was a well-liked, capable, energetic woman whose positive attitude and sense of adventure were contagious. “How much do you know about what happened to Sophie last September off the Iveragh Peninsula?”

  Sharpe returned to his desk. “Very little. She wouldn’t go into specifics, but I know there was something. Tell me, won’t you?”

  Josie suspected that Wendell Sharpe was a man who invited the sort of soul-baring that one tended later to regret and not quite know how it had happened. He was an expert of unimpeachable discretion, keen intelligence and decades of experience. If she didn’t give what she knew to him straight—if she hedged or played games—he would clam up or kick her out. Or both.

  On the other hand, she saw no reason not to tell Sharpe about Sophie’s cave experience. She was as complete and as thorough as she could be in her account, noting her various sources and omitting her own theories about Celtic archaeology, boats or remote Irish caves.

  “There it is,” she said when she’d finished. “All I know.”

  Sharpe settled back in his soft leather chair. Rain was falling steadily outside now, but Myles, fortunately, seemed to be staying put out on the street and had yet to appear. Finally Sharpe said, “None of what you told me contradicts what Sophie herself told me a week ago.”

  “Do you have any theories about this incident—what she saw, what actually happened on that island?”

  “Now that you’ve fleshed out the details, I suppose I could come up with a host of theories, but I’ve found theorizing does little good. Following the evidence works best.”

  “There was no evidence.”

  “You know better, don’t you, Mrs. Goodwin? There’s always evidence.”

  “Does any of yours take you into the Boston Police Department?”

  “I see. The bad-cop theory.” He rose again and walked to a tall window. If Myles was down there, leaning against a post, staring up at the building, Sharpe gave no indication of noticing him. He kept his back to Josie as he continued. “There’s been some evidence this serial killer in Boston—Jay Augustine—occasionally moved stolen works, and that he had assistance. He wasn’t a major player. It’s unclear if whoever helped him was an expert or an opportunist or even was deeply involved.”

  “But you believe Augustine didn’t work alone. Whatever he was up to wasn’t a solo operation.”

  The old man turned from the window. “What I’m telling you is barely a notch above speculation.”

  Josie showed him a photograph Scoop Wisdom had e-mailed her of the dead police officer in Boston, along with a curt explanation of the latest developments there. Justin Rush had printed it out for her before breakfast. “His name was Cliff Rafferty. He was recently retired.”

  “I’ll check my files and see if his name comes up.” He nodded to a dust-encrusted desktop computer at a separate station along an exposed brick wall. “I keep extensive files.”

  “What did you tell Sophie?”

  He smiled. “Theories.”

  “What about Percy Carlisle?”

  “Which one?”

  “Both.”

  Sharpe moved away from the window and sat back at his desk. “I knew the senior Carlisle, although not well. I’ve never met the son.”

  “There was an incident seven years ago involving the father—”

  “Yes, a mistake on the part of his staff that landed him in quite a pickle here in Ireland. He was held briefly by Irish authorities on suspicion of smuggling artifacts—late Bronze Age pieces, as I recall. It was all a terrible misunderstanding. He was released almost immediately.”

  Unable to resist, Josie walked over to the window and saw that Myles was, indeed, leaning against a lamppost. He glanced up, almost as if he’d sensed her presence. She spun back to Wendell Sharpe. “Are you satisfied Percy Carlisle Sr. was merely the victim of a staff error?”

  “I’m satisfied he didn’t steal any valuable art or cultural properties from Ireland. Nothing more.” Sharpe hesitated before continuing. “The Winslow Homer painting that disappeared in the subsequent break-in in Boston is a source of considerable speculation among those of us in my field.”

  “One can imagine,” Josie said. “Do you have any idea where the younger Carlisle might be right now? You can understand why we want to locate him.”

  “Indeed,” Sharpe said, using a stub of a pencil to jot a few lines on an index card, which he handed to her. “His father sometimes stayed with an American couple here in Dublin. Their house is a few blocks from here, near Merrion Park. It’s a shot in the dark, you understand. I wish I could be of more help.”

  Josie thanked him and left, taking the stairs slowly as she considered their conversation. She found Myles still leaning against a lamppost in the rain. He hadn’t bothered with the umbrella. “I have an address for us to check out here in Dublin,” she said. “We can walk.”

  Myles smiled. “Would you like to hold hands?”

  “No,” she said, suddenly irritated, and stalked ahead of him.

  He caught up with her easily. They crossed into St. Stephen’s Green, the rain stopping outright as they walked among the formal flower beds, bubbling fountains and statues of famous Dubliners and revolutionaries. Josie focused on the matter at hand. No lingering, she thought. No holding hands and enjoying the ambience of the historic green. As they crossed to the quiet residential streets of the Georgian district, she typed the address Wendell Sharpe had given her onto her BlackBerry. She had no desire to get lost on the streets of Dublin in the rain.

  “I imagine the Boston police are looking into whether the dead police officer was in Ireland recently,” she said, determined not to be distracted by hand-holding and such with Myles. “Our missing Percy Carlisle might have lied about when he and Officer Rafferty met.”

  “You’re suggesting they could have met after the break-in at the Carlisle Museum seven years ago,” Myles said.

  “I’m not suggesting anything. I’m speculating.”

  Myles continued down the block in silence. Finally he said, “I suspect our Detective Wisdom was onto a connection between Boston thugs and a police officer before I arrived in Keira’s cottage to tell him.”

  “You confirmed his worst suspicions. Whatever he had on this connection wasn’t enough to stop his house from being bombed.” Josie grimaced at the thought of Scoop Wisdom’s frustration. “I know only too well, Myles, how that would eat at me.”

  They came to a classic eighteenth-century Georgian house and mounted steps to a bright yellow door, above it an elegant segmented fanlight. Josie bypassed the large brass knocker and pressed the more modern doorbell.

  When no one came to the door, Myles stood up from the wrought-iron rail. “I suspect my breaking-and-entering skills aren’t as rusty as yours.”

  Josie moved aside. “If the guards arrest us, you’ll make the call to London.”

  She turned with her back to him, blocking any view of him from the street as best she could, but she didn’t have a chance to regret her actions before he spoke. “We’re in,” he said calmly, without a hint of cockiness.

  The interior of the house was cool and elegantly, if sparsely, furnished. They entered the first-floor drawing room, its tall ceilings and warm blue-and-cream décor a counter to the dreary weather. Staying together, they quickly and efficiently checked every room on every floor but found no missing American, no socks on the floor or
shaving gear in the guestroom—nothing to indicate Percy Carlisle was visiting and had simply popped out for a stroll.

  “It’s unsettling,” Josie said as they returned to the front hall. “Suppose he is on some personal retreat as his wife says. I still don’t understand why we can’t find him. It’s not as if we’re searching for a trained military and intelligence officer out to stop a major terrorist attack.”

  Myles ignored her mild barb and stepped past her. “Look here.”

  Josie saw that he’d paused in front of a small framed painting by the door. It was one of Keira Sullivan’s distinctive wildflower watercolors—a cluster of purple thistle. “Small world.” She was aware of the emotion that just that simple painting elicited; it was one of Keira’s gifts as an artist. “She has an amazing talent. I hope being around all of us doesn’t suck the life out of it. She has painter’s block—”

  “She’s worried about Simon. He’ll be back.”

  “Then go off again,” Josie said.

  “Maybe. She’ll get used to it.”

  “Easy for you to say. We should go. I swear I’m waiting for hounds to wake up and come after us.”

  Myles grinned at her. “Worried about getting caught, are you?”

  She bristled. “No, I mean that literally about the hounds. One never knows. By the way, I can handle myself in the field quite well. I don’t require your assistance or protection.”

  “You’re glad to have me with you, though, in case the guards or dogs come after us.”

  “Of course. I can feed you to either or both and go scot-free myself.”

  He seemed amused, unworried about the guards, dogs or her. They headed back outside. Josie locked the door behind her and descended the steps, trying to appear to anyone who might pass by that she hadn’t a worry in the world. She glanced back, half expecting hounds barking in all the windows.

  She checked her BlackBerry and saw she had a text message from Lizzie and Keira. It wasn’t Will’s father or Lizzie’s father who’d met them in London. It was Will and Simon themselves.

  She smiled and relayed the news to Myles, who was obviously unsurprised. “Did you know they were back?” she demanded.

  He shrugged and squinted up at the sky. “We’re in for a bit of clearing, don’t you think?”

  “It won’t last,” she said, shoving her BlackBerry back into her coat pocket. “I’m going to find a quiet banker.”

  “Didn’t you marry a quiet banker?”

  “I’m not going to encourage you by answering. Doesn’t it feel as if we’re caught inside a Celtic circle ourselves and can’t find our way out?”

  “I wouldn’t know a bloody Celtic circle from a hula hoop.” He took her hand into his as they crossed to St. Stephen’s Green. “Let’s enjoy our walk through the park.”

  “Myles—”

  “Moments, love. Life is full of little moments.”

  17

  Boston, Massachusetts

  Sophie stretched out with her laptop on the sectional in front of the fireplace. She’d brought in a pot of burgundy mums and set it on the hearth. After a bad night of tossing and turning and obsessing on her chitchat with John March and the BPD detectives—not to mention kissing Scoop, which was insane—she had decided on a proactive morning. She’d started with a run on the Esplanade, then stocked up on groceries and dived into her work. For the next hour, she immersed herself in preparing a call for papers for her panel at the Boston-Cork conference.

  Her iPhone rang, startling her. She saw it was Damian—no text message this time. She sat up straight. “Director March has paid you a visit?” she asked.

  Silence on the other end. “No,” her brother said, “he hasn’t.”

  She winced. “I’ve been debating whether to warn you that he might turn up in your office. I couldn’t decide if it would help to know in advance or if you’d rather be surprised. Plausible deniability and all that. Normally I’m not indecisive, but we’re talking about the director of the FBI.” She could feel herself digging a deeper hole for herself. “All in all, I think it’s best I didn’t warn you. You have nothing to hide.”

  “Sophie? What are you talking about?”

  “Never mind. I was lost in my work…” She shut her laptop and focused on her conversation with her brother. “I can hang up, and you can call back and I’ll start over.”

  “Forget it. I’m not worried about Director March. I’m worried about you, Sophie. You’re there alone.”

  She immediately thought of Scoop but reminded herself she’d only known him a short time. Mentioning him certainly wouldn’t reassure her brother. “You don’t have to worry about me, Damian.”

  “You and Taryn worried me even before you were born. The day Mom announced she was having twins, I knew I was screwed.”

  Sophie smiled. “We had a happy childhood.”

  “Right. You did.” But this was pure Damian. “Wendell Sharpe called me. He had to rave about how brilliant you are first. Then he told me he’d just met with a British woman who’s in touch with the BPD. She asked about you. I sent you to Sharpe not for a second thinking you’d get mixed up in criminal investigations. Bombs, murders, kidnappings. Damn, Sophie.”

  “I’m not involved in any of that.”

  “The cops you’re hanging out with are, and you found a murdered police officer yesterday.”

  “I don’t know that he was murdered. Do you?”

  “Not officially.”

  She stood up and looked out at the brick courtyard, inviting and romantic in the midday autumn sun. She’d planned on lunch outside among her mums. “What else did Wendell Sharpe tell you?”

  “Nothing you don’t already know. Sophie…” Her brother hesitated, which was unusual for him. “Last September in Ireland?”

  She couldn’t go through it. Not again, not so soon. “Unusually dry and mild.”

  “Damn it, I’m trying to help—”

  “I know you are, Damian,” she said, her head clear now. She could see him in some FBI office, with his dark auburn hair, his good looks, his gun strapped to his side. He loved his work as much as she and Taryn loved theirs. “Maybe it’s just as well you don’t know all the details.”

  “You’re my sister. I want to know.” He sounded worried again, less combative. “I have some of the details. I can get a flight up there the minute you say so. If you have any information on where Percy Carlisle is, tell me or tell the police. Then back off. I don’t like how this thing feels, Sophie. If we were talking about a major archaeological excavation, I’d listen to you.”

  Sophie sat at the table, in Scoop’s chair from yesterday, when he’d patiently listened to her story. “The internal affairs detective who was hurt in the bomb blast has been on my heels. We ran into each other in Ireland.”

  Damian was silent a moment. “Cyrus Wisdom. Scoop.”

  “Do you know him?”

  “Of him. He’s top-notch. Just remember, Sophie. Cops tell you only what they want you to know, and they can lie. You can’t lie to them, but that doesn’t mean they can’t lie to you.”

  “Do you know Scoop is lying to me, Damian?”

  “That was a general statement. If I were you, I’d be very careful trusting anyone right now except Taryn, Mom, Dad and me.”

  She thanked him for calling—for his advice and concern—but he was back to being Damian and just grunted and disconnected. It was all Sophie could do not to throw her iPhone against the fireplace, not because of her brother but her situation. She’d felt safe when she’d headed to the Beara Peninsula to check out Keira’s ruin, figuring if Jay Augustine was responsible for both their ordeals, at least he was in jail and no longer a danger. But what if Cliff Rafferty’s death had nothing to do with either her or Keira, and the Celtic symbols in his apartment were just a diversion—a way to obfuscate and mislead?

  To what end?

  Sophie shut down her laptop and headed out to the courtyard. She smiled at her pots of mums, as if they were a symb
ol of happiness and normalcy. She could easily see Scoop taking up gardening. He was physical, results-oriented—he’d appreciate hoeing, weeding, harvesting.

  She gave herself a mental shake and remembered her brother’s cautionary words. Scoop was a detective recovering from a bomb exploding within yards of him, and yesterday morning she’d led him to the probable bomb-maker—who was dead.

  What if the bomb-making materials had been planted on Cliff Rafferty’s coffee table?

  Whatever the case, did she really think Scoop had gardening on his mind?

  Feeling considerably less jet-lagged than she had yesterday, Sophie was too restless for lunch and continued through the archway and up the steps to the street. Damian was right. She was accustomed to being contained and decisive in her world as an archaeologist, but she’d been off balance ever since she’d learned more details about Keira Sullivan’s experience on the Beara Peninsula.

  Avoiding Charles Street and the Whitcomb Hotel, she wound her way down to busy Beacon Street and crossed to the Boston Public Garden, a Victorian botanical oasis in the heart of the city. She immediately relaxed amid its enormous shade trees and well-kept lawns and flower beds. She noticed leaves just beginning to change color, tinted gold, orange and red, and walked past the shallow man-made pond where the foot-pedaled Swan Boats had entertained tourists and locals alike for more than a century. She could have spent the afternoon on a bench, or brought her laptop with her and worked on turning her dissertation into a book, as Colm Dermott was encouraging her to do.

  Instead she crossed Boylston Street and continued toward Jay and Charlotte Augustine’s showroom in the South End.

  Scoop materialized on the next corner and fell in next to her. Sophie angled a look at him. “How long have you been following me?”

  “Since the Swan Boats.”

  “I’m not good at spotting a tail. I guess I’d have to learn if I decide to be an FBI agent, huh?” Her breath caught at his grim intensity. “What’s wrong?”