The Angel

by Carla Neggers

  “Some days, Simon,” the FBI director said, “I wish you’d decided to become a plumber.”

  THE ANGEL

  65 “If it’s any consolation, some days I wish I had, too.”

  Simon had been fourteen, crying over his father’s casket at a proper Irish wake in the heart of Georgetown when he’d first met March. “At least when you’re a plumber and you’re knee-deep in crap, no one tries to convince you it’s gravy.”

  “I’ve put you in a difficult position.”

  “I put myself there. You’re just capitalizing on it. That’s your job. I’m not holding it against you.”

  “My daughter will.” March’s tone didn’t change from its unemotional, careful professionalism. “I’ve kept too many secrets from her as it is.”

  Simon thought he detected a note of regret in the older man’s tone, but maybe not. Simon didn’t have the details, but apparently John March had known more about the cir­

  cumstances surrounding the murder of his daughter’s first husband, an FBI special agent, than he’d let on. Nothing that would have led to his killer any sooner. But Abigail didn’t necessarily see it that way.

  “Comes with the territory,” Simon said without much sympathy.

  He hadn’t asked for March’s help all those years ago, when the then FBI special agent was wracked with grief and guilt after failing to stop the execution of Brendan Cahill, a DEA agent and friend, in Colombia. But there was nothing March could have done. The killers had videotaped themselves. The video showed them tying up Simon’s father. Blindfolding him. Firing two bullets into his forehead. Simon had seen the tape. For years, he thought he’d stumbled onto it—that he’d been clever, outwitting the brilliant, powerful John March. He was over that illusion now. March had arranged for Simon to find the tape and see his father’s murder.

  Instead of feeling angry, bitter and betrayed, Simon had 66

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  felt understood. March had known that once Brendan Cahill’s young son had realized the tape existed, he’d find a way to see it.

  What Simon hadn’t realized, until recently, was that March had never mentioned him or his father to his daughter. Not once in twenty years.

  He was a hard man to figure out.

  March stayed on his feet. “I’ve told you as much as I know about what comes next.”

  Simon doubted that, but he shrugged. “Great. I’ll be in London cooling my heels.”

  “We’ve got him, Simon. We’ve got Estabrook, thanks to you.”

  With a little luck, the “thanks to you” part would stay between Simon and March, but Simon had learned not to count on luck. “I’ll feel better when he’s in custody.”

  “Understood.”

  Simon could sense March’s awkwardness. Ordinarily he would keep his focus on the big picture and not concern himself with what a mission meant for Simon personally. But this mission was different. Eighteen months ago, Simon had left the FBI and started a new life—volunteer­

  ing for Fast Rescue, making a living helping businesses and individuals plan for disasters. It wasn’t a bad life. He had a good reputation, a decent income and the kind of freedom he’d never had as a federal agent.

  Enter Norman Estabrook.

  To the public, Estabrook was a thrill-seeking billionaire hedge fund entrepreneur into extreme mountain climbing, high-risk ballooning, kayaking down remote, snakeinfested rivers—whatever gave him an adrenaline rush. To a tight inner circle of trusted associates, he was also at the center of a network that dealt in illegal drugs and laundered

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  67 cash for some very nasty people. Estabrook didn’t need the money, obviously, and he sure as hell didn’t care about ad­

  vancing any particular cause. He liked the action. He liked thwarting authority.

  In particular, Norman Estabrook liked thwarting John March.

  Simon was in the perfect position to infiltrate Es­

  tabrook’s network, and that was what he’d done. He’d known from the beginning if Norman Estabrook was arrested as a major-league criminal—which he would be—

  and Simon’s role as an undercover federal agent remained a secret, his name would still be associated with Estabrook and his criminal network. Who’d hire him for anything, never mind trust him with their lives?

  If he was exposed as an FBI agent, there went that career, too.

  Either way, Estabrook would want him dead. But Simon figured those were the breaks in his line of work. He stayed on his feet and noticed March did, too, the comforts of the lounge immaterial to either of them. They’d simply needed a private place to meet. Simon grinned at the no-nonsense FBI director. “If this blows up in my face, I can always become a plumber.”

  “You could do worse,” March said.

  “Estabrook didn’t make a fortune by being stupid.”

  “You’ve done your part, Simon. You provided what we needed to unravel this bastard’s network. He’s a bad actor, and so is the company he keeps.” March gave a thin smile.

  “Excluding you, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “There’s nothing more you can do right now. Estabrook’s at his ranch in Montana, and he thinks you’re visiting a friend and recuperating from the Armenia mission.”

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  Simon shrugged. “I tend to get into brawls when I’m at a loose end.”

  “You’re not at a loose end. You’re in wait mode.”

  “Same thing.”

  “If there’s another disaster—”

  “I wouldn’t wish a disaster on anyone just to give me something to do. Owen’s trying to get me to get involved with Fast Rescue training. Makes my eyes roll back in my head, thinking about training people to do what I already know how to do.”

  March looked down, and Simon could have sworn he saw him smile. “Just do what a disaster consultant and search-and­

  rescue specialist would do between jobs, and you’ll be fine.”

  “Will Davenport’s putting me up in London.”

  “Ah. Sir Davenport. Or is it Lord Davenport?”

  “One or the other. Both. Hell, I don’t know.”

  March’s eyes didn’t change. Nor did his mouth. Nothing, but Simon detected a change nonetheless. Will Davenport was a wealthy Brit who believed he owed Simon his life. Maybe he did, but Simon wasn’t keeping score. Apparently Will also had a history—a less favorable one—with the FBI director. Simon didn’t know what it was and wasn’t sure he wanted to.

  “I take it Davenport is unaware of your reasons for going to London.”

  It was a statement, but Simon responded. “If he is, he’s keeping it to himself.”

  “That’d be a first,” March said, making a move for the door. “Simon, we’ve got Estabrook, and we’ll blow open his network and save lives. A lot of lives. You know that, don’t you?”

  “I do, sir. I also know Abigail’s eventually going to find out my history with you—”

  THE ANGEL

  69 “Not your problem.”

  It wasn’t that March had acted as something of a surro­

  gate father to Simon for the past twenty years that would get to Abigail. It was that she’d never known. At first, Simon was too caught up in his own anger and grief even to notice that March never took him to meet his family. He’d show up at Simon’s ball games—a few times at the police station, after Simon got into fights—and stay in touch with the occasional phone call. When Simon headed off to the University of Massachusetts, March paid him a couple of visits each semester, taking him out for pizza, checking in with him about grades. March never suggested the FBI as a career. He wasn’t director in those days, and when Simon decided to apply to the academy, he never dis­

  cussed the idea with him.

  March opened the door. “Stay in touch,” he said.

  “I will. By the way, do you know Keira Sullivan?”

  “We’ve met. Very pretty—talent
ed artist.”

  “She found a dead guy in the Public Garden last night.”

  “That was her?”

  Simon didn’t know why he’d brought her up. “She’s heading to Ireland tonight to research some story about Irish brothers, fairies and a stone angel. I don’t know. I could forget Will and go chase fairies in the Irish hills—”

  But he stopped, noticing a change in March’s expression.

  “Something wrong?”

  “I’m just preoccupied with this Estabrook thing.” He seemed to manufacture a smile. “Keira Sullivan’s a temp­

  tation you don’t need right now, wouldn’t you say?”

  Simon didn’t answer, and March left, shutting the door sharply behind him as he went out into the hall. With a groan of pure frustration, Simon plopped down on a plush chair and lifted his feet onto a coffee table. He 70

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  noticed a copy of the morning Boston Globe on the table. On the front page was a grainy black-and-white shot of the man who’d drowned in the Public Garden. Well off, middle­

  aged, no wife or children. The BPD Homicide Unit was in­

  vestigating, but there was no indication of foul play. Simon pictured Keira Sullivan bursting into the Beacon Hill house last night after she’d called 911. Pale, soaked, dressed like a lumberjack. Twenty minutes later, she’d floated back into the drawing room looking like a willowy Irish fairy princess herself. He admitted he was intrigued, but March had a point. Without even trying, Simon could think of about a thousand reasons why he shouldn’t waste his time indulging in fantasies about Keira Sullivan. Artist, folklorist, flake. BPD detective’s niece. Off to Ireland. She was also friends with Owen Garrison, who was already keeping what he knew about Simon from Abigail and didn’t need to worry about lying to Keira, too. Simon dropped his feet back to the lounge floor. Who was he kidding? He was indulging in fantasies about Keira Sullivan.

  Just as well he had the trip to London. Best to find some water and a candy bar for his flight.

  As he exited the lounge, he envisioned—as if it were right in front of him—the painting of the Irish cottage he’d bought at last night’s auction. It was as if he was there, in Keira’s world, and he imagined her with brush in hand, her pale blond hair pulled back, her blue eyes focused on where the next dab of paint would go.

  Simon heaved a cathartic sigh. “Get a grip,” he muttered. The hall was empty of FBI agents. His flight would be boarding soon.

  He went in search of a candy bar.

 
  Beara Peninsula, Southwest Ireland 6:30 p.m., IST

  June 20

  On her second night in Ireland, Keira indulged in a “toasted special”—a grilled ham, cheese, tomato and red onion sandwich—and a mug of coffee liberally laced with some Irish whiskey. She hadn’t specified a brand. She’d told Eddie O’Shea, the owner of the only pub in the tiny Beara Peninsula village where she was to spend the next six weeks, that she wanted whiskey, whiskey from Ireland. Otherwise, she didn’t care.

  “Another coffee?” Eddie asked her. He was a sandyhaired, slight man with a quick wit and a friendly nature that seemed tailor-made for his work.

  “No, thank you.” Keira heard the touch of Boston in her voice, a surprise to her given her wandering lifestyle. She picked up a triangle of her sandwich, melted cheese oozing from the toasted white bread, a bit of onion curling into a charred sliver of ham. Less than two days on the southwest 72

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  coast of Ireland, and she was settling in fine and looking forward to her stay there. “If I had more coffee, I’d have more whiskey, and then I’d be in a fix.”

  Eddie eyed her with what she could only describe as skeptical amusement. “You’re not driving.”

  “I plan to take a walk.” She picked up her mug, the coffee still very hot, and let it warm her hands. “I love these long June days. Tomorrow’s the summer solstice.You never know what mischief you might encounter this time of year.”

  “Off to dance with fairies and engage in a bit of magic, are you? Well, be careful, or you’ll be mistaken for a fairy princess yourself.”

  “Do you believe in the Good People, then, Eddie?” she asked with a smile.

  “I’m not a superstitious man.”

  She hadn’t told him Patsy’s story. Investigating a tale of Irish brothers, fairies and a stone angel, Keira had decided, required a clear-but-not-too-clear head. She wanted to be gutsy but not reckless, determined but not insane. She hoped the combination of whiskey and caffeine would do the trick. Eddie moved off with a tray of drinks, delivering them to a knot of men gathered in a semicircle of spindly chairs in front of a small television. She’d learned they were local farmers and fishermen who’d known each other all their lives. They’d arrived at the pub one by one over the past hour to watch a hurling match and argue good-naturedly among themselves. If they’d been arguing about fairies, magic, ancient rituals and ancient stories told by the fire—

  that, Keira thought, would have compelled her to eaves­

  drop, perhaps even to join them. She didn’t know much about hurling, except that it was fast, rough and immensely popular with Eddie O’Shea and his friends. She’d had dinner at the pub last night, too. She’d hit it

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  73 off with Eddie right away. Nonetheless, she was keenly aware that the locals were beginning to construct a story about her and her presence in their village. She supposed she’d helped by dropping an odd tidbit here and there—

  not fiction so much as not the whole truth. She’d never once lied to any of them.

  They believed she’d come to Ireland in the typical IrishAmerican search for her roots and herself, and she supposed, in a way, she had.

  She left a few euros on the wooden bar and took her coffee with her as she stepped outside into what was, truly, one of the finer evenings of this and her two previous visits to Ireland. A good beginning to her stay, she thought. She could feel her jet lag easing, the tension of her last hours in Boston finally losing its grip on her. A man in a threadbare tweed jacket, wool pants, an Irish wool cap and mud-encrusted wellies sat at a picnic table next to the pub’s entrance. He faced the street, smoking a cigarette. He looked up at Keira with eyes as clear and true a blue as she’d ever seen. His skin was weather-beaten, laced with deep wrinkles. He had short, straight gray hair. He could have been sixty or eighty—or a hundred-and-eighty, she thought. He had a timeless quality to him.

  He said something in Irish that didn’t include one of the fifty or so words she knew. Her mother spoke Irish—or used to. “I’m sorry—”

  “Enjoy your walk, Keira Sullivan.” He blew out a cloud of cigarette smoke and gave just the slightest of smiles. “I know you. Ah, yes. I know you well.”

  She was so stunned, she jumped back, stumbling and nearly spilling coffee down her front.

  When she righted herself, coffee intact, the man was gone. 74

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  Where had he slipped off to so fast?

  Keira peered up the quiet, narrow village street, lined with brightly colored stucco houses. The vivid blue, fuchsia, green, yellow and red could light up even the gloomiest Irish weather. Baskets of lavender and dark pink geraniums hung from lampposts. A few cars were parked along the sides of the road, but there was no traffic. Except for a single dog barking toward the water and the occa­

  sional hoots from the men in the pub, the street was quiet. Keira debated going back into the pub to see if the man was there, or asking Eddie O’Shea if he’d seen him, but as much as she and Eddie had hit it off, she’d known him less than two days and didn’t want to stir up any further gossip. Maybe the mysterious man had overindulged in Guinness and was staggering up a nearby lane, or he lived in one of the houses on the main street and simply had gone home. Maybe he’d decided to have a little fun with the American tourist.

  She couldn’t read anything into what the man—a perfect stranger—had said.

&nb
sp; Keira took his spot at the picnic table, and as she sipped her coffee, lukewarm now, she noticed there wasn’t even a hint of cigarette smoke in the pleasant evening air. After she left the pub, Keira shoved her hands into the pockets of a traditional Irish wool knit sweater she’d bought in Kenmare, a pretty village famous for its shops and restaurants. It was located farther up Kenmare Bay, which separated the Beara and the Iveragh peninsulas, two of the five fingers of land in southwest Ireland that jutted out into the stormy Atlantic Ocean.

  She turned onto a bucolic lane that ran parallel to the village’s protected harbor, gray and still now at low tide, and

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  75 across the bay, the jagged silhouette of the MacGillicuddy Reeks of the Iveragh Peninsula were outlined against the muted sky. Off to her right, the rugged, barren mountains of the sparsely populated Beara Peninsula rose up sharply, with tufts of milky clouds, or fog, maybe, sinking into rocky crevices.

  Keira could hear the distant bleating of the sheep that dotted the hills.

  The ancient stone walls along the lane were overgrown with masses of pink roses and wildflowers—blue, purple and yellow thistles, pink foxglove, various drifts and spikes of white flowers.

  And holly, Keira saw with a smile, lots of it. By tradi­

  tion, cutting down a holly tree was bad luck. There were tall rhododendrons and the occasional pop of a bright fuchsia that had long ago escaped cultivation. The southwest Irish climate, warmed by the Gulf Stream, was mild year-round, hospitable to subtropical plants in spite of fierce gales.

  Her rented cottage was just up ahead, a traditional struc­

  ture of gray stone that, to her relief, was charming and perfect for her stay. Keira made a mental note to send a postcard to Colm Dermott thanking him for his help in finding it.