“That doesn’t mean I’m not doing the right thing.”
Emma braced herself against a sudden, stiff wind off the water, as if it meant to clear her head. “What did you want with Tatiana today?”
“To persuade her to return to London where she belongs.”
“Is she in danger?”
“Not from me.”
“From anyone else?”
He continued to stare out at the water. “I have no reason to believe so.”
“Does she pose a danger to the collection?”
“You’ve met her. Does she look dangerous to you?
“You know I can’t make decisions on that basis. Is she involved with Vladimir Bulgov in any capacity? With Horner, his men?”
“She makes trinkets for rich people. That’s all.”
“And you, Ivan?” Emma stood and walked down the stairs, the wind whipping her hair into her face as she looked up at him. “Have you or Dimitri ever had Bulgov aboard the Nightingale for champagne and cosmopolitans?”
His dark eyes warmed with amusement, even affection, as he rose. “Only vodka for me.” He walked down the stairs and kissed her on the forehead, through the hair that had blown into her face. “Good night, Emma. If you need to reach me, you know where to find me.” He gave her one of his near-imperceptible smiles, then said, exaggerating his Russian accent. “I be in big boat on water.”
She laughed, at least for a moment as he walked back down to the docks.
She glanced at her watch.
Not much time to get on the road before Colin doubled back and tracked her down.
18
COLIN RAPPED HIS knuckles on the open door to the parish priest’s office in the back of St. Patrick’s Church. It was dusk, and there were no lights on the walk outside or in the rectory, and only a desk lamp on in the small office. Finian Bracken, dressed in a black suit and Roman collar, sat behind a massive oak desk facing the door.
“You know, Fin,” Colin said, “we have electricity and everything out here on the coast. You can turn on some lights.”
Finian pointed the tip of his ballpoint pen at the ancient lamp with its thread of dim light. “It serves its purpose.”
“Which is what, comparable to a hair shirt? This place is spooky in the dark.”
“As if you’re spooked by anything,” Finian muttered.
Alligators, Colin thought, trying to lighten his own mood. “Mind if I come in?”
“Of course not. Come.” He set the pen on a folded-back yellow pad. “What can I do for you?”
“Mike said you seem preoccupied. Anything going on?”
Finian sighed. He motioned to the chair facing his desk. “Have a seat.”
“Not going to try to talk me into confessing my sins, are you?”
“No. As interesting as your sins must be.”
It wasn’t like Finian Bracken to make that kind of joke, and as Colin sat in the club chair with its leather seat cracked, his Irish friend’s mood seemed to darken even more. The office was lined with bookshelves filled with volumes that either belonged to the church or to the priest Finian was replacing for a year. The regular priest, Father Callaghan, was in Ireland, searching out his Irish roots. He was close to retirement and beloved in Rock Point, but Colin didn’t know him well.
He noticed a thick book on the history and geology of the Iveragh Peninsula that occupied a corner of the oak-wood desk. He was fairly certain the book belonged to Finian, not Father Callaghan. It was likely a recent purchase. Although Finian was well-off financially and hadn’t entered the priesthood until his thirties, he had come to Maine with few personal possessions. He was a priest and committed to a simple life, but it was more than that. He was escaping memories. In his undercover work, Colin would go for long periods without his personal possessions, pretending to be someone else. It was deliberate, his job. He wasn’t escaping anything, but in the past few weeks, before Pete Horner and his friends had decided to kill him, he hadn’t dared even to think of Rock Point.
But he wasn’t here to talk about himself, or about Fin’s reasons for coming to St. Patrick’s.
“Talk to me, Fin,” Colin said.
Finian’s eyes seemed almost black in the dark shadows. “No matter that you trust Matt Yankowski and Emma and I assume most of your fellow agents, you’ll always be tempted to go it alone. It’s who you are. Your close family helps you to do what you do.”
“I’m not here for pastoral counseling,” Colin said. “Mike’s not one to sound false alarms. What’s going on?”
Finian brushed his fingertips across the picture of an ancient Irish beehive hut on the front of his thick book on the Iveragh Peninsula. “When we made our first bit of money, Sally and I bought a ruin of a cottage on the Iveragh and fixed it up. We did much of the work ourselves on weekends.”
“Sounds idyllic.”
“Sally had an eye for color. Now when I go to the cottage, which has been some months since I’ve been in the States, I can touch what she loved, touch what she touched. I can see our daughters playing by the fire. It’s not a sad place. It’s charming. We deliberately kept it simple, with no personal mementoes—so that friends and family could stay. One day, perhaps, you’ll go there with Emma, and you’ll take long walks together in the hills.”
“That’d be great, but right now—”
“You have to go easy, my friend,” Finian said. “Precipitous action will only lead to mistakes and regrets.”
Colin checked his impatience; Finian wasn’t going to be rushed. “Think I should do things Emma’s way?”
“You can only do things your way.” He sighed heavily, looked away from his book. “On Saturday night, after I left Hurley’s…” He stopped himself with a small groan. “It sounds ridiculous now that I’m mentioning it aloud. I’m being a fool.”
“What happened?”
“A man followed me across the street after our drink at Hurley’s.”
Colin leaned forward. “He followed you?”
“All right, ‘followed’ is a bit strong.”
“What did he want?”
“He didn’t seem to want anything but it was an unusual conversation, at least for me.” Finian paused, clearly reluctant to explain further. “He said it was his first time in Rock Point and that he’d asked about you and your brothers at Hurley’s. He told me what each of you does for a living.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t say. It was a quick conversation. I asked him if he wanted me to give you a ring, and he said no, he was on his way to Heron’s Cove.”
“Heron’s Cove? Why?”
“He went on his way before I thought to ask.” Finian glanced past Colin as if he didn’t want to meet his eye. “I didn’t ask enough questions. I wanted him to go.”
“It wasn’t your job to ask questions. It was your job to get home safely.” Colin took in a breath, hating the idea that his friend had been upset by someone claiming to know him. “Describe this guy.”
“Your height, and fair-skinned. He seemed to be in good condition.” Finian patted his own stomach. “No fat at all in the middle. He wore a black fleece jacket and a baseball cap. Those are the only details of his appearance that I remember.”
“Did he speak with an accent?”
“American,” Finian said with a slight smile. “He called you and your brothers ‘tough guys.’”
Tough guys, Colin thought. He didn’t like that one. “Did he mention Emma?”
“No. I suggested he come to our bean-hole supper and he moved along. When I went into the rectory, I had the feeling…” Finian sat straight, cleared his throat. “I left the front door unlocked. I’m sure that’s all it was.”
Colin got to his feet. “You had the feeling what, Fin?”
“That someone had been in the rectory. I attributed it to my mood, given the worry over your silence. I was on alert, I suppose.”
“It’s fine to be on alert. It’s good. Keeps you on your toes
. I’m sorry you all were worried about me.” Colin looked down at Finian’s book on the Iveragh Peninsula and imagined himself there with Emma and no concerns, no FBI baggage, no Sharpe baggage. Just the two of them. But he pulled himself out of his thoughts and nodded to his friend. “Want me to take a look around the rectory?”
Finian shook his head. “There’s no need. Nothing’s missing or out of place. I’m sure my reaction is out of proportion to the offense, if there even was an offense.” He rose stiffly. “Whiskey and adrenaline talking.”
It was possible, Colin thought, but Finian Bracken wasn’t one to overreact. “This guy hasn’t turned up again?”
“I can’t say for certain…” Finian hesitated, flipped the pages on his yellow pad so that the cover was back on top. “I might have seen him in the village this morning. As I told Mike, I ran into the Russian girl, Tatiana, at the sisters’ shop. We chatted a bit, and she left. Then I left, and I saw a man in a black jacket. For a moment I thought he might be following her, but I don’t know—I don’t even know if it was the same man from the other night.”
“Did you see him speak to Tatiana?”
“No, no. I didn’t see them together. Perhaps I just reacted to the black jacket.”
“Would you recognize this man if you saw him again?”
Finian stared at the ancient Irish stone hut on the cover of his book, then looked at Colin. “I think so, yes. I’m sorry I can’t provide a better description. But this man’s done nothing wrong, has he? Tatiana…”
“I saw her earlier. She’s fine.”
“Thank God,” Finian said, visibly relieved. He came around from behind his desk and started across the shabby but comfortable office. “I’m allowing myself to be influenced far too much by you Donovans. Especially Mike and you, but even your father. I imagine only Andy doesn’t keep a gun under his pillow—and I don’t know for a fact that he doesn’t, too.”
Colin ignored his friend’s rant. “Anything unusual—anything at all—you call me, right? Or call my father or one of my brothers. Any one of us will help. Understood?”
Finian nodded. “Yes. Thank you.”
“Don’t hesitate,” Colin added, hoping he’d gotten through to him.
“I won’t. Of course, I could just be naturally embellishing a good story.”
“Is that what you think?”
He shrugged. “Does it matter? I’ll clean up and head to Hurley’s in a bit.”
“I’ll meet you there.”
“Good man,” his friend said, the spark back in his expression.
Colin swung by his house but Emma wasn’t there yet. He texted her to meet him at Hurley’s instead but drove first to his parents’ inn. When he got out of his truck, he saw that she hadn’t responded. For all he knew she was back aboard the Nightingale, drinking champagne with her family’s Russian billionaire client and her Russian source.
Ivan Alexander, the first man she was interested in after she gave up being Sister Brigid.
Colin gritted his teeth. He had fallen for one hell of a complicated woman.
He found Mike planting tulip bulbs out front in the light from the porch. “Tell me you’re not bringing me another hundred bulbs,” his brother grumbled, getting to his feet with trowel in hand.
“I’m not bringing you more bulbs.”
“You came to help then? Ground’s soft. Full of worms, which I know you don’t like, but no snakes. A big, tough FBI agent should be able to handle a few worms.”
“Worm, yes. Planting tulips, no. At least not right now. I’d go out of my mind.”
Mike cast him a dark look. “What do you think I’m doing?”
“You’re contributing to the economic and emotional welfare of our folks. People love tulips. Guests will be raving about them in their reviews on TripAdvisor.” But Colin heard the edge in his voice and gave up on any attempt at normal conversation. “I talked to Finian Bracken.”
Mike set his trowel atop a burlap bag of Dutch-grown tulip bulbs. He wasn’t wearing garden gloves, and his hands were crusted with mud. “Something happened, right?”
Colin told his older brother what he knew. “If this guy turns up again, I don’t want Fin dealing with him on his own. Think you can check on him from time to time?”
“Not a problem.”
“If you see this guy, call the police, Mike. I just want Fin to have a friend nearby. It’s not just that he’s a priest and an outsider. I’ve gotten to know him, and he’s a risk-taker at heart.”
“Since he wasn’t on board that boat with his family,” Mike said, not making it a question.
“Even more so since then. He and his twin brother started a whiskey distillery at twenty-two. The odds of success were against them. Fin’s wired for taking risks.”
“No wonder you two get along.”
Colin looked up at the inn’s wide front porch, decorated with pumpkins and pots of mums. His parents were enjoying working on the place, giving it a charm and a level of sophistication that people liked. Word was getting out about the breakfasts. It would do fine.
His brother wasn’t finished. “This woman. Emma. Hell, Colin. Are you sure you can think straight where she’s concerned?”
“You don’t like her,” Colin said, matter-of-fact.
“I don’t have a reason to like or not like her. I just don’t think we get her world.”
“Can’t argue with that. Everything’s good here?”
Mike narrowed his eyes, studied Colin a moment, then sighed. “Everything’s fine. Only four hundred tulip bulbs to go. I won’t finish tonight. I’ll do a few more and see you at Hurley’s in a little while.”
Colin returned to his truck. Still nothing from Emma. He drove back to his house and walked down to the harbor. He was crossing the street to the waterfront when he got a text message from Emma: I’m at Hurley’s with your brothers and whiskey. HELP.
He grinned, his tension lifting as he slid his phone back into his jacket and went to join her.
* * *
Finian had settled into his favorite table by the back window. Hurley’s was reasonably populated for a Monday and what had turned into the coldest night yet that fall. Emma, Mike, Andy and Kevin Donovan had arrived ahead of Colin and were finishing off an order of steamed clams. Not one of Finian’s favorites.
Colin didn’t look thrilled with them, either, as he joined them and took off his jacket. “Perfect timing,” he said, pulling out a chair by the window. “Clams are gone, and there’s whiskey left.”
As he sat down, Julianne Maroney swept over to them and set a plastic pitcher on the table so hard water splashed out. Andy Donovan calmly blotted the spill with the callused palm of his hand. “A lot of energy there, Jules,” he said.
“It’s Julianne. Or Ms. Maroney.” She addressed Finian with a controlled smile. “No ice in the water, as requested, Father.”
“Thank you, Julianne,” Finian said.
“You’re welcome.” She seemed to want to get away from them as fast as possible but stood there, adjusting her half apron. “I wanted to thank you for visiting my grandmother this morning. She said it did her a world of good to talk with you.”
“She did?” Finian was mystified. “She all but ran me out with a pitchfork.”
Julianne laughed. “That’s my granny.” Her smile vanished as she glared at Andy, then spun back to the kitchen.
Andy watched her with a wince. “She’s got a temper like her grandmother.”
“What’d you do to her?” Mike asked.
“Why did I have to do anything?”
“Because she’s Julianne Maroney, a hardworking marine biologist, and you’re Andy Donovan, the rake of Rock Point.”
Andy shrugged, as accustomed to the eldest Donovan’s bluntness as the rest of his brothers—and, by now, Emma. “Julianne’s decided I cheated her father out of his boat.” He glanced at Finian and Emma then filled them in. “The Julianne is a classic wooden lobster boat I’m restoring and using as a bac
kup. It’s a heap. The Maroneys are lucky I took it off their hands and have managed to keep it afloat. It’d be rotting in their shed if they’d had to deal with it.”
“It’s named after Julianne?” Emma asked.
“Yeah, her father named it in her honor when she was a baby. Crazy thing to do but that’s how he is. They figured I’d give it another name but I haven’t gotten around to it. The whole thing’s a thorn in Julianne’s side.”
“I’ll bet it’s not the only thorn in her side when it comes to you,” Mike muttered.
Andy ignored him. Julianne returned with a basket of crackers, warm rolls and butter. Finian noticed that she was flushed, more so than she should have been even with the running back and forth from Hurley’s kitchen to their table. “Let me know if you need anything else,” she said, crisp, marginally controlled.
“I’ll see you tomorrow on the docks?” Andy asked.
“Bright and early. You’ll be there with my boat?”
“I’ll be there with the Julianne.” Andy tilted his chair onto two legs. “Bright and early for me is four.”
“Good, you won’t keep me waiting,” she said and spun off again.
Finian poured the whiskey as Mike, Colin and Kevin grinned at their lobsterman brother. Andy didn’t look at all embarrassed. “Jules and I go way back. She’ll get over whatever’s eating her.”
“What are you doing with the boat?” Emma asked him, nibbling on a cracker.
“Showing her the progress I’ve made on restoring it.”
Mike reached for a cracker, too. “And that’s supposed to calm her down?”
“She’ll see I’m treating it with respect and calm down. What chance would it have had if her father had kept it? So,” Andy said, obviously looking to change the subject, “what’s the story with this Russian yacht in Heron’s Cove? I was down there today. Wow. Emma, you know the owner? I hear he’s a Sharpe client.”
“Former,” she amended.
“Colin had a drink on board,” Kevin said.
He pushed aside a plate of clamshells. “Think I’ve arrived?”
“Yeah, Colin, you’ve arrived,” Andy said. “Rusakov invite you to the Bahamas?”
Heron's Cove Page 19