Estabrook breathed in through his nose. “I wish I could have been there when Simon and your father arrived to smoke, fire and blood.”
“Your guy’s blood. He dripped on the sidewalk.”
Fletcher remained impassive, but she could see she’d gotten to Estabrook. He stood up from the pool table, his hat crooked on his head. “You’re not half as clever as you think you are, Detective.”
She ignored him. “I was home all morning, and Scoop went down to his garden early. He’s trying to stay ahead of the harvest. I figure your guys planted the bomb sometime before this morning. Overnight? Yesterday? I guess it could have been anytime. There were two explosions. The second was my gas grill, right? Haven’t used it in weeks.”
“All moot now, my dear,” Norman said.
“True, but I have to think about something besides my testimony at your trial. Your guys could have hit the trigger anytime, but they didn’t. Why wait?”
“Synchronicity.”
“Ah. You wanted to time everything with your release.”
“Why were you meeting Simon and your father?”
“To discuss you,” she said coolly.
Estabrook seemed to like her answer. He moved in front of her and leaned in close, his eyes puffy, bloodshot under the broad rim of his hat. “You bear a strong resemblance to your father. I see him in the shape of your mouth, your nose. It can’t have been easy growing up with such a man. Do you blame him for your husband’s death?”
“No.”
“Christopher Browning was an FBI special agent. Your father wasn’t director then, but he was very powerful. He’s kept secrets from you, hasn’t he?”
“Everyone has secrets. You, for instance. Your secret? You know you don’t measure up. You’ve known since you were a scared little boy.” Abigail swallowed, felt a twinge of nausea. She’d never done well being cooped up, never mind on a boat. “You’re still that scared little kid inside. It’s nothing to hide from. Let me go and stop this before you can’t turn back. Before someone ends up really hurt.”
She could see he’d tuned her out. He stood up straight and reached for a pool cue, a fresh one, not the one she’d used. “Until this summer, you had no idea your father was a surrogate father to Simon.” Estabrook turned to her knowingly. “Did you, Detective?”
“No, I did not.”
“Brendan Cahill and your father were friends. He was a DEA agent in Colombia. He was murdered when Simon was fourteen.”
“I imagine you’re real familiar with the DEA and FBI.”
His grip on the pool cue tightened visibly. “Your father saw to Simon for twenty years, and you had no idea. So many secrets, Detective. So many secrets your father has.”
“My father stayed in contact with a boy who’d lost his own father and tried to help out when he could. It wasn’t a secret. I just didn’t know about it. Simon’s a great guy and a fine FBI agent. A lot of your criminal colleagues are being rounded up and arrested thanks to him—and you and your cooperation with the feds.” Abigail gestured to her plush surroundings. “Is that what this is about? Are you getting away from them? Trying to convince whoever’s left among your drug-cartel friends that you’re dead? Are you afraid they’ll come after you?”
Estabrook laid the cue on the pool table. “You shouldn’t deliberately try my patience, Detective.”
His tone—cool, remote—turned her stomach. He was, she thought, a man eager to commit violence. Keeping her own tone conversational, she changed the subject. “Where are we going? Do you own property on the New England coast? Are we heading to some place in particular—a friend’s house maybe? Or are we just sailing in circles?”
He picked up the eight ball and cupped it in his fleshy palm. “What’s a friend, Detective?”
There was a sudden sadness about him that Abigail wasn’t about to fall for. She knew it had nothing to do with real fellow feeling but only with his narcissistic view of himself and his place in the world.
He set the ball back on the table and shifted to Fletcher. “You know what I want,” he said, and abruptly left the stateroom.
Fletcher waited a few seconds after the door shut before he walked over to Abigail. “You can stand up if you’d like.” He nodded back toward the pool table. “Go ahead and return to your game.”
“Not afraid I’m going to shove a pool cue up your—”
“No,” he said with an unexpected smile, “I’m not, and not because you’re not capable of doing so but because you know you need me.”
“And why do I need you, Mr. Fletcher?”
His gray eyes settled on her. “Because I can get you out of here alive.” He took her by the hand and helped her to her feet. “Simon Cahill and your father had help from someone else with close ties to Mr. Estabrook.”
“I wouldn’t know.” Abigail removed Estabrook’s cue from the table, returned it to the rack and got hers. She kept her voice even. “They’re FBI. I’m BPD. Two different things.”
“Mr. Estabrook wants the identity of this person.”
“What difference does it make now?”
“I get paid more if I deliver whoever it is to him.” Fletcher gathered up the scattered balls and racked them. “You know, Abigail, or you know more than you realize.”
She picked up the white cue ball. A name came to her. She pushed it back down deep. But it was there.
Lizzie Rush.
Lizzie was wealthy, elegant and attractive and would fit in with Estabrook’s friends and hangers-on, but her family was connected to Boston and she had a personal interest in Abigail’s father.
In fact, Lizzie Rush was the main reason Abigail had asked Simon and her father to meet her that morning, before the bomb went off.
She set the ball on the table and lined up her pool cue, even as regret washed over her. She hadn’t told Owen about her questions, her suspicions. She could rationalize her silence: she didn’t know enough; she was acting as a police officer and not just out of personal curiosity.
The truth was, she’d learned to keep secrets at her father’s knee.
Her father, who would be terrified for her now, was one of the best men she’d ever known. His secrets arose out of his sense of duty and commitment. They were a product of who he was—a man who could be trusted, who didn’t speak out of turn and often faced tough choices.
Fletcher lifted the rack from the triangle of balls and stood back. Abigail shot the cue ball across the table. It smashed into the racked balls and sent them spinning everywhere. Three solid-colored balls went into pockets. Pure luck. She had no idea what she was doing.
“You were right,” Fletcher said with a smile, “you’re not very good.”
She almost laughed as she lined up another shot. “You’re connecting dots that can’t be connected,” she said. “I can’t help you. I’ve been busy with my own job.”
“Who can help me, then, love?”
Her stomach lurched.
Fiona.
Abigail tapped a solid red ball into a corner pocket and forced Bob’s daughter out of her mind. Her name, her image, everything about her. But she could see Fiona just last night, playing a small harp with her Irish band at Morrigan’s Pub at the Whitcomb, the Rush hotel in Boston.
“This isn’t a good idea, Fiona.”
“Why not?”
“I can’t explain. Who do you know here? Who have you met?”
“No one, really.”
Fiona had blushed, and Abigail had noticed a young, cute, male Rush standing in the door and wondered if she’d overreacted and Fiona wasn’t about to stumble into one of John March’s labyrinths. As much as Abigail loved her father, she was well aware that he had left a complex trail behind him in his near sixty years on the planet.
Fiona knew every Irish bar in town that offered live music, and Morrigan’s would be one of the better paying and more prestigious. She could have found it on her own, but she hadn’t. She’d found it because her father knew Abigail, who was head ove
r heels in love with Owen Garrison. And Owen’s family, with its strong ties to Beacon Hill, often stayed at the Whitcomb and put up friends there.
Abigail’s father had known the Garrisons even before she’d met Chris Browning, who had grown up just down the rockbound shore from their summer home on Mount Desert Island. But her father’s relationship with the Garrisons had nothing to do with her concerns about Fiona O’Reilly playing Irish music at Morrigan’s.
Her concerns had everything to do with the woman in whose honor the bar had been named—Shauna Morrigan, Lizzie Rush’s mother.
Even to think about any of them now, with Fletcher watching her, Abigail knew, was dangerous.
As she leaned forward, lining up another shot, she felt the strain of the last hours in her lower back. She was dehydrated and knew she needed to drink more water, but the thought nauseated her. “You’ll have to speak up,” she said. “My ears are still ringing from you bastards blowing up my apartment and smacking me in the face.”
“We have time.”
She concentrated on taking her shot, but she was too late.
Fletcher had already seen that she’d lied.
“Enjoy your game,” he said quietly, and left.
Chapter 16
Dublin, Ireland
7:23 a.m., IST
August 26
The bedroom door was still shut when Lizzie awoke, the early morning sun finding its way through the sides of the room-darkening window shade. She slipped into comfortable slim black pants, a black top and her new flats and dabbed on just enough makeup to convince people she’d slept okay.
Making as little noise as possible, she went out into the hall and took the stairs down to the lobby. She smiled at the woman at the front desk, who was new, and headed for the hotel’s small street-level restaurant, its tables covered in Irish lace. Lizzie chose one on the back wall that had a view of the door out to the lobby. She ordered coffee and scones and chatted a moment with her waiter, a college student from Lithuania. Last night on the Beara Peninsula suddenly seemed surreal, and she half expected her cousin to wander in and act as if she’d just arrived from Boston and none of it had happened. Her fight in the stone circle, the bomb, Abigail Browning, Norman’s disappearance…the fair-haired Brit asleep in her suite.
Lizzie could blame her delusions on jetlag and go shopping.
But as she spread her scone with butter and raspberry jam, her handsome suitemate, dressed in another deliciously soft-looking sweater, joined her at her table.
Without waiting for an invitation, he sat across from her. “My sister loves Dublin. I’ll have to ask her if she’s stayed here.”
“She’s a wedding dress designer in London. Arabella. It’s a pretty name. You have an older brother, too. Peter. He manages the family farm, that being a five-hundred-year-old estate in the north of England.”
“All of which,” Will said, marginally impressed, “you could find on the Internet.”
“In fact, I did.”
She’d also done a bit of spying on the Davenports herself when she was in London in early July, but she chose to keep that fact to herself. Will had sparked her interest after she’d learned Simon wasn’t ex-FBI after all and remembered the two men were friends.
Will’s pot of tea and a steaming scone arrived. For a man who had slept only a few hours, he looked remarkably alert. And serious, Lizzie thought.
He poured his tea. “You’re playing a very dangerous game, Lizzie. It’s time to stop.”
She reached for more jam. She’d combed her hair and pinned it back, but she suspected there were still knots in it. It’d been a long night on the sofa. “If you were going to sic the FBI or the guards on me,” she said, “you’d have done it by now.”
As he set the teapot down, she noticed a thin, straight four-inch scar on his hand, perhaps from a knife fight that hadn’t gone as well as hers had last night.
“You’re not the dilettante you’ve pretended to be,” he said, lifting his cup and taking a sip as he eyed her over the rim. “You didn’t learn your fighting skills from reading a handbook. Who taught you?”
“I frequently travel on my own, and I decided it would be smart to take self-defense classes. But I do have the SAS handbook.” She sat back. “You’re not smiling, Will.”
“I woke up worried about you.”
“Ah. Maybe I should have given you the sofa instead. I slept just fine. Nothing to worry about.” She slathered jam on a chunk of scone and indulged, relishing the sweet, rich taste. “It’ll be back to mesclun soon. You and Simon are obviously good friends, but that’s not why you followed me here.”
“Do you have friends, Lizzie?”
“You mean in addition to my four cousins and Norman?”
Will still didn’t smile. “Correct.”
“Yes, I have friends, although I’ve neglected most of them lately.” She leaned back and studied him as he placed his cup in its saucer and broke off a piece of his scone. “No jam, no butter? You’re an ascetic.”
“I wasn’t the one who engaged in hand-to-hand combat last night.”
“Combat? When you put it that way…” But Lizzie couldn’t maintain her light mood, feigned as it was. “I’m not that hungry, having had a full Irish breakfast at midnight. How long have you known Simon?”
Will deliberated a moment. “Two years.”
“Norman got very curious when he found out Simon was hanging out with you in London. Did you know he was working undercover, or did you think he was a former FBI agent with a grudge against Director March?”
“Simon and I didn’t discuss Norman Estabrook.”
“Then MI6 isn’t interested in him?”
Will gave her a slight smile. “Very clever, Lizzie. What are your plans for today?”
“Defying jetlag. Past that, I don’t know.” She abandoned her scone for her coffee, not meeting his eye as she said, serious now, “I asked Michael Murphy about one of your countrymen last night. I saw your reaction, Will, and I think he’s why you’re here in Dublin. You know him, don’t you?”
“As I indicated,” he said, picking up his teacup again, “you’re playing a dangerous game.”
Lizzie didn’t relent. “Who is he?”
“A ghost.”
“Another spook?”
He sighed. “I never said…”
“You didn’t have to. This man showed up in Las Vegas a few days before Norman’s arrest. Is he SAS? Special Branch? A fugitive?”
“He’s a killer. Eddie O’Shea ran into him on the Beara Peninsula last week. Simon and Keira weren’t there.”
Lizzie absorbed this new information and felt a sting of regret that Eddie and his brothers had had their quiet lives disrupted. But they seemed capable of handling anything. “Did this man arrange the attack on Keira?”
“Whatever he did, Lizzie, you must stay away from him. As capable as you are, you can’t best him. If you know anything about him, tell me now.”
“At least give me his name.”
Will steadied his gaze on her, the blue, green and gold of his eyes melding into a gleam of black. “His name is Myles.”
She stifled an involuntary gasp at the pain in his voice. “He’s your friend,” she said. “Will—”
“I haven’t seen the man you and Eddie O’Shea described myself.” His words were measured, everything about him under control. “I could be wrong.”
“We only talked for a few minutes. He joined me at the hotel bar and asked me for a bottle of water and…” Lizzie paused, remembering that strange encounter in Las Vegas. “He told me to behave.”
There was an edge of sadness to Will as he smiled. “That sounds like Myles. Had he and Estabrook already met?”
Lizzie nodded. “He—Myles, the Brit—went up to Norman in the middle of his poker game. No one else at the table seemed to know him. I couldn’t hear what he and Norman said to each other, but it seemed important. That’s one reason why I remember him.”
“Ther
e’s another reason?”
She didn’t look away but instead met Will’s gaze straight on. “I was trying to remember everything.”
“Why, Lizzie? This was before Estabrook’s arrest. Were you aware of his illegal activities?”
She smiled easily. “I should take the Fifth on that one. That’s the Fifth Amendment. Bill of Rights. U.S. Constitution—”
“Lizzie. We’re not discussing one of your hotel luxury excursions.”
Didn’t she know.
“I’m sorry,” he said immediately. “That was patronizing.”
“I shouldn’t have gone vapid hotel heiress on you.”
“Which you’re not.”
“No, I’m not. Will, if your friend Myles is helping Norman exact his revenge, Abigail Browning is in serious trouble, isn’t she?”
“For the past two years, I’ve thought Myles was dead.”
“Until you heard me describe him last night. That’s why you let me leave, isn’t it? You didn’t want me stuck for hours with garda detectives. You wanted to talk to me yourself. Have you told the FBI?” But Will’s expression startled her, and she almost knocked over her coffee. “I see now. Simon, you, Myles. Comrades in arms?”
“You see too much, Lizzie.” Will lifted the teapot again and changed the subject as he refilled his cup. “What’s your relationship with Estabrook?”
She decided to answer. “He thinks I understand him.”
“Do you? Did he discuss his intentions for revenge with you?”
“Not specifically. I just happened to be with him in Montana when he threatened to kill Simon and Director March. I can’t always tell what’s bravado and fantasy with Norman and what he actually plans to do. He’s grandiose and, at the same time, very smart and very calculating. I’d hoped his lawyers and a brush with incarceration would straighten him out, and he’d accept that violent revenge was a fantasy. But I also doubted that would happen. He’s taken it on as his next death-defying challenge.”
Will settled back in his chair. “Lizzie…”
But she’d gone far enough. She gave him a bright smile. “All of a sudden, Lord Davenport, you look very much like a man who never puts jam and butter on his scones.” She noticed Justin in the doorway and waved to him. “You met my cousin Justin last night. I practically grew up with him and his three older brothers. My father traveled frequently. Still does.”
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