“Your mother—”
“My mother died when I was a baby. Ripple effects, Will.” Lizzie got to her feet, laid her napkin next her plate. “So much of life is about ripple effects. Drop a stone into a pond, and you don’t always know what and who will be affected as the ripples make their way across the water. Take your time with your tea. Justin will help you with whatever you need. I have a flight to catch.”
“Be careful, Lizzie.”
She beamed a smile at him. “I’m always careful.”
He didn’t move to get up. “I suspect we have different ideas about what that means.”
She was aware of him watching her as she walked across the restaurant to her cousin. “Run interference for me,” she said to him. “I need a head start on our Lord Davenport. You won’t be able to outmaneuver him, so don’t try. Just buy me some time.”
Justin straightened, obviously up to the job. “What if he’s scheduled to take the same flight as you to Boston?”
“No worries,” she said, heading for the lobby. “Lord Davenport will fly first-class. I’ll be in coach.”
Justin Rush, who bore a detectable resemblance to his cousin in the shape of his nose and eyes, sat across from Will and started telling family secrets.
A delaying tactic.
“Lizzie’s a worry,” the youngest Rush said. “From what my parents and older brothers tell me, she always has been. Whit’s the eldest. He’s named after our paternal grandmother, who was a Whitcomb. Then Harlan—Lizzie’s dad is a Harlan, too, named after our grandfather Rush, who talked our grandmother into converting her family home on Charles Street in Boston into a hotel.”
“Did it require much convincing?”
“Almost none. She’d discovered rats and roaches in the butler’s pantry.” Justin reddened. “There aren’t any there today, of course.”
“Of course,” Will said. “So it’s Whit, Harlan—then Lizzie?”
“That’s right. Then Jeremiah. I’m last.” He smiled, a charmer. “The baby.”
“I see.”
“Lizzie spent a lot of time with us and our grandmother Rush growing up, but she traveled with her father, too. Do you know she’s as good at five-card stud as she is at ordering wine in a five-star restaurant?”
“And she plays bridge,” Will said.
“By herself. She tell you it anchors her mind? Personally, a pint of Guinness does the job for me. How well do you know her?”
“We only met last night.”
“Where? Not Dublin, not from the state of her shoes, at least. Were you tramping through stone circles and fighting Irish bulls with her in West Cork?”
Will wondered when word of the attack on Keira would reach Justin Rush in Dublin, or if it had and he was just more adept at dissembling than his cousin. “I ran into her in a West Cork pub.”
Justin looked momentarily awkward and glanced toward the door, as if he hoped Lizzie would be there to take him off the hook. He turned back to Will. “Lizzie’s a free spirit, but she’s a hard worker, too. She’s worked at every one of our hotels just like the rest of us. She’s very good at her job. My dad would fire her if she wasn’t.”
“But she’s been on a bit of a hiatus this past year, hasn’t she?”
“Sort of.” The red spread to her young cousin’s neck. “She got mixed up with that cretin Norman Estabrook. I know it’s wrong of me, but I hope his plane—never mind. I won’t say it out loud.”
“Where does Lizzie’s father live? Boston?”
“Uncle Harlan avoids Boston whenever possible.”
“And Ireland, too, I gather,” Will said.
He noticed a wince of genuine discomfort as Justin’s expression softened. “It’s because of the memories.”
“Lizzie’s mother?”
Justin feigned great interest in a pepper grinder.
Will persisted. “What happened to her?”
“She died in a freak accident when Lizzie was a baby—here in Dublin, as a matter of fact. She was Irish herself. She was here to visit her family.”
“She came without Lizzie?”
He nodded.
“And without her husband?”
Another awkward nod. “It was eight years before I was born. She flew to Dublin for a five-day visit and tripped on a cobblestone on Temple Bar. She hit her head. They say she died instantly.” Justin cleared his throat and lifted his gaze from the pepper grinder. “Just one of those things.”
It didn’t sound like just one of those things, but Will could see Justin had said all he planned to say on the matter, and possibly all he knew. “Where does your uncle Harlan live, then, if not Boston?”
“His official residence is Las Vegas, but I doubt he’s there half the year. He’s on the board of the family biz, but he doesn’t have an active role these days. He spends most of his time traveling and gambling.”
“I understand Lizzie travels a great deal. Does she also gamble?”
“Not with money. She’s a risk-taker, but she’s tight with a buck. She’s debating whether to rent or tear down the old Rush family place in Maine. No one else wanted it, but she loves it—the location, anyway. The house itself is a wreck.” Justin Rush shrugged, clearly reluctant to share so much information about his cousin, but he had his marching orders and needed to hold Will’s interest and stall him. “Lizzie says it’s unpretentious.”
Will smiled, imagining Lizzie wringing costs out of a renovation project with carpenters and architects. She’d have her way. But he steered Justin back to the more immediate concerns at hand. “Do you know Norman Estabrook yourself?”
“I’ve met him. I carried his bags.”
“When he stayed here a year ago this past April,” Will said.
“What, do you know everything already?”
“Not at all. How did Mr. Estabrook strike you?”
“I didn’t really notice him. I was here on spring break. I had my hands full not to drop bags on the toes of hotel guests. I’ve improved since then. Mr. Estabrook had some adventure in the works—I think he hiked the Skelligs, but I’m not sure. He had quite an entourage with him. Ran me ragged.”
“Do you consider Lizzie part of his entourage?”
Justin looked slightly annoyed as well as protective. “Lizzie would never be part of anyone’s entourage.”
“But she was here then, in Dublin,” Will said.
“Yes. On her own—not with him. That’s when they met.” Justin picked up a crumb of his cousin’s abandoned scone. “They were never more than just friends. And if you’re going to ask if she has a boyfriend, I’m not going to tell you.”
His tone suggested she didn’t, which pleased Will more, undoubtedly, than was smart. “Do you remember anyone else from Mr. Estabrook’s entourage?”
“Nope.”
“Did he stay here again after that April visit?”
“Not that I know of.” Justin glanced down at his crumb, then up again, his eyes showing more maturity. “Is Lizzie in trouble?”
“I don’t know. I hope not.”
“She can kick butt with the best of them. She’s practiced on all of us. She bloodied my brother Jeremiah’s nose last New Year’s.”
“Your family was gathered for New Year’s? Where?”
“Vegas. All of us, including Uncle Harlan.”
“Your hotel’s very comfortable,” Will said, rising, “and you did your job. You delayed me.”
Justin got to his feet. “You wanted to learn more about Lizzie.”
Will saw the unease in the young Rush’s expression. “Justin, is your family worried about her?”
“Doesn’t much matter, does it? Lizzie thinks she’s on her own.”
Will had his own experience with worried family members left behind, but he was a professional officer. Lizzie Rush, clearly, was not. He said quietly, “I’m not going to hurt her.”
“But will you help her?”
“If I can. If she’ll let me.”
“Some
times I think she likes living dangerously.”
“Perhaps she’s merely trying to do what she can to help with a difficult situation and leave her family out of it.” Will didn’t wait for a reply. “You’ve given your cousin sufficient time to get to the airport. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Justin. If you’re ever in London, look me up.”
He frowned, scrutinizing Will a moment, then sighed. “I don’t start work until later. Come on, I’ll drive you to the airport myself. You’re chasing Lizzie to Boston, right?”
“I already have a flight arranged.”
“Your own plane?”
Will didn’t answer.
“Oh, that’s good—you flying a private jet across the Atlantic and Lizzie stuck in coach with her deck of cards.” Justin laughed. “That’ll teach her to sneak off.”
En route to the airport, Will learned a few more tidbits. Lizzie’s full name was Elizabeth Brigid Rush. Her mother was born Shauna Morrigan. “There are family rumors about Aunt Shauna,” Justin said. “My brother Jeremiah is convinced she spied on the Boston Irish mob.”
“This was before she married your uncle?”
“Jeremiah thinks so. Who knows? There are family rumors about Uncle Harlan, too.” Justin grinned as he pulled into the airport. “Now I’ve gone too far. For all I know, you’re a British spy.”
Indeed, Will thought, deciding he liked Justin Rush.
Chapter 17
Boston, Massachusetts
8 a.m., EDT
August 26
Bob felt the metal bars under the thin mattress as he rolled onto his back, reminding him that he’d spent the night on the pullout sofa in his niece’s attic apartment in the Garrison house. Sunlight streamed through lace curtains Keira had bought in Ireland. He draped an arm over his eyes to block out the sun and slumped deeper into what passed for a bed. His feet hung off the end. He hadn’t wanted to sleep. He’d still be at BPD headquarters now if Tom Yarborough hadn’t all but put a gun to his head and dragged him to Beacon Hill.
Yarborough had probably gone right back to work.
Bob adjusted his position and got another poke in the back. Everyone had offered him a place to stay. Theresa, Lucas Jones, even Yarborough. Hell, the mayor and the commissioner would have put him up for the night if he’d asked. Easier to stay in his niece’s vacant apartment with her pictures of Irish fairies and cottages, her books of folktales and poetry.
Simon and March had an FBI detail looking after their safety. Neither liked it or had wanted to sleep any more than Bob had. Simon, in particular, wanted to chase Estabrook on his own, but not only did he have a giant target painted on his back, he would be more help to Abigail working the investigation than going solo. He knew Estabrook, his contacts, how he thought, places he liked, places he’d been or had talked about. If he could hide millions for drug traffickers, he could hide himself.
Someone would have paged or called or shouted up the stairs if Estabrook or his plane had turned up, but Bob checked his messages, anyway.
Nothing.
He walked to the window in his undershorts and pulled back the Irish lace curtains, grimacing when he saw that the protective detail the commissioner insisted be put on his chief homicide detective was still down there. Waste of manpower as far as Bob was concerned. He’d rather have them out looking for Abigail and the bombers, but he didn’t have a choice.
He headed for the bathroom and took a shower, using Keira’s almond soap, which wasn’t as girlie as he’d feared. He’d managed to grab a couple changes of clothes out of his apartment. They didn’t smell too sooty to him, but they might to someone else. Not his problem.
Yarborough met him downstairs. He was as straight-backed as ever but looked raw around the edges. He’d never say the tension was getting to him, but Bob wouldn’t, either. “Morning, Lieutenant. You sleep?”
“Like a baby. You?”
“Some.”
Bob squinted across Beacon at the Common, all dappled shade on a sunny summer morning. It’d be another hot day. “Did you find Abigail and just not want to wake me?”
“No. Sorry.”
The guy had no sense of irony. Bob turned back to him. “What’s going on? Why are you here?”
Yarborough rubbed the back of his neck. He was a cool, controlled type, but right now, he looked miserable. “Fiona refused police protection this morning and cleared out of her mother’s house. She’s over eighteen. We can’t force her.”
“I can. Where is she?”
Yarborough didn’t answer.
“You don’t know, or you don’t want to tell me?”
“ATF wants to put her under surveillance.”
“My daughter?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“They think she could have seen something here yesterday morning and she just doesn’t realize it.”
“Big difference between protection and surveillance,” Bob said, stony. “The feds don’t call the shots when it comes to my family. Where’s Fi now?”
“I don’t know. In my opinion—” Yarborough abandoned his thought. “Never mind.”
Bob glared at him. “In your opinion, what?”
Yarborough sighed and looked out at the Common. “I got the feeling when we interviewed her that she’s holding back.”
“What do you mean, holding back? Holding back what?”
The younger detective didn’t flinch at Bob’s tone. “I don’t know. Lucas thought so, too.” Like Bob wouldn’t kill him if Lucas agreed. “We think she’s got something on her mind, but she’s not sure it’s relevant. She’s afraid of getting someone into trouble or wasting our time.”
Bob didn’t respond as he considered what Yarborough was saying.
Yarborough rubbed the side of his mouth with one finger. “I’m not criticizing her.”
“Yeah. It’s okay. I’m not armed. Not yet.” Bob fished out his cell phone and tried Fiona’s number, but he got her voice mail. He left a message and tried texting her. “I hate these damn buttons. My fingers are too big. I can’t see the screen.” He messed up and had to start over. “Fi’s fast, but little Jayne—she’s a whiz. Her teacher has the students leave their cell phones in a box when they come to class. Eleven years old, and they all have cell phones. Where’s the money coming from? When I was a kid, we had one phone in the house. It was a big deal when the first family on the street got an extension.”
“It’s called progress, Lieutenant,” Yarborough said.
“It’s called kids texting their friends spelling words and the capital of Wisconsin. Or don’t kids take tests anymore?” Bob managed to type in “call me” and hit some other damn button to send the thing. “I’m going to the hospital to visit Scoop. Ten to one Fiona’s there. Any update on his condition?”
Yarborough was expressionless. “He’s alive.” He looked at Bob in the uncompromising way he had. “I’ll drive you over there.”
No way of talking him out of it. Bob gestured to the uniformed officers. “Tell them to go to work.”
“Lieutenant—”
“Never mind. I’ll do it.”
Yarborough raised a hand, stopping him. He walked over to the cruiser, said a few words, then rejoined Bob. “Let’s go,” he said tightly.
“So, if someone jumps out of the bushes with a gun and tries to shoot me, you’re diving in front of the bullet?”
“I’m shooting the bastard first. You’re on PTSD watch, you know.”
“Posttraumatic stress disorder doesn’t happen in a day. It’s normal to have the yips right after a crisis.”
“The yips, Lieutenant?”
“Sleeplessness, flashbacks, startle response. Not that I have any of that. I told you, I slept like a baby—”
“Bob. Stop, okay? I know.”
He grinned at the younger detective. “Is that the first time you’ve called me by my first name? Honest, Yarborough, we might make a human being out of you yet.”
Yarborough clamped his mouth shu
t, a muscle working in his jaw as he got out his keys and walked to his car. He unlocked the passenger door. “I keep wondering where Abigail spent the night.”
“No point going down that road.”
“She’s good, but…” Yarborough yanked open the door and stood to one side for Bob to get in. “It’s okay. I checked for bombs already.”
“You’re a ray of sunshine, Yarborough.”
“Always aim to please the boss.”
Bob got rid of him when they arrived at the hospital. There were enough cops there for him to get a ride to BPD headquarters if he needed one, and Yarborough was clearly itching to do something besides escort him around town.
And Bob was right. He found his eldest daughter shivering in the corridor outside Scoop’s hospital room. Scoop had been moved out of ICU to a regular room, another positive sign. It wasn’t the air-conditioning that had Fiona shivering. If anything, the temperature was on the warm side. She was on edge. Bob wasn’t thrilled with her for refusing police protection, but he melted when he saw her. Uniformed officers were posted outside Scoop’s room and drifting past her while she mustered courage to go in and see him.
Scoop’s family was there. His colleagues from internal affairs. Bob wasn’t going to embarrass Fiona—or himself—by treating her like a two-year-old, but she had to go back under police protection. Just because she was over eighteen didn’t mean she didn’t have to listen to his common sense advice.
She tried to smile. “This is worse than any performance anxiety I’ve experienced,” she said, her arms crossed tight on her chest. “Performing is nothing compared to facing a man who nearly died saving your life.”
“Scoop won’t look at it that way,” Bob said.
“I don’t care how he looks at it. It’s what happened.”
“I know, Fi.”
A white-coated doctor who didn’t look much older than Fiona came out of Scoop’s room. “You can go in now,” she said. “He’s awake.”
Fiona nodded without speaking.
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