The Mist

by Carla Neggers

  Will kept his emotions in check, as much for his own sake as Fiona O’Reilly’s, but there was no longer any question. Myles Fletcher was alive. Near. In Boston. Perhaps watching the police arrive at the murder scene.

  Will had asked Fiona to repeat everything Myles had said to her. “It’s important,” he’d told her. “I can help in a way the police can’t.”

  Fiona had complied. She was calmer now, hugging her arms to her chest as police cruisers descended on Beacon Street. “Your friend killed the man in the alley, didn’t he?”

  “Your father and his detectives will determine who is responsible. What you must do now is to be sure you’ve told me all you know.”

  She stared down at the pavement as if looking for ants.

  Will knew he couldn’t let her off the hook. “You’ve had a terrible scare, Fiona. It’s understandable you don’t want to do anything to distract investigators and send them in the wrong direction.”

  “Abigail’s missing. Every minute…” She squinted up at him. “Every second counts.”

  On his cab ride into Boston from the airport, Will had called both Simon and Josie for updates, but there was still no sign of Abigail Browning, Norman Estabrook or his plane. He couldn’t give Fiona false comfort. She was the daughter of an experienced detective and would see right through it.

  “Good detectives prefer to have as much information as possible,” he said. “They want to rely on their own experience and training to decide what’s worthwhile and what isn’t.”

  “I know,” Fiona said, not combative, just stating the facts. As traumatized as she was, Will could see a similar inner strength he had observed in her cousin, Keira.

  “What are you holding back?”

  “Abigail…” Fiona curled her fingers into tight fists. “She stopped by the pub at the Whitcomb Hotel the night before last. Morrigan’s. My friends and I were performing. We were wrapping up our final set. I could see she was uptight about something. She pulled me aside after we finished and told me it wasn’t a good idea for me to be there.”

  “At the hotel?”

  Fiona nodded. “She said she’d explain later but I should just…” The teenager sucked in a breath, fighting her own emotions. “She said I should trust her.”

  “What did you say to her?”

  “Nothing. I didn’t argue with her. I ignored her. I thought she didn’t want me there because Morrigan’s is a bar and I’m under twenty-one and a cop’s daughter. When I saw her—” Fiona again stared down at the pavement. “I avoided her yesterday. Before the bomb went off. I was snotty. I didn’t want to talk to her. Now…”

  “You feel guilty,” Will said.

  Tears spilled down her cheeks, and she sobbed silently as two police cruisers screeched to a halt at the alley, followed immediately by an unmarked police car. A redheaded man who had to be Fiona’s father leaped out and trotted straight for her.

  “Dad,” Fiona whispered, using both hands now to wipe her tears.

  A stiff, serious younger man got out from behind the wheel, joined uniformed officers and headed into the alley.

  Bob O’Reilly was apoplectic when he reached his daughter. “I thought you played the damn harp so you wouldn’t get yourself mixed up in a murder investigation.” He sighed, his blue eyes—the same shade as Fiona’s, as Keira’s—filled with fear and guilt. “Fi…hell. You okay?”

  She brushed her tears with the back of her wrist and nodded.

  O’Reilly turned to Will. “Lord Davenport, I presume.”

  “Yes, Lieutenant. I’m sorry we’re meeting under such difficult circumstances.”

  “Yeah, so am I. Simon’s on his way.” O’Reilly shifted back to his daughter. “Tell me what happened.”

  Fiona repeated her story. Will listened for additional details but heard nothing that made him doubt it was Myles who’d sat across from a nineteen-year-old musician and told her how to find a man he knew to be dead, presumably whom he’d killed himself. Possibly he was in fact Abigail Browning’s only hope, but that didn’t mean he was on her side.

  Will let the questions come at him. Why was Myles Fletcher involved with Norman Estabrook? Had the man Will had once trusted and considered a friend become a cutthroat mercenary? Was Myles now on no one’s side but his own?

  Had he never been on anyone’s side but his own?

  When Fiona finished, Bob O’Reilly had the look of the veteran detective he was. “Where’s Lizzie Rush now?”

  “She left.” Fiona gave Will a sideways glance before turning back to her father. “She stayed cool. The whole time, Dad. She tried to keep me from seeing…the man.”

  “She a friend of yours?”

  “I only…no.”

  He narrowed his eyes on his daughter. “What were you doing at the Whitcomb Hotel, Fi?”

  “My ensemble performs there. I didn’t tell you—” A touch of combativeness sparked in her blue eyes. “I knew you wouldn’t approve.”

  “I don’t,” her father said bluntly. He nodded to the unmarked car. “Go sit in the air-conditioning. Get off your feet.”

  “Dad—”

  “Go on, kid.” He touched a thumb to a stray tear on her cheek. “I’ll be right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

  “That man…the one who was killed…”

  “We’ll figure out what happened to him. Go.” O’Reilly struggled for a smile. “See if you can find some harp music on the radio.”

  Will noticed her reluctance as she headed for the unmarked car, but he decided it had more to do with her desire not to miss anything than to remain with her father.

  O’Reilly took a pack of gum from his pocket and tapped out a piece. He unwrapped it, balled up the paper in one hand and shoved it into his pocket with the rest of the pack. A ritual, Will realized.

  The detective chewed the gum as he studied Will. “You know this guy, our killer Brit?”

  “I didn’t see him, Lieutenant O’Reilly.”

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  Will said nothing. He wasn’t in a position to explain his history with Myles Fletcher to this American detective. At the same time, Will didn’t want to do anything that would impede the investigation into the murder in the alley and any connection the dead man or Myles had to Abigail Browning’s disappearance.

  “Here’s the thing,” O’Reilly said. “After thirty years as a cop, I often know when someone’s lying or not telling me everything—unless it’s one of my daughters. Want me to ask again?”

  Will shook his head. “There’s no need. Your daughter described a man I thought I knew.”

  “But now that he’s put a bullet in some guy’s brain, you’re thinking maybe you didn’t know him after all. His name?”

  Will looked back at the car where Fiona sat alone in the back seat, the door still open. “Myles Fletcher.”

  “Who is he?”

  “I told you—”

  “No, you didn’t. What’s he do for a living? Is he a British noble? Does he go fishing a lot in Scotland? Does he know Simon Cahill?” O’Reilly worked hard on his gum. “I can rattle off a dozen other questions if you want or you can just tell me.”

  Will thought of Lizzie going into the alley on her own and finding a man shot to death by someone he should have dealt with himself two years ago.

  He knew now what he had to do. “My assistant, Josie Goodwin, can help you.” He kept his tone professional, without emotion. “Simon knows how to reach her. She’ll be more precise and thorough than I can be.”

  “She in London?”

  Will met the detective’s eye. “Ireland. With your niece.”

  “Great,” O’Reilly said sarcastically. “Just great. Did this Fletcher character send that thug after Keira?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Another nonanswer. Does Fletcher know Abigail Browning, John March or Simon Cahill?”

  “Lieutenant…”

  “Norman Estabrook?”

  “If you’ll allow me, Lie
utenant O’Reilly, I suggest you speak with Director March.”

  “All right. I’ll do that.” The detective’s tone was cool, suspicious—and careful. As if he knew he didn’t want to go too far and end up having his hands tied. “What do you know about the black-haired woman who helped my niece in the wilds of Ireland last night?”

  He waited, but Will didn’t fill the silence. He had anticipated that Boston law enforcement would have Lizzie’s description by now. Undoubtedly, she had, too.

  “I talked to Eddie O’Shea,” O’Reilly continued. “He described her. American. Small, fast, black hair, green eyes. Knows how to fight—she took on an armed killer. The Irish cops are trying to find out who she is, where she went.”

  “Again—”

  “Talk to March. Talk to anyone but you.” O’Reilly pointed a thick finger at Will. “Eddie says you were there, and you let this woman go.”

  “Your niece is safe, Lieutenant, thanks to her.”

  “And a big black dog and no doubt fairies, too. I’m glad for that.”

  Fiona slipped out of the car and stood by the open door.

  Her father didn’t stop. “I saw Scoop Wisdom in the hospital. He’s all cut up. A mess. He managed to describe a suspicious woman he saw on our street the day before our house blew up. Small, green eyes, black hair. Even with all the pain dope in him, Scoop remembered her. Who is she?”

  Will maintained a steady gaze on the senior law enforcement officer. “Again, you’ll want to speak with Director March.”

  Before O’Reilly could respond, Fiona approached him. “Dad.” She remained calm, but she was very pale. “Dad…I…”

  Her father stared at her. “You know?”

  “The woman—she—”

  The detective groaned half to himself. “Ah, hell. Are we talking about Lizzie Rush? The woman who just helped you—”

  “Her family owns the hotel on Charles Street.”

  “The Whitcomb. Yeah, I know. Why—”

  “I told you, my ensemble plays there. We’ve been playing there all summer. The Rushes are nice people.”

  “The Rushes are…” O’Reilly glared at his daughter. “How well do you know them?”

  Fiona looked miserable. “I didn’t meet Lizzie until a few weeks ago. Her cousin Jeremiah has been helping me plan our trip to Ireland. He said Lizzie had worked there. Dad, I know she’s not responsible for the bombs. She can’t be.”

  “What did you two talk about besides Ireland?”

  “I told her everything. I told her about Keira and Simon, and you and Aunt Eileen and the serial killer, and Ireland—the story about the stone angel. I told her that Keira and Simon borrowed a boat from Simon’s friend, a British lord, and…Dad, I’m sorry.”

  O’Reilly looked as if he couldn’t decide between hitting something or grabbing his daughter and running. “Relax, Fi.” His tone softened as he unwrapped another piece of gum. “You didn’t tell Lizzie Rush anything she couldn’t have found out on her own.”

  “I feel like a blabber.”

  “Lizzie’s easy to talk to,” Will said quietly. More police cars descended on the scene. Yellow tape was going up. Onlookers were arriving. He knew he had to make his stand now. “I can find her, Detective, but not if I’m caught up with your people.”

  Bob O’Reilly was clearly a man under monumental strain, but he remained focused. “This Fletcher character?”

  “I can find him, as well.”

  “Does Simon go way back with him?”

  “No, he doesn’t. Lieutenant, you know if I don’t leave now, I won’t be able to without a lot of time and fuss.”

  The detective put the fresh piece of gum in his mouth. “Go.”

  The Whitcomb was smaller, narrower and more traditionally furnished than the Rush hotel in Dublin, but equally high-end and individual. A man who bore a striking resemblance to Justin Rush walked into the lobby from a side door. This would be Jeremiah, Will remembered. The third-born of the four Rush brothers and Lizzie’s cousin.

  “Lord Davenport, right?” Jeremiah nodded to a door behind him. “Through there. Down the steps. Out back.”

  “Thank you,” Will said.

  He followed Jeremiah’s instructions and found himself in an alley with broken pavement, parked cars and Simon Cahill standing in front of a large Dumpster. Unlike his fellow FBI agents who’d begun to arrive farther up Beacon Street as Will had left, Simon wore jeans and a polo shirt.

  Will descended the steps. “I wondered if you might find your way here. Has Lizzie—”

  “She took off before I got here. Abigail’s partner called me. Tom Yarborough. You’ll meet him—he’ll see to it.”

  “He’s the detective who was with Lieutenant O’Reilly just now?”

  Simon gave a curt nod. “He said you let Lizzie go.”

  “I did,” Will admitted.

  “Yarborough’s ready to take her, you and me into custody. Her father, too.”

  “Is the tension getting to him?”

  “Not a chance. He’s just that way.” Simon’s expression was more that of an FBI agent than a friend as he eyed Will. “Myles Fletcher is alive?”

  “Apparently so. He killed that man in the alley and arranged for Fiona O’Reilly to find him. I’ve been trying to think how he could have become involved with Estabrook.”

  “He could have figured out you and I were friends, discovered I was working for Estabrook and watched and waited for his chance.”

  “His chance for what? Money? Action? To get back at us, perhaps? Me for damaging his relationship with his friends in Afghanistan. You for saving my life.”

  “I could believe money and action,” Simon said. “Not revenge. The Myles Fletcher you described to me is too pragmatic to indulge in revenge.”

  Will felt the humid heat of the afternoon and smelled asphalt, gasoline fumes and, faintly, garbage. As immaculate as the Whitcomb was, he and Simon were nevertheless in an alley. Will shut his eyes, launching himself back two years. He saw Philip and David fighting for their lives. For his life. For the life of the man who’d betrayed them.

  And yet…none of what had happened had ever made sense to him. Will had fought alongside Myles Fletcher. They’d trained together, gone drinking together. They’d tracked enemy fighters together, disrupted ambushes, cleaned out caches of weapons, called in close-air support—whatever their various missions had required.

  “Will…”

  He opened his eyes, focusing again on Simon. “You’re right. Myles is too much a professional to take the risks he did today purely for revenge. He’s doing a job.”

  Simon walked toward the hotel. There were terra cotta pots of red geraniums on each step up to the back door. “The Lizzie Rush I know is elegant, personable, attractive and smart, but she’s not anyone I’d remotely imagine taking on a knife-wielding thug.” He turned to Will. “Or you. She’s under your skin, isn’t she?”

  He sidestepped the question. “How did you see her role with Estabrook?”

  “They were friendly, not in a romantic way. She wasn’t involved in his riskier adventures. She’d organize a hike in the Grand Canyon, a whale-watching trip, a kayaking tour of the Maine coast—the normal stuff people want to do.”

  “And all the while, she was gathering information on Estabrook and his friends and passing it on to John March.”

  Simon leaned over and straightened one of the flowerpots. “I knew we had an anonymous source. An important one. But Lizzie…” He shook his head. “She never was on my radar.”

  Will stared at the geraniums. How had he let his life become so complicated? He could see his mother walking in his garden in Scotland, not far from her home village. She’d never imagined herself marrying his father. What had Lizzie thought as a little girl, playing out here in this alley? Had she ever imagined finding a man murdered up the street?

  “Lizzie’s father is an intelligence officer who taught her his tradecraft,” Will said. “She knew how to keep you and Directo
r March from discovering her identity. When did you first meet her?”

  “Last summer, here at the Whitcomb. That’s when Norman hired me. I was in Boston for a Fast Rescue dinner, and he was a guest at the hotel. He and Lizzie were already friends.”

  “With your search-and-rescue expertise, you were in the perfect position to go undercover.” Will toed a bit of broken asphalt. “As we’ve seen in the past two days, Lizzie is brazen and resourceful. Does she know March?”

  Simon looked uncomfortable.

  “This isn’t about my own history with Director March,” Will said. “I’m trying to ascertain the facts. When did you become aware March had a source?”

  “Last summer. We didn’t want to endanger whoever it was by getting too close. We both assumed we were dealing with a professional. Of the possibilities—Lizzie Rush wasn’t even on the list.”

  “Could she be affiliated with an intelligence agency?”

  Simon sighed. “I think she is exactly what she appears to be.”

  “She’s playing with fire,” Will said. “But she could also be the one who can lead us to March’s daughter.”

  “I’d trade myself for Abigail in a heartbeat.” Simon’s guilt was palpable as he continued. “So would her father. She got caught in the middle. This isn’t her fight.”

  “Why kidnap her but try to kill Keira?”

  “Norman’s making us suffer. That’s all I know. We have to find him, Will. His plane didn’t evaporate into thin air. Owen Garrison will find it.” Simon plucked a dried, brown leaf from a geranium and smiled sadly as he looked at Will. “Scoop’s influence.”

  “Simon…I’m sorry. But you must understand. You are not responsible for Norman Estabrook’s actions.”

  “Could we have this wrong, Will? What if Fletcher is working for the drug cartels and not for Norman?”

  “Regardless who is paying him, Myles is working for himself.”

  Simon crumpled up the dead leaf. “According to Tom Yarborough, the dead man Lizzie and Fiona found had a deep scratch on one arm. We know Abigail got a piece of whoever kidnapped her yesterday. There was blood at the scene. If he was the one who grabbed her and Fletcher killed him—”

  “Fiona had seen him. She’d have remembered eventually. It’s not the sort of risk Myles would take. He could simply have handled a problem and tried to mislead us at the same time.”