“So he shot a man in the head for a reason instead of just because he could?”
“Fair enough, Simon. Nonetheless, I doubt Myles would get in the middle of a scheme for violent revenge, even a well-paying one. If he’s working for Estabrook, there’s likely another reason.” Will regretted he hadn’t arrived in Boston in time to deal with Myles himself, but hadn’t that been his old friend’s plan? Myles had known Lizzie had left Dublin that morning—and undoubtedly knew that Will had, too. He pushed back his fatigue and worry, forcing himself to continue. “Simon, Myles and Estabrook can’t discover Lizzie is an FBI informant.”
“I know. If they do, she goes onto Norman’s hit list right up there with March and me.”
Will pictured Lizzie sitting across from him at their lace-covered table in Dublin. He could see the intensity and the light green color of her eyes, the shape of her mouth as she’d tried to put her fight in the stone circle behind her and decide what to do about him. He’d checked on her during the night, her duvet half off, her skirt and T-shirt askew as she’d slept on the sofa.
“Will? I’m losing you again.”
He heard the concern in his friend’s voice. “I need to leave now, Simon. I trust you, and I trust Josie. I’ll keep an open mind when it comes to everyone else.”
“Right, Will,” Simon said, skeptical, but he managed a quick smile. “You’ve always wanted a woman who could put a knife to your throat.”
The back door to the hotel opened, and Jeremiah Rush jumped down the half-dozen steps in a single bound. “Two detectives are here to interview the staff and anyone who might have seen the Brit who scared the hell out of Fiona O’Reilly. I thought you’d want to know. My dad’s on his way. He’s not wild about a killer showing up here.”
Simon eyed the younger Rush. “Do you know where your cousin went?”
“Lizzie?” Jeremiah instantly looked uncomfortable.
“That would be the one, yes.”
“She’s like a sister to my brothers and me. Her father’s a great guy, but he was on the road so much…” Jeremiah shoved a hand through his tawny hair and gave a quick laugh, obviously trying to divert the FBI agent in front of him. “We all think he’s a spy.”
Will almost smiled. “So your brother Justin said this morning in Dublin.”
Jeremiah’s hand fell to the back of his neck, then his side, as if he was feeling cornered, torn by what he knew and what he feared. “You two…” He motioned first to Will, then to Simon. “Lord Davenport, Special Agent Cahill. How do I know I can trust you?”
“We’re not a danger to your cousin,” Will said.
“The people you hang out with are.”
“What about the people she hangs out with?” Simon asked sharply.
A ferocity came into Jeremiah’s eyes, one that Will had seen in his cousin. “I hope Norman Estabrook ends up dead or in a holding cell by nightfall.”
Simon didn’t react to Jeremiah’s emotion. “Your family has resources, contacts. Are you looking for Estabrook yourselves? What about your uncle? What’s he up to?”
“Uncle Harlan? I have no idea. We all want to do whatever we can to help.” Jeremiah was clearly worried—and angry. “I thought Lizzie had hooked up with a rich eccentric and was having a little fun for herself. Estabrook held a New Year’s Eve bash for his friends at our hotel in Las Vegas. Lizzie didn’t want me to go, but we were having our own family party and I dropped in on him and his friends.”
“I remember,” Simon said.
Jeremiah fastened his gaze on the FBI agent. “I should have thrown him off the roof that night. Uncle Harlan would have helped me make it look like an accident.”
Simon’s brow went up, obviously as uncertain as Will whether Jeremiah Rush was serious. The entire Rush family defied stereotype, and not one of them was to be underestimated.
Will didn’t want to come under the scrutiny of the Boston detectives now on-site. They might not be as amenable to letting him go about his business as Bob O’Reilly had been. They could easily conclude the lieutenant had been under duress, considering his daughter had just encountered a killer and a murder victim, and wasn’t thinking straight. Even with Simon, an FBI agent, at his side, Will could find himself with a long night of explaining ahead.
He turned again to Jeremiah. “Justin mentioned that Lizzie intends to renovate your family home in Maine. Is she headed there now?”
Jeremiah hesitated, and Simon said quietly, “We’re on your cousin’s side.”
“Maybe so,” Jeremiah said, “but that doesn’t mean she won’t throw me off the roof for telling you. I don’t know for sure, but, yes, I think she’s gone to Maine. She has her own place there. It’s about as big as a butler’s pantry, but she loves it.” He dipped a hand into a trouser pocket and produced a set of keys. “Take my car.” He nodded toward a side street at the end of the alley. “Go that way. You’ll avoid the BPD.”
Simon didn’t argue or intervene as Will took the keys.
Jeremiah looked more worried, even afraid, than he likely would want to admit. “Lizzie’s father trained her well. He gave the rest of us some pointers, but she had—I guess you’d call it an aptitude. She has a good sense of her limits. I hope she’ll be safe in Maine. I hope this bastard Estabrook doesn’t think she’ll go along with him just because of her mother. I hope,” he added, energized now, “she’s not the key to finding him.”
Simon plucked another dried geranium leaf and crunched it to bits between two big fingers. “What about her mother, Jeremiah?”
Jeremiah Rush obviously realized he was about to step into a bottomless pit, into dangerous layers of history, family, secrets, powerful men. Will could see Lizzie as she’d sipped brandy in Ireland and questioned the man who’d tried to kill Keira Sullivan. Lizzie had been born into this complicated world. She knew how to navigate it, just as Will knew how to navigate his world.
“From what I understand,” Jeremiah said carefully, “Aunt Shauna was a daredevil with a keen sense of justice.” He gave Simon a pointed look. “Just like Lizzie.”
Simon studied the younger Rush a moment. His eyes were as green as the Irish hills where the woman he loved was being protected. “Walk out to the street with Will and give him directions to Lizzie’s place in Maine. I’ll see to the detectives.” He turned to Will. “Stay in touch.”
Without waiting for a response or pressing for more information, Simon ascended the steps back into the hotel. Jeremiah did as requested, and in ten minutes, Will was navigating a sleek, expensive sedan and the impossible Boston traffic as he found his way north to Maine.
And, he hoped, to Lizzie.
Chapter 22
Boston, Massachusetts
7:15 p.m., EDT
August 26
Fiona looked gaunt and stressed but also relieved to be back in her element. Bob watched as she and her friends set up in the bar of the Rush-owned boutique hotel on Charles Street. As far as he could tell, “boutique” meant small and expensive. He’d teased his daughter that he thought it meant a place that sold cute clothes, but she wasn’t ready to be teased. Play music, yes. Music had been her escape as well as her passion since she’d first crawled up onto a piano stool as a tot.
Bob had peeled himself away from the crime scene up on Beacon, but it was in good hands. He needed to be here, nursing a glass of water at this same table where a killer had sat across from his daughter. Lucas Jones and Tom Yarborough had questioned Fiona thoroughly. Afterward, Lucas had told Bob, “I should have asked her when she’d last talked to Abigail,” and Yarborough had told him, “She should have told us about seeing Abigail,” which summed up the differences between the two detectives. Bob had felt their suspicion drift over him like a living thing. Yarborough had even said out loud that he thought Bob was holding back on them.
Which he was. He’d kept most of his chat with Lord Davenport to himself. While not a rule-breaker by nature or conviction, Bob had learned to rely on his instincts when it cam
e to bending the rules to get things done. Right now, they had a mess on their hands, with no trace of Abigail or word—a single crumb of hope—from her kidnappers.
He had to stop himself from picturing her and Owen in their small backyard, teasing Scoop about his garden and compost pile. For seven years, Abigail had focused on her work and finding her husband’s killer, living her life, a part of it always on hold. Then last summer, she and Owen fell for each other. They had some things to work out—houses, families, kids, careers—but they were the real thing, good together.
Now this.
Fiona’s friends were all as young as she was, nervous about the murder and the fire but determined to play, to be there for her. “Can you guys sing ‘Johnny, I Hardly Knew You’?” Bob called to them. “I used to sing that one as a kid.”
“Sing it with us, Dad,” Fiona said, her cheeks pinker now, even if only from the exertion of setting up.
Fiona had been after him to sing with her band since she’d discovered he had an okay voice. He hadn’t hid it from her. He just wasn’t that much for singing. He let them get through a few numbers on their own, then got up and sang with them. The upscale crowd seemed to enjoy themselves, like he was authentic or something—the Boston Irish cop singing an Irish tune.
When the band took a break, Fiona eased back toward him. “I’m sorry for all this, Dad.”
“I’m putting a detail on you. Deal with it.”
She nodded, not meek or acquiescent. Accepting. As if she knew he was making sense.
Relieved, Bob checked out one of the brochures she’d left on the table when she’d made her mad dash up Beacon Street, after her visit from Myles Fletcher. He hoped by their December trip things would be quieter in their lives, back to normal. They’d been magnets for trouble lately. Theresa was right, he thought. When Fiona was six, he’d had more control. His sister had told him he had to let his daughters grow up. Like he had any choice?
He noticed the brochure was of the Rush hotel in Dublin. “My grandmother used to make these little mince pies at Christmas. Melt in your mouth.” He smiled at his daughter, probably his first real smile since the bomb had gone off yesterday afternoon. “Maybe they’ll serve them at tea in Dublin.”
“The Rush hotel there serves a Christmas Eve tea,” Fiona said eagerly.
Great, he thought.
“It’s within walking distance of Brown Thomas.”
“What’s that?”
“An upscale department store on Grafton Street.”
“You’ve been memorizing maps of Dublin?”
She blushed. “You only live once, Dad.”
He admired her resiliency but knew she had to process the ordeal of the past two days. And it wasn’t over. They didn’t have Abigail. Scoop was in shreds in the hospital but would be okay. Keira was under police protection in Ireland. March’s wife in D.C. Bob’s own family here in Boston.
The bad guys were unidentified and at large.
“Have you identified the man who…” Fiona lost the color that had started back in her cheeks.
Bob understood what she was asking. “We’re still working on a name.”
“I saw the scratch on his arm, Dad. He helped kidnap Abigail, didn’t he?” Fiona flinched as if she’d been struck. “Sorry. Lucas and Detective Yarborough said I shouldn’t say that out loud.”
“It’s okay, kid.”
“What if he left her tied up somewhere?”
“He didn’t work alone. Almost certainly.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t say anything about seeing her here.”
“Abigail didn’t say anything, either, Fi. Whatever she was worried about, she probably didn’t think it was that big a deal—nothing to make someone set a bomb on her porch.”
But had Abigail come here specifically to tell his daughter to back off playing at the hotel?
If so, why?
He had about a million questions whose answers he suspected involved Lizzie Rush. She’d come to Jamaica Plain the afternoon before Abigail’s evening visit here to the Whitcomb and Morrigan’s. The next day, Lizzie Rush and Keira had called from Ireland about the bomb.
“If the man who was killed helped kidnap Abigail,” Fiona said thoughtfully, dropping into a chair opposite Bob, “why did the Brit kill him? If he’s a bad guy, too?”
“We can sit here and tick off all the possibilities. They had a spat. The Brit decided the other guy was reckless. The Brit got greedy and wanted the other guy’s cut of whatever they’re getting paid.”
“Or he didn’t kill him.”
“My point is, we don’t know. That’s why we keep plugging away at the facts and evidence.”
“Simon’s friend Will must—”
“Do you know ‘Whiskey in the Jar?’”
Fiona rolled her eyes in a way—not a bad way—that reminded him of her mother. “Of course, Dad. You’ve heard me play it a hundred times.”
“I’ve never sung it with you.”
But she wasn’t giving up. “The Brit—Fletcher—could have killed that man in self-defense, couldn’t he?”
“Yes. Whatever happened, Fi, you didn’t cause it.”
“I’m in the middle of it.”
“That’s ending now.”
For once, she didn’t argue. “How’s Keira?”
“I only talked to her a few minutes before you called me. She’s no happier about being under police protection than you are. She knows it has to be done. Simon has to concentrate on doing his job.”
“Scoop…it was hard to see him this morning.”
“You were brave to go to the hospital on your own like that. He’s doing better. He’ll make it.” Bob tried to soften his voice, but heart-to-heart talks with his daughter—with anyone—made him squirm. “Fi, Scoop’s a good guy. The best. But he’s a lot older than you. In another five years, maybe it won’t seem like so much, but right now—you should stick with guys closer to your own age. These losers here. The fiddle player. He’s not bad, right?”
She made a face. “Dad, Scoop’s just a friend.”
“Yeah? What about the fiddle player?”
“Him, too. Besides, Scoop’s got a thing for Keira.”
“You see too much. Play your music.”
She returned to her friends on the small stage and picked up her harp. They had a half-dozen different instruments among the three of them and would switch off depending on the number. They all could sing.
Bob walked up to the lobby to Lizzie Rush’s cousin Jeremiah at the reception desk. Tom Yarborough and Lucas Jones had already interviewed him and said he was smart, clever and creative. Too creative, Yarborough had said, convinced the kid knew more than he was admitting. He wasn’t lying, just parsing his answers—which Yarborough always took as a challenge.
“Talk to me about Abigail Browning,” Bob said to the young Rush.
He scooped a few envelopes to stack. “She was here last week and again two nights ago.”
“She? Not they?”
“Correct. She was alone both times.”
“Irish music night?”
“Every night is Irish music night, but her first visit was in the afternoon. She had tea.”
“Formal tea or like a tea bag hanging out of a cup?”
“Something in between.”
“What about your cousin?”
“My cousin?”
Playing dumb. “Lizzie. The one who just found a dead guy up the street.”
Jeremiah maintained his composure. “She’s often in Boston. Our hotel offices are here.”
“Right. So how much has she been in town since June?”
“On and off. Not so much in July. Almost constantly in August. She was working with our concierge services on new excursions. That’s her area of expertise. But she spent time on her own.”
“Spying on Abigail?”
He paled a little and gave up on his stack of envelopes. “I didn’t say that.”
“Okay, so back to Abigail. How did
you recognize her?”
“Garrisons have stayed here. They book rooms at the hotel for their annual meeting and various functions for the Dorothy Garrison Foundation and Fast Rescue. Abigail’s been here for those, but she’s also John March’s daughter.” Jeremiah stopped himself, as if he knew he’d gone too far.
Bob tilted his head back. There was something about the way Jeremiah had said March’s name. “You know Director March?”
“Not me. Not personally.”
“But you’ve seen him,” Bob said, getting now what Yarborough meant about dealing with Jeremiah Rush. If all the Rushes were like him, Yarborough would go crazy. “When?”
“He comes here once a year. It’s a long-standing tradition.”
“What, he got married at the Whitcomb or something? He and his wife have their anniversary dinner here every year?”
“No.” The kid looked as if he wished he’d kept his mouth shut. “He has a drink at Morrigan’s.”
“He comes alone?”
“Yes, always.”
“When?”
“Late August, so around now.”
“Whoa. How long has this been going on?”
Jeremiah glanced at his desk. “I should get back to work. Reporters have been calling—”
“They’ll keep calling, don’t worry. So, how long?”
“I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“Well, you did. How long, Mr. Rush?”
The kid licked his lips. “At least thirty years. Since before I was born.”
Thirty years ago, March was a BPD detective, and Bob was a twenty-year-old kid in South Boston, the son of a cop who wanted nothing more than to be a homicide detective. “What’s this tradition about?”
“I don’t know for a fact, but whatever it’s about, it’s always struck me as a private matter.”
“Something to do with Lizzie or her dad?”
Jeremiah rubbed a smudge on his desk.
“You have an idea,” Bob said, no intention of backing off.
“An idea,” he said, “isn’t fact.”
The Mist Page 20