“I didn’t think. I just acted.”
“You fight well.” He nodded to her small living area. “Do you train here?”
“Sometimes. I almost took out a window in July with my kicking.”
He stood in front of her, looking at her as if he wanted to push back all her defenses and see into her soul.
Which was just nonsense. She had to stay focused and couldn’t indulge in romantic fantasies. But he took her hand into his and she leaned into him, letting herself sink against his chest.
He put his arms around her, and she lifted her head from his chest so that she could see his face. “When you walked into Eddie O’Shea’s pub…” She wasn’t sure she could explain. “There’s something about that village. It’s as if Iwas meant to be there, sitting by a fire reading Irish folktales. When I was in London, I thought you were just another spy. Of course, I didn’t actually see you.”
He smiled. “You didn’t get this close.”
“Too dangerous.” She eased her hands up his arms, hard under the soft, light fabric of his sweater. “Way too dangerous.”
“I don’t know if I want to disabuse you of your romantic notions about me.”
“You mean that you’re as sexy—”
His kiss stopped her midsentence and took her breath away, a mix of tenderness and urgency. Lizzie tightened her grip on him just to keep herself on her feet. The ocean breeze gusted through the screens, hitting her already sensitized skin, and she let her arms go around him. There was nothing soft or easy about him.
“I’m breaking all my rules with you,” he whispered.
“You’re used to discipline and isolation.”
“My father left broken hearts in his wake. I learned at an early age the dangers of romantic entanglements.”
“Entanglements. Scary word.”
He kissed her again, lifting her off her feet, and she gave herself up to the swirl of sensations—ocean, seagulls, wind, wanting—and relished the taste and feel of him, imagined him carrying her to her bedroom, and making love to her for the rest of the night. She knew it wouldn’t happen. Not tonight.
Will pulled away, or she did, and they turned toward the water.
Lizzie cleared her throat and adjusted her shirt. “Our focus is rightly on Abigail, Norman, Fletcher and what we can do to help the situation.”
Will pivoted around to her, his eyes dark and serious now. “Not we, Lizzie.”
“You’re a British citizen. You shouldn’t be sneaking around southern Maine on your own, either.”
“Lizzie—”
“I know what you’re saying, but right now I’m here, and I’m safe. I hope the FBI and BPD find Abigail and arrest Norman tonight. I’d love to wake up tomorrow morning with nothing more dangerous on my mind than a trip to the lobster pound.”
“I’d like that, too, but whatever’s happened by morning, you need to leave Myles and Estabrook to real professionals.”
“And if I’m in the wrong place at the wrong time as I was with Norman and his friends in the drug cartels? Then what?” She smoothed the back of her hand along his rough jaw and didn’t wait for an answer. “You’ve a job to do. I won’t get in your way. But I really am falling for you. Tall, fair, handsome and loyal—and you can walk through an Irish pasture and hardly get a bit of manure on your shoes.”
He grabbed her hand and pulled her to him and kissed her, nothing tentative or gentle about him now. He kept her close, smiled as he spoke. “You Rushes don’t do anything by half measures, do you?”
This from a man who fought terrorists.
He kissed her on the forehead. “Hiking the Beara Way. One day…” He dropped his arms from her and stood back. “Go to bed, Lizzie. I’ll stay out here. I’m not going anywhere, and I have no intention of taking advantage of a woman about to fall asleep on her feet.”
“Will…”
“We have time.”
“I hope so. You must be tired yourself.”
“I slept on my flight. I didn’t have a deck of cards to distract me, and I had the comforts of a private jet.”
She gave a mock protest. “I was in coach with a toddler kicking the back of my seat, and you—”
He laughed softly. “Next time perhaps you’ll think twice before you slip out on me.”
Chapter 24
Boston, Massachusetts
10 p.m., EDT
August 26
Fiona had left her full-size, classic harp in the corner of the Garrison house first-floor drawing room, in front of Keira’s sketch of the Christmas windowbox in Dublin. Bob plucked a string. Fiona had shown him how, but it made a twangy sound, nothing like the rich, full sound she could produce. He’d walked up from Charles Street. The joint task force was meeting at BPD headquarters in a little while. He’d be on his way there soon. They were making progress, but they still didn’t have Abigail or her captors.
Yarborough materialized in the foyer door. “Lieutenant?”
Bob resisted biting the guy’s head off and turned from the harp. “Yeah, what’s up?” Even he could hear the fatigue in his voice.
Yarborough, who’d been glum all night, was almost perky. “We have an ID on the dead guy, a South Boston thug named Walter Bassette. Lucas and a couple precinct detectives are on their way over to his apartment.”
Bassette. Bob liked having a name. It was something solid. “Good work, Yarborough.”
“I didn’t have anything to do with it. I’m just telling you.”
Credit where credit was due. He was ambitious, but he was also fair.
“We’re checking if Bassette was in Ireland recently, called there, met someone from there. Having a decent lead…” Yarborough shrugged, not getting himself too excited. “It helps.”
“The bombs weren’t sophisticated, but these bastards had to get the materials from somewhere and put them together somewhere.” Bob looked at Keira’s sketch of the Dublin windowbox. “Someone had to hire Murphy, the guy in Ireland. If it was Bassette—” He broke off with a sigh and shifted back to Yarborough. “Who has Abigail now? What was Bassette doing in that alley?”
Yarborough rubbed the side of his nose and didn’t answer. Bob recognized the tactic for what it was. The younger detective was giving him time.
Bob felt his stomach go south on him. “Bassette knew Fiona saw him. He’d talked to her. He came there to kill her.”
“Don’t think about it. He’s out of the picture, and she’s under protection. No one’s getting near her.” Yarborough walked into the empty room. “Abigail’s spent a fair amount of time here this summer. I think she’s trying this place on for size to see if it might work for her and Owen. Turn it back into a residence. She comes over and does paperwork while he does his thing. Sometimes Fiona and her friends are here practicing.”
“Tom?”
He got a little red. “I don’t know. Maybe there’s something here we missed.”
“I’ll check it out,” Bob said.
Bob saw past Yarborough’s arrogance to his worry, but it wasn’t a place either wanted to go. Bob liked being emotionally repressed and figured Yarborough was a fellow traveler on that score.
“I’ll see you back at headquarters,” Yarborough said.
“You getting any sleep?”
“There’s time for that.” He gave Bob a quick grin. “Us younger guys can go a few days without sleep.”
“Go to hell, Yarborough.”
“Do you need a ride? I can stay—”
“Nah. I’m all set. Go.”
After Yarborough left, Bob paced, his footsteps echoing on the hardwood floor. Teams had gone through Abigail’s desk at BPD headquarters, her computer, her car, the remnants of her apartment. They’d only swept the Garrison house for bombs. They hadn’t searched it.
He walked up the stairs to the second-floor offices of the Dorothy Garrison Foundation. It focused on gardens and oceans—the things Owen’s sister had loved most. Bob couldn’t imagine losing one of his daughters
at any age, but at fourteen?
He looked for any files or work Abigail might have left there and, tucked on a bookcase, found a laptop labeled with her name.
Yarborough wasn’t easy, but he had good instincts. Bob took another flight of stairs up to Keira’s apartment. She and Abigail were just getting to know each other. Simon had given her and Owen an early wedding present of one of Keira’s paintings, which Abigail loved. Bob figured Owen didn’t care one way or the other, provided she was happy.
And now they didn’t know if she was even alive.
He forced back the thought before it could take hold and noticed Keira’s apartment door was ajar.
Simon stood in the doorway with his Glock in one hand. “Hey, Bob.”
“I’m glad I didn’t have to shoot you,” Bob said wryly, then sighed. “Too damn much time on a desk. I’m getting stale. Then again, I’m brains not brawn these days. You here alone?”
A twitch of his mouth. “I think so.”
Meaning Simon had shaken his detail. “Bet your FBI friends aren’t happy about that.” Bob stepped past him into the little apartment. “A big target on your back—don’t stand too close, okay?”
“I’m not staying.”
“Anything from Owen?”
Simon holstered the Glock. “They’ve expanded the search for Norman’s plane. Owen’s focused on his mission.”
Simon nodded to the laptop under Bob’s arm. “What’s that all about?”
Bob shrugged. “Probably wedding dress searches.”
“Let’s have a look.”
They pushed aside books on fairies and folklore and a box of art supplies and opened up the laptop on Keira’s table. Bob had taken a liking to Simon. His wanderlust niece wouldn’t have trouble coping with an extended stay under the Irish guards. She’d have trouble being without him.
Even Bob, with his limited computer skills, had no trouble spotting a desktop file labeled “Rush hotels” on Abigail’s laptop. He clicked on it, and up popped her notes, links and downloaded descriptions of each of the Rushes’ fifteen boutique hotels.
Simon’s eyes narrowed. “Looks as if Abigail was onto Lizzie Rush.”
Bob kept clicking. Nothing was password-protected. He found a copy of an old Boston Globe article about the death of Harlan Rush’s Irish wife, Shauna Morrigan, in Dublin when their daughter was a baby.
Simon leaned over and scanned the article. “John March flew to Dublin and consulted with Irish investigators about what happened. There’s a quote from him about what a tragedy her death was.”
“Ireland’s a long way to go for an Irish citizen who tripped and fell, even if she was married to a rich Bostonian.” Bob clicked on another file and gave a low whistle. It was another Globe article. “Simon, look at this.”
He was all FBI agent as he read the article over Bob’s shoulder about the deaths of Shauna Morrigan’s parents and brother in a car accident on their way to identify her body. Apparently they were so distraught, they missed a curve and drove off a cliff.
“Another ‘tragedy,’” Simon said under his breath.
Bob knew he had to take the laptop in. “Come with me to BPD headquarters,” he told Simon. “We’ll open up the files. I know this bastard Estabrook wants you dead, but you’re hard to kill. I figure I’m safe with you.”
“No,” Simon said. “You go on.”
Bob saw what Simon had in mind and shook his head. “You shouldn’t do this.”
“I haven’t said what I’m going to do.”
“Going solo will get you killed, Simon.”
But Bob didn’t argue with him and instead walked back down the two flights of stairs and out into the summer night. He looked up at the dark sky and thought of Abigail last summer, tearing up the journals she’d kept for the seven long years after her husband’s death, burning them in the backyard charcoal grill.
When he arrived at BPD headquarters, Bob avoided everyone and went into his office and pulled up the file on Shauna Morrigan Rush. She’d died in August, two months after Deirdre McCarthy’s body had finally washed ashore in Boston. It had been hard times in the city, particularly dark and violent days in South Boston. March’s work with the BPD to bring down the mob had helped catapult him to the position he now held.
Where exactly did an Irishwoman married to a wealthy Boston Rush fit into March’s rise?
Bob thought of his friend having a drink alone at Morrigan’s every August.
He became aware of March in the doorway and looked up from his computer. “So, Johnny,” Bob said, settling back in his chair. “It’s time you told me all you know about Shauna Morrigan Rush and just how obsessed her daughter is with you.”
Simon touched Keira’s colored pencils, her paintbrushes, the Irish lace at her windows, allowing them to bring her closer to him.
But Owen called from Montana, breaking the spell. “We found Estabrook’s plane. He didn’t crash. He landed safely on a private airstrip on an isolated ranch owned by one of his hedge-fund investors.”
“Where are you?”
“Standing on the airstrip. No one else is around. Looks as if someone met him and drove him out of here. The FBI’s on the way. They can pick up the trail from here.” Owen’s voice was professional, but he took in a breath. “Estabrook had help, Simon. He had this thing planned. All he had to do was pull the trigger.”
“That’s the way he does everything. He doesn’t tie his shoes in the morning without a plan.”
“He could be anywhere by now. He has the money, the connections, apparently the will.”
It wasn’t exhaustion Simon heard in his friend but barely suppressed fear and anger. “We were mindful of that when we launched the investigation into his activities last summer. I went deep for that reason. Norman wants John and me, Owen. Abigail’s his leverage.”
“She’s been preoccupied the past couple weeks. I thought it was the serial killer case, but I’ve been out of town a lot lately.” He was silent a moment. “That can’t continue. It won’t continue.”
“You and Ab will work that out when you’re back together. You two are lifers.” Simon wondered if it was Owen or himself he was trying to reassure. “None of us will rest until we find her.”
After they hung up, Simon headed outside. The heat had gone out of the air with nightfall. Lucas Jones motioned to him from an unmarked car. Simon hesitated, then went over to the open window on the driver’s side.
“Walter Bassette flew into Shannon Airport in Ireland two weeks ago,” Lucas said. “Get in, Simon. I know what you’re thinking, but taking off on your own right now won’t help anyone. You can do more good working with us.”
“If that changes, I’m gone.”
“If that changes, you can take the keys to my car.” Lucas managed a grin. “I made sure it’s got a full tank of gas before I came over here.”
Everyone was in the big conference room at BPD headquarters when the call came to March’s personal cell phone a few minutes before 5:00 a.m.
Simon watched the FBI director—his friend—follow Norman Estabrook’s orders and put the call on speakerphone.
“You’ll never find her.” Norman’s voice was smug, but with a hint of nervousness, too, as if he knew he was talking to men and women who were better than he’d ever be. “Not unless I decide to give her back to you.”
“Tell us what we can do for you,” March said, his voice clear, steady.
“You can listen. Listen to your daughter. Here, Detective. Say hi to your daddy.”
There was a pause before another voice came on the line. “This is Abigail Browning—”
“Daddy,” Norman shouted in the background. “Say, ‘Hi, Daddy.’”
As Simon stood across the table from March, listening to the exchange, he figured everyone in the room wanted to jump through the phone and kill Norman Estabrook. He knew he did.
“Hi, Daddy,” Abigail said, toneless. “How—”
The sound of a hard slap—Norman hittin
g her—cut her off.
She sucked in a breath. “Bastard.”
Norman hit her again.
March’s hands tightened into fists. “All right. You’ve made your point. What can we do for you? Let’s talk.”
Estabrook laughed. “What can you do for me? You can suffer, Director March. You can suffer and suffer and suffer.”
He hit Abigail again, clearly a harder blow, and this time she screamed. “Beg him,” Norman ordered. “Beg your daddy to come save you.”
Farther down the table, Tom Yarborough got out his jackknife and worked on his nails, the muscles in his jaw visibly tight. Next to him, Lucas Jones had tears in his eyes.
Bob chewed gum. All of the dozen or so men and women in the room remained silent.
On the other end of the connection, Abigail complied with her captor’s orders and sobbed and begged her father to come save her.
John March leaned forward to the phone. “I’ll be there, sweetheart,” he said. “I won’t let you down. I’ll come now. Let me trade myself for you—”
“There.” Estabrook spoke again, sniffling as he caught his breath. “My hand hurts. I’ve never hit anyone that hard before. It was exhilarating.”
March’s eyes stayed focused on the telephone. “Tell us what you want.”
“I want Simon Cahill. I want you.” Estabrook was smug again, not as winded. “I want your source. I know you have one. Who is it?”
“I have no idea. Whoever it is wanted to remain anonymous.”
“Liar. Lies, lies, lies. You tell so many you don’t know when to stop. You’ll want to hunt me to the ends of the earth by the time I’ve finished.”
“How can we reach you?” March asked.
“I’ll reach you.”
March glanced at Simon, and he nodded, taking his cue, and spoke into the phone. “Hello, Norman. It’s been a while. We should talk. You and me. Face to face.”
Estabrook snorted. “I want March alive and suffering, thinking about me every minute of every day, but you, Simon. Nothing’s changed. I want you dead. Dead, dead, dead.”
He disconnected.
The room was quiet.
March said, “Abigail’s alive. We have the call on tape.”
The Mist Page 23