Liar's Key

by Carla Neggers

  He got up abruptly and went back out into the gardens, and he kept going until he reached a narrow path into the woods. The drizzle let up, and he stood on a rock outcropping above the gray, quiet lake. He breathed in the mist and let the silence envelop him. He saw himself here in a few weeks with his bride at his side, and he knew he was in the right place. And that it would happen—their wedding, their life together.

  * * *

  Two hours later, Colin wasn’t settling into a cozy Irish pub for the evening, as he’d anticipated when he’d gotten up that morning, but was standing in the cluttered office at Bracken Distillers, where Mary Bracken, the youngest of the five Bracken siblings, organized her distillery tours. Sean Murphy was pacing in front of a glass partition that looked out on the main floor. He’d just arrived and wanted to stay on his feet after his mad dash, as he called it, from Declan’s Cross to the east.

  Declan Bracken, a good-looking Irishman in his late thirties, co-founder with his twin brother, Finian, of the distillery, sat on a tall wooden stool next to a worktable. He was silent and grim-faced. Understandable, perhaps, with an American FBI agent and a Dublin-based garda detective on the premises.

  Sean reported on his stop in Declan’s Cross and his conversation with Mary ahead of her drive to Dublin and her morning flight to Boston. Colin wasn’t surprised anymore by anything Oliver York did, but Sean’s mention of Claudia Deverell got his attention. According to Yank, she’d been at the London party on Sunday.

  Declan confirmed what Mary had told Sean in Declan’s Cross. “Mary told me about Claudia Deverell’s visit last week. I didn’t meet her myself. She told Mary the connection between Fin and you lot helped her decide on Bracken Distillers for her whiskey tour.”

  You lot. Not much Colin could say to that. He’d let the two Irishmen interpret the silence. So far, Colin thought he was doing a good job of looking both competent and uninformed given the encounter between Irish Mary Bracken and English Oliver York in a small Irish village—by itself, not a matter for the US Federal Bureau of Investigation.

  “If you’ll excuse us,” Sean said, addressing Declan.

  Declan hesitated, glancing at Colin and then again at Sean before giving a curt nod. “I’ll be just outside,” he said as he retreated, shutting the solid wood door behind him.

  Colin took a seat on the stool Declan had vacated and eyed Sean. “You know I’m here to plan my Irish honeymoon, right? For real. No games.”

  “When exactly did you arrive?”

  “Late Tuesday. I spent yesterday catching up on sleep at Fin’s cottage in the Kerry hills.”

  Sean had an ambivalent look about him, as if he already regretted this meeting. “You’re not in Ireland because of Oliver York, then?”

  Colin winced. “No, I’m not. Honeymoon, Sean. Oliver wasn’t on my mind at all. Trust me.”

  “I’ve made your headache worse,” Sean said with a quick smile. “I got one, too, when Kitty texted me that Oliver was in Declan’s Cross. He’d already left by the time I could get there.”

  Colin listened closely as Sean provided a few more details about Mary Bracken’s encounter with the mysterious English mythologist up by the church ruin and old crosses above the tiny, picturesque village. Sean knew as well as Colin did that Oliver was an accomplished, unrepentant art thief who’d begun his larcenous career on the south Irish coast, but Sean also knew, as did Colin, there was nothing he, the FBI or Scotland Yard could do about it.

  Or would do, maybe, given Oliver’s unique skills and contacts.

  “I was due a visit to Declan’s Cross,” Sean said. “I only wanted a casual word with Oliver. I have no actionable reason to limit his movements in Ireland or to detain him. Then Mary told me about meeting him, and about this Deverell woman.”

  “You don’t think Claudia Deverell’s distillery tour and Oliver’s visit to Declan’s Cross are a coincidence?”

  Sean didn’t hesitate. “No.”

  Colin noted the bottles of Bracken Distillers whiskey lined up on a shelf, including the award-winning fifteen-year-old single malt that Finian Bracken had casked himself, before tragedy had changed his destiny. One rainy night after his arrival in southern Maine a year ago, he’d told Colin that drinking the rare peated expression and its nonpeated counterpart was like reaching into the past and touching the man he’d once been.

  It wasn’t difficult for Colin to picture his friend here as a young man, working night and day, shoulder to shoulder with his twin brother, to convert the abandoned seventeenth-century distillery just outside Killarney into a modern enterprise. Tilters at windmills, Finian said he and Declan had called themselves.

  “Do you know this Deverell woman?” Sean asked, bringing Colin back to the late spring evening and the business at hand.

  He shook his head. “I don’t.”

  “Her relationship with the Sharpes?”

  Colin debated for a fraction of a second. “Her family on her mother’s side has a house up the street in Heron’s Cove. I don’t know any details.”

  Sean pounced. “But you do know more,” he said.

  Colin saw no need to respond. He and Sean had met in Declan’s Cross last fall, over a murder that had involved both the Sharpes and the Donovans, at least on the periphery. While in the tiny Irish village, Colin had learned about a serial art thief who’d first struck the O’Byrne house ten years earlier and had been taunting the FBI and the Sharpes ever since.

  Sean resumed pacing in the small, rustic office. He finally stopped at a large wall calendar of the month of May, almost every day filled with penciled notes in what Colin assumed was Mary Bracken’s handwriting. “York’s untouchable,” Sean said, turning from the ragged calendar. “It’s impossible now to arrest him for the thefts in Declan’s Cross.” The Irish detective sucked in a breath. “I don’t need to tell you what he’s doing these days.”

  Working with MI5. No, Sean didn’t need to spell it out. “Did York come to Ireland alone?” Colin asked.

  “Apparently, yes,” Sean said. “I’m checking. Are you certain you’re in Ireland only because of your honeymoon?”

  “I’m being straight with you, Sean. That’s it. That’s why I’m here. Fin offered me use of his cottage and that’s where I’ve been until this afternoon.”

  “I know the place,” Sean said.

  Colin remembered that the detective’s friendship with Finian Bracken went back to the deaths almost eight years ago of Finian’s wife and two young daughters. Finian had been working here at the distillery, expecting to join his family on a sailing holiday. Before he could, a rogue wave capsized their boat. Sally Bracken and little Kathleen and Mary had all drowned.

  “You didn’t sound surprised I was in Ireland. Did Fin warn you I was coming, or do you have my name flagged so you’re notified when I enter the country?”

  Sean shrugged. “I spoke with Fin earlier.”

  Colin didn’t blame his fellow law enforcement officer for the incomplete answer.

  “Fin wasn’t concerned about Mary’s trip to Maine until I mentioned Oliver York,” Sean added. “But he knows her. She’s stubborn. She won’t change her plans.”

  “Stubbornness is a Bracken trait,” Colin said with a sigh. “Fin knows I’m here arranging my honeymoon but I haven’t mentioned it to anyone else. I’m keeping it a secret, especially from Emma. It’s a surprise. I want for us to visit Ireland as if we’re a pair of regular tourists.”

  “You don’t want your friends pestering you on your honeymoon,” Sean said, with the first hint of real amusement since he’d greeted Colin in the distillery parking lot.

  Colin grinned. “That, too.”

  “Well, your secret is safe with me. Where did you fly in from?”

  “Rome.”

  “Via Hell, I expect. I’m glad you’re safe, Colin.”
<
br />   “Thanks.” He didn’t elaborate on his whereabouts prior to Rome, and he knew Sean wouldn’t ask, as a professional, whatever his suspicions. “I planned to stay in Ireland through Saturday and head back on Sunday.”

  “The Sharpe open house is on Saturday.” Sean cocked an eyebrow. “Or is that why you’re here instead of in Maine?”

  “It’s a Sharpe thing. I don’t need to be there.” Colin didn’t know that Emma needed to be there, either. “I imagine Fin’s invited.”

  “He’s bringing Mary. She’s looking forward to it.”

  Colin could hear his friend’s ambivalence. Happy for Mary to visit her brother and have a harmless adventure or two. Uncertain about her leaving Ireland and her safe world at Bracken Distillers. “I wasn’t sure Wendell Sharpe would ever return to Maine,” Colin said, deliberately lightening his tone. “But he’s there. He wanted to be at the open house.”

  “That’s something, then.” Sean stared out at the quiet main floor. “You’re reconsidering your plans, aren’t you, Special Agent Donovan?”

  Colin stood up from the stool. Yesterday’s sleep had helped with some of the raw edges of his fatigue, but not enough. “I’m thinking about jumping on a flight to London and going to see Oliver.”

  The detective turned to him with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

  “I’ll bet you were,” Colin said. “You know, Oliver has a standing offer for me to stay in the guest suite at his London apartment.”

  Sean groaned. “Dear heaven. You aren’t considering—”

  “Not a chance. Just thought you’d appreciate a taste of how hard my job is.”

  “A sense of humor helps. Oliver York’s a character, I’ll say that. Quite the charming rogue, and a past I wouldn’t wish on anyone.” Sean glanced at his watch and stood abruptly. “Come. If we hurry, I can put you on a flight to London out of Kerry airport tonight.”

  “On what, a carrier pigeon?”

  “It’s a small airport but it offers several nonstop flights a day to London.” Sean moved toward the door. “You have your bag?”

  “In my car, which is a rental, by the way.”

  “I’ll take care of it. We want you on that flight.”

  “The thing about living on an island,” Colin said, tugging open the door, “you have to fly or take a boat to get most anywhere.”

  “Fortunately, everything I need is here,” Sean said.

  They went out into the main room of the bustling distillery. It was medium-sized, not one of the huge, well-known Irish distilleries but not one of the small start-ups, either. The Bracken brothers had gotten their start before the explosion in independent distilleries and had established a brand known for excellence.

  Declan Bracken was waiting for them, and Sean explained that Colin was off to London, a last-minute change of plans. Declan looked as if he had a dozen questions, but he simply nodded and wished Colin a safe flight and a quick return to Ireland. Colin thanked him but noticed Sean was almost to the front entrance.

  “When will you be planning your honeymoon?” Colin asked as he caught up with the detective.

  A quick smile. “As soon as I can talk Kitty into marrying me.”

  “Have you proposed to her yet?”

  “I’m getting there. She’s not sure she believes in marriage anymore. That’s what she says.”

  “There’s never been a woman who’s played hard-to-get like Kitty O’Byrne, has there?”

  Sean grunted. “She’s not playing.”

  But the pair couldn’t hide from themselves or anyone else how deeply in love they were. Colin wondered if people had the same thought about Emma and him, but he put that out of his mind as he grabbed his duffel bag and tossed it in the back of Sean’s car. Two minutes later, they were on their way to Farranfore, the small village between Tralee and Shannon where the Kerry County airport was located. A fine mist had collected on the windshield and the early evening light shone on the twisting road back through Killarney.

  “Mary Bracken doesn’t live in the world you and I do, Special Agent Donovan,” Sean said, driving one-handed.

  “I know, Sean. Fin knows, too.”

  “She’s had a devil of a time since Sally and the girls died and Fin turned to the priesthood. Now he’s left Ireland altogether and she’s afraid he won’t be back.”

  “Father Callaghan is due to return to Rock Point from his sabbatical in a few weeks,” Colin said.

  Sean glanced at him, looking troubled. “Is he?”

  “Do you have information to the contrary?”

  “No, but Fin dodges the question when I ask him what he plans to do when he returns to Ireland. But that’s a problem for another day. I wouldn’t describe Mary as naive, but she thinks the best of people. I don’t like that Oliver York intercepted her in Declan’s Cross. It feels planned to me.”

  “He plans his heists. I don’t know if he plans much else.” Colin watched out his window as the car sped through rolling fields. “I’ll talk to him. I appreciate the heads-up.”

  “I’m sorry I took you away from your honeymoon planning.”

  “The honeymoon isn’t what matters.”

  “True enough.”

  Sean pulled into the parking lot of the small airport. The mist was now a soft rain. “Good thing I’m not a nervous flier,” Colin muttered. “Have you ever flown out of here?”

  “Oh, yes. Of course.”

  “On what?”

  The Irishman grinned. “You don’t want to know.”

  “Funny, Sean.”

  “No worries. You’ll be on a real plane.”

  Colin grabbed his duffel bag out of the back of the car and headed into the terminal. Sure enough, a reasonable-sized plane was on the tarmac. He’d purchased a ticket on the twenty-minute drive from the distillery. The rain wouldn’t cause any delays. He’d be at Oliver York’s London apartment within a couple of hours.

  * * *

  With a few minutes to spare, Colin stood by the windows in the small terminal and watched the rain. His undercover assignment had turned out to be more complex and dangerous than anyone had expected. He’d been looking forward to taking a couple of days to relax, dust off the stink and plan his honeymoon before he headed home. He disliked not being in touch with his fair-haired fiancée. That Emma understood he had a job to do didn’t make it easier, but it did make it bearable.

  She had a job to do, too. He’d had a taste of her work last summer, a couple of months before they’d met, when information from an unnamed art crimes specialist had helped him locate and arrest a major illegal arms dealer who happened to be in Los Angeles to indulge his passion for Picasso.

  Colin dug out his phone and texted Yank. London it is. Then he stared at his screen for a split second and texted Emma. I just had a visit from Sean Murphy.

  Her response came within seconds. You’re in Ireland?

  Kerry Airport. Didn’t know there was one.

  We drove past it. Easy to miss. Coming, going, staying?

  On my way to London to see our English friend.

  Colin tried to picture her reaction, where she was—her. He could almost see her warm, deep green eyes. Her answer finally came on his screen. Does that explain your visit from Sean?

  Yes. Talk to Yank.

  Will do. On my way to Maine. I’m having lunch tomorrow with your mother.

  Good luck. You’ll need it. I learned my best interrogation techniques from her.

  Ha. Safe travels. Love you.

  You, too, babe.

  Colin started to slide his phone back into his jacket pocket but saw he had a response from Yank: Your garda friend has a call in to me.

  That was quick. He’s good but you’ll be okay.

  Colin
could almost see Yank’s roll of the eyes but his flight was being called. He got out his boarding pass. Bad enough Oliver York was on the radar again, but if a retired FBI agent was stirring up trouble and if that trouble involved MI5, Colin wouldn’t be surprised if a few agents met him at Heathrow. Then it would be a long night of explaining—but explaining what?

  He gritted his teeth. He would find out what he could in London and go from there.

  It was a short hop to London. He’d get his head sorted out before he arrived. He wanted to know the truth about why Oliver had been in Declan’s Cross and what he knew about Claudia Deverell and her tour of Bracken Distillers, and about Gordy Wheelock—and what, if anything, they had to do with a dead archaeologist and stolen ancient mosaics. And if there was any connection to the Sharpe Fine Art Recovery open house on Saturday in Heron’s Cove, Maine.

  “And with Emma,” Colin said under his breath as he headed through the rain to the waiting plane.

  6

  Boston, Massachusetts

  Gordy’s head was on fire when he mounted the steps to a narrow brick building on busy, upscale Newbury Street in Boston’s Back Bay neighborhood. He’d taken a cab from his hotel and had lunch at a hip burger joint then wandered in the Public Garden to try to clear his head, but he still felt terrible. His overnight bag might as well have been a hundred-pound weight.

  He hadn’t looked in the envelope. It was still tucked in the outer pocket of his suitcase, where the bellman had told him he’d put it. If it contained what Gordy thought it contained, he didn’t want to open it, at least not until this next visit was behind him.

  Part of him wanted to skip it and go home. A high-end consignment shop was located on the ground floor of the nineteenth-century former town house, down more steps and through a glass door. He could buy a present for his wife. Make amends for being so weird lately.

  But he continued up the steps to the main floor. He pushed open an unlocked glass door and entered a vestibule with stairs straight ahead and another glass door to his left, leading to a small gallery that specialized in Greek and Roman antiquities and contemporary mosaic art. This door was locked. Gordy looked for a buzzer and didn’t see one. He rapped his knuckles on the glass.