Liar's Key

by Carla Neggers

  Then again, MI5 had the same attitude.

  “I went back to the distillery after I dropped you off,” Sean said. “I spoke to Declan and some of the other staff who were still about. An American—a man—did a tour on Monday and asked about Claudia Deverell. I think you know him.”

  “Let me guess. Gordon Wheelock.”

  “Exactly so,” Sean said. “He’s one of yours, Colin. He filled out a form to get on the distillery’s mailing list or no one might have remembered him. He and Declan had a casual conversation. Wheelock mentioned a woman he knew—this Claudia—had toured the distillery last week. Declan didn’t think a thing of it until we showed up at the distillery.”

  Gordy Wheelock had taken the time to stop in Ireland on his way from London to Boston. Colin chewed on that one for half a beat. “Did Wheelock speak with Mary?”

  “Yes. Declan didn’t see them but a worker did. I don’t like this, Colin. A retired agent and then Oliver York. Is this Deverell woman trouble?”

  “I don’t know her, Sean.”

  “I can’t bar Mary Bracken from leaving Ireland,” Sean said, his voice tight. “I swear I would if I could. I phoned Finian, but he says he has even less influence than I do. He’ll keep an eye on her. And you, Colin?”

  “As it happens, Mary and I are on the same flight to Boston in the morning.”

  “Best news I’ve had today.”

  After Colin hung up with the Irish detective, he glanced at his watch. Late in London, not late in Maine.

  Time for a chat with his fiancée.

  He texted her. Our English friend was reading up on ancient mosaics. We need to talk.

  10

  Rock Point, Maine

  “Where are you?” Colin asked. “Having chowder at Hurley’s?”

  Emma smiled into her phone, as if he could see her. She’d called him the moment she’d received his text. “You know me well. I’m on my way. I thought I’d be there by now but I took a long walk first.” She paused, feeling the chill of the evening air. “It’s turned foggy.”

  “It’s like I’m there with you,” he said, a raggedness to his voice. “I’ve missed being home. I’ve missed you.”

  “I’ve missed you, too. I can’t wait for you to be here. Are you still in London?”

  “Yes.”

  She started into the small parking lot on the harbor that Hurley’s, a Rock Point fixture, shared with the working docks. It was early evening, boats reflected in the still, darkening water. She walked toward the docks while she listened to Colin’s report on his late-night visits in London with Oliver and her father. As he finished, she noticed a car turn into the parking lot behind her. Its Massachusetts plates weren’t unusual but it was no tourist behind the wheel.

  Gordy Wheelock climbed out and waved at her. “Hey, Emma.”

  “Damn,” she said under her breath. “Colin...I have to go. I hate this. I could talk to you all night, but Gordy’s here.”

  “He needs to level with you.”

  “Yes. I’ll see you soon.”

  “Yeah, babe. Soon.”

  She could hear the longing in his voice, the loneliness and isolation of his undercover life taking a toll now that he was safe in London. Visiting Oliver York and her father wasn’t the same as an evening with his family and friends on Rock Point harbor. Colin was valued for his independence, but he could also get into trouble for it—not just with his superiors at the FBI but also with himself. Sometimes he’d push himself past his limits and refuse to acknowledge he needed to take time to decompress. Matt Yankowski had mandated rest after Colin had finished his last mission in October. He took off for Ireland for a few days at Finian Bracken’s cottage in the Kerry hills. Emma, uncertain then of their future together, had joined him. Had he gone to the cottage again this time, only to have his break interrupted because of Oliver’s visit to Declan’s Cross? But why not tell her?

  Maybe he hadn’t had a chance.

  Emma hated to think that Colin had arrived in Ireland exhausted, hoping for a few days of quiet, and then had gotten a call from Sean Murphy—and not about having a friendly pint together, either.

  She walked over to Gordy. “Evening,” she said.

  He grinned at her. “I figured I’d better call or come find you before you put out a BOLO on me. Your voice mail had an I’m-FBI-and-you’re-not tone to it. That means you think you learned something about what I’m up to that I haven’t told you and you don’t like it. I might be rusty but I still have good instincts.”

  “How’s your head?”

  “Hurts like hell.” Not a hint of surprise or guilt in his voice. “Stomach’s a mess now, too, because I’ve been popping ibuprofen like mints.”

  “What happened to you last night, Gordy?”

  He shrugged. “Not much. What, housekeeping got nervous about my bloody towel? Bellman talked? Doesn’t matter. Like I told the bellman, I tripped on the steps while I was out for a smoke and hit my head. Banged up my knee and twisted my hip, too. I chalk it up to jet lag.”

  “Were you attacked?”

  “By steps?”

  “Don’t lie to me.”

  “Relax. I was tired. I didn’t really start hurting until I walked to your office.”

  “Housekeeping says you didn’t sleep in your bed.”

  “I didn’t. I laid on the floor when I got back to my room to do some yoga pose Joan taught me and fell asleep. Woke up, washed off the blood and went to see you. I don’t blame you for looking up my hotel and seeing what’s what—I’d have done the same thing—but it was no big deal. Nothing sinister happened.”

  She pinned her gaze on him, the light from Hurley’s bringing out the puffiness in his face, the dark shadows under his eyes—indications of jet lag, bad sleeping, injury and a not-so-great first year of retirement. “You should have told me you fell instead of making up that bit about your sciatica.”

  “My sciatica was acting up. I should have figured you’d check up on me. I was embarrassed, okay? I didn’t want to mention my clumsiness.” He nodded to the rustic restaurant. The building was up on pilings, allowing the tide to flow underneath it. “Treat you to chowder?”

  “And pie.”

  He grinned. “Of course.” He motioned with one arm. “After you.”

  “When did you arrive in Maine?”

  “About an hour ago. Getting my lay of the land. Figured I’d go for a whale watch tomorrow, unless I decide to skip the open house and go home to North Carolina.”

  “Maybe that would be a good idea.”

  “Maybe it would. You’ve looked into the rumors about the stolen mosaics and didn’t find anything, right?”

  “I’m not discussing this with you.”

  “Doesn’t matter. There are always rumors and some evaporate, and I’m just the kind of retired agent I used to hate. You can relax, Agent Sharpe. You’re chasing nothing. Sorry I got you stirred up. I’ve done stupider things jet-lagged than trip on my own two feet.”

  They went to Finian Bracken’s preferred table in back along the bank of windows overlooking the harbor and sat across from each other. “No armed Donovans?” Gordy asked as he unrolled his flatware, tucked inside a white paper napkin.

  “Most of them are out of town.”

  “Good. Fish or clam chowder?”

  “Fish. Thanks.”

  Their server arrived, a teenage boy Emma didn’t recognize but the Donovans undoubtedly would. Emma could use a few of Colin’s brothers around now. Having chowder with Gordy wasn’t her idea of a relaxing evening. He decided on the clam chowder and asked for extra rolls.

  “You’re looking for trouble, Gordy,” she said as their server retreated.

  “When I first knew you, you wouldn’t come out and say it like that. You’d think it—d
on’t mess with me—but you wouldn’t say it.”

  “Is there anything else you need to tell me?”

  “I don’t need to tell you anything.”

  “Technically that’s true.” She paused, considering her next words. “What about the envelope the cab driver found addressed to you?”

  “From my wife. A delivery she arranged. Personal.” He grabbed his water glass. “You’ll be married soon. You’ll see the kinds of things you do when your guy’s out of town. I can’t decide if I’m offended or impressed you checked up on me.”

  “Are you the one doing the sniffing around?”

  “MI5 was at that party, and maybe I inferred the rest. It doesn’t matter. I’m going to enjoy my stay in Maine and go home to my wife, kids, grandkids, golf clubs and fishing rod. I don’t have anything you can use, Emma. I’d give it to you if I did.”

  “Tell you what. You tell me what’s going on and I’ll decide what I can and can’t use.”

  He drank some water, set his glass firmly on the table and grinned. “Spoken like a proper FBI agent.”

  “I am a proper FBI agent, Gordy. And you’re not telling me everything. It’s not smart. You’re out of the loop on investigations. You don’t know who the players are anymore. You need to be straight with me about what’s going on with the Deverells, antiquities and these stolen mosaics.”

  “The Sharpes? Want me to be straight with you about them, too? Your grandfather, your parents, your brother?”

  “Whatever you have, whatever you suspect—I want it.”

  His expression softened. “I wish I had anything relevant to give you.”

  “Let me decide what’s relevant. You just talk. You can start with the truth about this so-called trip on the steps while you were out for a cigarette.”

  “I told you what happened. Call the Boston cops if you want. See if someone reported witnessing an attack last night.”

  Emma decided not to tell him that Sam Padgett was doing that now.

  “Relax, Emma,” Gordy added. “The open house is Saturday. I’ll be out of your hair by Sunday.”

  “I hope I don’t need to remind you that you aren’t here in any official capacity.”

  “You don’t.” He sighed heavily, a touch of self-pity in the shake of his head. “I’m here because I decided to accept an invitation to an open house held by your family. I took a side trip to London and heard some gossip. I’m not interfering in an ongoing investigation or anything else. I know the rules. I’m straight as an arrow and square as a box.”

  Their server returned with their bowls of chowder and a basket of warm rolls, asked if they needed anything else, then took off.

  “Look, you’re right,” Gordy said, reaching for a roll. “I haven’t told you everything, but what I’m keeping to myself has nothing to do with an investigation, old, new or ongoing. It’s personal. A lesser agent than you wouldn’t even be able to tell I was holding back. Maybe you’ll understand when you have to leave the job. If you don’t separate your identity from the work...” He growled, disgusted, impatient, and set his roll on his bread plate. “Never mind.”

  Emma picked up her spoon. She didn’t know if Gordy was flattering and manipulating her, or leveling with her, but suspected it was a combination. “Now that you’re here, do you believe you overreacted or misinterpreted what you heard in London?”

  “Polite way to ask if I’m getting old, rusty and crusty.”

  “Stop, Gordy. Please. You’re the one who came to my office this morning. You’d be doing exactly what I’m doing if you were in my place.”

  He stared out the window at the fog. “Do you think MI5 was playing me?”

  “I have no reason to believe anyone’s playing you.” Emma dipped her spoon into her chowder, avoiding the chunks of fish and potatoes and going for just the milky broth. She couldn’t let Gordy get the better of her. “What about Claudia Deverell? The Norwoods had a special passion for ancient mosaics.”

  “Is MI5 after her, you mean? Planted the rumors about stolen mosaics to see what they’d smoke out?” Gordy buttered half his roll and took a bite, chewed, swallowed. “That’s a damn good roll. Anyway, I’m not in a position to know what the Brits are up to. That’s why I came to you.” He finished the rest of his half roll and picked up his spoon, tried the chowder. “Damn. That’s good stuff. Let’s eat, Emma. Tell me about your wedding.”

  She hesitated but decided to answer. “We’re having the ceremony in one of the gardens at the Sisters of the Joyful Heart convent.”

  “That’s great. I’m happy for you.” He sounded sincere. “Don’t worry. I don’t expect to be invited. Did you wear a habit when you were with the good sisters with the joyful hearts?”

  “Gordy.”

  “Well, did you?”

  “A modified habit. Gray or brown.”

  He made a face. “Brown’s not your color.”

  “My time with the sisters is in the past. Where were you at nineteen?”

  “University of North Carolina. I wanted to be an FBI agent even then.” He scooped up a clam with his spoon. “I had a hell of a career.”

  “You should be proud,” Emma said.

  “I wouldn’t want to tarnish my legacy now, would I? Is that what you’re trying to say?”

  “Let me be as clear as I can be. If you have evidence or suspicion of a crime having been committed, or a crime that is about to be committed, tell me. If the FBI can’t investigate, I’ll get the information to the proper authorities who can.” She took in a breath. “Gordy, I’m on your side.”

  “Thanks, kid. I appreciate that. I’m sorry I got you worked up. I’ll say hi to any old friends at the open house and go home quietly to my wife and grandkids.”

  “You went to a lot of trouble to fly to London.”

  “It was something to do.”

  “Alessandro Pearson also fell.”

  “After he had a heart attack. I fell trying to light a cigarette. Give me a break, Emma. Two out-of-shape old farts taking headers doesn’t mean anything. There’s nothing suspicious about Pearson’s death.”

  “Did you know him?”

  “I talked to him once or twice in the last few months before I retired. I was working on a case involving fraudulent antiquities. I thought it might lead somewhere interesting, but it led to...” Gordy shrugged. “Fraudulent antiquities. Well, not even there. We never made an arrest. You know how it is.”

  “True.”

  “Claudia helped with background. I got good stuff out of her. She knows antiquities and that world—the collectors, the dealers, the archaeologists, the middlemen, the controversies, the snobs and the frauds. It’s in the file. You can look it up.” He tore open a small bag of oyster crackers and dumped them into his steaming clam chowder, then pointed to her crackers. “You’re not eating those?”

  “Chowder with one of Hurley’s warm rolls is enough for me.”

  “That’s why you’re still trim and fit. I should have had a salad instead of crackers and rolls.”

  “Just enjoy yourself, Gordy.” Emma slid her package of crackers across the table to him. “Claudia was in Ireland last week visiting a distillery owned by friends of mine.”

  “The Brackens,” Gordy said. “Touring a whiskey distillery isn’t a crime.”

  “Then you knew she was in Ireland?”

  “Yeah. She told me.” He tore open her crackers, too. “How did you find out?”

  Emma dipped her spoon into her chowder, capturing a thick chunk of haddock. She decided on a partial answer to Gordy’s question. “I heard through a garda detective I know there.”

  “You know a lot of interesting people.” He held up a hand. “Not criticizing.”

  “I do know a lot of people.”

  “As a Sharpe and a feder
al agent. The Sharpe friends and acquaintances maybe are the most interesting. You’re friends with the Brackens. Claudia was on her way here. She has a history with your family. I imagine she was just curious.”

  “My grandfather’s in Dublin, not Killarney.”

  “Maybe she stopped in Dublin, too,” Gordy said.

  “How would she know about the Brackens? For that matter, how do you know?”

  “No idea about Claudia, but I’ve kept track of some of your recent goings-on. It’s not that hard to find out about them.”

  “Which recent goings-on are we talking about, Gordy?”

  “Last fall you and your now-fiancé got mixed up in the investigation into a missing American in Declan’s Cross. That caught my eye, since it’s where our serial art thief pulled off his first heist—at least the first one we know about. Not a US federal crime, obviously, but his hits in Dallas and San Francisco were.”

  “Did Claudia visit Declan’s Cross while she was in Ireland?”

  “Don’t know.” Gordy dumped the second bag of crackers in his chowder. “I suspect her trip had more to do with memories about her mother and your family than with the Brackens or our serial art thief. Probably got stirred up because of the open house and coming back here, putting her place on the market.”

  “Have you spoken with Claudia since you’ve been in Boston?” Emma asked.

  He glanced at her, a grudging note of respect in his look. “This afternoon, as a matter of fact. I ran into her at a gallery in Boston that sells antiquities and contemporary mosaic art, which I’m guessing you already know since you’ve got the bit in your teeth. Yank tell you to find out what I’m up to?”

  Emma ignored his question. “Where’s Claudia now?”

  “In Heron’s Cove, I imagine. Talk to her if you want, Emma. Talk to your grandfather and brother. If anything’s going on, I’m not going to be much help.” He settled back and ate some of his chowder. “You found a murdered nun at your old convent. That’s how you met Colin.”

  Emma nodded. “Sister Joan.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  His comment—the note of empathy—took her by surprise. She and Sister Joan hadn’t had the easiest of relationships, but her murder had been shocking and unexpected, a mad, violent act by a merciless killer.