Liar's Key

by Carla Neggers

  “That’s known as a noncommittal answer,” Gordy said.

  Wendell gestured toward the marina. “Let’s walk. I stiffen up faster than I used to.”

  The dock was wide enough for them to walk side by side. Up ahead, a decent-size yacht was in the water, ready for the summer. Gordy had kept thinking he would get into boats but he never had. No time. He’d been all about the job.

  “Most of the people attending the open house are rolling it into a long weekend or vacation,” Wendell said. “You’re on your own. Things okay with you and your wife?”

  “Yeah. We’re getting used to having each other around all the time. Some days I swear I get on her nerves just because she can hear me breathing. To be expected, I guess. I wasn’t around a lot the year before I retired. I guess part of me wanted to tie things up in a nice, neat bow, but it’s not the nature of the work.”

  “Treasure this time together with your wife, Gordy.”

  He tugged on a thick rope tied to a metal hook on a post. “We’ve been thinking about traveling. It’s not too late to do a round-the-world cruise, is it?”

  “Hell, no. You’re still a young man.”

  “I like how you think.” He let go of the rope and continued walking next to the older man. “Talk to me about Oliver York, Wendell.”

  “I was waiting for this. Once Tim told me Oliver had been at the party in London...” Wendell sighed. “I’m not sure what I can tell you. I don’t know Oliver well.”

  “Well enough.”

  “I doubt anyone knows Oliver York well, Gordy.”

  “Is he our serial international art thief?”

  If he’d meant to catch Wendell off guard—and he wasn’t sure he had been—he’d failed. Wendell glanced sideways at him. “Why are you asking me? Ask your friends at the FBI.”

  “They aren’t going to tell me if he’s under active investigation. Come on, Wendell. Is this guy the one thief the great Wendell Sharpe couldn’t catch? He taunted us for a decade. You in particular.”

  “The thief did, yes. After every theft, I’d receive a tiny, hand-carved stone Saint Declan’s cross. Cheeky bastard, whoever he was—and I’m not saying it was Oliver York.”

  “You’re not saying it isn’t, either.”

  “Talk to the FBI, Gordy.”

  “Right. I’ll do that.” He eyed Wendell, and for the first time since he’d heard Claudia’s voice on the other end of the phone, he felt his old instincts as an agent kick in. He laughed. “I’ll be damned, Wendell. This crazy Brit is our thief.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  Gordy paid no attention to the half-hearted protest. “He wasn’t on my radar. Was he on yours? Never mind. I know. Talk to your FBI-agent granddaughter. Obviously we can’t make an arrest. What do you know about York’s relationship with the British intelligence services?”

  “He isn’t my problem—or yours, since you’re not on the job any longer.”

  “You’re dodging the question. MI5 must be protecting him. He must know things that can help them given his escapades the past decade. He never stole antiquities, though.”

  Wendell slowed his pace, the breeze catching the ends of his thin gray hair as he turned to Gordy. “I’m retired, too. It does take some getting used to, and I retired in my eighties instead of...what are you, sixty? Sixty-five? You’re young, Gordy. Enjoy your life. Find something to do with your interests and skills. Leave the likes of Oliver York to active agents like Emma and whoever took your place in Washington.” The old man gave a quick smile. “Not that anyone could replace you.”

  “Flattering me or mocking me?” Gordy forced a grin. “Don’t answer. From what I hear, you’re not retired. At best you’re semiretired. I’m a simple man, Wendell. If Oliver York’s a thief, he should be prosecuted.”

  “By whom? Who has jurisdiction? Who has the evidence in hand for a successful prosecution? Anyone? Whatever you or I think should or shouldn’t happen, there does need to be sufficient evidence to bring him—or anyone—to trial.”

  “I’d get the evidence if I were still in the saddle.”

  “Easy to say when you’re not in the saddle. The FBI won’t waste agents’ valuable time on a losing venture. All the stolen art has been safely returned to its owners.”

  “Everyone’s happy and this Oliver York character gets to use his unique skills and insights to play James Bond instead of stealing paintings. Is the FBI using him, too?”

  Wendell stood still and fastened his gaze on Gordy. “Whatever you’re up to, Agent Wheelock, don’t go it alone. Talk to Emma, or to her boss if you don’t trust her. I don’t need to tell you that ex-agents meddling in current matters often don’t have the whole picture.”

  “They also aren’t welcome.”

  Wendell blinked as if he didn’t understand what Gordy was saying. Then he blew out a breath and shook his head. “Blast, Gordy, don’t be a fool. You’ll get yourself or someone else killed.”

  “Don’t send flowers to my funeral. I’ll haunt you.”

  “Duly noted.” Wendell was silent a moment. “Go home, Gordy. Live your life.”

  “The world has moved on, has it?”

  But Wendell was obviously done. He pointed toward the ocean in the distance. “As a boy, I used to think the stars and water met on the horizon. I remember my father explaining why that wasn’t the case. This is quite a spot—impressive natural beauty in a quaint village.” He turned abruptly to Gordy, his eyes narrowed to slits. “Are you going to tell me who gave you the beating?”

  Gordy realized he’d let his confident facade slip as he and Wendell had walked on the docks. Also, the old guy had gone a round or two with tough guys in his day. “I’ve been burning the candle at both ends. I’m not as young as I used to be, and I’ve put on weight in the past year. I’m tired is all.”

  Wendell shook his head. “You look stiff and sore. It’s not age, Gordy. You’re not that old, for one thing, but I know the aches and pains of old age. This is different. Someone clock you?”

  “I fell down a flight of stairs while I was out for a smoke last night. I hurt myself worse than I thought.”

  “I’ve seen a few beatings in my day. Experienced a few, too. I tried to hide a few, too.”

  “The way it goes sometimes. You wouldn’t hire someone to have a go at me, would you, Wendell—or have a go yourself?”

  “I’m flattered you consider me up to giving a man twenty years younger a beating. The rest I’ll ignore. I don’t assault people. Neither does Lucas, if that’s your next stupid idea. You should tell Emma you were attacked, or have you already?”

  “I shouldn’t have said anything. I was speaking hypothetically. I wasn’t attacked. I told Emma about the fall. Even if I was attacked—and I wasn’t—it’s not an FBI matter. Nothing they could do, anyway. Nothing locals could do, either, if I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time and had no description.”

  “Were you robbed?”

  “I tripped, Wendell. I didn’t knock myself out but I did go flying.”

  “That isn’t the whole story. What are you leaving out?”

  “I almost had a damn heart attack.”

  “That’s what happened to Alessandro,” Wendell said quietly.

  “Oh, geez, don’t go off half-cocked. It was just an expression.” Gordy’s head was pounding, as if talking about the incident was making it hurt more. “I can take care of myself. Boston isn’t my favorite city and tripping last night didn’t improve my opinion. You like it?”

  “Boston is a great city.”

  “Ha. Another reason we’ll never be good buddies. Good night, Wendell. You still have my cell phone number? Call me if you have any thoughts you’d like to share. I’ll see you on Saturday if not before. I wish I’d stayed at an inn with a decent breakfast but I’
ll make do. My mother never cooked breakfast. We always had cereal out of the box.”

  “Is she still alive?”

  “Lost her two years ago. She had a good, long life, but I guess it’s never easy to say goodbye.”

  “That it isn’t.”

  Nothing in Wendell’s expression conveyed whether he was remembering his own mother, a hard-working woman who’d cleaned toilets at the big houses up the street.

  “Will Oliver York be here on Saturday?”

  “I’m not in charge of the guest list.”

  Gordy grinned. “Not what I asked, but whatever. You two aren’t colluding, are you?”

  Wendell zipped up his jacket. “Now look who’s going off half-cocked,” he said lightly.

  “York doesn’t need money. He must like the thrill of stealing. Maybe he gets his jollies out of taunting people like us. Think he’s taking advantage of whatever he’s doing to stay out of prison to have some fun with his old nemesis Wendell Sharpe?”

  “I’m going to watch the stars for a little while. Enjoy your stay in Heron’s Cove, Gordy. The place across the street has good lobster rolls if you’ve a hankering for fresh Maine lobster.”

  “Yeah. Thanks.” Gordy started down the dock, then paused and turned back to Wendell. “By the way, why didn’t you tell me Emma had been a nun?”

  “It wasn’t relevant to our work together,” he said.

  “And we’re not buddies.”

  The old man said nothing, and Gordy went on his way. He was used to working with a team and having clear protocols, but he didn’t have to worry about them now, either. He felt like he was flailing, and maybe he was, but he had freedom to maneuver. He could give second chances, and he didn’t have to worry about the dangers of personal involvement.

  * * *

  When he arrived back at his cottage, Gordy turned on the overhead light. The place was clean and had a homey, old-fashioned feel to it that appealed to his fatigue and his nostalgic mood. The website said all three cottages had been renovated. He’d take their word for it, but they didn’t look that renovated to him. But he didn’t care either way. He’d be here for a couple of nights, and the location suited him with its proximity to the Sharpes and the Deverells. He didn’t care about being near the picturesque village’s inns, shops and restaurants.

  He unpacked, took a shower and ate some more ibuprofen. He’d picked up a fresh bottle before he’d left Boston. His head continued to ache from its close encounter with the stone steps last night. His attacker had done a number on him, more so than Gordy had realized, but he hadn’t received further threats since he’d received the photos. He would find a place to burn them and toss the ashes in the ocean. Didn’t matter if there were copies or they were on the internet. He didn’t want them on him.

  He was still a ballsy FBI agent. He would fix this.

  He called his wife. It was her dinner night with friends but he left a message. “I love you, Joan. I always have, from the seventh grade on. I’m sorry for any of the dumb-ass things I’ve done over the years. I miss you. I’ll be home soon.”

  He grabbed the envelope with the photographs and went back outside. His scrapes and bruises felt better. Best he could do right now. He went behind the cottage. There was a small brick terrace with a picnic table and an old charcoal grill. Owners might want to add that to the renovations, he thought, as he lifted off the rack. He placed the photos in the grill bed, the image of his bare ass faceup as if to remind him what an absolute toad he’d been. How would he feel if some FBI agent had pulled on his daughter what he’d pulled on Claudia?

  He’d been FBI to the core except for that one transgression. But it was enough. Even now, a year later, its discovery would destroy his reputation, endanger his marriage and cause a major scandal for the best law enforcement agency in the world. He’d dedicated his life to the FBI.

  He managed to set the photos on fire with his lighter, although it took a few tries because the grill was wet. The flames were easily visible in the dark, but he was well out of range of any passing cars—and there was no foot traffic out here. It was too early in the spring, there was no beach or picturesque rockbound coastline. This wasn’t the place for an evening walk.

  He was so keyed up, his entire body ached. Who could have taken the photos? Why? Why wait until now to threaten him with them? He didn’t want to get sucked into the black hole of speculation but the questions came at him fast and furiously.

  Whoever had sent him the incriminating photos likely had copies on a thumb drive or in the cloud somewhere, easily reproduced, but at least this set was no longer in his possession. He had plausible deniability that he’d ever seen them. What more could he do? If someone wanted to put his bare ass on the internet, go for it. It hadn’t been a good time in his life, in his marriage. It was easy to forget that.

  While the fire died down, he went inside and collected a spatula and a metal saucepan. When he came back out, the ashes were still smoking but he didn’t see any flames or red. He scooped up as much of the ashes as he could, dumped them in the pan and got in his car.

  He drove to a remote stretch of coast between Heron’s Cove and Rock Point, parked and got out. The wind was blowing hard now. Instead of flinging the ashes into the water as he’d planned, he walked down to the rocks and squatted, wincing in pain as he dumped the ashes into the incoming tide. Even so, a few ashes managed to blow up into his face, as if to remind him what he was doing was illegal and wrong—or maybe just to curse him.

  When he got back to his cottage, he could barely keep his eyes open.

  Time to get some sleep.

  He’d start again tomorrow.

  13

  Emma awoke thinking Colin was next to her. She swore she could feel his weight on the bed, but that wasn’t possible. For one thing, she was in the guest room, not the master bedroom down the hall. Her idea, given their upcoming wedding.

  She turned over onto her back and meditated—or tried to. Life with a certain undercover agent hadn’t had a positive effect on her meditating abilities.

  As if to prove her point, her phone buzzed with a text from him. Awake?

  She smiled. Yes. Where are you?

  Dublin Airport.

  She glanced at the time. Five in the morning. It would be 10:00 a.m. in Dublin. With Mary Bracken?

  Yes. Home soon.

  Be safe.

  Emma set her phone on the bedside table. She could get up and go for a run, or she could head to Hurley’s for breakfast. It opened early for the lobstermen.

  “Or I could do both,” she said, throwing back the covers.

  She opened the bedroom’s small closet to its meager contents. She hadn’t moved many of her clothes to Rock Point and had opted against storing anything of hers in the master bedroom. Not yet, at least. That still felt like Colin’s space, and, as a practical matter, it would take some serious work to sort through what stayed or went to make room for anything of hers.

  And it would take both of them.

  She decided against a run and chose a skirt that would see her through the day, including lunch with Colin’s mother. Ten minutes later, she was dressed and in the kitchen, sighing at the contents of his refrigerator. Since she hadn’t gone shopping, the shelves were as barren as they’d been last night. Hurley’s definitely was the best option.

  She needed coffee and a game plan. She’d stayed up late after walking back to the house with Fin Bracken and did some research into Gordy’s last months on the job. He’d looked into fraudulent antiquities—outright fakes—that had landed up with a New York dealer and used it as an excuse to dig deeper, obviously with the hope he’d unravel a larger network involving terrorists and terrorist funding. Officially, the investigation had withered and died. But Gordy’s notes were vague and, she now knew, incomplete.

&nbs
p; Whatever he was up to now, there was no suggestion he’d left behind anything that would have haunted him into retirement—or anything involving antiquities of any description and none involving the Deverells or Sharpe Fine Art Recovery.

  He hadn’t been forthcoming then and he wasn’t being forthcoming now.

  Emma felt her frustration mount, as it had last night, in part, she knew, because of Gordy’s relationship with her and her family, her grandfather in particular. She’d also checked in with Yank last night. He’d sounded as frustrated as she was.

  She went into the front room. The fireplace was cold, unlit since late winter. Evenings were still often cool enough for a fire, but she hadn’t bothered on her occasional visits during Colin’s frequent absences. He’d only been here a few times since February to light one himself.

  Emma fingered a book he’d been reading and had left on a table by the fireplace. A history of Irish whiskey. She smiled. Finian must have loaned it to him.

  She returned to the kitchen and headed out through the back door and around to the driveway and her car. It was a beautiful morning, but she decided to drive down to the harbor instead of walking as she had last night. She could pick up a dozen of Hurley’s doughnuts after breakfast and take them to Heron’s Cove for her brother and grandfather and whoever else was around.

  As she pulled into the small lot, her contact at Scotland Yard returned her call. She parked and turned off the engine. The harbor sparkled under the bright morning sun; there wasn’t a trace of fog in the air.

  After apologizing for not getting back to her sooner, the British detective informed her that he had no report of mosaics of any description having been stolen from a London collector, identified or unidentified. Any talk to the contrary was just that—talk. He wasn’t surprised that guests at a party celebrating a museum show of Mediterranean art and objects from late antiquity would be jabbering about looted, pillaged, stolen, fraudulent and otherwise questionable antiquities.

  Emma didn’t disagree, although jabbering was the Scotland Yard detective’s word.

  “What about the Deverells?” she asked, deliberately vague.