The Whisper (16 page)

Sophie nodded. “I remember. It was a sad time.”

O’Reilly set the pitcher back down. “The old man showed
up at the museum right when Cliff pulled in. The son was in London at the time.”

“Rafferty said he met Percy this summer after Jay Augustine’s arrest….” She trailed off, recognizing that the law enforcement officers at the table would already have thought of that.

“Ripple effects, Lizzie calls them,” March said. “How one thing can unexpectedly lead to and impact another. We have no idea it’s coming, or how bad it’ll be. You remind me of Shauna Morrigan, Lizzie’s mother. She was fearless, and she had great instincts.” He sighed grimly at the two Boston detectives. “Bad cops. Bombs. Ritualistic murder or whatever the hell it was. We can’t have any of it.”

“No, we can’t,” O’Reilly said, looking straight at Sophie.

March rose. “Good night, gentlemen.” He nodded to Sophie. “Sophie, take care of yourself. I hope next time we see each other it’s under better circumstances. Good luck with your career in archaeology.” His dark eyes narrowed slightly on her. “Stay in touch.”

Once he and his hulking agents started up the bottom of the stairs, O’Reilly blew out a heavy breath. “Damn. I love it when the FBI comes in and tells me my job. March was like that when he was on the force.” He picked up his mug. “I’m taking two sips and then ordering a beer. In the meantime, Dr. Malone, we have two choices where you’re concerned. One, you’re trouble. Two, you’re not trouble. Which is it?”

“Life’s not that black-and-white,” she said.

“My life is.”

His daughter and her friends were playing “O’Sullivan’s March.” The tune put Sophie back in Kenmare, in a cozy pub on a dark, rainy night, with Tim O’Donovan transfixing her with his tale of treasure, adventure, triumph and tragedy.

She pulled herself back to the present. “Does your niece know about Cliff Rafferty’s death?” she asked O’Reilly.

He nodded. “Yeah. I told her.”

“Did she know—”

“I talked to Keira this morning,” he said, obviously not wanting to discuss his daughter. “She’s in Ireland. I don’t know if your FBI brother knows Simon Cahill. He’s the man in Keira’s life.” The homicide detective’s gaze bored into Sophie. “Simon’s FBI. You know that, right?”

Her heart was racing again, but she tried to maintain an outward calm. “Yes, I do.”

“Good. You look like you’re going to slide under the table, Doc. Buy you a burger?”

“I think I’ll just grab a few nuts and go.”

“Sit a while, Sophie,” Scoop said, touching her hand. “Have a Guinness and a bite to eat. Talk to us.”

She told herself to get up and get out of there, but the prospect of Taryn’s quiet apartment suddenly was less appealing than staying here with the lively music, the crowd—even these two suspicious, intense police officers. Scoop and O’Reilly were on her side, she told herself, even if they believed she’d been holding back on them.

Damian would remind her that law enforcement officers always had their own agenda. Probably good advice, she thought, and decided to skip the Guinness and just take Bob O’Reilly up on his offer of a burger.

Dublin, Ireland

Keira and Lizzie departed for London after breakfast. Josie tried to slip out of the hotel by herself, but Myles, who both excelled at following people and had nothing else to do, caught up with her before the door had swung shut behind her.

He handed her a compact umbrella. “I thought you could use this.”

“Listen to the weather forecast, did you?”

He pointed upward. “I looked at the sky.”

She tightened the belt on her coat and tucked the umbrella under one arm. It was a bleak morning, gray, windy with brief outbreaks of showers that undoubtedly would turn to a steady rain as the day wore on. The sidewalk was already wet. Dub
liners were getting on with their day, cars and buses speeding past, pedestrians rushing. A family—obviously tourists—on the corner unfurled a map that immediately folded in on itself in a wind gust.

Josie walked down the busy street, Myles ambling alongside her as if they were off for a romantic stroll. They headed in the general direction of Trinity College. Well before they reached the historic campus, Josie, following directions that Justin Rush had provided her, turned off onto a narrow side street, right into a wind gust that blew cold rain into her face. She didn’t bother pulling up her hood, and the umbrella would be useless in the wind. Myles seemed equally unperturbed by the conditions.

They came to an unprepossessing brick building where Wendell Sharpe managed the Dublin office of Fine Art Recovery, a small, discreet company that specialized in providing expertise to private businesses and government agencies on the investigation and recovery of stolen art and cultural properties. His grandson had an office in the U.S. Josie didn’t know in which city. Not Boston, she hoped.

Myles was so sexy she could hardly stand being near him. He seemed oblivious to the effect he was having on her—or was pretending to be. He could know and take secret delight in having starchy Josie Goodwin all aquiver and afire. Spending the night in an adjoining room had brought back memories of their time together before Afghanistan—and of the pain and anguish of the past two years. As she’d lain in her plush, five-star hotel bed, she’d envisioned him in the next room, an arm thrown over his forehead as he slept. For the past month, she’d alternated between relief that he was alive and anger that the bloody bastard had left her twisting in the wind—mourning him, hating him—for so many months.

How could he not have found a way to get word to her that he was alive? That he wasn’t a traitor?

Will had taken Myles’s reemergence into their world in stride, but Josie had made the incomparable mistake of having slept with him.

Having fallen in love with him.

She thrust the umbrella back to him. He dropped it into his jacket pocket. “You can stay out here while I speak with our Mr. Sharpe,” she said crisply.

“As you wish.”

She debated saying something else but didn’t know what. His eyes were unreadable, the gloomy weather deepening their gray, their mystery and sexiness.

Either that or she needed more sunlight, Josie thought as she ran for the entrance to the small building. She’d lost her mind, obviously. Best simply to focus on her mission in Dublin. Scoop Wisdom had called late last night and filled her in on the latest developments in Boston.

Sharpe’s offices were located on the third floor in an unexpectedly contemporary corner suite overlooking the street. He himself didn’t look a minute over sixty. He was expecting her and rose from his cluttered desk to greet her. “Welcome, Mrs. Goodwin,” he said, his accent a mix of Dublin and Boston. He was white-haired and lean, around her height, and wore a bow tie and plaid suspenders. “How is Lord Davenport?”

“Alive, last I checked.”

He chuckled. “I was warned you can be irreverent. I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting Will yet, of course, but I’ve done a bit of work with his father from time to time. The marquess is one of your great admirers.”

“He’s quite a character himself.”

“I haven’t spoken to him in several months. I hope he’s well.” Sharpe gestured to a small sofa. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”

“I’m fine, thanks,” Josie said. “I’m restless this morning.”

“All right, then. What can I do for you, Mrs. Goodwin? You want to talk to me about Sophie Malone. What’s she up to?”

“She’s returned to Boston. I believe she’s trying to figure out whether something that happened to her last year was part of the violence this summer involving Will and his friends in Boston.”

The old man sighed. “I’ve been following events there as best I can. Sophie’s studied and worked with Colm Dermott, the Irish anthropologist—”

“Yes, I know,” Josie said.

“She’s a dedicated scholar. She’s certainly no art thief, if that’s what’s on your mind.”

Josie wasn’t put off by his defensiveness. Everything she’d learned about Sophie Malone suggested she was a well-liked, capable, energetic woman whose positive attitude and sense of adventure were contagious. “How much do you know about what happened to Sophie last September off the Iveragh Peninsula?”

Sharpe returned to his desk. “Very little. She wouldn’t go into specifics, but I know there was something. Tell me, won’t you?”

Josie suspected that Wendell Sharpe was a man who invited the sort of soul-baring that one tended later to regret and not quite know how it had happened. He was an expert of unimpeachable discretion, keen intelligence and decades of experience. If she didn’t give what she knew to him straight—if she hedged or played games—he would clam up or kick her out. Or both.

On the other hand, she saw no reason not to tell Sharpe about Sophie’s cave experience. She was as complete and as thorough as she could be in her account, noting her various sources and
omitting her own theories about Celtic archaeology, boats or remote Irish caves.

“There it is,” she said when she’d finished. “All I know.”

Sharpe settled back in his soft leather chair. Rain was falling steadily outside now, but Myles, fortunately, seemed to be staying put out on the street and had yet to appear. Finally Sharpe said, “None of what you told me contradicts what Sophie herself told me a week ago.”

“Do you have any theories about this incident—what she saw, what actually happened on that island?”

“Now that you’ve fleshed out the details, I suppose I could come up with a host of theories, but I’ve found theorizing does little good. Following the evidence works best.”

“There was no evidence.”

“You know better, don’t you, Mrs. Goodwin? There’s always evidence.”

“Does any of yours take you into the Boston Police Department?”

“I see. The bad-cop theory.” He rose again and walked to a tall window. If Myles was down there, leaning against a post, staring up at the building, Sharpe gave no indication of noticing him. He kept his back to Josie as he continued. “There’s been some evidence this serial killer in Boston—Jay Augustine—occasionally moved stolen works, and that he had assistance. He wasn’t a major player. It’s unclear if whoever helped him was an expert or an opportunist or even was deeply involved.”

“But you believe Augustine didn’t work alone. Whatever he was up to wasn’t a solo operation.”

The old man turned from the window. “What I’m telling you is barely a notch above speculation.”

Josie showed him a photograph Scoop Wisdom had e-mailed
her of the dead police officer in Boston, along with a curt explanation of the latest developments there. Justin Rush had printed it out for her before breakfast. “His name was Cliff Rafferty. He was recently retired.”

“I’ll check my files and see if his name comes up.” He nodded to a dust-encrusted desktop computer at a separate station along an exposed brick wall. “I keep extensive files.”

“What did you tell Sophie?”

He smiled. “Theories.”

“What about Percy Carlisle?”

“Which one?”

“Both.”

Sharpe moved away from the window and sat back at his desk. “I knew the senior Carlisle, although not well. I’ve never met the son.”

“There was an incident seven years ago involving the father—”

“Yes, a mistake on the part of his staff that landed him in quite a pickle here in Ireland. He was held briefly by Irish authorities on suspicion of smuggling artifacts—late Bronze Age pieces, as I recall. It was all a terrible misunderstanding. He was released almost immediately.”

Unable to resist, Josie walked over to the window and saw that Myles was, indeed, leaning against a lamppost. He glanced up, almost as if he’d sensed her presence. She spun back to Wendell Sharpe. “Are you satisfied Percy Carlisle Sr. was merely the victim of a staff error?”

“I’m satisfied he didn’t steal any valuable art or cultural properties from Ireland. Nothing more.” Sharpe hesitated before continuing. “The Winslow Homer painting that disappeared in the subsequent break-in in Boston is a source of considerable speculation among those of us in my field.”

“One can imagine,” Josie said. “Do you have any idea where the younger Carlisle might be right now? You can understand why we want to locate him.”

“Indeed,” Sharpe said, using a stub of a pencil to jot a few lines on an index card, which he handed to her. “His father sometimes stayed with an American couple here in Dublin. Their house is a few blocks from here, near Merrion Park. It’s a shot in the dark, you understand. I wish I could be of more help.”

Josie thanked him and left, taking the stairs slowly as she considered their conversation. She found Myles still leaning against a lamppost in the rain. He hadn’t bothered with the umbrella. “I have an address for us to check out here in Dublin,” she said. “We can walk.”

Myles smiled. “Would you like to hold hands?”

“No,” she said, suddenly irritated, and stalked ahead of him.

He caught up with her easily. They crossed into St. Stephen’s Green, the rain stopping outright as they walked among the formal flower beds, bubbling fountains and statues of famous Dubliners and revolutionaries. Josie focused on the matter at hand. No lingering, she thought. No holding hands and enjoying the ambience of the historic green. As they crossed to the quiet residential streets of the Georgian district, she typed the address Wendell Sharpe had given her onto her BlackBerry. She had no desire to get lost on the streets of Dublin in the rain.

“I imagine the Boston police are looking into whether the dead police officer was in Ireland recently,” she said, determined not to be distracted by hand-holding and such with Myles. “Our missing Percy Carlisle might have lied about when he and Officer Rafferty met.”

“You’re suggesting they could have met after the break-in at the Carlisle Museum seven years ago,” Myles said.

“I’m not suggesting anything. I’m speculating.”

Myles continued down the block in silence. Finally he said, “I suspect our Detective Wisdom was onto a connection between Boston thugs and a police officer before I arrived in Keira’s cottage to tell him.”

“You confirmed his worst suspicions. Whatever he had on this connection wasn’t enough to stop his house from being bombed.” Josie grimaced at the thought of Scoop Wisdom’s frustration. “I know only too well, Myles, how that would eat at me.”

They came to a classic eighteenth-century Georgian house and mounted steps to a bright yellow door, above it an elegant segmented fanlight. Josie bypassed the large brass knocker and pressed the more modern doorbell.

When no one came to the door, Myles stood up from the wrought-iron rail. “I suspect my breaking-and-entering skills aren’t as rusty as yours.”

Josie moved aside. “If the guards arrest us, you’ll make the call to London.”

She turned with her back to him, blocking any view of him from the street as best she could, but she didn’t have a chance to regret her actions before he spoke. “We’re in,” he said calmly, without a hint of cockiness.

The interior of the house was cool and elegantly, if sparsely, furnished. They entered the first-floor drawing room, its tall ceilings and warm blue-and-cream décor a counter to the dreary weather. Staying together, they quickly and efficiently checked every room on every floor but found no missing American, no socks on the floor or shaving gear in the guestroom—nothing to indicate Percy Carlisle was visiting and had simply popped out for a stroll.

“It’s unsettling,” Josie said as they returned to the front hall.
“Suppose he is on some personal retreat as his wife says. I still don’t understand why we can’t find him. It’s not as if we’re searching for a trained military and intelligence officer out to stop a major terrorist attack.”

Myles ignored her mild barb and stepped past her. “Look here.”

Josie saw that he’d paused in front of a small framed painting by the door. It was one of Keira Sullivan’s distinctive wildflower watercolors—a cluster of purple thistle. “Small world.” She was aware of the emotion that just that simple painting elicited; it was one of Keira’s gifts as an artist. “She has an amazing talent. I hope being around all of us doesn’t suck the life out of it. She has painter’s block—”

“She’s worried about Simon. He’ll be back.”

“Then go off again,” Josie said.

“Maybe. She’ll get used to it.”

“Easy for you to say. We should go. I swear I’m waiting for hounds to wake up and come after us.”

Myles grinned at her. “Worried about getting caught, are you?”

She bristled. “No, I mean that literally about the hounds. One never knows. By the way, I can handle myself in the field quite well. I don’t require your assistance or protection.”

“You’re glad to have me with you, though, in case the guards or dogs come after us.”

“Of course. I can feed you to either or both and go scot-free myself.”

He seemed amused, unworried about the guards, dogs or her. They headed back outside. Josie locked the door behind her and descended the steps, trying to appear to anyone who might pass by that she hadn’t a worry in the world. She glanced back, half expecting hounds barking in all the windows.

She checked her BlackBerry and saw she had a text message from Lizzie and Keira. It wasn’t Will’s father or Lizzie’s father who’d met them in London. It was Will and Simon themselves.