Читать книгу The Whisper - Carla Neggers - Страница 11

Shannon, Ireland

S coop eased into the security line at Shannon Airport before the long flight back across the Atlantic. He’d stayed in a lousy hotel a few miles from the airport, its saving grace a full Irish breakfast that had helped chase off his bad dreams about scary dogs and mean fairies.

Definitely good to be heading home.

He spotted red hair about ten people ahead of him and immediately thought of Sophie Malone—not a reassuring sign of his state of mind before a seven-hour flight. He took another look, figuring he had to be wrong, but there she was—the redheaded archaeologist he’d met yesterday morning and a British spy had warned him about yesterday afternoon.

She grabbed a bin, turned and waved, smiling as if she’d expected to find him behind her in a line at the airport.

Scoop got through security and caught up with her in the busy duty-free shop. She wore slim black pants and a long dark gray sweater, a contrast to her muddy hiking clothes and bright blue rain jacket of yesterday. Her hair was pulled back but still had a wild look to it. He’d showered, shaved and put on his most comfortable khakis and lightweight sweater.

“We must be on the same flight,” he said.

“Lucky us.” She opened the glass door of a cooler and reached inside. “Water?”

“Yeah, thanks. Did you drive in this morning?”

She nodded. “My folks are staying in Kenmare. I took their rental car back, and they kept my car. They’re taking off for a few days to hike the Kerry Way. Doesn’t that sound idyllic?”

“You mean more idyllic than spending the day on a crowded flight across the Atlantic?”

“You have a wry sense of humor, Scoop,” Sophie said, leading the way to the cash registers with two bottles of water. She’d bought the biggest size. “The head-winds add time to flying west. It’s so much easier flying to Ireland than flying home from Ireland.”

“You seem like an experienced traveler.”

“I guess so. In some ways it feels as if I’m leaving home rather than going home.”

Scoop reached for his wallet, but she shook her head, insisting on paying for both bottles of water herself. As she fished out euros, his cell phone vibrated in the front pocket of his carry-on pack. He stepped out of the line and took the call.

“According to one of Will’s friends in London,” Josie Goodwin said, “Sophie Malone is booked on the same flight to Boston as you are.”

“So she is,” Scoop said.

“Standing right there, is she?”

“Yep. What friend in London?”

“Lord Davenport knows all kinds. I also learned that Dr. Malone met just last week with an octogenarian expert in art theft.”

“Is he another of Davenport’s London friends?”

“Not exactly. Our octogenarian’s name is Wendell Sharpe. He frequently consults with INTERPOL. He and Dr. Malone had tea at the Rush Hotel off St. Stephen’s Green in Dublin. Odd coincidence, don’t you think?”

“Not after yesterday. What did they discuss?”

“I don’t know yet. She’s a legitimate academic. Quite well respected. She recently completed her dissertation and a postdoctoral fellowship here in Ireland. Her field is the Celtic Iron Age, particularly in Ireland and Great Britain. She’s an expert in Celtic visual arts.”

“Does she like sugar in her tea?”

“Lemon,” Josie said.

Scoop had no idea if she were kidding. “Who does she know in Ireland? Who are her friends here?”

“We’re working on that.”

“We?”

Josie sighed. “Keira has painter’s block, and Lizzie’s bored.”

“They aren’t law enforcement,” Scoop said. “Or spies.”

“Neither am I. I work for a British aristocrat. I plan his fishing and golf trips.”

“Where are you three now?”

“Keira and Lizzie are en route to Dublin via Cork. I’m still at Keira’s cottage.”

Collecting reports from her spy friends, no doubt. Scoop noticed Sophie had finished paying for the water and was heading toward him. He had a sudden bad feeling about her—Myles’s visit, what she was holding back. “Stay put,” he told Josie. “Get Lizzie and Keira back there. You can all chase rainbows and drink Guinness.”

“You can be quite annoying, can’t you, Detective Wisdom?”

“What? I wouldn’t mind chasing rainbows and drinking Guinness.”

But Josie Goodwin had hung up.

Sophie joined him and handed him his bottle of water. “Try to drink every drop on the flight,” she said, shoving her own bottle into an outer compartment of her shoulder bag. “It’ll help.”

“Mostly I was passed out on pain meds on my flight from Boston to Scotland.” Except when he and Bob O’Reilly, who was in the seat next to him, had discussed how a bomb had ended up on Abigail’s back porch. Scoop slid his phone back in his carry-on. “Guess who that call was about?”

“No idea.”

Her body language indicated she knew exactly who. He tucked the huge water bottle into his pack. “It was about a certain Sophie Malone, Ph.D.”

“Who would be calling about me?”

“A friend here in Ireland.” Not a lie, technically, although he’d only met Josie Goodwin three weeks ago at Abigail’s wedding. “I’m cautious these days.”

“So you’re checking me out?” She paused, narrowing those bright blue eyes on him. Her freckles didn’t stand out as much in the artificial airport light. After a couple of beats, she nodded thoughtfully. “All right. That makes sense. You’re a detective who just went through an awful experience. I’m from Boston, I’m an archaeologist and I interrupted your visit to the ruin where a serial killer terrorized a friend of yours.”

“Plus you’re hiding something.”

“Aren’t we all?” She seemed unperturbed by his skepticism as she hoisted her bag back onto a slender shoulder, strands of red hair dropping into her face. “Where are you sitting?”

“Row 40.”

“I’m way up front. Just as well, don’t you think?” She smiled at him. “I have a feeling if I were any closer, I’d be a distraction.”

Looking at her, all Scoop could think was that he had to get out of Ireland and back to his home turf. He let his gaze linger on her longer than was necessary, or wise, but she didn’t seem to notice. It had to be the fairies. He was attracted to cops, prosecutors, the occasional crime-lab technician. Not red-headed experts on the Iron Age.

“This friend who called,” she said. “Is it Keira Sullivan?”

“Doesn’t matter, does it?”

“Keira and I are going to be working together on the Boston-Cork conference, and Colm Dermott and I are colleagues. If you’ve planted ideas in their heads about my hiding something, I probably should know.”

“Hell of a small world, isn’t it? I didn’t plant ideas in anyone’s heads. I’m not here to screw things up for you. You seem like the type who needs to stay busy.”

“I suppose I am. I suspect you are, too.”

He grinned at her. “See? Something in common.” They passed a rack of Irish souvenirs on their way out of the duty-free shop. “You didn’t show up at that ruin yesterday just out of professional curiosity.”

“And you know this how?”

“Instinct.”

Her eyes sparked with challenge. “Ah.”

He set his pack on an empty chair and didn’t let her doubt faze him. “You have some kind of personal stake in what happened there. You volunteered for the conference. Why? Something to do with Jay Augustine? Did you do business with our jailed serial killer?”

“You’ve been away from your job a long time. I’m sure it’ll be good to get back to work and have real cases to focus on.”

“I have real cases now.”

She didn’t falter for even half a second. “Even better. It’ll be good to get back to them full-time.” She headed for the ladies’ room and tossed him another smile as she pushed open the door. “See you at customs.”

He sat down, but Sophie wandered off when she came out of the ladies’ room and managed to avoid him until they boarded the plane. He had an aisle seat. She did, too. She wasn’t way up front. She was seven rows ahead of him. Either she couldn’t add, or lying was her way of telling him not to bug her on the flight.

He didn’t bug her, but he kept an eye on her while he read a book and drank the water she’d bought him. It was a long, skin-crawling seven hours across the Atlantic. He had smart, pretty Sophie Malone a few rows in front of him, a four-year-old kicking his seat behind him and, directly across the aisle, two old women who talked for all but about six seconds of the flight. Sitting still had never been his long suit, and almost getting blown up in his own backyard hadn’t helped his patience.

His conversations with Myles Fletcher and Josie Goodwin hadn’t helped, either. Was Sophie on to something—deliberately or inadvertently—that would interest British intelligence? A professional, or even a personal, interest in Keira’s ruin was one thing. Keeping secrets was another.

When the plane landed, Sophie jumped up and squeezed past a young couple with a toddler. If Scoop tried the same maneuver, he’d knock someone over, but she was slim, agile and much faster than anyone would expect just looking at her. She also had a big, friendly smile. Scoop was faster than he looked, but that was it. He wasn’t slim or agile, and he certainly didn’t have a big, friendly smile.

He wondered if being back on American soil would help him lose that fairy-spell, love-at-first-sight feeling. So far, not so good.

He caught up with her again at baggage claim. “Share a cab?” he asked as she lifted a backpack off the belt.

She hooked its strap onto one shoulder. “Oh—no, thanks.” She motioned vaguely toward the exit. “Someone’s picking me up.”

Scoop didn’t even have to be good at detecting lies to see through that one. Not that she was trying hard to hide that she wasn’t telling the truth.

He could have taken the subway, too, but he went ahead and grabbed a cab.

He’d be seeing Sophie Malone again. It wasn’t a question of if. It was a question of when and under what circumstances.

Scoop had the cab drop him off in Jamaica Plain. He stood in front of the triple-decker he owned with Bob O’Reilly and Abigail Browning. It was a freestanding, solid house, one of thousands of triple-deckers built in the early 1900s for immigrant workers. It had character. Abigail and Owen were due back soon from their honeymoon. Bob was working. He and some of the guys from the department had boarded up the windows with fresh plywood and strung yellow caution tape across the front porch.

Scoop had never figured his second-floor apartment would be the last place he owned, but he’d had no immediate plans to move. He, Bob and Abigail all hated that three police detectives had brought violence to their own neighborhood. Their street was semi-gentrified, with mature trees and well-kept gardens. There were young families with kids on bicycles, teenagers playing street hockey, professionals, old people.

Scoop unlocked the side gate, left his carry-on and duffel bag on the walk and headed to the postage-stamp of a backyard. The bomb had set off a fire on Abigail’s first-floor back porch that burned straight through to her dining room. His porch, directly above hers, had also burned. The firefighters had gotten there fast and stopped the fire from spreading, but with the extensive smoke and water damage, the entire three-story house had to be gutted. Bob was in charge of figuring out what came next. It’d be a while before they could move back in.

Abigail planned to sell her place and move with Owen into a loft in the renovated waterfront building where the new headquarters of Fast Rescue, Owen’s international search-and-rescue outfit, were being relocated from Austin. Bob had mentioned maybe he could take the top two floors and Scoop could move to Abigail’s place. Sounded good to Scoop, but it’d involve redesigning and probably more money.

He squinted up at his boarded-up apartment. He’d done his mourning for any stuff he’d miss. Photographs, mostly, but his family had copies of a lot of them—nieces, nephews, birthday parties, holidays.

The air still tasted and smelled of charred wood and metal. He walked over to the edge of his vegetable garden. He’d been weeding when Fiona O’Reilly had arrived that day and offered to help him pick tomatoes.

That was what they’d been doing when the bomb went off. Picking tomatoes.

“Hell,” he breathed, remembering.

The bomb had to have already been in place under Abigail’s grill when they’d all gotten up that morning.

It was constructed with C4. Nasty stuff.

He, Bob, Abigail, Owen and Fiona had made lists of people they’d seen at the house in the days before the bomb. Everyone. Cops included.

Maybe especially cops, Scoop thought, sighing at the weeds that had taken over his garden. He could still see where firefighters and paramedics had trampled his neat rows in the rush to save his life and keep the fire from spreading to neighboring homes. He’d trampled a few gardens in his years as a police officer. He noticed a couple of ripe tomatoes and squatted down, pulling back the vines, but the tomatoes had sat in the dirt too long. The bottoms were rotted.

“What the hell,” he said, “they’ll make good compost.”

He yanked up a few weeds, aware of the scars on his back, his shoulders, his arms. He’d grabbed Fiona, protecting her as best he could from the shards of metal and wood as he’d leaped with her for cover—the compost bin Bob and Abigail had moaned and groaned about when Scoop had been building it.

He got to his feet and looked up at the sky, as gray and drizzly as any he’d seen in Scotland and Ireland. He had no regrets about being back home.

He had a lot of work to do.

He headed back out to the gate, picked up his stuff and unlocked his car, sinking into the driver’s seat. He’d have no problem readjusting to driving on the right. He glanced at himself in the rearview mirror. He looked as if he’d flown on the wing of the plane instead of in an aisle seat. He needed a good night’s sleep.

Where? Should he take Lizzie Rush up on her offer to put him up at her family’s five-star Boston hotel—the one where Sophie Malone used to work?

“Might as well,” he said aloud, and started the car.