Читать книгу Liar's Key - Carla Neggers - Страница 8

3

About forty children around ten years old were congregated at the entrance of the New England Aquarium, laughing and elbowing each other as their teachers counted heads, when Emma arrived. She’d decided to take a quick look on her walk back to her apartment. She wasn’t surprised not to see Gordy lined up at the ticket booth. A stiff breeze was blowing off the harbor but it didn’t freeze her to the bone the way it would have even a month ago. Spring had taken hold of New England, and that meant her wedding was getting closer and closer.

If only Colin were close, too...

She pushed the thought aside and walked the short distance to the nearest hotel, a four-star chain hotel on a small wharf jutting out into the water. It was probably more expensive than Gordy would have liked, but it was an easy walk to HIT and not a bad cab drive from the airport, assuming he hadn’t lied and he’d come in from London yesterday.

Emma didn’t quite know why she was thinking the way she was—not simply that Gordy Wheelock hadn’t told her the whole story about why he was in her office, but that he might have deliberately lied to her—but there it was.

She approached a cheerful bellman, explained who she was and showed him her FBI credentials. “I’m looking for a friend of mine,” she said, then described Gordy. The bellman pointed her to a colleague, an older man flagging a cab for a young couple. Emma waited until he finished.

He remembered Gordy. “Sure, sure. You missed him by a few minutes. I just put him in a cab.”

Emma stepped back from the curb, away from an arriving cab. “Has he checked out?”

“Yes, ma’am, he had his bag with him.”

“Do you know where he was headed?”

“I don’t, sorry.”

“Was he alone?”

The bellman nodded. “He was, yes. I never saw him with anyone. I worked late last night and I got in early today. I didn’t see him leave the hotel, but I saw him come back—he was on foot. Alone. Only weird thing...” He hesitated. “I probably shouldn’t say anything.”

“Go ahead, please,” Emma said. “He’s not in any trouble.”

“Well, he tripped last night. That’s what he said—I didn’t see it happen myself. He was bleeding...here.” He pointed to a spot behind his left ear. “We keep hand towels by the door for runners. I gave him one. He wasn’t real coherent but he thanked me. He said he tripped and went flying on the steps by the aquarium when he went out for a smoke.”

“Did you believe him?”

“Yes, ma’am. Of course. Why would you lie about something like that? At first I thought he’d been mugged, but he’s a big guy—not the target you’d pick, you know? Then he said he tripped and that made sense to me. I probably shouldn’t have mentioned it. I asked him if he needed an ambulance, but he said no, he’d be fine. He looked okay just now.”

“Anything else you can think of?”

“There was one other thing. A cab driver gave us an envelope to deliver to him.”

“To Mr. Wheelock?”

The bellman nodded. “The driver said he left his passenger window open while he was chatting with another driver, and when he got back in, the envelope was on the front seat. He didn’t see who left it. He said there was a label on it but it blew off.”

“What did the label say?” Emma asked.

“Just the guy’s name and that he was a hotel guest. He’d checked his bag with the front desk. I found it and put the envelope in an outside pocket.”

“Did you look inside the envelope?”

“No, ma’am, I did not,” the bellman said, obviously offended.

Emma thanked him and headed back to the street. She called Sam Padgett and filled him in. “No wonder Gordy looked as if he was in pain,” she said.

“I’ll talk to housekeeping and see what they can tell me about the state of his room. Good work, Agent Sharpe. Are you going to call Wheelock and ask him what the bloody head and this envelope are all about?”

“Doing that next.”

“He didn’t mention falling either because it’s embarrassing, tripping while out for a smoke, or he was attacked and doesn’t want you to know.”

“Or it didn’t occur to him to mention it.”

“It occurred to him,” Sam said with his usual certainty.

“What’s your take on the envelope?”

“Was he expecting it or was it a surprise? Something from a source? A threat? Red Sox tickets? Lots of possibilities. We’ll stay in touch.”

After they disconnected, Emma called Gordy on his cell phone. When he didn’t answer, she left a voice mail. “It’s Emma Sharpe. Call me.”

She continued along the harbor to the tiny waterfront apartment she’d rented upon her arrival in Boston last March to join Yank’s team. Happy to be back in New England, working on challenging investigations on a small team led by a senior agent who’d always been her champion, she’d settled into her new apartment and new routines. Not for a second had she envisioned—or even dreamed—that by fall, she would be in love with a deep-cover agent with roots in a small fishing village a few miles from her own southern Maine hometown.

Now she and Colin were getting ready for their wedding.

She smiled, thinking of him. His dark hair, his smile, his blue-gray eyes that reminded her of the ocean.

“I miss you,” she whispered, as if he could hear her.

After several months back and forth to Washington, he’d finally disappeared in mid-March on his latest undercover mission. Despite her own role with the FBI, Emma didn’t know what his mission was or where it had taken him. She only knew it was intense, dangerous and exhausting. He’d come home for a few days in late April and then left again. Since then, not a word—not so much as a text message, email or cryptic voice mail.

Matt Yankowski knew where Colin was. Yank had been Colin’s contact agent on his first deep-cover mission four years ago. Last October, he’d gone out on a limb to get Colin, at least nominally, into HIT and had put up with his relationship with one of his team members. Emma would never ask him to give her hints as to Colin’s whereabouts. She respected their professional relationship, but she also respected Colin’s silence and his trust in her to handle the situation.

Never in a million years did I think he’d put a ring on your finger, at least not this soon.

That was Yank in November. He’d never been one to mince words. Emma smiled, remembering that rainy Dublin night when Colin had dropped onto one knee in a crowded pub and proposed to her.

Wherever he was, she knew he was safe. She felt it.

As she unlocked her apartment door, she noticed a new sailboat had arrived at the marina that shared the small wharf with her building, another renovated warehouse. There would be more boats with the warming weather.

She went inside and was helping herself to a yogurt out of the fridge when a text message came in. Video chat in ten minutes?

Oliver York. Emma texted him back. Five.

* * *

“You look uptight, Emma,” Oliver York said in his genuine upper-class English accent. “Or do you continue to insist I call you Special Agent Sharpe?”

“Agent Sharpe will do.”

“Mmm. That sort of call, is it?”

“It’s always that sort of call, Oliver.”

She’d placed her laptop on her coffee table and was seated on the sofa in her small living room. Just as well they were talking here instead of her FBI office. Nothing about her relationship with the wealthy Englishman, sheep farmer, mythologist and serial art thief was regular. He was in his late thirties, with curly tawny hair and lively, light green eyes. His features were deceptively boyish, betraying none of the psychological trauma and physical pain he had suffered as a child.

“I see.” He narrowed his gaze on her. “For someone usually so cool and analytical, this uptight look of yours worries me. You and Colin haven’t canceled the wedding, have you?”

“It’s Agent Donovan and no, we haven’t.”

“Have you relented and decided to invite me after all? Is that why you texted me?”

“I’m not inviting you to my wedding.”

“Is Agent Donovan inviting me, then?”

“No.”

“A pity, but I’ll send a gift, regardless.” He sat back, putting a bit of distance between him and his screen. “You’re home early. I recognize the moody seascape on the wall behind you. It’s the work of our fair Irish artist friend, Aoife O’Byrne.”

“It’s a signed print. I can’t afford her original art.”

“Who can these days? But a signed print is worth something. It’s only four o’clock here. That means it’s just eleven in the morning in Boston. Did you get fired?”

“Not yet. It could happen anytime with you in my life.”

“I see you tried and failed to smile while making that comment. What can I do for you, then, Agent Sharpe? Does the FBI need my help given my expertise in mythology?”

Emma barely heard him. She was looking past him, taking in his surroundings. She recognized the bright, contemporary furnishings and the view from the partially open window behind him of the Irish Sea. “Oliver...” She gritted her teeth. “Oliver, you’re in Declan’s Cross. You’re in a seaside room at the O’Byrne House Hotel.”

“I am, indeed. I’m taking in a delightful breeze off the sea as we speak. Spring on the south Irish coast is quite lovely. I believe I’m in the room where you and Colin stayed on your last visit this winter.”

“It’s not the same room.”

“As if you’d tell me if it were.”

“Why are you in Declan’s Cross?”

“I couldn’t resist Kitty O’Byrne’s scones.”

Kitty was Aoife’s older sister and the proprietress of the boutique hotel, which a decade ago had been a rambling old seaside house owned by their uncle. Ten years ago, the house had been broken into by a clever, brazen art thief, still officially unidentified and at large, although the stolen works had mysteriously reappeared last fall.

Oliver did have nerve.

“I’m leaving once we’ve finished our chat,” he said. “Kitty kindly allowed me a late checkout without extra charge. So, my dear, if you’re tempted to sic the Irish guards on me, there’s no need.”

He was referring to the Gardaí, the Irish police. Kitty’s love interest happened to be a Dublin-based garda detective who owned a farm in Declan’s Cross.

Sean Murphy would love an excuse to interrogate Oliver York.

“I’m not going to sic the guards on you,” Emma said. “But if you’re hatching a plan to resteal the art you returned to the O’Byrnes, you can forget it. You’ll be arrested. MI5 won’t be able to save you.”

Oliver waved a hand. “You and your fantasies about me, Emma—Agent Sharpe. I flew into Dublin from London yesterday thinking I’d have a pint with your grandfather, but I discovered he’s already in Maine. I consoled myself with a quick visit to quaint, pretty Declan’s Cross.”

“Why did you want to see my grandfather?”

“Wendell and I always have things to talk about.”

“He was in London last week before he flew here on Saturday. Did you see him?”

“I shared a dram of an interesting new Scotch with him. Now, what can I do for you, Agent Sharpe?” Oliver made a show of glancing furtively around him, then leaned close to the screen. “Keep in mind MI5 is likely listening to us.”

Emma wouldn’t be surprised if they were. “You were at a party at Claridge’s on Sunday. Tell me about it.”

“Tell you what?”

“For starters, why were you there?”

“Why wouldn’t I be? Don’t sound so surprised. I live in the neighborhood and Claridge’s is one of my favorite hangouts.”

It wasn’t a direct answer to her question but Emma let it go. “Who else was there?”

“Your parents.” His brow furrowed. “Did the good Faye and Timothy Sharpe see or hear something of interest to the FBI, or to you personally?”

“I haven’t spoken to them. This is a voluntary interview on your part, Oliver, but I’d like to ask the questions if you don’t mind.”

“Of course. By all means.” He sat back farther, clearly relaxed. “Ask away.”

“A retired FBI agent was there. I believe you know him. Gordon Wheelock.”

“Do I?”

“He investigated your US thefts. San Francisco, Dallas. He’s responsible for putting away a number of art thieves and was sorry he retired before he could put you away.”

“My thefts? Me? The still unidentified thief, you mean.” Oliver gave an obviously faked yawn. “I want to take a walk before I return to London this evening. Aoife O’Byrne is in Declan’s Cross painting sunrises, did you know? They aren’t a cliché subject in her hands, although I am partial to her short-lived phase painting porpoises.”

Emma refused to be distracted. “Agent Wheelock stopped in my office this morning and told me he saw you at Claridge’s.”

“Did he? Hmm. He must have been the disheveled American who gave me the dirty look. We didn’t speak but someone mentioned he was an American agent of some sort.”

“Who mentioned him?”

Oliver made a face. “Take a guess.”

“Your MI5 handler?”

He pressed a finger to his lips. “Shh.”

“Was he at the party?”

“Obviously you already have the answer, but I’m not going to confirm or deny his presence. It was an uneventful, perfectly civil English tea. No guns, no blood, no arrests. I wish you’d been there, Emma—although given your life these days, I suspect the afternoon would have taken a different turn and ended up in the papers.”

She ignored his remark. “Any particular interest in late antiquity or the Victoria and Albert Museum?”

“Of course. Both. I’m a mythologist and I’m devoted to the museum. You’ve been, haven’t you?”

“A number of times. Did you see anyone with Agent Wheelock?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. He arrived alone but he met up with Claudia Deverell. I believe you know her? She’s an American who used to work at one of the big auction houses. She specializes in Mediterranean antiquities. She lives in London.”

“I know who she is,” Emma said.

“That’s what I thought. She and her family are no strangers to the Sharpes. Wasn’t her mother once a Sharpe client? Victoria Norwood Deverell. She died last year. Cancer. Very sad. The Norwoods were great collectors of antiquities, with a special passion for mosaics. They’ve owned a house in Heron’s Cove for generations.” Oliver sat forward, as if he were in the same room with Emma instead of on the other side of the Atlantic. “Is Agent Wheelock meddling in FBI business, Emma?”

She kept her expression neutral. “Did you hear any interesting rumors while you were at the party on Sunday?”

“Ah. You mean the rumor about stolen Byzantine mosaics. Did that get your retired FBI agent worked up? I know nothing.”

“How, when and where did you hear the rumors yourself?”

“I was eating a delightful mini scone with clotted cream and strawberry jam when I overheard two elderly gentlemen say they’d heard someone had nicked a couple of ancient mosaics from a London collector. I got jam on my shirt cuff and went to the men’s room. I don’t know the gents and heard nothing further before I left.”

“Since then?”

“Not a peep.”

He could be lying, or he could be telling the truth. Emma couldn’t tell. “Did you speak with Claudia Deverell yourself?”

“Your parents introduced us but I didn’t linger. Didn’t Claudia once date your brother? But that’s none of my business, and I must be going. By the way, the sheepskins I sent you and Colin this winter are wonderful in warm weather, too. You’ll see.”

“Oliver—wait.”

But he was gone.

Emma shut her laptop. No point trying to get him back. He wouldn’t answer. She rolled to her feet and went into the bedroom. She’d rented the apartment when she’d first moved to Boston, months before she’d met Colin. It was small for the two of them but they’d decided to keep it, given its convenient location and Boston’s sky-high rents. They had his house in Maine for more space. Not that they’d needed space lately, given his absences.

She dug her overnight bag out of the closet and set it on the double bed. Thinking about living arrangements was a welcome respite from thinking about Gordy Wheelock and whatever he was up to, and how it involved Oliver York, Claudia Deverell and the Sharpes.

The Sharpes.

Emma unzipped her suitcase. She was a Sharpe, too. She didn’t need to remind herself.

Her parents hadn’t responded yet to her text. Her father still worked for Sharpe Fine Art Recovery from London in a low-stress research and analysis position. Her mother had left her job as an art teacher. They made a point of socializing on occasion, sometimes because it was good for business but mostly because it was good for them for its own sake. A new procedure in December had provided her father with some relief from his chronic back pain, but Emma didn’t know when, or if, her parents would return to Maine, even for her wedding.

She threw a few things into her suitcase. She had some clothes at Colin’s house—yoga pants, sweatshirts, hiking shoes, kayaking gear—but she’d need something to wear to lunch with his mother as well as to the open house. Now she had to add checking up on Gordy Wheelock to her list for the long weekend.

Would Claudia Deverell be there? Emma hadn’t seen Claudia or any of the Deverells in at least six years. She’d been a novice then. Blonde, attractive and a few years older, Claudia had joined Emma on the tidal river in Heron’s Cove. I can’t believe you’re a nun, Emma. You were always so worldly and well-dressed, and you seemed to enjoy life. But I shouldn’t call you Emma, should I? It must be Sister Something.

Sister Brigid. I’m a novice. Are you in town long?

I’m here with my mother for the weekend. It’s Fourth of July, or didn’t you know?

Emma, wearing her modified habit, her hair pulled back with a wide white headband, had picked up two river-polished stones, handed one to Claudia and then tossed hers into the rising tide. She’d learned not to be defensive about people’s notions about a religious life. She invited Claudia to tour the convent, located on a small peninsula near Heron’s Cove.

Claudia had tossed her stone into the river. My maternal great-grandfather was good friends with the man who built the original estate that’s now your convent. They were adventurers. They did several trips together in the early twentieth century and brought home all sorts of treasures from the lands of the former Roman Empire. Loot, we might call it now. Eye of the beholder, I suppose. She’d dusted bits of mud off her hands and smiled. Good to see you, Emma.

Claudia never came to the convent for a tour, and Emma left the Sisters of the Joyful Heart a short time later for her new life with the FBI—and now her life included Colin.

She wondered if Claudia had been the one who’d told Gordy about her past.

Emma slung her overnight bag over one shoulder and headed out. Her next logical step was a chat with her brother and her grandfather about Gordy, Alessandro Pearson, Claudia Deverell and the rumors about stolen mosaics. Fortunately, for the first time in years, Wendell Sharpe, founder of Sharpe Fine Art Recovery and one of the foremost private art detectives in the world, was less than two hours away in southern Maine, and Emma wouldn’t have to fly all the way to Dublin to see him.