Читать книгу Harbor Island - Carla Neggers - Страница 9

2

“Check the bathroom,” Matt Yankowski said, making an obvious effort to hide his mix of urgency and irritation over the whereabouts of his wife, Lucy.

Colin Donovan frowned as he stood on the uneven wood floor in the sole bedroom of the senior FBI agent’s hovel of an apartment near Boston’s South Station. It was bigger than Emma’s, but it had roaches and rusted appliances and a shower out of Psycho. He’d had a quick peek into the bathroom. He hadn’t gone in and checked for signs of Lucy’s presence. What was the point? If he’d been Lucy Yankowski, he’d have gone running from this place, too.

But this was Yank, technically Colin’s boss and a man on his own in Ireland, worried about his wife and his marriage. Colin didn’t want Yank to have to explain. Easier, smoother and more tactful just to check the damn bathroom.

Colin pushed the bathroom door open the rest of the way and stepped onto the cracked black-and-white hexagon tile, so old and worn that the black tiles by the shower stall were now gray. With his cell phone pressed to his ear, he glanced at the pedestal sink and the towel rack. “Yank, do you know your towel rack is on crooked?”

“Yeah, and I don’t care. It does the job. See anything?”

“Guy stuff. Shaving brush, shaving soap, razor. Nothing remotely feminine.”

“Check the shower. See if she left her shampoo in there.”

“I guarantee you she didn’t use the shower. She’d have gone to a hotel before she used your shower, Yank. Damn.”

“Just check, will you?”

“That means I have to touch the shower curtain.”

“It’s clean. It’s just stained. It came with the place. I didn’t want to spring for a new one.”

“You can get a new shower curtain for next to nothing.”

Yank made no comment. Colin pulled open the curtain. He figured he could wash his hands when he was done. Yank was tidy and clean despite his rathole apartment, but the shower and shower curtain were disgusting. Only word for it.

“No shampoo at all in here,” Colin said, stepping back from the shower. “Just a bar of orange soap.”

“My coal-tar soap. I didn’t bring it to Ireland with me.”

“I could have gone my whole life without knowing you use coal-tar soap, Yank.”

“Think I like having you search my place?”

Colin sighed and went back into the bedroom. “Lucy wasn’t here, or if she was, she didn’t stay long. Your bed’s made. Your fridge is empty. Your bathroom and kitchen sinks are clean. The roaches—”

“I don’t need to hear about the roaches,” Yank said. “I’ve been living there almost a year. I know all about the damn roaches. I got a cheap place and rent month-to-month because I thought Lucy would move with me. We would sell our house in northern Virginia and buy a place in Boston. Made sense to rough it a little.”

He’d roughed it more than a little, but Colin let it go. He returned to the kitchen. A roach was parading across the floor. Where there was one cockroach, there were a hundred cockroaches. Often like that in their line of work, too. But Yank didn’t need to hear that right now.

“Where do you think she is?” Colin asked.

“Off stewing.”

“Where?”

“Paris. Prague. Tahiti. How the hell do I know? I’m just her husband.”

Colin could hear the strain in Yank’s voice. He was in his early forties, a classic, square-jawed, buttoned-down FBI agent with hardly ever a wrinkle in his suit. He and Colin had met four years ago when Colin had volunteered for his first undercover mission. Matt Yankowski, a legendary field agent, had been his contact agent through two years of grueling, dangerous, isolating work. Then the director of the FBI had called in Colin for another mission—one even more grueling, dangerous and isolating. It had ended in October with the arrest of the last of a network of ruthless illegal arms traffickers. They’d almost killed his family. A friend. Emma.

“When was the last time you were in contact with Lucy?” Colin asked.

“Sunday. Before I left for Ireland. It wasn’t a good conversation. Leave it at that. I called her on Thursday and left her a message. She didn’t call back. I texted and emailed her yesterday and again this morning. Zip.”

“Did you tell her you were going to Ireland?”

“No, I did not.” Yank grunted, as if he was already regretting having called Colin. “All right, thanks for taking a look. I just wanted to be sure she wasn’t in Boston passed out in my apartment.”

“What about passed out at home in Virginia?”

“Not your problem.”

“Yank, I don’t have to tell you that you need her back in touch soon. With all that’s going on, we can’t have your wife AWOL.”

“That’s right, Donovan. You don’t have to tell me.”

“Yank...” Colin hesitated a half beat. “Have you talked to the director lately?”

“Yeah. He says he’s retiring.” Yank sounded relieved at the change in subject. “He’s moving to Mount Desert Island to be a grandfather and write his memoirs. That’s why you two bonded, you know. He loves Maine.”

“Maybe he and I could do puffin tours together.”

“I could see that, but I don’t know who’d scare tourists more, you or him. I’ve heard some rumors about his replacement. All the names give me hives, but it’ll be what it’ll be. Hey, you wouldn’t want to spray for roaches before you leave my place, would you? There’s a can of Raid under the sink.”

A can of Raid and a million roaches. Colin debated, then said, “I’ll spray for roaches if you stop at the Celtic Whiskey Shop on Dawson Street in Dublin before you leave and pick me up a good bottle of Irish whiskey.”

“Done.”

“Let me know when Lucy is back in touch.”

Colin disconnected. He sprayed for roaches—and sprayed actual roaches—and then got the hell out of Yank’s walk-up as fast as he could. The only reason the place didn’t have rats was because it was on the third floor. Needless to say, there was no security in the building. There was barely a front door.

Colin welcomed the bright, cool November air. He had woken up to Yank’s email asking him to check his apartment for Lucy and telling him where to find a spare key in his office a few blocks from Emma’s place. She’d already left on her run. Bemused by Yank’s request, Colin had walked over to the highly secure, unassuming waterfront building that housed HIT, short for “high impact target” and the name Yank had chosen for his handpicked team. Yank had shoehorned Colin into HIT in October. Colin had packed his bags for Ireland a few weeks later to decompress. He’d expected to hike the Irish hills and drink Irish whiskey and Guinness alone, but Emma had joined him in his little cottage in the Kerry hills. She hadn’t waited for an invitation, but that was Emma Sharpe. His ex-nun, art historian, art conservationist, art-crimes expert—the love of his life—was the bravest woman he knew. Which had its downside, since she’d do anything regardless of the risk.

He saw he had a text message from her.

Meeting CI on Bristol Island. Back soon. Had a good run.

A confidential informant? Emma? Bristol Island? Where the hell was Bristol Island? Colin texted back.

Are you alone?

He buttoned his coat and continued toward the HIT offices and her apartment, looking up Bristol Island on his phone. It was one of more than thirty Boston Harbor islands, unusual in that it was privately owned and not part of the Boston Harbor National Recreational Area. He waited but Emma didn’t respond to his text. He didn’t want to call her in the middle of a delicate meeting. As with Lucy Yankowski, Emma’s silence didn’t necessarily mean anything.

It didn’t necessarily not mean anything, either.