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9

After they left the Bristol house, Colin walked with Emma back to the Taj Hotel. They needed to talk with Aoife O’Byrne now that Lucy Yankowski had been found in Aoife’s Dublin studio. At least, Emma needed to talk to the Irish artist. Colin decided he could wait when he glanced in the bar off the Taj lobby and spotted Finian Bracken at a small table by the fire.

Of all people, Colin thought.

Finian was from the southwest Irish coast but lately resided in Maine as the parish priest in Colin’s hometown of Rock Point. He was also good friends with Sean Murphy, the Irish detective who had walked into Aoife’s studio earlier with Matt Yankowski.

Had Murphy called Finian to look in on Aoife?

Or had Aoife called him?

A man Colin didn’t recognize was sitting across the table from Finian. Emma hit the up button for the elevator. Colin nodded to the bar. “I’ll go talk whiskey with Fin and find out who his new friend is.”

Emma nodded. “I’ll meet you back here after I talk with Aoife. She’s expecting me.”

The elevator doors opened, and Colin waited as Emma disappeared inside. Then he stepped into the quiet, dimly lit bar.

“Please,” Finian said, motioning to a cushioned chair, “join us.”

That was the plan, but Colin kept his remark to himself as he pulled out the chair and sat down. Although Finian was in his priest duds, he still managed to remind Colin of Bono. “Hello, Fin. Who’s your friend here?”

Finian, a whiskey expert as well as a priest, formerly an executive at Bracken Distillers, had only a glass of water with a slice of lemon in front of him. “Actually, I didn’t get his name.”

“Oliver Fairbairn,” the man said in a distinct English accent, raising his glass and swirling its amber contents. “A Scotch-drinking mythologist. And you are?”

Finian supplied the answer. “This is my friend Colin Donovan, Oliver.”

The Brit leaned forward and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper. “You’re an FBI agent.” He sat back immediately. “I wish I could say I had a nose for American federal agents, but I don’t. Maisie just texted me. She said you and another agent—Emma Sharpe—asked about me. That was Agent Sharpe who came in with you? I gather she doesn’t want to join us.”

Oliver Fairbairn either wasn’t on his first Scotch or was pretending not to be. He had unruly dark blond hair and blue-green eyes and wore a rumpled shirt under a wool vest, with gray wool trousers and a trench coat on the back of his chair. He looked to be in his late thirties even if he was dressed as if he’d stepped out of the pages of a Sherlock Holmes novel.

He sipped his drink. “Scotch or a tall Irish, Agent Donovan?”

“I’m good, thanks.”

“I prefer Scotch to Irish whiskey, but our good Father here tells me the peated Bracken 15 year old stands up to the best single-malt Scotch. A rare thing, a peated Irish whiskey.”

“The Bracken stands up as far as I’m concerned,” Colin said. “Not that my palate is particularly sophisticated.”

“I’ll have to try Bracken 15 one day, then,” Fairbairn said. “Right now, I’m quite content with my Glenfiddich 18 year old. Glenfiddich is Scottish Gaelic. It means valley of the deer. Doesn’t that conjure up beautiful images?”

“It certainly does,” Finian said with an awkward glance at Colin.

Colin didn’t soften his look. His Irish friend had no business being here, and he obviously knew it. He could have at least alerted Colin that he was on the way. Finian Bracken, however, would have his own reasons for his choices. He was in his late thirties, a late-vocation priest ordained only a year ago. They’d become friends since Finian’s arrival in Rock Point in June to fill in for Saint Patrick’s regular priest, who was on a yearlong sabbatical in Ireland.

Seven years ago—long before Colin knew him—Finian had been the happily married father of two young daughters and cofounder with his twin brother, Declan, of a successful Irish distillery. Then, on a summer day he could never get back, a freak sailing accident had taken his wife and daughters from him. Finian had been on his way to meet them for a family holiday.

Garda Sean Murphy had investigated the drowning deaths of Sally Bracken and little Mary and Kathleen Bracken. He hadn’t been a detective with a special unit then. The two Irishmen had become friends. Colin had been aware that Finian had visited Declan’s Cross, where Sean had a family farm, and knew Kitty, Aoife’s sister. He hadn’t thought about Dublin-based Aoife.

Oliver Fairbairn savored his Scotch, cupping his glass in both hands. “I hope your visit with my good friend Maisie went well, despite the circumstances. Isn’t she brilliant? The perfect, mighty blend of intelligence, talent and humility. She couldn’t have accomplished what she has if she’d been just another narcissistic Hollywood blowhard.” He grinned, a thick lock of hair falling on his forehead. “I can say that out here. I’d never say it on the West Coast. I’d never work on another movie.”

“You like your movie work, do you?” Colin asked.

“Sure. Why not? It pays well, and I don’t care if directors mangle the legends and myths they hire me to teach them about. That’s what legends and myths are for, isn’t it? Mangling. Or telling anew as one director put it.” The Brit grimaced. “Rachel Bristol got a kick out of that one when I told her. A bloody awful day, isn’t it?”

Colin said nothing. He noticed Finian lift his water glass and take a sip but kept his attention on Maisie Bristol’s mythologist. “Did you just happen into the bar here and strike up a conversation with Father Bracken?”

“As a matter of fact, that’s exactly what I did,” Fairbairn said. “I wanted to give Maisie and her father time to themselves and walked over here, somehow thinking it would be a good idea to pay my respects or whatever to Aoife O’Byrne. Fortunately, I changed my mind and decided on Scotch, instead, and met Father Bracken. How do you two know each other?”

“We’re friends,” Colin said without elaboration.

The Brit set his glass down. “A good day to have a priest for a friend.”

“Aoife called me,” Finian said, addressing Colin. “Kitty called, too. And Sean.”

Colin hadn’t planned on asking for an explanation in front of Oliver Fairbairn. “Makes sense,” he said.

Finian leveled his midnight-blue eyes on Colin. “Aoife has checked out of the hotel. She’s driving back to Maine with me. She’s on her way down with her things.”

Fairbairn’s eyebrows shot up. “Aoife O’Byrne is going back to Maine with you? A beautiful woman, a famous Irish artist? Good heavens, man, won’t your parishioners have fits if you sneak her into the rectory?”

Colin pretty much had the same question.

Finian looked unruffled. “I’ve booked a room for her at a local inn,” he said.

“Well, then. That solves it.” Fairbairn sat back and picked up his glass. “How on earth did you end up in Maine? A long story, I gather?”

“Are there any short Irish stories?” Finian asked with a shrug.

Fairbairn seemed to know Finian had said all he planned to about his relationship with Aoife O’Byrne. “Good point.” He downed more of his Scotch, not savoring it this time. “I’m afraid the shock of Rachel’s death has led me to drink too fast. If I make an ass of myself, will you please excuse me? Or am I too late, and I should put that in past tense and beg your forgiveness?”

Finian cracked the smallest of smiles, the first break in his obvious tension since Colin had arrived. “You’re doing fine, my friend. Glenfiddich 18 is a beautiful Scotch. At least you didn’t ruin it with ice.”

“I like how you think, Father Bracken. What about you, Agent Donovan? You won’t join me for a dram?”

“Not tonight, thanks,” Colin said.

“I suppose what happened today didn’t faze you. Nerves of steel and all that. I’ve only known Maisie a couple of months and hardly knew Rachel, and I’m flattened.”

Colin thought of the moment he’d realized Emma was on Bristol Island alone, with a woman dead at her feet and a shooter on the run—or getting ready to fire again. He noticed Finian’s scrutiny, but his priest friend made no comment.

Oblivious, Oliver Fairbairn polished off the last of his Scotch. “I suppose you’re wondering what I do. As I told the detectives, I’m a useless academic who doesn’t have a normal job. It’s true.”

“You’re an independent scholar,” Finian said.

“A nicer way to put it. I’m not affiliated with any particular institution. I was fortunate to find work as a Hollywood consultant. If you want to know about the real Thor, I can tell you. Of course, there is no real Thor, is there?”

Colin sat back, feeling the heat from the fire. “I just know he’s the one with the hammer. You’ve been working with Maisie on understanding Irish Celtic myths and legends.”

“She’s an eager student. A sponge. She wants to know everything. It’s refreshing. Exhilarating, really, as you can imagine, for someone like me to have this wildly hot Hollywood producer interested in everything I can tell her about ogham stones and holy wells.”

“And Saint Declan,” Colin added.

Fairbairn’s face fell. He looked as if he wanted to crawl into his Scotch glass. He picked up his water glass, instead. “Saint Declan is a recent interest for Maisie, because of Rachel. Which, of course, you already know, Agent Donovan. The interaction of pagan Celtic culture and the early Irish Christian saints—like Declan—shows a dynamic relationship. Pagan culture didn’t wither away and Christianity didn’t smother it. It’s not that black and white. It’s the stuff of great movies, I’ve no doubt. I’m eager to see what Maisie does with her knowledge and interest.” He turned to Finian. “I’m sure you know more about Saint Declan than I do, Father Bracken.”

“Have you ever been to Ardmore or Declan’s Cross?” Finian asked.

“I was in Ardmore a few years ago. Maybe it’s been longer now—six years? I travel so much. It’s hard to keep track. I suppose I could have wandered through Declan’s Cross when I was in the area. I don’t recall. There’s a fabulous hotel in Ardmore. It’s built into the cliffs above the village.”

“I know it well,” Finian said. “It has an excellent Scotch selection.”

Fairbairn nodded. “I blew the budget and booked two nights. I crawled through Saint Declan’s monastic ruins, walked on the beach and enjoyed a good dinner and a good Scotch. Then I went back to London.”

“Were you a Hollywood consultant then?” Colin asked.

“Just a hopeful academic.”

Colin kept his focus on the Brit. “Is consulting your main source of income?”

“Oh, you feds will ask anything, won’t you?” Fairbairn seemed more caught up in the drama of the moment than offended. “For the past eighteen months, yes, it’s been my main source of income. I don’t know about the future.”

“Do you teach?”

“Not any longer. In the past I taught a university course here and there.”

“When did you arrive in Boston?”

“This trip? Yesterday. I flew in from London. Maisie had asked me to be back today if at all possible.”

“When?” Colin asked.

“A few days ago. Wednesday, maybe?” Fairbairn waved a hand. “I’m still jet-lagged. I don’t have a good sense of the days. Maisie told me she and Rachel weren’t seeing eye to eye on Maisie’s film project. She thought I might be able to help. I didn’t get the impression that their differences were anything they wouldn’t be able to work out. Maisie’s the one with the checkbook, after all. Rachel was nothing if not about making things happen, and if it had to be Maisie’s way for the movie to get made—then so be it. Rachel was certain in her convictions, but she was also pragmatic. That’s my take, anyway, for what it’s worth.”

“And Maisie?” Colin asked. “Is she as certain in her convictions?”

“In a different way. Maisie picks which ships to launch and launches them, so to speak. She doesn’t get involved with details. This project was to have been a bit different. She didn’t want just to launch the ship. She wanted her fingerprints on everything. Rachel worked in the engine room—it’s what suited her—but she wanted to move up, launch a few ships of her own.”

Finian lifted his water glass. “What about her ex-husband?”

“Travis does his own thing. He’s well respected in Hollywood from what little I know. Rachel was one of those ex-spouses who doesn’t go away. Keeps a relationship with the family. I don’t know whether that’s good or bad. She and Travis didn’t have any kids together, not even a shared dog.” Fairbairn breathed out and let his shoulders sag, as if he’d suddenly lost all his energy. “I should get back there and let you two chat. Please give my best to Aoife, won’t you, Father? We’ve never met, but I happened into a gallery in London that had several of her paintings on display. Irish sunrises and sunsets, and one cheeky-looking porpoise. If I’d had the money, I’d have bought that porpoise.”

“I don’t know if that painting has ever sold,” Finian said.

“Then maybe there’s yet hope.” Fairbairn’s voice cracked, as if the emotions of the day had finally caught up with him. “It’s been a pleasure, despite the circumstances. If I can be of any assistance, Agent Donovan, please don’t hesitate to get in touch with me. Father, I hope the tongues don’t wag too much when you bring Aoife O’Byrne to town.”

He started to pay for his drink, but Finian refused to let him. Fairbairn mumbled his thanks, and shuffled out of the bar.

Finian smiled at Colin. “You look as if you’re thinking up an excuse to arrest me.”

“Don’t tempt me. Why didn’t you let me know you were coming down here?”

“I didn’t want to bother you.”

“Bother me? When you know a woman in the middle of a homicide investigation?”

Finian looked longingly at Fairbairn’s empty Scotch glass as the waiter took it away. “Aoife has nothing to do with Rachel Bristol’s death,” he said.

“Let’s switch, Fin. You take my FBI credentials and I take your clerical collar.”

“Glenfiddich would go down nicely after today, wouldn’t it, my friend?”

Colin sighed. “Do you know about the break-in at Aoife’s studio?”

“Sean told me. He’d already phoned Aoife. She’s horrified by what’s happened, but we didn’t have a chance to talk much about it. I imagine we will on the drive to Rock Point.”

“Fin...”

He held up a hand. “No worries, Colin. I’m a grown man. I’ll be fine.”

“The inn you mentioned to Fairbairn—my folks’ place?”

“Yes.” Finian smiled feebly. “Your brother Mike is there.”

“No worries, then,” Colin said with a grudging smile. Mike was ex-army, a Maine wilderness guide and outfitter and tough as nails. Tougher. Their father was a retired Rock Point police officer. “We have no reason to think Aoife’s a target, but whoever shot Rachel Bristol is still out there, Fin. Watch yourself.”

“The detectives know how to reach her if they have further questions.”

“How long does she plan to stay in Maine?”

“I don’t think she’s thought that far ahead. She just wants to get out of here.”

“Fight-or-flight mode.”

The priest’s expression softened. “No doubt.”

Emma entered the bar with Aoife, who wore a sleek black trench coat cinched at her waist and looked as if she couldn’t get out of there fast enough. She barely glanced at Colin as she and Emma walked over to the table. “I’m ready, Fin,” Aoife said. “We can go.”

Finian was already on his feet. He took Emma’s hand and kissed her on the cheek. “How are you, Emma? I’m sorry about this morning. Is there anything I can do?”

“I’m doing fine, thanks,” she said quietly.

He nodded to Colin and left with Aoife. Emma, still in her leather jacket, sat at the table. “I see the Taj isn’t making anything off you and Finian. Who was Finian’s friend?”

“Oliver Fairbairn.”

“Our mythologist movie consultant,” Emma said. “I see.”

“He didn’t have much to say. He had a pricy Scotch. How’s Aoife?”

“Shaken. She says she doesn’t know anything about the break-in at her studio. All was quiet when she left early yesterday morning. She hired a car to take her to the airport.”

“One of the perks of success,” Colin said.

“She didn’t notice anyone hanging around the building then or in the past few days. She’s positive the cross came by mail and wasn’t hand-delivered. She says it’s the first and only time she’s heard from the thief in the past ten years. I debated telling her we believe the same person is responsible for other thefts in different cities but decided not to, at least not yet.”

“Do you believe her?”

“I have no reason not to. I don’t see why she would have faked the break-in and left Lucy Yankowski under a bookcase. Poor Lucy. Talk about being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Like you this morning,” Colin said.

Emma ignored him. “I would love to sit here by the fire with you, but I’ve been summoned to BPD headquarters. Our friendly homicide detectives have talked to Yank about what happened in Dublin. Now they want to talk to me.”

“They’re going to grill you about you and your family’s contact with Aoife and pry as much out of you as they can about this thief.” Colin shrugged. “I would.”

“No doubt. If they have evidence this morning was an unrelated accidental shooting, I’m not going to share all my files with them. I wouldn’t, anyway. I’ll tell them what they need to know.”

“Used to bug the hell out of me when feds told me that.” Colin thought Emma attempted to smile, but she looked troubled, preoccupied. He leaned forward. “What else is going on, Emma?”

“Lucas called on my way up to Aoife’s room.” Emma raised her gaze to Colin, her eyes deepening to emerald in the cozy light. “Rachel Bristol was in Heron’s Cove on Monday.”

“Lucas spoke to her?”

She nodded. “I need to go up there, Colin.”

“We can leave after you finish with the detectives.”

She looked at the fire, and now her eyes reflected the orange flames. “What if Rachel figured out Declan’s Cross was the first of multiple heists by our thief?”

“That’s not public knowledge.”

“It’s not common knowledge. A determined researcher digging through press reports on unsolved art thefts could figure it out, or at least make an educated guess.”

“All right,” Colin said. “Let’s say Rachel connected the dots. Let’s say she loves the idea of a serial art thief one of the world’s best art detectives hasn’t been able to catch. She dives in and starts stirring up trouble. She visits your brother in Heron’s Cove, she calls your grandfather, she calls Aoife. Let’s assume the thief is already on edge because of Lindsey Hargreaves’ murder in Declan’s Cross.”

“And now, here’s this Hollywood-type messing around in his world,” Emma said. “He breaks his pattern and sends the crosses to Granddad and me, Lucas, Yank and then Aoife. But why? If he was worried Rachel was getting close to identifying him—or actually had identified him—why draw attention to himself? Then again, that’s always been the issue with him. He draws attention to himself. It’s like his thefts are a game for him.” She broke off, clearly frustrated. “I’m speculating.”

“The crosses are a form of manipulation.”

“Maybe so, but as far as we know, never to commit murder.”

Colin noticed a middle-aged couple enter the bar. It was filling up. “Do you want me to go with you to BPD headquarters?”

Emma shook her head, springing to her feet. “I should get over there before they send a squad car for me. I’ll meet you back at the apartment.” She buttoned her jacket. “You don’t have to go to Maine, Colin. I can go on my own.”

“Not a chance.” That didn’t mean he didn’t wish he and Emma could drink whiskey by the fire and talk about anything but thieves, murder and Celtic crosses. “I’ll gas up my truck.”

* * *

Colin stopped back at the HIT offices and found Sam Padgett alone in the conference room with his Texas boots up on the table. It was dark, and Padgett wasn’t a happy man. He’d taken printouts of art believed to have been stolen by the Declan’s Cross thief and lined them up on the table as if they were cards in a game of concentration. “I’m desperate,” he said, half-serious. “I thought looking at them one by one and in different combinations might help. Emma looks at them like an art historian. I look at them like a guy who doesn’t know anything about art, which, for all we know, our thief could be.”

“Come up with anything?”

Padgett glowered. “No. What the hell, maybe our guy has some deep-seated bullshit neurosis that’s driving him to steal certain types of art. Maybe he grabs pieces that all have green in them because green reminds him of his dead mother’s eyes.”

Colin dropped onto a chair. “That wouldn’t get us far.”

“I know. I planned to go for a bike ride out to Concord today. I should have.” The Texan heaved a sigh. “You ever think this thief’s playing us for fools?”

“Yep.”

“He’s been winning for ten years. Is he smart or lucky?”

“Probably both.”

Padgett sat up straight, lowering his feet to the floor. “It was a close one for Lucy Yankowski. If Yank and that Irish cop hadn’t come along, she’d have been in serious trouble. You like to think someone would have noticed something, heard her yelling—but people in that neighborhood obviously aren’t going to be thinking a woman’s trapped under a bookcase in a famous artist’s studio.”

It was a fair point. Colin updated Sam on Emma’s visit with the BPD.

“She could be a while,” Sam said. “Maisie Bristol has produced five movies for the big screen and made a ton of money. She’s on fire out in Hollywood. I downloaded all five. Want to take a look?”