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  “I’ll see if anyone asks, first.”

  “Are you a hundred percent since the shooting?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you’re not back on the street,” she said.

  Rob admired her directness but didn’t want to get into a discussion of his status. “Not yet. Mike Rivera, my chief deputy, isn’t one to rush something like that.”

  “He’s worried about post-traumatic stress disorder?”

  “It’s just the way he is.”

  “He must have heard about Tom’s murder.” Maggie gave Rob a dry, pointed look. “Are you concerned people are going to start thinking of you as a shit magnet or something?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Sorry. That was unfeeling. I’m not going to interfere with your business. Just like you’re not going to interfere with mine. Right?”

  “Apples and oranges.”

  She ignored him. “What if we get to your place and it’s crawling with reporters?”

  “I’ll duck,” he said mildly.

  But his street was quiet on a hot August Sunday, with no one hanging out on his building’s front stoop wanting to talk to him about anything, never mind Nick Janssen’s arrest.

  “Why don’t you give me your cell phone number?” Maggie stared straight ahead, both hands gripping the wheel as if she was saying something she knew she had no business saying. “I can call you if I get into any trouble.”

  Rob jotted his number down on the back of the car rental agreement and handed it to her. “Anytime.”

  She smiled tentatively. “Thanks.”

  “Maggie—”

  “A few days off,” she said stubbornly, “probably wouldn’t hurt you, either.”

  That was the end of it. She wasn’t budging on telling him her real reasons for flying to New York—or where she was headed. Getting his cell phone number was as far as she was going. Since there was nothing else he could do, Rob grabbed his suitcase out of the car and thanked her for the ride.

  When he got into his apartment, he could smell the milk he’d left on the counter, and his voice mail was full. Reporters and more reporters.

  He called Nate. “Anything on Kopac or Spencer?”

  “Nothing specific.”

  Something was in his tone. “What?”

  “Your sister talked to Poe.”

  Christ. “That’s not what I needed.”

  “Poe didn’t say as much, but Spencer’s name rang a bell with him. Her father was killed in Prague a year and a half ago. Got caught in a bank robbery.” He paused. “Business consultant.”

  “Does Sarah know?”

  “No.”

  “What kind of business consultant was the father?”

  “The kind that travels a lot and talks to a lot of people.”

  “You think—”

  “I’m just guessing.”

  Nate was just guessing that Maggie Spencer’s father had been on the government payroll—a spook.

  “Maggie?”

  “A-plus DS agent.”

  Did her father—his death—have anything to do with her abrupt departure from the Netherlands? Rob had no idea. He could feel his frustration mounting. For all he knew, Maggie was worried her encounter in the cathedral would make her an A-minus DS agent.

  His head felt squeezed. “She met an older guy in Den Bosch after we finished with the police. White hair, red nose. She won’t even give me a name. I think he was the reason we went out there in the first place.”

  Nate was silent.

  “She says she’s here to take a few days off. Wouldn’t tell me where she’s staying. Thinks I’ll be a pest, I guess.”

  “Is she out of control?”

  Rob pictured her behind the wheel of her car rental and shook his head, as if reassuring himself. “No.”

  “Keep me posted,” Nate said. “Here, your sister wants to say hello.”

  She came on the line. “Rob? Damn it, are you okay? What’s going on?”

  “I’m good, Sarah. You don’t have to worry—”

  “I do have to worry. You go to Holland and end up in the middle of a murder scene.” Her tone softened. “I’m sorry it happened. It must have been awful. But Rob—this isn’t going to work if you tell Nate things that you don’t tell me.”

  “He’s my superior—”

  “You don’t report to him.”

  She had a point. “What did you and Wes talk about this morning?”

  “You. Lately, that’s all we talk about.”

  “Well, change the subject,” he said testily. “You and Wes talking behind my back is worse than me talking to Nate behind your back.”

  His sister wasn’t bothered by his mood. “That’s not the way I look at it.”

  Rob grinned at her lack of remorse. “Of course not. Look, it wasn’t pretty yesterday. Now we’re all probably getting our knickers in a twist over nothing. Relax, okay? Enjoy playing in your old dump. Is it bearing fruit?”

  “It’s amazing. Totally. I couldn’t be happier.”

  “That’s great, Sarah,” Rob said, meaning it. But when he hung up, his body didn’t know what time it was, and his head was spinning with thoughts and possibilities, none of them worth a damn. He finally gave up on making sense of anything and pulled on his running clothes and headed out.

  Maybe a five-mile run would help clear his mind.

  Maggie put together her Glock while the lace curtains of her forget-me-not room billowed in the afternoon breeze. She couldn’t relax. The Old Stone Hollow Inn was idyllic. Gorgeous. Sunflowers, dahlias, herbs, orchards. It was a perfect spot to rejuvenate.

  So why had William Raleigh mentioned it to her in a clandestine meeting in a Dutch cathedral?

  What did it have to do with her father, Tom Kopac, Nick Janssen? Any of them?

  “Nothing,” she muttered. “The guy needs a psychiatrist.”

  The inn was located at the end of a long gravel driveway flanked by an apple orchard and a cornfield that opened up into a beautiful yard of flower and herb gardens and huge shade trees, with stone paths and fences, cedar benches and screened gazebos. It all felt more remote than it was. The village of Ravenkill, with its antiques shops and attractive houses, was less than a mile down a country road.

  Maggie could see the Hudson River from her bedroom window. According to her brochure, a smaller creek was just through the woods along the orchard and cornfield. She was in Ichabod Crane country. She could almost picture a headless horseman charging across the countryside and had the unsettling sense that anything could happen here.

  But it had been that kind of week, she told herself, strapping on her holster. She slipped her Glock in place and put on a lightweight denim jacket that draped over it, then checked her reflection in the bathroom mirror.

  Not good. She looked like her body thought it was the middle of the night.

  She dabbed on some blush, not sure it helped, and headed downstairs.

  The inn itself was a sprawling, elegant mid-nineteenth-century farmhouse with celadon-green clapboards and white trim. Any additions and renovations to the original structure were seamless. The cherry floors gleamed, and the tall windows sparkled. The downstairs rooms—a kitchen, dining room, living room, library, den and music room—were decorated with a mix of antiques and contemporary pieces, everything light, airy and comfortable-looking.

  The owners, Andrew and Star Franconia, lived on the second floor of a picturesque red barn. An informal antiques shop on the first floor included everything from rusted farm tools to delicate tea sets. A separate outbuilding had sports equipment for guest use—cross-country skis, snowshoes, giant inner tubes, kayaks, canoes, mountain bikes. If nothing panned out, Maggie figured she’d have plenty of things to do before she headed back to The Hague.

  She had a choice of eating inside or outside on the back porch and decided on the porch. A waiter led her to a small table covered with a white cloth, with an oversized hydrangea growing up over the balusters. She ordered iced t
ea and sat back in her chair, welcoming the clean, warm summer air.

  The Franconias came over to introduce themselves. Andrew was in his early fifties, stocky and handsome, Star perhaps a few years younger, blond and very thin. They both were dressed casually, relaxed and friendly among their guests.

  “I understand you’re from the Netherlands,” Andrew said.

  “I work there, yes,” Maggie said.

  “Did you have a good flight?”

  “No problems. Thanks for asking.” She’d never been good at small talk. “It’s a beautiful evening.”

  “It’s been beautiful all weekend,” Star said. “We were lucky. We had a full house. Weekdays tend to be lighter. It should be quiet while you’re here.”

  Her husband cleared his throat, suddenly looking awkward. “Um—are you in law enforcement?”

  As discreet as she was, he must have noticed that she was armed. Maggie sipped some of her iced tea. “I’m with the U.S. Diplomatic Security Service.”

  “I’ve never heard of them,” Star said, obviously intrigued.

  “A lot of people haven’t.”

  Andrew bristled. His wife seemed to be getting on his nerves. “I don’t want any trouble. I don’t like guns.”

  “I certainly don’t want any trouble, either,” Maggie said, deciding to change the subject. “I was just looking over the menu. What do you recommend, anything in particular?”

  “It’s all good.”

  Star’s cheeks reddened in embarrassment over her husband’s curtness. “The lobster bisque is particularly wonderful tonight. I would think it would go down well after a long flight. Andrew and I often travel together on business—well, we used to. Now one of us tends to stay behind to keep an eye on things here.” She smiled, as if making an effort to be cheerful. “A case of ‘be careful of what you wish for.’ We always wanted our own inn, and now we’ve got one.”

  “How long have you been open?”

  “Almost two years. It’s gone fast.”

  Andrew straightened, posturing for both women. “Enjoy your visit, Agent Spencer. Don’t hesitate to let us know if there’s anything you need.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  Once they left, Maggie ordered the lobster bisque and a salad made with greens from the inn’s own gardens, although she wasn’t that hungry. She supposed disguising her identity in Ravenkill would have been simpler, but perhaps not as effective—this way, she could stir the pot, see how people reacted to her presence.

  But for all she knew, Ravenkill or the Old Stone Hollow Inn had been in the news recently, and Raleigh—drunk or delusional or both—had mixed it up with something he’d seen about her father or Nick Janssen or God only knew what and come up with some bizarre conspiracy theory.

  Maggie finished her soup, surprised to find she was hungry after all. Then, because she was jet-lagged and the stroopwafel was a long time ago, she ordered the plum tart special for dessert. It arrived warm, topped with homemade vanilla ice cream. The smell alone was worth the price. She smiled to herself. So what if she was on a wild-goose chase?

  After dinner, she took a walk along a stone path, puffs of white clouds high in the sky, the air still as dusk gathered, crows crying in the distance.

  As she passed the barn, she could hear the Franconias arguing upstairs, their exact words muffled but the tone unmistakable. They’d lose business, Maggie thought, if they didn’t get a rein on their marital tensions. Nobody wanted their country inn escape marred by the owners fighting.

  She made her way upstairs to her room, hooking the chain on the door.

  It wasn’t even dark out yet. If she went to bed now, she’d be up before dawn.

  She checked a small bookcase. The Three Musketeers. The Complete Works of Jane Austen. Othello.

  Her bathroom amenities included a small bottle of bug repellant and a warning note about West Nile virus and Lyme disease.

  Maggie doused herself, put on running clothes and headed back outside. A jog into the village and back would clear her head.

  If not, at least she’d stand a better chance of getting to sleep.

  Ten

  Libby lifted a heavy tray of breakfast dishes and carried it into the kitchen of what had once been her family home and now was the Old Stone Hollow Inn. The affront was fresh again. It was always this way after she got back from a trip. The insult of her situation would be raw and biting, the reality of what her life had become something she had to get used to all over again. Yet she’d watched it coming for years. Even as a little girl, she’d seen this future for herself with a brutal clarity.

  Death, poverty, betrayal, humiliation.

  No way out but surrender.

  Her parents were dead. Her father had squandered her future. She’d had to sell her childhood home in order to save it.

  And everyone knew her sad story.

  She set the tray on the granite counter. Jet lag brought her emotions that much closer to the surface. She’d be all right in a day or two. And she had work to do. Targets to assess.

  Her father was the one who’d taught her to shoot, she thought bitterly, even as she smiled at Star Franconia. “Good morning. It looks as if you have a few guests, anyway, for early in the week.”

  Star tugged at an apron that was too long for her. “Thanks for bringing in the dishes, Libby. I haven’t seen you in a few days. Did you have a good weekend?”

  “Yes, thanks. I was checking leads on some wonderful new pieces.”

  “Were you?” Star picked through a colander of herbs in the sink. “You must be getting quite an inventory by now. Soon you’ll open your own shop. You wait.”

  Star liked to consider herself Libby’s mentor. Libby knew she was supposed to be grateful. But there’d have been no inn for the Franconias if she hadn’t kept her father from selling it to developers years earlier, or burning it down in a drunken party or letting it become condemned.

  “How was your weekend?” Libby asked.

  “We were busy, but most guests left yesterday. We had one new one arrive. She’s a diplomatic security agent, in fact. Isn’t that interesting?”

  Libby grabbed a chair and jerked it out from under the round table, sitting down before her knees could go out from under her. She made herself smile. “I don’t believe I’ve ever met a diplomatic security agent. Aren’t they supposed to be overseas?”

  “She came from The Hague. She’s staying for three nights. Isn’t that wild? Having a federal agent here makes Andrew nervous, of course, but I think it’s great.” Star lifted a few dripping sprigs of orange mint from her colander and set them on paper towels. “I’m sure you’ll get a chance to meet her.”

  Maggie Spencer.

  Philip Spencer’s daughter was in Ravenkill.

  Libby fingered a saltshaker in the middle of the table. Her eyelids were heavy, and she felt as if she were stuck in a soupy fog, unable to move or think fast, clearly.

  William Raleigh.

  The DS agent’s presence had to be his doing. Libby pushed away the saltshaker and gazed out the window at the sunshine and shade trees.

  Raleigh had been nipping at her heels for months.

  She had to deal with him. She’d known that, but could never seem to get him out in the open, to a place where she could kill him or win him over or do something to end this dance they’d been doing. She knew who he was. He didn’t know who she was. She had the advantage. How hard could it be?

  Damn hard.

  “I think I’m going to need more mint,” Star said. “Libby, would you mind?”

  She eased to her feet, careful to hide her agitation—another perverse skill she had. “No, of course not.”

  The warm temperatures and the soft breeze in the shade helped restore Libby’s equilibrium. Avoiding the stone paths, she made her way through the lush, clipped grass, remembered doing somersaults in the yard as a little girl, and came to the herb garden. It was Star’s pride and joy, classically arranged and at its peak on the late A
ugust morning. The orange mint was in a separate bed to keep it from spreading.

  Libby closed her eyes and smelled it. She felt her energy return. Her natural sense of hope and optimism.

  Maggie Spencer, William Raleigh.

  Her list of targets.

  She’d rise to whatever challenges her job presented, just as she always did with every hardship she faced.

  Rob headed to the USMS office in the morning because he didn’t know what the hell else he was supposed to do. He could have taken the day off. Then he’d be climbing the damn walls for sure.

  “When did you get back?” Mike Rivera asked, standing over Rob’s desk.

  “Yesterday.”

  “They kick you out, or you left on your own?”

  “On my own.”

  “Finding a dead guy twenty-four hours after you land in the country—” Rivera sighed heavily, shaking his head. “Not good. I read the report. You and that DS agent could have had your heads blown off, too. You’re okay?”

  Rob nodded.

  “The DS agent? Spencer?”

  “We took the same flight to New York.”

  Rivera straightened. “What’s she doing here?”

  “Says she’s taking a break.”

  “Where?”

  “Wouldn’t say. Rented a car and took off. She’s not the most open type.”

  “She gets the Janssen tip. She drags you to this Dutch town where Janssen was hiding, and within a few minutes of your arrival, she spots this friend of hers from the embassy. Next thing, he ends up with a bullet in his head.”

  “Maggie didn’t kill him. She couldn’t have.”

  But Rivera didn’t trust anyone. “You watched her every second?”

  “Yes.”

  “So she decides, in the middle of all this, to fly to New York and take a break? Come on. You don’t believe that. That’s why you came back, isn’t it?”

  “I think she’s following another lead, but I could be wrong.”

  Rob thought of Maggie’s smile and that red hair, the gold-flecked turquoise eyes, and figured the effects of his whirlwind trip were to blame. His head was mushy. He felt like Maggie was two beats ahead of him. But he’d find her.