Heron's Cove Page 14

  He watched as she wiped down the rest of the shelf, which already looked spotless to him. “You keep track of what’s going on in town,” he said.

  “It’s not hard when people tell me things. It’s interesting to know an FBI agent. Two FBI agents, really. Colin Donovan is back. He and Emma are from such different worlds, even if they both are FBI agents.”

  “Same world as I see it.”

  She smiled, blushing. “I hope I’m not being a busybody.”

  “Not at all. They’re your friends. You care about them.”

  “I do,” she said. “I haven’t seen Colin yet. He’s well?”

  Finian was spared answering by the arrival of the dark-haired woman he had met at the convent the other day—Tatiana, the London-based Russian jewelry designer. She looked flushed, as if in a dilemma, but she managed a bright smile at Sister Cecilia. “What beautiful work, and what an adorable shop,” she said in her pronounced Russian-British accent. “I had to stop by and see for myself.”

  Sister Cecelia thanked her but withdrew to the back room when Tatiana gave a tentative look at Finian, as if she might want to talk to a priest. Tatiana watched her, wincing as she turned to Finian. “I went for coffee this morning and someone mentioned the nun who was killed here last month. An awful thing, yes?”

  “Very much so,” Finian said without elaboration.

  Tatiana seemed momentarily embarrassed. “That’s not why I’m here. I don’t want to remind anyone of a painful time.” She motioned with a slender hand in the general direction of the waterfront. “I walked here from my cottage. I’m sketching seabirds for my work. I won’t use all of them, but some. The herons. Perhaps a gull. Do you paint or sketch, Father?”

  “No. In a previous life, I made whiskey.”

  She smiled. “Ah, yes. Aqua vitae. ‘The water of life,’ as they say. And now here you are in Heron’s Cove. We’re both strangers in a strange land, yes?”

  “I have faith that I am where I should be.”

  “I wish I had such faith. I stopped by the Sharpe house but Emma’s not there. I ran into carpenters. No one else. They said she’s gone to Boston. She works there, yes? And Colin Donovan, also?”

  Finian was reluctant to give many details on his FBI agent friends. “Perhaps you should talk to them.”

  “Oh, of course.” Her smile widened. “I’m nosy, yes?”

  Finian smiled back at her. “They’re FBI agents and we’re not.”

  She laughed out loud this time. She took a quick walk around the shop, eyeing the displays of pottery and other handmade goods. Finian wanted to ask her about the Russian yacht but a group of women came in for a drawing class with Sister Cecilia, and Tatiana left quickly. After a few moments of uncertainty, he went outside himself. Was her visit to the sisters’ shop worth reporting to Colin?

  Finian gave an inward groan at his own sense of drama. As he opened his car door, he saw Tatiana walking unhurriedly down the narrow street. She turned toward the waterfront and disappeared from his view.

  A man in a black jacket crossed the street from another shop and quickly dipped out of sight, down the same street as the young Russian.

  Finian stood motionless. Was this the same man who had spoken to him the other night in Rock Point? Was he following Tatiana?

  He shut his car door and walked down to the corner. He hadn’t seen the man’s face, or even the color of his hair.

  He saw no sign of either the Russian designer or the man in the black jacket on the quiet, narrow street. Finian paused, feeling foolish. How many men on the Maine coast wore black jackets? And even if this were the same man who had followed him out from Hurley’s, did his presence in the village of Heron’s Cove mean anything? He could just be waiting for his wife to finish shopping, or be off for a lobster roll at one of the popular hole-in-the-wall restaurants on the waterfront.

  Still, Finian decided he would feel better if he checked on Tatiana. He had only a vague idea where her cottage might be, but there weren’t that many choices.

  And what if he ran into the man in the black jacket and he was, in fact, following her?

  Well, Finian thought, he’d been in a few bar fights back in the day. He could defend himself.

  He could also call 911.

  He returned to his car and drove a little too fast out Ocean Avenue, toward the Sharpe house, slowing as he came to the knot of cottages and shops where he suspected Tatiana was staying. He spotted her approaching a tiny cottage with weathered cedar shingles trimmed in marine-blue. She started up the stairs to a deck that overhung the water, her dark hair shining in the sunlight.

  The man in the black jacket was nowhere in sight.

  The massive luxury yacht, however, was very much in sight. Even in his freewheeling entrepreneurial days, Finian had never imagined owning such a yacht, not that he could ever have afforded one. Since the sailing accident that had claimed his family, he didn’t want to step foot on another boat.

  Interesting that he had taken a parish in a fishing village. Why not in Colorado or Idaho if he’d wanted a temporary assignment at an American church?

  Still uneasy, he continued out past large summer houses and spectacular Atlantic views, and on to Rock Point.

  All was quiet at St. Patrick’s rectory and church.

  He sighed, wishing he had stayed in his office after mass that morning and studied, or gone back to the rectory and read a book. For one, Franny Maroney might have been in a better mood on a Tuesday morning than a Monday morning.

  I might have been in a better mood, he thought, chastened, and as he pulled his BMW into the rectory driveway, he noticed a dark gray truck park on the street in front of the church.

  Mike Donovan climbed out. “Hey, Father,” he said in greeting as he joined Finian on the driveway.

  “Hello, Mike,” Finian said. “And how are you this gorgeous Monday?”

  Mike grinned. “Bored and irritable. You?”

  Finian laughed. “The same, I’m afraid.”

  The eldest Donovan brother cocked his head. “What’s up, Fin? You look a little shaken.”

  “Nothing. Nothing’s up. Thank you for asking.”

  “Nothing usually means something.”

  Finian felt even more ridiculous but he could see that Mike wasn’t going to give up. “I had another encounter with the Russian woman. The one I told you about.”

  “Tatiana Pavlova.”

  “I didn’t know her last name.”

  Mike shoved his truck keys into the pocket of his canvas jacket. “What kind of encounter?”

  “I ran into her at the Sisters of the Joyful Heart’s shop in Heron’s Cove.”

  “And?”

  Finian regretted opening his mouth now. “It’s not worth mentioning.”

  “This Tatiana is attractive, though, right? Just because you’re a priest doesn’t mean you didn’t notice.”

  Finian cleared his throat. “She’s very pretty, yes. Colin must have noticed, too. Of course, she isn’t Emma. There’s only one Emma Sharpe.”

  “Damn good thing,” Mike muttered, but he looked unsatisfied. “Do you want to talk to Colin about this encounter of yours?”

  “‘Encounter’ is the wrong word. It was an innocent conversation.” One Finian now regretted bringing up; the Donovans were a suspicious lot. “Did Emma return to Boston this morning? I forgot to ask Colin.”

  “I don’t know. She stayed in Heron’s Cove. Sleeping on a hard floor. The nun in her.”

  “She’s a complex woman with simple needs.”

  “Not that simple,” Mike said. “And you’re changing the subject. Why was Tatiana Pavlova in the nuns’ shop?”

  “She was curious, she said. Mike, if you had any information about her and the Russian who owns the fancy yacht in Heron’s Cove, would you tell me?”

  “Probably. If I wasn’t told to keep my mouth shut.”

  “You Donovans are all good at confidences?”

  Mike nodded without hesitation. �
��Yep. Wired that way.”

  “I’m a bit on edge today. Miss Pavlova and I had a pleasant, innocuous exchange, and she returned to her cottage. She said she’s sketching birds. I’m sure all is well, and I’m sure you didn’t stop by to listen to me. What can I do for you?”

  “Colin told me he ran into you at Hurley’s this morning before he headed to Boston and you seemed preoccupied. That was before you saw this Russian jewelry designer in Heron’s Cove.” Mike eyed Finian as if debating whether to get out the thumbscrews. “Everything okay, Fin?”

  Finian decided the Donovans didn’t need to worry about him. And he didn’t need them worrying about him. He had little breathing room as it was in Rock Point, where everyone knew everyone else.

  “Yes, everything is fine,” he said. “I admit this church supper is hanging over my head. It’s a first for me. We’re digging new bean holes this year. Have you ever dug a bean hole, Mike?”

  He looked pained. “Many times.”

  Finian grinned at him. “Now why isn’t that a surprise? We’ll need several. I’m told that each must be about a meter deep, lined with rocks. The beans go into them in pots and cook for hours—at least a day.”

  “Nothing like a bean-hole supper, Fin.”

  “Yes. So I’ve heard. This will be my first.”

  “You don’t sound that thrilled,” Mike said, obviously amused.

  “To be honest, I’m not.” Finian pictured cranky Franny Maroney and her blasted coleslaw recipe, but he immediately regretted his uncharitable thoughts. “I don’t want to insult anyone, though. I was going to start on digging bean holes. Would you like to help?”

  Mike gave a nearly imperceptible shudder. “Bean holes. Yeah, sure, Father.”

  “I don’t want to inconvenience you.”

  “Are you kidding? I’ve been planting tulip bulbs and mulching flower beds. Bean holes are right up my alley these days. Got a shovel?”

  “There must be one here somewhere. I’ll go put on work clothes. You look for a shovel.”

  14

  MATT YANKOWSKI STOOD silently at the windows overlooking Boston Harbor in the conference room on the second floor of the discreet brick building that housed his hand-selected team. The harbor was gray in the late-afternoon light. Emma, as tight and tense as she’d been all day, stayed behind at Yank’s request as eight of her colleagues began to file out.

  The intense, ninety-minute meeting had focused on the search for Pete Horner and his Russian colleagues and the investigation into their activities. With Colin safe, no longer operating undercover, Yank had pushed Washington hard for a role for his team.

  Having Dmitri Rusakov up the road in Maine had added weight to Yank’s insistence that HIT, as his team was known, get involved.

  Emma had maintained a neutral posture throughout the meeting, with the hope that none of her fellow agents would guess how uncomfortable she was with their scrutiny. They had just gotten used to the idea that she had been a novice with the Sisters of the Joyful Heart. Now they were getting used to the idea that she knew Dmitri Rusakov. But did his presence in Heron’s Cove mean he had anything to do with Vladimir Bulgov and his illegal arms trafficking?

  Colin’s initial undercover mission to get inside Bulgov’s network predated Yank getting him onto his team in Boston. Not one for close oversight, Colin had nonetheless agreed to have Yank as his contact agent when he went back undercover a month ago to look into anyone trying to pick up the threads of Bulgov’s network.

  Yank had briefed the team on some of the details of Colin’s work the past month. The constant danger. The risks. The vigilance and the need for the days of silence to protect the mission—to stop Pete Horner and to identify and locate his buyer.

  A month in hell.

  As the door shut behind the last agent to exit the room, Emma subtly took in a breath, held it, then let it out, slowly, with control. Her colleagues included experts in everything from big business and taxes to cyber-security and profiling. They were accustomed to going after well-connected, well-resourced individuals whose illegal activities were often transnational in nature.

  When she first arrived in Boston in the spring, Emma had felt as if she would fit right in.

  Now she wasn’t so sure.

  Yank continued to stare out the door windows. He had chosen Boston for HIT because he’d worked there as a young agent and liked the city, and, Emma had come to suspect, because it was close enough to FBI headquarters in Washington but not too close. His wife hadn’t yet moved up from northern Virginia to join him. Yank said she was selling their house but Emma had heard she was in Paris, shopping with her sister. She didn’t ask. Yank didn’t invite that kind of personal question or intimacy, at least not from her.

  She remained seated at the conference table. “What did you tell Colin?”

  “About what? The apples you brought to the office while he was away?”

  “Trying to be funny, Yank?”

  He glanced back at her with a grudging smile. “It doesn’t suit me, does it?”

  “I’d like to know what you told Colin about Dmitri Rusakov, Ivan Alexander and Tatiana Pavlova.”

  “He knows what I know.”

  Emma took note of Yank’s slightly critical tone. “If you have any questions, ask me,” she said tightly.

  He turned from the window. He had on a dark charcoal suit with a red tie but he looked as if he hadn’t slept well. “I haven’t done all the paperwork on making Colin an official member of this unit.”

  “Are you having second thoughts?”

  “You two…” He bit off a sigh and plopped down in a chair across from her. “I warned you he’s independent. Straightforward. Doesn’t like games. He has a sense of humor but you can’t let that fool you. He’s a serious, experienced agent.”

  “I figured out he wasn’t a pushover the day we met.”

  “Right. You wouldn’t want some guy who didn’t want to drown you once in a while, or who couldn’t pull it off.”

  “That’s politically incorrect even for you, Yank.”

  He shrugged, not at all defensive or apologetic. “It’s a metaphor. Not literal. Donovan’s a go-it-alone type with a tight-knit family behind him. He couldn’t do what he does without that foundation.”

  “Which you don’t want me to screw up,” Emma said.

  “You Sharpes live in a big world compared to Rock Point.” Yank placed his elbows on the table, folded his hands and leaned toward her, his gaze unflinching. “Talk to me, Emma. Walk me through this. Twenty years ago, Dmitri Rusakov hires your grandfather to sort out this collection of baubles and perfume bottles and such that turned up in his Moscow house after the fall of Communism. How’d he know to call Wendell Sharpe?”

  “Sharpe Fine Art Recovery was recommended to him.”

  “Who did the recommending?”

  Emma glanced past him at the view of the harbor. “Ivan Alexander.”

  “He was a kid then. How did he know about Sharpe Fine Art Recovery?”

  “Ivan was ambitious and my grandfather has an international reputation in his field.”

  “Art theft and recovery. This collection was a discovery.”

  “It could have been stolen decades ago and hidden in the walls of Dmitri’s house,” Emma said. “He didn’t know anything about it.”

  “Dmitri.” Yank grimaced. “It kills me that you’re on a first-name basis with one of the richest men in the world. One of the richest Russians. I knew he’d been a Sharpe client…” He stopped himself. “Never mind. Had your grandfather had any dealings with Alexander before Rusakov?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll ask him, but he’s not easy to reach right now.”

  “He’s in Dublin?”

  “He’s on a personal retreat. Walking the Irish hills.”

  Yank stared at her as if he couldn’t imagine such a thing. “On his own?”

  “Yes, on his own.”

  “Hell, he’s eighty.”

  “He has his ful
l faculties, and he’s in great shape. Don’t you want to hike in the Irish hills in your eighties?”

  “I don’t want to now. I’ll probably be watching television in my undershorts in my eighties. If something does happen to him, at least you’ll have the consolation of knowing he was doing something he loved. If I keel over at my desk, you’ll know I died miserable.” Yank grinned at her. “Kidding.”

  “It’s been a difficult autumn,” Emma said.

  “Yes, it has. Back to Rusakov. He’s managed to stay out of prison, unlike some of the other Russian tycoons who made their fortunes at the same time. Those were freewheeling days. Optimists, pessimists, opportunists, idealists, scum. Former KGB operatives. They were all at work. Still are. Even a good man has to be touched by that level of chaos.”

  Emma didn’t respond at once. “I had a job to do when I met Dmitri in London four years ago. My only focus was the whereabouts of the collection. My grandfather had briefed me. I reported to him—not to Dmitri.”

  “You were in London a week?”

  “Less than a week. It became clear early on, at least to me, that Renee Rusakov had taken the collection.”

  Yank sat back in his chair. “Messy divorce?”

  “Not really. It wasn’t amicable but it wasn’t messy. Renee clearly wasn’t entitled to the collection.”

  “But Rusakov didn’t do anything about it. Now she’s dead.” Yank drummed his fingers on the table. “As far as we know he doesn’t have any ties to Russian organized crime syndicates. I still don’t like it that he’s had two of my agents on board his damn yacht. This Tatiana Pavlova didn’t tell you he was on his way to Heron’s Cove?”