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  Eddie took the still-hot coffee press and dumped the grounds, then rinsed the glass container in the sink and set it to drain. Finally he said, “A Brit like the one our black-haired friend described was here a week ago, maybe more.”

  Will got very still. “Tell me about him.”

  “He had soup and left.”

  “Were Keira and Simon here?”

  Eddie shook his head. “Not yet. They arrived from the north five days ago on the boat you loaned them. This man was here before then.”

  “Did he ask about them?”

  “No. I’d recall if he did. Given his manner, I’d wager he was a military man. He had a self-control that reminded me of you, Lord Will.” Eddie slopped an overly wet cloth onto the bar. “Not that I know about military men.”

  Will kept his hands steady even as his heartbeat quickened. So much for self-control. He envisioned Myles, arms crossed on his chest as he lay on his back and gazed up at the starlit Afghan sky and said, quite sincerely, he was as comfortable sleeping there, on the rocks in the open, as he’d have been at Buckingham Palace. In the eight years Will had known and trusted him, Myles Fletcher had never shown a hint of a grasping nature. He’d never shown himself to be a man who could betray his country—his mates.

  “What else can you remember?” Will asked, keeping his tone even. “The smallest detail could be significant.”

  “He paid with euros and sat alone, kept to himself. He asked for water—no coffee or alcohol. When he left, he walked down to the harbor, then down the lane. Aidan, Patrick and I took turns following him. He knew it and didn’t care.”

  “Did he stay overnight in the village?”

  “I don’t know where he stayed. We lost him eventually. He brought up Keira’s story about the stone angel when he was in here, but only for a moment, and he wasn’t the first nor the last. It’s been happening all summer.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  A spark of mischief flared in the Irishman’s eyes. “I told him to find a rainbow and follow it to a pot of gold.”

  Will smiled in spite of his tension. Eddie O’Shea enjoyed keeping his pub, but he wasn’t one to suffer fools or intruders gladly. And he liked Keira and Simon. But who didn’t?

  Eddie continued mopping the bar with his wet cloth. “Did we do the right thing after all, Will, in letting our black-haired woman go?”

  “You’re worried about her,” Will said.

  “What if she’s in over her head and a danger to herself? To others? We could have stopped her, Lord Will.” The barman stood back and dropped the cleaning cloth into the sink, then got a dry one and soaked up the excess water on the gleaming bar. “Not without a fight, I’ll wager, one I’m not sure we’d have won. She knows how to put her foot to the right spot on a man, I’ll say that. I could see it when she came in here.” He motioned toward the pegs by the front door. “The way she took off her jacket and hung it…Never mind the rest.”

  “From what I witnessed,” Will said, “I’d guess she’s received training.”

  “Of your sort?”

  He let Eddie’s question slide unanswered.

  “Is that why you let her go?” Eddie’s eyes shone with both amusement and suspicion. “A strapping Brit like yourself, worrying a tiny woman would best you.”

  “She’d just bested an armed, hired killer.”

  “Ah. You wouldn’t stand a chance, would you?”

  Will pictured her at the fire with Keira’s book of folktales and smiled. “I didn’t say that.” He passed a business card that Josie had made up for him in London across the bar. “Call me anytime. For any reason.”

  “And the same, Lord Will. You call me anytime. I’ll do whatever I can to help.” Eddie took Will’s empty mug and set it in the sink. “Who’s the Brit you’re thinking I saw?”

  Will knew he couldn’t answer. A lie, the truth—neither was acceptable, and so he said nothing.

  Eddie seemed to understand the line his question had crossed. “If I see him again?”

  “If you see him again,” Will said carefully, “treat him like a shopkeeper who’s here on holiday.”

  “Or he’ll kill me in my sleep?”

  Josie Goodwin answered from the door. “It won’t matter if you’re asleep,” she said as she unzipped her coat, its style more suited to London than a quiet Irish village. She walked over to the bar, steady if visibly shaken. “I came as soon as I could. I’ll be of more use here than in London should Keira need a hand, and perhaps I can persuade our garda friends to share information. I miss the city already. It’s bloody dark out there.”

  A strongly built, attractive woman in her late thirties, she was as pale as Will had ever seen her. He’d been aware of her presence in the door, but he didn’t know how much she’d overheard. He started to introduce her to Eddie, but the Irishman put up a hand to stop him. “I’ll leave you two to your chat. I can see I won’t be wanting to hear what you have to say.”

  As he retreated, Will felt Josie’s emotions, checked, under control but there. “Josie,” he said, “we don’t know—”

  She cut him off neatly. “Let me just say my piece and get it done. You should go back to London, Will. Leave this mess to the Americans and the Irish to sort out.”

  “You’ve more on our mystery woman?”

  “Her name is Lizzie Rush.” Josie eased onto the tall bar stool next to Will. “She’s one of the hotelier Rushes. She’s in charge of their concierge and excursion services and leads quite an adventurous life.”

  “What’s her connection to Simon?”

  “She was with Norman Estabrook in Montana the day he was arrested. The FBI questioned her but didn’t detain her.”

  “Are she and Estabrook romantically involved?”

  “No. Absolutely not, according to what little I have managed to learn. He liked having attractive, successful people around him. She was one of them.”

  “Does she have a connection to John March?”

  Josie sighed. “I’m still digging.”

  “March would use anyone to get what he wants.”

  “He’s a suffering father right now, Will.”

  “I know. The man’s in an impossible position.”

  “He often is.” Obviously restless, she jumped down from the stool and went around to the other side of the bar, where she helped herself to a glass and a bottle of Midleton Rare Whiskey. “You can’t let your dislike of Director March interfere with your judgment.”

  “It’s mutual dislike, but also impersonal on a certain level since we’ve never met face-to-face. I’m convinced he’s known more about Myles than he’s ever been willing to tell us. He doesn’t believe I can be fully trusted.” Which was more than Will had ever admitted to Josie about his attitude toward the current FBI director and was all he planned to say. “Is Lizzie Rush a rich woman meddling in affairs of no concern to her because she’s bored and has a zest for adventure, or does she have her own quarrel with Norman Estabrook?”

  “She could also be on his side in a peculiar way,” Josie said as she splashed whiskey into her glass, adding without sympathy, “If she’s sticking her nose where it doesn’t belong, she could get it cut off.”

  “Instead of fleeing, she stopped Keira from being killed.”

  “Which by itself means nothing, Will. You know that. What you saw tonight could have been staged, cooked up by her and Murphy to mislead us. This woman could have her own agenda and not give a damn about Keira, Estabrook, Simon or anyone else.”

  There was no one on the planet more clear-eyed or more unlikely to let emotion cloud her judgment than Josie Goodwin. Will recognized how much he’d come to rely on her not just for her efficiency, but as a sounding board. “I suppose theoretically she could have her own plans that could get mucked up if Keira and the people in Boston were killed.”

  “What about Abigail Browning?” Josie asked, taking a swallow of her whiskey even before she set down the bottle. She choked a little and gave her chest
a pound with her fist. “Sorry. I haven’t had a drop of alcohol in months. I was crying over my sorrows too many nights and…” She waved a hand. “Never mind. Perhaps our Lizzie Rush, regardless of why she was here, can help find Detective Browning.”

  Will narrowed his eyes. “You’ve more information?”

  “Not much. I spoke to Simon.” She got a pained look. “It’s not good. There are no witnesses or substantial leads, and so far, there have been no calls for ransom.”

  “But no body, either, I gather.”

  “Correct. No body.” Josie made a face as she swallowed more of her Midleton’s. “You know I don’t care for whiskey, don’t you?”

  Will smiled. “Yes, Josie, I know.”

  She coughed, took a smaller swallow this time. Her eyes, a dark blue, were hard and unforgiving, a contrast to the vulnerability her pale skin suggested.

  A woman of contrasts, Josie Goodwin.

  “You’re a wealth of information, as always,” Will said. “What would I do without you?”

  “Live a lovely life in Scotland, I’ve no doubt.” She returned the whiskey bottle to its place in Eddie’s lineup. “Do you believe Miss Rush could help us find Myles Fletcher, that bloody traitor?”

  “Josie…”

  “It’s a serious, professional question, Will.”

  “We’ve no reliable evidence that he’s alive.”

  Josie polished off her whiskey, giving a final shudder of distaste as she turned back to him. “The barman’s description, Will. It fits.”

  “It fits other British men, too, I’m sure. It isn’t definitive by itself.”

  Josie gave him a long, cool look as she rinsed her glass. “You’re trying to spare me.”

  He attempted a smile. “You? Never.”

  “All right, then. We’ll do this your way. There’s no good answer here, is there? Either Myles Fletcher was a traitor killed two years ago, or he survived and is now a cold-blooded mercenary.”

  Myles Fletcher was a name Will knew Josie didn’t want to utter and certainly wasn’t one he wanted to hear. “I should have worked harder to find him.”

  “We all did everything possible. Everything, Will.”

  “What if he’s not—”

  “Don’t.” Her voice was hoarse, her eyes dark and intense. “Don’t, Will. Please.”

  He acceded to her wish with a reluctant nod and didn’t continue.

  “If Estabrook has hired Myles or allied himself with him in any way, it means he has someone on his payroll who can help him realize any violent impulses he has.” Josie fell silent a moment. “I hope that’s not the case.”

  “I do, too.”

  She didn’t look at Will. “If Myles is alive, I hope he’s lost his memory and has opened a tea shop in Liverpool. If not…” She glanced up, her cheeks less pale now. “I had the chance to smother him to death.”

  “Josie.”

  “All right, then. On we go. I’ll investigate possible connections between Myles and Lizzie Rush, between him and her family.” Josie hesitated, then said, “Perhaps she’s in love with him. Myles does have a way with women.”

  “From her questioning of Michael Murphy, I would say Lizzie doesn’t know him at all—”

  “Which could be what she wants you to think.” Josie came around to the other side of the bar. “I needn’t remind you that Myles is a capable, ruthless killer. If he’s alive, Will, don’t think you can reason with him.”

  “Josie, I’m sorry his name’s come up.”

  But she wasn’t finished. “If you see him, put a bullet in his head. Find a way to do it. He’s a predator. He hovers in the bush, waiting for the right moment, the right prey. Then he springs. I know, Simon. I was his prey once.”

  “He manipulated both of us, in different ways,” Will said softly. “We owe his service, what he once was, an open mind.”

  Josie zipped up her coat, her eyes bitter now as well as hard. “Myles knows how to make people see what they want to see in him.” She went on briskly, before Will could respond. “Interestingly the Rush family doesn’t own a hotel in the U.K. They do, however, own what I understand is a charming hotel in Dublin.”

  “And how is this relevant?” Will asked.

  “Because I reserved a room for you there for tonight. It should be quite lovely. You can see for yourself and let me know. They’re expecting you for a very late arrival.”

  “Do you believe that’s where Lizzie went, or do you know?”

  “An educated guess, and either way, it’s a good place to start. You are going after her, aren’t you?”

  Will thought of Lizzie Rush’s green eyes, black-lashed and bold, yet, he was sure, hiding secrets, fears. But didn’t everyone?

  “Yes,” he said, “I’m going after her.”

  “Excellent. I approve.” At last, a glint of humor. “Give my best to Simon when you see him. And Keira?” Josie asked, more subdued, speaking as if she knew the woman Simon Cahill had fallen for earlier that summer, although the two of them had yet to meet. “She’s all right?”

  Will nodded. “Impatient to be with Simon.”

  “Ah, yes. One can imagine. Well,” she added, “you should leave. Dublin’s over three hundred kilometers, but you’ll manage. You’re accustomed to odd hours, long days—” she gave him a wicked smile “—and longer nights.”

  Will sighed and gave no comment.

  “In any event,” Josie said, “you’ve much to keep you wide-awake and on your toes.”

  “I see that plans have been made and announced, and I have only to comply.”

  “Finally he sees the light.”

  But their cheerfulness was momentary. “What about you, Josie?” Will asked her.

  “I’ve booked a room at a five-star hotel in Kenmare, but perhaps I would be wise not to make the drive over these dark roads after gulping whiskey. Imagine the international row if I’m picked up by the Irish authorities. Much better to work with them discreetly.”

  Eddie O’Shea wandered back in behind his bar, nothing in his demeanor indicating he’d eavesdropped. “My brother Aidan has a room at his farm down the lane,” he said to Josie. “You’d be welcome to stay.”

  Josie smiled, looking genuinely delighted. “A night on an Irish farm. A perfect ending to a difficult day.”

  Chapter 11

  Boston, Massachusetts

  6:25 p.m., EDT

  August 25

  The late afternoon sun beat down on the sidewalk in front of the triple-decker where Bob had lived for the past three years. There was no shade and no breeze. Sweat trickled down his temples and stuck his shirt to the small of his back. The firefighters had put out the fire and torn up and hosed down what they needed to, creating a big mess but saving the building, at least structurally. Abigail’s and Scoop’s back porches were cinders. Her apartment would have to be gutted to the studs. Hard to say yet about the other two places. They’d have to get the insurance people out here.

  At least no one found any other bombs.

  Ever since the ambulance had left with Scoop, bloodied, in rough shape, Bob had made it clear he was in charge of the investigation. He’d gotten through the major briefing with city, state and federal law enforcement personnel held on the street outside the crime scene tape. He had detectives canvassing the neighborhood for witnesses, processing the scene, putting together rudimentary timelines.

  The working theory had dirtbag, or dirtbags, slipping into the backyard of the triple-decker and placing an explosive device under the small gas grill on Abigail’s first-floor porch. Since she and Owen rarely used the grill and, given their busy lives, spent little time sitting out on the porch, the bomb could have been there for a few days, a few hours. It had been detonated by a remote-controlled switching device.

  The bomb in Owen’s car had to have been placed there after he’d arrived on Beacon Hill. Otherwise he’d have blown up when he turned the key leaving Abigail’s apartment that morning.

  According to Fiona,
Bob’s warning had given Scoop a split second to grab her and dive behind the compost bin.

  Saved by dirt and kitchen scraps.

  Only Scoop.

  They’d all done the drills. What happens if police officers are targeted by a series of bombs?

  This, Bob thought. This is what happens.

  He was satisfied that people were doing what they were supposed to, except the idiot who’d thought it would be okay to tell his ex-wife, the mother of their three daughters, where to find him.

  Tight-lipped and drawn, Theresa O’Reilly glared at him under the hot sun. “Never again.” She pointed a blunt-nailed finger at him in that way she had. “Do you understand me? Never again.”

  Bob let her anger bounce off him. Getting into it with her never worked. “Fiona doesn’t want to go home with you and the girls.”

  “I don’t care what she wants. She’s not going back to her apartment.”

  “Whoa. I’m with you, Ter.”

  Without consulting either parent, their eldest daughter had decided to sublet an apartment for the summer with three of her musician friends. The bomb squad had been through their place in Brighton but hadn’t found anything. They’d also checked the South Boston waterfront apartment where his sister, Eileen, Keira’s mother, was house-sitting after giving up her crazy life in the woods. She’d left Bob a message on his cell phone saying she was praying for everyone’s safety. That was good. He’d surprised himself by saying a prayer himself.

  For Abigail, he thought. For her safe return.

  Theresa’s eyes filled with tears. “I’m sorry.” She was shaking, her teeth chattering. “It’s awful. This whole thing.”

  Bob felt terrible. “Yeah. I know. I’m sorry, too.”

  She was chief of operations at a high-tech firm in suburban Lexington. They’d met when he was a patrol officer and she was an office temp with big dreams. They’d stuck together until Jayne, their youngest, was four. That was seven years ago. He’d tried marriage again two years later, for about three seconds. Theresa hadn’t remarried, but she had a boyfriend. Another executive. She’d sworn off cops after Bob.