The Mist

Chapter 22

Boston, Massachusetts

7:15 p.m., EDT

August 26

Fiona looked gaunt and stressed but also relieved to be back in her element. Bob watched as she and her friends set up in the bar of the Rush-owned boutique hotel on Charles Street. As far as he could tell, “boutique” meant small and expensive. He’d teased his daughter that he thought it meant a place that sold cute clothes, but she wasn’t ready to be teased. Play music, yes. Music had been her escape as well as her passion since she’d first crawled up onto a piano stool as a tot.

Bob had peeled himself away from the crime scene up on Beacon, but it was in good hands. He needed to be here, nursing a glass of water at this same table where a killer had sat across from his daughter. Lucas Jones and Tom Yarborough had questioned Fiona thoroughly. Afterward, Lucas had told Bob, “I should have asked her when she’d last talked to Abigail,” and Yarborough had told him, “She should have told us about seeing Abigail,” which summed up the differences between the two detectives. Bob had felt their suspicion drift over him like a living thing. Yarborough had even said out loud that he thought Bob was holding back on them.

Which he was. He’d kept most of his chat with Lord Davenport to himself. While not a rule-breaker by nature or conviction, Bob had learned to rely on his instincts when it came to bending the rules to get things done. Right now, they had a mess on their hands, with no trace of Abigail or word-a single crumb of hope-from her kidnappers.

He had to stop himself from picturing her and Owen in their small backyard, teasing Scoop about his garden and compost pile. For seven years, Abigail had focused on her work and finding her husband’s killer, living her life, a part of it always on hold. Then last summer, she and Owen fell for each other. They had some things to work out-houses, families, kids, careers-but they were the real thing, good together.

Now this.

Fiona’s friends were all as young as she was, nervous about the murder and the fire but determined to play, to be there for her. “Can you guys sing ‘Johnny, I Hardly Knew You’?” Bob called to them. “I used to sing that one as a kid.”

“Sing it with us, Dad,” Fiona said, her cheeks pinker now, even if only from the exertion of setting up.

Fiona had been after him to sing with her band since she’d discovered he had an okay voice. He hadn’t hid it from her. He just wasn’t that much for singing. He let them get through a few numbers on their own, then got up and sang with them. The upscale crowd seemed to enjoy themselves, like he was authentic or something-the Boston Irish cop singing an Irish tune.

When the band took a break, Fiona eased back toward him. “I’m sorry for all this, Dad.”

“I’m putting a detail on you. Deal with it.”

She nodded, not meek or acquiescent. Accepting. As if she knew he was making sense.

Relieved, Bob checked out one of the brochures she’d left on the table when she’d made her mad dash up Beacon Street, after her visit from Myles Fletcher. He hoped by their December trip things would be quieter in their lives, back to normal. They’d been magnets for trouble lately. Theresa was right, he thought. When Fiona was six, he’d had more control. His sister had told him he had to let his daughters grow up. Like he had any choice?

He noticed the brochure was of the Rush hotel in Dublin. “My grandmother used to make these little mince pies at Christmas. Melt in your mouth.” He smiled at his daughter, probably his first real smile since the bomb had gone off yesterday afternoon. “Maybe they’ll serve them at tea in Dublin.”

“The Rush hotel there serves a Christmas Eve tea,” Fiona said eagerly.

Great, he thought.

“It’s within walking distance of Brown Thomas.”

“What’s that?”

“An upscale department store on Grafton Street.”

“You’ve been memorizing maps of Dublin?”

She blushed. “You only live once, Dad.”

He admired her resiliency but knew she had to process the ordeal of the past two days. And it wasn’t over. They didn’t have Abigail. Scoop was in shreds in the hospital but would be okay. Keira was under police protection in Ireland. March’s wife in D.C. Bob’s own family here in Boston.

The bad guys were unidentified and at large.

“Have you identified the man who…” Fiona lost the color that had started back in her cheeks.

Bob understood what she was asking. “We’re still working on a name.”

“I saw the scratch on his arm, Dad. He helped kidnap Abigail, didn’t he?” Fiona flinched as if she’d been struck. “Sorry. Lucas and Detective Yarborough said I shouldn’t say that out loud.”

“It’s okay, kid.”

“What if he left her tied up somewhere?”

“He didn’t work alone. Almost certainly.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t say anything about seeing her here.”

“Abigail didn’t say anything, either, Fi. Whatever she was worried about, she probably didn’t think it was that big a deal-nothing to make someone set a bomb on her porch.”

But had Abigail come here specifically to tell his daughter to back off playing at the hotel?

If so, why?

He had about a million questions whose answers he suspected involved Lizzie Rush. She’d come to Jamaica Plain the afternoon before Abigail’s evening visit here to the Whitcomb and Morrigan’s. The next day, Lizzie Rush and Keira had called from Ireland about the bomb.

“If the man who was killed helped kidnap Abigail,” Fiona said thoughtfully, dropping into a chair opposite Bob, “why did the Brit kill him? If he’s a bad guy, too?”

“We can sit here and tick off all the possibilities. They had a spat. The Brit decided the other guy was reckless. The Brit got greedy and wanted the other guy’s cut of whatever they’re getting paid.”

“Or he didn’t kill him.”

“My point is, we don’t know. That’s why we keep plugging away at the facts and evidence.”

“Simon’s friend Will must-”

“Do you know ‘Whiskey in the Jar?’”

Fiona rolled her eyes in a way-not a bad way-that reminded him of her mother. “Of course, Dad. You’ve heard me play it a hundred times.”

“I’ve never sung it with you.”

But she wasn’t giving up. “The Brit-Fletcher-could have killed that man in self-defense, couldn’t he?”

“Yes. Whatever happened, Fi, you didn’t cause it.”

“I’m in the middle of it.”

“That’s ending now.”

For once, she didn’t argue. “How’s Keira?”

“I only talked to her a few minutes before you called me. She’s no happier about being under police protection than you are. She knows it has to be done. Simon has to concentrate on doing his job.”

“Scoop…it was hard to see him this morning.”

“You were brave to go to the hospital on your own like that. He’s doing better. He’ll make it.” Bob tried to soften his voice, but heart-to-heart talks with his daughter-with anyone-made him squirm. “Fi, Scoop’s a good guy. The best. But he’s a lot older than you. In another five years, maybe it won’t seem like so much, but right now-you should stick with guys closer to your own age. These losers here. The fiddle player. He’s not bad, right?”

She made a face. “Dad, Scoop’s just a friend.”

“Yeah? What about the fiddle player?”

“Him, too. Besides, Scoop’s got a thing for Keira.”

“You see too much. Play your music.”

She returned to her friends on the small stage and picked up her harp. They had a half-dozen different instruments among the three of them and would switch off depending on the number. They all could sing.

Bob walked up to the lobby to Lizzie Rush’s cousin Jeremiah at the reception desk. Tom Yarborough and Lucas Jones had already interviewed him and said he was smart, clever and creative. Too creative, Yarborough had said, convinced the kid knew more than he was admitting. He wasn’t lying, just parsing his answers-which Yarborough always took as a challenge.

“Talk to me about Abigail Browning,” Bob said to the young Rush.

He scooped a few envelopes to stack. “She was here last week and again two nights ago.”

“She? Not they?”

“Correct. She was alone both times.”

“Irish music night?”

“Every night is Irish music night, but her first visit was in the afternoon. She had tea.”

“Formal tea or like a tea bag hanging out of a cup?”

“Something in between.”

“What about your cousin?”

“My cousin?”

Playing dumb. “Lizzie. The one who just found a dead guy up the street.”

Jeremiah maintained his composure. “She’s often in Boston. Our hotel offices are here.”

“Right. So how much has she been in town since June?”

“On and off. Not so much in July. Almost constantly in August. She was working with our concierge services on new excursions. That’s her area of expertise. But she spent time on her own.”

“Spying on Abigail?”

He paled a little and gave up on his stack of envelopes. “I didn’t say that.”

“Okay, so back to Abigail. How did you recognize her?”

“Garrisons have stayed here. They book rooms at the hotel for their annual meeting and various functions for the Dorothy Garrison Foundation and Fast Rescue. Abigail’s been here for those, but she’s also John March’s daughter.” Jeremiah stopped himself, as if he knew he’d gone too far.

Bob tilted his head back. There was something about the way Jeremiah had said March’s name. “You know Director March?”

“Not me. Not personally.”

“But you’ve seen him,” Bob said, getting now what Yarborough meant about dealing with Jeremiah Rush. If all the Rushes were like him, Yarborough would go crazy. “When?”

“He comes here once a year. It’s a long-standing tradition.”

“What, he got married at the Whitcomb or something? He and his wife have their anniversary dinner here every year?”

“No.” The kid looked as if he wished he’d kept his mouth shut. “He has a drink at Morrigan’s.”

“He comes alone?”

“Yes, always.”

“When?”

“Late August, so around now.”

“Whoa. How long has this been going on?”

Jeremiah glanced at his desk. “I should get back to work. Reporters have been calling-”

“They’ll keep calling, don’t worry. So, how long?”

“I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“Well, you did. How long, Mr. Rush?”

The kid licked his lips. “At least thirty years. Since before I was born.”

Thirty years ago, March was a BPD detective, and Bob was a twenty-year-old kid in South Boston, the son of a cop who wanted nothing more than to be a homicide detective. “What’s this tradition about?”

“I don’t know for a fact, but whatever it’s about, it’s always struck me as a private matter.”

“Something to do with Lizzie or her dad?”

Jeremiah rubbed a smudge on his desk.

“You have an idea,” Bob said, no intention of backing off.

“An idea,” he said, “isn’t fact.”

“Do you Rushes ever tell the whole story about anything?”

“Fiona’s excited about her trip to Ireland,” Jeremiah said with a fake smile. “My dad wants to invite her and her party to something special at our hotel there-depending on what she wants to do.”

“Shop, listen to music and have high tea. She talk to Lizzie about Ireland?”

“Some. Maybe. I don’t know.”

“When I was a kid, your pub downstairs was this WASP bastion. When did you decide to convert it to an Irish pub and call it Morrigan’s?”

Jeremiah looked as if he wanted to melt into the woodwork. He gave up on the smudge. “It was after Lizzie’s mother died. Her name was Morrigan.”

“And what happened to her?”

This time, the kid didn’t flinch. He seemed to know Bob had him now and he might as well give up the rest. “She tripped on a cobblestone in Dublin.”

“Dublin,” Bob said.

“It was an accident,” Jeremiah Rush said.

Before Bob could drag the rest out of the kid, syllable by syllable if necessary, John March walked into the lobby, surrounded by FBI agents.

His teeth clenched, Bob kept his eyes on the young Rush. “You have a quiet room where Director March and I can talk?”

“Yes. The police watching your daughter-”

“Aren’t moving. The rate things are going, people will like having a police presence. Won’t hurt business.”

“We all just want Fiona and her friends to be safe.”

Jeremiah Rush seemed perfectly sincere. He pointed to the stairs that curved up to a balconied second floor. “Please feel free to use the Frost Room.”

“Named after a relative or the weather?”

“The poet.”

While March stood back, not saying a word, Bob suggested the FBI director’s entourage go up and sweep for bombs, bugs, spies, God knew what. He took the half flight of stairs down to Fiona and told her and the officers on her detail where he’d be. He said on the mezzanine level with Director March. He didn’t say he’d be prying the truth out of an old friend accustomed to keeping his mouth shut.

He returned to the lobby level, and he and March headed up to the elegant, wood-paneled Frost Room. Most of its furnishings looked as if they’d been carted up from the old bar. Musty books on shelves, dark oil paintings of dour men, pewter Paul Revere could have made. Somehow, the place managed not to be stuffy. But Bob didn’t want to try to figure out the Rushes and their approach to hotel decorating.

He turned to his old friend, standing over by a coat of arms. “Ever think you’d be a knight in shining armor?”

March shook his head. “No.”

“Me, neither,” Bob sighed. “You haven’t been straight with me, John.”

“I’ve told you what I know.”

“Nah. That’s never the case with you. You’ve told me what you thought was relevant. You haven’t asked too much about Will Davenport. Our Brit. You know him.”

It wasn’t a question, but March said, “I know that he and Simon are friends, but Davenport and I have never met.”

A careful answer. “He’s a lord. Son of a British noble-a marquess or something. Sounds like it should be a woman, doesn’t it?”

March gave him the barest flicker of a smile, his dark eyes racked with emotional pain. “Bob, whatever I can do to find Abigail-whatever you think I can tell you-just say it.”

“We’re both on edge,” Bob said with some sympathy. “Can Davenport find Abigail?”

“He’ll do what he can to help. For her sake, and for Simon’s.”

“Not for yours,” Bob said.

The FBI director kept his gaze steady. “No. I suspect he believes I withheld-personally withheld-information that ended in tragedy for his men.”

“What do you believe about him?”

“The same.”

“The other Brit?”

“I don’t know who he is.”

“Cagey answer, John. The fine print reads: you don’t know but you have an idea.”

“My speculation won’t help you.”

March abandoned the armor and walked over to a wall of books. Several were collections of Robert Frost poetry. Bob noticed that the FBI director’s suit was expensive and neatly pressed, but the man inside it seemed to shrink into its folds.

“There are days I wish I’d become a poet,” March said, turning away from the shelves. “You, Bob?”

“Nope. I like being a cop and asking tough questions. What do you know about Lizzie Rush?”

“We’re putting the entire Rush family under FBI protection.”

It was an indirect answer, yet filled with meaning. Bob saw it now. “How long has she been an informant for you?”

“I didn’t know it was her until today.”

“Because you didn’t want to know. How long?”

“A year.”

Bob gave a low whistle. “Anonymous?”

“She’s good, and she didn’t want to be found out. She created a story…persuaded me that pursuing her identity would put her at increased risk. Her help was critical but not asked for.”

“Regular?”

“Intermittent. I thought she was a professional.”

“Just not one of yours.”

“I doubt we’d know about her now if she hadn’t interceded with Keira and warned you yesterday.”

“Abigail checked into Estabrook’s Boston connections. She didn’t like his threat against you and Simon.” And Simon’s relationship with her father had thrown her for a loop, even if she was trying to be big about it. Bob wasn’t going there. March knew. “Lizzie Rush isn’t here.”

“I don’t know where she went. She called me after she and your daughter-”

“Did you ask her where she was going, what her plan was?” Bob sighed, knowing the answer. “You people give me a headache. I’m going to find your daughter, John. I want to know why that thug who’s now dead up on Beacon Street grabbed her instead of letting her get blown up. If your relationship with the Rush family has anything to do with what’s going on, you need to tell me about it.”

March ignored him. “Keep me informed.”

“Go back to Washington. Stay out of my investigation.”

“Get some rest, Bob. Where did you sleep last night?”

“Keira’s apartment.”

“Have you heard from her?”

“Yeah, sure. A little Irish fairy flew in my window last night and whispered in my ear.”

March didn’t so much as crack a smile.

Bob pointed a finger at him. “You keep too many secrets.”

“Part of the job.”

“Not all of them.”

Bob kissed Fiona goodbye and left the Whitcomb as Theresa was arriving. She refused even to look at him, but he didn’t care. She and the girls-all three daughters-were going back to her house in Lexington and staying there, under police protection, until they all had a better fix on what was going on. The rest didn’t matter. Let Theresa blame him.

He helped himself to a handful of smoke-flavored nuts on his way out and went back to the hospital. Alone. No detail. No Yarborough with the suspicious looks.

Scoop still had his morphine clicker, but he seemed more alert.

“Your black-haired woman is named Lizzie Rush,” Bob said. “While you were pulling weeds and talking compost, did Abigail mention her?”

Scoop thought a moment. “No.”

“Fiona tell you about playing Irish music at the Rush hotel on Charles-the Whitcomb, Morrigan’s Bar?”

“Yeah. Never occurred to me it was dangerous.”

“No reason it should have. Why didn’t I know? I could have gone to hear them play. I’m busy, but I’m not a total jerk. I like to keep track of what my kids are doing. Support them.”

Scoop’s puffy eyes narrowed. “You okay, Bob?”

“Yeah, sure. I just need to do something about my life. Same old, same old. Nothing to worry about. You just focus on getting better.”

But Scoop was tuned in to people, and he said, “Fiona didn’t mean to leave you out. She says she normally doesn’t like family in the audience.”

“Scoop, forget it. It’s okay.” Bob felt lousy for letting a guy in stitches, on morphine, see him crack, even a little. “Did Abigail say anything to you about Fiona, Morrigan’s, the Rushes?”

“Not a word. Does she know, even? Fiona tells me things she doesn’t tell you two.”

“No kidding. Yeah, she knows.”

“Abigail was onto something and not talking.”

Bob grunted. “What else is new?”

“I can tell…Bob. Hell. What’s going on?” Scoop shifted position, which seemed to be a major effort. “Let me out of here.”

“The doctors’ll spring you as soon as you can walk without spilling blood all over the floor. Until then-”

But Scoop had already drifted off. Bob sat there, watching him sleep. He was used to bouncing ideas off Scoop and Abigail, and now he didn’t have either one of them.

Before he could get too pathetic, he drove to BPD headquarters in Roxbury. He’d pull himself together and work the investigations, see what his detectives had on Abigail, the bombs, the dead guy. The task force was set up in a conference room, with maps, computers, charts, timelines.

Nobody talked to him. He must have had that look.

He got Tom Yarborough over in a corner next to a table of stale coffee. “Don’t start on me,” Bob said. “Just listen. I need you to work on Norman Estabrook’s Boston connections.”

“The Rush family?”

Bob sighed. The guy was always a step ahead. “You’ve already started?”

“Just a toe in the water. I wonder what’d happen if we typed Harlan Rush into the system. He’s Lizzie Rush’s father. He’s a reprobate gambler in Las Vegas-except when he’s not.”

“Think the feds would storm the building if we get too close to him?”

“Maybe not the FBI.”

CIA. Terrific. More Washington types meddling in his investigation. “We’d get a visit by humorless spooks with big nasty handcuffs?”

“Cop or no cop, Lieutenant, I don’t want to piss off this guy. Harlan Rush is a player. He’s still in the game.”

Harlan’s daughter, Lizzie, was obviously a chip off the old block. “You’ve talked to him,” Bob said.

Yarborough nodded.

“Good work.”

“I’m not sure it gets us any closer to Abigail.”