The Whisper

"I figured he'd show up," Bob muttered next to Scoop.

In his late thirties, Acosta was known as one of the better-looking detectives in the department with his dark hair, dark eyes and what Abigail, an otherwise hard-driving, sensible woman, had tried to explain to both Bob and Scoop was a crooked, sexy smile. She'd never had any interest in Acosta, she'd said. She was just explaining.

That was last spring, when Frank Acosta had come to the attention of internal affairs for sexual indiscretions. He had treaded the line but hadn't crossed it, and he'd been warned to clean up his act. But he was no fan of internal affairs.

He was clearly emotional as he inserted himself between Sophie and her car. "You're the archaeologist who found Cliff?" He choked out the words. "What happened? I just saw him yesterday afternoon. We had coffee. He was fine."

"Hold on, Frank," Bob called to him.

Acosta pretended not to hear him. "Then you show up, and now he's dead."

"I saw him this morning," Sophie said softly, "and he was fine then, too. I'm so sorry. I can see he was--"

"We worked together for two years. I've known him since I was a rookie." Acosta glared at Rafferty's house as if somehow it had betrayed him. He was grim, covering his grief with anger and aggression "I hear you're just in from Ireland. You're an expert in Celtic Iron Age art."

"That's right."

"You can recognize real artifacts from fakes?"

Scoop resisted any urge to jump in. Acosta was deliberately trying to catch Sophie off guard. "It depends," she said, cool and controlled--more the academic at work than someone who'd just walked in on her first hanging victim. "What kind of artifacts are we talking about?"

"I don't know. Hypothetical artifacts. Celtic, say."

"'Celtic' is a general term. Even scholars argue about its meaning. Celtic can describe an Iron Age brooch from France, or an Early Medieval Christian chalice from Ireland--or a shawl in a Harvard Square gift shop."

It was just the sort of response that Acosta would take as smart-ass. He inhaled sharply, and Scoop found himself moving toward Sophie. Bob stayed back and watched, undoubtedly missing nothing.

Acosta didn't let up. "Let's say we're talking about hypothetical Irish Celtic Iron Age artifacts. Would you know if they were authentic?"

"It depends," she said, guarded. "I certainly can recognize an authentic Celtic design, but unprovenanced pieces can be difficult to date with any certainty. It's problematic when archaeological evidence has been moved from its original site--whether it happened a hundred years ago or a few months ago."

"Same in our line of work," Acosta said, less combative.

Bob unwrapped a stick of gum. "What's going on, Frank?"

Acosta kept his gaze on Sophie as he answered. "We discovered missing inventory in the Augustine showroom--you know Cliff worked security there until he officially retired three weeks ago. We brought in a kid last week who worked there part-time before Augustine's arrest. He said he saw gold Celtic artifacts in the climate-controlled vault. They're not there now. No record of them. Nothing."

"How did he know these pieces were Celtic?" Sophie asked.

Acosta made a spiral motion with one finger. "The swirls."

She nodded. "The curvilinear motif is a signature feature of Celtic design--spirals, circles, knots, tendrils, the play of symmetry and asymmetry. It's a truly great artistic legacy. Do you have photographs of these pieces? A specific description, their provenance--"

"I just got this kid's word. They weren't logged in properly. He saw them in late May--well before anyone knew Augustine wasn't just a respected art dealer--and didn't think about them again until we went through the vault with him. Charlotte Augustine says she never saw them and knows nothing about them."

Sophie was very still, pale and visibly shaken but no longer shivering. "Does this kid know when these pieces first came into the Augustines' possession?"

"No idea. Strange, though. Here's this kid pointing out missing inventory, and now here you are, an expert in Celtic archaeology fresh from Ireland." Acosta pointed up to the second floor of the house. "And here's Cliff dead."

She stared at him a moment, as if debating how to respond, then turned to Bob. "Am I still free to leave?"

"Hold on," Acosta said, obviously ready to jump on Bob if he interfered. "How do we know you're not a collector who'll do anything to get your hands on Celtic artifacts? How do we know you're not representing a collector--someone who wants the real thing and doesn't care about legal niceties?"

Sophie tilted her head back. "Are you asking me?"

Acosta acted as if he didn't hear her. "How do we know you didn't sneak over here this morning, kill Cliff and stage the scene?"

"I gave the investigating detectives the paper he handed to me this morning with his address--"

"He could have given it to you last night when you stopped by the Carlisle house. Yeah. I can see you're surprised. Cliff e-mailed me after you left." Acosta crossed his arms on his chest, staying between Sophie and her car. He looked hot, irritated. "How would you be able to tell our hypothetical Celtic Iron Age artifacts weren't something you could pick up at Pier 1 or a Celtic revival fair?"

"As I said, by various means."

"Would you bring in an expert like yourself?"

"I wouldn't. I'm not a dealer or a collector--"

"Ever advise dealers or collectors?"

She shook her head. "No."

"Friends?"

"No."

"Anyone dealing in stolen or illegally obtained artifacts would have to know what to look for, that it's valuable, who to sell to. Are authentic Celtic Iron Age gold artifacts in high demand?"

"It wouldn't matter if they're considered national treasure--"

"Forget that part."

"I can't give you a definitive answer. It's not my area of expertise."

Acosta wasn't ready to quit, and Bob, as a senior officer, wasn't ready to shut him up. Neither was Sophie, who could have walked away. Scoop wasn't sure why she didn't. He suspected it had to do with whatever she was holding back.

His dark eyes steady on her, Acosta kept going. "Did you slip something out of a dig to make a profit, then get cold feet when Augustine turned up as a killer?"

"No, I did not," Sophie said.

"Did you come here to cover your tracks and keep Cliff from turning you in?"

"I came here because he invited me."

"Percy Carlisle did business with the Augustines. His wife worked at a New York auction house up until recently. They both know how to avoid getting mixed up in buying stolen works, fakes, stuff that's not legally on the market." Acosta paused, studying Sophie, who didn't appear to be letting his aggressive, suspicious attitude get to her. "How well do you know the Carlisles?"

"Not well," she said. "I should go. I'm sorry for your loss, Detective."

Scoop tried to tune into her nonverbal cues, the way she held herself, the set of her jaw, the tension in her shoulders--any nuance, any hint, that would tell him what she was thinking. She seemed unaware of his scrutiny, her attention on Frank Acosta. When he didn't respond, she headed around him to her car. He didn't stop her.

Scoop walked past Acosta and out to the street as Sophie yanked open the little driver's side door. "I haven't lied to you," she said without looking at him.

"You just haven't told me everything. Where are you headed?"

"I'm checking in at the offices of the Boston-Cork conference. They're on--"

"I know where they are. I'll talk to you later. Stick to your work, Sophie. Leave Rafferty's death to us."

"I intend to," she said, sliding in behind the wheel.

In two seconds, she was gone, and Acosta stuck a finger in Scoop's face. "That woman is trouble. She didn't come back to Boston just to go job-hunting. She's up to something. Mark my words."

"I'm sorry about Cliff," Scoop said. "I know you two were friends."

"Spare me, Wisdom. You're the biggest son of a bitch in the department. If Cliff screwed up, you'd have hanged him yourself."

12

Sophie jumped at the blare of a siren, then at a barking dog as she fed the meter where she'd parked a half block up from the Carlisle house. Her fingers were cold, despite temperatures near seventy degrees, but she knew it was nerves. She quickly talked herself out of ringing Helen Carlisle's doorbell. The police were there. No need to risk prompting more questions about her own behavior. Instead she decided to head straight to the Back Bay offices of the Boston-Cork folklore conference, just a few blocks away.

As she headed down the busy street, she checked her iPhone and saw that Tim O'Donovan had tried her several times. She called him back in Ireland. Before she could get out a greeting, he said, "Two Brits were here asking questions about last year. What's going on, Sophie?"

"Go hide, Tim."

"I'm not one for hiding."

She was aware of cars crowding the busy street, car doors shutting, a young woman--obviously a student--walking four small dogs, panting as they strained on their leashes. It was a gorgeous early autumn day. She noticed a touch of red and bright orange in the leaves of a shade tree, even as she fought back images of walking into Cliff Rafferty's apartment--of his body hanging from the beam, of Scoop's dark eyes as he'd turned to her.

Tim broke into her thoughts. "Sophie? What's wrong?"

"You saw me with Percy Carlisle the other night, right?"

"I've not met him myself, but I know who you're talking about."

"He told me he'd hired a retired police officer--Cliff Rafferty--as a sort of security guard or advisor. I'm not sure exactly what his job description was."

"He's been fired?"

"No--no, it's not that. I'll find a photo of him and e-mail it to you. Tell me if you've ever seen him before, if he came around asking about me, or if you saw him at the pier or in town."

"You mean last year," Tim said.

"Anytime, anywhere."

"Sophie, what's happened?"

She stepped out of the way of three men in suits who didn't seem to notice her at all. She hoped that meant she didn't look as if she'd just come from a murder scene--didn't look shaken and sick, worried about what Detective Acosta had told her about missing Celtic artifacts.

As objectively and succinctly as she could, she told Tim about finding Rafferty. "I don't believe it was a suicide. I don't think the police do, either. There's no way to know at this point if his death's connected to what happened to me--"

"No, Sophie. Don't. Not with me. You believe this police officer's death is connected to what you went through on that island."

She didn't argue with him. "Are the two Brits who came to see you friends of Will Davenport? When I saw Colm Dermott last week, he told me that Lord Davenport helped with the investigation into Keira Sullivan's ordeal on the Beara. He played a role in Jay Augustine's arrest."

"I'm having a drink with a friend in the guards and will see what he can tell me."

Will Davenport was also romantically involved with Lizzie Rush, who had alerted her cousin Jeremiah that Sophie was on her way back to Boston. "Be careful, won't you?"

"Ah, that's funny," Tim said. "Sophie Malone telling me to be careful."

She appreciated his humor but noticed her hands were shaking. "I don't want you to suffer for something you had nothing to do with."

"I had everything to do with what happened to you on that island," he said, serious again. "I left you there."

"There's no point rehashing the past."

"I trust you, Sophie, but if you're hiding anything at all, I'd give it up now."

"I might have an unpaid Irish speeding ticket. Not that the guards are known for handing out speeding tickets."

Tim sighed. "Sophie."

She came to the ivy-covered converted town house where the conference offices were located. "It's my turn to try to inject a note of humor into a grim day."

"Go for a Guinness, then."

"I'm dropping in on the Irish folklore conference offices."

"Ask if they need fishermen musicians. Ah, Sophie. What a day. Be well. This police officer's gone to God."

"I suspect that was the idea," she said.

"Does your family know any of this?"

"No, Tim, they know nothing. I prefer to keep it that way."

"I would, too," he said as he disconnected.

Sophie mounted the steps to a polished oak door and announced herself through an intercom system. A buzzer unlocked the door, and she went into a small entry and up two flights of narrow stairs to the third floor, where she introduced herself to a heavyset, middle-aged woman, who rose from behind a glass-topped desk.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Sophie. I'm Eileen Sullivan. I'm Keira's mother." She had her daughter's blue eyes and fair coloring, and her hair was cut very short, her clothes plain and loose-fitting. "I just spoke to my brother. Bob O'Reilly."

"Then you know--"

"Yes, he told me what happened this morning. It must be a terrible shock for you. Can I get you anything?"

Sophie shook her head. "I just wanted to stop in and introduce myself."

"I'm the only one here at the moment. Colm's in Ireland, but I assume you know that. We're excited to have you organizing a panel for the conference." Eileen frowned, obviously concerned. "What about a cup of tea and a bite to eat?"

Between waiting for the detectives and going through the questioning, it was well past lunchtime, but Sophie didn't feel hungry. The thought of food nauseated her.

"At least tea," Eileen said.

Sophie relented with a smile. "That'd be lovely."

Eileen went down the hall, and Sophie sank onto a cushioned chair in a corner, next to a table piled with books on Ireland. A poster of the upcoming conference was on the wall. Keira Sullivan had clearly done the watercolor illustration of an Irish cottage, with sheep and a stone circle in the background. It was beautifully done, cheerful and inviting. Sophie picked up a book of photographs of Ireland and found one of Kenmare. She pretended she was there, walking its pretty streets with nothing more pressing on her mind than which restaurant to choose for dinner.

As if her life wasn't screwed up enough, her brother, the FBI agent, texted her: All is calm, all is bright in Boston?

What would she tell him? Dear Damian, I just found a dead police officer?

She texted him a vague answer. I'll call you later.

Let him find out on his own about her morning. She didn't want to be the one to tell him.

Eileen Sullivan returned with a mug and one-cup teapot on a small tray. "I wasn't sure if you took cream and sugar, but I can go back for them."

"This is great, thanks."

She smiled, setting the tray on the side table. "You must be tempted to jump on the next flight back to Ireland."

"I am," Sophie said truthfully. She thought of Scoop and his intensity and focus when he'd realized they'd walked into a potentially dangerous situation. Running back to Ireland would mean leaving him behind, and she didn't want to do that. Finding Cliff Rafferty together had forged a bond between them--she couldn't explain it. Besides, she'd only make him more suspicious if she left. She smiled back at Eileen. "Thanks for the tea. I'm thrilled to be involved in the conference."

"Everyone's eager to see what you come up with. I know very little about pre-Christian Ireland, but I'm fascinated by the various ways the early church incorporated pagan traditions." Eileen stood up straight, her concern unabated. "You're pale, and for good reason. You're not a law enforcement officer trained to walk in on the type of scene you just left. Is there someone I can call for you? Do you have any friends in town?"

Sophie poured the steaming tea into the pottery mug. "I'm just getting my bearings. The tea will help." She noticed it was Irish Breakfast as she curled her stiff fingers around the very warm mug. "Thank you."

Not looking particularly reassured, Eileen returned to her desk. This was a woman, Sophie knew, who had left behind her life as she'd known it to become a religious ascetic in a cabin she'd built herself deep in the New Hampshire woods. Jay Augustine had come close to killing her and Keira there. He hadn't counted on the two women being able to defend themselves against him.

Eileen eyed Sophie for a moment. "I can see you're preoccupied," she said with understanding. "You're trying to make sense of Cliff's death. Bob would just say to leave the investigation to the detectives, as if that solves everything."

Sophie managed a smile. "He already did say that." She drank some of her tea. "You knew Cliff Rafferty?"

"Yes. Yes, I knew him. He started out in the police department a year or two after my brother. I was still living in Boston. Keira was just a baby, so this goes back a few years. We weren't close--Cliff, Bob and I. I ran into Cliff earlier this summer, before he retired. His death..." Eileen stared up at the poster of the conference as if to draw solace from the scene, just as Sophie had. "I'd hoped the violence had finally ended."

Eileen Sullivan seemed open and interested, not unaffected by her encounter with a serial killer but not haunted, either.

Sophie forced herself to drink more tea, but her fear was clear and sharp and had been from the moment she'd seen the fake skulls tacked to Rafferty's apartment door. Her encounter with Detective Acosta had only further crystallized what she'd already been thinking. What if her experience in a cave across the Atlantic a year ago had helped trigger the violence in Boston over the past three months?

What if it had helped trigger the violence Cliff Rafferty had encountered today?

With Jay Augustine in prison and Norman Estabrook dead, who had created the bizarre scene at Rafferty's apartment?

Who'd killed him?

Sophie simply couldn't believe he'd committed suicide.

She tried more of the tea, her head spinning with jet lag and the aftereffects of her adrenaline surge. "I don't know if you're aware that Percy Carlisle and his wife had hired Officer Rafferty to help them with security." She looked up from her mug. "Do you know the Carlisles?"

"By reputation only," Eileen said. "They're not involved with the conference if that's what you're asking. Do you know them?"

"I know Percy a little. I did research at the Carlisle Museum when I was in school here. I only met Helen Carlisle last night."

"You're trembling," Eileen Sullivan said quietly, rising.

"I probably should get something to eat." Sophie tried to ignore her spinning head, a wave of nausea. "I'm eager to hear more about how the conference is shaping up. Colm's a ball of fire, isn't he?"

"Tireless. Sophie--"

She was on her feet, unsteady, ragged. "I think I'll go ahead and grab lunch before I keel over. Another time?"

Eileen seemed to understand that Sophie needed to get out of there. "Of course. Anytime."

"Thanks. It's great to meet you."

Sophie bolted out of the office and down the two flights of stairs, bursting into the bright afternoon. She took the steps two at a time. She hadn't thrown up when she and Scoop had found Cliff Rafferty, or in front of him and half the law enforcement personnel in Boston when they'd descended onto the scene, but now she felt her stomach lurching.

She stopped in the middle of the shaded sidewalk and put her hands on her knees, taking a few deep, calming breaths. She knew she had to eat something before she passed out. She stood up straight, careful not to move too fast, and there was Scoop, three feet in front of her, unsmiling. She hadn't heard him. She hadn't so much as seen his shadow.

"You need smelling salts?" he asked.

"Not anymore. You're a jolt to the system all by yourself."

"Good." He didn't seem particularly concerned that she might pass out. He had a sandwich in a wrapper and handed her half. "It's cheese."

The smell of the cheese managed not to turn her stomach. "Thanks." She didn't take a bite of the sandwich. "I left you stranded. How did you get here?"

"Another detective dropped me off. Be glad you were trying to keep yourself from fainting. He's not someone you want to meet on a bad day."

"I wasn't trying to keep myself from fainting."

"Pitching your cookies?"

"You know," she said, "it's entirely possible I'm feeling vulnerable after what we just went through. It was a shock to my system. I'm still getting my bearings. Plus my body's still on Irish time."

"You're hungry." Scoop pointed at her with his half of the sandwich. "Eat up. You'll feel better."

"My car's down the street."

"In front of the Carlisle house," he said.

Sophie took a small bite of the sandwich, the bread soft, the cheese mild. She hadn't forgotten he was a police officer. Of course he'd keep track of her. Even if she hadn't already guessed who he was when she saw him at the ruin on the Beara Peninsula, she'd have figured out he was in law enforcement just by looking at him.

"I'll bet they don't tap you much for undercover work," she said. "You'd be pegged as a cop in a heartbeat."

He grinned at her. "Maybe I can turn the cop thing on and off. Come on. I'll walk you back to your car."

As they started down the wide sidewalk, Sophie noticed a woman moving toward them at a fast pace, then saw that it was Helen Carlisle. She had on the same red sweater she'd worn last night, this time over slim jeans and black boots that were obviously expensive but suited for a walking city such as Boston.

"The police just left," she said, not bothering with a greeting. "I was at the museum most of the morning--on my own. I didn't need Cliff to protect me. He's not--he wasn't a personal bodyguard. He evaluated our security and made recommendations, and he looked after the house, especially while Percy and I were away. He didn't follow either of us around."

"Mrs. Carlisle," Sophie said, "I'm sorry--"

"Helen. Please. For heaven's sake, 'Mrs. Carlisle' makes me feel old, and I'm not that much older than you." She smiled, taking any sting out of her words but, at the same time, clearly was on the verge of panic. "I was on my way back to the museum, but I saw you two and had my cab drop me off on the corner. The police said you found Cliff."

Scoop balled up his sandwich wrapper and tossed it into a trash can. "I can get you another cab."

"I've changed my mind. I don't want to go to the museum now. I'll head back home. I guess I don't know what to do with myself after this tragedy. Walk with me, won't you?"

"I'm parked just up the street from your house," Sophie said. She'd taken a few more bites of her sandwich, already feeling steadier on her feet. She glanced at Scoop. "If you have to be somewhere--"

"Not a problem." His dark eyes held hers for an instant. "I'm right where I need to be."

They continued up the street toward the Carlisle house. Helen walked with her arms crossed on her chest, as if she were trying to hold in her emotions. Sophie could imagine what she was feeling--the doubts, the regrets, the fears. Could she have done anything to prevent Cliff Rafferty's death?

"Have you talked to Percy?" Sophie asked her. "Does he know what happened?"

Helen shook her head. "I haven't heard from him. The police want to talk to him, which I understand. Cliff worked for us." She gave Scoop a quick glance, then faced forward again as they came to an intersection. "They have to keep an open mind and consider all the possibilities, including homicide, but it looks as if it was a suicide, doesn't it?"

"One step at a time," Scoop said.

"Cliff had been preoccupied, enough for me to notice but not to be alarmed. I didn't know him that well. I assumed he was still adjusting to his retirement. Maybe it didn't agree with him."

They crossed the street and walked past large, elegant Back Bay houses, Scoop on the edge of the sidewalk, Sophie between him and Helen. "Did Cliff stay at your house last night?" he asked.

Helen shook her head. "He has a room here, but he went back to his place. As I said, he's not a bodyguard. He was working on a total security makeover for us. Alarm systems, computers, finances. Percy has been so casual about security. He can't imagine anyone would want to do him harm."

"I didn't realize Cliff was such an expert in security," Scoop said. "You aren't afraid to be in the house alone?"

"Of course not. I've only been married--a Carlisle, if you will--for a few months. I've worked all my life. I'm accustomed to being on my own." She lowered her arms from her chest, her sweater swinging open in the slight, pleasant breeze. "Percy liked Cliff. He said Cliff seemed to have no idea what to do after he retired. I think Percy just wanted to do a man who'd devoted his life to serving the people a good turn, as well as beef up security here. He was very upset after Jay Augustine's arrest, but he didn't want to overreact. Hiring Cliff seemed like a reasonable solution."

"Do you have friends in Boston?" Sophie asked.

"A few," Helen said. She lapsed into silence as they crossed a side street and came to her house on the corner. She stood at the iron fence. "I didn't realize how much I'd miss Percy. I understand he needs his space. He's brilliant, you know. He's just quieter and more cerebral than his father was. I think Percy was overshadowed by him, really. Did you ever meet Percy Sr., Sophie?"

"A few times."

Helen seemed distracted, exhausted. She motioned broadly at the mansion behind her. "This place is like a museum dedicated to him. I think it took marrying me for Percy to be able to go through the house top to bottom and at least try to make it his own, although we could end up selling it. He still isn't over his father's death. It's been three years, but everyone's different."

"You're worried about him," Sophie said

"Wouldn't you be?" Helen paused, the strain of the day evident, her skin very pale against her dark hair and the vibrant red of her sweater. "I don't know what effect Cliff's death will have on Percy."

"Are you concerned about your husband's safety?" Scoop asked.

She seemed surprised. "No, should I be?"

Scoop shrugged without answering.

Helen abandoned the subject. "Won't you come inside? I can at least offer you a drink."

"That'd be great," Sophie said before Scoop could respond. She turned to him. "Don't let us keep you."

"I'm good," he said, his eyes lingering on her for a fraction longer than was necessary--just enough to communicate his lack of enthusiasm for her decision to accept Helen's invitation.

They took a brick walk flanked by formal hedges and thick ground cover, then went down an offshoot to a side entrance. Helen produced a single key from a sweater pocket. "I hate carrying around scads of keys on some massive key ring, but I probably should. I'm always losing them," she said cheerfully as she pushed open the door, faltering slightly as she added, "Cliff would tease me about it."

She led her guests down a hall, a thick Persian runner on the gleaming hardwood floor, its white walls decorated with a line of precisely spaced botanical prints of New England wildflowers--columbine, lady slipper, aster, trillium. They came to a cool kitchen with stark white cabinets and black granite counters.

Helen set her key on a round table with a large vase of autumn flowers in the center, and sighed. "It's ghastly, isn't it? This place. It's so cold. Beautiful and tasteful, of course--but it needs some warmth. A house needs to be lived in and loved, don't you think?"

"You're living here," Scoop said.

"I haven't put my stamp on it yet. It still very much feels like Percy Sr.'s house. I've sometimes wondered why the Carlisles didn't turn it into a museum when they had the chance. It'd be perfect." She peeled off her sweater and draped it over the back of a chair. "Well, things are changing. If we decide not to sell, once we finish renovations, we'll have a constant stream of friends, families and parties. And dogs. I'm determined to get a couple of dogs."

Sophie remained standing, Scoop right next to her.

Helen gave them a self-conscious smile. "I'm talking a mile a minute." She ran her fingertips over the edge of the table. "It's hard to believe Cliff sat right here last night. We talked about your visit before he went home. He figured it meant something. He was always on guard, always suspicious. It can't have been an easy way to live."

"Did he ever discuss his work as a police officer with you?" Sophie asked.

"Only in general terms. He couldn't imagine what it must have been like for Charlotte Augustine to discover she was married to a murderer. Cliff was divorced himself, estranged from his children--they're adults. They live in North Carolina, I believe. He hoped being retired would help him rebuild his relationship with them." With an abrupt burst of energy, Helen walked over to the refrigerator. "What can I get you? Soda, wine, beer?"

Scoop shook his head. "Nothing, thanks."

"Would having even a nonalcoholic drink violate police rules or something? Here, Sophie. You're not trained to find dead bodies--at least recently dead bodies. I imagine you've seen a few ancient bones in your day."

"Thanks, but we should go," Sophie said.

"Nonsense." Helen got down a glass from an open shelf and filled it with water from the tap, handing it to Sophie. "As you know, Cliff and Percy met when detectives had Percy stop by the Augustine showroom. They were going through the inventory. Apparently the Augustines didn't keep very good records. There was a lot of confusion. Percy was able to identify a painting in storage that he'd traded to the Augustines for a sculpture he'd had his eye on."

"Who else was there?" Scoop asked.

"Besides Cliff? Several homicide and robbery detectives. I don't know their names." She shuddered as she handed Sophie a glass of water. "When I heard about Cliff's death, I'm ashamed to admit it, but I was angry with Percy. I didn't want to have to face this alone."

Sophie drank some of her water, then placed the glass in the sink. She noticed tears in the other woman's eyes. "You're newlyweds. It's natural to miss him, don't you think?"

"Yes, but now that the initial shock's worn off a bit, I'm glad he's not here."

"Still no idea where he is?" Scoop asked.

She shook her head. "Not really, no. I'll keep trying to reach him."

Sophie looked out the window over the sink at the Carlisles' enclosed courtyard, at least twice the size of the one she shared on Beacon Hill. She noticed potted trees, a border of autumn perennials, vines and benches, even a small wrought-iron table and chairs. She almost asked Helen Carlisle if she could sit out there for a few minutes, just to be alone and think, process what she'd just witnessed.

"Is anyone working on your renovations today?" Scoop asked.

"Not today, no," Helen said. "Next week. Are you sure you don't want anything to eat? I can make sandwiches. When Percy's here, we have a full-time cook and housekeeper, but I'm used to doing things for myself. He likes that about me. When we first met, I wasn't sure he would. He seems so old-fashioned, doesn't he?"

"We should let you get your bearings," Sophie said, pulling her gaze from the courtyard.

"I dealt with security in my work in New York," Helen said, almost to herself, "but I never worried about my personal safety--beyond the occasional can of pepper spray."

Sophie stopped in the doorway, aware that Scoop hadn't yet moved to follow her. Maybe he'd stay behind to talk to Helen Carlisle alone. "I'm truly sorry about what happened."

Helen picked up her sweater off the chair and clutched it in both hands. "The police said Cliff asked you to come by his apartment this morning. Can you tell me why?"

"He didn't say."

"He told me he'd help me go through this place. I was looking forward to digging through all these musty rooms with him. I don't have the baggage of being a blood Carlisle. Neither did Cliff." Tears were on her pale cheeks now. "I'm sorry. His death is a blow."

"I know it must be," Sophie said quietly.

"I'm glad we ran into each other." Obviously sinking emotionally, Helen slipped her sweater back on. "Maybe I'll go back to the museum after all. Thank you for distracting me at least a little while."

Sophie said goodbye and started down the hall, Scoop next to her. Helen didn't see them out. They descended the steps into the formal front yard, and Sophie gulped in the afternoon air, taking in the crush of cars out on the street, the feel of the sun on her face.

Scoop didn't say a word until they reached the Mini. Then he caught her by the shoulders and turned her to him. "You're all right?"

"Yes, why, do I look--"

"Because I'm going to yell at you. You're Professor Malone or Doctor Malone or Miss Malone. You're not Detective Malone. You got that? It's not just what you said in there. It's your body language. I had the same sense back in the ruin in Ireland."

"What sense?"

"That you've got a bit in your teeth and you're running."

He had a point, but she argued with him anyway. "I wouldn't have made it through graduate school without asking questions."

"Or without self-discipline. Adopt a little now."

She angled a look at him. "You done?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm done." He dropped his hands from her shoulders. "I'll watch you get in your car. Then you just head right back to Beacon Hill."

She dug out Taryn's keys. "Nothing like a Scoop Wisdom reality check. Do you need a ride anywhere?"

"No." He took a sharp breath, then added, "Thanks for the offer. Just go on about your day and forget all this."

"Oh, that'll be easy. I'll just head back to my apartment and arrange mums in the courtyard--"

"Sounds good."

"I was being sarcastic." She opened up the driver's door. "But maybe that is what I'll do. I could use a little normalcy right now, and it'll help me think."

"Where are you getting the mums?"

She wondered if he knew he was being annoying and was certain he did. "Maybe I'll steal some out of yards on Beacon Hill."

"Funny, Sophie."

"It's been a long day already. When will you be able to determine if Cliff Rafferty was murdered?"

"There are flower shops on Charles. Try there." Scoop headed down the sidewalk, away from the Carlisle house, but turned, facing her as he walked backward. "I like a mix of colors--reminds me of all the different shades of autumn leaves more than a solid color does."

"A gardener, are you?"

He pointed a thick finger at her. "Be where we can find you. At your apartment with the mums. Tutoring hockey players. Anywhere but near a police investigation."

"I was thinking about Morrigan's after the mums," she said, suspecting she was being annoying, too. "But I wouldn't want to be provocative again and have you catch me there with a Guinness."

"That wouldn't be provocative this time. That would be smart."

She got into the Mini and watched him turn back around and walk another few yards. He wasn't at all what she'd expected from Colm's descriptions and news accounts of his heroism, his work, his injuries. He was more self-contained, funnier, not nearly as cocky as she'd have imagined.

The man was a gardener, for heaven's sake.

But he was still a police detective--an intense, committed one at that--and she would be smart, she thought, to keep that in mind.

Nonetheless, she called to him, "What does Detective Acosta have against you?"

"Pick out a nice yellow mum for me," he said without so much as a glance back at her.

"Did he do something to come to the attention of internal affairs?"

Scoop didn't respond. Sophie wasn't surprised. Whether Acosta had or hadn't had a run-in with internal affairs, Scoop wasn't about to tell her--even if it was a matter of public record. He was a man who kept his own counsel. Not a talker, not a confider. It wasn't just training or part of his job description. It was the way he was.

He didn't change his mind and trot back to her and climb into the passenger seat. Sophie didn't know if she wanted him to or not.

She wondered how long she had before he heard from Tim's Brits and showed up at her door for more details.

Enough time to buy mums, even?

As she started the car, she wondered, too, how close she'd been to ending up like Cliff Rafferty a year ago. If not hanged, just as dead.

13

Dublin, Ireland

Josie let Myles drive the last bit to Dublin. He was behind the wheel when they stopped in front of the Rush Hotel off St. Stephen's Green. She doubted she'd shut her eyes the entire hour he'd been driving, but it wasn't because she was afraid he'd run them into a ditch. She'd kept imagining Sophie Malone venturing out to a tiny island alone.

"I'm not very brave," she said as Myles turned off the engine.

He glanced at her, his eyes flinty in the late-day light. "Is that why you didn't want to drive in Dublin? It takes a brave heart."

"Are you never serious unless someone has a gun to your head? I'm initiating a heart-to-heart conversation."

"No, you're not. You're looking for sympathy, and I've none to offer. Besides, if you wanted to talk, you'd have waited until we were sitting in the pub with a couple of pints, not watching a doorman come to us."

"This is a five-star hotel. I'm not sure it has a pub. Our doorman is Lizzie's cousin Justin, by the way. He's the youngest of the lot. Can you see the family resemblance?"

"Not really, no."

"His hair's lighter, but the strong jaw, the determined walk--Lizzie has them, don't you think?"

Myles sighed. "What she has is Will Davenport's heart and soul."

"That she does. No question." Suddenly awkward at Myles's unexpected romantic insight, Josie unfastened her seat belt and tried to stretch the kink out of her lower back. She'd left several messages for Scoop Wisdom, but so far he hadn't returned her call. "I suppose you're right about this not being the moment for a heart-to-heart conversation, but you already know you're right, don't you, Myles?"

"Always, love. Always." He winked at her without smiling. "And you are very brave."

"Hardly. When I think about what you've--"

"Don't think about what I've been through. I don't."

She wanted to throttle him where he sat. The hours on the road and the mad traffic seemed not to have fazed him in the least. No nightmares, no worries about being back close to her, no fretting about the past or the future. He looked no more or less drawn and tired than he had at the beginning of the trip.

"I have a thirteen-year-old son who wants to follow your footsteps straight into the SAS," she said tartly. "I suppose that qualifies as brave."

Myles jumped out of the car with a bounce to his step and greeted Justin Rush as if they were longtime friends. Josie had no illusions that being with her had put Myles in a lighthearted, sardonic mood. He grabbed his rucksack and trotted up the steps and through the brass-trimmed door into the hotel. However tired he was, he wouldn't let it get in the way of his mission, which, at the moment, was Sophie Malone.

As Josie climbed out of the car, Justin Rush retrieved her bag from the back. "Lizzie would like you to meet her in her room when you've got yourselves settled," he said. "Keira will be joining you, too."

"Lovely," Josie said.

Explaining that the hotel was quiet, Justin carried Josie's bag into the lobby, where a fire glowed in a marble fireplace. He slipped behind the elegant front desk. "I've jotted down Lizzie's room number for you. She's on the second floor. You're on the third. She booked you and Mr. Fletcher each a room. They're adjoining." He handed Josie the keys, adding, matter-of-factly, "There's a connecting door between them. I've given you that key, as well."

"Wonderful," Josie said briskly. "Thanks much, Justin. I'll take my bag from here. Do tell Lizzie we'll be down shortly, won't you?"

"Happy to," Justin said.

Mercifully, Myles had stayed out of the exchange. He silently followed Josie up the curving stairs off the lobby. Just thinking about hotel rooms and beds and baths and towels had her feeling all afire and on edge, but she quickly blamed her sleepless night and the interminable drive across Ireland.

As they came to their rooms, she handed Myles his set of keys. "Good job, love," he said. "I'll see you in Lizzie's room in a few."

"Taking a nap, Myles, or checking on Will and Simon?"

But he was already through the door, which automatically shut quietly behind him. Josie resisted pounding her fist on it and instead went into her own room, a charming and tasteful mix of modern and traditional furnishings. From what she'd learned in having known Lizzie Rush for a month, each of the boutique hotel's twenty-seven rooms was individually appointed, with an eye to the comfort of the guests.

Now that she was finally alone, Josie let down her guard and tried to diminish the tension in her back and shoulders with a few stretches while the tub filled. She added a dollop of the ginger-and-ginseng-scented bath oil that came with her room, stripped, left her clothes in a heap on the floor and sank into the steaming water, closing her eyes as the events of the day drifted away for a bit.

When she imagined Myles letting himself in through the connecting door, she bolted straight up out of the tub, toweled off and slipped into a soft, cuddly hotel bathrobe ready on a hook on the door.

By then, Scoop Wisdom was ringing her from Boston. She'd tried him several times on the drive from Dublin and expected to dive in and tell him about her conversation with Tim O'Donovan, but he had developments of his own. Josie sat on a chair in a window overlooking a darkening Dublin street and listened without interruption as the Boston detective related his unpleasant news--that he and Sophie Malone had found a man dead.

"Cliff Rafferty," Scoop said.

Josie frowned. "I'm not familiar with the name."

"He was a police officer. He had a peripheral role with the Augustine case until he retired a few weeks ago. He took a private security job with Percy and Helen Carlisle."

"Who're the Carlisles?"

"Wealthy couple from Boston--at least he is. He stopped to see Sophie in Kenmare her last night in Ireland. His wife had already left. She's back in Boston now. Her husband didn't return with her, but we don't know where he is. We'd like to find him."

"Do you suspect he's involved in this officer's death?"

"I'm not on the case."

That wasn't exactly an answer, but Josie assumed Scoop hadn't intended for it to be one. "Did he stay in Ireland? Is he here somewhere?"

"We don't know what he did after he saw Sophie in Kenmare. He travels a lot. He has a home in London and friends and favorite hotels all over the place." Scoop paused. "Where's your friend Myles Fletcher? He's there with you?"

"What makes you think he's here?"

"The lilt in your voice."

She clicked her tongue behind her teeth. "Cheeky bastard."

He laughed, which wasn't, Josie decided, bad to hear, but he was serious again when he went on. "Tell Fletcher to call me."

After Scoop disconnected, Josie gritted her teeth at her phone as if he were still there giving orders. He could be a decidedly annoying man. She used the house phone to ring Myles in his room. "Your new detective friend in Boston wants you to call him. He and our Sophie Malone just found a dead police officer."

"I've already told him all I know."

"You never tell anyone all you know," Josie said. "Ring him now. I'd prefer not to have him involve the guards. I like my room. The ginger-and-ginseng bath salts are particularly delightful."

"I'm getting images, love."

"Enjoy them, because that's all you'll get. Make the call, Myles. I don't want to spend the night in an Irish jail cell because you're too stubborn to meet Detective Wisdom halfway. He'll call the guards. You know bloody well he will."

Myles was silent a moment. "All right. I'll join you in Lizzie's room after I've had a chat with Wisdom. Unless, of course, you'd rather--"

"Lizzie's room in a few minutes is perfect."

She cradled the phone, feeling flushed and agitated. She glanced at the connecting door. What would she do if Myles came through it wearing nothing but a bathrobe and carrying a jar of bath salts?

"Dear heavens," she muttered at her wild imagination and quickly got dressed.

She took the stairs to the second floor. Lizzie opened the door to a small suite as elegant and quirky as the rest of the hotel. A table in front of the sofa was laid out with plates of fruit, cheese, brown bread and scones, with little dishes of jams and butter and a large pot of tea. Keira was there, too, both women casually dressed and clearly unaware of more violence in Boston. Josie filled them in with what she'd learned from Scoop Wisdom.

Neither Lizzie nor Keira knew the dead man, Cliff Rafferty.

"This has turned ugly fast, hasn't it?" Lizzie gathered up a deck of playing cards on the table, next to a graceful copper vase, and shuffled them idly, a long-standing habit. "Arabella Davenport wants to measure Keira and me for dresses in London. Given this latest news, I suppose that's what Will and Simon would have us do."

Will's younger sister was primarily a wedding dress designer, but Josie decided not to point that out; obviously Lizzie would know, and the state of her and Will's relationship was none of Josie's affair--not that she lacked for an opinion. She believed their whirlwind romance was true love at work and Will Davenport, so hard to read about so much else, had found his soul mate in Lizzie Rush.

Josie trusted herself to judge other people's love lives. With her own, she was clueless.

She plucked a perfectly chilled grape from the tray.

"Arabella sounds as happy and content as ever," Lizzie continued. "I'm sure it helps that she has no idea where Simon and Will are. Do you know, Josie?"

Josie nibbled on her grape, grateful that for once she could give a complete and honest answer to that particular question. "No."

"Would you tell us if you did?" Keira asked, skeptical.

Lizzie set the cards back on the table and plopped onto the soft cushions of the sofa. "Egad, Josie. You look terrible."

Apparently her bath hadn't helped as much as she'd hoped. "It's been a strange day." As she helped herself to a perfectly browned scone, she remained on her feet and told her two friends about her conversations with Seamus Harrigan and then Tim O'Donovan in Kenmare. "During the entire drive across Ireland that afternoon, I couldn't stop thinking about Sophie being left for dead in a dark, dank cave on a remote island."

Keira rose, her pale hair pulled back, gleaming in the room's pleasant light. "There are obvious similarities between what happened to Sophie and my night in the ruin on the Beara, but there are differences, too. I heard whispers, and I was left there, trapped, but I didn't come across the blood smeared on the tree branches until the next morning, after I was already safe."

"Augustine left the blood for you--or whoever came looking for you--to find," Josie said. "It wasn't part of a grand plan. He happened onto a recently dead sheep in the pasture. He didn't kill the poor thing."

Keira pulled back a drape and stared out the window. "You said the bloody branches Sophie saw in the cave disappeared before the fisherman and the guards got there. Simon was with me when I found the sheep's blood. I had a witness. I had evidence to corroborate my story."

Not minding that she was the only one eating, Josie added little mounds of clotted cream and raspberry jam to the side of her small plate. "Augustine hasn't explained himself. To my knowledge, he's hardly spoken a word since his arrest."

"We may never know how many people he's killed." Keira spoke with remarkable self-control, although her ordeal early that summer was clearly still a struggle for her. "I just want to live my life. Draw, paint, laugh, love. I don't want to think about killers anymore."

Lizzie, who had gone somewhat pale, nodded. "I don't, either."

"That's precisely what you both should do, then," Josie said. "You needn't be involved with whatever's happening now in Boston. Arabella Davenport awaits you in London with her measuring tape."

As Keira moved away from the window, she exhibited none of her usual positive spirit, the carefree wanderlust that Josie had seen in her even just a few weeks ago. Normally Keira was bubbling with creativity and enthusiasm. "I was never afraid in the ruin," she said. "I can't explain it, but I felt safe."

"The fairies," Josie said.

"The black dog was there, too," Lizzie interjected from her position on the sofa. "Of course, for all we know, he's a shape-shifting fairy himself."

"Anything's possible." Keira settled her troubled gaze on Josie. "I can't not be involved, Josie. I have to do what I can."

Josie added fresh fruit to her plate and finally sat with it on a side chair that seemed to envelop her in its soft cushions. "Oh, my, Lizzie," she said, deliberately cheerful. "Did you choose this particular chair to remind people how tired they are?" But when Lizzie managed only a weak smile, Josie made up her mind. "I think it best that you two return to London first thing tomorrow. I'll make the arrangements. If you don't want to let Arabella measure you for dresses, you can all have tea or visit Buckingham Palace--"

"Or catch Taryn Malone on stage," Lizzie said, perking up.

Josie sighed. "That's not what I had in mind."

Lizzie didn't give up. "I'd love to see Arabella, but Keira and I can look into whether Percy Carlisle is in London."

"Lizzie," Josie said, "the Boston police want to talk to Percy in connection with the highly suspicious death of one of their own."

She nodded. "Exactly."

Keira, too, seemed to rally now that a plan was in the works. "Maybe he's in London and just didn't tell his wife--not necessarily for nefarious reasons but because he's not used to being married."

"I can get us names of his friends and acquaintances there," Lizzie added.

The Rushes were themselves wealthy Bostonians, but even if they weren't, Josie had no doubt that Lizzie and Keira would manage to get the names. These were two very capable women--capable on multiple levels--but Josie wasn't keen on having to explain to her bosses in London, should Lizzie and Keira land themselves in trouble, why she'd given them free rein and even encouraged them.

There was also the prospect of explaining herself to Will and Simon, too.

"You've done your investigative bit these past few months," she said, "and you have no legal authority to start poking into this man's affairs."

"It's perfectly reasonable that I'd look him up," Keira said.

"How? You just said you don't know him."

"We're both from Boston," Keira said, "and we share an interest in art, history and archaeology. He's a natural to approach about the Boston-Cork folklore conference. I'm surprised I haven't thought of him before now."

Josie put far too much clotted cream on the last bit of her scone, but she didn't care. "That's utterly transparent. He'll know in a minute you have an ulterior motive."

Lizzie dropped her feet to the floor and reached for a piece of brown bread and a small plate. "So? We'll have found him." She dipped a knife into soft butter and smeared it on her bread. "That's the main thing, isn't it?"

"There's no danger, Josie," Keira said, the life returning to her eyes. "Even if this police officer in Boston was murdered and didn't commit suicide, his killer is there, not here."

Josie recognized defeat when it was upon her. "I'll have someone meet you in London."

"Who? Scotland Yard?" Definitely more animated now, Keira walked over to the small table and took the smallest triangle of cheese from the tray. "MI5--MI6?"

Josie smiled. "Such an imagination."

She was spared further grilling by Myles's belated arrival. He was freshly showered, shaved and as sexy as she'd ever seen him. She told herself her heightened emotions were a result of the troubling news from Boston and how it might intersect with the Kenmare fisherman's tale of a cave, blood and lost Celtic gold--not, she thought, to the reemergence of one formerly dead military and intelligence officer in her life.

Well, not in her life. In her presence, at best. Myles wasn't a man who let himself be in anyone else's life. He preferred to stand apart. She'd known that about him even before the ill-fated firefight in Afghanistan.

She noticed his gray eyes were less red-rimmed than an hour ago, and he moved with his usual energy and purpose. He plucked two slices of brown bread from the tray, skipped a plate, jam and butter and sat next to Lizzie. "Sorry to interrupt your chat."

"We were discussing wedding dresses," Lizzie said with a wry smile.

"Terrifying. Put me back on the Maine coast with Norman Estabrook's thugs. You were quite the firecracker ally that day, Lizzie, love."

She scooted to the corner of the sofa with her knees tucked up under her chin, so that she was facing Myles. "I had no choice," she said.

"We always have a choice. Yours was to act. Your father taught you well."

She frowned. "It's him. In London. It's my father you're having meet us, isn't it, Josie? He was just in Ireland for the first time since my mother's death. I haven't heard from him in a week or so, but I know he hasn't returned to Las Vegas."

Josie relished another bite of scone. "Let's chuck everything and open a tea shop on a tree-lined street in a little town on the Irish coast." She took a moment to consider the myriad complications that the mention of Harlan Rush presented. Widower, gambler, hotelier, veteran spy--and a man very devoted to Lizzie, his only child. "If your father is in London, Lizzie, perhaps he's there to help you site the very first Rush hotel in Great Britain."

"Not a chance," Lizzie said. "My dear father may be a vice president in the family business, but that doesn't mean he knows a thing about it. My uncle would never let him get involved in opening a hotel."

Josie ate some of her fruit, although she wanted another scone. "When I made that comment, I had no one specific in mind. I can't say I've ever met your father."

Myles eyed Lizzie with a measure of respect he reserved for very few. They'd bonded in the last hours of Abigail Browning's captivity, when Norman Estabrook and his thugs had holed up in the old Rush house on the Maine coast. Once Estabrook and most of his men were dead and Abigail and Lizzie were safe, Myles had jumped in a boat and disappeared. Will could have stopped him, but he hadn't.

Lizzie seemed to curl up into an even tighter ball. "You came back here voluntarily. Simon and Will couldn't order you. Even if they tried to, you'd only listen if you thought it was in the interest of your mission to do as they asked."

Myles popped a chunk of brown bread into his mouth. "I'm starving. There's a pub in this place, isn't there?"

"Lower level," Lizzie said. "You know I hate being ignored, don't you?"

He grinned. "You'll definitely keep Lord Will on his toes."

Keira shook her head. "You people," she said cheerfully. "If I could paint, I'd hole up here, but I can't." She returned to the window and looked out at the Dublin night again. "Maybe I'll turn into a painter of dreary, depressing scenes."

"That's not even possible," Josie said.

"I hope not." She let the drape fall back in place. "Lizzie, are you going to tell them about Justin?"

"Oh, right." Lizzie seemed to put aside trying to get more information from Myles. "My cousin Justin reminded me that Jeremiah--his older brother--had a fierce crush on Sophie Malone when she worked at our hotel in Boston. He was still in high school."

Josie resisted the crumbs on her plate. "Where is Jeremiah now?"

"He's working reception at the Whitcomb. I called him while I was waiting for you all to get here." Lizzie sat up, dropping her feet to the floor. "He helped me remember that Sophie got to know John March. The FBI director. It could mean nothing--"

Josie shook her head. "In my experience, the words 'John March' in a sentence never mean nothing."

"True," Lizzie said, undeterred. "Jeremiah and I both think there's more that we're just not remembering. Justin, too. It'll come to us."

They chatted a bit more, but Josie finally felt her fatigue and walked back up the stairs to her room. She thought Myles might head to the pub, but he was right behind her. She didn't get through her door before he had her in his arms. His mouth found hers, and a thousand responses flooded her at once--a stern reprimand, a knee to the groin, tears, another attempt at a heart-to-heart talk. He was physically stronger and an experienced combat soldier, but he was exhausted and obviously wasn't in a defensive mode. She was well trained herself and very much on her guard, but all her options fell away with the taste of him, the feel of his hands on her.

She kicked the door shut with her heel. It'd been a month since she'd learned he hadn't been dragged off and killed, wasn't a traitor. She'd had time to imagine this moment and how she'd respond--or, more to the point, wouldn't respond.

She pushed back all the warnings she'd given herself not to succumb to being near him again and do exactly what she was doing now. Kissing him back, aching for him.

"This kept me going so many times," he said, drawing her to him, every inch of him lean and rock-hard. He lifted her as if she were slim and small, which she was not, and she could feel his arousal against her. "Just thinking about loving you again got me through one dark night after another."

"Rubbish." Josie draped her arms around his neck and tilted back from their kiss. "You never think about the past or the future."

He grinned at her. "Except when it comes to you, love."

He kissed her again, and she was hot now, her mind spinning. She responded to him, deepening their kiss, letting go of everything but that heady combination of needs she always felt with him. It'd been two years since she'd had a man. But she wouldn't tell him. Never.

The thought rocked her to her core. She clutched his upper arms and pulled back from their kiss. "I mourned you, Myles. I didn't have the luxury of thinking this day would come."

He set her back on the floor. "I'll be mature and give you time to sort this out." He took a curl of her hair and tucked it behind her ear, as gentle a move as he'd ever made with her. "Just not too much time. You're decisive. You'll know."

"There's nothing to sort out. You were wrong for me two years ago. Now you're just more wrong." She adjusted her clothing and cleared her throat. "I know it's not that late, but it's been a long day in the car."

He winked at her. "Now it'll be a long night alone in our beds."

He went back out through the hall door, and before she could change her mind, Josie threw on the dead bolt and pulled a chair in front of the connecting door. If he tried to sneak in, at least she'd have fair warning and could dry her tears. In her thirteen years with British intelligence, not once had she let a colleague see her cry.

And that was what Myles Fletcher was. A colleague.

"Bastard," she said, picking up a pillow and flinging it to the floor.

What would she get if she trashed her five-star hotel room out of pure frustration? She could present Myles to hotel security. Lizzie Rush could intervene and explain. Having taken on armed thugs and a violent billionaire with Myles, she would understand why Josie had been driven to breaking windows and kicking the feathers out of pillows.

Instead she picked up the pillow and sat on the bed with her knees tucked up under her chin. She touched her lips with her fingertips and looked at the connecting door. "Damn you, Myles," she said in a hoarse whisper. "I love you as much as ever."

Which, of course, was why he'd kissed her. He knew she loved him. He'd always known--and if that had given him comfort during the past two years, wasn't it a good thing? As a professional, shouldn't she draw some satisfaction that their relationship had helped an agent on a difficult, dangerous mission--one he hadn't expected to survive?

Some, perhaps, but never mind the past. What about the future?

Not to mention the present. Josie dipped under the silken duvet, shivering at the feel of the cool sheets. It would, indeed, be a long night alone in her bed.

14

Boston, Massachusetts

Scoop returned to his desk at BPD headquarters in Roxbury for the first time since he'd been shredded by shrapnel. Everything was just as he'd left it. He'd turned over all his notes on the possible involvement of a member of the department with the thugs who'd kidnapped Abigail Browning. The firewall was up between him and the investigation. It had gone up the second the bomb went off.

There was nothing for him to do except avoid people he didn't want to talk to. Josie's report was raging in his head, but he had to pull himself together before he talked to anyone--especially Sophie. He returned to Charles Street, the temperature dropping fast, the early evening air cool, even chilly. For once Jeremiah Rush wasn't at the reception desk in the Whitcomb lobby. Scoop rode the elevator with a couple from Houston who were in town to see as many historic sites as they could fit in. The wife wanted to be sure to visit the Louisa May Alcott house in Concord. The husband wanted to visit Bunker Hill in Charles-town.

They looked at Scoop to settle the issue. He grinned. "I'd go to a Red Sox game."

"Do you work for the hotel?" the wife asked. "Our tub drain's slow."

The husband winced as if he wanted to crawl out of there, but Scoop just said, "I'll let the front desk know."

She blushed. "Thank you. I'm sorry. I thought--"

"Not a problem."

They looked relieved when he got off the elevator. His room had been serviced, even his toothbrush, razor and toothpaste set in a clean glass. He didn't know what to do with himself. He thought about having a drink at the bar. Calling O'Reilly to join him. Tracking down Abigail on her honeymoon. Before the bomb, the three of them would get together in the backyard or in one of their kitchens and talk about whatever was on their minds. Now everything was different. He, Abigail and Bob O'Reilly were stuck on the wrong side of the investigation.

He rubbed a palm over his head.

He could go up and fix the Houston couple's drain.

Scoop grabbed a zip-up sweatshirt and returned to the lobby, bypassing Morrigan's and heading back outside. He turned up Mt. Vernon Street, telling himself he was just getting some air, working off the last of his jet lag and the effects of his long day. The nagging questions about Cliff's role in the bomb blast. His death. The bizarre scene at his apartment.

Sophie's wide, blue eyes as she'd taken in the disturbing, bizarre skulls, glass beads, DVD, cast-iron pot--the bomb-making materials and the former police officer hanging in his dining room.

As he came to the top of Beacon Hill, Scoop gritted his teeth, but he already knew what he was going to do. He continued on to the Malone twins' apartment. The gate was unlocked, which was an issue for him. He didn't ring the bell, just descended the steps and walked through the archway back to a cute little courtyard.

Sophie was, in fact, arranging mums. She was on her knees, a half dozen mums in apple baskets in front of her. She moved a yellow one behind a dark maroon one and rolled back onto her heels. "There. Better." She glanced up at Scoop. "What do you think?"

He nodded back toward the street. "I think you should keep your gate locked."

"That must have been one of the neighbors who share the courtyard. I'm in a batten-down-the-hatches mood myself."

"Smart. The mums look great. Perfect. Don't touch a thing."

She stood up and smiled at him. "You don't care, do you?"

"I like gardening when it involves something I can have for dinner."

"Ah. What have you been up to?"

"I just got mistaken for a plumber. Thought you'd be pleased. Not everyone looks at me and thinks 'cop.'"

She brushed loose potting soil off her hands. "Would you like to come inside?"

"I'm homeless. Sure."

She led him into the tiny apartment. The low ceilings would have him nuts in half a day, but that was affordable Beacon Hill. Unaffordable Beacon Hill came with higher ceilings. He noticed a laptop and papers by the fireplace, but otherwise, there was no indication Sophie had truly moved in.

"I know why you're here," she said.

That was good because he wasn't sure he knew.

She motioned to what passed for a kitchen. "Can I get you anything?"

"No, but help yourself."

She shook her head. "I haven't been able to eat a thing since that half of your sandwich. Have a seat."

He pulled out a chair at the table by the windows and sat down, but she stayed on her feet between him and the entry, watching him as if she were wondering if she'd lost her mind inviting him in. She'd twisted her hair up into some kind of knot that was coming apart, tangled strands of dark red falling into her face.

She walked over to the low sectional and stood in front of the fireplace. "It'll be easier if I start at the beginning." She took a moment to study him with those smart, bright blue eyes. "But you know my story already, don't you? Two Brits talked to a fisherman in Kenmare this morning. They're friends of yours, aren't they?"

"Not friends, exactly."

"They're reporting to you--"

"Sort of, yes. It doesn't matter, Sophie. I want to hear you tell me what happened."

"All right." She stared past him out the window, but he doubted she even saw the array of autumn flowers. "Last September, I explored a tiny, uninhabited island off the Iveragh Peninsula as a break from writing my dissertation."

Scoop smiled at her. "Couldn't just go to the local pub?"

She seemed to relax a little. "I did some of my best writing in my local pub. My island trips were different. I'd get out on the water and in the air and not think about my page quotas, my arguments, my future. How many years it'd taken me to get to that point and how in debt I was, with no certainty I'd get the kind of job I wanted in the end."

"All that cheerful stuff," Scoop said.

"It all fell away on those trips. I was looking forward to finally getting my doctorate, but it was a transition. Going out to the island was just what I needed. A lark. No past, no future. Just the present." She turned back to the fireplace. "Tim had told me a story that'd been handed down by priests in a local village, about Celtic treasure hidden on an island. We figured out this could be the island described in the story. I never thought I'd find anything--neither did Tim. That wasn't the point."

"When was your first trip out there?"

"Late August. I went four or five times. Tim would drop me off and come back after a few hours. This last time was in late September. I'd talked him into leaving me there overnight."

"Did it take a lot of talking?" Scoop asked.

She gave him a small smile. "As a matter of fact, yes. Tim thought I was completely daft. I was curious, I was having fun. I wanted to check out the center of the island. It's not difficult to get to--I just couldn't do it and get back to where Tim would pick me up in a few hours."

Scoop settled back in his chair. "Did you head there the minute you arrived on the island?"

She nodded. "I wasn't the least bit concerned about staying out there on my own. I happened on a small cave almost right in the middle of the island. I wasn't even sure at first it was a cave."

"It's not marked on a map?"

"No." Sophie sat on the edge of the sectional, as if she knew she might jump back up and run out of there at any moment. "It was a beautiful day. Clear, calm. By the time I discovered the cave it was getting late, but I figured I could camp there."

"No worries at that moment, then," Scoop said.

"None. I've investigated caves before. I set my pack on a ledge by the entrance and had a look inside. My flashlight hit on something. I got all excited. I was having fun, remember." She paused and stared down at her hands, her fingers splayed in front of her, and Scoop knew she was back in that cave a year ago. "I came upon what appeared to be a spun-bronze cauldron filled with pagan Celtic metalwork. Of course, I can't be sure what it was without further examination."

"You didn't get that chance."

"That's right." She raised her gaze from her hands, then pushed to her feet, clearly restless. "I was still examining the find when I heard a noise--what sounded like whispers. I turned off my flashlight and ducked a bit deeper into the cave until I could figure out what was going on."

"These whispers." Scoop kept his voice even, calm. "Describe them."

"I couldn't make out any words. It sounded as if whoever was out there was deliberately trying to scare me."

"You're sure someone was there."

"Yes, I'm sure. Whatever I heard wasn't the wind or the ocean."

Scoop glanced out the window, the late-day sun hitting the pretty courtyard. When Jay Augustine had come upon Keira Sullivan in the ruin on the Beara Peninsula, he had whispered her name before trapping her inside.

"What happened next?" he asked quietly.

Sophie came and sat down across from him. "I hid behind a boulder. I had a partial view of the entrance to the cave. There were..." She shut her eyes, inhaling through her nose. "I saw branches--branches of a hawthorn tree--placed in the shape of an X at the entrance to the cave."

"You could see that clearly?"

She opened her eyes again. "It was still daylight. I wasn't that far away."

"Any significance that it was a hawthorn tree?"

"Fairies are said to gather and dance under hawthorns. It's considered bad luck to cut one down."

"Ah."

"The branches had to have been brought in by boat. There are no trees--hawthorn or otherwise--on the island. It's mostly rock, with a few grassy spots." She shifted her gaze back to the courtyard, her blue eyes wide now. "The leaves of the branches had been soaked in what appeared to be blood."

"Oh, good," Scoop said.

She managed a smile. "You knew that was coming. Tim wouldn't have left that out of whatever he told your British friends." Her smile faded, her skin pale in the dim light. "Whoever placed those branches knew I was there. I half rolled, half crawled deeper into the cave. I remember searching in the dark, feeling with my hands, for a loose rock I could use to defend myself."

Scoop grimaced. "Whispers. Bloody branches. Hiding for your life in a cave. I have to tell you, sweetheart, that'd do it for me."

"It was rather terrifying, I have to say. I don't remember what happened next. I was hit on the head somehow."

"Where on the head?"

"Right here." She put her hand behind her right ear. "I could have banged into a jutting rock, or someone could have hit me. I was knocked out--I don't know for how long." She pointed to her wrist. "I wasn't wearing a watch. When I regained consciousness, it was pitch dark. I didn't move. I swear I didn't breathe."

"Were you afraid you'd been trapped in the cave?"

"Yes," she said, her voice almost inaudible. "I finally couldn't stand it and crept forward. I was dizzy, in pain, but when I felt the fresh air and heard the ocean..." She sat up straight, collecting herself. "At least I knew there hadn't been a cave-in while I was unconscious. I wasn't trapped. The cauldron was gone. The branches were gone. I didn't hear more whispers..." She trailed off, as if she were back in that cave.

Scoop could understand why the Irish police hadn't done more to investigate.

"I was a mess," she said, almost matter-of-fact. "I figured my backpack was a lost cause. I'd heard it fall--or get shoved--off the ledge. I was left for dead, Scoop. I'm convinced of that."

"I have no reason to argue with you."

"I was hurt, dehydrated, shivering nonstop." Her voice was even, steady. "I had a concussion and mild hypothermia, but I was still coherent. I stayed in the cave, out of the wind. I knew Tim would come find me."

"Weren't you afraid he was responsible--"

"No, never. Not for one second."

She got up again, pulling clips out of her hair and shaking it loose, which was almost more than Scoop could stand watching. All that red. The freckles. The eyes. He let his gaze drift to her shape under her jeans and T-shirt, then stopped himself because he just wasn't going that far. At least not right then, anyway.

"Your fisherman friend found you?"

She nodded, more animated now. "I heard him calling me. He was pretty frantic by then. I crawled out of the cave on my own, and Tim was standing on a ledge--he was scared to death, Scoop. He'd spotted my backpack. It looked as if it'd tipped over where I'd left it and fallen into a deep, wet crevice."

Scoop rose next to her. "Hell, Sophie."

"Tim gave me water and his jacket. He had a small first-aid kit with him and did what he could for my scrapes and bruises. I told him everything. It sounded crazy, there in the morning sun, with birds circling overhead, waves crashing on the rocks. Tim obviously thought I'd hit my head crawling in the cave and hallucinated or dreamed everything else, but he called the guards."

"There wasn't much they could do by the time they got out there," Scoop said.

"That's right. They didn't find a drop of blood, a footprint, a witness, evidence of another boat."

"Nothing to corroborate your story."

She shoved both hands through her hair again, coming up with more pins that she set on the table. "I'm sure that was the idea. If by some miracle I lived through the night, I'd have a crazy story to tell. If I didn't, I'd look as if I'd died of natural causes after a mishap."

Scoop brushed a few strands of her wild hair out of her eyes. "It took some effort and planning to get those bloody branches out to that island."

"They could have been part of a ritual, or just designed to scare me. I suppose there's a chance the guards missed a bit of forensic evidence, but the island's not a hospitable place for tracking the stray eyelash or blood spot. Whoever followed me out there was careful not to leave anything obvious behind." She gave him a challenging look. "A cop would know how to do that."

He let her comment slide. "When you heard about Keira Sullivan's experience on the Beara Peninsula, you thought of what happened to you on the island. You two have similar back-grounds--you're both from Boston, you know Colm Dermott, you're interested in old Irish stories, you're around the same age."

"I only learned the details about Keira's experience when I talked to Colm last week. I didn't want to sound any alarms without more information. If Jay Augustine was responsible for my ordeal on the island..." She paused, sinking back onto her chair at the table. "He's in jail. I figured I didn't have to worry about more violence."

"Then came this morning," Scoop said, sitting across from her.

The fading daylight struck her eyes and made them seem darker, richer. "Your British friends have been in touch with the Irish authorities."

"We need to know what crimes Augustine committed. All of them."

"Including the theft and sale of illegal or stolen art and antiquities?"

Scoop was silent a moment. "Sophie--"

She sprang up without a word and headed for the door, charging out to the courtyard. He watched her from the window as she got down onto her knees and started rearranging the mums. He rose, feeling a pull of pain in his hip for the first time since that morning in the ruin. He went outside. The temperature had dropped fast, but Sophie didn't seem cold.

"The low ceilings got to me," she said without looking up. "I'll be okay in a second."

"What about the Carlisles? How much do they know about what happened last year?"

"Percy wasn't seeing Helen then, although I imagine they knew each other." Sophie's tone was unreadable. She stood up, almost bumping into Scoop. "He was in Killarney in early September. I'd already made a couple of day trips out to the island by then. He came to see me. I was surprised, but I didn't think that much about it. When he stopped in Kenmare the other night, he said he'd heard I was chasing a story with an Irish fisherman. He was convinced I was modeling myself after his father, but that wasn't the case at all."

"Did you know his father?"

"Yes, but not well. I ran into him a few times at the Carlisle Museum when I was a student in Boston. He was an amateur archaeologist. He was quite the adventurer."

Scoop ran the toe of his shoe over a worn brick missing a corner. "What about this Irish fisherman?"

"I told you, I trust Tim. He had multiple opportunities to pitch me overboard or throw me off the ledge along with my backpack, but he didn't."

"Bringing you back alive kept him from answering even tougher questions."

"I realize I'm not a law enforcement officer who has to keep an open mind--which apparently means not trusting anyone--but I trust Tim. He's not working with Augustine or anyone else involved in black market antiquities."

"You two aren't a team?"

She gave him a cool look, no indication his question had irritated or surprised her. "Ah. I see. Tim helps with transportation and local lore, and I identify authentic artifacts and find collectors willing to buy them and not ask questions."

Scoop shrugged. "Or you work together and create a compelling story, plant fakes and sell them to people who can't complain if they find out, since they obtained them illegally."

"None of the above," Sophie said without hesitation. "It's not logical for me to have called attention to myself with a made-up story about an Irish cave if I were a thief."

"I could make a case for it."

"A tortured argument at best. All these years working toward my Ph.D. and living hand-to-mouth and I'd chuck it for some crazy scheme? That doesn't even make sense."

He tilted his head back and eyed her. "Give me a D, would you, Professor Malone?"

She seemed to make an effort to smile but bent down suddenly, picked up a yellow mum by the edge of its basket and moved it behind a white one, then stood up again. "There. I like that better."

"I see no difference."

"The yellow works better in the background--"

"Sophie."

She sighed. "All right. Here's my take. One, the artifacts I saw in the cave are authentic and were stolen by someone who followed me to the island hoping I'd find something. Two, they were stolen by someone who, for whatever reason, hoped or knew I'd find these particular artifacts. Three, they are fakes planted by someone who wanted me to find them--"

"A ruse," Scoop said, finishing for her. "All the drama with the whispers and the blood helps."

"Except I've kept quiet about the incident, at the request of the Irish authorities--not that I needed their suggestion. I wouldn't want to encourage treasure hunters, or certainly to come across as one myself."

"That wouldn't look so good on your CV. You're sure you met Cliff Rafferty for the first time last night?"

The pain of that morning showed in her face. "As far as I know, yes. If I encountered him on the street when he was a police officer, I don't remember."

"When was the last time you were in Boston?"

"In the spring--well before the violence here started."

"Unless it started with you a year ago. That's what you're worried about, isn't it?"

Sophie didn't answer. She walked past him to her apartment window and picked a dried leaf off the sill, desperately in need of scraping and a fresh coat of paint. "Summer's gone now."

"Do you miss Ireland already?"

"I love Boston, too." She crumpled up the leaf and let the bits fall to the brick courtyard. "It's a bad idea for you to be here, isn't it? Or are you on duty?"

"Technically I'm still on medical leave for getting blown into my compost bin."

She brushed her hands off and smiled at him. "You're a driven, hard-ass, career-oriented, cynical cop, aren't you, Scoop?"

He grinned. "I'm not cynical."

"You're good at detecting lies. Why?"

"It's my job. Nothing special. No lying women or lying family I'm getting back at or trying to understand."

"How long have you been in internal affairs?"

He noticed she looked cold now. She'd run out of the apartment without a jacket or sweater. "Two years," he said.

"What's next?"

"Getting fired if I'm not careful with you. It's not going over well, Sophie, this not telling me everything."

"I just told you--"

"It wasn't everything."

"I haven't lied to you, Scoop."

"Omitting pertinent information is equivalent to lying." He had lined up his questions. "What about your octogenarian art theft expert?"

He saw a flicker of surprise in her face. "Ah. Wendell Sharpe." With one foot, she straightened a ragged doormat. "Your British friends are enterprising if they've learned about him. He's such a gentleman, as well as brilliant. I went to see him in Dublin--"

"After you talked to Colm Dermott about Keira's experience," Scoop said.

"I asked him if Irish Celtic artifacts had turned up on the black market in the past year. I assumed the guards would know if they had and would have said something, but..." She gave the doormat one last shove with her foot. "It was a good opportunity to talk to an expert. He gave me a tutorial on his world. It was fascinating."

"I'll bet it was." Scoop could see her energy was flagging. "Your mums need water."

This time she did manage a smile. "I guess I can't pretend to be a gardener, can I?" But she wasn't ready to quit. "I've heard a bad cop's like an infection that spreads in ways you can't control or predict."

"I can't go there, Sophie."

She stepped up to her apartment door, its dark green paint almost black in the shadows. "I still don't believe Cliff Rafferty killed himself." She paused, one hand on the brass knob as she turned back to him. "I wouldn't be surprised if the autopsy shows he was unconscious or already dead when he was hanged. I have theories, just as you do."

Scoop was right behind her, a yellow mum brushing his leg, but he didn't move. "No freelancing, okay?"

"What about you, Scoop? Are you sure you're not blinded by your friendship with Bob O'Reilly and Abigail Browning--with other detectives in the department? You've been out of the country for a month. What if one of your fellow police officers is involved with Rafferty's death?"

"You speak your mind, don't you?"

"Most academics don't get far if they don't."

She pulled open the door and stalked back into her apartment. Scoop scratched the side of his mouth. He guessed she'd told him. He walked over to the door and raised his hand to knock, but she opened it up. "Anyone who can stay with you?" he asked.

"I'm not worried."

"You can stay at the Whitcomb for a few days. Let things settle down."

"I'll stay here."

He touched her hair. Craziness. "This morning was bad. I'm sorry you saw that."

"It wasn't your fault."

"Didn't say it was."

He raised his eyebrows.

She let out a breath. "Sorry. You're trying to help. I know that."

"You're smart, you're well educated and you tend to be stubborn in your views and theories. Am I right?" He winked at her. "You don't have to answer that. Tell me something about you that doesn't involve artifacts and blood-soaked branches."

"I listen to traditional Irish music, I light candles when I work and I do yoga." Her defensiveness eased, and he saw her smile reach her eyes this time. "I'm not very good at kicking butt."

He laughed. "And you don't do well in the sun."

"Are you unafraid?" she asked him quietly.

"I don't let fear get into the equation. I focus on what I have to do--which is what you did in that cave. You calculated the risks as best as you could and did what you had to do to survive." He lifted a hand to her. "I'm two minutes away. Call me anytime. Don't hesitate."

She slipped outside, took his hand in hers and kissed him on the cheek, her lips soft, cool. "Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you for not letting me go alone this morning, and thank you for listening to my story."

"Sophie--"

But she'd already fled back inside and shut the door.

Scoop found Jeremiah Rush at his desk in the lobby, checking in a mother and teenage daughter on a Boston shopping trip. They regarded Scoop as if they expected him to fix their drain, too.

Once they were in the elevator, Jeremiah stood up in his expensive, wrinkle-free suit. "Is everything all right with your room, Detective?"

"I'm still willing to give Yarborough's sofa bed a try."

"You're welcome to stay here as long as you like."

"Your cousin alerted us to a bomb seconds before it went off. We owe you all, not the other way around."

"I didn't do anything. Did you see Lizzie in Ireland?"

"Briefly the night before I left."

"She and Lord Davenport..." Still on his feet, Jeremiah reached down and tapped a few keys on his computer. "Everything happened so fast between them. Will strikes me as a man with a lot on his mind."

"That's one way of putting it. I don't know Lizzie well, but she strikes me as a woman who doesn't like being bored."

"No kidding," Jeremiah said with a touch of affectionate exasperation. "In fact, I talked to Lizzie a little while ago."

Scoop kept his expression neutral. "What did she have to say?"

"She was trying to remember..." He looked uncomfortable. "Sophie knew FBI Director March from her days working here."

"March, huh?"

"Lizzie asked me if I remembered anything else about their relationship, and I do--I don't know that it's significant, but Sophie's brother is an FBI agent. Damian Malone. He's in D.C."

"Is he close to March?"

"I don't know. I haven't seen him in a long time."

"How long?"

"Since early spring, maybe. Damian's not as--I don't know how to say this. Sophie's an archaeologist. Taryn's an actress. He's..."

"He's an FBI agent," Scoop said. "Explains it all."

Jeremiah didn't argue, and Scoop trotted downstairs to Morrigan's. Bob O'Reilly was at a table with a beer. "It's an O'Doul's," he said. "Nonalcoholic. I think of myself as being on the job right now, but you and I are in the same leaky boat, Scoop. We're supposed to stay a thousand miles from this thing."

Scoop sat across from him. "No way Cliff killed himself."

"Nope. No way."

"Think the bomb-making evidence was legit or planted?"

"I don't know. I'm getting information on the side but not all of it, seeing how it was our house that was bombed. If Cliff isn't our guy, someone wants him to be. If he is our guy--"

"Then if he was strung up, whoever did it wanted him exposed as the bomber but not talking to us."

"It's been a bad damn day," Bob said, watching Fiona, his nineteen-year-old harpist daughter, slim, blonde and blue-eyed, bound into the pub with her college musician friends, all of them with instrument cases slung over their shoulders. "Let's listen to a little Irish music, Scoop, while you tell me everything you know about our Dr. Malone."

15

Sophie watered the mums, using a hose everyone on the courtyard seemed to share. It belonged to Taryn's landlords, the outdoor faucet located under the stairs that led up to their main floor. The courtyard was cast in shadows, chilly and still, the autumn flowers a cheerful counter to the fading light--and her own mood, she thought, getting a dribble of the extra-cold water from the hose on her pant leg. She didn't care. She needed to cool off, relax and pull herself together after telling Scoop her story.

Had she really given him that little kiss on the cheek?

"Gad," she said, dragging the hose back under the stairs. "What were you thinking?"

She shut off the faucet and wound the hose into an ancient-looking pot. She knew exactly what she'd been thinking. Here was a solid, physical, intelligent man who wasn't as rigid and rules-bound as she'd expected--who was self-controlled without being controlling.

And here was she, an archaeologist fresh from postdoctoral work in Ireland, a woman who'd taken him to a grisly scene of death and who now had told him about a horrible experience in her life--one that her own family didn't know about.

At least for now. How long before her brother dragged it out of her?

She ducked back under the stairs into the courtyard, the mums perking up after she'd practically drowned them with the hose. She went back inside, appreciating the warmth and coziness of the apartment, barely noticing the low ceilings. She washed her hands, unsnarled her hair and changed clothes.

In ten minutes, she was in front of the Whitcomb Hotel. She could have continued down Charles Street to a favorite restaurant, or taken a walk through Boston Common, but she entered the lobby, following a trio of young women who immediately veered down to Morrigan's.

Jeremiah Rush motioned for Sophie to join him by the marble fireplace, where he was stirring a low fire, more for atmosphere than heat. He replaced the screen in front of the flames and set the iron poker back in its rack. "I told on you."

"Told what on me and to whom?"

He grimaced. "I told Detective Wisdom that you have a brother who's an FBI agent."

"That's not a secret, Jeremiah. After this morning, he'd find out, anyway. No worries. Where is he now?"

"Up in his room." The flames glowed on his good-looking face. "Lieutenant O'Reilly is downstairs. Fiona's performing. That could be why he's here."

"Would you like me to sneak out the back?"

"Won't work. Sophie..."

She felt the heat of the fire. "What else, Jeremiah?"

He really looked tortured now. "Director March will be arriving here soon."

"Ah. Okay. Thanks for the heads-up."

She was tempted to leave, but did she want a bunch of FBI agents and Boston cops showing up at Taryn's apartment? Because that was what would happen. If John March wanted to talk to her, he'd find a way. She took the stairs down to Morrigan's. She noticed the women who'd entered the hotel with her were at the bar, laughing, enjoying the company of friends they'd obviously met there.

Bob O'Reilly rose from a square table under the windows. "Dr. Malone," he said, pulling out a chair across from him and motioning to it with one hand. "Scoop'll be down in a minute. You and I can talk."

She took the hint and sat down. He returned to his side of the table. Fiona O'Reilly, her blonde hair curled and shining, was over by the stage with her friends. Sophie smiled. "I see your daughter's resemblance to you."

"Don't tell her that."

He was a homicide detective, she remembered. He had to have seen a lot in his years as a police officer, but that morning, a man he'd known--a colleague--had died, amid evidence that he'd planted a bomb at the home of three Boston detectives. It could have easily killed O'Reilly, his daughter, Scoop, even Abigail Browning, although the purpose of the bomb had been to aid in her kidnapping.

Sophie slumped in her chair. "I just felt a big wave of jet lag. All of a sudden it feels like it's the middle of the night."

"It is in Ireland. Wish you were there after today?"

"Being there wouldn't erase what I saw this morning." She looked away from O'Reilly. The musicians were chatting among themselves, more people had crowded together at the bar. She heard glasses clinking, a shriek of laughter. Finally she said, "I worked here as a student. I assume you know that. I'd see John March every once in a while. Not often. My older brother stopped by one day. He was in law school at the time."

"Now he's an FBI agent," Bob said.

"Jeremiah Rush told you, too?"

"Scoop. You should have known he'd find out. He's a bulldog."

"And he has his sources--in Ireland as well as here. By the way, Lizzie Rush will probably remember Damian."

"She's more of a pit bull than a bulldog."

Sophie smiled but said nothing. Lieutenant O'Reilly couldn't drop the subject of her brother fast enough to suit her.

He was watching his daughter as he continued. "Scoop doesn't let his heart get involved in his work. He keeps a tight rein on himself, but something about you has gotten to him."

That worked both ways, she thought. "We've only known each other a few days." Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Fiona O'Reilly give her a wary look. Sophie wasn't offended. Scoop had saved Fiona's life. It stood to reason she'd be protective of him. "I wish I knew more."

"You know what happened to you in that cave."

"Yes, I do, and I've told the truth about my experience."

"I like this place," O'Reilly said, deceptively casual. "I never even stepped foot in here until a few weeks ago. Turns out my daughter and her friends had been playing here for a few months. John March has been coming here for thirty years. He knew Lizzie Rush's mother before she died. How'd you end up working here?"

She knew it wasn't an idle question. "I needed a job and I discovered the Whitcomb had an Irish pub."

"You were born in Ireland, right?"

"That's right. In Cork."

"Scoop's from the sticks. He always wanted to be a big-city cop. He's poised for rapid advancement in the department."

"You don't want me to get him into trouble."

"If he gets in trouble, it'll be his fault not yours." O'Reilly paused, listening as his daughter played a few warm-up notes on her small lap harp. "Fiona's in music school. She's taking violin and conducting class this semester. She's not as good at violin as she is the harp. She's all excited about our trip to Ireland this Christmas. I don't need more places for her to drag me to, but feel free to give her tips."

"You're not sure about me, are you, Detective?"

"These days I'm not sure about anyone."

FBI Director John March arrived with an entourage of agents, who stayed near the door. He was a tall, straight-backed man with iron-gray hair and a temperament to match. Scoop was right behind him. The two men joined Sophie and Bob O'Reilly at their square table, sitting across from each other, March to her right, Scoop to her left.

"Hello, Sophie," March said. "Long time."

"Director March. It's good to see you. It has been a long time."

"You're Dr. Malone now. Good for you." He pushed back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other, but not, she thought, even slightly off his guard. "Lizzie told me you were in town. She asked me if I remembered you. Of course I do. You were the bright student interested in Ireland and archaeology. I remember your twin sister, too. Taryn, the budding actress."

Sophie didn't flinch from his unrelenting gaze. "And my brother you encouraged to pursue a career with the FBI."

"Yes. I remember Damian, too."

She was very glad she hadn't ordered alcohol. "Does he know--"

"That I came to Boston specifically to see you? No, not yet. I haven't been in touch with him. From all I've heard, he's a fine agent."

"I haven't told him about this morning," she said.

"I did," Scoop said, his bluntness a contrast to March's smooth tone. "I just got off the phone with him. We had a professional conversation, except for the part about him flying up here and kicking our asses if we let anything happen to you."

Sophie couldn't resist a smile. "Damian's protective of Taryn and me. He can't get over that we're not six anymore."

"Yep. He said you two gave him fits as little kids in Ireland."

She laughed suddenly. "We 'ruined his life.'"

March's dark eyes narrowed on her for longer than she found comfortable, but it was Bob O'Reilly who spoke. "Does your brother know Percy Carlisle?"

"I doubt it," Sophie said, the question taking her by surprise. "The Carlisles and the Malones live in two different worlds."

"You and the father, Percy Sr., shared an interest in archaeology," March said. "I don't recall from my time in Boston, Sophie. Did any of his adventures take him to Ireland?"

She fought an urge to look away--to jump up and run. How far would she get if she did? With March, O'Reilly and Scoop within inches of her? With the FBI agents by the exits?

Not far, she thought, and answered March's question. "I know of one, yes."

Scoop eyed her. "There's more."

It wasn't a question or even a challenge to her. It was a statement of fact. Obviously he and the other two law enforcement officers at the table already had their answer. Sophie collected her thoughts as a waiter arrived with a tray of coffee. She hadn't ordered any, but didn't refuse when he put a mug in front of her.

"I have a feeling I know where you're going with this. Percy Sr. was never particularly drawn to Ireland. I know of only one excursion he took there. It was late in his life." She felt the heat rise from her ultra-hot coffee. "He had a bit of a misadventure."

"Anything like yours last September?" March asked quietly.

Of course Scoop would have filled March in. He'd probably written a report already for his superiors. Even as she'd told him her story, Sophie had warned herself not to think they were having an intimate, private talk.

"No, Percy Sr.'s experience was quite different." Which, of course, March would know. She kept her tone even as she continued. "He was briefly arrested in Dublin for attempting to smuggle artifacts out of Ireland. It was a mix-up--a misunderstanding between his staff and Irish authorities. He was released almost immediately. He was furious, though, and fired his entire staff the minute he got back to Boston."

"You weren't on his staff?" Bob O'Reilly asked.

She shook her head. "I was working here. This was seven years ago. I was a student. I did research at the Carlisle Museum."

"There was a break-in at the museum not long after the firings," O'Reilly said. "The old man's office was trashed, and a painting disappeared--a Winslow Homer seascape from the Carlisles' private collection."

Sophie realized her heart was racing, as if she were under attack when she knew, in fact, she had nothing to hide from these men. Why hadn't she stayed in Kenmare, or grabbed her sleeping bag and gone hiking with her parents? She pulled herself out of her regrets--her fears--and grabbed the cream pitcher. "I suppose you all are watching your cholesterol. I will another day. Right now, I want real cream in my coffee. And I'm guessing where you're going with this. Cliff Rafferty was the first officer on the scene after the break-in, wasn't he?"

It was O'Reilly who answered. "Were you at the museum at the time?"

"No. The break-in occurred--or at least was discovered--late at night by a security guard." She dumped cream into her mug and set down the pitcher. "I was here washing dishes and mopping floors. I didn't find out anything until the next day."

"No one called you?" March asked. "The Carlisles, any of the fired staff?"

"No, and I thought nothing of it at the time--nor does it bother me now, in retrospect. I was just another student. I never heard there were any indications of Celtic rituals or any Celtic symbols at the scene. No blood," she added pointedly, her throat dry as she lifted her mug, "no skulls, broken weapons or torcs."

"Were you already specializing in Celtic archaeology?" Scoop asked.

"Yes, I was." She glanced at March, whose expression was impossible to read. "I remember you were here at Morrigan's when I came into work the night after the break-in. I'd been at the museum most of the day, in the library. I told you what happened and how shocked I was."

"I remember," March said. He leaned closer to her, less tense and confrontational. "I remember you said you didn't know much about nineteenth-century American painters."

She relaxed slightly. "I still don't."

"It bothered you. You like knowing things."

She smiled. "Are you suggesting I'm a bit of a know-it-all, Director March?"

"You're curious." He didn't smile back at her. "You have an investigative mind. You like to tackle a problem and take it to its conclusion."

Damn, she thought. She'd stepped right into that one. Damian knew John March better than she did and had warned her March was the master--not a man to be underestimated on any level. He'd been a street cop, a homicide detective, a lawyer and an FBI agent, and now he was the FBI director, with huge responsibilities on his shoulders.

"I stayed out of anything to do with the break-in," she said.

"Did you sympathize with the fired staff?" O'Reilly asked.

She faced him. "Of course, but I wasn't friends with any of them."

O'Reilly ran a thick finger along the handle of his coffee mug. "Did you think Percy Sr. was an SOB for what he did?"

"Sure. Who wouldn't?"

"His son," March said. "What did he think?"

"We didn't discuss it," Sophie said, raising her eyes to Scoop. "As I told Detective Wisdom, Percy and I weren't and aren't that close."

Scoop's expression was unreadable. "I checked the file. You weren't questioned by police."

"That's right," she said.

O'Reilly reached for the cream pitcher. "Hell, I'm game. It's been a bad day, and my doctor's not here." He poured the cream into his coffee but his cornflower-blue eyes were on Sophie. "Percy Sr. and Percy Jr. were both in Boston at the time of the break-in. The mother--Isabel Carlisle, Percy Sr.'s wife--had died the previous year. Cancer."

Sophie nodded. "I remember. It was a sad time."

O'Reilly set the pitcher back down. "The old man showed up at the museum right when Cliff pulled in. The son was in London at the time."

"Rafferty said he met Percy this summer after Jay Augustine's arrest...." She trailed off, recognizing that the law enforcement officers at the table would already have thought of that.

"Ripple effects, Lizzie calls them," March said. "How one thing can unexpectedly lead to and impact another. We have no idea it's coming, or how bad it'll be. You remind me of Shauna Morrigan, Lizzie's mother. She was fearless, and she had great instincts." He sighed grimly at the two Boston detectives. "Bad cops. Bombs. Ritualistic murder or whatever the hell it was. We can't have any of it."

"No, we can't," O'Reilly said, looking straight at Sophie.

March rose. "Good night, gentlemen." He nodded to Sophie. "Sophie, take care of yourself. I hope next time we see each other it's under better circumstances. Good luck with your career in archaeology." His dark eyes narrowed slightly on her. "Stay in touch."

Once he and his hulking agents started up the bottom of the stairs, O'Reilly blew out a heavy breath. "Damn. I love it when the FBI comes in and tells me my job. March was like that when he was on the force." He picked up his mug. "I'm taking two sips and then ordering a beer. In the meantime, Dr. Malone, we have two choices where you're concerned. One, you're trouble. Two, you're not trouble. Which is it?"

"Life's not that black-and-white," she said.

"My life is."

His daughter and her friends were playing "O'Sullivan's March." The tune put Sophie back in Kenmare, in a cozy pub on a dark, rainy night, with Tim O'Donovan transfixing her with his tale of treasure, adventure, triumph and tragedy.

She pulled herself back to the present. "Does your niece know about Cliff Rafferty's death?" she asked O'Reilly.

He nodded. "Yeah. I told her."

"Did she know--"

"I talked to Keira this morning," he said, obviously not wanting to discuss his daughter. "She's in Ireland. I don't know if your FBI brother knows Simon Cahill. He's the man in Keira's life." The homicide detective's gaze bored into Sophie. "Simon's FBI. You know that, right?"

Her heart was racing again, but she tried to maintain an outward calm. "Yes, I do."

"Good. You look like you're going to slide under the table, Doc. Buy you a burger?"

"I think I'll just grab a few nuts and go."

"Sit a while, Sophie," Scoop said, touching her hand. "Have a Guinness and a bite to eat. Talk to us."

She told herself to get up and get out of there, but the prospect of Taryn's quiet apartment suddenly was less appealing than staying here with the lively music, the crowd--even these two suspicious, intense police officers. Scoop and O'Reilly were on her side, she told herself, even if they believed she'd been holding back on them.

Damian would remind her that law enforcement officers always had their own agenda. Probably good advice, she thought, and decided to skip the Guinness and just take Bob O'Reilly up on his offer of a burger.

16

Dublin, Ireland

Keira and Lizzie departed for London after breakfast. Josie tried to slip out of the hotel by herself, but Myles, who both excelled at following people and had nothing else to do, caught up with her before the door had swung shut behind her.

He handed her a compact umbrella. "I thought you could use this."

"Listen to the weather forecast, did you?"

He pointed upward. "I looked at the sky."

She tightened the belt on her coat and tucked the umbrella under one arm. It was a bleak morning, gray, windy with brief outbreaks of showers that undoubtedly would turn to a steady rain as the day wore on. The sidewalk was already wet. Dubliners were getting on with their day, cars and buses speeding past, pedestrians rushing. A family--obviously tourists--on the corner unfurled a map that immediately folded in on itself in a wind gust.

Josie walked down the busy street, Myles ambling alongside her as if they were off for a romantic stroll. They headed in the general direction of Trinity College. Well before they reached the historic campus, Josie, following directions that Justin Rush had provided her, turned off onto a narrow side street, right into a wind gust that blew cold rain into her face. She didn't bother pulling up her hood, and the umbrella would be useless in the wind. Myles seemed equally unperturbed by the conditions.

They came to an unprepossessing brick building where Wendell Sharpe managed the Dublin office of Fine Art Recovery, a small, discreet company that specialized in providing expertise to private businesses and government agencies on the investigation and recovery of stolen art and cultural properties. His grandson had an office in the U.S. Josie didn't know in which city. Not Boston, she hoped.

Myles was so sexy she could hardly stand being near him. He seemed oblivious to the effect he was having on her--or was pretending to be. He could know and take secret delight in having starchy Josie Goodwin all aquiver and afire. Spending the night in an adjoining room had brought back memories of their time together before Afghanistan--and of the pain and anguish of the past two years. As she'd lain in her plush, five-star hotel bed, she'd envisioned him in the next room, an arm thrown over his forehead as he slept. For the past month, she'd alternated between relief that he was alive and anger that the bloody bastard had left her twisting in the wind--mourning him, hating him--for so many months.

How could he not have found a way to get word to her that he was alive? That he wasn't a traitor?

Will had taken Myles's reemergence into their world in stride, but Josie had made the incomparable mistake of having slept with him.

Having fallen in love with him.

She thrust the umbrella back to him. He dropped it into his jacket pocket. "You can stay out here while I speak with our Mr. Sharpe," she said crisply.

"As you wish."

She debated saying something else but didn't know what. His eyes were unreadable, the gloomy weather deepening their gray, their mystery and sexiness.

Either that or she needed more sunlight, Josie thought as she ran for the entrance to the small building. She'd lost her mind, obviously. Best simply to focus on her mission in Dublin. Scoop Wisdom had called late last night and filled her in on the latest developments in Boston.

Sharpe's offices were located on the third floor in an unexpectedly contemporary corner suite overlooking the street. He himself didn't look a minute over sixty. He was expecting her and rose from his cluttered desk to greet her. "Welcome, Mrs. Goodwin," he said, his accent a mix of Dublin and Boston. He was white-haired and lean, around her height, and wore a bow tie and plaid suspenders. "How is Lord Davenport?"

"Alive, last I checked."

He chuckled. "I was warned you can be irreverent. I haven't had the pleasure of meeting Will yet, of course, but I've done a bit of work with his father from time to time. The marquess is one of your great admirers."

"He's quite a character himself."

"I haven't spoken to him in several months. I hope he's well." Sharpe gestured to a small sofa. "Please, make yourself comfortable."

"I'm fine, thanks," Josie said. "I'm restless this morning."

"All right, then. What can I do for you, Mrs. Goodwin? You want to talk to me about Sophie Malone. What's she up to?"

"She's returned to Boston. I believe she's trying to figure out whether something that happened to her last year was part of the violence this summer involving Will and his friends in Boston."

The old man sighed. "I've been following events there as best I can. Sophie's studied and worked with Colm Dermott, the Irish anthropologist--"

"Yes, I know," Josie said.

"She's a dedicated scholar. She's certainly no art thief, if that's what's on your mind."

Josie wasn't put off by his defensiveness. Everything she'd learned about Sophie Malone suggested she was a well-liked, capable, energetic woman whose positive attitude and sense of adventure were contagious. "How much do you know about what happened to Sophie last September off the Iveragh Peninsula?"

Sharpe returned to his desk. "Very little. She wouldn't go into specifics, but I know there was something. Tell me, won't you?"

Josie suspected that Wendell Sharpe was a man who invited the sort of soul-baring that one tended later to regret and not quite know how it had happened. He was an expert of unimpeachable discretion, keen intelligence and decades of experience. If she didn't give what she knew to him straight--if she hedged or played games--he would clam up or kick her out. Or both.

On the other hand, she saw no reason not to tell Sharpe about Sophie's cave experience. She was as complete and as thorough as she could be in her account, noting her various sources and omitting her own theories about Celtic archaeology, boats or remote Irish caves.

"There it is," she said when she'd finished. "All I know."

Sharpe settled back in his soft leather chair. Rain was falling steadily outside now, but Myles, fortunately, seemed to be staying put out on the street and had yet to appear. Finally Sharpe said, "None of what you told me contradicts what Sophie herself told me a week ago."

"Do you have any theories about this incident--what she saw, what actually happened on that island?"

"Now that you've fleshed out the details, I suppose I could come up with a host of theories, but I've found theorizing does little good. Following the evidence works best."

"There was no evidence."

"You know better, don't you, Mrs. Goodwin? There's always evidence."

"Does any of yours take you into the Boston Police Department?"

"I see. The bad-cop theory." He rose again and walked to a tall window. If Myles was down there, leaning against a post, staring up at the building, Sharpe gave no indication of noticing him. He kept his back to Josie as he continued. "There's been some evidence this serial killer in Boston--Jay Augustine--occasionally moved stolen works, and that he had assistance. He wasn't a major player. It's unclear if whoever helped him was an expert or an opportunist or even was deeply involved."

"But you believe Augustine didn't work alone. Whatever he was up to wasn't a solo operation."

The old man turned from the window. "What I'm telling you is barely a notch above speculation."

Josie showed him a photograph Scoop Wisdom had e-mailed her of the dead police officer in Boston, along with a curt explanation of the latest developments there. Justin Rush had printed it out for her before breakfast. "His name was Cliff Rafferty. He was recently retired."

"I'll check my files and see if his name comes up." He nodded to a dust-encrusted desktop computer at a separate station along an exposed brick wall. "I keep extensive files."

"What did you tell Sophie?"

He smiled. "Theories."

"What about Percy Carlisle?"

"Which one?"

"Both."

Sharpe moved away from the window and sat back at his desk. "I knew the senior Carlisle, although not well. I've never met the son."

"There was an incident seven years ago involving the father--"

"Yes, a mistake on the part of his staff that landed him in quite a pickle here in Ireland. He was held briefly by Irish authorities on suspicion of smuggling artifacts--late Bronze Age pieces, as I recall. It was all a terrible misunderstanding. He was released almost immediately."

Unable to resist, Josie walked over to the window and saw that Myles was, indeed, leaning against a lamppost. He glanced up, almost as if he'd sensed her presence. She spun back to Wendell Sharpe. "Are you satisfied Percy Carlisle Sr. was merely the victim of a staff error?"

"I'm satisfied he didn't steal any valuable art or cultural properties from Ireland. Nothing more." Sharpe hesitated before continuing. "The Winslow Homer painting that disappeared in the subsequent break-in in Boston is a source of considerable speculation among those of us in my field."

"One can imagine," Josie said. "Do you have any idea where the younger Carlisle might be right now? You can understand why we want to locate him."

"Indeed," Sharpe said, using a stub of a pencil to jot a few lines on an index card, which he handed to her. "His father sometimes stayed with an American couple here in Dublin. Their house is a few blocks from here, near Merrion Park. It's a shot in the dark, you understand. I wish I could be of more help."

Josie thanked him and left, taking the stairs slowly as she considered their conversation. She found Myles still leaning against a lamppost in the rain. He hadn't bothered with the umbrella. "I have an address for us to check out here in Dublin," she said. "We can walk."

Myles smiled. "Would you like to hold hands?"

"No," she said, suddenly irritated, and stalked ahead of him.

He caught up with her easily. They crossed into St. Stephen's Green, the rain stopping outright as they walked among the formal flower beds, bubbling fountains and statues of famous Dubliners and revolutionaries. Josie focused on the matter at hand. No lingering, she thought. No holding hands and enjoying the ambience of the historic green. As they crossed to the quiet residential streets of the Georgian district, she typed the address Wendell Sharpe had given her onto her BlackBerry. She had no desire to get lost on the streets of Dublin in the rain.

"I imagine the Boston police are looking into whether the dead police officer was in Ireland recently," she said, determined not to be distracted by hand-holding and such with Myles. "Our missing Percy Carlisle might have lied about when he and Officer Rafferty met."

"You're suggesting they could have met after the break-in at the Carlisle Museum seven years ago," Myles said.

"I'm not suggesting anything. I'm speculating."

Myles continued down the block in silence. Finally he said, "I suspect our Detective Wisdom was onto a connection between Boston thugs and a police officer before I arrived in Keira's cottage to tell him."

"You confirmed his worst suspicions. Whatever he had on this connection wasn't enough to stop his house from being bombed." Josie grimaced at the thought of Scoop Wisdom's frustration. "I know only too well, Myles, how that would eat at me."

They came to a classic eighteenth-century Georgian house and mounted steps to a bright yellow door, above it an elegant segmented fanlight. Josie bypassed the large brass knocker and pressed the more modern doorbell.

When no one came to the door, Myles stood up from the wrought-iron rail. "I suspect my breaking-and-entering skills aren't as rusty as yours."

Josie moved aside. "If the guards arrest us, you'll make the call to London."

She turned with her back to him, blocking any view of him from the street as best she could, but she didn't have a chance to regret her actions before he spoke. "We're in," he said calmly, without a hint of cockiness.

The interior of the house was cool and elegantly, if sparsely, furnished. They entered the first-floor drawing room, its tall ceilings and warm blue-and-cream decor a counter to the dreary weather. Staying together, they quickly and efficiently checked every room on every floor but found no missing American, no socks on the floor or shaving gear in the guestroom--nothing to indicate Percy Carlisle was visiting and had simply popped out for a stroll.

"It's unsettling," Josie said as they returned to the front hall. "Suppose he is on some personal retreat as his wife says. I still don't understand why we can't find him. It's not as if we're searching for a trained military and intelligence officer out to stop a major terrorist attack."

Myles ignored her mild barb and stepped past her. "Look here."

Josie saw that he'd paused in front of a small framed painting by the door. It was one of Keira Sullivan's distinctive wildflower watercolors--a cluster of purple thistle. "Small world." She was aware of the emotion that just that simple painting elicited; it was one of Keira's gifts as an artist. "She has an amazing talent. I hope being around all of us doesn't suck the life out of it. She has painter's block--"

"She's worried about Simon. He'll be back."

"Then go off again," Josie said.

"Maybe. She'll get used to it."

"Easy for you to say. We should go. I swear I'm waiting for hounds to wake up and come after us."

Myles grinned at her. "Worried about getting caught, are you?"

She bristled. "No, I mean that literally about the hounds. One never knows. By the way, I can handle myself in the field quite well. I don't require your assistance or protection."

"You're glad to have me with you, though, in case the guards or dogs come after us."

"Of course. I can feed you to either or both and go scot-free myself."

He seemed amused, unworried about the guards, dogs or her. They headed back outside. Josie locked the door behind her and descended the steps, trying to appear to anyone who might pass by that she hadn't a worry in the world. She glanced back, half expecting hounds barking in all the windows.

She checked her BlackBerry and saw she had a text message from Lizzie and Keira. It wasn't Will's father or Lizzie's father who'd met them in London. It was Will and Simon themselves.

She smiled and relayed the news to Myles, who was obviously unsurprised. "Did you know they were back?" she demanded.

He shrugged and squinted up at the sky. "We're in for a bit of clearing, don't you think?"

"It won't last," she said, shoving her BlackBerry back into her coat pocket. "I'm going to find a quiet banker."

"Didn't you marry a quiet banker?"

"I'm not going to encourage you by answering. Doesn't it feel as if we're caught inside a Celtic circle ourselves and can't find our way out?"

"I wouldn't know a bloody Celtic circle from a hula hoop." He took her hand into his as they crossed to St. Stephen's Green. "Let's enjoy our walk through the park."

"Myles--"

"Moments, love. Life is full of little moments."

17

Boston, Massachusetts

Sophie stretched out with her laptop on the sectional in front of the fireplace. She'd brought in a pot of burgundy mums and set it on the hearth. After a bad night of tossing and turning and obsessing on her chitchat with John March and the BPD detectives--not to mention kissing Scoop, which was insane--she had decided on a proactive morning. She'd started with a run on the Esplanade, then stocked up on groceries and dived into her work. For the next hour, she immersed herself in preparing a call for papers for her panel at the Boston-Cork conference.

Her iPhone rang, startling her. She saw it was Damian--no text message this time. She sat up straight. "Director March has paid you a visit?" she asked.

Silence on the other end. "No," her brother said, "he hasn't."

She winced. "I've been debating whether to warn you that he might turn up in your office. I couldn't decide if it would help to know in advance or if you'd rather be surprised. Plausible deniability and all that. Normally I'm not indecisive, but we're talking about the director of the FBI." She could feel herself digging a deeper hole for herself. "All in all, I think it's best I didn't warn you. You have nothing to hide."

"Sophie? What are you talking about?"

"Never mind. I was lost in my work..." She shut her laptop and focused on her conversation with her brother. "I can hang up, and you can call back and I'll start over."

"Forget it. I'm not worried about Director March. I'm worried about you, Sophie. You're there alone."

She immediately thought of Scoop but reminded herself she'd only known him a short time. Mentioning him certainly wouldn't reassure her brother. "You don't have to worry about me, Damian."

"You and Taryn worried me even before you were born. The day Mom announced she was having twins, I knew I was screwed."

Sophie smiled. "We had a happy childhood."

"Right. You did." But this was pure Damian. "Wendell Sharpe called me. He had to rave about how brilliant you are first. Then he told me he'd just met with a British woman who's in touch with the BPD. She asked about you. I sent you to Sharpe not for a second thinking you'd get mixed up in criminal investigations. Bombs, murders, kidnappings. Damn, Sophie."

"I'm not involved in any of that."

"The cops you're hanging out with are, and you found a murdered police officer yesterday."

"I don't know that he was murdered. Do you?"

"Not officially."

She stood up and looked out at the brick courtyard, inviting and romantic in the midday autumn sun. She'd planned on lunch outside among her mums. "What else did Wendell Sharpe tell you?"

"Nothing you don't already know. Sophie..." Her brother hesitated, which was unusual for him. "Last September in Ireland?"

She couldn't go through it. Not again, not so soon. "Unusually dry and mild."

"Damn it, I'm trying to help--"

"I know you are, Damian," she said, her head clear now. She could see him in some FBI office, with his dark auburn hair, his good looks, his gun strapped to his side. He loved his work as much as she and Taryn loved theirs. "Maybe it's just as well you don't know all the details."

"You're my sister. I want to know." He sounded worried again, less combative. "I have some of the details. I can get a flight up there the minute you say so. If you have any information on where Percy Carlisle is, tell me or tell the police. Then back off. I don't like how this thing feels, Sophie. If we were talking about a major archaeological excavation, I'd listen to you."

Sophie sat at the table, in Scoop's chair from yesterday, when he'd patiently listened to her story. "The internal affairs detective who was hurt in the bomb blast has been on my heels. We ran into each other in Ireland."

Damian was silent a moment. "Cyrus Wisdom. Scoop."

"Do you know him?"

"Of him. He's top-notch. Just remember, Sophie. Cops tell you only what they want you to know, and they can lie. You can't lie to them, but that doesn't mean they can't lie to you."

"Do you know Scoop is lying to me, Damian?"

"That was a general statement. If I were you, I'd be very careful trusting anyone right now except Taryn, Mom, Dad and me."

She thanked him for calling--for his advice and concern--but he was back to being Damian and just grunted and disconnected. It was all Sophie could do not to throw her iPhone against the fireplace, not because of her brother but her situation. She'd felt safe when she'd headed to the Beara Peninsula to check out Keira's ruin, figuring if Jay Augustine was responsible for both their ordeals, at least he was in jail and no longer a danger. But what if Cliff Rafferty's death had nothing to do with either her or Keira, and the Celtic symbols in his apartment were just a diversion--a way to obfuscate and mislead?

To what end?

Sophie shut down her laptop and headed out to the courtyard. She smiled at her pots of mums, as if they were a symbol of happiness and normalcy. She could easily see Scoop taking up gardening. He was physical, results-oriented--he'd appreciate hoeing, weeding, harvesting.

She gave herself a mental shake and remembered her brother's cautionary words. Scoop was a detective recovering from a bomb exploding within yards of him, and yesterday morning she'd led him to the probable bomb-maker--who was dead.

What if the bomb-making materials had been planted on Cliff Rafferty's coffee table?

Whatever the case, did she really think Scoop had gardening on his mind?

Feeling considerably less jet-lagged than she had yesterday, Sophie was too restless for lunch and continued through the archway and up the steps to the street. Damian was right. She was accustomed to being contained and decisive in her world as an archaeologist, but she'd been off balance ever since she'd learned more details about Keira Sullivan's experience on the Beara Peninsula.

Avoiding Charles Street and the Whitcomb Hotel, she wound her way down to busy Beacon Street and crossed to the Boston Public Garden, a Victorian botanical oasis in the heart of the city. She immediately relaxed amid its enormous shade trees and well-kept lawns and flower beds. She noticed leaves just beginning to change color, tinted gold, orange and red, and walked past the shallow man-made pond where the foot-pedaled Swan Boats had entertained tourists and locals alike for more than a century. She could have spent the afternoon on a bench, or brought her laptop with her and worked on turning her dissertation into a book, as Colm Dermott was encouraging her to do.

Instead she crossed Boylston Street and continued toward Jay and Charlotte Augustine's showroom in the South End.

Scoop materialized on the next corner and fell in next to her. Sophie angled a look at him. "How long have you been following me?"

"Since the Swan Boats."

"I'm not good at spotting a tail. I guess I'd have to learn if I decide to be an FBI agent, huh?" Her breath caught at his grim intensity. "What's wrong?"

He stayed close to her as they crossed the street. "Jay Augustine died this morning in his jail cell, probably of a massive stroke."

"Then whatever secrets he had died with him. Had he been sick?"

"Not that anyone knew. He was one evil son of a bitch. I wouldn't be surprised if he willed his own death--made himself have a stroke so he could be with the devil he admired so much."

A crowd of office workers and shoppers swarmed past them. "Could he have suspected something was wrong with him and refused to tell anyone?"

"It doesn't matter now. He's done."

"Did Cliff Rafferty ever meet him, talk to him?"

Scoop shook his head. "Not that we know of. What's on your mind, Sophie?"

She nodded vaguely down the street. "I'm on my way to the Augustine showroom in the South End. I wonder if anyone's there to let me in."

"All right." Scoop was cool, hard to read. "We'll walk over there together. Someone will be there today."

Because of Augustine's death, she realized.

Scoop matched her pace. "Hell of a coincidence after yesterday. Maybe Cliff had a word with the devil and they summoned old Jay home."

They came to a narrow building with an upscale health club on the first floor. Scoop opened a glass door to the small entry. The Augustine showroom--or former showroom, Sophie thought, since it was now closed--was on the third floor. They took a cramped elevator that barely fit the two of them. She was intensely aware of the brush of his arm against hers, the shape of his chest, his thick thighs.

Scoop smiled at her as if reading her mind. "Tight quarters."

The elevator clanked to a stop and opened into a reception area. Frank Acosta was there with a uniformed officer. "Figured you two would show up," he said, leaning against the edge of an empty rolltop oak desk. "I came by after I heard about Augustine. Bastard did us a favor by dropping dead on his jail cell floor. He was never going to talk."

"We'd like to take a look around," Scoop said.

Acosta dropped onto a chair at the desk. "Go right ahead. We're done here. Charlotte Augustine has an auction house lined up to sell off the inventory as soon as she's legally cleared to get rid of this place. It'll be easier now with her husband dead on his jail cell floor. Everything's packed up." He glanced at Sophie with half-closed eyes. "Take your time."

She started to thank him, but Scoop stepped in front of her and pushed open the door to an adjoining room, holding it for her. She entered a long, narrow storeroom with deep shelves on one wall. The floor and shelves were stacked with neatly labeled crates and boxes, only a few pieces not packed up and ready to be moved out.

Scoop followed her down a row of crates. She ran her fingertips over one that came up to her waist. "I'm telling you," she said. "Detective Acosta doesn't like you."

"He doesn't like internal affairs."

"Has he had run-ins with other internal affairs detectives or with you personally?"

"Sophie, I can't discuss--"

"Internal affairs deals with administrative issues that aren't necessarily criminal," she said, moving down the row. "Laziness, lying to superiors, sexual indiscretions, showing up drunk on the job. Any of those describe Detective Acosta? Did he cross a line that got him into trouble with his bosses but not the district attorney?"

Ignoring her questions, Scoop bent down for a closer look at a hip-high marble statue. "He's not wearing any clothes."

Sophie gave up but couldn't resist a smile. "You can be very stubborn. That statue is a high-quality copy of the Greek god Apollo, by the way. It's marked as such, so there's no deception."

He straightened. "I don't think I'd want Apollo here in my dining room."

She checked out more crates, noting labels and staying alert in case anything jumped out at her that could help her understand what "Celtic pieces" the worker claimed to have seen and were now nowhere to be found.

"Tell me what you see, Sophie," Scoop said, serious now.

"A lot of crates. It'd be helpful to find one labeled 'stolen Celtic artifacts,' wouldn't it?"

Acosta came up behind them. "I can let you into the climate-controlled room where the kid who used to work here said he saw them."

"That'd be great," Sophie said as he hit buttons on an alarm panel.

"You must have brought an ill wind back from Ireland," Acosta said, standing back from the door. "Cliff dies. Now Augustine dies, not that anyone will miss him."

Sophie felt Scoop stiffen next to her, but he made no comment as they entered the climate-controlled room. "How did Cliff Rafferty end up working security here?" she asked. "Did he request the assignment?"

"Take a look around, Dr. Malone," Acosta said, ignoring her question. "Tell us if you see anything."

"Maybe he stole the missing artifacts himself. If he had a buyer in the wings--"

Acosta didn't let her finish. "I'll wait outside."

He withdrew, and Sophie frowned at Scoop. "He doesn't like me, either. Do you know how Rafferty ended up working security here? Did he and Detective Acosta know each other when the break-in happened at the Carlisle Museum?"

"Probably." Scoop's dark eyes settled on her. "No freelancing, Sophie, remember?"

She smiled suddenly. "I ask a lot of questions. It's the nature of what I do."

"Same here. I understand, but you still need to watch yourself--for your own sake."

She moved deeper into the small, windowless room, taking note of more boxes and crates of canvases, statues, porcelain and metalwork on shelves and leaned up against the walls. "Are other pieces missing from the inventory, or just the Celtic artifacts the worker says he saw?"

"Just those."

She looked up at an ornate clock set on a top shelf, then stepped back to the middle of the room. "Anything Celtic is in high demand these days. It doesn't matter what era or country of origin. I don't see anything here that's obviously Celtic--Iron Age or otherwise--never mind resembles what I saw in the cave. I thought it might help to see what's here. I'm not sure it does."

They returned to the reception area. Sophie thanked Acosta.

"Yeah, no problem," he said, then grinned at her. "Don't you have a job?"

"As a matter of fact, I'm on my way to see about tutoring my hockey players."

"I'll meet you downstairs," Scoop said.

She took the stairs instead of the elevator. When she reached the street, she called Tim O'Donovan in Ireland. After a quick hello, she said, "When I met Percy Carlisle at the pub the other night, he had just come from Killarney National Park. Last year he was staying with friends there when he looked me up. I wonder if they might know where he is now."

"You don't expect me to know everyone in Killarney, now, do you?"

"No, of course not."

Maybe Percy was having an affair, Sophie thought, although she had no reason to think so and it struck her as ridiculous. He and Helen seemed happy together, with plans for the future. More likely, he was simply off enjoying himself--golfing, hiking, whatever--in an ultra-private setting and had no idea that his security guard was dead.

Sophie shook off her thoughts. "I was hoping maybe you or one of your friends had seen Percy with these friends from Killarney."

"Are they Irish?"

"I don't know. They'd be well off if they're Percy's friends."

"I'll see what I can do, Sophie," Tim said, his tone neutral. "What are you up to?"

"Jay Augustine is dead--the serial killer."

"That's not a bad thing."

"Did you get the photo I e-mailed you of the police officer who died?"

"I did. I don't recognize him, either. I'll show him to the boys when I ask about the friends from Killarney. I'm no help. Sophie..."

She heard the worry in his voice and smiled into her phone. "We'll be back to dancing an Irish jig and drinking Guinness before long."

"Your new detective friend?"

"I don't know if he's much on dancing, but we can teach him."

Tim didn't sound very reassured before they disconnected.

Scoop caught up with her at an intersection. "Figured I'd give you a minute to finish your call. Family?"

"Tim O'Donovan."

"The fisherman and fiddle player." He stepped off the curb and flagged a passing cab. "Have fun with your hockey players."

"I doubt I'll actually start tutoring today. I'm just getting acquainted with everyone."

He opened the cab door for her. "Stay busy. Keep my number handy."

She nodded, thanking him as she climbed in and sank against the seat. She was keyed up, and just as Scoop shut the door, she almost asked him to get in the cab with her--almost told him she didn't want to be alone. Instead she flashed him a quick smile. The man had enough on his mind without adding her to the equation.

Ten minutes later, the cab dropped her off at a squat, unattractive building near Boston University. The tutoring center was located on the first floor. She enjoyed working one-on-one with students, and she needed the income.

As she headed inside, Tim called her back. "None of the boys recognized your cop," he said, "but they have an idea of who Percy Carlisle's friends in Killarney might be. They're in Kenmare often."

"You have any names?"

"I do, indeed. David and Sarah Healy."

He gave her what details he had on the Healys, and after he hung up, Sophie dialed Scoop's number. "Are you back at work?" she asked him.

"Nope. I had this urge to make sure you got to your destination. I'm half a block behind you."

She turned around, and he waved to her from farther down the wide sidewalk. She laughed. "I'll have to take 'Spotting a Tail 101.' I'll wait for you--"

"Tell me now. I can hear in your voice that you have something for me."

What else, she wondered, could he hear in her voice? She shook off the thought. "I have the name and address of a couple in Killarney who are friends with Percy Carlisle. They might have an idea where he is." Sophie paused, watching Scoop make his way steadily toward her. "Maybe your British friends can check them out."

18

Killarney, Southwest Ireland

Josie had steeled herself for Myles to abandon her in Dublin, but not only did he accompany her to the airport, he boarded a small plane with her for the short flight to the west of Ireland. She'd arranged for a car when they arrived. He took the keys. She didn't object.

"I'll navigate," she said, reaching for her seat belt in the passenger seat.

It was very dark when they arrived at an attractive stone house just past a confusing roundabout near Killarney National Park. Lights shining in the first-floor windows suggested Percy Carlisle's friends, David and Sarah Healy, were at home.

Myles popped out of the car with no hint of the fatigue Josie had noticed when she'd first walked into Keira's cottage, and there he was. As they headed up the walk in a light rain, she fought a sudden sagging of her own energy and spirit. "I'd love just to wander among the oaks and yews with nothing more pressing to do than find the next waterfall."

She expected a smart retort from Myles, but he brushed his fingers over the top of her hand. "We'll get there, you and I."

"Ever the optimist." She mounted the front steps to the house. "I wonder if we'll find Percy Carlisle sitting by the fire with a whiskey."

Myles didn't answer right away. She thought he might go soft on her again, but he rallied. "Let's find out, shall we?"

David Healy, an amiable middle-aged Irishman, greeted them at the door, obviously curious as Josie introduced herself and Myles as best she could. "A mutual friend told us we might find Percy Carlisle here. We thought we'd drop in and say hello."

"Sorry, you've missed him. He was here four or five nights ago. He stayed just the one night. He'd come straight from London. Helen wasn't with him. She'd already left for Boston--or maybe it was New York, then Boston. Percy and I took a long hike in Killarney National Park. My wife stayed behind. He left early that evening."

Myles leaned against a wet iron rail. "Did he say where he was going?"

"Kenmare. He planned to see an archaeologist he knows."

"And after Kenmare?" Josie asked.

Healy's expression by itself said he hadn't a clue. "He didn't say. He was quite preoccupied. He gets that way. He did say he wanted to go off on his own for a bit--I don't know more than that, I'm afraid. My wife, either."

The man was looking worried. Josie gave him a cheerful smile. "Well, we're terribly sorry to have missed him. Thank you for your help."

Healy started to shut the door but stopped. "There's nothing at all unusual in Percy wanting to be on his own. He's been like that for as long as I've known him, which has been for at least ten years. Percy's always appreciated his solitude. He says that's why he married so late. Helen understands."

"She wasn't upset, then, about him going off?" Josie asked.

"Not according to Percy."

Myles stood up from the rail. "Percy visited you last year around this time, as well, didn't he?"

Healy frowned. "Yes, for a few days. We played a bit of golf."

"Did he mention his archaeologist friend then?" Josie asked.

"I don't recall, to be honest. Something's wrong, isn't it?"

"We hope not," she said, handing him a card. "My number and e-mail--please let us know if you hear from Percy, won't you?"

He promised he would, and Josie thanked him and retreated back down the walk. Myles stepped in front of her and opened the car door for her. "Do I look as if I'd have run straight into it?"

"I'm being chivalrous."

"Oh. I don't think I've ever had anyone be chivalrous. It's rather nice." She smiled as she got into the passenger seat. "You'll shut the door next?"

"I'll try not to get your foot."

She checked her BlackBerry. She had a message from Will. No news in London. He and Simon were checking into Percy Carlisle's friends, acquaintances and activities there, as well as taking another, closer look at Jay Augustine's travels in Great Britain and Ireland. Undoubtedly Lizzie and Keira were deeply involved, too. They all wanted to know who could have been on the tiny island with Sophie Malone last September.

Simon had suggested that Josie--Moneypenny, as he called her--work directly with the Irish guards, but to what end? She knew nothing they didn't.

She had a message, too, from Adrian, all about his day at school. It made her smile and wish to be back home. She glanced at Myles. But everything had changed, hadn't it? Would she even be allowed to tell her son that his idol hadn't vanished into thin air?

"Where to now?" Myles asked as he started the car.

Scoop Wisdom had reported earlier that Sophie Malone had offered the use of her cottage to his "British sources" in Ireland.

That would be Myles and me, Josie thought.

"Back to Kenmare," she said.

The interior of the Malone cottage was charming and quite chilly, and the moment Josie crossed the threshold, she knew she was lost. Myles eased an arm around her middle and kissed the top of her head. "Josie."

All his anguish and pain came out in that one gesture, that one whisper. She'd kept hers in a tight ball inside her, refusing to acknowledge her feelings much less let them leak out and destroy her. She couldn't hold it in any longer. "Myles...I missed you so much."

"I know, love. I'm sorry."

"No, don't," she said. "Don't be sorry."

In one motion, he caught her up into his arms as if she were a swooning fairy-tale princess and carried her upstairs, kicking open a door and laying her on a frighteningly cold bed. They hadn't lit a fire or turned on the heat.

"We'll warm right up," he said, kissing her.

Moonlight streamed through the window, striking his face. Josie held him fiercely and whispered how much she hated him, loved him, wanted him, and he let her get it all out before he kissed her again, taking his time. After that, she wasn't cold anymore. He lifted off her shirt, and she got his off, half expecting a different Myles underneath--new scars, new muscles. But she found that it didn't matter. She felt only the heat of his skin against hers.

They made love slowly at first, as if it were all so momentous and one wrong move would doom them to perdition, but when he was inside her, Josie grabbed him by the hips and pulled him deeper into her. He moaned, his mouth finding hers in the dark as he drove into her. There was nothing slow about their lovemaking after that.

Later, tucked under the duvet, holding on to him as she'd imagined alone in her bed night after night, Josie smiled. "I should have guessed this would happen when you opened the car door for me."

He laughed. "You did guess."

She laughed, too. "So I did."

19

Boston, Massachusetts

When she arrived back on Beacon Hill, Sophie found the gate to the archway and courtyard unlocked and thought nothing of it as she shut it firmly behind her, locking it again. Her afternoon on her own had left her feeling more normal--determined, even, to back off from trying to find answers to last September herself. Cliff Rafferty and now Jay Augustine were dead. Percy Carlisle was still out of touch. She'd done what she could to figure out what was going on, and she'd told the police everything she knew.

The police included Scoop, she reminded herself. Whatever attraction she felt toward him didn't change the fact that he was a police officer, as well as a victim of the spiral of violence over the past summer.

The archway, which was unlit, felt cold and dank, reminding her of the cave. It was late afternoon and downright chilly, a sign of the short, frigid winter days ahead. She hadn't lived through a full-blown New England winter in several years. She decided she might as well look forward to a nor'easter, because one surely would blow through Boston before too long.

The courtyard was much darker than she'd expected. The wind or a cat, or maybe even a squirrel, had blown over one of her mums--a white one. She crouched down to right it and stopped, her hand in midair, convinced she'd heard a rustling sound. There was no wind now, not even the stirring of a breeze.

Sophie didn't breathe as she listened.

She heard a whisper in the shadows by the landlords' stairs and shot to her feet. The door to her sister's apartment was shut tight, no sign anyone had broken in.

She heard more whispers--or what sounded like whispers. A neighbor? Music?

A cat yowled, startling her. She jumped back, her heart pounding. She couldn't see the cat but thought the yowl had come from under the stairs. Had the cat been spooked by the whispers, too?

Enough, Sophie thought, and bolted back through the archway, digging out her iPhone and dialing Scoop's number as she headed through the gate and up the stairs to the street. She heard him pick up. "Are you near Beacon Hill?" she asked before he could speak.

"I'm at the Whitcomb. What's wrong?"

"I'm okay." She looked up and down the quiet street as she spoke but saw no one. "I heard something in the courtyard. Whispers. It could have been a cat--"

"Where are you now?"

"On the street."

"Is anyone with you?"

"No. I'm not worried. I just don't want to go back to the courtyard by myself."

"I'm on my way."

While she waited, Sophie peered down the steps through the open gate and archway, but she didn't see a neighbor, a cat, anything. She stood up straight and watched a young couple walk past her, holding hands. They exchanged a pleasant greeting, and as she watched them continue past her, she spotted Scoop making his way up the steep street, moving fast. She waved to him, wishing she could say with assurance the whispers were nothing, that no one had been out in the courtyard with her.

"It was quicker to walk," he said when he reached her, slipping an arm around her as if it didn't occur to him to do anything else.

"I could have mistaken--"

"Either way, I'm glad you called me." He winked at her. "Better safe than bonked on the head, right? I'll take a look."

"I'll go with you," she said. "Honestly, it could have been a cat."

"That'd be good. I like cats."

They went down the steps and through the archway back to the courtyard, quiet and still in the fading daylight. Scoop took a quick look around, but none of the neighbors that shared the courtyard had doors wide open or windows broken. No one was lurking behind a bench or under the stairs where Sophie had heard the cat.

"Any other exits besides through the archway?" Scoop asked.

"There's a skinny walk out to the street behind us. It has a locked gate. It's seldom used. I don't even have a key."

"Hide under the stairs, then scoot out the back while you head through the archway." He shrugged, contemplating the situation. "It could work. Let's take a look at your apartment."

The door was locked, not so much as a fresh scratch in the dark green paint. Scoop checked the windows. "Anything look different to you?"

"No, nothing. If I hadn't heard the whispers..." Sophie pulled her sweater tightly around her, cold now. "I'm on edge."

"Understandable," he said, glancing back at the pretty courtyard. "Did your sister give a key to anyone?"

"I don't think so. The friend who was here over the summer returned her key and said she didn't make a copy."

"Who else knows you're in Boston, staying here?"

"My family. A few friends, the tutoring center. Colm Dermott knows. He probably told Eileen Sullivan."

"The Carlisles," Scoop added.

"I imagine just about everyone in the Boston Police Department knows, too."

He plucked a wilted blossom off a yellow mum by the door. "It's a Harry Potter sort of place you've got here. Let's go inside and see if anyone paid you a visit while you were out."

As she dug out her keys, a black-and-white shorthaired cat leaped out from under the stairs and landed on all fours by a small wrought-iron bench. "Hey, there," Sophie said, gently, keeping any tension out of her voice. "I haven't seen you before. Where are you from?"

The cat arched its back and hissed, more out of fear, Sophie thought, than aggression. She hadn't seen the cat in her few days at the apartment. Scoop squatted down. "What's up, fella? Something spook you out here?"

An older woman came out of another apartment across the courtyard. "There you are," she said, gathering the cat up into her arms. "I've been looking all over for you."

Scoop stood up. "He's your cat?"

She nodded. "He never gets out. I was washing windows. I turned my back and he was gone. At first I thought he was hiding in the house. Something must have startled him for him to have jumped out the window."

"How long ago was this?" Scoop asked.

"Maybe ten minutes. I'm so glad he's all right." She nuzzled the cat, who was purring now, clearly calmer. But the woman stiffened as she glanced from Scoop to Sophie and back again. "Is something wrong?"

"It's okay," Scoop said. "Did you see or hear anything unusual out here in the courtyard?"

"No, nothing. I've been here all day, too." The cat wriggled in her arms. "I should get him back inside."

She returned to her apartment, and Sophie stuck her key in the lock. "Maybe it was just the cat," she said, pushing open the door.

"And maybe what startled you is what startled the cat."

They entered her apartment, which obviously hadn't been disturbed, but Scoop checked its entire four-hundred square feet, including the bedroom. Sophie had made the bed, put her clothes away, hadn't left out anything too personal--not that he'd care. He was looking for an intruder, not lace undies on the floor.

Not that she even owned lace underwear.

"I'll be fine here," she said when he returned to the main room. "I can use the dead bolt. Even if someone else has a key--"

"If someone wants to get in here, they can get in. A brick through the window would do it. Who needs a key?"

"I'm glad you're on our side," Sophie said dryly.

He shrugged his big shoulders. "I'm just saying."

They both were standing in the middle of the room as if they didn't quite know what to do with themselves now that the crisis--or whatever it was--had passed. "I'm sorry I got you up here."

"Did you hear whispers or didn't you?"

"I did."

"Did you think someone was hiding in the courtyard?"

She nodded, dropping onto a chair at the table.

"The gate was unlocked," he said. "You did the right thing, Sophie. Don't second-guess yourself. Maybe someone in the neighborhood's reported a burglary, saw someone suspicious--" He stopped. "You get what I'm saying, right?"

"I do. Thanks." She glanced out at the courtyard, dark now, cozy in the glow of lights from neighboring apartments. "Did you hear from your friends in Ireland?"

Scoop stood by the chair across from her but didn't sit down. "They located the Healys in Killarney. Percy wasn't there. He stayed with them the night before he met you in Kenmare. Just him. Helen was already on her way back here."

"It wasn't Percy who was just out there whispering in the courtyard, if that's what you're thinking. He's not..." Sophie hesitated, giving herself a moment to get her bearings before she said the wrong thing. "Percy's not the sort to sneak into a courtyard or follow someone to a remote island."

"Unlike his father?"

"His father could be impulsive and a little tyrannical at times, and he loved a good adventure. I didn't know him that well, as I've said, but I've never heard anything to suggest he was dishonest. If you're thinking there's some father-son rivalry at work here--"

"I'm not thinking anything," Scoop said, still not sitting down.

"I asked Wendell Sharpe if he thought Percy Sr. had arranged the break-in at the museum himself in order to steal the Winslow Homer painting--for the insurance. Wendell said no. The Carlisles have no money worries." Sophie rose suddenly, aware of Scoop's gaze on her--she felt as if she were hiding something when she wasn't. "Even if Percy Jr. feels he doesn't measure up to his father and has tried to find ways to prove himself, I don't believe he would frighten or hurt me."

"A month ago I wouldn't have believed a police officer would place a bomb on the back porch of another police officer--of anyone--but it looks as if that's exactly what happened. It's called keeping an open mind, Sophie. Don't rule anyone or anything out until you know for sure."

She knew he was right. She'd given herself the same lecture. "If Percy let himself be used, he'd be furious and embarrassed." She stared out the window, seeing her reflection. "If he did something stupid like get involved with a crooked art dealer who turned out to be a serial killer..." She didn't finish and smiled at Scoop. "Don't you just want to take a drive up to Vermont and go leaf-peeping?"

He came around the table next to her. "Enough's enough, Sophie. It's crazy to stay here alone with what's been going on. Jeremiah Rush has an old crush on you. I'll bet he'll give you a break on a room." Scoop brushed a few strands of hair out of her face. His hands were steady, warm. "The alternative is for me to stay here with you."

There was no separation of space in the tiny apartment and just one bed. The sofa that was too short for either of them.

Which he had to know.

"I shouldn't have left you up here last night," he said. "Did you even sleep?"

"Not much. I'm not fooled, by the way. You want to keep an eye on me."

"Ah-huh." He lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her lightly, then stood up straight and grinned at her. "For a number of reasons."

"You're going to regret that in about ten seconds."

He laughed. "I doubt it."

"I'll get my stuff."

She retreated to the bedroom and pulled out her backpack. She was happy not to argue, even if a five-star boutique hotel wasn't in her budget. But what was she doing? She'd just sworn off getting herself deeper into this mess, and here she was, about to head off with a Boston detective--a man obsessed, understandably so, with finding out why a fellow police officer had been found dead yesterday amid bomb-making materials and dark Celtic symbols.

Never mind head off with him. She'd just kissed him. Again.

And not for the last time, she thought, gritting her teeth as she threw clothes together, including some prettier tops that Taryn had left behind.

She went back out into the courtyard with Scoop. She slung her backpack over one shoulder and didn't even think to protest when he put a hand on her hip as they went back through the archway out to the street.

20

Without even trying, Scoop came up with a half-dozen reasons not to stay in the same hotel as Sophie, but he ignored them all as he stood with her in the elegant little lobby of the Whitcomb. Jeremiah Rush maintained a neutral expression behind his desk. "I have you on the third floor," he said, handing her a real key, not a flimsy key card. "You're down the hall from Detective Wisdom, as requested. Your room overlooks the back of the hotel, but I think you'll be pleased."

"I'm sure I will be, Jeremiah," she said, smiling. "Thanks. I won't cause any trouble, I promise."

"Right. That was what Lizzie said last month, and I had cops and spies all through the place." The younger Rush shook his head. "I want to enjoy life. I have a golden retriever, friends and a good job. I don't need to kick butt like Lizzie, and her dad--" He stopped himself as if he'd gone too far, then leaned toward Sophie and whispered, "Uncle Harlan threatened to bug the lobby if we all didn't behave."

Scoop grinned. "Good for him. What does he think of Will Davenport?"

Jeremiah stood up straight and gave a long-suffering laugh. "You don't think he'd tell me, do you? Enjoy your stay, Sophie. Let me know if there's anything I can do to make you more comfortable."

Scoop took the elevator up with her and walked with her down the hall to her room. He'd offered to carry her backpack a half-dozen times and finally had taken the hint that she was doing this herself and wasn't sure about any of it--the whispers, calling him, kissing him, now moving into the Whitcomb. As she unlocked the door to her room, he leaned against the wall and said, "You're thinking right now you never should have gone to check out Keira's ruin when you did."

"It's not really her ruin, is it? She'd be the first to say so, I imagine. It belongs to the farmer who owns the pasture."

"Not my point."

Which she obviously knew, but she held open the door and said, "After you," as if she accepted that he'd have to see inside for himself, make sure she would be safe there.

He went in, and she followed him and set her backpack on a rack, obviously used to being on her own, traveling. Feeling secure. She'd regained her composure, but her expression was still tight, tense, as she turned to him. "We'd have met on the plane," she said. "It would have been the same. Somehow, we'd be here right now even if I hadn't gone to the Beara when I did."

"Are we talking fairy dust?"

That brought a spark to her eyes, and she even managed a small laugh. "Maybe we are."

Scoop stood at the window, aware of the shortening days. Where would he be come winter? Not here, he thought. Not at a five-star Boston hotel. Back at the triple-decker? On Yarborough's sofa bed? He glanced at Sophie and wondered where she'd be, but pushed aside his questions. "Tell me the rest about the cave," he said quietly, seeing immediately that he'd caught her by surprise. "Never mind the objective facts. I want to hear about the subjective parts. Don't be a scholar. Be someone alone on a tiny uninhabited island off the Irish coast."

She unzipped her pack but didn't open it up. "Where will that get us?"

"I don't know. Maybe you'll remember something you wouldn't otherwise." He turned from the window. "I want to hear from Sophie, not just Dr. Malone."

"Do I ever get to hear from Scoop, not just Detective Wisdom?"

"Maybe you are right now."

She glanced around her room, everything spotless, perfect. "The Whitcomb's a beautiful hotel, isn't it? Jeremiah's insisting on paying for the room, but we'll fight that one out later. It's decent of him."

"You remind him of the high school crush he had on you."

"Don't let him fool you. Jeremiah's as independent and driven as his brothers and cousin. When I worked at Morrigan's, I never imagined I'd stay here under these circumstances...."

"The cave, Sophie."

"I was terrified," she said quickly, almost as if she'd been building up to this moment. "I questioned myself for going out there on my own in the first place."

"Why did you?"

"I wanted to do something adventurous--something that took me away from my day-to-day work and worries. I considered Tim's story about hidden Celtic treasure a mix of legend, myth and folklore, even if it arose from an actual event." She abandoned her backpack and went over to the window. "I was filled with doubts about my work. I'd been so focused on getting my doctorate that I didn't think about what would happen after that, and all of a sudden it was upon me."

"Think back. Put yourself in that cave that night." Scoop spoke softly, sat on the edge of the bed. "Try to remember."

"Do you think I haven't done that?"

"Yeah. I think you haven't done that. Not in the way I'm talking about."

"I don't want to," she said, more to herself than to him.

"I know you don't."

She glanced sideways at him. "The bomb? Did you make yourself--"

"Yes, I made myself go back there and relive every moment of what happened. I put myself back in the hours that led up to the blast and took myself right up to when I saw Bob O'Reilly sitting by my hospital bed, looking grim and pissed off. Only then could I step back and be objective about the experience itself."

"So it helped with the investigation?"

He shrugged and grinned. "Not really. I was badly injured, then shot up with morphine. I have gaps. I wish I could remember everything."

"Was Cliff Rafferty at your house before the bomb went off? Looking back, can you see that he was the one who planted it?"

"We're not talking about me right now."

She smiled. "When do we get to talk about you?"

"After you've told me about the cave and we've had a couple drinks."

She turned back to the window and gazed down at the alley behind the hotel. "I was having a great time," she said, her voice steady, calm. "It was a beautiful September day, and I loved exploring the island. I was careful not to disturb any nesting sites or fragile areas. I looked for seabirds, seals--the rare Kerry spotted slug."

"You can tell me about the rare Kerry spotted slug later."

She was so intent on her memories that she obviously didn't notice he wasn't serious. "I didn't expect to find one given the conditions on the island. I was also on the lookout for ancient sites--a hermit-monk hut, for instance--but I had no reason to believe I'd find one.

"Sophie," Scoop said, "could anyone else have already been on the island when you got there?"

"I don't see how but it's possible."

"Who else knew you planned to go out there that day?"

She shook her head. "No one but Tim that I'm aware of. We didn't broadcast what we were doing to everyone in town, but we knew there was talk."

Scoop let that one go. "Someone could have seen the two of you go off in his boat and put two and two together."

She nodded. Obviously it was a scenario she'd considered herself. "Anyway, after Tim dropped me off, I watched him head back across the bay. I had binoculars. I saw other boats but none came toward the island. I had a bite to eat, then I went exploring. I heard birds calling but otherwise...I'm sure of it, Scoop. I was alone."

She paused, but he didn't move or speak. He let her get her mind back to that day on the island.

"I didn't hear a boat after Tim left. Whoever stole the artifacts and scared the hell out of me could have shut down the engine so that I wouldn't be alerted, or had a boat with a quiet engine, or rowed over from shore or another boat. It's not easy to drop someone off on the island. There's no dock, obviously. The shore's rocky, the waves and currents are tricky--you have to know what you're doing."

"Which your Irish fisherman friend does," Scoop said.

"Definitely. Fast-forward to when I first became aware I wasn't alone. It wasn't just a feeling. I'm not particularly psychic. I'd just entered the cave--it must have been five, at most ten, minutes later when I heard gravel or small stones crunching." She turned to him. "And whispers."

"Close your eyes. Put yourself there."

She did, but he could tell she wasn't there--the spell had been broken. She sighed and opened her eyes, gave him a quick smile. "I'm in an Irish pub with a Guinness and friends."

"Why would someone want to scare you?"

"I have no idea. To create a diversion, to mislead, to act out a fantasy. I suppose there are a dozen possibilities."

"What do the whispers and the blood-soaked branches tell you?"

"That we're dealing with a twisted son of a bitch--"

"Professionally this time. From what you know about ancient rituals."

"People can twist anything to justify and rationalize their own actions. Roman writers describe walking into sacred Celtic groves and discovering human flesh hanging from trees, branches smeared with human blood. Not that the Romans were all sweetness and light. But there's ample evidence that the Celts practiced human sacrifice."

"To what end?"

"Tribal welfare, fertility--we know actually very little about Celtic religious beliefs. Druids would study for years--decades, even--but committed everything they learned to memory. It wasn't written down. In the early days of Christianity, Irish monks wrote down epic pagan tales. They're a blend of fancy, folklore, tradition, legend and mythology, not to mention adjusted here and there to serve the purposes of the church. That doesn't mean they don't provide important insight and information on the Celts of prehistory. Early Christians in Ireland incorporated pagan traditions instead of trying to stamp them out altogether. For instance, we'll find holy wells on the same site as pagan wells." Sophie moved from the window but remained on her feet. "There's so much more to learn."

Scoop could feel her passion for her field of study. "Whoever left that mess at Cliff's place could have their own interpretation of Celtic lore." He stood up. "Back to the cave, Sophie. You heard the whispers. You saw the branches."

She shut her eyes, then opened them again, shaking her head. "It's just as I told you. I can't remember how I hit my head. I remember the terror I felt...scrambling deeper into the cave, knowing there was no way out but past whoever was at the entrance with the bloody branches. Then--" She stopped, her face pale, if not as pale as when he'd found her on Beacon Hill. She sighed. "Then I woke up in the pitch dark with a screaming headache."

Scoop walked over to her and took her hand as she rose. "What you went through is tough, Sophie."

She smoothed her fingertips over a scar on the back of his hand. "This from someone who survived a bomb blast."

"I wasn't alone. I had people right there with me."

"You almost bled to death. I just got banged on the head and a few scrapes and bruises, and I was cold."

"Your Irish fisherman might not have found you in time."

"And you could have had a piece of shrapnel hit an artery or a vital organ."

His throat caught. "I'll be downstairs in the bar. Let me buy you dinner and a drink." He smiled. "A couple of drinks."

He left her to regroup and shut the door quietly behind him. Downstairs in Morrigan's, Fiona O'Reilly was sipping a soda at a table under the windows, a glossy Ireland guidebook in front of her. He sat across from her. "How's school?"

"Intense. I'm practicing myself bloody."

"You love it, though, don't you?"

She beamed. "Every minute."

"Still excited about your trip to Ireland at Christmas?"

"Yep. I've got most of the details worked out, including where to have Christmas dinner. Not that there are many choices. Virtually every restaurant in Dublin is closed on Christmas Day. Then there's St. Stephen's Day the next day." She waved her long, slender harpist's fingers, the tips callused, the nails blunt. "It'll be so much fun."

"I hear Jeremiah Rush has a cute younger brother who works at their Dublin hotel."

She rolled her eyes, but her cheeks turned bright pink.

Scoop grinned. "You look just like your father when you make that face. It's the long-suffering O'Reilly face. Except he'd never blush."

"I'm not blushing. I'm just excited about Ireland. I'm counting down the days. We're having Christmas Eve tea at the Rush Hotel. Lizzie plans to join us." Fiona shut her guidebook, her cornflower-blue eyes--her father's eyes--wide and serious. "I keep reliving those first minutes after the bomb went off, with my Dad yelling and the smoke and the fire and all the blood. Scoop...I thought you were dead."

"I know, Fi."

"If you'd died saving me, how would I have gone on?"

"You'd have figured it out. I'm glad you didn't have to."

"My music helps," she said quietly. "Do you have anything that helps?"

"Helps what? I'm fine. I don't even remember bleeding all over you."

She rolled her eyes again. "You have a million scars. Don't tell me you never think about what happened."

"I think about it a lot, Fi, but I don't let it control me."

"Yeah. Yeah, that's what I do, too. The police officer you and Sophie Malone found dead..." She looked down at her guidebook again, rubbed her fingertips over the picturesque scene of a white-painted stone cottage on the cover. "Scoop."

She couldn't seem to go on. "Fi, think about Ireland and your music. Let us worry about the rest of it. If you don't--"

"I saw him."

Scoop went still. "What do you mean, you saw him?"

"The day before the bomb went off." She cleared her throat, her gaze clear and steady when she lifted it to him again. "I saw Cliff Rafferty."

"Where?"

"Jamaica Plain. A few blocks from your house. He was in a car--he drove past me on my way from the subway to see my dad."

"You recognized him then--or only now, looking back?"

"Then," she said. "He'd stop by to see my dad every now and then, more often when I was little than lately. I recognized him but couldn't think of his name. I didn't remember I'd seen him until I heard he'd died. Do you think if I'd remembered sooner he'd still be alive?"

"No."

"You didn't even hesitate. How could you not hesitate? You don't know."

"I do know." He'd made her smile, and that was enough for now. "Rafferty turning up in the neighborhood doesn't make him guilty of planting the bomb. It's another piece of evidence and that's all it is. I'm just back from Ireland. Let me know if you want any suggestions."

"Oh, great. Everyone will have been to Ireland before I get there."

"You're nineteen. You've got time."

"Like you're so old." She slid to her feet, tucking her guidebook under one arm. "I need to get ready. My friends will be here any second."

Sophie arrived, obviously fresh out of the shower. Scoop introduced them. Fiona was gracious, but she gave him a knowing, if somewhat protective, smile as she ambled off to the end of the bar where her friends were gathering.

"She's very talented," Sophie said, taking Fiona's place at the small table. "She seems to be doing well. She's as tough as her father in her own way, isn't she?"

Scoop laughed, relieved to see the color back in Sophie's cheeks. "Bob's fine with her majoring in music. He doesn't want any Criminal Justice majors in the family. He knows it's not his call, but he's not shy about his opinions."

"You always wanted to be a police officer."

"My family couldn't keep me on the farm."

"Did they try?"

He shook his head. "No. We're a tight-knit group. We get along."

"Any archaeologists among them?"

He grinned. "Not one."

"When will Abigail Browning return from her honeymoon?"

"I don't know. Soon. Bob was already on her about all the drama in her life before she was kidnapped."

"Do you think she'll remain a detective?"

"Up to her."

"But she's a friend," Sophie said. "Her husband, Owen Garrison, was almost killed that day, too."

"It wasn't a great day, but we all survived. I suppose you could say we have the luxury of being frustrated because none of us spotted the bomb. We could all have blown up instead."

"But you're still frustrated. The bomb was placed where you wouldn't see it. Is Abigail fully recovered from her ordeal? Physically, I mean."

"She still had bruises when I saw her at her wedding, but they were healing. Norman Estabrook smacked her while he had her on the phone with her father, so March would hear her scream. Estabrook wanted to be John March's personal nemesis."

"Director March has suffered enough," Sophie said.

Abigail had said much the same thing about her father. At her wedding reception she'd told Scoop she wasn't convinced they'd ever know how the bomb had ended up under the grill. "This is a wedding, not a funeral, and thank God for that," Bob had said, pouring champagne.

Sophie interrupted Scoop's drifting thoughts. "Your lives had a nice routine, and this summer destroyed it. You all must feel isolated, at least to some degree."

Maybe so, Scoop thought. Their lives had changed this past summer. There was no going back to what they'd been before the bomb blast. He looked around at the bar, more people drifting in as Fiona and her friends laughed with each other, setting up for their two hours of Irish music.

Finally he smiled at Sophie. "Abigail and Owen are having a baby."

"That's wonderful."

"It is." He sat back. "Let's forget about bombs and blood-smeared branches for a while. Let's talk about what wine you want to drink with dinner." He leaned across the table. "Trust me or don't, Sophie, but it's time to decide."

"That's a two-way street."

"Nope. One-way."

She smiled. "I'll have the Malbec."

21

Scoop headed to Jamaica Plain after breakfast in the Whitcomb's elegant dining room with Sophie's bright blue eyes, freckles and sharp mind across from him. She planned to work on her laptop, in her room, then stop by the Boston-Cork conference offices and maybe drop in on academic friends in town.

He didn't tell her as much about his plans. She didn't seem annoyed, but she didn't seem happy, either.

As he parked in front of the triple-decker, he received the latest report from Ireland, this time from Myles Fletcher, not Josie Goodwin. "We don't have a bloody thing for you, mate," Fletcher said. "We're off to talk to the fisherman again. Percy Carlisle can't have vanished. We'll find him."

Scoop hung up and got out of his car. It was warm out on the street. He ducked under the yellow caution tape. Bob O'Reilly was on the front steps with a contractor, one of his friends from Southie, who saw Scoop, mumbled something about hero cops and left.

Bob nodded toward his departing friend. "He can't fit in the pool and cabana in the backyard."

"Funny, Bob," Scoop said.

"Yeah. I talked the city out of condemning the place. That might not have been smart. We could turn the lot into a community vegetable garden and pitch tents."

"At least the damage wasn't as bad as we originally thought."

"We?" Bob grinned. "You were on morphine. You should have seen the people trooping in and out of your hospital room. Who knew an internal affairs SOB could have so many friends?"

His entire family had come, too, Scoop remembered. He'd faked being passed out during one of their early visits, just to spare them from having to think of what to say. Later, when he was in better shape, they'd all had an easier time. They got along, but that didn't mean they were talkers.

Bob rubbed a big hand over the top of his head. "Fiona feels guilty, but she shouldn't. I never would have thought twice if I saw Cliff on Abigail's porch with a damn bomb in his hands, never mind passing through the neighborhood."

"Probably the bomb would have tipped you off he was up to no good."

"Who knows? I wasn't Cliff's biggest fan over the years, but I never figured him for blowing up this place--damn near killing my daughter. If I'd seen him with a bomb, I'd have assumed it was a dummy and he was doing a drill or some damn thing. When you're not suspicious, you're not suspicious."

Scoop shrugged. "Maybe I'm never not suspicious."

Bob let that one go without a response. "Acosta's here. He's in back. He's angry and frustrated, and he's looking to take it out on someone. He doesn't much like you on a good day, Scoop."

"So why's he here?"

"He figured out you were already looking into whether a member of the department was involved with some Boston muscle."

Scoop noticed that Bob hadn't asked a question. He made no comment himself.

"Acosta doesn't want to go down with Cliff," Bob said.

They headed out back where Acosta was checking out the burned-out first-floor porch as if he could make sense of why his former partner might have wanted to plant a bomb there--for money, revenge, satisfaction? Was he being blackmailed? Was it part of some bizarre ritual he was into?

Bob pulled out white plastic chairs he'd hosed off, although they were still stained black from soot. "Have a seat, fellas. Let's talk. View's not that great right now, but look at that sky. Not a cloud in it. It's a perfect fall day."

Acosta wasn't in a friendly mood. "Cliff was murdered," he said, practically spitting the words at Bob and Scoop. "Homicide can be as tight-lipped as they want. Cliff wouldn't off himself by tying a rope around his own neck and hanging himself from a plant hook. He'd eat a bullet. He was a son of a bitch in a lot of ways, and he was lazy. He had his run-ins with internal affairs over the years. But someone hit him on the head, put a noose around his neck, tied the rope to a door, hoisted him up and let him hang to death."

Scoop sat on one of the chairs. "He'd have been deadweight."

"He was scrawny." Acosta stalked over to the edge of Scoop's garden and kicked at squash vines, for no apparent reason except frustration. "So far there are no witnesses who saw anyone or anything unusual in the neighborhood. Could have been someone familiar."

"Ex-wife?" Scoop asked.

"She'd have shot him," Bob said, dropping heavily into a chair. "She wouldn't go to all the trouble of hanging him. I'm not officially on the case, but cause of death was asphyxia. I can tell you that much. He was hit on the head--the blow was hard enough that it might have killed him eventually by itself."

"Why go to the trouble to hang him?"

"Probably some kind of ritual significance, given the rest of the scene," Bob said, watching Acosta. "Whoever killed Cliff didn't go to a lot of trouble to make it look like a suicide."

Acosta picked up a half-rotten tomato and threw it against the compost bin, constructed of slats and chicken wire. "I'm not fooled, Lieutenant. You're only telling me this so you can watch my reaction." He picked up another tomato and splattered it against the compost bin, too. "We have nothing."

Bob shook his head. "We have a lot. We just can't make sense of it yet."

"Now Augustine's dead. If he knew anything..." Acosta bit off a sigh. "It wouldn't have mattered. He'd never tell us."

"If you're chewing on anything, Frank, you know you need to tell us." Bob's tone was patient, but his gaze was narrowed intently on the robbery detective. "Otherwise go home."

"Go to hell," Acosta said tonelessly.

Bob ignored him and addressed Scoop. "Where's your archaeologist today?"

But there was something in Bob's voice, and Scoop turned in his cheap chair and saw Sophie coming down the walk, her hair pulled back as neatly as he'd ever seen it. She had on a pumpkin-colored sweater and slim jeans, and his heart skipped a couple of beats. He figured Bob and maybe even Acosta noticed, but whatever. This was how it was going to be until the fairy spell wore off or he just accepted that he was in love.

He glanced over at Bob. "You invited her?"

"She's Irish," he said with a shrug, as if that explained everything. "I thought she could sweep the bad fairies out of the corners of the house before we renovate."

"You want her to see where the bomb went off."

He got up. "Maybe it'll help jog our memories."

Sophie gave them a strained smile. "Hello, Detectives."

Acosta moved away from the compost bin, looking irritated and out of place, as if he'd beamed himself into the middle of the wrong meeting. He didn't say a word to Sophie as she gazed up at the burned-out back of the house. "It must have been an awful day."

"It started better than it ended, that's for damn sure," Bob said.

She pointed to Scoop's trampled, overgrown garden. "The compost bin was the only possible place to take cover." Her blue eyes leveled on him. "How did you think of it?"

"I didn't," he said. "I reacted."

"You relied on your instincts and training." Spots of color appeared high in her cheeks. "And your fear for Fiona."

"For myself, too. Hell if I wanted to get blown up."

Acosta muttered under his breath, then shifted to Scoop and Bob. "I have to go."

Sophie watched him retreat back up the walk and out to the street before she spoke again. "He blames me for his friend's death."

"Why do you say that?" Bob asked.

"Because he does." She stepped into the remains of Scoop's vegetable garden. "No pumpkins?"

"Butternut squash," Scoop said, following her to the edge of the garden. "I don't eat pumpkins."

"I love squash. I'm a terrible cook. I don't mind cleaning, though." She took a long step over knee-high weeds to the compost bin. "Is the compost in here still okay?"

"Should be. I can pick out any shrapnel that ended up in it."

Bob walked around to the other side of the bin, behind Sophie. "Would an archaeologist be interested in an ancient compost bin?"

She laughed, relaxing some. "We deal with the material remains of a culture. Compost would be decomposed."

"Not the shrapnel," Bob said. With a broad sweep of one arm, he took in the entire yard. "Imagine keeping everything just as it is and then making sense of this backyard a thousand years from now."

"It would be a challenge," Sophie said.

"Aren't archaeologists part scientist and part historian?"

Scoop didn't know where Bob was going--maybe nowhere--but she didn't seem to mind. "Archaeologists are archaeologists," she said with a light smile. "There are many areas of specialization. Mine is visual arts. We often work with other experts--geologists, botanists, philologists--who can help interpret various discoveries."

"Did you have a good grasp of the geology of the island you ventured to a year ago?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I did. It's not that difficult."

"Rock," Bob said with a smile.

"I knew there could be a cave on the island. In fact, I was hoping there'd be."

"Perfect hiding spot for your treasure."

"It's not my treasure," she said, matter-of-fact. She squinted up at the boarded-up windows and charred wood of the triple-decker. "Lizzie Rush managed to warn you right before the bomb went off. It must have been horrible, knowing your daughter was down here."

"Yep. Horrible."

"The bomb and Abigail Browning's kidnapping were orchestrated by Norman Estabrook. He and most of his men were killed when Lizzie, Will Davenport and Simon Cahill rescued Abigail in southern Maine. One was killed here in Boston, wasn't he?"

Fletcher's doing, Scoop thought. It wasn't Bob's favorite subject. The senior detective settled back on his heels and said, "Estabrook hired local muscle."

Sophie glanced back at him. "Cliff Rafferty?"

"He was a police officer then," Bob said, his tone neutral.

"He was a police officer when he set the bomb--"

"That's right, he was."

"Detective Browning survived her ordeal." Sophie seemed to jerk herself out of whatever dark thoughts she was thinking. "That's the main thing, isn't it?"

Bob nodded. "Yeah. That's the main thing. She did what she could to help with her rescue, but she kept those bastards from killing her. Did you run into Will Davenport when he was in Ireland this summer?"

She shook her head. "No. I don't think Tim did, either." She grimaced again at the fire damage. "You can trace some of the bomb-making materials found at Officer Rafferty's apartment, can't you? You can figure out if the evidence on his coffee table matches up with any evidence here, check his receipts, talk with his friends--"

"We can do all that," Bob said with no hint of sarcasm.

"I can only imagine how difficult this situation must be for you and everyone in the police department. Given what's happened, I gather you're taking another look at what he was up to at the Augustine showroom in the last days as a police officer--and whether he had anything to do with the break-in at the Carlisle Museum seven years ago. The Winslow Homer painting that disappeared that day has never been recovered."

"Cliff wasn't that smart," Bob said.

"Augustine was," Sophie said, but she abruptly squared her shoulders and smiled at the two men. "I've taken up enough of your time. You know how to reach me if you have more questions. I have nothing to hide."

Bob walked across the yard with her. "Any more stray cats at your apartment?"

His question obviously caught her by surprise. Scoop had called Bob last night, after he'd talked himself out of following Sophie up to her room. He'd had a drink, listened to Fiona and her friends for a little while, then went up to his own room and got Bob's take on the whispers in the courtyard--which was straightforward enough. He'd said next time tell Sophie to call 911.

"I haven't been back there yet," she said calmly. "I didn't make up what I heard--"

"Not saying you did. Be good, Sophie."

She glanced at Scoop, said nothing more and left. As she disappeared out of sight, Bob glared at Scoop. "You're going to stay on her, right?"

He was already on his way.

Scoop tried Sophie's number but she didn't answer. He checked the Whitcomb first. Before he could even pose a question, Jeremiah Rush jumped up from behind his desk. "Sophie said to tell you she's gone back up to her sister's apartment."

"Did she check out of the hotel?"

"She wanted to but I told her she could let me know for sure later." Jeremiah frowned. "Is everything all right?"

"No worries. Anything from your cousin?"

"She's in London with Will, Keira Sullivan and Simon Cahill. That's all I know."

"Do me a favor. Call me if you hear from any of them or if Sophie comes back here. If you need me for any reason, don't hesitate. Call. Got that?"

"I do, yes."

Scoop dialed Sophie again as he headed up Beacon Hill but she still didn't answer.

The gate was locked this time. She buzzed him in.

She had books and photographs on the Celts spread out on the table. He noticed a color photograph of a miniature boat in gold, complete with tiny oars, and another of a half-dozen ornate gold torcs. She'd let her hair down, the dark red framing her face, bringing out the blue in her eyes. "I left most of my research materials in Ireland. My parents can ship me anything I need when they get back from their hike."

Scoop looked up from the photos. "You're here but you're not here. Part of you wants to be back in Ireland."

"I'll adjust," she said tightly.

"It'd help to go a few days without a crisis." Scoop flipped through more color photographs of Celtic art. "Tell me about shape-shifting."

"Have you ever wanted to turn yourself into a bird or a dog?"

"When I was nine, maybe."

"Think of it. Being able to metamorphose into a bird would give a man or woman--or even a god--an enormous advantage. A bird can fly into an enemy camp. It can see things a human wouldn't otherwise see. Never mind the practical advantages, shape-shifting plays a symbolic role. A beautiful queen becomes a hag. A young girl becomes a swan. A hero becomes a hawk. As I've mentioned, the Celts didn't have firm lines between this world and the other world--between the living and the dead, between gods and men. Think of shape-shifting in that context."

"You're just scratching the surface, aren't you?"

She smiled faintly. "It's difficult to talk about 'the Celts.' There are many stories of shape-shifting in Irish mythology. The goddess Maeve is said to have shape-shifted into a hag and a raven, terrorizing and horrifying her enemies. Why are you asking about shape-shifting?"

"I don't know. Your big black dog in Ireland, maybe." He changed the subject. "You said the elder Percy Carlisle was an adventurer, but his son isn't. Was there tension between them?"

"I've told you, I didn't know them that well."

"But you heard rumors. You worked at an upscale Beacon Hill pub, you did research at their museum, you were majoring in the field that most interested the father."

"I was a student. I wasn't on their radar, and I didn't have a lot of time for rumors. If Percy felt inadequate--if his father made him feel inadequate--I wasn't that aware of it."

"'That' aware."

She smiled. "Okay, so I was a little aware, but Percy's a grown man now with his own interests and accomplishments. He's married. His father's gone. If you're suggesting he engineered the cave last summer as some way to prove himself--" She stopped, shaking her head. "I don't believe it."

"Helen doesn't seem to mind that he's a bit of a wimp."

"I don't think of him as a wimp, and I know you said that just to see my reaction."

"Never fantasized about Prince Charming Percy Carlisle sweeping you off to his castle in Back Bay?"

"No."

Scoop almost asked her about fantasizing about a scarred, weight-lifting cop, but he resisted.

She gathered up her materials into both arms and dumped them on the floor in front of the fireplace. "I've been wondering if I missed it somehow and Percy Sr. did explore that island on one of his adventures. But I don't see how. Tim O'Donovan would have known. He and his family have been fishing off the southwest coast of Ireland for decades."

"Going out there was all your idea?"

She nodded.

"What about the break-in at the museum? How did that affect your relationship with the Carlisles?"

"I had nothing to do with it, and it was a long time ago--"

"Not that long."

She sighed. "Both Carlisles were uncomfortable around me after that."

"Did they ever consider you a suspect?"

"No, and neither did the police." Her voice was calm. "There were rumors--never mind. Rumors don't matter now."