Heron's Cove (19 page)

He leaned against the open door. “Yank doesn’t know what all your grandfather knows about Rusakov, about this collection.”

Emma kept silent, her heartbeat quickening. Yank, she noticed, didn’t say a word.

“Then there’s Ivan Alexander,” Colin said. “Bet Yank doesn’t know everything about your involvement with him. He’s a ghost. An independent security consultant. No footprints, no fingerprints. He has a place in Moscow but he’s never there.”

“Ivan operates according to his own set of rules.” She turned to Yank. “I’ll let you two talk.”

“Is he playing you, Emma?” Colin asked as if she hadn’t spoken. “What’s his relationship with your grandfather and brother?”

She moved toward the door, controlling her breathing, refusing to let him see that he was getting to her. “You’d have to ask them. You’re thinking this is a Sharpe can of worms, but what if it’s something else? What if it’s a Special Agent Donovan can of worms?”

Yank glared at her, then at Colin. “It’s the two of you together. A can of worms on steroids.”

Colin pulled out a chair, dropped into it, deceptively casual. His attention was still on Emma. “Where are your grandfather’s records on the Sharpe dealings with Rusakov?”

“Even if I knew,” Emma said coolly, “they’re not mine to hand over.”

“What about your personal records?”

“I don’t have any personal records. I wasn’t with Dmitri in London for weeks and weeks. I was there for one week. One frustrating week with little to show for it.”

“Ivan’s your source,” Colin said abruptly, tipping back in his chair.

Emma felt heat rush to her face but addressed Yank. “Anything else you need from me?”

Colin didn’t give Yank a chance to respond. “I’ve been doing some checking. Let’s put aside the Sharpes and this collection for now. Our friend Vladimir Bulgov was in London in April. You know who else was there? Dmitri Rusakov.” Colin’s voice was low, controlled. “So was Ivan Alexander.”

Emma kept any reaction to herself as she met his eyes. “Guilt by association, Colin?”

His gaze bored into her. “You tell me.”

“Ivan had a drink with Bulgov in London on April fifth,” she said.

Yank sat at the conference table. “And you know this how?”

“Because Ivan told me.”

“When?” Colin asked.

“Last night. He stopped by the house.”

Yank sighed. “Lovely,” he said through clenched teeth.

“Ivan’s everywhere,” Colin said. “He’s that kind of guy.”

“Did Rusakov and Bulgov meet?” Yank asked.

“Ivan didn’t mention that Dmitri was in London then,” Emma said. “I didn’t ask. It wasn’t that kind of conversation.”

“Maybe it should have been,” Colin muttered.

She gave him a cool look. “What was Bulgov doing in London? Might want to find that out.”

She brushed past him out of the conference room and went down the hall into her own office. As she sat at her neat desk, calming herself, her gaze rested on notes she had jotted down that morning. She had brainstormed everything she could remember about Dmitri and Renee Rusakov, Natalie Warren, Ivan Alexander, the Rusakov collection.

The divorce was Dmitri’s first but not Renee’s. It hadn’t been pleasant but as far as Emma knew there hadn’t been any serious issues. Now Renee was dead. She’d gone downhill fast, with little chance to get her affairs in order.

Lucas had said that Tatiana Pavlova was a superb designer, just untidy. So far, he’d had little luck finding out much about her personal life in London, or about her past in Russia.

“Maybe she created a new life for herself in London and put Russia behind her,”
her brother had suggested.

Lucas had also noted that all kinds of rich people went in and out of the Firebird.

Who did Tatiana know?

Emma sank back into her chair. She had a photo of Ivan Alexander up on her computer screen. She knew a fair amount on him, but not everything.

Not nearly everything,
she thought, studying his ever-impassive face.

She had taken the photo herself, surreptitiously, in London four years ago but had always felt he had known and didn’t care. She admitted that she was defensive where he was concerned, but she had no reason to be.

Or maybe you do.

She pushed back such thinking. Yank hadn’t asked her the identity of her confidential source, and she hadn’t volunteered Ivan’s name. It was understood that it was someone from her pre-FBI days.

Nonetheless, she was positive Yank knew.

“Yank always knows,” she said under her breath, managing a smile as she shut down her computer and headed out.

Colin was still holed up with Yank in the conference room. Everyone was working hard on the investigation. They had all agreed that, with Dmitri Rusakov in Heron’s Cove, she should return there.

She would stop at her apartment, pull a few things together, then make the two-hour drive back up to southern Maine.

With any luck, the
Nightingale
would be gone by then, and Pete Horner and his Russian thugs would be in custody, with no troubling connection to Dmitri Rusakov or Ivan Alexander.

15

COLIN WAS READY to jump out of his skin. “Mike called on my way down here,” he said, following Yank out of the conference room into his office. “He’d just come from the rectory with Finian Bracken. Fin ran into the Russian designer, Tatiana Pavlova, at the Sisters of the Joyful Heart’s shop in Heron’s Cove. She told him she was just checking it out.”

“She’s an artist. It’s an arts-and-crafts store. Makes sense, doesn’t it?”

Colin shrugged as he sat on the wide brick windowsill, Boston Harbor spread out before him on a gray afternoon. “She also stopped up at the convent. Mike says Fin was out of sorts. He thinks there’s more to it but Fin didn’t want to tell him.”

“Maybe he’ll tell you.”

“That’s what Mike said, too.”

Yank sank onto the tall-backed chair at his desk. Behind him was a credenza with no personal items, not even a picture of his wife. Colin had met Lucy Yankowski, a dark-eyed psychologist with a pixie haircut and a pixie face. She was a lot cuter than her husband of ten years, and at least as smart.

“Does Lucy know you don’t have any pictures of her on your desk?”

Yank scowled. “I don’t like distractions. I’ve got pictures at home.”

“At home in Virginia or—”

“None of your damn business, Donovan.” Yank pushed back his chair, thought a moment. “What if Rusakov’s arrival in Heron’s Cove really is Sharpe-related and has nothing to do with you?”

“It does feel personal.” Colin returned his gaze to the harbor as he continued. “I don’t like having Rusakov, Alexander and Bulgov in London at the same time. We weren’t on Bulgov around the clock then. We don’t know what he did, who he met with. London’s a big city but these three are all rich, well-connected Russians.”

“That’s why we had the meeting today that you skipped.”

Colin ignored the gibe. “Do you still think you know Emma?”

“I know more about the Sharpes and who the Sharpes know than I do about you and who you know.”

“I’m a Donovan from Rock Point and I know a bunch of lobstermen, cops, FBI agents and thugs.”

“Don’t try to pretend you’re simple.”

“I am simple. Emma isn’t. Rusakov and Alexander aren’t.” Colin watched boats return to the wharf next to Yank’s building. “I can do my job, Yank, but I’m not objective. Not where Emma’s concerned.”

“It’s possible Rusakov is just in Heron’s Cove to get this collection back, but I want to know why he and Alexander were in London the same time as Vladimir Bulgov.”

“So do I,” Colin said.

As he eased off the windowsill, he felt an unwelcome twinge of pain in his lower back. He had woken up stiff and sore to his bones, with no Emma. She had already slipped out of her makeshift bed early to make coffee. He had joined her in the kitchen and helped her pick out new cabinets, an act of normalcy that underlined just how abnormal their relationship and the situation with the
Nightingale
were.

“You okay?” Yank asked with obvious concern.

Colin nodded. “Maybe I should have stayed in Rock Point and dug bean holes with Finian Bracken. Has it occurred to you that Emma might be better—more valuable to you—on the outside rather than on the inside?”

Yank’s eyes narrowed. “Where she wouldn’t be constrained by a badge, you mean?”

“Might be better for you personally. Having a Sharpe on your team has its downside. Who knows what else could come crawling out of the Sharpe family files to bite you in the ass.”

“Or you,” Yank said.

“I didn’t have anything to do with the Sharpes before you and Finian Bracken twisted my arm and got me to look into Emma’s involvement with Sister Joan’s death in September.”

“It didn’t take much twisting.”

Colin realized he was too restless to sit. He walked over to the door, shut against the cubicles, offices and bustle on the other side. He glanced back at Yank. “My life was just fine before I knew about Special Agent Sharpe down the road in Heron’s Cove.”

“Your life wasn’t fine.” Yank swiveled around in his chair and assessed Colin with his usual frankness. “You were a valuable deep-cover operative who was flirting with burnout. You were in danger of hitting the self-destruct button and getting yourself killed or kicked out of the Bureau.”

“Comes with the territory.” Colin knew that Yank was serious, and that he had a point. He just wasn’t going there. “Maybe Emma is asking herself whether she made the right choice. She could go back to Sharpe Fine Art Recovery and you could hire her as a consultant. She has to be wondering if that’s on your mind, too.”

“You’re a worry for me, too, Donovan. A go-it-alone type always is.” Yank rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. “How valuable is this collection?”

“You’re asking me? The most expensive thing I own is a pair of silver cuff links I never wear. My grandmother gave them to me when I quit the marine patrol. She thought I was getting out of law enforcement and going back to lobstering. Then she found out I was heading to Quantico and she wanted her cuff links back.”

“More chance of you wearing cuff links as an FBI agent than a lobsterman,” Yank said.

“That wasn’t her point. She wanted me to have a safe career.”

“And going out on a boat every day is safe?”

Colin grinned. “I’ll never convince you to like boats, will I?”

“Not a chance,” Yank said, no sign of a grin. “Did you give the cuff links back?”

“Nope. She relented. I wore them to a black-tie event when I was working undercover. Vlad invited me.”

“Vlad. Hell, Donovan.” Yank grimaced as he stood up, loosened his tie slightly. “We’re still digging into everything Bulgov touched. It takes time. His ties go back two decades and involve at least two dozen countries.”

“Ivan Alexander’s name hasn’t turned up?”

Yank sat on the edge of his desk and didn’t answer.

“Damn,” Colin said. “It has, hasn’t it? Talk to me, Yank.”

“Pete Horner piloted a plane Alexander chartered eighteen months ago. Aspen to Los Angeles. Turns out Alexander’s a big skier. Two days later, Horner was fired from the charter company.”

“Alexander’s doing?”

Yank shrugged. “Don’t know yet. We’re on it.”

“Emma?”

“The team. Horner banged around for a couple months, then hired on with Vladimir Bulgov and flew chartered cargo humanitarian relief flights for him.”

“Smuggling weapons with the rice and beans,” Colin said. “He was a relatively new hire with Bulgov. He wasn’t on our radar until late in the game. Did Alexander keep tabs on him?”

Yank shook his head. “Don’t know. That’s all I’ve got right now.”

Colin put his hand on the doorknob but glanced back at Yank. “Ivan Alexander is Emma’s source. No doubt in my mind. A bottle of Bracken Distillers’ finest on it.”

“Too expensive for my blood. A beer instead.” Yank’s humor evaporated almost as soon as it had appeared. “Not that it’s a fair bet. You and I both know he’s her source. If we’re right, if he’s someone she can trust, I’m not mucking things up. Imagine what he knows.”

Colin opened the door. “Imagine what Emma and the rest of the Sharpes know.”

“Yeah. I wouldn’t mind doing a Vulcan mind meld with the grandfather.” Yank followed Colin out into the hall. “I don’t like this damn yacht in Heron’s Cove, Colin. I wouldn’t like it on a good week.”

“We’re on the same wavelength there.” Colin nodded toward an open office with a cluster of desks. “Seeing how I always do as you say, I did bring a couple dozen of Hurley’s doughnuts. I left them with the team. Told them to save you one.”

Yank walked with him to the exit. “See why I keep you and Emma around? She brings me pies, and you bring me doughnuts.”

Colin grinned. He felt marginally better as he left than he had when he had arrived.

Let Yank be irritated with Emma for a change.

* * *

Emma’s apartment was a few blocks away from the HIT offices. Colin had parked nearby, figuring he would end up there. It was small, in one of the renovated old wharf buildings. The first time he was there he searched the place. Even after several months in Boston, she still had little furniture.

Seemed to be a thing with her, he thought as he buzzed the intercom.

She opened the door for him. Colin sensed she was debating telling him to shove off but didn’t blame her. She was tight, frustrated and as intensely focused as he had ever seen her.

Then again, so was he.

“You need to talk to me, Emma.”

She left the door open for him, giving him the choice to follow her inside or go on his way. He deliberately waited a few seconds, then went in to her little one-bedroom apartment.

“I thought you might have bought more furniture since my last visit,” he said.

“I have.” She pointed to a coffee table stacked with books. “I bought that.”

The place looked less lived-in than a hotel room. It had potential with its single exposed brick wall and windows that looked out on a small marina.
Just like home in Heron’s Cove,
he thought. He didn’t like to get too far from the water himself. One thing he and Emma had in common, maybe.