Heron's Cove (9 page)

“I treat every situation individually—”

“That sounds like a line from a Sharpe Fine Art Recovery brochure, or these days its website.” Wendell looked across the table, his blue eyes as incisive as ever. “It’s against Emma’s nature not to ask a question, to dig deeper. She wants to have all the pieces, the whole picture. I’m convinced that’s one reason she entered the convent. Asking, probing, analyzing, thinking. Those practices come naturally to her.”

“She can also kick ass,” Lucas pointed out, if only to lighten the mood.

“And shoot,” his grandfather added with a laugh.

Even as teenagers, Lucas had noticed Emma’s fascination with the intersection of art crimes and other major crimes—the illegal trafficking of weapons and drugs, human trafficking, extortion, money laundering, murder. That interest coupled with her expertise in art history and preservation had made her an attractive candidate for the FBI.

“I’d see more of both you and Emma if I moved back to Heron’s Cove,” Wendell said, pensive again. “That would be a good thing.”

“We’d like it, Granddad. You know that, I hope.”

He nodded. “I do. Lucas…” His grandfather sighed as if in pain. “We do the best we can to influence, to inform, but in the end, we can’t control the people who come to us for help. What they want, what they know, what they’re willing to tell us.”

“Are you talking about Tatiana Pavlova and the Rusakov collection now?”

“I told you I don’t know this Tatiana Pavlova.” He drank more tea, setting the cup off balance on the saucer, so much so that it tipped off on its side with a clatter; he left it, pressed his cloth napkin to his lips, then put the napkin back in his lap. “Dmitri Rusakov hired us twenty years ago. I met with him in Moscow. Then he hired us again four years ago. And I sent Emma to him in London.”

“Granddad,” Lucas said, “why don’t I know any of this?”

He tapped the tip of his index finger to his temple. “Because it’s one of those cases that’s in here and not in the files.” He got stiffly to his feet and glanced at his watch. “I don’t want to be late for church.”

“I’ll go with you,” Lucas said, rising.

Wendell’s eyes sparked with sudden humor and energy. “Now I will have to warn Father O’Leary or the rafters will cave in for sure.”

“You can tell me about Dmitri Rusakov on the way.”

* * *

After sitting impatiently through church with his grandfather, Lucas let himself into the Dublin office of Sharpe Fine Art Recovery on the second floor of a small brick building on a cobblestone street a few blocks off St. Stephen’s Green. He shut the door quietly behind him and noticed through the tall windows that the day had gone gray again. He didn’t mind. He just needed time to think.

His grandfather was having a postchurch full Irish breakfast with friends. In preparation for his retirement, he had removed all his personal items and personal files from the office where he had worked for the past decade and a half, leaving behind two desks, shelves, a credenza and a computer. There was no hint of the intriguing work that had gone on there. He had never been one for bulking up a staff, instead taking on consultants and temporary assistants as needed. Lucas wanted to keep a Dublin office but needed to identify a role for it now that his grandfather wouldn’t be there on a daily basis.

When Emma worked with their grandfather in Dublin the year after she had left the Sisters of the Joyful Heart, Lucas had been in Heron’s Cove, devoting every waking hour to learning the complex business he would soon be running on his own. He had already done a year in Dublin with his grandfather. He had soaked up as much of Wendell Sharpe’s wisdom and Irish culture as he could, hit nearly every pub in the city, then was happy to return to Heron’s Cove.

As much as Emma loved the work and their grandfather, Lucas had never expected his sister would stay with Sharpe Fine Art Recovery after the convent. It was as if she had been destined for the FBI.

And maybe for Colin Donovan.

Lucas grimaced as he sat at the computer and did a quick internet search.

Tatiana Pavlova was a young, up-and-coming designer of jewelry and high-end decorative arts at the Firebird Boutique in London’s Mayfair district. She was mentioned in a BBC piece on the Firebird’s opening three years ago that included a photograph of one of her creations—a gleaming red enameled feather pendant, edged in gold, studded with rubies and diamonds. Fittingly enough, it was described as a glowing feather of a mythical firebird.

Neither the BBC article nor the Firebird’s website included a picture of her.

His grandfather was right, Lucas thought. He’d be heading to London to look into Tatiana Pavlova himself.

He glanced at his watch—
1:00 p.m.
Emma had to be stirring by now. He dialed her number but his call went straight to her voice mail.

“It’s Lucas,” he said. “Call me.”

7

“OOPS,” MIKE DONOVAN said as he entered Colin’s kitchen through the back door, discovering Emma at the table. He grinned, obviously not the least bit awkward. He nodded to the pie on the counter. “I guess you two were up all night peeling apples, huh?”

Emma was relieved she had come downstairs fully dressed in jeans, black sweater and boots. Colin was at the table in a charcoal flannel shirt untucked over jeans, no socks, no shoes.
Sexy,
she thought, slipping into her leather jacket as she rose. “Help yourself to pie,” she said.

“Too early,” Mike said.

She smiled. “It’s never too early for pie.”

“Where are you headed?” he asked, opening a cupboard and lifting out a mug.

“Heron’s Cove. I promised the carpenters I’d clean out the kitchen.”

It wasn’t the only reason. Lucas had left her a voice mail and she wanted to return his call away from any Donovan scrutiny. Simpler that way, she told herself. Last night, as she inspected Colin’s healing cuts and bruises, each of which he dismissed as nothing, she had realized how little she knew about the actual work he did—its dangers, its risks, its pressure. The toll on his family. Rock Point was his refuge, and he deserved a few days of rest and calm. She would handle Tatiana Pavlova and whatever was going on with the Rusakov collection.

Mike poured coffee. “I know most of the carpenters working on your place. They say your brother’s a decent sort. Not a jackass like some.”

“Good to know,” Emma said, heading for the back door.

Colin eyed his older brother. “What’s up, Mike?”

Mike sat at the sturdy oak table with his coffee. “The folks have summoned you to Sunday dinner. I’m the messenger. Don’t shoot.”

“What time?” Colin asked.

“Noon arrival. Food on the table at one. All of us will be there.” Mike glanced up at Emma, then back at his brother. “Emma can come, too. Up to you. She can bring the pie. The folks like her because she can cook.”

Colin touched a fingertip to the rim of his mug. “How do they know she can cook?”

“They got together when you were off shuffling papers in D.C.”

Emma didn’t buy the innocent look Mike gave her. He knew he was stirring the pot. “They invited me for coffee,” she said, suddenly self-conscious, as if she had intruded in Colin’s life in his hometown.

“She brought muffins,” Mike said. “Apple walnut. Pop wants the recipe. He’s into being Mr. Innkeeper. You’d never know he was a cop for thirty years. He tried to get you to tell him where Colin was, didn’t he, Emma?”

She debated whether to respond. Mike lived five hours up the coast but had been down to Rock Point for most of the past week. As an independent wilderness guide, he kept his own hours. It was a life that apparently suited him, and it wasn’t lost on Emma that the two eldest Donovan brothers were a lot alike.

She had met Rosemary and Frank Donovan briefly with Colin before he left to pursue the remnants of Vladimir Bulgov’s arms trafficking network. She hadn’t thought anything of popping in with muffins. She certainly hadn’t expected Colin’s parents to grill her about him.

No way was she going to Sunday dinner with the entire Donovan clan.

“I enjoyed my visit with your parents,” she said carefully. “They understand that I can’t discuss Colin’s work.”

Mike pushed back his chair and stretched out his long legs as he addressed Colin. “This woman. Emma.” He glanced back at her and winked. “Wouldn’t want me talking behind your back, right, Special Agent Sharpe?”

Emma refused to let him get to her. “Not that it would matter,” she said half under her breath. “You’ll say whatever you have to say regardless of who’s around.”

“Yep.” Mike drank some of his coffee and turned his attention back to his brother. “Emma’s great. Really. She’s just complicated. Sharpe, ex-nun, FBI. That’s a lot of baggage for one person.” He shrugged his big shoulders. “Not that it’s any of my business.”

“You got that right,” Colin said.

Mike frowned at the two empty plates. “You had apple pie for breakfast?”

“It was that or beer,” Colin said.

“Tough choice.” Mike nodded at Emma. “Call if you need help cleaning out the kitchen. Think your Russian friend will show up? The one who asked Father Bracken about you? What’s her name, Colin? Tatiana…” He eyed his brother. “Emma tell you Tatiana’s last name?”

“Pavlova,” Emma said calmly.

“Ah,” Mike said. “Is Tatiana Pavlova a Sharpe client?”

“No.” Emma turned to Colin. “I’ll see you later?”

“You bet,” he said.

Mike grinned. “Hey, don’t let me run you off, Special Agent Sharpe.”

She ignored him as she pulled open the door and shut it behind her, welcoming the bright morning sun and brisk air. She needed to keep a clear head when dealing with any of the Donovans.

More leaves had fallen overnight from the sugar maple on the corner of the driveway, and she pushed back an image of raking leaves with Colin on a lazy autumn Sunday. It wouldn’t happen today. It might not ever happen.

She got in her car, pulled the door shut. She understood that Colin’s brothers were sizing her up, but she also suspected that he was, too. He’d had a month on his own to think about how she fit into his life.

If
she fit.

Maybe in her own way she’d been doing the same.

She took the coast road, the Atlantic sparkling under a cloudless blue sky, white-crested waves crashing on the rocks and seagulls wheeling overhead. Halfway to Heron’s Cove, she pulled over, parking under a gnarled evergreen. She was tempted to sit in her car and watch cormorants dive for food but instead dialed her brother’s cell phone.

“Hey, Emma,” Lucas said. “Where are you?”

“Watching cormorants. You’re missing a beautiful day in southern Maine.”

“It’s been raining on and off here. I’m at Granddad’s apartment. He’s packing for his walkabout on the southwest coast.”

“Walkabout?”

“Soul work, he calls it. I think he’s depressed. That’s not why I called. Why is there next to nothing in the files on our work with Dmitri Rusakov? By ‘our’ I mean the company. He hired us twice—twenty years ago and again four years ago—and the files on the case suck, unless there’s more information in Heron’s Cove.”

“There isn’t,” Emma said. “I don’t know why not. You’ll have to ask Granddad.”

“I did and he hasn’t given me a straight answer. This walk down memory lane he and I have been having seems to have triggered some kind of dark mood. I’m doing the best I can but I don’t know how much help I can be.”

“Does he know anything about Tatiana Pavlova?”

“He says he’s never heard of her. I haven’t gotten much out of him on Rusakov, either.”

“He told me he was reluctant to take on Dmitri as a client—”

“Dmitri? You two are on a first-name basis?”

“It’s nothing like that. Forget what you’re thinking. Dmitri Rusakov is one of the original Russian tycoons who made his fortune in early post–Soviet Russia. He’s managed to survive the social and economic upheavals and political witch hunts.”

“Did you ever see this Rusakov collection for yourself?”

“Only pictures. Granddad saw it when he was in Moscow after it was first discovered. I didn’t get involved until it disappeared four years ago.”

“‘Disappeared’ can mean a lot of things,” Lucas said.

“So it can. I worked under Granddad’s supervision and direction, but he stayed in Dublin while I went to London to meet with Dmitri. He had an apartment there.”

A red squirrel chattered at Emma from the branch of the spruce but her mind was in London four years ago, when she’d walked into Dmitri Rusakov’s Mayfair apartment. She had never seen anything like it.

“He had the collection in London?” Lucas asked. “Why?”

“I don’t know. He wouldn’t say. He refused to involve the police. I told him we couldn’t cover up or ignore a crime. He said he understood and just wanted us to figure out what happened to the collection.”

“And did you?”

“To my satisfaction, yes. He was in the middle of a divorce. For years, he’d told people he’d never marry, but he finally did. The marriage lasted less than two years. His wife was American—”

“Renee Warren Rusakov,” Lucas said. “Granddad remembered her name. She helped herself to the collection?”

Emma nodded as if her brother were in the car with her. “I told Dmitri I suspected she took the collection with her back to Tucson. He said thank you very much for my assessment and sent me back to Dublin.”

“And now Renee Rusakov is dead and her daughter is trying to figure out what to do about this collection. Do you think she knows her mother took it against Rusakov’s wishes?”

“I’ve no idea what Renee told Natalie. That’s the daughter. Natalie Warren. I met them briefly when I first arrived in London.” Emma watched a seagull swoop onto a huge granite boulder above the glistening cove. “We don’t even know if Natalie is on her way to Heron’s Cove. What are your plans, Lucas?”

“I’m booked on a flight to London in the morning,” Lucas said.

“Will Granddad go with you?”

Her brother hesitated, then said, “No. He’s heading off to Killarney to start his walkabout.” Lucas’s tone was neutral, as if he were simply reporting their grandfather’s words.