Keeper's Reach (25 page)

She gave in and tried a scone, cream and jam. He was right, of course. She did need to eat.

“There,” he said, smug, and turned to Padgett. “Did you say you had a list of names for us to check?”

“I did, indeed,” Padgett said, pulling out his phone. “It’s right here. I put together names and photos last night at the airport.”

They went through them, but Oliver only recognized Ted Kavanagh and Naomi MacBride. He drew a blank on the other names and faces. He took Padgett’s phone and called over the waiter, flipping through the list with him while Padgett stewed but kept quiet. The waiter pointed to Naomi MacBride, Ted Kavanagh and Reed Cooper. Nothing new there. All three had already admitted to being in the village.

“Cooper here—” Oliver tapped his photo “—picked up MacBride on Thursday, after she found Hambly. Could he have driven in from London on Wednesday?”

“I didn’t see him,” the waiter said.

“And he didn’t stay here?”

“I don’t think so. I’d remember if I’d seen him. It’s quiet this time of year.”

Oliver thanked him, then got up and went into a small reception area to find the proprietors, a young couple who eyed Emma and Padgett warily. “These are friends of mine,” Oliver said cheerfully. “Emma and Sam.”

Emma could see Padgett was having none of that. Keeping quiet with the waiter had tested him, but no way was he going to be Oliver York’s American friend Sam. He rose and introduced himself. “I’m Special Agent Sam Padgett and this is Special Agent Emma Sharpe. We’re with the FBI. We’re looking into an attack on an agent in the US.”

“Whoever did it also attacked Martin with garden shears,” Oliver added.

Padgett leveled a look at Emma that said he never should have gone along with delaying a call to the local police. But this was Oliver York. The frumpy, awkward Oliver Fairbairn she, Colin and Finian had met in Boston was also this man—cheeky, wily and able to turn on the charm when it suited him.

But Oliver’s comment worked, and the properly horrified proprietors agreed to look at the names and photos. Oliver left it to Padgett and rose, motioning for Emma to join him. Padgett gave her a dark look, but he said nothing as she followed Oliver out the main door. They went across the green, ducks gathering in the stream, small children chasing each other on the chilly Saturday morning.

Oliver wore an expensive leather jacket open over a dark sweater. He walked with the confidence and poise of a man well-practiced in Tai Chi and Tae Kwon Do, his martial arts of choice, but Emma also felt his familiarity with this small English village. He led her up a lane, past a row of small attached houses that he explained were mostly owned nowadays by Londoners. It was clear he distinguished himself from weekenders, people with no roots in the area.

They came to the church where Martin Hambly had chatted with Ted Kavanagh. Emma breathed in the cool air, taking in the pretty surroundings. “I wonder if anyone witnessed the exchange, or saw Kavanagh meet someone else—or saw someone spying on them.”

“We could knock on doors and ask,” Oliver said.

“I can’t.”

He sighed. “Rules.”

“Oliver...” Emma hesitated before she continued. “I didn’t realize until this morning at the dovecote that Martin knows you’re a serial art thief.”

“You’ve infected him with your suspicions, I’m afraid.”

“I only saw him that one time in London in November, and we barely spoke.”

“Three FBI agents showing up at the front door? What was he to think?” Oliver glanced at her. “Do you expect me to confess?”

“No, I don’t. You’ve had years to confess. It’s been months since you’ve known we figured out you’re our thief. No, Oliver, I want the two Dutch landscapes back in Amsterdam where they belong. I’m not a Dutch official, but that’s what I want.”

“And then sin no more?”

“It’s been a while since your last heist. I think you’ve already decided to ‘sin no more.’ Or perhaps you’ve just lost a step.”

“Lost a step? Well. There you have it. You didn’t put Agent Kavanagh on me, Emma. You have bigger fish to fry than a British citizen you consider to be a harmless, washed-up art thief.”

Emma rolled her eyes. “Give it up, Oliver.”

He nodded up the lane, past the church. “Come on. I want to show you something.”

They went into the cemetery adjoining the churchyard. He was silent, a slight breeze catching the ends of his hair as he took her to a far corner of the cemetery and the York family plot.

“Martin comes here regularly,” he said, staring at the gravestones. “I come on Easter Sunday. One of my most vivid memories of my mother is her wearing her last Easter hat.” He smiled. “It was horrid.”

“I’m sorry for your loss, Oliver.”

“It’s been a long time. I just turned thirty-seven. It’s time to absorb the past instead of fighting it, don’t you think?”

“Is that why you invited Father Bracken here?”

He frowned. “Maybe. I told myself it was because we got on, but we have a tragic past in common, don’t we?” Before Emma could answer, Oliver turned from the graves and winked at her. “And Aoife O’Byrne, of course, though I believe she’d take garden shears to us both if she could.”

He spun away from the graves. The moment of insight had passed. Emma followed him back to the lane and the church.

Oliver buttoned his jacket. “MI5 is sniffing around. Do you know anything about that, Emma?”

“Anything involving the British Secret Service is not my doing.”

“A fine-tuned answer. You don’t think they could be responsible for stealing the package?”

“They’d have been tidier, don’t you think? More professional.”

He grunted. “You and Martin did survive your ordeals, that’s true. If it’d been bloody MI5, we’d have never found your bodies. They’re coming for me, Emma.”

“Mythology, extensive travel, martial arts expertise, a master at breaking and entering.” Emma shrugged. “You could do some good, Oliver.”

“I’d want a ‘double O’ number.”

“But of course.”

“Apparently priceless Middle Eastern antiquities have been stolen by bad people and sold to bad people, and MI5 thinks I might know something about that.”

“Do you?”

He turned to her. “If I do, it’s because I’m a well-traveled mythologist.”

“You have at least two perfect covers as a bored aristocrat and tortured mythologist.”

“‘At least two’? You believe there are more?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“Anyway, they’re not covers. I
am
Oliver York, and taking a pseudonym for my Hollywood consulting work made perfect sense.”

“I’m staying out of it. I doubt Agent Kavanagh’s presence here involved MI5.”

“What about Naomi MacBride’s presence?”

“I can’t say.”

“Mmm. My point.”

They returned to the pub. Padgett had set off on foot.

“You drive the Rolls,” Oliver said. “I’ll phone the police.”

Emma hesitated.

He nudged her toward the driver’s seat. “It’ll do you good. Right back in the saddle after your ordeal.”

She didn’t argue. She knew he was right.

And the Rolls practically drove itself.

“Why the cross, Oliver?” she asked when they arrived back at the farm.

“Saint Brigid was an accomplished woman and she’s a fascinating saint. I know you carry her in your heart. You’re not fighting your past, Emma. Sister Brigid is a part of who you are now.”

Emma smiled. “Yes, she is.”

“And the cross is damn fine work. I’m proud of it. You can hang it above your front door and ward off fires. Think of the fires you face, figuratively if not literally. You come across as a thoughtful, analytical ex-nun who specializes in art crimes for the FBI, but it’s not that simple, is it, Emma? You like your fires.”

“I look forward to seeing this cross,” she said.

He smiled knowingly as they joined Padgett, Martin Hambly and Finian Bracken by the fire.

28

Southern Maine
Coast
Saturday, 8:00 a.m., EST

Colin had gone out with Andy on his lobster boat early, catching the sunrise and a good view of the Plum Tree Inn and the lightkeeper’s house. Mike hadn’t been in touch yet, but Emma had. She and Padgett had arrived in the English Cotswolds and had confirmed that Martin Hambly had been attacked. Hambly and Oliver York were “more or less” cooperating.

An interesting thief, Oliver York was.

“Colin.” Andy tapped their table at Hurley’s. “Whoa. Where are you right now?”

He smiled. “Having bacon and eggs with my lobsterman brother.”

“Think Mike knew we were out there catching the dawn light?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if they all knew.”

“Naomi MacBride wants Hurley’s to put grits on the menu. She and Mike...”

“Yeah.”

“I’m glad my life is simple.”

“Right. This from the man who hooked up with Julianne Maroney. When does she get back from her Irish internship?”

“Early May. She wants me to fly to Ireland with her grandmother.”

“You and Franny Maroney on a six-hour flight together.” Colin grinned. “That’s worse than Emma and Sam Padgett. Franny wouldn’t sleep a wink.”

“She’s excited about seeing the land of her ancestors. I just want to see Julianne. She and Franny are tight. I’ll figure it out.” Andy nodded toward the restaurant’s entrance. “You’ve got company.”

Matt Yankowski joined them at their table. He’d flown into Boston last night and driven up to Maine early. He wasn’t as thrilled about catching the sunrise. He ordered coffee, then glanced at Andy.

Andy grinned. “I’ll let you guys talk FBI stuff.” He got to his feet, grabbing his jacket off the back of his chair. “Good to see you, Agent Yankowski.”

“Don’t let me run you off,” Yank said.

“I’m good. It’s late by my standards. See you around.”

Yank watched Andy cross the restaurant, then turned to Colin. “Ted Kavanagh lost a CI in Afghanistan. An American who got mixed up with some rough people. Drug dealing, arms trafficking and money laundering. He was killed ahead of an operation to capture the bad guys. He wasn’t supposed to be there. Two dealers were killed along with him. An American and an Afghani.”

“The CI got burned?”

Yank nodded. “The bad guys knew about him and the operation. Naomi MacBride found out and warned the team they were walking into an ambush.”

“Mike,” Colin said.

“Yeah.”

“She saved his life?”

Yank’s coffee arrived. He took a sip. “She exposed herself in the process. Two months later, a couple of the bad guys who slipped the net grabbed her. Mike was part of the team that rescued her.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah. Ouch. In my opinion, Ted Kavanagh is crispy, and he’s been looking for someone to blame for his CI and Naomi besides himself.”

29

Naomi grabbed her suitcase and set it on her bed, still made up—a reminder of where she’d spent the night. As if she needed one. She’d slipped into her room to shower and change clothes. She’d meet Mike downstairs. More guys were due in that morning. She’d clear out. She had no regrets about making love to Mike last night, but she’d opened herself up to him again and that she did regret. How could she resume her life in Nashville, knowing he was in his cabin out on the Maine coast, working, living his life—alone?

But wasn’t she just as alone?

She hated being emotionally vulnerable. Loving Mike Donovan laid all her emotions bare, exposed her in ways she never allowed with anyone else.

She noticed a bulge in a side compartment of her suitcase. She couldn’t remember what she’d put in there. Shoes? A belt? She unzipped the compartment, then eased one hand inside. She felt metal and couldn’t imagine what it was.

She withdrew the object and saw that it was a cross. An Irish cross, she thought. It was made out of silver but was designed to look as if someone had twisted together reeds.

It couldn’t have been in her suitcase when she’d left England. She’d have noticed the bulk in that compartment, the weight of the silver. She’d left her suitcase in her room at her Cotswolds inn while she was at breakfast and the York dovecote. She’d locked the door, but Ted Kavanagh and Reed Cooper, both of whom had been in the pretty English village, knew how to dispatch with locks. But why would they bother? Why would they slip a cross into her bag?

And how could she not have noticed until now?

She’d carried her suitcase to Reed’s car and then to check-in at Heathrow. She’d picked it up at Logan. She’d carried it into the Rock Point Harbor Inn. Mike had carried it upstairs. It’d been in his truck while they’d had breakfast at Hurley’s.

She shook her head.
No.
The cross hadn’t been in her suitcase. Someone had put it there since her arrival at the Plum Tree.

Planted it.

She’d seen for herself how easy it was to get hold of a passkey.

“Naomi.”

She spun around. Buddy came out of her bathroom. “It’s okay. Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. I wanted to talk to you. You left your door unlocked.”

No, she hadn’t.

“I thought...” He winced. “I don’t know what I thought.”

“Let’s go downstairs and talk. I was going to take a shower and get dressed, but I need coffee.”

“Where were you last night?”

“What kind of question is that?” Naomi waved a hand. “Never mind. As I recall, you drink your coffee with an inordinate amount of milk—”

“Whole milk. Fat is back.” Buddy smiled but his eyes were on her, wary.

“You’re not your usual devil-may-care Buddy self. Come on. Let’s go. Coffee always helps.”

“I know it was you in England, Naomi.”

She stared at him. “What?”

“You pushed that Brit and then you saved him to take the pressure off you. It’s okay. I know why you did it.”

“Tell me, Buddy. Why did I do it?”

“Leverage. Oliver York is an art thief. But you know that. He’s wealthy, and he’s in possession of valuable stolen art. He’s working with Emma Sharpe. If that gets out, it’ll spew scandal all over the Donovans as well as the Sharpes. It would hurt Mike. It would hurt Reed. Ultimately, it would hurt you and good clients like your doctors.”

“Buddy—damn. This is nuts.” Naomi pointed toward the door. “Let’s go talk it out, because you are as wrong as wrong can be. You spend your time digging around in cyberspace, which can be a giant garbage heap. You come up with theories and tidbits and all sorts of things, but you’ve said yourself that ninety-eight out of a hundred theories you have will be worthless. This is one of the ninety-eight.”

He didn’t seem to hear her. “This Brit—Hambly—didn’t trip. He was attacked, and you attacked him, Naomi. I know you were there.”

“The morning
after
he was attacked.”

Buddy shook his head. “The afternoon before.
When
he was attacked.”

“You’re wrong, Buddy. I don’t care. It happens. We’re friends.”

“You always try to do the right thing, but sometimes you cross the line. I saw it in Afghanistan. Now I’m seeing it with this thief and Emma Sharpe. I don’t know if Mike’s brother realizes yet how corrupt she is—I doubt Mike does. This will blow back onto you and Reed. Your clients don’t want that kind of notoriety around them.” Buddy eased a hand into his jacket pocket. “Let me help.”

Naomi didn’t like not being able to see his hand. “All right. Let’s go and talk about my options. A jolt of caffeine will help me make sense of this.”

He shook his head. He didn’t budge from his position between her and the door. “I don’t want to go downstairs.”

“Right now, Buddy, I don’t care what you want.” She pushed back her fear. She had to be herself. She would stand a chance if he tried to hit her, but she didn’t know if he had a weapon on him. “You’re making leaps in logic and drawing conclusions that are so far-fetched—”

“Believe me, I know. It took me a while to figure out what you were up to. You’re good at what you do, and you have the best motives.” He pulled an assault knife out of his jacket. He looked almost sheepish. “I got it off Serena. Couldn’t get near a gun. I’d have grabbed a paring knife if that was all I could get.”

“Buddy...”

“It’s for self-defense.” He pointed the knife at the bed. “I found the cross in your suitcase, Naomi.”

“Did you put it there?”

“Oliver York made the cross. He sent it to Emma Sharpe. It will prove she’s a dirty agent and lead to proof that he’s a thief.” Buddy redirected his knife toward Naomi. “Reed can’t hire Mike. Mike’s too big a liability now.”

“The cross didn’t come from me. Where did it come from, Buddy?” She heard the fear in her voice. “Agent Kavanagh was in England.”

“He’s an FBI agent.” Buddy stepped toward her. “Kavanagh didn’t plant the cross, Naomi. You’re in a tight spot. Mike and Reed are going to find out about all your shortcuts and shenanigans. How many times did you cover up? Things went bad on your last days in Afghanistan because you screwed up.”

She hadn’t screwed up. Buddy had manipulated her. All of them. Ted Kavanagh, Reed Cooper, Mike Donovan.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said, moving toward her. “I would never hurt you. I would never hurt anyone. I’m just a tech guy who sees things. You must know that.”

“What do you want me to do, Buddy?”

“Did you find any stolen art when you were sneaking into the dovecote?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Frustrating for you. Going to all that trouble and then not finding anything. You wouldn’t get the full value for stolen art, but you’d get something. You have the contacts to pull off a private illicit sale.”

“Why do I have the feeling we’re talking about you now?”

“I can get you out of this. Come away with me. Today. Now. Naomi...you don’t belong with Mike. This can all work out. I have a beautiful spot in mind for us. No one will ever find us. It’s paradise.”

He was in a fantasy world. “Buddy, put the knife away. You don’t want to hurt me by accident.”

“You and Mike.” Buddy seemed to be seeing her and the room for the first time. “Last night. You were together. Oh, Naomi. You’re making such a mistake. I have bigger stuff going down than Mike and Reed and the rest of these guys can handle. It’s not just the productivity app.”

“I know, Buddy. You’re the best.”

“But I’ve always been a coward. I know that. I’m sorry. I got scared in Afghanistan. I made mistakes.”

He hadn’t gotten scared.

“I appreciate what you’ve done for me, Naomi,” he added, almost whining now. “Don’t think I don’t.”

There was a knock on the door. “Naomi? It’s Ted Kavanagh. Open up.”

“T.K.,” Naomi yelled. “Buddy’s got a knife.”

She launched herself toward the door, away from Buddy, but he managed to slash her above her right hip. She collapsed onto the floor, and he ran, bolting to the balcony. Clutching her hip, she half crawled, half slid toward the door, but Kavanagh kicked it open and burst into the room.

“He went out the balcony,” she said, not sure if Kavanagh could make out her words. “That lying bastard.”

“Easy, kid.” Kavanagh sat on the floor next to her, using the heel of his hand to put pressure on her wound. “I can’t leave you.”

She gasped, feeling the pain now. “It was Buddy in Afghanistan three years ago. He played both sides. Ours and the bad guys’.”

“Yeah. I see that now. I trusted him. I gave him a chance when no one else would. I paved the way for him to kill people.”

“It was Buddy in England, too. He attacked that Brit.”

Kavanagh held her. “Try not to move. Buddy won’t get far. He doesn’t stand a chance with Reed and Mike.”

“Mike...”

“Yeah. You two. Damn.”

Naomi smiled. “T.K...thank you.”