Saint's Gate (15 page)

21

COLIN TOUGHED IT OUT IN YANK’S OFFICE UNTIL he figured Emma was starting to itch to get to the airport. He’d finally taken Yank through every detail of his life since he’d dropped off the radar, skipping only the past few days. Yank already knew about Sister Joan, the missing painting and the bomb, and Colin didn’t want him to know about getting the summons from Finian Bracken or, especially, kissing Emma Sharpe.

“How did Emma figure out about Vlad and me?” Colin asked.

“She’s like that,” Yank said. “That’s why she’s here.”

A week ago, Colin would have balked at that explanation. Now, after a full day with Emma, he understood. She brought a unique perspective to her work with the FBI. It had helped lock up a dangerous, violent operator.

“You and me, Yank. Clean slate?”

“No.”

Colin grinned as he left Yank’s office. The team was still hard at work. They’d just discovered one of their own had been a nun and for the most part couldn’t care less. He figured it was because they hadn’t kissed her before they knew she’d once dedicated herself to a life of chastity.

He was used to skimming the surface of his emotions. It was too damn risky to go deep, but Emma was by nature deep—thoughtful, contemplative, reflective, meditative, prayerful. All of it.

He wasn’t. He couldn’t be.

He had one unbreakable personal rule while he was working undercover: no relationships. It didn’t mean no sex. It meant no falling in love.

It meant not looking into the deep green eyes of this woman and wondering if she’d had nightmares about someone trying to burn her to death in her sleep.

He was gruffer than he meant to be as he collected her and her suitcase and got them both into his truck for the short drive to Logan. Instead of being annoyed, Emma seemed relieved. Maybe she’d had the same conversation with herself about relationships versus sex.

Probably not.

“You’re not following me to Ireland?” she asked when he dumped her off at her terminal.

That was yet to be determined, but he said, “How much trouble can you get into in Ireland?”

She gave him a suspicious look, then smiled brightly. “Thanks for the ride,” she said, blowing him a kiss and heading off with her bag.

He drove back to her apartment and let himself in using a spare key he’d found while rummaging around for coffee filters that morning. He hadn’t found filters—she used a coffee press—but he had found the key.

Time to have a look at the life of Special Agent Emma Sharpe without her present.

The late-afternoon light gave the apartment a stark, empty feel, not so much as if Emma had just moved in but as if she didn’t know what kind of material possessions she wanted around her, or if she wanted any. Colin tried to imagine what her living quarters at the Sisters of the Joyful Heart had been like.

“Hell,” he said, “what do I know about nuns?”

But what did he know about priests, either? And yet he considered Finian Bracken a friend. Emma was a colleague, an experienced FBI agent and member of an elite special team. What difference did it make if she’d been a nun?

He walked into the bedroom. His physical reaction to seeing her bed gave him his answer. It wasn’t just that she’d been a nun—it was that he wanted to know what made Emma Sharpe tick. He wanted to sit with her in front of a fire and drink wine and talk late into the night. As he’d watched her work that morning, he’d realized just how hard and fast he’d fallen for this woman.

Yank had asked him bluntly if he was flirting with burnout.

Maybe he was.

Sleeping next to Emma had nearly done him in. Waking up to her warm, lithe body under his arm had tested his powers of restraint and self-discipline. If he hadn’t found out she’d been a nun, would he have made love to her?

“Doesn’t matter, ace,” he muttered. “You didn’t.”

And now she was off to Ireland.

He believed what he’d told her earlier. There’d be another opportunity. He’d seen in her eyes that she wanted one as much as he did.

For now, that was enough.

He didn’t feel guilty about searching her apartment. Since she owned so little, it didn’t take long. What she did own was neat and organized. She had shelves of art books, scrapbooks and photograph albums, CDs and computer disks lined up neatly.

He wasn’t looking for bombs. He was looking for anything that Emma’s bias as a Sharpe and a former member of the Sisters of the Joyful Heart had caused her to miss.

His brother Kevin called in the middle of his search of her junk drawer, which was more like a miscellaneous drawer since it was so tidy. “Father Bracken took off for Ireland a little while ago,” Kevin said.

Colin had asked him to check in on the local priest from time to time. “Taken off as in—”

“Bracken Distillers’ chartered jet. Quite a life he left behind.”

“So it is. Did he say what he’s up to?”

“Visiting family.”

Kevin’s tone suggested he didn’t believe that was the only reason. Colin didn’t, either. Finian Bracken was in a meddlesome mood, disturbed by Sister Joan’s death, wrestling with his own demons, whatever they were. He knew about the Sharpe connection to Dublin. Maybe he even knew Emma was on her way there.

An Irish priest who wanted to help find a killer. Colin grimaced. Just what he needed.

“Thanks, Kevin.”

“Where are you?” his brother asked.

“Boston,” Colin said, leaving it at that.

He found the Dublin address for Sharpe Fine Art Recovery and dialed Yank. “Looks as if I’m going to Ireland.”

22

THE IRISH MORNING WAS SUNNY AND COOL WHEN Emma stepped out of her cab onto her grandfather’s street in southeast Dublin. She’d headed straight from the airport to his apartment in a Georgian row house. She rang his doorbell, but she wasn’t surprised when she discovered he’d already left for the day. He’d always been an early riser.

Restless after her long overnight flight, she welcomed the chance to set off on foot through the city streets. She walked through St. Stephen’s Green, its twenty-plus acres of lawns, gardens and ponds glistening with dew and quiet in the morning sun. She hadn’t been to Ireland since last summer and loved being back.

She just needed coffee, and answers.

In ten minutes, she was on the cobblestone street where her grandfather had opened the Dublin offices of Sharpe Fine Art Recovery in a small corner building fifteen years ago. For a year after leaving the convent, Emma had taken this same route almost every day as she’d reacquainted herself with the mechanics of her family business and sorting out what she wanted to do with her life. Matt Yankowski, of course, had kept in touch.

She smiled and ran up the narrow stairs, eager to see her grandfather. When she came to the third-floor landing, she saw that the door to his office was ajar. “Hey, Granddad,” she called. “It’s me, Emma. I just got in from Boston….”

She pushed open the door, expecting to find her grandfather at his desk and whisk him off for coffee and an Irish breakfast. She noticed boxes stacked by the desk and felt a twist of nostalgia at the idea of Wendell Sharpe no longer having his own office after six decades. He had worked on cases with individuals, law enforcement agencies and private companies throughout the world. He would continue to serve as a consultant when needed, but he planned to travel while he was still in good health and divide his time between his apartment in Dublin and the soon-to-be-renovated living quarters at the Sharpe offices on the waterfront in Heron’s Cove.

Emma heard a moan and whirled around, just as her grandfather got up onto his knees on the floor behind his cluttered desk.

“Granddad!”

She ran to him and helped him to his feet, getting one arm around his thin frame. He winced, squinting at her as if he were trying to focus. “Emma?”

“I’m here, Granddad. I’ll get help—”

He waved her off and stood up on his own. “I’ll be all right. Give me a moment.” He sank into his desk chair. His bow tie and navy plaid suspenders were askew, his skin ashen as he winced, clearly in pain. “I’m fine, Emma. I just got the wind knocked out of me.”

She heard footsteps in the hall and spun across the office, stopping a half step short of tackling Colin Donovan. He loomed in the doorway, wearing a charcoal wool sweater and looking as if he’d just rolled off an overnight flight himself.

He narrowed his dark eyes on octogenarian Wendell Sharpe. “Did he fall?”

“Hell, no, I didn’t fall,” her grandfather said, his voice stronger. “Someone jumped me from behind. Who are you?”

“This is Colin Donovan,” Emma said. “He’s an FBI agent.”

“The one who defused the bomb in my attic?”

“Yes, that one.”

Colin entered the office and walked over to the desk. “I’ll call the police. They can send an ambulance.”

Her grandfather shook his head. “No ambulance. I don’t have a concussion or any broken bones.”

“You could have internal injuries,” Emma said.

“I don’t. I’ve been whacked before.” He grunted, shoving a palm over his thinning white hair. “I was unlocking the door. I was thinking about how to get these boxes down the stairs. Next thing I know I’m flying across the room.”

“Shoved?” Colin asked crisply.

“Sneaked up on from behind and kicked out of the way. I’m not as young as I used to be, and I didn’t jump right up. I figured I’d be better off pretending to be unconscious. I didn’t want whoever was in here to finish me off.” He slumped back against the chair. “I couldn’t help but think about poor Sister Joan.”

Colin unearthed the landline from a stack of papers and dialed. “Did you get a look at the person who attacked you?” he asked.

“No, it happened too fast.”

“Man, woman?”

Emma found herself wanting to rush in and protect her grandfather against Colin’s brusque questions, but instead of being cowed, he rallied, as if they helped clear his head. “I don’t know. These days, who the hell can tell? Whoever it was didn’t stay long. Rifled through a few boxes and file drawers and took off again. I tried to get up so I could get to the window….” He gave a small, involuntary moan, in more pain than he wanted to admit. “Then Emma was here.”

Colin spoke into the phone, giving precise details on the situation and assuring the person on the other end there was no immediate danger. He hung up, shifted his focus back to the old man struggling to regain his composure. “Did you see anyone in here, or outside, before you entered the building?”

“I saw a priest on the corner when I stopped for a newspaper across the street. I didn’t get a good look at him.” He pointed to his eyes. “He was wearing sunglasses.”

Emma shot Colin a look. “Where’s your friend Bracken? Did he come with you?”

“There are a lot of priests in Ireland,” Colin said, “even these days.”

“Not as many as fifty years ago.” Her grandfather coughed, then swore under his breath. “That hurt.”

Emma touched his shoulder. “You should try not to move, Granddad. You might be hurt worse than you think. Adrenaline can mask pain.”

“I got hurt worse in Irish pubs in Boston back in the day.”

“That was a long time ago.”

His blue eyes sparked. “Don’t be so sure, missy. Any news from Heron’s Cove? I’m glad you’re here, but there must be a reason you didn’t cancel your trip, given what’s been going on at home.”

“I wanted to see you. Talk to you.”

Emma pushed back a wave of jet lag. This wasn’t the Irish morning she’d expected. An attack on her grandfather, and now Colin hovering behind her. She glanced at the surprisingly contemporary office and noticed signs of a quick, disorganized search.

“Talk to me about what?” her grandfather asked.

“Saint Sunniva,” she said, turning back to him. “A painting of a young woman trapped in a cave—”

“On an island, with a Viking warship about to arrive.” Her grandfather rallied, his interest piqued. “I remember it well.”

“Then I didn’t imagine it.” She noticed Colin stiffen, but he said nothing.

Her grandfather’s color had already improved. “You loved that painting as a little girl. I had it up on a wall in the attic for a while, and you liked to sit in front of it and make up stories about the woman in the cave.”

“I remember,” Emma said.

“I sometimes wondered if it influenced you to try out being a nun.” He jerked a thumb at Colin. “It’s okay? He knows you—”

“It’s okay, Granddad.” Emma avoided Colin’s eye. “What happened to the painting?”

“Nothing. It’s in Heron’s Cove. I took it off the wall, but it’s still in the attic, in the vault.”

“It’s not in the attic anymore.”

“Ah.” Her grandfather tilted his head back and looked at her with interest, his intensity a reminder of his decades of experience as an international art detective. “Our mad bomber was after Sunniva.”

“Where did you get it?”

He answered without hesitation. “Claire Peck Grayson.”

Emma frowned. “Who is she, Granddad?”

“Claire Grayson was a tragic mess of a woman. I haven’t thought about her in ages. It’s been forty years at least. Your grandmother was alive then. She and I came home one afternoon, and we found Sunniva on the porch, with a note from Claire thanking me for introducing her to Mother Linden.”

“Mother Linden?” Emma asked, surprised.

“She gave Claire painting lessons. Claire was from Chicago.

Her family owned a house in Maine, just outside Heron’s Cove. They’d fallen on hard times, and then tragedy struck. Claire’s parents were killed in a small plane crash.”

Emma walked over to a tall window. “How awful.”

“Claire was already trapped in an unhappy marriage and basically unraveled. She came to Maine—to heal, she said. I suspect she was trying to hide from her troubles. She loved to paint.”

“What happened to her?”

Her grandfather grabbed the edge of his desk and pulled himself to his feet. He seemed steadier, if still in pain. “She was killed when her house caught fire. Claire was a genteel, lovely, very screwed-up woman. She was fascinated with saints and Norse history and mythology. Hence, Sunniva.”

Colin studied the older man a moment. “Did Grayson know Jack d’Auberville?”

“They were friends. I never got the whiff of anything romantic between them. He bought her old carriage house—it was all that survived the fire. Jack was a ladies’ man, but Claire was a married woman.”

“Married women have affairs,” Emma said.

Her grandfather shook his head. “Not Claire. She was in a bad marriage, but adultery wasn’t an option. I didn’t know her that well but she just wasn’t the type.”

“How well did you know Jack d’Auberville?” Colin asked.

“Not well at all. He did excellent work. He had a bit of a chip on his shoulder about the snobs who dismissed him as a serious artist. He wanted their respect at the same time he hated them. He was something of a rake but he finally found true love late in life.”

With Ainsley’s mother, Emma thought. “Were he and Mother Linden friends?”

“Sarah Linden loved everyone and considered most people her friend,” Wendell Sharpe said, his voice softening. “She was a great teacher and a gentle soul.”

A Dublin garda car arrived on the street below. Emma gave her grandfather a hurried summary of
The Garden Gallery,
the painting, also now missing, that Ainsley d’Auberville had brought to Sister Joan.

Her grandfather eyed her with interest. “Quickly, Emma. Before the guards get up here. Tell me more. What other paintings are portrayed in this garden gallery besides Sunniva?”

“I don’t know, Granddad. I was hoping you might be able to help.”

Colin came over to the window and looked down at the street at the police car. “I’ll go downstairs and meet them.”

Meaning he’d buy her a few more minutes to talk to her grandfather. Emma nodded. “Thanks.”

As Colin left, her grandfather dropped back into his chair. “Claire’s family—the Pecks—were avid art collectors. Her grandfather Peck started their collection when he bought a few paintings in Europe after the war. Claire’s parents donated several valuable works during their good days, then sold off almost everything when they were hurting for cash. There was a rumor that she took the last of their collection—pieces they couldn’t, or just didn’t, sell—with her when she headed East.”

“Did they burn, too?” Emma asked.

“That’s what everyone assumed. If they didn’t and they’re depicted in this missing Jack d’Auberville painting…” Her grandfather rubbed his temples, as if his head ached. “It was all a long time ago, Emma.”

“Don’t worry, Granddad. The Maine police, FBI and Lucas are on this thing.” The Irish police now, too, Emma thought, hearing them on the stairs. She moved from the window. “This priest you saw. Could it have been Finian Bracken of Bracken Distillers?”

He sat up straight, clearheaded. “Do you know him?”

Emma kept any emotion out of her tone. “He’s Colin’s friend. What do you know about him?”

“Bracken Distillers was started seventeen years ago by the twin Bracken brothers. They were just kids, in their early twenties. Then Finian’s wife and two daughters died in a terrible sailing accident off the southwest coast.” He glanced at his granddaughter. “It’s been six or seven years. You were with the sisters then.”

Emma touched a bruise she noticed forming on the right side of his face. “Did Father Bracken do this to you?”

“Father Bracken?”

“He’s a priest now.”

“Of all things,” her grandfather said.

“He’s serving the church in Rock Point, but I doubt he’s there right now.”

“I don’t know who attacked me, Emma. I wish I did.”

The guards arrived. Two uniformed officers entered the small office.

Colin wasn’t with them. He hadn’t gone to meet them. He’d given them all the slip.

A ghost, Emma thought. If she and her grandfather kept their mouths shut, the guards would never know he was there. Either way, they would never catch up with him.