The Whisper (15 page)

“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 Sep
tember. 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.”

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.”