The Whisper. Carla Neggers
onto a slender shoulder, strands of red hair dropping into her face. “Where are you sitting?”
“Row 40.”
“I’m way up front. Just as well, don’t you think?” She smiled at him. “I have a feeling if I were any closer, I’d be a distraction.”
Looking at her, all Scoop could think was that he had to get out of Ireland and back to his home turf. He let his gaze linger on her longer than was necessary, or wise, but she didn’t seem to notice. It had to be the fairies. He was attracted to cops, prosecutors, the occasional crime-lab technician. Not red-headed experts on the Iron Age.
“This friend who called,” she said. “Is it Keira Sullivan?”
“Doesn’t matter, does it?”
“Keira and I are going to be working together on the Boston-Cork conference, and Colm Dermott and I are colleagues. If you’ve planted ideas in their heads about my hiding something, I probably should know.”
“Hell of a small world, isn’t it? I didn’t plant ideas in anyone’s heads. I’m not here to screw things up for you. You seem like the type who needs to stay busy.”
“I suppose I am. I suspect you are, too.”
He grinned at her. “See? Something in common.” They passed a rack of Irish souvenirs on their way out of the duty-free shop. “You didn’t show up at that ruin yesterday just out of professional curiosity.”
“And you know this how?”
“Instinct.”
Her eyes sparked with challenge. “Ah.”
He set his pack on an empty chair and didn’t let her doubt faze him. “You have some kind of personal stake in what happened there. You volunteered for the conference. Why? Something to do with Jay Augustine? Did you do business with our jailed serial killer?”
“You’ve been away from your job a long time. I’m sure it’ll be good to get back to work and have real cases to focus on.”
“I have real cases now.”
She didn’t falter for even half a second. “Even better. It’ll be good to get back to them full-time.” She headed for the ladies’ room and tossed him another smile as she pushed open the door. “See you at customs.”
He sat down, but Sophie wandered off when she came out of the ladies’ room and managed to avoid him until they boarded the plane. He had an aisle seat. She did, too. She wasn’t way up front. She was seven rows ahead of him. Either she couldn’t add, or lying was her way of telling him not to bug her on the flight.
He didn’t bug her, but he kept an eye on her while he read a book and drank the water she’d bought him. It was a long, skin-crawling seven hours across the Atlantic. He had smart, pretty Sophie Malone a few rows in front of him, a four-year-old kicking his seat behind him and, directly across the aisle, two old women who talked for all but about six seconds of the flight. Sitting still had never been his long suit, and almost getting blown up in his own backyard hadn’t helped his patience.
His conversations with Myles Fletcher and Josie Goodwin hadn’t helped, either. Was Sophie on to something—deliberately or inadvertently—that would interest British intelligence? A professional, or even a personal, interest in Keira’s ruin was one thing. Keeping secrets was another.
When the plane landed, Sophie jumped up and squeezed past a young couple with a toddler. If Scoop tried the same maneuver, he’d knock someone over, but she was slim, agile and much faster than anyone would expect just looking at her. She also had a big, friendly smile. Scoop was faster than he looked, but that was it. He wasn’t slim or agile, and he certainly didn’t have a big, friendly smile.
He wondered if being back on American soil would help him lose that fairy-spell, love-at-first-sight feeling. So far, not so good.
He caught up with her again at baggage claim. “Share a cab?” he asked as she lifted a backpack off the belt.
She hooked its strap onto one shoulder. “Oh—no, thanks.” She motioned vaguely toward the exit. “Someone’s picking me up.”
Scoop didn’t even have to be good at detecting lies to see through that one. Not that she was trying hard to hide that she wasn’t telling the truth.
He could have taken the subway, too, but he went ahead and grabbed a cab.
He’d be seeing Sophie Malone again. It wasn’t a question of if. It was a question of when and under what circumstances.
Scoop had the cab drop him off in Jamaica Plain. He stood in front of the triple-decker he owned with Bob O’Reilly and Abigail Browning. It was a freestanding, solid house, one of thousands of triple-deckers built in the early 1900s for immigrant workers. It had character. Abigail and Owen were due back soon from their honeymoon. Bob was working. He and some of the guys from the department had boarded up the windows with fresh plywood and strung yellow caution tape across the front porch.
Scoop had never figured his second-floor apartment would be the last place he owned, but he’d had no immediate plans to move. He, Bob and Abigail all hated that three police detectives had brought violence to their own neighborhood. Their street was semi-gentrified, with mature trees and well-kept gardens. There were young families with kids on bicycles, teenagers playing street hockey, professionals, old people.
Scoop unlocked the side gate, left his carry-on and duffel bag on the walk and headed to the postage-stamp of a backyard. The bomb had set off a fire on Abigail’s first-floor back porch that burned straight through to her dining room. His porch, directly above hers, had also burned. The firefighters had gotten there fast and stopped the fire from spreading, but with the extensive smoke and water damage, the entire three-story house had to be gutted. Bob was in charge of figuring out what came next. It’d be a while before they could move back in.
Abigail planned to sell her place and move with Owen into a loft in the renovated waterfront building where the new headquarters of Fast Rescue, Owen’s international search-and-rescue outfit, were being relocated from Austin. Bob had mentioned maybe he could take the top two floors and Scoop could move to Abigail’s place. Sounded good to Scoop, but it’d involve redesigning and probably more money.
He squinted up at his boarded-up apartment. He’d done his mourning for any stuff he’d miss. Photographs, mostly, but his family had copies of a lot of them—nieces, nephews, birthday parties, holidays.
The air still tasted and smelled of charred wood and metal. He walked over to the edge of his vegetable garden. He’d been weeding when Fiona O’Reilly had arrived that day and offered to help him pick tomatoes.
That was what they’d been doing when the bomb went off. Picking tomatoes.
“Hell,” he breathed, remembering.
The bomb had to have already been in place under Abigail’s grill when they’d all gotten up that morning.
It was constructed with C4. Nasty stuff.
He, Bob, Abigail, Owen and Fiona had made lists of people they’d seen at the house in the days before the bomb. Everyone. Cops included.
Maybe especially cops, Scoop thought, sighing at the weeds that had taken over his garden. He could still see where firefighters and paramedics had trampled his neat rows in the rush to save his life and keep the fire from spreading to neighboring homes. He’d trampled a few gardens in his years as a police officer. He noticed a couple of ripe tomatoes and squatted down, pulling back the vines, but the tomatoes had sat in the dirt too long. The bottoms were rotted.
“What the hell,” he said, “they’ll make good compost.”
He yanked up a few weeds, aware of the scars on his back, his shoulders, his arms. He’d grabbed Fiona, protecting her as best he could from the shards of metal and wood as he’d leaped with her for cover—the compost bin Bob and Abigail had moaned and groaned about when Scoop had been building