Heron's Cove (11 page)

Lousy,
Colin thought.
Damn lousy.

He skipped dropping off his kayak at his house and drove straight to Heron’s Cove, trying Emma on her cell phone. His call went to her voice mail. He didn’t leave a message. In a few more minutes, he would be on her doorstep.

He called Yank next. “Dmitri Rusakov’s in Heron’s Cove,” Colin said.

Silence.

He gripped his phone. “You didn’t know, or you’re surprised I know?”

“I’m never surprised by what you know. That’s why I called. To tell you about Rusakov.”

“Emma’s been in touch with you?”

“Yeah,” Yank said. “She didn’t tell you?”

“Nope. She’s in Heron’s Cove. I’m in Rock Point.”

“Ah.”

“Don’t get excited. We’re not splitting up.” Colin navigated a curve that took him close to the rocks and water, a sailboat on the horizon, about to disappear from view. He loosened his grip on his phone. “Talk to me, Yank.”

“Rusakov is apparently here to see about a collection of Russian jewelry and decorative arts that he owns. It disappeared a few years ago and now it’s turned up in his dead ex-wife’s belongings. She left it to her daughter.”

“He brought in the Sharpes to investigate?”

“Right. Emma was working for her grandfather then. He sent her to London to talk to Rusakov. Rusakov discovered the collection himself in the walls of his Moscow house twenty years ago. Wendell Sharpe helped him out back then.”

“How long have you known about the Sharpes and Rusakov?” Colin asked.

“Since the beginning.”

“‘Beginning’ as in before you ventured to the Sisters of the Joyful Heart four years ago and met Emma as Sister Brigid, or after she quit the sisters and went to work with her grandfather, or when she applied to become an agent—”

Yank cut him off. “It’s all in her file. Where are you now?”

“Pulling in front of the Sharpe house. ‘In her file’ is a vague answer. What else is in Emma’s file?”

“Consider it an expression,” he said. “Keep an eye on things up there.”

Colin came to a stop. “I keep an eye on Emma. Emma keeps an eye on me. Your idea of a perfect world, Yank. Anything else I need to know?”

“Talk to her. Tell her to tell you everything.”

As if that would do any good,
Colin thought as he disconnected. Emma wasn’t one to act first and think later. She would hold her fire until she knew what she was dealing with. She tended not to operate on impulse and instinct, especially when the situation involved her family and their work as art detectives.

Colin turned off the engine and got out of his truck. The small restaurant across the street was busy, drawing a decent crowd even late in the season. He’d had their lobster rolls himself.

He headed up the Sharpe’s short, paved driveway, a carpentry sign and a Dumpster the only obvious indications the house was under renovation. He eased past Emma’s car and a one-car garage to the backyard. The afternoon had turned still and cool, daylight leaking out of the sky earlier now that it was late October. He’d missed October in Maine and the best of the fall foliage last year, too.

He didn’t see Emma in the backyard or on the porch and walked across the yard to the retaining wall. Down on the stony beach, a white-haired man tossed a yellow Frisbee into the water. His golden retriever leaped in and swam out to it, snatched it up in his mouth. Colin wondered if he and Emma were ever destined for such normalcy as an afternoon out on the water with a Frisbee and a dog.

He looked upriver at the sleek luxury yacht that dominated the waterfront. It had multiple decks and no doubt all the amenities a Russian billionaire would expect.

Colin spotted two men on the top deck. They looked relaxed, held drinks.

A woman joined them. He recognized her honey hair, the tilt of her head as she laughed.

Emma.

“Well, well,” he said aloud.

He heard a movement behind him and turned as a woman squeezed through the tall hydrangeas that served as a border between the Sharpe property and the adjacent marina and yacht club. She wore a pumpkin-colored jacket and had long brown hair pulled back in a loose ponytail.

He started to say something, but she put a finger to her lips and shook her head. “Pretend you don’t see me. Please.” She spoke in a Russian accent and flicked long, slender fingers toward the
Nightingale.
“I don’t want them to see me.”

“All right.” Colin stood on the retaining wall as if he were taking in the sight of the truly amazing yacht and responded without looking at the woman. “Hiding behind a bush will only draw attention to yourself.”

She plopped down on the grass, staying close to the hydrangeas, and stretched out slim legs encased in tight-fitting black pants. “I have picnic,” she said.

“A picnic requires at least some cheese and crackers, don’t you think?”

She shrugged. “Maybe I ate them.”

The woman was feisty, Colin thought, and very pretty. “You’re Tatiana Pavlova. You met a friend of mine yesterday out at the Sisters of the Joyful Heart. A priest.”

“Father Bracken,” she said, with a bit of a smile. “He’s sweet man. You’re not a priest.”

“No, I’m not a priest. My name’s Colin Donovan.”

“You and Emma also are friends?”

He nodded. “We are.”

“Are you FBI agent? Like Emma?”

“Yes, but I’m just in Heron’s Cove visiting,” Colin said. Up on the yacht, the two men had backed out of sight, but Emma was still visible, drink in hand. She didn’t wave but he had no doubt she’d seen him. He didn’t wave, either, instead addressing Tatiana. “Why are you here?”

“I wanted a closer look at the yacht.” She peeked around the edges of the hydrangea, a large burgundy-colored blossom touching her cheek. “Can you see him? Can you see Dmitri Rusakov?”

“Which one is he?”

“He’s in the red pants. Terrible, aren’t they?”

“Not everyone’s color,” Colin said.

“Men should not wear red pants.” Tatiana gave him a frank once-over. “You don’t.”

He smiled, trying to keep her at ease. “I had red waterproofs once. Who’s the other man?”

She pursed her lips. “Ivan Alexander. He does Rusakov’s bidding.”

“As in he mops the floors or he doctors the books?”

“He’s security expert. Very dangerous. I don’t want them to see me.”

“Would they recognize you? Do you all know each other?”

“No, no.” Tatiana sprang up, no taller than the hydrangea, which she obviously had already calculated. She was pale now, her nostrils flared as she took in deep breaths. “No, Colin Donovan. I know them. They don’t know me. If they see me spying on them, they’ll find out who I am.”

“Then what?”

She shuddered. “I don’t want to find out.”

“Ms. Pavlova, are you concerned for your safety?”

“It’s not like that. I don’t need police. I need…” She thought a moment. “I need nothing. I’m calm now. Do you know the Russian fable of the cat and the mouse?”

“I don’t,” Colin said, no idea where she was going with this.

Tatiana didn’t look at him, her gaze focused on the waterfront. “The mouse comes to his neighbor, the rat. He’s very excited to tell his friend that their great enemy, the cat, has been caught by a ferocious lion. For the mouse, this is tremendous news. Most excellent news. The rat isn’t so impressed. He believes that the lion cannot possibly survive a battle with the cat.” Tatiana turned to Colin, her dark eyes shimmering with emotion in the fading afternoon light. “Do you understand the moral of this tale, Colin Donovan?”

“The mouse is kind of dumb?”

She smiled but only a little. “This fable cautions us against letting our own fears cloud our judgment. We tend to think that what we fear, all the world fears.”

“Ah. It’s a good fable. Are you alone here, Ms. Pavlova?”

Her smile brightened. “You must call me Tatiana. Yes, I’m here alone. My little cottage is perfect for solitude. I’m using this time as a personal artistic retreat.”

“When did you decide to come to Heron’s Cove?”

His question obviously caught her by surprise. Her eyes widened. “What?”

Colin repeated the question.

“Oh. I bought my ticket—” she counted out fingers
“—four days ago.”

“And you booked your cottage then, too?”

She nodded. “It wouldn’t have been possible in August but now it is late in the season.” She lowered her hand and pulled it up into the sleeves of her oversize jacket. “I must go back to my cottage now. I have a sketch I want to finish. I will stay out of sight of the
Nightingale.
”

“Hold on,” Colin said, not harshly. “Did you know Rusakov would be in Heron’s Cove?”

“No. Only his ex-wife’s daughter. Natalie—Natalie Warren. She just arrived. She boarded the
Nightingale
and then unboarded again. Unboarded? Is that the right word?”

“Close enough. You know her?”

Tatiana’s brow furrowed as if she didn’t understand him, which, of course, she did. “Know her? She lives in Phoenix. I live in London.”

“That doesn’t answer my question, does it, Tatiana?”

Her chin snapped up as if she were insulted. “I don’t know Natalie Warren, no. Or Dmitri Rusakov, or Ivan Alexander. Not personally.” She waved a hand vaguely toward the street. “I’m going now.”

Colin decided to let her go without further questions. It was Emma he needed to talk to now. “Have a good evening,” he said.

Tatiana mumbled a goodbye and marched off, staying close to the hydrangea border and out of view of Dmitri Rusakov’s yacht. Once she disappeared on the other side of the Sharpe garage, Colin jumped from the retaining wall onto the pier. He could think of several ways he could get on board the
Nightingale,
not all of which involved a gun and a badge—or even one Emma Sharpe, friend of Russian tycoons.

Another woman approached him from the opposite direction on the pier. She had short, white-blond hair that framed a heart-shaped face and very blue eyes, and she was dressed in flowing white pants and a navy-and-white top, with simple silver jewelry. “I wonder what possessed me to wear open-toed heels in Maine,” she said cheerfully. “Honestly, my feet are freezing, and one wrong step and I’ll be headfirst in the water.” She nodded to the yacht. “Are you joining us for drinks?”

“My friend Emma Sharpe is,” Colin said.

“Emma’s on board already? Perfect. I haven’t seen her yet. I only just arrived and unpacked. I’m from Phoenix,” she said, then put out a small hand. “Natalie Warren.”

He took her hand briefly and said, “Colin Donovan,” leaving it at that.

She breathed in deeply, beamed him a smile. “I love the cool air. I don’t want to be here in January, though. I can only imagine the icy wind off the water. I had a room booked at a charming Heron’s Cove inn, but Dmitri insisted I stay aboard the
Nightingale.
Who was I to argue?”

“It’s a big boat.”

She laughed. “Yes, it is. I have no desire to go for a spin out in the Atlantic, though. There’s a reason I live in a sun-drenched, landlocked state. Now,” she added, pointing at him, “since you and Emma are friends, you must join us. Come. You can be my guest. I’ll get you past Dmitri’s security.”

Following Natalie Warren aboard the
Nightingale
was much easier than any of the options Colin had had in mind. He smiled at her. “Lead the way, Ms. Warren.”

“It’s Natalie. Please.” With another bright laugh, she hooked her arm into his. “You can keep me from tripping in these blasted shoes.”

9

THE FALLING TEMPERATURE forced Dmitri Rusakov to move his gathering to an enclosed lounge, its large windows overlooking the quaint Heron’s Cove waterfront with its inns, summer homes and clusters of shingled cottages and small shops. Emma fixed her gaze on a battered lobster boat, a yellow, dirty raincoat hanging just inside its pilothouse. A uniformed crewmember had exchanged her iced tea for a glass of champagne, but she had yet to take a sip. In the hour she had been aboard the
Nightingale,
she had paced herself with small talk with Dmitri, Ivan and the crew.

She had spotted Colin on the retaining wall and knew he had to be curious about what she was up to. She had left him a voice mail, but he hadn’t returned her call, probably assuming he would talk to her in Heron’s Cove—or because he had talked to Matt Yankowski first.

Yank hadn’t been happy about the
Nightingale. “Dmitri Rusakov is in Heron’s Cove? Emma? Did you just say that?”

She turned from the windows as Natalie Warren arrived with Colin on her arm. Natalie was attractive, even more so than her mother had been. Colin seemed at ease at her side, but he would, Emma thought as she sipped her expensive champagne. For months, he had pretended to be someone else in his undercover work. He could handle himself aboard the
Nightingale.

Ivan edged next to Emma. “So this is your man.”

“My man? What do you know about Colin?”

“He’s an FBI agent. He works at FBI headquarters in Washington.” Ivan’s voice was almost toneless, with no trace of sarcasm; his English was excellent and Emma noticed he’d had little to drink since her arrival on board. “It’s good that he has a safe assignment since you two see each other. I would hate for you to be unhappy.”

If Emma hadn’t been sure whether Ivan knew the identity of the undercover agent in trouble in Fort Lauderdale, she was now. She hadn’t spoken to Ivan in months. Then came his call out of the blue when she was in Colin’s bed, wondering what she could do to find him.

However Ivan had learned about Colin’s undercover status, it wasn’t from her.

“Colin wouldn’t be on board without your approval,” Emma said.

Ivan shrugged. “Dmitri has his own security team. I’m here only as a friend.”

Emma tasted more of her champagne. “We need to talk, Ivan.”

His eyes held hers. “Anytime.”

Dmitri spotted Natalie from behind the curved bar where he was mixing his own drink and surged toward her.
“Moya sladkaya,”
he murmured, kissing her on each cheek. “My sweet Natalie. It’s been far too long.”

“Dmitri,” she whispered, then stood back and smiled. “You’re as handsome as ever. My heavens. I can’t believe it’s been four years.”