Liar's Key (15 page)

“He isn't my problem—or yours, since you're not on the job any longer.”

“You're dodging the question. MI5 must be protecting him. He must know things that can help them given his escapades the past decade. He never stole antiquities, though.”

Wendell slowed his pace, the breeze catching the ends of his thin gray hair as he turned to Gordy. “I'm retired, too. It does take some getting used to, and I retired in my eighties instead of...what are you, sixty? Sixty-five? You're young, Gordy. Enjoy your life. Find something to do with your interests and skills. Leave the likes of Oliver York to active agents like Emma and whoever took your place in Washington.” The old man gave a quick smile. “Not that anyone could replace you.”

“Flattering me or mocking me?” Gordy forced a grin. “Don't answer. From what I hear, you're not retired. At best you're semiretired. I'm a simple man, Wendell. If Oliver York's a thief, he should be prosecuted.”

“By whom? Who has jurisdiction? Who has the evidence in hand for a successful prosecution? Anyone? Whatever you or I think should or shouldn't happen, there does need to be sufficient evidence to bring him—or anyone—to trial.”

“I'd get the evidence if I were still in the saddle.”

“Easy to say when you're not in the saddle. The FBI won't waste agents' valuable time on a losing venture. All the stolen art has been safely returned to its owners.”

“Everyone's happy and this Oliver York character gets to use his unique skills and insights to play James Bond instead of stealing paintings. Is the FBI using him, too?”

Wendell stood still and fastened his gaze on Gordy. “Whatever you're up to, Agent Wheelock, don't go it alone. Talk to Emma, or to her boss if you don't trust her. I don't need to tell you that ex-agents meddling in current matters often don't have the whole picture.”

“They also aren't welcome.”

Wendell blinked as if he didn't understand what Gordy was saying. Then he blew out a breath and shook his head. “Blast, Gordy, don't be a fool. You'll get yourself or someone else killed.”

“Don't send flowers to my funeral. I'll haunt you.”

“Duly noted.” Wendell was silent a moment. “Go home, Gordy. Live your life.”

“The world has moved on, has it?”

But Wendell was obviously done. He pointed toward the ocean in the distance. “As a boy, I used to think the stars and water met on the horizon. I remember my father explaining why that wasn't the case. This is quite a spot—impressive natural beauty in a quaint village.” He turned abruptly to Gordy, his eyes narrowed to slits. “Are you going to tell me who gave you the beating?”

Gordy realized he'd let his confident facade slip as he and Wendell had walked on the docks. Also, the old guy had gone a round or two with tough guys in his day. “I've been burning the candle at both ends. I'm not as young as I used to be, and I've put on weight in the past year. I'm tired is all.”

Wendell shook his head. “You look stiff and sore. It's not age, Gordy. You're not that old, for one thing, but I know the aches and pains of old age. This is different. Someone clock you?”

“I fell down a flight of stairs while I was out for a smoke last night. I hurt myself worse than I thought.”

“I've seen a few beatings in my day. Experienced a few, too. I tried to hide a few, too.”

“The way it goes sometimes. You wouldn't hire someone to have a go at me, would you, Wendell—or have a go yourself?”

“I'm flattered you consider me up to giving a man twenty years younger a beating. The rest I'll ignore. I don't assault people. Neither does Lucas, if that's your next stupid idea. You should tell Emma you were attacked, or have you already?”

“I shouldn't have said anything. I was speaking hypothetically. I wasn't attacked. I told Emma about the fall. Even if I was attacked—and I wasn't—it's not an FBI matter. Nothing they could do, anyway. Nothing locals could do, either, if I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time and had no description.”

“Were you robbed?”

“I tripped, Wendell. I didn't knock myself out but I did go flying.”

“That isn't the whole story. What are you leaving out?”

“I almost had a damn heart attack.”

“That's what happened to Alessandro,” Wendell said quietly.

“Oh, geez, don't go off half-cocked. It was just an expression.” Gordy's head was pounding, as if talking about the incident was making it hurt more. “I can take care of myself. Boston isn't my favorite city and tripping last night didn't improve my opinion. You like it?”

“Boston is a great city.”

“Ha. Another reason we'll never be good buddies. Good night, Wendell. You still have my cell phone number? Call me if you have any thoughts you'd like to share. I'll see you on Saturday if not before. I wish I'd stayed at an inn with a decent breakfast but I'll make do. My mother never cooked breakfast. We always had cereal out of the box.”

“Is she still alive?”

“Lost her two years ago. She had a good, long life, but I guess it's never easy to say goodbye.”

“That it isn't.”

Nothing in Wendell's expression conveyed whether he was remembering his own mother, a hard-working woman who'd cleaned toilets at the big houses up the street.

“Will Oliver York be here on Saturday?”

“I'm not in charge of the guest list.”

Gordy grinned. “Not what I asked, but whatever. You two aren't colluding, are you?”

Wendell zipped up his jacket. “Now look who's going off half-cocked,” he said lightly.

“York doesn't need money. He must like the thrill of stealing. Maybe he gets his jollies out of taunting people like us. Think he's taking advantage of whatever he's doing to stay out of prison to have some fun with his old nemesis Wendell Sharpe?”

“I'm going to watch the stars for a little while. Enjoy your stay in Heron's Cove, Gordy. The place across the street has good lobster rolls if you've a hankering for fresh Maine lobster.”

“Yeah. Thanks.” Gordy started down the dock, then paused and turned back to Wendell. “By the way, why didn't you tell me Emma had been a nun?”

“It wasn't relevant to our work together,” he said.

“And we're not buddies.”

The old man said nothing, and Gordy went on his way. He was used to working with a team and having clear protocols, but he didn't have to worry about them now, either. He felt like he was flailing, and maybe he was, but he had freedom to maneuver. He could give second chances, and he didn't have to worry about the dangers of personal involvement.

* * *

When he arrived back at his cottage, Gordy turned on the overhead light. The place was clean and had a homey, old-fashioned feel to it that appealed to his fatigue and his nostalgic mood. The website said all three cottages had been renovated. He'd take their word for it, but they didn't look that renovated to him. But he didn't care either way. He'd be here for a couple of nights, and the location suited him with its proximity to the Sharpes and the Deverells. He didn't care about being near the picturesque village's inns, shops and restaurants.

He unpacked, took a shower and ate some more ibuprofen. He'd picked up a fresh bottle before he'd left Boston. His head continued to ache from its close encounter with the stone steps last night. His attacker had done a number on him, more so than Gordy had realized, but he hadn't received further threats since he'd received the photos. He would find a place to burn them and toss the ashes in the ocean. Didn't matter if there were copies or they were on the internet. He didn't want them on
him
.

He was still a ballsy FBI agent. He would fix this.

He called his wife. It was her dinner night with friends but he left a message. “I love you, Joan. I always have, from the seventh grade on. I'm sorry for any of the dumb-ass things I've done over the years. I miss you. I'll be home soon.”

He grabbed the envelope with the photographs and went back outside. His scrapes and bruises felt better. Best he could do right now. He went behind the cottage. There was a small brick terrace with a picnic table and an old charcoal grill. Owners might want to add that to the renovations, he thought, as he lifted off the rack. He placed the photos in the grill bed, the image of his bare ass faceup as if to remind him what an absolute toad he'd been. How would he feel if some FBI agent had pulled on his daughter what he'd pulled on Claudia?

He'd been FBI to the core except for that one transgression.
But it was enough. Even now, a year later, its discovery would destroy his reputation, endanger his marriage and cause a major scandal for the best law enforcement agency in the world. He'd dedicated his
life
to the FBI.

He managed to set the photos on fire with his lighter, although it took a few tries because the grill was wet. The flames were easily visible in the dark, but he was well out of range of any passing cars—and there was no foot traffic out here. It was too early in the spring, there was no beach or picturesque rockbound coastline. This wasn't the place for an evening walk.

He was so keyed up, his entire body ached. Who could have taken the photos? Why? Why wait until now to threaten him with them? He didn't want to get sucked into the black hole of speculation but the questions came at him fast and furiously.

Whoever had sent him the incriminating photos likely had copies on a thumb drive or in the cloud somewhere, easily reproduced, but at least this set was no longer in his possession. He had plausible deniability that he'd ever seen them. What more could he do? If someone wanted to put his bare ass on the internet, go for it. It hadn't been a good time in his life, in his marriage. It was easy to forget that.

While the fire died down, he went inside and collected a spatula and a metal saucepan. When he came back out, the ashes were still smoking but he didn't see any flames or red. He scooped up as much of the ashes as he could, dumped them in the pan and got in his car.

He drove to a remote stretch of coast between Heron's Cove and Rock Point, parked and got out. The wind was blowing hard now. Instead of flinging the ashes into the water as he'd planned, he walked down to the rocks and squatted, wincing in pain as he dumped the ashes into the incoming tide. Even so, a few ashes managed to blow up into his face, as if to remind him what he was doing was illegal and wrong—or maybe just to curse him.

When he got back to his cottage, he could barely keep his eyes open.

Time to get some sleep.

He'd start again tomorrow.

13

Emma awoke thinking Colin was next to her. She swore she could feel his weight on the bed, but that wasn't possible. For one thing, she was in the guest room, not the master bedroom down the hall. Her idea, given their upcoming wedding.

She turned over onto her back and meditated—or tried to. Life with a certain undercover agent hadn't had a positive effect on her meditating abilities.

As if to prove her point, her phone buzzed with a text from him.
Awake?

She smiled.
Yes. Where are you?

Dublin Airport.

She glanced at the time. Five in the morning. It would be 10:00 a.m. in Dublin.
With Mary Bracken?

Yes. Home soon.

Be safe.

Emma set her phone on the bedside table. She could get up and go for a run, or she could head to Hurley's for breakfast. It opened early for the lobstermen.

“Or I could do both,” she said, throwing back the covers.

She opened the bedroom's small closet to its meager contents. She hadn't moved many of her clothes to Rock Point and had opted against storing anything of hers in the master bedroom. Not yet, at least. That still felt like Colin's space, and, as a practical matter, it would take some serious work to sort through what stayed or went to make room for anything of hers.

And it would take both of them.

She decided against a run and chose a skirt that would see her through the day, including lunch with Colin's mother. Ten minutes later, she was dressed and in the kitchen, sighing at the contents of his refrigerator. Since she hadn't gone shopping, the shelves were as barren as they'd been last night. Hurley's definitely was the best option.

She needed coffee and a game plan. She'd stayed up late after walking back to the house with Fin Bracken and did some research into Gordy's last months on the job. He'd looked into fraudulent antiquities—outright fakes—that had landed up with a New York dealer and used it as an excuse to dig deeper, obviously with the hope he'd unravel a larger network involving terrorists and terrorist funding. Officially, the investigation had withered and died. But Gordy's notes were vague and, she now knew, incomplete.

Whatever he was up to now, there was no suggestion he'd left behind anything that would have haunted him into retirement—or anything involving antiquities of any description and none involving the Deverells or Sharpe Fine Art Recovery.

He hadn't been forthcoming then and he wasn't being forthcoming now.

Emma felt her frustration mount, as it had last night, in part, she knew, because of Gordy's relationship with her and her family, her grandfather in particular. She'd also checked in with Yank last night. He'd sounded as frustrated as she was.

She went into the front room. The fireplace was cold, unlit since late winter. Evenings were still often cool enough for a fire, but she hadn't bothered on her occasional visits during Colin's frequent absences. He'd only been here a few times since February to light one himself.

Emma fingered a book he'd been reading and had left on a table by the fireplace. A history of Irish whiskey. She smiled. Finian must have loaned it to him.

She returned to the kitchen and headed out through the back door and around to the driveway and her car. It was a beautiful morning, but she decided to drive down to the harbor instead of walking as she had last night. She could pick up a dozen of Hurley's doughnuts after breakfast and take them to Heron's Cove for her brother and grandfather and whoever else was around.

As she pulled into the small lot, her contact at Scotland Yard returned her call. She parked and turned off the engine. The harbor sparkled under the bright morning sun; there wasn't a trace of fog in the air.

After apologizing for not getting back to her sooner, the British detective informed her that he had no report of mosaics of any description having been stolen from a London collector, identified or unidentified. Any talk to the contrary was just that—talk. He wasn't surprised that guests at a party celebrating a museum show of Mediterranean art and objects from late antiquity would be jabbering about looted, pillaged, stolen, fraudulent and otherwise questionable antiquities.

Emma didn't disagree, although
jabbering
was the Scotland Yard detective's word.

“What about the Deverells?” she asked, deliberately vague.

“Nothing lately. Last year there were a few rumors that Claudia Deverell got mixed up with fraudulent antiquities, but we have no reason to believe she herself committed a crime.”

“Alessandro Pearson and Claudia's mother worked together to create training programs for mosaic conservation and preservation,” Emma said. “If I may be so bold, I suggest you take another look at his death.”

“You may be so bold, but why?”

“Nothing specific.”

“Anything to do with one of your own turning up at the London party? I assume you're aware Gordon Wheelock was in town. Interesting that he's surfaced and now you're calling.”

“Yes,” Emma said, not going further. “What else can you tell me?”

“Your grandfather was at Alessandro Pearson's funeral. Did you know?”

“I did, yes. He's in Maine now. I'm bringing him doughnuts.”

“Wish you could bring me doughnuts.” The British detective paused. “I'd keep an eye on your grandfather if I were you, Emma. He could be getting dotty. He met with Oliver York while he was in London, and I don't need to tell you about our eccentric mythologist, do I?”

“Are we dancing around something here?”

“Not at all.”

“Can you tell me about MI5's presence at Claridge's on Sunday?”

“I've a call I need to take. Please stop by when you're in London next. I'll buy you a pint.”

Emma stared at her phone after the detective disconnected. “Well, well.”

Decidedly one of those conversations that was more interesting for what hadn't been said than for what had been said. She needed more information. It was possible, however, that Gordy had let his imagination run wild given the combination of Alessandro Pearson's death, the vague rumors about stolen mosaics and recognizing an MI5 contact from his FBI days. Throw in an enigmatic English mythologist/suspected art thief, her grandfather, attractive Claudia Deverell and the Norwood-Deverell family's relationship with the Sharpes, and Gordy had the ingredients for a full-blown conspiracy theory. He could simply have taken the ball and run with it—exaggerated the importance of coincidences and vague rumors, and allowed speculation and drama to propel him to her office.

But that wasn't like the senior agent she'd known and respected, and it didn't explain the bloody towel in his hotel room, the mysterious envelope, his side trip to Ireland or his apparent interest in the Deverells.

Whatever the truth about the various events and rumors of the past couple of weeks, Emma hoped Gordy had gone home. If there was anything to uncover, she'd be the one to do it, and through official channels.

She got out of her car and walked down to the pier. The tide was up and most of the lobster boats typically crowding the harbor were out checking traps. As a teenager, Colin had worked as a lobsterman with his brothers. He'd joined the Maine marine patrol after college and then found his way to the FBI. He'd never expected to do deep-cover work, but Matt Yankowski had seen his potential given Colin's high degree of independence, his quick thinking, his strong, reliable gut instincts. Yank had come to Maine to talk to Colin about that first mission. They'd met here, at Rock Point harbor.

On that same visit, Yank had driven out to the convent where Emma, a young novice, had been on the verge of professing her final vows. He'd made it clear he didn't think she was destined to spend the rest of her life as a religious sister and wanted her in the FBI, but he'd never expected her to fall in love with his deep-cover agent a few short years later.

Emma turned away from the water and headed into Hurley's. Could MI5 have floated the rumors about stolen mosaics? But why would they? Could Oliver York have done it on his own, without their prior approval? Anything was possible with him. Claudia Deverell? Gordy?

Then there was one Wendell Sharpe...

Emma groaned and put her questions aside as she ordered the dozen doughnuts and, on the spur of the moment, coffee to go. Once back in her car, she helped herself to one of the doughnuts—Hurley's doughnuts were a legend on the south coast—and called it breakfast.

She drove to Heron's Cove but discovered her brother and grandfather were in a meeting. She wanted to talk to them but she wasn't prepared to barge in on clients—and she wasn't, she reminded herself, part of her family's business.

She helped herself to a second doughnut and left the rest with the receptionist.

* * *

By midday, Emma didn't have any solid reason to postpone her lunch with Colin's mother. Between one thing and another, they'd canceled and rescheduled several times, but with just a few weeks until the wedding, today was the day.

“Just so happens Colin's thirty thousand feet above the Atlantic,” Emma said under her breath as she climbed out of her car. She'd found a spot almost in front of the restaurant, located in a narrow, weather-shingle building in the village of Heron's Cove. Her slim skirt, print top, sweater and simple flats weren't girlie-girl but were dressy enough for a prewedding lunch at one of the area's better restaurants, and respectful of the occasion.

A call from Sam Padgett delayed her entrance into the restaurant. “Oliver York is due to arrive in Boston any minute,” Sam said.

“Alone?”

“As far as we know. I just told Yank. Not a happy camper. I suggested he put cold compresses on his forehead to prevent a migraine.”

Emma had no reason to doubt Padgett had done exactly that, given his sense of humor. “I have a hunch where Oliver's headed,” she said.

“So do I. I'd almost drive up to Maine for that show.”

“Are you going to meet him at the airport?”

“On my way there now. You and Yank had the same thought. Scary, isn't it?” Sam didn't wait for an answer. “We'll stay in touch.”

They disconnected as Emma entered the restaurant, her mind less on lunch with her future mother-in-law than it had been. Rosemary had arrived first, and Emma joined her at a small window table. A fit and vibrant woman in her sixties, Rosemary kept her dark, graying hair short and undyed, and she had blue eyes, a lighter shade than those of her husband, and a heart-shaped face that tended to soften her features. She was the wife of a retired police officer and the mother of four hardheaded sons who, as she'd told Emma early on, still managed to keep her on her toes. She loved being an innkeeper. It would be a mistake, Emma knew, to underestimate her in any way.

“I bought a pottery vase at the sisters' shop,” Rosemary said after she and Emma exchanged a greeting. “Did you ever teach at the studio?”

The restaurant, coincidentally, was across the street from the art shop and studio run by the Sisters of the Joyful Heart. “I never did, no,” Emma said. “The sisters didn't have the shop and studio when I was with them, so I was never a teacher.”

“Well, it's a lovely vase. It's a simple blue—no wild blueberries or lupine. It's just what we need to perk up the kitchen. I think your friend Sister Cecilia made it.”

“I wouldn't be surprised.”

Emma noticed Rosemary had also worn a skirt to lunch. She favored classic, functional styles she could keep in her closet for years. She'd once told Emma that fashion trends didn't interest her. She set the bag with her vase on the floor next to her chair. “Sister Cecilia is going to be your only bridesmaid, is that right?”

“That's right,” Emma said. “We've become good friends.”

“You two met last September after Sister Joan was killed. Awful business that was. Do you have many female friends who aren't nuns, Emma?”

She'd become accustomed to Rosemary's bluntness and took no offense. “I do, and some but not all will be at the wedding. Between the FBI and my family background, my friends are spread all over the world.”

“A friend in every port but none to go to a movie with on the odd weeknight. Entering the convent in your late teens must have affected your formation of friendships.” Rosemary peered at Emma with an intensity that reminded her of Colin. “And you have no sisters. What about female cousins?”

Emma shook her head. “I have a small family.”

“It's hard for me to relate,” Rosemary said. “Well, if there's anything I can do to help with the wedding, don't hesitate to ask. I know your mom's in London. I'm right here. By the way, tell her I've decided on blue for my dress at the wedding, unless she's changed her mind about wearing rose.”

Emma promised she would relay the message. They ordered lobster bisque, salads and iced tea. Rosemary caught up Emma on Donovan and Rock Point goings-on, including the latest on Mike's security work in Africa, Andy's upcoming trip to Ireland and Kevin's training in Washington. “I assume you've told me what you can about what Colin's been up to,” Rosemary said. “He asked us all not to talk about his work.”

Given that three of Rosemary's four sons were or had been involved in the military or law enforcement, Emma expected she had come to accept, if not like, that she wasn't privy to all they did. Until last fall, Colin's family had believed—or pretended to believe—he worked at a desk at FBI headquarters in Washington.

“I had a text from Colin when I got up this morning,” Rosemary added, glancing out the window. “He says he'll be back today. You knew?”

“I had a text this morning, too,” Emma said without further comment. She didn't want to get into a competition with Rosemary about what Colin told his mother versus his fiancée—and she doubted Rosemary did, either. She was experienced and pragmatic, but, at the same time, she was aware her FBI-agent son operated in a secretive and dangerous world. Emma suspected the question about the text arose more from concern and curiosity than envy she might know more about Colin's work.