Liar's Key (5 page)

“That's something, then.” Sean stared out at the quiet main floor. “You're reconsidering your plans, aren't you, Special Agent Donovan?”

Colin stood up from the stool. Yesterday's sleep had helped with some of the raw edges of his fatigue, but not enough. “I'm thinking about jumping on a flight to London and going to see Oliver.”

The detective turned to him with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. “I was hoping you'd say that.”

“I'll bet you were,” Colin said. “You know, Oliver has a standing offer for me to stay in the guest suite at his London apartment.”

Sean groaned. “Dear heaven. You aren't considering—”

“Not a chance. Just thought you'd appreciate a taste of how hard my job is.”

“A sense of humor helps. Oliver York's a character, I'll say that. Quite the charming rogue, and a past I wouldn't wish on anyone.” Sean glanced at his watch and stood abruptly. “Come. If we hurry, I can put you on a flight to London out of Kerry airport tonight.”

“On what, a carrier pigeon?”

“It's a small airport but it offers several nonstop flights a day to London.” Sean moved toward the door. “You have your bag?”

“In my car, which is a rental, by the way.”

“I'll take care of it. We want you on that flight.”

“The thing about living on an island,” Colin said, tugging open the door, “you have to fly or take a boat to get most anywhere.”

“Fortunately, everything I need is here,” Sean said.

They went out into the main room of the bustling distillery. It was medium-sized, not one of the huge, well-known Irish distilleries but not one of the small start-ups, either. The Bracken brothers had gotten their start before the explosion in independent distilleries and had established a brand known for excellence.

Declan Bracken was waiting for them, and Sean explained that Colin was off to London, a last-minute change of plans. Declan looked as if he had a dozen questions, but he simply nodded and wished Colin a safe flight and a quick return to Ireland. Colin thanked him but noticed Sean was almost to the front entrance.

“When will you be planning
your
honeymoon?” Colin asked as he caught up with the detective.

A quick smile. “As soon as I can talk Kitty into marrying me.”

“Have you proposed to her yet?”

“I'm getting there. She's not sure she believes in marriage anymore. That's what she says.”

“There's never been a woman who's played hard-to-get like Kitty O'Byrne, has there?”

Sean grunted. “She's not playing.”

But the pair couldn't hide from themselves or anyone else how deeply in love they were. Colin wondered if people had the same thought about Emma and him, but he put that out of his mind as he grabbed his duffel bag and tossed it in the back of Sean's car. Two minutes later, they were on their way to Farranfore, the small village between Tralee and Shannon where the Kerry County airport was located. A fine mist had collected on the windshield and the early evening light shone on the twisting road back through Killarney.

“Mary Bracken doesn't live in the world you and I do, Special Agent Donovan,” Sean said, driving one-handed.

“I know, Sean. Fin knows, too.”

“She's had a devil of a time since Sally and the girls died and Fin turned to the priesthood. Now he's left Ireland altogether and she's afraid he won't be back.”

“Father Callaghan is due to return to Rock Point from his sabbatical in a few weeks,” Colin said.

Sean glanced at him, looking troubled. “Is he?”

“Do you have information to the contrary?”

“No, but Fin dodges the question when I ask him what he plans to do when he returns to Ireland. But that's a problem for another day. I wouldn't describe Mary as naive, but she thinks the best of people. I don't like that Oliver York intercepted her in Declan's Cross. It feels planned to me.”

“He plans his heists. I don't know if he plans much else.” Colin watched out his window as the car sped through rolling fields. “I'll talk to him. I appreciate the heads-up.”

“I'm sorry I took you away from your honeymoon planning.”

“The honeymoon isn't what matters.”

“True enough.”

Sean pulled into the parking lot of the small airport. The mist was now a soft rain. “Good thing I'm not a nervous flier,” Colin muttered. “Have you ever flown out of here?”

“Oh, yes. Of course.”

“On what?”

The Irishman grinned. “You don't want to know.”

“Funny, Sean.”

“No worries. You'll be on a real plane.”

Colin grabbed his duffel bag out of the back of the car and headed into the terminal. Sure enough, a reasonable-sized plane was on the tarmac. He'd purchased a ticket on the twenty-minute drive from the distillery. The rain wouldn't cause any delays. He'd be at Oliver York's London apartment within a couple of hours.

* * *

With a few minutes to spare, Colin stood by the windows in the small terminal and watched the rain. His undercover assignment had turned out to be more complex and dangerous than anyone had expected. He'd been looking forward to taking a couple of days to relax, dust off the stink and plan his honeymoon before he headed home. He disliked not being in touch with his fair-haired fiancée. That Emma understood he had a job to do didn't make it easier, but it did make it bearable.

She had a job to do, too. He'd had a taste of her work last summer, a couple of months before they'd met, when information from an unnamed art crimes specialist had helped him locate and arrest a major illegal arms dealer who happened to be in Los Angeles to indulge his passion for Picasso.

Colin dug out his phone and texted Yank.
London it is.
Then he stared at his screen for a split second and texted Emma.
I just had a visit from Sean Murphy.

Her response came within seconds.
You're in Ireland?

Kerry Airport. Didn't know there was one.

We drove past it. Easy to miss. Coming, going, staying?

On my way to London to see our English friend.

Colin tried to picture her reaction, where she was—her. He could almost see her warm, deep green eyes. Her answer finally came on his screen.
Does that explain your visit from Sean?

Yes. Talk to Yank.

Will do. On my way to Maine. I'm having lunch tomorrow with your mother.

Good luck. You'll need it. I learned my best interrogation techniques from her.

Ha. Safe travels. Love you.

You, too, babe.

Colin started to slide his phone back into his jacket pocket but saw he had a response from Yank:
Your garda friend has a call in to me.

That was quick.
He's good but you'll be okay.

Colin could almost see Yank's roll of the eyes but his flight was being called. He got out his boarding pass. Bad enough Oliver York was on the radar again, but if a retired FBI agent was stirring up trouble and if that trouble involved MI5, Colin wouldn't be surprised if a few agents met him at Heathrow. Then it would be a long night of explaining—but explaining what?

He gritted his teeth. He would find out what he could in London and go from there.

It was a short hop to London. He'd get his head sorted out before he arrived. He wanted to know the truth about why Oliver had been in Declan's Cross and what he knew about Claudia Deverell and her tour of Bracken Distillers, and about Gordy Wheelock—and what, if anything, they had to do with a dead archaeologist and stolen ancient mosaics. And if there was any connection to the Sharpe Fine Art Recovery open house on Saturday in Heron's Cove, Maine.

“And with Emma,” Colin said under his breath as he headed through the rain to the waiting plane.

6

Boston, Massachusetts

Gordy's head was on fire when he mounted the steps to a narrow brick building on busy, upscale Newbury Street in Boston's Back Bay neighborhood. He'd taken a cab from his hotel and had lunch at a hip burger joint then wandered in the Public Garden to try to clear his head, but he still felt terrible. His overnight bag might as well have been a hundred-pound weight.

He hadn't looked in the envelope. It was still tucked in the outer pocket of his suitcase, where the bellman had told him he'd put it. If it contained what Gordy thought it contained, he didn't want to open it, at least not until this next visit was behind him.

Part of him wanted to skip it and go home. A high-end consignment shop was located on the ground floor of the nineteenth-century former town house, down more steps and through a glass door. He could buy a present for his wife. Make amends for being so weird lately.

But he continued up the steps to the main floor. He pushed open an unlocked glass door and entered a vestibule with stairs straight ahead and another glass door to his left, leading to a small gallery that specialized in Greek and Roman antiquities and contemporary mosaic art. This door
was
locked. Gordy looked for a buzzer and didn't see one. He rapped his knuckles on the glass.

Claudia Deverell looked up from a fussy, ornate desk and swore. He couldn't hear her, but he could read her lips. Not that happy to see him, obviously. Big surprise.

He pointed to the latch. “Open up, okay?”

He had no idea if she could hear him, but she rose and glided to the door, pulling it open. “I should have guessed you'd find your way here. There's no getting rid of you, is there?”

“Hello to you, too, Claudia.”

She sighed, opening the door wider. “You might as well come in. The gallery is open to the public by appointment only.”

“Makes sense. No one's going to walk in on a whim and buy an ancient Greek coin or a cracked Roman urn.”

“The contemporary mosaic art is also a draw. How did you find me?”

“You mentioned you were staying a couple of days with the friends who own this place before you drove up to Maine.”

“Oh. Right.”

Gordy expected Claudia to go on, but she didn't. He stepped past her into the gallery. It had an upscale, artsy, museum feel to it, with its polished wood floors, industrial-feel shelves and careful lighting. The items for sale, both old and new, were widely spaced, each with a handwritten card, presumably to imply personal service, describing it in detail.

Sure enough, a cracked pottery urn was the first item he noticed. It stood by itself on a shelf next to the desk. It was Greek, though, not Roman. “Fourth century BCE,” he said. “That's a hell of a long time ago.”

“Yes, it is,” Claudia said, managing to make her voice sound like a roll of the eyes. She shut the door and returned to the desk, but she didn't sit down. “You shouldn't be here, Gordy.”

“I'm on my way to Maine myself for the Sharpe open house on Saturday.”

“You don't really think anyone will miss you if you don't attend, do you?”

He shrugged. “I don't think anyone will notice if I do attend. I like Maine. I went to Acadia National Park once with Joan and the kids. I remember popovers at Jordan Pond, the sunset on Cadillac Mountain and the kids bitching and moaning about not having a TV at our cabin. I haven't seen much of southern Maine. I hear it has some decent sand beaches.” He paused, aware that his chitchat sounded stiff and rehearsed even to him. “Your place in Heron's Cove still the same?”

Claudia sank into the chair at the desk and crossed her arms on her chest. Her cool blue eyes deepened and turned hot. “Unchanged since you graced us with your presence,” she said with obvious sarcasm.

“Us? It was just you and me, sweetheart.”

“Don't remind me.”

More than a year had passed between Gordy's last encounter with her in Maine and the party at Claridge's on Sunday, but slim, blond, wealthy Claudia Norwood Deverell was as attractive as ever—and as much out of his league. Intelligent and well-connected, she operated with ease in the high-end art world—first at an auction house, now on her own. He'd been a nuts-and-bolts federal agent who'd ended up working art crimes after breaking an infamous Chicago museum heist of art worth hundreds of millions.

“When did you get in from London?” he asked her.

“Monday. I wanted to adjust to the time change before I head to Maine. We're getting the house ready to go on the market. It's an emotional time. My great-grandfather built it and it's been in the family ever since, but my father never liked Maine as much as my mother did. Now that she's gone...” Claudia didn't finish. “The house needs a considerable amount of work. We rented it out most summers and that's taken a toll, but it's in a prime location. A buyer might want to tear it down and build something new on the lot.”

“Is that your way of saying you're not going to invite me for a martini on the front porch?”

“Oh, Gordy.” She inhaled through her nose, obviously trying to maintain her self-control. “I wish you hadn't come to London. I wish you weren't here now and on your way to Maine. It's going to look as if you're following me.”

“You're the one who called me, Claudia.”

“That was a huge mistake. I didn't mean for you to jump on your white horse. I wanted to know if you'd be in Maine this weekend for the open house. I thought the Sharpes might invite you.” She hesitated. “I wanted to steel myself.”

“Right.”

“I don't appreciate your tone. I'm being straight with you.”

“No, you're not.”

She bit down on her lower lip, which brought back memories he knew would do him no good. Or her. As much as he didn't trust her, he didn't wish her ill, even if she looked as if she wanted to throw something at him—might have done it, too, if it didn't risk breaking a two-thousand-year-old artifact.

“Why don't you believe me?” she asked finally.

Gordy didn't answer. She seemed to know he wouldn't. When Claudia had called him in North Carolina a week ago, asking about the open house and whether he'd heard about Alessandro Pearson's death, Gordy had been inclined to skip it.
I guess I just needed to hear your voice, Gordy. You've never lied to me. You'd tell me if I needed to worry.

Maybe she hadn't lied, but she'd certainly flung the BS.

He examined a wall mosaic on display, its bright colors and modern geometric design a contrast to the muted colors and obvious age of the ancient objects sharing space in the gallery. Seeing Claudia again, being alone with her, wasn't helping his stomach. It was still off, but he was confident he wouldn't vomit. That'd be the crowning glory to the past twenty-four hours—puking his guts out on ancient artifacts in front of Claudia Deverell.

He turned to her, noticing she had a few fine lines at the corners of her eyes. What was she now? Had she hit forty? When they'd first met almost three years ago, she'd told him she never planned to marry and didn't want kids.
I'm not the maternal type
. But that'd made her even more intriguing. Joan was all about kids, family, making a home. She was the best, but for a while...

Gordy nodded at the displays. “I was expecting statues of naked women.”

Now a roll of the eyes for real. “You would. I'm looking after the gallery for a few hours. It specializes in common ancient items of high interest and low controversy. It's not easy to find anything from the ancient world these days that isn't without some level of controversy, especially if it originated in what's now a conflict region.”

“Conflict region? I like that.”

A hint of irritation in her pretty eyes. “It's just a phrase, Gordy.”

He moved to another set of open shelves. “Are any of the items from your mother's collection?”

“Some.”

He smiled. “Your idea of heaven, sitting here surrounded by all this ancient stuff.”

“I suppose it is.” She glanced past him to a display of worn coins at his shoulder. “It's amazing to think an Athenian held those coins in his hand thousands of years ago.”

Gordy couldn't deny it. “Sure is.”

“My great-grandfather, Horace Norwood, started collecting antiquities on his travels, before modern protocols for the excavation and removal of artifacts from archaeological sites and source countries were in place. My grandfather and mother added to the collection over the years. It was a different world then. As scrupulous as they were, they might do things differently now.”

“The antiquities trade has been complicated and controversial for hundreds of years,” Gordy said. “It's easy to get into trouble even if you know what you're doing.”

Claudia flushed. “I'll ignore that. As you know, my mother had a particular affinity for mosaics and supported on-site training in mosaic conservation and preservation techniques. I've carried on her work, but I don't know how long I'll keep it up. And I've stopped acquiring any new pieces.”

Gordy appreciated Claudia's passion for her family collection of ancient art and artifacts but had never shared it. “I'd rather have a new set of golf clubs,” he said with a wink. “How much of the Norwood collection do you figure is fake, looted or otherwise illegitimate?”

“Still the cynic, I see,” she said, some of her initial tension visibly easing. “Every ancient piece here in the gallery has been fully vetted. It's authentic, with a clear provenance, and not only legal but ethical to put on the market. A portion of any proceeds from the sale of pieces from my family's collection will go to conservation and preservation efforts. I can't imagine a more fitting tribute to my mother. She always saw herself as a steward rather than a true owner of some extraordinary works of the ancient past.”

Gordy studied Claudia, letting her get a little uncomfortable with the silence before he spoke again. “Was Alessandro Pearson helping you sort out your family's collection before he died?”

Claudia jumped slightly, as if startled by his question. “Not really. I was still getting things organized. My mother had already arranged to sell the Norwood pieces on display here. Alessandro was quite elderly but his death was still a complete shock. I heard his heart gave out.” She narrowed her eyes, frowning. “Is this why you're all cloak-and-dagger, Gordy? Because an elderly English academic who was an expert on antiquities died suddenly?”

Gordy grinned, trying to look confident, at ease. “I'll cop to being jet-lagged, not cloak-and-dagger. Never did go in for that sort of thing.” He nodded to the gallery displays. “Did Alessandro help your mother figure out what was worth selling?”

“He was more interested in her preservation work since mosaics were his particular area of expertise.”

“He and Wendell Sharpe were friends.”

“As much as the Sharpes are friends with anyone,” Claudia said half under her breath. She waved a hand, blushing. “I'm so sorry. That was uncalled for. There's nothing suspicious about Alessandro's death, is there? It's sad, of course, but he was an old man who had a heart attack and fell.”

Gordy wondered what she'd have been saying about him if he'd died last night. An out-of-shape old FBI agent who'd tripped and gone flying? An unfortunate accident that could have been prevented if he hadn't gained fifteen pounds?

Who would know he'd been warned to back off and then shoved?

“Wendell was at Alessandro's funeral,” Gordy said.

“I know. I was there, too. Timothy and Faye didn't attend. It was good to see them on Sunday at Claridge's. My mother was fond of the Sharpes.”

“Including Lucas?”

“Yes, including Lucas, and you can go to hell, Gordy.”

“Sorry. I know he's a sore subject.” He didn't even try to sound sincere. “How long are you staying in Maine?”

“A few weeks. I haven't booked a return flight to London yet.” Claudia stood and came around to the front of the desk, the light catching her eyes, less hot now, more suspicious. “I'm prepared to see Lucas again. Wendell and Timothy and Faye were civil to me in London. I don't know if they're aware of the falling-out Lucas and I had.”

“It was over a year ago. Maybe no one cares anymore.”

“Would that were true.”

“It wasn't my fault, Claudia.”

She gave a fake laugh. “You know, Special Agent Wheelock, if you hadn't interfered with my life, I could be Mrs. Lucas Sharpe now.”

“I don't know who should thank me more, you or Lucas.”

“Bastard,” Claudia said, almost smiling. “Lucas knew I was distracted and under a lot of pressure with my mother's failing health and then her death—and I couldn't tell him the truth about you and me, how it was nothing, never meant to be anything for either of us. Oh, Gordy. What we did wasn't just wrong on your end, as an FBI agent, it was wrong on mine, too. I betrayed a man I cared about.”

“Don't be so hard on yourself. You were close to your mother and had a hard time with her illness and death. You're only human.” Gordy stepped closer to her, realizing he felt nothing anymore—no urge to touch her, kiss her, make love to her. He attempted a smile. “I was still quite the stud when you fell for me.”

Not so much as a crack of a smile from Claudia. “I didn't fall for you.”

He gave up on trying to make her feel better about the past. Not his call how she felt, how she rationalized their behavior, whether she forgave herself...forgave him. None of that was why he was here. He'd consulted with her in an effort to better understand the antiquities trade, both legitimate and illegal, but also because he was convinced she could lead him to some serious bad guys. He was still convinced his professional instincts had been on target, but his personal instincts—his personal integrity—had led him astray, and Claudia, too.