Carla Neggers, page 8
Colin studied her, his eyes taking on the stormy-gray of the darkening Irish sky. “I want both, Emma. What you know about this thief and what you believe.”
She sat on a chair angled in front of the fireplace. “I don’t know if Julianne’s presence in Declan’s Cross has anything to do with the theft here.”
“But you believe it does.”
“I’m at least concerned.”
Colin sat on a soft-cushioned love seat directly in front of the fireplace. “I’d feel better if she at least had a phone up at that damn cottage.”
“It kills you that she’s there by herself,” Emma said with a smile, despite her own misgivings about Julianne’s presence in Declan’s Cross. “Ireland’s pretty safe.”
“This farmer’s uncle is a suspect, isn’t he?”
“Not for being the thief,” Emma said.
“For helping him.”
She didn’t respond.
Colin stretched out his long legs and tapped the arm of the love seat with his fingers. Restless energy, Emma thought. Not nervous energy.
“Julianne doesn’t think before she acts,” he said, as if that explained everything.
“Her quick thinking saved Andy’s life a few weeks ago.”
“Yes, it did.”
Emma didn’t push him further. She couldn’t get him to discuss the attack on his younger brother beyond the basic facts. Digging into the emotional impact of what had happened that day—and the prior weeks—wasn’t for him.
He shifted in his seat. “Julianne would string me up if she could hear me right now. The Maroney pride. She has it in spades.”
“You don’t think she’d appreciate your concern?”
He didn’t hesitate. “No. I don’t blame her for not wanting me around. Andy’s done some stupid things in his life, like the rest of us, but getting involved with Julianne...” He broke off and sat up straight, as if he were about to jump up from the love seat. “He knew how it would end.”
“Maybe it was inevitable,” Emma said. “They’ve known each other forever. Did you and Andy talk about it?”
Colin looked at her with a grin. “You’re kidding, right?”
She sighed. “What about Mike and Kevin?”
“Andy didn’t ask any of us for our advice or opinion. Not his style. He and Julianne thought they could separate themselves from Rock Point, pretend they were a couple of strangers who met over fried clams.”
“That could be fun at first.”
“Then reality catches up with you. It always does. You have to look it square in the eye. Be who you are. Accept it.”
Emma wondered if they were still talking about Julianne and Andy. “Colin...”
His gaze settled on her, but he pulled away and sprang to his feet. “Julianne’s smart and ambitious. Driven. Speaks her mind. Andy’s smart, but he’s not as ambitious as she is, or at least in the way she is.”
“He’s also not ready to settle down.” Emma looked up at Colin. “Are any of you Donovans ready to settle down?”
His smile caught her by surprise. “It’d help if we fell for easy women.”
“Considering how easy Donovan men are.”
“Are you saying my brothers and I are difficult?”
“Challenging. I’d say you’re all challenging.” She stood next to him in front of the fireplace. “Did you ever think Andy and Julianne’s relationship would last?”
“I wasn’t around much when things got hot and heavy between them.”
“That doesn’t answer the question, Special Agent Donovan.”
He glanced at her. “You’d do fine as a field agent, you know.”
“Maybe we’re on edge because we’ve been on vacation too long.”
“I think it’s more than that, Emma.”
She nodded. “So do I.”
He studied an atmospheric watercolor painting above the fireplace. It was of an Irish sunset, all splashes of rich color against a backdrop of a churning sea and rugged hills.
Emma eased next to him, aware of how tense and preoccupied he was. “This wasn’t here ten years ago,” she said. “It’s Aoife O’Byrne’s work.”
“It’s quite a painting,” Colin said.
“She was inspired by her uncle’s art collection. The most valuable paintings he owned were here, in this room.”
“The thief knew?”
“That’s our assessment, yes. We think he was after specific works and he knew exactly where to find them.”
Colin turned to her. “Tell me what happened.”
Emma moved to a tall window overlooking the hotel gardens, its pebbled walkways illuminated against the early night. What a place to relax, she thought. Read a book. Think. Nap. Enjoy the surroundings. She knew Colin was watching her, perhaps again trying to figure out what she’d been like before she’d headed to Quantico. The Sisters of the Joyful Heart...Sharpe Fine Art Recovery. So different from the world he knew. She could picture him in Rock Point, lobstering, working in the marine patrol. It was his life with the FBI that was tougher for her to envision. His deep-cover work with international arms traffickers. Killers.
“Emma,” he said quietly, joining her at the window.
She continued to stare out at the darkening gardens. “Two of the paintings stolen that night were by Jack Butler Yeats. The third was unsigned.”
“Worth a lot?”
“The Yeats paintings, yes. Not hundreds of millions but in the millions. It’s often easier and ultimately more profitable for thieves to get rid of pieces that aren’t as well-known. Yeats’ work has become extremely popular. He’s considered one of the greatest Irish painters of all time.”
“Related to William Butler Yeats?”
“His younger brother. Their father, John, was also a painter. John O’Byrne bought the Jack Yeats paintings at an auction in Dublin, before Yeats’ popularity went into the stratosphere. They’re earlier works—pre-1940. Landscapes of scenes in the west of Ireland.”
“What about the third painting—the one that was unsigned?”
“It’s an oil landscape of a local scene.”
“Where?”
“The painting depicts three remarkable stone Celtic crosses at the tip of Shepherd Head.”
Colin was silent a moment. “Have any of the missing paintings turned up?”
Emma shook her head. “Not a one.”
She noticed the shower had passed and some of the clouds were breaking up. There’d be more rain later on, but she’d seen weather reports. Tomorrow was supposed to be beautiful. If they heard from Lindsey Hargreaves tonight, they all could relax and enjoy the day.
“What about the cross that was stolen?” Colin asked.
“It was on the mantel downstairs. It’s a small silver wall cross inscribed with a beautiful Celtic motif. It’s a mini version of the largest of the crosses on Shepherd Head but much older.”
“How old is old around here?”
“Granddad guesses the wall cross that was stolen might be as early as fifteenth century. He can’t know for certain since he hasn’t seen it and it was never appraised. John O’Byrne said he found it when he put in the gardens here about fifty years ago. He told Granddad he was devastated by its loss.”
Colin turned from the window. “Where were his nieces that night—Kitty and Aoife?”
“Kitty was staying with a friend here in Declan’s Cross, as I recall from the file. Aoife had been living in Ardmore but she’d moved to Dublin by then and was home, but alone. They’ve both done well financially. Their uncle was a widower with no children. He struggled with money at the end.”
“The cross and the stolen paintings were uninsured?”
“Right. John O’Byrne didn’t arrange the theft to collect insurance money.”
“That doesn’t let him off the hook. He could have worked out a deal with the thief to split the profits of a private sale to a rich collector.”
“There’s no evidence of any financial gain,” Emma said.
“What we know, what we believe and the resulting unanswered questions.” Colin moved back from the window to the round table in the middle of the room. He fingered a thick book on romantic Irish country homes, then met her gaze again. “Do you think the thief is from Declan’s Cross?”
“We don’t know enough. That’s what I think.”
“Did someone from here help him? Our sheep farmers? Paddy and the nephew? Someone else?” He stood straight. “The nieces?”
“None of the evidence—”
“I’m not talking about evidence. I’m talking about instincts.” His gray eyes steadied on her. “Your gut, Emma. What does it say?”
It was how Colin thought, Emma realized. He was pragmatic, unsentimental. He had investigated a wide range of crimes as a Maine marine patrol officer and then as an FBI agent, even before turning to undercover work. Her focus was the complex but particular world of art theft. “My gut says we’re missing something.”
“Then or now?”
“Both,” she said without hesitation. “But I don’t trust my gut as much as you trust yours.”
“You think there’s some rock you haven’t turned over. It’s out there, waiting for you.”
“That’s one way of putting it, yes.”
“I know that feeling.” He gestured to another painting, an oil depicting a row of bright-colored cottages. “How much of the artwork here now came with the house?”
“We’d have to ask Kitty. Her taste is different from her uncle’s. Most of the art on display is likely her doing—contemporary Irish painters and sculptors, including her sister. Aoife is an internationally recognized artist herself now.”
“Did her uncle support her artistic efforts in her early days?”
“I don’t know.”
Emma glanced again at Aoife O’Byrne’s moody painting, with its striking colors and intriguing use of light. Aoife had an ability—a vision—that blended drama, open, deep emotion, reality and fantasy into a unique style that was all her own. Emma felt her throat tighten, her reaction to the painting catching her off guard.
“Who called the police?” Colin asked.
She cleared her throat and looked away from the painting. “Paddy Murphy called the gardai in the morning when he saw that the French doors were wide open. He knew it wasn’t the wind, but no one realized the paintings and cross were missing until John O’Byrne returned from Portugal a few days later.”
“Ouch.”
“Yes. Ouch.”
“He cooperated with the police?”
“As far as I know. Granddad didn’t get involved until six months later, after two Dutch paintings were stolen from a small museum in Amsterdam. They’re landscapes but otherwise very different from the works stolen here.”
“But you’re sure it was the same thief.”
“That’s right.”
“And the subsequent thefts—you’re sure?”
Emma nodded. “Yes.”
“How do you know?”
She touched the cover of the book on romantic Irish houses, debating what to tell him. She looked up, saw that Colin was watching her, his eyes narrowed. He already knew the answer, she realized.
She stood back from the table. “We know because he tells us.”
“‘Us’ being—who? You, your grandfather, your brother, your folks? All of you?”
“Granddad,” Emma said, leaving it at that.
“Not going to tell me how he lets you know, are you?”
She gave a tight shake of her head. “I can’t go into detail, Colin.”
“Understood.” He eased next to her, his upper arm brushing hers. “Is this thief matching wits with your grandfather?”
“Possibly.”
“Someone from his past?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. It wouldn’t narrow things down very much. Granddad’s worked in art crimes for sixty years. That leaves a wide, deep pool of possibilities. The thefts are all brazen but so far not violent.”
“The ones you know about,” Colin said.
Emma acknowledged his statement with a nod. “Fair point. Not everyone reports an art crime, and he might not tell us—Granddad—about every theft.”
“He could escalate to violence at any time, if he hasn’t already. And you’re convinced it’s a man.”
“It’s one of those things we believe but don’t know.”
“Irish?”
“My guess is no. Maybe of Irish descent. The art stolen from here is Irish, but the other thefts are all different. I believe he steals what he knows he can steal.”
Colin walked over to a glass-front cabinet next to the fireplace and glanced at the contents, a mix of books, framed photographs of Declan’s Cross and small porcelain figures of birds. “I assume law enforcement has everything you have on him.”
“I am law enforcement, Colin.”
“Right. Easy to forget.”
She looked for humor in his expression but saw none. “Our thief is fast, clever and daring but not reckless. He doesn’t strike often. The art theft squad here in Ireland is handling this case, but it’s a cold trail.”
“What about fingerprints, footprints, witnesses?”
“Virtually nothing here or anywhere else. He knows what he’s doing.”
Emma ran her fingertips over more books. She could feel Colin watching her. It was as if he could read her mind, knew what she was thinking before she could acknowledge it to herself.
“It’s all right, Emma,” he said. “I get it that I’m on need-to-know status with the specifics. When and if I need to know, you’ll tell me.”
It wasn’t a question, but she said, “I will, yes. For what it’s worth, I don’t believe the thefts are directed at my grandfather. Taunting him is a bonus, not the motive.”
“But you don’t know,” Colin said with the slightest of smiles.
“I also believe he works alone. He never steals more than he can handle in one trip.”
“Maybe he’s like Santa Claus and has elves and reindeer waiting.”
Emma smiled, welcoming his lighter tone—his lighter mood. “It’s dark out, but it’s still too early for dinner. We could check out the spa. I had a quick look at the pool after lunch. Very inviting.”
“I used to be a lobsterman, but I’m not that much on swimming.” He gave her an easy grin. “I know what’s in the water.”
“No sharks in an indoor pool, at least.”
“Or alligators,” he added.
It was a reminder of his close call a few weeks ago in Fort Lauderdale, when his arms traffickers had tried to kill him. Emma didn’t always know where Donovan humor and teasing ended and Donovan seriousness began. It was the same with his brothers. They communicated with teasing and wry humor punctuated by a bluntness that could set people back on their heels. She found their approach refreshing, challenging and remarkably honest—if also sometimes disconcerting. Her family was honest but often indirect, out of respect and intuition for personal and professional boundaries, because of their natural ability to assess, analyze, reflect.
The Donovans didn’t always have a keen instinct for boundaries. When they wanted to find out something, get something done, they would keep pushing until someone or something pushed back.
Then they would push some more.
No doubt that helped explain Julianne’s abrupt trip to Ireland and her defensiveness with Colin.
And unlike Emma, Julianne had grown up with Donovans. She already knew what they were like.
Emma started for the hall. “I don’t know about you, Colin, but I’m going to grab my swimsuit and head to the spa.” She paused in the doorway and looked back at him. “Coming?”
He strode across the room to her. “Kitty O’Byrne’s whiskey cabinet beckons,” he said, then touched his fingertips to her cheek. “And you need some time to yourself. Emma thinking time. You can think while you’re swimming. I’d either be imagining alligators or letting myself be distracted by you in a swimsuit.”
“You’ve never seen me in a swimsuit.”
“This is what I’m saying.”
8
WITH EMMA OFF to the spa, Colin didn’t immediately head downstairs to the bar. Instead he sat by the cold fireplace and dug out his phone and found Matt Yankowski’s number in Boston. Yank was the buttoned-down senior agent in charge of a small Boston-based team he’d formed in March that specialized in elusive criminals and criminal networks with virtually unlimited resources. He called it HIT. It stood for high-impact targets. Or maybe it didn’t. Colin had never really asked.
Yank had personally selected every member of the team, including Emma, and now, technically, Colin, except that was more like a shotgun wedding. Yank had decided in September that after months of solitary deep-cover work, Colin needed structure, a place to light—“a damn desk,” as Yank had put it.
Not that Colin had actually sat at his desk in Boston, or ever would.
He wasn’t even sure he had one.
He’d met Yank four years ago. Yank had come up from Washington to Rock Point to talk to Colin about his first undercover mission. Yank would be his contact agent. He’d griped about the rocky coast, boats and everything else about southern Maine, except Hurley’s lobster rolls and doughnuts.
On that same trip—something Colin hadn’t known until two months ago—Yank had also visited the isolated convent of the Sisters of the Joyful Heart and talked to a young novice, fair-haired Sister Brigid, aka Emma Sharpe. Yank had guessed that Emma, an art historian and a Sharpe, wasn’t destined to spend the rest of her life as one of the good sisters. She’d grown up in Heron’s Cove, just a few miles down the coast from Rock Point, but it might as well have been on a different planet, for all the Donovans and the Sharpes had in common.
Before Colin had left for Ireland, Yank had said he wouldn’t mind doing a Vulcan mind meld with Wendell Sharpe. The octogenarian art crimes expert had decades of knowledge and experience, layers of secrets, tidbits filed away in his acute mind that would never be a part of any formal file. Emma had learned her ways at her grandfather’s knee.
