Heron's Cove

“The Rusakov collection?” Wendell went still, knife and toast in hand. “You’re sure?”

Lucas nodded. “I’m sure. You can read the email if you’d like.”

“No. I don’t need to read it.” He set his toast on his plate and glanced at the sky, the sun back behind the shifting gray clouds. He seemed to give himself a mental shake, then picked up his teacup and focused again on Lucas. “What else did Emma say?”

“Colin Donovan is back.”

“I met him in September when he and Emma were in Ireland chasing that killer. Good-looking fellow. All the Donovans are.”

“I didn’t realize you knew them,” Lucas said, already wishing he’d made more coffee.

“They’d come by the waterfront from time to time, mostly in a lobster boat. I’d wave. They’d wave. That was the extent of it. They were teenagers. I was old even back then. Their father was a town police officer.”

“Did you think Colin would become an FBI agent?”

“No, I thought he’d become a lobsterman. I’m better at figuring out art thieves than I am at figuring out law enforcement officers. They surprise me every time. Look at Emma. You said Colin’s back? Where did he go?”

“Washington, supposedly. I don’t think that’s the whole story. I think he was in trouble.”

Wendell nodded thoughtfully. “I suspect trouble’s a way of life for Colin Donovan. As it’s becoming for Emma, I fear.”

“They’re FBI agents, Granddad. It’s their job to look for trouble. What about this collection? Does it in fact belong to Dmitri Rusakov?”

Wendell shifted in his chair, a ray of sunlight catching his thinning white hair. “I haven’t been back to Maine in far too long. How is life there?”

“It’s fine,” Lucas said, not hiding his impatience well. “Granddad—”

“I’ll recognize the house when you’re finished with it?”

“Yes. I’ve worked with an architect and designer to make sure we keep its character. My main focus is modernizing the offices. You’ve seen the drawings.”

“The apartment will be ready by winter?”

“Yes, but you have a place to stay in Heron’s Cove anytime you want to be there. You know you can always stay at my place. And you’ll love the apartment when it’s done. I promise.”

“I know I will, Lucas,” Wendell said, pouring himself more tea. “I’m physically and mentally fit for a man my age, but I can’t help but feel that moving back to Heron’s Cove will mean I’m about to die. People will take it that way, though. Mark my words.”

Lucas felt a spray of drizzle and sat back, wishing now he’d stayed inside and turned on the Irish news instead of trying to have a conversation with his grandfather. Coffee first. Then talk of going home to die.

The rain didn’t develop, and the sun popped out again.

Finally Lucas said, “Granddad, if you’re having second thoughts about retiring, we can work something out. You’ll still be a consultant but if you miss going into an office, there are options.”

“I know, I know.”

“And there’s a difference between retirement and death, you know.”

His grandfather gave a wry smile. “Yes, I do know, Lucas. What about you? You never thought you’d be running the show at your age. You thought you’d have more time to sow your wild oats.”

“Dad’s accident changed all that.”

“And Emma,” Wendell said. “The convent, the FBI. We thought you would share the responsibility of running the business with her.”

“It’s all worked out. Dad’s still a valuable asset to the business even if he can’t run it. Mom, too.”

With another sigh, Wendell ate his toast, drank more of his tea. “Your father’s strength was always research and analysis. He and Emma have that same ability to dig into something and see all the pieces and how they might fit together.”

Lucas again reined in his impatience and focused on enjoying his coffee and toast. He could feel his run in the backs of his thighs. He had pushed too hard. He could blame jet lag, but he didn’t. He blamed Emma’s email, and his grandfather’s attempt to deflect the questions about Pavlova and Rusakov—and his melancholy mood. Lucas had hoped that his presence in Dublin would be a boost for his grandfather. Instead, he was just another reminder that Wendell Sharpe had more days behind him than ahead of him. Transferring what he knew—what wasn’t in the files—to his grandson drew him into the past and underscored that he was at the end of a long and storied career.

“I don’t know what the next chapter will be for me,” Wendell said, buttering his last triangle of toast, “but it’ll be short.”

“Granddad, that’s morbid.”

He shrugged. “It’s true.”

“You could live to a hundred-and-five. That’s more than twenty years.”

“I shudder at the thought.” He winked. “It’s all right, Lucas. I’m not about to leap off the Cliffs of Moher. In fact, I’ve decided to take a sort of walkabout on the southwest coast.”

“Of Ireland?”

“Yes, of Ireland. Of course.”

“It’s late October, Granddad.”

“The weather’s fine. There’ll be rain, of course, but the days are getting shorter. I’ll just have to find my way to a pub once it gets dark.”

“When will you leave?”

“As soon as you do. I presume you’ll be going to London to look into this Tatiana Pavlova. Ah, Lucas.” His grandfather looked up at the sky again, peeks of blue showing now. “Sometimes it’s best not to ask too many questions. Have you learned that yet in your work?”

“I treat every situation individually—”

“That sounds like a line from a Sharpe Fine Art Recovery brochure, or these days its website.” Wendell looked across the table, his blue eyes as incisive as ever. “It’s against Emma’s nature not to ask a question, to dig deeper. She wants to have all the pieces, the whole picture. I’m convinced that’s one reason she entered the convent. Asking, probing, analyzing, thinking. Those practices come naturally to her.”

“She can also kick ass,” Lucas pointed out, if only to lighten the mood.

“And shoot,” his grandfather added with a laugh.

Even as teenagers, Lucas had noticed Emma’s fascination with the intersection of art crimes and other major crimes—the illegal trafficking of weapons and drugs, human trafficking, extortion, money laundering, murder. That interest coupled with her expertise in art history and preservation had made her an attractive candidate for the FBI.

“I’d see more of both you and Emma if I moved back to Heron’s Cove,” Wendell said, pensive again. “That would be a good thing.”

“We’d like it, Granddad. You know that, I hope.”

He nodded. “I do. Lucas…” His grandfather sighed as if in pain. “We do the best we can to influence, to inform, but in the end, we can’t control the people who come to us for help. What they want, what they know, what they’re willing to tell us.”

“Are you talking about Tatiana Pavlova and the Rusakov collection now?”