Harbor Island

Colin slowed, downshifting as they came to their building. “Emma, did you tell the police everything?”

“What do you mean by everything?” His eyes held her for a fraction of a second, but it was enough. “Colin, are you mad at me?”

She saw him tighten his grip on the wheel. “We can talk later.”

She sat up straight. “You are mad.”

“It’s your nature to hold back, Emma. You don’t want to do that now, with this killer at large.”

“I’m not holding back. I’m doing my job.”

“If I’d been with you when this woman called, would you have told me?”

“I did tell you. I texted you.”

“That was one hell of a cryptic message you sent,” he said.

“You don’t think I should have gone out there alone.”

“To a deserted island to meet a stranger who called you about a thief who could be escalating to violence? Damn right I don’t think you should have gone out there alone.”

Emma didn’t answer immediately. She appreciated his intensity and his honesty, if not his conclusion. But he thought she kept secrets. He thought she had layers that he would never be able to peel back to her core. Love and sex were one thing. Knowing her was another. She got that and attributed it to their different natures—his hot to her cool—and not to anything fundamentally wrong with their relationship, or with her.

Finally, she said, “I made a judgment call.”

“So you did.”

“What about you? The note you left on the kitchen counter wasn’t exactly packed with details. You went off on your own.” She gave him a cool look. “You weren’t at Starbucks, were you?”

“I didn’t find a dead body.”

Not one to back down, her Colin. “I was careful. I was aware of my surroundings. If the shooter had wanted me dead—”

“Then you’d be dead right now, and I’d be explaining to the homicide detectives that I didn’t know what the hell you were up to out on that island.”

“I wouldn’t have thought twice if it’d been you going to meet a CI.”

“For good reason.”

“Because you have field experience that I don’t. Okay. Fair enough. That doesn’t mean I didn’t know what I was doing.”

Colin sighed through clenched teeth. “I’m not saying you didn’t know what you were doing. I’m saying you shouldn’t have gone alone.” He turned onto the gated entrance at their building. “And if you want to see mad, wait until you talk to Yank.”

“Does he know?”

“Not unless someone else told him.”

“I thought you might have called him while I was with the detectives,” Emma said with a grimace.

“Ha. Not a chance, sweetheart.” He glanced at her, his eyes that deep, sexy blue that made her spine tingle. They were uncompromising now, certain and if not annoyed, at least frustrated. Then, without warning, he reached across the small car and touched her cheek with one curved finger. “I’m glad you’re safe.”

“It was good to hear your voice when I was out there hiding behind a tree. Are you going to tell me where you took off to while I was on my run?”

“It involved cockroaches.”

“The six-legged kind or the two-legged kind?”

“Six.”

Emma shuddered. “Gross.”

Colin winked at her, any hint of irritation gone. “There’s something we have in common. We both hate cockroaches.”

4 (#ulink_34a41a26-0a06-5bc1-bf6d-c1f2d6cf406b)

Sam Padgett had organized the conference room and gathered the team at the big table. He’d joined HIT in August—late compared to the other members. He was one of the hard-asses, struggling to understand the role of art and art crimes in their mission. Emma knew little about him. Mid-thirties. Single. Native Texan. Extensive field experience in Texas and the southwest. Ultrafit with short-cropped medium brown hair, brown eyes and what he knew—clearly—was a sexy smile. He liked to gripe about Boston’s high cost of living, and he got along well with Colin, also new to HIT, also a hard-ass.

Padgett had put on a trim, dark suit with a tie before coming into the office unexpectedly on a Saturday. He’d placed the stone cross that Matt Yankowski had received a week ago on the table. He’d also set up a monitor in the middle of the table for Yank to talk to them from Ireland. Specifically, from Dublin. Even more specifically, from Wendell Sharpe’s Dublin apartment. Emma recognized the unlit fireplace in her grandfather’s living room. She said nothing, preferring to let Yank explain his whereabouts if he so chose.

He didn’t so choose. He led off the meeting with a nod to his gathered team, agents with expertise in everything from hostage rescue to finance, cybersecurity, forensics and art crimes. Officially on duty, he wore a charcoal-colored suit, but his gray-streaked hair looked as if he’d been trying to tear it out, without success. That was unusual for Matt Yankowski, a senior agent with supreme emotional control.

“I just got off the phone with an irate lieutenant in BPD homicide,” Yank said. “He thinks I should have invited him to coffee and explained what we were up to when I decided to set up this unit in his city. Probably would have wanted me to bring my crystal ball, too.”

No one said anything. Colin stayed on his feet, leaning against the door as if he didn’t consider himself a true member of HIT. Everyone else was at the conference table. Only a few were missing. Emma sat on the chair Padgett had directed her to, one that gave Yank a good view of her. She’d taken a few deep breaths, centering herself, wishing color back into her cheeks.

“The lieutenant brought me up to speed,” Yank continued. “The victim is positively identified as Rachel Bristol, forty, of Brentwood, California. Beverly Hills, basically. She was an independent movie producer, divorced eighteen months ago from Travis Bristol, fifty-three, also a producer. Travis has an apartment in Hollywood and a house here in Boston. Beacon Hill. His daughter, Maisie, thirty, is one of the hottest producers in Hollywood. The three of them planned to meet for a catered brunch at the Bristol Island Marina. The Bristols own the island. There’s talk—according to the lieutenant—of expanding the marina and developing the outer part of the island where Rachel was killed. The cottages are owned by individual families but most of them are condemned. The Bristols own the land they’re built on. They’ve bought out a few of the families, but basically the cottages are rotting while the Bristols figure out what to do with the island. Meaning Maisie. She’s the one with the money and the vision.”

“Was that what brunch was about?” Padgett asked. “The future of the island?”

“The detectives hadn’t gotten that far when I talked to the lieutenant,” Yank said. “It looks as if Rachel got out there early and called Emma to come meet her. BPD doesn’t have any information on where Rachel got the cross or if it has anything to do with why she was shot. It obviously has something to do with why she called Emma. I told the lieutenant to expect us to work this thing. We agreed to keep each other informed.”

Yank’s gray eyes settled on Emma. She cleared her throat, knowing she was expected to say something. “Did the police recover Rachel’s phone?” she asked.

Yank nodded. “It was in wet sand not far from her body. She probably dropped it when she was shot. It’s in bad shape. They’ll see what they can get off it. Someone else could have used it, but there are no other footprints near the body besides yours and hers.” His gaze bored into her. “How did this woman get your number, Emma?”

Colin and the BPD detectives had asked her the same question. She gave Yank the same answer. “I don’t know. It was one of the things I planned to ask her. I don’t hand out my number to everyone, but it’s not top secret.”

“Who all has it besides us?” Padgett asked.

Emma knew it was a loaded question but answered, anyway. “My family. A few friends.”

Yank hadn’t shifted his gaze away from her. “Declan’s Cross has been in the news recently with the murder of Lindsey Hargreaves.”

It had been almost two weeks since Lindsey had been found dead on cliffs near the village of Declan’s Cross. Emma leaned forward, trying to relax the tensed muscles in her lower back and legs. “A few of the news accounts mentioned Declan’s Cross is the site of a celebrated unsolved theft of three landscape paintings—two of them by Jack Butler Yeats, arguably Ireland’s greatest painter.”

“And a fifteenth-century Celtic cross like the one found on Rachel Bristol this morning,” Padgett added in a combative tone.

“Somewhat like it,” Emma said, matter-of-fact. She didn’t want Padgett to succeed in getting under her skin. “The stolen cross is a rare silver wall cross inscribed with Celtic knots and spirals and the figure of Saint Declan, one of the Irish saints who helped Christianize Ireland in the fifth century. Some scholars believe he could even predate Saint Patrick.”