Harbor Island

“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

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.”

Padgett stretched out his long legs. “How do we know it’s Declan on the cross and not some other Irish saint?”

Emma reined in any irritation with Padgett. He was testing her, she decided. Letting her know that he was going to ask any and every question he had if he thought it would help get to the bottom of what had happened on Bristol Island that morning. “We know it’s Saint Declan because the figure is holding a small bell,” she said. “Tradition holds that the bell was given to Declan by God and led him across the Celtic Sea to Ardmore, on the south coast of Ireland, where he established a monastery.”

“I didn’t find any photographs of the stolen cross in the files,” Padgett said.

“We don’t have one, only a detailed description by its owner, who died five years ago, and copies made by his niece, Aoife O’Byrne, an artist.”

Emma was aware of Yank eyeing her from Dublin, and Colin from his position by the door. No one else in the room spoke.

Finally, Padgett scratched the side of his mouth. “Got it,” he said.

“It’s a lot to remember.” Emma kept any sarcasm out of her voice. “The third painting stolen that night is the work of an unknown artist, an oil landscape that depicts a scene in Declan’s Cross—three nineteenth-century Celtic Revival crosses on a hill next to the ruin of a church dedicated to Saint Declan. The largest of the crosses is a copy of the stolen wall cross.”

“No picture of the unsigned painting, either,” Padgett said. “We only have photographs of the two Yeats paintings. Jack Butler Yeats was related to William Butler Yeats?”

“His younger brother.”

“Good to know.”

Emma heard a slight edge of sarcasm and even belligerence creep into her colleague’s tone. Sam Padgett hadn’t signed on to HIT to chase art thieves. She doubted he’d ever read William Butler Yeats and was certain he’d never heard of Jack Butler Yeats until the stone cross had shown up for Yank. It was a much smaller, modified version of the wall cross, minus the knots and spirals and inscribed onto a polished stone rather than carved out of silver.

Yank settled back in his chair next to Wendell Sharpe’s fireplace. “It’s not common knowledge that the thief who hit Declan’s Cross ten years ago has been active since then, striking in eight cities around the world, or that he’s the nemesis of a renowned octogenarian art detective. Maybe our murdered Hollywood producer figured it out.”

“And wanted to make a movie?” Emma asked.

“It’s possible. Did she sound scared on the phone?”

Emma shook her head. “Breathless. Excited. Definitely not scared.”

“Okay. Keep me informed. Watch your backs.” Yank shifted his gaze from her to take in his entire team. “I want this Sharpe thief.”

* * *

Emma stayed behind in the conference room as the rest of the team filed out once the monitor went blank and Yank left them. Colin ducked out, saying nothing. He didn’t have his own desk yet. He would go down to her office or park himself at one of the cluster of desks in the open workroom. Yank had designed the space so that his agents could work quietly, alone, behind closed doors or in small or big groups.

“Yank was at your grandfather’s place in Dublin, wasn’t he?”

The question came from Sam Padgett. He hadn’t gone anywhere. Emma nodded. “I recognized the fireplace. How did you know?”

“I recognized the fireplace, too. It’s pictured on the Sharpe Fine Art Recovery website. I did my homework.” He walked over to the large casement window that looked out on to the harbor. The sky had turned overcast. “I should have taken a picture of the sun while it was out.”

“Making a joke, Sam?”

“Nope. Serious. Might not see the sun again until April.”

“Winter days can be bright and sunny in Boston. Those are often the frigid-cold days, too.”

“Something to look forward to. I like you, Emma. You’re smart, and you’re good at what you do, but it bothers me that you didn’t tell us you’d been a nun.”

Not what she’d expected, given the circumstances. “Yank knew.” She kept her tone even, without any defensiveness. “It wasn’t a secret. It’s just not something I talk about that often. Do I know everything about your past?”

Padgett turned from the window. He seemed almost to smile. “I wasn’t a monk for three years in my early twenties, that’s for damn sure.”

“What were you?” Emma asked him.

The almost-smile broadened into a genuine one. “Trouble.” He returned to the table and pointed at the small stone cross. “Where did Rachel Bristol get her cross?”

“I don’t know.”

“Could it be one of the ones this thief sent to your grandfather?”

“Possibly. I haven’t talked to him yet. I don’t know if any are missing.”

“He didn’t turn them over to law enforcement?”

“No.”

“Interesting guy, your granddad. Has he told us all he knows about this thief?”

“I can’t say for sure,” Emma said, noticing beach sand on her boots. Her stomach lurched, but she tried not to show any emotion or discomfort as she continued. “It’s been ten years. There’s a lot of information. Blind alleys he’s gone down, people he’s talked to and leads he’s followed that haven’t worked out. He doesn’t write everything down. It’s hard to know what he’s forgotten, what he’s deliberately left out that he thinks doesn’t matter.”

Padgett grimaced. “An honest answer, I guess. Have you told us all you know?”

“Yes.”

He pulled out a chair and sat down, nodded again to the stone. “What’s the significance of the bell? Besides it leading Declan to Ireland. Does it have any special powers?”

“Declan and his followers were at sea, returning to Ireland, when they realized they had left the bell behind on their stop in Wales. They prayed for its return, and it appeared on a large boulder that they followed to Ardmore.”

“Right.”

Emma ignored Padgett’s skeptical tone. “The bell is gone now, but a boulder on the harbor beach is said to be the one that carried the bell to Ireland.”

“More than fifteen hundred years ago.”

“It’s called Saint Declan’s Stone. On Declan’s feast day in July, the faithful crawl under it with the hope it will bring them good health, or restore them to good health. Saint Declan was a healer credited with many miracles.”

Padgett ran one finger over the small cross-inscribed stone in the center of the table. “Think our thief is hoping for a miracle?”

“It’s one theory. We have very little to go on, unfortunately. Even the artwork he’s stolen over the past ten years doesn’t tell us much. We can speculate but not much more than that.”

“Well, our long-departed Irish saint and his little bell must have meaning for our thief or he wouldn’t copy them onto a rock every damn time he makes off with a work of art.”

“I’m glad you said our thief.”

Sam’s dark eyes hardened. “Yeah. I don’t like that he sent Yank this cross. I don’t like that he could have followed any one of us here. He’s out there taunting us. And if he—or she—killed that woman this morning, then we’ve got a violent perpetrator on our hands. This scumbag’s in Boston, Emma. Mark my words.”

“He could be in Maine by now.”

“Heron’s Cove?” Padgett got to his feet. “Home of the Sharpes. I haven’t been up there yet. I hear it’s pretty.”

“It is. Not that pretty matters to a rugged guy like you.”

“Making a joke, Emma?”

She managed a smile. “Nope. Serious.”

He gave a short laugh and again looked out the windows toward the harbor. “Did the shooter know you were on the way this morning? Who would have discovered Rachel Bristol’s body if you hadn’t?”

“Her ex-husband or stepdaughter, I imagine.”

“The cops said that Travis and Maisie didn’t know Rachel had gone onto the island. She didn’t have her own car in Boston. She had to have hired a car, taken a cab or the subway or walked.” Padgett shifted back to Emma. “Was Rachel Bristol killed to keep her from talking to you? That’s the question of the hour, isn’t it, Emma?”

“Right behind who shot her.”

He shrugged. “That’s a given. You okay? I’ve been in the situation you were in this morning a few times.”

“I’m okay, Sam. Thanks for asking.”

“Once the adrenaline wears off, you think—hell, I could have been shot dead myself out there.” He grinned as he started toward the door. “But I’m not an ex-nun.” He paused in the doorway and looked back at her. “Were you thinking as a federal agent this morning, or a Sharpe?”

“I’m a federal agent at all times.”

“I know that. Do you? Deep down? Or does part of you think you still work for your family?”

He left without waiting for the answer. Emma knew the entire team would be sifting through her files on the Declan’s Cross thief. Her grandfather hadn’t investigated that first theft in the small Irish village until six months later, after two Dutch landscapes were stolen from a small museum in Amsterdam. He received the first of the crosses, along with a museum brochure, and recognized the image of Saint Declan and his bell. That and subsequent crosses not only allowed the thief to take credit for his heists but also to keep Wendell Sharpe on the case—and to taunt one of the world’s great art detectives.

Her cell phone vibrated in her jacket pocket. She fished it out and answered without looking at the screen. “Emma Sharpe.”

“Emma...Agent Sharpe...it’s Aoife O’Byrne.”

Emma sat on the edge of the conference table. She hadn’t expected the Irish accent and cool voice of the Dublin artist, the younger niece of John O’Byrne, the man who had owned the artwork stolen ten years ago from his home in tiny Declan’s Cross. “What can I do for you, Aoife?”

“I need to see you. I’m in Boston,” she added quickly. “I’m staying at the Taj Hotel. Can you meet me here? Now? It’s important.”

Emma eased to her feet. “I’ll be right there. Are you in your room?”

“I am, yes.”

“Wait there. I’ll come to you.”

Emma got Aoife’s room number and disconnected, aware of Colin watching her from the doorway.

“Are you going to tell me who that was?” he asked.

“Aoife O’Byrne.”

“The Irish artist who threw you out of her studio in Dublin a few days ago?”

“She didn’t throw me out. She almost threw me out. She threw Granddad out. Well, she slammed the door in his face. But that was ten years ago.” Emma pushed a hand through her hair. “She’s in Boston.”

“Boston,” Colin repeated. “Old Wendell told me she’s one of the most beautiful women he’s ever met.”

“She is very attractive,” Emma said.

“Good.” Colin handed her a sandwich in a small plastic bag. “I stole it out of the fridge in the break room. I think it’s Padgett’s. He won’t miss it. He probably has a stash of MREs in his desk. You need to eat something.”

“You and Sam Padgett are going to give Yank a headache, aren’t you?”

“Lots of headaches, I imagine,” Colin said lightly.

The sandwich looked good. She noted crisp-looking oak-leaf lettuce poking out of the edges of the soft marble rye. She didn’t care whether it was ham, cheese, roast beef or some weird concoction Sam had come up with. She was suddenly starving.

Colin grinned at her. “You eat. I’ll drive.”

5

Colin followed Emma through a revolving glass door into the Taj, located in an iconic 1927 building on Arlington and Newbury Street in Boston’s Back Bay. “Mike and I slipped in here when we were in town for a Red Sox game,” he said as he and Emma entered a gleaming elevator in the lobby. “He was thirteen. I was eleven. It was the Ritz-Carlton then. Doorman made us in two seconds flat.”

“Did your parents know what you were up to?”

“They still don’t. They were doing a swan boat ride with Kevin and Andy. We said we’d stay in the Public Garden.” He stood back as Emma hit the button for Aoife’s floor. “Mike gets bored easily.”

She smiled. “And you don’t,” she said, openly skeptical. “Did the Red Sox win?”

“You bet. Against the Yankees, too. Ever attend a Red Sox game, Emma?”

“Not yet, no.”

“But you’ve done high tea here, haven’t you?”

The elevator rose smoothly up into the five-star hotel. She leveled her green eyes on him. They were the best green eyes. “I have,” she said.

“Alone? With your family? With the good sisters?”

“With my family. My Sharpe grandmother was still alive. We all came down for a December weekend in Boston. Granddad, Gran, Lucas, my folks and me. We went to the Nutcracker and the Museum of Fine Arts and did high tea. I was nine. Gran bought me a maroon-colored coat with a matching dress with white lace.” Emma smiled again, some color returning to her face. “It’s a special memory.”

Colin could picture the Sharpes trooping into the elegant hotel. From what he’d seen of them so far, they were the sort of people who were comfortable anywhere—high tea, a gallery opening, an Irish pub or a struggling Maine fishing village. Emma’s great-grandparents had moved from their native Ireland to Boston when Wendell, their only son, was two. They’d ended up in the pretty village of Heron’s Cove in southern Maine, where Wendell had launched Sharpe Fine Art Recovery from his front room sixty years ago. Fifteen years ago, a widower, he’d moved to Ireland and opened an office in Dublin, although he insisted Maine was still home.

Emma could take over the Dublin office now that her grandfather was semiretired, Colin thought, but here she was, an FBI agent who had just come upon a shooting death.

Then again, Rachel Bristol could have called Emma that morning because she was a Sharpe, not because she was an FBI agent.

The elevator eased to a stop, and the doors opened. Emma led the way down the carpeted hall. Halfway down on the left, a slender woman with long, almost-black hair stood in the open doorway to one of the rooms. She was addressing a man—shaved head, denim jacket, cargo pants, late thirties—in the hall. “I don’t understand,” she said. “Who are you? What do you want with me?”

“Rachel is dead.” The man’s voice was raised and intense, but he wasn’t shouting. “That’s what I’m telling you.”

The woman seemed to have trouble digesting his words. “Rachel Bristol? She’s dead? But how can that be? What happened? You must tell me.”

Colin heard the woman’s accent now. Irish. Without a doubt.

Aoife O’Byrne. Pronounced Ee-fa.

He’d met her older sister, Kitty, almost two weeks ago, when he and Emma had ventured to Declan’s Cross and ended up in the middle of a murder investigation. Kitty was attractive, but Aoife was drop-dead gorgeous—in her mid-thirties, with shiny black hair that hung to her waist, porcelain skin, vivid blue eyes and angular features. Wendell Sharpe hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d said she was one of the most beautiful women he’d ever met.

“Rachel was shot this morning.” The man with the shaved head lowered his voice. “That’s the word, anyway. I wasn’t given an official report.”

“Shot? But I— We—” Aoife broke off, then took in two quick, audible breaths. She placed a hand on the doorjamb as if to steady herself. “I don’t know who you are or what you want with me, but you need to leave now, before I call hotel security.”

The man didn’t budge. “Rachel came to see you here last night. Why? What did you two talk about? I’m not leaving until I get some answers.” He gave a quick glance at Emma and Colin, then turned back to Aoife. “Believe me, the police are going to want answers, too.”

Colin stepped past Emma and reached the man a half step ahead of her. “Easy, my friend. What’s your name?”

The man cast him a cold look. “None of your damn business.”

“Think not.” Colin produced his credentials from inside his jacket. “I’m Special Agent Colin Donovan, and this is Special Agent Emma Sharpe. FBI.”

“FBI? No kidding.” He put up both palms, as if he knew to keep his hands where the two law enforcement officers could see them. “Name’s Palladino. Danny Palladino. I don’t have a beef with the FBI. I’m private security. The Bristols are a client.”

“Are you carrying?” Colin asked.

Palladino nodded. “Right hip. Glock. It’s legal. I’m out of Las Vegas. I got into town last night. I went to Bristol Island for a Bristol family meeting and it was crawling with cops. What’s the FBI doing here? You guys don’t investigate local homicides.”

“I called Emma—Agent Sharpe,” Aoife said, her voice less combative.

“Wait.” Palladino pointed at Aoife, then Emma. “You two know each other?”

“We met in Ireland because of Agent Sharpe’s work in art crime,” Aoife said without elaboration. “When I called her just now, I didn’t know...” She took in a deep breath. “I didn’t know about Rachel. She was a friend of yours, Mr. Palladino? I’m so sorry.”

“She wasn’t a friend,” Palladino said. “Why did you—”

Colin held up a hand, cutting him off. “One thing at a time.” He turned to Aoife. “Okay if we talk in your room?”

“Yes, of course.” She pushed open the door behind her and motioned into the room. “Please, come in.”

It was a one-bedroom suite, complete with a fireplace and view of the Boston Public Garden, spectacular even in November. Palladino went in first, then Emma and Aoife. Colin stayed by the door. He would let Emma handle the situation and jump in if needed. Right now, Palladino looked more shocked, confused and frustrated than menacing.

Aoife walked over to the fire. Although she was dressed warmly in a black sweater, leggings and socks, she was shivering, hugging herself tightly as if she was cold. She wore no jewelry or makeup. A pair of black ankle boots was cast off on the rug in front of the couch. If she’d been out of the hotel that morning, she’d had enough time to warm up. There was no sign in her pale skin of rosy cheeks from the November cold.

Palladino walked over to the windows and looked out at the Public Garden. “I still can’t figure out why a well-known Irish painter would call two FBI agents—or even one FBI agent.”

Emma ignored him and sat on a chair across from Aoife. “When did you arrive in Boston?” she asked the artist quietly.

Aoife tucked her feet under her. “Yesterday afternoon. I flew in from Dublin.”

“You must be jet-lagged,” Emma said. “I’m still waking up at the crack of dawn, and I’ve been home for several days.”

“I was very tired last night. I managed to sleep until six this morning. Not too bad.”

Palladino nodded to several small sheets of plain paper spaced out on a small, elegant desk. “What are these?”

“Random sketches,” Aoife said. “I did them this morning when I realized I wouldn’t be going back to sleep. They’re Celtic crosses.”

“So I see,” Palladino said. “Any particular reason?”

“Many particular reasons.”

Her cool, prickly response didn’t seem to affect Palladino. “Have you left your room today, Miss O’Byrne?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I haven’t gone out of here since last night. I had breakfast in.”

Emma sat forward in her chair. “I overheard you tell Mr. Palladino that Rachel Bristol was here last night.”

“That’s right,” Aoife said. “She met me here around eight o’clock. I ordered wine and cheese, and we chatted for perhaps a half hour. Here—by the fire. She’d just arrived from Los Angeles and had dropped off her things at her ex-husband’s house and walked over. We were both tired from our trips and agreed to meet again today. She said she would phone me this morning and we could set up a time.”

“Travis Bristol,” Palladino interjected, glancing at Emma. “That’s the ex-husband.”

“Is he the Bristol who hired you?” Emma asked him.

“No. Ann Bristol, Travis Bristol’s first wife. She lives in Las Vegas. I’m here to check on Maisie, their daughter—not for any particular reason, except that Maisie is rich, naive and stubborn.” Palladino lifted one of the sketches as if he wasn’t paying close attention to the conversation. “Maisie got in from L.A. late yesterday, too.”

“I don’t know her,” Aoife said. “Rachel came here on her own last night.”

Colin leaned against the door, shifting his gaze from Palladino to Emma. She seemed more centered than when he’d found her on Bristol Island, pacing, cold, tight with contained anger and the shock of having found a woman dead.

“Aoife,” Emma said, “why are you in Boston?”

She hesitated. “Rachel phoned me at my studio in Dublin a few days ago. She wanted to talk to me about a film project she was working on, and I agreed to let her interview me. I’ve been wanting to come to Boston. This was an excuse. I booked my flight, and now here I am.”

Palladino frowned. “What project?”

“She said she was working on an independent movie inspired by the theft of artwork from my uncle’s house ten years ago. The stolen art has never been recovered, and the identity of the thief remains unknown. Rachel made the distinction between inspired by and based on. I’m not sure what she meant.”

“I don’t know anything about this,” Palladino said.

“Rachel was going to get into more detail when we saw each other today, but now...” Aoife gulped in air, sliding her feet out from under her and letting them drop to the carpeted floor as she addressed Emma. “Was she murdered? Her death wasn’t an accident, was it?”

“That’s not for me to say.” Emma rose, no sign of stiffness. “The investigating detectives are going to want to talk to both you and Mr. Palladino.”

“I understand,” Aoife said, subdued. “Thank you for coming under such terrible circumstances. I didn’t know about Rachel’s death when I called you. Emma...” The artist glanced at Palladino, then shifted back to Emma. “Might we have a private word?”