The Angel

Enter Norman Estabrook.

To the public, Estabrook was a thrill-seeking billionaire hedge fund entrepreneur into extreme mountain climbing, high-risk ballooning, kayaking down remote, snake-infested rivers—whatever gave him an adrenaline rush. To a tight inner circle of trusted associates, he was also at the center of a network that dealt in illegal drugs and laundered cash for some very nasty people. Estabrook didn’t need the money, obviously, and he sure as hell didn’t care about advancing any particular cause. He liked the action. He liked thwarting authority.

In particular, Norman Estabrook liked thwarting John March.

Simon was in the perfect position to infiltrate Estabrook’s network, and that was what he’d done. He’d known from the beginning if Norman Estabrook was arrested as a major-league criminal—which he would be—and Simon’s role as an undercover federal agent remained a secret, his name would still be associated with Estabrook and his criminal network. Who’d hire him for anything, never mind trust him with their lives?

If he was exposed as an FBI agent, there went that career, too.

Either way, Estabrook would want him dead.

But Simon figured those were the breaks in his line of work. He stayed on his feet and noticed March did, too, the comforts of the lounge immaterial to either of them. They’d simply needed a private place to meet.

Simon grinned at the no-nonsense FBI director. “If this blows up in my face, I can always become a plumber.”

“You could do worse,” March said.

“Estabrook didn’t make a fortune by being stupid.”

“You’ve done your part, Simon. You provided what we needed to unravel this bastard’s network. He’s a bad actor, and so is the company he keeps.” March gave a thin smile. “Excluding you, of course.”

“Of course.”

“There’s nothing more you can do right now. Estabrook’s at his ranch in Montana, and he thinks you’re visiting a friend and recuperating from the Armenia mission.”

Simon shrugged. “I tend to get into brawls when I’m at a loose end.”

“You’re not at a loose end. You’re in wait mode.”

“Same thing.”

“If there’s another disaster—”

“I wouldn’t wish a disaster on anyone just to give me something to do. Owen’s trying to get me to get involved with Fast Rescue training. Makes my eyes roll back in my head, thinking about training people to do what I already know how to do.”

March looked down, and Simon could have sworn he saw him smile. “Just do what a disaster consultant and search-and-rescue specialist would do between jobs, and you’ll be fine.”

“Will Davenport’s putting me up in London.”

“Ah. Sir Davenport. Or is it Lord Davenport?”

“One or the other. Both. Hell, I don’t know.”

March’s eyes didn’t change. Nor did his mouth. Nothing, but Simon detected a change nonetheless. Will Davenport was a wealthy Brit who believed he owed Simon his life. Maybe he did, but Simon wasn’t keeping score. Apparently Will also had a history—a less favorable one—with the FBI director. Simon didn’t know what it was and wasn’t sure he wanted to.

“I take it Davenport is unaware of your reasons for going to London.”

It was a statement, but Simon responded. “If he is, he’s keeping it to himself.”

“That’d be a first,” March said, making a move for the door. “Simon, we’ve got Estabrook, and we’ll blow open his network and save lives. A lot of lives. You know that, don’t you?”

“I do, sir. I also know Abigail’s eventually going to find out my history with you—”

“Not your problem.”

It wasn’t that March had acted as something of a surrogate father to Simon for the past twenty years that would get to Abigail. It was that she’d never known. At first, Simon was too caught up in his own anger and grief even to notice that March never took him to meet his family. He’d show up at Simon’s ball games—a few times at the police station, after Simon got into fights—and stay in touch with the occasional phone call. When Simon headed off to the University of Massachusetts, March paid him a couple of visits each semester, taking him out for pizza, checking in with him about grades. March never suggested the FBI as a career. He wasn’t director in those days, and when Simon decided to apply to the academy, he never discussed the idea with him.

March opened the door. “Stay in touch,” he said.

“I will. By the way, do you know Keira Sullivan?”

“We’ve met. Very pretty—talented artist.”

“She found a dead guy in the Public Garden last night.”

“That was her?”

Simon didn’t know why he’d brought her up. “She’s heading to Ireland tonight to research some story about Irish brothers, fairies and a stone angel. I don’t know. I could forget Will and go chase fairies in the Irish hills—” But he stopped, noticing a change in March’s expression. “Something wrong?”

“I’m just preoccupied with this Estabrook thing.” He seemed to manufacture a smile. “Keira Sullivan’s a temptation you don’t need right now, wouldn’t you say?”

Simon didn’t answer, and March left, shutting the door sharply behind him as he went out into the hall.

With a groan of pure frustration, Simon plopped down on a plush chair and lifted his feet onto a coffee table. He noticed a copy of the morning Boston Globe on the table. On the front page was a grainy black-and-white shot of the man who’d drowned in the Public Garden. Well off, middle-aged, no wife or children. The BPD Homicide Unit was investigating, but there was no indication of foul play.

Simon pictured Keira Sullivan bursting into the Beacon Hill house last night after she’d called 911. Pale, soaked, dressed like a lumberjack. Twenty minutes later, she’d floated back into the drawing room looking like a willowy Irish fairy princess herself. He admitted he was intrigued, but March had a point. Without even trying, Simon could think of about a thousand reasons why he shouldn’t waste his time indulging in fantasies about Keira Sullivan. Artist, folklorist, flake. BPD detective’s niece. Off to Ireland.

She was also friends with Owen Garrison, who was already keeping what he knew about Simon from Abigail and didn’t need to worry about lying to Keira, too.

Simon dropped his feet back to the lounge floor.

Who was he kidding? He was indulging in fantasies about Keira Sullivan.

Just as well he had the trip to London. Best to find some water and a candy bar for his flight.

As he exited the lounge, he envisioned—as if it were right in front of him—the painting of the Irish cottage he’d bought at last night’s auction. It was as if he was there, in Keira’s world, and he imagined her with brush in hand, her pale blond hair pulled back, her blue eyes focused on where the next dab of paint would go.

Simon heaved a cathartic sigh. “Get a grip,” he muttered.

The hall was empty of FBI agents. His flight would be boarding soon.

He went in search of a candy bar.

Chapter 7

Beara Peninsula, Southwest Ireland

6:30 p.m., IST