Harbor Island

Finian looked longingly at Fairbairn’s empty Scotch glass as the waiter took it away. “Aoife has nothing to do with Rachel Bristol’s death,” he said.

“Let’s switch, Fin. You take my FBI credentials and I take your clerical collar.”

“Glenfiddich would go down nicely after today, wouldn’t it, my friend?”

Colin sighed. “Do you know about the break-in at Aoife’s studio?”

“Sean told me. He’d already phoned Aoife. She’s horrified by what’s happened, but we didn’t have a chance to talk much about it. I imagine we will on the drive to Rock Point.”

“Fin...”

He held up a hand. “No worries, Colin. I’m a grown man. I’ll be fine.”

“The inn you mentioned to Fairbairn—my folks’ place?”

“Yes.” Finian smiled feebly. “Your brother Mike is there.”

“No worries, then,” Colin said with a grudging smile. Mike was ex-army, a Maine wilderness guide and outfitter and tough as nails. Tougher. Their father was a retired Rock Point police officer. “We have no reason to think Aoife’s a target, but whoever shot Rachel Bristol is still out there, Fin. Watch yourself.”

“The detectives know how to reach her if they have further questions.”

“How long does she plan to stay in Maine?”

“I don’t think she’s thought that far ahead. She just wants to get out of here.”

“Fight-or-flight mode.”

The priest’s expression softened. “No doubt.”

Emma entered the bar with Aoife, who wore a sleek black trench coat cinched at her waist and looked as if she couldn’t get out of there fast enough. She barely glanced at Colin as she and Emma walked over to the table. “I’m ready, Fin,” Aoife said. “We can go.”

Finian was already on his feet. He took Emma’s hand and kissed her on the cheek. “How are you, Emma? I’m sorry about this morning. Is there anything I can do?”

“I’m doing fine, thanks,” she said quietly.

He nodded to Colin and left with Aoife. Emma, still in her leather jacket, sat at the table. “I see the Taj isn’t making anything off you and Finian. Who was Finian’s friend?”

“Oliver Fairbairn.”

“Our mythologist movie consultant,” Emma said. “I see.”

“He didn’t have much to say. He had a pricy Scotch. How’s Aoife?”

“Shaken. She says she doesn’t know anything about the break-in at her studio. All was quiet when she left early yesterday morning. She hired a car to take her to the airport.”

“One of the perks of success,” Colin said.

“She didn’t notice anyone hanging around the building then or in the past few days. She’s positive the cross came by mail and wasn’t hand-delivered. She says it’s the first and only time she’s heard from the thief in the past ten years. I debated telling her we believe the same person is responsible for other thefts in different cities but decided not to, at least not yet.”

“Do you believe her?”

“I have no reason not to. I don’t see why she would have faked the break-in and left Lucy Yankowski under a bookcase. Poor Lucy. Talk about being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Like you this morning,” Colin said.

Emma ignored him. “I would love to sit here by the fire with you, but I’ve been summoned to BPD headquarters. Our friendly homicide detectives have talked to Yank about what happened in Dublin. Now they want to talk to me.”

“They’re going to grill you about you and your family’s contact with Aoife and pry as much out of you as they can about this thief.” Colin shrugged. “I would.”

“No doubt. If they have evidence this morning was an unrelated accidental shooting, I’m not going to share all my files with them. I wouldn’t, anyway. I’ll tell them what they need to know.”

“Used to bug the hell out of me when feds told me that.” Colin thought Emma attempted to smile, but she looked troubled, preoccupied. He leaned forward. “What else is going on, Emma?”

“Lucas called on my way up to Aoife’s room.” Emma raised her gaze to Colin, her eyes deepening to emerald in the cozy light. “Rachel Bristol was in Heron’s Cove on Monday.”

“Lucas spoke to her?”

She nodded. “I need to go up there, Colin.”

“We can leave after you finish with the detectives.”

She looked at the fire, and now her eyes reflected the orange flames. “What if Rachel figured out Declan’s Cross was the first of multiple heists by our thief?”

“That’s not public knowledge.”

“It’s not common knowledge. A determined researcher digging through press reports on unsolved art thefts could figure it out, or at least make an educated guess.”

“All right,” Colin said. “Let’s say Rachel connected the dots. Let’s say she loves the idea of a serial art thief one of the world’s best art detectives hasn’t been able to catch. She dives in and starts stirring up trouble. She visits your brother in Heron’s Cove, she calls your grandfather, she calls Aoife. Let’s assume the thief is already on edge because of Lindsey Hargreaves’ murder in Declan’s Cross.”

“And now, here’s this Hollywood-type messing around in his world,” Emma said. “He breaks his pattern and sends the crosses to Granddad and me, Lucas, Yank and then Aoife. But why? If he was worried Rachel was getting close to identifying him—or actually had identified him—why draw attention to himself? Then again, that’s always been the issue with him. He draws attention to himself. It’s like his thefts are a game for him.” She broke off, clearly frustrated. “I’m speculating.”

“The crosses are a form of manipulation.”

“Maybe so, but as far as we know, never to commit murder.”

Colin noticed a middle-aged couple enter the bar. It was filling up. “Do you want me to go with you to BPD headquarters?”

Emma shook her head, springing to her feet. “I should get over there before they send a squad car for me. I’ll meet you back at the apartment.” She buttoned her jacket. “You don’t have to go to Maine, Colin. I can go on my own.”

“Not a chance.” That didn’t mean he didn’t wish he and Emma could drink whiskey by the fire and talk about anything but thieves, murder and Celtic crosses. “I’ll gas up my truck.”

* * *

Colin stopped back at the HIT offices and found Sam Padgett alone in the conference room with his Texas boots up on the table. It was dark, and Padgett wasn’t a happy man. He’d taken printouts of art believed to have been stolen by the Declan’s Cross thief and lined them up on the table as if they were cards in a game of concentration. “I’m desperate,” he said, half-serious. “I thought looking at them one by one and in different combinations might help. Emma looks at them like an art historian. I look at them like a guy who doesn’t know anything about art, which, for all we know, our thief could be.”

“Come up with anything?”

Padgett glowered. “No. What the hell, maybe our guy has some deep-seated bullshit neurosis that’s driving him to steal certain types of art. Maybe he grabs pieces that all have green in them because green reminds him of his dead mother’s eyes.”