Keira and Lizzie departed for London after breakfast. Josie tried to slip out of the hotel by herself, but Myles, who both excelled at following people and had nothing else to do, caught up with her before the door had swung shut behind her.
He handed her a compact umbrella. 'I thought you could use this.'
'Listen to the weather forecast, did you?'
He pointed upward. 'I looked at the sky.'
She tightened the belt on her coat and tucked the umbrella under one arm. It was a bleak morning, gray, windy with brief outbreaks of showers that undoubtedly would turn to a steady rain as the day wore on. The sidewalk was already wet. Dubliners were getting on with their day, cars and buses speeding past, pedestrians rushing. A family--obviously tourists--on the corner unfurled a map that immediately folded in on itself in a wind gust.
Josie walked down the busy street, Myles ambling alongside her as if they were off for a romantic stroll. They headed in the general direction of Trinity College. Well before they reached the historic campus, Josie, following directions that Justin Rush had provided her, turned off onto a narrow side street, right into a wind gust that blew cold rain into her face. She didn't bother pulling up her hood, and the umbrella would be useless in the wind. Myles seemed equally unperturbed by the conditions.
They came to an unprepossessing brick building where Wendell Sharpe managed the Dublin office of Fine Art Recovery, a small, discreet company that specialized in providing expertise to private businesses and government agencies on the investigation and recovery of stolen art and cultural properties. His grandson had an office in the U.S. Josie didn't know in which city. Not Boston, she hoped.
Myles was so sexy she could hardly stand being near him. He seemed oblivious to the effect he was having on her--or was pretending to be. He could know and take secret delight in having starchy Josie Goodwin all aquiver and afire. Spending the night in an adjoining room had brought back memories of their time together before Afghanistan--and of the pain and anguish of the past two years. As she'd lain in her plush, five-star hotel bed, she'd envisioned him in the next room, an arm thrown over his forehead as he slept. For the past month, she'd alternated between relief that he was alive and anger that the bloody bastard had left her twisting in the wind--mourning him, hating him--for so many months.
How could he not have found a way to get word to her that he was alive? That he wasn't a traitor?
Will had taken Myles's reemergence into their world in stride, but Josie had made the incomparable mistake of having slept with him.
Having fallen in love with him.
She thrust the umbrella back to him. He dropped it into his jacket pocket. 'You can stay out here while I speak with our Mr. Sharpe,' she said crisply.
'As you wish.'
She debated saying something else but didn't know what. His eyes were unreadable, the gloomy weather deepening their gray, their mystery and sexiness.
Either that or she needed more sunlight, Josie thought as she ran for the entrance to the small building. She'd lost her mind, obviously. Best simply to focus on her mission in Dublin. Scoop Wisdom had called late last night and filled her in on the latest developments in Boston.
Sharpe's offices were located on the third floor in an unexpectedly contemporary corner suite overlooking the street. He himself didn't look a minute over sixty. He was expecting her and rose from his cluttered desk to greet her. 'Welcome, Mrs. Goodwin,' he said, his accent a mix of Dublin and Boston. He was white-haired and lean, around her height, and wore a bow tie and plaid suspenders. 'How is Lord Davenport?'
'Alive, last I checked.'
He chuckled. 'I was warned you can be irreverent. I haven't had the pleasure of meeting Will yet, of course, but I've done a bit of work with his father from time to time. The marquess is one of your great admirers.'
'He's quite a character himself.'
'I haven't spoken to him in several months. I hope he's well.' Sharpe gestured to a small sofa. 'Please, make yourself comfortable.'
'I'm fine, thanks,' Josie said. 'I'm restless this morning.'
'All right, then. What can I do for you, Mrs. Goodwin? You want to talk to me about Sophie Malone. What's she up to?'
'She's returned to Boston. I believe she's trying to figure out whether something that happened to her last year was part of the violence this summer involving Will and his friends in Boston.'
The old man sighed. 'I've been following events there as best I can. Sophie's studied and worked with Colm Dermott, the Irish anthropologist--'
'Yes, I know,' Josie said.
'She's a dedicated scholar. She's certainly no art thief, if that's what's on your mind.'
Josie wasn't put off by his defensiveness. Everything she'd learned about Sophie Malone suggested she was a well-liked, capable, energetic woman whose positive attitude and sense of adventure were contagious. 'How much do you know about what happened to Sophie last September off the Iveragh Peninsula?'
Sharpe returned to his desk. 'Very little. She wouldn't go into specifics, but I know there was something. Tell me, won't you?'
Josie suspected that Wendell Sharpe was a man who invited the sort of soul-baring that one tended later to regret and not quite know how it had happened. He was an expert of unimpeachable discretion, keen intelligence and decades of experience. If she didn't give what she knew to him straight--if she hedged or played games--he would clam up or kick her out. Or both.
On the other hand, she saw no reason not to tell Sharpe about Sophie's cave experience. She was as complete and as thorough as she could be in her account, noting her various sources and omitting her own theories about Celtic archaeology, boats or remote Irish caves.
'There it is,' she said when she'd finished. 'All I know.'
Sharpe settled back in his soft leather chair. Rain was falling steadily outside now, but Myles, fortunately, seemed to be staying put out on the street and had yet to appear. Finally Sharpe said, 'None of what you told me contradicts what Sophie herself told me a week ago.'
'Do you have any theories about this incident--what she saw, what actually happened on that island?'
'Now that you've fleshed out the details, I suppose I could come up with a host of theories, but I've found theorizing does little good. Following the evidence works best.'
'There was no evidence.'
'You know better, don't you, Mrs. Goodwin? There's always evidence.'
'Does any of yours take you into the Boston Police Department?'
'I see. The bad-cop theory.' He rose again and walked to a tall window. If Myles was down there, leaning against a post, staring up at the building, Sharpe gave no indication of noticing him. He kept his back to Josie as he continued. 'There's been some evidence this serial killer in Boston--Jay Augustine--occasionally moved stolen works, and that he had assistance. He wasn't a major player. It's unclear if whoever helped him was an expert or an opportunist or even was deeply involved.'
'But you believe Augustine didn't work alone. Whatever he was up to wasn't a solo operation.'
The old man turned from the window. 'What I'm telling you is barely a notch above speculation.'
Josie showed him a photograph Scoop Wisdom had e-mailed her of the dead police officer in Boston, along with a curt explanation of the latest developments there. Justin Rush had printed it out for her before breakfast. 'His name was Cliff Rafferty. He was recently retired.'
'I'll check my files and see if his name comes up.' He nodded to a dust-encrusted desktop computer at a separate station along an exposed brick wall. 'I keep extensive files.'
'What did you tell Sophie?'
He smiled. 'Theories.'
'What about Percy Carlisle?'
'Which one?'
'Both.'
Sharpe moved away from the window and sat back at his desk. 'I knew the senior Carlisle, although not well.
