I've never met the son.'
'There was an incident seven years ago involving the father--'
'Yes, a mistake on the part of his staff that landed him in quite a pickle here in Ireland. He was held briefly by Irish authorities on suspicion of smuggling artifacts--late Bronze Age pieces, as I recall. It was all a terrible misunderstanding. He was released almost immediately.'
Unable to resist, Josie walked over to the window and saw that Myles was, indeed, leaning against a lamppost. He glanced up, almost as if he'd sensed her presence. She spun back to Wendell Sharpe. 'Are you satisfied Percy Carlisle Sr. was merely the victim of a staff error?'
'I'm satisfied he didn't steal any valuable art or cultural properties from Ireland. Nothing more.' Sharpe hesitated before continuing. 'The Winslow Homer painting that disappeared in the subsequent break-in in Boston is a source of considerable speculation among those of us in my field.'
'One can imagine,' Josie said. 'Do you have any idea where the younger Carlisle might be right now? You can understand why we want to locate him.'
'Indeed,' Sharpe said, using a stub of a pencil to jot a few lines on an index card, which he handed to her. 'His father sometimes stayed with an American couple here in Dublin. Their house is a few blocks from here, near Merrion Park. It's a shot in the dark, you understand. I wish I could be of more help.'
Josie thanked him and left, taking the stairs slowly as she considered their conversation. She found Myles still leaning against a lamppost in the rain. He hadn't bothered with the umbrella. 'I have an address for us to check out here in Dublin,' she said. 'We can walk.'
Myles smiled. 'Would you like to hold hands?'
'No,' she said, suddenly irritated, and stalked ahead of him.
He caught up with her easily. They crossed into St. Stephen's Green, the rain stopping outright as they walked among the formal flower beds, bubbling fountains and statues of famous Dubliners and revolutionaries. Josie focused on the matter at hand. No lingering, she thought. No holding hands and enjoying the ambience of the historic green. As they crossed to the quiet residential streets of the Georgian district, she typed the address Wendell Sharpe had given her onto her BlackBerry. She had no desire to get lost on the streets of Dublin in the rain.
'I imagine the Boston police are looking into whether the dead police officer was in Ireland recently,' she said, determined not to be distracted by hand-holding and such with Myles. 'Our missing Percy Carlisle might have lied about when he and Officer Rafferty met.'
'You're suggesting they could have met after the break-in at the Carlisle Museum seven years ago,' Myles said.
'I'm not suggesting anything. I'm speculating.'
Myles continued down the block in silence. Finally he said, 'I suspect our Detective Wisdom was onto a connection between Boston thugs and a police officer before I arrived in Keira's cottage to tell him.'
'You confirmed his worst suspicions. Whatever he had on this connection wasn't enough to stop his house from being bombed.' Josie grimaced at the thought of Scoop Wisdom's frustration. 'I know only too well, Myles, how that would eat at me.'
They came to a classic eighteenth-century Georgian house and mounted steps to a bright yellow door, above it an elegant segmented fanlight. Josie bypassed the large brass knocker and pressed the more modern doorbell.
When no one came to the door, Myles stood up from the wrought-iron rail. 'I suspect my breaking-and- entering skills aren't as rusty as yours.'
Josie moved aside. 'If the guards arrest us, you'll make the call to London.'
She turned with her back to him, blocking any view of him from the street as best she could, but she didn't have a chance to regret her actions before he spoke. 'We're in,' he said calmly, without a hint of cockiness.
The interior of the house was cool and elegantly, if sparsely, furnished. They entered the first-floor drawing room, its tall ceilings and warm blue-and-cream decor a counter to the dreary weather. Staying together, they quickly and efficiently checked every room on every floor but found no missing American, no socks on the floor or shaving gear in the guestroom--nothing to indicate Percy Carlisle was visiting and had simply popped out for a stroll.
'It's unsettling,' Josie said as they returned to the front hall. 'Suppose he is on some personal retreat as his wife says. I still don't understand why we can't find him. It's not as if we're searching for a trained military and intelligence officer out to stop a major terrorist attack.'
Myles ignored her mild barb and stepped past her. 'Look here.'
Josie saw that he'd paused in front of a small framed painting by the door. It was one of Keira Sullivan's distinctive wildflower watercolors--a cluster of purple thistle. 'Small world.' She was aware of the emotion that just that simple painting elicited; it was one of Keira's gifts as an artist. 'She has an amazing talent. I hope being around all of us doesn't suck the life out of it. She has painter's block--'
'She's worried about Simon. He'll be back.'
'Then go off again,' Josie said.
'Maybe. She'll get used to it.'
'Easy for you to say. We should go. I swear I'm waiting for hounds to wake up and come after us.'
Myles grinned at her. 'Worried about getting caught, are you?'
She bristled. 'No, I mean that literally about the hounds. One never knows. By the way, I can handle myself in the field quite well. I don't require your assistance or protection.'
'You're glad to have me with you, though, in case the guards or dogs come after us.'
'Of course. I can feed you to either or both and go scot-free myself.'
He seemed amused, unworried about the guards, dogs or her. They headed back outside. Josie locked the door behind her and descended the steps, trying to appear to anyone who might pass by that she hadn't a worry in the world. She glanced back, half expecting hounds barking in all the windows.
She checked her BlackBerry and saw she had a text message from Lizzie and Keira. It wasn't Will's father or Lizzie's father who'd met them in London. It was Will and Simon themselves.
She smiled and relayed the news to Myles, who was obviously unsurprised. 'Did you know they were back?' she demanded.
He shrugged and squinted up at the sky. 'We're in for a bit of clearing, don't you think?'
'It won't last,' she said, shoving her BlackBerry back into her coat pocket. 'I'm going to find a quiet banker.'
'Didn't you marry a quiet banker?'
'I'm not going to encourage you by answering. Doesn't it feel as if we're caught inside a Celtic circle ourselves and can't find our way out?'
'I wouldn't know a bloody Celtic circle from a hula hoop.' He took her hand into his as they crossed to St. Stephen's Green. 'Let's enjoy our walk through the park.'
'Myles--'
'Moments, love. Life is full of little moments.'
17
Sophie stretched out with her laptop on the sectional in front of the fireplace. She'd brought in a pot of burgundy mums and set it on the hearth. After a bad night of tossing and turning and obsessing on her chitchat with John March and the BPD detectives--not to mention kissing Scoop, which was
Her iPhone rang, startling her. She saw it was Damian--no text message this time. She sat up straight. 'Director March has paid you a visit?' she asked.
Silence on the other end. 'No,' her brother said, 'he hasn't.'
