“I’m hoping you’ll find out.”
“I don’t need to find out. That would have been one of the first questions the Maine detectives asked her. She wasn’t hurt?”
“Not that I’ve heard, no. When Sister Joan didn’t come to unlock the gate, Agent Sharpe climbed over the fence to investigate. She got to Sister Joan too late. The poor woman was already dead, may God rest her soul.”
Colin wanted more whiskey, if only to keep him from trying to figure out what had happened at the Sisters of the Joyful Heart a few hours ago, but no more Bracken 15 year old for him. He was done now that Emma Sharpe’s name had come up. “Agent Sharpe was the first on the scene?”
“I don’t have all the details. The murder of any innocent is unacceptable, but of a nun…” Bracken paused, staring into his drink as if it could provide answers, then said quietly, “She’s gone to God.”
Colin could feel the priest sinking into melancholy and sat back, tapping the table with his fingers as he thought. “What do you think, Fin? Was Sister Joan in the wrong place at the wrong time, or was she targeted?”
“If I could answer all your questions, I’d have left you on your island.”
The late-afternoon sun was out now, if only for a short time before dusk. It sparkled on the water, creating the kind of scene that kept Colin going on his darkest days working undercover. He knew the Sharpe name growing up in Rock Point, and then as a Maine marine patrol officer, but Emma Sharpe’s name had cropped up just a few weeks ago. She’d provided a critical piece of information that had helped locate one seriously bad operator, a Russian arms trafficker with a trail of dead bodies behind him.
Colin sighed at Bracken. “I planned to go fishing tomorrow.”
The priest shrugged. “You can still go fishing. There’s water in Heron’s Cove. I imagine that’s why heron and cove are in its name.” His midnight-blue eyes narrowed with an intensity that had to have helped turn Bracken Distillers into a highly successful company. “Colin, you must investigate.”
“Why?”
“What if Sister Joan was killed and Agent Sharpe was at the convent because of an FBI concern? What if this tragedy occurred because of something you’re into?”
“I’m not into anything. I was about to take a nap when Mike found me.”
Bracken grunted. “I know you better than you think, Colin. You’ll want to be certain your presence in Rock Point didn’t lead to the death of an innocent woman and put a colleague at risk.”
Colin didn’t have colleagues, but that wasn’t anything he was about to explain to Bracken. “Maybe it’s the other way around and whatever they’re into will bite me. Did you consider that, Finian?”
“Not at all. Would Agent Sharpe recognize you?”
“No.” Colin spoke with more assurance than he felt. Ultimately, what did he know about Emma Sharpe? He resisted more whiskey. “Finian, if I stick my nose in this business and the state guys don’t like it, they’ll figure out you sent me.”
“How?”
“Because it’s their job. Are you prepared for a couple of police detectives to knock on your door and ask questions?”
“Our conversations are confidential, Colin,” Bracken said, unmoved. “Of course, I realize you haven’t told me anything that’s classified. I doubt you’ve even told me the complete truth about your role with the FBI.”
“I haven’t lied.” Not technically, anyway. “And I wasn’t thinking about me.”
“Me? I’ve nothing to hide.”
Colin raised an eyebrow but noticed Andy, his lobsterman younger brother, enter the restaurant. Bracken rose and helped himself to another brandy glass from a sideboard, then sat back down and poured more whiskey as Andy headed for their table.
He was in jeans and an Irish fisherman’s sweater that had immediately endeared him to Bracken when they first met.
Andy frowned at his older brother. “I thought you weren’t coming back for a couple more days. The mosquitoes get to you?”
“The thought of whiskey,” Colin said. “I need to borrow a boat.”
“FBI business?”
“A boat’s the quickest way to get where I’m going.”
Andy didn’t argue. He was tall, muscular and, at thirty, still a heartthrob in Rock Point. “Take the Julianne,” he said. “Bring it back with a full tank of gas.”
“Am I getting it with a full tank?”
His younger brother grinned. “Hell, no.”
“Sorry I can’t stay. I’ll see you around.” Colin got to his feet before Andy could ask more questions or Bracken could think of something else for him to do. “Thanks for the whiskey, Finian. Don’t get my brother drunk.”
No one stopped him on his way out of the restaurant. He welcomed the brisk air as he walked back across the parking lot to his truck. The sun had already disappeared. He drove the short distance to the small Craftsman-style house he owned on a hill above the harbor. He’d bought it eighteen months ago, in a spurt of optimism between deep-cover assignments. It was his bolt-hole, although not for the reasons he gave his family and friends in Rock Point. He told them he needed an occasional change of pace from his bureaucratic desk job and life in Washington.
The reality was, he needed Rock Point to remind him that he had a life.
He unloaded his kayak and gear and dumped them on the back porch. He debated making a few calls about the situation at the convent just to the south but instead took a shower and put on clean clothes. He again skipped shaving.
Reasonably presentable, he walked back down to the harbor.
The Julianne, named for the daughter of its original owner, was still tied up at the dock. Colin jumped on board. He could have stayed in Maine and become a lobsterman. He could be one yet, especially if he got fired or the wrong people found out who he was, that he was still alive.
Had the attack at the convent put him at risk? His family?
Was
