Colin cranked up the old boat’s engine. The air was turning cool, crisp, but Heron’s Cove and the offices of Sharpe Fine Art Recovery weren’t far.
Emma Sharpe was a member of Matt Yankowski’s new team based in Boston. Yank, Colin knew, would welcome an excuse to put him behind a desk for real.
Another excuse, anyway. He was keeping a list of Colin’s transgressions. Not that Yank was alone, but he had been Colin’s friend and then his contact agent during two dangerous, grueling years of undercover work.
A strong breeze blew out of the southwest but it would be an easy boat ride south. Colin had made the trip to Heron’s Cove countless times, for work and pleasure, if never because of the presence of an FBI agent at the death of a nun.
How the hell had Sister Joan been killed under Emma Sharpe’s nose?
He glanced back at the houses and streets that made up Rock Point and noticed the steeple of Saint Patrick’s, Bracken’s small church, rising behind the town library. The Irishman was a mystery, but he was also one of the few people Colin trusted without question.
He just wasn’t sure why.
“Well, Emma Sharpe,” he said as he maneuvered the boat out toward open water, “let’s see what you were up to today at the Sisters of the Joyful Heart.”
CHAPTER 5
EMMA COULD HEAR THE SISTERS SINGING IN THE chapel in the motherhouse as she climbed into her car just outside the main convent gate. The Maine CID detectives had finished interviewing the sisters one by one, and the medical examiner had removed Sister Joan’s body for autopsy. The search of the grounds for evidence and any sign of the attacker’s trail continued.
As focused as she was on her duties as a law enforcement officer, Emma nonetheless felt the pull of her former life—a yearning for the sense of belonging she’d once experienced with the dedicated women, many of whom she still considered friends, gathered now in mourning.
Two Maine CID detectives had interviewed her, too. Hindsight would do her no good now. What she could have, perhaps should have, done no longer mattered. She had to focus on making sure she hadn’t left out anything that could help find Sister Joan’s killer.
She took the winding road into Heron’s Cove, crowded with tourists on what was turning into a crisp, beautiful fall weekend, and parked in front of a yellow clapboard Colonial on a narrow, shaded side street two blocks from the village center. The house needed work. Even its roof sagged. But her brother, Lucas, who’d bought it six months ago, enjoyed a challenge.
It was dusk, the chilly air penetrating her leather jacket as she headed up the crumbling brick walk. Lucas burst out of the front door and trotted down the steps to greet her. He was in khakis and a dark sweater, his sandy hair and lean build reminding Emma of their grandfather in Dublin.
“Damn, Emma,” Lucas said, shaking his head. “I’ve been trying to figure out what to do since I heard the news. How close was this?”
“Not close enough. Otherwise I might have been able to save Sister Joan.”
Lucas winced. “Do you want to come inside and have a drink?”
“I can’t. My boss is driving up from Boston to see me.”
“Are you in trouble?”
She glanced at the yard, a mix of crabgrass and dandelions that Lucas envisioned turning into a garden. He’d already hired a landscape designer. He’d grown weary of living where he worked and had finally bought a place of his own, figuring there was no point in waiting for the right woman to turn up. At thirty-four, he was intensely focused on leading Sharpe Fine Art Recovery into the future and had decided to make changes.
Emma turned back to him. “I guess I’ll find out.”
“Matt Yankowski is my idea of a real SOB.”
“He’d probably consider that a compliment.”
Her brother’s good humor faded. “How well did you know the sister who was killed?”
“Very well. She was an early skeptic of my calling to a religious life. She was right, of course. I hadn’t seen her since I left the convent. It’s hard to believe it’s been four years. I should have gone back sooner.”
“Today wasn’t your fault, Emma,” her brother said.
She blew out a breath in an effort to push back her emotions. “Had Sister Joan been in touch with you recently?”
Lucas scooped up a loose chunk of brick and tossed it onto a pile by the steps. “I haven’t had any direct contact with anyone at the convent in months. We refer clients to them from time to time but haven’t lately. Why were you up there today?”
“Sister Joan called me this morning. She wanted my opinion on a painting. She said it wasn’t FBI business but she didn’t have a chance to go into detail.”
A breeze caught the ends of her brother’s hair. “What painting?”
“I don’t know.” Emma zipped up her jacket in the cool air. “There weren’t any paintings in the tower and nothing new had been logged in recently.”
“Could it have been a painting already at the convent? The sisters have a decent art collection themselves.”
“Sister Joan was taking me to the tower. I assume the painting she wanted to show me was there, for whatever reason.”
“Then whoever killed her took it.”
Emma nodded at Lucas’s stark words. “That’s what I think.”
“The police?”
“They’re not saying at this point. It’s not my investigation. It’s okay if I jump to conclusions. They can’t.” She swallowed past a stubborn tightness in her throat. “I shouldn’t have let Sister Joan get the gate key on her own.”
“If you hadn’t, you could be dead now, too.”
“I was armed, Lucas. We’d have a dead would-be killer instead of a dead nun.”
He eyed her with a dispassion that she’d come to respect—and that also reminded her of their grandfather. “You had no reason to think Sister Joan would be attacked.”
“I knew she was on edge. I knew she hadn’t asked me
