Carla Neggers - The Mist

“Who is he?”

“I told you-”

“No, you didn’t. What’s he do for a living? Is he a British noble? Does he go fishing a lot in Scotland? Does he know Simon Cahill?” O’Reilly worked hard on his gum. “I can rattle off a dozen other questions if you want or you can just tell me.”

Will thought of Lizzie going into the alley on her own and finding a man shot to death by someone he should have dealt with himself two years ago.

He knew now what he had to do. “My assistant, Josie Goodwin, can help you.” He kept his tone professional, without emotion. “Simon knows how to reach her. She’ll be more precise and thorough than I can be.”

“She in London?”

Will met the detective’s eye. “Ireland. With your niece.”

“Great,” O’Reilly said sarcastically. “Just great. Did this Fletcher character send that thug after Keira?”

“I don’t know.”

“Another nonanswer. Does Fletcher know Abigail Browning, John March or Simon Cahill?”

“Lieutenant…”

“Norman Estabrook?”

“If you’ll allow me, Lieutenant O’Reilly, I suggest you speak with Director March.”

“All right. I’ll do that.” The detective’s tone was cool, suspicious-and careful. As if he knew he didn’t want to go too far and end up having his hands tied. “What do you know about the black-haired woman who helped my niece in the wilds of Ireland last night?”

He waited, but Will didn’t fill the silence. He had anticipated that Boston law enforcement would have Lizzie’s description by now. Undoubtedly, she had, too.

“I talked to Eddie O’Shea,” O’Reilly continued. “He described her. American. Small, fast, black hair, green eyes. Knows how to fight-she took on an armed killer. The Irish cops are trying to find out who she is, where she went.”

“Again-”

“Talk to March. Talk to anyone but you.” O’Reilly pointed a thick finger at Will. “Eddie says you were there, and you let this woman go.”

“Your niece is safe, Lieutenant, thanks to her.”

“And a big black dog and no doubt fairies, too. I’m glad for that.”

Fiona slipped out of the car and stood by the open door.

Her father didn’t stop. “I saw Scoop Wisdom in the hospital. He’s all cut up. A mess. He managed to describe a suspicious woman he saw on our street the day before our house blew up. Small, green eyes, black hair. Even with all the pain dope in him, Scoop remembered her. Who is she?”

Will maintained a steady gaze on the senior law enforcement officer. “Again, you’ll want to speak with Director March.”

Before O’Reilly could respond, Fiona approached him. “Dad.” She remained calm, but she was very pale. “Dad…I…”

Her father stared at her. “You know?”

“The woman-she-”

The detective groaned half to himself. “Ah, hell. Are we talking about Lizzie Rush? The woman who just helped you-”

“Her family owns the hotel on Charles Street.”

“The Whitcomb. Yeah, I know. Why-”

“I told you, my ensemble plays there. We’ve been playing there all summer. The Rushes are nice people.”

“The Rushes are…” O’Reilly glared at his daughter. “How well do you know them?”

Fiona looked miserable. “I didn’t meet Lizzie until a few weeks ago. Her cousin Jeremiah has been helping me plan our trip to Ireland. He said Lizzie had worked there. Dad, I know she’s not responsible for the bombs. She can’t be.”

“What did you two talk about besides Ireland?”

“I told her everything. I told her about Keira and Simon, and you and Aunt Eileen and the serial killer, and Ireland-the story about the stone angel. I told her that Keira and Simon borrowed a boat from Simon’s friend, a British lord, and…Dad, I’m sorry.”

O’Reilly looked as if he couldn’t decide between hitting something or grabbing his daughter and running. “Relax, Fi.” His tone softened as he unwrapped another piece of gum. “You didn’t tell Lizzie Rush anything she couldn’t have found out on her own.”

“I feel like a blabber.”

“Lizzie’s easy to talk to,” Will said quietly. More police cars descended on the scene. Yellow tape was going up. Onlookers were arriving. He knew he had to make his stand now. “I can find her, Detective, but not if I’m caught up with your people.”

Bob O’Reilly was clearly a man under monumental strain, but he remained focused. “This Fletcher character?”

“I can find him, as well.”

“Does Simon go way back with him?”

“No, he doesn’t. Lieutenant, you know if I don’t leave now, I won’t be able to without a lot of time and fuss.”

The detective put the fresh piece of gum in his mouth. “Go.”

The Whitcomb was smaller, narrower and more traditionally furnished than the Rush hotel in Dublin, but equally high-end and individual. A man who bore a striking resemblance to Justin Rush walked into the lobby from a side door. This would be Jeremiah, Will remembered. The third-born of the four Rush brothers and Lizzie’s cousin.

“Lord Davenport, right?” Jeremiah nodded to a door behind him. “Through there. Down the steps. Out back.”

“Thank you,” Will said.

He followed Jeremiah’s instructions and found himself in an alley with broken pavement, parked cars and Simon Cahill standing in front of a large Dumpster. Unlike his fellow FBI agents who’d begun to arrive farther up Beacon Street as Will had left, Simon wore jeans and a polo shirt.

Will descended the steps. “I wondered if you might find your way here. Has Lizzie-”

“She took off before I got here. Abigail’s partner called me. Tom Yarborough. You’ll meet him-he’ll see to it.”

“He’s the detective who was with Lieutenant O’Reilly just now?”

Simon gave a curt nod. “He said you let Lizzie go.”

“I did,” Will admitted.

“Yarborough’s ready to take her, you and me into custody. Her father, too.”

“Is the tension getting to him?”

“Not a chance. He’s just that way.” Simon’s expression was more that of an FBI agent than a friend as he eyed Will. “Myles Fletcher is alive?”

“Apparently so. He killed that man in the alley and arranged for Fiona O’Reilly to find him. I’ve been trying to think how he could have become involved with Estabrook.”

“He could have figured out you and I were friends, discovered I was working for Estabrook and watched and waited for his chance.”

“His chance for what? Money? Action? To get back at us, perhaps? Me for damaging his relationship with his friends in Afghanistan. You for saving my life.”

“I could believe money and action,” Simon said. “Not revenge. The Myles Fletcher you described to me is too pragmatic to indulge in revenge.”

Will felt the humid heat of the afternoon and smelled asphalt, gasoline fumes and, faintly, garbage. As immaculate as the Whitcomb was, he and Simon were nevertheless in an alley. Will shut his eyes, launching himself back two years. He saw Philip and David fighting for their lives. For his life. For the life of the man who’d betrayed them.

And yet…none of what had happened had ever made sense to him. Will had fought alongside Myles Fletcher. They’d trained together, gone drinking together. They’d tracked enemy fighters together, disrupted ambushes, cleaned out caches of weapons, called in close-air support-whatever their various missions had required.

“Will…”

He opened his eyes, focusing again on Simon. “You’re right. Myles is too much a professional to take the risks he did today purely for revenge. He’s doing a job.”

Simon walked toward the hotel. There were terra cotta pots of red geraniums on each step up to the back door. “The Lizzie Rush I know is elegant, personable, attractive and smart, but she’s not anyone I’d remotely imagine taking on a knife-wielding thug.” He turned to Will. “Or you. She’s under your skin, isn’t she?”