Carla Neggers - The Mist

Bob felt his stomach go south on him. “Bassette knew Fiona saw him. He’d talked to her. He came there to kill her.”

“Don’t think about it. He’s out of the picture, and she’s under protection. No one’s getting near her.” Yarborough walked into the empty room. “Abigail’s spent a fair amount of time here this summer. I think she’s trying this place on for size to see if it might work for her and Owen. Turn it back into a residence. She comes over and does paperwork while he does his thing. Sometimes Fiona and her friends are here practicing.”

“Tom?”

He got a little red. “I don’t know. Maybe there’s something here we missed.”

“I’ll check it out,” Bob said.

Bob saw past Yarborough’s arrogance to his worry, but it wasn’t a place either wanted to go. Bob liked being emotionally repressed and figured Yarborough was a fellow traveler on that score.

“I’ll see you back at headquarters,” Yarborough said.

“You getting any sleep?”

“There’s time for that.” He gave Bob a quick grin. “Us younger guys can go a few days without sleep.”

“Go to hell, Yarborough.”

“Do you need a ride? I can stay-”

“Nah. I’m all set. Go.”

After Yarborough left, Bob paced, his footsteps echoing on the hardwood floor. Teams had gone through Abigail’s desk at BPD headquarters, her computer, her car, the remnants of her apartment. They’d only swept the Garrison house for bombs. They hadn’t searched it.

He walked up the stairs to the second-floor offices of the Dorothy Garrison Foundation. It focused on gardens and oceans-the things Owen’s sister had loved most. Bob couldn’t imagine losing one of his daughters at any age, but at fourteen?

He looked for any files or work Abigail might have left there and, tucked on a bookcase, found a laptop labeled with her name.

Yarborough wasn’t easy, but he had good instincts. Bob took another flight of stairs up to Keira’s apartment. She and Abigail were just getting to know each other. Simon had given her and Owen an early wedding present of one of Keira’s paintings, which Abigail loved. Bob figured Owen didn’t care one way or the other, provided she was happy.

And now they didn’t know if she was even alive.

He forced back the thought before it could take hold and noticed Keira’s apartment door was ajar.

Simon stood in the doorway with his Glock in one hand. “Hey, Bob.”

“I’m glad I didn’t have to shoot you,” Bob said wryly, then sighed. “Too damn much time on a desk. I’m getting stale. Then again, I’m brains not brawn these days. You here alone?”

A twitch of his mouth. “I think so.”

Meaning Simon had shaken his detail. “Bet your FBI friends aren’t happy about that.” Bob stepped past him into the little apartment. “A big target on your back-don’t stand too close, okay?”

“I’m not staying.”

“Anything from Owen?”

Simon holstered the Glock. “They’ve expanded the search for Norman’s plane. Owen’s focused on his mission.”

Simon nodded to the laptop under Bob’s arm. “What’s that all about?”

Bob shrugged. “Probably wedding dress searches.”

“Let’s have a look.”

They pushed aside books on fairies and folklore and a box of art supplies and opened up the laptop on Keira’s table. Bob had taken a liking to Simon. His wanderlust niece wouldn’t have trouble coping with an extended stay under the Irish guards. She’d have trouble being without him.

Even Bob, with his limited computer skills, had no trouble spotting a desktop file labeled “Rush hotels” on Abigail’s laptop. He clicked on it, and up popped her notes, links and downloaded descriptions of each of the Rushes’ fifteen boutique hotels.

Simon’s eyes narrowed. “Looks as if Abigail was onto Lizzie Rush.”

Bob kept clicking. Nothing was password-protected. He found a copy of an old Boston Globe article about the death of Harlan Rush’s Irish wife, Shauna Morrigan, in Dublin when their daughter was a baby.

Simon leaned over and scanned the article. “John March flew to Dublin and consulted with Irish investigators about what happened. There’s a quote from him about what a tragedy her death was.”

“Ireland’s a long way to go for an Irish citizen who tripped and fell, even if she was married to a rich Bostonian.” Bob clicked on another file and gave a low whistle. It was another Globe article. “Simon, look at this.”

He was all FBI agent as he read the article over Bob’s shoulder about the deaths of Shauna Morrigan’s parents and brother in a car accident on their way to identify her body. Apparently they were so distraught, they missed a curve and drove off a cliff.

“Another ‘tragedy,’” Simon said under his breath.

Bob knew he had to take the laptop in. “Come with me to BPD headquarters,” he told Simon. “We’ll open up the files. I know this bastard Estabrook wants you dead, but you’re hard to kill. I figure I’m safe with you.”

“No,” Simon said. “You go on.”

Bob saw what Simon had in mind and shook his head. “You shouldn’t do this.”

“I haven’t said what I’m going to do.”

“Going solo will get you killed, Simon.”

But Bob didn’t argue with him and instead walked back down the two flights of stairs and out into the summer night. He looked up at the dark sky and thought of Abigail last summer, tearing up the journals she’d kept for the seven long years after her husband’s death, burning them in the backyard charcoal grill.

When he arrived at BPD headquarters, Bob avoided everyone and went into his office and pulled up the file on Shauna Morrigan Rush. She’d died in August, two months after Deirdre McCarthy’s body had finally washed ashore in Boston. It had been hard times in the city, particularly dark and violent days in South Boston. March’s work with the BPD to bring down the mob had helped catapult him to the position he now held.

Where exactly did an Irishwoman married to a wealthy Boston Rush fit into March’s rise?

Bob thought of his friend having a drink alone at Morrigan’s every August.

He became aware of March in the doorway and looked up from his computer. “So, Johnny,” Bob said, settling back in his chair. “It’s time you told me all you know about Shauna Morrigan Rush and just how obsessed her daughter is with you.”

Simon touched Keira’s colored pencils, her paintbrushes, the Irish lace at her windows, allowing them to bring her closer to him.

But Owen called from Montana, breaking the spell. “We found Estabrook’s plane. He didn’t crash. He landed safely on a private airstrip on an isolated ranch owned by one of his hedge-fund investors.”

“Where are you?”

“Standing on the airstrip. No one else is around. Looks as if someone met him and drove him out of here. The FBI’s on the way. They can pick up the trail from here.” Owen’s voice was professional, but he took in a breath. “Estabrook had help, Simon. He had this thing planned. All he had to do was pull the trigger.”

“That’s the way he does everything. He doesn’t tie his shoes in the morning without a plan.”

“He could be anywhere by now. He has the money, the connections, apparently the will.”

It wasn’t exhaustion Simon heard in his friend but barely suppressed fear and anger. “We were mindful of that when we launched the investigation into his activities last summer. I went deep for that reason. Norman wants John and me, Owen. Abigail’s his leverage.”

“She’s been preoccupied the past couple weeks. I thought it was the serial killer case, but I’ve been out of town a lot lately.” He was silent a moment. “That can’t continue. It won’t continue.”