Carla Neggers - Keeper's Reach

On paper, maybe, she and Reed should have been romantically involved, but they never had been—despite Mike Donovan’s suspicions. Mike wasn’t jealous and possessive. To the contrary. He’d just drawn the same erroneous conclusions about her and Reed that others had.

She needed to put that out of her mind.

“You’re still presumptuous,” she told Reed.

“You left a trail.”

“I haven’t been trying to cover my tracks.”

“That’s good. Relax, Naomi. I’m saving you money.”

“You’re not here to save me money.”

“That’s true.” Reed leveled his gray eyes on her. “We need to talk.”

“About what? English chickens?”

He didn’t look amused. “About your plans for the weekend.”

“Barbecue and bourbon at my favorite Nashville bar. Beyond that, I don’t know yet. It’s been a busy couple weeks.”

“How would you like to come to Maine?”

She wasn’t as taken aback as she could have been. “Maine is Donovan country,” she said, as if he didn’t know.

Reed smiled now. “So it is,” he said, starting the car.

6

Washington, DC Thursday, 8:00 a.m., EST

Colin Donovan hated meetings, but a meeting at FBI headquarters first thing in the morning with his immediate boss and the director was its own special hell. He knew Matt Yankowski well, but he was just getting to know Mina Van Buren, newly confirmed and not necessarily a fan. Van Buren and Yank had a history. Not a good one, from what Colin had been able to gather.

He was in a suit—his Washington suit, he called it. Dark gray wool, white shirt, red tie. The small meeting room was devoid of anything that would remind him he was in Washington. He could have been anywhere, except for the company he was keeping. He sat between Yank at one end of the table and Van Buren at the other. They both had just gotten in and looked cold, although by Colin’s standards, it was a mild morning.

Last night’s call from Emma and this morning’s call from Mike were on his mind. His fiancée and his older brother. FBI agent. Former Special Forces soldier. Emma had an art thief worried about an unauthorized FBI tail in London. Mike had guys he knew in the military coming in from London.

It didn’t help that Oliver York was inviting Finian Bracken, Colin’s Irish priest friend, out to the Cotswolds.

What the hell was Finian doing in England, anyway?

Not calls Colin had needed before talking about a deep-cover mission with his superiors.

He grinned at the two of them. “Washington’s supposed to get a couple inches of snow this weekend. Would you like some tips on snowshoeing?”

“I don’t want to know how to snowshoe,” Yank said, with barely a trace of a smile.

“I already know how, but I don’t like cold weather,” Van Buren said. “I tolerate snow only when I have no other choice.”

Yank looked like central casting’s stereotypical pick for a senior FBI agent—tall, gray-streaked dark hair, handsome, born in a well-pressed coat and tie. He had flown down to Washington yesterday and was staying at his house in the Virginia suburbs, now, finally, up for sale.

Van Buren looked like Judy Dench, if a younger version. She was in her late fifties, a former federal prosecutor who made no secret she had differences with her predecessor as FBI director. So far, she wasn’t shutting down HIT, Yank’s special unit, and she wasn’t relegating Colin to former undercover agent. From what he had seen so far, she was an efficient, no-nonsense type who did what she had to do to get the job done, whether it was testifying before Congress or hauling him and Yank to Washington to discuss a possible future undercover mission.

“Snowshoeing,” Van Buren added, shaking her head. “I discovered a number of surprises when I came on board here. You’re one of them, Agent Donovan. I expected surprises. I didn’t expect you.”

“Agent Donovan was necessary,” Yank said.

Colin sat forward. “Was? You planning to feed me to the seagulls?”

Another thin smile from Yank. Van Buren snorted. “It’s too damn cold to feed you to the seagulls.”

“Pretty, though, isn’t it? The Washington skyline outlined against the clear blue sky. The cold sharpens things.”

Van Buren eyed him as if trying to decide if he was being serious or sarcastic.

Yank opened a folder on the table in front of him. “Donovan’s a wiseass, but he’s one of the best deep-cover agents you have.”

“Perhaps the cold also sharpens people’s sense of humor.” Van Buren settled back in her chair, as if she were about to take a nap, but her eyes were intense, focused on Colin. “How are your wedding plans coming along, Agent Donovan?”

Her question caught him by surprise, but he kept any reaction under wraps. Look scared, nervous, irritated or eager beaver, and these two would eat him alive. “Fine.”

“Have you settled on a date?”

“First Saturday in June.”

“A lovely time to get married. Agent Yankowski mentioned that the ceremony will be at the convent of the Sisters of the Joyful Heart. I understand they have beautiful gardens. The foundress, Mother Linden, was friends with Agent Sharpe’s grandfather.”

“So I’m told,” Colin said. He didn’t like the direction of this conversation.

“And your Irish priest friend is performing the ceremony? Father Bracken?”

Van Buren was asking him questions to which she already knew the answers, but Colin decided not to point that out to her. Being an experienced prosecutor, she would know exactly what she was doing. “That’s the plan,” he said.

“How nice. The priest he’s replacing for a year will return in June, won’t he?”

“Father Callaghan. Also the plan.”

“Presumably Father Bracken will return to Ireland once Father Callaghan resumes his post.” Van Buren sounded hopeful. “The whiskey distillery he owns with his twin brother, Declan, is doing well. My husband and I tried a Bracken whiskey over the holidays. Excellent.”

“Fin would be pleased to know you liked it.”

“He’s your family’s priest,” Van Buren said. “That means he’s your priest, too.”

“He’s my friend,” Colin said.

“Have you confided in him?”

“Confided what?”

“Anything.”

“I’ve been burdened by this time in sixth grade—”

Van Buren waved a hand. “I withdraw the question.”

“Why are we talking about Father Bracken?” Colin asked.

“Small talk.” She smiled. “I’ve never been good at it.”

It wasn’t small talk but Colin didn’t argue.

The FBI director folded her hands on top of the folder open in front of her. “An independent thinker is critical for undercover work, in my judgment, but it can have its downside. You don’t really know for sure how you will react until you’re under, do you? On a real assignment, with real people who would harm you. It can take a toll. That’s why we have rules—rules the independent-minded can sometimes chafe at in their desire to do the work.”

She waited but Colin didn’t fill the silence with commentary. What was there to say? He had done difficult assignments in the past four years. He’d come out alive. He hadn’t compromised investigations or prosecutions. The bad guys were in prison or on the way there.

Van Buren unfolded her hands and sat back in her chair, her gaze on him. “I’m told you’re the best, and I’ve read your file.”

But she hadn’t seen him in action, Colin thought. She didn’t know if the file was padded—if she could trust her predecessor’s last days at the desk she now occupied. Colin trusted his instincts, and his instincts told him if Mina Van Buren wasn’t sure about Yank, she sure as hell wasn’t sure about him.