Carla Neggers - Harbor Island

Then again, Rachel Bristol could have called Emma that morning because she was a Sharpe, not because she was an FBI agent.

The elevator eased to a stop, and the doors opened. Emma led the way down the carpeted hall. Halfway down on the left, a slender woman with long, almost-black hair stood in the open doorway to one of the rooms. She was addressing a man—shaved head, denim jacket, cargo pants, late thirties—in the hall. “I don’t understand,” she said. “Who are you? What do you want with me?”

“Rachel is dead.” The man’s voice was raised and intense, but he wasn’t shouting. “That’s what I’m telling you.”

The woman seemed to have trouble digesting his words. “Rachel Bristol? She’s dead? But how can that be? What happened? You must tell me.”

Colin heard the woman’s accent now. Irish. Without a doubt.

Aoife O’Byrne. Pronounced Ee-fa.

He’d met her older sister, Kitty, almost two weeks ago, when he and Emma had ventured to Declan’s Cross and ended up in the middle of a murder investigation. Kitty was attractive, but Aoife was drop-dead gorgeous—in her mid-thirties, with shiny black hair that hung to her waist, porcelain skin, vivid blue eyes and angular features. Wendell Sharpe hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d said she was one of the most beautiful women he’d ever met.

“Rachel was shot this morning.” The man with the shaved head lowered his voice. “That’s the word, anyway. I wasn’t given an official report.”

“Shot? But I— We—” Aoife broke off, then took in two quick, audible breaths. She placed a hand on the doorjamb as if to steady herself. “I don’t know who you are or what you want with me, but you need to leave now, before I call hotel security.”

The man didn’t budge. “Rachel came to see you here last night. Why? What did you two talk about? I’m not leaving until I get some answers.” He gave a quick glance at Emma and Colin, then turned back to Aoife. “Believe me, the police are going to want answers, too.”

Colin stepped past Emma and reached the man a half step ahead of her. “Easy, my friend. What’s your name?”

The man cast him a cold look. “None of your damn business.”

“Think not.” Colin produced his credentials from inside his jacket. “I’m Special Agent Colin Donovan, and this is Special Agent Emma Sharpe. FBI.”

“FBI? No kidding.” He put up both palms, as if he knew to keep his hands where the two law enforcement officers could see them. “Name’s Palladino. Danny Palladino. I don’t have a beef with the FBI. I’m private security. The Bristols are a client.”

“Are you carrying?” Colin asked.

Palladino nodded. “Right hip. Glock. It’s legal. I’m out of Las Vegas. I got into town last night. I went to Bristol Island for a Bristol family meeting and it was crawling with cops. What’s the FBI doing here? You guys don’t investigate local homicides.”

“I called Emma—Agent Sharpe,” Aoife said, her voice less combative.

“Wait.” Palladino pointed at Aoife, then Emma. “You two know each other?”

“We met in Ireland because of Agent Sharpe’s work in art crime,” Aoife said without elaboration. “When I called her just now, I didn’t know...” She took in a deep breath. “I didn’t know about Rachel. She was a friend of yours, Mr. Palladino? I’m so sorry.”

“She wasn’t a friend,” Palladino said. “Why did you—”

Colin held up a hand, cutting him off. “One thing at a time.” He turned to Aoife. “Okay if we talk in your room?”

“Yes, of course.” She pushed open the door behind her and motioned into the room. “Please, come in.”

It was a one-bedroom suite, complete with a fireplace and view of the Boston Public Garden, spectacular even in November. Palladino went in first, then Emma and Aoife. Colin stayed by the door. He would let Emma handle the situation and jump in if needed. Right now, Palladino looked more shocked, confused and frustrated than menacing.

Aoife walked over to the fire. Although she was dressed warmly in a black sweater, leggings and socks, she was shivering, hugging herself tightly as if she was cold. She wore no jewelry or makeup. A pair of black ankle boots was cast off on the rug in front of the couch. If she’d been out of the hotel that morning, she’d had enough time to warm up. There was no sign in her pale skin of rosy cheeks from the November cold.

Palladino walked over to the windows and looked out at the Public Garden. “I still can’t figure out why a well-known Irish painter would call two FBI agents—or even one FBI agent.”

Emma ignored him and sat on a chair across from Aoife. “When did you arrive in Boston?” she asked the artist quietly.

Aoife tucked her feet under her. “Yesterday afternoon. I flew in from Dublin.”

“You must be jet-lagged,” Emma said. “I’m still waking up at the crack of dawn, and I’ve been home for several days.”

“I was very tired last night. I managed to sleep until six this morning. Not too bad.”

Palladino nodded to several small sheets of plain paper spaced out on a small, elegant desk. “What are these?”

“Random sketches,” Aoife said. “I did them this morning when I realized I wouldn’t be going back to sleep. They’re Celtic crosses.”

“So I see,” Palladino said. “Any particular reason?”

“Many particular reasons.”

Her cool, prickly response didn’t seem to affect Palladino. “Have you left your room today, Miss O’Byrne?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I haven’t gone out of here since last night. I had breakfast in.”

Emma sat forward in her chair. “I overheard you tell Mr. Palladino that Rachel Bristol was here last night.”

“That’s right,” Aoife said. “She met me here around eight o’clock. I ordered wine and cheese, and we chatted for perhaps a half hour. Here—by the fire. She’d just arrived from Los Angeles and had dropped off her things at her ex-husband’s house and walked over. We were both tired from our trips and agreed to meet again today. She said she would phone me this morning and we could set up a time.”

“Travis Bristol,” Palladino interjected, glancing at Emma. “That’s the ex-husband.”

“Is he the Bristol who hired you?” Emma asked him.

“No. Ann Bristol, Travis Bristol’s first wife. She lives in Las Vegas. I’m here to check on Maisie, their daughter—not for any particular reason, except that Maisie is rich, naive and stubborn.” Palladino lifted one of the sketches as if he wasn’t paying close attention to the conversation. “Maisie got in from L.A. late yesterday, too.”

“I don’t know her,” Aoife said. “Rachel came here on her own last night.”

Colin leaned against the door, shifting his gaze from Palladino to Emma. She seemed more centered than when he’d found her on Bristol Island, pacing, cold, tight with contained anger and the shock of having found a woman dead.

“Aoife,” Emma said, “why are you in Boston?”

She hesitated. “Rachel phoned me at my studio in Dublin a few days ago. She wanted to talk to me about a film project she was working on, and I agreed to let her interview me. I’ve been wanting to come to Boston. This was an excuse. I booked my flight, and now here I am.”

Palladino frowned. “What project?”

“She said she was working on an independent movie inspired by the theft of artwork from my uncle’s house ten years ago. The stolen art has never been recovered, and the identity of the thief remains unknown. Rachel made the distinction between inspired by and based on. I’m not sure what she meant.”

“I don’t know anything about this,” Palladino said.

“Rachel was going to get into more detail when we saw each other today, but now...” Aoife gulped in air, sliding her feet out from under her and letting them drop to the carpeted floor as she addressed Emma. “Was she murdered? Her death wasn’t an accident, was it?”