Carla Neggers - Harbor Island

“That’s not for me to say.” Emma rose, no sign of stiffness. “The investigating detectives are going to want to talk to both you and Mr. Palladino.”

“I understand,” Aoife said, subdued. “Thank you for coming under such terrible circumstances. I didn’t know about Rachel’s death when I called you. Emma...” The artist glanced at Palladino, then shifted back to Emma. “Might we have a private word?”

“Of course.”

Palladino frowned, but Colin nodded to him. “Let’s go, Danny. We’ll wait downstairs for the detectives. They’re going to want to talk to you, too.”

“I think I should stay and hear what Miss O’Byrne has to say.”

“You can think what you want, but you’re not staying. Come on. I’ll let you push the buttons in the elevator. I thought that was the best thing when I was a kid.”

Palladino glowered. “An FBI agent who thinks he’s funny. Just what I need.”

But he walked past Aoife and Emma. He had one of the cross sketches in his hand and started to tuck it into his jacket. Colin snatched it from him and set it on a small table. Palladino shrugged and went out into the hall without a word.

Colin glanced at Emma. He didn’t like leaving her alone. He wanted to tell her that he had his phone, but she knew that—knew that she could call if she needed to. Reminding her might not undermine her in any real way, but it would sure as hell annoy her.

He went into the hall and walked down to the elevators with Palladino.

“I’m from Las Vegas,” Palladino said. “We have lots of elevators. You go ahead and push the button, Agent Donovan. Give that inner seven-year-old of yours a thrill.”

Colin grinned at him. “Will do.”

* * *

When they reached the hotel lobby, Palladino looked less cocky and argumentative—more as if he’d just realized someone had beamed him to another galaxy without his permission. “I want to finish up here and catch the next flight back to Las Vegas.”

Colin shook his head. “That probably won’t be tonight.”

“Not unless we catch this killer.”

“We?”

“Figure of speech.”

“Right.”

“You said you and Rachel weren’t friends. How well did you know her?”

Palladino shrugged. “Not well. I’ve only been working for the Bristols a year. Rachel and Travis were divorced by then.”

“You’re a bodyguard?”

“I provide personal security. Whatever it takes to keep a client safe. Sometimes that means being a bodyguard, or contracting one. Depends on the client and the situation.”

“When you say ‘the Bristols—’”

“I mean Ann Bristol. She’s my client.”

“She sent you here to check on her daughter?”

“It’s part of the package,” Palladino said vaguely.

“Does the daughter know? Maisie?”

“She knows I’m in town.”

His answers left a lot of room for interpretation. Colin didn’t push him. “Come on,” he said. “I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”

They went into the Taj restaurant and were seated at a table overlooking busy, upscale Newbury Street. Colin called the lead detective on the shooting. Not a happy man. He asked Colin twice to spell Aoife and mispronounced it both times. Hadn’t appreciated Colin correcting him. He instructed Colin to wait with Palladino at the Taj and to tell Emma and Aoife to wait, too. Back in his state marine patrol days, Colin had dealt with his share of federal agents. He didn’t blame the detective for his attitude.

He ordered coffee. Palladino ordered iced tea and grinned across the table. “I’m not violating an FBI order by not having coffee, am I?” He didn’t wait for an answer as he glanced out the window at Newbury Street. “Day’s turned gray. If I lived out here, I’d have to go on Saint John’s Wort or some kind of happy pills this time of year.”

“It’s still hot in Las Vegas?”

“Cooling down. Ninety degrees when I left yesterday. Ninety doesn’t feel as hot there as it would here. It’s a desert. Dry air. I could feel the humidity today out on that island. Smelled like dead fish. I hate the ocean.”

“Do you like lobster?”

“I’ve never had it.”

“It’s good. One of my brothers is a lobsterman.”

“Ah. I don’t eat much shellfish, but I bet I’d love lobster. If it’s good enough for a G-man’s brother to haul out of the ocean, it’s got to be good, right? Where do you catch lobster around here?”

“The ocean.”

“Yeah. I know that. Funny.”

“We’re from Maine,” Colin said. “My brother Andy just got back from Ireland. He spent some time in a little village on the south coast. Declan’s Cross. Ever hear of it?”

Palladino shook his head. “I’ve never been to Ireland. I don’t know how Rachel got interested in Aoife O’Byrne, if that’s what you’re getting at.” His iced tea arrived. He gulped a third of it before he continued. “Rachel’s death doesn’t have anything to do with your brother, does it?”

“There was a murder in Declan’s Cross last week. Andy’s girlfriend was there. It was in the papers.”

“I don’t read Irish papers.”

“It was in the papers here, too. The victim was an American diver, Lindsey Hargreaves. Her killer is dead.”

“Case solved then,” Palladino said.

Colin ignored him. “The uncle Aoife mentioned whose house was burglarized ten years ago is in Declan’s Cross. Several valuable works of Irish art were stolen. Aoife’s sister, Kitty, converted the house into a boutique hotel after their uncle’s death a few years ago.”

Palladino yawned. “Okay. One of those small-world things. Or not?” Palladino watched in silence as their waiter delivered Colin’s coffee in a silver pot. When the waiter withdrew, Palladino leaned over the table, speaking in a conspiratorial whisper. “You think Rachel saw news reports of the murder and this unsolved theft and that’s how she got interested in Aoife and this movie idea of hers?”

“I’m just asking questions.” Colin drank some of his coffee. It was ultrastrong. Perfect. He kept his gaze on the man across the table. “This is all news to you?”

“Totally.” Palladino sat back. “No wonder you and Agent Sharpe have your knickers in a twist. What I know about art, Irish or otherwise, could keep us talking for thirty seconds. Emma Sharpe—did she investigate this Declan’s Cross theft? She seems young to have been a fed ten years ago.”

“Her grandfather investigated. Wendell Sharpe.”

“Don’t know him. Obviously, I came out here not knowing a whole hell of a lot about what’s going on. Could this have been a random shooting—some yahoo target practicing who pops Rachel by mistake? Where was she hit?” He waved a hand. “Never mind. I know you won’t tell me. Did Rachel call Agent Sharpe? Is that what happened?”

“The detectives can fill you in as they see fit,” Colin said, drinking more of his coffee.

“Yeah, yeah. I know the drill.” Palladino grinned, clearly not a man easily intimidated. “Don’t get excited. I’m not an ex-cop. I’m ex-military. Navy. I was on fast-attack submarines for twelve years. See why I hate the ocean? The only thing worse than being on the ocean is being under it. I grew up in Las Vegas, and I signed up for the navy. Go figure.” He polished off the last of his iced tea. “You and Agent Emma?”

“We’re both with the FBI. It stands for the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Colin knew it wasn’t. “What about you? How did you start working for Ann Bristol?”

“She’s a client. I don’t work for her. I’m an independent operator. She called my office one bright, hot, sunny Las Vegas day. A mutual friend had referred her to me. Nothing out of the ordinary. She was worried about her daughter more than about herself. I’ve done work for high-profile people. I know what I’m doing.”