Carla Neggers - Liar's Key

“A year. That’s what they say, at least. The idea was that a dramatic change of scenery would help my father with his chronic pain.”

Gordy winced. “Terrible. A simple fall on the ice and his life is changed forever. Your brother had to pick up the reins of the family business sooner than he expected. I hear old Wendell is retiring, but I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Emma got to her feet. “Gordy, if you’re here because you want me to give you information, you’re wasting your time. I appreciate any information you want to give me, but it’s a one-way street.”

“Yeah. I get it.” He picked up an index card that had fallen onto the floor and set it back on the sofa. “You heard Alessandro Pearson died about two weeks ago? Funeral was a week ago Tuesday. He had a heart attack and fell down the stairs near his apartment. Heart attack is what killed him, though. He was eighty-eight. He had a good run.”

Emma nodded. “Yes, I heard.”

“Old Wendell was at the funeral. I didn’t realize they were friends.”

“He consulted with Alessandro a few times.”

“Archaeologist specializing in ancient mosaics. I thought your grandfather steered clear of antiquities.”

“He does these days. Look, it seems you should be talking to him instead of me.”

“Relax. I’m just curious. I’m at a party celebrating an antiquities show with MI5, this Oliver York character, your parents and a few other people, and everyone’s buzzing about Alessandro Pearson’s death.”

“He was a respected expert in antiquities.”

“Know anything about ancient mosaics stolen recently in London, Emma?”

It was a calculated blurt. Despite his disheveled appearance and obvious fatigue and aches and pains, Gordy had clearly come to this meeting prepared. He watched her closely.

“No,” she said. “What do you know?”

“Not much. I overheard rumors at the tea party. Word is several sixth-century Byzantine Christian mosaics, possibly illegally obtained, were stolen a few weeks ago from an unnamed London collector. I’m no expert on mosaics but I did some quick research. Mosaic art flourished from the time of the ancient Greeks through the fall of the eastern Roman Empire—what we commonly refer to as the Byzantine Empire—in the fifteenth century. Sort of fell out of favor during the Renaissance.” He steadied his gaze on Emma. “Interesting, isn’t it? A mosaic expert dies and these rumors surface.”

“Are you suggesting the FBI should get involved?”

“No.” Gordy rolled his left shoulder, as if to work out a muscle spasm. He breathed, shuddering. “I kinked up on the plane yesterday.”

“Are you sure you won’t sit down?”

“Yeah. I’m sure. You don’t know anything about these stolen ancient mosaics?”

Emma saw no reason not to be straight with him. “I haven’t heard a peep.” She sat down again. She wished she’d had him meet her in the conference room instead of her office. He would be taking in everything, from the way she’d unloaded the files onto the sofa to the tidiness of her desk and her choice of artwork—or lack thereof. “Where are you off to now?”

“No firm plans yet. It’s only Thursday. I don’t have to be in Maine until Saturday. Are you going to be at the open house?”

“I’ll stop in, yes.”

“When do you head up there?”

“Later today.” She didn’t elaborate on her plans. “You have my cell phone number. Let me know if you need anything while you’re in Maine.”

He leaned toward her, his gray eyes serious, his skin more ashen with the light from her desk lamp hitting his face. “Emma, do we have an active investigation involving stolen ancient mosaics? We meaning the Bureau.”

“You know I can’t answer that.”

A bit of color returned to his face. “Figured I’d try. What about your fiancé? Is he going to be at the open house?”

Gordy’s question took Emma by surprise, but she knew it shouldn’t have. He would have checked with his contacts for her latest news, and her engagement definitely fit under that heading. “We’ll see. Do you know him?”

“Of him. Colin Donovan. A rough-and-tough type. Good for you, Emma. Engaged to be married, wedding in a few weeks, member in good standing of an elite FBI unit. Quite a change from your days with the Sisters of the Joyful Heart, isn’t it?”

She noted the edge to his voice but made no comment.

“The paths started and abandoned in life,” he said. “Why didn’t you tell me you’d been a nun before you joined the FBI?”

“It wasn’t a secret. It was just something I didn’t talk about.”

“And you never reported directly to me,” he added, almost knocking over folders stacked on the arm of the sofa. “I only found out a few months ago. I had to hear it through the vine. You think Wendell would have said something. We were in touch when you were in the convent.”

“I doubt it was relevant.”

“I guess. You’ve never riled easily. Those years as a postulant and novice must have helped. It’s true Yank recruited you out of the convent?”

“Yes. I never professed my final vows.”

“Whatever that means. The Sisters of the Joyful Heart. I like that.” There wasn’t a hint of sarcasm in his tone. “They specialize in art education, preservation and conservation and have a beautiful convent on the Maine coast. Life could be worse.” He eyed her, as if he were trying to picture her as a nun. “Sister Emma.” He wrinkled up his face. “That’s a hard one to wrap my head around. Except Emma wasn’t your name as a nun, was it? Didn’t you have to take another name?”

“I was known as Brigid then.”

“Good Irish Catholic name.”

Emma inhaled deeply. “Anything else?”

He grinned. “I like the impatience. I’d have threatened to throw me out the window by now. Do the good sisters work on restoring ancient mosaics?”

“I don’t know. They primarily work on pieces that can be safely transported to the convent.”

“They don’t fly out to archaeological digs?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Fair enough. Is Oliver York coming to the open house?”

Another blurt designed to throw her off her stride. “As I said, I’m not involved with the open house, up to and including the guest list.”

“But you’d know.”

She got to her feet. She wanted to maneuver Gordy out of the small confines of her office. He was fishing. He wasn’t even trying hard to hide it. She nodded toward the door. “Agent Yankowski’s office is straight ahead if you want to stop in on your way out.”

“That’s okay. Yank knows I’m here. He can poke his head out of his office if he wants to see me. He’s got work to do, and we didn’t part on the best terms. We never saw eye-to-eye on his idea for this team. I’m not convinced I was wrong but results speak for themselves. Water over the dam now. I’m retired. A dinosaur.” There was no self-pity in his tone. “I should get moving. I might go see the penguins at the aquarium, or I might skip the penguins and drive up to Maine in time to take old Wendell out for a pint.”

“I’m sure he’d like that,” Emma said, her tone neutral.

Gordy started past her but stopped abruptly. “I hoped you’d level with me, Emma.”

“That’s a two-way street, Gordy.”

“I always believed there were no secrets between us. I should have known better. You’re a Sharpe, after all.”

“Sorry the fishing expedition didn’t work out for you.”

He laughed. “I had that coming. You’re tougher than you used to be. Maybe you had a little of Sister Brigid left in you when you worked with me. Or is the smart remark your fiancé’s influence?” He winked at her. “I bet you complicate his life.”