Carla Neggers: Liar's Key

An FBI legend, a mysterious antiquities specialist and a brazen art thief draw top FBI agents Emma Sharpe and Colin Donovan into a complex web of blackmail, greed and murder in the eagerly awaited new novel in the highly acclaimed Sharpe & Donovan series

Emma Sharpe is suspicious when retired Special Agent Gordon Wheelock, a legend in FBI art crimes, drops by her Boston office for a visit. Gordy says he’s heard rumors about stolen ancient mosaics. Emma, an art crimes specialist herself, won’t discuss the rumors. Especially since they involve Oliver York, an unrepentant English art thief. Gordy and Emma’s grandfather, a renowned private art detective, chased Oliver for a decade. Gordy knows Wendell Sharpe didn’t give him everything he had on the thief. Even now, Oliver will never be prosecuted.

When a shocking death occurs, Emma is drawn into the investigation. The evidence points to a deadly conspiracy between Wendell and Oliver, and Emma’s fiancé, deep cover agent Colin Donovan, knows he can’t stay out of this one. He also knows there will be questions about Emma’s role and where her loyalties lie.

From Boston to Maine to Ireland, Emma and Colin track a dangerous killer as the lives of their family and friends are at stake. With the help of their friend, Irish priest Finian Bracken, and Emma’s brother, Lucas, the Sharpes and Donovans must band together to stop a killer.

No one creates exciting, action-packed romantic suspense and international intrigue like New York Times bestselling author Carla Neggers.

Liar’s Key

Carla Neggers

www.mirabooks.co.uk

For my mother, again and always with thanks and love

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text An FBI legend, a mysterious antiquities specialist and a brazen art thief draw top FBI agents Emma Sharpe and Colin Donovan into a complex web of blackmail, greed and murder in the eagerly awaited new novel in the highly acclaimed Sharpe & Donovan series Emma Sharpe is suspicious when retired Special Agent Gordon Wheelock, a legend in FBI art crimes, drops by her Boston office for a visit. Gordy says he’s heard rumors about stolen ancient mosaics. Emma, an art crimes specialist herself, won’t discuss the rumors. Especially since they involve Oliver York, an unrepentant English art thief. Gordy and Emma’s grandfather, a renowned private art detective, chased Oliver for a decade. Gordy knows Wendell Sharpe didn’t give him everything he had on the thief. Even now, Oliver will never be prosecuted. When a shocking death occurs, Emma is drawn into the investigation. The evidence points to a deadly conspiracy between Wendell and Oliver, and Emma’s fiancé, deep cover agent Colin Donovan, knows he can’t stay out of this one. He also knows there will be questions about Emma’s role and where her loyalties lie. From Boston to Maine to Ireland, Emma and Colin track a dangerous killer as the lives of their family and friends are at stake. With the help of their friend, Irish priest Finian Bracken, and Emma’s brother, Lucas, the Sharpes and Donovans must band together to stop a killer. No one creates exciting, action-packed romantic suspense and international intrigue like New York Times bestselling author Carla Neggers.

Title Page Liar’s Key Carla Neggers www.mirabooks.co.uk

Dedication For my mother, again and always with thanks and love

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Extract

Copyright

1

Boston, Massachusetts

Gordy Wheelock washed the dried blood off his face and checked the damage in the mirror. Not too bad. The blood was from a swollen scrape behind his left ear, at his hairline. It wouldn’t be visible if he combed his hair right and wore a collared shirt and sport coat.

For the life of him, he couldn’t remember what had happened.

He stared at his reflection. Gray stubble, bags under his eyes, flab under his chin, hair completely gray, what was left of it, anyway. He was still in the slacks he’d worn on yesterday’s flight from London.

Damn. He looked like an old, out-of-shape has-been.

He hated that.

He picked up his bloody shirt off the bathroom floor. His left knee ached. It felt swollen. He didn’t remember any problems with it when he’d checked into the Boston waterfront hotel around seven last night. He’d had a drink and gone out to get some air and have a cigarette, never mind that he’d quit smoking decades ago.

That much he remembered clearly. After that...

He grimaced and limped into the bedroom, where he’d awakened on the floor, in a major stupor, fifteen minutes ago. He tossed his shirt on the untouched bed, then walked over to the windows and pulled open the drapes. Had he shut them after he’d fallen—or hadn’t he fallen? Had he been clocked? Damn. He didn’t remember, but he figured he must have shut the drapes himself. The hotel wasn’t bad but it didn’t have a turndown service.

Cold water and now the morning sunlight didn’t help him separate memory and nightmare, but blood, pain and a palpable sense of fear and foreboding suggested that what was stirring in his aching head was more reality than the dregs of a bad dream.

He made coffee in the Keurig machine and dug a Kit Kat out of the minibar.

“Shirt. I need a clean shirt.”

He saw his overnight bag by the door. He remembered dropping it off in the room before heading down to the bar off the lobby.

He tore open the candy. Coffee and chocolate would help him wake up, come to—both.

They did, and he didn’t like it.

This is your only warning. Back off.

A ragged low voice, maybe male, maybe female. Who knew these days?

A gun in the ribs.

Felt like a gun, anyway. Gordy didn’t know for a fact what it had been.

A pro? Not sure about that, either, but whoever it had been had managed to deliver the warning and stay out of Gordy’s line of vision. Probably would have taken less skill just to beat him over the head.

Gordy was disgusted with himself. He was rusty. Back in the day, he’d have had his attacker’s ass in the harbor.

He rubbed his lower back and discovered a bruise where he’d been jabbed. Given his fuzzy head and general aches and pains, he hadn’t noticed until now.

His head throbbed. He hadn’t been shot, grazed by a bullet, anything like that.

“I fell.”

He heard the disdain in his voice. His attacker had come at him from behind at the top of the stone steps near the hotel, stuck a gun, club or whatever in his ribs, grunted the warning and given him a good shove. It’d been dark. Gordy had stumbled and hit his head and banged his knee on the steps.

Never had a chance to light his cigarette.

It was all coming back to him.

He drank his coffee and ate his candy bar, forcing himself to stay loose, relaxed. He’d done that last night with his attacker, too. He hadn’t wanted to fight, risk serious injury, call attention to himself, have to explain to the police—all of which his assailant had clearly known and counted on.