Carla Neggers - Declan's Cross

“He was worried about Julianne, I think.”

“We emailed this morning, but you know how circumspect he can be,” Kitty said. “Father Callaghan never mentioned the Sharpes and FBI agents when he was here.”

Sean shrugged. “Why would he?”

“Always so practical,” she said with a bit of a sniff. “I suppose you’re right, though. The theft’s not as well-known as it was ten years ago, but it’s still a curiosity for some. It’ll never be solved.” Her eyes darkened on Sean. “I expect you know that better than most.”

“Because I’m a detective, or because I’m Paddy Murphy’s nephew?”

He thought he’d kept any harshness or sarcasm out of his tone, but Kitty nonetheless looked taken aback, as if she didn’t know if she should slap him or run from him. “Neither. Both. I don’t know. It makes no difference. Excuse me,” she said, crisp. “I’ve work to do.”

“I won’t keep you, then.”

She took a breath, but her eyes were fixed on the bar where Sean had chatted with her son. Her expression softened. “This lot Philip’s diving with—they’re all right, Sean?”

“I’m just a farmer these days, Kitty.”

“Even your sheep don’t believe that,” she said with a scoff, then moved on behind the bar. She was still clearly worried about her son, but Sean knew she would never admit as much to him, or ask him to intervene.

He lingered just long enough to notice the light shining on her black hair. He could see her on a long, lazy morning six years ago, sleeping as the sun rose. Her black hair had gleamed then, too. She’d looked comfortable again in her own skin, excited about what was next for her. She’d told him she’d remembered all the reasons why she had fallen for him the first time and had forgotten all the reasons why they had gone their separate ways.

Sean exited through the bar lounge, welcoming the cool air and wind.

Kitty was a smart woman. She wouldn’t forget again.

* * *

Sean stopped just past the bookshop, far enough from the O’Byrne House Hotel and its maddening owner that he could think straight again. He paid little attention to the familiar surroundings as he debated whether to call Fin Bracken about his FBI friends. He finally decided against it. It had never been easy to get information out of Fin and less so now that he was a priest. Instead he phoned Eamon Carrick’s brother, Ronan, a garda in Dublin and a member of the underwater diving unit that served the entire Republic of Ireland.

Ronan picked up almost immediately. “Sean Murphy. What a surprise. How are the sheep, my friend?”

“Bleating even as we speak.”

“Bleeding? Dear God. What have you done to them?”

“Bleating. Baaing. You know.” Sean had no idea if Ronan were serious or joking. “Never mind. It was just something to say.”

“Small talk from Sean Murphy. There’s something. Are you in Declan’s Cross?”

“As ever. Have you any idea why Wendell Sharpe’s granddaughter is here?”

“In Ireland?”

“In Declan’s Cross. You already knew she was in Ireland?”

“Word reached me.”

“Eamon?”

“Not Eamon. If it doesn’t come in water, he’s not interested. Someone I know in the art squad mentioned it. Wendell Sharpe’s semi-retired now, did you know? And Emma Sharpe is with the FBI. Any reason for the FBI to be interested in Declan’s Cross?”

Sean didn’t respond at once. He looked in the bookshop window and saw a small boy sitting on the floor in front of a shelf of books. He’d done the same as a boy, always interested in biographies and comics. Superheroes. Finally he told Ronan, “No reason. There’s nothing new on the art theft at the O’Byrne house, is there?”

“You’d know before I would,” Ronan said.

Probably true, if more because he lived in Declan’s Cross than because of his garda position. “You haven’t by chance run across an accident report on Lindsey Hargreaves?”

“The woman who wants to start this field station down there? I haven’t seen anything, no. I’ll have a look if you’d like.”

“I’d owe you one, thanks.”

“What’s going on, Sean?”

He told his friend what he knew.

Ronan listened without interruption, then said, “I’ll let you know if I find anything. When can we expect you back in Dublin?”

“For a pint? Soon, my friend. Thanks for your help.”

If Lindsey Hargreaves had driven off a road, Ronan Carrick would know it within the hour. He was famously dogged, as well as quick-witted and good-humored. Sean had relied on him many times during tricky investigations. They’d joined the gardai at the same time, fifteen years ago. Ronan was a few years older, redheaded, in good shape and the happily married father of three.

Sean turned from the bookshop and started up the hill toward his farm. He wasn’t always good at dodging disaster, but he’d managed to the one time he’d set his mind to propose to a woman. That had been four years ago. She’d said yes but then decided she wanted to try her hand in New York. Last he heard she was a makeup artist in the theater district.

He couldn’t see his lovely ex-fiancée spraying a sheep’s hoof to prevent a highly contagious fungal disease. Strangely enough, he could see Kitty doing it, if only because it had to be done.

Thinking about Kitty O’Byrne was the road to ruin.

Sean picked up his pace, glad he felt no pain—at least none caused by his smugglers.

7

EMMA STOOD IN front of the marble fireplace in the reading room at the top of the curving stairs. She could hear the wind and a passing shower, the light fading with November’s early dusk. By all accounts, it had been an even wetter, chillier night a decade ago when a thief had slipped into this very room. Later in the evening—no one could pinpoint the exact time but it had been after midnight, at least.

“A fire would be nice,” Colin said from the doorway.

She turned. She didn’t know how long he’d been standing there, or how long she’d been staring at the fireplace, lost in her thoughts. “It would be. I’m sure Kitty would arrange for one if we wanted to stay up here for a bit. There aren’t many guests.”

“Quiet time of year in Ireland. I like it.”

He crossed to the fireplace, making no sound on the thick Persian carpet. The shadows accentuated the hard lines of his face, but Emma knew it wasn’t always possible to read him. He was adept at burying his real emotions. In his undercover work, his life often depended on his ability to convince people he wasn’t feeling what he was feeling.

He stood next to her and glanced around the room. “No alarm system in this place ten years ago?”

Emma smiled. Colin—his pragmatism—helped keep her from disappearing into her thoughts. “No, no alarm system. John O’Byrne was lucky to keep the lights on.”

“Where was he that night?”

“He was on vacation in Portugal, staying with friends. A local farmer was looking after the place. He was asleep in the kitchen. The thief was in and out before anyone knew it.”

“Local farmer as in—”

“Padraig Murphy. Paddy Murphy. Sean Murphy’s uncle.”

“Ah.”

“He says he slept through the whole thing.”

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.