Carla Neggers - The Whisper

Not far, she thought, and answered March's question. "I know of one, yes."

Scoop eyed her. "There's more."

It wasn't a question or even a challenge to her. It was a statement of fact. Obviously he and the other two law enforcement officers at the table already had their answer. Sophie collected her thoughts as a waiter arrived with a tray of coffee. She hadn't ordered any, but didn't refuse when he put a mug in front of her.

"I have a feeling I know where you're going with this. Percy Sr. was never particularly drawn to Ireland. I know of only one excursion he took there. It was late in his life." She felt the heat rise from her ultra-hot coffee. "He had a bit of a misadventure."

"Anything like yours last September?" March asked quietly.

Of course Scoop would have filled March in. He'd probably written a report already for his superiors. Even as she'd told him her story, Sophie had warned herself not to think they were having an intimate, private talk.

"No, Percy Sr.'s experience was quite different." Which, of course, March would know. She kept her tone even as she continued. "He was briefly arrested in Dublin for attempting to smuggle artifacts out of Ireland. It was a mix-up--a misunderstanding between his staff and Irish authorities. He was released almost immediately. He was furious, though, and fired his entire staff the minute he got back to Boston."

"You weren't on his staff?" Bob O'Reilly asked.

She shook her head. "I was working here. This was seven years ago. I was a student. I did research at the Carlisle Museum."

"There was a break-in at the museum not long after the firings," O'Reilly said. "The old man's office was trashed, and a painting disappeared--a Winslow Homer seascape from the Carlisles' private collection."

Sophie realized her heart was racing, as if she were under attack when she knew, in fact, she had nothing to hide from these men. Why hadn't she stayed in Kenmare, or grabbed her sleeping bag and gone hiking with her parents? She pulled herself out of her regrets--her fears--and grabbed the cream pitcher. "I suppose you all are watching your cholesterol. I will another day. Right now, I want real cream in my coffee. And I'm guessing where you're going with this. Cliff Rafferty was the first officer on the scene after the break-in, wasn't he?"

It was O'Reilly who answered. "Were you at the museum at the time?"

"No. The break-in occurred--or at least was discovered--late at night by a security guard." She dumped cream into her mug and set down the pitcher. "I was here washing dishes and mopping floors. I didn't find out anything until the next day."

"No one called you?" March asked. "The Carlisles, any of the fired staff?"

"No, and I thought nothing of it at the time--nor does it bother me now, in retrospect. I was just another student. I never heard there were any indications of Celtic rituals or any Celtic symbols at the scene. No blood," she added pointedly, her throat dry as she lifted her mug, "no skulls, broken weapons or torcs."

"Were you already specializing in Celtic archaeology?" Scoop asked.

"Yes, I was." She glanced at March, whose expression was impossible to read. "I remember you were here at Morrigan's when I came into work the night after the break-in. I'd been at the museum most of the day, in the library. I told you what happened and how shocked I was."

"I remember," March said. He leaned closer to her, less tense and confrontational. "I remember you said you didn't know much about nineteenth-century American painters."

She relaxed slightly. "I still don't."

"It bothered you. You like knowing things."

She smiled. "Are you suggesting I'm a bit of a know-it-all, Director March?"

"You're curious." He didn't smile back at her. "You have an investigative mind. You like to tackle a problem and take it to its conclusion."

Damn, she thought. She'd stepped right into that one. Damian knew John March better than she did and had warned her March was the master--not a man to be underestimated on any level. He'd been a street cop, a homicide detective, a lawyer and an FBI agent, and now he was the FBI director, with huge responsibilities on his shoulders.

"I stayed out of anything to do with the break-in," she said.

"Did you sympathize with the fired staff?" O'Reilly asked.

She faced him. "Of course, but I wasn't friends with any of them."

O'Reilly ran a thick finger along the handle of his coffee mug. "Did you think Percy Sr. was an SOB for what he did?"

"Sure. Who wouldn't?"

"His son," March said. "What did he think?"

"We didn't discuss it," Sophie said, raising her eyes to Scoop. "As I told Detective Wisdom, Percy and I weren't and aren't that close."

Scoop's expression was unreadable. "I checked the file. You weren't questioned by police."

"That's right," she said.

O'Reilly reached for the cream pitcher. "Hell, I'm game. It's been a bad day, and my doctor's not here." He poured the cream into his coffee but his cornflower-blue eyes were on Sophie. "Percy Sr. and Percy Jr. were both in Boston at the time of the break-in. The mother--Isabel Carlisle, Percy Sr.'s wife--had died the previous year. Cancer."

Sophie nodded. "I remember. It was a sad time."

O'Reilly set the pitcher back down. "The old man showed up at the museum right when Cliff pulled in. The son was in London at the time."

"Rafferty said he met Percy this summer after Jay Augustine's arrest...." She trailed off, recognizing that the law enforcement officers at the table would already have thought of that.

"Ripple effects, Lizzie calls them," March said. "How one thing can unexpectedly lead to and impact another. We have no idea it's coming, or how bad it'll be. You remind me of Shauna Morrigan, Lizzie's mother. She was fearless, and she had great instincts." He sighed grimly at the two Boston detectives. "Bad cops. Bombs. Ritualistic murder or whatever the hell it was. We can't have any of it."

"No, we can't," O'Reilly said, looking straight at Sophie.

March rose. "Good night, gentlemen." He nodded to Sophie. "Sophie, take care of yourself. I hope next time we see each other it's under better circumstances. Good luck with your career in archaeology." His dark eyes narrowed slightly on her. "Stay in touch."

Once he and his hulking agents started up the bottom of the stairs, O'Reilly blew out a heavy breath. "Damn. I love it when the FBI comes in and tells me my job. March was like that when he was on the force." He picked up his mug. "I'm taking two sips and then ordering a beer. In the meantime, Dr. Malone, we have two choices where you're concerned. One, you're trouble. Two, you're not trouble. Which is it?"

"Life's not that black-and-white," she said.

"My life is."

His daughter and her friends were playing "O'Sullivan's March." The tune put Sophie back in Kenmare, in a cozy pub on a dark, rainy night, with Tim O'Donovan transfixing her with his tale of treasure, adventure, triumph and tragedy.

She pulled herself back to the present. "Does your niece know about Cliff Rafferty's death?" she asked O'Reilly.

He nodded. "Yeah. I told her."

"Did she know--"

"I talked to Keira this morning," he said, obviously not wanting to discuss his daughter. "She's in Ireland. I don't know if your FBI brother knows Simon Cahill. He's the man in Keira's life." The homicide detective's gaze bored into Sophie. "Simon's FBI. You know that, right?"

Her heart was racing again, but she tried to maintain an outward calm. "Yes, I do."

"Good. You look like you're going to slide under the table, Doc. Buy you a burger?"

"I think I'll just grab a few nuts and go."

"Sit a while, Sophie," Scoop said, touching her hand. "Have a Guinness and a bite to eat. Talk to us."

She told herself to get up and get out of there, but the prospect of Taryn's quiet apartment suddenly was less appealing than staying here with the lively music, the crowd--even these two suspicious, intense police officers. Scoop and O'Reilly were on her side, she told herself, even if they believed she'd been holding back on them.