“She died in a freak accident when Lizzie was a baby-here in Dublin, as a matter of fact. She was Irish herself. She was here to visit her family.”
“She came without Lizzie?”
He nodded.
“And without her husband?”
Another awkward nod. “It was eight years before I was born. She flew to Dublin for a five-day visit and tripped on a cobblestone on Temple Bar. She hit her head. They say she died instantly.” Justin cleared his throat and lifted his gaze from the pepper grinder. “Just one of those things.”
It didn’t sound like just one of those things, but Will could see Justin had said all he planned to say on the matter, and possibly all he knew. “Where does your uncle Harlan live, then, if not Boston?”
“His official residence is Las Vegas, but I doubt he’s there half the year. He’s on the board of the family biz, but he doesn’t have an active role these days. He spends most of his time traveling and gambling.”
“I understand Lizzie travels a great deal. Does she also gamble?”
“Not with money. She’s a risk-taker, but she’s tight with a buck. She’s debating whether to rent or tear down the old Rush family place in Maine. No one else wanted it, but she loves it-the location, anyway. The house itself is a wreck.” Justin Rush shrugged, clearly reluctant to share so much information about his cousin, but he had his marching orders and needed to hold Will’s interest and stall him. “Lizzie says it’s unpretentious.”
Will smiled, imagining Lizzie wringing costs out of a renovation project with carpenters and architects. She’d have her way. But he steered Justin back to the more immediate concerns at hand. “Do you know Norman Estabrook yourself?”
“I’ve met him. I carried his bags.”
“When he stayed here a year ago this past April,” Will said.
“What, do you know everything already?”
“Not at all. How did Mr. Estabrook strike you?”
“I didn’t really notice him. I was here on spring break. I had my hands full not to drop bags on the toes of hotel guests. I’ve improved since then. Mr. Estabrook had some adventure in the works-I think he hiked the Skelligs, but I’m not sure. He had quite an entourage with him. Ran me ragged.”
“Do you consider Lizzie part of his entourage?”
Justin looked slightly annoyed as well as protective. “Lizzie would never be part of anyone’s entourage.”
“But she was here then, in Dublin,” Will said.
“Yes. On her own-not with him. That’s when they met.” Justin picked up a crumb of his cousin’s abandoned scone. “They were never more than just friends. And if you’re going to ask if she has a boyfriend, I’m not going to tell you.”
His tone suggested she didn’t, which pleased Will more, undoubtedly, than was smart. “Do you remember anyone else from Mr. Estabrook’s entourage?”
“Nope.”
“Did he stay here again after that April visit?”
“Not that I know of.” Justin glanced down at his crumb, then up again, his eyes showing more maturity. “Is Lizzie in trouble?”
“I don’t know. I hope not.”
“She can kick butt with the best of them. She’s practiced on all of us. She bloodied my brother Jeremiah’s nose last New Year’s.”
“Your family was gathered for New Year’s? Where?”
“Vegas. All of us, including Uncle Harlan.”
“Your hotel’s very comfortable,” Will said, rising, “and you did your job. You delayed me.”
Justin got to his feet. “You wanted to learn more about Lizzie.”
Will saw the unease in the young Rush’s expression. “Justin, is your family worried about her?”
“Doesn’t much matter, does it? Lizzie thinks she’s on her own.”
Will had his own experience with worried family members left behind, but he was a professional officer. Lizzie Rush, clearly, was not. He said quietly, “I’m not going to hurt her.”
“But will you help her?”
“If I can. If she’ll let me.”
“Sometimes I think she likes living dangerously.”
“Perhaps she’s merely trying to do what she can to help with a difficult situation and leave her family out of it.” Will didn’t wait for a reply. “You’ve given your cousin sufficient time to get to the airport. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Justin. If you’re ever in London, look me up.”
He frowned, scrutinizing Will a moment, then sighed. “I don’t start work until later. Come on, I’ll drive you to the airport myself. You’re chasing Lizzie to Boston, right?”
“I already have a flight arranged.”
“Your own plane?”
Will didn’t answer.
“Oh, that’s good-you flying a private jet across the Atlantic and Lizzie stuck in coach with her deck of cards.” Justin laughed. “That’ll teach her to sneak off.”
En route to the airport, Will learned a few more tidbits. Lizzie’s full name was Elizabeth Brigid Rush. Her mother was born Shauna Morrigan. “There are family rumors about Aunt Shauna,” Justin said. “My brother Jeremiah is convinced she spied on the Boston Irish mob.”
“This was before she married your uncle?”
“Jeremiah thinks so. Who knows? There are family rumors about Uncle Harlan, too.” Justin grinned as he pulled into the airport. “Now I’ve gone too far. For all I know, you’re a British spy.”
Indeed, Will thought, deciding he liked Justin Rush.
Chapter 17
Boston, Massachusetts
8 a.m., EDT
August 26
Bob felt the metal bars under the thin mattress as he rolled onto his back, reminding him that he’d spent the night on the pullout sofa in his niece’s attic apartment in the Garrison house. Sunlight streamed through lace curtains Keira had bought in Ireland. He draped an arm over his eyes to block out the sun and slumped deeper into what passed for a bed. His feet hung off the end. He hadn’t wanted to sleep. He’d still be at BPD headquarters now if Tom Yarborough hadn’t all but put a gun to his head and dragged him to Beacon Hill.
Yarborough had probably gone right back to work.
Bob adjusted his position and got another poke in the back. Everyone had offered him a place to stay. Theresa, Lucas Jones, even Yarborough. Hell, the mayor and the commissioner would have put him up for the night if he’d asked. Easier to stay in his niece’s vacant apartment with her pictures of Irish fairies and cottages, her books of folktales and poetry.
Simon and March had an FBI detail looking after their safety. Neither liked it or had wanted to sleep any more than Bob had. Simon, in particular, wanted to chase Estabrook on his own, but not only did he have a giant target painted on his back, he would be more help to Abigail working the investigation than going solo. He knew Estabrook, his contacts, how he thought, places he liked, places he’d been or had talked about. If he could hide millions for drug traffickers, he could hide himself.
Someone would have paged or called or shouted up the stairs if Estabrook or his plane had turned up, but Bob checked his messages, anyway.
Nothing.
He walked to the window in his undershorts and pulled back the Irish lace curtains, grimacing when he saw that the protective detail the commissioner insisted be put on his chief homicide detective was still down there. Waste of manpower as far as Bob was concerned. He’d rather have them out looking for Abigail and the bombers, but he didn’t have a choice.
He headed for the bathroom and took a shower, using Keira’s almond soap, which wasn’t as girlie as he’d feared. He’d managed to grab a couple changes of clothes out of his apartment. They didn’t smell too sooty to him, but they might to someone else. Not his problem.
Yarborough met him downstairs. He was as straight-backed as ever but looked raw around the edges. He’d never say the tension was getting to him, but Bob wouldn’t, either. “Morning, Lieutenant. You sleep?”
“Like a baby. You?”
“Some.”