Fiona sniffled. “Sorry, Scoop, I didn’t hear you. I should leave. You should be with your family. I’m taking it easy today. I’m heading over to the Garrison house to practice.”
“Good. Play an Irish tune for me.”
“I will. I’ll play something fun. Something happy.”
But Scoop didn’t respond, and Bob saw he’d drifted off. Fiona withdrew, bursting into tears when she reached her father. He tried to hug her, but she jerked away. The officers watched her closely, and he could tell they knew she was his daughter. So could she, and it just irritated her more.
Better irritated than sobbing and shivering.
She ran down the hall. Bob didn’t go after her. The foundation staff would be back to work at the Garrison house, and patrol cars would be making frequent checks.
He went in to see Scoop. “You awake?”
“No.”
“You look like hell.”
“Feel worse.”
“They say you’re going to live.”
Scoop paid no attention. “While I have the energy.” He licked dry, chapped lips. “Before I konk out again. There’s a woman.”
“There always is with you.”
“That’s not what I mean. Black hair. Long, straight. Little thing. Green eyes. She was on our street.”
“Okay,” Bob said, unimpressed.
Scoop seemed to try to focus, but his eyelids were swollen from the fluids being pumped into him. “Day before the bomb. She stopped in front of the house. Said she had shin splints.”
“She got your attention?”
“Yeah. I wondered…” He licked his lips again, his movements sluggish as he struggled to stay alert.
The man needed rest. “I’ll look into it,” Bob said. “A small woman with black hair, green eyes and shin splints.”
Bob didn’t tell Scoop, but the description also fit the woman in Ireland who’d taken on the s.o.b. sent to kill Keira. Michael Murphy continued to deny he intended to hurt anyone, but the Irish police didn’t believe him. Bob didn’t, either.
“Abigail was on to something,” Scoop said in a slurred whisper. “She…her father…ask her.”
Bob wouldn’t lie to Scoop about Abigail, but he didn’t have to. Scoop was out.
On his way out of the hospital, Bob dialed Theresa’s cell number. “You know Fiona was just here visiting Scoop?”
“I assumed as much. She went back to her apartment first thing this morning. One way to get her out of bed early, put a police detail on her.”
“It’s a thought,” Bob said without humor. “At least her apartment’s in BPD jurisdiction. We can keep an eye on her.”
Theresa got all hot. “If you’re implying I should have kept her here, I tried. She’s as stubborn as you are.”
“You’re at work today?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s just a question. Yes or no answer. Easy.”
“Yes.”
Bob ignored her tight, irritated tone. He didn’t even blame her for being testy.
“If you have vacation days left, take them. Go to the beach with the girls.”
“Fiona won’t go. She and her band have paying gigs. Classes start soon. She-”
“You can make her go.”
“So could you. You’ve got a gun, because that’s what it’ll take. She’s nineteen, Bob. She makes her own decisions. It’s time you respected that.”
“I don’t like her decisions.”
“Well, you can’t control what she does. Neither can I. We can influence but not control.”
“You been to see a shrink or something?”
She swore at him, really irritated now.
“Take Maddie and Jayne to the beach, Ter. I’ll deal with Fi.”
“She may play harp, Bob, but she’s just like you.”
“Prettier.”
“Thank God.”
“Ter?” He sighed. “I’m sorry.”
She disconnected without a word.
Yarborough appeared out of nowhere and fell in beside him. Bob frowned. “I thought you were doing something useful.”
“I decided I didn’t want to leave you alone,” Yarborough said, almost kindly, and nodded toward his car. “Come on. I’ll take you wherever you want to go.”
“The crime scene.”
“The-”
“That would be my house, Tom.”
He looked uncomfortable for a half beat. “Okay. Let’s go.”
“Abigail ever mention a small, black-haired woman to you?”
“No, why?”
“You ever see one?”
“Like, two million every time I get on the subway.”
“She’s got green eyes, too. And shin splints.”
Yarborough was staring at him as if he might have to make a detour to the psych ward, but he said, still kindly, “You can tell me about her on the way to Jamaica Plain.”
Which was when Bob knew he looked as sick and worried as he felt. But it didn’t matter. He had to stay focused and do his job.
“Abigail’s strong,” Yarborough said, all reassuring. “She’ll-”
“I’m getting my gun.”
The younger detective looked relieved. “Good idea.”
Chapter 18
Off the New England coast
Mid-day
August 26
Norman Estabrook entered the stateroom with Fletcher two steps behind him. The billionaire looked more rested, and he wasn’t wearing his porkpie hat. His light brown hair needed a trim. Abigail sat up on the sectional. She was nauseated but so far had managed to keep her food down. The wet bar was well-stocked with gourmet items, but she’d have loved a plain piece of toast.
“You’re pale,” Estabrook said. “Are you getting enough to eat?”
“Plenty.”
“Did you sleep?”
She nodded. Fitful sleep, pacing, jumping jacks, pool, a shower. She’d done what she could to maintain her energy and stay attuned to her surroundings, the voices outside her door, the comings and goings of the small boat. She’d tried to use her worsening seasickness to her advantage and let it remind her she was still alive and still wanted to feel good and enjoy life.
“Have you ever met Lizzie Rush?” Estabrook asked abruptly.
His question took Abigail by surprise, but she answered truthfully. “No, I haven’t.”
“But you’ve heard of her?”
“Her family. They own the Whitcomb Hotel in Boston.”
“She stayed with me through my arrest and my discovery of Simon’s betrayal. I haven’t heard from her since the FBI took her away. I imagine your father got to her.”
Abigail walked over to the pool table and rolled a solid blue ball into a trio of other balls. It knocked against a yellow one, bounced off the side of the table and stopped at the edge of a pocket. “I wouldn’t know,” she said without looking at either man. “Believe it or not, my father hasn’t discussed your case with me.”
“If you think referring to me as a ‘case’ will give you the upper hand, Detective, or irritate me, or make me feel bad, you’re wrong. I know I matter to your father.” Estabrook picked up the eight ball. “Lizzie grew up without a mother. Did you know that?”
“I’m not familiar with her background.” That, Abigail thought, tapping in her blue ball with the tip of her finger, was an outright lie.
Estabrook massaged the eight ball. “She’s just a few years younger than you. While you were growing up with a mother and father, Lizzie was being shuffled back and forth among various relatives. Her father traveled frequently for his work with the Rush hotels. She would stay with her uncle and aunt and their four sons in Boston, and her grandmother in Maine. Lizzie was a motherless little girl, Detective Browning.”
“You seem to know a lot about her.”
“I know a lot about everyone I have as a guest in my home.”
But Simon had fooled him, and that grated. “What happened to Lizzie’s mother?” Abigail asked, although she knew the answer to her question. Not the whole answer. Only her father would know the whole answer.