His eyes narrowed on her, and he leaned toward her. “I asked you a question, love. Best you answer.”
“Yesterday. At my dad’s.” Fiona wanted to sound strong and defiant but thought she sounded weak, afraid. She cleared her throat. “It was after the fire. Late. That’s when I saw Simon last.”
The Brit had gray eyes that seemed to see right through her. “You’re telling the truth,” he said, satisfied. “That’s smart. What about Director March?”
“I just got a glimpse of him yesterday. I didn’t talk to him.”
“And your friend Lizzie Rush?” He paused, watching Fiona. “When did you see her last?”
“She’s not-I barely know her.”
“When, love?”
She didn’t want to tell him anything more.
“I can ask someone else. Her cousin up-”
“No, don’t,” Fiona broke in. “Leave Jeremiah alone. It was a few days ago. I don’t remember the exact day.”
“Here?”
“Yes.” Fiona gulped in a breath, sweating now. “I have no idea where she is now. My friends and I perform here on occasion. I don’t know the Rushes at all, really.”
The Brit smiled. “Like your Irish music, do you? Well, Miss O’Reilly, I have a different sort of job for you.” He pointed up at the window behind her, toward the street. “I want you to go back to the Garrison house. Call no one. Tell no one. Do you understand?”
Fiona nodded, her heart pounding.
“There’s an alley off a side street just before you reach the house. Don’t go into it. Stop and call your copper dad and tell him to come and have a look. Will you do that for me, love?”
“Yes.”
Fight to escape. That was what her dad had taught her. He’d also taught her not to leave one crime scene for another. “It almost never works out,” he’d said, “but use your fear as your guide. Let it help you.”
The Brit reached across the table and tucked a finger under her chin, forcing her to meet his eye. “A man is in grave danger. Only you can get him help in time.”
“Who is it?”
He ignored her. “When you speak with your dad, tell him Abigail is alive and unharmed. Will you do that for me, too, love?”
“Abigail,” Fiona said. “Where-”
He tapped her chin with one finger. “Now, don’t start. Just listen and do as I say. Tell your dad that he and his colleagues in law enforcement have an imaginative and dangerous enemy.”
“You.”
“I’m no one’s enemy.” He sat back again, his eyes hard. “No one’s friend, either. Can you remember what I just said, love?”
“Yes. Yes, I can remember.”
“There you go. Don’t follow me. Don’t have anyone else follow me.” He nodded toward the street. “Lizzie Rush will be arriving very soon from Ireland. If you see her in time, she can go with you.”
“How do you know she-”
He winked. “You’d be surprised what I know.”
“I didn’t see you yesterday. No one did.”
“I know. Now you have seen me, but it’s all right. I’m not going to hurt you. I especially enjoyed your Irish music. Special quality it has, doesn’t it? Even for a Londoner like myself.”
“What do you want with Abigail?”
“Nothing. I’m her only hope. I must leave now. If you do anything to interfere, she’ll be dead before nightfall. You need to stay calm and do as I ask.” The Brit stood up, looming over Fiona as he reached a hand out to her. “On your feet on three. Count with me. It’ll help you focus. One. Two. Three.”
She got up without his assistance. Should she scream? Kick him? Create a scene? If a man was dying…
She raised her chin to the Brit. “My sisters are under police protection.”
He smiled. “You will be now, too. Alley. Your dad. Abigail. You can remember?”
“Why are you doing this?”
“It’s important not to leave loose ends.”
Fiona didn’t breathe or speak as he trotted lightly up the steps and back out to Charles Street.
A cab pulled up to the hotel and a small, black-haired woman got out.
Lizzie Rush. As promised.
Chapter 20
Boston, Massachusetts
5:35 p.m., EDT
August 26
Lizzie headed toward the Whitcomb lobby, shaking off the pummeled feeling she always had after the long flight across the Atlantic. It was late afternoon in Boston, late evening in Ireland, but she wasn’t quite on either clock. She figured she’d need the five hours she’d gained heading west from Dublin. She didn’t know how long she’d have before Will turned up. Based on the text message she’d received from Justin when she landed, probably not long: Brit to Boston. Right behind you.
Justin wasn’t one to waste words.
Spending the night in the same suite as a British intelligence agent was one thing. Having him following her was another, but Lizzie had an advantage in Boston. She knew the city and had family there, and Will didn’t. She’d contemplated him, her situation and her options while playing one solo game of bridge after another on her little tray table.
How did Will Davenport fit into whatever was going on, and where was he now?
Was he trouble?
“Everyone’s trouble,” she muttered, quoting her father, even as she welcomed the familiar surroundings of the Whitcomb’s classically appointed lobby.
A dour-looking Sam Whitcomb, in actuality a firebrand privateer during the American Revolution, stared down at her from his oil portrait above the unlit marble fireplace. Henrietta wanted to replace him with one of Keira Sullivan’s wildflower watercolors.
Lizzie focused on the situation at hand, smiling at her cousin Jeremiah as he stood up from his desk. “I cut my trip to Ireland short,” she said.
“Justin’s already filled me in,” Jeremiah said, shaking his head. “Lizzie. What’s going on? All hell’s broken loose in Boston. I’ve never seen so many cops on the streets.”
“I noticed. What do you know?”
“Nothing. Fiona O’Reilly’s here. Cops are mum on the details about the fire at her father’s place and the evacuation at the Garrison house. Your friend Norman Estabrook’s disappeared, too. You know that, right?”
“Yes, but I’m not in contact with him.”
“The FBI hasn’t been in touch?”
Lizzie shook her head. No need to mention that she’d been in touch with John March herself. “I haven’t spoken to Norman since his arrest.”
Jeremiah seemed faintly reassured. “But you’re back here because Simon Cahill and FBI Director March are in town, aren’t you?” Her cousin narrowed his eyes on her. “Lizzie…”
Of all her cousins, Jeremiah was the one most tuned in to the history between March and her mother, but Lizzie dodged his question. “I’m not involved in Norman ’s legal case, Jeremiah. I wish I’d never had anything to do with him.”
“I don’t blame you. I imagine most of his friends feel the same way. What are you going to do now?”
“Pick up my car and head to Maine.”
Go to Maine, she’d decided on her flight across the Atlantic. Figure out what she could do to help find Norman and leave the rest of her family out of it. John March might give her time, but if Scoop Wisdom had provided her description to his BPD colleagues, they could already be after her. Best, she’d reasoned, to stick to her cover story and go about her business as if she had nothing to hide. She’d gone to Ireland to hike the Beara Way and pop in on Simon Cahill, only to end up in the middle of a knife fight. It made perfect sense that she’d come straight home and head to her house in Maine.
Whether or not Norman thought she was an ally-believed she hated John March as much as he did-Lizzie had no doubt he would expect her to head to Maine.
Jeremiah touched her shoulder and looked past her. “Fiona…”
Lizzie turned as Fiona O’Reilly stumbled on the steps up from Morrigan’s and hesitated, very pale, barely breathing. She stared at Lizzie a split second before bolting down the main steps and out to Charles Street.