“My name’s Lizzie,” she said, her voice cracking as she finally told him the truth. “Lizzie Rush. But you know that now, don’t you?”
“You misled me. I thought you were a professional.”
“Was I even on your list of suspects?”
“No.”
“You could have hesitated,” she said, making an attempt at levity.
“I want you to come in. Now. Help us.” He took in a breath. “Lizzie, let me help you.”
“I was with Norman in June when he called Simon and threatened to kill the two of you. I knew he meant it. I knew he would turn violent.” The late afternoon sun beat down hard on the busy road. “I should have found a way to stop him. He has your daughter because I didn’t.”
“You work for a chain of luxury boutique hotels. It’s not your job-”
“Don’t ever let my aunt and uncle hear you call our hotels a chain.”
“Lizzie. Stop. Come in.”
She stayed in the middle lane of I-93. “Did you try to stop my mother? She was your informant, too, wasn’t she?”
“You’re operating on assumptions and suppositions.” His tone was more mystified and worried than harsh. “You’ve done your part. More than you should have. Your efforts helped us arrest major, dangerous drug traffickers.”
“Norman’s free.”
“Not because of you. Stand down.”
“Thirty years ago, you let my mother go to her death, didn’t you? You regret it now.”
“I regretted it then.”
“Did you warn her of the danger she was in? Did she ignore you? Did you ignore-” Lizzie took a breath, gripping the steering wheel of her borrowed car. “Never mind.”
“You are not to endanger yourself. You are not to interfere with this investigation. I’ll sit down with you when this is over and answer every question you have about your mother.” March paused, then added, “Every question I can answer.”
Lizzie knew what she had to do. She’d figured out on the flight from Dublin, before Fiona and Myles Fletcher and the dead man in the alley-before Will had turned up.
Her eyes were dry now. “I’d love to sit down with you and talk about my mother. Until then, Director March, the rules are the same. Norman can’t know I’ve been helping you. He can’t know I’m not on his side. He won’t just kill me if he finds out what I’ve done. He’ll kill your daughter.”
“This isn’t your fight,” March said.
“It is now. Keep your guys and the BPD off my case.”
“Let me help you, Lizzie. Not the FBI. Me. Abigail’s father.”
His anguish brought fresh tears to her eyes. “You know that won’t work. I’m not doing anything crazy. I’m just going about my business the same way I have for the past year.”
“I was your age when your mother died. Looking back, I know now how young I was. How young she was. And your father.”
“Then she didn’t trip on a wet cobblestone, did she?”
“I’ve made mistakes. Don’t become one of them.”
“There’s one thing you can do for me. If Norman finds out what I’ve done and comes after my family-”
“We’ll protect them, Lizzie. You have my word.”
“You know you don’t need to protect my father, don’t you?”
March didn’t answer.
“He’s mad right now as it is. If he sees a bunch of FBI agents coming at him-” Lizzie didn’t finish her thought. “He’s not retired. He just pretends to be. He’s the reason I was able to lead you to believe I was a professional.”
“We can protect you, too.”
“I hope you find your daughter. More than anything.”
“Thank you,” he said, his voice strangled now. “Lizzie-”
But she hung up on the director of the FBI, moved to the far right-hand lane and tossed her cell phone out the window. It was an inconvenience, but she didn’t want the feds, the BPD or a bunch of spies pinging the number and finding her.
Chapter 21
Boston, Massachusetts
6:02 p.m., EDT
August 26
Will kept his emotions in check, as much for his own sake as Fiona O’Reilly’s, but there was no longer any question. Myles Fletcher was alive. Near. In Boston. Perhaps watching the police arrive at the murder scene.
Will had asked Fiona to repeat everything Myles had said to her. “It’s important,” he’d told her. “I can help in a way the police can’t.”
Fiona had complied. She was calmer now, hugging her arms to her chest as police cruisers descended on Beacon Street. “Your friend killed the man in the alley, didn’t he?”
“Your father and his detectives will determine who is responsible. What you must do now is to be sure you’ve told me all you know.”
She stared down at the pavement as if looking for ants.
Will knew he couldn’t let her off the hook. “You’ve had a terrible scare, Fiona. It’s understandable you don’t want to do anything to distract investigators and send them in the wrong direction.”
“Abigail’s missing. Every minute…” She squinted up at him. “Every second counts.”
On his cab ride into Boston from the airport, Will had called both Simon and Josie for updates, but there was still no sign of Abigail Browning, Norman Estabrook or his plane. He couldn’t give Fiona false comfort. She was the daughter of an experienced detective and would see right through it.
“Good detectives prefer to have as much information as possible,” he said. “They want to rely on their own experience and training to decide what’s worthwhile and what isn’t.”
“I know,” Fiona said, not combative, just stating the facts. As traumatized as she was, Will could see a similar inner strength he had observed in her cousin, Keira.
“What are you holding back?”
“Abigail…” Fiona curled her fingers into tight fists. “She stopped by the pub at the Whitcomb Hotel the night before last. Morrigan’s. My friends and I were performing. We were wrapping up our final set. I could see she was uptight about something. She pulled me aside after we finished and told me it wasn’t a good idea for me to be there.”
“At the hotel?”
Fiona nodded. “She said she’d explain later but I should just…” The teenager sucked in a breath, fighting her own emotions. “She said I should trust her.”
“What did you say to her?”
“Nothing. I didn’t argue with her. I ignored her. I thought she didn’t want me there because Morrigan’s is a bar and I’m under twenty-one and a cop’s daughter. When I saw her-” Fiona again stared down at the pavement. “I avoided her yesterday. Before the bomb went off. I was snotty. I didn’t want to talk to her. Now…”
“You feel guilty,” Will said.
Tears spilled down her cheeks, and she sobbed silently as two police cruisers screeched to a halt at the alley, followed immediately by an unmarked police car. A redheaded man who had to be Fiona’s father leaped out and trotted straight for her.
“Dad,” Fiona whispered, using both hands now to wipe her tears.
A stiff, serious younger man got out from behind the wheel, joined uniformed officers and headed into the alley.
Bob O’Reilly was apoplectic when he reached his daughter. “I thought you played the damn harp so you wouldn’t get yourself mixed up in a murder investigation.” He sighed, his blue eyes-the same shade as Fiona’s, as Keira’s-filled with fear and guilt. “Fi…hell. You okay?”
She brushed her tears with the back of her wrist and nodded.
O’Reilly turned to Will. “Lord Davenport, I presume.”
“Yes, Lieutenant. I’m sorry we’re meeting under such difficult circumstances.”
“Yeah, so am I. Simon’s on his way.” O’Reilly shifted back to his daughter. “Tell me what happened.”
Fiona repeated her story. Will listened for additional details but heard nothing that made him doubt it was Myles who’d sat across from a nineteen-year-old musician and told her how to find a man he knew to be dead, presumably whom he’d killed himself. Possibly he was in fact Abigail Browning’s only hope, but that didn’t mean he was on her side.