Will let the questions come at him. Why was Myles Fletcher involved with Norman Estabrook? Had the man Will had once trusted and considered a friend become a cutthroat mercenary? Was Myles now on no one’s side but his own?
Had he never been on anyone’s side but his own?
When Fiona finished, Bob O’Reilly had the look of the veteran detective he was. “Where’s Lizzie Rush now?”
“She left.” Fiona gave Will a sideways glance before turning back to her father. “She stayed cool. The whole time, Dad. She tried to keep me from seeing…the man.”
“She a friend of yours?”
“I only…no.”
He narrowed his eyes on his daughter. “What were you doing at the Whitcomb Hotel, Fi?”
“My ensemble performs there. I didn’t tell you-” A touch of combativeness sparked in her blue eyes. “I knew you wouldn’t approve.”
“I don’t,” her father said bluntly. He nodded to the unmarked car. “Go sit in the air-conditioning. Get off your feet.”
“Dad-”
“Go on, kid.” He touched a thumb to a stray tear on her cheek. “I’ll be right here. I’m not going anywhere.”
“That man…the one who was killed…”
“We’ll figure out what happened to him. Go.” O’Reilly struggled for a smile. “See if you can find some harp music on the radio.”
Will noticed her reluctance as she headed for the unmarked car, but he decided it had more to do with her desire not to miss anything than to remain with her father.
O’Reilly took a pack of gum from his pocket and tapped out a piece. He unwrapped it, balled up the paper in one hand and shoved it into his pocket with the rest of the pack. A ritual, Will realized.
The detective chewed the gum as he studied Will. “You know this guy, our killer Brit?”
“I didn’t see him, Lieutenant O’Reilly.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Will said nothing. He wasn’t in a position to explain his history with Myles Fletcher to this American detective. At the same time, Will didn’t want to do anything that would impede the investigation into the murder in the alley and any connection the dead man or Myles had to Abigail Browning’s disappearance.
“Here’s the thing,” O’Reilly said. “After thirty years as a cop, I often know when someone’s lying or not telling me everything-unless it’s one of my daughters. Want me to ask again?”
Will shook his head. “There’s no need. Your daughter described a man I thought I knew.”
“But now that he’s put a bullet in some guy’s brain, you’re thinking maybe you didn’t know him after all. His name?”
Will looked back at the car where Fiona sat alone in the back seat, the door still open. “Myles Fletcher.”
“Who is he?”
“I told you-”
“No, you didn’t. What’s he do for a living? Is he a British noble? Does he go fishing a lot in Scotland? Does he know Simon Cahill?” O’Reilly worked hard on his gum. “I can rattle off a dozen other questions if you want or you can just tell me.”
Will thought of Lizzie going into the alley on her own and finding a man shot to death by someone he should have dealt with himself two years ago.
He knew now what he had to do. “My assistant, Josie Goodwin, can help you.” He kept his tone professional, without emotion. “Simon knows how to reach her. She’ll be more precise and thorough than I can be.”
“She in London?”
Will met the detective’s eye. “Ireland. With your niece.”
“Great,” O’Reilly said sarcastically. “Just great. Did this Fletcher character send that thug after Keira?”
“I don’t know.”
“Another nonanswer. Does Fletcher know Abigail Browning, John March or Simon Cahill?”
“Lieutenant…”
“Norman Estabrook?”
“If you’ll allow me, Lieutenant O’Reilly, I suggest you speak with Director March.”
“All right. I’ll do that.” The detective’s tone was cool, suspicious-and careful. As if he knew he didn’t want to go too far and end up having his hands tied. “What do you know about the black-haired woman who helped my niece in the wilds of Ireland last night?”
He waited, but Will didn’t fill the silence. He had anticipated that Boston law enforcement would have Lizzie’s description by now. Undoubtedly, she had, too.
“I talked to Eddie O’Shea,” O’Reilly continued. “He described her. American. Small, fast, black hair, green eyes. Knows how to fight-she took on an armed killer. The Irish cops are trying to find out who she is, where she went.”
“Again-”
“Talk to March. Talk to anyone but you.” O’Reilly pointed a thick finger at Will. “Eddie says you were there, and you let this woman go.”
“Your niece is safe, Lieutenant, thanks to her.”
“And a big black dog and no doubt fairies, too. I’m glad for that.”
Fiona slipped out of the car and stood by the open door.
Her father didn’t stop. “I saw Scoop Wisdom in the hospital. He’s all cut up. A mess. He managed to describe a suspicious woman he saw on our street the day before our house blew up. Small, green eyes, black hair. Even with all the pain dope in him, Scoop remembered her. Who is she?”
Will maintained a steady gaze on the senior law enforcement officer. “Again, you’ll want to speak with Director March.”
Before O’Reilly could respond, Fiona approached him. “Dad.” She remained calm, but she was very pale. “Dad…I…”
Her father stared at her. “You know?”
“The woman-she-”
The detective groaned half to himself. “Ah, hell. Are we talking about Lizzie Rush? The woman who just helped you-”
“Her family owns the hotel on Charles Street.”
“The Whitcomb. Yeah, I know. Why-”
“I told you, my ensemble plays there. We’ve been playing there all summer. The Rushes are nice people.”
“The Rushes are…” O’Reilly glared at his daughter. “How well do you know them?”
Fiona looked miserable. “I didn’t meet Lizzie until a few weeks ago. Her cousin Jeremiah has been helping me plan our trip to Ireland. He said Lizzie had worked there. Dad, I know she’s not responsible for the bombs. She can’t be.”
“What did you two talk about besides Ireland?”
“I told her everything. I told her about Keira and Simon, and you and Aunt Eileen and the serial killer, and Ireland-the story about the stone angel. I told her that Keira and Simon borrowed a boat from Simon’s friend, a British lord, and…Dad, I’m sorry.”
O’Reilly looked as if he couldn’t decide between hitting something or grabbing his daughter and running. “Relax, Fi.” His tone softened as he unwrapped another piece of gum. “You didn’t tell Lizzie Rush anything she couldn’t have found out on her own.”
“I feel like a blabber.”
“Lizzie’s easy to talk to,” Will said quietly. More police cars descended on the scene. Yellow tape was going up. Onlookers were arriving. He knew he had to make his stand now. “I can find her, Detective, but not if I’m caught up with your people.”
Bob O’Reilly was clearly a man under monumental strain, but he remained focused. “This Fletcher character?”
“I can find him, as well.”
“Does Simon go way back with him?”
“No, he doesn’t. Lieutenant, you know if I don’t leave now, I won’t be able to without a lot of time and fuss.”
The detective put the fresh piece of gum in his mouth. “Go.”
The Whitcomb was smaller, narrower and more traditionally furnished than the Rush hotel in Dublin, but equally high-end and individual. A man who bore a striking resemblance to Justin Rush walked into the lobby from a side door. This would be Jeremiah, Will remembered. The third-born of the four Rush brothers and Lizzie’s cousin.
“Lord Davenport, right?” Jeremiah nodded to a door behind him. “Through there. Down the steps. Out back.”