The Angel (7 page)

“They’re both incredibly talented, and Keira’s success

ful in a highly competitive business. Plus, they both get along with you, which is saying something.”

Bob let his hand drop to his side. “Wait’ll you have kids.”

His words were like a gut punch, and Abigail looked away quickly, muttering a good-night and making a beeline for the crime scene guys, thinking of something she could ask them. Anything. Didn’t matter what. She didn’t want Bob to see her expression, to wonder what demons were haunting her now.

This was private, damn it. Personal. Up to her and her alone to figure out.

Kids
.

She pictured herself with a big belly, Owen with a toddler on his shoulders—the three of them in the Public Garden on a beautiful June day. But it was a fantasy. Reality was so much more complicated. She and Owen weren’t even married yet, and babies would change her life, change his life. 62

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Abigail turned her attention back to the pond. What
had
brought Victor Sarakis to Boston tonight? Never mind her mood or Bob’s mood, it was a question that needed an answer. She spotted a crime scene guy she recognized. What was his name? She couldn’t remember. He was new. Really young. Grew up on a tough street in Roxbury.

“Malcolm,” she whispered, then raised her voice, calling to him. “Malcolm—hang on a second.”

“Yes, Detective?”

She glanced back at Bob, who pointed a finger at her and shook it—his way of telling her he knew what she was up to and would be watching.

Malcolm frowned at her. Abigail pointed to the side

walk. “I just want to make sure we get photos of any cracks in the walks that could trip a guy running in the rain.”

“Of course. No problem.”

“Thanks.”

Bob continued across the picturesque mini suspension bridge over the pond. With a sigh of relief, Abigail studied the spot where Victor Sarakis had come to the end of his life. There was no fence on this section of the pond. If he’d tripped—or whatever—on the opposite bank, the knee-high cable fence could have broken his fall, perhaps kept him from drowning. But the water was so shallow—he must have been unconscious, otherwise why didn’t he just get up? The autopsy would tell her more, but she had to agree with Bob and the medical examiner that Victor Sarakis’s untimely death was likely an accident.

In the meantime, she had work to do, and a long night ahead of her.

She touched her cell phone, but decided—no. Owen already knew she had a case and would be back to her place late. He had an early start in the morning for a Fast Rescue

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meeting in Austin. He was always on the go—Austin, Boston, his place in Maine, disaster sites and training fa

cilities all over the world.

Let him get to bed, Abigail thought, and not worry about her. She wouldn’t want him to hear anything in her voice that would tell him she was gnawing on a worry, a problem. Because he’d ask her to explain, and she wasn’t sure she could. Whatever was going on with her wasn’t about him. It was about her.

And in those long years after Chris’s death, she’d grown accustomed to working out her issues on her own. She wondered if Victor Sarakis had left behind any children, but pushed the thought out of her mind as she joined Malcolm in looking for cracks in the walks.

Logan International Airport

Boston, Massachusetts

10:00 a.m., EDT

June 18

FBI Director John March greeted Simon with a curt hand

shake in an ultraprivate VIP lounge at Boston’s Logan Airport. March had flown up from Washington, D.C., that morning specifically for this meeting. He had an entou

rage of hulking FBI special agents and staffers with him, but they stayed out in the hall.

He was sixtiesh and trim, and although his hair was iron-gray, its curls reminded Simon of March’s daughter, Abigail. But March wouldn’t be seeing her today. He wouldn’t risk it. Simon knew it wasn’t just that March was protecting a classified mission. He didn’t want to have to explain his complicated history with the Cahills to a daughter—a cop daughter, no less—who knew nothing about it. It didn’t have to be a secret. It just was one.

“Some days, Simon,” the FBI director said, “I wish you’d decided to become a plumber.”

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“If it’s any consolation, some days I wish I had, too.”

Simon had been fourteen, crying over his father’s casket at a proper Irish wake in the heart of Georgetown when he’d first met March. “At least when you’re a plumber and you’re knee-deep in crap, no one tries to convince you it’s gravy.”

“I’ve put you in a difficult position.”

“I put myself there. You’re just capitalizing on it. That’s your job. I’m not holding it against you.”

“My daughter will.” March’s tone didn’t change from its unemotional, careful professionalism. “I’ve kept too many secrets from her as it is.”

Simon thought he detected a note of regret in the older man’s tone, but maybe not. Simon didn’t have the details, but apparently John March had known more about the cir

cumstances surrounding the murder of his daughter’s first husband, an FBI special agent, than he’d let on. Nothing that would have led to his killer any sooner. But Abigail didn’t necessarily see it that way.

“Comes with the territory,” Simon said without much sympathy.

He hadn’t asked for March’s help all those years ago, when the then FBI special agent was wracked with grief and guilt after failing to stop the execution of Brendan Cahill, a DEA agent and friend, in Colombia. But there was nothing March could have done. The killers had videotaped themselves. The video showed them tying up Simon’s father. Blindfolding him. Firing two bullets into his forehead. Simon had seen the tape. For years, he thought he’d stumbled onto it—that he’d been clever, outwitting the brilliant, powerful John March. He was over that illusion now. March had arranged for Simon to find the tape and see his father’s murder.

Instead of feeling angry, bitter and betrayed, Simon had 66

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felt understood. March had known that once Brendan Cahill’s young son had realized the tape existed, he’d find a way to see it.

What Simon hadn’t realized, until recently, was that March had never mentioned him or his father to his daughter. Not once in twenty years.

He was a hard man to figure out.

March stayed on his feet. “I’ve told you as much as I know about what comes next.”

Simon doubted that, but he shrugged. “Great. I’ll be in London cooling my heels.”

“We’ve got him, Simon. We’ve got Estabrook, thanks to you.”

With a little luck, the “thanks to you” part would stay between Simon and March, but Simon had learned not to count on luck. “I’ll feel better when he’s in custody.”

“Understood.”

Simon could sense March’s awkwardness. Ordinarily he would keep his focus on the big picture and not concern himself with what a mission meant for Simon personally. But this mission was different. Eighteen months ago, Simon had left the FBI and started a new life—volunteer

ing for Fast Rescue, making a living helping businesses and individuals plan for disasters. It wasn’t a bad life. He had a good reputation, a decent income and the kind of freedom he’d never had as a federal agent.

Enter Norman Estabrook.

To the public, Estabrook was a thrill-seeking billionaire hedge fund entrepreneur into extreme mountain climbing, high-risk ballooning, kayaking down remote, snakeinfested rivers—whatever gave him an adrenaline rush. To a tight inner circle of trusted associates, he was also at the center of a network that dealt in illegal drugs and laundered

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cash for some very nasty people. Estabrook didn’t need the money, obviously, and he sure as hell didn’t care about ad

vancing any particular cause. He liked the action. He liked thwarting authority.

In particular, Norman Estabrook liked thwarting John March.

Simon was in the perfect position to infiltrate Es

tabrook’s network, and that was what he’d done. He’d known from the beginning if Norman Estabrook was arrested as a major-league criminal—which he would be—

and Simon’s role as an undercover federal agent remained a secret, his name would still be associated with Estabrook and his criminal network. Who’d hire him for anything, never mind trust him with their lives?

If he was exposed as an FBI agent, there went that career, too.

Either way, Estabrook would want him dead. But Simon figured those were the breaks in his line of work. He stayed on his feet and noticed March did, too, the comforts of the lounge immaterial to either of them. They’d simply needed a private place to meet. Simon grinned at the no-nonsense FBI director. “If this blows up in my face, I can always become a plumber.”

“You could do worse,” March said.

“Estabrook didn’t make a fortune by being stupid.”

“You’ve done your part, Simon. You provided what we needed to unravel this bastard’s network. He’s a bad actor, and so is the company he keeps.” March gave a thin smile.

“Excluding you, of course.”

“Of course.”

“There’s nothing more you can do right now. Estabrook’s at his ranch in Montana, and he thinks you’re visiting a friend and recuperating from the Armenia mission.”

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Simon shrugged. “I tend to get into brawls when I’m at a loose end.”

“You’re not at a loose end. You’re in wait mode.”

“Same thing.”

“If there’s another disaster—”

“I wouldn’t wish a disaster on anyone just to give me something to do. Owen’s trying to get me to get involved with Fast Rescue training. Makes my eyes roll back in my head, thinking about training people to do what I already know how to do.”

March looked down, and Simon could have sworn he saw him smile. “Just do what a disaster consultant and search-and

rescue specialist would do between jobs, and you’ll be fine.”

“Will Davenport’s putting me up in London.”

“Ah. Sir Davenport. Or is it Lord Davenport?”

“One or the other. Both. Hell, I don’t know.”

March’s eyes didn’t change. Nor did his mouth. Nothing, but Simon detected a change nonetheless. Will Davenport was a wealthy Brit who believed he owed Simon his life. Maybe he did, but Simon wasn’t keeping score. Apparently Will also had a history—a less favorable one—with the FBI director. Simon didn’t know what it was and wasn’t sure he wanted to.

“I take it Davenport is unaware of your reasons for going to London.”

It was a statement, but Simon responded. “If he is, he’s keeping it to himself.”

“That’d be a first,” March said, making a move for the door. “Simon, we’ve got Estabrook, and we’ll blow open his network and save lives. A lot of lives. You know that, don’t you?”

“I do, sir. I also know Abigail’s eventually going to find out my history with you—”

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“Not your problem.”

It wasn’t that March had acted as something of a surro

gate father to Simon for the past twenty years that would get to Abigail. It was that she’d never known. At first, Simon was too caught up in his own anger and grief even to notice that March never took him to meet his family. He’d show up at Simon’s ball games—a few times at the police station, after Simon got into fights—and stay in touch with the occasional phone call. When Simon headed off to the University of Massachusetts, March paid him a couple of visits each semester, taking him out for pizza, checking in with him about grades. March never suggested the FBI as a career. He wasn’t director in those days, and when Simon decided to apply to the academy, he never dis

cussed the idea with him.

March opened the door. “Stay in touch,” he said.

“I will. By the way, do you know Keira Sullivan?”

“We’ve met. Very pretty—talented artist.”

“She found a dead guy in the Public Garden last night.”

“That was her?”

Simon didn’t know why he’d brought her up. “She’s heading to Ireland tonight to research some story about Irish brothers, fairies and a stone angel. I don’t know. I could forget Will and go chase fairies in the Irish hills—”

But he stopped, noticing a change in March’s expression.

“Something wrong?”

“I’m just preoccupied with this Estabrook thing.” He seemed to manufacture a smile. “Keira Sullivan’s a temp

tation you don’t need right now, wouldn’t you say?”

Simon didn’t answer, and March left, shutting the door sharply behind him as he went out into the hall. With a groan of pure frustration, Simon plopped down on a plush chair and lifted his feet onto a coffee table. He 70

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noticed a copy of the morning
Boston Globe
on the table. On the front page was a grainy black-and-white shot of the man who’d drowned in the Public Garden. Well off, middle

aged, no wife or children. The BPD Homicide Unit was in

vestigating, but there was no indication of foul play. Simon pictured Keira Sullivan bursting into the Beacon Hill house last night after she’d called 911. Pale, soaked, dressed like a lumberjack. Twenty minutes later, she’d floated back into the drawing room looking like a willowy Irish fairy princess herself. He admitted he was intrigued, but March had a point. Without even trying, Simon could think of about a thousand reasons why he shouldn’t waste his time indulging in fantasies about Keira Sullivan. Artist, folklorist, flake. BPD detective’s niece. Off to Ireland. She was also friends with Owen Garrison, who was already keeping what he knew about Simon from Abigail and didn’t need to worry about lying to Keira, too. Simon dropped his feet back to the lounge floor. Who was he kidding? He
was
indulging in fantasies about Keira Sullivan.

Just as well he had the trip to London. Best to find some water and a candy bar for his flight.