“Especially if he doesn’t want to be found.”

Simon understood where Owen was headed. “ Norman gave up damning details on some very violent people who can’t be happy with him. Today’s festivities could be their work. They could be responsible for the bombs, the attack on Keira. They could have lured Norman up in his plane, or he knew they were after him and decided to disappear. He could be a target, too.”

“Is that what you believe, Simon?”

He didn’t hesitate. “No, but we have to keep an open mind.”

“Law enforcement has to consider every angle,” Owen said. “I don’t.”

“It’s also possible that Norman will return from his flight by nightfall and what happened here and in Ireland is the work of someone involved with one of Abigail’s cases, old or new-or one of Scoop’s or Bob’s. It could have something to do with you or her father. Belief only gets us so far,” Simon added. “We can’t jump the gun and miss the real bad guys because of wrong assumptions.”

“But it’s Estabrook,” Owen said.

Simon was silent a moment, then nodded.

“He obviously had help. Pulling off three simultaneous attacks within hours of his release means he must have had at least the barebones of a plan in place, probably before he was arrested. What’s the purpose, Simon? What does he want?” Owen broke off, shook his head. “You should get out of here. Go to Ireland and be with Keira.”

There wasn’t anywhere in the world Simon would rather be right now than with Keira. He thought of her in the stone circle above her cottage, a killer coming at her with a knife, and couldn’t push back a wave of regret. “If I’d gone fishing with Will Davenport in Scotland in June instead of coming here to Boston, none of you would be in the middle of this mess. Keira would be safe.”

“Or dead,” John March said bluntly, entering the room. More FBI agents crowded into the foyer but kept a reasonable distance. “That serial killer was already interested in her Irish story and would have had free rein if you hadn’t been in her life. Who’s to say what would have happened? And Keira’s safe now.”

But Abigail, his daughter, wasn’t. Genuinely shaken, Simon wished he could melt into the cracks in the floor. “I have no right when you and Owen…” He didn’t finish his thought.

“You have every right,” March said. “Estabrook’s gone after the people closest to us. He doesn’t want them.”

Simon nodded. “I know. He wants us.”

“And he doesn’t just want us dead. I could handle straightforward revenge, but he wants us to suffer first.” March looked at his future son-in-law. “Owen, I don’t know what to say.”

“I want to go after her, John.”

“No. It’s too risky. We don’t know enough. Work with us. Maybe you saw something, or Abigail said something…” March stopped abruptly, his expression tight, controlled, a reminder that he’d worked in law enforcement for almost forty years. “Abigail wouldn’t want you to go solo, either.”

“Then let me go to Montana and help look for this bastard. I can find his plane. I have search-and-rescue teams ready to go.”

March sighed. “Someone-undoubtedly the man you want to fly to Montana and find-tried to kill you today. You do know that, don’t you?”

“I was warned in time. I found the bomb. I’m alive.” Owen walked over to the tall windows that looked out on Beacon Street and across to Boston Common. “I’m not dwelling on what might have happened.”

“Crews are searching for Estabrook now.”

Owen glanced back at March. “Not my crews.”

Neither Simon nor March responded.

Simon joined his friend at the windows. Pedestrians passed by on the street-tourists, students, state workers, business people. “I’ve been trying to understand Norman ’s thinking for a year. He faces death to feel alive.” Simon hesitated, then said, looking back at March, “He thwarts authority to feel alive.”

“Why me, Simon?” March asked quietly.

It was Owen who answered. “He sees you as an equal. Equals are rare in his universe. Everyone else is a lesser mortal to him, but you…” He shrugged. “You’re the head of the most powerful law enforcement agency in the world.”

The FBI director, who’d been a surrogate father to Simon since his own father had died twenty years ago, joined them at the windows. As March stared outside, Simon could feel the older man’s pain, his fear for his daughter. His emotion was almost unbearable to witness.

“I’m not wealthy,” March said finally. “I don’t go on high-risk adventures. I’m just a cop. That’s it. Whether I’m on a beat here in Boston or in an office in Washington, I’m still just a cop doing a job.”

Simon shook his head. “Not in Norman ’s eyes. You’re a challenge. He wants you as an enemy. Going up against you and the entire FBI is another way for him to face death.”

Owen turned from the windows. “He’d rather die in action than wither away in a prison cell.”

“That works for me,” March said. “My wife’s under protection in Washington. You two should be, too. Turn yourselves over to agents. Let us see to your safety.”

“I’ll work with the FBI and help in any way I can,” Owen said stiffly, “but I’ll see to my own safety.”

Simon’s eyebrows went up. “You’re kidding, John, right? I spent a year with Norman and his drug-trafficking pals without a net. Now you’re worried?”

“Simon…”

“Forget it. I’m working this investigation now that Keira’s in safe hands.”

He didn’t go into more detail. Will Davenport was in Ireland, and he and March had a history, not a good one. Simon didn’t know the specifics but suspected their animosity went back to Afghanistan and how and why Will had ended up trapped in a cave with two of his men dead, a third dragged off by enemy fighters. Simon had been there himself on assignment for the FBI. He suspected his reasons for being near the cave were at least marginally related to Will’s reasons, but the Brits had clammed up after the tragic loss of three of their own-or at least had clammed up to him. Maybe not to March.

Simon saw that March was scrutinizing him with an expression that was more cop than friend or father figure, and he knew his comment had sparked the FBI director’s interest.

Time to make his exit.

He clapped a hand on Owen’s shoulder, nodded to March and left without saying anything else. What more was there to say? He headed into the foyer and down the front steps onto the wide sidewalk. A half-dozen fellow FBI agents and BPD officers watched him, and he wondered if they had orders to make sure he didn’t go off on his own.

Too bad if they did.

The air was warm, even hot, in the fading afternoon. He thought of Will’s description of the woman who’d intercepted the man sent to attack Keira in Ireland. “Long, straight black hair and light green eyes,” Will had said. “She’s small, but very fast and self-assured. I saw her tackle Murphy from a distance. She had him on the ground, his own knife to his throat, before I’d cleared the fence. Who do you suppose she is, Simon?”

He’d said he had no idea, which was true.

Now, he wasn’t so sure. A woman did come to mind, but it made no sense at all.

Lizzie Rush, kicking ass in an Irish stone circle?

She was one of the many high-end members of Norman ’s entourage who’d claimed to be shocked by his illegal activities.

The FBI agent who’d interviewed Lizzie after Norman ’s arrest had described her to Simon. “Clueless. A little annoyed. Very eager to get back to her reprobate daddy in Las Vegas.”

The last time Simon had run into her, she was wearing a slim, expensive black dress with a bottle of water and a martini at her elbow as she’d amused herself at a cocktail party at Norman ’s Cabo San Lucas estate. Afterward, she, Norman and Simon had discussed preliminary plans for a Costa Rican adventure. She obviously knew her business, if not what her financial-genius friend was up to.