“I don’t know. I hope not.”

“She can kick butt with the best of them. She’s practiced on all of us. She bloodied my brother Jeremiah’s nose last New Year’s.”

“Your family was gathered for New Year’s? Where?”

“Vegas. All of us, including Uncle Harlan.”

“Your hotel’s very comfortable,” Will said, rising, “and you did your job. You delayed me.”

Justin got to his feet. “You wanted to learn more about Lizzie.”

Will saw the unease in the young Rush’s expression. “Justin, is your family worried about her?”

“Doesn’t much matter, does it? Lizzie thinks she’s on her own.”

Will had his own experience with worried family members left behind, but he was a professional officer. Lizzie Rush, clearly, was not. He said quietly, “I’m not going to hurt her.”

“But will you help her?”

“If I can. If she’ll let me.”

“Sometimes I think she likes living dangerously.”

“Perhaps she’s merely trying to do what she can to help with a difficult situation and leave her family out of it.” Will didn’t wait for a reply. “You’ve given your cousin sufficient time to get to the airport. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Justin. If you’re ever in London, look me up.”

He frowned, scrutinizing Will a moment, then sighed. “I don’t start work until later. Come on, I’ll drive you to the airport myself. You’re chasing Lizzie to Boston, right?”

“I already have a flight arranged.”

“Your own plane?”

Will didn’t answer.

“Oh, that’s good-you flying a private jet across the Atlantic and Lizzie stuck in coach with her deck of cards.” Justin laughed. “That’ll teach her to sneak off.”

En route to the airport, Will learned a few more tidbits. Lizzie’s full name was Elizabeth Brigid Rush. Her mother was born Shauna Morrigan. “There are family rumors about Aunt Shauna,” Justin said. “My brother Jeremiah is convinced she spied on the Boston Irish mob.”

“This was before she married your uncle?”

“Jeremiah thinks so. Who knows? There are family rumors about Uncle Harlan, too.” Justin grinned as he pulled into the airport. “Now I’ve gone too far. For all I know, you’re a British spy.”

Indeed, Will thought, deciding he liked Justin Rush.

Chapter 17

Boston, Massachusetts

8 a.m., EDT

August 26

Bob felt the metal bars under the thin mattress as he rolled onto his back, reminding him that he’d spent the night on the pullout sofa in his niece’s attic apartment in the Garrison house. Sunlight streamed through lace curtains Keira had bought in Ireland. He draped an arm over his eyes to block out the sun and slumped deeper into what passed for a bed. His feet hung off the end. He hadn’t wanted to sleep. He’d still be at BPD headquarters now if Tom Yarborough hadn’t all but put a gun to his head and dragged him to Beacon Hill.

Yarborough had probably gone right back to work.

Bob adjusted his position and got another poke in the back. Everyone had offered him a place to stay. Theresa, Lucas Jones, even Yarborough. Hell, the mayor and the commissioner would have put him up for the night if he’d asked. Easier to stay in his niece’s vacant apartment with her pictures of Irish fairies and cottages, her books of folktales and poetry.

Simon and March had an FBI detail looking after their safety. Neither liked it or had wanted to sleep any more than Bob had. Simon, in particular, wanted to chase Estabrook on his own, but not only did he have a giant target painted on his back, he would be more help to Abigail working the investigation than going solo. He knew Estabrook, his contacts, how he thought, places he liked, places he’d been or had talked about. If he could hide millions for drug traffickers, he could hide himself.

Someone would have paged or called or shouted up the stairs if Estabrook or his plane had turned up, but Bob checked his messages, anyway.

Nothing.

He walked to the window in his undershorts and pulled back the Irish lace curtains, grimacing when he saw that the protective detail the commissioner insisted be put on his chief homicide detective was still down there. Waste of manpower as far as Bob was concerned. He’d rather have them out looking for Abigail and the bombers, but he didn’t have a choice.

He headed for the bathroom and took a shower, using Keira’s almond soap, which wasn’t as girlie as he’d feared. He’d managed to grab a couple changes of clothes out of his apartment. They didn’t smell too sooty to him, but they might to someone else. Not his problem.

Yarborough met him downstairs. He was as straight-backed as ever but looked raw around the edges. He’d never say the tension was getting to him, but Bob wouldn’t, either. “Morning, Lieutenant. You sleep?”

“Like a baby. You?”

“Some.”

Bob squinted across Beacon at the Common, all dappled shade on a sunny summer morning. It’d be another hot day. “Did you find Abigail and just not want to wake me?”

“No. Sorry.”

The guy had no sense of irony. Bob turned back to him. “What’s going on? Why are you here?”

Yarborough rubbed the back of his neck. He was a cool, controlled type, but right now, he looked miserable. “Fiona refused police protection this morning and cleared out of her mother’s house. She’s over eighteen. We can’t force her.”

“I can. Where is she?”

Yarborough didn’t answer.

“You don’t know, or you don’t want to tell me?”

“ATF wants to put her under surveillance.”

“My daughter?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“They think she could have seen something here yesterday morning and she just doesn’t realize it.”

“Big difference between protection and surveillance,” Bob said, stony. “The feds don’t call the shots when it comes to my family. Where’s Fi now?”

“I don’t know. In my opinion-” Yarborough abandoned his thought. “Never mind.”

Bob glared at him. “In your opinion, what?”

Yarborough sighed and looked out at the Common. “I got the feeling when we interviewed her that she’s holding back.”

“What do you mean, holding back? Holding back what?”

The younger detective didn’t flinch at Bob’s tone. “I don’t know. Lucas thought so, too.” Like Bob wouldn’t kill him if Lucas agreed. “We think she’s got something on her mind, but she’s not sure it’s relevant. She’s afraid of getting someone into trouble or wasting our time.”

Bob didn’t respond as he considered what Yarborough was saying.

Yarborough rubbed the side of his mouth with one finger. “I’m not criticizing her.”

“Yeah. It’s okay. I’m not armed. Not yet.” Bob fished out his cell phone and tried Fiona’s number, but he got her voice mail. He left a message and tried texting her. “I hate these damn buttons. My fingers are too big. I can’t see the screen.” He messed up and had to start over. “Fi’s fast, but little Jayne-she’s a whiz. Her teacher has the students leave their cell phones in a box when they come to class. Eleven years old, and they all have cell phones. Where’s the money coming from? When I was a kid, we had one phone in the house. It was a big deal when the first family on the street got an extension.”

“It’s called progress, Lieutenant,” Yarborough said.

“It’s called kids texting their friends spelling words and the capital of Wisconsin. Or don’t kids take tests anymore?” Bob managed to type in “call me” and hit some other damn button to send the thing. “I’m going to the hospital to visit Scoop. Ten to one Fiona’s there. Any update on his condition?”

Yarborough was expressionless. “He’s alive.” He looked at Bob in the uncompromising way he had. “I’ll drive you over there.”

No way of talking him out of it. Bob gestured to the uniformed officers. “Tell them to go to work.”

“Lieutenant-”

“Never mind. I’ll do it.”

Yarborough raised a hand, stopping him. He walked over to the cruiser, said a few words, then rejoined Bob. “Let’s go,” he said tightly.