“I don’t like her decisions.”

“Well, you can’t control what she does. Neither can I. We can influence but not control.”

“You been to see a shrink or something?”

She swore at him, really irritated now.

“Take Maddie and Jayne to the beach, Ter. I’ll deal with Fi.”

“She may play harp, Bob, but she’s just like you.”

“Prettier.”

“Thank God.”

“Ter?” He sighed. “I’m sorry.”

She disconnected without a word.

Yarborough appeared out of nowhere and fell in beside him. Bob frowned. “I thought you were doing something useful.”

“I decided I didn’t want to leave you alone,” Yarborough said, almost kindly, and nodded toward his car. “Come on. I’ll take you wherever you want to go.”

“The crime scene.”

“The-”

“That would be my house, Tom.”

He looked uncomfortable for a half beat. “Okay. Let’s go.”

“Abigail ever mention a small, black-haired woman to you?”

“No, why?”

“You ever see one?”

“Like, two million every time I get on the subway.”

“She’s got green eyes, too. And shin splints.”

Yarborough was staring at him as if he might have to make a detour to the psych ward, but he said, still kindly, “You can tell me about her on the way to Jamaica Plain.”

Which was when Bob knew he looked as sick and worried as he felt. But it didn’t matter. He had to stay focused and do his job.

“Abigail’s strong,” Yarborough said, all reassuring. “She’ll-”

“I’m getting my gun.”

The younger detective looked relieved. “Good idea.”

Chapter 18

Off the New England coast

Mid-day

August 26

Norman Estabrook entered the stateroom with Fletcher two steps behind him. The billionaire looked more rested, and he wasn’t wearing his porkpie hat. His light brown hair needed a trim. Abigail sat up on the sectional. She was nauseated but so far had managed to keep her food down. The wet bar was well-stocked with gourmet items, but she’d have loved a plain piece of toast.

“You’re pale,” Estabrook said. “Are you getting enough to eat?”

“Plenty.”

“Did you sleep?”

She nodded. Fitful sleep, pacing, jumping jacks, pool, a shower. She’d done what she could to maintain her energy and stay attuned to her surroundings, the voices outside her door, the comings and goings of the small boat. She’d tried to use her worsening seasickness to her advantage and let it remind her she was still alive and still wanted to feel good and enjoy life.

“Have you ever met Lizzie Rush?” Estabrook asked abruptly.

His question took Abigail by surprise, but she answered truthfully. “No, I haven’t.”

“But you’ve heard of her?”

“Her family. They own the Whitcomb Hotel in Boston.”

“She stayed with me through my arrest and my discovery of Simon’s betrayal. I haven’t heard from her since the FBI took her away. I imagine your father got to her.”

Abigail walked over to the pool table and rolled a solid blue ball into a trio of other balls. It knocked against a yellow one, bounced off the side of the table and stopped at the edge of a pocket. “I wouldn’t know,” she said without looking at either man. “Believe it or not, my father hasn’t discussed your case with me.”

“If you think referring to me as a ‘case’ will give you the upper hand, Detective, or irritate me, or make me feel bad, you’re wrong. I know I matter to your father.” Estabrook picked up the eight ball. “Lizzie grew up without a mother. Did you know that?”

“I’m not familiar with her background.” That, Abigail thought, tapping in her blue ball with the tip of her finger, was an outright lie.

Estabrook massaged the eight ball. “She’s just a few years younger than you. While you were growing up with a mother and father, Lizzie was being shuffled back and forth among various relatives. Her father traveled frequently for his work with the Rush hotels. She would stay with her uncle and aunt and their four sons in Boston, and her grandmother in Maine. Lizzie was a motherless little girl, Detective Browning.”

“You seem to know a lot about her.”

“I know a lot about everyone I have as a guest in my home.”

But Simon had fooled him, and that grated. “What happened to Lizzie’s mother?” Abigail asked, although she knew the answer to her question. Not the whole answer. Only her father would know the whole answer.

She was aware of Fletcher waiting by the door with his arms crossed on his chest. He managed somehow to look both bored and impatient.

Estabrook set the eight ball back on the table and gave it a sharp spin. “Lizzie’s mother was Irish. Shauna Morrigan Rush. She died in Dublin when Lizzie was seven months old. Her death was ruled an accident-a freak fall-but who’s to say? It’s daunting to think about the little things that can have such an impact on our lives. One wrong move on an unfamiliar cobblestone street, and your daughter’s an orphan.”

Abigail subtly held on to the edge of the table as she tried to control another wave of her persistent nausea. “Do you have plans for Lizzie? Is she helping you?”

“All in good time.”

Whatever her role, Lizzie Rush wasn’t his equal, not in his eyes. Her father was. Simon? Estabrook, Abigail thought, would take special pleasure in exacting his revenge on Simon Cahill.

Estabrook turned abruptly to Fletcher. “Continue.”

“I need you to leave,” the Brit said.

“As you wish,” he said coolly.

Fletcher lowered his arms to his sides and walked over to Abigail. He put his finger on her chin and tilted her bruised cheek toward the light. “The swelling’s down a bit.”

“I think so, too. How did you and Estabrook meet?”

“We had tea together at Buckingham Palace.”

“For all I know you’re telling the truth. You seem like a practical sort. What do you want out of this?”

“Money.”

“I have access to money. We can work out our own deal.”

“You’re feeling sick,” he said.

“I’ve turned green, have I?”

“More chartreuse.”

“Ugly color, chartreuse, but to each his own. I hope being pregnant isn’t this bad.” She gave him a faltering smile. “I want kids. Do you have any?”

His eyes went flat. “No.”

There was something there. A loss, a chance missed. “Give up Norman in exchange for cash and a safe exit back to whatever hole you crawled out of. There’ll be a reward for my safe return.”

“Mr. Estabrook has access to hundreds of millions of dollars. What do you suppose the FBI or Boston police would pay for you? Your fiancé comes from a wealthy family, but compared to Mr. Estabrook? I don’t think so, love. Sorry.”

“We can set you up with a new identity. He’d never find you. In your line of work, you must have enemies hunting you. You can make a fresh start.”

“I’ve made my choices.”

Abigail rolled a yellow ball from one end of the pool table to the other, without it hitting any other balls. “What does Estabrook want?”

Fletcher didn’t hesitate. “To kill the people who tried to destroy him.”

“It’s not that simple, and I think you know it. And no one tried to destroy him. He broke the law.” She stood up from the pool table. “He’s become more and more obsessed with thwarting my father, hasn’t he?”

“I’m afraid I’m not particularly interested in his motives.”

“He appreciates an adversary as strong as he is. He sees himself as a special person, and he wants special adversaries-such as the director of the FBI.”

Fletcher picked up a pool cue and examined the array of balls on the table.

“You’re obviously not stupid,” Abigail said. “Anyone taking the risks you’ve taken would want to be well paid.”

“You’re making assumptions that perhaps you shouldn’t.”

Without a doubt, but she said, “You should listen to me.”

He got down low, sized up the array of balls on the table. “You’re aching to shoot me and dump me overboard, aren’t you, love? I can’t say I blame you.”