Simon studied the younger Rush a moment. His eyes were as green as the Irish hills where the woman he loved was being protected. “Walk out to the street with Will and give him directions to Lizzie’s place in Maine. I’ll see to the detectives.” He turned to Will. “Stay in touch.”

Without waiting for a response or pressing for more information, Simon ascended the steps back into the hotel. Jeremiah did as requested, and in ten minutes, Will was navigating a sleek, expensive sedan and the impossible Boston traffic as he found his way north to Maine.

And, he hoped, to Lizzie.

Chapter 22

Boston, Massachusetts

7:15 p.m., EDT

August 26

Fiona looked gaunt and stressed but also relieved to be back in her element. Bob watched as she and her friends set up in the bar of the Rush-owned boutique hotel on Charles Street. As far as he could tell, “boutique” meant small and expensive. He’d teased his daughter that he thought it meant a place that sold cute clothes, but she wasn’t ready to be teased. Play music, yes. Music had been her escape as well as her passion since she’d first crawled up onto a piano stool as a tot.

Bob had peeled himself away from the crime scene up on Beacon, but it was in good hands. He needed to be here, nursing a glass of water at this same table where a killer had sat across from his daughter. Lucas Jones and Tom Yarborough had questioned Fiona thoroughly. Afterward, Lucas had told Bob, “I should have asked her when she’d last talked to Abigail,” and Yarborough had told him, “She should have told us about seeing Abigail,” which summed up the differences between the two detectives. Bob had felt their suspicion drift over him like a living thing. Yarborough had even said out loud that he thought Bob was holding back on them.

Which he was. He’d kept most of his chat with Lord Davenport to himself. While not a rule-breaker by nature or conviction, Bob had learned to rely on his instincts when it came to bending the rules to get things done. Right now, they had a mess on their hands, with no trace of Abigail or word-a single crumb of hope-from her kidnappers.

He had to stop himself from picturing her and Owen in their small backyard, teasing Scoop about his garden and compost pile. For seven years, Abigail had focused on her work and finding her husband’s killer, living her life, a part of it always on hold. Then last summer, she and Owen fell for each other. They had some things to work out-houses, families, kids, careers-but they were the real thing, good together.

Now this.

Fiona’s friends were all as young as she was, nervous about the murder and the fire but determined to play, to be there for her. “Can you guys sing ‘Johnny, I Hardly Knew You’?” Bob called to them. “I used to sing that one as a kid.”

“Sing it with us, Dad,” Fiona said, her cheeks pinker now, even if only from the exertion of setting up.

Fiona had been after him to sing with her band since she’d discovered he had an okay voice. He hadn’t hid it from her. He just wasn’t that much for singing. He let them get through a few numbers on their own, then got up and sang with them. The upscale crowd seemed to enjoy themselves, like he was authentic or something-the Boston Irish cop singing an Irish tune.

When the band took a break, Fiona eased back toward him. “I’m sorry for all this, Dad.”

“I’m putting a detail on you. Deal with it.”

She nodded, not meek or acquiescent. Accepting. As if she knew he was making sense.

Relieved, Bob checked out one of the brochures she’d left on the table when she’d made her mad dash up Beacon Street, after her visit from Myles Fletcher. He hoped by their December trip things would be quieter in their lives, back to normal. They’d been magnets for trouble lately. Theresa was right, he thought. When Fiona was six, he’d had more control. His sister had told him he had to let his daughters grow up. Like he had any choice?

He noticed the brochure was of the Rush hotel in Dublin. “My grandmother used to make these little mince pies at Christmas. Melt in your mouth.” He smiled at his daughter, probably his first real smile since the bomb had gone off yesterday afternoon. “Maybe they’ll serve them at tea in Dublin.”

“The Rush hotel there serves a Christmas Eve tea,” Fiona said eagerly.

Great, he thought.

“It’s within walking distance of Brown Thomas.”

“What’s that?”

“An upscale department store on Grafton Street.”

“You’ve been memorizing maps of Dublin?”

She blushed. “You only live once, Dad.”

He admired her resiliency but knew she had to process the ordeal of the past two days. And it wasn’t over. They didn’t have Abigail. Scoop was in shreds in the hospital but would be okay. Keira was under police protection in Ireland. March’s wife in D.C. Bob’s own family here in Boston.

The bad guys were unidentified and at large.

“Have you identified the man who…” Fiona lost the color that had started back in her cheeks.

Bob understood what she was asking. “We’re still working on a name.”

“I saw the scratch on his arm, Dad. He helped kidnap Abigail, didn’t he?” Fiona flinched as if she’d been struck. “Sorry. Lucas and Detective Yarborough said I shouldn’t say that out loud.”

“It’s okay, kid.”

“What if he left her tied up somewhere?”

“He didn’t work alone. Almost certainly.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t say anything about seeing her here.”

“Abigail didn’t say anything, either, Fi. Whatever she was worried about, she probably didn’t think it was that big a deal-nothing to make someone set a bomb on her porch.”

But had Abigail come here specifically to tell his daughter to back off playing at the hotel?

If so, why?

He had about a million questions whose answers he suspected involved Lizzie Rush. She’d come to Jamaica Plain the afternoon before Abigail’s evening visit here to the Whitcomb and Morrigan’s. The next day, Lizzie Rush and Keira had called from Ireland about the bomb.

“If the man who was killed helped kidnap Abigail,” Fiona said thoughtfully, dropping into a chair opposite Bob, “why did the Brit kill him? If he’s a bad guy, too?”

“We can sit here and tick off all the possibilities. They had a spat. The Brit decided the other guy was reckless. The Brit got greedy and wanted the other guy’s cut of whatever they’re getting paid.”

“Or he didn’t kill him.”

“My point is, we don’t know. That’s why we keep plugging away at the facts and evidence.”

“Simon’s friend Will must-”

“Do you know ‘Whiskey in the Jar?’”

Fiona rolled her eyes in a way-not a bad way-that reminded him of her mother. “Of course, Dad. You’ve heard me play it a hundred times.”

“I’ve never sung it with you.”

But she wasn’t giving up. “The Brit-Fletcher-could have killed that man in self-defense, couldn’t he?”

“Yes. Whatever happened, Fi, you didn’t cause it.”

“I’m in the middle of it.”

“That’s ending now.”

For once, she didn’t argue. “How’s Keira?”

“I only talked to her a few minutes before you called me. She’s no happier about being under police protection than you are. She knows it has to be done. Simon has to concentrate on doing his job.”

“Scoop…it was hard to see him this morning.”

“You were brave to go to the hospital on your own like that. He’s doing better. He’ll make it.” Bob tried to soften his voice, but heart-to-heart talks with his daughter-with anyone-made him squirm. “Fi, Scoop’s a good guy. The best. But he’s a lot older than you. In another five years, maybe it won’t seem like so much, but right now-you should stick with guys closer to your own age. These losers here. The fiddle player. He’s not bad, right?”

She made a face. “Dad, Scoop’s just a friend.”

“Yeah? What about the fiddle player?”