“Him, too. Besides, Scoop’s got a thing for Keira.”

“You see too much. Play your music.”

She returned to her friends on the small stage and picked up her harp. They had a half-dozen different instruments among the three of them and would switch off depending on the number. They all could sing.

Bob walked up to the lobby to Lizzie Rush’s cousin Jeremiah at the reception desk. Tom Yarborough and Lucas Jones had already interviewed him and said he was smart, clever and creative. Too creative, Yarborough had said, convinced the kid knew more than he was admitting. He wasn’t lying, just parsing his answers-which Yarborough always took as a challenge.

“Talk to me about Abigail Browning,” Bob said to the young Rush.

He scooped a few envelopes to stack. “She was here last week and again two nights ago.”

“She? Not they?”

“Correct. She was alone both times.”

“Irish music night?”

“Every night is Irish music night, but her first visit was in the afternoon. She had tea.”

“Formal tea or like a tea bag hanging out of a cup?”

“Something in between.”

“What about your cousin?”

“My cousin?”

Playing dumb. “Lizzie. The one who just found a dead guy up the street.”

Jeremiah maintained his composure. “She’s often in Boston. Our hotel offices are here.”

“Right. So how much has she been in town since June?”

“On and off. Not so much in July. Almost constantly in August. She was working with our concierge services on new excursions. That’s her area of expertise. But she spent time on her own.”

“Spying on Abigail?”

He paled a little and gave up on his stack of envelopes. “I didn’t say that.”

“Okay, so back to Abigail. How did you recognize her?”

“Garrisons have stayed here. They book rooms at the hotel for their annual meeting and various functions for the Dorothy Garrison Foundation and Fast Rescue. Abigail’s been here for those, but she’s also John March’s daughter.” Jeremiah stopped himself, as if he knew he’d gone too far.

Bob tilted his head back. There was something about the way Jeremiah had said March’s name. “You know Director March?”

“Not me. Not personally.”

“But you’ve seen him,” Bob said, getting now what Yarborough meant about dealing with Jeremiah Rush. If all the Rushes were like him, Yarborough would go crazy. “When?”

“He comes here once a year. It’s a long-standing tradition.”

“What, he got married at the Whitcomb or something? He and his wife have their anniversary dinner here every year?”

“No.” The kid looked as if he wished he’d kept his mouth shut. “He has a drink at Morrigan’s.”

“He comes alone?”

“Yes, always.”

“When?”

“Late August, so around now.”

“Whoa. How long has this been going on?”

Jeremiah glanced at his desk. “I should get back to work. Reporters have been calling-”

“They’ll keep calling, don’t worry. So, how long?”

“I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“Well, you did. How long, Mr. Rush?”

The kid licked his lips. “At least thirty years. Since before I was born.”

Thirty years ago, March was a BPD detective, and Bob was a twenty-year-old kid in South Boston, the son of a cop who wanted nothing more than to be a homicide detective. “What’s this tradition about?”

“I don’t know for a fact, but whatever it’s about, it’s always struck me as a private matter.”

“Something to do with Lizzie or her dad?”

Jeremiah rubbed a smudge on his desk.

“You have an idea,” Bob said, no intention of backing off.

“An idea,” he said, “isn’t fact.”

“Do you Rushes ever tell the whole story about anything?”

“Fiona’s excited about her trip to Ireland,” Jeremiah said with a fake smile. “My dad wants to invite her and her party to something special at our hotel there-depending on what she wants to do.”

“Shop, listen to music and have high tea. She talk to Lizzie about Ireland?”

“Some. Maybe. I don’t know.”

“When I was a kid, your pub downstairs was this WASP bastion. When did you decide to convert it to an Irish pub and call it Morrigan’s?”

Jeremiah looked as if he wanted to melt into the woodwork. He gave up on the smudge. “It was after Lizzie’s mother died. Her name was Morrigan.”

“And what happened to her?”

This time, the kid didn’t flinch. He seemed to know Bob had him now and he might as well give up the rest. “She tripped on a cobblestone in Dublin.”

“Dublin,” Bob said.

“It was an accident,” Jeremiah Rush said.

Before Bob could drag the rest out of the kid, syllable by syllable if necessary, John March walked into the lobby, surrounded by FBI agents.

His teeth clenched, Bob kept his eyes on the young Rush. “You have a quiet room where Director March and I can talk?”

“Yes. The police watching your daughter-”

“Aren’t moving. The rate things are going, people will like having a police presence. Won’t hurt business.”

“We all just want Fiona and her friends to be safe.”

Jeremiah Rush seemed perfectly sincere. He pointed to the stairs that curved up to a balconied second floor. “Please feel free to use the Frost Room.”

“Named after a relative or the weather?”

“The poet.”

While March stood back, not saying a word, Bob suggested the FBI director’s entourage go up and sweep for bombs, bugs, spies, God knew what. He took the half flight of stairs down to Fiona and told her and the officers on her detail where he’d be. He said on the mezzanine level with Director March. He didn’t say he’d be prying the truth out of an old friend accustomed to keeping his mouth shut.

He returned to the lobby level, and he and March headed up to the elegant, wood-paneled Frost Room. Most of its furnishings looked as if they’d been carted up from the old bar. Musty books on shelves, dark oil paintings of dour men, pewter Paul Revere could have made. Somehow, the place managed not to be stuffy. But Bob didn’t want to try to figure out the Rushes and their approach to hotel decorating.

He turned to his old friend, standing over by a coat of arms. “Ever think you’d be a knight in shining armor?”

March shook his head. “No.”

“Me, neither,” Bob sighed. “You haven’t been straight with me, John.”

“I’ve told you what I know.”

“Nah. That’s never the case with you. You’ve told me what you thought was relevant. You haven’t asked too much about Will Davenport. Our Brit. You know him.”

It wasn’t a question, but March said, “I know that he and Simon are friends, but Davenport and I have never met.”

A careful answer. “He’s a lord. Son of a British noble-a marquess or something. Sounds like it should be a woman, doesn’t it?”

March gave him the barest flicker of a smile, his dark eyes racked with emotional pain. “Bob, whatever I can do to find Abigail-whatever you think I can tell you-just say it.”

“We’re both on edge,” Bob said with some sympathy. “Can Davenport find Abigail?”

“He’ll do what he can to help. For her sake, and for Simon’s.”

“Not for yours,” Bob said.

The FBI director kept his gaze steady. “No. I suspect he believes I withheld-personally withheld-information that ended in tragedy for his men.”

“What do you believe about him?”

“The same.”

“The other Brit?”

“I don’t know who he is.”

“Cagey answer, John. The fine print reads: you don’t know but you have an idea.”

“My speculation won’t help you.”

March abandoned the armor and walked over to a wall of books. Several were collections of Robert Frost poetry. Bob noticed that the FBI director’s suit was expensive and neatly pressed, but the man inside it seemed to shrink into its folds.

“There are days I wish I’d become a poet,” March said, turning away from the shelves. “You, Bob?”

“Nope. I like being a cop and asking tough questions. What do you know about Lizzie Rush?”