Carla Neggers's Blog, page 24
November 24, 2014
A writing life can get out of whack
This is my short essay on enjoying my writing life, included in WRITES OF PASSAGE, an outstanding collection of essays on the writer’s journey put together by Sisters in Crime and published by Henery Press.
“I’m one of those writers who loves to write. It was the joy of writing that prompted me to climb a tree with a pad and pen as a kid and sit up on my favorite branch to spin stories. Sixty-plus books later, I love to write as much as ever. That doesn’t mean it’s always easy. A writing life can get out of whack for any number of reasons. No writer I know is immune, including me. So, I asked myself what do I do that allows me to enjoy writing as much now as when I was a kid? Is there any one thing? Any one practice? The answer is yes: I make time for “discovery.”
A few years ago, I took off to Ireland for my own personal writing retreat. It was a spur-of-the-moment trip. Next thing I knew, there I was, alone in a tiny cottage on the southwest Irish coast with my pads and pens, figuring out how to light a turf fire on a rainy, chilly autumn night. My Irish sojourn wasn’t a getaway to meet a tight deadline, and it wasn’t a vacation. It was three weeks I set aside for creative discovery—for consciously and intentionally standing back from producing, doing, inventing, measuring, making things happen. It was time away from the usual walls: page counts, word counts, hours-at-writing counts. It was time away from the external lures and pressures of publishing, platforms, website updates, reviews, Facebook, Twitter, wandering on the internet.
My cottage made setting these boundaries for myself easier: it had no wifi and only limited (and expensive!) “data roaming” access. I had to walk into the village to get on the internet. The five-hour time difference between Ireland and the East Coast also worked in my favor. There’s magic in being fully present in the moment, whether it’s on the page at hand, or whether it’s walking in the Irish hills, listening to sheep baaing in a green field or watching a rainbow arc over the bay.
Those three weeks in Ireland crystalized for me just how important discovery is in my creative life. I have always given myself time away from “producing” and “doing,” whether it’s an afternoon walk, an internet blackout, not counting words and pages—or another getaway to an Irish cottage. Discovery is what sharpens, greases and fires up our creative gears, our senses, our powers of observation, our openness, even our trust in whatever drove us to write in the first place. For me, it’s the foundation of creativity, and it’s essential to the joy of writing.”
Enjoy your day!
Carla
November 14, 2014
Wandering in Ireland…on my desktop
I’m cleaning my office (Saturday!) and decided to change my desktop photo. Sometimes I keep my desktop blank to eliminate any distractions, but most of the time I enjoy a reminder of places I love. I tend to type in ‘full screen’ mode with a black background, so the photo only shows up when I’m doing other things.
Think I’ll go with the one of the lake we hiked along in Killarney, a popular route for good reason! Our daughter, son-in-law and their two little ones joined us. It’s a great memory as we dive into the New England winter.
But I love the spring flowers, too. 
Have a great weekend, everyone!
Carla
November 6, 2014
Misty Maine
We love our foggy, misty Maine days and got to experience a couple on our recent trip to Acadia National Park. We hiked along the coast past famous Thunder Hole. So beautiful! I never know what ideas might start percolating on such walks.
October 28, 2014
Autumn in Maine
Joe and I recently visited Acadia National Park in Maine. We’ve hiked there many times but never in autumn. So beautiful! More inspiration for my Sharpe & Donovan series.
Autumn in Acadia National Park, Maine
Jordan Pond trail, Acadia National Park, Maine
September 16, 2014
Q&A with Reading Frenzy
I had a chance to chat with Debbie Haupt at Reading Frenzy. We covered a lot of ground! You can check out our Q&A here.
Take care!
Carla
August 28, 2014
HARBOR ISLAND is out!
We’re celebrating here on our hilltop in Vermont. It’s always so exciting to have a new book hit the shelves, so to speak. In HARBOR ISLAND, FBI agents Emma Sharpe and Colin Donovan are back in Boston after several weeks in Ireland that started out with a romantic getaway and ended with…well, trouble. That trouble follows them home when Emma discovers the body of a woman on a small island in Boston Harbor. In the woman’s hand is a Celtic stone cross, the signature of an elusive thief the FBI and the Sharpes have been chasing for a decade.
While Emma and Colin search for answers in Boston and Maine, their boss, Matt Yankowski, is in Dublin looking for information on the thief and dealing with his missing, and estranged, wife, Lucy. My husband and I are just back from an extended trip to England and Ireland for research, writing, hiking and the occasional ‘taoscan’ of whiskey. We spent most of our time on the southwest Irish coast (where Emma and Colin sneaked away to a cottage owned by Irish priest Finian Bracken!), but we spent a few days in lively Dublin. I’ve mentioned the “doors of Dublin.”
Here are a few photos we took.
The best part of our trip, though, was introducing little Leo and Oona to Ireland. Here’s a picture of Oona with me at low tide. Life doesn’t get any better!
I hope you enjoy HARBOR ISLAND and these last days of summer. Hard to believe we’re starting to see red leaves on some of the trees…
Happy reading,
Carla
August 27, 2014
ECHO LAKE
January 27, 2015
Mass Market Paperback eBook | Audio
A Swift River Valley Novel
Pre-Order:
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In snowy Swift River Valley, unexpected romance is just around the corner…
Heather Sloan has landed her dream job—the renovation of Vic Scarlatti’s stately 1912 country home overlooking the icy waters of Echo Lake in Knights Bridge, Massachusetts. It’s the perfect project for the family business, but for once, Heather is in charge.
Diplomatic Security Service agent Brody Hancock left Knights Bridge at eighteen, a few steps ahead of arrest and the wrath of Heather’s older brothers. Though Brody had never planned to return, Vic, a retired diplomat and friend, needs his help.
Staying at Vic’s guest house makes it impossible to avoid running into a Sloan at every turn—especially Heather. Seeing her again has affected Brody more than he wants to admit. But Heather is wary of Brody’s sudden interest in her, and she suspects there’s more to his homecoming than he’s letting on….
Set against the scenic backdrop of a New England winter, Echo Lake is a captivating tale of family, friends and the possibility of new love
Don’t Miss the rest of the Swift River Valley Series!
eNovella prequel
Series Book #1
Series Book #2
Series Book #3
In SECRETS OF THE LOST SUMMER, the first book in CARLA NEGGERS’ contemporary Swift River Valley Series, the New York Times bestselling author takes readers home—to the New England Swift River Valley of her youth. An engaging contemporary romance.”—Publishers Weekly
Neggers captures readers’ attention with her usual flair and brilliance and gives us a romance, a mystery and a lesson in history. She also presents breathtaking views of a real New England past and present, characters who stay with us long after we close the book and more than one romance. Her story will engage readers all the way through.” —RT BOOK REVIEWS, Top Pick!
CHRISTMAS AT CARRIAGE HILL
December 1, 2014
On Sale (online only)
A Swift River Valley eNovella
Pre-Order:
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Celebrate the holidays with this magical Swift River Valley novella
When fashion designer Alexandra Rankin Hunt is asked to create the dresses for Olivia Frost’s Christmas wedding in tiny Knights Bridge, Massachusetts, she jumps at the chance. She’s certain she’ll never get to design one for herself—not with her history of falling for the wrong men. Ian Mabry, the sexy fighter pilot whose bravery reminded her of her beloved great-grandfather, was the worst yet.
To Alexandra’s surprise, Ian is also at Carriage Hill, Olivia’s picturesque country inn. And if anyone can charm his way into a wedding, it’s him. Ian wants more than an invitation—he’s determined to find a way back into Alexandra’s life.
Don’t miss ECHO LAKE, the next novel in Carla Neggers’ unforgettable Swift River Valley series.
Don’t Miss the rest of the Swift River Valley Series!
Series Book #1
Series Book #2
Series Book #3
Series Book #4
In SECRETS OF THE LOST SUMMER, the first book in CARLA NEGGERS’ contemporary Swift River Valley Series, the New York Times bestselling author takes readers home—to the New England Swift River Valley of her youth.
An engaging contemporary romance.”—Publishers Weekly
Neggers captures readers’ attention with her usual flair and brilliance and gives us a romance, a mystery and a lesson in history. She also presents breathtaking views of a real New England past and present, characters who stay with us long after we close the book and more than one romance. Her story will engage readers all the way through.” —RT BOOK REVIEWS, Top Pick!
STONEBROOK COTTAGE
On Sale Now
Mass Market Paperback Reissue
The Carriage House Series
Book Three
Order:
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When everyone is keeping secrets, it’s impossible to know who to trust.
To put her life back in perspective, Kara Galway has moved home to Texas after years in New England. The up-and- coming defense attorney intends to concentrate on her career and spend time with her Texas Ranger brother. But fate has something else in store.
While Kara is devastated to learn her former mentor, Connecticut governor Mike Parisi, has died suddenly, she’s pleased for her best friend, Allyson Stockwell, the new governor. Then Allyson’s children show up at Kara’s Texas home. They are terrified—and hiding something. Afraid for themselves and their mother, they are certain the circumstances of Mike’s death are suspicious.
Kara must return with the children to Allyson’s home, Stonebrook Cottage, to unravel what exactly is going on. Are the children really in danger? What secret is Allyson hiding? And then there’s Sam Temple, the Texas Ranger Kara has fallen head over heels in love with. Sam has followed her to Connecticut and has no intention of leaving without her. Kara must uncover the truth if she is going to protect the people she loves.
Read Excerpt
Chapter One
Big Mike Parisi was the first-term governor of Connecticut and a dead man. He knew it even before he hit the water.
He couldn’t swim, an embarrassment not a half-dozen people knew.
His big, tough body belly-flopped into the water of his elegant pool and dropped hard and deep, hitting the blue-painted bottom that so beautifully reflected the summer sky. He managed to push up off the bottom and out of the water and yell for help.
“I can’t swim!” No help would come. His voice barely rose above the gurgling fountain halfway down the classic, kidney-shaped pool. His own damn fault. He’d refused to let his state trooper bodyguards out back with him. If I get stung by a bee, I’ll yell bloody murder. You’ll hear me. What the hell else could happen?
Someone could try to kill him. He’d rented a house for the summer in Bluefield, a picturesque town in northwest Connecticut. Stockwell country. People assumed he wanted to be close to his lieutenant governor, Allyson Lourdes Stockwell, so they could strategize. The truth was, he was worried about her. Allyson had problems. Big problems.
Hadn’t occurred to Big Mike to worry about himself.
“Help!” As he splashed and kicked, he saw the bluebird that he’d been trying to save. It was barely alive, soaked in the chlorinated water,slowly being sucked toward the pool filter.
They were both doomed, him and the bluebird. It was a juvenile, its feathers still speckled. It looked as if it had a broken leg. It couldn’t have been in the water long.
Clever. His death would look like an accident. Michael Joseph Parisi drowned this afternoon in his swimming pool apparently while trying to rescue an injured bluebird …
Christ. He’d look like an idiot. Some murdering son of a bitch had dumped the bird in the deep end, knowing he’d bend over and try to scoop it up. Bluebirds were his hobby, his passion since his wife died six years ago. They’d had no children. His desire to help restore the Eastern bluebird population in Connecticut and his personal interest in bluebirds weren’t a secret.
Not like not knowing how to swim. That was a secret. Hell, everyone knew how to swim.
His mother had regularly dumped his ass in the lake as a kid, trying to get him to learn. It didn’t work. She’d had to get his brother to fish him out.
Was the bastard who’d planted the bluebird watching him flail and yell?
It’d look like a goddamn accident. Rage consumed him, forced him up out of the water, yelling, swearing, pushing for the edge of the pool. It was so damn close. Why couldn’t he reach it? What the hell was he doing wrong? He could hear his mother yelling at him. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Michael, you’re such a wienie. Swim, for the love of God.
These days a mother like Marianne Parisi would be arrested for child abuse or put on pills or something. Total nutcase, his mother was, though she meant well. She died of a stroke when Mike was twenty-four, still thinking her second son would never amount to shit.
The pool water filled his nose and mouth, burned his eyes. He coughed, choking, taking in even more water. He couldn’t breathe.
There’d be a lot of crocodile tears at his funeral. Allyson would do fine as governor …
Who the hell was he kidding? Allyson had her head in the sand. He’d tried to help her, and he knew that was why he was drowning now.
Murdered. They’d have to cut him open. They’d find out he hadn’t hit his head or had a heart attack or a stroke. He’d drowned. The autopsy wouldn’t pick up where he’d been poked in the ass. It’d felt like a stick or a pole or something. The pool was fenced in, but the deep end backed up to the woods. His murderer could have hid there and waited for Mike to come outside, then tossed in the bluebird when he had his back turned.
Easier to shoot him, but that wouldn’t have looked like an accident.
He stopped yelling. He stopped flailing. The faces of the living and the dead jumbled together in his head, and he couldn’t distinguish which was which, couldn’t tell which he was. Thoughts and memories, sounds came at him in a whirl. He could see bluebirds all around him, dozens of them, iridescent in the sunlight.
Ah, Mike, you had it good…. But all of that was done now. He prayed the way he’d learned in catechism class so long ago.
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee … His mother came into the bright light now, shaking her head, not with disgust this time, but with love and bemusement, as if she hadn’t expected him so soon. His wife was there, too, smiling as she had on their wedding day thirty years ago.
They held out their hands, and Big Mike laughed and walked toward his wife and his mother, and the bluebirds, into the light.
* * *
Austin was in the grip of its fifteenth consecutive day of ninety-plus-degree weather, a quality of Texas summers Kara Galway had almost forgotten about during her years up north. Even with air-conditioning, she was aware of the blistering temperatures and blamed the heat for her faint nausea. The heat and the seafood tacos she’d had for lunch.
Not Sam Temple. He was another possibility for her queasy stomach, but not one she wanted to consider.
She’d been putting in long hours since Big Mike’s death two weeks ago, but memories of their long friendship would sneak up on her no matter how deep she buried herself in her legal work. Kara had met him through her friend Allyson Lourdes Stockwell, now the governor of Connecticut. She and Kara had gone to law school together, before Allyson’s husband died of cancer and left her with two toddlers to raise on her own.
Excerpted from Stonebrook Cottage by Carla Neggers Copyright © 2002 by Harlequin Enterprises Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Don’t Miss the rest of The Carriage House Series!
Click on covers for more details!
Series Book #1 (reissue)
Available Now!
Series Book #2
Available Now
Series Book #4
Reissue due May 2015
HARBOR ISLAND
On sale August 26
Hardcover, eBook, Audio
A Sharpe & Donovan Novel
Harlequin MIRA Hardcover
Order this Book:
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Listen to an
Audio Excerpt
In this vivid and suspenseful addition to her widely acclaimed Sharpe & Donovan series, New York Times bestselling author Carla Neggers takes readers on a heart-stopping journey from Boston to Ireland to the rocky coast of Maine.
Emma Sharpe, granddaughter of world- renowned art detective Wendell Sharpe, is a handpicked member of a small Boston- based FBI team. For the past decade Emma and her grandfather have been trailing an elusive serial art thief. The first heist was in Ireland, where an ancient Celtic cross was stolen. Now the Sharpes receive a replica of the cross after every new theft—reminding them of their continued failure to capture their prey.
When Emma receives a message that leads her to the body of a woman on a small island in Boston Harbor, she finds the victim holding a small, cross-inscribed stone—one she recognizes all too well. Emma’s fiancé, FBI deep-cover agent Colin Donovan, is troubled that she’s gone off to the island alone, especially given the deadly turn the thief has taken. But as they dig deeper they are certain there is more to this murder than meets the eye.
As the danger escalates, Emma and Colin must also face do-or-die questions about their relationship. While there’s no doubt they are in love, can they give their hearts and souls to their work and have anything left for each other? There’s one thing Emma and Colin definitely agree on: before they can focus on their future, they must outwit one of the smartest, most ruthless killers they’ve ever encountered.
Includes a bonus story, ROCK POINT, a Sharpe & Donovan prequel novella!
Read Excerpt
Boston, Massachusetts
As she wound down her run on the Boston waterfront, Emma Sharpe could feel the effects ofjet lag in every stride. Three days home from Dublin, she was still partly on Irish time and had awakened early on the cool November Saturday. She’d strapped her snub-nosed .38 onto her hip, slipped into her worn-out running shoes and was off. With less than a half mile left in her five-mile route, she was confident she hadn’t been followed. Not that as an art-crimes specialist she was an expert at spotting a tail, but she was an FBI agent and knew the basics.
Matt Yankowski, the special agent in charge of the small Boston-based unit Emma had joined in March, hadn’t minced words when he’d addressed his agents yesterday on a video conference call. “This Sharpe thief knows who we are. He knows where we work. It’s also possible he knows where we live. If he doesn’t, he could be trying to find out. Be extra vigilant.” Yank had looked straight at Emma. “Especially you, Emma.”
Yes. Especially her.
This Sharpe thief.
Well, it was true. She was, after all, the granddaughter of Wendell Sharpe, the octogenarian private art detective who had been on the trail of this particular serial art thief for a decade. Her brother, Lucas, now at the helm of Sharpe Fine Art Recovery, was also deeply involved in the stepped-up search for their thief, a clever, brazen individual—probably a man—who had managed to elude capture since his first heist in a small village on the south Irish coast.
Emma slowed her pace and turned onto the wharf where she had a small, ground-level apartment in a three-story brick building that had once been a produce warehouse. Her front windows looked out on a marina that shared the wharf. A nice view, but people passing by to get to their boats would often stop outside her windows for a chat, a cigarette, a phone call. Although she’d grown up on the water in southern Maine, she hadn’t expected her Boston apartment to be such a fishbowl when she’d snapped it up in March, weeks before the boating season.
Had the thief peeked in her windows one day?
She ducked into her apartment, expecting to find Colin still in bed or on the sofa drinking coffee. Special Agent Colin Donovan. A deep-cover agent, another Mainer and her fiancé as of four days ago. He’d proposed to her in a Dublin pub. “Emma Sharpe, I’m madly in love with you, and I want to be with you forever.”
She smiled at the memory as she checked the cozy living area, bedroom and bathroom. Colin wasn’t anywhere in the 300-square-foot apartment they now more or less shared. Then she found the note he’d scrawled on the back of an envelope and left on the counter next to the coffee press in the galley kitchen. “Back soon.”
Not a man to waste words.
He’d filled the kettle and scooped coffee into the press, and he’d taken her favorite Maine wild-blueberry jam out of the refrigerator.
Still smiling, Emma headed for the shower. She was wide awake after her run, early even by her standards. After three weeks in Ireland, she and Colin had thoroughly adapted to the five-hour time difference. Their stay started with a blissful couple of weeks in an isolated cottage, getting to know each other better. Then they got caught up in the disappearance and murder of an American diver and dolphin-and-whale enthusiast named Lindsey Hargreaves. Now, back home in Boston, Emma was reacquainting herself with Eastern Standard Time.
Making love with Colin last night had helped keep her from falling asleep at eight o’clock—one in the morning in Ireland. He seemed impervious to jet lag. His undercover work with its constant dangers and frequent time-zone changes no doubt had helped, but Emma also suspected he was just like that.
Colin would know if someone tried to follow him. No question.
She pulled on a bathrobe and headed back to the kitchen. She made coffee and toast and took them to her inexpensive downsize couch, which was pushed up against an exposed-brick wall and perpendicular to the windows overlooking the marina. She collected up a stack of photographs she and Colin had pulled out last night, including one of herself as a novice at twenty-one. Colin had put it under the light and commented on her short hair and “sensible” shoes. She wore her hair longer now, and although she would never be one for four-inch heels, her shoes and boots were more fashionable than the ones she’d worn at the convent.
Colin had peered closer at the photo. “Ah, but look at that cute smile and the spark in your green eyes.” He’d grinned at her. “Sister Brigid was just waiting for a rugged lobsterman to wander into her convent.”
Emma had gone by the name Brigid during her short time as a novice with the Sisters of the Joyful Heart, a small order on a quiet peninsula not far from her hometown on the southern Maine coast. In September, a longtime member of the convent and Emma’s former mentor, an expert in art conservation, was murdered. Yank had dispatched Colin to keep an eye on her. He’d tried to pass himself off as a lobsterman—he’d been one before joining the Maine marine patrol and then the FBI—but Emma had quickly realized what he was up to.
“I bet you were wearing red lace undies,” he’d said as he’d set the photo back on the table.
Emma had felt herself flush. “I don’t wear red undies now.”
He’d given her one of his sexy, blue-eyed winks. “Wait until Valentine’s Day.”
They’d abandoned the photos and had ended up in bed, making love until she’d finally collapsed in his arms. He was dark-haired, broad-shouldered and scarred, a man who relied on his natural instincts and experience to size up a situation instantly. He didn’t ruminate, and he wasn’t one to sit at a desk for more than twenty minutes at a time. She was more analytical, more likely to see all the ins and outs and possibilities—and she was a ruminator.
As different as they were, Emma thought, she and Colin also had similarities. The FBI, their Maine upbringings, their strong families, their love of Ireland. Their whirlwind romance wasn’t all an “opposites attract” phenomenon, a case of forbidden love that had come on fast and hard. They hadn’t told anyone yet of their engagement. On Monday night in Dublin, Colin had presented her with a beautiful diamond ring, handmade by a jeweler on the southwest Irish coast. She’d reluctantly slipped the ring off her finger when they’d arrived at Boston’s Logan Airport from Dublin late Tuesday.
Emma was so lost in thought, she jumped when her cell phone vibrated on the table. She scooped it up, expecting to see Co-lin’s name on the screen. Instead, it was a number she didn’t recognize. A wrong number? She clicked to answer, but before she could say anything, a woman spoke. “Is this Emma Sharpe? Agent Sharpe with the FBI?”
“Yes, it is. Who are you?”
“What? Oh. My name’s Rachel Bristol. I need to talk to you. It’s important.”
“All right. Please go ahead.”
“Not on the phone. In person. Meet me on Bristol Island. It’s in Boston Harbor. There’s a bridge. You don’t have to take a boat.”
“Ms. Bristol, what’s this about?”
“It’s about your art thief. Bristol Island, Agent Sharpe. Be at the white cottage in thirty minutes or less. There’s a trail by the marina.” She paused. “Come alone. Please. I will talk only to you.”
Rachel Bristol—or whoever she was—disconnected. Emma sprang to her feet. Thirty minutes didn’t give her much time.
She ran to her bedroom and dressed in dark jeans, a dark blue sweater, a leather jacket and boots. She grabbed her credentials and strapped on her service pistol. She didn’t leave a note for Colin. She would text him on the way.
Meeting confidential informants was a tricky business even with protocols, training and experience. But it didn’t matter. Not this time.
Her thief.
Her problem.
* * *
“Check the bathroom,” Matt Yankowski said, making an obvious effort to hide his mix of urgency and irritation over the whereabouts of his wife, Lucy.
Colin Donovan frowned as he stood on the uneven wood floor in the sole bedroom of the senior FBI agent’s hovel of an apartment near Boston’s South Station. It was bigger than Emma’s, but it had roaches and rusted appliances and a shower out of Psycho. He’d had a quick peek into the bathroom. He hadn’t gone in and checked for signs of Lucy’s presence. What was the point? If he’d been Lucy Yankowski, he’d have gone running from this place, too.
But this was Yank, technically Colin’s boss and a man on his own in Ireland, worried about his wife and his marriage. Colin didn’t want Yank to have to explain. Easier, smoother and more tactful just to check the damn bathroom.
Colin pushed the bathroom door open the rest of the way and stepped onto the cracked black-and-white hexagon tile, so old and worn that the black tiles by the shower stall were now gray. With his cell phone pressed to his ear, he glanced at the pedestal sink and the towel rack. “Yank, do you know your towel rack is on crooked?”
“Yeah, and I don’t care. It does the job. See anything?”
“Guy stuff. Shaving brush, shaving soap, razor. Nothing remotely feminine.”
“Check the shower. See if she left her shampoo in there.”
“I guarantee you she didn’t use the shower. She’d have gone to a hotel before she used your shower, Yank. Damn.”
“Just check, will you?”
“That means I have to touch the shower curtain.”
“It’s clean. It’s just stained. It came with the place. I didn’t want to spring for a new one.”
“You can get a new shower curtain for next to nothing.”
Yank made no comment. Colin pulled open the curtain. He figured he could wash his hands when he was done. Yank was tidy and clean despite his rathole apartment, but the shower and shower curtain were disgusting. Only word for it.
“No shampoo at all in here,” Colin said, stepping back from the shower. “Just a bar of orange soap.”
“My coal-tar soap. I didn’t bring it to Ireland with me.”
“I could have gone my whole life without knowing you use coal-tar soap, Yank.”
“Think I like having you search my place?”
Colin sighed and went back into the bedroom. “Lucy wasn’t here, or if she was, she didn’t stay long. Your bed’s made. Your fridge is empty. Your bathroom and kitchen sinks are clean. The roaches—”
“I don’t need to hear about the roaches,” Yank said. “I’ve been living there almost a year. I know all about the damn roaches. I got a cheap place and rent month-to-month because I thought Lucy would move with me. We would sell our house in northern Virginia and buy a place in Boston. Made sense to rough it a little.”
He’d roughed it more than a little, but Colin let it go. He returned to the kitchen. A roach was parading across the floor.
Where there was one cockroach, there were a hundred cockroaches. Often like that in their line of work, too. But Yank didn’t need to hear that right now.
“Where do you think she is?” Colin asked.
“Off stewing.”
“Where?”
“Paris. Prague. Tahiti. How the hell do I know? I’m just her husband.”
Colin could hear the strain in Yank’s voice. He was in his early forties, a classic, square-jawed, buttoned-down FBI agent with hardly ever a wrinkle in his suit. He and Colin had met four years ago when Colin had volunteered for his first undercover mission. Matt Yankowski, a legendary field agent, had been his contact agent through two years of grueling, dangerous, isolating work. Then the director of the FBI had called in Colin for another mission—one even more grueling, dangerous and isolating. It had ended in October with the arrest of the last of a network of ruthless illegal arms traffickers. They’d almost killed his family. A friend. Emma.
“When was the last time you were in contact with Lucy?” Colin asked.
“Sunday. Before I left for Ireland. It wasn’t a good conversation. Leave it at that. I called her on Thursday and left her a message. She didn’t call back. I texted and emailed her yesterday and again this morning. Zip.”
“Did you tell her you were going to Ireland?”
“No, I did not.” Yank grunted, as if he was already regretting having called Colin. “All right, thanks for taking a look. I just wanted to be sure she wasn’t in Boston passed out in my apartment.”
“What about passed out at home in Virginia?”
“Not your problem.”
“Yank, I don’t have to tell you that you need her back in touch soon. With all that’s going on, we can’t have your wife AWOL.”
“That’s right, Donovan. You don’t have to tell me.”
“Yank ” Colin hesitated a half beat. “Have you talked to the director lately?”
“Yeah. He says he’s retiring.” Yank sounded relieved at the change in subject. “He’s moving to Mount Desert Island to be a grandfather and write his memoirs. That’s why you two bonded, you know. He loves Maine.”
“Maybe he and I could do puffin tours together.”
“I could see that, but I don’t know who’d scare tourists more, you or him. I’ve heard some rumors about his replacement. All the names give me hives, but it’ll be what it’ll be. Hey, you wouldn’t want to spray for roaches before you leave my place, would you? There’s a can of Raid under the sink.”
A can of Raid and a million roaches. Colin debated, then said, “I’ll spray for roaches if you stop at the Celtic Whiskey Shop on Dawson Street in Dublin before you leave and pick me up a good bottle of Irish whiskey.”
“Done.”
“Let me know when Lucy is back in touch.”
Colin disconnected. He sprayed for roaches—and sprayed actual roaches—and then got the hell out of Yank’s walk-up as fast as he could. The only reason the place didn’t have rats was because it was on the third floor. Needless to say, there was no security in the building. There was barely a front door.
Colin welcomed the bright, cool November air. He had woken up to Yank’s email asking him to check his apartment for Lucy and telling him where to find a spare key in his office a few blocks from Emma’s place. She’d already left on her run. Bemused by Yank’s request, Colin had walked over to the highly secure, unassuming waterfront building that housed HIT, short for “high impact target” and the name Yank had chosen for his handpicked team. Yank had shoehorned Colin into HIT in October. Colin had packed his bags for Ireland a few weeks later to decompress. He’d expected to hike the Irish hills and drink Irish whiskey and Guinness alone, but Emma had joined him in his little cottage in the Kerry hills. She hadn’t waited for an invitation, but that was Emma Sharpe. His ex-nun, art historian, art conservationist, art-crimes expert—the love of his life—was the bravest woman he knew. Which had its downside, since she’d do anything regardless of the risk. He saw he had a text message from her.
Meeting CI on Bristol Island. Back soon. Had a good run.
A confidential informant? Emma? Bristol Island? Where the hell was Bristol Island? Colin texted back.
Are you alone?
He buttoned his coat and continued toward the HIT offices and her apartment, looking up Bristol Island on his phone. It was one of more than thirty Boston Harbor islands, unusual in that it was privately owned and not part of the Boston Harbor National Recreational Area. He waited but Emma didn’t respond to his text. He didn’t want to call her in the middle of a delicate meeting. As with Lucy Yankowski, Emma’s silence didn’t necessarily mean anything.
It didn’t necessarily not mean anything, either.
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A slideshow of Carla’s photos of scenic Ireland
