Harbor Island. Carla Neggers

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       9

      After they left the Bristol house, Colin walked with Emma back to the Taj Hotel. They needed to talk with Aoife O’Byrne now that Lucy Yankowski had been found in Aoife’s Dublin studio. At least, Emma needed to talk to the Irish artist. Colin decided he could wait when he glanced in the bar off the Taj lobby and spotted Finian Bracken at a small table by the fire.

      Of all people, Colin thought.

      Finian was from the southwest Irish coast but lately resided in Maine as the parish priest in Colin’s hometown of Rock Point. He was also good friends with Sean Murphy, the Irish detective who had walked into Aoife’s studio earlier with Matt Yankowski.

      Had Murphy called Finian to look in on Aoife?

      Or had Aoife called him?

      A man Colin didn’t recognize was sitting across the table from Finian. Emma hit the up button for the elevator. Colin nodded to the bar. “I’ll go talk whiskey with Fin and find out who his new friend is.”

      Emma nodded. “I’ll meet you back here after I talk with Aoife. She’s expecting me.”

      The elevator doors opened, and Colin waited as Emma disappeared inside. Then he stepped into the quiet, dimly lit bar.

      “Please,” Finian said, motioning to a cushioned chair, “join us.”

      That was the plan, but Colin kept his remark to himself as he pulled out the chair and sat down. Although Finian was in his priest duds, he still managed to remind Colin of Bono. “Hello, Fin. Who’s your friend here?”

      Finian, a whiskey expert as well as a priest, formerly an executive at Bracken Distillers, had only a glass of water with a slice of lemon in front of him. “Actually, I didn’t get his name.”

      “Oliver Fairbairn,” the man said in a distinct English accent, raising his glass and swirling its amber contents. “A Scotch-drinking mythologist. And you are?”

      Finian supplied the answer. “This is my friend Colin Donovan, Oliver.”

      The Brit leaned forward and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper. “You’re an FBI agent.” He sat back immediately. “I wish I could say I had a nose for American federal agents, but I don’t. Maisie just texted me. She said you and another agent—Emma Sharpe—asked about me. That was Agent Sharpe who came in with you? I gather she doesn’t want to join us.”

      Oliver Fairbairn either wasn’t on his first Scotch or was pretending not to be. He had unruly dark blond hair and blue-green eyes and wore a rumpled shirt under a wool vest, with gray wool trousers and a trench coat on the back of his chair. He looked to be in his late thirties even if he was dressed as if he’d stepped out of the pages of a Sherlock Holmes novel.

      He sipped his drink. “Scotch or a tall Irish, Agent Donovan?”

      “I’m good, thanks.”

      “I prefer Scotch to Irish whiskey, but our good Father here tells me the peated Bracken 15 year old stands up to the best single-malt Scotch. A rare thing, a peated Irish whiskey.”

      “The Bracken stands up as far as I’m concerned,” Colin said. “Not that my palate is particularly sophisticated.”

      “I’ll have to try Bracken 15 one day, then,” Fairbairn said. “Right now, I’m quite content with my Glenfiddich 18 year old. Glenfiddich is Scottish Gaelic. It means valley of the deer. Doesn’t that conjure up beautiful images?”

      “It certainly does,” Finian said with an awkward glance at Colin.

      Colin didn’t soften his look. His Irish friend had no business being here, and he obviously knew it. He could have at least alerted Colin that he was on the way. Finian Bracken, however, would have his own reasons for his choices. He was in his late thirties, a late-vocation priest ordained only a year ago. They’d become friends since Finian’s arrival in Rock Point in June to fill in for Saint Patrick’s regular priest, who was on a yearlong sabbatical in Ireland.

      Seven years ago—long before Colin knew him—Finian had been the happily married father of two young daughters and cofounder with his twin brother, Declan, of a successful Irish distillery. Then, on a summer day he could never get back, a freak sailing accident had taken his wife and daughters from him. Finian had been on his way to meet them for a family holiday.

      Garda Sean Murphy had investigated the drowning deaths of Sally Bracken and little Mary and Kathleen Bracken. He hadn’t been a detective with a special unit then. The two Irishmen had become friends. Colin had been aware that Finian had visited Declan’s Cross, where Sean had a family farm, and knew Kitty, Aoife’s sister. He hadn’t thought about Dublin-based Aoife.

      Oliver Fairbairn savored his Scotch, cupping his glass in both hands. “I hope your visit with my good friend Maisie went well, despite the circumstances. Isn’t she brilliant? The perfect, mighty blend of intelligence, talent and humility. She couldn’t have accomplished what she has if she’d been just another narcissistic Hollywood blowhard.” He grinned, a thick lock of hair falling on his forehead. “I can say that out here. I’d never say it on the West Coast. I’d never work on another movie.”

      “You like your movie work, do you?” Colin asked.

      “Sure. СКАЧАТЬ