Harbor Island. Carla Neggers

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      “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 СКАЧАТЬ