Harbor Island. Carla Neggers

Чтение книги онлайн.

       7

      “I played dead,” Lucy said, trembling under the blanket a paramedic had given her. Yank had placed the blanket around her shoulders himself. She was sitting on the floor, leaning back against the exposed brick wall of Aoife O’Byrne’s studio. She licked her chapped lips. “I heard you and Detective Garda Murphy come in, but I didn’t know who you were.”

      Yank knew he had to contain his emotions, but it was damn hard. Lucy. His wife. In Dublin, trapped under a bookcase for at least thirty hours. Likely left for dead. She’d managed to protect her head and vital organs when the bookcase had come down on top of her, and she’d had access to her water bottle, although it had been nearly empty when she was attacked. She was bruised, but she had no broken bones, lacerations or other internal injuries. And she was shaken. More shaken than she would want to admit. She’d martialed her limited water supply and was mildly dehydrated, but she’d been lucky. They both knew it.

      The gardai were doing their work. Sean Murphy was definitely the guy in charge. The living quarters had been tossed, too. Murphy had been firm but not a jackass when he’d reminded Yank this was now a criminal investigation. Yank knew he had no choice and had to stand back and let Irish law enforcement do their jobs. He had no authority in Ireland.

      “What are you doing here, Lucy?” he asked finally, sitting next to her on the wood floor.

      She attempted a weak smile. “I wanted to surprise you.”

      “Consider me surprised.”

      “Because you found me in Dublin or under a bookcase?”

      “Take your pick.”

      Her dark eyes leveled on him. The same dark eyes he’d fallen in love with at twenty-three at the University of Virginia. He’d been getting his master’s in criminal justice. She’d been a senior majoring in psychology. Ten years they’d been married, and yet some days—like today—he wasn’t sure he would ever know her.

      “I’m sorry, Matt,” she whispered.

      “Did you break in here and pull the bookcase on top of yourself?”

      “No, of course not.”

      “Then nothing to be sorry about.”

      “Cut-to-the-chase Matt Yankowski. There’s a reason you’re in law enforcement.” She sighed, again licking her chapped lips. He noticed a small cut at the corner of her mouth, probably from dehydration and biting down as the hours had dragged on. She eased a hand out from under her blanket and placed it on his thigh. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I was coming to Dublin.”

      “Water over the dam.”

      She gave a tight shake of her head. “We have too much water over the dam and not enough real talking. Real listening. I flew to Boston on Thursday morning and went to your apartment, and you weren’t there. I saw a printout of your flight information. I had my passport with me. I booked a flight on Aer Lingus for that night, then turned around and went straight back to the airport.”

      “Did you have any idea where I was?”

      “Ireland,” she said, and this time her smile revealed more of the ultraconfident Lucy Yankowski he knew so well.

      “Were you mad?” Yank asked.

      “Incensed.”

      A Lucy word. He covered her hand with his. Hers was cool, and he could feel its slight tremble. “I’m glad you’re okay. There was a moment...” He breathed. “Lucy. Damn.”

      “It’s been a long two days.” She glanced at the studio, as if seeing the mess for the first time. “Does whatever happened here have anything to do with why you’re in Ireland?”

      “Probably.”

      “Aoife O’Byrne is a well-known artist. Where is she? I thought she’d come back. Then I realized it was the weekend, and maybe she was away.”

      “She’s in Boston,” Yank said.

      “Boston? Why—”

      “We’ll get to that. Why did you come here?”

      “I was curious. I arrived in Dublin at the crack of dawn. You know those overnight flights. I’d booked a room while I was at the airport in Boston, but it wasn’t ready. I dropped off my bags, took myself to breakfast and read about the murder in Declan’s Cross early last week. That’s what brought you to Ireland, isn’t it?”

      “Sort of.”

      “Aoife O’Byrne was mentioned in the article. I checked out her website. It lists her address. I decided to kill time by coming by to have a look. I guess I expected a public gallery. I didn’t think too much about it. It was a spur-of-the-moment thing.”

      “You’ve told all this to the Irish police?”

      She nodded. “I figured you would want to know, too.”

      “I do, Lucy. I want to know everything. When you’re ready. You’ve come through a hell of an ordeal. Aoife flew to Boston yesterday. Someone could have wanted to take advantage of her absence and see what was in here.”

      “An ordinary burglar, you mean. Then I walk in and startle them.” She swallowed, sinking back against the wall. “I don’t know why I walked in. I didn’t see that the door had been jimmied. I can’t explain. My mind didn’t grasp it. Lack of sleep, being in a foreign country, irritation with you. I just don’t know.”

      “It’s okay. You don’t need to make sense of it.”

      “Maybe not yet, anyway. I remember being in here, wondering where Aoife was. I heard someone in the other room. I called Aoife—except I mangled the pronunciation of her name. Sean Murphy’s already set me straight. СКАЧАТЬ