Keeper's Reach. Carla Neggers

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      “Never? Seriously?”

      Colin appreciated the moment of levity, but it was short-lived. “Why would Oliver York turn up on a background check on Mike—even if it includes me? I know my name would pop up because of the murder in Boston in November, but it’s not widely known that the British mythologist Oliver Fairbairn who was caught up in the investigation is also Oliver York.”

      “These are security types,” Yank said. “They could find out. Even if they did, it doesn’t mean they’ve figured out York is an international art thief. Being in the middle of a high-profile murder investigation that involved you and Emma could be enough to raise a red flag about Mike and get them digging a bit more.”

      “What’s Kavanagh’s role, then?”

      “He doesn’t have to be currying favor with Cooper over a future job. He could just be helping out an old friend.”

      Colin loosened his tie. “I like the stockbroker idea better.”

      “I don’t blame you. What about Finian Bracken? Think he accepted York’s invitation to visit his farm?”

      “Knowing Fin? Yes. Without question.”

      “I don’t like the idea of him and York getting together, even if it’s for a fox hunt in the English countryside.”

      “I don’t see Fin on a fox hunt.”

      “Drinking whiskey and checking out old tombstones, then. Are you going to get in touch with him? He’s your friend.”

      “And do what—tell him to go back to Ireland?”

      “It’s a start.”

      Colin didn’t disagree. He’d considered his options after learning about York’s plan last night. He, too, would prefer his Irish priest friend and the British art thief keep their distance.

      “I need to check out of my room,” he said. “I’m flying back to Boston this afternoon.”

      “Emma’s leaving this afternoon for her long weekend in Maine,” Yank said, not as casually as he might have meant to. “Are you meeting her?”

      “That’s not the plan.”

      “What’s she doing in Maine? Wedding things?”

      “She’s having lunch with my mother on Saturday.”

      “That could be interesting,” Yank said, without elaboration.

      Colin watched the fake burning logs. He had assumed Emma had told Yank about her plans for the weekend. But assuming anything with Emma was dangerous. “She’s staying at the convent tonight and tomorrow night,” he said, keeping his tone neutral.

      Yank was clearly surprised. “For old times’ sake?”

      “I guess.”

      “Kind of like sleeping with an old boyfriend, isn’t it? Never mind.” Yank waved a hand. “Forget I said that. I should get moving, too.”

      “You done for the day? Off to plaster nail holes?”

      “One more meeting. Then I plaster nail holes. I’m looking forward to unloading this house.” Yank stood but made no move to head back to the revolving doors. “You hold your own with Van Buren. She’ll do right by you. She knows you’re not her private police force.”

      “I have always adhered to the principles and procedures of the FBI,” Colin said. “I read the handbook cover-to-cover the other day.”

      Yank’s eyes were flinty. “I’m serious, Donovan.”

      “Me, too.”

      “You’re on my team because I shoehorned you in to keep an eye on you while you got your head screwed on straight. My opinion, you did the bidding of the previous director without enough oversight.”

      “Excuse me, I was a deep-cover operative on a sensitive mission to break up a network of dangerous international arms traffickers. I wasn’t doing anyone’s bidding. I’m an independent thinker. It comes in handy when you’re being chased by alligators.”

      Yank sighed. “There were no alligators.”

      “It was South Florida. I was in the water. There were alligators as well as guys who wanted to kill me.”

      “Are we done here?”

      Colin was half-serious. Maybe not even half. He got to his feet. “We’re done. Good luck with the house. Will you miss it?”

      “More than I will miss my old apartment. It was a daily battle with the roaches.” Yank gave an exaggerated shudder. “Some of those bastards were the size of rats.”

      Colin kept his mouth shut. Yank had no sense of humor where roaches were concerned. He hadn’t counted on his wife balking about moving to Boston. Lucy Yankowski’s reluctance to leave her home in northern Virginia had thrown their marriage into turmoil as well as kept her husband in his roach-infested apartment longer than he had planned. Colin had watched Yank slowly come to realize he had made assumptions that could cost him the woman he loved. Whatever he had done to win Lucy back, she was in Boston, getting the keys to their new Back Bay apartment.

      “Lucy’s serious about opening a knitting shop,” Yank said.

      “Knitting as therapy, maybe.”

      “Whatever makes her happy. We don’t have kids. We can afford to live in Back Bay and for her to explore a career change.”

      “Glad things worked out,” Colin said.

      “Yeah. Any worries about Emma returning to the convent?”

      “She’s sleeping in the quarters used for retreats, not in the novitiate.”

      “I guess that’s something.” Yank waved a hand. “Never mind. It’s none of my business. Emma was a novice when I recruited her. It’s not news to me.”

      “That’s right.” Colin started out of the nook, away from the fire. “You saw her in her sensible nun shoes.”

      “I did.” Yank’s mood visibly lightened as they continued across the lobby. “I’ll see you back in Boston on Monday.”

      “Good luck with your meeting. This morning’s meeting was fifty-seven minutes too long.”

      “It was an hour,” Yank said.

      “First three minutes we stirred our coffees.”

      Yank made no comment and headed out through a revolving door. He was better at navigating the treacherous waters of Washington, but he had decided to base his new HIT team in Boston. Colin had never heard him explain why and doubted he ever would.

      * * *

      When Colin reached his room, he packed and texted Mike: Where are you?

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