Keeper's Reach. Carla Neggers

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      At least Oliver had bought the porpoise painting instead of stealing it.

      “What’s the name of this agent you ran into in the park?” Emma asked.

      Oliver looked surprised. “I only saw him. I didn’t speak with him.”

      “How do you know he’s an FBI agent if you didn’t speak with him?”

      “The suit. The look. He’s one of yours. I’ve no doubt.”

      “Did you take his picture?”

      He sniffed. “Of course not. I’m a mild-mannered mythologist, not Scotland Yard or MI6. This man is tall, lean, medium coloring, perhaps early forties—but that describes a lot of your colleagues, doesn’t it? Not you, of course.”

      “Of course.”

      Oliver sat back, amusement lighting up his face. He was good-looking and surprisingly affable for a man so solitary, so haunted by his past. “I’m many things, Emma, but paranoid isn’t one of them. I’m convinced this man is one of yours. Consider yourself alerted.”

      “Fair enough. Anything else?”

      “I’ve sent you a package. Martin has, actually.”

      On her November trip to London, Emma had also met Martin Hambly, Oliver’s longtime personal assistant. It was unclear to her whether Martin was aware of his boss’s alter ego as an art thief. “What’s in the package, Oliver?”

      “A present for you. A surprise. You’ll love it. I packed it myself when I was at the farm over the weekend. I returned to London on Monday. Then today...” He grimaced. “Today, I saw the FBI outside my apartment.”

      “Where did you send the package?”

      “I addressed it to you at Father Bracken’s rectory in Rock Point. I thought that would be simpler, but, as luck would have it, our Irish priest friend is here in London.”

      Emma frowned at that bit of news. “I thought he was in Ireland visiting his family.”

      “He joined his brother on a business trip on behalf of Bracken Distillers. I ran into Finian at the gallery. He, Declan and I are all about to have a drink together. Declan has to return to Ireland tomorrow, but I plan to invite Father Bracken to the family farm in the Cotswolds.”

      “I wish you wouldn’t do that, Oliver.”

      “Why not?”

      “Because you’re a thief and Father Bracken is a friend of mine.”

      “That’s plain enough.” Oliver paused. “How is your family, Emma? Everyone’s well?”

      “Doing fine, thank you.”

      “Did your grandfather come home to Heron’s Cove for Christmas?”

      “You know he didn’t. You two rang in the New Year together at Claridge’s.”

      “Ah, so Wendell did tell you. I wasn’t sure he would. He told me he’d expected to fly home to Maine for Christmas, but he didn’t feel comfortable going so far with your parents here in London. The experimental procedure to help relieve your father’s chronic back pain went well, but it’s taken some time to recover.”

      Emma made no comment. She wasn’t discussing her family with Oliver York.

      “Chronic pain takes a toll,” he added.

      “Yes, it does,” Emma said. Although there was a psychological component to her father’s physical pain given its impact on his life, it was different from the chronic psychological pain Oliver York endured. She was convinced he’d turned to planning and executing solitary, daring art heists to provide relief. It must have worked, at least temporarily, since he’d been at it for a decade. Of course, catching him sooner would have put a stop to it.

      “I gather you and my grandfather are on a first-name basis now,” she said.

      “I haven’t seen him since New Year’s. He came out to the farm for a couple of days, then went back to Dublin to pretend he wants to retire.”

      “You harassed him for ten years. He wants to see you arrested before he retires.”

      Oliver waved a hand. “Nonsense. Wendell said you spent Christmas with the Donovans in Rock Point, that gloomy yet oddly charming Maine fishing village of theirs. You two haven’t been to Ireland or London since November. Perhaps I should have had you come to the farm and collect the package yourself.”

      “It would have to contain the last of your stolen art for me to come to your farm.”

      “Emma, Emma.”

      “We’re still missing the two Dutch landscapes you stole in Amsterdam.” She kept her tone even, without any hint of hostility, sarcasm or cajoling. “I would fly to England to get those works back to their rightful owner.”

      “I wish I could help.”

      “That’s a start. We’re also missing the unsigned landscape you stole in Declan’s Cross, but I doubt you’ll ever return it since it’s a fair guess it’s an early work by Aoife O’Byrne. You’re familiar with Declan’s Cross, Oliver. It’s the tiny village on the south Irish coast where you launched your stint as an art thief.”

      “I’m familiar with Declan’s Cross. It’s quite a charming hamlet.”

      “Aoife’s missing landscape depicts the three crosses on the headland in Declan’s Cross where you hid after stealing from her uncle. The painting has personal value for you, but you still should return it.”

      Oliver peered at her. “You look happy but preoccupied, Emma. I can understand you have much on your mind. When you do come to England again, you must bring Special Agent Donovan with you. Are you two inviting me to your wedding?”

      Emma smiled. “No.”

      “Pity. Your Colin isn’t hovering in the background, is he?”

      “No, he isn’t. Anything else, Oliver?”

      “I’m reading a new book on the early Irish saints. Would you like me to send it to you when I finish? Did you study Saint Patrick, Saint Declan and the like when you were a nun? You must have studied Saint Brigid since that was your name as a novice.”

      Her grandfather must have told him. She knew she hadn’t. “Good night, Oliver.”

      “The farm is stunning in the spring, which, happily, comes to the Cotswolds earlier than it does in your part of the world. You and Colin can walk in the countryside to your hearts’ content. We can all have English tea and scones together.”

      “Only if there’s clotted cream to go with them.”

      “Absolutely. It will be homemade, whipped from cream from our own dairy cows. We’ll have our gooseberry jam, made with wild berries picked on the farm, although not by me. Monotonous, repetitive tasks like СКАЧАТЬ