The Whisper. Carla Neggers

you go. No. It’s an Irish wolfhound.”

      “I was just kidding. I knew it was a dog.” Scoop pulled off his jacket and set his backpack on the floor. “Myles Fletcher, right?”

      “Right you are,” Fletcher said matter-of-factly, setting his sketch back on the table. “Did you ever want to be an artist when you were a boy, Detective Wisdom?”

      “Nope. Always wanted to be a cop. I bet you always wanted to be a spy.”

      The Brit grinned. “Simon Cahill warned me you were no-nonsense.”

      “You’re SAS and British SIS. Secret Intelligence Service—MI6. James Bond’s outfit.”

      “All right, then.” Fletcher yawned, his gray eyes red-rimmed. Wherever he’d come from, he hadn’t had much sleep. “You’ll want to know why I’m here. I’ll get straight to the point. I have information that a Boston police officer was involved in making and planting the explosive device that gave you those scars.”

      Scoop remained on his feet, silent, still.

      “This police officer worked with the men who engineered the kidnapping of Abigail Browning. Smart businessman that he was, Norman Estabrook delegated the job. He wanted Abigail. He didn’t care how he got her.”

      Scoop leaned against a counter. During Abigail’s three-day ordeal, he had been in the hospital, out of commission. Fletcher’s role in helping her wasn’t common knowledge even in the police department, but Scoop had managed to piece together various tidbits and drag more out of his friends and colleagues in law enforcement. The Brit had latched onto a connection between drug traffickers and a terrorist cell and following their trail had taken him to American billionaire Norman Estabrook. For at least two years, no one, including Fletcher’s own people back in London, knew Fletcher was even alive.

      In the meantime, the FBI was on to Estabrook’s association with the drug traffickers and had him under surveillance in the form of Simon Cahill. They arrested the hedge-fund billionaire in June. By late August, he was free again. He disappeared, and Myles Fletcher, still deep undercover, still on the trail of his terrorists, found himself in the middle of the angry, entitled billionaire’s elaborate scheme to exact revenge on the FBI for his downfall. Estabrook’s scheme included setting off a bomb as a diversion to kidnap Abigail, FBI Director John March’s daughter, a Boston homicide detective and Scoop’s friend.

      Caught between a rock and a hard place, Fletcher had done what he could to help Abigail. Once she was safe, he took off again.

      Now he was sitting in an Irish cottage kitchen drawing pictures of dogs.

      What a day, Scoop thought. First Sophie Malone, now Myles Fletcher.

      A coincidence? Not a chance. “You wouldn’t be here if the main thrust of your mission wasn’t completed,” Scoop said.

      Fletcher shrugged. “I suspect your bad cop is someone you know,” he said. “Someone you wouldn’t think twice to have over for a pint or two.”

      “Any names?”

      “No. Sorry.” Fletcher stretched out his legs, looking, if possible, even more tired. “I’ve done no research on my own. My focus has been on other matters. This is your fight. You were injured in the blast, and you work in internal affairs. Even if you don’t know this particular officer yourself, you’ll have instincts about those who go bad.”

      “Where did you get this information?”

      “Here and there,” Fletcher said vaguely as he rose, visibly stiff. “It’s my guess that these thugs, including your bad cop, were involved in other illegal activities in Boston, and that’s how they hooked up with Norman Estabrook.”

      Scoop stood up from the counter but said nothing. The Brit was the one doing the talking.

      Fletcher picked up a rust-colored pencil from the table. “But you were on to a connection between these thugs and a member of the department before Estabrook snatched Abigail, weren’t you, Detective?”

      Scoop thought a moment before he responded. “I had a few whispers. Nothing more.”

      “I imagine that’s the truth, as far as it goes. Frustrating, when you know some but not enough…” Fletcher let it go at that. “I expect that you’re very good at your job.”

      “So are you. You’re more adept than most at lies and deception.”

      “That’s why I’m alive, here, trying my hand at a sketch. Let’s spare each other, then, shall we?” He ran his thumb over the sharp tip of the pencil. “I’m impressed with what Keira can do with colored pencils. I’d always thought they were for children, not working artists.” He set the pencil back on the table and flipped through a stack of sketches Keira had started of various bucolic Irish scenes, pausing at one of a shovel laid across an old, muddy wheelbarrow in a garden. “I wouldn’t mind living inside one of these pictures. A green pasture, a stream, prancing lambs. A beautiful fairy princess. What about you, Detective?”

      “I grew up on a farm. I liked it, but I’m not nostalgic about that life. What else can you tell me?”

      “There’s a woman. An American archaeologist. She’s been doing scholarly work in Ireland and Great Britain for the past several years.”

      “Sophie Malone,” Scoop said.

      Fletcher glanced at him, then continued, “You ran into her when she was here in the village earlier today, didn’t you?”

      “Yep. I did. Red hair, blue jacket. Had a big black dog with her and talked about the wee folk.” Scoop picked up the pencil Fletcher had used and realized it was nearly the same shade as Sophie’s hair. A deliberate choice on the Brit’s part? “The dog wasn’t hers. Want to tell me what’s going on, Fletcher?”

      “I wish I knew. I strongly suspect the men our dead billionaire hired were also involved with Jay Augustine. I don’t know in what capacity.”

      Nothing legal, Scoop thought, but he said, “Augustine’s a serial killer. Serial killers tend to be solitary.”

      “I’m not talking about his violence. Augustine was also a respected dealer in fine art and antiques.”

      “What’s that got to do with Sophie Malone?”

      Fletcher grinned suddenly. “I’ve no idea. As I said, I haven’t done any research of my own. I suppose Augustine could have consulted her as an expert in his role as a legitimate dealer.”

      “Are you linking her to this bad cop?”

      “I’m saying her name came up at the same time as the likelihood that a police officer constructed and planted the bomb that exploded at your house last month.” Fletcher walked over to the front window, determined and focused but also obviously past being dead tired. “I wish I could be more helpful.”

      “Funny, you and Sophie Malone turning up here within a few hours of each other.”

      “Isn’t it, though?” He nodded out the window. “Here we go. Just what we need.”

      For all Scoop knew, the big black dog was back with a troop of fairies.

      Instead, FBI Special Agent Simon Cahill and Will Davenport—a British lord and another James Bond type—entered through the kitchen door. Casual, irreverent, black-haired Simon and wealthy, regal, fair-haired Will, both around Scoop’s age, in their mid-thirties, were as different in appearance as they were in temperament and background, but they were close friends.

      Right behind them was Josie Goodwin. She had on a sleek belted raincoat, her chin-length brown hair pulled back and her mouth set firmly as she shut the door behind her. She pretended to be Will’s able assistant but was undoubtedly SIS herself. Scoop had met Josie and Will at Abigail’s wedding at Davenport’s country house in the Scottish Highlands. Josie, who was in her late thirties, had muttered over hors d’oeuvres at the reception