Liar's Key. Carla Neggers

I like that.” There wasn’t a hint of sarcasm in his tone. “They specialize in art education, preservation and conservation and have a beautiful convent on the Maine coast. Life could be worse.” He eyed her, as if he were trying to picture her as a nun. “Sister Emma.” He wrinkled up his face. “That’s a hard one to wrap my head around. Except Emma wasn’t your name as a nun, was it? Didn’t you have to take another name?”

      “I was known as Brigid then.”

      “Good Irish Catholic name.”

      Emma inhaled deeply. “Anything else?”

      He grinned. “I like the impatience. I’d have threatened to throw me out the window by now. Do the good sisters work on restoring ancient mosaics?”

      “I don’t know. They primarily work on pieces that can be safely transported to the convent.”

      “They don’t fly out to archaeological digs?”

      “Not that I’m aware of.”

      “Fair enough. Is Oliver York coming to the open house?”

      Another blurt designed to throw her off her stride. “As I said, I’m not involved with the open house, up to and including the guest list.”

      “But you’d know.”

      She got to her feet. She wanted to maneuver Gordy out of the small confines of her office. He was fishing. He wasn’t even trying hard to hide it. She nodded toward the door. “Agent Yankowski’s office is straight ahead if you want to stop in on your way out.”

      “That’s okay. Yank knows I’m here. He can poke his head out of his office if he wants to see me. He’s got work to do, and we didn’t part on the best terms. We never saw eye-to-eye on his idea for this team. I’m not convinced I was wrong but results speak for themselves. Water over the dam now. I’m retired. A dinosaur.” There was no self-pity in his tone. “I should get moving. I might go see the penguins at the aquarium, or I might skip the penguins and drive up to Maine in time to take old Wendell out for a pint.”

      “I’m sure he’d like that,” Emma said, her tone neutral.

      Gordy started past her but stopped abruptly. “I hoped you’d level with me, Emma.”

      “That’s a two-way street, Gordy.”

      “I always believed there were no secrets between us. I should have known better. You’re a Sharpe, after all.”

      “Sorry the fishing expedition didn’t work out for you.”

      He laughed. “I had that coming. You’re tougher than you used to be. Maybe you had a little of Sister Brigid left in you when you worked with me. Or is the smart remark your fiancé’s influence?” He winked at her. “I bet you complicate his life.”

      “I’ll see you on Saturday,” Emma said.

      “Another careful answer.” Gordy pointed a finger at her. “That’s good, Emma. Be careful, because your grandfather will burn you if you aren’t. Mark my words.”

      “Can you find your own way out?”

      “Not a problem.”

      “Take care, Gordy. You know how to reach me should you need to.”

      “And you know how to reach me.”

      She gave a curt nod. “Yes, I do.”

      “Good to see you, Special Agent Sharpe.”

      * * *

      After Gordy left, Emma texted Oliver York and her parents, asking them to get in touch, and then she went into Matt Yankowski’s office. His windows overlooked Boston Harbor, glistening in the morning sun. Yank had her sit on a chair facing his desk and he didn’t interrupt her report on her brief, odd meeting with the retired agent.

      When she finished, Yank grimaced. In his midforties, he was a good-looking, straight-arrow, buttoned-down agent out of central casting—except nothing about him was that simple. It was a lesson Emma had learned early in the four-plus years she’d known him. “Do you have anything on these stolen mosaics?” he asked.

      She shook her head. “No.”

      Yank’s eyes narrowed. “But?”

      “It’s entirely possible Alessandro Pearson’s death triggered the rumor mill. Something to do with his estate, maybe. Wild imaginations. I don’t know.”

      “Could York and MI5 be creating the rumors to stir the pot?”

      “Anything is possible.”

      “Right now I wish your brother and grandfather hadn’t put Gordon Wheelock on their guest list. Do you know which one of them had that bright idea, when and why?”

      “I don’t.”

      “But you’re going to ask,” Yank said.

      “I’m heading up to Maine after I’m done here.”

      He heaved a sigh. “Did you know about this London party?”

      “No.”

      “But your parents were there as well as Oliver York. I was afraid his name would come up when I heard Gordy Wheelock had an appointment with you. Does York know Gordy investigated the thefts?”

      “Undoubtedly.”

      “What about Gordy—does he know Oliver’s the serial art thief he and your grandfather chased for years?”

      “I don’t think so, but that’s only a guess. Gordy’s certainly suspicious of my relationship with Oliver.”

      “He’ll figure it out, then.”

      “I would bet on that.”

      “Was Oliver at this party because Gordy was, or was it the other way around and Gordy was there because of Oliver?”

      “I’ve already texted Oliver asking him to get in touch with me.”

      “You said please, since he’s a British citizen protected by MI5?”

      Emma shrugged, ignoring Yank’s sarcasm. “Whatever it takes.”

      Yank looked pained. “I was hoping we were done with him for a while.”

      “Same here.”

      “Yeah. I ran into Gordy before he left. He invited me outside for a cigarette. Sarcastic SOB. He knows I don’t smoke. I said no. He never approved of HIT. He wrote a letter to the director articulating his disapproval. No love lost between us, but there’s no question he was one of the best.” Yank pushed back his chair and rose. “When I’m done with this job, I’m going quietly. I’ll go for long runs on the Esplanade, take up tai chi and help Lucy run her knitting shop.”

      Emma got to her feet. Lucy was Yank’s wife, a psychologist who’d been reluctant to move from their home in northern Virginia. She’d finally agreed to move north and was adapting to Boston life, moving into a Back Bay apartment and opening a knitting shop. She and Yank had no children, and he was convinced she would go back to psychology. Colin was, too, but Emma wasn’t. Lucy Yankowski was getting into yarns, needles, knitting patterns and classes.

      “Oliver’s an expert in tai chi,” Emma said finally, with a slight smile.

      Yank scowled as he came around his desk. “Do we have a bored retired agent on our hands who’s trying to connect dots that don’t connect because he wants to feel relevant, or is Gordy Wheelock on to something?”

      “I can’t say for certain.”

      “I’m not asking for certainty. I’m asking for your gut take on what he’s up to.”

      Emma tended to be analytical and objective, gathering bits and pieces of information and evidence and letting them point her in the right direction. Gut takes were Colin’s