Harbor Island. Carla Neggers

of Agent Sharpe’s work in art crime,” Aoife said without elaboration. “When I called her just now, I didn’t know...” She took in a deep breath. “I didn’t know about Rachel. She was a friend of yours, Mr. Palladino? I’m so sorry.”

      “She wasn’t a friend,” Palladino said. “Why did you—”

      Colin held up a hand, cutting him off. “One thing at a time.” He turned to Aoife. “Okay if we talk in your room?”

      “Yes, of course.” She pushed open the door behind her and motioned into the room. “Please, come in.”

      It was a one-bedroom suite, complete with a fireplace and view of the Boston Public Garden, spectacular even in November. Palladino went in first, then Emma and Aoife. Colin stayed by the door. He would let Emma handle the situation and jump in if needed. Right now, Palladino looked more shocked, confused and frustrated than menacing.

      Aoife walked over to the fire. Although she was dressed warmly in a black sweater, leggings and socks, she was shivering, hugging herself tightly as if she was cold. She wore no jewelry or makeup. A pair of black ankle boots was cast off on the rug in front of the couch. If she’d been out of the hotel that morning, she’d had enough time to warm up. There was no sign in her pale skin of rosy cheeks from the November cold.

      Palladino walked over to the windows and looked out at the Public Garden. “I still can’t figure out why a well-known Irish painter would call two FBI agents—or even one FBI agent.”

      Emma ignored him and sat on a chair across from Aoife. “When did you arrive in Boston?” she asked the artist quietly.

      Aoife tucked her feet under her. “Yesterday afternoon. I flew in from Dublin.”

      “You must be jet-lagged,” Emma said. “I’m still waking up at the crack of dawn, and I’ve been home for several days.”

      “I was very tired last night. I managed to sleep until six this morning. Not too bad.”

      Palladino nodded to several small sheets of plain paper spaced out on a small, elegant desk. “What are these?”

      “Random sketches,” Aoife said. “I did them this morning when I realized I wouldn’t be going back to sleep. They’re Celtic crosses.”

      “So I see,” Palladino said. “Any particular reason?”

      “Many particular reasons.”

      Her cool, prickly response didn’t seem to affect Palladino. “Have you left your room today, Miss O’Byrne?” he asked.

      She shook her head. “I haven’t gone out of here since last night. I had breakfast in.”

      Emma sat forward in her chair. “I overheard you tell Mr. Palladino that Rachel Bristol was here last night.”

      “That’s right,” Aoife said. “She met me here around eight o’clock. I ordered wine and cheese, and we chatted for perhaps a half hour. Here—by the fire. She’d just arrived from Los Angeles and had dropped off her things at her ex-husband’s house and walked over. We were both tired from our trips and agreed to meet again today. She said she would phone me this morning and we could set up a time.”

      “Travis Bristol,” Palladino interjected, glancing at Emma. “That’s the ex-husband.”

      “Is he the Bristol who hired you?” Emma asked him.

      “No. Ann Bristol, Travis Bristol’s first wife. She lives in Las Vegas. I’m here to check on Maisie, their daughter—not for any particular reason, except that Maisie is rich, naive and stubborn.” Palladino lifted one of the sketches as if he wasn’t paying close attention to the conversation. “Maisie got in from L.A. late yesterday, too.”

      “I don’t know her,” Aoife said. “Rachel came here on her own last night.”

      Colin leaned against the door, shifting his gaze from Palladino to Emma. She seemed more centered than when he’d found her on Bristol Island, pacing, cold, tight with contained anger and the shock of having found a woman dead.

      “Aoife,” Emma said, “why are you in Boston?”

      She hesitated. “Rachel phoned me at my studio in Dublin a few days ago. She wanted to talk to me about a film project she was working on, and I agreed to let her interview me. I’ve been wanting to come to Boston. This was an excuse. I booked my flight, and now here I am.”

      Palladino frowned. “What project?”

      “She said she was working on an independent movie inspired by the theft of artwork from my uncle’s house ten years ago. The stolen art has never been recovered, and the identity of the thief remains unknown. Rachel made the distinction between inspired by and based on. I’m not sure what she meant.”

      “I don’t know anything about this,” Palladino said.

      “Rachel was going to get into more detail when we saw each other today, but now...” Aoife gulped in air, sliding her feet out from under her and letting them drop to the carpeted floor as she addressed Emma. “Was she murdered? Her death wasn’t an accident, was it?”

      “That’s not for me to say.” Emma rose, no sign of stiffness. “The investigating detectives are going to want to talk to both you and Mr. Palladino.”

      “I understand,” Aoife said, subdued. “Thank you for coming under such terrible circumstances. I didn’t know about Rachel’s death when I called you. Emma...” The artist glanced at Palladino, then shifted back to Emma. “Might we have a private word?”

      “Of course.”

      Palladino frowned, but Colin nodded to him. “Let’s go, Danny. We’ll wait downstairs for the detectives. They’re going to want to talk to you, too.”

      “I think I should stay and hear what Miss O’Byrne has to say.”

      “You can think what you want, but you’re not staying. Come on. I’ll let you push the buttons in the elevator. I thought that was the best thing when I was a kid.”

      Palladino glowered. “An FBI agent who thinks he’s funny. Just what I need.”

      But he walked past Aoife and Emma. He had one of the cross sketches in his hand and started to tuck it into his jacket. Colin snatched it from him and set it on a small table. Palladino shrugged and went out into the hall without a word.

      Colin glanced at Emma. He didn’t like leaving her alone. He wanted to tell her that he had his phone, but she knew that—knew that she could call if she needed to. Reminding her might not undermine her in any real way, but it would sure as hell annoy her.

      He went into the hall and walked down to the elevators with Palladino.

      “I’m from Las Vegas,” Palladino said. “We have lots of elevators. You go ahead and push the button, Agent Donovan. Give that inner seven-year-old of yours a thrill.”

      Colin grinned at him. “Will do.”

      * * *

      When they reached the hotel lobby, Palladino looked less cocky and argumentative—more as if he’d just realized someone had beamed him to another galaxy without his permission. “I want to finish up here and catch the next flight back to Las Vegas.”

      Colin shook his head. “That probably won’t be tonight.”

      “Not unless we catch this killer.”

      “We?”

      “Figure of speech.”

      “Right.”

      “You said you and Rachel weren’t friends. How well did you know her?”

      Palladino shrugged. “Not well. I’ve only been working for the Bristols a year. Rachel and Travis were divorced by then.”

      “You’re a bodyguard?”

      “I