Keeper's Reach (5 page)

“Maybe so.”

There was no
maybe
about it, but Naomi didn’t argue with him. Kavanagh
wanted
her to have a habit of trusting the wrong people because it would help him somehow, if only to throw her off balance and get in her head.

He glanced at a row of framed botanical prints on the side wall. Local grasses, wildflowers and herbs. “What are you up to, Naomi?” he asked, shifting back to her.

She tried the yogurt. It was smooth and creamy, made without added pectin. With the fruit, it was perfection. “Are you following me because you think I’m up to something? As I told you in London, you’re wasting your time. I’m a crisis management consultant who met with a group of medical volunteers who are planning their deployment to a hot spot in Africa. I’m helping them assess their security needs and then take appropriate steps to meet them. That’s all I’m up to.”

Kavanagh smirked at her. “It’s not all.”

“I’m not arguing with you, T.K.”

“Why this particular twee English village?”

Naomi ate more of her yogurt and drank some of her coffee. What she wanted to do was to eat six croissants and go back to bed. She made herself smile at the FBI agent across from her. “
Twee
. I love that word. I’ve wanted to visit the Cotswolds but never could find the time. Now I have, if only for one night.”

“That doesn’t explain why you chose this village,” Kavanagh said.

“This place comes highly recommended by an internet travel site I trust.” It was true, as far as it went. “What about you? Did you follow my car, or did you overhear me when I told the bellman where I was going? It wasn’t a secret, but the only person I actually told is my mother.”

“How is your mother, Naomi?”

“Great. Sewing up a storm. Think where I could be now if I’d paid attention and let her teach me how to sew drapes and beauty-pageant dresses.”

“Or if your father hadn’t been killed by an IED when you were a freshman at Vanderbilt,” Kavanagh said quietly.

Naomi finished the last of her yogurt. “Yes, that, too.” She refused to let him distract her, even if she had given him the opening. “This is a good place, don’t you think? I’d love to relax here for a few nights.”

Kavanagh leaned forward, his pale green eyes narrowed on her. “You’re giving me careful answers, Naomi.”

“Why wouldn’t I, seeing how you’re an FBI agent?”

Her porridge arrived. The waiter didn’t linger. Naomi didn’t blame him. Kavanagh wasn’t in full-blown FBI interrogation mode, but it was close enough.

She decided to lighten her tone and change the subject. “Did the rooster wake you up this morning? He did me.”

“I didn’t notice a rooster. I sleep soundly.”

She broke off a piece of croissant and popped it in her mouth as she noticed a drizzle of the promised blackberry compote in her porridge. Breakfast was delightful, she decided, refusing to let her companion spoil the moment. “Do you know what kind of rooster has white-spotted black feathers?”

“I’m not here to talk about roosters. Neither are you.”

She picked up the fresh spoon that came with her porridge. It was a lot of porridge. “I’ll look it up. I’m dying to know.”

“You’re playing with fire, Naomi. You know that, don’t you?”

“By having yogurt and porridge with you, you mean?”

Kavanagh’s eyes flared with anger, but he quickly got himself under control. All that FBI discipline and training, she supposed.

Assuming he still
was
an FBI agent.

She thought about asking to see his credentials to check if they were current, but she wouldn’t be able to identify a good forgery—and Ted Kavanagh would only have a good forgery.

“You know how to get on people’s nerves when it suits you,” he said.

“Sometimes it just works out that way.”

“It’s not on purpose, you mean?”

She didn’t respond. She started on her porridge. It was the chewy pinhead kind, and the trickle of warm blackberry compote turned out to be a sweet, delicious pool. In another life, she would do things like make compotes. In this life—her life now, at this moment—she did things like get through surprise breakfasts with FBI agents she didn’t trust and who didn’t trust her.

“I appreciate that it’s your business to find out things,” he said. “It’s how you make your living. It’s also who you are, though, isn’t it? It’s a control issue. This need to know things.”

“Psychoanalyzing me? It won’t get you far.” She held up her spoon. “This porridge is incredible, T.K. I never would have thought to add blackberry compote, but it’s a stroke of genius. I’m happy I chose the porridge instead of a full English breakfast, since I don’t like black pudding and have trouble with the idea of baked beans before noon. There’s not much you can do to a blackberry that I wouldn’t like. Without the compote, I can’t imagine how annoyed I’d be with you right now. You can’t just make up stuff about me.”

“I’m not making up anything, and I don’t care if you’re annoyed.”

“I’m getting that picture.”

He fingered a bit of loose-leaf tea that had fallen on the table next to his mug. “I need you to be straight with me, Naomi.”

“That’s a two-way street.”

He shook his head. “No, it isn’t.”

“Now I remember. You never did have a sense of humor. I’m here enjoying a decadent breakfast before my long flight across the Atlantic. I’ll take a good walk, too. I don’t care if it’s cold and rainy.”

“Rain’s ending. Where will you walk?”

“Not sure yet.” It wasn’t a flat-out lie but it was close. She knew where she was going. She just hadn’t figured out the route. “What about you? What are your plans for the day, T.K.?”

“Leaving you to your own devices if you won’t talk to me.”

“Good.”

He sucked in a breath and tapped the table with his fingertips, as though he wanted to let her know he was practicing self-restraint. He clearly wanted to throw the table aside and throttle her. “You know you can get into trouble lying to a federal agent, don’t you?”

“I’m not lying. I do think it’s good for you to leave me to my own devices. I don’t want an FBI agent to waste his time on my account.” Naomi set her spoon next to her porridge bowl. “Anything else I can do for you, Agent Kavanagh?”

“Why do you have doubts about me, Naomi?”

She glanced past him at the windows above the buffet table. Sunlight broke through the gray, at least for the moment, shining on puddles and brown, dripping vines. She hadn’t mentioned—and wouldn’t—that before she ventured into St. James’s Park she’d visited an art gallery to have a look at a show by Aoife O’Byrne, an Irish artist. She knew damn well Kavanagh had followed her there and then into the park. Let him admit it.

She did know how to spot tails, but she hadn’t been thinking about having one when she’d walked from her hotel to the gallery—and she wasn’t sure she’d have spotted an FBI tail. Ted Kavanagh might be on her nerves right now, but he was good.

The sun seemed to be fading already. Naomi turned back to the FBI agent. “Well, T.K., for one thing, you were in London on your own and now you’re here on your own. Most FBI agents work in pairs. Where’s your partner?”

He settled back against the cushioned bench. “Feel free to call any FBI office if you want to check up on me.”

“No, thanks. If you’re on the level, I’d only heap scrutiny on myself. Not that I have anything to hide, but who needs the aggravation? And if you’ve gone rogue, you are most definitely not my problem.”

“You’re right. I’m not your problem.”

“If you really are still an FBI agent, you’re breaking a lot of rules. That sweater for one. Gad, T.K. That is not your shade of brown.”

“My ex-wife gave it to me for my birthday.”

“Mmm. Last birthday you were together?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.”

Naomi broke off another piece of croissant. “Not surprised.”

He grinned. “I should have known. She has passive-aggressive behavior down to an art form. Oh, well. At least it’s a warm sweater. I’ll appreciate it today, even if it’s a bad shade of brown.” He got to his feet, eyeing Naomi a moment before he spoke. “It’s good to see you. Enjoy your day in the Cotswolds.”

“I will, thanks. You, too.”

“I have a flight to catch myself. Do you ever worry about your safety, Naomi? You’re a one-woman show. Who’s your backup? Who helps you when things get scary? Who picks you up when you fall?”

“I can always call 911.”

“When you’re at home. Out here...” He shrugged. “You can call 999, I guess. If you realize you’re over your head and need help, you know how to reach me. Don’t hesitate, okay?”

His comment caught her off guard. The knowledge behind it, the absence of any hint of cockiness, frustration and impatience, the softness of his voice, as if he could see into her heart—cared about her feelings. Her safety.

A ploy.

Ted Kavanagh didn’t
not
care about her, but if he was still a legit FBI agent, he had a job to do.

Whatever he was up to, she would let the FBI figure him out.

“Thanks,” she said, trying to sound matter-of-fact.

She expected him to walk away, but he didn’t. “Be careful, Naomi. You have a risk-taking streak that borders on reckless.”

He turned abruptly and left the breakfast room.

Once he was out of sight, Naomi exhaled, then poured herself more coffee. She wondered if Ted Kavanagh ever fantasized about taking a break for a few days and playing tourist. He looked as if he could use a break.

But she found herself fighting off another touch of melancholy. She drank her coffee as the waiter led a middle-aged couple to a table. They spoke English to him—they asked for tea—and German to each other. Naomi understood German and could speak enough to get through a dinner, but it wasn’t one of her better languages. The couple was discussing their plans for the day, which centered on celebrating their wedding anniversary with a long winter walk in the countryside.

The quaint English breakfast room fell away, thrusting Naomi back to a dusty night in Afghanistan. Federal agents, soldiers and civilian intelligence officers were often an uneasy combination at the best of times, and that hadn’t been the best of times.

It certainly hadn’t been a good time to fall in love.

But when
was
a good time to fall in love with Mike Donovan?

She set her mug on the table. No wonder she’d had nightmares about him.

She silently congratulated the German couple and wished them well, then frowned at the rest of her croissant. There was a small jar of gooseberry jam and a dish of butter on her table.

Well, why not?

She noted the jam was from the nearby farm owned by Oliver York, a wealthy Brit and, very possibly, an incomparable art thief.

Not coincidentally, he knew the Irish painter Aoife O’Byrne, whose uncle had been a victim of an art thief, and he also owned an apartment on St. James’s Park in London.

What did Ted Kavanagh want with York?

The York farm was at least a brisk twenty-minute walk from the inn. Naomi figured she could burn off her breakfast and, at the same time, consider what Kavanagh’s interest was in both her and Oliver York. She had her suspicions, but she put them aside as she opened the jar of the York farm’s gooseberry jam.

5

The few rays of sunshine at breakfast seemed to be it for the day. Naomi didn’t mind. She set off through the village, past a row of attached houses, a post office, a small school and a few cottages, then onto a lane that wound through well-marked fields, patches of woods and farmhouses. The York farm should be out the lane to her left, with Stow-on-the-Wold to the northwest, Chipping Norton to the northeast and Burford to the south. Cotswolds villages had sprung up during the Middle Ages, when the area had prospered around the sheep industry. With its proximity to London, the graceful landscape of rolling hills, pastures and quaint honey-colored stone houses drew tourists and wealthy second-home owners alike. The ubiquitous yellow limestone—Oolitic Jurassic limestone, technically—occurred naturally in the region and had been quarried there for centuries.

Naomi smiled, remembering when she thought something built in 1900 was old. Other than wishing she had brought a hat and gloves, she enjoyed the walk and tried to take in her surroundings without letting her thoughts intrude.

She crossed a bridge over a shallow stream, feeling the cold of the water below her, its trickle the only sound in the still, gray late morning. On the other side of the bridge, a sloping, tree-dotted lawn rose to an elegant house. The scene reminded her of a Jane Austen novel. According to her research, however, this was the York farm. Its owner would make an interesting Regency hero. Naomi couldn’t picture the heroine for him. A prideful Elizabeth Bennett, or a trustworthy Anne Elliot?

A low stone wall hugged a curve. She followed it about thirty yards to an open gate on a dirt track. She noticed tire marks, footprints, horseshoe prints and a small sign indicating the track was public, although not part of the Oxfordshire Way. If her map and the guest information in her room were correct, the track would take her along the southern edge of the York property to an historic dovecote.

It would also take her through mud, she noted with a grimace. She would have to clean her boots before she ventured to Heathrow, given the rules about trekking through farms before boarding flights. Or she could just toss them in the trash. They weren’t expensive. She could wear her flats on the flight.

She didn’t want to think about the long flight later today.

She went through the gate. Within a few yards, she saw the dovecote up ahead, on the left side of the track. Pleased with herself, she picked up her pace. What a change the Cotswolds were from London, she thought. Despite her misgivings about her reasons for being here, it was a welcome break from the intensity of the past week.

Flat stones set into a dirt path created a rudimentary walkway to the dovecote entrance. Naomi stepped onto the path for a closer look. She supposed leaving the track meant she was trespassing, but no one seemed to be around. A quick peek and she would be off. From her cursory research, she had learned that dovecotes were once widespread throughout the area, typically on wealthy manor or ecclesiastic properties. As their name suggested, they housed pigeons, in past times considered a delicacy. Only a fraction of the thousands of dovecotes built between the Middle Ages and the eighteenth century, when they fell out of favor, remained.

Naomi could see holes just below the steeply gabled roof that the pigeons must have used.

“Quaint.”

Clay and ceramic pots were stacked by the entrance, as if awaiting spring and plantings. An ancient—by her standards—wheelbarrow was leaned up against the stone front of the building. She stepped into the soft ground in front of a window and peered inside. Two clay pots that looked as if they were planted with some kind of large bulb sat atop a thick wood worktable. Tools were lined up on hooks and nails on the wall above it. Shears, clippers, diggers, scratchers. She had never been much of a gardener but could guess the dovecote was now a potting shed.

At least the front half. At the far end of the workbench was an interior door.

Padlocked.

Wouldn’t one padlock the main entrance and not bother with an interior door?

Naomi continued from the window along the soft ground—a mix of wet grass, sodden moss and dead leaves—to the back of the dovecote. She could hear water babbling in the stream down a tree-covered hillside.

There were no windows on the back of the dovecote. Too bad, she thought, ready to turn back and resume her walk on the track. She didn’t know if Oliver York was at the farm. What if he caught her snooping? Nothing in what she’d learned about him so far indicated he was violent. Weird, maybe. Troubled. Haunted. Smart. All that, yes—and ultra-fit. He had to be to pull off at least a half-dozen brazen art heists over the past decade.

She heard a sound behind her and nearly jumped out of her damn skin. Her knees buckled under her, and she clutched her jacket at her chest, even as she scanned the hillside, saw nothing amiss and told herself to calm down.

Woods, a stream, a farm. There would be animals about. Farmers had dogs, didn’t they?

She liked dogs.

She couldn’t let her imagination get carried away.

Perspiration sprang up at the back of her neck, never mind the chilly air. She lowered her hand from her chest. Small white flowers spread across the ground below a gnarled oak tree right out of Tolkien. She smiled, her heart rate slowing.

She wondered if she would ever not startle easily.

She did a few deep, calming breaths. She promised herself she would come back here one day in the spring. Maybe not to the York farm. The Cotswolds, though.

A groan came from the woods down toward the stream.

Distinct. Human. Probably male.

This time Naomi wasn’t startled. Someone was in clear distress.

“Bloody hell.”

The voice was definitely male, and almost certainly British.

She stood by a thin tree and looked down the hill. About ten yards below her, a gray-haired man was on all fours, struggling to get to his feet. He reached for a tree trunk, missed, fell and cursed again.

“Are you all right?” Naomi called to him. “Do you need help?”

He looked up at her, squinted as if he couldn’t focus or wasn’t sure if he had conjured her up. He started to speak, then slumped facedown into the ground.

Naomi ran down the hill, deceptively steep. She slipped in the wet leaves and grass but managed not to fall. When she reached the man, she squatted next to him but didn’t touch him. He was already pushing himself back up onto his hands and knees, grunting, clearly disoriented and in pain.

“Let me help you,” she said.

“I just need to get on my feet.”

It wasn’t a clear yes or no, but he didn’t protest when she hooked an arm around his middle. He was at least in his sixties, with only a bit of extra weight on him. He was a few inches taller than she was—nothing she wasn’t used to—and cold and muddy, shivering and shuddering as she anchored herself and helped him to his feet. He slung one arm over her shoulder, then with his other hand grabbed onto the tree trunk he had missed on the first try. He was able to hold on this time.

“Thank you,” he said, lowering his arm from her shoulders.

Naomi stood back, noticing he had on a Barbour jacket, too. From the looks of him, he had been out in the elements awhile. The jacket probably had helped save him from exposure. “Shall I call an ambulance?” she asked him.

“No, no. I’m all right. I took a nasty tumble.”

“When?”

He blinked at her. “When?” he repeated.

“It’s Thursday morning,” she said. “Do you remember when you fell? Did you lose consciousness?”

“I was out overnight.” He swallowed, licked his lips. “Thank you for your help.”

His tone was formal, almost embarrassed. He started up the hill, his gait practiced if not steady. Naomi spotted him from behind but had no idea what she would do if he fell back against her. They would probably both end up plunging into the stream.

He didn’t move fast, but he did make it to the top of the hill and the strip of grass behind the dovecote. He placed a hand at his right temple, his face ashen.

“Headache?” Naomi asked.

“Blistering.”

Only then did she see the blood caked on his neck. “You’re hurt,” she said.

“I must have hit my head on a rock or a tree root when I fell.”

“You’ve been bleeding. Do you want me to take a look?”

“I tore a chunk out of the back of my neck. Blood dribbled down my front. I landed facedown when I fell.” He grimaced, sinking against the dovecote. “Sorry to be such trouble.”

“You’re no trouble at all. Is there someone I can call?”

He stood straight, looking steadier, then motioned toward the front of the dovecote. He started walking, stiffly and unsteadily. Naomi fell in next to him, but she couldn’t tell how badly he was hurt. He could be acting out of stubbornness, disorientation, pain or, for all she knew, fear. How did she know his fall was an accident?

She also was guessing—was almost certain—the injured man was Martin Hambly, Oliver York’s longtime personal assistant.

He stumbled once but shook off her help and instead balanced himself with a hand on the exterior of the dovecote. When he reached the entrance, he pushed open the door and collapsed onto a wood chair against the wall by the worktable. He looked as if he was about to pass out, or maybe vomit—or both. Although obviously cold, he didn’t seem to be suffering from hypothermia. At the very least he had to be dehydrated if he had been out all night.

Naomi grabbed a bottle of water off the worktable, opened it and handed it to him.

He took a long drink and seemed to rally. “Thank you,” he said. “You’re American?”

“Mmm. Out for a walk.” She tried to get a look at his head injury, but it was difficult to see with his coat collar. “I can hail someone.”

“I’ll do it.”

He pointed at a cell phone on the worktable. She handed it to him, and he held it in his palm, trembling. He took in an audible breath, then managed to hit a few numbers.

“It’s Hambly,” he said when someone picked up on the other end. “I’m at the dovecote. I took a fall and need assistance. Not an ambulance. Thank you.” He slipped the phone into his jacket pocket. “I feel better already getting off that wet ground.”

“What happened?”

He seemed confused. “What do you mean, what happened?”

“How did you fall?”

“There are a thousand ways to fall in these conditions. I appreciate your coming to my aid, but you mustn’t let me keep you from your walk. I’m fine, honestly.”

“Head injuries can be dangerous, Mr. Hambly. If you lost consciousness—”

“I’ll check with my doctor. Thank you again.”

Naomi had no more desire to deal with the authorities than he did. Once she gave them her name, her situation could unravel fast from there. She wouldn’t even have to mention the FBI agent who had joined her for breakfast a twenty-minute walk away. Then if Kavanagh found out what she had been up to that morning...

An elderly farmworker arrived, identifying himself merely as Johnny as he took over Martin Hambly’s care.

Relieved and reassured, Naomi left them and headed to the track, turning back toward the village. She had resisted glancing at the locked door inside the dovecote, but she didn’t want to make too much of it. Oliver York was a wealthy man. If he was in fact an art thief, he had plenty of places to conceal his misdeeds.

* * *

Naomi wasted no time on enjoying the bucolic scenery on her walk back to the pub. She ducked through the courtyard—not a chicken in sight now—into her room. Her wet, muddy pants and socks were definitely
not
appropriate for Heathrow. She peeled them off and dumped the pants and socks in the trash. She didn’t have time to rinse them off and find a plastic bag to stuff them in for her flight. She cleaned the mud splatters off her jacket and boots as best she could. She had planned to wear her jacket on the plane but decided to pack it instead. She didn’t want to risk
anything
interfering with her getting home to Nashville tonight.

She wished she had time for another shower but washed up at the sink, making sure there wasn’t so much as a speck of mud on her. She didn’t know if the dovecote counted as being on a farm—a definite red flag at customs—but better safe than having to explain.

Did Hambly really not remember what had happened to him?
Should
she have rung the police?

Her reaction had been normal, nothing any other tourist out for a walk wouldn’t have done. Probably countless people had a peek at the dovecote. Nothing provocative in doing that, and, in any case, the injured Hambly might think she’d ventured off the public track because she’d heard him.

Her new clothes weren’t as comfortable as the ones heaped in the trash, but they would do. She zipped up her suitcase, scanned the room for anything she might have missed and headed out, shutting the door behind her.

She debated mentioning her encounter at the York farm at checkout but only for a fleeting moment. It was madness, really, to say a word about it.

She was fast coming to regret her detour to the Cotswolds.

When she emerged from the pub and saw Reed Cooper leaning against the hood of a sleek, dove-gray car, there was no question anymore. Kavanagh, Hambly and now Cooper?