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“He created a fantasy world for himself. He filled one notebook after another with
National Geographic
articles on islands in the Mediterranean.”

“How did you learn about these notebooks, Detective O’Reilly?”

There was no sharpness in Palermo’s tone, no bitterness, just curiosity—as if he’d played out the different ways this all would end and hadn’t come up with this one. “My father was a cop,” Bob said.

Palermo shook his head. “Your father didn’t tell you about the notebooks. He was a regular beat cop—the people here say he loved being on the street.”

Bob shrugged. “He never wanted to be a detective. He knew I did—everyone did. People said things in front of me. I paid attention. It’s not in the file on Deirdre’s murder, about this kid and his notebooks. I doubt anyone’s around anymore who’d remember.”

Not true. John March remembered. He had worked the investigation as a young BPD detective, and Bob had talked to him just before heading over to Saint Ita’s, asking the FBI director if there was anything he could think of about the people Stuart Fuller had left behind. Mother, father, brothers, sisters, friends.

March told him about the notebooks.

When Palermo didn’t say anything, Bob resumed.

“Palermo’s the capital of Sicily, the largest island in the Mediterranean. I heard the brother turned to religion after Stuart’s death. Funny how these things work out, isn’t it?”

Palermo didn’t answer right away. “Maybe so, Detec

tive O’Reilly. Maybe so.”

“Patsy figured out who you were, didn’t she?”

“We never discussed it.”

“She figured it out, Father. Trust me. I grew up a couple 286

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of doors down from her. I helped her bury her only daughter. Giving you that angel was Patsy’s way of telling you she didn’t blame you for what your brother did.”

Palermo looked up, and this time his eyes brimmed with tears. “She didn’t deserve to lose Deirdre. She didn’t deserve what my brother did.”

“No, she didn’t.”

Palermo sank back against the pew, but he kept a tight grip on the angel figurine. “Patsy asked me to drive her to Beacon Hill to see Keira Sullivan before she left for Ireland—and I realized then that she knew I was Stuart’s brother. It wasn’t anything she said. But there’s no doubt in my mind that she had me pegged.”

“Did she kill your brother, Father?”

His expression softened, and Bob could see how the members of his church had come to love him as their priest. That was the word from the detectives back at Patsy’s house—that she and everyone else adored Father Palermo.

“You know in your heart she didn’t kill Stuart,” Palermo said. “After Deirdre’s body turned up, Patsy figured out where Stuart had taken her. Where he killed her. Where he was hiding. She didn’t tell the police.”

“How did she figure it out?”

“She told me an angel came to her. I am a priest, De

tective O’Reilly. That part’s not a lie. But I don’t believe she meant, literally, that an angel told her.”

“Stuart called her,” Bob said, seeing it now.

“He told her that he wanted to ask her forgiveness.”

“Patsy didn’t believe that line, did she?”

“No. She knew he was manipulating her. He wanted to relish her pain. My brother fed off other people’s suffering, Detective O’Reilly. Patsy’s grief and horror were as satisfy

ing to him in their own way as what he did to her daughter.”

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Palermo got heavily to his feet. “Stuart lured Patsy out to the boat where he was hiding. He set himself on fire in front of her. She blamed herself for not stopping him.”

“Could she have?”

“Who’s to say? I doubt it, personally. She was glad he couldn’t hurt anyone else, and she was glad he’d suffered. She didn’t regret that she didn’t tell the police that Stuart had called her. She knew they’d stop her from going out to him—”

“Damn straight,” Bob said.

Palermo hesitated before he continued. “I’m convinced Stuart planned that call to Patsy right from the beginning. He wanted to make them both suffer. Patsy and Deirdre. Mother and daughter.”

Bob grimaced, but he said, “Unusual for someone like that to commit suicide.”

Palermo didn’t comment. He looked tired, ashen, but he attempted a smile. “Patsy was so happy when Keira came into her life.” He gave a small laugh. “She was someone else Patsy could tell her stories to.”

“She was quite a storyteller.”

“The best. She loved Keira’s work—a lot of the people in the church do. She has quite a following here.”

“That’s nice,” Bob said tightly, uncomfortable with mention of his niece.

“Patsy believed good things would happen if the stone angel in the story of hers was ever found—she loved the idea of it as much as anything. Detective O’Reilly, I never meant…” Palermo shook his head, his eyes filling again with tears. “It doesn’t matter what I meant. My brother played a terrible, twisted game with her, but what have I done?”

“Did you ever think she was in danger?”

“No. I saw no danger, Detective. I felt none.”

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“The only person responsible for the violence against Patsy is the one who committed it. Period. The same with Deirdre.”

“Life isn’t that black-and-white, is it?”

“Some things aren’t. This is.”

Bob thought of Abigail and her investigation into the drowning in the Public Garden. He’d been so impatient with her. He wasn’t the only one, but how many times in the past years had he told her not to hold back just because she was taking heat? If she had a legitimate reason to pursue a line of questioning, a theory, then she should do it.

“Did you know Victor Sarakis, Father?”

“Just his name. He’s the man who drowned the night I drove Patsy into Boston to see Keira.”

“Liam Butler, Charlotte and Jay Augustine?”

He shook his head. “No.” Palermo pulled open the outer door and bright sunshine streamed into the hall. “If you think of any other questions, Detective O’Reilly, I’ll be here.”

“I have to report what I know about you, Father.”

“Yes. Of course you do. I’m sorry I lied about who I am. And I’m sorry about Patsy, Detective. I only knew her a relatively short time, but I was very fond of her.”

“I didn’t stay in touch with her the way I should have.”

“From what I saw, she found a way to carry on with her life. We were all affected by what my brother did thirty years ago. Your sister’s new life, I’m sure, is partly a result of—”

Bob stopped abruptly in the doorway. “What do you know about my sister?”

Palermo reddened. “Just what everyone else in the parish knows. She came to mass from time to time before she finished building her cabin. People here like her and appre

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ciate her commitment to her faith, but they’re surprised she chose this life. They’re not being critical of her. They just didn’t expect it because she’s such a people person.”

“Eileen’s always been hard on herself.”

“That’s not the purpose of the life she’s chosen.”

“It’s hers.”

Palermo said nothing.

“Has Keira talked to anyone else in the church about their old family stories?” Bob asked.

“Not specifically, no, but word has gone out that she wants to talk to people who emigrated from Ireland in the last century.”

“Anyone you know who’s involved in this Boston-Cork conference?”

Palermo shook his head.

“What about people who collect Irish art and whatnot?”

“That’s a broad group—”

“Someone who’d know Patsy, my sister, my niece,” Bob said.

“Well, the Murphys, of course. They’re avid collectors. I heard they bid on one of your niece’s paintings at the auction, but I don’t believe they were actually there.”

Bob knew the Murphys. “Did you tell the detectives about them?”

“No—”

“Do. Go on up to Patsy’s house and tell them. They’ll want to know.” Bob felt his cell phone vibrate. “I have to go. Be where we can find you.”

Palermo nodded, clutching the angel and looking pale and shaken as Bob headed back outside. He glanced at the readout on his cell phone and sighed as he saw Scoop Wisdom’s name and answered. “I hope to hell you’re not calling to talk to me about compost piles.”

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“Everyone’s okay, Bob,” Scoop said. “I’m on my way to the Garrison house. Owen’s there with Fiona. The Lex

ington police have Madeleine and Jayne. They’re okay. They’re all okay.”

Bob had to lock his knees to keep them from going out from under him. “Bring me up-to-date. What the hell are you talking about?”

Bob stood in the summer sun on the sidewalk of his youth. Scoop described the pictures and tape Abigail had dis

covered at the Cambridge house of her drowning victim. Victor Sarakis. The man whose death Bob had insisted was an accident unrelated to the auction on Beacon Street that night. To Keira. To his family.

He pushed back the guilt. “What about Keira?” he asked when Scoop had finished.

“She’s on her way to see her mother—”

Bob swore, cutting Scoop off, and looked back at the parish hall. Killing Patsy may have been expedient, but it also had been part of the plan. Setting up the angels, the pictures, the prayer card. Finishing Stuart Fuller’s work. Mother and daughter were both dead now. Patsy, Deirdre. Bob thought of the devils in Victor Sarakis’s house. They were chasing a devil. That was for damn sure. Billie and Jeanette Murphy, longtime members of Saint Ita’s, had let Eileen build her cabin on their land in southern New Hampshire. They’d bid on one of Keira’s paintings. They collected Irish art.

Patsy had told Keira her Irish stories.

And someone had watched, plotted, manipulated and, finally, taken action.

“He wanted to make them both suffer. Patsy and Deirdre.
Mother and daughter.”

Bob felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

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“Scoop, it’s Eileen and Keira. They’re this bastard’s target. They’re the main event for this devil.”

“How the hell—never mind. We’ll get the state and local guys out to your sister’s place. Can you give them directions?”

“Follow the bread-crumb trail through the ferns—no, I can’t give them directions. I’ve never been out there. We need to find the Murphys. They own the land. They’ll know.”

“I’m on it, Bob.”

He gave Scoop their names, where to find them.

“Cahill’s on his way to New Hampshire,” Scoop said.

“He’s FBI—Keira must have given him directions.”

“FBI?” Bob tried to smile; gallows humor had always been his defense. “Can’t wait to see Keira when she figures out she’s fallen for a Fed.”

“Think she’s fallen for him?”

“Hard and fast. It’s the only way she does things.” Bob’s chest felt tight. “Scoop…I can’t lose them.”

“You won’t. I have to get moving, Bob.”

“Yeah, go. I’m on my way to Cambridge. Scoop—” Bob choked up. “Thanks.”

But Scoop had already hung up.

Near Mount Monadnock

Southern New Hampshire

1:00 p.m., EDT

June 24

The city and suburbs of Boston gave way to rolling hills, woods and farmland as Keira drove west and then north into New Hampshire, but the picturesque scenery gave her no sense of relief as she pulled over to the side of the quiet secondary road just before the turn for her mother’s cabin. Colm Dermott was on the phone, and she didn’t want to risk losing service before he could finish what he’d called to tell her.

Jeanette and Billie Murphy—the couple who owned the land on which her mother had built her cabin—had pur

chased the second painting she had donated to the auction.

“I didn’t see them, but I arrived late—”

“They weren’t there.” Normally so cheerful, Colm sounded tense, strained. “They bought the painting through a third party. Keira, this is troubling—Jay and Charlotte

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Augustine acted as intermediaries for the Murphys. They’re fine art and antiques dealers in Boston. Charlotte Augustine is Victor Sarakis’s sister.”

“But Colm—he’s the man who drowned.”

“Yes,” he said.

Keira tried to contain her shock. She rolled her window down, her heart racing as she listened to the stream that ran alongside the road. She was all alone out here. There were no other cars, no houses, no people in sight.

“The Augustines telephoned the bid on behalf of the Murphys,” Colm said. “I’m trying to find the volunteer who took the call. I’m positive the Augustines didn’t attend the auction. Their names aren’t in the database of people we invited or on any of the sign-in sheets. Not everyone signed in, of course, but I don’t remember meeting them. I would think I would have. I made a point of greeting everyone who attended, and I have a good head for names. Keira,” he said, increasingly breathless, “the police will want this informa

tion, won’t they?”

“Yes, absolutely they will, Colm. Have you heard of the Augustines? Do you know anything about them?”

“I looked them up on the Internet. They seem to be re

spected and knowledgeable dealers.”

“Do they specialize in Irish works?”

“Not that I can see, no.”

“I’m not thinking of my painting—I can’t imagine it’s what the Augustines are into.” She felt a warm breeze, heard crows in the distance. “I’m thinking of Patsy McCarthy’s stone angel. Would that interest them, assuming it’s Celtic or even Celtic Revival?”

“It would interest a lot of people, Keira.”

She sighed. “I can’t imagine some high-class Boston dealers crawling around in an Irish ruin for a statute they’d 294

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have no reason to believe exists.” Keira paused, suddenly feeling isolated on the quiet road. Her throat tightened with emotion. “But I can’t imagine someone killing an old woman in her own home, either.”