It was almost noon and the Basilica at Saint Patrick’s Old Cathedral was quiet.
Slowly and painfully, James left the columbarium and the niche that held Rose’s cremains. He dabbed at the tears in his eyes with a handkerchief and made his way inside the magnificent chapel to bow his head and say a prayer for his dear departed friend.
Peter waited respectfully at the entranceway doors. His car was parked right outside, thanks to the handicap parking permit Niall had given him to hang in the window. Parking in the city sucked. And Professor Blythe was in no physical shape to hike to the closest garage, whether that permit was legally obtained or not.
As soon as Peter saw the professor lift his head and reach for his cane, he turned away and pulled out his cell phone, pressing Niall’s number.
“We’re finished here,” he informed his friend.
“Good,” Niall replied. “Fiona McKay’s security detail is outside the offices of Forensic Instincts, which means that’s where she is. I’m texting you the address. Please take the professor there after he calls her and arranges a meeting.”
“She’ll see him right away?”
“Immediately—as soon as she hears his name.”
“Done.” Peter disconnected the call. Niall had told him enough to know who their target was and where Niall wanted Blythe to meet with her. Fortunately, the scenario was working in their favor.
He turned and walked forward to assist the professor back to the car.
***
The FI team was in the conference room, discussing the unsurprising but unpleasant visit they’d just had from Detectives Alvarez and Shaw, who were “just checking in” to see if FI had anything new to report.
“You don’t think Hutch said something, do you?” Ryan asked.
“Not a prayer.” Casey gave an adamant shake of her head. “Hutch is a man of his word. If he said he wouldn’t contact the NYPD, then he didn’t.”
“It was a fishing expedition,” Patrick said. “Plus a chance to needle us. Sort of like: ‘Hi, remember us? We’re watching your every move.’ They’re not going to let up, so expect more visits until we solve this case.”
Marc nodded, clearly unbothered by the detectives’ drop-in. “So let’s solve it. The IRA facet of the investigation is now in federal hands. Time to turn our attention back where it belongs—to Rose’s murder, to the threat to Fiona, and to finding that hoard before the killer does.”
“Why don’t we stop calling him ‘the killer’?” Emma gave an impatient wave of her hand. “We all know that it’s Dempsey.”
“All signs point to him, yes,” Casey replied. “But until we have proof, he’s still a suspect.”
“A scary one,” Claire murmured.
“Which is why Patrick is now having him watched.” Casey was clearly ready to move on from the IRA connection. “Plus, he’ll soon be under FBI surveillance. So let’s concentrate on what he wants and what we have: the tapestries. The closer we get to figuring out the location of that hoard and moving in on it, the more likely Dempsey will do something reckless in order to beat us to the punch. And when he does, we’ll be ready to stop him. We’ll bring him down and find the McKay treasure all in one fell swoop.”
Claire rose to her feet. “I’ll collect the tapestry panels from my yoga room and bring them down to the conference room so we can view them through fresh eyes.” She took a few steps, then paused. “We should bring Fiona back into the fold in our analysis. And not only because she’s jumping out of her skin. But because her insights are invaluable.”
“Absolutely.” Casey nodded. “This isn’t a closed team meeting. Fiona has been part of this aspect of the investigation from the start. Stop by the den and ask her to—”
Casey was interrupted by a loud banging on the conference room door.
“It’s me,” Fiona announced urgently from the other side of the door. “I have to see you guys right now.”
Claire walked over and yanked open the door. “Are you all right?” she asked, concern knitting her brows.
“I’m better than all right. I’m psyched!” Fiona waved her cell phone at them as if it held the answers to their questions. “I just got a call from Professor Blythe. The reason you couldn’t reach him is because he was flying to New York to pay his respects to Rose. And now he wants to meet with me to discuss the research he was helping her with and the tapestries.”
The entire team looked stunned.
“That’s either perfect timing or a very abrupt and bizarre coincidence,” Casey said. Reflexively, she shot an inquisitive look at Marc.
“Let’s assume it’s the former,” he replied. “Because I don’t believe in bizarre coincidences, and certainly not abrupt ones.”
“Nor do I,” she replied. “The man is an expert on hoards. Could he have followed up on Rose’s research, figured out both the existence and the value of this particular hoard, and then decided to fly to New York to help Fiona—motive being he could be part of the discovery and be handsomely compensated for his efforts?”
“He’s a good man,” Claire said softly. “He’s not driven by greed. And he’s deeply mourning the loss of his friend.”
Casey accepted Claire’s intuitive statement without question. “Then let’s not dissect possible ulterior motives—at least not until we’ve met the man.” She turned to Fiona. “Ask Professor Blythe to come to FI’s offices. That way, he can not only help you, but he can meet with us all. He needs to know that our knowledge base has grown dramatically since your original research request to Rose.”
“I know. I already asked him to come here. I told him I’d hired FI to protect me and to help the police solve Rose’s murder. He’s on his way.”
***
Any thought that Professor Blythe was insincere in his affection for Rose or duplicitous about his commitment to helping Fiona decipher the tapestry panels for honorable reasons vanished the instant Casey met him. Not only met him but looked him straight in the eyes—eyes that were damp from having just visited the columbarium that housed Rose’s cremains.
The slight, elderly man emanated nothing but kindness and wisdom, and Casey took an immediate liking to him. He introduced himself and Thomas Murphy, his driver and physical aide, and shook everyone’s hand in turn, simultaneously apologizing for his emotional state.
“You’ve suffered a tragic loss,” Casey said. “I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you, my dear.”
He turned to Ryan and tilted his head quizzically. “McKay. Is that a coincidence?”
“No.” A corner of Ryan’s mouth lifted. “Fiona is my younger sister. Prepare yourself for a deluge of questions fired at supersonic speed.”
The moment of levity was perfectly timed, and James chuckled. “From what Rose said, I’d expect no less. In fact, I welcome it.” He turned to Fiona, the emotion back in his gaze. “Rose told me how special you are. I’m sure you miss her as much as I do.”
Fiona nodded, sadness flickering across her face. “Terribly so. But her Mass and service were a wonderful tribute to her. I wish you could have been there.”
“As do I.” He swallowed hard. “I had to gather the strength and the funds to make this trip. I just couldn’t do it fast enough—”
“You’re here now, and that’s all that matters,” Fiona interrupted quickly, sensing that the poor man was going to break down.
“I appreciate your kindness.” He squeezed her hand. “That she’s gone is painful enough. But that someone murdered her…” Again, he swallowed, shaking his head in noncomprehension.
This time it was Fiona who squeezed his hand. “I know,” she murmured. “But this incredible team you just met is going to find her killer.”
James cleared his throat and turned to Casey. “You’re private investigators,” he said. “I’m afraid that’s all I know.”
“We’ll fill you in.” Casey gestured toward the first-floor conference room. Because of its larger size, the main conference room had already been set up, but having noted both the professor’s cane and his frail condition, Casey had abruptly changed plans. “Let’s get settled and then we can talk.”
James murmured his assent, and “Thomas” stepped forward to assist him down the hall.
“Marc, can you and Patrick show the gentlemen down to the small conference room and set up the tables to accommodate the tapestries?” Casey asked.
“Absolutely.” Marc understood instantly, as did Patrick, who joined Marc at the head of the group.
“Please,” he said. “Follow us.”
Once the professor had walked far enough away to be out of earshot, Casey pulled Emma and Claire aside. “Emma, please bring down the breakfast tray. I’ll set up the JURA and make Professor Blythe whatever he wants to drink. And, Claire, please get the tapestries.”
Without question, both women hurried upstairs.
Soon after, everyone was settled on the leather tub chairs and love seats in the smaller conference room. Marc had moved the large oval coffee table closer to the love seat where Professor Blythe sat and put an additional table beside it. Between the two, all the tapestry panels could be spread out and viewed.
“Thomas” had been escorted to a comfortable interviewing room adjacent to the conference room. Emma made sure he had ample refreshment and a stack of reading material, although he’d assured her he had phone calls to make and work to do on his iPad. She then joined the others, shutting the door behind her.
Peter waited until he heard the telltale click of the conference room door having closed.
Then he set aside his plate and his cup and came to his feet. He didn’t want the piss-poor coffee anyway. What he wanted was a real drink, actually a few. But there’d be time for that later. Right now, he had a job to do. He had to assume that Niall hadn’t counted on this PI team being included in whatever Fiona McKay was consulting with the professor about. Plus, Niall couldn’t be sure that this old man would remember all the details of what now looked to be a major meeting.
The scenario was definitely a monkey wrench in Niall’s plan. So it was time for Peter to step in. Whatever these smooth investigators learned, he’d better learn, too.
The brownstone was quiet, reinforcing what Peter had already guessed: that the entire investigative team was closeted in one room, so there was no one out and about and no chance of being spotted.
On that thought, he walked quietly to the closed door and leaned his head against it to listen.