Ireland 03 - The Mist by Carla Neggers

Author:Carla Neggers [Neggers, Carla]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: thriller, Fiction, Romance, Romantic Suspense Fiction, Suspense, General, Drug Traffic, Kidnapping, Hotelkeepers
ISBN: 9781440750915
Google: itfEWe6JsV0C
Amazon: 1440750912
Publisher: MIRA
Published: 2009-01-02T06:00:00+00:00

Chapter 17

Boston, Massachusetts

8 a.m., EDT

August 26

Bob felt the metal bars under the thin mattress as he rolled onto his back, reminding him that he’d spent the night on the pullout sofa in his niece’s attic apartment in the Garrison house. Sunlight streamed through lace curtains Keira had bought in Ireland. He draped an arm over his eyes to block out the sun and slumped deeper into what passed for a bed. His feet hung off the end. He hadn’t wanted to sleep. He’d still be at BPD headquarters now if Tom Yarborough hadn’t all but put a gun to his head and dragged him to Beacon Hill.

Yarborough had probably gone right back to work.

Bob adjusted his position and got another poke in the back. Everyone had offered him a place to stay. Theresa, Lucas Jones, even Yarborough. Hell, the mayor and the commissioner would have put him up for the night if he’d asked. Easier to stay in his niece’s vacant apartment with her pictures of Irish fairies and cottages, her books of folktales and poetry.

Simon and March had an FBI detail looking after their safety. Neither liked it or had wanted to sleep any more than Bob had. Simon, in particular, wanted to chase Estabrook on his own, but not only did he have a giant target painted on his back, he would be more help to Abigail working the investigation than going solo. He knew Estabrook, his contacts, how he thought, places he liked, places he’d been or had talked about. If he could hide millions for drug traffickers, he could hide himself.

Someone would have paged or called or shouted up the stairs if Estabrook or his plane had turned up, but Bob checked his messages, anyway.

Nothing.

He walked to the window in his undershorts and pulled back the Irish lace curtains, grimacing when he saw that the protective detail the commissioner insisted be put on his chief homicide detective was still down there. Waste of manpower as far as Bob was concerned. He’d rather have them out looking for Abigail and the bombers, but he didn’t have a choice.

He headed for the bathroom and took a shower, using Keira’s almond soap, which wasn’t as girlie as he’d feared. He’d managed to grab a couple changes of clothes out of his apartment. They didn’t smell too sooty to him, but they might to someone else. Not his problem.

Yarborough met him downstairs. He was as straight-backed as ever but looked raw around the edges. He’d never say the tension was getting to him, but Bob wouldn’t, either. “Morning, Lieutenant. You sleep?”

“Like a baby. You?”

“Some.”

Bob squinted across Beacon at the Common, all dappled shade on a sunny summer morning. It’d be another hot day. “Did you find Abigail and just not want to wake me?”

“No. Sorry.”

The guy had no sense of irony. Bob turned back to him. “What’s going on? Why are you here?”

Yarborough rubbed the back of his neck. He was a cool, controlled type, but right now, he looked miserable.

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