“Why do you ask?”
“Instinct. The MI5 guy is a real bastard. If he’s got York by the short hairs for some reason...well, it’s no wonder York is doing MI5’s bidding. But what could British intelligence have on a lonely mythologist?”
Tons, Emma thought, but she didn’t respond to Gordy’s question. Given his experience as a federal agent, he would know she couldn’t. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to. For a decade, he had chased a serial thief who’d broken into museums, businesses and private homes in a dozen different cities in Europe and the US, making off with a fortune in artwork. Wendell Sharpe, Emma’s grandfather, had also hunted for the thief, who had especially enjoyed taunting the world-renowned art detective. Last fall, while on an unrelated case, Emma had helped identify the thief as eccentric English mythologist Oliver York. Oliver had never admitted his guilt, and he would never face arrest and prosecution for any of his brazen heists—in part because of lack of evidence, but mainly because he’d agreed to help the United Kingdom’s Security Service, popularly known as MI5.
“I guess I wouldn’t answer that question, either,” Gordy said. “Oliver York’s London apartment—the same one where he witnessed his parents’ murder—is a short distance from Claridge’s. He also owns a farm in the Cotswolds. Again, though, I’m telling you something you already know, since he’s your pal.”
“Oliver isn’t my pal.”
“Is he one of your grandfather’s eccentric pals?”
“You’d have to ask him. Did you speak with Oliver at the party on Sunday?”
“No, I didn’t. He saw me and took off in the opposite direction. Coincidence, maybe.”
Emma doubted it. “What else, Gordy? I can’t get worked up about MI5 and an English mythologist showing up at a high-end London party.”
“Your parents were there.”
Now this was news, Emma thought, containing any reaction. She could see he was gauging her response as the experienced agent he was. As a member of HIT, short for High-Impact Target, she worked on investigations focusing on elusive criminals with virtually unlimited resources. But she had only a little over four years on the job. Gordy, retired just a year, had decades.
“I haven’t talked with them in a few days,” she said.
“We said a quick hello while the MI5 agent was looking daggers at me. They’re living in London now, I understand. It’s temporary?”
“A year. That’s what they say, at least. The idea was that a dramatic change of scenery would help my father with his chronic pain.”
Gordy winced. “Terrible. A simple fall on the ice and his life is changed forever. Your brother had to pick up the reins of the family business sooner than he expected. I hear old Wendell is retiring, but I’ll believe it when I see it.”
Emma got to her feet. “Gordy, if you’re here because you want me to give you information, you’re wasting your time. I appreciate any information you want to give me, but it’s a one-way street.”
“Yeah. I get it.” He picked up an index card that had fallen onto the floor and set it back on the sofa. “You heard Alessandro Pearson died about two weeks ago? Funeral was a week ago Tuesday. He had a heart attack and fell down the stairs near his apartment. Heart attack is what killed him, though. He was eighty-eight. He had a good run.”
Emma nodded. “Yes, I heard.”
“Old Wendell was at the funeral. I didn’t realize they were friends.”
“He consulted with Alessandro a few times.”
“Archaeologist specializing in ancient mosaics. I thought your grandfather steered clear of antiquities.”
“He does these days. Look, it seems you should be talking to him instead of me.”
“Relax. I’m just curious. I’m at a party celebrating an antiquities show with MI5, this Oliver York character, your parents and a few other people, and everyone’s buzzing about Alessandro Pearson’s death.”
“He was a respected expert in antiquities.”
“Know anything about ancient mosaics stolen recently in London, Emma?”
It was a calculated blurt. Despite his disheveled appearance and obvious fatigue and aches and pains, Gordy had clearly come to this meeting prepared. He watched her closely.
“No,” she said. “What do you know?”
“Not much. I overheard rumors at the tea party. Word is several sixth-century Byzantine Christian mosaics, possibly illegally obtained, were stolen a few weeks ago from an unnamed London collector. I’m no expert on mosaics but I did some quick research. Mosaic art flourished from the time of the ancient Greeks through the fall of the eastern Roman Empire—what we commonly refer to as the Byzantine Empire—in the fifteenth century. Sort of fell out of favor during the Renaissance.” He steadied his gaze on Emma. “Interesting, isn’t it? A mosaic expert dies and these rumors surface.”
“Are you suggesting the FBI should get involved?”
“No.” Gordy rolled his left shoulder, as if to work out a muscle spasm. He breathed, shuddering. “I kinked up on the plane yesterday.”
“Are you sure you won’t sit down?”
“Yeah. I’m sure. You don’t know anything about these stolen ancient mosaics?”
Emma saw no reason not to be straight with him. “I haven’t heard a peep.” She sat down again. She wished she’d had him meet her in the conference room instead of her office. He would be taking in everything, from the way she’d unloaded the files onto the sofa to the tidiness of her desk and her choice of artwork—or lack thereof. “Where are you off to now?”
“No firm plans yet. It’s only Thursday. I don’t have to be in Maine until Saturday. Are you going to be at the open house?”
“I’ll stop in, yes.”
“When do you head up there?”
“Later today.” She didn’t elaborate on her plans. “You have my cell phone number. Let me know if you need anything while you’re in Maine.”
He leaned toward her, his gray eyes serious, his skin more ashen with the light from her desk lamp hitting his face. “Emma, do we have an active investigation involving stolen ancient mosaics? We meaning the Bureau.”
“You know I can’t answer that.”
A bit of color returned to his face. “Figured I’d try. What about your fiancé? Is he going to be at the open house?”
Gordy’s question took Emma by surprise, but she knew it shouldn’t have. He would have checked with his contacts for her latest news, and her engagement definitely fit under that heading. “We’ll see. Do you know him?”
“Of him. Colin Donovan. A rough-and-tough type. Good for you, Emma. Engaged to be married, wedding in a few weeks, member in good standing of an elite FBI unit. Quite a change from your days with the Sisters of the Joyful Heart, isn’t it?”
She noted the edge to his voice but made no comment.
“The paths started and abandoned in life,” he said. “Why didn’t you tell me you’d been a nun before you joined the FBI?”
“It wasn’t a secret. It was just something I didn’t talk about.”
“And you never reported directly to me,” he added, almost knocking over folders stacked on the arm of the sofa. “I only found out a few months ago. I had to hear it through the vine. You think Wendell would have said something. We were in touch when you were in the convent.”
“I doubt it was