“I was thinking about Sig.” He glanced around the perfect little courtyard garden, shaking his head. “Do you believe she’s happy as a Granger?”
“She’s not a Granger. She’s a Labreque-St. Joe. She just married a Granger. It’s a fine distinction, but one that’s important to her, I think.” Riley caught herself. “Or was my glass of champagne one glass too many and I’m not making any sense?”
“No, you’re making a great deal of sense. You know, I always thought Sig and Matt loved each other, and the rest—his money, her obliviousness to it—wouldn’t matter.”
Riley grinned at him. “Is this my pragmatic father talking?”
He smiled. “I’m a romantic at heart. Why else would I spend a lifetime working to save a doomed species of whale?” He faced the fountain, his eyes half-closed, almost sad. “You can ask someone to give up some things, but not their identity, not their soul.”
“Do you think that’s what Matt’s done with Sig?”
“I don’t know. I worry about them—but there’s nothing I can do.” He pulled at his beard, seemed to shake off some dark thought. Then he smiled, embarrassed. “You see why I avoid dinner parties? I’m lousy at small talk. Two glasses of champagne and I turn into a blowhard.”
Riley wondered if he knew Sig was pregnant, but it wasn’t her secret to tell. “Sig’ll be okay. She’s tough.”
“You’re both tough. Emile and your mother wouldn’t have had it any other way. Me, I’d like to have spoiled you rotten.” He gave Riley’s arm a gentle squeeze. “This will all work out. Sam’s death, Emile. I know it will.”
Dinner was announced. It was served buffet style, a comfortable mix of Beacon Hill elegance and practical informality. Even after decades of attending Granger parties, Riley thought with affection, her father still looked as if he expected a live lobster to crawl out of his pockets at any moment. He was much more confident and at ease studying whales.
She managed to avoid anything controversial or seriously awkward through the main course, and was just starting to eye the dessert table when Matthew Granger barged into the elegant dining room.
Abigail gasped. “Matthew! What’s wrong?”
Fatigue clawed at his handsome features, and his blue eyes searched among the guests gathered in the sparkling dining room. He wasn’t dressed for dinner. His clothes were casual, expensive, wrinkled. He quaked with outrage, the out-of-control, obsessed antithesis of the well-bred, contented man Riley remembered waiting for his bride at the altar.
His angry gaze fixed on her. “Why the hell is John Straker hanging around outside?”
Suddenly the maple cheesecake didn’t look so good. Damn Straker. What kind of FBI agent was he that he couldn’t snoop without being seen? Riley noticed Henry Armistead’s eyes narrowing on her with instant concern and suspicion, and she heard Abigail’s sharp intake of breath, saw her father sink back in his chair in total confusion.
Caroline Granger frowned, a sliver of blueberry tart on her china plate. “Matthew, who on earth is John Straker?”
Henry answered, his gaze, like Matt’s, not leaving Riley. “He’s the FBI agent who was with Riley when she found Sam on Labreque Island. It’s not yet public knowledge.”
“Oh. Oh, my.” Caroline required about two seconds to realize this was a nasty scene in the making. She reached a hand toward her dead husband’s son. “Perhaps you and Riley can discuss this in the parlor.”
Matt didn’t move. His eyes continued to bore into Riley. “Where are you two hiding Emile?”
Half the guests listened with open interest. The rest just sat or stood in quiet shock, either pretending not to listen or wishing they were somewhere else. Riley could have stabbed Matt with her dessert fork. If Sig had been there, her sister would have cheerfully done the honors.
Riley’s displeasure with both her brother-in-law and Straker kept her steady on her feet. “I don’t know where Emile is, and John Straker isn’t my responsibility. Or yours.” She ignored the knife twist in her stomach. “That’s all I’m saying to you, Matt, while you’re in this mood. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going home. It’s been a long day. Abigail, thank you—”
“Don’t expect me to feel sorry for you,” Matt interjected, his jaw clenched, his expression unrelentingly harsh.
Abigail, horrified, got to her feet. “Matthew!”
He ignored her, stayed on Riley’s case. “You covered up for Emile last year with the Encounter. If you hadn’t, maybe he’d be in prison right now and Sam Cassain would be alive.”
Richard St. Joe shot to his feet, no longer paralyzed with confusion. “All right, Matt. That’s enough.”
Matt spun on his heels and stalked out of the dining room. Abigail gave her guests a panicked, embarrassed look and went after him. Riley started to shake. Her father swore under his breath and followed Abigail and his son-in-law. “Goddamn it, Matt,” he growled, “pick on someone your own size.”
Caroline took charge of the social situation. She smiled ruefully. “Matthew’s been under a terrible strain. We all have. My apologies, everyone. Abigail has a lovely dessert table—I’ve already sampled the blueberry tart. Let’s end the evening on a high note, shall we?”
The guests dutifully took her cue, resuming conversations and starting for the dessert table. Riley waited for her chance to go out and find Straker, if he hadn’t already made good his escape.
Henry Armistead came to her side and grasped her elbow. “Let’s get you out of here.” His tone was gentle, but he was firmly taking charge. “You have some explaining to do.”
Six
Straker eased into the shifting shadows of Louisburg Square and considered his options now that the jig was up. Matthew Granger had made him. Presumably he was inside flaring his nostrils at Riley. When he finished with her, she’d beeline for the door and come for Straker’s head.
Sneaking around Beacon Hill had been a tactical error. He’d known it when he’d parked his car on Louisburg Square after wandering the narrow streets. However, he hadn’t liked the idea of leaving Riley up here alone, never mind that she was among friends, colleagues, even family. Sam Cassain had been murdered. Straker would bet his FBI badge on it.
He had two options, neither of them good. He could run or he could stand and fight.
He wondered how long he had before Riley stormed out.
He’d considered intercepting Granger, but it wouldn’t have done any good. It wasn’t as if Granger had it wrong. Straker knew Riley hadn’t told anyone she had an FBI agent on her case—why would she? At least Granger wouldn’t shoot up the place or beat someone senseless. He’d just get cold and nasty, which Riley could handle.
Then she’d hunt Straker down.
He supposed he could make for Maine while he still had his balls attached, or maybe go back to her apartment, let himself in, turn on the tube and pretend her brother-in-law had made a mistake.
The hell with it. Damned if he’d run. He wasn’t afraid of Riley St. Joe.
He went still, eased back into the shadows as a familiar figure walked down Pinckney Street at the end of the square.
Emile.
The white hair, the wiry physique, the hurried gait. It couldn’t be anyone else.
The old man must have sensed Straker’s presence because he stopped abruptly, as if he’d forgotten something. He turned around and bolted back up Pinckney.
Straker swore under his breath and lit out after him. The months of running on Labreque Island, with its rocky coastline and network of paths, had strengthened him, but he’d lost his feel for pavement, cobblestones, brick sidewalks, city air. Pinckney was a steep, narrow street suited to horse-drawn carriages, its brick town houses flush with the sidewalk. With virtually no front yards, shrubs, fences or trees, there was nowhere for a sneaky old man to hide.
Old-style black lanterns and glittering windows provided some light, but not enough. Straker hoped he hadn’t screwed up and wasn’t chasing some rich old codger who was calling 911
on his cell phone.
Pinckney crested and flattened out, and Straker moved into the middle of the quiet one-lane street and picked up his pace. Damn it, Emile was in his seventies. He couldn’t outrun a trained FBI agent.
No. He couldn’t.
Straker slowed his pace. If he were seventy-six and had a man forty years younger chasing him, he’d duck into a doorway or alley and hope for the best. He wouldn’t try to outrun him.
“Come on, Emile.” Straker spoke loudly, without shouting. “Don’t make me check every damned cubbyhole on this street.”
He waited, pacing. He didn’t know how much longer he had before Riley hunted him down.
Three or four town houses back down Pinckney, the old man stepped out from an elegant doorway. Straker had run right past him. Emile walked up the street. Straker walked down, and they met just above Louis-burg Square.
The artificial night light made Emile look older, thinner, less capable than he did on windswept Labreque Island. He was out of breath.
“I didn’t mean to wind you,” Straker said.
“I was winded before you spotted me. Damned hills.”
“You need to turn yourself in to the police,” Straker said with no further preamble. “Tell them what you know. You can’t solve this on your own.”
Emile ignored him. He coughed and spat.
“Running makes you look bad. It diverts the police from going after Sam Cassain’s real killer.”
The dark eyes, without their usual spark, focused on him. “You followed Riley here?”
“Let’s just say I wasn’t on Abigail Granger’s guest list.”
Emile shook his head, seemed to stare off into the dark. “Abigail—she’s stepped right into her father’s shoes, hasn’t she? She was always devoted to the center, after him to pay more attention to volunteers and membership, public relations. Fund-raising.”
Straker inhaled. “Emile…”
The old man shrugged, visibly melancholy. “Well, the center’s not my concern any longer.”
“Emile, I know one of the detectives on the case. I can help you get through this.”
Emile wasn’t listening. “I know Riley, John. She’s not going to mind her own business if she thinks I know anything about Sam’s death. She’ll hound me, she’ll hound you if she thinks you know where I am. Get her out of here. Take her back to the island with you.”
“She’s not going to listen to me any more than you will.” Straker reined in his impatience, tried to be objective, coldly calculating. A pity Detectives Palladino and Donelson weren’t here. Straker would turn Emile over to them without a qualm. “Emile—what the hell’s going on?”
The old man leveled his dark gaze on Straker. “I’m leaving. You can stop me. You have the strength, the will. I can’t outrun you. I only ask that you think first, then let me do what I must do.”
Drama. The Labreques had a knack for it. “Which is what?”
“I didn’t kill Sam. I don’t know who did it.”
And that was all Emile planned to say. He turned and walked down Pinckney, toward Charles Street, daring Straker to follow him. Straker seized up with frustration and no small measure of irritation. Duty, instinct and common sense told him to drag Emile to the police. If anything happened to him—if the old man did something stupid—Straker would look back to this moment for the rest of his life, knowing he’d made the wrong choice.
If Sam Cassain had been murdered and Emile knew anything about it—or if the killer even thought he knew anything about it—Emile was in over his damned, stubborn, know-it-all head.
On the other hand, if Straker didn’t let his old friend do what he felt he had to do, he would have to live with that, too. When he was seventy-six, he wouldn’t want someone half his age making his choices for him.
He tightened his hands into fists. “Hell.”
Emile reached Charles Street. Straker had to make up his mind.
But he knew he already had, and he cursed himself as Emile turned right, toward Storrow Drive, the Charles River and all points north, south, east and west.
He was gone.
The Red Sox were playing at home, Straker thought. He could take in a game, forget Sam Cassain, Emile Labreque and Riley St. Joe. After the game, he could pack his toothbrush and head to his island, make a nice pot of soup, watch the sunrise.
He walked back to Louisburg Square. The Granger dinner had broken up. He stood next to his car, expecting Riley to burst out onto the cobblestone street in her little black dress.
Instead Abigail Granger joined him. She was elegant, poised, the lamplight catching her high cheekbones and making her skin seem pale and bluish. He’d never apologized to her for lying his way into her volunteer program and taking advantage of her generosity.
“Riley left.” Her cool eyes stayed on him. “You don’t have PTSD, do you, Mr. Straker? Or am I supposed to call you Special Agent Straker?”
“John will do, although most people just stick to Straker. Actually, I do have PTSD. Or I did. Technically. I don’t happen to put myself in the same category as the Vietnam vets I met today.” He felt a rare twinge of regret. “I’m sorry I misled you.”
“You didn’t mislead me, Mr. Straker, you lied to me.”
“Fair enough. Where’s your brother?”
“He left, too. He’s not…” Pain flared in those cool eyes. “I should have canceled tonight’s dinner. I thought it would help….”
“Maybe it did, only you can’t see it right now.”
“Matt was rude to Riley. He made a terrible scene. She must have been humiliated, but it’s impossible to tell with her. She holds her emotions in check, and she’s loyal to her family. Matt is family to her.” She brushed a trembling hand through her hair, fought back tears. “He and Riley have had the worst of it this past year.”
“You lost a father, too.”
“But I’m not married to Emile’s granddaughter. My brother is.” Her eyes cleared, and they turned cold as they fastened on Straker. “I would hate to see Riley used, Mr. Straker. By you or anyone else.”
“I guess my shark-feeding days are over, huh?”
Her eyes widened in surprise, and she made a delicate hiss of total frustration. “I won’t even dignify that with an answer,” she said without raising her voice, then sailed back into her expensive, historic house.
Straker gave Riley another thirty seconds. Then he knew for sure. She wasn’t coming after him. Which meant only one thing. The pain in the ass had given him the slip—she must have seen him and Emile talking and gone after her crazy grandfather.
“Damn.”
He shot into his car. He didn’t have a Beacon Hill resident’s sticker like Abigail Granger did, but he hadn’t gotten a parking ticket, either. It was his one bit of luck that evening.
Riley’s feet hurt, and she couldn’t get a good long stride going. Her little black shoes and little black dress weren’t designed for following a crazy old man through city streets.
She’d lost Emile at the Alewife Station. It was the last stop on the subway’s Red Line. She’d hoped he’d get off at her Porter Square stop and go to her apartment. But he hadn’t, and with a grim certainty, she knew he’d boarded a bus and headed to Arlington Heights, where Sam Cassain had a house. Riley couldn’t remember the name of the street. It was on one of the hills near the Lexington border and the route of Paul Revere’s ride. She’d walked up from the bus stop. The night air had turned cool. She wished she had a sweater. Going after Emile had been impulsive.
Numb with fatigue and frustration, Riley was past caring if Emile knew she’d spotted him, if Straker had gone FBI on her and was following them both.
Her talk with Henry hadn’t gone well. He was furious with her for not telling him Straker was in town, staying at her apartment. He didn’t buy her excuse that she hadn’t wanted to involve the center. The center was involved. The police had questioned him that very afternoon.
By the time she got outside and saw E
mile sneaking down Pinckney Street and Straker pointedly not going after him, it was more than she could take. She’d slipped over to Mount Vernon, cut down to Charles and took off after her grandfather. Let Straker hunt her down. Let him worry. She didn’t care.
Now here she was, not lost exactly, but uncertain of where to go next in the maze of streets. Sam’s house, she recalled, was a small 1920s single-family Cape Cod with a one-car garage underneath suitable for a Model T. She thought the house was red. Maybe dark brown.
Riley paused at a corner, tidy middle-class houses all around her. She wanted to scream. Emile must be headed this way. But why?
She heard sirens several blocks away on Massachusetts Avenue, the main thoroughfare that ran from downtown Boston through the western suburbs. A few yards ahead of her, a man was walking a black lab. The dog was agitated, yanking on his leash. The man tightened up on it and quietly ordered the dog to heel.
A yell came from someone out of view. Two teenage girls ran up from a side street. They were breathless, gulping for air. “Fire!” One of the girls grabbed the man and pointed up the street. “There’s a house on fire! You should see the flames!”
“Oh, no.” Riley took a deep breath. She could smell smoke now.
The black lab barked, jumped at the girls. The sirens were louder, closer, the fire trucks’ horns blaring.
The second girl cried out. “Look—look, you can see the flames! My house is across the street. What if it catches fire?”
“The fire engines are on their way,” the man with the dog reassured her. “They’ll get the fire out before it spreads.”
Riley stood motionless on the sidewalk, her feet aching, her mind reeling. Up on her right, perhaps a block away, the dark sky glowed orange. A line of emergency vehicles roared past her.
She shivered. Sharp pains shot through her chest. “Emile,” she whispered, and broke into a run.
She couldn’t make good time in her evening shoes. She was tempted to kick them off and run in her stocking feet, but knew that would only draw attention to herself. She followed the path of the emergency vehicles, toward the fire’s glow. The two girls ran past her, more excited than panicked.
On Fire Page 9
