On Fire (8 page)

They’d ask her if she had any idea where her grandfather was. Straker was convinced she didn’t, not because she wasn’t above hiding that information from him. If it suited her, she’d lie to him—but she didn’t know because otherwise she wouldn’t be here, dressed for dinner. She’d be out pestering Emile. She’d never let him just sneak off on her. That wasn’t her style. She thought she had the right to know everything. It was the same natural curiosity that had led her to learn the Latin names of seaweed and mussels and all the other little creatures in a Maine tide pool.

Straker sat on the edge of her bed. Dangerous territory. He felt a little as if he were trespassing. He concentrated on the questions at hand. He was operating under the assumption that Emile had taken off on his own because he’d guessed the identity of the body Riley had stumbled on. But what if he’d run into trouble? What if he’d been hurt, kidnapped, killed?

Straker jumped up from the bed. Time to quit dith
ering. He needed to get out of here. He needed to go after Emile without Riley breathing down his neck. Or him breathing down hers.

Palladino pushed open the bedroom door. “Walk out with us?”

My turn, Straker thought. He started toward the door. “Let’s go.”

Riley talked herself out of skipping Abigail’s dinner. She needed her routines. She needed her friends and colleagues. She also needed to get away from Straker, she thought, but that wasn’t working out too well. He had all but stuffed her into his car to give her a ride to Beacon Hill.

“I could have taken the subway or driven my own car,” she repeated for at least the fourth time as he drove up Mount Vernon, Beacon Hill’s widest and most well-known street. “It’s not as if I need a bodyguard.”

“I’m being nice.”

“No, you’re not. You’re just a control freak. That’s why you joined the FBI.”

He glanced at her as if she’d turned purple. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Well,” she said, “I don’t need you to give me a ride home. I’ll take the subway or get a ride from someone at the dinner.”

“Take a cab. Don’t take the subway.”

“Straker, it’s not as if someone’s going to hit me over the head and dump my body on the rocks. We don’t know Sam was murdered.”

“I know,” he said.

She scowled. “You’re in fine form tonight. A control freak and a know-it-all. That’s Louisburg Square.” She pointed to an intersection up ahead. “Drop me off on the corner. I’ll walk to Abigail’s.”

“Don’t want to be seen with me?”

“Absolutely not. What are you going to do?”

He pulled over to the curb. His rusting Subaru with its Maine plates didn’t exactly fit in with the expensive cars and stately town houses. “Go back to your apartment and rummage through your underwear drawer.”

“You are such a jerk.”

He grinned, the evening light darkening his gray eyes. “I’ll go back and watch TV.”

“Liar. You’re going to snoop around here. If you cause me any trouble, Straker, I’ll have your head. I swear I will. These are my friends and colleagues. This is my
job.
”

“Looks like a Beacon Hill dinner party to me.”

“I’m serious. I’m already on thin ice. You wouldn’t be easy to explain if I hadn’t just found Sam dead.”

Straker leaned back in his seat. He didn’t look too worried. “Sure you can handle a brick sidewalk and cobblestones in those little shoes of yours?”

She jumped out of the car without bothering to answer. Instead of heading up Mount Vernon, he lingered. Riley felt his gaze on her as she negotiated the brick sidewalk to Louisburg Square, famous for its cobblestone streets and graceful nineteenth-century homes on a small, enclosed private park. After her husband’s death last year, Caroline insisted on moving to a condo on the water, and Abigail had reluctantly
moved back into her childhood home. Matthew and Sig had a town house on Chestnut Street, two blocks over. At least for now. Riley didn’t want to speculate what would happen if her sister’s marriage ended in divorce.

Most of the guests had already arrived, gathering in the parlor of the elegant bowfront house. Good, Riley thought. That reduced the chances anyone had seen her arrive with Straker. She did
not
want to have to explain him.

Caroline Granger was the first to greet her. “Riley, I’m so glad you decided to come tonight. It’s the very best thing you could do for yourself.”

Her warm words helped Riley to relax. She’d come to admire Caroline’s grace and fine manners, her acute sense of duty. Just sixty, an attractive woman with silvery-blond hair, her life had been in limbo since Bennett’s sudden, horrible death aboard the
Encounter.
They’d been married only seven years. This was Caroline’s second experience with widowhood. Her first husband, a corporate executive, had died of a heart attack when she was in her early forties. She had no children, and she’d taken great pains not to overstep with Bennett’s two adult children. She was the sort of wife who made her husband’s interests her own, and even now, she was doing what she could to support the center and provide a smooth transition to the next generation of Grangers.

“I heard about Captain Cassain,” she said. “I can’t imagine what it must have been like for you.”

“It was pretty awful.”

“Yes, so I gathered from what the police told me.
They interviewed me earlier this afternoon. They asked about Sam’s visit to Maine. He stopped by the cocktail party—did you see him?”

Riley shook her head. “No. I spent most of the cocktail party trying not to hyperventilate, so I was glad just to be back on
terra firma.
I’ll get over it, but that was my first time on a boat since…” She didn’t finish.

“I understand,” Caroline said quickly. “Well, Sam didn’t stay long. He was in a good mood. But…” She smiled. “Enough said about that. How’s Emile? I heard he’s gone off on one of his jaunts. His timing’s awkward, but I told the police this was vintage Emile. I miss him. I know that’s heresy in some quarters, but it’s true.”

“It was good to see him.” Riley swept a glass of champagne from a nearby table. She knew she should abstain from alcohol under the circumstances, but the champagne went down easily. “I think he likes his new life.”

“So long as he’s close to the ocean, he’ll do fine.” Her eyes misted, and Riley wondered how many glasses of champagne she’d had. “Ben loved your grandfather. They accepted each other’s weaknesses along with their strengths. Even if Emile did make a mistake, Ben wouldn’t have wanted to see him…” She stopped herself, manufactured another society smile. “It’s a tragedy. I’m sure everyone can agree on that much. Now, tell me, how is Sig?”

“Painting again,” Riley said, and they chatted for another minute before Caroline melted into the throng of other guests.

Her champagne finished, Riley slipped out to the
courtyard, one of Beacon Hill’s many “secret” gardens. She paused at a classical stone fountain. The gurgling water and sweet scent of end-of-the-summer flowers calmed her, made her feel less exposed and vulnerable. She blamed Straker. Seeing him with the two Maine detectives had forced her to admit he wasn’t the obnoxious, raging teenager she’d pelted with a rock at twelve—nor was he a salt-of-the-earth Maine lobsterman like his father. He was
an FBI agent.
Confident, disciplined, self-possessed.

“Hey, kid.”

She smiled at her father. He’d put on his one dinner suit, but no matter what he wore, Richard always managed to look rumpled—and dinner parties just made him awkward. “Are you hiding, too?” she asked.

“Not yet. I saw you and came on out. Everything okay?”

“I was thinking about how I could go for a dozen whales stranding themselves on a Cape Cod beach right about now. Isn’t that awful?”

“It would take your mind off things.”

“I shouldn’t have come. Everyone knows about Sam. Everyone thinks Emile had something to do with his death. They won’t say so, but it’s obvious.”

“Is that what you think?”

She sighed. “I’m trying not to think.”

“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.”

S
traker 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 Emile 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.

Riley’s head throbbed. When she turned the corner
and saw a nondescript red Cape engulfed in flames, her stomach lurched.

Residents of the neighborhood had come out onto their lawns and walked into the street, as if they thought they should stop themselves but couldn’t. Someone said, “It’s that sea captain’s place. The one who was found dead in Maine.”

The police set up a line to keep onlookers back. Firefighters swarmed over the burning house, working madly to contain the fire and keep it from spreading to other houses on the quiet residential street.

Riley melted into the edges of the gathering crowd. She stood on her tiptoes, searched faces, backs, physiques, hair for any sign of Emile. Her teeth chattered. She was cold now, scared.

Sam hadn’t left his iron on, she thought. He was dead, undoubtedly murdered, and someone had set fire to his house.

Emile. How could Straker have let him go? Were they in cahoots?

Her gaze fell on a figure on the far side of the crush of onlookers. Not Emile. Matt. There he was, hands shoved in his pockets as he stared at the burning house.

Had he followed Emile? Or had Emile followed him?

“What in God’s name is going on?” she whispered, forcing down her frustration. The police would know this was Sam Cassain’s house. Riley didn’t need to call attention to herself—or to her brother-in-law.

She squeezed between an older couple, pushed past a young family, a throng of teenagers, two ten-year-olds on bicycles. She slipped under elbows and stepped
over feet and used her small stature to her best advantage, but she lost sight of Matt. People were packed tightly, eyes fixed on their dead neighbor’s burning house. They didn’t know she had to get to Matt, talk to him, find out what he knew, why he was there.