On Fire (21 page)

“She knows all the risks.” He laid Riley’s clipboard on top of a stack of magazines. “Sig might be a free spirit instead of a scientist, but she’s no one’s fool.”

Riley stared at her columns of facts, rumors, musings, suppositions. “Bennett Granger came aboard the
Encounter
at the last minute. I wrote that down under facts. I don’t know if it makes any difference—I just jotted down stuff as it came to mind.”

“Why the last minute?”

“Spur of the moment, he said. He did that sort of thing from time to time. This wasn’t one of Emile’s big research expeditions—we were just going out for a few days to test an experimental submersible. My own reasons for being aboard were tangential.” She swallowed, barely able to continue. “Do you suppose whoever sabotaged the
Encounter
would have done it if they’d realized Bennett was aboard?”

“It’s something to consider.” Straker’s tone was professional, unemotional.

She shivered, suddenly cold. “I don’t know how you do this kind of work for a living.”

“Because it’s necessary.”

She nodded. “If this was your case—”

“It’s not my case. I haven’t been treating it as my case. I’m Emile’s friend. I’m your friend. I told you right from the beginning I’m not acting in a professional capacity.” He managed a quick smile. “Which is a good thing. Otherwise I wouldn’t be able to sleep with you, and that wouldn’t be any fun.”

She smiled, feeling less cold. “Thank you.”

“It’s easy to be reassuring in the middle of the night. In the cold light of day…” He got to his feet, touched her hair. “We’ll take another look at your list in the morning.”

S
traker listened to Riley explain her plan of action—or, more accurately,
inaction
—as he drove her into Boston in the morning. With her leather tote on her lap and wearing a crisp white shirt and black pants, she was ready to spend the day as director of recovery and rehabilitation for the Boston Center for Oceanographic Research. Henry Armistead, she said, would just have to put up with her.

“I’m going to try to sit tight,” she said. “I think it’s important to give the authorities a chance to pick apart Sam’s movements in the past few weeks and get on with finding out how he died, who’s framing Emile and setting fires.”

Straker had his doubts about Riley St. Joe ever sitting tight, but he kept silent.

“I suppose answers would be easier to come by if my damned grandfather and brother-in-law quit their cloak-and-dagger games and talked to investigators.”
She inhaled, her frustration with them palpable. “But I understand. I was aboard the
Encounter,
Straker. If I were in Matt’s or Emile’s place, I’d probably do what they’re doing.”

“You haven’t been much better,” he pointed out. “It’s going to be a close call whether they end up with charges against them.”

Her arms tensed, and her eyes darkened a fraction. A week ago he might not have noticed. Now he noticed everything she did. Which, he knew, would be of no comfort to her whatsoever. She said, “Emile won’t care. Matt…” She inhaled. “He’s probably never even had a parking ticket. But he can afford a good lawyer.”

Straker shook his head. “Yep. You’re going to sit tight.” His tone was laced with sarcasm and amusement at how unself-aware she could be. “You’ll start to twitch the minute someone hands you a report on the skin problems of a moray eel and you realize this is it, no bad guys to root out.”

“I
like
my work.”

“So?”

She shot him a stubborn look. “So what?”

“So I give you thirty minutes before you start climbing the walls.”

“You’re not going to give me anything. You’re going to leave me alone. Got it, Straker? I mean it. Henry still has you down as a stalker, you know.”

He smiled. “Is that a threat?”

“It’s bad enough I’m showing up today. If you show up, too, he’ll have a fit. And I don’t blame him. Caroline’s round of parties on Mount Desert was
supposed to signal a new beginning for the center—the end of our year of mourning the
Encounter
and the five lost.”

“Then Sam turns up dead.”

She winced, staring out the open window. It was a cool, beautiful morning. “I didn’t mean to sound hard-hearted. Sam had his downside, but he didn’t deserve—” She stopped, and Straker knew she was seeing the body on the rocks. “He didn’t deserve to be murdered.”

Straker negotiated the maze of Big Dig detours and the city traffic, and was struck by the normalcy of something as simple as dropping Riley St. Joe off at work.

“I need to let everything simmer,” she went on, almost absently. “Sig does that. She’s convinced that abandoning a problem for a while is the best way to solve it.”

“I thought you were giving the authorities a chance.”

“I
am.
But if I come up with any answers, what’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing if you call them first and don’t go off half-cocked.”

She scowled. “Typical FBI agent. You don’t trust anyone.”

“I don’t trust
you.
You get a lead on Emile, you’ll be out of there.”

“Well, fine. What are your plans for the day?”

“I thought I’d pay your sister a visit.”

Riley nodded, obviously concurring with the idea. “I plan to call her after I get in. She’s so unhappy. Are you shifting your focus from Emile to Matt?”

“Nah, I’m taking you to work.”

She groaned. “Were you this bad before you were
shot? Never mind. I know you were. That’s why I threw that rock at you.”

“You threw more than one rock at me. Lucky for you only one hit.”

“Lucky for
me?
”

“Definitely.”

He pulled up to the plaza in front of the center, and a wild-haired man in his late twenties jumped out in front of Riley’s car. He thumped the hood in excitement. “Riley St. Joe. A word?”

“I’m not talking to reporters, Straker. Can you—”

Straker shook his head. “I’m not running him over. He has a right to do his job.”

“If he jumps in front of a moving car, he should expect to get run over.” But she sighed. “This is all Henry needs to see. You at the wheel of my car, a reporter pelting questions at me.”

The reporter held on to the driver-side mirror as if to keep the car from pulling away. He stuck his head in Straker’s window. “John Straker,” he said. “You’re the FBI agent who was wounded in the hostage situation up on the Canadian border earlier this year. You were on Labreque Island when Riley here found Captain Cassain’s body.”

“That’s me.”

“So there you were recuperating from your injuries on a quiet coastal island and a dead body turns up. How did that feel? Did it bring everything back? Did you have a flashback to your own near death?”

Straker kept both hands on the wheel. This wasn’t a professional journalist, this was an idiot. He was
feeling fewer qualms about running him over. “I’m not answering questions this morning.” There. That was reasonable.

“You and Emile Labreque are from the same small town in Maine. Are you two friends?” When Straker didn’t answer, the reporter squinted at him, undeterred. “You know where he is? Don’t you think it’s virtually impossible for a widely recognized man like Emile Labreque to elude authorities for this long without help?”

Riley placed her hand on her door handle as if to make a run for it.

“Okay,” Straker said to the reporter. “Riley needs to get to work, and I haven’t had my second cup of coffee.” He put one hand on the gearshift. “You might want to back away from the car.”

The reporter—or whatever he was—hung on to the mirror and leaned farther in the window. Straker could easily give his scrawny neck a twist. “Riley, what about you? Are you hiding your grandfather? Do you think he killed Sam Cassain?”

She clenched her tote, glared at him. “That’s a hell of a question—”

“I’ve heard rumors Cassain could prove your grandfather sabotaged the
Encounter.
”

One of the many lessons Riley had yet to learn, Straker thought, was turning the other cheek. Her eyes darkened; her jaw set hard. “He did no such thing.”

“Rumor has it that’s what got Cassain killed. Emile popped him on the head, let him drown, dumped his body where he thought no one would find
it. Didn’t he try to discourage you from kayaking to Labreque Island?”

She grabbed Straker’s arm, ready to jump over him and go for the guy’s throat. “That’s outrageous. Who’s spreading these rumors?”

“Well, then, maybe you helped your grandfather dump Sam’s body, then pretended to find it to divert suspicion—”

She was going for the window. She shoved her tote on the floor with one hand and tightened her grip on Straker’s arm, ready to crawl over his lap and jump through the window. He could smell her hair, her light perfume, felt a jolt as he remembered last night. Now, however, she wanted blood.

Straker held her off and turned to the reporter. “Okay, ace, time to back off. We’re done here.”

The reporter stood his ground smugly. “I’m not.”

Straker ignored him and hit the gas, pulling forward, giving the guy about half a second to let go of the mirror. He did, but he smacked the trunk as a final
gotcha.
Straker plopped Riley back in her seat, gunned the engine and whipped around to the parking garage, where, presumably, she’d have a better chance of avoiding other reporters.

“You’re an FBI agent,” she muttered. “Can’t you arrest him?”

He glanced at her. “An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means I’d rather keep a violent act from happening than clean up after one.”

She snorted. “You think that weasel would have tried to hurt me?”

“Other way around, sweetheart.” He smiled as he pulled to a stop just inside the garage. “I can see why the center doesn’t have you do PR. The pitbull approach.”

“He was horrible. Unprofessional. He deserved—”

“He deserved worse than he got. That’s not the point. You let him get under your skin, which is exactly what he set out to do.”

She picked up her tote bag, her cheeks flushed. She was still poised for battle. “This is why I’m an oceanographer.”

Straker smiled. “Go take care of your fish.”

“When you see Sig, if there’s any sign she’s not doing well—”

“I’ll slap her into the hospital.”

Riley nodded and pushed open her door. “I’ll check in with you later and let you know how long I plan to stay. If you learn anything, call me.”

He waited until she’d made her way to the center’s side entrance, then dove back into Boston morning rush-hour traffic and headed up to Beacon Hill. Lots of cars, lots of aggravation. He located Chestnut Street, located the attractive Federal Period town house that, according to Riley, belonged to her sister and brother-in-law. It had black shutters and a cream-colored, brass-trimmed front door.

He parked in a spot designated for Beacon Hill residents and rang the doorbell. If Sig wasn’t home, he had no Plan
B.

She was home. “Straker,” she said in surprise, as she opened the door. “What are you doing here?”

“I thought I’d stop by and see how you’re doing. Mind if I come in?”

“Of course not.”

She stood back, and he walked in past her. She shut the door quietly behind him. It wasn’t, he thought, that she looked like hell. Sig almost never looked like hell. But she was pale, drained, eyes puffy, the few lines in her face more prominent. She had on one of her oversize dresses, this one way too big, and her hair hung in tangles down her back. She wasn’t her usual vibrant self.

She smiled weakly at him. “I look that bad?”

“Nah. You look like a pregnant lady who jumped out of a burning building a few nights ago.”

“I’m feeling fine,” she said. “Just a little tired. I already went for a walk this morning.”

“Good for you.”

“Can I get you a cup of coffee?”

He could drink about a gallon of coffee, but he shook his head. Like her little sister, Sig didn’t have the kind of internal barometer that told her when she’d had enough. She’d keep going until she dropped. Straker followed her into a pretty front parlor that was surprisingly livable, had her sit. She took the couch. He took a wing chair across from her.

She cleared her throat, stared at her hands as she twisted them together on her lap. “The police were here when I got back from my walk.”

Straker wasn’t surprised. “They want to talk to your husband,” he speculated.

She nodded. “They said he’s a potential…a material witness, I think it was.”

“Bottom line, Sig, he needs to come in. He needs to grab the first uniform he sees and start talking. It’s squeeze-play time. He’s got too many competing things going against him.” He paused, debating the wisdom of his next statement. “He’s in over his head. Way over.”

“I know, I know. He’s a Harvard MBA, not an FBI agent. I don’t know what the hell he thinks he’s doing!” She collapsed back against the couch. “I told the police he was here last night. Everything. God.”

“It was the right thing to do.”

She nodded, fighting tears. “I still feel like a fink.”

He couldn’t resist a smile at her choice of words. The St. Joe sisters were a dramatic, colorful pair. They got that from their grandfather. Their mother, too. “Did your husband give you any idea—”

“No. Not about anything.” Her dark eyes dried; her expression hardened. “I’d tell you if he did. I’d love for you to track him down and knock some sense into him.”

“Unfortunately, I’m not that good at knocking sense into people.”

She waved a hand. “Oh, you’ve just been spending too much time with Riley.
No one
can get through to her when she’s got the bit in her teeth. You have to wear her down.” She gave a sudden wry smile, her melancholy lifting. “And I’m sure you have your ways of doing just that.”

He judiciously said nothing.

Sig sat up straight, almost gleeful. “Straker! You and Riley
are
—”

“Stop right there, before you say something that’ll get us both in hot water.” He wished he could keep her spirits up, but he knew he couldn’t. “Sig, various lobstermen, including my father, have given your grandfather a hand. I don’t think they’ve stepped over the line yet, but they’ve come damned close.”

“I know. Riley told me. Are they in any danger?”

“Nothing they can’t handle, I expect. They’d love a chance to nail anyone who’d sabotage a ship.” He leaned forward, eyed her intently. “What your sister didn’t tell you, because I haven’t told her, is that some of the lobstermen saw your husband’s boat in the bay shortly before she discovered Sam Cassain’s body on Labreque Island.”

Sig frowned. She’d sunk back against the couch again, her dress draped over her bulging stomach. His words didn’t seem to register. “Matt’s boat?”

“Yes.”

“Well, he was on Mount Desert that weekend. Everyone was. Caroline, Abigail, most of the center’s staff. My father, Riley. My mother didn’t go up—she doesn’t have anything to do with the center anymore. It wouldn’t surprise me if Matt ditched Caroline and his sister to sail up to Schoodic.” She added softly, “We both have a lot of memories up that way.”

“The police have probably talked to the lobstermen. They’ll have told them they saw him. Sig, I’m not suggesting he had any direct involvement with Sam’s death or how he ended up on the island.”

“But that’s how it looks,” she finished for him. She shut her eyes, breathing out in a mix of frustration and
resignation. “The police didn’t say anything about lobstermen, Matt’s boat—”

“They wouldn’t, necessarily.”

Her eyes brimmed with tears. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Trust your instincts and call the police the next time you see your husband.”