On Fire(18)

       

"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 -^Q >^~

Otraker 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 Louisburg  Square.

The artificial night light made Emile look older, thinner, less capable  than he did on windswept La- breque 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. Fundraising."

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.