"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 in 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-inlaw.
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.
She finally broke from the crowd, but Matt was gone. She ran up the street, away from the fire. Was he on foot? Did he have a car? Had the police recognized him?
A car rattled behind her. She spun around.
A beat-up Subaru with Maine plates. Another inch and it would have run her over. Straker had the pass senger window rolled down, and eyed her darkly from behind the wheel.
"Get in, St. Joe."
"You" -- "Now."
She wanted to get off her feet. She wanted to get away from the police, the firefighters, the burning house. But she resisted.
"You let Emile go. What were you, out of your mind?"
"Goddamn it. Get in here or I'll come out there and drag you in."
She was so cold.
"What if he's inside?"
"The firefighters will handle it. There's nothing you can do."
She didn't move. She couldn't speak. Emile. Matt. What were they doing here? What was Straker doing here?
"In, Riley. Now." When she still didn't move, he undamped his seat belt.
"The hell with it. I'm coming after you."
"No, don't."
She pulled open the door and slid in beside him. Her stocking snagged on a torn section of the passenger seat. She sank back, numb.
"Dead bodies and fires. You're a menace, St. Joe."
"Go to hell."
"No 'thank you, Straker, for rescuing me'? It's just like that time when I pulled you out of the bay in your kayak. What were you, nine? A damned ingrate. At least you cried." He eased down a side street, not going too fast.
"I always figured you hated me because you cried in front of me."
"I hated you because you gloated." He glanced over at her. "Do you want to cry now?"
"No." She settled into her seat, fighting tears.
"I want to find Emile."
Straker stayed under the speed limit until he reached Massachusetts Avenue. Then he accelerated, tight jawed, eyes on the road, arms tensed as he negotiated traffic, stoplights, pedestrians. It was a straight shot to Porter Square.
When he turned onto her street, he glanced sideways. Riley saw no humor in his eyes. No softness. If anything, he was even madder than when he'd picked her up. He didn't say a word. Neither did she.