On Fire(22)

"You were impossible to humiliate. You had too high an opinion of yourself." He got to his feet, enjoying himself.

"If I'd noticed even the smallest chink in your armor, I'd have left you alone. Instead you opened up my skull for me."

She smiled, remembering her shock at the blood, his barely controlled rage. He hadn't thrown a rock back at her.

"It's a good thing I didn't live in Maine year-round. We'd have killed each other."

"Nah. We'd just have ended up in bed together a lot sooner."

"Straker!"

"Not when you were twelve. I'd have waited a few years."

"That's it. I'm locking my door tonight."

She jumped up, set her mug in the sink, tried to push back a mix of  images that had nothing, nothing, to do with the reality of the man  standing in her kitchen. He'd stirred her up, and she needed to settle  down and recognize that she and John Straker had always been a volatile  combination.

"Front door or bedroom door?" he asked, languid, deliberately sexy.

"Both. I swear, Straker, if I could do it, I'd handcuff you to your futon."

It was a mistake. His grin was slow and easy, and he slouched against  the doorjamb, one knee bent, his eyes half-closed. "I think I have a set  of cuffs down in the car if you want to give it a try."

"No wonder my mother worries."

"She's a smart woman, Mara St. Joe." He sauntered back into the living  room, where he sat on the futon couch and stretched out his legs,  relaxed. His mind was still working, however, she knew. "Take a nice hot  shower and go to bed, Riley. Anyone calls or pounds on your door, I'll  get rid of them."

"The police..."

"They didn't see you at Sam's," he said, "but they'll probably want to talk to you."

She nodded, the enormity of what had happened tonight sinking in. '

"This makes it more likely he was murdered, doesn't it?" "His death  might just have been inconvenient for someone who didn't want the police  pawing through his stuff. We don't know, and because we don't know, we  need to keep an open mind." "Is that what you do as an FBI agent?"

"Nope. I get out my six-shooter and shoot everyone in sight."

In spite of herself, she laughed.

"You're impossible."

"Hot shower. Bed."

"You?"

"Cold shower. Lumpy futon. But after you, of course."

Seven -^ @^~

Otraker ordered a breakfast roll-up thing at one of the food stalls at  Quincy Market, a short walk from the Boston Center for Oceanographic  Research, where he'd dropped Riley off for the day and parked in her  spot in the garage. It was ten o'clock on a lousy Friday morning.

He'd woken up with a score of reasons why he should be back on the  island and damned few why he should stay in Boston. The prospect of  sleeping with Riley counted as a reason to clear out. So did the  prospect of not sleeping with her.

He had a choice of eight different kinds of coffee. He stuck with  Colombian, black, no sugar, and took it and the roll-up into the  rotunda, where he stood at a wooden counter that serviced the throngs  eating on the run, but still had the feeling of a trough. The place was  empty. The drizzle and low clouds made everything seem close and  claustrophobic. At least Boston Harbor was practically across the  street. If worse came to worst, he could rent a boat and clear out.

Worse had come to worst. He'd let Emile Labreque go on his merry way, and he couldn't get Riley St. Joe out of his mind.

He bit into his roll-up. Scrambled eggs, ham, cheese, peppers, onions.

It wasn't breakfast on his porch looking out at the sunrise, but it wasn't bad.

He knew he was exaggerating. Worst-case scenario wasn't kissing Riley.

Worst-case scenario was if he'd taken her to bed last night. They'd come close. Too damned close for sanity's sake.                       
       
           



       

She hadn't repeated her previous morning's mistake. She'd come out of  her bedroom dressed for work, right down to panty hose and shoes, and  had announced primly, "A good adrenaline rush can make one do the  silliest things, can't it?"

He'd resisted comment. If thinking of the sexual currents between them  as silly kept her on the straight and narrow, who was he to disabuse  her?

He finished his roll-up and took his coffee to a pay phone. He put a  collect call through to a Maine state detective who owed him big-time.

"I'm not one to call in a favor," he said, "but I need to know what you guys have on Sam Cassain."

"It's not my case, Straker."

"I know. Get me what you can. I'll wait." He read off the number at his pay phone.

Ten minutes later, he had his information. His friend was  straightforward, detailed and professional. The medical examiner had  determined that Sam Cassain had drowned after a blow to the back of the  head had probably knocked him unconscious. It looked de's liberate, but  there were a lot of ways a man could get knocked cold working a boat.

In the days before his death, Cassain had stopped at the Granger house  on Mount Desert Island. He'd seen Abigail, Caroline, Matthew, Richard  St. Joe, Henry Armistead and other members of the center's staff and its  Maine supporters.

"Oh," his friend said, "and we talked to Mara St. Joe. En route to Mount Desert, Cassain stopped in Camden and saw her."

This was a surprise.

"Why?"

"Don't know."

"What about Emile?"

"He's not an official suspect, but he's their best bet. Doesn't look  good, him taking off like that. Pal- ladino thinks Riley St. Joe's  holding back and has at least a fair idea of where grandfather could be.  You, too."

No point mentioning they'd seen him last night.

"What about the fire at Cassain's house down here?"

"Arson. Looks like a time-delayed device, crude. Massachusetts police  are cooperating with us. Well, that's it. That's all I've got. We're  square, Straker. Next time you call, it better be because you've got  something for me."

Straker tossed his empty coffee cup in a trash can and headed back to  the Boston Center for Oceanographic Research. Sam Cassain had been to  see Mara St. Joe. Ten to one Riley didn't know, which meant Mara hadn't  told her. Interesting.

He let this latest piece of information simmer while he concentrated on  his surroundings. He passed a trio of men in expensive suits, two women  in expensive suits, an old woman walking a cocker spaniel and a bunch of  beefy guys in hard hats. The hard hats were working the interminable  Big Dig, a massive project that had already added the Ted Williams  Tunnel under the harbor and now was sinking the Central Artery.

The noise of traffic and construction coupled with the dank weather and  his frustrated inactivity magnified Straker's overall squirreliness.

For two cents he'd clear out. He didn't have to go back to the island.

He could go anywhere. He could go back to his damned job, where there  were rules, procedures and no slim, dark-eyed oceanographers.

But he walked past the center's marine mammal fountain and up to the  main entrance, where he got the steel eye from the security guards and  was told he wasn't welcome back. Abigail Granger must have put out the  word. The guards wouldn't even let him pay up and visit the exhibits  like a normal tourist. No trust. No sense of humor. A bit of an  overreaction on Ms. Granger's part, but there wasn't much Straker could  do about it.

This wasn't going to work. He stood in front of the fountain and  contemplated his situation. Shadowing Riley would drive him over the  brink. He needed to get moving on his own Big Dig, find out who'd killed  Sam Cassain, what it had to do with Emile and Matt Granger and maybe  even Mara St. Joe. He needed to get this mess unraveled, sorted out and  tied up with a ribbon before someone did something stupid.

Like Emile. Like Riley.

He remembered the feel of her breast, the taste of her mouth. Like him.

Abigail joined him at the fountain and smiled coolly. Dressed in a sleek  navy raincoat, she had an umbrella and briefcase tucked under her arm,  and her hair was pulled back, ready for a gale-force wind.

"What are you going to do when it starts to rain?" she asked.

"Buy an umbrella."                       
       
           



       

Her quick laugh didn't reach her eyes.

"You enjoy being irreverent, don't you?"

"No."

"Well, I've got it figured out now. Sometimes I can be incredibly dense.  You're making sure Riley doesn't get into trouble because of Sam's  death. Did Emile put you up to it? She was almost killed last year.  We've all become rather protective of everyone who survived the  Encounter."

"I'm not looking out for Riley. She can look out for herself."

"I see." Abigail seemed nervous, out of her element, but she maintained her poise.