"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 we?"
"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 pit bull 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 par's lor 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."