a breath. “Tell me.”
“It’s Sam Cassain,” Sig said, sobbing.
Riley was silent. Then, in a strangled whisper, “Oh, my God.”
Straker frowned. “Who the hell’s Sam Cassain?”
Sig almost screamed. “Riley? Who’s that? Who’s there?”
“Straker, get off my damned phone!”
He didn’t move. “Who’s Sam Cassain?”
“John Straker?” Sig said, more calmly now. “Riley, what’s he doing in your apartment? Are you crazy?”
This wasn’t getting him anywhere. Straker hung up and went into the bedroom. Riley was sitting on the edge of her unmade bed in her work clothes, no shoes. Her eyes were huge. Her skin was pale. She stared up at him. “I’ll call you later, Sig,” she told her sister, and hung up.
“Who’s Sam Cassain?” Straker repeated.
She placed a shaky hand on her forehead. “He—he was the captain of the Encounter.”
The pieces fell together. “He’s the one who laid the blame for the explosion and fire at Emile’s feet.”
She nodded dully.
“He turns up dead on Labreque Island, and Emile disappears. Police’ll be calling you next.” He thought a moment, ignoring her increasing paleness. “Strike that. They’ll come see you in person. You didn’t recognize him?”
“No. I didn’t get that close a look, and the gulls…”
He remembered. “Emile must have figured it out.”
“How could he? He never saw the body.”
“Instincts,” Straker said.
She slid to her feet. Her room was as cluttered as the rest of her apartment, but with feminine touches—a pair of earrings on the nightstand, a botanical print of beach plums above the bed, little jars of creams and perfumes on the bureau. She stood in front of him, smart, professional and quite pretty. And annoyed. “I don’t want you listening in on my phone conversations.”
“Would you have told me about Cassain if I hadn’t?”
“Probably.”
“Probably” wasn’t good enough, but she was too unsteady and shaken for him to press the point. He made her drink a cup of coffee and eat a piece of toast, and when she protested about him driving her to work, he ignored her and coaxed her into his car. The rush-hour traffic into Boston reminded him why he’d retreated to an uninhabited island to recuperate. Lots of stimuli out here on the city streets. Cars, lights, horns, traffic helicopters, blaring radios, construction.
Riley sat beside him, hugging her overstuffed leather tote on her lap so hard her knuckles turned white.
“Remember to breathe,” he said.
“I am breathing.”
“Not from here.” He poked her breastbone. “From here.” He poked her low on her diaphragm. He could feel smooth, cool skin under her creamy blouse. More stimuli. “Slow, deep breaths. How well did you know Sam Cassain?”
“He was the Encounter’s captain for seven years. He was tough, no-nonsense and not one to suffer fools gladly.”
“Who hired him?”
“Emile did. His last captain had died of cancer. He was a scientist, too, and when he died, Emile wanted someone new who’d tend the ship and leave the science to him. The Encounter was old.” She swallowed, her gaze locked straight ahead, as if she couldn’t turn her head. “The center had already commissioned a new research ship. It’s costing a fortune, but it’ll have all the latest ecological and technological advances. We’re calling it the Encounter II.”
“Who’s in charge of it now that Emile’s out of the picture?”
“My father.”
Straker took Storrow Drive along the Charles River, then cut over to the waterfront. More construction. No room for the five million other cars on the road. The center was located in a renovated nineteenth-century warehouse on its own wharf. A huge, whimsical stone fountain out front featured various marine mammals.
“You can just drop me off on the curb,” Riley said.
He hated the idea of dumping her and retreating. Cassain’s body had been found in Maine, and Emile had exiled himself to Maine. But the two men’s relationship had begun here, in Boston.
“I think you should hire me to feed the penguins or something,” he told her.
She blanched. “No.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not in a position to hire you, and I don’t want you underfoot.” Now that he’d seen her in her boxers, underfoot probably sounded less threatening to her than in her hip pocket. “And you wouldn’t fit in.”
“I’d fit in. I grew up on the ocean. I probably have more practical knowledge about the ocean than most people who work here.”
She managed to peel one hand off her tote and place it on the door handle. “For God’s sake, Straker, you haven’t been around people in six months. Even on a good day you’re not volunteer material. Please. Just let me go to work and put this all into perspective.”
While she talked, he formed a plan. She didn’t need to know it. It would just upset her, and she was upset enough. He said, “Okay. See you around.”
Her brows drew together. She’d put on a little bit of makeup, but not enough to hide how pale she was. Her lips were plum. They were also well shaped. He had a feeling she didn’t have a man in her life. She made a face, obviously having no idea what he was thinking. “I don’t know if I like the idea of you running around out here by yourself.”
He grinned. “I’m a big boy.”
“I’m not worried about you. I’m worried about me.”
“Think I’d do something to embarrass you?”
She didn’t answer. “You aren’t on this thing officially, are you?”
“Nope. Sleeping on a futon in your apartment isn’t part of my job description.”
“What if I promise to call you if I hear from Emile?”
“Okay.”
“Do you have a cell phone in this car?”
He gave her the number.
“Thank you.” He assumed she meant for not pressing his case about the penguins, which was a misreading of the situation on her part. “This’ll work out. I know it will. Emile’s probably just checking out puffin nests.”
Straker gave
