One thought came to him crystal clear, impossible to ignore.
Riley St. Joe was trouble. She always had been. He had the scar on his forehead to prove it.
Four
R iley holed up in her small, cluttered office and worked all morning. After her long weekend, she had plenty to do. She tried not to think about Emile or Straker. Emile worried her. Straker simply annoyed her. He always had. He took pleasure in it. The shock of having him roll off her couch that morning had nearly done her in. The dark stubble on his jaw, the unbuttoned shirt. He was earthy, masculine and relentless.
Forewarned, she told herself, is forearmed. She needed to remember that nothing ever penetrated John Straker’s hard shell enough to reach his soul, not two bullets, not a dead body on the rocks.
It was Sam Cassain’s body she’d found.
She shut her eyes, the faint beginnings of a headache pressing against her temples. Sam was dead, Emile was missing—and Straker? She didn’t know what Straker was up to. It might have made more sense to keep him where she could see him, but she had nowhere to tuck an FBI agent.
Her father poked his head into her office. “Busy?”
She smiled. “Just pretending.”
If anyone fit the stereotype of the hyperfocused scientist, Riley thought, it was Richard St. Joe. He was tall and thin like Sig, but with none of her sense of style. He was oblivious to his typically ragged appearance. Today he had on jeans, a navy thermal shirt and water sandals with thick socks. His scruffy beard was grayer than she remembered. He hadn’t been aboard the Encounter when it caught fire and sank last year. Instead he’d been aboard a university research ship, conducting a seminar on right whales, when the first distress calls came in. He’d had to wait hours before he learned that his daughter and father-in-law had survived.
“Your mother called—she told me about Sam.” He looked as if he’d been fighting off panic, irritation, trying to figure out how to confront an adult daughter and colleague. “Why didn’t you tell me you were going to see Emile?”
“I didn’t think of it.”
“You didn’t have to sneak off. I know he’s your grandfather. It’s not as if I’d forbid you to see him.”
“But you can caution me against it,” she said, knowing that was exactly what he’d have done.
Richard pushed his bony hands through his salt-and-pepper hair as if he’d like to pull out every strand. “Only because I think he’s become insanely reckless and selfish. Sam—you can’t think there’s no connection between his death and Emile. There must be.” He almost trembled with exasperation. “My God!”
“I’m trying not to jump to any conclusions.”
“I’m not talking about conclusions, I’m talking about logic.” But he checked his raging emotions and softened, giving her a quick hug. “Thank God you’re all right. Let’s hope the worst is over for you. At this point I don’t give a damn anymore about Emile, but you…” He tousled her hair as if she were seven. “I care about you, kid. I’m sorry you had to go through what you did.”
“At least I didn’t know it was Sam. If I had…” She shuddered, leaving it at that.
“I know. Let’s hope the police make quick work of this. Riley, you know I have no desire to see anything more happen to Emile—”
“It’s okay, Dad. I understand. He shouldn’t have taken off the way he did.”
“Yeah. Keep me posted, will you?”
She promised she would. Her father, her mother, Sig. Emile. In their own way, they were a family, and they cared about each other. As tough as her parents were on Emile, Riley knew it pained them to see what they believed had become of him. And it frustrated them that she disagreed with their assessment. She was the only one who still refused to believe Emile Labreque had become a dangerous disgrace to his work, his reputation and himself.
Not two minutes after her father left, her extension rang.
“Don’t you have your own secretary?”
Straker. “Where are you?”
“I’m on break.”
“From what?”
“I’m learning how to feed sharks.”
“What?”
“I signed up for the volunteer-training program for people with PTSD. Abigail Granger happened to be in the volunteer office when I stopped by. I understand this program was her idea. Get them to connect with nature, toss a few fish to the sharks and they feel better about what they’ve been through. She walked me through the paperwork.”
“You’re shameless. There’s a hot poker in hell with your name on it, I swear. That program is for people with a serious psychological disorder.”
“I went to an island for six months. I connected with nature. I feel better.”
Riley gripped the receiver so hard her hand hurt. “You went to an island for six months because you can’t get along with anyone.”
“I’ve made friends with a couple of Vietnam vets this morning. Now, they’ve got real demons to fight. I didn’t want to lie to them, so I told them the score. They liked it when I told them you had a Beanie Baby sitting on your computer. You have quite the tiger-lady reputation.”
“You’re the most obnoxious man on the planet. You conned Abigail.”
“Nope. I told her I’m shadowing you because I don’t trust you to mind your own business and I needed a cover story, and she showed me to the sharks.”
“You did not.”
He laughed.
“I hate you, Straker.”
“You hold that thought. You staying in for lunch?”
“I’m not telling you.”
“Okay, I’ll find out on my own—”
“Yes! Yes, I’m staying in for lunch.” She hated him, hated him, hated him. But his laugh still resonated, low and deep. He was a very dangerous man. “You?”
“Abigail’s bringing us clam chowder.”
He hung up, and Riley had to pry her fingers off the receiver.
She raced down to the volunteer office, where, indeed, Abigail Granger had ordered clam chowder lunches for her volunteers.
“Would you like some?” she asked. “We always order extra.”
Riley smiled stiffly. “No, thanks. I was just checking out a rumor.”
Straker was there. He hadn’t lied. Abigail wasn’t the sort who’d see through him. She was thirty-nine, fair-haired and fine boned, with striking blue eyes and a well-honed sense
