"You can't underestimate their sentimental attachment to it."

"A narrow escape for the great Emile Labreque and his crew would elicit sympathy and galvanize support for a badly needed new research ship.

The old ship dies in battle, so to speak. Let's honor her memory by building a new one."

"The Encounter II is back on schedule. Support's up. The catastrophe of the Encounter was a setback at first" -- "But now things are working out." Straker frowned, shaking his head.

"I don't know, Emile. It's a hell of a stretch. Wouldn't our saboteur want the Encounter and any evidence of his handiwork at the bottom of the ocean?"

"Immaterial. People would have been outraged at the idea of sabotage.

Support would have poured in. "

"And the police would have investigated."

"You're an FBI agent," Emile said.

"You tell me how many criminals you've apprehended thought they'd get caught."

Straker didn't argue. Emile's theory was sound enough, if far-fetched.

And he'd asked the old man to make his best guess. If this was it, this was it. "What about Cassain? Did you encourage him to go to the authorities with his evidence?"

"Of course. He refused to listen."

"Blackmail?"

"That's my guess. He was getting his ducks in a row before bringing his proof to the saboteur and exacting his pound of flesh. He came to me to help solidify his theory."

"But he didn't give you a name, any hint of who he thought was responsible?"

Emile's dark eyes shone with intensity. "/ was responsible for the Encounter. It was my ship, my crew."

Straker let that one go. This was no time to try to out-argue a Labreque.

"You know what I mean." "Sam played his cards close to the chest. He knew I'd go straight to the authorities. I'm convinced he was still flailing around, figuring out his next moves."

"And he flailed in the wrong direction and got himself killed."

Straker could see it. He gave the old man a hard look.

"We're taking your pictures to the police."

Emile shook his head.

"I need to finish what I started."

"No, you don't. You need to let the police do their job. Sam was murdered, Emile."

Emile drew himself off the retaining wall, pointed down the slope.

"You have bigger problems than stopping me."

Straker turned, and there she was, marching up from the water with her jaw set hard and her hands clenched into fists at her sides. She'd spotted them, but she had the sense not to yell out.

"Nowhere to run," Emile said lightly, "nowhere to hide."

"You should have shot holes in her kayak," Straker muttered.

Riley stopped between them.

"Emile, Straker-what are you doing?" She was out of breath and talking through clenched teeth.

"Emile, for God's sake, you can't keep sneaking around. You're going to get yourself killed or tossed into prison for a million years."

"I'm leaving," he said calmly.

"You can't leave. Your cottage--you must know what happened. They found all this firebug stuff in your woodshed. Someone's setting you up."

He ignored her. Straker stayed out of it. Emile was as maddening as she was, and they'd been doing this dance over a variety of subjects ever since Riley started to talk. Her grandfather pointed a finger at her.

"You never mind me and listen to Straker. Follow his advice. You know about cetaceans. He knows about arson and murder."

She inhaled.

"I am not letting you go."

"You have no choice."

That didn't sit well. She was prepared to argue her case, but Straker said, "We have a lot to talk about."

She glared at him.

"You're not letting him go!"

"Someone sabotaged his ship and caused the deaths of his best friend and four of his crew. You nearly died. He nearly died." Straker sighed, knowing he must have been infected by the Labreque sense of drama, their way of looking at things.

"What would you have me do?"

"Sabotage?"

She was pale, could barely get the word out. Emile seized the moment to slip off. Straker didn't stop him.

Riley spun around, made a move to go after her grandfather. Straker touched her arm.

"Don't. You'll just draw attention to him. He has a lot of friends up here. They'll look after him. He left Cassain's pictures of the engine and the evidence it was sabotaged. We need to get them to the police. Then they need to find the engine to make sure it really is the Encounter and not something Cassain faked."

"Do you think he faked it?"

"No."

"I hate this," she said.

"I know." Straker rocked back on his heels, eyed her and considered the various possibilities of how she'd found him. One stood out.

"My mother ratted out my father?"

Riley gave an absent nod, a small smile.

"She doesn't miss anything."

"There'll be a battle royal over that one. Well, let's go."

"You go on." She fixed her dark eyes on Straker, and he could see her fighting to be reasonable, smart, not simply to inflict her will on everyone else.

"I'll head to Boston. You can pretend I never saw any of this."

Straker grinned. Her motives, he thought, were obvious.

"Quit acting like you know what I'm thinking," she said.

"I do know what you're thinking."

"I'm just trying to be sensible and reasonable."

"No, you're not. You're looking after your own skin. You're afraid if you go to see Lou Don-man with me, he's going to put you in protective custody or otherwise restrict your movements. I think he would. He's pretty much had it with you Labreques."

"I'm going."

Straker fought the urge to stop her, to bring her to Lou Don-man for safekeeping.

"Don't make me regret not tying you up in my boat."

She smiled faintly.

"You'll be in touch?"

"Count on it."

Fifteen minutes later, Straker was telling Emile's story to Lou Dorrman, who if he didn't understand oceanography, did understand boats.

"That's a hell of a damned thing to do to a ship setting out to sea."

"So is Emile off the hook?" Straker asked.

But he knew the answer. It'd be his answer, too, if this were his case. The sheriff scowled.

"No. And neither are you. Sit down."

Straker sat, and after he told his story to Lou one more time, he had to wait for the state detectives and tell it to them. They weren't pleased with him for letting Emile go. Straker wouldn't have been pleased, either. A seventy-six-year-old man and a trained FBI agent--he could have brought him in.

"Next time," Teddy Palladino said, "you'd better."

"Next time, I will. Meanwhile," Straker said, "I think we're giving Riley St. Joe way too much time to get herself back into hot water."

Palladino agreed, and Straker was on his way.

Fourteen -^Q >^~ Oig plopped down on a squishy, comfortable sofa in the front room of her house on Chestnut Street, not far from Matt's childhood home on Louisburg Square. They'd picked this house together. Although she hadn't contributed a dime, she'd never felt it was any less hers than his--and he'd never indicated otherwise. That wasn't how they operated. They were partners, equal, even if his bank account had more zeroes than hers.

Her babies jumped, startling her. It was their strongest movement yet.

She placed a palm on her lower abdomen and sank deeper into the cushions. She'd fought melancholy during the long drive from Camden, could feel it again threatening to overwhelm her. She wanted to be plucky and resilient, but just couldn't summon the energy.

Her gaze drifted to a framed picture of her father- in-law and Caroline at their wedding. Matt so missed his father. He was self-contained, not one for open displays of emotion. He'd insist his actions in recent months had nothing to do with his grief, but with facts, logic, truth and justice. He and Bennett weren't demonstrative or openly affectionate, but they'd enjoyed each other's company.

Her father-in-law had been delighted when she and Matt had announced they wanted to marry. Bennett and Emile had been friends and partners for fifty years.

"I don't care if you know a whale from a dolphin," Bennett had told her.

"I'm thrilled to have a Labreque in the family."

His tragic death had changed everything, shattering Matt's world, and thus, Sig thought, her own.

She imagined her husband standing in their elegant living room in tattered jeans that hung low on his slim hips, his hair tousled, his eyes that memorable, piercing blue. He didn't hide his intelligence, his education, his money, nor did he flaunt them.

"Hell's bells," Sig breathed.

"You're getting maudlin."

She popped up off the couch and headed straight for the front door before her thoughts could get away from her, take on a life of their own. She might not be a fighter like Riley, but damned if she'd turn into a brooder.

It was warm outside, warmer than Camden would be at this time of the afternoon. She walked down to Charles Street, saying hello to a neighbor she recognized, enjoying the feel of the brick sidewalk underfoot, the sense that she was home and trying, at least, to take charge of her life.

The markets and coffee shops, the flower shop, the antique shops, were all crowded with people coming home from work. She stopped at a small market for milk, juice, bread, coffee. Could she live here without Matt? She didn't think so. It was difficult enough making a place for herself on Beacon Hill with him in her life.

Without him, she'd probably always be known as Matthew Granger's ex-wife.

The thought made her gasp, unable to get a good breath. She'd felt the same way in Emile's loft with the smoke oozing up the stairs. Matthew Granger's ex-wife. But that was where they were headed.

She carried her grocery bag up to Louisburg Square. Abigail would be back from Maine by now. Sig hadn't talked to her in weeks and didn't want to put her sister-in-law on the spot--but Matt was in trouble, at least on the edge. If Abigail had any insight into her brother's state of mind in light of the fires, Sam's death, the pending birth of his children, Sig wanted to hear it.

Her sister-in-law answered her front door in slim pants, her blond hair pulled back. She looked sleek and poised, while Sig felt bloated as she huffed and puffed over carrying a bag of groceries up Mount Vernon Street. Her hair hung down her back in a thick braid, and she wore one of her voluminous dresses. She felt frumpy, a little sick to her stomach.

"Sig! What an incredible surprise. Come in, won't you?" Abigail drew her into the entry, unchanged since her father's death, probably since her grandfather's death, too.

"How are you feeling? Have you recovered from--my God, I can't even say it. We came too close to losing you."

Sig managed a smile.